THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. MAY, 1892. COLUMBUS. ON A PORTRAIT OF ~ this his face, and these the finding eyes VV That plucked a new world from the rolling seas? Who, serving Christ, whom most he sought to please, Willed his one thought until he saw arise Mans other home and earthly paradise His early vision, when with stalwart knees He pushed the boat from his young olive-trees, And sailed to wrest the secret of the skies? He on the waters dared to set his feet, And through believing planted earths last race. What faith in man must in our new world beat, Thinking how once he saw before his face The west and all the host of stars retreat Into the silent infinite of space! NEw YORK, Feb. i8, 1892. Copyright, 1892, by THE CENTURY Co. All rights reserved. VOL. XLIV. No. i. George E. Woodberry. THOMAS COUTURE. WITH PICTURES BY THOMAS COUTURE IN THE COLLECTION OF F. BARBEDIENNE. first meeting with Couture, who beCalne one of my best and dear- est friends, was odd and CharaC- teristiC. It was in 1834; I was not yet one and twenty, and had just arrived from the United States, well provided for in the way of courage and determination, with a goodlystoCk of youth- ful illusions, and very little besides. I was just beginning to understand a few words of French, and had entered the studio of the great and un- fortunate painter Gros. If I understood but few of the things the master and pupils said to me, I understood the language of the pencil, and worked all the harder that I was more estranged. One day, as the model was resting, and I was looking at my mornings work in a some- what melancholy state of mind, a short, thick- set young man, with bright brown eyes and shaggy hair, unceremoniously pushed me aside, saying, Donne moi ta place, petit. I was going to protest, when I saw my fellow-student so absorbed that I grew interested in xvhat he was doing. He coolly turned over my sheet of gray paper and sketched the model, who, resting, had fallen into a far better attitude than that which we had copied. The outline draw- ing was so strong, so full of life, so easily done, that I never received a better lesson. When he had finished, he left my place as coolly as he had taken it, seemingly quite unconscious of my existence. I did not then know the name of this free- and-easy comrade, but I kept the drawing and prized it. I am sorry to say that the woman ln- trusted with the care of my room had but small respect for the fine arts, and being one day in need of paper to light my fire, took a number of drawings for that purpose. Among those drawings was the outline sketch by Thomas Couture. I was scarcely able to profit much by my illus- trious masters directions. Baron Gros had been a very successful as well as a very great painter. His Battle of Eylau and his Plague of J affa at the Louvre show what he was capable of doing. But little by little fashion changed; other painters became the favorites of the mo- ment, and Gros was left somewhat in the back- ground. There are but few sorrows more cruel than such a sorrowto feel ones own power; to know that ones rivals are less truly artists than ones self; and yet to assist, powerless, at 4 the crumbling away of ones own fame. And, as often happens, the very public, so eager formerly to praise, seems to find a cruel de- light in throwing mud at the fallen idol. The crlticisms which were not spared Baron Gros when his last picture was exhibited at the Salon so cut him to the heart that he threw himself into the Seine. His body was found near Saint-Cloud. Gross pupils dispersed, and I had no op- portunity to make further acquaintance with my eccentric fellow-student. Some years later, when the estranged boy that I was in 1834 had become a young man, I happened to pass with a comrade, a young Englishman named Coplis, near the shop of Desforges, who sold canvases and paints, and who also exhibited pictures in his window. I was greatly struck by a picture representing a young Venetian, and endeavored to excite my companion to enthusiasm. Coplis was hungry, and at first thought more of his delayed lunch than of the painting. But he soon forgot his hunger, and exclaimed, By Jove! I must get my brother to buy that. Lucky fellow! I had a certain respect for a painter whose brother was rich enough to buy pictures. In those days painters were by no means able to build their own grand studios, and to fill them with wonder- ful draperies and precious bric-a-bra~ as a usual thing, they belonged to modest families, who mourned over the son and brother who had embraced such a profession. Mr. Coplis bought the picture signed Thomas Couture, and paid the color-dealer a thousand francs for it. ~ afterward found out that the artist received only three hundred francs. As it happened, it was I who was commissioned to go to his studio. As soon as I entered I saw that Couture was no other than the fellow- student who had so unceremoniously taken my place. I was so delighted at the coincidence that Couture, who naturally did not recognize me at all, thought me a little crazy. I ex- claimed, I am so glad that it is you! I must now confess a little weakness of mlne. When I am excited and pleased by any unex- pected event, I rather enjoy the bewilderment of those who are not in the secret. After all, each must find his pleasure where he can. But after a while Couture understood that I was not the rich amateur who had bought his picture, but only a poor devil of a painter like him-

THOMAS COUTURE. WITH PICTURES BY THOMAS COUTURE IN THE COLLECTION OF F. BARBEDIENNE. first meeting with Couture, who beCalne one of my best and dear- est friends, was odd and CharaC- teristiC. It was in 1834; I was not yet one and twenty, and had just arrived from the United States, well provided for in the way of courage and determination, with a goodlystoCk of youth- ful illusions, and very little besides. I was just beginning to understand a few words of French, and had entered the studio of the great and un- fortunate painter Gros. If I understood but few of the things the master and pupils said to me, I understood the language of the pencil, and worked all the harder that I was more estranged. One day, as the model was resting, and I was looking at my mornings work in a some- what melancholy state of mind, a short, thick- set young man, with bright brown eyes and shaggy hair, unceremoniously pushed me aside, saying, Donne moi ta place, petit. I was going to protest, when I saw my fellow-student so absorbed that I grew interested in xvhat he was doing. He coolly turned over my sheet of gray paper and sketched the model, who, resting, had fallen into a far better attitude than that which we had copied. The outline draw- ing was so strong, so full of life, so easily done, that I never received a better lesson. When he had finished, he left my place as coolly as he had taken it, seemingly quite unconscious of my existence. I did not then know the name of this free- and-easy comrade, but I kept the drawing and prized it. I am sorry to say that the woman ln- trusted with the care of my room had but small respect for the fine arts, and being one day in need of paper to light my fire, took a number of drawings for that purpose. Among those drawings was the outline sketch by Thomas Couture. I was scarcely able to profit much by my illus- trious masters directions. Baron Gros had been a very successful as well as a very great painter. His Battle of Eylau and his Plague of J affa at the Louvre show what he was capable of doing. But little by little fashion changed; other painters became the favorites of the mo- ment, and Gros was left somewhat in the back- ground. There are but few sorrows more cruel than such a sorrowto feel ones own power; to know that ones rivals are less truly artists than ones self; and yet to assist, powerless, at 4 the crumbling away of ones own fame. And, as often happens, the very public, so eager formerly to praise, seems to find a cruel de- light in throwing mud at the fallen idol. The crlticisms which were not spared Baron Gros when his last picture was exhibited at the Salon so cut him to the heart that he threw himself into the Seine. His body was found near Saint-Cloud. Gross pupils dispersed, and I had no op- portunity to make further acquaintance with my eccentric fellow-student. Some years later, when the estranged boy that I was in 1834 had become a young man, I happened to pass with a comrade, a young Englishman named Coplis, near the shop of Desforges, who sold canvases and paints, and who also exhibited pictures in his window. I was greatly struck by a picture representing a young Venetian, and endeavored to excite my companion to enthusiasm. Coplis was hungry, and at first thought more of his delayed lunch than of the painting. But he soon forgot his hunger, and exclaimed, By Jove! I must get my brother to buy that. Lucky fellow! I had a certain respect for a painter whose brother was rich enough to buy pictures. In those days painters were by no means able to build their own grand studios, and to fill them with wonder- ful draperies and precious bric-a-bra~ as a usual thing, they belonged to modest families, who mourned over the son and brother who had embraced such a profession. Mr. Coplis bought the picture signed Thomas Couture, and paid the color-dealer a thousand francs for it. ~ afterward found out that the artist received only three hundred francs. As it happened, it was I who was commissioned to go to his studio. As soon as I entered I saw that Couture was no other than the fellow- student who had so unceremoniously taken my place. I was so delighted at the coincidence that Couture, who naturally did not recognize me at all, thought me a little crazy. I ex- claimed, I am so glad that it is you! I must now confess a little weakness of mlne. When I am excited and pleased by any unex- pected event, I rather enjoy the bewilderment of those who are not in the secret. After all, each must find his pleasure where he can. But after a while Couture understood that I was not the rich amateur who had bought his picture, but only a poor devil of a painter like him- THE LITTLE CONFECTIONER. THOMAS COUTURE. 6 self, and that we both had been pupils of Gros. Our friendship dated from that moment. There was in Coutures talent such vigor, such frankness, so much of life and truth, that my admiration for the artist equaled my liking for the man. He was apart among the paint- ers of the day; as far removed from the cold academic school as from the new art, just then making its way, with Delacroix at its head. The famous quarrel between the classical and the romantic camps left him indifferent. He was, even then, of too independent a nature to by the wayside, a goatskin about his loins his only garment, thin, his deep-sunken eyes full of despair, his brow overshadowed by a thick shock of black hair, seems to ruminate over his past follies and their consequences. In the back- ground pass a man and a woman: the young woman is full of compassion, while her com- panion points to the prodigal and seems to tell his story. The contrast between the prodi- gal son and these lovers is very happily indi- cated; and the rich tones of the mans red drapery relieve the somberness of the rest of STUDY FOR THE LOVE OF DOLO, follow any chief, however great. He was himself. His great aim was to approach nature as near as possible, to give life and passion to his painted figures. And in that he succeeded wonderfully. On that first visit of mine to his bare studio a very different-looking place from the love- ly boudoir-like studios of fashionable painters nowadays I saw him at work on a picture only just sketched in. He exclaimed: The amateur who i 11 buy that canvas for a thou- sand francs will have his moneys worth. Dont you think so? A thousand francs The pic- ture was large, and represented the prodigal son, a life-size figure. The young man, seated the picture. While examining the sketch I said to my new friend: My sitters pay me a thou- sand francs for a portrait. If you will allow me to pay you by instalments, I will be that amateur, and a proud one too, and I offer you not a thousand francs,but fifreen hundred. I was very proud of my purchase, but a little troubled too. In those days iy sitters were not very numerous, and I borrowed of Mr. Coplis, the brother of my fellow-stu- dent, the first sum paid to Couture. But I never regretted this youthful folly of mine. The Prodigal Son remained in my studio for many years, and I took it with me to America. Finally I gave it, with many other LHOMA S CO (7Th/RE. 7 pictures, to the city of Chicago. I am sorry to of voice and the gestures of those he imitated say that the whole collection was destroyed in that he actually looked like them. I remember the great fire of 1871. A small sketch of The that many years later, happening to speak of a Prodigal Son, and a most spirited one, still very fussy old lady whom we both knew, and exists; it belongs to M. Barbedienne, the fa- whom he had known when she was young, he mous bronze-dealer, xvho was a personal friend so caught the twist of her head, the pleading of Couture, and possesses a number of pictures, of her eyes, the flattery of her society phrases, drawings, and sketches by the master. that I saw her before me, and not only as she Thomas Couture was of humble origin, was then, but as she must have been twenty and had to fight his way in life; he fought it or thirty years before. bravely and successfully. He was born in Sen- Couture was a stanch and faithful friend. us, not far from Paris, on the 2 ist of Decem- We were often separated, as I continually went her, i8i~. Sturdy, thick-set, short, with a big to America or to England; but when I returned voice and somewhat rough manners, he was to Paris I was sure to find my old comrade by no means what is called a ladys man. such as he had been when we parted. When He never frequented society, and had a pro- I married, and presented him to my young found contempt for those who did. He was a wife, the impression was not so favorable as I great worker, in his youth especially, for later should have liked. His big, loud voice, his he grew much fonder of his ease. He cared free-and-easy manners, and especially his prac- only for the life of the studio and for artists tical jokes, which he did not always reserve for jokes, and, I am sorry to say, practical jokes the painting-room, greatly disturbed the shy were his particular delight, young Englishwoman. At one time he never If he had not been a painter, he might have came to dine with us without bringing in his been a most inimitable comic actor. When he pocket a tame lizard, which would run up his told a story (and he told funny stories by the back and nestle against his neck, or would play dozen), he would act it; his face would turn and the same trick with unsuspecting strangers. He twist, his eyes would dance, his nose, with its did his best to inspire a disgust for oysters by peculiar nostrils opening upward, would sniff, showing the creatures to be living at the mo- and he managed so admirably to render the tone ment when they were swallowed. Many other ADVOCATE PLEADING. THOMAS CO UTURE. 9 such trifles were set down against him at first; hut with time, and especially after he himselg rather late in life, married, these eccentricities were softened down, and his real sterling qual- ities the good heart, the faithfulness, the sturdy courage, and the manly energy grew to be more thoroughly appreciated. These strong qualities did not go without a certain rough independence of character which did not help him to success and official dig- nities. He divided the world into two dis- tinct classes: artists, that is, those whom God created to be the masters of the world, and the others, whom he called with infinite contempt les bourgeois. The greatest states- men, kings, noblemen, or shopkeepers were all bourgeois, that is, inferior beings, who should consider it an honor to buy pictures or statues at the highest possible rates. As to allowing them a voice in the matter, the right of directing in any way the artist they employed, that was not to be thought of. Their first duty was to be eternally satisfied, grateful, and enthusiastic. At the time that Guizot published his work on Washington I was commissioned by a group of Americans to paint a portrait of the great statesman. The sittings were most agreeable, and conversation between the painter and the sitter never flagged. I happened to men- tion Couture, and I spoke so warmly of my fellow-student that Guizot expressed a wish to see him. The picture of The Prodigal Son, which he had admired duringhis sittings,proved to him that my enthusiasm was not inspired merely by friendship. We therefore went to- gether to Coutures studio. He had utilized one of his bare walls to sketch in the picture which was to become so celebrated under the title of The Romans of the Decadence. Even in that rough state it was easy to see what a strong work it was, and the visitor was very much struck by it. Guizot was then all-power- ful, and a more courtier-like painter would have shown himself more flattered by this visit than did Couture; he considered it but his due. When the statesman asked him whether he had no order for this picture, he answered, J attends. The orders should come to him; he would never run after them. Guizot smiled, but continued most graciously: Who was your master? Delaroche. After the death of Gros, Couture had en- tered Delaroches atelier, but remained only a short time under a master whom he did not admire. M. Delaroche is a friend of mine, an- swered Guizot; 1 shall have great pleasure in speaking of you to him. And he evidently did speak to Delaroche of his pupil, for a short time after this visit VOL? XLIV.2. Couture happened to meet his old master, the most successful artist of the day, the favorite painter of Louis Philippe and of all his family. Delaroche went up to him and said: M. Guizot seems to have been struck by your work; he told me so. I replied that you had been my favorite pupil, you had natural talent, but you have strayed from the true path, and I cannot recommendyou. Probably the favorite court-painter influ- enced his royal patrons, for when the Deca- dence was exhibited at the Louvrein those days the Salon took place in the long gal- lery, the modern canvases hiding the works of the old masters the King, Louis Philippe, when he visited the exhibition, managed to turn his back on Coutures picture, both in coming and in going. The painters contempt for bourgeois taste by no means kept him from feeling this royal behavior most keenly. How- ever, the picture had such great success, was so generally praised, suddenly causing its author to become famous in a day, that the state bought it for the very large sum of 6ooo francs. This sudden reputation of his ex-pupil probably caused Delaroche to modify his judgment. At any rate, he called on Couture some time after the purchase of his picture, and said: Monsieur Couture, I have greatly disap- proved, I still disapprove, of your conception of art, but I do not deny that you have talent. You have made for yourself a place in art; let us be friends. But Couture was not a man to be taken by a few pleasant words; he drew back and an- swered: Monsieur Delaroche, you have had im- mense success, you are a member of the Insti- tute, you have innumerable admirers. I never was, I never can be, among those admirers. Therefore there can be no question of friend- ship between us two. And, bowing, he left the great man some- what astonished ar this manner of responding to his advances. Couture was a good painter, but a very bad courtier; he proved it every time he was placed in contact with the great ones of this world, whether sovereigns or members of the Institute of France. That was not the way to make of his talent a popular talent. The rough inde- pendence of his nature could admit of no sort of compromise. He had several opportunities of making his way to honors and to fortune opportunities which another might have util- ized, but which he wasted. Doubtless he made good resolutions, but when the time came he was unable to control his impatience and his sharp retorts. If Louis Philippe did not appreciate the painter of the Decadence, his reputation was I0 THOMAS CO UTfIRE. so well established when Napoleon III. took posse. sion of the throne that it was impossible to treat him slightingly, though Coutures tal- ent was not such as courts, as a usual thing, care to encourage. The favorite painter of the Third Empire was Winterhalter, as Delaroche had been of the Orleans family. However, an order was given to Couture for a large picture representing the baptism of the little Prince Im- perial. He went to work with great ardor, mak- ing sketches, and preparing a vast composition. In the course of the work he had to have sit- tings from the various members of the imperial family and their immediate followers. If a por- trait-painter, when his sitters are ordinary mortals, has nearly always to undergo many unpleasant scenes, it is easy to judge how his temper is tried, and his nerves unstrung, when those sitters are princes or sovereigns. It is likely that in Coutures case the sittings were not agreeable either to the painter or to his mod- els. Napoleon III. wished to direct his artist, and of all artists Couture was the least easy to direct. Finally, one day, goaded beyond en- durance, the painter turned around and said: Sire, who is to paint this picture your Majesty, or I? And neither painted it! The Emperor gave no more sittings, turned his back on the painter, and his courtiei s turned theirs also. The order was not maintained, and all the work of many months was wasted. Couture never recovered from this bitter disappointment. He shook the dust from his feet,and returned contempt for contempt. From that day on he never sent any work to the an- nual Salon, and, little by little, so retired from the world that many thought him dead. For many of his contemporaries he remained the STUDY OF AN AMERICAN GIRL (MADE IN ONE SITTING.) ENGRAVED IS S. JOHNSON. THOMAS COUTURE. II painter of the Decadence, as though he had painted only that one picture. How many times have I not heard young painters exclaim: Cow- ture ah, yes, Couture of the Romans. But he died ages ago. Or, if he still vegetates some- where, he must be very old indeed. No one has heard of him for many a long year! In reality, when Couture died, in March, 1879, he was not sixty-four years of age. The truth is that Couture never ceased work- ing, though he worked after a somewhat irregu- lar fashion, giving himself numerous holidays. If he was neglected by the great mass of his countrymen, he was appreciated elsewhere. One of his most charming works, the Fal- coner, of which I made a copy the size of the original, is in Germany. But most of his pic- tures were bought, I am glad to say, by Amer- icans. It is rather odd that the nation of shopkeepers, as ours is often termed, should have a love of art, and the instinct of the real amateur, more fully developed than many an Old World country. When Millet was still, if not unknown, at least violently criticized in France, America already possessed some of his best works. Barye found his most fervent admirers in the United States. Couture painted almost exclusively for Americans. Couture married rather late in life, and had two children, both girls. He was adored by his wife and daughters, and his married life was a very happy one. Perhaps, with our ideas on such matters, we might consider that his theory of the superiority of the male creature, and his right to absolute devotion on the part of his womenfolk, was a reprehensible theory. But he made an excellent father and husband in spite of his conviction that a man was not made to be faithful to one woman, and that education for girls was a dangerous modern notion, not to be encouraged by a reasonable man. In 1869 he purchased a country place at Villiers-le~Bel, a short distance from Paris. The house dated from the time of Francis I., and the garden, or rather park, was filled with grand old trees. Here he resided during the last ten years of his life, going to Paris only during a few months in winter. His peculiar ideas of hap- piness caused him to live in what other mortals might consider great discomfort. Under pre- text that nature managed things for the best, he never allowed a gardener to work on his grounds. He was, besides, quite convinced that such hirelings made it a point to sell his vege- tables and to steal his fruit. As a natural conse- quence the beautiful place went to ruin; the trees brought forth no fruit, and the earthyielded no vegetables. He himself took great delight in wearing peasants garments and in walking in sabots they at least had nothing to do with civilization! But as he had a thorough appre ciation of the delights of a good table, he em- ployed an excellent cook, and his devoted wife took care that his meals should be of the best and his truffles of the largest. But for the rest of the service a village girl was quite sufficient, and he deemed it by no means beneath their dignity to utilize his wife and daughters in do- mestic duties of the most active sort. In his country retreat he was not, however, abandoned. Pupils gathered about him, living in the village so as to profit by the masters ad- vice. Among these were manyAmericans. Mr. Ernest Longfellow, son of the poet, was of the number. Couture was an excellent master, and took great interest in the progress of his pupils. His great precept was, Look at nature; copy nature. He published a little book full of good advice to young artists, giving the result of many years experience. All his pupils were fond of him, which proves that the exterior pe- culiarities which sometimes shocked strangers were soon overlooked by those who were able to appreciate his sterling qualities. A man who is loved by the members of his family, to whom all his friends remain faithful, and who is appreciated by young people, is sure to be of a thoroughly lovable nature. Still, it must be owned that the first impression was not always quite agreeable. On one occasion an Ameri- can, a rather shy and exquisitely polite gen- tleman, and a great admirer of Coutures talent, went, provided with a letter of introduction, to pay his respects to the master. The master was in his bath, but when his wife told him of the visit, Let him come in! exclaimed he, and, much to our countrymans confusion, he was received by Couture, soaking placidly in his bath. He rather splashed his visitor, for, like many Frenchmen, he gesticulated freely while conversing. Couture was fond of telling the story of his first pupil. He was still a young man when, one morning, he heard a timid knock at his door. Come in ! ~ said he, in that big, gruff voice of his, scarcely calculated to encourage shy visitors. A young fellow, slightly deformed, dressed like a well-to-do countryman, entered, and, not without much hesitation and much stuttering, begged the painter to take him in as pupil. I have no pupils; and I wish for none, was the discouraging answer. But the youth, if he was timid, was tenacious; he would be so discreet; his master need not feel his pres- ence; all he asked for was a corner of the atelier from which he could see the great artist at work; he would make himself of use, wash the brushes, set the palette, run errands do anything, in short, that was required of him. Couture con- tinued to say no; the young man continued to plead. Finally the artist impatiently took up his pipe and found that his tobacco-pouch was 12 THOMAS COUTURE. empty. Go and buy me some tobacco! he cried. The young man disappeared, reappear- ing soon; Couture smoked, was mollified and yielded. This strange pupil remained with him for more than a year. Couture often wondered how he managed to live. He seemed poor, but he never borrowed money. He spent all his time working, without showing very great natu- ral talent, and Coutures excellent heart was much concerned. How was that poor fel- low ever to get salt for his porridge with his painting? One day the pupil begged a great favor of his masterto let him invite him to dinner. Couture consented, and, to his amazement, the young man, dressed like a gentleman, took him to the best restaurant in Paris and ordered the best dinner that restaurant could provide. The poor, humble pupil, who ran on his er- rands and washed his brushes, was a very rich amateur whose passion for painting had led him to seek the sincere and disinterested les- sons of a master he admired. Later, Couture went to visit his ex-pupil in the latters beau- tiful chateau in Normandy, which contained one of the finest collections of pictures and rare curiosities in all France. It is needless to say that the master was received with enthusiasm by the pupil. M. Dutuit (the pupil) left his magnificent collection, with a large endow- ment, to the city of Rouen. One of the pic- tures is a small whole length of Rembrandt, ~vhich I once copied. Coutures method of giving a lesson to his pupils was as follows: While they looked on he painted a head from the model, and while he painted made judicious remarks as to the drawing, the color, the light and shade. Some of these heads, dashed off in two hours, are charming. M. Barbedienne, Coutures great friend and admirer, possesses several of them. In the same collection are numerous draw- ings, sketches, half-finished pictures, most inter- esting to those who like to follow the workings of an original genius. Among these is the sketch for his picture, the Love of Gold. Seated at a table, a man with a fiendish face grasps bags of gold, jewels, and precious stones; crowding about him, eager for the spoil, we s~e beautiful women, writers willing to sell their pen, artists their brushes, warriors their valor. Coutures love for symbolical painting grew with years, developed probably by solitude. In the very retired life which he led he did not follow the movement of modern art; he even refused to see what other artists did, declining to let them see his own works. Another of his symbolical pictures, of which M. Barbedienne possesses a large, nearly finished sketch, shows us a beau- tiful young woman seated in a carriage, whip in hand, driving, instead of horses, a group of men among them a poet, a warrior, and a satyr-like old lover. I prefer, as a general thing, his simpler works. Among these I must speak of a little picture representing a boy carrying a tray on which are glasses full of wine or red syrup; his head is covered with a sort of white twisted cloth, and is singularly living and strongly painted. Coutures love of sym- bolical pictures sometimes carried him to the verge of caricature, as in his series of pictures THE HOUSE OP COUTUEE AT VILL[EES-LE-BEL FROM A PHOTOGRAPH. DRAWN By MALCOLM FRASER, Ay~~C~CM rRysrr BE CA USE IT IS THE SPRING. 3 of lawyers. He had two pet hatredslawyers and doctors. In M. Barbediennes gallery are some very spirited drawings and sketches of lawyers speaking before the court, or sleeping during the discourse of their brother lawyers. As to doctors, he never would allow one in his house. He was so violent in his animosity that, when he fell ill, he refused all medical aid. And his was a terrible sort of disease, which could not be cured, although his sufferings might at least have been somewhat allayed. My poor friend died of a cancer in the stom- ach on the 27th of March, i879. His loss was a great sorrow to me. We had been young men together; we had seen years roll on without bringing any change in our mutual feelings, and when one of us experienced some success in life it was a joy to the other. For his talent I had a sincere and profound admiration; for his strong and manly nature the greatest sym- pathy. He was a friend in the broadest and best sense of the word. George P. A. Healy. I will be glad because it is the spring. AMY LEVY. I be glad because the year is young? hy, swift-coming green is on the trees; The jonquils passion to the wind is flung; I catch the May-flowers breath upon the breeze. The birds, aware that mating-time has come, Swell their plumed, tuneful throats with love and glee; The streams, beneath the winters thraldom dumb, Set free at last, run singing to the sea. Shall I be glad because the year is young? Nay; you yourself were young that other year: Though sad and low the tender songs you sung, My fond heart heard them, and stood still to hear. Can I forget the day you said good-by, And robbed the world and me for alien spheres? Do I not know, when wild winds sob and die, Your voice is on them, sadder than my tears? You come to tell me heaven itself is cold, The world was warm from which you fled away, And moon and stars and sun are very old And you ? oh, you were young in last years May: Now you, who were the very heart of spring, Are old, and share the secrets of the skies; But I lack something that no year will bring, Since May no longer greets me with your eyes. Can I be glad, then, in the years glad youth? Nay; since for me the May has ceased to shine. What shall I do but face the cruel truth? You made my spring; and now spring is not mine. Louise ckand/er Afoul/on. BECAUSE IT IS THE SPRING.

BE CA USE IT IS THE SPRING. 3 of lawyers. He had two pet hatredslawyers and doctors. In M. Barbediennes gallery are some very spirited drawings and sketches of lawyers speaking before the court, or sleeping during the discourse of their brother lawyers. As to doctors, he never would allow one in his house. He was so violent in his animosity that, when he fell ill, he refused all medical aid. And his was a terrible sort of disease, which could not be cured, although his sufferings might at least have been somewhat allayed. My poor friend died of a cancer in the stom- ach on the 27th of March, i879. His loss was a great sorrow to me. We had been young men together; we had seen years roll on without bringing any change in our mutual feelings, and when one of us experienced some success in life it was a joy to the other. For his talent I had a sincere and profound admiration; for his strong and manly nature the greatest sym- pathy. He was a friend in the broadest and best sense of the word. George P. A. Healy. I will be glad because it is the spring. AMY LEVY. I be glad because the year is young? hy, swift-coming green is on the trees; The jonquils passion to the wind is flung; I catch the May-flowers breath upon the breeze. The birds, aware that mating-time has come, Swell their plumed, tuneful throats with love and glee; The streams, beneath the winters thraldom dumb, Set free at last, run singing to the sea. Shall I be glad because the year is young? Nay; you yourself were young that other year: Though sad and low the tender songs you sung, My fond heart heard them, and stood still to hear. Can I forget the day you said good-by, And robbed the world and me for alien spheres? Do I not know, when wild winds sob and die, Your voice is on them, sadder than my tears? You come to tell me heaven itself is cold, The world was warm from which you fled away, And moon and stars and sun are very old And you ? oh, you were young in last years May: Now you, who were the very heart of spring, Are old, and share the secrets of the skies; But I lack something that no year will bring, Since May no longer greets me with your eyes. Can I be glad, then, in the years glad youth? Nay; since for me the May has ceased to shine. What shall I do but face the cruel truth? You made my spring; and now spring is not mine. Louise ckand/er Afoul/on. BECAUSE IT IS THE SPRING. COAST AND INLAND YACHTING. ATlicing year makes more apparent the universality of a taste for aquatic sports among the American people. Yachting has ever been a growing pastime by the waters of the North At- lantic coast. We now find white sails in the least-expected places: yachts and yachters where but a few years ago the only sailers were the timid wild duck and the solemn mud-hen; boats upon waters that have scarcely ceased to ripple from the agitation of their first inva- sion by a launched vessel; butterfly canoes scudding over rivers that not a decade since knew no alien thing save the Indians dugout; lakes upon which float shapely vessels of pat- tern so modern that they almost seem uncouth in their intrusion upon Natures primeval land- scape; sloops and cutters, schooners and cat- boats, every kind of sailing craft in short, that can be made to cater to the yachters insa- tiate desire for sport. In yachting the United States takes first rank; her yachts and yachters outnumber and outsail those of all other coun- tries. Few among the land-lubbers of the country, and not many yachters, realize the mag- nitude of this national pastime. The Queen s Cup races gave the sport a publicity which it never had before, but even these events did not bring to general public notice an adequate con- ception of the extent of this interest. It is safe to estimate that there is at least one yacht to every ten thousand people in the land, and that an average yacht xvill carry at least ten persons. This means that there are at least six thousand yacht-owners in the country, and that sixty thousand people may participate in plea- sure-sailing: a large number, surely, to be de- voted to a sport which is necessarily confined to localities near the water, and which is an expensive pastime. The public hears much of vessels of the Volunleer and Gray/lug types, _ champions of the big-boat classes, but the real yachters of the land are the owners of small boats; in fact, the big-boat owner gener- 4 ally keeps a small yacht in which to enjoy him- self when he feels like being master of his own craft. A few statistics will render this quite plain. Figures that are somewhat incomplete show that there are over 200 organized yacht-clubs in the United States, which enroll nearly 4000 yachts. Of these, less than one thirteenth are steam vessels, launches, etc., and not sail- ing-boats at all. One eleventh are classed as large yachts, including many steam and sail vessels, big schooners and sloops, all of more than forty feet water-line measurement. That is to say, of 4000 recorded yachts, five sixths are sailing vessels under 40 feet. This shows conclusively that the majority of American yachts are small boats that are managed by their owners. It is safe to assert that there are at least 2000 more small yachts which are not entered in clubs, and of which no exact record can be given. The 200 clubs report a membership of over 7000 men, 4000 of whom are yacht-owners. Leaving out one sixth of them as owners of large and very costly vessels ranging in value from $5000 to perhaps $500,000 each, and assuming the average cost of the small yachts to be about $ iood, which is a low figure, one finds that five sixths of these 4000 yachts rep- resent an invested capital of over $3,300,000: a large sum when it is remembered that yachts never pay back anything in profit to their buy- ers, and that, like horses and carriages, they eat up a good deal of money all the time. The av- erage dues, etc., of a yacht-club are about $25 a year, not counting extras. This, paid in by 7000 members of clubs, shows a revenue of $175,000 per annum, which really represents no part of the great cost of yachting, for every yacht-owner has to pay his own expenses, and the club dues are spent on shore. At a very low estimate the owner of a small yacht will spend a month during the season of about five months. This means that the small-yacht sailers of the country spend at least $8oo,ooo in a sea- WAITING FAA A BREEZE. (FROM A FRATRARAPH BY WALTER BLACEBARN.)

COAST AND INLAND YACHTING. ATlicing year makes more apparent the universality of a taste for aquatic sports among the American people. Yachting has ever been a growing pastime by the waters of the North At- lantic coast. We now find white sails in the least-expected places: yachts and yachters where but a few years ago the only sailers were the timid wild duck and the solemn mud-hen; boats upon waters that have scarcely ceased to ripple from the agitation of their first inva- sion by a launched vessel; butterfly canoes scudding over rivers that not a decade since knew no alien thing save the Indians dugout; lakes upon which float shapely vessels of pat- tern so modern that they almost seem uncouth in their intrusion upon Natures primeval land- scape; sloops and cutters, schooners and cat- boats, every kind of sailing craft in short, that can be made to cater to the yachters insa- tiate desire for sport. In yachting the United States takes first rank; her yachts and yachters outnumber and outsail those of all other coun- tries. Few among the land-lubbers of the country, and not many yachters, realize the mag- nitude of this national pastime. The Queen s Cup races gave the sport a publicity which it never had before, but even these events did not bring to general public notice an adequate con- ception of the extent of this interest. It is safe to estimate that there is at least one yacht to every ten thousand people in the land, and that an average yacht xvill carry at least ten persons. This means that there are at least six thousand yacht-owners in the country, and that sixty thousand people may participate in plea- sure-sailing: a large number, surely, to be de- voted to a sport which is necessarily confined to localities near the water, and which is an expensive pastime. The public hears much of vessels of the Volunleer and Gray/lug types, _ champions of the big-boat classes, but the real yachters of the land are the owners of small boats; in fact, the big-boat owner gener- 4 ally keeps a small yacht in which to enjoy him- self when he feels like being master of his own craft. A few statistics will render this quite plain. Figures that are somewhat incomplete show that there are over 200 organized yacht-clubs in the United States, which enroll nearly 4000 yachts. Of these, less than one thirteenth are steam vessels, launches, etc., and not sail- ing-boats at all. One eleventh are classed as large yachts, including many steam and sail vessels, big schooners and sloops, all of more than forty feet water-line measurement. That is to say, of 4000 recorded yachts, five sixths are sailing vessels under 40 feet. This shows conclusively that the majority of American yachts are small boats that are managed by their owners. It is safe to assert that there are at least 2000 more small yachts which are not entered in clubs, and of which no exact record can be given. The 200 clubs report a membership of over 7000 men, 4000 of whom are yacht-owners. Leaving out one sixth of them as owners of large and very costly vessels ranging in value from $5000 to perhaps $500,000 each, and assuming the average cost of the small yachts to be about $ iood, which is a low figure, one finds that five sixths of these 4000 yachts rep- resent an invested capital of over $3,300,000: a large sum when it is remembered that yachts never pay back anything in profit to their buy- ers, and that, like horses and carriages, they eat up a good deal of money all the time. The av- erage dues, etc., of a yacht-club are about $25 a year, not counting extras. This, paid in by 7000 members of clubs, shows a revenue of $175,000 per annum, which really represents no part of the great cost of yachting, for every yacht-owner has to pay his own expenses, and the club dues are spent on shore. At a very low estimate the owner of a small yacht will spend a month during the season of about five months. This means that the small-yacht sailers of the country spend at least $8oo,ooo in a sea- WAITING FAA A BREEZE. (FROM A FRATRARAPH BY WALTER BLACEBARN.) COAST AND INLAND YA CII TING. 5 son. How much their yachting costs the own- ers of the big boats it would be impossible to state; the sum is enormous. A glance at the distribution of the yacht-clubs of the country will not be uninteresting, even to old and well-informed yachting men, and will prove beyond question that American yachting, like American education and Amer- ican politics, is not the especial prerogative of any part of the country. A map of the United States will show that in certain regions there are lakes, many of which are not little ponds, such as charm the eye of the tourist in foreign lands, but large bodies of water admirably adapted for the sailing of yachts; and investigation proves that the yachts are there. Passing for the present those fresh- water seas known as the Great Lakes, and di- recting attention to smaller and less generally known fresh waters, we find a lively interest in sailing in Minne- apolis, whose people support a flourishing club of 200 members. Their fifty boats, some of them of the best East- ern design, ply from the club- house on Lake Minnetonka, which has an irregular shore- line nearly a hundred miles in the circuit. There is yachting also on the White Bear Lake near St. Paul, although no club exists there. In Wiscon- sin, in addition to the yacht- ing interests on the borders of Lake Michigan and Green Bay, there is a club at Osh- kosh, on Lake Winnebago; ~nother at Oconomowoc, on La Belle Lake; and a third at Tomahawk Lake. These yacht-clubs of two States are represented by an average of 40 boats each, which is as good a showing as some of the oldest clubs of New York harbor can make. Upon the lakes which form the central New York group there are yachts innumerable, and of every type known to the boat-sailer. The yacht-lovers of that region maintain three large and well-equipped clubs, whose members sail those often perilous waters; for lake-sailing is no boys play, and one who would handle a yacht in treacherous inland waters must be a good sailor indeed, or his sailing time may be short. Lake George, because of its treacher- ous winds, was until recently considered unfit for sailing, and twenty years ago a sail-boat was rarely seen upon its waters. The trouble was that the only sail-boat known there was that most dangerous compound of two very different ideas, the rowboat with a sail. But proper principles in building have made it pos- sible for the yachter to use the waters of this mountain-bordered lake, and a successful club has been established. Lake Champlain is one of the most delight- ful yachting grounds anywhere away from the sea. At Burlington, on the Vermont shore, there is a large and ambitious yacht-club. Many of the earlier Champlain yachts were vessels bought in New York harbor, and thence towed up the Hudson River, and through the canal to the lake. In the once desert wastes of Utah is a remarkable body of water, the Great Salt Lake, upon which a few sloops and catboats, as well as steamers and rowboats, are to be seen. A. The lake is about seventy-five miles long, has many islands, and is a good sailing ground, ex- cept that the yachter must be wary of spray. from the bow, since the water is so strongly charged with chemicals that a drop of it in the human eye will cause pain and inflammation. Upon the five great lakes which form the chain of waterways from Duluth, Minnesota, to Kingston, Canada, floats a yachting fleet which is equal in all points of excellence to any in the world. These tempestuous fresh- water seas are of uncertain temper, like the North Atlantic, and none but doughty seamen may go upon them in safety. Cleveland and Detroit, Milwaukee and Erie, each has its well- DRAWN BY W. TARER, FROM A PHOTOGRAPH MY WALTER BLACKRARN. ENGRAVED DY C. ACAWARZMDRGER. OFF FOR A CRURAF. i6 COAST AND INLAND YACHTING. established club; Rochester has one, and To- ledo and Kingston have two each, while the great clubs of Chicago and Buffalo are as well known in the yachting world as are many of the most popular clubs of New York and Bos- ton. And besides, many yachts are to be found on the waters of Green Bay, the Georgian Bay of Canada, and some of the smaller bays and river-mouths along the coast of the lakes. On the American side of the Great Lakes every kind of craft may be found, many of them built from designs by eminent yacht- architects. The sailor of the Great Lakes has little chance for his life in a storm if his boat be poor, since harbors of shelter are few and far apart, the winds violent, and the waters rough. The Canadian yachters of the Great Lakes use powerful boats, cruise far, and face bad weather bravely. Their favorite yacht is that of their home country, the cutter, although one will find other types in their fleets. They have two clubs at Kingston, three at Toronto, and one at Hamilton. At Montreal and Quebec there are clubs whose boats cruise the St. Law- rence. There are also two sea-coast Canadian clubs, one at Chatham, New Brunswick, and the other at Halifax, Nova Scotia. The Inem- hers of these latter clubs use only stanch sea- boats, for the coast off which they cruise is a perilous one for all vessels. The yachters of the Canadian sea-coast are no fair-weather sail- ors, but boating men of the ablest sort. Formerly the South took little interest in yachting. In recent years, however, this sport has taken a strong hold upon the people of that region, and to-day the coast waters from the Carolina line to Galveston, Texas, are well supplied with sailing pleasure-boats. Most of the Southern yachts are of light draft, for the waters of the South are shallow; and the number of flat-bottomed and very shoal round- modeled yachts far exceeds all other types. On the inlets of Florida and along the Gulf of Mexico the craft of the pleasure-seeker maybe seen all the year round, for there is no begin- ning or end to the Southern yachting season. Though yacht-clubs are not numerous in the South, North Carolina has two, South Caro- lina one, Maryland two, Louisiana one, Ala- bama one, Georgia one, and Florida maintains three. There is also a club in prospective at Galveston, Texas. Some of these Southern clubs are strong in membership; the New Orleans club, whose yachts sail upon Lake Pontchartrain, is notable for the number and standing of its members. The yachts chiefly used in Southern waters are, as has been stated, light-draft vessels of the generally accepted types which have been de- veloped in the North. Sloops and cat-rigged boats are in the majority; but schooner-rigged sharpies are popular with those who like yachts of good size, and the builders of vessels of this type find a ready market for their boats in the South. The only type of yacht which is of Southern origin is the buckeye, or, as it is sometimes called, bugeye, a vessel which tradition says was first conceived by the dug- out builders of the Dismal Swamp, and which will be described more fully later on. Some Americans belong to the HavanaYacht Club, an organization of several years stand- ing, whose members cruise among the West In- dies, a most seductive sailing ground. Among the yachts of this club are many boats which were built in New York. Philadelphia, and New England, and have made the voyage to Cuba, never to return; for well-built yachts, it is said, find a ready sale at Havana and in other parts of the West Indies. At Bermuda there is no THE BUCKEYE. DRAWN BY W TABER, FROM A PRATOARAPA NA WALTER BLACKNARN. NEWPORT CATBOAT. COAST AND INLAND YACHTING. 7 club, but yachtsmen are numerous. Schooners and cutter-rigged craft prevail, the keel type of boat being the favorite. Small, light-draft boats are also in use there for pleasure-sailing. Many of them are built in New York and shipped by steamer to Bermuda and the West Indies. Among these is a style of narrow, crank boat, generally open, square-sterned, and mod- eled much after the pattern of what is known as a cargo-boat, and equipped with a center- board and a pole-masted rig. These boats are popular as flyers, but can be kept right side up only by alertness and skill in the handling. They carry no ballast, the crew sitting hard to wind~~ardto keep them on end. For dare-devil sailing such boats, like the narrow canoe, are just the thing, but they scarcely de- serve the dignity of being called yachts. On the Pacific coast, throughout the whole range of the sea-board, from the tropical waters of Lower California to Puget Sound, wherever there is a bay that will afford harbor, and a town that will support people, the yacht is used as a vehicle of pleasure. The number of organized clubs on the Pacific coast is small, but the clubs which have been formed there are all strong in member- ship and active in yachting. San Fran- cisco, of course, takes the lead with two very good clubs and a fleet of yachts that would not shame any seaport town of the East. Many of the San Francisco boats are large schooners, a number are powerful sea- going sloops, while of smaller craft there is an abundance of almost every type, although the New York catboat and the flat-bottomed sharpie of Long Island Sound are seldom met with, and seem not to be in favor. The keel cutter has its representatives in the harbor of the Golden Gate, and the yawl-rigged boat is very popular, perhaps the favorite above all other VOL. XLIV. 3. types. Pacific yachters appreciate the good points of the yawl, for the squalls which blow over the waters of the west coast are sudden and severe, and no rig meets these condi- tions of weather so well as does the yawl. There is also a flourishing organization at Tiburon. At Tacoma, in Washington, there is a club whose yachts fly their pennants upon the waters of Puget Sound, and cruise as far north as the British dominions. No other organized clubs exist on the Pacific coast; but private yachts are kept in many places, notably at Santa Barbara, San Diego, and Oakland, in California, and it is predicted that the near future will witness the formation of a Pacific coast yachting fraternity similar in principle and purpose to the New York Yacht Racing Association of the East. The day is not far off when these and associations of the clubs of the Great Lakes and those of the South will concen- trate the American yachters in four grand di- visions. Then may be formed the American association of all yachters which some opti- mistic yachting men desire. From the organization in 1844 of. the first band of pleasure-sailers, the New York Yacht- Club, whose anchorage at Hoboken, New Jersey, was the scene of the first club regatta ever held in America,the progress of the East- ern yachter has been steady; until to-day the yachting investment of the Atlantic coast is beyond a doubt the most important aquatic interest in the world. It is in the East that the problems of yachting have been propounded and solved. The distribution of yacht-clubs over the Eastern waters is uniform, and every- THE SHARPIE. DRAWN DY W. TABER, FROM A PROTOGRAPA DY WALTER RLACKRURN. ENGRAVED DY A. NEGRI. A SANDBAGGER SLOOP. i8 COAST AND INLAND YACHTING. where in accord with the availability of the sailing grounds. There are clubs enough, and not too many; tbese clubs are forming alli- ances which lead to harmony and good feeling throughout the whole fraternity, and their op- portunities are boundless, for they have at their doors every outlet that a yaehter can de- sire. There is inland water on the innumerable bays which everywhere indent the coast; there yachts innumerable, and the sail-boats of many rowing and canoeing clubs, the total compos- ing a fleet of pleasure-craft greater than that of any other part of the world. Concerning the craft used by the yachters of the East it will be needless to speak, except- ing in a general way. In the mass of vessels which make up the total of their squadron of yachts may be found every kind of boat, from the great steamer, which is really an ocean greyhound in appearance and speed, to the modest little skipjack. There are cutter and sloop, schooner and yawl, sharpie and sand- bagger, each filling its place, and all getting on very well together. The center-board boats of course outnumber the keel boats, and the sloops outnumber the cutters; but there is no especial type of yacht which can be said to be the dis- tinguishing Eastern style. Everything is in use, and it is safe to assert that everything new will be tried and, if found good, adopted by these masters of the art of sailing. The earliest form of yacht was, of course, a rowboat with a sail. This in time gave way to the wider-beamed boat with greater sail-carry- ing ability and a center-board. With the adop- tion of the center-board the era of American yachting really began. The steady improve- ment of center-board models, and the importa- tion from England of the cutter type of narrow, deep-keeled boats, furnished yacht-builders and -designers with material for thought and experi- ment during many years; and their endeavors FROM A PHOTOGRAPH, to improve are not less earnest to-day than they have been in the past. From the primitive sprit- sail pleasure-boat comes the ever-present and universally favored center-board catboat, a type of yacht which for speed, handiness, and unsafe- ness has never been surpassed. Keel catboats are also built, but the typical American cat is the center-board boat of light draft, big beam, and huge sail. The two objectionable points about boats of,this class are their capsizability, and their bad habit of yawing when sailing be- fore the wind. Yet the cat is the handiest light- weather boat made. It is very fast, quick in stays, and simple in rig; but it can never become a first-class seaworthy type of yacht. It belongs among the fair-weather pleasure-boats, and is A SKIPJACK. are great rivers upon which the lover of nat- ural scenery may sail his boat; deep waters for the cutter-lover, and shoal inlets and sounds for the advocate of the sharpie; Long Island Sound gives the short cruiser a field for his water rambles such as can be found nowhere else on the globe, and for him who would cruise over pleasant waters between green mountains there is the beautiful Hudson; while old oceans gray and melancholy waste lies out- side, inviting the bolder yachtsman to wander far from land. No such field exists anywhere else as that granted the sailer of the Eastern coast, and he is availing himself of his advan- tages to the utmost. The yachts of the Eastern clubs may be classified in five general groups: Those which make their home ports between Cape Cod and the coast of Maine are enrolled in thirty-two clubs; those of the Sound and the south shore of Long Island comprise thirty organizations; those of New York harbor and northern New Jersey waters are entered in twenty-one differ- ent clubs; the Hudson River has eleven well- established yachting homes; and Delaware Bay has four. To these should be added private I -c - BODY-PLAN OF A SKIPJACK. DRAWN BY W. TARER, COAST AND INLAND YACHTING. 9 not a good cruiser. Its popularity in the waters of New York harbor and the Sound is often a cause of perplexity to old yachters, who have learned by much experience that it is not by any means the best boat that can be used for pleasuring. But its simplicity of design and rig, and its handsome appearance, seem to insure it perpetual good will and a long life among the favorite boats of the time. Cat-rigged boats with heavy keels are un- doubtedly safe and serviceable cruisers, since they are not easily overturned and can face rough weather. They are popular in the wa- ters about Boston harbor and Newport, but synonymous terms with a great many yachters, and no one can deny that these boats, like Brother Jaspers sun, do move. While describing the sandbaggers it may be well to call attention to a type of yacht hull which has been in use for many years, and which is in every practical respect identical with the ordinary light-draft hull. The difference be- txveen this type of hull and others is wholly one of cost and appearance. From a sailing point of view this boat, called a skipjack, or smoothing-iron, is merely a hard-bilged light-draft boat; that is to say, its peculiar shape has no perceptible effect upon its use as are not favored by yachters of New York and vicinity; in the shoal waters of the South they are never seen, for the patent reason that light draft only will serve for use in Southern yacht- ing grounds. From the center-board catboat grew the jib- and-mainsail sloop, a type of yacht which has always been noted for its great speed and gen- eral unhandiness. Small yachts of this kind are always racers, and the interest in racing is suf- ficient to keep them in the lists of popular boats. In design they are like the catboats, the only difference being in their rig. These two boats, the center-board cat and the jib-and-mainsail sloop, are what yachters call sandbaggers; that is to say, their ballast consists of bags of sand which are shifted to windward with every tack and thus serve to keep the yachts right side up. A boat ballasted in this manner can carry more sail than rightly belongs on her sticks, but she cannot be very safe or comfortable. her place is in the regatta. It is not beyond the truth to assert that the sandbaggers con- stitute probably two fifths of the total of small yachts. They will never cease to be popu- lar, for the reason that speed and sport are a vessel. The skipjack is always an odd-look- ing boat, is never handsome in appearance, and cannot be made to appear pleasing to the nau- tical eye; but its sailing qualities are excellent. Many men who desire a small yacht adopt the skipjack, and from such a boat get much fun with small outlay of money. A strong, well- built, and correctly molded skipjack is just as good a boat from asailors point of view as a sharp-bilged, round-finished vessel of the same general shape. Passing the sandbaggers, the next popular and most universally used yacht is the ballasted sloop. A sloop may be a center-board boat, or a keel boat, or a combination of both. She has only one mast, and carries a topmast. Her sails are many, and, like the cutter, she is permitted to carry clouds of canvas in a race. Technically speaking, a cutter differs from a sloop only in one point, as the terms sloop and cutter really apply to the rig of the yacht. The cutter has a sail set from her stem to her masthead; the sloop has not. This is the technical point of difference. This sail is called a forestaysail, and its presence marks the cutter rig. The term cutter, however, is usually applied to the TYPES OF AMERiCAN SLOOP-YAWLS. 20 COAST AND INLAND YACHTING. long, narrow, deep-keeled vessel, and has in common parlance grown to mean a boat of that type. It is in that sense that it is gen- erally understood. It is worthy of notice that nearly all yachters who cruise about in summer, and especially those who are fond of speedy boats, use either sloops or cutters; and it is re- markable to see how much comfort can be found in boats of these types, even when quite small. A little cutter or sloop not twenty-five feet long will be provided with berths for four men, din- ner-table, lockers, cook-stove, and many other general comforts; and a yacbt thirty-five feet long will sleep six people without overcrowd- ing, and have one state-room. The deep-keeled boat is of course the more comfortable yacht, because she has head-room enough to enable one to stand erect in her cabin. Any one who has done much yachting knows how uncom- fortable a shallow boat becomes during a long cruise. The average yachting man, if he be of that stuff of which good seamen are made, soon finds his chief delight in being master of his own vessel. He likes to feel that it is his skill, his prowess, his intellect, that rule the ship in which he sails; and finding this complete mas- tery of the vessel to be impossible aboard a big boat, he longs for one which he can handle alone. This independent and sportsmanlike instinct of the American yachter has culmi nated in a liking for certain classes of very small boats, single-handers they are called, and this liking has given impetus to the build- ing of some little vessels which are really mar- vels in their way. Simplicity and handiness of rig have been considered in their construction, and this has led in many cases to the adoption of what is known as the yawl style, a rig which for safety and convenience has never been sur- passed by any other. The yawl is really a schooner with very small mainsail. For small cruising-yachts it is an excellent rig, and pref- erable to the cat rig. Cat-yawls are also in use; they are merely yawls without jibs. With such rigs as these, a yachter can go alone upon the water without fear of trouble, and with no need of assistance. Naturally, with men of moderate means who love the water, these small single- handers have become very popular. Some of them are not over sixteen feet long, yet the soli- tary skipper-crew-and-cook, all in one, of such a boat finds in his yacht comfortable sleeping- quarters, cook-stove, dinner-table, and all ne- cessary fixings. The ingenuity displayed in fitting out the cabins of these little boats is quite remarkable. Of the many nondescript rigs which are ap- plied to small yachts, two are in common use. One of these is the sharpie, a simple leg-o-mut- ton rig used with flat-bottomed boats. Large sharpies have been built with fine cabin ac- commodations, and such boats are particularly adapted to the shoal waters of the South. They are fast sailers, but, owing to their long, nar- row bodies and light draft, are not always trust- worthy. They are cheaper to build than boats of other designs. Numerous modifications of the sharpie exist, but the genuine sharpie is al- ways fiat-bottomed and leg-o-mutton rigged. The sharpies of the Sound are famous in their way, and some of the sailers of those waters have even gone to the extreme notion of as- suming that they are preferable to any other type of vessel for yachting purposes. Such an assumption is of course absurd, for at best a sharpie is an imperfect vessel, owing to its flat bottom. As an old sailor once remarked, when asked his opinion about boat hulls, A wessel wot s more out o water than she s in aint no safe wessel for them as likes to keep dry. But the sharpie has its place among the yachts, de- spite the old sailors opinion, and that place is clearly defined by Nature, who has made so many shallow sailing grounds upon which no other type of boat can go. The sharpie, like the gunboats of which President Lincoln once spoke, can go wherever it is a little damp, and its ability to do this entitles it to much re- spect from the American yachter, who must, if he would sail at all, often frequent very shoal water. FROM A PHATAARAPR BR WALTER RLACKRARN. A CUTTER RAP-FULL BR A GOOD BRRRZR. COAST AND INLAND YA CHTING. 21 Buckeyes are favored only in the South. Originally the buckeye was a log hollowed out and shaped into a boat, and was used by the negroes. To-day, however, buckeyes are built upon carefully drawn plans, and many of them are excellent vessels. They are common on the coast waters south of the Delaware Bay, and are used chiefly for hunting-boats, their cheap- ness, handiness, and roominess rendering them useful to the sportsman. A true buckeye is a double-ender, but some large ones have been built with an overhang stern, which destroys the ideal and creates a new kind of,craft. The buckeye is not considered pretty by yacht- ing men, but it is in every respect a service- able boat, being both speedy and safe. The lee-board, a primitive contrivance designed to check the drift of a sailing vessel, was attached to the earlier buckeyes, but nowadays the reg- ulation center-board is used with these boats. Lee-boards are sometimes used with flat-bot- tomed freight-vessels such as one sees in the waters of the Great Lakes and the Gulf of Cali- fornia; they are also attached to some sailing canoes, but are not properly a part of the equip- ment of any boat worthy to be called a yacht. The lee-board is merely a blade of wood dropped at the side of a vessel to give her a hold upon the water. Similar to the buckeye in appearance is a vessel used in waters a thousand miles distant from those which are the home of the buckeye, and commonly known as a Mackinaw boat. It is the typical vessel of Lake Superior, upper Lake Michigan, and Green Bay. This boat is also a double-ended craft, rigged generally with two leg-o-mutton sails, sometimes with the addition of a jib. The Mackinaw boat is popular as a fisherman, and the Indian fishers of the Great Lakes use it in catching whitefish, one of the chief industries of those waters. It can outsail the average fancy yacht, and is a very trustxvorthy sea-boat, two excellent qual- ities which have led to its adoption by many yachters of the Lakes as a general cruiser and pleasure-boat. The simple Mackinaw boat has no deck, and has a very pronounced sheer and a high bow and stern, but since it became a yachting craft it has been improved by the ad- dition of deck and cabin, and is one of the best yachts for all-round use that one can find. A few years ago the sailing public was sur- prised by the appearance upon the waters of a spider-like contrivance which its friends said was a catamaran. This new claimant for yachting favor was like the raft of the South Sea Islanders only in name; in fact, it was not a catamaran at all, but a new device for racing over the water by means of sails. Wonderful feats were predicted for the future of the cata- maran, and it certainly did accomplish some- thing; but after a long and fair trial (for the yachter, no matter how bigoted he may be, will always try a new boat) it was discarded as a useless, dangerous, and decidedly unsat- isfactory kind of craft. The theory of the cata- marans designers was that by setting sails upon two narrow, sharp hulls placed wide apart great speed could be obtained, because of the small resistance offered by the water against such hulls, and because the wide spread of the two boats xvould render the craft uncapsizable un- der lateral wind-pressure. Theory failed to fit facts, however, and the catamaran has long since disappeared from the surface of the waters; its moldering form may be seen almost any- where upon the shore of a yachting harbor, a shattered monument to the time, labor, and money that were sacrificed in giving it a trial. The faults of the catamaran were many. It did indeed show speed, provided the conditions under which it was used were exactly to its lik- ing; but Nature has a way of making her con- ditions disagreeable to the sailor and the ship, and the genius who conceived the catamaran seems not to have taken this into his reckon- ing when he created his boat. The catamaran was always out of order in rough water; often a moderate chop sea was sufficient to shake it in twain; it had a bad habit of losing or break- FROM A PROTOGRAPA BY WALTER BLACKBURN. A SLOOP CLOSE-HAULED TO WINDWARD. 22 COAST AND INLAND YACHTING. A CATAMARAN. ing its rudders; it was even guilty of letting its center-board be twisted out just when the cen- ter-board was handy to have; it would not rise to a sea, neither would it go through it steadily, as does a well-fined cutter; and it did actually capsize in a very disagreeable and unseemly manner, kicking up its heels and plunging nose down, as a cat-boat will sometimes pitch- pole, thus turning a porpoise-like somersault, and disgracing both itself and its master. So the catamaran, after a just trial by a jury of all the yachters, has disappeared, and is not likely to be seen again. Another style of craft, now out of date and rarely seen, is the pirogue, or, as it was usually called, periauger. This vessel is a double- ended, narrow hull, rigged with two pole-masts eachcarryinga gaff-sail--whatmightbe termed, in brief, a double cat-rigged boat. The pirogue was at one time the Jersey Dutchmans favor- ite boat, and in the early days, when New York was still remembered as New Amsterdam and Jersey City was known as Powles Hook, a pirogue-ferry was operated by the enterprising Dutch of the two towns on the opposite shores of the Hudson. In those days ii voyage across the river against adverse winds was considered quite a journey, and the pirogue making the best time became famous. A comparison be- tween the pirogue-ferry of those times and the equipment of such ferries as now ply across the Hudson is suggestive of the march which progress has made in a few brief decades. The pirogue is rarely seen nowadays, but one meets it occasionally. It is generally used as a hunting and pleasure-sailing crA ft. Originally it was fitted with a lee- board, but in the modern boat the center-board takes the place of that discarded contrivance. A new aspirant has recently come into the yachting field, of which much is expected by certain advo- cates of shoal-boat sailing. This new craft is really an improved sneak- box, a form of duck-hunting boat in use all over the country. The sneak- box of the West is a rowboat, but duck-hunters on the NexvJersey coast and other waters of the Atlantic sea- board inlets have always built their sneak-boxes with a view to carrying sail, and constant improvement has actually developed a boat which is an exceedingly fine sailer, and a weatherly craft. The further im- provement mentioned, which has resulted in the creation of a new type of sail-boat, is known by the somewhat non-nautical name of watermelon. It is a spoon-shaped, sloop- rigged craft. This unique vessel has been tried DRAWN BY W. TAMER, FROM A PROTRARAYR BY WALTER BLACARURN. A CUTTER BEFORE THE WIND, UNDER EACING CANVAR. COA ST AND INLAND YACHTING. 23 for two seasons, and reports speak well of its performance. It is an odd-looking boat, but in the hands of a skilful sailor seems to justify the application of the old saw, Handsome is as handsome does. Lake yachting has certain peculiarities not common with yachting on the salt water. For example, the water-ballasted boat, which is seldom seen upon the sea, has been in use by lake yachters for years. Some of the vessels sailed on the waters of the Great Lakes carry no other ballast. The water ballast is some- times held in fixed tanks secured at the bottom of the boat; in other cases it is carried in long, narrow boxes which are stowed below like a cargo. When racing with tank-ballasted yachts, it has sometimes been customary to alter the ballast by pumping out the water, or by add- ing more, as the needs of the racer might re- quire. This ability to change ballast at will gives one yacht decided advantage over an- other with fixed ballast; since, when running free before the wind, the water-hallasted boat may be lightened so that she may go more swiftly, while, when she is compelled to beat to windward under lateral pressure, a refilling of her water-tanks at once adds to her stabil- ity and sail-carrying poxver. By salt-water yachters such a practice would not be counte- nanced, since it would be considered unfair. The water-ballasted boat certainly has one point in its favorif capsized it cannot sink; and this desirable quality in a yacht has given impetus in the East to the building of what is known as the Norton life-boat, a vessel con- structed on peculiar principles. Briefly de- scribed, the Norton boat is of the following design. Her water-ballast is confined in tanks on each side of her keel-line; these tanks are opened to the sea at points near the keel; in the upper part of each tank, along each side of the boat, is an air-chamber. The theory of the inventor is that, when the vessel is pressed down to leeward, the water in the leeward tanks is forced upward against the aircushions, and the resistance of the air thus compressed holds the boat up. The water in the windward tanks cannot escape, because the outlets are below the water-line of the boat; this water remains as dead ballast. Concerning the Norton boat much has been written, but no positive proof has yet been furnished that it is all that is claimed for it. It certainly behaves well, and is a very stiff boat in a hard blow. Such a boat really floats upon its cabin floor, or rather upon the upper limits of its water- tanks. Leaving the discussion of the odds and ends of yacht styles, we come, by natural progress, to a type which is destined to greater popular- ity as time goes on, and yachters learn the ways of the sea, and the best methods of dealing with them. Although the schooner is generally deemed a big yacht, it is nevertheless a fact that small schooners are desirable boats to have, and that the number of schooners of small ton- THE WATERMELON~~ SLOOP. 24 COAST AND INLAND YACHTING. nage is increasing. There is no denying the ad- vantage of the schooners rig over that of the sloop. A schooner of forty feet is handier, safer, and less expensive to run than a forty-foot sloop. The rig of the schooner is peculiarly adapted to all xveathers, and a small crew can handle such a vessel with ease, when to manage a sloop of equal size would require the best ef- forts of all hands and the cook. The reason for this is that the schooners sails can be at- tended to one at a time, which is not the case with the big-mainsail sloop. Any yachter of experience can relate tales of hard trials with a sloop in rough weather that would not have worried a schooners crew at all. The waters of the eastern Sound and of Boston Harbor have many of these little schooners, and their owners get from them an amount of comfort that can never be appreciated save by one who has had experience with both schooner and sloop. A typical yacht of this kind is the flag- ship Editk of the New York Yacht Racing Association. Her owner, President Prime, has cruised in her to Florida, and found her as safe and handy at sea as many a large vessel. Such a yacht is cheap to build, cheap to run, and very roomy. For men who seek to yacht for pleasure, comfort, and safety, the schooner and the yawl are beyond question ideal boats. If racing be the desire of the yachting man, how- ever, the cat, jib-and-mainsail, sloop- and cut- ter-rigged yachts are the boats in which he should invest and sink his cash. A word concerning the endless centerboard- and-keel controversy may not be out of place here. As applied to small cruising yachts, it is not out of the way to state that, unless shoal waters make it imperative that one should have only a light-draft boat, the deep-keel vessel is much the better craft for the yachter to use. In such a boat depth gives accommodation, the absence of the center-board trunk leaves the cabin freed from a great inconvenience, while the stability of such a boat contributes to safety. It is generally agreed that the best small cruiser is a boat of good beam and draft, carrying her ballast on her keel. Such a yacht is uncap- sizable, a great advantage in a small vessel. The compromise, or keel-and-centerboard type of boat, is also popular. A boat of this kind has good draft, lead or iron keel-ballast, and the center-board is considered a benefit to her in going about and in racing. The very light- draft center-board yacht is not the best cruiser, the only excuse for her use in that capacity being the necessity of light draft in waters which are shallow, as are the waters of many of our small harbors. A general deduction from these points of view may be summarized thus: use a keel boatif you can; a center-board boat if you must. With racing yachts the case is different. A racer should be built with one ideato win and if light draft and a big center-board will win, one should use them. For rough-water racing, however, it has been demonstrated FROM A PHOTOGRAPH MY J. H. FOOTE. THE SCHOONER EDITH COAST AND INLAND YACHTING. 25 quite conclusively that the skimming-dish, as the light-draft boat is called, is not the best yacht. In bad weather the yacht with good body and draft, and ballast well down, has of- ten proved herself the champion. The narrow- beamed cutter with very deep draft has also held her own in such weather against all com- ers. And just here a note in reference to the diagrams shown in a and b may be interesting. These drawings show the development of the deep, narrow boat from the shoal type. They are from the scale plans of well-known yachts, a, Midship section of typical center-board sioop-yacht, forty feet long over all, fourteen feet beam, three feet nine inches deep, exclusive of trunk. 5, Body-plan of typical English cutter, thirty-eight feet long over all, six feet beam, and six feet draft. and serve better than words to mark the dif- ferent types. The plan b is an excellent form of keel type, being excessive neither in draft nor in beam; but a is too light for a stable boat. A compromise between a and b would give a good type of boat for general all-round yacht- ing purposes. Racing with small yachts has for many years been one of the delights of yachters. With the growth of yachting and the development of or- ganizations this sport grew rapidly in popularity, and now racing is always the great feature of a clubs yachting season. In the earlier days of yacht racing some droll things occurred. It was soon discovered that a big boat could beat ~ small one, and the necessity of time-allow- ance rules became obvious to the yachters. At first it was deemed sufficient to grade the boats according to size; and actual size being an un- attainable measure, length was adopted as a standard of size. So the yachts were measured over their decks for the purpose of classification. Then began an era of building to beat the racing rule, and the result was a boat longer on the keel than over deck. Objection was made to this unfairness, and the rule was changed, the measure of length on the keel being adopted as fair. In a short time the yachting world witnessed the birth of a new type of boat with the keel cut away forward and aft. Again the boat was made bigger than her measure indicated. Next came the water-line rule of measurement, which was fair, excepting that it took no account of the overhang sterns of many yachts, which thus gained advantage over square-sterned boats of equal water-line length. VOL. XLIV. 4. So a reckoning was made for overhang, and this is the general practice to-day. When the New York Yacht Racing Association was or- ganized, this question of racing-length was decided in a manner so satisfactory that no just complaint of unfairness has ever arisen; and the majority of clubs in the country have adopted the association rule, which is simple, sports- manlike, and free from the complications that always cause trouble in clubs which use ton- nage and sail-area rules. The association rule measures a yacht by this formula: Length over deck + water-line length = sailing 2 measure; that is to say, one half of the overhang of the stern is allowed. Concerning this association a word should be said, because its organization marks a new era in yachting. It was formed in 1889 by ten clubs, the object being to create a sportsman- like spirit and a feeling of cordiality among all yachters. Its growth in popularity was rapid, and in a year its membership had doubled. To- day it includes nearly every yacht-club on the waters of New York harbor, New Jersey, and the western Sound. Its annual regattas have made it a success, as a few figures will show. In the regatta of 1889, 120 yachts entered, the largest number ever sailed in any race. Jn 1890, the en-tries numbered i8o; in 1891, i6o boats entered. The association has been a boon to yachters, bringing them together in friendly intercourse, and fostering a spirit of good-fel- lowship and kindly rivalr.y. The association has a cruise every year, and this feature has become almost as popular with its members as the regatta. Sixty yachts participated in the cruise of 1890. In 1891, one hundred little vessels sailed the waters of Long Island Sound, OLD-STYLE PIROGUE WITH LEE-BOARD. 26 COAST AND [NLAND YACHTING. disbanding at Shelter Island after a most de- lightful outing. The association has been a success from the start, and has given the small- yachters opportunities which they never could have got in any other way, because the lack of uniformity in racing rules made it impossible for the boats of one club to race with those of ~ another. Whether the racing rules of the as- sociation are technically perfect is a mooted question, but they certainly satisfy the yacht- ers, and leave no room for those rancorous feelings which always grow out of a race sailed under the rules with a plus in em, to which genial Captain Joe of Puritan fame once strongly objected, on the ground that they were not seamanlike, and that no two peo- ple could ever read them the same way. A word should be said, before closing, of the homes of the yachters, for it is in these places that they spend much of their time when ashore, receive their friends, give their banquets, and spin yarns during the long winter evenings, while their boats areabandoned upon the shores, or in the snug hibernation of some quiet cove, awaiting the springtime revival and the bustle of preparation for the next summers sailing. Every yacht-club has a home of some sort, if it be merely a small hut with a set of lockers and some chairs; but most clubs erect really useful houses, and take great pride in having them cozy and well furnished. Some of these buildings are expensive, well-designed struc- tures. Such houses as those of the Atlantic and Brooklyn Clubs of Brooklyn; the Pavonia Club at the Atlantic Highlands of New Jersey; the Eastern Club at Marblehead, Massachu- setts; the Larchmont and New Haven Clubs of the Sound; and the Minnetonka Club of Min- neapolis, are admirably adapted for yachting purposes. These club-houses are, of course, constructed primarily with a view to the needs of the yacht-owners, and contain ample locker accommodations, sail-lofts; and store-rooms for small boats, oars, spars, etc.; but they also con- tain fine meeting-rooms, ladies parlors, and quarters for the stewards, who prepare many a good dinner for the hungry sailors and their friends and who ever saw a yachting man who was not hungry? Some ofthese club-houses also have sleeping-rooms in which one who desires to slumber on shore may pass the night, al- though the yachter himself generally prefers a bunk in his boat to any hotel, no matter how fine. Some clubs, in addition to their regular club-houses, maintain annexes at favorite resorts, which they use as general meeting-places during the yachting season. The New York Yacht Club and the Pavonia and Jersey City Clubs of New Jersey have such buildings, and find them very convenient, the location of their homes not being near enough to the sea to meet the requirements of their sailing. These annex club-houses are plain and substantial. Yachting in small yachts is, then, the real American yachting. The big boat has its place in the yachting world, but it is not the typical American yacht. It is the small-yachter who gives to the sport its wide popularity, and makes yachting so universally loved by men who are fond of aquatic pleasuring. The small-yachter is everywhere upon the waters. From the coast of Maine, from the shores of the harbor of the Golden Gate, from the beaches of the Atlantic seaboard, and from the borders of the inland lakes, he can be seen, all summer long, sailing about in his little ves- sel, and enjoying in all its fullness the excite- ment and delight of this most noble and health-giving sport. With a pluck and en- ergy that mark the true lover of the sea, and a tact and skill that bespeak the real sailor, he handles his little craft, in fair weather and in foul, in a manner that leaves no room for doubt as to his fitness for the work which he is doing; for, whether he sail alone, or with the help of his friends, or that of a hired man to run his boat, he is always the master of his vessel, which is seldom the case with the proprietor of the big boat, and is in real- ity a yachtsman under all circumstances, at all times, and in all weathers. He must be cool-headed and calm in times of peril, affable and courteous on all social occasions, and gen- erous and prompt to respond to all calls upon his courage in brief, a gentleman; and, with rare exceptions, he comes up to that standard. There is no pofit in yachting, and its trophies are, like those of the old Greek arena, always marks of merit and prowess, never the rewards of sharp practice and dishonest trickery. No race-winner among yachters expects his prizes to pay for his outlay, and this feature of its contests has always kept yachting from drawing to itself the kind of men who disgrace many other forms of sport. Yachting is a pastime that appeals only to those traits of character which are found in the manly man. Frederic W Pangborn. A GRAY JACKET. By the Author of Marse Chan, Meh Lady, Elsket, etc. meeting with him was accidental. I came across him passing through the square. I had seen him once or twice on the street, each time lurching along so drunk that he could scarcely stagger, so that I was surprised to hear what he said about the war. He was talking to some one who evidently had been in the army himself, but on the other sidea gentleman with the loyal legion button in his coat, and with a beautiful scar, a saber- cut across his face; was telling of a charge in some battle or skirmish in which, he declared, his company not himself; for I remember he said he was No. 4, and was generally told off to hold the horses; and that that day he had had the ill luck to lose his horse and get a little scratch himself, so he was not in the chargedid the finest work he ever saw, and really, so he claimed, saved the day. It was this self-abnegation that first arrested my atten- tion, for I had been accustomed all my life to hear the war talked of; it was one of the inspir- ing influences in my humdrum existence. But the speakers, although they generally boasted of their commands, not of themselves individu- ally, usually admitted that they themselves had been in the active force, and thus tacitly shared in the credit. No. 4, however, expressly dis- claimed that he was entitled to any of the praise, declaring that he was safe behind the crest of the hill (which he said he hugged mighty close ), and claimed the glory for the rest of the command. It happened just as I have told you here, he said, in closing. Old Joe saw the point as soon as the battery went to work, and sent Binford Terrell to the colonel to ask him to let him go over there and take it; and when Joe gave the word the boys went. They did nt go at a walk either, I tell you; it was nt any promenade: they went clipping. At first the guns shot over em; did nt catch em till the third fire; then they played the devil with em: but the boys were up there right in em before they could do much. They turned the guns on em as they went down the hill (oh, our boys could handle the tubes then as well as the ar- tillery themselves), and in a little while the rest of the line came up, and we formed a line of battle right there on that crest, and held it till nearly night. That s when I got jabbed. I picked up another horse, and with my foolish- ness went over there. That evening, you know, you all charged us we were dismounted then. We lost more men then than we had done all day; there were forty-seven out of seventy-two killed or wounded. They walked all over us; two of em got hold of me (you see, I went to get our old flag some of you had got hold of), but I was too worthless to die. There were lots of em did go though, I tell you; old Joe in the lead. Yes, sir; the old company won that day, and old Joe led em. There aint but a few of us left; but when you want us, colonel, you can get us. We 11 stand by you. He paused in deep reflection; his mind evi- dently was back with his old company and its gallant commander old Joe, whoever he might be, who was remembered so long after he passed away in the wind and smoke of that unnamed evening battle. I took a good look at him, at No. 4, as he called himself. He was tall, but stooped a little; his features were good, at least his nose and brow were; his mouth and chin were weak. His mouth was too stained with the tobacco which he chewed to tell much about it,and his chin was like so many American chins, not strong. His eyes looked weak. His clothes were very much worn, but they had once been good; they formerly had been black, and well made; the buttons were all on. His shirt was clean. I took note of this, for he had a dissipated look, and a rum- pled shirt would have been natural. A mans linen tells on him before his other clothes do. His listener had evidently been impressed by him also, for .he roseand said abruptly, Let s go and take a drink. To my surprise No. 4 declined. No, I thank you, he said, with promptness. I instinctively looked at him again to see if I had not misjudged him; but I con- cluded not, that I was right, and that he was simply not drinking. I was flattered at my discrimination when I heard him say tkat he had sworn off. His friend said no more, but remained standing while No. 4 expa- tiated on the difference between a man who is drinking and one who is not. I never heard a more striking exposition of it. He said he wondered that any man could be such a fool as to drink liquor; that he had determined never to touch another drop. He presently relapsed into silence, and the other reached out his hand 27

A GRAY JACKET. By the Author of Marse Chan, Meh Lady, Elsket, etc. meeting with him was accidental. I came across him passing through the square. I had seen him once or twice on the street, each time lurching along so drunk that he could scarcely stagger, so that I was surprised to hear what he said about the war. He was talking to some one who evidently had been in the army himself, but on the other sidea gentleman with the loyal legion button in his coat, and with a beautiful scar, a saber- cut across his face; was telling of a charge in some battle or skirmish in which, he declared, his company not himself; for I remember he said he was No. 4, and was generally told off to hold the horses; and that that day he had had the ill luck to lose his horse and get a little scratch himself, so he was not in the chargedid the finest work he ever saw, and really, so he claimed, saved the day. It was this self-abnegation that first arrested my atten- tion, for I had been accustomed all my life to hear the war talked of; it was one of the inspir- ing influences in my humdrum existence. But the speakers, although they generally boasted of their commands, not of themselves individu- ally, usually admitted that they themselves had been in the active force, and thus tacitly shared in the credit. No. 4, however, expressly dis- claimed that he was entitled to any of the praise, declaring that he was safe behind the crest of the hill (which he said he hugged mighty close ), and claimed the glory for the rest of the command. It happened just as I have told you here, he said, in closing. Old Joe saw the point as soon as the battery went to work, and sent Binford Terrell to the colonel to ask him to let him go over there and take it; and when Joe gave the word the boys went. They did nt go at a walk either, I tell you; it was nt any promenade: they went clipping. At first the guns shot over em; did nt catch em till the third fire; then they played the devil with em: but the boys were up there right in em before they could do much. They turned the guns on em as they went down the hill (oh, our boys could handle the tubes then as well as the ar- tillery themselves), and in a little while the rest of the line came up, and we formed a line of battle right there on that crest, and held it till nearly night. That s when I got jabbed. I picked up another horse, and with my foolish- ness went over there. That evening, you know, you all charged us we were dismounted then. We lost more men then than we had done all day; there were forty-seven out of seventy-two killed or wounded. They walked all over us; two of em got hold of me (you see, I went to get our old flag some of you had got hold of), but I was too worthless to die. There were lots of em did go though, I tell you; old Joe in the lead. Yes, sir; the old company won that day, and old Joe led em. There aint but a few of us left; but when you want us, colonel, you can get us. We 11 stand by you. He paused in deep reflection; his mind evi- dently was back with his old company and its gallant commander old Joe, whoever he might be, who was remembered so long after he passed away in the wind and smoke of that unnamed evening battle. I took a good look at him, at No. 4, as he called himself. He was tall, but stooped a little; his features were good, at least his nose and brow were; his mouth and chin were weak. His mouth was too stained with the tobacco which he chewed to tell much about it,and his chin was like so many American chins, not strong. His eyes looked weak. His clothes were very much worn, but they had once been good; they formerly had been black, and well made; the buttons were all on. His shirt was clean. I took note of this, for he had a dissipated look, and a rum- pled shirt would have been natural. A mans linen tells on him before his other clothes do. His listener had evidently been impressed by him also, for .he roseand said abruptly, Let s go and take a drink. To my surprise No. 4 declined. No, I thank you, he said, with promptness. I instinctively looked at him again to see if I had not misjudged him; but I con- cluded not, that I was right, and that he was simply not drinking. I was flattered at my discrimination when I heard him say tkat he had sworn off. His friend said no more, but remained standing while No. 4 expa- tiated on the difference between a man who is drinking and one who is not. I never heard a more striking exposition of it. He said he wondered that any man could be such a fool as to drink liquor; that he had determined never to touch another drop. He presently relapsed into silence, and the other reached out his hand 27 28 A GRAY JACKETI2 to say good-by. Suddenly rising, he said: Well, suppose we go and have just one for old times sake. Just one now, mind you; for I have not touched a drop in He turned away, and I did not catch the length of the time mentioned; but I have reason to believe that No. 4 overstated it. The next time I saw him was in the police court. I happened to be there when he walked out of the pen among as miscellaneous a lot of chronic drunkards, thieves, and miscreants of both sexes and several colors as were ever gathered together. He still had on his old black suit, buttoned up; but his linen was rumpled and soiled like himself; and he was manifestly just getting over a debauch, the effects of which were still visible on him in every line of his perspiring face and thin figure. He walked with that exaggerated erectness which told his self- deluded state as plainly as if he had pronounced it in words. He had evidently been there be- fore, and more than once. The justice nodded to him familiarly: Here again? he asked in a tone part pleasantry, part regret. Yes, your honor. Met an old soldier last night, and took a drop for good fellowship, and before I knew it A shrug of the shoulders completedthesentence,andtheshouldersdi~ not straighten any more. The tall officer who had picked him up said something to the justice in a tone too low for me to catch; but No.4 heard it,it was evi- dently a statement against him, for he started to speak in a deprecating way. The judge in- terrupted him: I thought you told me last time that if I let you go you would not take another drink for a year.~~ I forgot, said No. 4in a low voice. This officer says you resisted him. The officer looked stolidly at the prisoner as if it were a matter of not the slightest interest to him personally. Cursed me aird abused me, he said, dropping the words slowly as if he were checking off a schedule. I did not, your honor; indeed, I did not, said No. 4, quickly. I swear I did not; he is mistaken. Your honor does not believe I would tell you a lie! Surely I have not got so low as that. The justice turned his pencil in his hand doubtfully, and looked away. No. 4 took in his position. He began again. I fell in with an old soldier, and we got to talking about the war about old tin~es. His voice was very soft. I will promise your honor that I wont take another drink for a year. Here, I 11 take an oath to it. Swear me. He seized the greasy little Bible on the desk before him, and handed it to the justice. The magis trate took it doubtfully. He looked down at the prisoner half kindly, half humorously. You 11 just break it. He started to lay the book down. No; I want to take the pledge, said No. 4, eagerly. Did I ever break a pledge I made to your honor? Did nt you promise me not to come back here? I have not been here for nine months. Be- sides, I did not come of my own free will, said No. 4, with a faint flicker of humor on his perspiring face. You promised not to take another drink. I forgot that. I did not mean to break it; indeed, I did not. I fell in with The justPre looked away, considered a mo- ment, and ordered him back into the pen with, Thirty days under the hill, to cool off. No. 4 stood quite still till the officer motioned him to the gate, behind which the prisoners sat in stolid rows. Then he walked dejectedly back into the pen, and sat down by a drunken negro. His look touched me, and I went around and talked to the magistrate pn- vately. But he was inexorable; he said he knew more of him than I did, and that thirty days in jail would dry him out and be good for him. I told him the story of the battle. He knew it already, and said he knew more than that about him: that he had been one of the bravest soldiers in the whole army; did not know what fear was; had once ridden into the enemy and torn a captured standard from its captors hands, receiving two desperate bayo- net-wounds in doing it; and had done other acts of conspicuous gallantry on many occa- sions. I pleaded this, but he was obdurate; hard, I thought at the time, and told him so; told him he had been a soldier himself; and ought to be easier. He looked troubled, not offended; for we were friends, and I think he liked to see me, who had been a boy during the war, take up for an old soldier oh that ground. But he stood firm. I must do him the justice to say that I now think it would not have made any difference if he had done other- wise. No. 4 must have heard me trying to help him, for one day about a month after that he walked in on me quite sober, and looking some- what as he did the first day I ever saw him; thanked me for what I had done for him; de- livered one of the most impressive discourses on intemperance that I ever heard; and asked me to try to help him get work. He was willing to do anything, he said; that is, anything he could do. I got him a place with a friend of mine which he kept a week, then got drunk. We got hold of him, however, and sobered him up, and he escaped the police and the justices A GRAY JACKET. 29 court. Being out of work, and very firm in his resolution never to drink again, we lent him some money a very littlewith which to keep along a few days, on which he got drunk immediately, and did fall into the hands of the police, and was sent to jail as before. This, in fact, was his regular round: into jail, out ofjail; a little spell of sobriety, an accidental fall, which occurred as soon as he could get a drop of liquor, and into jail again for thirty or sixty days according to the degree of resistance he gave the police, who always, by their own ac- count, simply invited him politely to go home, and, by his, insulted him, and to the violence of the language he applied to them. In this he excelled; for although as quiet as possible when he was sober, when he was drunk he was a ter- ror, so the police said, and his resources of vi- tuperation were cyclopedic. He possessed in this particular department an eloquence which was incredible. His blasphemy was vast, illim- itable, infinite. He told me once that he could not explain it; that when he was sober he 4- horred profanity, and never uttered an oath; when he was in liquor his brain took this turn, and distilled blasphemy in volumes. He said that all of its energies were quickened and con- centrated in this direction, and then he took not only pleasure, but pride in it. He felt in- spired like one of the old prophets denouncing the sins of Israel. He told me a good deal of his life. He had got very low at this time, much lower than he had been when I first knew him. He recog- nized this himself, and used to analyze and dis- cuss himself in quite an impersonal way. This was when he had come out of jail, and after having the liquor dried out ~ of him. In such a state he always referred to his condition in the past as being something that never would qr could recur; while on the other hand, if he were just over a drunk, he frankly admitted his absolute slavery to his habit. When he was getting drunk he shamelessly maintained, and was ready to swear on all the Bibles in creation, that he had not touched a drop, and never ex- pected to do so again,indeed, could not be induced to do it,when in fact he would at the very time be reeking with the fumes of li- quor, and perhaps had his pocket then bulging with a bottle which he had just emptied, and would willingly have bartered his soul to refill. I never saw such absolute dominion as the love of liquor had over him. He was like a man in chains. He confessed it frankly and calmly. He said he had a disease, and gave me a history of it. It came on him, he said, in spells; that when he was over one he ab- horred it, but when the fit seized him it came suddenly, and he was in absolute slavery to it. He said his father was a gentleman of convi vial habits (I have heard that he was very dis- sipated, though not openly so, and No. 4 never admitted it). He was killed at the bat- tle of Bull Run. His mother he always spoke of her with unvarying tenderness and rever- ence had suffered enough, he said, to can- onize her if she were not a saint already; she had brought him up to have a great horror of liquor, and he had never touched it till he went into the army. In the army he was in a convi- vial crowd, and they had hard marching and poor rations, often none, and drinking got to be held the proper thing. Liquor was scarce, and was regarded as a luxury; so although he was very much afraid of it, yet for good fellow- ships sake, and because it was considered man- nish, he used to drink it. Then he got to like it; and then got to feel the need of it, and took it to stimulate him when he was run down. This want brought with it a great depression when he did not have the means to satisfy it. He never liked the actual taste of it; he said few drunkards did. It was the effect that he was al- ways after. This increased on him, he said, until finally it was no longer a desire, but a pas- sion, a necessity; he was obliged to have it. He felt then that he would commit murder for it. Why, I dream about it, he said. I will tell you what I have done. I have made the most solemn vows, and have gone to bed and gone to sleep, and waked up and dressed and walked miles through the rain and snow to get it. I believe I would have done it if I had known I was going next moment to hell. He said it had ruined him; said so quite calmly; did not appear to have any special remorse about it; at least, never professed any; said it used to trouble him, but he had got over it now. He had had a plantation, that is, his mother had had, and he had been quite successful for a while; but he said, A man cant drink liquor and run a farm, and the farm had gone. I asked him how? I sold it, he s4d calmly; that is, per- suaded my m?other to sell it. The stock that belonged to me had nearly all gone before. A man who is drinking will sell anything, he said. I have sold everything in the world I had, or could lay my hands on. I have never got quite so low as to sell my old gray jacket that I used to wear when I rode behind old Joe. I mean to be buried in that if I can keep it. He had been engaged to a nice girl; the wedding-day had been fixed; but she had broken off the en- gagement. She married another man. She was a mighty nice girl, he said quietly. Her people did not like my drinking so much. I passed her not long ago on the street. She did not know me. He glanced down at himself quietly. She looks older than she did. He said that he had had a place for some time, 30 A GRAY JACKET did not drink a drop for nearly a year, and then got with some of the old fellows, and they per- suaded him to take a little. I cannot touch it. I have either got to drink or let it alone one thing or the other, he said. But I am all right now, he declared triumphantly, a lit- tle of the old fire lighting up in his face. I never expect to touch a drop again. He spoke so firmly that I was persuaded to make him a little loan, taking his due-bill for it, which he always insisted on giving. I have a pile of these valuable securities now filed away with a somewhat smaller number of pledges of various degrees of asseveration which he made from time to time. I had not then come to know him so well as I did afterward. That evening I saw him being dragged along by three policemen, and he was cursing like a demon. The maledictions of Ezekiel and Jer- emiah mingled with the language of Billings- gate were being poured forth in the street in a resistless torrent. In the course of time he got so low that he spent much more than half his time in jail. He became a perfect vagabond, and with his clothes ragged and dirty might be seen reeling about, or standing around the street corners near disreputable bars, waiting for a chance drink, or sitting asleep in doorways of unten- anted buildings. His companions would be one or two chronic drunkards like himself, with red noses, bloated faces, dry hair, and filthy clothes. Sometimes I would see him hurrying along with one of these as if they had a piece of the most important business in the world. An idea had struck their addled brains that by some means they could manage to secure a drink. Yet in some way he still held himself above these crea- tures, and once or twice I heard of him being under arrest for resenting what he deemed an impertinence from them. Once he came very near being drowned. There was a flood in the river, and a large crowd was watching it from the bridge. Suddenly a little girls dog fell in. It was pushed in by a ruffian. The child cried out, and there was a commotion. When it subsided a man was seen swimming for life after the little white head go- ing down the stream. It was No. 4. He had slapped the fellow in the face, and then had sprung in after the dog. He caught it, and got out himself, though in too exhausted a state to stand up. When he was praised for it, he said, A member of old Joes company who would not have done that could not have ridden be- hind old Joe. I had this story from eye-wit- nesses, and it was used shortly after with good effect; for he was arrested for burglary, break- ing into a mans house one night. It looked at first like a serious case, for some money had been taken out of a drawer; but when the case was investigated it transpired that the house was a bar-room over which the man lived, he was the same man who had pitched the dog into the water, and that No. 4, after being given whisky enough to make him a madman, had been put out of the place, had broken into the bar during the night to get more, and was found fast asleep in a chair with an empty bot- tle beside him. I became satisfied that if any money had been taken the barkeeper, to make out a case against No. 4, had taken it him- self, and the jury thought so too. But there was a technical breaking, and it had to be got around; so his counsel appealed to the jury, tell- ing them what he knew of No. 4, together with the story of the childs dog, and No. 4s reply. There were one or two old soldiers on the jury, and they acquitted him, on which he somehow managed to get whisky enough to land him back in jail in twenty-four hours. IN May, 1890, there was a monument un- ve,iled in Richmond. It was a great occasion, and not only all Virginia, but the whole South, participated in it with great fervor, much en-. thusiasm, and many tears. It was an occasion for sacred memories. The newspapers talked about it for a good while beforehand; prepa- rations were made for it as for the celebration of a great and general ceremony in which the whole South was interested. It was interested, because it was not only the unveiling of a monu- ment for the old commander, the greatest and loftiest Southerner, and, as the South holds, man, of his time; it was an occasion conse- crated to the whole South, now strongly and henceforth forever for the Union as it is; it was the embalming in precious memories, and lay- ing away in the tomb of the Southern Confed- eracy, the apotheosis of the Southern people. As such all were interested in it, and all were prepared for it. It was known that all that re- rnained of the Southern armies would be there: ofthe armies tbat fought at Shiloh,and Bull Run, and Fort Republic; at Seven Pines, Gainess Mill, and Cold Harbor; at Antietam, Fred- ericksburg, Chancellorsville, and Gettysburg, Atlanta, Murfreesboro, and Chickamauga, Spotsylvania, the Wilderness, and Petersburg; and the whole South, Union as it is now to the core and ready to fight the nations bat- tles, gathered to glorify Lee, the old comman- der, and to see the survivors of those and other bloody fields in which the volunteer soldiers of the South had held the world at bay, and added to the glorious history of their race. Men came all the way from Oregon and Cali- fornia to be present. Old one-legged soldiers stumped it from West Virginia. Even No. 4, though in the gutter, caught the contagion, and shaped up and became sober. He got a good A GRAY JACKET~ 3 suit of clothes somewhere, notnew, and ap- peared quite respectable. He even got some- thing to do, and was put on one of the many committees having a hand in the entertainment arrangements. I never saw a greater change in any one. It looked as if there was hope for him yet. He stopped me on the street a day or two before the unveiling and told me he had a piece of good news: the remnant of his old company was to be here; he had got hold of the last one, there were nine of them left, and he had his old jacket that he had worn in the war, and he was going to wear it on the march. It s worn, of course, he said, but my mother put some patches over the holes, and except for the stain on it it s in good order. I believe I am the only one of the boys that has his jacket still; I have never got so hard up as to part with it. I m all right now. I mean to be buried in it. I had never remarked before what a refined face he had; his enthusiasm made him look younger than I had ever seen him. I saw him on the day before the eve of the unveiling; he was as busy as a bee, and looked almost hand- some. The boys are comingin by every train, he said. Look here; he pulled me aside, and unbuttoned his vest. A piece of faded gray cloth was disclosed. He had the old gray jacket on under his other coat. i[ know the boys will like to see it, he said. I m going down to the train now to meet one Binford Terrell. I dont know whether I shall know him. Bin- ford and I used to be much of a size. We did not use to speak at one time; had a falling out about which one should hold the horses; I made him do it, but I reckon he wont remember it now. I dont. I have not touched a drop. Good-by. He went off. The next night about bedtime I got a mes- s,age that a man wanted to see me at the jail immediately. It was urgent. Would I come down there at once? I had a foreboding, and I went down. It was as I suspected. No. 4 was there behind the bars. Drunk again, said the turnkey, laconically, as he let me in. He let me see him. He wanted me to see the judge and get him out. He besought me. He wept. It was all an accident; he had found some of the old boys, and they had got to talk- ing over old times, and just for old times sake, etc. He was too drunk to stand up; but the terror of being locked up next day had sobered him, and his mind was perfectly clear. He im- plored me to see the judge and to get him to let him out. Tell him I will come back here and stay a year if he will let me out to-morrow, he said brokenly. He showed me the gray i~i cket under his vest, and was speechless. Even ie did not ask release on the ground that a veteran. I never knew him to urge this reason. Even the officials who must have seen him there fifty times were sympathetic; and they told me to see the justice, and they believed he would let him out for next day. I applied to him as they suggested. He said, Come down to court to-morrow morning. I did 50. No.4 was present, pale and trem- bling. As he stood there he made a better de- fense than any one else could have made for him. He admitted his guilt, and said he had nothing to say in extenuation except that it was the old story, he had not intended it; he deserved it all, but would like to get off that day; had a special reason for it, and would, if necessary, go back to jail that evening and stay there a year, or all his life. As he stood await- ing sentence, he looked like a damned soul. His coat was unbuttoned, and his old, faded gray jacket showed under it. The justice, to his honor, let him off. No. 4 shook hands with him, unable to speak, and turned away. Then he had a strange turn. We had hard work to get him to go into the procession. He positively refused; said he was not fit to go or to live, began to cry, and took off his jacket. He would go back to jail, he said. We finally got him straight, accepted from him a solemn promise not to touch a drop till the celebration was over, so help him God, and sent him off to join his old command at the tobacco ware- house on the slip where the cavalry rendez- voused. I had some apprehension that he would not turn up in the procession; but I was mistaken. He was there with the old cavalry veterans, as sober as a judge, and looking every inch a soldier. It was a strange scene, and an impressive one even to those whose hearts were not in sympathy with it in any respect. Many who had been the hardest fighters against the South were in sympathy with much of it, if not with all. But to those who were of the South, even with hearts then fixed upon the Union, it was sublime. It passed beyond mere enthusiasm, however exalted, an rested in the profoundest and most sacred deeps of their being. There were many cheers, but more tears; not tears of regret or mortification (for the flag of the Union that we now love floated everywhere, placed by hands that once fought against it), but tears of sympathy and hallowed memory. The gaily decorated streets, in all the bravery of flutter- ing ensigns and bunting; the martial music of many bands; the constant tramp of marching troops; the thronged sidewalks, verandas, and roofs; the gleam of polished arms and glitter- ing uniforms; the flutter of gay garments, and the smiles of beautiful women sweet with sym- pathy; the long line of old soldiers, faded and broken and gray, yet each self-sustained, and inspired by the life of the South that flowed in 32 A GRAY JACATER their veins, marching under the old Confed- erate flags that they had borne so often in vic- tory and in defeatall contributed to make the outward pageant a scene never to be forgotten. But this was merely the outward image; the real fact was the spirit. It was the South. It was the spirit of the South, Confederate and Union; not of the new South, nor yet merely of the old South, but the spirit of the great South. When the young troops from every Southern State marched by in their fresh uni- forms, with well-drilled battalions, there were huzzas, much applause and enthusiasm; when the old soldiers came there was a tempest, wild cheers choking with sobs and tears, the well- known, once-heard-never-forgotten cry of the South, known in history as the rebel yell. Men and women and children joined in it. It began at the first sight of the regular column, swelled up the crowded streets, rose to the thronged housetops, ran along them for squares, and then came rolling back in volume only to rise and swell again greater than before. Men wept; women sobbed aloud. What was it? Only a thousand or two of old or aging men riding or tramping along through the dust of the street, under some old flags, dirty and rag- ged and stained. But they represented the spirit of the South; they represented the spirit which when honor was in question never counted the cost; the spirit that had stood up for the South against overwhelming odds for four years, and until the South had crumbled and perished un- der the forces of war; the spirit that is the strongest guaranty to us to-day that the Union is and is to be; the spirit that, glorious in vic- tory, had displayed a fortitude yet greater in defeat. Devoted to the Union, filled with en- thusiasm for her, they saw in every stain on those tattered standards the blood of their no- blest, bravest, and best; in every rent a proof of their glorious courage and sacrifice. They saw in those gray and careworn faces, in those old clothes interspersed now and then with a faded gray uniform, the men who in the ardor of their youth had, for the South, faced death undaunted on a hundred fields, and had never even thought it great; men who had looked im- mortality in the eyes, yet h4d been thrown down and trampled underfoot, and who were greater in their overthrow than when glory poured her light upon their upturned faces. Not one of them all but was self-sustaining, sustained by the South, or had ever even for one moment thought in his direst extremity that he would have what was undone. The crowd was immense; the people on the fashionable street up which the procession passed were fortunate; they had the advantage of their yards and porticos, and they threw them open to the public. Still the throng on the side- walks was tremendous, and just before the old veterans came along the crush increased. As it resettled itself I became conscious that a lit- tle old woman in a rusty black dress whom I had seen patiently standing alone in the front line on the street corner for an hour had lost her position, and had been pushed back against the railing, and had an anxious, disappointed look on her face. She had a little faded knot of Confederate colors fastened in her old dress, and, almost hidden by the crowd, she was looking up and down in some distress to see if she could not again get a place from which she could see. Finally she seemed to give it up, and stood quite still, tiptoeing now and then to try to catch a glimpse. I was about to go to help her when, from a gay and crowded portico above her, a young and beautiful girl in a white dress, whom I had been observing for some time as the life of a gay party, as she sat in her loveliness, a queen on her throne with her courtiers around her, suddenly rose and ran down into the street. There was a short col- loquy. The young beauty was offering some- thing which the old lady was declining; but it ended in the young girl leading the older wo- man gently up on to her veranda and giving her the chair of state. She was hardly seated when the old soldiers began to pass. As the last mounted veterans came by, I re- membered that I had not seen No.4; but as I looked up, he was just coming along. In his hand, with staff resting on his toe, he carried an old standard so torn and tattered and stained that it was scarce recognizable as a flag. I did not for a moment take in that it was he, for he was not in the gray jacket that I had ex- pected to see. He was busy looking down at the throng on the sidewalk, evidently searching for some one whom he expected to find there. He was in some perplexity, and pulled in his horse, which began to prance. Suddenly the applause from the portico above arrested his attention, and~he looked toward it and bowed. As he did so his eye caught that of the old lady seated there. His face lighted up, and, wheeling his prancing horse half around, he dipped the tattered standard, and gave the royal salute as though saluting a queen. The old lady pressed her wrinkled hand over the knot of faded rib- bon on her breast, and made a gesture to him, and he rode on. He had suddenly grown hand- some. I looked at her again; her eyes were closed, her hands were clasped, and her lips were moving. I saw the likeness; she was his mother. As he passed me I caught his eye. He saw my perplexity about the jacket, gjanced up at the torn colors, and pointed to a figure just beyond him dressed in a short faded jacket. No. 4 had been selected, as the highest honor, to carry the old colors which he had once saved; and not to bear off all the honors from his friend, he had with true comradeship made Binford Terrell wear his cherished jacket. He made a brave figure as he rode away, and my cheer died on my lips as I thought of the sad old mother in her faded knot, and of the dashing young soldier who had saved the colors in that unnamed fight. After that we got him a place, and he did well for several months. He seemed to be cured. New life and strength appeared to come back to him. But his mother died, and. one night shortly afterward he disappeared, and remained lost for several days. When we found him he had been brought to jail, and I was sent for to see about him. He was worse than I had ever known him. He was half- naked and little better than a madman. I went to a doctor about him, an old army surgeon, who saw him, and shook his head. Mania a Jo/u. Very bad; only a question of time, he said. This was true. No. 4 was beyond hope. Body and brain were both gone. It got to be only a question of days, if not of hours. Some of his other friends and I determined that he should not die in jail; so we took him out and carried him to a cool, pleasant room looking out on an old garden with trees in it. There in the dreadful terror of raving delirium he passed that night. I with several others sat up with him. I could not have stood many more like it. All night long he raved and tore. His oaths were blood-curdling. He covered every past section of his life. His armylife was mainly in his mind. He fought the whole war over. Sometimes he prayed fervently; prayed against his infirmity; prayed that his chains might be broken. Then he would grow calm for a while. One thing recurred con- stantly: he had sold his honor, betrayed his ~ause. This was the order again and again, and each time the paroxysm of frightful fury came on, and it took all of us to hold him. He was covered with snakes: they were chains on his 33 wrists and around his body. He tried to pull them from around him. At last, toward morn- ing, came one of these fearful spells worse than any that had gone before. It passed, and he suddenly seemed to collapse. He sank, and the stimulant administered failed to revive him. He is going, said the doctor, quietly, across the bed. Whether his dull ear caught the word or not, I cannot say; but he sud- denly roused up, tossed one arm, and said: Binford, take the horses. I m going to old Joe, and sank back. He s gone, said the doctor, opening his shirt and placing his ear over his heart. As he rose up I saw two curious scars on No. 4s emaciated breast. They looked almost like small crosses, about the size of the decorations the European veterans wear. The old doctor bent over and examined them. Hello! Bayonet-wounds, he said briefly. A little later I went out to get a breath of fresh morning air to quiet my nerves, which were somewhat unstrung. As I passed by a little second-hand clothing-store of the mean- est kind, in a poor, back street, I saw hanging up outside an old gray jacket. I stopped to examine it. It was stained behind with mud, and in front with a darker color. An old patch hid a part of the front; but a close exami- nation showed two holes over the breast. It was No. 4s lost jacket. I asked the shop- man about it. He had bought it, he said, of a pawnbroker who had got it from some drun- kard, who had probably stolen it last year from some old soldier. He readily sold it, and I took it back with me; and the others being gone, an old woman and I cut the patch off it and put No. 4s stiffening arms into the sleeves. Word was sent to us during the day to say that the city would bury him in the poor- house grounds. But we told them that ar- rangements had been made; that he would have a soldiers bu~al. And he had it. VOL. XLIV. 5. A GRAY JACKEZ Thomas Nelson Page. IT SO CHANCED. I. JT so chanced I On that leaden-hearted day, Rugged winter leagues away, As he thought of her there came On the waste a sunny flame Wherewithin the frost-mote danced, While an echo rang her name. It so chanced. II. It so chanced On that evenin~ bleak and hard, Martial-couched on frozen sward, As he thought of her there crept Music down the blast, that kept All his senses dream-entranced, While, from ambush watched, he slept. It so chanced. III. It so chanced In that twilight winged with ill When his pierc6d heart stood still, As he dreamed of her, he passed! Then, from out the circling Vast, With a smile his love advanced I, to meet thee, have sped fast! It so chanced. Edith AL Thomas. LOVES HORJZONr HE sky is like a womans love, I Theoceanlikeamans; Oh, neither knows, below, above, The measure that it spans! The ocean tumbles wild and free, And rages round the world; On reef and wreck eternally Its ruthless waves are hurled. The sky has many a gloomy cloud And many a rainy dash; Sometimes the storms are long and loud, With wind and lightning-flash. But ever somewhere, fair and sweet, Low stoops the adoring blue, Where ocean heavenward leaps to greet The sky so soft and true. They meet and blend all round the rim; Oh, who can half divine What cups of fervid rapture brim On the horizon line? The sky is like a womans love, The ocean like a mans; And neither dreams, below, above, The measure that it spans. Afczurice Thompson. 34

IT SO CHANCED. I. JT so chanced I On that leaden-hearted day, Rugged winter leagues away, As he thought of her there came On the waste a sunny flame Wherewithin the frost-mote danced, While an echo rang her name. It so chanced. II. It so chanced On that evenin~ bleak and hard, Martial-couched on frozen sward, As he thought of her there crept Music down the blast, that kept All his senses dream-entranced, While, from ambush watched, he slept. It so chanced. III. It so chanced In that twilight winged with ill When his pierc6d heart stood still, As he dreamed of her, he passed! Then, from out the circling Vast, With a smile his love advanced I, to meet thee, have sped fast! It so chanced. Edith AL Thomas. LOVES HORJZONr HE sky is like a womans love, I Theoceanlikeamans; Oh, neither knows, below, above, The measure that it spans! The ocean tumbles wild and free, And rages round the world; On reef and wreck eternally Its ruthless waves are hurled. The sky has many a gloomy cloud And many a rainy dash; Sometimes the storms are long and loud, With wind and lightning-flash. But ever somewhere, fair and sweet, Low stoops the adoring blue, Where ocean heavenward leaps to greet The sky so soft and true. They meet and blend all round the rim; Oh, who can half divine What cups of fervid rapture brim On the horizon line? The sky is like a womans love, The ocean like a mans; And neither dreams, below, above, The measure that it spans. Afczurice Thompson. 34

IT SO CHANCED. I. JT so chanced I On that leaden-hearted day, Rugged winter leagues away, As he thought of her there came On the waste a sunny flame Wherewithin the frost-mote danced, While an echo rang her name. It so chanced. II. It so chanced On that evenin~ bleak and hard, Martial-couched on frozen sward, As he thought of her there crept Music down the blast, that kept All his senses dream-entranced, While, from ambush watched, he slept. It so chanced. III. It so chanced In that twilight winged with ill When his pierc6d heart stood still, As he dreamed of her, he passed! Then, from out the circling Vast, With a smile his love advanced I, to meet thee, have sped fast! It so chanced. Edith AL Thomas. LOVES HORJZONr HE sky is like a womans love, I Theoceanlikeamans; Oh, neither knows, below, above, The measure that it spans! The ocean tumbles wild and free, And rages round the world; On reef and wreck eternally Its ruthless waves are hurled. The sky has many a gloomy cloud And many a rainy dash; Sometimes the storms are long and loud, With wind and lightning-flash. But ever somewhere, fair and sweet, Low stoops the adoring blue, Where ocean heavenward leaps to greet The sky so soft and true. They meet and blend all round the rim; Oh, who can half divine What cups of fervid rapture brim On the horizon line? The sky is like a womans love, The ocean like a mans; And neither dreams, below, above, The measure that it spans. Afczurice Thompson. 34 CHARACTERISTI Cs. BY S. WEIR MITCHELL, M. D., AUTHOR OF IN WAR TIME, ETC. XIV. (~ OME time passed be ~ fore we met to hear my account of the character doctor, and ~ meanwhile St. Clair had abruptly left town the day after our hospital experi- ence. Mrs. Vincent was talking to her husband when, just after dinner, I entered her drawing-room. It is an age since we met, she cried cor- dially. Sit down. Mr. Clayborne will be here shortly. And what have you done to my poor St. Clair? Read that, and she took from her work-basket a note dated the night I last saw him. I cannot dine with you to-morrow. I have seen to-night what I shall be some day. It is horrible. It was true, and he had gone away into the wo~ds for a fortnight, like a wounded animal. Nor did he ever speak of it again, but came back as gay and joyous as usual. I returned the note to her. How could you? she said. I should have known how he would feel. I took him, I returned, because he was reasonable in his desire to see a man die. But I suppose that, with all its awe, death is so con- stantly about us doctors that we cannot esti- mate its influence upon others. When I left him for he would stay he was simply cu- rious and contemplative.~~ Do you remember, said Mrs. Vincent, that description in Stendhal of the Italian who first sees death of a sudden on a great battle- fieldhis surprise, his curiosity, and at last his terror? It is in his La Chartreuse de Parme. No; I will look at it, but I have seen all this in war once or twice. As she spoke, Clayborne came in. Of what are you speaking? he said. Of fear. Of the anguish of fear, uncontrol- lable, like the fear in dreams. Yes; the agony of terror, I returned. ~Qne sees it in the insane at times, and in de- lirium tremens. There is nothing in normal life to compare with it. And were you ever afraid in war? Abominably. We were supposed as sur- geons to be non-combatants, but that means merely that one is to run risks without the chance to quiet himself by violent action. Practically, we lost in dead and hurt a long list of surgeons. Indeed? I did not know that. And what do you think the best test, after all, of a mans courage? said Vincent. To face a mob or a madman. I knew a man who once by ill luck was shut up with a crazy, athletic brute. My friend locked the door, hearing the mans wife wailing outside. The brute, while suffering from a delusion, had once hurt her; and now again imagining her to have been false to him, meant to kill her. He asked for the key, and gave my friend five min- utes to reflect, as he stood before him with a billet of wood he had seized from the hearth. And what did your friend do? It was summer, and the windows were open. He threw the key into the street. And what then? Oh, help came just as it was wanted, which is rare in this world. I have cut a long story short. My friend said afterward that he was glad of the experience; that he had little hope of escape, and now felt sure for the first time in his life that he was equal to any test of courage.~~ I can understand that, said Vincent. In these quiet days we are rarely tried as to cour- age. But, after all, is nt it somewhat a matter of training of profession? I suppose, North, it never enters into your mind to fear conta- gious diseas& ? Never; except as to one disease: I have a fancy I shall die of yellow fever. Oh, but, said our hostess, is nt it also true that physicians do not take disease as others do? No; that is a popular notion, but quite un- true. I have thrice suffered from disease thus acquired: once from smallpox, twice from diphtheria. In Ireland, in the great typhus years, physicians died in frightful numbers, and so did the old doctors here in yellow-fever days. Unlike the soldier, we are always under fire. I should certainly run from smallpox. I might face a madman, said Mrs. Vincent. As to war, I should run. 35

CHARACTERISTI Cs. BY S. WEIR MITCHELL, M. D., AUTHOR OF IN WAR TIME, ETC. XIV. (~ OME time passed be ~ fore we met to hear my account of the character doctor, and ~ meanwhile St. Clair had abruptly left town the day after our hospital experi- ence. Mrs. Vincent was talking to her husband when, just after dinner, I entered her drawing-room. It is an age since we met, she cried cor- dially. Sit down. Mr. Clayborne will be here shortly. And what have you done to my poor St. Clair? Read that, and she took from her work-basket a note dated the night I last saw him. I cannot dine with you to-morrow. I have seen to-night what I shall be some day. It is horrible. It was true, and he had gone away into the wo~ds for a fortnight, like a wounded animal. Nor did he ever speak of it again, but came back as gay and joyous as usual. I returned the note to her. How could you? she said. I should have known how he would feel. I took him, I returned, because he was reasonable in his desire to see a man die. But I suppose that, with all its awe, death is so con- stantly about us doctors that we cannot esti- mate its influence upon others. When I left him for he would stay he was simply cu- rious and contemplative.~~ Do you remember, said Mrs. Vincent, that description in Stendhal of the Italian who first sees death of a sudden on a great battle- fieldhis surprise, his curiosity, and at last his terror? It is in his La Chartreuse de Parme. No; I will look at it, but I have seen all this in war once or twice. As she spoke, Clayborne came in. Of what are you speaking? he said. Of fear. Of the anguish of fear, uncontrol- lable, like the fear in dreams. Yes; the agony of terror, I returned. ~Qne sees it in the insane at times, and in de- lirium tremens. There is nothing in normal life to compare with it. And were you ever afraid in war? Abominably. We were supposed as sur- geons to be non-combatants, but that means merely that one is to run risks without the chance to quiet himself by violent action. Practically, we lost in dead and hurt a long list of surgeons. Indeed? I did not know that. And what do you think the best test, after all, of a mans courage? said Vincent. To face a mob or a madman. I knew a man who once by ill luck was shut up with a crazy, athletic brute. My friend locked the door, hearing the mans wife wailing outside. The brute, while suffering from a delusion, had once hurt her; and now again imagining her to have been false to him, meant to kill her. He asked for the key, and gave my friend five min- utes to reflect, as he stood before him with a billet of wood he had seized from the hearth. And what did your friend do? It was summer, and the windows were open. He threw the key into the street. And what then? Oh, help came just as it was wanted, which is rare in this world. I have cut a long story short. My friend said afterward that he was glad of the experience; that he had little hope of escape, and now felt sure for the first time in his life that he was equal to any test of courage.~~ I can understand that, said Vincent. In these quiet days we are rarely tried as to cour- age. But, after all, is nt it somewhat a matter of training of profession? I suppose, North, it never enters into your mind to fear conta- gious diseas& ? Never; except as to one disease: I have a fancy I shall die of yellow fever. Oh, but, said our hostess, is nt it also true that physicians do not take disease as others do? No; that is a popular notion, but quite un- true. I have thrice suffered from disease thus acquired: once from smallpox, twice from diphtheria. In Ireland, in the great typhus years, physicians died in frightful numbers, and so did the old doctors here in yellow-fever days. Unlike the soldier, we are always under fire. I should certainly run from smallpox. I might face a madman, said Mrs. Vincent. As to war, I should run. 35 36 CHARA CiERIS/ICS. And I from a dog, said Clayborne. And you, Vincent? I do not know, he returned. I cannot imagine anything which would make me visi- bly show fear. I think I am more afraid of what Anne would think of me than of any earthly object of dread. I can conceive as pos- sible what North mentioned. We must have somewhere a nerve-organ or -organs which feel what we call fear. Now, to have these so dis-. eased as to originate a sensation of causeless, overwhelming terror, uncontrollable by will, must be of possible human torture the worst. And you have seen it? Yes. A man says, I am afraid. You say, Of what? He cannot tell you. Of nothing. I am afraid. Two things I fear, cried St. Clair, who had come in silently behind us pain and a ghost. So glad to see you, cried Mrs. Vincent. Sit down. We are discussing fear, cowardice, courage. Pain I fear most, he said, yet hardly know it. And a ghost! Well, I know that. I have seen one. What? When? Where? they cried. Ask North, he replied. Yes, it is true; but first, before I come in with skeptical comments, let us hear your story. You are the only one here who has seen a ghost. I was in my studio six months ago at dusk. I was thinking, as I stood, of how well my statue of Saul looked, the light being dim, as it would have been in his tent. I remembered then having seen the statues of the Louvre on a moonlight night, when, with the curator, I lingered along the hall of the great Venus. Some of the fine lines of Sills poem came back to me, and, turning, I moved toward the front room to get the book. At that moment I be- came aware of a black figure on my left side. It was literally shrouded from head to foot; even the face and the extremities were hidden. At first I was surprised, and then by degrees a deadly fear possessed me. I was motionless, and it did not stir. I turned to face it, but, as I did so, it moved so as to keep relatively to me the same position. The whole act, if I may call it that, lasted, I should say, a minute. Then an agitation seized the form, as if it were convulsed under its black cloak, and a faint glow, like phosphorescence, ran along the lines of the drapery, and it was gone. When he finished there was a moment of silence. Then Mrs. Vincent exclaimed, Was that all? A ghost in daytime, said Clayborne. And the comment, North. As he lost it, said I, he felt a violent pain over his left eye, and this was one of his usual attacks of neuralgic headaches. He has seen this phantom twice since. It was merely the substitution of a figure of a cloaked man for the lines of zigzag light which usually pre- cede his headaches, and are not very rare. One man sees stars falling, one a catharine- wheel; but the appearance of distinct hu- man or other forms in their place is a recent observation. I have known a woman to see her dead sister, until, after many returns of the phantom, she ceased to be impressed by it. How disappointing! exclaimed Mrs. Vin- cent. And do you think these facts, said Vin- cent, explain some ghost-tales? Yes, some. I have seen cases where the headache did not follow the catharine-wheel, or the lines of light, or the specter, or was very trifling. And in some of these the ghost was duly honored as a true article until subsequent and violent neuralgias explained it as a rare symptom of a common disorder. Is the disease itself understood? said Clayborne. No disease is understood. We trace back the threads a little way, and find a tangle none can unravel. Then the disease is as bad as a ghosta real ghost, cried Mrs. Vincent. I disbelieve in ghosts, and do not try at spir- itual explanations. The material for study of nature is with us always. We cannot experi- ment on ghosts. I know of at least but one hint in that direction.~~ And that? said Clayborne. Well, if the ghost be a real thing outside of us, you will on theory double it if with a finger you press one eye out of line, thus, and will then be able to say, like the mousquetaire in the Ingoldsby Legends, M~rn Dieu / Vla deux Which slows, said Mrs. Vincent, gaily, how easily one may become the cause of du- plicity in others. It is a lesson in morals. Imagine Hamlet squinting at his papa! said St. Clair. I tried it on my ghost, but it failed. North says he was only a monocularly projected phantom. That sounds reasonably explanatory, growled Clayborne, grimly. But what does your phrase really mean? asked Mrs. Vincent of me. It means that the phantom is present only to one eye in these cases. To be able to dou- ble it, it must be seen by both eyes and be really external. If it be only in the brain, and due to brain disorder, we should not be able to squint it into doubleness. But, said Vincent, it ought, in the latter CHARA CTERISHCS. 37 case, to be present also when the eyes are shut. How is that? I am not sure as to that, for I have been told by one person that her waking visions were seen with either eye, and with both, and that they could not be doubled by squinting, and were lost when the eyes were closed. And how do you explain that? I do not yet. The patient was a remark- ably intelligent woman, but hysterical, and the very suspicion of this puts one on guard, because these people delight to be considered peculiar, and their testimony must always be carefully studied, and tested by that of others. Tell us what she saw, said Mrs. Vincent. It is interesting, but I must cut it short. At eleven daily a gigantic black man entered the room with a huge bass viol, set it in a cor- ner, and went out. Presently a second brought in an open coffin in which lay the patient her- self. A little later a host of tiny men, all in red medieval dresses, swarmed out of the cracks of the viol, ran to the coffin, planted ladders against it, sat in hordes on its upper edges, and, lowering on the outside tiny buckets, brought them up full of tinted sand. This they threw into the coffin until it reached the face of the figure within. At this moment the pa- tient began to breathe with difficulty, and then of a sudden the pygmies emptied the coffin as quickly as they had filled it, and scuttled away into the viol, while the two blacks returned and took it away with the coffin. What an extraordinary story! said St. Clair. Can you explain it all? Yes, in a measure; but it is hardly worth while. And as for ghosts, the honest old-fash- ioned ghosts, does any one believe in them? I do, said our hostess. And I do not, returned Clayborne. 3 But do you believe anything? cried St. Clair. Yes, said Clayborne; I believe there was a past, is a present, will be a future. And as to the rest Granted the past. As to the future, said St. Clair, you cannot prove that it will be. But there is no present, because that implies rest of a moving world, swinging round with a moving solar system. It is a mere word. What! what! what! cried Clayborne, sud- denly contemplative. And, after all, said Mrs. Vincent, we have had no really curdling ghost-story. Only nineteenth-century explanations. It is dangerous to tell a ghost-story now- adays, I returned. A friend of mine once told one in print out of his wicked head, just for the fun of it. It was about a little dead child who rang up a doctor one night, and took him to see her dying mother. Since then he has been the prey of collectors of such marvels. Psychical societies write to him; anxious be- lievers and disbelievers in the supernatural as- sail him with letters. He has written some fifty to lay this ghost. How could he predict a day when he would be taken seriously? I am very sleepy, said Mrs. Vincent, and it is near to twelve. You have not had the smoke you are all hungering after. Clearly the character doctor must wait, said I. That may, she replied; but not one of you can have a cigar until I hear a real ghost- story. Well, I said, come close to me, all of you, and I will ransom the party. Oh, this is too delightful! exclaimed Mrs. Vincent. It is serious, Clayborne, I said; you might take notes. Preposterous! he cried. Might I not have even a cigarette at the window? Not a whiff, said she; I have heard that smoke acts on ghosts most injuriously. A ghost-smudge! cried Vincent. That is good. Suppose we get through with this thing, groaned the historian. It is brief I returned. One morning, last autumn, I found on my breakfast-table a card, Alexander Gavin Mac- Allister, M. D., Edinburgh. I know the man well. An able, sturdy Scot, given to usquebaugh. He had a large practice among the mechanic classes, and frequently consulted me. If a friend desired to annoy him, he had but to address him as Gavin. Gawin I was creesened, and that s my name. He would have fought on this, or for the honor of Scotland, or any man who thought Burns a lesser poet than Shak- spere. My servant said he had been waiting two hours. I said, Show him in. Ah, MacAllister, I said, sit down. I did not want you ~to wait. Talk away while I eat my breakfast; or, will you have some? Nae bite, sir, and after I had sent the servant away, I m in vara deep waters. I hae killed a mon last night, and I hae done it of knowleedge. I looked at him curiously. Eyes, hair, beard, skin, were all of various tints of red. All burned a burning flame together. Also he was wet with the sweat of terror. Let me hear, I said. A little whisky? Nae drap, sir. I hae a deep fear that s the witch seduced me. I m of opeenion that wheesky must hae petticoats, there s such an abidin leaven of meeschief in her soceeiety. I maun try to tell you, but I m nigher prayin than talkin. Ghosts and warlocks are nae quietin company. 38 CHARA CTERIS TICS. Go on, I said. Dinna ye ken Mr. Gillespie, the banker? Yes; I see that it was reported that he died in San Francisco two days ago. It is so related. But I maun tell ye the hale case. Go on. Last night I hae reason to suspect that I maun hae been takin bad wheesky. It was nae the honest barley; I blame the rye. Its a warn- in to me for life, if the gude Lord spares me to reform. Ye see, yestreen, after the Thistle Society, I went to the St. Andrews dinner. By ill fortune Mr. McGillivray sat opposite to me. Aiblins ye ken Mr. McGillivray. The mon has nae havins, which is to say manners. He made a very opprobrious remark concernin the True Kirk. By reason of too mony veenous counselors, I had na the recht word to han. And thinkin he might na understond me cor- rectly if I bided too long, I cast a bannock at his foul face. A gude bittie haggis he threw at me. I wad na hae dune that to a dog. The beast has nae senteement of nationality (it s but a Lowlander he is, after a). A watermelon he got for answer to his remark. It broke on his bald head, and the sinner went doun in gore, or the like of it, after the manner of the mon Sisera. And that terminated the conversa- tion vara sateesfactorily. The cheerman made a point of order that I, Alexander MacAllister, was drunk, and I was over-persuaded by,,flve men to gae hame. When I got in, there on my slate was a mes- sage to go at once to veesit Mr. Gillespie, at No. ~ St. Peters Place. Vara ill, it said. Ye ken the mon s deid. I dinna ken why I went, but the next I remember I was at his door. There were lichts in the house, and a braw hussy of a maid let me in. Preesently I was in a bedroom, and there sat Mr. Gillespie, vara white, but dressed. Tak a seat, Gawin, he said, and I sat doun. Then he said, Gawin, yer owin me a years reent. Oh, aye, I said. I am deid, said he, and the executors will be hard. Now, Gawin, I want you to gie me a gude dose of poison. But you re deid now, I said, and my hair stood up like flax stubble, that stiff with fear. I was a vara eccentric mon in the fleesh, he said, and I m nae less in the speerit. It has occurred to me, Gawin, an I were weel poisoned I might die as a ghaist, and get alive again. Dinna ye see the point, mon? I said, That is aye gude logic, and ye ken he was a vara ingenious creature. But war would be my neck for takin the life of a mon? I m nae a mon, Gawin, he said; I in a ghaist, and it s only a change of state I m cravin. And there s the reent. But ye maun mak haste, or I will call in Doctor OBeirne. Gude Lord! I said, ye canna mean that, Mr. Gillespie. There s a hantle of deaths at yon mons door. Then he s the practitioner for me. I canna be waur. My time s short; I was streakit yestreen, and to-morrow I shall be put awa in the ground. And there s the reent. Wull ye forgie me the arrears? I said. I wull. So I pulled out my little pocket-case, and mixed him enough strychnia to kill the ghaist of a witchs cat. He took it doun wi a gulp. It s rather constreengent, he said, and yon were his vara last words; and then he fell doun in a spawsm, and tied himself into bow- knots, and yelled 0 Lord! sir. I fled like Tam OShanter, and here I am. I hae killed a mon. And then you went home? That may be, sir. When I cam to full knowleedge of Alexander MacAllister I was seated on the step of my door in the snaw. I went in, and will ye creedit it? the slate was clean. But that maun be the way wi ghaist- writin. It s nae abidin. But the man is alive, Gawin. There is a telegram in the morning papers to say that the report of his death was a mistake. He had a faint spell or a trance something of the kind. He will be at home next week. You must have been very drunk, Gawin. I dinna ken. And there s the reent, and I saw it. Sir, a ghaist in spawsms. Nae, nae; it was nae a coeencidence. Dinna ye think, sir, considerin the.~ervice, a gude bill for the reent and arrears would be but just? Certainly, I said; he ought to pay. I hae muckle doubt as to the matter. If he forgies me the moneys, I 11 stond by the Kirk against the whole clan of the McGillivrays to the mortal end of my days. Might I hae a drop o wheesky? No matter what kind. I 11 neever blaspheme against the rye againthere s xvaur things. Delightful! cried Mrs. Vincent. You have earned your cigar, and we broke up amidst laughter in which even Clayborne joined. (To be continued.) S. Weir Mitchell. OL PAPS FLAXEN. BY HAMLIN GARLAND, Author of Main Traveled Roads, Jason Edwards, etc. was in June, just before the ending of the school, that Flaxen first began to write about delaying her return. Anson was woe- fully disappointed. He had said all along that she would make tracks for home just as soon as school was out, and he had calculated just when she would arrive and on the second day after the close of school for the summer he drove down to the train to meet her. She did not come, but he got a letter which said that one of her friends wanted her to stay two weeks with her, until after the Fourth of July. She s an awful nice girl, and we will have a grand time; she has a rich father and a piano and a pony and a buggy. It will just be grand. I dont blame her none, sighed Anson to Bert. I dont want her to come away while she ~s enjoyin herself. It ll~be a big change fer her to come back an cook fer us old moss- backs after bein at school an in good com- pany all these months. He was plainly disturbed. Her vacation was going to be all too short at the best, and he was so hungry for the sight of her! Still he could not blame her for staying under the oircumstances; as he told Bert, his feelings did not count. He just wanted her to get all she could out of life; there aint much any- way for us poor devils, but what little there is we want her to have. The Fourth of July was the limit of her stay, and on the sixth, sev- enth, and eighth Anson drove regularly to the evening train to meet her. On the third day another letter came, saying that she would reach home the next Monday. With this Anson rode home in triumph. Dur - ing the next few days he went to the barbers and had his great beard shaved off. Made me look so old, he explained, seeing Berts wild start of surprise. I ye ben carryin that mop o hair round so long I d kind o got into the notion o bein old myself. Got a kind o crick in the back, ye know. But I aint; I aint ten years older n you be. And he was not. His long blond mus- tache, shaved beard, and clipped hair made a new man of him, and a very handsome man, too, in a large way. He was curiously embar- rassed by Berts prolonged scrutiny, and said jocosely: We ye got to brace up a little now. Com- pany boarders comm, young lady from St. Peters Seminary, city airs an all that sort o thing. Dont you let me see ye eatin pie with your knife. I 11 break the shins of any man that feeds himself with anythin cept the sil- ver-plated forks I ye bought. Flaxen had been gone almost a year, and a year counts for much at her age. Besides Anson had exaggerated ideas o~the amount of learning she could absorb in a year at a boarding-seminary, and had also a very vague idea of what society was in St. Peter, al- though he seemed suddenly to awake to the necessity of bracing up a little, and get- ting things generally into shape. He bought a new suit of clothes and a second-hand two- seated carriage, notwithstanding the sarcastic reflection of his partner, who was making his own silent comment upon this thing. The paternal business is auskerspee/A he said to himself. Ans is goin in on shape now. Well, it s all right; nobodys business but ours. Let her go, Smith; but they wont be no talk in this neighborhood when they get hold of what s goin on oh, no! He smiled grimly. We can stand it, I guess; but it 11 be hard on her. Ans is a little too pre- vious. It s too soon to spring this trap on the poor little thing~ They stood side by side on the platform the next Monday when the train rolled into the station at Boomtown, panting with fatigue from its long run. Flaxen caught sight of Bert first as she sprang off the train, and, running to him, kissed him without much embarrassment. Then she looked around, saying: Where s ol pap? Did nt he Why, Flaxen, dont ye know me? he cried out at her elbow. She knew his voice, but his shaven face, so much more youthful, was so strange that she knew him only by his eyes laughing down into hers. Nevertheless she kissed him doubtfully. Oh, what ye you done? You ye shaved off your whiskers; you dont look a bit nat- uralI 39

OL PAPS FLAXEN. BY HAMLIN GARLAND, Author of Main Traveled Roads, Jason Edwards, etc. was in June, just before the ending of the school, that Flaxen first began to write about delaying her return. Anson was woe- fully disappointed. He had said all along that she would make tracks for home just as soon as school was out, and he had calculated just when she would arrive and on the second day after the close of school for the summer he drove down to the train to meet her. She did not come, but he got a letter which said that one of her friends wanted her to stay two weeks with her, until after the Fourth of July. She s an awful nice girl, and we will have a grand time; she has a rich father and a piano and a pony and a buggy. It will just be grand. I dont blame her none, sighed Anson to Bert. I dont want her to come away while she ~s enjoyin herself. It ll~be a big change fer her to come back an cook fer us old moss- backs after bein at school an in good com- pany all these months. He was plainly disturbed. Her vacation was going to be all too short at the best, and he was so hungry for the sight of her! Still he could not blame her for staying under the oircumstances; as he told Bert, his feelings did not count. He just wanted her to get all she could out of life; there aint much any- way for us poor devils, but what little there is we want her to have. The Fourth of July was the limit of her stay, and on the sixth, sev- enth, and eighth Anson drove regularly to the evening train to meet her. On the third day another letter came, saying that she would reach home the next Monday. With this Anson rode home in triumph. Dur - ing the next few days he went to the barbers and had his great beard shaved off. Made me look so old, he explained, seeing Berts wild start of surprise. I ye ben carryin that mop o hair round so long I d kind o got into the notion o bein old myself. Got a kind o crick in the back, ye know. But I aint; I aint ten years older n you be. And he was not. His long blond mus- tache, shaved beard, and clipped hair made a new man of him, and a very handsome man, too, in a large way. He was curiously embar- rassed by Berts prolonged scrutiny, and said jocosely: We ye got to brace up a little now. Com- pany boarders comm, young lady from St. Peters Seminary, city airs an all that sort o thing. Dont you let me see ye eatin pie with your knife. I 11 break the shins of any man that feeds himself with anythin cept the sil- ver-plated forks I ye bought. Flaxen had been gone almost a year, and a year counts for much at her age. Besides Anson had exaggerated ideas o~the amount of learning she could absorb in a year at a boarding-seminary, and had also a very vague idea of what society was in St. Peter, al- though he seemed suddenly to awake to the necessity of bracing up a little, and get- ting things generally into shape. He bought a new suit of clothes and a second-hand two- seated carriage, notwithstanding the sarcastic reflection of his partner, who was making his own silent comment upon this thing. The paternal business is auskerspee/A he said to himself. Ans is goin in on shape now. Well, it s all right; nobodys business but ours. Let her go, Smith; but they wont be no talk in this neighborhood when they get hold of what s goin on oh, no! He smiled grimly. We can stand it, I guess; but it 11 be hard on her. Ans is a little too pre- vious. It s too soon to spring this trap on the poor little thing~ They stood side by side on the platform the next Monday when the train rolled into the station at Boomtown, panting with fatigue from its long run. Flaxen caught sight of Bert first as she sprang off the train, and, running to him, kissed him without much embarrassment. Then she looked around, saying: Where s ol pap? Did nt he Why, Flaxen, dont ye know me? he cried out at her elbow. She knew his voice, but his shaven face, so much more youthful, was so strange that she knew him only by his eyes laughing down into hers. Nevertheless she kissed him doubtfully. Oh, what ye you done? You ye shaved off your whiskers; you dont look a bit nat- uralI 39 40 OL PAPS fLAXEN. She was embarrassed, almost frightened, at the change in him. He looked so queer; his fair, untroubled, smiling face and blond mustache made ~im look younger than Bert. Nev mind that! She 11 grow again if ye like it better. Get int this new buggy it s ours. They aint no flies on us to-day; not many, said Ans in high glee, elaborately as- sisting her to the carriage, not appreciating the full meaning of the situation. As they rode home he was extravagantly gay. He sat beside her, and she drove, wild with delight at the prairie, the wheat, the gulls, everything. Aint no dust on our cloes, said Ans, coughing, winking at Bert, and brushing off with an elaborately finical gesture an imagi- nary fleck from his knee and elbow. Aint we togged out? I guess nobody said booto us down to St. Peter, eh? You like my cloes? said Flaxen, with charming directness. You bet! They re scrumptious. Well, tl~y ought t be; they re my best, except my white dress. I thought you d like rem; I wore em a-purpose.~~ Like em? They re you re jest as purty as a red lily er a wild rose in the wheat ahem! Aint she, Bert, ol boy? We re jest about starvin to death, we are. I knew you d be. What 11 I stir up for supper? Biscuits? Um, um! Say, what ye spose I ye got to go with em ? Honey. Oh, you re too sharp, wailed Ans, while Flaxen went off into a peal of laughter. Say, Bert s ben in the damnedest excuse me plaguedest temper fer the last two months you ever did see. While this chatter was going on Bert sat silent and unsmiling on the back seat. He was absorbed in seeing the exquisite color that played in her cheek, and the equally charming curves of her figure. She was well dressed, and was wonderfully mature. He was saying to himself: Ans aint got no more judgment than a boy. We. cant keep that girl here. More n that, the girl never 11 be contented again, unless He did not al- low himself to go further. He did not yet dare even to think further. They had a merry time that night, quite like old times. The bis~uits were light and flaky, the honey was delightsome, and the milk and butter (procured specially) were fresh. What peals of laughter as Flaxen insisted on their eating potatoes with a fork, and opposed the use of the knife in scooping up the honey from their plates! Even the saturnine Bert forgot his gloom and laughed too, as Ans laboriously dipped his honey with a fork, and, finally grow- ing desperate, split a biscuit in half, and in the good old boyish way sopped it in the honey. There, that s the Christian way of doing things! he exulted, while Flaxen laughed. How bright she was! how strange she acted! There were moments when she embarrassed them by some new womanly grace or accomplishment, some new air which she had caught from her companions or teachers at school. It was truly amazing how much she had absorbed outside of her regular studies. She indeed was no longer a girl; she was a young woman, and to them a beautiful one. Not a day passed without some added sur- prise which made Anson exult and say, She s gettin her moneys worth down there, no two ways about that. But as the excitement of getting back died out, poor Flaxen grew restless, moody, and unaccountable. Before, she had always been the same cheery, frank, boyish creature. As Bert said, You know where to find her. Now she was full of strange tempers and moods. She would work most furiously for a time, and then suddenly fall dreaming, looking away out on the shimmering plain toward the east. At Berts instigation, a middle-aged widow had been hired, at a fabulous price, to come and do the most of the work for them, thus releas- ing Flaxen from the weight of the hard work, which perhaps was all the worse for her. Hard work might have prevented the unbearable, sleepless pain within. She hated the slatternly Mrs. Green at once for her meddling with her affairs, though the good woman meant no of- fense. She was jocose in the broad way of middle-aged persons, to whom a love-affair is legitimate food for raillery. But Gearhearts keen eye was on Flaxen as well. He saw how eagerly she watched for the mail on Tuesdays and Fridays, and how she sought a quiet place at once in order to read and dr~eam o~er her letters. She was restless a day or two before a certain letter came, with an eager, excited, expectant air. Then, after read- ing it, she was absent-minded, flighty in conver- sation; then listlessly restless, moving slowly about from one thing to another, in a kind of restless inability to take interest in anything for long. All this, if it came to the attention of Anson at all, was laid to the schooling the girl had had. Of course it 11 seem a little slow to you, Flaxie, but harvestin is comm on soon, an then things 11 be a little more lively. But Gearheart was not so slow-witted. He had had sisters and girl cousins, and knew the symptoms, as Mrs. Green would have put it. He noticed that when Flaxen read her letters to them there was one which she never read. He knew that this was the letter which meant the most to her. He saw how those letters affected her, and thought he had divined in what way; and one day when Flaxen, after reading her letters, sprang up and ran into her bedroom, her eyes filled with sudden tears, Gearheart crooked his finger at Ans, and they went out to the barn together. It was nearly one oclock on an intolerable day peculiar to the Dakota plain. A frightfully hot, withering, and powerful wind was~abroad, the thermometer stood nearly a hundred in the shade, and the wind, so far from being a relief, was suffocating because of its heat and the dust it swept along with it. The heavy-headed grain and russet grass writhed and swirled as if in agony, and dashed high in waves of green and yellow. The corn- leaves had rolled up into long cords like the lashes of a whip, and beat themselves into tatters on the dry, smooth spot their blows had made beneath them; they seemed ready to turn to flame in the pitiless, furnace-like blast. Every- where in the air was a silver-white, impalpa- ble mist, which gave to the cloudless sky a whitish cast~. The glittering gulls were the only things that did not move listlessly and did not long for rain. They soared and swooped, exulting in the sounding wind; now throw- ing themselves upon it, like a swimmer, then darting upward with miraculous ease, to dip again into the shining, hissing, tumultuous waves of the grass. Along the roads prodigious trains of dust rose hundreds of feet in the air, and drove like a vast caravan with the wind. So powerful was the blast that men hesitated about going out with carriages, and everybody watched fever- ishly, expecting to see fire break out on the prairie and sweep everything before it. Work in the fields had stopped long before dinner, and the farmers waited, praying or cursing, for the wheat was just at the right point to be blighted. As the two men went out to the shed side by side, they looked out on the withering wheat- stalks and corn-leaves with gloomy eyes. Another day like this, an they wont be wheat enough in this whole county to make a cake, said Anson, with a calm intonation which after all betrayed the anxiety he felt. They sat down in the wagon-shed near the horses mangers. They listened to the roar of the wind and the pleasant sound of the horses a good while before either of them spoke again. Finally Bert said sullenly: We cant put up hay such a day as this. You could nt haul it home under lock an key while this infernal wind is blowin. 4t s git- tin worse, if anythin. VOL. XLIV.6. 4 Anson said nothing, but waited to hear what Bert hadbrought him outhere for. Bert speared away with his knife at a strip of board. Anson sat on a wagon-tongue, his elbows on his knees, looking intently at the grave face of his com- panion. The horses ground cheerily at the hay. Ans, we ye got to send Flaxen back to St. Peter; she s so homesick she dont know what to do. Anss eyes fell. I know it. I ye ben hopin she d git over that, but it s purty tough on her, after bein with the young folks in the city fer a year, to come back here on a farm He did not fin- ish for a moment. But she cant stand it. I d looked ahead to bavin her here till September, but I cant stand it to see her cryin like she did to-day. We ye got to give up the idee o her livin here. I dont see any other way but to sell out an go back East somewhere. Bert saw that Anson was still ignorant of the real state of affairs, but thought he would say nothing for the present. Yes; that s the best thing we can do. We 11 send her right back, an take our chances on the crops. We can git enough to live on an keep her at school, I guess. They sat silent for a long time, while the wind tore round the shed, Bert spearing at the stick, and Anson watching the hens as they vainly tried to navigate in the wind. Finally Anson spoke: The fact is, Bert, this aint no place fer a woman, anywaysuch a woman as Flaxen s gittin to be. They aint nothin goin on, nothin to see er hear. You cant expect a girl to be contented with this country after she s seen any other. No trees; no flowers; jest a lot o little shanties full o flies. I knew all that, Ans, a year ago. I knew she d never come back here, but I jest said, it s the thing to dogive her a chance, if we dont have a cent; now let s go back to the house an tell her sh& need nt stay here if she dont want to. Wha d ye spose was in that letter? Could nt say. Some girls description of a picnic er somethin. Bert was not yet ready to tell what he knew. When they returned to the house the girl was still invisible, in her room. Mrs. Green was busy clearing up the dinner dishes. I dont know s I ever see such a wind back to Michigan. Seems as if it ud blow the hair off yer head. Oh, this aint nothin. This is a gentle zephyr. Wait till ye see. a wind. Wal, I hope to goodness I wont never see a wind. Zephyrs is all I can mortally stand. Anson went through the little sitting-room, and knocked on Flaxens door. OL PAPS FLAXEN 42 OL PAPS FLAXEN l~laxie, we want to talk to ye. There was no answer, and he came back and sat down. Bert pointed to the letter which Flaxen had flung down on the table. The giant took it, folded it up, and called, Here s yer letter, babe. The door opened a little, and a faint, tearful voice said: Read it, if ye want to, boys. Then the door closed tightly again, and they heard her fling herself on the bed. Anson handed the letter to Bert, who read it in a steady voice. DEAR DARLING: I have good news to tell you. My uncle was out from Wisconsin to see me, and he was pleased with what I had done, and he bought out Mr. Ford, and gave me the whole half interest. I m to pay him back when I please. Aint that glorious? Now we can get married right off, cant we, darling ?so you just show this letter to your father and tell him how things stand. I ye got a good business. The drug-store is worth $1200 a year,my half,but knock off fifty per cent. and we could live nicely. Dont you think so? I want to see you so bad and talk things over. If you cant come hack soon, I will come on. Write soon. Yours till death, WILL. From the first word Anson winced, grew perplexed, then suffered. His head drooped forward on his hands, his elbows rested on his vast, spread knees. He drew his breath with a long, grieving gasp. Bert read on steadily to the end, then glanced at his companion with a deep frown darkling his face; but he was not taken by surprise. He had not had paternal passion change to the passion of a lover only to have it swept down like a half-opened flower. For the first time in his life the giant writhed in mental agony. He saw it all. It meant eternal separation. It meant a long ache in his heart which time could scarcely deaden into a tolerable pain. Gearheart rose and went out, unwilling to witness the agony of his friend, and desiring himself to be alone. Anson sat motionless, with his hands covering his wet eyes, going over the past and trying to figure the future. He began in that storm: felt again the little form and face of the wailing babe; thought of the frightful struggle against the wind and snow; of the touch of the little hands and feet; of her pretty prattle and gleeful laugh- ter; then of her helpful and oddly womanish ways as she grew older; of the fresh, clear voice calling him pap, and ordering him about with a roguish air; of her beauty now, when for the first time he had begun to hope that she might be something dearer to him. How could he live without her? She had grown to be a part of him. He had long ceased to think of the future without her. As he sat so, the bedroom door opened, and Flaxens tearful face looked out at him. He did not seem to hear, and she stole up to him and, put- ting her arm around his neck, laid her cheek on hi~ heada dear, familiar, childish gesture, used when she wished to propitiate him. He roused himself, and put his arm about her waist, tried to speak, and finally said in a sorry at- tempt at humor, woefully belied by the tears on his face and the choking in his throat: You tell that fellerif he wants ye, to jest come an git yethats all! ANsoNs opinion of Mr. Kendall was not fa- vorable, but he held it to be a sort of treason to Elga to think so, and he would not admit it to himself or to Gearheart. They saw Ken- dall for the first time on the day of the wed- ding, which came in September. They made some inquiries of the townspeople, and found that he was a harmless little creature enough, small, a little inclined to bow-legs, and dudish in manner. He combed his hair till it shone like ebony, and wore the latest designs in standing collars high on his slim neck. His hands were beautifully small and white and ringed, and he had the engaging manners of a successful dry- goods clerk. He cant abuse her, that s one good thing about the whelp, thought Bert, as he crushed Kendalls slim, lax hand in his just to see him scringe. As for the bridegroom, he was not a little afraid of these fellows, so big and so sullen, iind tried his best to please them, chirping in his bright way of all kinds of things. We re one of the best cities on the river, you see. Could nt be a better place for a busi- ness stand, dont you know? And we re get- ting to the front in our wholesale department. Of courseha! ha ! my wifes father ought to know how I am getting on, so you re wel- come to come in and look over my books. Our trade js a cash trade as far as the r~ail part goes, and we are mighty careful who gets tick from us on the wholesale trade. The wholesale trade we are developing rapidly, and in less than ten years we will be one of the leading firms in the valley. Elga had been down to St. Peter with her friends the Holts since that week before har- vest when Anson discovered the lay of the land. It cut him terribly to see how eager she was to get away, and he grew a little bitter, a thing quite unusual for him. What s that little whipper-snapper ever done fer her that she should leave us in the shade fer him; ferget all we ye done fer her, an climb out an leave us jest at his wink? It beats me; but it s all right. I dont blame her if she feels so; only it does seem queer, dont it? Purty tough, sure s yer born. Specially the idee that after bein raised with a couple o men she d go off with a thing like that. Arriving at this understanding, they said no more about it, but set to work to make it all as pleasant for Flaxen as possible. Anson stood bravely through the ceremony as the father of the bride, and bore himself with his usual massive rude dignity. But he inwardly winced as he saw Elga, looking very stately and beautiful in her brides veil, towering half a head above the sleek-haired little clerk. Not a few of the company smiled at the contrast, but she had no other feeling than perfect love and happiness. When the ceremony was over, and Anson looked around for Bert, he was gone. He could nt stand the pressure of the crowd and the whispered comments, and had slipped away early in the evening. Among the presents which were laid on the table in the dining-room was a long envelop addressed to Mrs. Will Kendall. It contained a deed for a house and lot in one of the most desirable parts of the suburbs. It was from Gearheart, but there was no written word else. This gift meant the sale of his claim in Dakota. When Anson got back to the hotel that night, wondering and alarmed at his partners ab- sence, he found a letter from him. It was full of his well-known bitterness. This climate is getting too frigid for my lungs. I m going to emigrate to California. I made a mistake; I ought to have gone in for stand-up collars, shiny hair, and bow-legs. You d better skip back to Dakota and sell your claim. Keep my share of the stock and tools; it aint worth bothering about. Dont try to live there alone, old man. If you cant sell, marry. Dont let that girl break you all up too. We are all fools, but ~ome can get over it quicker than others. If that little bow-legged thing gets under your feet or abuses her, just get your toe under him and hoist him over in to the alley. Good-by and good luck, ojd man. BERT. And the next day the doubly bereaved man started on his lonely journey back to the Da- kota claim, back to an empty house, with a gnawing pain in his heart and a constriction like an iron band about his throat; back to his broad fields to plod to and fro alone. As he began to realize it all, and to think how terrible was this loss, he laid his head down on the car-seat before him, and cried. His first great trial had come to him and meeting it like a man, he must now weep like a woman. III. FLAXEN wrote occasionally during the next year, letters all too short and too far betWeen 43 for the lonely man toiling away on his bleak farm. These letters were very much alike, telling mainly of how happy she was, and of what she was going to do by and by, on Christmas or Thanksgiving. Once she sent a photograph of herself and husband, and Anson, after studying it for a long time, took a pair of shears and cut the husband off and threw him into the fire. That fellow gives me the ague, he mut- tered. Bert did not write, and there was hardly a night that Ans lay down on his bed that he did not wonder where his chum was, especially as the winter came on unusually severe, re- minding him of that first winter in the Terri- tory. Day after day he spent alone in his little house, going out only to feed the cattle or to get the mail. But with the passage of time the pain in his heart lost its intensity. One day he got a letter from Flaxen that startled and puzzled him. It was like a cry for help, somehow. Dear old pap, I wish you was here, and then in another place came the piteous cry, Oh, I wish I had some folks! All night long that cry rang in the mans head with a wailing, falling cadence like the note of a lost little prairie-chicken. I wonder what that whelp has been doin now. If he s begun to abuse her I 11 wring his neck. She wants me an das nt ask me to come. Poor chick, I 11 be pap an main to ye, both, he said at last, with sudden resolution. The day after the receipt of this letter a tele- gram was handed to him at the post-office, which he opened with trembling hands. ANsoN WooD: Your daughter is ill. Wants you. Come at once. DOCTOR DIETRIcH. A glo~ous winter sun was beginning to light up the frost foliage of the maples lining St. Pe- ters streets when Anson, stiff with cold and haggard with.a nightf sleepless riding, sprang off the train and looked about him. The beauty of the morning made itself felt even through his care. These rows of resplendent maples, heavy with iridescent frost, were like fairy-land to him, fresh from the treeless prairie. As he. walked on under them, showers of powdered rubies and diamonds fell down upon him; the colonnades seemed like those leading to some enchanted palace such as he had read of in boyhood. Every shrub in the yards was simi- larly decked, and the snug cottages were like the little house which he had once seen at the foot of the Christmas tree in a German church years before. Feet crunched along cheerily on the side- walks, bells of dray-teams were beginning to sound, and workmen to whistle. OL PAPS FLAXEN 44 01 PAPS FLAXEN Anson was met at the door by a hard-faced, middle-aged woman. How s my girl? he asked. Oh, she s nicely. Walk in. Can I see her now? She s sleepin; I guess you better wait a little while till after breakfast. Where s Kendall ? was his next question. I dn know. Haint seen im sence yester- day. He dont amount to much, anyway, and in these cases there aint no dependin on a boy like that. Its nachel fer girls to call on their moth- ers an fathers in such cases. Anson was-about to ask her what the trouble was with his girl, when she turned away. She could not be dangerously ill; anyway, there was comfort in that. After he had eaten a slight breakfast of bad coffee and yellow biscuits, Mrs. Stickney came back. She s awake an wants to see ye. Now dont get excited. She aint dangerous. Anson was alarmed and puzzled at her manner. What is the matter? he demanded. Her reply was common enough, but it stopped him with his foot on the threshold. He understood at last. The majesty and mys- tery of birth was like a light in his face, and dazzled him. He was awed and exalted at the same time. Open the door; I want to see her, he said in a new tone. As they entered the darkened chamber he heard his girls eager cry. Is that you, pap? wailed her faint, sweet voice. Yes; it s me, Flaxie. He crossed the room, and knelt by the bed. She flung her arms around his neck. 0 pappy, pappy! I wanted you.Oh, my poor mama! 0 pap, I dont like her, she whispered, indicating the nurse with her eyes. 0 pap, I hate to think of mother lying there in the snowan Bertwhere is Bert, pap? Perhaps he s in the blizzard too She s a little flighty, said the nurse in her matter-of-fact tone. Anson groaned as he patted the pale cheek of the sufferer. Dontworry,Flaxie; Berts all right. He 11 come home soon. Why dont you send for the doctor? he said to the nurse. He 11 be here soon. Dont worry over that, indicating Flaxen, who was whispering to herself Do you spose I can find my folks if I go back to Norway? she said to Anson a little after. Yes; I guess so, little one. When you get well, we 11 try an see. Perhaps if I found my aunt she d look like mama, an I d know then how mama looked, would nt I? Perhaps if the wheat is good this year we can go back an find her, cant we? Then her words melted into a moan of physical pain, and the nurse said: Now I guess you d better go an see if you cant hurry the doctor up. Yes; now he s got to go, she went on to Flaxen, drowning out her voice and putting her imploring hands back upon the bed. Anson saw it all now. In her fear and pain she had turned to him,poor motherless little bird,forgetting her boy husband, or feeling the need of a broader breast and stronger hand. It was a beautiful trust, and as the great shaggy man went out into the morning he was exalted by the thought. My little babemy Flaxen! he said with unutterable love and pity. Again his mind ran over the line of his life the cabin, the dead woman, the baby face nes- tling at his throat, the girl coming to him with her trials and triumphs. His heart swelled so that he could not have spoken, but deep in his throat he muttered a dumb prayer. And how he suffered that day, hearing her babble mixed with moanings every time the door opened. Once the doctor said: It s no use for you to stand here, Wood. It only makes you suffer, and dont help her a particle. It seems s if4t helped her, an soI guess I 11 stay. She may call fer me, an if she does I m goin in, doctor. How is she now? She s slightly delirious now, but still she knows you re here. She now and then speaks of you, but does nt call for you. But she did call for him, and he went in, and, kneeling by her side, he talked to her and held her hands, stroked her hair and soothed her as he used to when a little child unable to speak save in her pretty Norseland tongue, and at last when opiates were given, and he rose and stag- gered from th~ roQm, it seemed as though he had lived years. So weary was he that when the doctor came out and said, You may go to sleep now, he dropped heavily on a lounge and fell asleep al- most with the motion. Even the preparations for breakfast made by the hoarse-voiced ser- vant-girl did not wake him, but the drawling, nasal tone of Kendall did. He sat up and looked at the oily little clerk. It was after seven oclock. Hello! said Kendall, when d you get in? Shortly after you went out, said Anson in reply. Kendall felt the rebuke, and, as he twisted his cuffs into place, said, Well, ye see I couldnt do no gooda man aint any good in such OL PAPS FLAXEN 45 cases, anyway so I just thought I d run down to St. Paul an do a little buying. Anson turned away and went into the kitchen to wash his face and to comb his hair, glad to get rid of the sight of Kendall for a moment. Mrs. Stickney was toasting some bread. She s awake an wants to see you when you woke up. It s a girlthought I d tell yeyes; she s comfortable. Say, tween you an me, a man at ud run offwaal she ended expressively. Once more Anson caught his breath as he entered the darkened chamber. But the figure on the bed was tranquil now, and the voice, though weak and low, was Flaxens own. He stopped as his eyes fell on her. She was no longer a girl. The majesty of maternity was on her pale face and in her great eyes. A faint, expectant smile was on her lips, her eyes were. fixed on his face as she drew the cover from the little red, weirdly wrinkled face ather throat. Before he could speak, and while he was looking down at the mite of humanity, Kendall stepped into the room. Hello, Ellie! How are A singular revulsion came out on her face. Make him go way; I dont want him. All right, said Kendall, cheerfully, glad to escape. Isnt she beautiful? the mother whispered. Does she look like me? she asked artlessly. She s beautiful to me because she s yours, Flaxie, replied Anson, with a delivery all the more striking because of the contrast with his great frame and hard, rough hands. But there, my girl, go to sleep like baby, an dont worry any more. You aint goin away while I m sick ? she asked, following him with her eyes unnaturally large. I wont never go way again if you dont want me to, he replied. Oh, I m so glad! she sighed restfully. He was turning to go when she wailed re- proachfully, Pap, you did nt kiss baby! Anson turned and came back. She s sleepin, an I thought it was nt right to kiss a girl without she said so. This made Flaxen smile, and Anson went out with a lighter heart than he had had for two years. Kendall met him outside, and said confidentially: I dont spose it was just the thing for me to do; butconfound it ! I never could stand a sick-room, anyway. I could nt do any good, anyway just been in the way. She 11 get over her mad in a few days. Think so? But she did not. Her singular and sudden dislike of him continued, and though she pas- sively submitted to his being in the room, she would not speak a word to him nor look at him as long as she could avoid it; and when he approached the baby or took it in his arms a jealous frown came on her face. As for Anson, he grew to hate the sound of that little chuckle of Kendalls; the part in the mans hair and the hang of his cutaway coat made him angry. The trim legs, a little bowed, the big cuffs hiding the small, cold hands, and the peculiar set of his faultless collar, grew daily more insupportable. Say, looky here, Kendall, said he in des- peration one day, I wish you did nt like me quite so well. We dont hitch fust-rate at least I dont. Seems to me you re neglectin your business too much. He was going to tell him to keep away, but he relented as he looked down at the harmless little man, with his thin, boyish face. Oh, my business is all right. Gregory looks after it mostly, anyhow. But, I say, if you wanted to go into the dray business, there s a first-class opeDing now. Clark wants to sell. It ended in Anson seeing Clark and buying out his line of drays, turning in his claim to- ward the payment, a transaction which made Flaxen laugh for joy, for she had not felt cer- tain before that he would remain in St. Peter. She was getting about the house now, look- ing very wifely in her long, warm wraps, her slow motions contrasting strongly witWthe old restless, springing steps Anson remembered so well. Night after night, as he sat beside the fire and held baby, listening to the changed voice of his girl, and watching the grave new expressions of her face, the tooth of time took hold upon him powerfully, and he would feel his shaggy beard .and think, I 11 soon be gray, soon be gray! while the little one cooed, and sprang, and pulled at his beard, which had grown long again and had white hairs in it. Kendall spent most of his time at the store, or down-town somewhere, and so all of those long, delicioius winter evenings were Flaxens and Ansons. And his enjoyment of them was pathetic. The cheerful little sitting-room, the open grate, the gracious, ever-growing woman- liness of Elga, the pressure of soft little limbs, and the babble of a liquid baby-language, were like the charm of an unexpected Indian- summer day between two gray November storms. One night Kendall did not come home, and early the next morning an officer came to the door to inquire if he were in. On being told that he was not at home, and that they did not know where he was, the sheriff said to his companion: Skipped between two days. And so it came out that Kendall had pur- chased goods on credit, gambled his money 46 OL PAPS FLAXEN DEAR DARLING WIFE: Im all right here with father. It was all Gregorys fault; he was always betting on something. I m coming back as soon as the old man can raise the money to pay Fitch. Dont worry about me. They cant take the house, anyway. You might rent the house, sell the furniture on the sly, and come back here. The old man will give me another show. I dont owe more than a thousand dollars, anyway. Write soon. Your loving WILL. Anson went quietly on with his work, mak- ing a living for himself and Flaxen and baby. It never occurred to either of them that any other arrangement was necessary. Kendall wrote once or twice a month for a while, say- ing each time, I 11 come back and settle up, and asking her to come to him; but she did not reply, and never referred to him outside her home, and when others inquired after him she replied evasively: He s in Wisconsin somewhere; I dont know where. Is he coming back? I dont know.~~ She often spoke of Bert, and complained of his silence. Once she said: I guess hes forgot us, pap.~~ I guess not. More likely he ~ tbinkin~ we ye fergot him. He 11 turn up some bright mornin with a pocket full o rocks. He aint no spring chicken, Bert aint. (All the same, I wish t he d write, Anson said to himself.) away, and was ruined. His stock of goods was She was meditating deeply, but what was in seized, and the house was saved only through her mind Anson never knew. She had grown the firmness of Anson. more and more reticent of late. She sighed, Flaxen shut her lips and said nothing, and rose, and resumed her evening tasks. he could not read her silence. One day she One raw March evening, when the wind was came to him with a letter. roaring among the gray branches of the maples Read that! she exclaimed scornfully. like a lion in wrath, some one knocked on the He saw that it was dated from Eau Claire, door. Wisconsin. Come in! shouted Anson, who was giv- ing baby her regular ride on his boot. Come in! added Flaxen. Gearheart walked in slowly, and closed the door behind his back, and stood devouring the cheerful scene. He was poorly dressed, and wore a wide, limp hat; they did not know him till he bared his head. Bert! yelled Anson, tossing the baby to his shoulder, and leaping toward his chum, tramping and shaking and clapping like a mad- man scaring the child. My gosh-all-hemlock! I m glad to see ye! Gimme that paw again. Come to the fire. This is Flaxie (as though he had not had his eyes on her face all the time). Ben sick? Berts hollow cough prompted this question. Yes. Had some kind of a fever down in Arizony. Oh, I m all right now, he added in reply to an anxious look from Flaxen. An this is BabyElsie, she replied, putting a fin- ishing touch to the little ones dress, mother- like. Where s he? he asked a little later. Anson replied with a little gesture which si- lenced Bert at the same time that it explained. And when Flaxen was busy a few moments later, Anson said: He s gone. I 11 explain later. At the table they grew quite gay talking over old times, and Berts pale face grew ro- sier, catching a reflection of the happy faces opposlte. Say, Bert, do you remember the time you THE sad death of Kendall came to them threw that pan.o biscuits I made out into the without much disturbing force. He had been grass an killed every dog in the township? out of their lives so long that when Anson Then they roared. came in with the paper and letter telling of I remember your flapjacks that always split the accident, and with his instinctive delicacy open in the middle, an no amount o heat could left her alone to read the news, Flaxen was cook em inside, Bert replied. awed and saddened, but had little sense of per- Then they grew sober again, when Bert said sonal pain and loss, with a~ pensive cadence: Well, I tell ye, those Young Kendall, the newspaper went on were days of hard work; but many s the time under its scare-heads, was on a visit to La I ye looked back at em these last three years, Crosse, and while skating with a party on the wishin they d never ended an that we d bayou, where the La Crosse River empties into never got scattered. the father of waters, skated into an air-hole. We wont be again, will we, pap? The two young ladies with him were rescued, Not if I can help it, Anson replied. But but the fated man was swept under the ice. how are you, Bert? Rich? He was the son, etc. Bert put his hand into his pocket and laid When Anson came back Flaxen sat with a handful of small coins on the table. the letter in her hand and the paper on her lap. Thats the size o my pilefour dollars, ITALIAN OLD MASTERS. 47 he said, smiling faintly; the whole o my three years work. Well, never mind, ol man. I ye got a chance. fer ye. Still an old bach.? Still an old bach. He looked at Flaxen, irresistibly drawn to her face. She dropped her eyes; she could not have told why. And so Wood & Gearheart was painted on the sides of the drays, and they all continued to live in the little yellow cottage, enjoying life much more than the men, at least, had ever dared to hope; and little Elsie grew to be a great girl, and a nuisance with her desire to yide with ganpap. There is no spot more delightful in early April than the sunny side of the barn, and Ans and Bert felt this though they did not say it. The eaves were dripping, the doves cooing, the hens singing their harsh-throated, weirdly sug- gestive songs, and the thrilling warmth and vi- tality of the sun and wind of spring made the great rude fellows shudder with a strange de- light. Anson held out his palm to catch the sunshine in it, took off his hat to feel the wind, and mused: This is a great worldand a great day. I wish t it was always spring. Say, began Bert abruptly, it seems pretty well understood that you re her father but where do I come in? You ought to be her husband. A light leaped into the younger mans face. But go slow, Anson went on gravely. This package is marked Glass; handle with care. THE END. ITALIAN OLD MASTERS. BERNARDINO LUINI.BORN, ; DIED, 1533(?). is a curious commentary on the artistic discrimina- tion ofthe sixteenth century that one of the sweetest of its painters was so unknown in his own day that there is no record of his birth or of his death. We know so little of Luinis life and circumstances that if we would have a biography, we must construct one from the internal evidence of his works. The first signed picture is a Madonna in the Brera Gallery of Milan, of 152 i, and this seems to mark a point of departure, and serves to jzlivide hypothetically his unripened work from that by which we estimate his powers. He has always been considered a pupil of Da Vinci, but we have no other evidence of this than the character of his work. Only six of his pictures are dated, moreover, so that we have hardly the data for an authoritative classification of them. The singular and salient fact of Luinis artistic existence is that for so many years he was so completely confounded with DaVinci that there are more of his pictures which have passed for the work of Leonardo than we have of Leo- nardos own. It is possible that the fixing of his style in 152 i was a consequence of his having come into contact with Da Vinci. That he did actually profit by the instruction of the master is most probable, for the similarity of technic which has been the cause of the confusion be- tween the two painters could hardly have come merely from a general impression of the elder painters work. Studio traditions are to be ac quired only in the studio; and Da Vinci had so many pupils that Luini and many others might easily escape mention. In that region and time the genius of the master so over- shadowed all other talent or reputation that a man in poor circumstances, and of obscure posi- tion, such as Luini, would hardly attract the attention of a society accustomed to brilliant achievement and showy qualities, to which Luini never attained. His tender sentiment and delicate drawing are not of the kind of art which attracts the careless observer, and that his work has come down almost to our own day without the distinction it merits is the best proof that he was not of those who catch the public eye at any period. The work supposed to be his earliest is in the Brera Gallery an~ the Royal Palace, Milan; it consists of a number of fragments of frescos from the Casa Pelucca near Monza. They are mostly subjects from the Old Testament, but there is a series of mythological subjects, as an Apollo and Daphne, etc. The frescos of Sta. Maria della Pace, which are now in the Brera, or in the Museum of Arckeology, are supposed by Mongeri to have been painted about 1524, and to be the next in order to those of the Casa Pelucca, as they show the painters peculiarities of style, while those ofthe former series vary so much as to have given the idea to Cavalca- selle that they were painted in co6peration with Suardi, whose children and those of Luini (the latter had three sons who became painters) painted in much the same manner. Luini was a poor man with a large family, and executed Ham/in Garland.

ITALIAN OLD MASTERS. 47 he said, smiling faintly; the whole o my three years work. Well, never mind, ol man. I ye got a chance. fer ye. Still an old bach.? Still an old bach. He looked at Flaxen, irresistibly drawn to her face. She dropped her eyes; she could not have told why. And so Wood & Gearheart was painted on the sides of the drays, and they all continued to live in the little yellow cottage, enjoying life much more than the men, at least, had ever dared to hope; and little Elsie grew to be a great girl, and a nuisance with her desire to yide with ganpap. There is no spot more delightful in early April than the sunny side of the barn, and Ans and Bert felt this though they did not say it. The eaves were dripping, the doves cooing, the hens singing their harsh-throated, weirdly sug- gestive songs, and the thrilling warmth and vi- tality of the sun and wind of spring made the great rude fellows shudder with a strange de- light. Anson held out his palm to catch the sunshine in it, took off his hat to feel the wind, and mused: This is a great worldand a great day. I wish t it was always spring. Say, began Bert abruptly, it seems pretty well understood that you re her father but where do I come in? You ought to be her husband. A light leaped into the younger mans face. But go slow, Anson went on gravely. This package is marked Glass; handle with care. THE END. ITALIAN OLD MASTERS. BERNARDINO LUINI.BORN, ; DIED, 1533(?). is a curious commentary on the artistic discrimina- tion ofthe sixteenth century that one of the sweetest of its painters was so unknown in his own day that there is no record of his birth or of his death. We know so little of Luinis life and circumstances that if we would have a biography, we must construct one from the internal evidence of his works. The first signed picture is a Madonna in the Brera Gallery of Milan, of 152 i, and this seems to mark a point of departure, and serves to jzlivide hypothetically his unripened work from that by which we estimate his powers. He has always been considered a pupil of Da Vinci, but we have no other evidence of this than the character of his work. Only six of his pictures are dated, moreover, so that we have hardly the data for an authoritative classification of them. The singular and salient fact of Luinis artistic existence is that for so many years he was so completely confounded with DaVinci that there are more of his pictures which have passed for the work of Leonardo than we have of Leo- nardos own. It is possible that the fixing of his style in 152 i was a consequence of his having come into contact with Da Vinci. That he did actually profit by the instruction of the master is most probable, for the similarity of technic which has been the cause of the confusion be- tween the two painters could hardly have come merely from a general impression of the elder painters work. Studio traditions are to be ac quired only in the studio; and Da Vinci had so many pupils that Luini and many others might easily escape mention. In that region and time the genius of the master so over- shadowed all other talent or reputation that a man in poor circumstances, and of obscure posi- tion, such as Luini, would hardly attract the attention of a society accustomed to brilliant achievement and showy qualities, to which Luini never attained. His tender sentiment and delicate drawing are not of the kind of art which attracts the careless observer, and that his work has come down almost to our own day without the distinction it merits is the best proof that he was not of those who catch the public eye at any period. The work supposed to be his earliest is in the Brera Gallery an~ the Royal Palace, Milan; it consists of a number of fragments of frescos from the Casa Pelucca near Monza. They are mostly subjects from the Old Testament, but there is a series of mythological subjects, as an Apollo and Daphne, etc. The frescos of Sta. Maria della Pace, which are now in the Brera, or in the Museum of Arckeology, are supposed by Mongeri to have been painted about 1524, and to be the next in order to those of the Casa Pelucca, as they show the painters peculiarities of style, while those ofthe former series vary so much as to have given the idea to Cavalca- selle that they were painted in co6peration with Suardi, whose children and those of Luini (the latter had three sons who became painters) painted in much the same manner. Luini was a poor man with a large family, and executed Ham/in Garland. 48 ITALIAN OLD MASTERS. a very great number of works, those of the From Milan he went again, in 1529, to Lugano, earlier period being mostly, so far as distin- where he painted a Passion, in which the prim- guishable, in fresco, and, whether from haste, cipal scenes of the Agony are enacted in the as a result of being poorly paid, or from being background while the Crucifixion takes place in carried out by pupils, of very unequal execu- the foreground. Dc~hme considers the figures tion. But he was capable of very rapid work; of the Magdalen and St. John to be among thus the Flagellation in the Ambrosiana, a the finest in Italian art. Here the painter fresco occupying one side of the chapter-hall, introduces as a centurion the supposed portrait was begun in October, 1521, and finished in of himself, and as the same head occurs in March of thenext year. The Flagellation oc- another picture, the Adoration, at Saronno, cupies the center, with portraits of six donors on Dohme very reasonably accepts it as the au- each side, all excellent examples of portraiture. thentic portrait, rejecting the traditional por- After 1522 Luini was called out of Milan to trait in the Christ among the Doctors, in work, and painted in Legnano an altar-piece in the Church of the Blessed Virgin of Saronno. fifteen compartments. In 1525 he was invited There is record of his painting at Lugano in to paint in the Church of the Blessed Virgin of 152930 and in 1533, and the last date is the Saronno, near Milan, where he worked in com- latest note of the existence of the painter. pany with Gaudenzio and two other painters; Ruskin deserves the credit of having been and on his return to Milan he was commissioned one of the earliest to give Luini full justice. by the Bentivogli, the dethroned lords of Bo- He considers him a better draftsman than Da logna, to paint the partition wall of the Church Vinci, but this is a judgment the justice of of St. Maurizio, by which they wished to show which depends on definitions. If we are to their recognition, in their exile from their own take into consideration all the qualities of the realm, of the hospitality of their kinsmen the artistic expression of form, it cannot be main- Sforzas. One of the subjects is St. Benedict lead- tamed, and in subtlety of line alone it can ing Alessandro Bentivoglio to the altar, and an- hardly be held, for when he had a form to fol- other is St. Agnes performing the same office for low no one could surpass Da Vinci; but in his wife, who was Hippolyta Sforza.. In the the feeling for beauty of line and tender expres- cloister of the church he painted a series from sion coupled with subtle drawing, I believe the Passion, of which the Crucifixion was in oil. that Luini justifies the praise of the critic. W f. S/il/man. NOTE BY TIMOTHY COLE ON THE ST. APOLLONIA OF LUINI. is seen at his best in Milan, where are found latest works those of his third, or blond, manner, in which he attains his fullest strength and independence. The Church of Monastero Maggiore, formerly St. Maurizio, is a very temple of his art. Luinis blond manner is a warmer and less heavy style of coloring than he had previously practised; the name does not imply that his frescos are any moreblond, generally speaking, than those of any other artist. The detail given, St. Apollonia, is part of one of the painters most beautiful single-figure pieces, a fresco to the right of the high altar in the Chufch of Monastero Maggiore. I was much struck with the grace and ease of the pose; but the beauty of the face, so tender and full of emotion, made me wish to engrave this part alone. I have made, however, a tlfree-quarter length, thus giving the head larger than it would have been had I done the whole figure, as well as showing tbe composition of the principal motive. Much of the ex- pression of a face is necessarily lost in engraving it on a small scale on wood. The attribute of St. Apollonia is a pair of pincers holding a tooth, in allusion to the torture she suffered in having all her teeth extracted previously to being burned. She is the patron saint of sufferers from tooth- ache. Besides the pincers, she holds the book as sig- nificant of her learning, and she bears the martyrs palm. The fresco measures six feet high by two feet seven inches wide. To appreciate the full value of the coloring one must get wjthin the altar-railing, for the effect of the slanting light from without causes a delicate purple bloom to suffuse the whole of the surface, and this, though very beautiful, conveys a false impression. I had not suspected anything wrong until I got within the railing, when I found that the under-robe, which I had taken to be of a charming purple hue, was in fact dark brown. In like manner the other colors were more or less affected. The sleeve of the saint is pea-green, of a light,~ delicL~e, lively tone, soft and very pleasant to the eye. Her mantle which falls over her shoulder, is of a bright orange, yet neutralized to harmonize delightfully with the rest. The lining of this mantle, turned up by the elbow, is of a soft, neutral tone of blue. The lining of the robe falling beneath the arm is of the same tone of blue, but its exterior is of a fine crimson, softened and glowing. A portion of this robe falls over the left shoulder, displaying its lining of soft blue. The cover of the book is green. The background of the whole is of a soft, dark sea-green, its inner square of a soft blackish tone tinged delicately so as to suggest a reddish feeling. ~17he hair of the saint is of a warm silvery color, and the flesh-tints are soft and warm. The combination of the whole is very delightful and charm- ing. The best way to appreciate the beautiful glow of the picture is to stand at a little distance and to view it through a tube, shutting out all else, and thus concen- trating the vision upon it. ST. APOLLONIA, BY LUINI. IN THE CHURCH OF MONASTERO MAGGIORE, MILAN VOL. XLIV. 7. HOMESTEADS OF THE BLUE-GRASS. I. COUNTRY AND TOWN. selves into the final understanding that it be wholly claimed by none. Bounty in land was CKY is a land of rural the coveted reward of Virginia troops in the homes. The people are out in old French and Indian war. Hereditary love the country with a perennial ap- of land was the magnet that drew the earliest petite and passion for the soil. ettlers across the perilous mountains. Rapa- Like Englishmen, they are by city for land was the impulse that caused them nature no dwellers in cities; like to rush down into the green plains, fall upon older Saxon forefathers, they have a strong feel- the natives, slay, torture, hack to pieces, and ing for a habitation even no better than a one- sacrifice wife and child, with the swift, barbaric story log house, with furniture of the rudest hardihood and unappeasable fury of Northmen kind, and cooking in the open air, if only it be of old descending upon the softer shores of surrounded by a plot of ground and individ- France. Acquisition of land was the determi- nalized by all-encompassing fences. Tbey are native principle of the new civilization. Litiga- gregarious at respectful distances, dear to them tion concerning land has made famous the being that sense of personal worth and impor- decisions of their courts of law. The surveyors tance which comes from territorial aloofness, chain should be wrapped about the rifle as a from domestic privacy, and from a certain lord- symbolic epitome of pioneer history. It was for ship over all they survey, land that they turned from the Indians upon one The land that Kentuckians hold has a singu- another, and wrangled, cheated, and lied. They lar charm and power of infusing some fierce and robbed Boone until he had none in which to tender desire of ownership. Centuries before it lay his bones. One of the first acts of one of was possessed by them, all ruthless aboriginal the first colonists was to glut his appetite by the wars for its sole occupancy had resolved them- purchase of all of the State that lies south of the 5 AFTER DINNER LONG AGO. ~IAVED BY CHARLES STATE.

HOMESTEADS OF THE BLUE-GRASS. I. COUNTRY AND TOWN. selves into the final understanding that it be wholly claimed by none. Bounty in land was CKY is a land of rural the coveted reward of Virginia troops in the homes. The people are out in old French and Indian war. Hereditary love the country with a perennial ap- of land was the magnet that drew the earliest petite and passion for the soil. ettlers across the perilous mountains. Rapa- Like Englishmen, they are by city for land was the impulse that caused them nature no dwellers in cities; like to rush down into the green plains, fall upon older Saxon forefathers, they have a strong feel- the natives, slay, torture, hack to pieces, and ing for a habitation even no better than a one- sacrifice wife and child, with the swift, barbaric story log house, with furniture of the rudest hardihood and unappeasable fury of Northmen kind, and cooking in the open air, if only it be of old descending upon the softer shores of surrounded by a plot of ground and individ- France. Acquisition of land was the determi- nalized by all-encompassing fences. Tbey are native principle of the new civilization. Litiga- gregarious at respectful distances, dear to them tion concerning land has made famous the being that sense of personal worth and impor- decisions of their courts of law. The surveyors tance which comes from territorial aloofness, chain should be wrapped about the rifle as a from domestic privacy, and from a certain lord- symbolic epitome of pioneer history. It was for ship over all they survey, land that they turned from the Indians upon one The land that Kentuckians hold has a singu- another, and wrangled, cheated, and lied. They lar charm and power of infusing some fierce and robbed Boone until he had none in which to tender desire of ownership. Centuries before it lay his bones. One of the first acts of one of was possessed by them, all ruthless aboriginal the first colonists was to glut his appetite by the wars for its sole occupancy had resolved them- purchase of all of the State that lies south of the 5 AFTER DINNER LONG AGO. ~IAVED BY CHARLES STATE. 52 HOMESTEADS OF THE BL (fE-GRASS. Kentucky River. The middle class of farmer has always been a strong, a controlling element of the population. To-day more are engaged in agriculture than in all other pursuits combined; taste for it has steadily drawn a rich stream of younger generations hither and thither into the younger West; and to-day, as always, the broad, average ideal of a happy life is expressed in the quiet ownership of perpetual pastures. Steam, said Emerson, is almost an English- man: grass is almost a Kentuckian. Wealth, labor, productions, revenues, public markets, public improvements, manners, characters, so- cial modesall speak in common of the coun- try and fix attention upon the soil. The staples attest the predominance of agriculture; unsur- passed breeds of stock imply the verdure of the the features of urban life. The hundreds of little towns and villages scattered at easy dis- tances over the State for the most part draw out a thin existence by reason of surrounding rural populations. They bear the pastoral stamp. Up to their very environs approach the cultivated fields, the meadows of brilliant green, the delicate woodlands; in and out along the white highways move the tranquil currents of rural trade; through their streets groan and creak the loaded wagons; on the sidewalks the most conspicuous human type is the farmer. Once a month county-seats overflow with the incoming tide of country folk, livery-stables are crowded with horses and vehicles, court-house squares become mar- ket-places for traffic in stock. But when emp lawns; turnpikes, the finest on the continent, furnish viaducts for the garnered riches of the earth, and prove as well the high development of rural life as the every-day luxury of delight- ful riding and driving. Even the crow, the most boldly characteristic freebooter of the air, whose cawing is often the only sound heard in dead February days, or whose flight amid his multitudinous fellows forms long black lines across the morning and the evening sky, tells of fat pickings and profitable thefts in innu- merable fields. In Kentucky a rustic young woman of Homeric sensibility will rightly be allowed to discover in the slow-moving pano- rama of white clouds her fathers herd of short- horned cattle grazing through heavenly pas- tures, and her lover to see in the halo around the moon a perfect celestial race-track. Comparatively weak and unpronounced are tied of country folk, they sink again into repose, all but falling asleep of summer noonings, and in xvinter seeming frost-locked xvith the outly- ing woods and streams. Remarkable is the absence of considerable cities; there being but one that may be said truly to reflect Kentucky life, and that situated on the river frontier, a hundred miles from the center of the State. Think of it! A population of some two millions with only one interior town that contains over five thousand white inhabi- tants. Hence Kentucky makes no impression abroad by reason of its urban population. Lex- ington, Bowling Green, Harrodsburg, Winches- ter, Richmond, Frankfort, Mount Sterling, and all the others, where do they stand in the scale of great American cities? Hence, too, the dispar- aging contrast liable to be drawn between Ken- tucky and the gigantic young States of the West. DOWELL S BRIDGE ON GLENN CREEK. HOMESTIZADS OF ]HE BL (IF-GRASS. 53 Where, it is severely asked, is the magnitude of the commonwealth, where the ground of the sense of importance in the people? No huge mills and gleaming forges, no din of factories and throb of mines, nowhere any colossal cen- ters for the rushing enterprise and multiform energy of the modern American spirit. The answer must be, Judge the State thus far as an agricultural State; the people as an agricultu- ral people: in time no doubt the rest will come. All other things are here, awaiting occasion and development. The eastern portions of the State now verge upon an era of long-delayed activ- ity. There lie the mines, the building-stone, the illimitable wealth of timber; there soon will be opened new fields for commercial and industrial centralization. But hitherto in Ken- tuckyit has seemed enough that the pulse of life should beat with the heart of nature, and be in unison with the slow unfolding and decadence of the seasons. The farmer can go no faster than the sun, and is rich or poor by the law of planetary orbits. In all central Kentucky not - a single village of note has been founded within three quarters of a century, and some villages a hundred years old have not succeeded in gaining even from this fecund race more than a thousand or two thousand inhabitants. But these little towns are inaccessible to the criti- cism that would assault their commercial great- ness. Business is not their boast. Sounded to its depths, the serene sea in which their exis tence floats will reveal a bottom, not of mercan- tile, but of social ideas; studied as to cost or comfort, the architecture in which the people have expressed theipselves will appear notice- able, not in their business houses and public buildings, but in their homes. If these towns pique themselves pointedly on anything, it is that they are the centers of genial intercourse and polite entertainment. Even commercial Louisville must find its peculiar distinction in the number of its sumptuous private residences. It is well nigh a rule that in Kentucky the value of the house is out of proportion to the value of the estate. Do not, however,inake the mistake ofsuppos- ing that because the towns regard themselves as the provincial fortresses of a good society, they therefore look down upon the home life DRAWN BY W. L. MACLEAN. ENARAVED BY GEORAC P. BARTLE. HOME OF THE SHELBVA, LINCOLN COUNTY. DRAWN BY W. L. MACLEAN. ENARACED BY F. W. BATHERLAND. THE POETEES LODGE. 54 HOMESTEADS OF THE BL (lIE- GRASS. of the country. In fact, between country and town in Kentucky exists a relation unique and well to be understood: such a part of the popu- lation of the town owning or managing estates in the country; such a part of the population of the country being business or professional men in town. For it is strikingly true that here all vocations and avocations of life may and do go with tillage, and there are none it is not con- sidered to adorn. The first governor of the State was awarded his domain for raising a crop of corn, and laid down public life at last to renew his companionship with the plow. I retire, said Clay, many years afterward, to the shades of Ashland. The present governor (i888), a man of large wealth, lives, when at home, in a rural log house built near the beginning of the century. His predecessor in office was a rmer. Hardly a man of note in all the past or present history of the State but has had his near or immediate origin in the woods and fields. Formerly it was the custom less general now that young men should take their academic degrees in the colleges of the United States, sometimes in those of Europe, and, returning home, hang up their diplomas as votive offerings to the god of boundaries. To-day you will find the ex-minister to a foreign court spending his final years in the solitude of his farm-house, and the representative at Washington making his retreat to the restful homestead. The banker in town bethinks him of stocks at home that know no panic; the clergyman studies St. Paul amid the native corn, and muses on the surpas- sing beauty of David as he rides his favorite horse through green pastures and beside still waters. Hence, to be a farmer here implies no social inferiority, no rusticity, no boorishness, Hence, so clearly interlaced are urban and rural society that there results a homogeneousness of manners, customs, dress, entertainments, ideals, and tastes. Hence, the infiltration of the country with the best the towns contain. More, indeed, than this: rather to the country than to the towns in Kentucky must one look for the local history of the home life. There first was implanted under English and Virgin- ian influences the antique style of country-seat; there flourished for a time those gracious man- ners that were the high-born endowment of the olden school; there in piquant contrast were developed side by side the democratic and aris- tocratic spirits, working severally toward equal- ity and caste; there was established the State reputation for effusive private hospitalities; and there still are peculiarly cherished the fading traditions of more festive boards and kindlier hearthstones. If the feeling of the whole people could be interpreted by a single saying, it would perhaps be this: that whether in town or coun- try and if in the country, not remotely here or there, but in well-nigh unbroken succession from estate to estate they have attained a notable stage in the civilization of the home. This is the common conviction, this the idol of the tribe, The idol itself may rest on the fact of provincial isolation, which is the fortress of self-love and neighborly devotion; but it suf- fices for the present purpose to say that it is an idol still, worshiped for the divinity it is DRAWN BY W. L. MACLEAN. COLONEL HART cIBSONS HOUSE, NEAR LEXINGTON. HOMESTEADS OF THE BL UE-GRASS. thought to enshrine. Hence you may assail the Kentuckian on many grounds, and he will hold his peace. You may tell him that he has no great cities, that he does not run with the currents of national progress; but never tell him that the home life of his fellows and himself is not as good as the best in the land. Domes- ticity is the State porcupine, presenting an angry quill to every point of attack. To write of homes in Kentucky, therefore, and particu- larly of rural homes, is to enter the very citadel of the popular affections. II. TYPES OF EARLY HOMES. AT first they built for the tribe, working to- gether like beavers in common cause against nature and their enemies. Home life and do- mestic architecture began among them with the wooden-fort community, the idea of xvhich was no doubt derived from the frontier defenses of Virginia, and modified by the Kentuckians with a view to domestic use. This building habit culminated in the erection of some two hundred rustic castles, the sites of which in some instances are still to be identified. It was a singularly fit sort of structure, adjusting itself desperately and economically to the necessities of environment. For the time society lapsed into a state which, but for the want of lords and retainers, was feudalism of the rudest kind. There were gates for sally and swift retreat, bastions for defense, and loopholes in cabin- walls for the deadly volleys. There were hunt- ing-parties winding forth stealthily without horn or hound, and returning laden with such ant- lered game as might have graced the great feudal halls. There was siege, too, and suffer- ing, and death enough, (;od knows, mingled with the lowing of cattle and the clatter of looms. Some morning, even, you might have seen a slight girl trip covertly out to the little cotton-patch in one corner of the inclosure, and, blushing crimson over the snowy cotton- bolls, pick the wherewithal to spin her bridal dress; for there they married also and bore chil- dren. Many a Kentucky family must trace its origin through the tribal communities pent up within a stockade, and discover that the family plate consisted then of a tin cup, and haply an iron fork. But, as soon as might be, this compulsory village life broke eagerly asunder into private homes. The common building form was that of the log house. It is needful to distinguish this from the log house of the mountaineer, which is found throughout eastern Kentucky to-day. Encompassed by all difficulties, the pioneer yet reared himself a complete and more enduring habitation. One of these, still intact after the lapse of more than a century, stands as a singularly interesting type of its kind, and brings us face to face with primi- tive architecture. Mulberry Hill, a double house, two and a half stories high, with a cen- tral hall, was built in Jefferson County, near Louisville, in 1785, for John Clark, the father of General George Rogers Clark. The settlers made the mistake of supposing that the country lacked building-stone, so deep under the loam and verdure lay the whole foundation rock; but soon they discovered that their better houses had only to be taken from beneath their feet. The first stone house in the State, and withal the most notable, is Travelers Rest, in Lincoln County, built in 1783 by Governor Metcalf, who was then a stone-mason, for Isaac Shelby, the first gov- ernor of Kentucky. To those who know the blue-grass landscape, this type of homestead is familiar enough, with its solidity of foundation, great thickness of walls, enormous, low chim- neys, and little windows. The owners were the architects and builders, and with stern, neces- sitous industry translated their condition into their work, giving it an intensely human element. It harmonized with need, not with feeling; was built by the virtues, and not by the vanities. With no fine balance of proportion, with details few, scant, and crude, the entire effect of the architecture was not unpleasing, so honest was its poverty, so rugged and robust its purpose. It was the gravest of all historic commentaries written in stone. Instructive enough is the varied fate that has overtaken these old-time structures. Many have been torn down, yield- ing their well-chosen sites to newer, showier edifices. Others became in time the quarters of the slaves. Others still have been hidden away beneath weather-boarding, a veneer of commonplace modernism, as though white- washed or painted plank were a finer thing to see than rough-hewn gray stone. But one is glad to discover that in numerous instances they are the preferred homes of those who have IRON AND MARBLE MANTELPIECE IN THE PRESTON HOUSE LEXINOTON 56 HOMESTEADS OF THE BL (fE-GRASS. DRAWN BY HARRY FENN. DOORWAY IN THR BROWN HOUSE, FRANEFORT. (DESIGNED BY THOMAS JEFFERSON.) a certain taste for the antique in native history, a certain pride in family associations and tra- ditions. On all the thinned and open landscape, noth]ng stands out with a more pathetic air of nakedness than one of these stone houses, long since abandoned and fallen into ruin. Under the Kentucky sky houses crumble and die with- out seeming to grow old, without an aged toning down of colors, without the tender me- morials of mosses and lichens, and of the whole race of clinging things. So, not until they are quite overthrown does nature reclaim them, or draw once more to her bosom the walls and chimneys within whose faithful bulwarks, and by whose cavernous, glowing recesses, our great- grandmothers and great-grandfathers danced and made love, married, suffered, and fell asleep. Neither to the house of logs, therefore, nor to that of stone must we look for the earliest embodiment of positive taste in domestic archi- tecture. This found its first, and, considering the exigencies of the period, its most noteworthy expression in the homestead of brick. No finer specimen survives than that built in i 796, on a plan furnished by Thomas Jefferson to John Brown, who had been his law student, remained always his honored friend, and became one of the founders of the commonwealth. It is a rich landmark, this old manor-place on the bank of the Kentucky River in Frankfort. The great hall with its pillared archway is wide enough for dancing the Virginia reel. The suites of high, spacious rooms; the carefully carved woodwork of the window-casings and the doors; the tall, quaint mantel-frames; the deep fireplaces with their shining fire-dogs and fenders of brass, brought laboriouslyenough on pack-mules from Philadelphia; the brass locks and keys; the por- traits on the walls all these bespeak the early implantation in Kentucky of a taste for sump- tuous life and entertainment. The house is like a far-descending echo of colonial Old Virginia. More famous in its day, for it is already beneath the sod,and built not of wood, nor of stone, nor of brick, but in part of all, was Chaumi~re, the home of David Meade dur- ing the closing years of the last, and the early years of the present, century. The owner, a Virginian who had been much in England, brought back with him notions of the baronial style of country-seat, and in Jessamine County, some ten miles from Lexington, built him a home that lingers in the mind like some picture of the imagination. It was a villa-like place, a cluster of rustic cottages, with a great park laid out in the style of Old World landscape- gardening. There were artificial rivers span- ned by arching bridges, and lakes with islands crowned by Grecian temples. There were ter- races and retired alcoves, and winding ways cut through sweet, flowering thickets, withal an Eden of forest green and shadows number- less. A fortune was spent on the grounds; a retinue of servants was employed in nurtur- ing their beaufy. The dining-room, wainscoted with walnut and relieved by deep windowseats, was richer still with the family service of silver and glass; on the walls of other rooms hung family portraits by Thomas Hudson and Sir Joshua Reynolds. Two days in the week were appointed for formal receptions. ThereJackson and Monroe and Taylor were entertained; there Aaron Burr was held for a time under arrest there the refined and courtly stateliness of the old school showed itself becomingly in silver buckles and knee-breeches, lifted high the huge wassail-bowl, and rode abroad in a yellow chariot with outriders in blue cloth and sil- ver buttons. Near Lexington may be found a further no- table example of early architecture in the Todd homestead, the oldest house in the region, built by the brother of John Todd, who was gov- ernor of Kentucky Territory, including Illinois. It is a strong, spacious brick structure reared on a high foundation of stone, with a large, square hall and great square rooms in suites, connected by double doors. To the last cen- tury also belongs the low, irregular pile that be- came the Wickliffe, and later the Preston, house in Lexingtona striking example of the taste then prevalent for plain, or even commonplace, exteriors, if combined withinteriors that touched the imagination with the suggestion of some- thing stately and noble and courtly. Take these, chosen here and there, as a few types of homes erected in the last century. The point is not that such places existed, but that they should have been found in Kentucky at such a time. For society had begun as the purest of all democracies. Only a little while ago the people had been shut up within a stockade. Stress of peril and hardship had leveled ~he elements of population to more than a democracy: it had knit them together as one endangered human brotherhood. Hence the VOL. XLIV.- 8. 57 sudden, fierce flaring up of sympathy with the French Revolution; hence the deep re~choing through the Kentucky settlement of the war- cry of Jacobin emissaries. But scarcely had the wave ofprimitive conquest flowed over the land, and wealth followed in its peaceful wake, before life fell apart into the extremes of social caste. The memories of former position, the influences of old domestic habitudes, were powerful still. Rudely strained, not snapped asunder, were the connective tissues of civilization; so that, before a generation passed, Kentucky society gave full proof of the continuity of its devel- opment from phases of traditional State-exis- tence. The region of the James River, so rich in antique homesteads, began to renew itself in the region of the blue-grass. On a new and larger canvas began to be painted the picture of shaded lawns, wide portals, broad staircases, great halls, drawing-rooms, and dining-rooms, wainscoting, carved woodwork, and waxed hard-wood floors. In came a few yellow chari- ots, morocco-lined and drawn by four horses. In came the powder, the wigs, and the queues, the HOiJIESTZAJ9S OF THE BL UF-GRA SS. HALL IN THE BROWN HOMESTEAD, FRANEFORT. HOMESTEADS OF THE BL UFGRA SS. ruffled shirts, the knee-breeches, the glittering buckles, the high-heeled slippers, and the frosty brocades. Over the Alleghanies, in slow-moving wagons, came the massive mahogany furni- ture, the sunny brasswork, the tall silver cal)dle- sticks, the nervous-looking, thin-legged little pianos. in came old manners and old speech and old prides: the very Past gathered together its household gods and made an exodus into the Future. Without due regard to these essential facts the social system of the State must ever re- main poorly understood. Hitherto they have been but little considered. To the popular imagination the most familiar type of early Kentuckian is that of the fighter, the hunter, the rude, heroic pioneer and his no less heroic wife; people who left all things behind them and set their faces westward, prepared to be new creatures if such they could become. But on the dim historic background are the stiff figures of another type, people who were equally bent on being old-fashioned creatures if such they could remain. Thus, during the final years of the last century and the first quarter of the present one, Kentucky life was all richly over- laid with ancestral models. Closely studied, the elements of population by the close of this period were separable into a landed gentry, a robust yeomanry, a white tenantry, and a black peasantry. It was only by degrees,by the djy- ing out of the fine old types of men and women, by longer absence from the old environment and closer contact with the new, that society lost its inherited and acquired its native charac- teristics, or became less Virginian and more Kentuckian. Gradually, also, the white tenantry waned and the black peasantry waxed. The aristocratic spirit, in becoming more Kentuck- ian, unbent somewhat its pride, and the demo- cratic, in becoming more Kentuckian, took on a pride of its own; so that when social life culminated with the first half-century, there had been produced all over the blue-grass region, by the intermingling of the two, that widelydiffused and peculiar type which may be described as an aristocratic democracy, or a democratic aristocracy, according to ones choosing of a phrase. The beginnings of Kentucky life rep- resented not simply a slow development from the rudest pioneer conditions, but also a direct and immediate implantation of the best of long- established social forms. And in no wise did the latter embody itself more persuasively and last- ingly than in the building of costly homes. III. HOMES OF THE MIDDLE PERIOD. WITH the opening of the present century, this taste went on developing. A specimen of early architecture in the style of the old English mansion is to be found in Locust Grove, a massive and enduring structure, not in the blue-grass region, it is true, but sev- eral miles from Louisville,built in i8oo for Colonel Croghan, brother-in-law of General George Rogers Clark; and still another remains in Spring Hill, in Woodford County, the home of Nathaniel Hart, who had been a boy in the fort at Boonesborough. Until recently a further representative, though remodeled in later times, survived in the Thompson place at Shawnee Springs, in Mercer County. Consider briefly the import of such country homes as these Travelers Rest, Chau- mi~re, Spring Hill, and Shawnee Springs, and the writer deprecates all odium for restrict- ing his mention to them, or for choosing them as types rather than others. Built remotely here and there, away from the villages or before villages were formed, in a country not yet traversed by limestone highways or even by lanes, they, and such as they, were the bea- con-lights, many-windowed and kind, of Ken- tucky entertainment. Travelers Rest was on the great line of immigration from Ab- ingdon through Cumberland Gap. Its roof- tree was a boon of universal shelter, its very name a perpetual invitation to all the weary. Long after the country became thickly peopled, it, and such places as it, remained the rallying- points of social festivity in their several coun- ties, or drew their guests from remoter regions. They brought in the era of hospitalities, which by and by spread through the towns and over the land. If one is ever to study this trait as it flowered to perfection in Kentucky life, then one must hope to see it, not wholly, but at its best, in the society of some fifty years ago. Then trained horses were kept in the stables, trained servants were kept in the halls. The dinners were perennial, as boundless as the courtesies; the animosities were for the time dissolved by alLthe amenities; guests came un- invited; unannounced; tables were regularly set for surprises. Put a plate, said an old Kentuckian of the time with a large family connection always put a plate for the last one of them down to the youngest grandchild. It is narrated as a fact in a Kentucky home, and certainly it never happened in any other, that a visitor once arrived, as he said, for a sojourn of several days, but remained twenty years; at the end of which time it pleased Prov- idence to terminate his visit. What a Kentuck- ian would have thought of being asked to come on the thirteenth of the month and to leave on the twentieth, it is difficult to imagine. The wedding-presents of brides were not only jew- els and silver and gold, but a round of balls. 1 Ashland, the Clay homestead, has already been written of by another in this magazine. HOMESTEADS OF THE BL UE-GRASS. 59 The people were laughed at for their too im- petuous civilities. In whatever quarter of the globe they should happen to meet for the hour a pleasing stranger, they would say in parting, And when you come to Kentucky, be certain to come to my house. Yet it is needful to discriminate, in speaking of Kentucky hospitality. Universally gracious toward the stranger and quick to receive him for his individual worth, within the State hos- pitality ran in circles, and the people turned a piercing eye on one anothers social positions. If in no other material aspect did they embody the history of descent so sturdily as in the build- ing of homes, in no mental trait of home life did they reflect this more clearly than in the sense of family pride. Hardly a little town but had its classes that never mingled; scarce a rural neighborhood but insisted on the sanctity of its salt-cellar and the gloss of its mahogany. The spirit of caste was somexvhat Persian in its gravity. Now the Alleghanies were its back- ground, and the heroic beginnings of Kentucky life supplied its warrant; now it overleaped the Alleghanies, and allied itself to the memories of deeds and names in older States. But, mark you, if some professed to look down, none pro- fessed to look up. Deference to an upper class, if deference existed, was secret and resentful, not open and servile; and revenge on the aris tocrat,if revenge was desired, could always be taken at the polls. Study the history of great political contests in the State, and see whether they are not lessons in the victory and defeat of social types. Herein lies a difficulty: you touch any point of Kentucky life, and instantly about it cluster antagonisms and contradictions. The false is true; the true is false. Society was aristocratic; it was democratic: it was neither; it was both. There was intense family pride, and no family pride. The ancestral sentiment was weak,and it wasstrong. To-day you will dis- cover the increasing vogue of an keraldica ATen/uckiensis, and to- day an absolute dis- regard of a distin- guished past. One tells but partial truths. Of domestic archi- tecture in a brief and general way some- thing has been said. The prevailing influ- ence was Virginian, but in Lexington and elsewhere may be observed evidences of French ideas in the glass-work and designs of doors and windows, in rooms grouped around a central hall with arching niches and alcoves; for models made their way from New Orleans as well as from the East. Out in the country, however, at such places as those already men- tioned, a purely English taste was shown for woodland parks with deer and, what was more peculiarly Kentuckian, elk and buffalo. This taste, once so conspicuous, has never become extinct, and certainly the landscape is recep- tive enough to all such stately purposes. At Spring Hill and elsewhere, to-day, one may stroll through woods that have kept a touch of their native wildness, and lack only the res- toration of timid, bounding forms to become primeval. There was the English love of lawns, ENGRAVED BY GEORGE P. BARTLE. THE CROGHAN PLACE, LOCUST GROVE. THE CLARK HOUSE, MULBERRY HILL. 6o HOMESTEADS OF TILE BL LIEGRASS. too, with a low matted green turf and wide- spreading shade-trees above, elm and maple, locust and poplar, the English fondness for a mansion half hidden with evergreens and creep- ers and shrubbery, to be approached by a leafy avenue, a secluded gateway, and a graveled drive; for highways hardly admit to the heart of rural life in Kentucky, and wayside homes, to be dusted and gazed at by every passer-by, would little accord with the spirit of the people. This feeling of family seclusion and complete- ness also portrayed itself very tenderly in the custom of family graveyards, which were in time to be replaced by the democratic ceme- tery; and no one has ever lingered around those quiet spots of aged and drooping cedars, fast-fading violets, and perennial myrtle, with- out being made to feel that they grew out of the better heart and fostered the finer senses. On the whole, however, the best proof of culture among the first generations of Ken- tuckians is to be seen in the private collections of portraits, among which one wanders now with a sort of stricken feeling that the higher life of Kentucky in this regard never went be- yond its early promise. Look into the meager history of native art, and you will discover that nearly all the hest work belongs to this early time. It was possible even then that a Ken- tuckian could give up law and turn to painting. Almost in the wilderness Jouett created rich, luminous, startling canvases. Artists came from older States to sojourn and to work; artists were invited or summoned from abroad. Painting was taught in Lexington in i8oo. Well for Jouett, perhaps~ that he lived when he did; better for Hart, perhaps, that he was not born later: they might have run for Congress. One is prone to recur time and again ro this period, when the ideals of Kentucky life were still waver- ing or unformed, and when there was the great- est receptivity to foreign impress. Thinking of social life as it was developed, say in and around Lexington, of artists coming and going, of the statesmen, the lecturers, the lawyers, of the dignity and the energy of character, of the in- tellectual dinners, one is inclined to liken the local civilization to a truncated cone, to a thing that should have towered to a symmetric apex, but somehow has never risen very high above a sturdy base. So we turn to speak broadly of home life after it became more typically Kentuckian, and after architecture began to reflect with greater uni- formity the character of the people. And here one can find material comfort, if not esthetic delight; for it is the whole picture of human life in the blue-grass region that pleases. Ride east and west, or north and south, along high- way or byway, and the picture is the same. One almost asks for relief from the monotony of a merely well-to-do existence, almost sighs for the extremes of squalor and splendor, that nowhere may be seen, and that would seem so SPRING HILL, NEAR VERSAILLES. ENGRAVED BY H. E. SYLVESTER. HOMESTEADS OF THE BLUE-GRASS. 6i out of place if anywhere confronted. On, and on, and on you go, seeing only the repetition of field and meadow, wood and lawn, a wind- ing stream, an artificial pond, a sunny vineyard, a blooming orchard, a stone wall, a hedge-row, a tobacco barn, a warehouse, a race-track, cattle under the trees, sheep on the slopes, swine in the pools, and, half hidden by evergreens and shrubbery, the homelike, unpretentious houses that crown very simply and naturally the entire picture of material prosperity. They strike you as built not for their own sakes. Few will offer anything that lays hold upon the memory, un- less it be perhaps a front portico with Doric, Ionic, or Corinthian columns; for your typical Kentuckian likes to go into his house through a classic entrance, no matter what inharmonious things may be beyond; and after supper on summer evenings, nothing fills him with serener comfort than to tilt his chair back against a classic support, as he smokes a pipe and argues on the immortality of a pedigree. On the whole, you feel that nature lies ready, or has long waited, for a more exquisite sense in domestic architecture; that the immeasurable possibilities of delightful lands cape have gone unrecognized or wasted. Too often there is in form and outline no response to the spirit of the scenery, and there is dissonance of color color which makes the first and strongest impression. The realm of taste is prevailingly the realm of the want of taste, or of its meretricious and commonplace violations. Many of the houses have a sort of featureless, cold, insipid ugliness, and interior and exterior decorations are apt to go for nothing or for something worse. You repeat that nature awaits more art, since she made the land so kind to beauty; for no transformation of a rude, ungenial landscape is needed. The earth does not require to be trimmed and combed and perfumed. The airy vistas and delicate slopes are ready-made, the park-like woodlands invite, the tender, clinging children of the summer, the deep, echoless re- pose of the whole land, all ask that art be laid on every undulation and stored in every nook. And there are days with such Arcadian colors in air and cloud and skydays with such pano- ramas of calm, sweet pastoral groups and har- monies below, such rippling and flashing of waters through green underlights and golden interspaces, that the shy, coy spirit of beauty seems to be wandering half sadly abroad and shunning all the haunts of man. But little agricultural towns are not art-cen- ters. Of itself rural life does not develop es- thetic perceptions, and the last, most difficult thing to bring into the house is this shy, elusive spirit of beauty. The Kentucky woman has per- haps been corrupted in childhood by tasteless surroundings. Her lovable mission, the creation of a multitude of small lovely objects, is under- taken feebly and blindly. She may not know how to create beauty, may not know what beauty is. The temperament of her lord, too, is practical: a man of substance and stomach, sound at heart, and with an abiding sense of his own responsibility and importance, honestly insisting on sweet butter and new-laid eggs, home-made bread and home-grown mutton, but little reveling in the delicacies of sensi- bility, and with no more eye for crimson pop- pies or blue corn-flowers in his house than amid his grain. Many a Kentucky woman would THE PARE, SPRING HILL. H z 0 H z H H 0 H z HOMESTEADS OF THE BL UE-GEASS. 63 make her home beautiful if her husband would allow it. Amid a rural people, also, no class of citizens is more influential than the clergy, who go about as the shepherds of the right; and without doubt in Kentucky, as elsewhere, ministerial ideals have wrought their effects on taste. Per- haps it is well to state that this is said broadly, and particularly of the past. The Kentucky preachers during earlier times were a fiery, zeal- ous, and austere set, proclaiming that this world was not a home, but a wilderness of sin, and exhorting their people to live under the awful shadow of Eternity. Beauty in every material form was a peril, the seductive garment of the devil. Well nigh all that made for esthetic cub ture was put down, and, like frost on ven- turesome flowers, sermons fell on beauty in dress, entertainment, equipage, houses, church architecture, music, the drama, the opera everything. The meek young spirit was led to the creek or pond, and perhaps the ice was broken for her baptism. If, as she sat in the pew, any vision of her chaste loveliness reached the pulpit, back came the warning that she would some day turn into a withered hag, and must inevitably be eaten of worms. What wonder if the sense of beauty pined or went astray, and found itself completely avenged in the building of such churches? And yet there is nothing that even religion more surely demands than the fostering of the sense of beauty within us, and through this it is that we work most wisely toward the civilization of the future. iv. HOMES SINCE THE WAR. MANy rural homes have been built since the xvar, but the old type of country life has van- ished. On the whole, there has been a strong movement of population toward the towns, rapidly augmenting their size. Elements of showiness and freshness have been added to their once unobtrusive architecture. And, in particular, that art movement and sudden quickening of the love of beauty which swept over this country a few years since has had its influence here. But for the most part the newer homes are like the newer homes in other American cities, and the style of interior ap- pointment and decoration has few native char- acteristics. As a rule the people love the country life less than of yore, since an altered social system has deprived it of much leisure, and has added hardships. The Kentuckian does not regard it as part of his mission in life to feed fodder to stock, but to have it fed; and servants are hard to get, the colored ladies and gentlemen having developed a taste for urban society. What, then, is to be the future of the blue- grass region? XVhen population in the United States becomes much denser and the pressure is felt in every neighborhood, who will pos- sess it? One seems to see in certain tenden- cies of American life the probable answer to this question. The small farmer will be bought out, and will disappear. Estates will grow fewer and larger. The whole land will pass into the hands of the rich, being too precious for the poor to own. Already here and there one notes the disposition to create vast domains by the slow swallowing up of contiguous small ones. Con- sider, then, in this connection the taste already shown by the rich American in certain parts of the United States to found a country place in the style of an English lord. Consider, too, that the landscape is much like the loveliest of rural England; that the trees, the grass, the sculpture of the scenery are such as make the perfect beauty of a park; that the fox, the bob- white, the thoroughbred, and the deer are indigenous. Apparently, therefore, one can fore- see the yet distant time when this will become the region of splendid homes and estates that will nourish a taste for outdoor sports and offer an escape from the too-wearying cities. On the other hand, a powerful and ever-grow- ing interest is that of the horse, racer or trotter. He brings into the State his increasing capital, his types of men. Year after year he buys farms, and lays out tracks, and builds stables, and edits journals, and turns agriculture into grazing. In time the blue-grass region may become the Yorkshire of America. But let the future have its own. The coun- try will become theirs who deserve it, whether they build palaces or barns. One only hopes that when the old homesteads have been torn down or have fallen into ruins, the tradition may still run that they too had their day and deserved their page of history. James Laiie Al/en. /1

CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN! BY WOLCOTT BALESTIER. Author of A Common Story, Reffey, etc. I. ERNA was not allowed to see the papers until the tenth day. Then she read the story of his death in his own paper. Terror crept over her as she read, and she cast the Telepheme from her, and buried her weak head in her hands, living over the an- guish of that moment. She shuddered again with the hideous crash of the collision, and went whirling in his embrace down, down into a dizzy blackness, and then lay at the bottom of the cation, the wreck piled on top of them and round about them, the air loud with the cowing noise of escaping steam, and wild with the shrieks of the dying. His poor white face stared up at her from under the wreckage, yearning with love, horrid with pain, and his tortured lips framed the words which imposed a sacred duty on her future: Keep up the fight! Aleck had left her everything he owned, they told her, and she knew why. It was not only as his promised wife, it was as the inheri- tor of his work; and a week later, when she was carried down-stairs for the first time, she sent for Rignold, who, with no help but Bartons, had got out two issues of the Telepheme since the death of his chief, and asked him to put her name at the head of the paper. For the next weeks issue Rignold set up this legend to appear above the editorial notices: Cbe 1Ru~t1er telepbeme. BY BERNA MINTERMAN DEXTER. FOUNDED BY ALEXANDER CHESTER.I Rignold turned his rules around the concluding line,making an oblong frame of black for it. The following editorial, written by Berna from her couch, was arranged to appear below the notices: In assuming charge of the Telepheme, it is proper that we should say a few words. The ter- rible railroad accident which occurred between Cation City and Topaz three weeks ago has cast a pall over the community, and is still fresh in all VOL. XLIV.9. minds. More than a hundred citizens of Rustler were on the ill-fated excursion train, bound for the celebration of Potato Day at Maverick, and above a dozen were either killed outright or seri- ously injured. Among the former the editor of this paper, Alexander Chester, was numbered; among the latter is included the writer of this col- umn. This painful personal reference will, we trust, be forgiven us in view of the circumstances, as some explanation is due our readers of the rea- sons which induce us to continue the publication of the Telepheme under the old name and at the old stand. In making this explanation, we should not feel honest toward our readers in attempting to conceal a fact, no doubt already known to many of them, viz., the relation subsist- ing between the late and the present editor. It is due to all concerned that we should mention this, as it is because the present writer feels herself to be, in a true sense, the widow of the late editor, that she presumes to attempt the undertaking of carrying on a paper which, in his hands, has been such a power for good in this community. This difficult post, assumed most reluctantly in response to a dying wish, we need not say is not taken up with any feeling of competence to the labors before us, nor with any feeling but that many others would fill the position more ade- quately and wisely. We are led to take hold of this work, where it was left off by Alexander Ches- ter, solely out of respect for his memory, and with the belief that one who was privileged to know the hopes and plans for this town and this com- munity which beat in that great heart maybe able to carry them forward feebly indeed, but with a sympathy and understanding impossible to any stranger. The present editor, in printing her name at the head of this column, consecrates her life to the work which fell a fortnight since from the palsied hand of Alexander Chester. All Rus- tler knows what that work was. The entire future of the town is bound up in it. We must have the railroad. The Three Cs must come our way. Into this cause Alexander Chester poured his life-en- ergy; to it he gave all he was, or hoped to be. As the officer on the field of battle snatches up the weapon that has fallen from his dead captain, and presses on, so we take up this work, with malice toward none, and with charity for all; but presenting a solid front to the common ~nemy, resolved that Topaz shall not be allowed to ac- crete to herself this new source of wealth and strength. It is a life-and-death struggle: we know it, and Topaz knows it. United and unanimous as we are, we have only to continue to assert our rights, and to make the advantages of Rustler duly known, to secure the Colorado and Califor- nia Central without a doubt. 65

CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN! BY WOLCOTT BALESTIER. Author of A Common Story, Reffey, etc. I. ERNA was not allowed to see the papers until the tenth day. Then she read the story of his death in his own paper. Terror crept over her as she read, and she cast the Telepheme from her, and buried her weak head in her hands, living over the an- guish of that moment. She shuddered again with the hideous crash of the collision, and went whirling in his embrace down, down into a dizzy blackness, and then lay at the bottom of the cation, the wreck piled on top of them and round about them, the air loud with the cowing noise of escaping steam, and wild with the shrieks of the dying. His poor white face stared up at her from under the wreckage, yearning with love, horrid with pain, and his tortured lips framed the words which imposed a sacred duty on her future: Keep up the fight! Aleck had left her everything he owned, they told her, and she knew why. It was not only as his promised wife, it was as the inheri- tor of his work; and a week later, when she was carried down-stairs for the first time, she sent for Rignold, who, with no help but Bartons, had got out two issues of the Telepheme since the death of his chief, and asked him to put her name at the head of the paper. For the next weeks issue Rignold set up this legend to appear above the editorial notices: Cbe 1Ru~t1er telepbeme. BY BERNA MINTERMAN DEXTER. FOUNDED BY ALEXANDER CHESTER.I Rignold turned his rules around the concluding line,making an oblong frame of black for it. The following editorial, written by Berna from her couch, was arranged to appear below the notices: In assuming charge of the Telepheme, it is proper that we should say a few words. The ter- rible railroad accident which occurred between Cation City and Topaz three weeks ago has cast a pall over the community, and is still fresh in all VOL. XLIV.9. minds. More than a hundred citizens of Rustler were on the ill-fated excursion train, bound for the celebration of Potato Day at Maverick, and above a dozen were either killed outright or seri- ously injured. Among the former the editor of this paper, Alexander Chester, was numbered; among the latter is included the writer of this col- umn. This painful personal reference will, we trust, be forgiven us in view of the circumstances, as some explanation is due our readers of the rea- sons which induce us to continue the publication of the Telepheme under the old name and at the old stand. In making this explanation, we should not feel honest toward our readers in attempting to conceal a fact, no doubt already known to many of them, viz., the relation subsist- ing between the late and the present editor. It is due to all concerned that we should mention this, as it is because the present writer feels herself to be, in a true sense, the widow of the late editor, that she presumes to attempt the undertaking of carrying on a paper which, in his hands, has been such a power for good in this community. This difficult post, assumed most reluctantly in response to a dying wish, we need not say is not taken up with any feeling of competence to the labors before us, nor with any feeling but that many others would fill the position more ade- quately and wisely. We are led to take hold of this work, where it was left off by Alexander Ches- ter, solely out of respect for his memory, and with the belief that one who was privileged to know the hopes and plans for this town and this com- munity which beat in that great heart maybe able to carry them forward feebly indeed, but with a sympathy and understanding impossible to any stranger. The present editor, in printing her name at the head of this column, consecrates her life to the work which fell a fortnight since from the palsied hand of Alexander Chester. All Rus- tler knows what that work was. The entire future of the town is bound up in it. We must have the railroad. The Three Cs must come our way. Into this cause Alexander Chester poured his life-en- ergy; to it he gave all he was, or hoped to be. As the officer on the field of battle snatches up the weapon that has fallen from his dead captain, and presses on, so we take up this work, with malice toward none, and with charity for all; but presenting a solid front to the common ~nemy, resolved that Topaz shall not be allowed to ac- crete to herself this new source of wealth and strength. It is a life-and-death struggle: we know it, and Topaz knows it. United and unanimous as we are, we have only to continue to assert our rights, and to make the advantages of Rustler duly known, to secure the Colorado and Califor- nia Central without a doubt. 65 66 CAPTAIN; MY CAPTAIN! In conclusion, the writer wishes to thank per- sonally all the late editors fellow-toxvnsmen for the generous tribute of sorrow and regret at his death manifested by one and all. She accepts it not merely as a tribute to a noble man, but to the purpose which he had most nearly at heart. The value and importance of that purpose to Rustler could not be more clearly shown than hy these unsolicited tributes. They warm the heart of his successor in this editorial chair, and strengthen us for the work before us. That it may be worthy, in however humble a degree, of the man who has gone from us, and of the town of Rustler, is the hope of BERNA MINTERMAN DEXTER. The copy from which this was to be set up had reached Rignold stained with the tears it had cost the writer. Tie read it through with a queer feeling in his throat, then closed and locked the office,Barton, the foreman, and the boy had gone for the night, and, lighting the lamp over his case, set it himself. The careftil, girlish manuscript, traced among the telltale blurs on little sheets of pink note-paper, im- pressed at the top with a twisted B. iM. D. in gold, was not a sight for other eyes than his. The sense of what was and what was not good newspaper work had rubbed off on Rig- nold in eight years service as one of the com- positors, and five years as the foreman, of a New York evening paper. The weekly he had come west to establish had failed; but that was because he had chosen the wrong town. Drifting back eastward by way of Colorado, he had been content to accept Chesters offer, and on another mans paper had displayed the qualities which, if the mines of his Idaho town had panned out richer, would have made his own journal successful. Chester and he had be- come friends, and had remained so, though it was Chester who finally won Berna; and it was not the smallest testimony to the love that dared warm to life again with the tragic death of his friend, that, denying himself the habit of thought bred by his newspaper experience, Rignold now set Bernas article without an attempt to edit it, and without so much as a preliminary mechanical motion toward the xvaste-basket. To know so well what his old managing editor would have done with the poor girls editorial did not make it less pa- thetic. The thought caused her rather to seem more helpless and more dependent on hini, and gave him reason to notify himself in plain teems that the Telepheme was to be made a suc- cess under its new editor, if it cost a leg. As his sensitive printers hand, with its five eyes, wove back and forth over the case, he smiled fondly to himself at the little literary graces of her writing, as he often did at the little literary frills of her talk. They were so much part of all his knowledge and thought of her that he could not have dissociated them from her with- out doing violence to the sanctuary in which he kept his love: her faults were as dear to him as her virtues dearer, perhaps, because more accessible than the lofty qualities for which he adored her. He could nt smile af- fectionately upon her virtues; her faults seemed warm and near. Nevertheless, he declared to himself, as he stooped beneath the lamp that gathered its rays under the scorched green shade to throw them on Bemas pages, that he was a fool a char- tered, twice-dyed, and double-branded idiot to allow himself to have any business dealings with a woman. Looking out through the win- dow of the Disbrow Block, from which the Telepheme regarded the town whose life it recorded, he wondered how they would take it the people of Rustler, going in and out, and to and fro, below there. The town, en- gaged under an electric noonday in the fever- ish play which, in mining-camps, is so much more active to the outward eye than the days business, would make up its mind precious quick; Rignold only wondered which way. Would their sympathy for her situation, their liking for the grit with which she faced it, their reverence for womanhood carry her through? Would these excellent sentiments weigh against more vital considerations when it came to the scratch? Would they finally feel that they could afford them? The Telepheme was of course the fighting-organ through which the railroad was to be brought to Rustler, if it was to be brought at all. Would they trust the fight to a woman? Rignold sighed his heavy doubt to the dumb types in their boxes, and went on setting I3ernas exotic editorial, with its singular mixture of easily-come-by news- paperese and far-brought literosity, and its still stranger mingling ofshrewd reasoning and high- flown inconclusiveness. When he had pulled the first copy of that weeks paper on the old Washington hand- press which Chester had originally brought from the East with him, he sent it down to Berna, who lived alone with her mother near the end of the main street of Rustler. The house was an unclaphoarded, txvo-story, frame structure, painted a reddish brown, not unlike the color of the rocks jutting from the moun- tain that hung above the roof. If you think of a giant pair of pincers standing upright and wide open, you will know how Rustler lay: Big Chief sprang into the air on one side, Tick- nors Mountain on the other; between was a narrow notch, and deep down in it cuddled the town. The greater part of the inhabitants lived on Bernas street; but the miners cabins, built beside the shafts of a hundred mines, car- ried a steadily rising overflow up the flanks of CAPTAIN; MY CAPTAIN! 67 the two mountains. The house in which Berna lived was set close to the street, six feet from the board sidewalk that ran in front of her pink palings. Within this narrow space she had tried, before Alecks death, to make a bed of pansies grow with the help of water from the irrigating-ditch that raced by the house on its way to the main ditch, supplying Topaz with its water; but the flowers had withered since the accident. As she lay on the sofa in her parlor, torn alternately by her grief for Aleck and by her own pain, she heard, after each shift at the mines, the clumping noise of miners~ boots go by on their way to or from the Elegant Booze, the Honeycomb, and Un- cle Dicks establishments where one got two glasses of beer for a quarter, and a good deal of faro for a ten-dollar bill. The injury which she had sustained in the railroad accident left her good hours, but of- tener put her to the torture; and when her mother handed her her first issue she was una- ble to do more for the first hour than to gaze steadfastly at the heading. The sight of the familiar title made the thought of Aleck over- whelmingly poignant; tears welled into her eyes as she stared at the folded white sheet lying out- side the blue Navajo blanket that covered her, and at last she turned from the sight in misery. Nevertheless, she was helpless against the lit- erary pleasure that tingled through her when finally she took courage to read her editorial, though she was ashamed of it. It was not for the excitement and interest of writing that she had determined to keep the Telepheme alive, and to shape it into a force which should carry on Alecks work, as a son carries on the work of his father. It was as Alecks child that she was to watch over it. She re- proached herself, but finally forgave herself, with the thought that it was through his own pleasure in his work that Aleck had succeeded, and that she must find a like joy in it if she was to be in any sort worthy to follow in his steps. She did not need to stimulate a happiness in writing; she liked it; until she had become engaged to Aleck it had been her ambition to be a magazinist. Berna was one of the half- turned-out women who begin to be common in the West. Her mind had been educated; but her intelligence, her taste, her perceptions remained to all intents as undeveloped as a Kafirs. She was charming; but if she had been as cultured as she supposed herself, it would have been impossible to associate with her. Her charm lay in her simple-mindedness, in her unselfishness and kindness and devotedness and pluck; but what she really liked in herself was her complicatedness. Some of this she had en- deavored to explain through the Iowa maga- zine which printed her earliest contributions to the press, just after she had been graduated, as she called it, from Miss Drewetts New Eng- land seminary. The contributors to this maga- zine were almost all women, and were, without exception, complicated. Her mother came in as she laid down the paper to ask if she would see Ben. Berna drew her shawl about her and nodded, bright- ening with pleasure. The room in which she lay was stiffly furnished in a stamped red plush, but a comfortable old sofa, covered with chintz, had been moved in for her out of the dining- room. On the walls were two cheap paintings of the Yosemite, Bernas graduating diploma under glass, and a photograph (framed in a deep black-walnut molding) of her father in the uniform of a lieutenant of volunteers the artist had picked out the epaulets in gold and touched the cheeks with carmine. Mrs. Dexter asked if she did nt think it would fret her to see Ben. You know the doctor said Yes; I know, mother. But if I am to carry on this work I must nt mind the doctor. Per- haps it will kill me; but if it does, it must. I shall only give in my report to Aleck a little sooner. The tears, against which she had not yet learned to school herself, once more stood in her eyes. Gracious, child! I dont believe Aleck ever in this world expected you to go on with the Telepheme. How could he think a woman could do such a thing? I dont know, mother. But he trusted me to do it, and I cant be false to him. Well, you 11 kill yourself she said weakly. Why cant you let Ben do it? He s willing and able. How can you suggest such a thing, mother? You know he s a stranger in the town I dont care if he is. He knows printing. Of course. But he cant fee/ as we Rustler- ites do. You know that. The railroad is nothing to him. No; I suppose not, she owned, doWncast. But in a moment she added, with more spirit, There s lots of folks in the town that it s plenty to, though. Some of em would he glad to edit the paper if you d let em. They would nt know how. Well, do you know how? No, answered Berna, shaking her hair loose from her face, raising her head, and draw- ing in a deep inspiration; but I ye licardAleck ta/k! Oh, dear! exclaimed Mrs. Dexter, rising with the feebleness of rheumatic limbs, wearied with a lifes hard work, I suppose we ye got to bear it. But I do hope you 11 be careful of yourself and not overdo. I wish I was nt so 68 CAPTAJiV MY CAPTAIN! afraid you d lose the little money your father left us in the Sons of Honor, she added pathetically. But I shant, mother. I ye explained that so often. I shall only use Alecks money. He left me enough to keep up the paper with. When I ye sold the Lady Berna mine I shall have plenty. I know you say that, Berna, and you think you mean it. But when once you get started you cant tell what you 11 do. Look at Aleck! I m sure he would have pawned the coat off his back any minute for the sake of his paper; and I dont believe you 11 do any less for his sake when the time comes. Yes, mother, said Berna, soothingly, lay- ing a hand in her mothers work-roughened palm. Show Ben in, wont you, please? Rignold appeared at the door in a moment, halting on the threshold with his slouch-hat in his hand. Come ih, Ben! Her voice was still feeble. I~vIrs. Dexter pushed him gently in from behind. I m so glad to see you, Berna continued, putting forth her wasted hand from under the shaxvl. Be seated, wont you? But Rignold did not immediately seat him- self. He stood looking down into her face with a tender studiousness. The high color, which in health shone brilliantly against the creamy pallor and childlike smoothness of skin that often goes with auburn hair and blue eyes, had gone in her illness; her usual roundness of fig- ure and plumpness of cheek were gone also. What remained was the bright vitality of her deep blue eyes, and the extraordinary beauty of her abundant hair, which she was wearing coiled in thick, burnished masses of reddish brown or brownish red, as one chose, or as the light served. The man standing above her was tall and spare~with afine figure, a little stoop-shouldered from bending at the case. He carried his large, round head well back; his dark hair curled a little in receding from a high, clear brow; his brown eyes encountered the observer with a singularly honest, straightforward look. He shook hands as if he meant it. I did nt feel as if I ought to come, but I did nt see my way to not coming, he said. I see I must tell you one thing right away, Ben. You re not to think of me as a woman. A distressed, whimsical smile appeared on his face, which she answered with: I mean, I m an editor like anybody else. There are plenty wiser and more adequate, as I said in my edi- torial. I shall be incompetent in a good many ways at first, and I m sure to do foolish things. But there are men in the profession who began with less knowledge than I have now, and who have succeeded; and there are others who be- gan with more knowledge, and have failed. I ask no favors that were not accorded to them. I only wish to be judged fundamentally on the same basis. I dont feel any call to judge you, Berna, answered Rignold, with a smile, as he took a chair; but if I did, I dont see but I d have to judge you as a woman. It s all right to say, think of you as a man. But you aint a man, and that s just what I like about you, and what makes me want to help you, if I can. You are a woman, but you ye got a mans sand. Dont say that, Ben. I have nt got Alecks. See here! Do you think Aleck, or any other man, for the matter of that, would have taken up a job like this two weeks after he d lost the only thing that made life worth while to him, and taken it up without turning a hair and without ruffling a feather to call attention to it? If you do, you size men up for a better breed than they are. A groan burst from her, and she covered her face quickly with her hands. I m a fool to talk like that! he cried. No, no! It does me good. You understand. Every one wont, perhaps. They wont think it decent the ladies particularly. They will say I dont mourn truly for Aleck; as if this were nt the best and only mourning for him! As if it were nt just because I care so much that I cant justify myself in wasting his time in tears! That s the way I feel, Benthat husband and wife have a double time in this world; and because both times belong to them and to God while they both live, it s the hap- piness and the sacred responsibility of the sur- vivor to answer for both times when one time isis frustrated. Rignold, resolved as he was to keep his wish to help her disinterested and separate from his love for her, could not help wincing at this, while he smiled at her words. He saw, as if looking into tl~e friture through a rift in the curtain, how they would be constantly running up against this spectral third presence in their intercourse, and how he should be stumped by it, perhaps for always. It was a presence that he had loved in life, but the presence of the man she had preferred to him while it was still open to her to choose, and the presence of the man who he must believe was to be per- manently dear to her. He wanted to cry out against this folly of devotion; he wanted to say how crazy it seemed to him this duty to the dead, this conscience about a ghost. Perhaps he might have said it if he had nt guessed in time that what he took for moral indignation was probably a good deal more like simple jeal- ousy. With his accustomed squareness, he said to himself that if he had gone the way of Aleck CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN/ 69 he should have hungered for just such devotion in his place. Perhaps it would nt last forever, and if it did, it was still good to look forward to the prospect of working by her side, helping her where he could. He spoke the sympathetic words that came to him in answer to her declaration; and then he said, I suppose you ye figured out how youre going to work this thing lying down? II. BERNAS first issue was published on the fol- lowing morning, and by afternoon fifteen new subscribers had handed in their names at the office of the Telepheme. One or two enthu- siasts even paid up long-overdue subscriptions, and ordered the paper sent them for the follow- ing year; and Mrs. Dexter was kept busy in- forming the ladies who called on Berna that as yet she could see nobody. The town was in a state of emotional sympathy which it would gladly have expended in taking the horses from Bernas carriage and dragging it through the streets, if the plucky young editor had owned the carriage or the horses. Rustler still trembled with the memory of the accident; it had scarcely buried its dead, and the desolation of the bereaved families echoed in its one mountain street. With the in- habitants Chester had enjoyed the repute of a vigorous personality, offering its strength un- reckoningly to the towns ambition; and Berna, who hitherto had been less popular in the town on her own account, had, before the publica- tion of her first issue, gained, through the cir- cumstances surrounding her lovers death in her presence on the day before their wedding- day, an honor beyond anything that Chester had known. It was only necessary that she should rise from her bed of pain, and, in the midst of her grief, take up Alecks work, to con- stitute her a heroine. Rignold had been sure that they would like her sand, but he had not reckoned sufficiently, he found, with their pleasure in piecing a romance out of any event which concerns a woman publicly. Her devo- tion to Alecks memory, which to the women of the place seemed (against Bernas expectation) just splendid, won the profane praise of the men at the Elegant I3ooze and on the street- corners, not merely as showing the right stuff; but as showing it on behalf of the town. They rolled her name relishingly on their tongues in their perception of this final rightness; like the Greeks, it warmed their loyal pride to know that even their women were patriotic. They saw Berna looking well in a newspaper article on Rustler; and this created her part of the towns material, part of its capital for boom- ing purposes. Berna was made very happy by her success, and slept that night the sleep of those widowed queens who have had to doubt for the first tremulous hour of sovereignty the allegiance of subjects that mourn a king. Alecks path lay freely before her; she had only to tread it worthily. The town where she had first known Aleck, and where they had made a grave for him, the town which he had loved and served, the town for which he had been ready to shed his blood and for which she was now so willing to shed hers, the town that he had left to her carethe town had accepted her. But in the morning she put aside merely agreeable thoughts, and day-dreams of what she would yet do for Rustler, and settled down soberly to her work. It was very well for every one to wish her luck,but Berna had a hard-headed little theory that she must make her own luck, and she went about the preparation of a rousing railroad editorial in Alecks old manner. The system on which the paper was to be conducted had been fixed upon between her and Rignold at their conference. Its policy was, of course, to be guided wholly by her; she was to take complete charge; all the leading editorials were to be hers, and she was to su- pervise the news columns. Rignold was to look after the locals, write the minor edito- rials, find advertisements, superintend the job- printing, and manage the business department, and in general represent her to Rustler. Berna had certainly cut out a large undertaking for herself; but in her ignorance she had let Rig- nold load upon his willing shoulders a heroic proportion of the work. He could not tell her how glad he would be to double his stint for her sake, but he could go forth to scour the town for emotional advertising; and (not to let Bernas boom pass without immediate practical result) he did this on the morning her first number was published. Sensible of the vicissitudes to which such enthusiasms as Rustlers for Berna are liable, he declined to accept any advertisement, under present con- ditions, for a shorter period than one year: if they wanted a newspaper they must expect to pay for it, he said; and if they really believed in the town, and had the courage of their con- victions, they would probably pay for it in ad- vance. His theory did not meet with universal acceptance, but it met with nearly six columns worth of acceptance, and this, as he explained in the next issue under the heading of Our Boom, struck him as handsome. He let slip, in the course of this brief editorial, enough re- strained self-gratulation on behalf of the Tele- pheme, and enough general good feeling and modest sense that Topaz would never have toed the mark so squarely in a similar emer- gency, to have filled one side of the paper, di- 70 CAPTAIJ% MY CAP7AIN/ luted as an inferior man would have diluted it. Rignold wrote carefully, with the feeling constantly upon him that he was working for larger issues than the success of Rustler or the Telepheme. He found Berna in the point of his pencil when he would muse on his next sentence, and the white paper was covered with her name before he wrote a line upon it. He had not needed to inquire his fate in the time before Bernas engagement to Aleck; and he withheld himself now with a sensitive scrupulousness from even the semblance of love-making. He felt in the weeks that fol- lowed that he must not allow himself to think directly of her yet; but the habit of thinking of her indirectly lapsed at times into the most straightway regard of her. At these seasons, however, her own attitude corrected his uncon- sciously; for the profound preoccupation of her whole being with Alecks memory must have baffled the warmest lover. Rignolds love for her, in fact, made him feel almost foolish in her presence, as if he were trying to catch the attention of an oblivious animal or child. Her detachment from the ordinary affairs of the world sometimes frightened him; she was eat- ing her heart out for her lost lover, and the only sign of it that she allowed any one to see was her joy in events which would have given him joy. It was, of course, chiefly in connec- tion with the Telephemethat Rignold wit- nessed the daily expressions of her simple faithfulness to his dead friend; and it was in work for the Telepheme that is, in work for herthat he tried to forget her devotion to the spirit of another man, or tried to wish that she might never lose it. He could like it, as he liked everything about her, though it made him miserable and impatient. It was perhaps his good fortune, though Berna made it difficult for him to manage him- self, that this soon became, on the whole, rather simpler than to manage her paper. His young editors word was development, and it was pathetic to him to see how she pursued this idea of Alecks, as she did other ideas derived from the same source, without the strength or the balancing sense and shrewdness which had enabled Aleck to give such words actuality. She became, as the months went by, and as she gained a measure of wisdom from her mis- takes and successes, by no means a hope- lessly bad nexvspaper man, as she liked to call herself. She had enterprise and assiduity, and the wish to print the news; and her still stronger wish to make her diction elegant she did not allow to interfere seriously with these good qual- ities. Her real trouble, from a financial point of view, was that she wished to print more news than the paper could afford, or than Rus- tler could pay for. Having imbibed from Aleck his belief that the best was none too good for Rustler, she endeavored to give the Tele- pheme the catholic tone of the weekly edition of a New York daily. Refusing Rignolds ear- nest suggestion that they rely upon a patent outside, or at worst upon plate-matter, for the better part of their miscellany, she spent the long hours on her sofa, scissors in hand, cull- ing interesting items of news, and what she had learned from Rignold to call good stories, from her exchanges guided in her selection, it is to be feared, by the taste of Miss Drewetts rather than by a vision of what Rustler would probably like to read. Scandals, hangings, prize-fights, murders, and all other items of a too vivid intere~t she excluded; and the Tele- pheme became that ensample of purity and social health for which we all pretend we are longing. One whose reading was confined to Bernas paper might conveniently have ima- gined himself resident in a good and harmless world, in which was no evil save that engen- dered by Topaz. She tried to atone for this, which Rignold taught her to regard, from the counting-house standpoint, as the deadly sin, by engaging a weekly telegraphic letter from Denver. It was sent on the morning the pa- per went to press, and contained all the latest news. About this they had many discussions, where- in she met Rignolds objections with arguments in which Alecks slangy wisdom often mingled curiously with her graduating essay view of life, and her knotted pink-ribbon manner of expression. His suggestion that the Denver letter constituted an expense not justifiable by a circulation three times their own, and, as it did nt bring them a subscriber, that it involved a loss rather larger than the other loss it was designed to set right, she met with something like impatience. Do you mean to advise me, she asked, to do the little thing rather than the great one? Do you~ really wish me to run a paper on anything but large ideas? Do you expect me to give our readers only what they already want and have learned to expect? The man who attempts to be merely up to the day in the West is going to get left; he must be up to to-morrow! As the town looked on at these develop- ments in the Telephemeits first sentiment of enthusiasm began to take a very faint chill of bewilderment. The catholic tone by which Berna set such store was indifferent to its citi- zens, and they could have got along with less diction if they could have been furnished with more sensation. They fortunately continued, however, to admire and rejoice in her railroad editorials. Heaven knows how she wrote them! Her own theory was that she did nt; she rev- CAPTAIN; MY CAPTAIN! 7 erently ascribed their authorship to the inspi- ration of Aleck. It was true, at all events, that he never seemed so near to her as when she was penning them; and if for no other reason than this, the conduct of the Telepheme would have given her great happiness. Her glib denunciations of Topaz, her ready magni- fications of Rustler, her solid reasoning about the advantages which the Three Cs would en- joy if it should finally come where the Tele- pheme was edited, had a mans cogency and fire; the thin substance of her cleverness seemed penetrated as she wrote on the theme of the railroad by a kind of trance horse-sense. On the streets of Rustler these editorials were sometimes called corkers and sometimes bowlers; but this did not represent a di- vided mind. They were, in a way, more effec- tive than any similar work by a man would have been, for no man could have been so im- pudent or so ferocious. The seal of their suc- cess was at length set upon them when the other papers of the State began copying them. Berna of course copied back their praise into the Telepheme, and the town simply licked its chops. To have given the quarrel between Rustler and Topaz the dignity of a State fight, at which the whole population of Colorado might be fancied to be looking on, was a ser- vice for which it was felt Berna deserved well (if everybody could know the real merits of the case, no one could doubt which way the rail- road would go); and she began at once to retrieve some of her lost popularity. When, therefore, beginning at the end of a few months to sit up a little every day, though still not strong enough to go out, she broached the plan of reorganizing her old Culture Club, she met with such a response from the ladies as she had not dared expect. The club had gained but a mild success be- fore the illness of its founder, for the subjects were felt by the ladies to be rather stiff; but even the new members now took kindly to the young editors proposal of papers on The Heroines of George Eliot, and Englands Early Mythic History, and to a suggested conver- sation, to be led by Berna, on The Relation of Men and Women in Homer. Perhaps, however, Bernas announcement of a kind of learned game to be played at their meetings in off-weeks, in the evenings, when the men came late for oysters, proved more distinctly popular. Rignold, observing these things, and looking on the success of the club as a sign, began to hope that, in spite of a mad system of expenditure, the paper might pull through without borrowing capital beyond the two thousand dollars obtained from the sale of the Lady Berna. These were happy days of prosperity and power and influence for Berna; the circulation of the Telepheme increased, and the town itself began to grow again after a long season of depression. Berna allowed herself to ascribe both growths in part to her own exertions and looked on the newcomers (for Aleck) with a double air of proprietorship, as Telepheme population and as Telepheme subscribers. She instituted a quiet monthly census of her own, publishing the results when favorable, and this became one of the most popular features of the paper in Rustler, being the better liked when it began to excite the uneasy derision of Topaz. The truth was that the mines of Ticknors Mountain and Big Chief, always fairly well-to-do, were now making large ship- ments of high-grade ore, and as the Tele- pheme never concealed anything of this sort, a certain tendency of the floating population of surrounding towns toward Rustler began to be observable. Rignold, though he could not share his edi- tors confidence in the continuance of these good times for the town and the paper, made them as good for himself as he knew how by seeing a great deal of Berna. He helped and served her about the paper with untiring en- ergy and simple patience, and she recognized his goodness with gratitude; but he knew that she conceived of it all as done for Aleck, in the same way that she did it all for Aleck, and he knew that she was grateful on Alecks behalf. The situation offered so little satisfaction to him that he found it hard to be sorry in the first moments when the change came. But, in fact, he was sorry, and if not for the change, then for her. The current which had turned in her favor gave signs for a month of turning the other way before it finally did turn; but when the change came it fell upon her xvith the sudden- ness of a thing unexpected and unimagined. Her first word of it reached her one evening as she sat by her lamp thinking out the edi- torial for the next weeks issue, while she rocked to and fro in her spacious rocker, walled in by her mother with pillows, and ran through her State exchanges. It is rumored that Rustler is to have a new paper. They are getting tired, it seems, of hav- ing the town rcpresented by a woman. Her eye fell upon this item in one of the papers which two months before had copied extracts from her railroad editorials with ap- proval. Rignold, looking in a quarter of an hour later for his customary weekly chat with her about the contents of the next issue, found her still staring dumbly at the newspaper. She 72 CAP7AL% MY CAPTAIN! looked up at him with blind eyes. Then in a moment she asked: Did you know about this? What? pretended Rignold. She tapped the paper decisively with her forefinger, without speaking, while she gazed at him in silence. Yes. Why did nt you tell me? I did nt see what good it could do. Yoti would have told Aleck? That s so. Then why not me? Why, it s altogether different, Berna. Different? Sit down. How different? Every way. I did nt want to hurt your feelings. You mean I was a woman. That s true. But I have nt any less at stake on that ac- count. I ye more twice as much. You for- get Aleck. I m not likely to do that, retorted Rig- nold, stung. What do you mean? Good heaven, Berna! Dont take it like this! You mean I should remind you of him if you forget. I suppose you re right. I should. I do talk of Aleck. I m editing his paper; I m trying humbly to live out his life for him. How can I help it? I cant forget him if the town does. Pshaw, Berna! The town aint forgetting him. But it has to think of itself; or it thinks it has. And so they try to kill his paper? Rignold dropped his eyes. I suppose they dont think it s his paper. Berna started in her seat. Have I put myself forward too much? Have I made too much of myself and too little of him? Yes; I was afraid of that. No, no! Lord knows you ye made enough of Aleck. You ye put him first everywhere. The town just dont want a woman for an editor. There s the whole of it, Berna, with- out trimmings. I know it s hard on you awful hard, after all you ye done and spent and suffered to give em a good paper, and to keep up Alecks name, and boom the town and bring the railroad. But towns aint grate- ful; you know that as well as I do; and I dont suppose Rustler s any exception. Look here, this is the way it is. They want the Three Cs, dont they? Well, they think they stand a better show to get it if they have an- other sort of paper, and have a man to edit it. They think it 11 look better outside. I suppose it will. But they wont get a paper the equal of the Telephemein a hurry not if they put two men on to edit it. Oh, what do I care how much better or worse it is? They wont let me do Alecks work. They cant stop it. They dont want it. It s the same thing. I ye offered the town my life, I ye offered them all my love and all my service, and they her lip trembled they dont want it. It s not for myself I m hurt; it s the rejection of Aleck through me. They dont want Izim either. He s done all he could for them, and they re done with him. He brought them to a place where they could get along without him; and now I ye brought them a little farther, and they can do without me. 0 Ben! She gave a little gasp and gulp, and suddenly buried her face. Rignold leaned forward from his chair and laid a hand on hers. Drop it, Berna! Give it up, and let them go their own ungrateful way. You re wasting your life on them, and what could they ever give you in return, if they did their best? Give me? Do you suppose I want any- thing? She looked up fiercely through her tears. I ye got to get my living and mas out of the paper, and that I 11 take, for the la- borer is worthy of his hire. But that s all. Aleck worked for the love of it; he fought for the town the same way a soldier fights for the flag. He was nt thinking of rewards. It aint boodle I m after, he always used to say, and it was true. And after that, do you think I couldcould she caught her breath and stifled a sob, as her rhetoric returned to her with her self-command could palter with the question of recompense? I dont want to be paid, Ben. I want to be let do it. Well, no one can prevent you. It s a free country. You can go on publishing the Tele- phemejust the same, if they do issue another paper alongside of it. Plenty of towns have two papers that cant rightly support one. I know it, Ben, I know itfoolish towns, wicked townstowns that have no respect for themselves or their cause! They divide their forces in the face of the enemy, and fight each other when they ought to be fighting the com- mon foe. That shall never be said of Rustler. It was the town that Aleck loved; it was nt his paper, and it was nt himself. And I should be unworthy of him if I could nt be glad to bury my pride in the paper, and all the ties that bind me to it through Aleck, and kill the Tele- phemeto-morrow, if it can help the town. If I can serve Rustler better by lying down and letting it trample on me, than by standing up and fighting for her, that s my place. I only want to be sure. Dont you be sure of it, Berna! Dont you think it! It aint true. But, all the same, I d CAPTAIN~ MY CAPTAIN! 73 give it up. The town cant support two papers, that s a fact; and if it dont, and if it s the Telepheme that goes to the wall, you will have spent all the money that Aleck left, and per- haps your mothers insurance money too, before you re done, and have nothing left to live on. I dont want to see you come to that, Berna; and if you re willing for yourself, you wont be for your mother, if you think a minute. Stop! stop! I m not going to spend mas money. When I ye spent Alecks I 11 give it up. But what you say puts my duty before me. I must spend Alecks! I must nt, I dare nt, take the towns word for it that they re tired of Aleck and of me, until I ye spent all that s left in giving them a chance to take that back for Alecks sake! she added devoutly. They ye changed once; they may change again. Who knows? What was it that made them change this time, Ben? she inquired, as if coming to the question of Rustlers altered temper for the first time. Oh, silliness! You dont want to know. Ben, she cried, incriminatingly, stop sparing me! Tell me. Topaz kept joking them on their lady edi- tor. You must have seen the Telegram. Of course. But what then? Why, the other papers took it up. A weekly paper s got to have copy. You know that, Berna. Certainly; I ye seen all that, as it came along in the State exchanges from week to week. But I never thought the town would be cowardly enough to mind it. Oh, shame on them! No; that aint fair, Berna. It seems fool- ish; but it was nt for themselves, really. You can see that, if you stop and think. They were afraid of its effect on the railroad. A town that wants a railroad cant afford to be made fun of by the press of the xvhole State. A railroad 5 a serious business; you ye got to be worthy of it all round. Of course. But my railroad editorials arent a bit poorer than when the whole press of the State quoted and praised them, and Rustler went wild with delight over them. Nothing has changed. She paused thoughtfully. But I dont want Rustler to be made fun of, not on my account, nor anybodys. It will hurt the town! I must stop that. But they might have trusted me to! Why did nt they come. to me squarely and tell me that I was injuring the place? They might have believed that there are some things I care more for than myself; they might have known I d have remedied the trouble, or stepped down and out. Do you mean to say, Ben, that they have the courage to give this as their reason? Why, they 11 hurt the town more that way than any way. They 11 Voi.. XLIV. 0. be the laughing-stock of every paper in Colo- rado, from that one-page little rag they re get- ting out in the new camp on Eagle River what s its name ? Flux, to the Rocky Moun- tain News. No, said Ben, dropping his gaze upon the soft hat he twirled round and round in his fin- gers; they dont say that s their reason. What do they say? If you 11 excuse me, Berna, I guess I wont go into that. But I cant excuse you. Oh, well, began Rignold, desperately, and stopped. Why, what s the matter, Ben? she asked in bewilderment, watching the uneasy flush mount to his forehead. Is it something per- sonal? Is it something disgraceful? Good heavens, no! It aint disgraceful. But it aint a thing for me to tell you, unless I tell you something else at the same time. Tell me both things. Ben shook his head. You would nt like it. Try me! said Berna, persuasively. The breath was coming fast in Rignolds throat. He made two beginnings, and paused helplessly. It would nt do any good, he said at last. Why, Ben, I never saw you behave like this. What s the matter? Oh, love s the matter, Bernalove for you, that s killing me. You dont want it. You ye got no more use for it than Rustler has for the Telepheme. I tell you because you ask me; but I know well enough there aint room for another paper in your town. I know the field belongs to Aleck. It s right; I aint got nothing to say against it. He lowered his eyes again. Ben! gasped Berna. Then in a moment she added another name. Of course, of course. I know it, I tell you. I was a fool to say anything. But you would have it. The town says it aint right that we should be so much together, and work the paper alongside each other, and not be mar- ried. They dont think I m in love with you. They never guess that. And they know what you feel about Aleck, anyway. All they say is, it aint proper. I could nt tell you the one, you see, without telling you the other. I ye told you both now, and I guess I might as well go. He rose to his feet, but Berna stopped him. Wait, Ben! She laid on his coat-sleeve the hand which would have detained him at the gate of heaven. Good Ben! Sit down again wont you ?and we 11 talk of this. It s awful coming so suddenly. Give me a mo- ment. He dropped back into his seat with reluctance. She locked her hands distressfully in her lap. 74 CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN! But I dont see how we re going to talk of it! 0 Aleck! Sure! It aint treating him right even to discuss it. I was his friend, and you were the same as his wife. I know that s the way you feel; and partly that s the way I feel myself. And so it aint decentwhat I tell youbut it s the truth. I love you, Berna, and I have loved you ever since long before Aleck and you were engaged. I held my tongue then, and I gave you up to him in my own mind, and if he d lived you d never have known what your marriage cost one man. But he did nt live. I wish he had. I can say that truly. I never wished his death; and when he was brought home to us here, that awful day, I took a hurt I have nt got over yet. But he is dead, Berna; and I m alive, and if I m to go on living I can no more do it without lov- ing you than I could go on living with my heart wanting in my side. ~ 0 Ben, I m very sorry. You ye been so good to meso good! I ye always thought it was for Aleck. But if it was for me, and you were saying no to this feeling all the time, and keeping it back for his sake, then I honor you for it, andand I thank you. But what are we going to do, Ben? Rignold could not keep back a smile at this question of a child. 0 girlie, if you leave it to me She gave him a long, absent look. Yes; I know, she said at last. Of course I cant leave it to youin that sense. But you must help me to arrange, to plan to do the other. I ye no one else to turn to; I have nt had any one since She blushed. You must help me against yourself. All right, returned Rignold, with dreary readiness, from some outer place. He had been wishing himself far away somewhere in space, like Aleck. He would exist for her if he could die, perhaps. But he added, We 11 keep up the fight. She contemplated him for a moment, reflec- tively. No, she said; I will, but you must not. The town is right, perhaps; but whether it s right or wrong, we could nt go on to- gether if they think that. No; I will go on alone, and we will see what happens. I wont believe that every one has deserted me all at once. I wont believe that towns, as you say, have no gratitude and no memories. Why, memory is the life of a town: how can it look forward to a good future if it forgets its good past? I 11 fight it, and I 11 fight it on that line, Ben. 1 11 make them remember! They shall learn that if they re going to forget Alex- ander Chester they ye got to do it publicly and shamefully and to my face You have got sand! I ye got the sand to be true, and if I ye got to be true that waywhy, I must, that s all. There s no one else. Why, Berna! he exclaimed in pain. 0 Ben! Forgive me. There is you, and I know how gladly you d do it. But dont you see how you re cut off from trying, and how every one is cut off but me? Besides, I m the one who can do it; it s for him, and that gives me the wisdom and the strength; and it s for him, and I know how he would want it done. But Ben Her face lighted up. Yes? Listen! This is what you can do for me. I ye got an idea. XVho has been selected to edit the other paper? Why I see. They have asked you. That makes it so much the simpler. She leaned forward and touched his arm again. Edit it, Ben! Edit it! Look here, Berna, what do you take me for? You wont let me be all the friend I d like to be to you; but I m not going to make myself your enemy. You re going to be twice my friend. Dont you see? If I must have an opponent, I like you best. But I should have to fight you, Berna. Of course. But you d fight fair. The other man might not. He regarded her for a moment, stupefied, while many thoughts raced through his head. All right, he said at last. All right. You re giving me a hard row to hoe, and yourself a still harder. Goodness knows how you 11 get out the paper from a rocking-chair, with nobody to help you. But I suppose you 11 manage somehow. You ye got the pluck for anyt/ung. Good! Then that s settled. Now tell me, who is fomenting this trouble? Berna would still have liked a good, round, sham-literary Word on her way to the stake, and Rignolds directness would still have been puz- zled and amused by it. He half smiled now as he told her that McDermott of the Chicago Clothing House, B. G. Franks, the shoe man Martin of the European Hotel, Beck Kruger, the grocer (who she would remember was al- ways taking a column in the Telephemeto announce the arrival of a fresh consignment of Grand Junction peaches), and Dibble, the lately appointed postmaster, were at the head of the movement for a new paper. What! she exclaimed, Mr. Dibble one of the recreantsthe man who took my fa- thers place, the man for whose appointment we worked so hard on the Telepheme, Ben? You re mistaken. He shook his head. But they have all pretended they were my friends. CAPTAIA? MY CAPTAIN/ 75 Dont you remember how enthusiastic Martin was at first? And McDermott? They took half a column apiece, though neither of them needed it, and promised to stand by the paper through thick and thin. They thought I could be useful to them then, I suppose; and now they think some one else will be. That s all. No matter, Ben. She gave him her hand. You be the some one else. I 11 promise not to hate you. But I 11 fight you tooth and nail, until un/il Ikuow. The day I can make my- self sure, the day I feel I can face Aleck with- out shame, and say, The town does nt want us, and know I say truththat day I give the paper up. The day I know that the Tele- pheme cant help the town I shall know it will hinder it, and I will never publish another issue. Till then, it s war! She smiled a pallid smile from among her pillows, as she shook hands again, and he saw that she had overstrained herself. Good night. Good night, Berna. Good night. We shant meet any more for talks about the pa- per. I suppose we shant meet at all except in editorials, where we 11 give each other down the banks. I m sorry. The worst, though, is being afraid for you. For Gods sake, take care of yourself! Berna looked up at him shrewdly. You think I 11 be careless about my health, and overtax my strength, with no monitor by to keep me straight. Well, then, I promise you I 11 be careful. That shall be my thanks for all the care you ye taken of me, Ben. I cant afford to be ungrateful, she added wistfully; I have nt friends enough. Good night dear, kind Ben! III. HE got himself out; and the next morning he went to the committee whose advances he had declined, and told them that, if they were still of the same mind, he would undertake the editorship of the paper and furnish the capital. That afternoon he telegraphed East for the bal- ance of his savings, amounting to $1200, all that he had remaining in the world; and when the money arrived he bought the necessary materials, type, press, paper, and office furni- ture , opened his office in the Bloxham Block, opposite the office of the Telepheme, and published the first issue of the Apex. The name, which was chosen as a tribute to the fact that Rustler lay under the shadow of the Continental Divide, was suggested by Dibble, the postmaster, who saw a kind of dual symbolism in it. Apex means on top, dont it? said Dib- ble. Well, then! And aint Rustler on top on top of the backbone of the continent, on top of her rivals, on top when it comes to rail- roads, on the tiptop when it comes to news- papers? That s rightApexit is. Rignold did nt care what they called it; it was his paper, but it was her experiment. His care was for the paper itself; and he took im- mense pains with the first issue. Oh, well, explained Dibble, who ever heard of a first issue being much? The ma- chinery dont work, the type s all fresh, the staff has nt settled to work, the whole thing s loose. That s been true of every paper from the be- ginning of the world. It 11 shake down. It 11 shake down. Trust Rignold for that. He s the stuff. Why, it s worth two of that measly female sheet across the road, now. We 11 get a railroad with this paper, and we 11 get some sense about politics. No woman business! But the first number of the Apex was really not so much better than the Telepheme that Berna published the same day. Being set in larger type, it contained less news; the miscellany was made up from plate matter, as Rignold had always urged that the Tele- phemes should be, and there was no such extravagance as Bernas telegraphic letter from Denver. There was more advertising in the Apex than in the Telepheme, because the business men, having decided on a new paper, threw all their advertising into Rig- nolds hands; and though Berna ordered all the dead patent-medicine cuts in the office, and all the old land-office notices that remained standing, to be inserted as fresh advertising, her advertisement column still looked rather hollow. But this gave her so much the more room for news (which she had now learned to make of the Rustler standard) and for mis- cellany, in the matter of which her judicious habit of selection went far. On the whole, as the town would have said if it had not been trying hard to say the other thing, the Tele- pheme was the better nickels worth. Her editorial was an embodiment of what she had said to Rignold, expressed with dig- nity and with just sufficient feeling. It was extremely direct and uncompromising, though tactful, and if the organizers of the new paper did not wince that evening upon their hearth- stones, it was because they had determined not to in advance. That which really troubled them was the perception, forced upon them with the second issue of the Apex, that the Tele- pheme was not yet stamped out, nor very obviously in a way to be. They had taken Bernas editorial for her swan-song, believing that, in depriving her of the assistance of Rig- nold, they had adopted the surest mode of stopping a paper which had become an injury to the good standing of the town. But Bema 76 CAPTALL% MY CAPTAIN! went on, with depleted advertising columns, but with ever-fattening news columns, and with a resolved and untroubled air which invited victory, if it did not predict it. At Rignolds suggestion she had found a substitute for Bar- ton, who, released from his mechanical duties, gathered local news for her and looked after the advertising. Barton could not actually re- place Rignold, but, in common with many Western men, he balanced an incapacity to do anything very well by an inability to do any- thing very badly; and he soon discovered that faculty for thinning out one local item into four, and imagining one out of nothing, which is the bulwark of the rural press. With his help Berna got out a very creditable paper. Removed from the office, and informed only by Bartons report of the system by which the matter out- side her own department was gathered, she was often driven to wonder, as she held a fresh is- sue in her hand, where all the good things had come from. Her judgment told her that it was in fact quite as presentable a sheet as in the good days when Rignold was by her side; but though she would have been glad to believe this for the sake of the future, she denied it to herself resolutely, with a sentiment of loyalty to her old associate; and out of the same feel- ing, coupled with a knightly unwillingness to think ill of a rival, she put away from her the doubt whether the Apex was, after all, as good a paper as her own. Rignold had never worked harder than he was now working on the Apex. He had never reached the Telepheme office so early as he now reached the office of the Apex, nor left it so late. He had promised himself not to see Berna again for a long time to come; his news of her came by way of the town. All that he knew of her was gathered from obser- vation of the outside of her home, as he passed it, morning and night, on his way to or from his canvas-roofed cabin on Ticknors Moun- tain. Three months passed without giving him a sight of her, until, passing her house after midnight one night on his way home from the office, he saw a light burning in her bedroom, on the upper floor, and knew that she was sit- ting up, writing. The gravel which he threw softly against the pane brought her instantly to the window. For a moment she looked bewil- deredly about in the unaccustomed darkness, straining her eyes first upon the road where Rignold was standing in the shadow, and then over toward the huge black frame of Tick- nors swelling up behind the opposite row of houses, and darkening against the starless sky. Well, Telepheme The figure in the window drew back, startled; but in a moment the answer came softly: Well, Apex? He came out of the shadow. Is that you, Ben? Yes, said Rignold. Remember your promise What? Go to bed! Oh! She laughed, and her laugh seemed to Rignold to widen musically into the night in waves of pure joy. All right. She leaned out of the window for a moment in silence. Why are nt you in bed yourself? Been fighting you. Well, that takes time. How s the Apex? Blooming. How s yours? I ye lost a good deal of advertising.~~ They tell me half the circulation s gone. Is that true? Yes; but my courage is ntnor my money. I think I like aggression. Hope the Apex gives you plenty. Yes; enough. But I dont want to beg oW Ben. I m glad we made that arrangement. You give me all I want to do sometimes; butyou (10 fight fair. I ye got a scorcher on you in my next. Have you? Yes. Then I must go to work. Good night, Ben. Oh, see here, Berna; dont do that. Do you want me to let the Apex have it all its oxvn way? No; but you aint going to do any more work to-night. Look here I 11 put it off to the issue after next. Well! Will it keep? Keep? An article against you? Like ice at zero! Then I wont prepare my answer till next week. Good night. Oh, Ben! Well? I m preparing a surprise for the Apex. No ? Yes. You remember my speaking of that girl with the strange character who used to go to school with me at Kansas City before I ~vent East to Miss Drewetts Dodo McFar- lane? She s just married to Mr. Mutrie, the President of the Three Cs, and she s coming here on her wedding journey. I had her letter to-day, and I ye written to invite them to stay here with me. Rignold allowed an expressive whistle to es- cape into the darkness. It is interesting, is nt it ? continued Berna. Interesting? It s a scare-head sensation news item. I 11 have to get to work myself. Good night. CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN! 77 She leaned a little further out of the window. You wont divulge my secret, of course. I m keeping it to surprise the town. Oh, I wont give you away. Go to bed 1 I will. I m so glad to have seen you again, Ben. That s right. Good night. He disappeared up the dark road, and Berna closed her window. When Rignold reached the Bloxharn Block next morning he found Dibble in the narrow stall he had partitioned off from the composing- room for his office. His visitor dropped his feet from the table to the floor as he entered, and rose, folding up a copy (Berna and Rig- nold of course exchanged) of the last issue of the Telepheme. Dibble shook himself down into his trousers with a froxvn. Morning, said he. Rignold nodded as he swept a space clear on his desk, and settled down to work. Been losing Hymee, the hatter, I see, continued his visitor, dusting his hand with Bernas paper. Mr. Hymee has seen fit to withdraw his advertisement, if that s what you mean, Mr. Dibble. Yes; I ye been around to see him this morning. He says he wants to see our paper succeed. He aint got nothing against it, and he aint going to support our lady contempo- rary, anyway. But, See here, now, he says, your paper My paper, please, Mr. Dibble. Well, yours, if you like to call it so. I like to stick to facts, if it s all the same to you. Has anybody got a dime in the Apex besides me? Certainly not. But we feel as if we were supporting you. I suppose you dont mind our holding up your hands? Not if you leave them free, returned Rig- nold, whirling about in his swivel-seat, tilting it back, and thrusting his hands into his pock- ets. What does Hymee say? Dibble did the Telepheme up into a news- paper-carriers wad, as if he were meditating throwing it over a subscribers fence into the front yard, before he ansxvered: Why, it s this way. Hymee says that woman-mush across the way, that some folks in this town call a news- paper, is knocking the stuffing out of ws fellows, and we dont know what s happening to us. Hes opposed on principle to a lady paper, but he goes in for straight talk, and he says there aint no comparison between the Apex and the Telepheme, and that every one says so. That s just what we ye always supposed, aint it ? Not Hymees way. He tried to prove to me that there was nt the hustle of a dead steer about our whole outfit; he says the Apex, as at present conducted, has nt the romp and the razzle-dazzle to run an engine down a two- hundred-foot grade, let alone pulling the Three Cs into Rustler. Now, dont get riled! He did nt mean you, of course. I m all right, Mr. Dibble, said Rignokl, raising his eyebrows. Go on. That s all. But it occurred to me I was wondering Yes. Well? He s away off. We know that. But it sim- ply occurred to me that it was a sort of hint. Perhaps we could put more Work? No, sir. You work. But more roar and slam-bang, more git up and howl. Thats what does the business. Rignold surveyed him thoughtfully for a moment, as a silence fell. Do you want to buy the paper, Mr. Dib- ble? Well, no no. I cant say as I do. Know any one else that wants to buy it? All right, then. I 11 run it myself. Good morning.~ Within a week two more small advertise- ments were withdrawn from the Apex; and the day after the publication of the succeeding issue, B. G. Franks, dealer in boots and shoes, who had been one of Rignolds original support- ers, called at the office to say that he felt forced to withdraw his advertisement temporarily, as an expression of his disapproval of the course of the Apex; but should be happy to restore it as soon as Rignold saw his way to making a better paper. Rignold perceived Dibbles hand in this, and smiled; it was what Dibble would have called bringing pressure. No more advertisements from members of the original committee were discontinued; but subscriptions began to fall off. Even from the surrounding country orders reached Rignold to stop the paper; and no new subscriptions were recorded. A month later, when Mutrie reached Topaz with his young bride, and stopped over a day, Rustler gnashed its teeth. Dibble, who had now turned frankly against Rignold, swore out- right. The news was discussed on the corners of the mountain street by excited groups, like another Bull Run. It represented, stated in the soberest terms, nothing less than disaster to the town that the President of the Three Cs should stop at Topaz, and not so much as pass through Rustler. A committee, consisting of Dibble, McDermott, and Franks, was formed to go down to Topaz by the afternoon train, and invite the President at least to take a look at the town. But before they could start, Berna, 78 CAPTAIN; MY CAP7AJN/ who had been holding back her edition of that week for a telegram from Mrs. Mutrie, making all sure, got the Telepheme upon the streets. It set forth her news so modestly that at first no one would believe it. The office of the pa- per was instantly filled with inquirers Dibble among the first. She s got a telegram, I tell you, said Barton. Shoot your telegram! Let s see it. Barton left them clamoring, and went to ask Bernas permission. As he came back up the street, holding the fluttering bit of paper aloft in his hand, the group outside of the office gave an uncertain cheer; then, as Dibble snatched it and read it aloud, they howled with glee. Some were for going straightway to Bernas house, and offering her the cheers at closer quarters; but every one was in favor of a drink, and for the moment it resolved itself into that. It was about eleven oclock that night when a little torchlight procession made its way to Bernas house, and relieved in complimentary song its enthusiasm, its happiness, its renewed good will to Berna, and perhaps a little shame- faced repentance and regret. She was obliged at last to appear in her door- way; but, apparently overcome by emotion, could say nothing until, as she stood swaying on the threshold, she caught sight of Rignolds white face in the midst of the flickering lights, on the fringe of the crowd. Then, plucking up courage, she began tremblingly: FELLOW-TOWNSMEN: I am grateful to you for this unexpected honor. Believe me, it touches me deeply. But I must not, even for a moment, take it to myself. It belongs, you and I both know, wholly to another. I lay it proudly at the feet of Alexander Chester. Rignolds face suddenly disappeared, and a voice from the crowd shouted, No, no! As she lost sight of the sustaining eye on the out- most circle of her audience, something seemed to give way within her; the denial roused her, however. But I say, Yes. Let no one, thinking to please me, refuse to Alexander Chester the praise and the reward that are so utterly his due, and which belong to him, and him alone. Fellow-townsmen, it was he who first fought your battle for the railroad; it was he who first led you to dream of the possibility of bringing the Three Cs to Rustler; it was he whose ring- ing words, going forth from week to week in the columns of his paper, have made the com- ing of the road practicable and realizable and near; and he it was, too, whose labors for the town, in cooperation with the strong and willing hands of those I see before me to-night, have brought Rustler to a position where she deserves the railroad! (Good! Deserves! That s the ticket! murmured the crowd.) What- ever I may have been able to do has merely been in humble following of his footsteps. If he had not lived, in all human probability, none of us would be here to-night. When you say a word in praise of me, I must take it, there- fore, as intended to be two for him; for he is not only the source and inspiration of every- thing that I may do, but even in death he watches over usthe guide, the counselor, the captain of our town! She paused, and the crowd burst into wild cheers. The captain! Hip! Hip! Hurrah! Hur- rah! Hurrah! /iger .f Berna smiled upon them from her doorway, beautified. iv. AN hour later, against all protests from her mother, she left her home for the first time in many months. Strength came to her with her need; that one sweet little moment of success, which compensated for all that she had borne for the town, and for all she had suffered at its hands, seemed to give a lost physical sound- ness and courage back to her. She felt strong enough for anything; and xvith that wine 01 happiness coursing through her veins, she cer- tainly felt strong enough to drive to Bartons. The depression of the past months, since the launching of the Apex, had made her ner- vous and doubtful about prosperity; she dared not trust any one to take it by the hand but her- self. To be ready for the demand on the mor- row, she meant to get Barton to go to the office and to print at once, before morning, on Alecks old hand-press, five hundred copies of the new issue of the Telepheme; and to make quite sure, she meant to drive to the office with him, to see the fresh edition started. The paper had not been obliged to print twice since Alecks time. She must watch her boom. Her heart beat high. At Bartons there was no one but his wife. She said her husband was already at the office. Seems to me, she lamented, he s always at that office. I suppose his new work s a good thing; but it takes him away a sight of time. I dont believe he s been a night at home since he began it. Berna wondered, but drove on, drawing her wraps tightly around her against the unaccus- tomed air. Except for the lights at the Euro- pean Hotel and at the Elegant Booze, the Honeycomb, and Uncle Dicks, the town was dark. Straggling groups from the serenading party still paraded the streets, singing, and lurching noisily in one anothers arms. Berna gazed meditatively at the dusky roofs of the town to which she had given a years loving CAPTAIN, MY CAPTAIN! 79 service, and which she had not seen since the warm, sunny morning when she had driven with Aleck to the station to take the train. The town knew her now; but what difference if it did not? He knew! As she toiled up the dark staircase leading to the Telepheme office, supporting herself by her stick, a crack of light shone into her eyes from under the door; and she heard the old press jammed down sharply within. Barton had plainly guessed her thought and gone si- lently to work. How good every one was to her She turned the knob and went in. A gush of light greeted her. The place was all illu- mined. Barton was at the press; the boy was hurrying about. From the inner room a voice she knew cried out: We shall have to put that silver editorial over to the issue after next, Barton. Our next issue will have to be a kind of Jubilee Mutrie number editorials, locals, everything. I 11 do the squibs this week and an account of the Presidents visit, if you 11 look after my regular locals. All right, responded Barton from his press. After a moment he looked up and saw Berna standing there. Why, Miss Dexter! he exclaimed, me- chanically stopping the press. He came toward her, wiping his hand, which, however, he finally wrapped in a corner of his printers apron and offered to her that way. You ought to have sent for me, he said, abstractedly. She looked at him for a moment. Who s in there? What? asked Barton, offering her a chair, with a doubtful glance over his shoulder. She pointed. Oh, there. Nobody, I guess. Will you do me a favor, Mr. Barton. Yes, of course. I dont know. Take this chair. Barton seated himself; and stared after her as she pushed quickly into the room where Rignold sat writing busily at his old desk, which was littered with proofs and manuscript. Berna! he exclaimed, looking up as she entered. Ben Rignold, what are you doing here? Getting up a little copy. I often come on here of an evening to do my work, from old habit. You dont mind, I hope? You mean my work! I did nt say so. You dont need to. I heard you just now give your order to Barton. Ben! Ben ! You re just wicked! Tears filled her eyes. She sat down sud- denly. Let me move those, he said, rising, and coming to her quickly; and she saw that she had seated herself on a chair heaped with a pile of old exchanges. He moved them to an- other chair, avoiding her eyes, which followed him everywhere. As he took his seat again un- der the lamp, which threw down a strong writ- ing light upon the table, she saw how worn he looked. There were purple rings under his eyes, and his face was drawn. His disordered hair, which he had probably tumbled as he wrote, gave him a wild look. It was three months since she had seen him closely by daylight. She reproached herself bitterly. You re too good to breathe! she mur- mured, in continuance of her indictment, as she fastened her eyes on him. How dared you? Why did nt you tell me? See here, Berna, why did nt you stay at home? Then you would nt have known. Well, I m glad enough I came, she said, still breathless. Well, then, I aint. So it s you, Ben Rignold, who have been making my paper better than the Apex! she went on, unheeding. It s been you from the beginning. She stopped suddenly, star- tled. Then it must be you, too, who have made the Apex so bad! she added. Rignold smiled. Did you think it was bad? Never till now. I never let myself. But I know now that it s been the worst paper in the State! Did you expect me to make it the best, with your paper across the way? I did nt expect you to make mine the best! O Ben! Pshaw! that was easy, he said, laugh- ing. The trouble s been to make the Apex poor enough without giving the scheme away. Ive always been afraid that youd tumble, if the town did nt. Come, Berna! You did nt suppose I was working at that rate to succeed, did you? I thought began Berna, tremulously. Then take it back, please! The man who could nt succeed, with that paper and that backing, by smoking cigars in his rear office, ought to give up the business. To make such a paper fail takes work! Ben, she exclaimed, you ye ruined yourself! Oh, no, I have nt. But I ye ruined the Apex. The sheriff is to pay me a visit to- morrbw. Nobody knows it yet; but I may as well tell you, because it 11 be all out in the morning. I had hoped to fail last week. But I could nt get enough advertisements and sub- scriptions dropped. She looked thoughtfully at him for a mo 8o BOOKS AND SEASONS. ment. Ben, I believe you re the best man in the world, she said solemnly. I guess not, laughed Rignold, uneasily. You are, she repeated. And, Ben Yes? You must nt fail But I ye got it all fixed. After to-morrow there wont be but one paper in Rustler. That s what I mean, she said huskily. Lets make it onethe Telepheme-Apex! Let s consolidate! Berna! Well? she answered, looking down with a deep blush. He came and stood over her, and laid a hand upon her chair. Berna, do you mean it? She looked up with tears streaming down her face. I guess so. And Aleck? She smiled happily through her tears as she laid a hand in his. Ben, dear, we will keep up the fight! Wolcott Balestier. BOOKS AND SEASONS. BECAUSE the sky is blue; because blithe May Masks in the wrens song and the lilacs hue; Becausein fine, because the sky is blue I will read none but piteous tales to-day. Keep happy laughter till the skies be gray, And the sad season cypress wears, and rue; Then, when the wind is moaning in the flue, And ways are dark, bid Chaucer make us gay. But now a little sadness! All too sweet This springtide riot, this most poignant air, This sensuous sphere of color and perfume! So listen, love, while I the woes repeat Of Hamlet and Ophelia, and that pair Whose bridal bed was builded in a tomb. Thomas Bailey Aldrich.

8o BOOKS AND SEASONS. ment. Ben, I believe you re the best man in the world, she said solemnly. I guess not, laughed Rignold, uneasily. You are, she repeated. And, Ben Yes? You must nt fail But I ye got it all fixed. After to-morrow there wont be but one paper in Rustler. That s what I mean, she said huskily. Lets make it onethe Telepheme-Apex! Let s consolidate! Berna! Well? she answered, looking down with a deep blush. He came and stood over her, and laid a hand upon her chair. Berna, do you mean it? She looked up with tears streaming down her face. I guess so. And Aleck? She smiled happily through her tears as she laid a hand in his. Ben, dear, we will keep up the fight! Wolcott Balestier. BOOKS AND SEASONS. BECAUSE the sky is blue; because blithe May Masks in the wrens song and the lilacs hue; Becausein fine, because the sky is blue I will read none but piteous tales to-day. Keep happy laughter till the skies be gray, And the sad season cypress wears, and rue; Then, when the wind is moaning in the flue, And ways are dark, bid Chaucer make us gay. But now a little sadness! All too sweet This springtide riot, this most poignant air, This sensuous sphere of color and perfume! So listen, love, while I the woes repeat Of Hamlet and Ophelia, and that pair Whose bridal bed was builded in a tomb. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. ARCHITECTURE AT THE WORLDS COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION. Worlds Columbian Exposition was organized April 9, 1890, and on the 25th of the same month Congress passed the bill giving Chicago the honor of this great enterprise. On July x following, Jackson Park and the lake front of Chicago were se- lected as the double site of the Exposition. On the 20th of August F. L. Olmsted & Co. were elected consulting landscape-architects. Be- tween then and the following December the or- ganization of the Department of Construction was perfected by the appointment of D. H. Burnham as chief and of J. W. Root as consult- ing architect, Mr. Bumham having acted as professional adviser from the beginning of the enterprise. Undoubtedly to his sagacity, en- ergy, and breadth of view, and to his wide ex- perience in important architectural work, the Chicago Commission is largely indebted for the great effective working capacity which it has developed; and under his organizing power the complicated machinery of administration in respect to grounds and buildings was fairly established. For reasons which we need not state, the double site was finally abandoned; and it then became the duty of the Committee on Grounds and Buildings, under the advice of their chosen experts, to review this all-important question of locality, and to discover, if possible, within the limits of Chicago, or in its near vicinity, an area of land capable of containing, without crowd- ing, a series of buildings which, in the aggre- gate, should be at least ~o per cent. larger than those of the last Paris Exposition; should be conveniently and economically accessible for visitors and for material; not divided by rail- roads, streets, creeks, or cemeteries; and not so encumbered with buildings or other improve- ments that it would be difficult to obtain pos- session of it and to prepare it for the reception of the structures of the Exposition. Of the few places answering these require- ments all were flat, low, and, from a horticul- tural point of view, unsatisfactory. The only large, agreeable, or dignified element of scenery within many miles of the town was the lake, and there was discovered only one place on the lake presenting the desired conditions. This was a tract of five hundred acres between six VOL. XLIV.ii. and seven miles south of the central part of the city, with a length of a mile and a half on the lake side and three quarters of a mile in width. Topographically the place consisted of a series of low sand-dunes which had been thrown up successively by the lake in lines nearly parallel with the shore, the most con- siderable of them having an average height of not more than six feet above the high stages of the water. Between these dunes there were broad, low, flat, swampy swales, subject to oc- casional floods, with water generally standing one or two feet below the surface. On some of these dunes groves of small, stunted oaks were growing, and the intermediate flats were more or less overgrown by sedge and water- grasses. This tract belonged to the South Park Com- mission, having been obtained twenty years before with a view to its future improvement as a public park. Practically it was in a state of nature, as we have described, except as to a limited area at its northern end, which had been graded, planted, diversified by ponds, and made accessible by drives and walks. The dis- advantages of this site were sufficiently ob- vious; but it was considered that they, together with the inconvenience arising from its distance from the thickly populated parts of the city, would be offset by these advantages: first, that it was unencumbered with buildings; secondly, thatitcouldbe made readilyaccessible, eitherby boats on the lake or by public land conveyances of various sorts, without numerous railroad or river crossings; and thirdly, that a number of railroads passed within a few hundred feet of the landward boundaries of the tract, extend- ing in one direction nearly to the heart of the city, and, in the other, connecting, or easily to be connected, with lines to all parts of the con- tinent. Indeed, to the experienced eye and instructed imagination of the landscape-archi- tects the very qualities in this desert-like waste which presented the most formidable obsta- cles to the realization of anything approaching the horticultural splendors, or finished park-like aspects, of previous international expositions suggested the possibility of procuring out of these most unpromising elements effects quite unusual, yet of a wholly appropriate character. The broad expanse of the great inland lake itself, with its ever-changing surface and its oceanic horizon, its waters prospectively alive

ARCHITECTURE AT THE WORLDS COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION. Worlds Columbian Exposition was organized April 9, 1890, and on the 25th of the same month Congress passed the bill giving Chicago the honor of this great enterprise. On July x following, Jackson Park and the lake front of Chicago were se- lected as the double site of the Exposition. On the 20th of August F. L. Olmsted & Co. were elected consulting landscape-architects. Be- tween then and the following December the or- ganization of the Department of Construction was perfected by the appointment of D. H. Burnham as chief and of J. W. Root as consult- ing architect, Mr. Bumham having acted as professional adviser from the beginning of the enterprise. Undoubtedly to his sagacity, en- ergy, and breadth of view, and to his wide ex- perience in important architectural work, the Chicago Commission is largely indebted for the great effective working capacity which it has developed; and under his organizing power the complicated machinery of administration in respect to grounds and buildings was fairly established. For reasons which we need not state, the double site was finally abandoned; and it then became the duty of the Committee on Grounds and Buildings, under the advice of their chosen experts, to review this all-important question of locality, and to discover, if possible, within the limits of Chicago, or in its near vicinity, an area of land capable of containing, without crowd- ing, a series of buildings which, in the aggre- gate, should be at least ~o per cent. larger than those of the last Paris Exposition; should be conveniently and economically accessible for visitors and for material; not divided by rail- roads, streets, creeks, or cemeteries; and not so encumbered with buildings or other improve- ments that it would be difficult to obtain pos- session of it and to prepare it for the reception of the structures of the Exposition. Of the few places answering these require- ments all were flat, low, and, from a horticul- tural point of view, unsatisfactory. The only large, agreeable, or dignified element of scenery within many miles of the town was the lake, and there was discovered only one place on the lake presenting the desired conditions. This was a tract of five hundred acres between six VOL. XLIV.ii. and seven miles south of the central part of the city, with a length of a mile and a half on the lake side and three quarters of a mile in width. Topographically the place consisted of a series of low sand-dunes which had been thrown up successively by the lake in lines nearly parallel with the shore, the most con- siderable of them having an average height of not more than six feet above the high stages of the water. Between these dunes there were broad, low, flat, swampy swales, subject to oc- casional floods, with water generally standing one or two feet below the surface. On some of these dunes groves of small, stunted oaks were growing, and the intermediate flats were more or less overgrown by sedge and water- grasses. This tract belonged to the South Park Com- mission, having been obtained twenty years before with a view to its future improvement as a public park. Practically it was in a state of nature, as we have described, except as to a limited area at its northern end, which had been graded, planted, diversified by ponds, and made accessible by drives and walks. The dis- advantages of this site were sufficiently ob- vious; but it was considered that they, together with the inconvenience arising from its distance from the thickly populated parts of the city, would be offset by these advantages: first, that it was unencumbered with buildings; secondly, thatitcouldbe made readilyaccessible, eitherby boats on the lake or by public land conveyances of various sorts, without numerous railroad or river crossings; and thirdly, that a number of railroads passed within a few hundred feet of the landward boundaries of the tract, extend- ing in one direction nearly to the heart of the city, and, in the other, connecting, or easily to be connected, with lines to all parts of the con- tinent. Indeed, to the experienced eye and instructed imagination of the landscape-archi- tects the very qualities in this desert-like waste which presented the most formidable obsta- cles to the realization of anything approaching the horticultural splendors, or finished park-like aspects, of previous international expositions suggested the possibility of procuring out of these most unpromising elements effects quite unusual, yet of a wholly appropriate character. The broad expanse of the great inland lake itself, with its ever-changing surface and its oceanic horizon, its waters prospectively alive 82 ARCHITECTURE AT THE WORLD S COL UMBIAN EXPOSITION with sails, and animated by the incessant movement of steamers and craft of every sort, ornate, bedecked, and gay, beneath the un- limited summer sky, would give to the mise-en- sc~ze a peculiar character, under the influence of which the foreign visitor might forget to ask for that metropolitan opulence of shaded park- land which here could not be obtained. Steam- dredges and the railroad grading-processes of the West could readily at small expense en- large the areas of higher land, and create level plateaus and stately terraces as sites for the great buildings of the Exposition, with material excavated from the wet and sedgy intervals, converting the latter into a system of lagoons connected with the lake by walled canals and basins. Thus might be created within the grounds an interior water-system, four miles in length, which would be navigable by om- nibus-boats, conveying visitors from every quarter of the Park to landings before each of the principal buildings. Under such circumstances the landscape- architects felt authorized to recommend to the committee the use of the grounds known as Jackson Park, which, after much negotiation with the South Park Commissioners, and much controversy with those advocating other sites, were finally obtained under the agreement that, after the Exposition and after the removal of the buildings, they should be left in a condition well adapted to be formed into a permanent public park for the city. A succession of in- genious plans was then prepared and reported to the committee by these gentlemen, in inti- mate connection with Messrs. Burnham and Root, illustrating the gradual development of a general scheme for the occupation of the site, Mr. Root making sketch-designs of all the buildings as the work progressed. The lead- ing motives of composition were to obtain such a disposition of the greater buildings as should make the best and most effective use of the natural conditions of the ground, when modi- fied and corrected by the art of the landscape- architect; should give to these buildings a proper and articulate relation, one to the other, and also to the water-system of the Park; should group them in a formal and artificial manner at those points where their great size and necessary mutual proximity invited a pre- dominance of architectural magnificence, or picturesquely and accidentally, where the con- ditions of the landscape were such as to for- bid a close observance of axial lines and vistas. But all these dispositions were made subor- dinate to the situation furnished by the wide expanse and horizon of the lake, so that this important element of composition should have its due value from all the principal points of observation. Another fundamental condition affecting the general dispositions of the plan was the method of reaching the Park by the seven railroads, so that the difficult problem of debarking and em- barking more than 6o,ooo people every hour by these means of transit should be solved with the least confusion, and at a point where the visitor should be introduced to the grounds through a monumental vestibule, from which a scene should open, stately, splendid, and sur- prising, alike in its architectural and in its natural elements. It was necessary, also, to consider every means of approach by street- cars and by water,the latter suggesting the provision of moles and protected harbors on the lake side,and also to provide for an additional intramural communication by some form of elevated railway. None of the difficulties to be surmounted, however, were greater than those presented by the necessity of converting into a garden a tract of land which was almost a desert waste; so that the grounds in which the great monu- mental buildings of the Exposition were to be placed should be set forth with something more than formal architectural terraces, bal- ustrades, bridges, statues, fountains, and canals, and should enjoy at least some of the advan- tages to be obtained from ordered or pictur- esque vegetation. Unlike the sites of former expositions, located in the heart of ancient civ- ilizations, the prairies of Illinois afford no im- perial treasuries of trees and shrubbery, from which the modern Amphion could draw the means of establishing such vast, full-grown masses of foliage as were needed adequately to decorate these impoverished acres. When the thick ice which is formed on Lake Mich- igan during the winter is broken up, it is driven by prevailing north winds toward Chicago, and there lingers to prolong the tardy spring. A little later, while the first leaves are unfolding, a night gale from Canada sweeps over these five hundred rules of ice-cold water, and all forms of vegetable growth along the southern margin of the lake are discouraged and de- layed. Moreover, the fluctuations which are characteristic of the waters of the lake, not only from day to day, but in its normal and average elevations during the summer, must create bare and dreary shores where the intramural water- system of the Park expands from the formal, stone-bordered canals into the broad and pic- turesque lagoon. To obviate these difficulties it was deter- mined first, so to treat the existing groves of trees that their dwarfish character would be maskedbytheintroductionofhardy,indigenous shrubs around the margin of each group, thus creating effects of massed foliage, as seen from a distance; secondly, to edge the water with a ARCHITECTURE AT THE WORLD S COL UMBIAN EXPOSITION 83 nearly continuous strip of reedy, aquatic plants, which would bear occasional submergence; and thirdly, to provide these with backgrounds of low foliage, chiefly shrub willows and brightly flowering local plants. Occasional stretches of well-kept lawn would also, where necessary, serve to refine the rustic aspect of the grounds. At the outset the Committee on Grounds and Buildings, together with D. H. Burnham, Chief of Construction, were confronted by a delicate and difficult problem. How were the designs for these great buildings to be obtained? Should one architect be appointed for the whole, or, in view of the more practical alternativeofappoint- ing one architect for each building, should these be selected by general competition, by limited competition, or by direct selection? After a careful review of the subject, it was concluded by the committee, in accordance with the rec- 1 Innumerable experiments with architectural com- petitions have made it clear enough that, of all the methods of selecting the architect, this is the most wasteful, unscientific, tedious, costly, demoralizing, and uncertain. It is almost impossible to devise a com- petitive scheme which will, as its result, secure to the building the best service, or to the competitors an opportunity to express their most useful qualities as architects. It seems equally evident that the establish- ment of confidential professional relations in the be- ginning with an architect chosen because of his proved ability and experience, and not because of the accident of his success in a game of chance, is economical of time and money, and consistent with honest business principles. Therefore, the action of the Committee on Grounds and Buildings in this case is so memorable in the history of architectural practice, that we deem it important to print here the report upon which this action was based. This report was prepared by iVir. Burubam, and, at his request, was signed by all the pro- fessional advisers of the committee. Dec. 6, 1890. THE HONORABLE THE COMMITTEE ON GROUNDS AND BUILDINGS, WORLDs COLUMBIAN Ex- POSITION. Gentlemen: Preliminary work in locating buildings, in determining their general areas, and in other ele- mentary directions necessary to proper progress in the design and erection of the structures of the Columbian Exposition, has now reached a point where it becosiies necessary to determine the method by which designs for these buildings shall be obtained. We recognize that your action in the matter will be of great importance, not only in its direct effect upon the artistic and commercial success of the Exposition, but scarcely less upon the aspect presented by America to the world, and also as a precedent for future pro- cedure in the country by the Government, by corpora- tions, and individuals. In our advisory capacity we wish to recommend such action to you as will be pro- ductive of the best results, and will at the same time be in accord with the expressed sentiments of the archi- tectural societies of America. Whatever suggestions are here made relate to the main buildings located at Jackson Park. That these buildings should in their designs, rela- tionships, and arrangement be of the highest possible architectural merit is of importance scarcely less great than the variety, richness, and comprehensiveness of the various displays within them. Such success is not so much dependent upon the expenditure of money as upon the expenditure of thought, knowledge, and en- ommendations contained in a remarkable me- morial presented to them by their professional advisers, to give to the architectural part of the Exposition, so far as possible, an appropriate national character, by making a direct selec- tion of representative architects; thus not only avoiding the serious delays and embarrassments which would inevitably accompany any form of competition, but at the same time enlisting the services of a body of professional experts to con- sider the architectural questions from the begin- ning and as a whole, and to lay out a scheme of efficient and harmonious coi5peration.1 On January 12, 1891, the invited architects, Messrs. R. M. Hunt, George B. Post, and McKim, Mead, and White of New York, Pea- body and Stearns of Boston, Van Brunt and Howe of Kansas City, together with Messrs. Adler and Sullivan, S. S. Beman, Henry Ives thusiasm by men known to be in every way endowed with these qualities, and the results achieved by them will be the measure by which America, and especially Chicago, must expect to be judged by the world. Sev- eral methods of procedure suggest themselves: First. The selection of one man to whom the de- signing of the entire work should be intrusted. Second. Competition made free to the whole archi- tectural profession. Third. Competition among a selected few. Fourth. Direct selection. The first method would possess some advantage in the coherent and logical result which would be attained. But the objections are that time for the preparation of designs is so short that no one man could hope to do the subject justice, even were he broad enough to avoid, in work of such varied and colossal character, monot- onous repetition of ideas. And, again, such a method would evoke criticism, just or unjust, and would cer- tainly debar the enterprise from the friendly codpera- tion of a diversity of talent, which can be secured only by bringing together the best architectural minds of our country. The second method named has been em- ployed in France and other European countries with success, and would probably result in the production of a certain number of plans possessing more or less merit and novelty. But in such a competition much time, even now most valuable, would be wasted, and the result would be a mass of irrelevant and almost ir- reconcilable material, which would demand great and extended labor to bring into coherence. It is greatly to be feared that from such a heterogeneous competi- tion the best men of the profession would refrain, not only because the uncertainties involved in it are too great and their time too valuable, but because the socie- ties to which they almost universally belong have so strongly pronounced on its futility. A limited and fair competition would present fewer embarrassments, but even in this case the question of time is presented, and it is most unlikely that any result derived through this means, coming as it would from necessarily partial ac- quaintance with the subject, and hasty, ill-considered presentation of it, could be satisfactory, and the selec- tion of an individual would be open to the same objec- tions made above as to a single designer. Far better than any of the methods seems to be the last. This is to select a certain number of architects, choosing each man for such work as would be most nearly parallel xvith his best achievements; these architects to meet in conference, and become masters of all the elements of the problems to be solved, and agree upon some gen- eral scheme of procedure. The preliminary studies re 84 ARCHITECTURE AT THE WORLD S COL UMBIAN EXPOSITION. Cobb, W. L. B. Jenney, and Burling and White- house of Chicago, were called together to con- suit with the chief of construction, the consult- ing architect, and with Frederick Law Olmsted and his partner, Henry Sargent Codman of Boston, regarding the architectural conditions involved in the scheme of the Exposition. The latest plans of the consulting architect and land- scape-architects, which, as a whole, had been accepted by the National Commission and by the Chicago directors, were laid before this board of architects for consideration. After an exhaustive study of the whole problem, during which many revisions and modifications more or less fundamental were suggested and con- sidered, it was finally resolved to recommend to the Committee on Grounds and Buildings the acceptance of the general scheme of loca- tion of buildings and waterways, as prepared by Messrs. Root, Olmsted, and Codman, with but little modification. In fact the problem had been developed by these gentlemen with so much skill and with such exact forethought for all the conditions embraced in this vast compli- cation of interests, and the several stages of de- velopment had been so intelligently discussed by the committee and by the chief of construc- tion, that it was evident to the board of profes- sional experts that they could devise no better starting-point for their specific part of the work. The sudden death of Mr. Root, after a very brief illness, during these preliminary sessions of the Architectural Board, deprived this great enterprise of services which would have been of peculiar value in perfecting the architectural work, andwhich aireadyhadheenan essential fac- tor in laying out the general scheme of the build- ings, and in facilitating an effective, fraternal codrdination of professional labor such as rarely, if ever, has occurred in the history of archi- tecture. The strong initiative force furnished by the generous enthusiasm and bright genius of Root remained, however, with the Architectu- ral Board, and has been an element constantly working for unity and strength in its councils. In all projects relating to the decoration of the grounds by sculpture and monumental fountains, the large experience and eminent authority of Mr. Augustus St. Gaudens have been forces working silently for higher art, greater nobility of expression, and more effec- tive results. Unfortunately the work of his own hand xviii not appear in these decorations; but his advice in the selection of sculptors for suiting from this to be compared and freely discussed in a subsequent conference, and, with the assistance of such suggestions as your advisers might make, to be brought into a harmonious whole. The honor conferred upon those selected would create in their minds a disposition to place the artistic quality of their work in advance of the mere question of emolu- ment; while the emulation begotten in a rivalry so them has been of permanent value, and has been followed with generous intelligence and to the manifest advantage of the Exposition. 1The basis of operations is explained by the plan of the grounds herewith presented, which exhibits in outline the result, not of the latest studies, but of that stage of the work reached at the time when it was necessary to prepare the map for the purpose of illustrating this paper. In a subsequent paper we hope to present a more comprehensive plan, indicating the na- ture of the modification to which the whole scheme has been subject from month to month. It will be observed that there are three grand divisions. Of these the northernmost, which had aiready been laid out as a park by the city, is to be occupied centrally by the Depart- ment of Fine Arts, the State pavilions being grouped north and west of it; while the foreign government buildings xviii be placed east of it, toward the lake, and, if occasion requires, in the Plaisance, which is a long reserved tract 6oo feet wide between 59th and 6oth streets, forming a boulevard approach to Jackson Park from the west. In this tract also areas have been granted to foreign enterprise for the es- tablishment of model villages and groups of pavilions illustrating the characteristics of do- mestic and industrial life in remote countries. The middle division is formed by the lagoon, the most characteristic landscape feature of the grounds. Thisis an irregular, artificial xvater-way surrounding several islands, the largest among them being awoodedtract about 1700 feet long and from 200 to 500 feet wide, the natural con- ditions of which will be enhanced by aquatic shrubbery and flower-beds, with kiosks and rus- tic pavilions approached by bridges. A part of the northern end of this island has been applied for by, and will probably be granted to,thejapa- nese commissioners, who propose to lay out a considerable area in a characteristic garden, according to their ancient traditions in this art, and to embellfsh it with exact reproductions of several of their most venerable temples. The outer margins of the lagoon will be occupied on the xvest by the Transportation Building, by the Horticultural Building, with its gardens, and by the Womans Building; on the east, toward the lake, xviii stand the Palace of Manufactures and LiberalArts, and the United States Pavilion. The lagoon branches capriciously north ward and eastward, giving water-fronts to the Pa- vilion of Fine Arts, to the Illinois State Build- dignified and friendly could not fail to he productive of a result which would stand before the world as the best fruit of American civilization. D. H. BURNHAM, Chief of Construction. JOHN W. RooT, Consulting Architect. F. L. OLM5TED & Co., Consulting Landscape-Archts. A. GOTTLIEJS, Consulting Engineer. ARCHITECTURE AT THE WORLD S COL C/MB/AN EXPOSITION. 8~ AR GRE VIATIONG ONE RESERVATIONS PaR StateSSEoroiglo Nations. ALA. ALARAMA ARK ARKANSAS AZA. ARIZONA CT. CONNECTICUT DEL. DELAWARE FLU FLORIDA GA GEORGIA KEN KENTUCKY LA LOUISIANA MASS MAGS.ACMUGETTS RD. MARYLAND ME. MAINE MICA MICHIGAN MINN MINNESOTA MISS. MISSISSIPPI MO. MISSOURI MONT. MONTANA NC. NORTH CAROLINA RD. NORTH DAKOTA HER. NERRASKA REV. NEVADA N.M. NEWRAMPS. MIDWAY PL.A.ISANCGZ 6O~ St. ______ EXPLANATION A] OF SIGNS I C I INSTALLATION TRUCKI 21 TERMINAL RAILROUDSI/~ ELEVATED RAILROAD -O w GI~St FIRE~ALA+RM~T~ ELECTRIC LIGHT POSTS MAR j620dSt ~ ~ K 64~~St. I! H JNSS~.M.CIR TRrrRCR 65~ Terr. 66 St. // 66 L~ii / 67CM St. I/ft ing, and to the Fisheries and United States Government buildings. Southward this irregu- lar quadrangle is closed by the north fa~ades of the Mines and Electricity buildings. The lagoon connects southward with a sys- tern of formal stone-bordered canals and ba- sins, where will be symmetrically placed the great plaza, or coiir dVio;uieur, of the Exposi- tion, a regular quadrangle 700 by 2000 feet, about equal in size to that of the last Paris Exposition. Water-communication will be pro- vided for at the east end of this court, and the system of railroads will debouch at the west end in a railroad terminus, masked by the Ad- ministration Building, which will be treated so XOL. XLIXT. 12. as to serve as the monumental porch of the Ex- position. From the railroad terminus, through the arches of this porch and beneath its lofty dome, the visitors will enter the court, which is bounded on the right hand (southward) by the Departments of Machinery and Agriculture, on the left (northward) by those devoted to Mines, Electricity, and to Manufactures and the Lib- eral Arts, and in front (eastward) by Lake Michigan. The center of this court is occupied by a great artificial basin which forms a part of the water-system of the Park. Connecting with this basin, a broad canal, bordered by double terraces and crossed by arched bridges, will run southward into a minor court between the pal- MAP OF JACKSON PARK II OCALEo~FEET 1 .1 86 ARCHITECTURE AT THE WORLD S COL UAIIJIAN EXPOSITION aces of Agriculture and Machinery. This mi- nor court will be closed toward the south by an architectural screen in the form of an arcade on the first story and a colonnade on the second, with a triumphal arch in the center, through which the visitor will enter the Department of Live Stock, which constitutes the southernmost feature of the Exposition. Opposite this canal, on the same axis, is another of similar character, running northward between the Departments of Electricity and the Liberal Arts, and connect- ing, aswe have already seen, with the waters of the lagbon. This brief description, aided by the topo- graphical views which we present, may serve to give in outline the general architectural scheme of the Exposition-grounds. The rela- tive positions of the buildings being understood, we may now devote ourselves to a considera- tion of the architectural motives which under- lie the designs of the buildings, and confer upon them character and significance as works of art. In other words, we do not attempt a descrip- tion of these buildings, still less a criticism, which would be premature,but an analy- sis of the principles according to which they have been severally developed. XVe purpose, in fact, to put ourselves in the position of the architect when first confronted by his problem, and, as far as possible, to outline some of the processes of investigation and study through which his work gradually grew into its final form. Of course it would be impracticable to indicate the numerous false starts, the erasures, the studies tried and abandoned, and all the long tentative processes which must in every case be labored through before the scheme of a building takes its ultimate shape. The main object of these papers will have been attained if they may serve to show how a work of ar- chitecture, like any other work of art, is the re- sult of logical processes studiously followed, an(l not a mere matter of taste, a following of fashion, or an accident of invention more or less fortuitous. THE highest claim which can be made for modern architecture must rest on those char- acteristics of ornamented or ordered structure which have grown out of the unprecedented ex- igencies of modern buildings. Wherever these exigencies have been met in such a spirit that a corresponding development of style has been produced, justly differentiated from all other historic or contemporary styles not by caprice, but by growth, there exists a living and pro- gressive art, which, like all other living arts in history, will stand as the exponent of the civili- zation under which it obtained its definite form. Probably the largest, the most deliberate, and the most conspicuous expression of the present condition of architecture in this country will be looked for by foreign critics on the grounds of the Worlds Columbian Exposition; but they will find it rather in the latest commercial, edu- cational, and domestic structures in and near our larger cities. By these our architecture should be judged. It is true that the industrial palaces of our Exposition will be larger in area than any which have preceded them, and will surpass in this respect even the imperial villas and baths of the ancient Romans. But they xvill be an unsubstantial pageant of which the con- crete elements will be a series of vast covered inclosures, adjusted on architectural plans to the most lucid classification and the most ef- fective arrangement of the materials of the Ex- position, and faced with a decorative mask of plaster composition on frames of timber and iron, as the Romans of the Empire clothed their rough structures of cement and brick with magnificent architectural veneers of marbles, bronze, and sculpture. Mr. Burnham, the Chief of Construction, rubs his wonderful lamp of Aladdin in his office at Chicago, and the sud- den result is an exhalation, a vast phantasm of architecture, glittering with domes, towers, and banners, like the vision of Norumbega, which presently xvill fade and leave no trace behind. But these shapes do not make themselves. There is, it is true, a creative energy, followed by an apparition of palaces and pavilions; but between the energy and the apparition are the consultations, the experiments, the studies of a very palpable board of representative architects of the nation, who have learned that this great architectural improvisation requires as much of their zeal, labor, knowledge, and professional experience as if they were planning to build with monumental stone and marble. However temporary the buildings, the formative motives behind them will be on trial before the world; for these motives, disembarrassed as they have been, to a great extent, of the usual control- ling considerations of structure and cost, and concentrated upon the evolution of purely decorative forms, have made demands upon our resources of art such, perhaps, as have been required by no previous emergency in architecture. The liberality exhibited by the management and by the architects of Chicago toward their brethren summoned from other cities has been more than generous. To the latter were as- signed all the buildings around the great court, a compliment which involved the most serious responsibilities, and of which the only adequate recognition could be an especial effort to justify it. In view of the fact that these buildings had a mutual dependence much more marked than any others on the grounds, and that the formal or architectural character of the court abso 444~ 440 ~44, 4,4 ~44 44 4,4 ~ 4 ~444 4 4, 4~4 4, 4~4~ 4- 4 44444 44 444,4 4, 4,4 4 4, ~ Z o C H z 4 4 4 444 0 C- .4 - 4 4,44404 444440 4,4444 4- 44 44, 4, 44, 4 S8 ARCHITECTURE AT THE WORLD S COL U~iJIBIAN EXPOSITION lutely required a perfect harmony of feeling among the five structures which inclose it,it became immediately evident to these gentle- men that they must adopt, not only a uniform and ceremonious style, a style evolved from, and expressive og the highest civilizations in history, in which each one could express him- self with fluency, but also a common module of dimension. These considerations seemed to forbid the use of medieval or any other form of romantic, arcLieological, or picturesque art. The style should be distinctly secular and pom- pous, restrained from license by historical au- thority, and organized by academical discipline. It was not difficult, therefore, to agree upon the use of Roman classic forms, correctly and loy- ally interpreted, but permitting variations sug- gested not only by the Italians, but by the other masters of the Renaissance. It was considered that a series of pure classic models, in each case contrasting in character according to the per- sonal equation of the architect, and according to the practical conditions to be accommodated in each, but uniform in respect to scale and language of form, all set forth with the utmost amount of luxury and opulence of decoration permitted by the best usage, and on a theater of almost unprecedented magnitude, would present to the profession here an object-lesson so impressive of the practical value of architec- tural scholarship and of strict subordination to the formulas of the schools, that it would serve as a timely corrective to the national tendency to experiments in design. It is not desired or expected that this display, however successful it may prove to be in execution, should make a new revival or a new school in the archi- tecture of our country, or interfere with any healthy advance on classic or romantic lines which may be evolving here. There are many uneducated and untrained men practising as architects, and still maintaining, especially in the remote regions of the country, an impure and unhealthy vernacular, incapable of pro- gress; men who have never seen a pure classic monument executed on a great scale, and who are ignorant of the emotions which it must ex- cite in any breast accessible to the influences of art. To such it is hoped that these great models, inspired as they have been by a pro- found respect for the masters of classic art, will prove such a revelation that they will learn at last that true architecture cannot be based on undisciplined invention, illiterate original- ity. or, indeed, upon any audacity of ignorance. It was further agreed by the architects of the court that the module of proportion for the composition of their fa9ades should be a bay not exceeding twenty-five feet in width and sixty feet in height to the top of the main cor- nice, which is about the size of a five-storied fa~ade on an ordinary city lot. In all other respects each of these gentlemen, influenced of course by mutual criticism, and subject to the approval of the executive of the Expo- sition through its Committee on Grounds and Buildings, has been left perfectly free to develop, within the area prescribed in each case, the de- sign of the building assigned to him, according to his own convictions as to general outlines and details of architectural expression. Under these circumstances, therefore, it may fairly be anticipated that the great palaces of the court will illustrate the vital principle of unity in variety on a scale never before attempted in modern times. It must be borne in mind, however, that all this is not architecture in its highest sense, but rather a scenic display of architecture, com- posed (to use a theatrical term) of practica- ble models, executed on a colossal stage, and with a degree of apparent pomp and splendor which, if set forth in marbles and bronze, might recall the era of Augustus or Nero. We have not, it is true, the inexhaustible resources of the museums and schools and gardens of Paris to people this great industrial court with statues and vases, set against rich backgrounds of exotic foliage; but the opportunity will possibly en- able us to prove that whatever characteristics of audacious invention or adaptation are exhib- ited in the best buildings of modern America, it is not because our architects are untrained in the organization of structural forms, ignorant of historical precedent, or wanting in respect for the works of the masters, nor yet because they do not know how on occasion to express themselves in the language of the most vener- able traditions of art. But these great Doric, Ionic, Corinthian, and Composite orders, with their arches, porticos, pavilions, attics, domes, and campaniles, do not express actual structure in any sense, as was the case with Paxtons al)otheosis of the greenhouse in the great glass and iron building of the first London Exposi- tion; they rather serve as architectural screens of which only the main divisions and articula- tions have been suggested by the temporary framework of iron and timber which they mask, and which, in itself, is incapable of expression in any terms of monumental dignity. If each architect of the board had been permitted or encouraged to make his especial screen an un- restricted exhibition of his archa~ological know- ledge or ingenuity in design, we should have had a curious, and in some respects perhaps an interesting and instructive, polyglot or con- fusion of tongues, such as in the early scriptural times on the plains of Shinar was so detrimental to architectural success. The show might have contained some elements of the great Amen- can Style; but as a whole it would have been ARCHITECTURE AT THE WORLDS COL UAIBIAAT EXPOS/JYON 89 a hazardous experiment, and it certainly would have perplexed the critics. In respect to the architecture of the great court, therefore, it seemed at least safer to proceed according to established formulas, and to let the special use and object of each building, and the personal equation of the architect employed on it, do what they properly could, within these limits, to secure variety and movement. It is a fashion of the times, following Mr. Ruskin, to stigmatize the marvelous multipli- cation of mechanical appliances to life in the nineteenth century as degrading to its higher civilization and destructive of its art. Mr. Fred- eric Harrison agrees with these philosophers of discontent so far as to say that if machinery were really the last word of the century we should all he rushing violently down a steep place, like the herd of swine. But he says: ~ Todecry steam and electricity, inventions and ~ products, is hardly more foolish than to deny the price which civilization itself has to pay for the use of them. There are forces at work now, forces a more unwearied than steam, and brighter than ~ the electric arc, to rehumanize the dehumanized ~ members of society; to assert the old, immutable H truths; forces yearning for rest, grace, and har- a ~ mony; rallying all that is organic in mens social ~ nature, and proclaiming the value of spiritual life over material life. a a 8 In order, therefore, to present a complete and ~ symmetrical picture of modern civilization,it H is necessary that the Columbian Exposition ~ should not only bring together evidences of the ~ amazing material productiveness which, within ~ the century, has effected a complete transfor- ~ mation in the external aspects of life, hut should ~ force into equal prominence, if possible, corre- ~ sponding evidences that the finer instincts of humanity have not suffered complete eclipse in this grosser prosperity, and that, in this head- long race, art has not been left entirely behind. The management of the Exposition is justified in placing machinery, agricultural appliances and products, manufactures and the liberal arts the wonderful industrial results of scientific in- vestigation, and the other evidences of practi- cal progress, in the midst of a parallel display shaped entirely by sentiment and appealing to a fundamentally different set of emotions. It is the high function of architecture not only to adorn this triumph of materialism, hut to con 0 explain, and supplement it, so that some elements of sweetness and light may be brought forward to counterbalance the boast- ful Philistinism of our times. Each department of the Exposition must possess more or less ca- pacity for architectural expression, if not by disposition ofmasses,by style, orby sympathetic treatment of technical detail, at least by the I 0- I a. 90 AI7?GHITECTURE AT THE WORLDS COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION suggestions of sculpture and characteristic dec- oration. It is true that the vast preponderance of human effort in these closing years of the century has been in favor of practical things; it remains to be seen whether this supreme test of the elastic powers of architecture to develop out of these practical things demonstrations of art will result in furnishing any of that rest, grace, and harmony which are needed as a compensation for materialism. By a remarkable piece of fortune, the archi- tects to whom the five buildings on the great court were assigned constituted a family, by reason of long-established personal relations and of unusually close professional sympathies. Of this family Mr. Hunt was the natural head; two of its members, Post and Van Brunt, were his professional children; Howe, Peabody, and Stearns, having been pupils and assistants of the latter, maybe considered the grandchildren of the household; while McKim, who had been brought up under the same academical influ- ences, was, with his partners, of the same blood by right of adoption and practice. Collabora- tion under such circumstances, and under a species of parental discipline so inspiring, so vigorous, and so affectionate, should hardly fail to confer upon the work resulting from it some portion of the delightful harmony which prevailed in their councils. By common consent the most monumental of these buildingsthat devoted to the Ad- ministrationwas undertaken by Mr. Hunt. Having all the elements of an academical pro- ject of the first class, it was eminently fitting that this important structure should fall into hands so admirably equipped by learning and experience to do it full justice. It was to occupy the western or landxvard side of the great court, and to stand in its main central axis at the point where this axis was intersected by a transverse axis which ran north and south between the Mines and Electricity buildings. It was designed to be the loftiest and most purely monumental composition in the Park, and to serve not only for the accommodation of the various bureaus of administration, but, more conspicuously, as the great porch of the Exposition. The area assigned xvas a square measuring about 260 feet on each side, and it was necessary to divide it into four equal parts by two great avenues crossing at right angles on the axial lines which we have described. In fact, the building xvas in some way to stand on four legs astride this crossing of the ways, like one of the quadrilateral Janus-coaches of the Romans, but on a much greater scale. The whole system of railway communication was to be so connected on the west with this build- ing, that the crowds of visitors, on arriving, should enter and cross this ceremonial vesti- bule; should there obtain their first impressions; and by the majesty and spacious repose of the interior, should be in a manner introduced into a new world, and forced into sympathy with the highest objects of this latest international exposition of arts. Its function, indeed, was that of an overture. Phese conditions suggested to Mr. Hunt the idea of a civic temple based upon the model of the domical cathedrals of the Renaissance. Following this type, he projected, upon the crossing of the two axial lines, a ball of octag- onal plan; but unlike the cathedrals, this hall was designed to form the fundamental basis, the leading motive, of the design, not only on the interior but on the exterior of the structure, there being neither nave nor transepts to in- terfere with the clear externa] development of this dominating feature from the ground to the summit. Thus, at the outset, he secured that expression of unity which is essential to the no- blest monumental effect in architecture. The expression of repose, at once majestic and grace- ful, which is no less essential, was to be ob- tained, not only by a careful subordination of detail to the leading idea, but by such a dis- position of masses as would impart an aspect DRAWING MADE BR F. E. WALLIS. RICHARD H. RANT~ ARCHITECT. INTERIOR OF ADEDNIATRATION BUILDING. A 0HZ ECTURE AT HE WORLD S COL UMBIAN EXPOSiTION 9 of absolute stability. This implied the neces- sity of procuring a pyramidal or culminating effect; the whole composition, from bottom to top, preparing for this effect by so ~e process of diminution by stages upward. To this end be enveloped his hall (which the conditions of area permitted bim to make io feet in interior diameter) with two octagonal shells about 24 feet apart, the space between being occupied by galleries, elevators, vestibules, and staircases. Against the alternate or diagonal sides of the octab on he erected four pavilions in the form of wings 84 feet square, in four stories, in which he accommodated the various offices of admin- istration; the archways, pierced through the four cardinal sides of the octagon, being externally recessed between these pavilions, thus afford- ing two direct, broad passageways through the building at right angles. These pavilions are so treated as to be in scale with the other build- ings of the great court, and are carried to the same height of 6o feet, thus securing four wide- spreading abutments with flat, terraced roofs. Above these the outer octagonal shell of the cen- tral mass detaches itselg and asserts its outline against the sky through another stage, where it 92 ARCHITECTURE AT THE U/ORLD S COL (1MB IAN EXPOSITION stops in the form of a gallery, decorated with bronze fiambeaux, and permits the inner shell in turn to become outwardly manifest in a third stage of diminished diameter, rising in an octag- onal drum, the whole mass finishing with the soaring lines of the central dome; which by ver- tical growth, determined by conditions of pro- portion, reaches the height of 275 feet from the IDavement. Enriched with decorated ribs and sculptured panels, and made splendid with shin- in g gold, this noble dome rises far above the other structures of the Exposition, proclaiming afar the position of its monumental gatexvay. But as the inner surface of the outer dome would form a ceiling far too lofty to serve as a proper and effective cover for the hall, it be- came necessary, in order to give proper pro- portions to this monumental chamber, to con- struct an inner and lower dome, 190 feet high from the pavement, with an open eye at the apex, through which from below could be seen the upper structure, like the cope of a myste- rious sky beyond. This architectural device is similar to those used by Mansart in the dome of the Invalides at Paris, by Soufflot in the Pan- th~on, and by Wren in St. Pauls at London, which rank next to St. Peters as the largest and most important of the great Renaissance tem- ples of Europe. It also appears in the rotunda of the national Capitol at Washington. But, as conceived by Hunt, the exterior dome of the vestibule of the Exposition ~542 feet higher than that of Mansart, 45 feet higher than that of Souf- flot, about the same height as that of St. Pauls, and 57 feet higher than that of our national Capitol, exclusive of the lantern in each case. The interior dome has a height from the pave- ment r~ feet higher than that of the Invalides; it has about the same height as that of the French Pantheon; 15 20 feet lower than that of St. Pauls, and io feet higher than that of the Capitol at Washington. In diameter it surpasses all these domes, being 38 feet wider than the first, ~6 feet wider than the second, 12 feet wider than the third, and 26 feet wider than the Washington example. Indeed, in this regard, it is only 20 feet less than that of St. Peters at Rome, which, however, in exterior height ex- ceeds the American model by 90 feet, and in interior height by 143. Being thus in dimen- sions inferior only to the work of Michelangelo, it may be considered, in this respect, at least, an adequate vestibule to the Exposition of 1893. The method of lighting the interior of this vast domical chamber in a proper and adequate manner was a problem so important that Mr. Hunt considered it one of the primary forma- tive influences controlling the evolution of his architectural scheme. One of the noblest ef- fects of interior illumination known in histori- cal art is in the Roman Pantheon, the area of which (140 feet in diameter) is lighted only by the circular bypethral opening 25 feet wide at the apex of the dome, 140 feet from the pavement. Inspired by this majestic example, Mr. Hunt proposed in this respect to depend mainly upon such light as could be obtained from the open eye of his lower dome, ~o feet wide and 190 feet from the pavement, which should in turn borrow its light from the illumi- nation of the space between his outer and in- ner domes through a glazed hypethral opening 38 feet xvide, forming the summit of the building, and taking the place of the lantern or belvedere which usually forms the finial of the greater domes of the Renaissance. In his decorative treatment of the problem thus evolved Mr. Hunt has exercised a fine spirit of scholarly reserve. The architectural language employed is simple and stately, and the composition as a whole is so free from com- plications, its structural articulations are so frankly accentuated, that it is easy to read, and, being read, cannot fail to surprise the most un- accustomed mind with a distinct and veritable architectural impression. But to obtain this simplicity of result a far greater knowledge of design and far more ingenuity of adaptation have been required than if the building had been sophisticated with all the consciousness and affectations of modern art. In order to bring his design into the family of which, by the adoption of a common module of propor- tion, the other buildings of the groups around the great court are members, Mr. Hunts four pavilions of administration, forming the lower story of the fa~ades, are treated externally, like them, with a single order raised upon a base- ment. He has preferred the Doric in his case, so as to obtain by contrast with its neighbors an effect of severe dignity and what might be called colossal repose, and to provide for a gradual increase of enrichment in the upper parts of his monument. His second story is Ionic,with an open colonnade,or loggia,on each of the cardinal faces of the octagon, showing the inner shell behind, and with domed circular staircase pavilions of the same order on the nar- rower alternate sides, niched between heavy corner piers, which bear groups of statuary, thus obtaining a certain degree of movement and complication in the outlines of his design, and enhancing its pyramidal effect. On all his ex- terior he has used conventional ornament with great reserve, depending for richness of effect upon three colossal groups of statuary on each of his administrative pavilions, upon two, flank- ing each of his main entrances, and upon eight, crowning the gallery below the drum of his dome. This sculpture, the work of Mr. Karl Bitter of New York, is characterized by great breadth ARCHITECTURE AT THE WORLD S COL UAifBIAN EXPOSITION 93 and dignity of treafment, and by that expression of heroic power and fitness which is derived from knowing how to treat colossal subjects in a colossal way, and how to model figures so that they may assist the main architectural thought and not compete with it. Thus the groups which crown the corner piers of the iour wings in the lower part of the building are in repose, and are so massed that they serve prop- erly as monumental nials, while those sur- mounting the gallery above are more strongly accentuated, so as to become intelligible at that great height, and are distinguished by a far greater animation of outline and lightness of movement, by means of gesture, outspread wings, and accessories, so that they may act VOL. XLIV. 13 as foils to the simple and stately architectural lines of the dome, at the base of which they stand, and so that they may aid it in its upward spring. The subjects are apparently intended to typify, in a succession of groups, beginning in the lower parts of the monument, the ad- vance of mankind from barbarism to civiliza- tion, and the final triumph of the arts of peace and war. Unlike the other buildings of the Exposition, Mr. Hunts has two sets of fa ades, an exterior and an interior. In the latter he has not re- peated his exterior orders, and the same self- denial which has chastened and purified the exterior has left these inner walls large, simple, and spacious, not even the angles of the inclos GROUP FOR ADMINISTRATION BUILDIN, GLORIFICATION OF WAR, 94 ARCHITECTURE AT THE WORLDS COL UAIBIAN EXPOSITION ing octagon being architecturally emphasized at any point. Each of the eight sides of this interior octagon is pierced with an archway oc- cupied by a screen of doors below and bronze grilles above; over these is a series of panels filled with sculpture and inscriptions, and upon the great interior cornice which crowns these walls is a balcony, like the whispering-gallery of St. Pauls, by means of which the scene may be viewed from above. An order of pilasters directly under the inner dome surmounts this gallery, and the dome itself is decorated with panels, the whole interior being enriched with color, so disposed as to complete and perfect the design. We have already said that this vestibule was intended to introduce the visitors to the Ex- position into a new world. As they emerge from its east archway and enter the court, they must, if possible, receive a memorable impression of architectural harmony on a vast scale. To this end the forums, basilicas, and baths of the Roman Empire, the villas and gardens of the princes of the Italian Renaissance, the royal courtyards of the palaces of France and Spain, must yield to the architects, in that new world which is the old, their rich inheritance of or- dered beauty, to make possible the creation of a bright picture of civic splendor such as this great function of modern civilization would seem to require. At the outset it was considered of the first importance that the people, in circulating around the court and entering or leaving the buildings, should so far as possible be protected from the heat of the midsummer sun. To as- 51st in accomplishing this object the great quad- rangle will be closed in by a series of sheltered ambulatories, like the Greek s/oa, included in and forming a part of the fa~ades of the palaces of Machinery and Agriculture on the right, and of the Liberal Arts and Electricity on the left. The vast fronts of these buildings, far exceed- ing in dimensions those of any other ancient or modern architectural group, with their monu- mental colonnaded pavilions, their sculptured enrichments, their statuary, domes, and towers, will appear in mellowed ivory marble, relieved by decorations in color in the shadowy recesses of the porticos. Immediately before him the stranger will behold the great basin 350 feet wide and 1100 feet long, stretching eastward in the middle of the court, bordered with double walled terraces,of which the lower will be deco- rated with shrubbery and flowers, and the upper, with balustrades, rostral columns, vases, and statuary. Broad stairs descend from the main porticos of the buildings to the water, and the canals, which enter the basin on each side, are crossed by monumental bridges. On the nearer margin of the greater basin, and in the axis of the court, he will see a smaller circular basin 150 feet in diameter, on a level with the upper terrace, flanked by two lofty columns bearing eagles. In the center of this, on an an- tique galley of bronze 6o feet long, eight colossal rowers,portraying the Arts and Sciences, stand, four on a side, bending to their long sweeps; in the prow is poised the herald Fame, with trump and outspread wings; while aft, Time, the pilot. leans upon his helm; and, high aloft on a throne, supported by cherubs, Columbia sits, a fair, youthful figure, eager and alert, not reposing upon the past, but poised in high expectation. Eight couriersprecede the barge,mounted upon marine horses ramping out of the water. The whole triumphal pageant is seen through a mist of interlacing fountain-jets, and from the brim- ming basin the water falls 14 feet in a series of steps into the greater sheet below, a half-circle of dolphins spouting over the cascade. This pompous allegory is the work of the sculptor Frederick MacMonnies. At the outer end of the basin a colossus of the Republic, by the sculptor Daniel C. French, rises from the water. It is treated somewhat in the Greek archaic man- ner, with a strong accentuation of vertical lines, but with a simplicity and breadth which give to the figure an aspect of majesty and power. Beyond it, a double open colonnade, or pen- style, 6o feet high, like that of Bernini in front of St. Peters, forming three sides of a square, closes in the great court toward the lake. Of the two wings of this colonnade one is a con- cert-hall, and the other a casino or waiting-hall for passengers by boat. Its columns typify the States of the Union. In the center of this ar- chitectural screen is a triumphal arch thrown over the canal which connects the basin with the harbor. Through this and through the open screen of the colonnade one may see the wide- spreading lake, the wattry horizon, and, still in the axis of the court and a thousand feet from the shore, a lofty pharos with an island-casino at its base. Animating the whole, banners and gonfalons flutter gaily from innumerable staffs; people of all nations walk in the shadow of the porches, linger on the bridges, crowd along the broad pavement of the terraces, and watch from the balustrades the incessant move- ment of many-colored boats and electric barges upon the water. THE palace of Mechanic Arts, or, as it may be better known, Machinery Hall, occupies a frontage of 842 feet on the south side of the court, and a depth of ~oo feet, thus covering, with the main building of this department, 92 acres. These dimensions are nearly the same as those of the palace of Diocletian at Spalatro, and larger than the Parliament House of Great Britain in the proportion of ~ to 2. (The Capitol DRAWN BY JULIUS ROLSI-IOVEN. STATUE OF THE REPUBLIC, BY DANIEL C. FRENCH. 96 ARCHITECTURE AT THE WORLD S COL UMBIAN EXPOSITION at Washington measures 68o feet by 280.) At- tached to this building on the west is an annex 550 feet long, covering about 614 additional acres, for the exhibition of the rougher sorts of machinery. Messrs. Peabody and Stearns of Boston, in adjusting the constructional scheme of their main huilding to this fixed area, were governed by the necessity of providing large unencumbered spaces of considerable height for exhibits, so disposed as to facilitate classi- fication and to avoid confusion; and by the fact, imposed equally upon all the other ar- chitects, that, so far as possible, the form of structure should be such that its material would be marketable after tbe conclusion of the Fair. These considerations led to the adoption of a typical railway-shed 130 feet wide, covered by a barrel-shaped roof ioo feet high, sup- ported on iron arched trusses ~o feet apart, as a convenient basis for their plan. They placed three of these sheds side by side. But the site of the building was such that its main entrance had to be placed in the center of the long court-frontage, opposite the south door- way of the great vestibule of the Exposition, thus establishing a clear architectural relation- ship with its nearest and most important neigh- bor. This condition suggested the crossing of the triple hall in the center by a great transept, which, being of the same width as each of the three naves, developed a noble main hall com- posed of three bays 130 feet square, from each of which, to the right and left, the naves opened in long perspectives of six so-foot bays on each side. In order still further to distinguish this main avenue, giving access to these minor naves, each of its three square divisions was covered with a conical glazed roof, giving an interior effect of a succession of domes. The architects thus secured a vast covered area composed of three parallel naves with glazed roofs, crossed by a central main transept, the combination giv- ing a total width of 390 feet and a length of 730, affording every desirable condition of prac- tical convenience, with structural divisions so clear, large, and simple as, in great measure, to counterbalance, with their effect of spacious harmony and nohle proportion, the inevitable perplexity and confusion of a display of mis- cellaneous running machinery. In this way Messrs. Peabody and Stearns proposed to satisfy the principal structural and practical requirements of their problem. But the more difficult task remained to give to the prosaic and unimaginative mass an exterior as- pect of beauty and fitness, which, so far as pos- sible, should reconcile the spirit of materialism, here, in the very central place of its power, xvith the spirit of organized rest, grace, and har- mony. The architectural formulas by which this new and apparently ill-assorted marriage of Hephtestus and Aphrodite was to be attempted had already been established, as we have seen, by the agreement among the architects of the court to confine themselves to a style strictly classic, and to a definite height of 6o feet to the cornice. By this limitation of effort they proposed to secure for the great quadrangle a harmonious aspect of stately ceremony; but in so doing they sacrificed invention to conven- tion, and were constrained, in designing their exteriors, to confine themselves to the com- position of a series of architectural masks or screens, as we have already explained. These, though in general arrangement suggested by the divisions of the plan in each case and by the uses of the building, were intended to be expressive rather of possible than actual struc- ture. In fact, so far as the exterior envelop was concerned, they were to be merely plastic models of buildings, designed so as to be ca- pable of construction in permanent materials. The whole, therefore, may be considered as little more than a pageant of practicable stage scenery on a vast scale. The architects of Ma- chinery hall, in studying the problem of their architectural screen, reserved for this purpose an enveloping area, about ~o feet wide, extending entirely around their central hall. This area they occupied with external PEABODY A STEARNS, ARCHITECTS. MACHINERY HALL. ARCHITECTURE AT THE WORLDS COLUi1IBIAN EXPOSITION 97 and internal galleries of two stories. These gal- leries naturally develop pavilions o feet square where they intersect at the corners, and they are in- terrupted, in the center of the two principal faades, by main-entrance pavilions; that on the north facing the Administration Building, and that on the east facing the corresponding side porch of the Agricultural Building. It has already been noted that the architects of the court considered that it was necessary to establish sheltered am- bulatories along their fronts. In accordance with this agreement, the long intermediate stretches of fa9ade or curtain-walls of this building, between the pavilions, are faced with porticos; but in this case the porticos are arranged in two stories to correspond with the interior, treated somewhat after the manner of Claude Perrault in the east front of the Louvre, each division having Corinthian colon- nades of 23 columns 272 feet high on the long faades, and of 9 columns on the end fa9ades, the spacing of these columns being multiples of the structural divisions of the great interior bays. Unlike the famous Paris example, however, the basement upon which these colonnades are placed is pierced with an open arcade to form the lower ambulatory, the ceiling of the latter being treated with a dome in each bay, and that of the former with richly embellished pan- els. To relieve the scrupulously scholastic accuracy of the main order, and to recall the days of Columbus and of Ferdinand and Isabella, the apertures in the rear walls of the up- per porticos are treated with the picturesque freedom of the Span- ish Renaissance, and the arms of Spain and the portrait of Columbus are frequently repeated about them. It became evident to the architects, in the evolution of their design, that the light and open character of these long two- storied porticos needed some strongly contrasting form of relief and support, to be obtained by transition to an expression of solidity and massiveness in the corner and middle pavilions. For this reason they were led to treat the latter very boldly as plain wall-surfaces abruptly interrupting all the horizontal lines of the orders of the curtain-walls, and carried 35 feet higher, there finishing with a level cornice. On each front this plain wall-surface they divided in three pavilions, of which the outer, 29 feet wide, are treated as towers, the wider intermediate part being slightly recessed between them. Upon these towers, which contain staircases, they placed open octagonal lanterns, in three dimin- ishing stories, rising to the height of 102 feet, like spires enriched with balustrades and finials, somewhat Romantic in character, and following sug- gestions contained in Spanish or Mexican examples. On the north pavilion toward the court, and opposite the south entrance of the Administration Building, the architects em- bedded in this central division a temple-like portico 75 feet wide and 90 feet deep, the portion developed outside the pavilion, and forming the exterior, being apsidal or semicircular in plan. This portico they treated with a co- lossal Corinthian order 6o feet high, crowning the apsidal lTSNNliIzIlC(lrSmP DESIGNED BY MAX SACAMANS projection with a behind a balustrade, with a DOUR IN pedestal and statue over each column somewhat like the M CHINERY HALL. DESIGNED BY MAX MACAMASS. FIGURE IN WINDOW-FRAME QF MACHINERY HALL. 98 ARCHITECTUNF AT LYLE WORLD S COL UVIBIAN EXPOSITION famous circular porch of the calidarium in the Baths of Caracalla. The east portico practically received the same treatment, the ten-iple-por- tico. however, in this case being 75 feet square ~n plan, two fifths of it projecting outside the pavilion and finishino- with a pediment, and the remainder being embedded, as it were, in the interior. It would be difficult to conceive of a more majestic welcome to this department of the Exposition. With the object of keeping the corner pavilions subordinate to those in the center, and to establish unity of design on the adjacent sides, the two-storied orders of the long colonnades are continued around them, but em- phasized by a slightly projecting loggia on each face. The interior of each of these pavilions contains a grand double staircase inclosed in a circular cage of columns supporting a dome. This domical treatment is expressed externally by a much higher dome, raised upon a circular arcaded drum or podium supported on the cor- ners by small circular pavilions and finishing with a lantern. The long level sky-lines ofthese great fa9ades, thus broadly accentuated at the corners by domes, and in the center by the aspiring lines of twin towers nearly 200 feet high, were de- vised to form an engrossing foreground to the long higher roofs of the triple naves behind, broken by masses of decorative skylights with clearstories, and by the three low conical roofs of the main central transept. On the shorter fronts these naves present their glazed circular ends behind and above the fa~ade in the man- ner used in the great Roman baths. In this way every princilal feature of the main structure is made to play a noble and expressive part in the (lecorative scheme. The details of this design have been kept in rigid conformity with classi- cal and scholarly traditions, relieved, as we have seen, in parts by motives suggested by the highly ornate Renaissance of Spain. Enriched pro- fusely with sculpttmre and emblematic statues, and with effects of decorative color behind the open screen of the porticos, this composition, if it does not succeed in revealing the mysteri- ous relationships between machinery and art, may at least stand as a beautiful model of highly organized academic design adjusted to modern uses. The iconographic scheme ofthis building em- braces statues representing the Sciences and the Elements, and figures bearing escutcheons in- scribed with the names of famous inventors. In the great east pediment Chicago presents to America, and to the judges of the nations, vari- ous inventors and mechanics submitting their handiwork. The windows are surmounted by groups of infants bearing mechanical tools, and holding festoons composed of chains of me- cnanical implements instead of the conven- tional fruit and flowers. Before proceeding to the consideration of the Agricultural Building, which lies east of Ma- chinery Hall, and, with its noble fa9ade, com- pletes the southern closure of the great court, it is necessary to consider the treatment of the minor court, which, with the southern extension of the main canal from the basin, lies between these two buildings. The terraces in front of them are connected by a bridge thrown across the canal, and the southern closure of this mi- nor court forms a connecting link of two-sto- ried corridors between the two buildings, solid below and open above, and repeats the orders of the curtain-walls of the Machinery Build- ing, which, in their turn, are not unlike those of the fa~ade of the Museo of Madrid. This light construction is flanked at each end by a solid pavilion, still of marked Spanish accent, DRAWN BY C. HOWARD BRALKIR. PEABODY & STEARNS ARCHITECTS. THE C(BNNEB:TIN(; OCDEEN 01 CORDI CODS BIJYTACEEN JOB; MACH IN DCIX ANT) ACIBICCI,1BIDAI. DLCILORN;o. HASY THOU HEARD THE iYJGIJTIWGALE? 99 without pilasters, and treated as a wing of the main building. One of these pavilions is de- signed for a restaurant, and the other for a hall of assembly. The transition from these to the delicate open peristyle of the connecting corri- dors is still further eased by the interposition of small towers, crowned by circular belvederes, which break the sky-line with great elegance. This screen, while making a noble connecting- link between the two buildings, serves as a frontage for the amphitheater and offices of the Live-Stock Exhibit, which will be designed by Messrs. Holabird and Roche of Chicago, and which are entered by a triumphal arch in the center of the screen. The southern end of this canal will be decorated by a fountain with spouting lions and an obelisk. All the architectural modeling of this build- ing is executed by John Evans & Co. of Bos- ton, and the figures in connection with it are modeled, under their direction, by Mr. Bach- mann. The statues of the Sciences and the Ele- ments, and the groups on the entrance to the Live-Stock Exhibit, are the work of the sculp- tor Waagen. The statues on the semicircular north porch, and the figures in the spandrels over the entrance to the Live-Stock Exhibit, are executed by Mr. Krauss. [leiny Van Brunt. y ES, I have heard the nightingale. As in dark woods I wandered, And dreamed and pondered, A voice passed by all fire And passion and desire I rather felt than heard The song of that lone bird: Yes, I have heard the nightingale. II. Yes, I have heard the nightingale. I heard it, and I followed; The warm night swallowed This soul and body of mine, As burning thirst takes wine, XVhile on and on I pressed Close to that singing breast: Yes, I have heard the nightingale. ii. Yes, I have heard the nightingale. Well doth each throbbing ember The flame remember; And Ihow quick that sound Turned drops from a deep wound! How this heart was the thorn Which pierced that breast forlorn! Yes, I have heard the nightingale. Ricliara JVT/SOU Gilder. HAST THOU HEARD THE NIGHTINGALE? i.

HASY THOU HEARD THE iYJGIJTIWGALE? 99 without pilasters, and treated as a wing of the main building. One of these pavilions is de- signed for a restaurant, and the other for a hall of assembly. The transition from these to the delicate open peristyle of the connecting corri- dors is still further eased by the interposition of small towers, crowned by circular belvederes, which break the sky-line with great elegance. This screen, while making a noble connecting- link between the two buildings, serves as a frontage for the amphitheater and offices of the Live-Stock Exhibit, which will be designed by Messrs. Holabird and Roche of Chicago, and which are entered by a triumphal arch in the center of the screen. The southern end of this canal will be decorated by a fountain with spouting lions and an obelisk. All the architectural modeling of this build- ing is executed by John Evans & Co. of Bos- ton, and the figures in connection with it are modeled, under their direction, by Mr. Bach- mann. The statues of the Sciences and the Ele- ments, and the groups on the entrance to the Live-Stock Exhibit, are the work of the sculp- tor Waagen. The statues on the semicircular north porch, and the figures in the spandrels over the entrance to the Live-Stock Exhibit, are executed by Mr. Krauss. [leiny Van Brunt. y ES, I have heard the nightingale. As in dark woods I wandered, And dreamed and pondered, A voice passed by all fire And passion and desire I rather felt than heard The song of that lone bird: Yes, I have heard the nightingale. II. Yes, I have heard the nightingale. I heard it, and I followed; The warm night swallowed This soul and body of mine, As burning thirst takes wine, XVhile on and on I pressed Close to that singing breast: Yes, I have heard the nightingale. ii. Yes, I have heard the nightingale. Well doth each throbbing ember The flame remember; And Ihow quick that sound Turned drops from a deep wound! How this heart was the thorn Which pierced that breast forlorn! Yes, I have heard the nightingale. Ricliara JVT/SOU Gilder. HAST THOU HEARD THE NIGHTINGALE? i. THE FLAGELLANTS (DETAIL), BY CARL MARR. LNOXAVLD 50 HENRY WOLF. AMERICAN ARTIST SERIES. ERHAPS no picture was ever placed with better effect than Carl Marrs The Flagellants in the Munich Exhibition of 1889. Entering the building from the street, one passed through a vestibule which by the aid of Eastern rugs and other textiles had been converted into a mass of soft, richly subdued harmonies. From the vestibule one entered a room whose screened skylight diffused a twilight effect on groups of palms and other exotics. From this dimly lighted apartment a door perhaps eight or ten feet wide gave entrance to the picture-galler- ies, and on the wall opposite, filling the entire opening of the doorway, was the picture. The contrast of the well-lighted gallery with the subdued light through which one had to pass, the fact that The Flagellants was not only the first to catch the eye, but the only picture that could be seen until one had advanced some distance into the antechamber, together with the light k~y of the picture, gave the effect of looking out of a window on the self-tortured, VOL. XLIV. 14-15. HERBERT ADAMS. fanatical wretches who, scourge in hand, led by the hermit Rainier, overran Italy in the thirteenth century. So strong was the illusion so intensified by the pictures realism, that it required only a slight exaltation of the senses to hear the hiss of the scourge as it fell on the lacerated and bleeding back of the devotee, the praying, the groaning, and the weeping. It was certainly no small honor to the picture to place it thus in an exhibition which repre- sented not only the best of German, but also much of the best of French, art. But it was, together with the gold medal awarded the painting, an honor which was well deserved. An excellent composition containing over two hundred figures, all well drawn; a story requir- ing much historical research, well told, although not without some warrantable artistic license; stirring and dramatic action without a sugges- tion of the stage; the whole, if not vigorously, at least well painted the artist had produced in this work a picture which in its technical qualities easily took rank with the average in the exhibition, and in its quality of invention stood almost alone. At the date of this exhibition Carl Marr was thirty years of age. Early in his teens he had I0I CARL MARR, J. H. DOLPH, AND R7~ - fl KY A- -I--- CARL MA RO~ DRAWN MY W. L DODGE, FROM A PHOTOGRAPH. OUTLINE OF THE FLAGELLANTS, BY CARL MARE. THE FLAGELLANTS, BY CARL MARR.

AMERICAN ARTIST SERIES. ERHAPS no picture was ever placed with better effect than Carl Marrs The Flagellants in the Munich Exhibition of 1889. Entering the building from the street, one passed through a vestibule which by the aid of Eastern rugs and other textiles had been converted into a mass of soft, richly subdued harmonies. From the vestibule one entered a room whose screened skylight diffused a twilight effect on groups of palms and other exotics. From this dimly lighted apartment a door perhaps eight or ten feet wide gave entrance to the picture-galler- ies, and on the wall opposite, filling the entire opening of the doorway, was the picture. The contrast of the well-lighted gallery with the subdued light through which one had to pass, the fact that The Flagellants was not only the first to catch the eye, but the only picture that could be seen until one had advanced some distance into the antechamber, together with the light k~y of the picture, gave the effect of looking out of a window on the self-tortured, VOL. XLIV. 14-15. HERBERT ADAMS. fanatical wretches who, scourge in hand, led by the hermit Rainier, overran Italy in the thirteenth century. So strong was the illusion so intensified by the pictures realism, that it required only a slight exaltation of the senses to hear the hiss of the scourge as it fell on the lacerated and bleeding back of the devotee, the praying, the groaning, and the weeping. It was certainly no small honor to the picture to place it thus in an exhibition which repre- sented not only the best of German, but also much of the best of French, art. But it was, together with the gold medal awarded the painting, an honor which was well deserved. An excellent composition containing over two hundred figures, all well drawn; a story requir- ing much historical research, well told, although not without some warrantable artistic license; stirring and dramatic action without a sugges- tion of the stage; the whole, if not vigorously, at least well painted the artist had produced in this work a picture which in its technical qualities easily took rank with the average in the exhibition, and in its quality of invention stood almost alone. At the date of this exhibition Carl Marr was thirty years of age. Early in his teens he had I0I CARL MARR, J. H. DOLPH, AND R7~ - fl KY A- -I--- CARL MA RO~ DRAWN MY W. L DODGE, FROM A PHOTOGRAPH. OUTLINE OF THE FLAGELLANTS, BY CARL MARE. THE FLAGELLANTS, BY CARL MARR.

AMERICAN ARTIST SERIES. ERHAPS no picture was ever placed with better effect than Carl Marrs The Flagellants in the Munich Exhibition of 1889. Entering the building from the street, one passed through a vestibule which by the aid of Eastern rugs and other textiles had been converted into a mass of soft, richly subdued harmonies. From the vestibule one entered a room whose screened skylight diffused a twilight effect on groups of palms and other exotics. From this dimly lighted apartment a door perhaps eight or ten feet wide gave entrance to the picture-galler- ies, and on the wall opposite, filling the entire opening of the doorway, was the picture. The contrast of the well-lighted gallery with the subdued light through which one had to pass, the fact that The Flagellants was not only the first to catch the eye, but the only picture that could be seen until one had advanced some distance into the antechamber, together with the light k~y of the picture, gave the effect of looking out of a window on the self-tortured, VOL. XLIV. 14-15. HERBERT ADAMS. fanatical wretches who, scourge in hand, led by the hermit Rainier, overran Italy in the thirteenth century. So strong was the illusion so intensified by the pictures realism, that it required only a slight exaltation of the senses to hear the hiss of the scourge as it fell on the lacerated and bleeding back of the devotee, the praying, the groaning, and the weeping. It was certainly no small honor to the picture to place it thus in an exhibition which repre- sented not only the best of German, but also much of the best of French, art. But it was, together with the gold medal awarded the painting, an honor which was well deserved. An excellent composition containing over two hundred figures, all well drawn; a story requir- ing much historical research, well told, although not without some warrantable artistic license; stirring and dramatic action without a sugges- tion of the stage; the whole, if not vigorously, at least well painted the artist had produced in this work a picture which in its technical qualities easily took rank with the average in the exhibition, and in its quality of invention stood almost alone. At the date of this exhibition Carl Marr was thirty years of age. Early in his teens he had I0I CARL MARR, J. H. DOLPH, AND R7~ - fl KY A- -I--- CARL MA RO~ DRAWN MY W. L DODGE, FROM A PHOTOGRAPH. OUTLINE OF THE FLAGELLANTS, BY CARL MARE. THE FLAGELLANTS, BY CARL MARR. 102 AMERICAN ARTIST SERIES. gladly left school to learn wood-engraving in his fathers office, for a serious defect in his hearing had made him a lonely boy and a dull scholar. His father seems to have early recog- nized that the lad was cut out for an artist, and, when he was eighteen, sent him to Germany to study. After spending a year at Weimar, he went to Berlin to work under Professor Gusson; from Berlin he ~vent to Munich, where he be- came a pupil of Seitz, and, later, of Gabriel Max. While with the last named he painted the Mystery of Life, one of his two pictures now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In i 88o, considering himself fairly equipped, he returned to his native town, Milwaukee, with this picture as the key to unlock the door of the temple of fame. A very few months disillusioned him. Nobody wanted the pic- ture. There was no resource for him in en- graving, and had it not been for his ability as a pianist, his career, artistic and other, would in all probability have come to an end at that time. At the expiration of eighteen months of precarious existence he secured from Boston and New York publishers enough illustrating to enable him, by careful economy, after five months, once more accompanied by the Mys- tery of Life, to cross the ocean. Soon after his return to Munich he painted his Epi- sode of 1813, and with it scored his first success, the picture being purchased by the (German) Society of Historical Art. In i88~ he began work on The Flagellants, and fin- ished it in 1889. It won a gold medal. One year later he produced 1806 inGermany, now in the Royal Gallery at K6nigsberg, and for which he was awarded by the Royal Acad- emy of Berlin another gold medal. As was to be expected from the influence of the mas- ters under whom he has studied, Carl Marrs work is intellectual, serious, and thoughtful. His pictures are the work of a faithful and diligent student, of one who takes life seriously. His work, which possesses imagination and in- vention, excellent drawing, composition, con- struction, and masterful story-telling, has fairly won for him the recognition he has received. AN AFTER-DINNER NAP, BY J. H. DOLPH. CARL MARR has been more fortunate in his environment than has J. H. Dolph. He also, while a mere boy, made his hands minister to his necessities in a field other than that of fine art. Born in 1835 on a farm in the interior of New York State, by the death of his parents he was left to shift for himself when only ten years of age. From that time until he went abroad in 1870 he had a very varied experience: at first as a painter of ornamental cards, later as a scene-painter, and, in a very broad sense, as a marine painter also, for he is fond of telling that on one occasion he painted on the stern of a schooner a composition, Agriculture and Commerce, that was nearly thirty feet wide. By i86o he had made a reputation as a painter of easel-pictures, and in 1870 had saved enough money to pay for a course of study abroad. He entered in Antwerp the studio of an animal-painter of some celebrity, Louis Van Kuyck, where he worked for two years, and then returned to America. His is also a story of disappointment upon his return home. His ~5enc/iant was for scenes of country life, the barn-yard, the country blacksmith shop, etc. These subjects he painted well, but the public would not buy them. When his resources were almost exhausted, a picture of a kitten, a stu- dio pet, found a ready purchaser at a fair price, and from that time his success in this ge/ire has been such that he rarely paints any other class of subject, and the knowledge that he is a good portrait- and figure-painter is confined almost to his brother artists and intimates. It is hardly to be wondered at that Mr. Dolph should be kept painting puppies and kittens, he paints them so well, as is shown in his picture on page 64; his knowledge of their construction, of their action, of their ways is so intimate; there is so much cattiness in his cats, that one must like them. PORTRAIT BUST, BY HERBERT ADAMS. IT seems necessary in art to discriminate between the imaginative and the inventive, between the poetical and the tentative. An art- work may possess much invention, and yet lack imagination; may possess this latter quality, and yet no invention. Thus a work by Watts pos- sesses imagination; one by Dora, invention. Many a so-called poetic work is poetic simply because the power to execute is lacking. The thought that projected the xvork may have been commonplace and literal enough, but the lack of technical ability on the part of the worker left it vague and illusive. The thought that in- spired Wattss Love and Death was poetic. The execution embodied the thought. The thought was a dream. Had the execution been bold and vigorous,thevigorofthe technic would have robbed the dream of its poetry. Mr. Herbert Adams seems to understand these distinctions, and to have combined hap- pily the imaginative, inventive, and technical in the marble a reproduction of which is printed on page i 21. This bust is quite in the spirit of the Renaissance, and yet is thoroughly modern. There is such a sweet, womanly, simple grace in it; such a real unreality; such thoroughly good modeling and construction, with a conscious letting go of convention xvhen the strength of ALTAR AND IDOL. 103 the technic would say too much, would make too personal the personality, that in looking at it one instinctively thinks of that other in the Louvre, the delight of the artist, the despair of the copyist, and the puzzle of the Philistine, La Femme Inconnue. Mr. Adams was born in Concord, Vermont, in 1859. His first lessons in art were taken at the Massachusetts Normal Art School, where, as student and teacher, he passed several years. In 1885 he went to Paris, where his serious art study began under Antonin Merci~. He remained in Paris six years, exhibiting in each successive Salon, and in i888 he received a mention. He returned to America two years ago, and at present is connected with the Pratt Institute, Brooklyn. His most important work is the public fountain at Fitchburg, Massachu- setts, a group in bronze, larger than life, cast by the cire terdue process. W Lewis Fraser. ALTAR AND IDOL. BATHERS of Freedom, oer 1 The realm your courage won, Carrion vultures soar, And deeds of shame are done. The altar, raised to your God, in the wilderness, Is stained by priests impure, Who alien gods profess. Speak, departed ones, From your graves by the sea! Have ye left no sons Stern and pure as ye? Sleep ye so sound As not to hear the cry Of Freedom, flouted, bound, Target of mockery? Shall we, taught to obey No lord save only God, Bend neath the hucksters sway- Cringe at the gamblers nod? Twice our blood we shed That slaves might cease to be: Must we ourselves be made Slaves, who slaves made free? Fetters that control Limbs alone are light: Fetters of the soul XVho may gage their weight! God of our fathers, smite Our golden idols down! Kindle the sacred light! Give Freedom back her own! That we once more may rise The beacon of mankind Not grope with darkened eyes, Blind leaders of the blind! Julian Haw/korne.

ALTAR AND IDOL. 103 the technic would say too much, would make too personal the personality, that in looking at it one instinctively thinks of that other in the Louvre, the delight of the artist, the despair of the copyist, and the puzzle of the Philistine, La Femme Inconnue. Mr. Adams was born in Concord, Vermont, in 1859. His first lessons in art were taken at the Massachusetts Normal Art School, where, as student and teacher, he passed several years. In 1885 he went to Paris, where his serious art study began under Antonin Merci~. He remained in Paris six years, exhibiting in each successive Salon, and in i888 he received a mention. He returned to America two years ago, and at present is connected with the Pratt Institute, Brooklyn. His most important work is the public fountain at Fitchburg, Massachu- setts, a group in bronze, larger than life, cast by the cire terdue process. W Lewis Fraser. ALTAR AND IDOL. BATHERS of Freedom, oer 1 The realm your courage won, Carrion vultures soar, And deeds of shame are done. The altar, raised to your God, in the wilderness, Is stained by priests impure, Who alien gods profess. Speak, departed ones, From your graves by the sea! Have ye left no sons Stern and pure as ye? Sleep ye so sound As not to hear the cry Of Freedom, flouted, bound, Target of mockery? Shall we, taught to obey No lord save only God, Bend neath the hucksters sway- Cringe at the gamblers nod? Twice our blood we shed That slaves might cease to be: Must we ourselves be made Slaves, who slaves made free? Fetters that control Limbs alone are light: Fetters of the soul XVho may gage their weight! God of our fathers, smite Our golden idols down! Kindle the sacred light! Give Freedom back her own! That we once more may rise The beacon of mankind Not grope with darkened eyes, Blind leaders of the blind! Julian Haw/korne. POEMS BY HERMAN MELVILLE. [THE death of Herman Melville, which took place in New York soon after midnight on the morn- ing of September 28, 1891, was the signal for an outpouring of articles on the life and writings of an author whose vogue had temporarily subsided, partly through his own self-seclusion. Melville has rightly been called the pioneer of South Sea romance, and his Typee and Omoo gained an international reputation at an earlier date than the writings of Lowell, although both authors were born in the same year 1819. These books, with Moby-Dick; or, the White Whale, soon became classics of American literature, and are likely to remain such. They have been contin- uously in print in England, and new American editions are now in course of publication. Melvilles art of casting a glamour over scenes and incidents in the South Pacific, witnessed and experienced by himself has not been exceeded even by Pierre Loti. The Civil War first turned his attention to lyrical writing, and many of his Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the XVar (i866) obtained a wide circulation. Near the close of his life he had printed for private distribution a few copies of two little books of miscellaneous poems, the last fruit off an old tree, entitled John Marr and Other Sailors and Timoleon. From these volumes the following pieces have been selected. ARTHUR STEDMAN. ART. Nlaidho well pleased we dream J pcurs Of many a brave, unbodied scheme; But form to lend, pulsed life create, What unlike things must meet and mate: A flame to melt, a wind to freeze; Sad patience, joyous energies; Humility, yet pride and scorn; Instinct and study; love and hate; Audacity, reverence. These must mate And fuse with Jacobs mystic heart; To wrestle with the angel Art. MONODY. P 0 have known him, to have loved him, I. After loneness long; And then to be estranged in life, And neither in the wrong; And now for Death to set his seal Ease me, a little ease, my song By wintry hills his hermit-mound The sheeted snow-drifts drape, And houseless there the snowbird flits Beneath the fir-trees crape: Glazed now with ice the cloistral vine That hid the shyest grape. 104

POEMS BY HERMAN MELVILLE. [THE death of Herman Melville, which took place in New York soon after midnight on the morn- ing of September 28, 1891, was the signal for an outpouring of articles on the life and writings of an author whose vogue had temporarily subsided, partly through his own self-seclusion. Melville has rightly been called the pioneer of South Sea romance, and his Typee and Omoo gained an international reputation at an earlier date than the writings of Lowell, although both authors were born in the same year 1819. These books, with Moby-Dick; or, the White Whale, soon became classics of American literature, and are likely to remain such. They have been contin- uously in print in England, and new American editions are now in course of publication. Melvilles art of casting a glamour over scenes and incidents in the South Pacific, witnessed and experienced by himself has not been exceeded even by Pierre Loti. The Civil War first turned his attention to lyrical writing, and many of his Battle-Pieces and Aspects of the XVar (i866) obtained a wide circulation. Near the close of his life he had printed for private distribution a few copies of two little books of miscellaneous poems, the last fruit off an old tree, entitled John Marr and Other Sailors and Timoleon. From these volumes the following pieces have been selected. ARTHUR STEDMAN. ART. Nlaidho well pleased we dream J pcurs Of many a brave, unbodied scheme; But form to lend, pulsed life create, What unlike things must meet and mate: A flame to melt, a wind to freeze; Sad patience, joyous energies; Humility, yet pride and scorn; Instinct and study; love and hate; Audacity, reverence. These must mate And fuse with Jacobs mystic heart; To wrestle with the angel Art. MONODY. P 0 have known him, to have loved him, I. After loneness long; And then to be estranged in life, And neither in the wrong; And now for Death to set his seal Ease me, a little ease, my song By wintry hills his hermit-mound The sheeted snow-drifts drape, And houseless there the snowbird flits Beneath the fir-trees crape: Glazed now with ice the cloistral vine That hid the shyest grape. 104 THE NIGHT-MARCH. WITH banners furled, and clarions mute, An army passes in the night; And beaming spears and helms salute The dark with bright. In silence deep the legions stream, With open ranks, in order true; Over boundless plains they stream and gleam No chief in view! Afar in twinkling distance lost (So legends tell) he lonely wends, And back through all that shining host His mandate sends. THE WEAVER. within a mud-built room shrine he weaves the shawl, Lone wight, and at a lonely loom, His busy shadow on the wall. The face is pinched, the form is bent, No pastime knows he, nor the wine; Recluse he lives, and abstinent, Who weaves for Arvas shrine. LAMIAS SONG. Th ESCEND, descend! lJPleasant the downward way, From your lonely Alp With the wintry scalp To our myrtles in valleys of May. Wend then, wend! Mountaineer, descend! And more than a wreath shall repay. Come ah, come! With the cataracts come, That hymn as they roam, How pleasant the downward way! Rerman Melville. 105 THE CHOSEN VALLEY. By MARY HALLOCK FOOTE, Author of The Led-Horse Claim, John Bodewins Testimony, etc. WITH PICTURES BY THE AUTHOR. I. PHILIP REPORTS FOR WORK. ~HAT is it that you hope to do over there? What is the most you have promised yourself? Why do we always say over there? Is nt it time, if only as a courtesy, we began to call it home? Should I be at home on the desert plains? You might concede something to the fact that you will soon have a husband and a 50fl there. I might concede everything, and go my- self! But then there would be one reason less, though a poor one, I admit, for your coming back. No; you need not remind me, Philip, that I have nothing left. Mrs. Norrisson was a pretty, spoiled mother; one that should have died young and lived in the memory of her charm. She could argue, very logically, from her own predispositions, but she failed in that logic of the heart which enables a woman to feel anothers reasons. Nothing could have convinced her, now, that she had not a bitter cause, as the sorrows of women go, even with one who sends a son into battle or gives him up to a fatal choice in mar- riage. Yet all her grief was that her son had chosen a profession which she called narrow, and elected to practise it in his, in their, native West; while Philips culpability lay in that he had not revealed to her this purpose as it grew. There had been the natural affection, but never a perfect understanding, between them. If Mrs. Norrisson had guessed this fact before, she knew it now, passionately declaring there is no mys- tery in life like the being one calls ones child. Mr. Price Norrisson had married his wife just off the range, as they say in the cattle countries; sixteen, and the most beautiful girl he had ever met; mixed blood of course. The marriage was pronounced, in the language of his set, a good gamble. In the course of her subsequent remarkable social progress Mrs. Norrisson had left the range far behind. The fields in which she sought distinction lay to the east; and here she would have detained her son but that some reactionary sentiment in the young man called him back. Mr. and Mrs. o6 Norrisson had been much apart since the ex- periment of their marriage began, he, frankly in pursuit of money; she, of the most enlight- enedwaysofspendingit,and Philip hadideal- ized the parent he saw least of. He was prouder of his fathers summons, in the name of his Work, than a young cadet of his first commission in the service of his country; but how commend this enthusiasm to a woman professedly weary of both husband and country? I am looking for an engineer, his fathers letter ran, with about what I take your quali- fication to be, to go on big irrigation work an extension of our present system near the town of Norrisson. Dont you think you had better come and see what you can make of it over here? I shall have use for all your sci- ence, you should have got considerable by now, and I can give you the practical expe- rience no engineer, no American engineer, can afford to dispense with. Cable me your answer directly. The place cant wait. Mrs. Norrisson held this letter, folding it and pinching it small in her delicate but not gen- erous hands. What does he want with an engineer? she demanded. A county surveyor is all they need to build what they call their ditches. They are always working against time, and the quality of the work is quite a second matter. Take my word, Philip, your methods will not suit your father. He values nothing but time. He is what they call a driver. That, quite possibly, is what I need, Philip answered with provoking humility to learn something of that drive, which has done so much over there. So much and so badly, the fair renegade retorted. I dont deny they have pluck; but look at their chances, in a new country where they are first in the field! You d think they might afford at least to be honest. But they have the courage of their opportunities. Take the history of their continental railroads, for example. But granting you can keep out of all that, what sort of a school is it for a young man who has nt finished his education? Your father built a ditch over therethe one that has made Norrissonnot only without con- sulting a single engineer of reputation, but ac- tually in defiance of a very able one, a sort of partner of his. He stood in his way, and your

THE CHOSEN VALLEY. By MARY HALLOCK FOOTE, Author of The Led-Horse Claim, John Bodewins Testimony, etc. WITH PICTURES BY THE AUTHOR. I. PHILIP REPORTS FOR WORK. ~HAT is it that you hope to do over there? What is the most you have promised yourself? Why do we always say over there? Is nt it time, if only as a courtesy, we began to call it home? Should I be at home on the desert plains? You might concede something to the fact that you will soon have a husband and a 50fl there. I might concede everything, and go my- self! But then there would be one reason less, though a poor one, I admit, for your coming back. No; you need not remind me, Philip, that I have nothing left. Mrs. Norrisson was a pretty, spoiled mother; one that should have died young and lived in the memory of her charm. She could argue, very logically, from her own predispositions, but she failed in that logic of the heart which enables a woman to feel anothers reasons. Nothing could have convinced her, now, that she had not a bitter cause, as the sorrows of women go, even with one who sends a son into battle or gives him up to a fatal choice in mar- riage. Yet all her grief was that her son had chosen a profession which she called narrow, and elected to practise it in his, in their, native West; while Philips culpability lay in that he had not revealed to her this purpose as it grew. There had been the natural affection, but never a perfect understanding, between them. If Mrs. Norrisson had guessed this fact before, she knew it now, passionately declaring there is no mys- tery in life like the being one calls ones child. Mr. Price Norrisson had married his wife just off the range, as they say in the cattle countries; sixteen, and the most beautiful girl he had ever met; mixed blood of course. The marriage was pronounced, in the language of his set, a good gamble. In the course of her subsequent remarkable social progress Mrs. Norrisson had left the range far behind. The fields in which she sought distinction lay to the east; and here she would have detained her son but that some reactionary sentiment in the young man called him back. Mr. and Mrs. o6 Norrisson had been much apart since the ex- periment of their marriage began, he, frankly in pursuit of money; she, of the most enlight- enedwaysofspendingit,and Philip hadideal- ized the parent he saw least of. He was prouder of his fathers summons, in the name of his Work, than a young cadet of his first commission in the service of his country; but how commend this enthusiasm to a woman professedly weary of both husband and country? I am looking for an engineer, his fathers letter ran, with about what I take your quali- fication to be, to go on big irrigation work an extension of our present system near the town of Norrisson. Dont you think you had better come and see what you can make of it over here? I shall have use for all your sci- ence, you should have got considerable by now, and I can give you the practical expe- rience no engineer, no American engineer, can afford to dispense with. Cable me your answer directly. The place cant wait. Mrs. Norrisson held this letter, folding it and pinching it small in her delicate but not gen- erous hands. What does he want with an engineer? she demanded. A county surveyor is all they need to build what they call their ditches. They are always working against time, and the quality of the work is quite a second matter. Take my word, Philip, your methods will not suit your father. He values nothing but time. He is what they call a driver. That, quite possibly, is what I need, Philip answered with provoking humility to learn something of that drive, which has done so much over there. So much and so badly, the fair renegade retorted. I dont deny they have pluck; but look at their chances, in a new country where they are first in the field! You d think they might afford at least to be honest. But they have the courage of their opportunities. Take the history of their continental railroads, for example. But granting you can keep out of all that, what sort of a school is it for a young man who has nt finished his education? Your father built a ditch over therethe one that has made Norrissonnot only without con- sulting a single engineer of reputation, but ac- tually in defiance of a very able one, a sort of partner of his. He stood in his way, and your THE CHOSEN VALLEY 107 father got rid of him, because he had a con- science about his work. You need not look at me, my dear, as if I were talking scandal. He will tell you the story himself. He glories in succeeding in just that illogical, immoral way. It is the triumph of makeshift. That is his school of practical experience. They say the country drives them, and they have to keep the pace, somehow, or get left. I dont go into the philosophy of it. I m only speaking of its ef- fects. You can see them in me. I was bred in that same school; I got on famously; I could do anything I pleased up to a certain point. There I stopped. There I have stopped for want of thoroughness in the beginning. I hoped you would be a school-boy till you were twenty- five, then take five years for travel. By that time you would have been something more than an American engineer. I meant that my son should be a citizen of the world, not a local man in a profession half learned. I 11 come back, my dear mother; but a man must choose his field. It strikes me the field for Americans is America; and if the con- ditions are so different, the sooner I get over there and learn them, the better. Who, then, are the Americans? Are you an American? If you are, you get precious little of it from me. My father was an English- man, my grandmother was a Spanish Creole a Californian I suppose you would call her. Why should nt we revert, through these knots in our blood, to the people we come from who had something that could be called race? I am convinced it is the homesickness of gen- erations that stirs in me whenever I fancy my- self back in that ugly, raw, indiscriminate region you ask me to call home. I may be homeless, but //ia! is not my home. Has it ever been suggested that you should call the desert plains your home? Come, at least, as far as San Francisco. I might as well be in London, so far as the society of my husband and son is concerned. IVell, not quite. The difference in miles does nt begin to makeup for the difference in point of residence. But it s not a question of my going back; whether I go or stay, my tastes, my principles, are the same. But for you it will be the turn- ing-point. I am sure that you will commit your- self to something pitiable before the year is out; probably to staying there forever. There s a fascination about the life, as there is about the first stage of every return to barbarism. XVhen the rope begins to strain, it s a temptation to reverse the wheel; but is it worth while to send the bucket to the bottom again, after so many turns have brought it nearly to the top? No; you are making a distinct step backward. A nAan, I have always insisted, should go east for his education, his accent, and his wife. He may go west for his fortune, perhaps; but you do not need a fortune, Philip. The last word was a plea. But Philip could not forego his retort. Because my father has made one for me? Is that a reason I should spend my life in Eu- rope, posing as a citizen of the world? Ah, if you are posing! I thought you were doing something more sincere. But now I see you have never been that. You have taken the way of all men with all women; flattering them, conceding everything till the moment of dis- covery. And then they ask, why it is a woman must always make a scene! Well, go and be foot-loose, as they say over there! But dont get beaten, and dont get left. For if you do, your father will lay it all to Europe and to me. Philip cabled that he would report at the companys office in New York, at once, where he hoped for further orders. He knew that there was such a town as Norrisson, a metrop- olis of the desert plains, named for his father, who had been the Moses of emigration thither, even to the smiting of the dry hills to furnish forth water for the reclamation of the land. But where lay this field for practical experi- ence, in what precise quarter of his big native West, he was as ignorant as if he had been born a cockney. He had a mixed idea that the people of Norrisson lived in semi-subterranean dwellings called dugouts; that their only fuel was sage-brush; that their sons herded cattle; and their daughters, phenomenally pretty and ungrammatical,ran barefoot,like the sage-hens, until each married her cowboy or successful prospector and became a boarding-house belle in San Francisco. These images were mainly de- rived from his mothers generalizations, she was a sad recreant to have been born under the Star of Empire,and from her free use of hyperbole where her feelings were involved. She had a singular aversion to the West, and when she talked of her girlhood there,a time of unimaginable freedom, by her own ac- count,it was with a bitterness Philip could only marvel at, seeing that even her distorted descriptions conveyed, in spite of herself, a picture that interested and attracted the listener. He began his journey in anything but a tri- umphant humor. He was preoccupied with his mothers disappointment, and some of her ar- t guments stayed with him after the heat of con- tention had subsided. A half-doubt of his own choice hampered his outlook. It xvas not till he began to go down the long continental slope, westward from the Port Neuf, far west of the great divide, following the Snake River Valley, and towns and farms gave way, and solitary buttes stood for church-steeples, and I o8 THE CHOSEN VALLEY. dusty corrals for lawns and meadows, that he saw his work before him, and began to look for- ward instead of back. II. HE 15 INTRODUCED TO THE SCHEME. MR. PRICE NORRIssoN was at breakfast, eating his first course of iced fruit and go- ing through a pile of newspapers, when Philip made his appearance on the morning after his arrival. The hours of his fathers establishment were a shock to his system; he had not thought of breakfast at half-past seven. Wong, the Chi- nese butler, in a white, starched blouse, the sleeves of which fell to the knuckles of his tawny, pointed hands, was making coffee in a Vienna coffee-pot with the solemnity of a priest preparing an oblation. One side of the room was filled with a great array of glass and china rn cupboards built into the wall; the opposite side was devoted chiefly to a huge painting of the Shoshone Falls, the work of a local artist, after a photograph by Jackson ofDenversuch an acquisition as the bored possessor some- times deprecates by explaining that he took it for a debt. A long window on the third side, divided into casements, opened upon a grass terrace where a lawn-sprinkler flung its daz- zling mist into the sunshine. Outside there was a humming stillness, a perfume oflocust-blooms, a breeze that blew freshly into the room, whip- ping the silk sash-curtains out from the rods, turning up the corners of Mr. Norrissons news- paper, and tumbling the yellow roses that filled a majolica bowl in the center of the table. You re about four inches longer than you were when I saxv you last, said Mr. Norrisson, measuring his son with his keen, appraising glance. Dont run to fat much: queer how white everybody looks who s just out from the East. You ought to have got a Western color on shipboard. In the next five minutes he had asked Philip a number of questions, rather difficult to an- swer, about his mother. She s still too good an American, I suppose, to be happy out of Europe? Where it is well with me, there is my country, is her creed national, said Philip, after a moments hesitation. And how is it with you? Have you got outside of all your national prejudices? I have come home, said Philip. ~Good enough! And what does your mo- ther think of your going to xvork? While Philip fumbled in his memory for a speech of his mothers that would bear repeti- tion, Mr. Norrisson answered the question for himself. Did nt expect it, of course. Well, she has been running your education for quite a while on the European plan; I rather thought it was my turn now. And when I ye set you on your legs it will be your turn. Then you can go back if you want to. But I guess after you ye been two years in the West, with something to do, you wont want to go back. Let me see, how old are you, Philip? Twenty-three, sir. You dont say! It s a fact. You were born the year of the big strike on the Comstock. And Phosa must be forty years old! was the thought Mr. Norrisson did not utter. He was quite used to thinking of himself as a man of fifty-two, with a chest-measure that increased rapidly downward. But Phosa a woman of forty! His slender, narrow-eyed, rose-mouthed gipsy, in whom he had forgiven everything be- cause of her youth! How could she endure the fact herself? The reflection made him feel more tenderly toward her. Philip took from his letter-case a photo- graph, and pushed it across the cloth. Mr. Norrisson took it up and looked at it fixedly, but withoutachange of expression. For me? he inquired. If you like it. It is mine only because I helped myself to it. My mother has her picture taken every now and then; her Jur;u7l in/line she calls the collection. But she is very jeal- ous of its circulation. She need nt be afraid, if the others tell no more about her than this one. Icant read her journal. This picture does nt even tell her age.~~ Neither does her face. You better keep it, said Mr. Norrisson, handing back the card with a confirmed stoical patience in the last look he gave it. It may tell you more than it does me. I presume you will miss her a good deal. She s the kind of woman who occupies a mans mind. She did mine until I found I could nt think about her and do anything else. I dont miss her so much as I used to; I dont let myself. Mr. Norrisson now began upon the second course of his substantial breakfast trout from the hills, served in a wreath of cresses, with curly slivers of bacon, and potatoes hashed with cream. Philip was breakfasting Conti- nental fashion, his father eying him disapprov- ingly. I m going to take you down the line this morning. You cant ride twenty miles on a roll, a cup of coffee, and a cigarette. Eat something, boy! You dont know when you 11 get your next meal. Philip fancied that this prompt call for boots and saddles might be somewhat in the nature of a test, and was careful not to keep his father waiting, though the horses were brought round THE CHOSEN VALLEY. 109 at once and he was not dressed for riding. Mr. Norrisson glanced at his sons trousers and faultless foot-gear, and ordered a servant to fit him with a pair of spatterdashes. His nar- row-gage hat was exchanged for a grass- cloth helmet, and they set forth. From time to time, as they rode along, the father cast an eye upon his sons seat in the saddle. At length he spoke of it, approving Philips readiness to catch onto the Ameri- can way of riding. Philip disclaimed the com- pliment, explaining, with some particularity as to terms, that he had been taught to ride in the French school, which had certain points of resemblance to the American, notably the long stirrup. Mr. Norrisson snorted at the idea of a resemblance; he said that the Americans had no school. We ride because we want to get there. A horse is merely the extension of the powers of a man: if the man likes to make a show of him- self he can do it better on a horse than on the ground; and that, I take it, is the fundamental principle of the haute e co/e in riding. They were folloxving the lower bank of the irrigation-canal toward the head-works on the river. The stream which supplied the canal was an uncelebrated tributary of the Snake, called the Wallula, fed by melting snows from the mountains, and now at the flood. Every long, hot day set the river roaring with added vol- ume at night; and the dry-plains wind, which blows strongest toward morning, like the ter- ral of the tropics, augmented the sound of its booming, which could be heard for miles, and might have been mistaken for a distant growl of surf. The canal was carrying to its full ca- pacity, a guard of men watching it day and night. Mr. Norrisson pointed out to his son that the location at which the main ditch had been taken out of the river was not a particu- larly good one; a fact which Philip had already noted. That ditch bad to go through, said his father. There was only one spot at the time for the head-gates. Better risk the patching and propping than let the scheme grow cold on my hands. Here, you see, we had no garan- ties d i,,/hre$ts, like your gentlemen of the Ponts et C/uaussies. We had no security but faith in the ditch. Private capital, if it s non-resident capital, is skittish unless you can show results. Our parties got scared at the outset. We had to give up our scientific lay-out, and build as we could, with what money I could get them to put up. We made a bad job of it, but we made it pay. But there is just where the pride of your foreign engineer knocks him out. We had one of them with us at the start, but he could nt put up with our American methods. It hurt him more to botch the job than to see the whole scheme fall through. He had his professional reputation to look out for; I had my reputa- tion as a business man. If I undertake to make a deal, I make it; if not on one proposition, then on another; carry it through, somehow, and stop the leaks afterward. We were the original partners in the scheme, Dunsmuir and I. He has got the location that we should have had only for the split between us. He is canny enough to see that he holds the door to the high line, the only ditch-line that can reach the big tracts below, that we cant reach300,ooo acres of the richest arid land in southern Idaho. We have been freezing him out, you understand. It has taken fifteen years to do it. I brought you over here to be ready for the new scheme that is to take in Dunsmuir, location and all. And is Dunsmuir prepared to be ab- sorbed? Bless you, no. It is nt time to close him out yet. You dont like the vietarmis method, I see. Well, dont be alarmed. There is nt going to be any fighting, not even in the courts. Dunsmuirs claim is worn pretty thin; but if it came to a tussle between us, the side of a big company is always the unpopular side. Duns- muir has been laughed at and called a crank these ten years; but people have got used to thinking of him, holding on with a bulldog grip, staking every penny he s got on the game, and year after year of his lifenot to speak of the lives of his wife and children. Its the sort of spectacle that stirs the blood of your true West- ern man. There is never any sentiment about the rights of a company. It will be a delicate bit of work, I presume, this closing deal with Dunsmuir. I hear that solitude has become a disease with him; that hes completely warped, like a stick of timber left out in the sun. He was sound enough once. We might have been of immense service to each other, if he could have brought himself to compromise with that professional conscience of his. But pride be- fore everything! He had put his name to the first report on the scheme: it should never go through, then, with his consent, but on what he called a sound basis. Of course there were one or two little issues of a personal nature. I 11 tell you the story some time, but the gist of it is just here Dunsmuir is a sore-headed theorist, and I am a practical man. They had reached the measuring-weir of the main distributing-channel, and the talk plunged into technicalities. Dunsmuirs name xvas not again mentioned between father and son until that evening, in the summer smoking-room, when Mr. Norrisson returned to the story with evident relish of the opportunity to review it with an intelligent listener. He refrained from making points against Dunsmuir, resting his case honestly or carelessly on its merits, such 110 THE CHOSEN VALLEY as they were. He did not pretend to be proud of them, but treated the whole entanglement as one of the exigencies arising from a practical mans obligations to his business. Above their heads, as they talked, a Japanese lanternsoftlyglimmeredinits sheath ofxvrought- bronze filigree; the pattern of the metal screen wavered upon the circle of light cast upon the ceiling, like the shadow of leafy boughs on a moonlit curtain. Mr. Norrisson was seated in a deep, leather chair, one foot resting on the ratan lounge where Philip was stretched out, looking both sunburned and pale after his first day in the saddle. He was observing his father, and smiling to himself at the contrast that bold masculinity presented to the fair, changeful, feminine type which he was accustomed to watch, in his usual r6le of the listener. Ugli- ness in one another has a certain fascination for men, where its signification is poxver. Philip had seen famous historic heads by the Flemish painters, the prototypes of his father, set off by the ruW and gold chain, and furred mantle that would have suited Mr. Norrissons middle-aged development much better than a pongee sack- coat and a linen collar. Yet he understood what an offense this man of broad instincts and hard, vital force might have become, with his sanguine eye and sagging underlid, to the pet- ted, disdainful sensibilities of the wife who for twenty years had contemplated only the points of difference between them. I was joking this morning, you know, at the breakfast-table, said Mr. Norrisson, not very explicitly. Yes? Philip inquired. When I said it was~iy turn now. I want you to understand that I have nt interfered to please myself, though I enjoy having my son around as well as any man. It was on your account I called you home. I was afraid she d polish away at you till all the bark was oft; and then your growth would stop. That was one trouble with Dunsmuir. He d been trained up to a certain size and shape, and he could nt change to fit the circumstances. Dunsmuir was not much above thirty when I first knew him, but he was already an engineer of some distinc- tion. He had done excellent work in India, in charge of one of the divisions of the Lower Ganges canal. He became disgusted with what he considered the gross inequality between the positions of a civil and a royal engineer in the Government corps. I believe there is some room for jealousy in the treatment of the two branches, and Dunsmuir was nt one to pass over a thing like that. When he had served his term he decided to quit the Government ser- vice. He had got the colonizing fever, more- over, and was resolved to do something on a large scale over here, making use of his Indian experience to start an arid-land scheme on the colonization plan. I was looking up the sub- ject of irrigation myself; it was the spring of 74, and mining stocks had got a black eye. I made up my mind then that irrigation was going to be the next big boom. Dunsmuir was coming down from the Northwest, on horseback, traveling light with a couple of pack-animals and a half-breed guide. I was on my way across from San Francisco. We met at Winnemucca, where I dropped off the train to wait for the stage. He had got wind of this tract through some old Idaho City miners he struck at Vancouver. I d had my eye on it, going back and forth, ever since 6o. I happened to know there was a possibility of the U. P. pushing across it, and that the lands must still be open for occupation; but it was all vague, in the future, with me. He was first on the ground; but he wanted to go in with some American, because, you know, an alien cant locate a water-right under our Govern- ment. Well, Dunsmuir turned up that evening, as I was saying, and we sat up talking irri- gation, soils, crops, climates, and railroad fa- cilities till two oclock in the morning. The result of our talk was that Dunsmuir gave me his spare saddle-horse, and we rode north to- gether. I dont know that I ever had a pleas- anter journey. Dunsmuir had a keen eye for a new country; and like most Englishmen he was a bit of a farmer. He knew soils and cli- mates, and was watching out for the flowers and birds and all the living things of the desert; and when we rode at night he had the whole map of the stars in his head like an old navi- gator. Those lands, as we rode across them, two days and two nights, seemed to take hold on his imagination. He saxv them with the eye of a dfeamer, but he sized em up just as coldly as I could. I never was surer in my life that I had got hold of the right man. But when it came to laying out the scheme in detail, I began to get scared. His very success, for- merly, in India, was a disadvantage to him. However, I m ahead of my story. We agreed to take hold of the scheme together. He wanted me to take it over to the other side and offer it to some of those swell philanthro- pists who want room, outside of their estates, for their crowded agricultural population. But I have always had a preference for home cap- ital when I can get it. However, it was chiefly a question of time with me, and you cant hurry an Englishman. We had various nibbles. I closed finally with the Larimers, a New York loan and mortgage house with agents all over the West. They knew the country pretty well, and were in some of the railroad combina- tions that were likely to benefit it in the fu- ture. They were really anxious to get in here, THE CHOSEN VALLEY. III and they sent out one of their men to look the thing over. He was satisfied, and they put up fifty thousand to enable us to go on with the work and hold the right, while they placed the rest of the money. Now you 11 notice how Dunsmuirs train- ing got away with him. Here, with no de- mand as yet for water, he used the same care in laying out his system as in India, in a thickly settled country on a tail division, where every inch of duty was required. Well, there never were such surveys made in this part of the coun- try as Dunsmuirs longitudinal sections, and cross-sections, and elaborate detailed maps; and everything costing, you know, like the deuce. He put two hundred men on that heavy side- hill work in the cafion, and lined his earth- banks with masonry. Dunsmuirs cry was always that no work is so expensive as cheap work which has to be done over. I could nt gainsay him on technical grounds; what I did urge was this: put your men below, on the easy part of the line, and you can show our people, when they come out here, ten miles of ditch that will have cost no more than half a mile up there in the cafion. Dunsmuir called this jockeying the scheme. The entire ditch be- low the cafion could be built, he said, in less time than those first three miles and the head- works. Why, then, should he push forward the lower work merely to let it stand waiting to its detriment? I had nothing to do but to bring forward my usual doctrine of expediency, which Dunsmuir scorned, both as a man and an engineer. It turned out precisely as I expected. Our people were to have come in June, when the country is at its best; they did nt get here till September, when it looks its worstdust on the plains six inches deep; smoke from fires in the mountains, cutting off the viexv; hot; and the-river sunk to a creek. The miners said they had nt seen it so low for twenty years. Our people doubted that we had even the water we claimed to have. They doubted everything but Dunsmuirs figures, showing what the cafion work was costing. They would nt listen to his averages; it was the big figures that stuck. They proposed to cut down the canal to half its size, covering a portion of the lands first. Later, if the water held out and the settlement demanded it, the canal could be enlarged. Well, you cant imagine Dunsmuirs disgust. We had a battle royal Dunsmuirs note-books, his Indian experience, his historical precedents, all his professional artillery, and his personal enthusiasm against their cold, hard, business sense. They were scared, it s true ; but I did nt wonder they were scared. And Dunsmuir would nt go a step to meet them. He had taken offense at their criticism of his economy. Did you ever see a magnificent handler of money who did nt think himself a great econo- mist? He was suspicious, moreover, of their plan of opening the lands for settlement. They talked more about that part of the business than was advisable to Dunsmuir, at least. They were square men enough,but Dun smuir thought they meant to squeeze the settlers. Privately he did nt wish to give them control of the scheme. He told me as much, and urged me to let them go, with what stock their money represented. I knew we could nt afford to play with our chances, and I wanted to unload and be ready for the next thing. But you must know I had an anchor to windward. While xve were waiting, seeing how Dunsmuir was carrying on with the funds, I privately got possession of a little bundle of water-rights down the river; all put together, they represent our present system. I did nt inform Dunsmuir what I was doing; he would have considered it a sort of potential bad faith, and I did nt wish to take issue with him on any new grounds. We had plenty to discuss as it was. When I saw our big deal growing cold, I shoxved the Larimer~ this little pocket- scheme; no rock-work, no masonry, line of ditch directly upon the lands. They liked it. We closed the bargain, and then I offered to go halves with Dunsmuir. Lord, how he did kick! I had been forelaying for the event of failure, he said. I had betrayed our mutual in- terest for a private deal of my own. He made nothing of my offer to go snacks. A vain show, he called it, offering him a share in a rotten scheme which I well knew his reputation would nt allow him to touch. He called it rotten because we were proposing to raise money on contracts for water which, he said, we could nt supply. Why could nt we? Be- cause we had nt the first elements of a ditch; to begin with, we had no site for our head- works. Ver~r true; but we have made shift to get along without one. He argued that our failure would be a blow to irrigation in this section for years to come. Very trueif we had failed. He could nt understand that one scheme was no more to me than another. To hear him talk of how I had weakened, you d have supposed there was some principle at stake. What the big scheme really meant to him, I m not sure that I know. Anyhow, he would nt look at any substitute. He might have gone in with us; he preferred to hold out alone against us. Since then I have treated him as I would any other obstacle to my com- pany 5 success. He built him a house up on his location, as solid as the hill it stands on. I have come to stay, was the idea. He brought his family over, and he raised money on the other side to 112 THE CHOSEN VALLEY buy out our interest. I advised our people not to sell, to keep their hold on his scheme. Ul- timately, I knew we could freeze him out. Our game has been to let him make his deal, and then quietly come in at the last and be the card too many. The tendency has nt been to in- crease Dunsmuirs friendship for us. How was it, sir, that with your interest in the big canal you did nt wish it to go through? Philip inquired. Our interest was a small one, though with an option of increasing it on certain terms. We should not have had the controlling voice in the management; it might have gone against us, conflicting xvith our own ditch. We xvanted the thing to hang in the wind till we were ready to take hold of it ourselves, as we now propose to do, and make the two ditches into one system under our own management. Then we shall abandon our shifty head-gates, and build on Dunsmuirs location, and supply the lower line from the upper one. If Dunsmuir could be approached like any other man, on a business basis, it would be easy enough to compromise; it s as much to his interest as to ours; but he s terribly complicated. We ye got to satisfy his science, and his principles, and his pride, and his romantic sentiments, and the bitterness of fifteen years steady disappointment. It has been hard for him to look on and see us suc- ceed by the very methods he despises. Prob- ably the hardest thing for him to forgive us is the plain truth that we are not so black as he has painted us. Possibly that truth is not yet obvious to him. Possibly not. In that case it must be painful to him to reflect upon the ways of Providence. The two men smoked awhile in silence. My definition of a theorist, Mr. Norrisson resumed, is a person who is never satisfied with his own work, nor with anybody elses, not even the works of the Creator~ Meet them where you will, they are always obstructionists, injuring other peoples chances, coquetting with their own, but terribly sore-headed if they find they ye been left out in the cold. In politics they are Mugwumps; in religion they are no- devil Unitarians; and if they read novels, they only read em for the truth to life. No, sir; I ye no use for a theorist not if he s a man. Women are born that way sometimes, and cant help themselves. Mr. Norrisson was in very good spirits. He felt that he had told his story tolerably well and with fairness to the other side, and he was confident that he had carried his son with him. He gave Philip credit for being, as he would have expressed it, a boy of sense. Philip was certainly impressed. He sat think- ing the story over, and was not prepared for the change of subject when his father spoke again. Do you think your mother will come home, Philip? What does she say about it? From what she says, I should hardly ex- pect it; but it is nt always safe, you knoxv, to take a woman at her word. No, Mr. Norrisson coincided grimly; I took one at her word some five and twenty years ago, and it was the greatest wrong, it seems, that I could have done her. No, he corrected himself after a moment; I took a childs word for a woman s, thinking I could win the woman afterward. And that s why I forgive her. I took the risks. She did nt know what the risks were. It was nt a square game; but I ye paid the shot, and I ye never complained more than I m complaining now; and I dont say, if it was all to do over again, I should nt take the chances just the same. What is all the rest of it worth if you cant marry the woman you want? And if you cant make her happy, who knows whether any other man could? Have you always made her happy, Philip? She loves you. I am not making her happy now. No; but she blames me for it. All her talk about America, you know, means me. If I were in Europe, she would come home. I dont think so, said Philip, earnestly; but of course I dont know. Her very bitter- ness seems to me to be a sign there is feeling left. I had not thought of it before, but now it comes to me that she talks about America as if she were fighting some half-stifled plea for the country she says she deplores. Both men smiled at the word. Well, said Mr. Norrisson, when she does come back I shall expect to see her out here. She deploresthe West, but she was born a Western woman, and she does nt love the East now, you know! lii. THE CHILDREN OF THE ScHEME. BEFORE they separated for the night, Mr. Norrisson planned with Philip a reconnaissance up the line of the old ditch to look at Duns- muirs location. The next day th~ manager was called away, and it turned out that Philip rode up the ditch-line into Dunsmuirs domains alone. He was told that about three miles above the mouth of the caflon, where it debouches upon the plain, he would come to the big cut, a spot often chosen by excursionists as a camping-ground. Was the caPon, then, a I)lace much frequented? Philip inquired. At certain seasons, yes; when the young folks went on picnics and riding-parties. Tourists generally took a look at it on account of the lava bluffs THE CHOSEN V4LLE Y. 3 that rose, in some places, txvo hundred feet above the river, to the level of the hill pastures. But dont you go foolin round the house. The old man dont take no stock in strangers up there on his location, you bet! Bearing this in mind, Philip entered the cafion. The bridle-path hugged the shore,wind- ing in and out amidst dusty sage- and willow- thickets, and boulders fallen from the bluffs. The first sign of Dunsmuir s occupation was the cabin of the force, where a purblind mon- grel collie barked at him, without crawling from the house-shadow where he lay. Half a mile farther on he passed the force itself two men at work blasting rock on the slope of ancient debris escarped against the bluffs. The sun, declining in a cloudless sky, hung midway be- tween these barriers, heating their vitreous sur- faces to the temperature of a brick-kiln. The breeze that faintly puffed and died could be tracked on its xvay down the trail by the dust- pillars whirling before it. It smote Philip in the face, and left him with the sensation of hav- ing been exposed to a sand-blast. Across his sight the heat-veins quivered; the rivers monot- onous ululation drowned the silencea sound of mocking coolness to a horseman on the blind- ing trail. Philip saw ahead of him a black notch of shadow, and spurred forward to the shelter of the big cut. It was a noble, unroofed gallery, sixty feet across the top and forty feet upon the ground, with floor and slope-walls of cut stone laid in cement; bending in a mathematical curve around the hill, and so averted from the sun. It might have been the hall of approach to a tomb of prehistoric kings. But here the perennial picnicker had made himself at home; broken bottles, tin cans, greasy paper bags desecrated the pavement laid for the tread of waters which fate and that instrument of fate, Mr. Price Nor- risson, had conducted another xvay. Philip gave himself up to a moment of frank - sentimentality over this good work come to naught. Like the work of many another the- orist, it had been in advance of its time. He sat still, breathing his horse, loath to quit the shadow for the glare. More than once he heard the call of a bird, the only voice in the cahon, before its peculiar, indeterminate, yet persistent rhythm took hold upon his ear. It was not the perfect cadence; it would have been difficult to repeat upon any instru- ment the first note of the combination, still more the doubtful fragment which followed, dropping down the scale and ceasing suddenly, the final note wanting. While he waited came the pure, sad postulate again, unsupported in the sequel; and then the haunting pause. Philip listened, fairly thirsting for the sound so delicious in the hot silence. Where was it, the poet-bird? No- thing stirred in the dead air of the cut; there was not a leaf nor a spear of grass to record that a breath of wind had wandered into it: but the broken utterance came again and again, as if aware of a listener and trying to make itself understood, always with the one word wanting. Nothing caine of this lyric pause: Philip rode on reluctantly, and his horses tread silenced the bird. By the distance he had come from the mouth of the cafion he judged the house itself could not be far away; and as the walls of the cut fell back he saw it straight before him, the only house for miles as distinct in that absolute light as the picture in the small lens of a tele- scope, yet unreal and dreamlike in its dwarfed proportions because of that very perfection of detail. A long, yellow house of adobe, or plas- tered brick, with low dormers scarcely breaking the line of the roof, peering out like saurian eyes into the glare. The roof, sloping outward at a slight angle, rested on the squat pillars of a massive portico, which shaded the entrance to the house. A side entrance for carriages was through a blind wall, running back like the wall of a court and beneath the arch of the gateway hung a bell for announcement or warn- ing. The sun beat upon the dull red roof, pro- jecting the shadows of smokeless chimneys, and emphasizing the dormers with lines of black. The aspect of the place was that of sul- len, torpid seclusion. The plateau, or bench, on which it stood parted the meager waters of a stream which trickled down a side-gulch, one of the laterals of the cafton. Small, stunted trees clung to the slope, crouching all one way, as if the wind were ever at their back. A blight had withered the patches of thin grass on top; but up the gulch, following the stream, a double rank of poplars towered, their dark-green tops clear-cut against the sky, a landmark in that dun country of drought. Philip concluded that all the water descend- ing from the gulch had been hoarded within the court, for here and there a fruit-tree overtopped the wall, or a vine flung a loose spray over it; showing there was a heart of verdure inside that stone shell which the house presented to a stranger. Scarcely a leaf trembled in the hot, intermittent lull; even the river seemed to hold its breath; then, with a hoarse sigh, the sound bore down again; a sheet of ripples spread, whitening the current; the poplars began to rock and strain; and a flicker of white, like the folds of a thin curtain, blew out of one of the lidless dormers in the roof. Leaving the cut, the trail made directly to- ward the house. Philip saw that he could fol- low it no further without trespassing; but as he proposed to see something more of the cation, he rode back to the shelter of the cut, I 14 THE CHOSEN VALLEY tied his horse, and returned to the trail on foot. His plan was, if possible, to gain the top of the bluW whence he could survey the region and study it as upon a map. He marked where a thicket of wild shrubs flourished close at the foot of the cThon wall. The water-supply which they had located was the storage from melted snows, collecting in hollows of the rocks above, which had dripped, or fallen in slender cata- racts, down the face of the bluff. Discolored streaks showed where, spring after spring, the muddy overflow had descended. The slope of debris here rose to within fifty feet of the top, and Philip decided to try this spot for the ascent, trusting to find cracks and footholds caused by the action of the water. His spurs were in his way as a climber, so he took them off, and went light-footed up the talus as far as the foot of the bluffs. Here, in the shade of a huge buck sage, ablaze with yellow blossoms, he threw himself down to rest. Already his prospect was immensely enlarged; he had gained a cooler stratum of air; he could see the formation of the cafion from end to end, from its rise in the hills to the gate of the riv- ers departure. He could pick out the rocks and shallows in thebrownwaterbeneath. Tons of boulders, fallen from the bluffs, lay embedded near shore, breaking the current into swirls and eddies. The river had worn a way down to its present bed, from the level of its former path, through a fissure in the ancient lava-flow which once submerged the valley. Such was the word of science respecting its history, a revelation to be classed with visions and dreams of the night. Had Dunsmuir taken counsel of nature during his fifteen years waiting, and learned patience in the daily presence of this astound- ing achievement? Or had he fretted the more for these silent agencies, witnessing how long, how heartbreaking in their slowness, are those works which endure; how the life of a man is as the frosts of a single season to the accom- plishment of one of natures schemes? Below the house the rivers channel pinched suddenly, and the volume of waters rushed down, with a splcndid outward swirl, between two natural rock-piers resembling the abut- ments of a bridge. This spot Philip accepted at a glance as the famous location. Here, upon this footstool of the bluffs, Dunsmuir had planned to build his dam and waste-gates. The river was to have been raised to the level of the big cut, and its waters transmitted thence, by the high line, to the plains. It was a fine, courageous piece of fancy, from an engineering point of view, and conceived closely within the bounds of practicability; but it was the dream of a potentate with the credit of a nation to back him. Philip saw how alarming it might have been to a few private capitalists, who were not building for fame or for posterity. Yet the dreamers time had come. The only doubtful issue now remaining was the personal one upon which men waste their lives. Philip was beginning to dread it in proportion as his sym- pathies went out to the man whom his father was quietly encompassing. Suddenly a hand, unseen, touched the strings of a guitar close to his ear, the sound proceed- ing from the heart of the xvild-sage thicket. Amazed, he -sat listening, while a boyish voice shouted out a Spanish chorus, with a most de- plorable accent, but in excellent and bold time, to a somewhat timid touch on the guitar: I love them all, the pretty girls, I love them all, both dark and fair. Be still a moment; I thought I heard a step. The accompaniment broke off as a softer voice hushed the singer. Who could be stepping around here? The chanter began again, but the guitar was silent. Philip rose up and stared at the tuneful bush. He walked around it, and saw that on both sides its crooked boughs brushed the face of the cliff; every twig was strung with blossoms of a vivid gipsy yellow; the whole mass, gilded with sunshine against the purple blackness of the rock, seemed loudly to defy investigation. Jam simply positive there is ~ the girl-voice exclaimed, low, but so near that Philip started, as if a singing-bird bad sprung out at his feet. There was silence and intense curiosity on both sides of the bush. Philip peered at its winking blossoms axvhile, and then essayed a way between the quickset and the cliff. The springy boughs yielded tran- siently;