THE NEW ENGLAND MAGAZINE. SEPTEMBER, 1898. VOL. XIX. No,~ i. ROBERT GORDON HARDIE, PORTRAiT PAINTER. By William Howe Downes. FROM the time of Copley down to our own day the American school of art has always been strong in skillful portrait painters; and it is so still. Robert Gordon Hardie is one of the most conspicu- ously and deservedly successful of the contemporary practicians in this branch of the painters calling, and to seek the sources, of his power and ex- plain the qualities which go to the per- fecting of his work is the aim of the present paper. The successful pursuit of portrait- ure demands a combination of intel- lectual, moral and physical faculties, the co-existence of which in any one individual is rare. Eug~ne Fromen- tin, the French painter and critic, thought that there were but eight really great portraitists in the world Titian, Rembrandt, Raphael, Sebas- tian del Piombo, Velasquez, Van Dyck, Holbein and Moro. I place the merit of likeness at the head of the list of qualities in a portrait. Without this the work may be, in various ways, of surpassing beauty and worth; but it is not a good portrait. Indeed, this is the very sine qua non. But what is a likeness? Not, as nine people out of ten might conceive it, an exact topo- graphical chart of a countenance, such as we see but too often; not a dead- and-alive image, which partakes of the character of a caricature, because it tells a part only of the truth and misses 3 the fine something which is of the most intimate significance; not a big colored photograph, nor a picture of fine clothes, furniture and other ac- cessories, with a human being to play second fiddle to them. I might go on defining what is not a good likeness. What a good likeness is is not so easy to set forth. The painter must be a thoroughly competent draughtsman and a keen observer; he must be of an indomitable patience, and he must also be prompt to seize upon a transitory expression which reveals character. Executive ability of a high order must be allied with imagination and quick sympathies. The portrait painter re- lies upon his skill at first, but upon his intuitions at last. I do not think the blending of executive ability and imaginative power is so very rare as it might be supposed; in fact, I am in- clined to think that first-rate executive ability implies a certain amount of im- agination,that the faculty of manag- ing, ordering, planning and shaping things and men, requiring foresight as it does, demands a temperament of the imaginative cast. It is a theory of mine that the conduct of great busi- ness enterprises to successful issues is based upon the active exercise of a bold imagination. Are we not too apt to credit the author, the artist and that ilk with the exclusive possession of imagination, because they do some- thing out of their own heads, as the NEW SERIES. 4 ROBERT GORDON HARDIE. children say, and to ignore equal won- ders in the creation of colossal com- mercial, manufacturing and trade establishments? That the painter relies at first upon skill, but at last upon intuitions, illus- trates the true normal method of his growth; and there is nothing more im- portant for an artist than to begin at the beginning. It is all futile nonsense to try to talk high art into art stu- dents, who are trying to learn how to draw a nose so that it may not be mis- taken for a view of Mont Blanc. What the art student wants to know, what he should be taught, is the tricks of the trade, the how to do it; for there is a way of doing everything, as all old- timers know, and the art schools have no business to teach anything but methods and processes of doing things. The student who does not find this part of his education enough of a job while he is in school has yet to be born. A man does not become an artist by understanding Rembrandt first and learning to draw from the an- tique afterwards. Of course, there is no law against his indulging in patter about Botticelli and the Japanese by way of recreation during recess. The logical development of the painter should be from the A B C of art gradually upwards. Most of the very best painters began by being what I may call dogged draughtsmen, like the pupils of J. L. G~r6me, for in- stance; and this brings us back to Hardie. To break away from generalities, let us refer briefly to the facts in the history of our ar- tist which may have some bearing upon the specializa- tion of his talent, the formation of his style, and the direction of his pow- ers. Robert Gordon Hardie was born in Brattleboro, Vt., March 29, 1854, being the only son of the late Major Robert Gordon Hardie and Frances Hyde Hardie. His grandfather was a Virginia planter of English descent. It is probable that more of his forbears were Scotch. His boyhood does not seem to have offered any very salient singularities,, his attendance at the district school and the high school having been more or less desultory, and his predilection for the art of de- sign having early shown itself by the MR. HARDIES STUDIO. MR. HARDIES HOME AT BRATTLEBORO, VERMONT. ROBERT GORDON HARDIE. 5 production of caricatures, maps and sketches of all sorts, of the crude and audacious character common to such juvenile efforts. His bent for drawing having be- come more and more marked, he was finally allowed to go to New York, where, at the instance of Profes- sor Elie Charlier, at whose house he lived, he began a sys- t e m a t 1 c course of study in drawing at the schools~ of the Coo- per Insti- tute, the Academy of Design and the Art S t u d en t s L e a g u e. Then, act- ing on the advice of Prof es sor Charlier, he went to Paris to continue his studies under the great French teachers at the Ecole des Beaux- Arts. In the fall of 1878 we find him writing home that, after wait- ing nearly six weeks, he has been ad- mitted to the school as a pupil of M. Gdr6me. He tells about his way of living. He and a friend have a stiidio together in the rue Notre-Dame-des- Champs, not far from the Luxem- bourg Gardens. Then follows a de- scription of the place; it is a com- plete picture: Our studio is on the second floor of a two-story building, is 20x20 feet, and about i8 feet high, being finished off to the gable roof. There is a sky- light and high side-light to the north- west, and two ordinary windows on the opposite side. Our furniture is exceedingly o r d i n ary, and consists of two small iron bed- steads, two tables, three or four chairs, three easels, a small stove, and a few other neces- sary articles. The tables, chairs and some other things were purchased of some stu- dents about leaving Paris, for very little money, the stove cost- ing only nine francs, tables five francs each, and the chairs only one and a half francs. My part of the rent of the studio is nearly six francs per week. I take my meals at a restaurant in the rue de Buci, where many of the stu- dents go, which costs me three francs per day, making the total cost of liv- ing twenty-seven francs, or $5.20 per week, which is the best I can do, and, as near as I can learn, is much less than that paid by the other students. Notwithstanding that we practice the greatest economy, we consider our- MR. HARDIE IN HIS STUDiO. 6 ROBERT GORDON HARDIE. selves very pleasantly and comfort- ably situated. in the same letter the young man alludes to his visits to the Louvre and the Luxembourg galleries, pro- nounces the French the greatest paint- ers and sculptors of to-day, and mentions the kind- ness of M. Bartholdi, the sculptor. For five years Har- die worked diligently in t h e Ecole des Beaux- Arts, and as early as July, 1879, he received an honor- able men- tion. The year follow- ing he sent a crayon portrait of a woman to the Salon. I translate from the lVfonitcnr dcs Arts, May 21, J88o: This por- trait of a woman by Mr. Hardie, drawn with a rare affa- bility, ca- ressed by the artists THE LATE MRS. crayon as a smiling infant is caressed with the hand,this portrait of a woman who must have beamed with joy in con- templating her effigy, happy to be so well understood. Mr. Hardie does honor to foreign art, for, if he is of our- selves by his talent, it is to the United States of America that this distin- guished pupil of M. GSr6me belongs. Concerning the same crayon head, Octave Lacroix remarked in one of his articles on the Salon of i88o: M. Har- die, un A m e r i c a in dun grand talent, est lauteur dun portrait de femme oih le fusain a p~n~tr4 de meme les secrets, pen accessibles, c r o it-on, avec des moyens s 1 dl d men- taires et si in compldts, du moddie et de la cou- leur. Cest un por- trait vivant et parlant, plein de nat- urel et dex- pression, et quon peut rap p rocher des mieux rdussis. It is a pity to translate that peu ac cessibles croit-on,-- if, indeed, it s translat- able. ROBERT GORDON HARDIE. In the autumn o f i88o our young ddbutant made a jour- ney down the River Loir, as he was feeling a little stale and needing a change of air. He passed nearly two months sketching in a little place called Vend6me, on the banks of this ROBERT GORDON HARDIE. 7 stream, which, by the way, is not to Sister Superior in a style to rival Big- be confused with the more important non of the Avenue de lOpera. The river Loire. At Ven~zl6me he was hos- Loir flows through one of the most pitably entertained by the Marquis de beautiful portions of that beautiful Rochambean and his family at their land of France, and the coaching trip castle, overlooking the picturesque must have been a charming experi- valley of the Loir. The members of ence, taking in, as it did, the quaint this family are the direct descend- villages of Montoire and Tr6o, with ants of the Count de Rochambeau, their curious old houses dating back who commanded the French troops to the times of Henri IV. Hardie re- at York- mained long town. The at Ven- count s ddme, after s w o r d his pleasant which he hosts had wore dur- gone back ingthe cam- to their paign in town resi- America is deuce; an(l preserved when he re- in the cha- turned to teau. The Paris in time de Rocham- for the open- beau estate ing of the is so exten- art school, sive that he came well the avenue laden with leading studies of from the landscapes, highway to heads, fig- the castle is ures and almost two still - life, miles long; which elic- and it is ited the arched over w e 1 c o m e ~by beech Tres bien ! trees one which is h u n d r e d about as and seventy hearty as years old. any phrase H a r die, ~ of approval having let- ~hat a teach- ters to the er will family, was vouchsafe. received with open arms, and, after As a sequel to this pleasant outing, dining and breakfasting frequently at Hardie was invited down to the Cha- the castle, finally went to pass two teau de Rochambean the following days and nights there, during which spring to spend several weeks and to the family, with the abbe and the curd paint the portraits of several members of Thord and Hardie as their guests, of the family. That same year (i88i) made a coaching excursion along the he exhibited in the Salon a portrait of valley of the Loir to Ruill& -sur-Loir, William St. Clair, of Washington, of where they were entertained at a cele- which a correspondent wrote home brated convent, and dined with the that it was a fine likeness, a most ex S ROBERT GORDON HARDIE. cellent portrait, with a speaking ex- pression, adding the picturesque re- mark that There is no etc. about this picture,which, I take it, means that no mental reservations accompany his encomium. It was about the same story every successive year. The young man had struck his gait, and recognition, with those more tangible tokens of success, commissions for portraits, now be- came assured and substantial. In 1882 he became a pupil of Cabanel. It has been stated in several biographical articles that he studied under Bonnat; but this is an error, as his only mas HON. DAVID DUDLEY rIELD. ROBERT GORDON HARDIE. ters were Gdr6me and Cabanel. He continued to exhibit in the Salon as long as he remained in Paris. In the winter of 1882 he was in such demand for portrait work that he established himself in a better studio in the Ave~ nne de Villiers. When he retnrned to Vermont it was difficult to recognize in the tall, bearded painter the young Bob Hardie that the town of Brattleboro had known so well a few years before. But Brattleboro had and retains a high appreciation indeed of his brilliant achievements; and Bob Hardie has long since been registered on the Brattleboro roll of honor, which shines with the lustre of snch names as Larkin Mead, Mary 9 CHIEF JUSTIcE MARCUS MORTON. I0 ROBERT GORDON HARD JE. Wilkins, Mar}~ Howe and William Morris Huntsculptor, author, singer and painter. Having traced in a fragmentary way the main outlines of onr artists careernp to the time of his gradnation, up to his real entrance npon his pro- fessional labors, I have hronght him to ahout the period when I first knew of him through his portraits that is abont ten years ago. In the Natidnal Aca d e my of r888 his full length, life - size portrait o David Dud- ley Field, painted for the Conrt of Appeals at Albany, attracted an u scommon degree of a t t e nt 10 n, which was as mnch dtie to the nt r i n s i c merit of the work itself a s t o t h e celebrity of the suhject. owing this striking work, the fine por- trait of James H. Beal, president of the Second Na- tional Bank of Boston, served to introdnce the artist to the puhlic of this city. Ever since that time the artist has swnng, pendulum-wise, between his. New York and his Boston stndios, with occasional so- jonrns with his mother in Brattlehoro and the list of his works stretches out impressively, to testify alike to his in- dnstry and to the wonderful measnre of favor he has received. Also, it is to be noted, his sitters hecome more and more prominent personages, as we go down the listuniversity presi- dents and professors, eminent judges, great scientific men, great merchants, statesmen, puhlicistsillustrating his growing repntation and vogue. The fonndation of that repntation and vogne is donbtless the strict, honest, di- rect veracity which the world demands in all its hnman docnments. For there is no nse in explaining away the aggres- sive realisni of Hardies e a r 1 i e r work. In his search- ing style nothing wa~ e x tenuated, nothing was neglected, and nothing iv a 5 sacri- ficed. His p 0 r t r aits instantly re- called those of Bounat, ~ot only by their tin- d e v iating insistence upon all the facts iii sight, but also by that curious cross-hatch- ing of the oackground which is one of the hall-marks of the French painter. They were as strong, as uncompromisingly strong as any- thing that Bonnat ever signed. Their fault ivas that they were tOo conscientious. The portraits of Chief Justice Morton of the Mas- sachusetts Supreme Court, of Will- iam H. Baldwin, president of the Boston Young Mens Christian Union; of President Eliot of Harvard University, of Professor Elie Charlier, of F. H. Abbott, president of the Wis F UtL~F~UR SIMON NIIWCOMB. ROBThRT GORDON ]JARDIE. If cousin Central Railroad; of Samuel Johnson, of Lincoln F. Brigham, Chief Justice of the Superior Court; of Walbridge A. Field, Chief Justice of the Massachusetts Supreme Court; of Alexander Wheeler, of Secretary Langley of the Smithsonian Institu- tion; of Robert M. Morse, of l3enja- mm H. Bristow, ex-Secretary of the Treasury; of Henry Woods, of Ens- tace C. Fitz, of Judge Durfee of Rhode Island, of the late Surgeon- General Baxter, of Horace White, of James Page, of Frank Merriam, of Col. Oliver W. Peabody, of Thomas Doane, of Redfield Proctor, United ALEXANDER 5. WHEELER, E5Q. ROBERT GORDON HARDIE. States Senator from Vermont, and many others all possessed those qualities of sound and skillful hand- ling, studious representation of de- tailed fact, vigor of modelling and construction, solidity and fidelity, which are, if not the highest, still the most fundamental and necessary at- tributes of good portraiture. But the interval between the time when the first of these portraits was painted and the time when the last was painted was a fruitful period in more than one sense. Hardie was learning not to play all his trumps at once, cartes sur table; he was tempering his brusque candor with subtilty and res- ervations; he was more and more con- WILLIAM H. BALDWIN. President of the Boston voong Mens christian Union. ROBERT GORDON HARDIE. 3 cealing his art by art, more and more using the great artistic principle of sacrifice. When his portrait of Sen- ator Proctor of Vermont was first ex- hibited in Boston, it was a striking demonstration of the artists develop- ment along the lines indicated. Sen- ator Proctor is a rngged American type; and his typical character is so well bronght ont in the pictnre that it may be said to be a work of historic import. It depicts him at three- quarters length, standing by a table, on which one of his hands is resting, while the other hand is half plunged into his pocket. He w e a r 5 a black frock coat and dark trou- sers, and is posed full- front. At the right of the back- ground, on the wall, is the coat-of- arms of V e r m Gut, and at the left is an open window, through which is seen a pretty glimpse of a green landscape and a blue sky. This portrait is one of the most remarkable for intense vitality and strong expression of individual character among all the works of the artist. It is a portrait which looks, listens, judges; in its presence it is not discreet to utter secrets. In certain respects the portrait of Judge Brigham, which was painted at about the same time, is a performance of even greater interest. It is a con- densed biography on canvas, and a revelation of legal character of a most striking nature. The judge is shown standing behind a railing hung with green baize, and he holds a law book before him, from which he has evi- dently just been quoting, and he is proceeding to comment upon the cita- tion and to elucidate the application of it. His bland and genial expres- sion, his easy and g r a c e fu 1 gesture, as he waves one hand slightly, placing the other on the rail, con- stitute o n e of the most unmistak- able pic- torial pan- t o m i m e 5 imaginable, and it would be but a pardonable extrava- gance to say that the hand was arguing. Moreover, one feels co nf ident that the point is well taken, and that the law which has been cited is sound. The whole work is per- meated with a legal atmosphere; it is essentially the portrait of a jurist. Partly to demonstrate that he could paint a portrait of a woman as suc- cessfully as that of a man, and perhaps also partly as a relief from the strain of painting so many mere men (with their tiresome sameness of black frock coats), Hardie painted for exhibition at the Worlds Fair of 1893 a delight- ful portrait of his wife, who was a SAMUEL P. LANGLEY, 4 ROBERT GORDON HARDIE. daughter of Senator Cullom of Illi- nois. This lovely canvas, fitly de- scribed by the Chicago Inter-Ocean as a picture radiant with youth and beauty, represented the lady in an evening gown of changeable golden silk, with clouded violet shadows. It was as widely noticed by visitors to the exhibition as any portrait of a lady there, and served to add materially to the reputation of its author. I remem her an unfinished painting of a lady that Hardie had in his Dartmouth street studio in the winter of 1894, which was the most charming thing in point of color that he ever produced. It depicted a lady wearing a broad- brimmed hat and a gown of pale rose- color and lilac, which was set against a background of red and blue tapestry altogether a novel color scheme, but one that was most successfully GENETAL HENRY ABBOTT, U. 5. A. ROBERT GORDON HARDIE. 5 brought into harmony and unity. The poise ot the head was elegant, an dthe work had a vast deal of style. In the more recent examples of Hardies work I discern with pleasure an increase of freedom, of originality and of sympathy, a broadening out and mellowing of the point-of-view, and an ever-unsatisfied striving for more pure beauty. Knowledge of life, its hard knocks as well as its suc- cesses, and knowledge of human na- ture, with a confidence born of experi ence and a modesty that results from acquaintance with the best in art, show themselves in the artists work as well as in his conversation. One of the most unobtrusive, but one of the best of his recent portraits is that of a very famous and very learned man, Pro- fessor Simon Newcomb, the astron- omer. This work, which is the prop- erty of Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore, is one of Hardies most genial and intimate portraits. I quote the following admirable description of EDWARD A. STRONG. ROBERT GORDON HARDIE. this head from an article in Time and the Hour: At this moment there is a picture of Professor Simon Newcomb, painted for Johns Hopkins University of Baltimore, which may challenge com- parison with almost any modern work. The zodiac in the corner marks, after a quaint mediawal fashion, the astron- omers calling. The background;of a purplish hue, is strongly limned on a very coarse canvas, and is full of at- mosphere, throwing the strong head into remarkable relief. It is not in it- self an inspiring head. Vigorous and rugged, it is neither suggestive in ex- pression nor in cranial lines of intel- lect or inspiration. The one possible ideality, its purposefulness and per- sistence, Mr. Hardie has seized. Ad- mirably modelled, this head stands for a strong, genuine mana man not of feeling, but of force; a face enshrining the will to wrestle and to attain. There is something solemn in this grave, stern canvas.~~ PROFE55OR BRADBURY L. cILLEY. ROBERT GORDON HARDIE. 7 It is because so many of Hardies sitters have been similarly strong, genuine, rugged types of American character, that this account gives so true an impression of his way of bring- ing to the surface these traits of lead- ership, not alone in the renowned astronomer, but in senator, jurist, edu- cator, philanthropist and man of af- fairs. Perhaps there is something vital and distinctive in the American man, which it has been left to this clear-sighted painter to preserve for history. From the intermingling of races, and the moulding force of cli- mate, environment, and fate, per- haps the American man begins to ex- hibit those singularities of character which stamp themselves upon the physiognomy and carriage, and be- come the indefinable something that proclaims the national type. A strange composite, blending the prac- tical and the ideal, the executive and the sentimental. With all his rough spots and blemishes, Brother Jona- than is sound at the core and worthy of love and admiration. Whatever seemingly inconsistent qualities he, or any one of his individual embodi- ments, may possess, to the extent that these are indicated in his outward as- pect, they become as much the study of the portraitist as of the historian and ethnologist. The importance of absolute and undeviating truthfulness in the portrait becomes the more em- phatic as we reflect upon the way that posterity looks upon a likeness, the uses it makes of it, and the conclu- sions it draws from it as a human doc- ument. The great portraits are the authentic and trustworthy portraits; one recognizes and bows before their genuineness. If they can be also what we call decorative, why, so much the better; but that is not the essential thing. If art survives empires, it is because it tells the truth; for truth is, I conceive, the only imperishable part of it. I would not give a picayune for an Arrangement in Black and Gray; but for the portrait of Mrs. Whistler painted by her son, I would~ give a kings ransom. The day will come when Holbein will be held higher than Van Dyck as a portraitist, be- cause he has more reserve, is freer from exaggeration and is, in a word, more honest. Simplicity is the key- stone. Only the very great men have it in perfection, as Rembrandt in his portrait of The Syndics, Hals in his life-size groups in Haarlem, Hol- bein, Titian and Velasquez, in all their portraits, which have the very mod- esty of nature. Nothing else touches us so directly or holds us so long. Every sincere effort towards this goal, not by the forbidden way of imitation, but by original and serious la- bors, has the approval and backing of all who love art, and of all whose judgment is of weight in art ques- tions. AMONG FRIENDS. By Alice Morse Earle. LIFE among the Quakers in colo- nial days differed much from life among the Dutch, the Puritans or Virginians. A beautiful ,portrayal of some aspects of it in Philadelphia has recently been given in Dr. Mit- chells novel, Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker. It was a carefully guarded, closely restrained, absolutely well- ordered life, such a life as brings the greatest domestic comfort, the most equable neighborliness, the most just citizenship, yet seldom rises to the heights of burning romance, self-abne- gation, or noblest patriotism. In the early days of Quakerism in America there was much that was nar- row in the walking of good Friends. Learning was but scantily encour- aged. George Fox had been a man of meagre schooling, and had got along very well without high scholarship, and others could do so also. Much learning provoked undue pride, and discouraged industry; no one could be anything but idle whose head was con- stantly thrust in a book. Public spirit and patriotism were not characteristics of Quakers, though there are striking examples to the contrary. In lack of public spirit there was much private charity, and great equity and justice in business relations. Everything in Quaker life centred around the meeting, and the system of church government afforded per- fect control of the public and private acts of individual Quakers, though the church government itself was simple in its ordering. The Quakers of a neighborhood gathered in a meeting with religious services on First and Fifth days. From the meeting, dele- gates were sent to the monthly meet- ing, which was for business, and which usually gathered all delegates from a single county, if not too many in num- ber; if so, the county would have two monthly meetings. From the month- ly meetings delegates were chosen to the quarterly meeting, usually gath- ered from a province or a state. Phe yearly meeting had delegates from meetings all over the conutfy. Thus was the single congregation closely guarded and constantly represented. A curious regulation of all these meet- ings was that there was no presiding officer, and that no vote was taken on any question under discussion. There was a clerk, and after the debate had gone on for a while, he drew up and i8 AMONG FRIENDS. 9 read aloud a statement or resolution framing the apparent attitude of the meeting toward the subject. If this was satisfactory the debate closed, the resolution was a decision, and new business was introduced. If the clerk had not given the sense of the assem- bly aright, the members continued the discussion. He then drew up another resolution and read it aloud; this was kept up till the meeting gave approval of his statement by silence. Through these meetings and also by series of searching questions to which full answers were required, a constant es- pionage was kept up, which often grated harshly on the younger sort. It is astnnishing to learn from the Book of Discipline the minute au- thority of the Meeting over every as- pect of private line. Friends had to submit to unlimited prohibitions, ad- vices and inquiries from weighty Friends, who served as overseers. Friends were interrogated four times a year by these old and serious lead- ers in the faith, whether they were regular in attendance at meeting, and punctual; whether they slept, took snuff, or chewed tobacco in meeting; whether they kept clear from dram- drinking, tattling, tale-bearing, back- biting, meddling, cursing, gaming, dancing and music-houses. They were warned not to launch into busi- ness beyond their capacities, to pay their debts; to avoid superfluities of apparel and furniture in all its branches; not to buy Indian slaves or sell rum to the Indians; against challenging to fight; against keeping vain and loose company; against vain and frothy discourse; against health drinking. If after warning of offense they persisted in their wicked ways, they were disownedthat is, dis- missed from the fold. Quakers were dis- owned for dancing and even for look- ing on at dances, for playing on the violin, for tying the hair in a cue in- stead of wearing it straight, for play- ing cards, for going into too many business ventures, for carrying a gun. One Quakeress was remonstrated with because she did not use plain lan- guage that is, thee and thou. The church overseer reported that Debo- rah said she didnt think she ever should, and she was set aside. The meeting gave certificates of godly carriage. In 1701 the women mem- bers of Friends Meeting in Philadel- phia gave Mistress Letitia Penn a cer- tificate, which ran partly thus: These may certify that Letitia Penn has for good order sake desired a certificate from us, and we can freely certify to all whom it may concern, that she hath well behaved herself here, very soberly and ac- cording to the good instructions she bath received in the way of truth, being well-in- clined, courteously carriaged and sweetly tempered in her conversation among us, and also a diligent comer to meeting, and hope bath plentifully received of the dew which bath fallen on Gods people, to her settlement and establishment in the same. The women of one meeting would also enjoin other women Quakers in warning messages against excess in dress. In 1726, the women ffriends of the Burlington meeting sent a mes- sage to their fellow Quakers urging them against the wearing of hoop- petticoats, superfluous gathers and plaits in caps and pinners, red or white heeled shoes, low-necked gowns; against the use of snuff or fans in meeting; against over-dressing the hair, all this showing, since repre- hension was necessary, a tendency to love of dress in Pennsylvania Quaker- esses. Courtship audmarriagewere closely hedged around. Friends were en- joined against proposing marriage without the consent of the meeting, against marrying any but a Friend, against keeping unreasonable com- pany with any woman not a Friend; against going to the weddings of any who marry out of meeting; against being married by a priest. They were enjoined also to be clear of one before being concerned with another, in an engagement of marriage. Wid- ows and widowers were reminded not to marry again too swiftly; not to let their minds out soon to another hus 20 AMONG FRIENDS. band or wife; and kinship was to be carefully regarded in thinking of wed- ding. One demure and well-guarded form of sociability was carried on in towns and villages of the middle states on summer evenings. The Qtiaker maids sat on their porches or stoops, with father and mother, while Quaker swains visited from house to house, lingering longest where inclination or interest detained. It would seem as though those orderly stoop visits were the only opportunity Quaker youths had to become acquainted. Quaker courtship would appear to be somewhat difficult of accomplishment, and Quaker marriage was rigidly guarded and regulated by the Book of Discipline. Lovers intending mar- riage were required to declare their in- tentions at the Monthly Meeting; they thus published their own banns. In the intense silence of the Quaker as- sembly the man arose from his seat on his side of the meeting and said formally: I intend to take Dorcas Macy to be my wife if the Lord per- mit. Dorcas then arose on the wo- mans side of the aisle or partition and said in turn: I intend to take Jona- than Coffin to be my husband if the Lord permit. A committee of weighty men and women was then appointed to learn the conversation and clearness of the parties, that is, to learn specially whether either were entangled in any other matri- monial engagement. If the report of these inspectors proved favorable, the continuance of the intention of mar- riage was permitted, they were lib- erated to proceed according to the de- vout order of truth, and the engaged pair were said to have passed meet- ing. But sometimes the committee of inspectors discovered obstacles, or disorderly walking, or a previous flirtation. There still was redress; the offender had to make a self-condem- nation and apology for his offense, in meeting, the next First day, in some such words as these: Friends, I am very sorry for my transgression, and desire mercy from God and forgive- ness of all the people of God whom I have offended. The marriage was usually then permitted. If a sober young Friend sought a wife in an- other town, his home meeting sent him off fortified with a certificate enumerating his virtues. One such ran partly thus: He is of sober and orderly behaviour; a frequenter of our Meetings and in good Eunity with us; is clear of all Women hereaway on account of Marriage so far as we can find; Soe we recommend him to your further Care in accomplishing their Intending Marrige. Friends were enjoined not to marry out of meeting, and many a lover found it easier to turn Quaker than to lose his bride. A friend and companion of William Penn was Valentine Hollingsworth, who settled on the banks of the pic- turesque Brandywine. His daughter was a lovely, beautiful and delectable Quaker maiden, the delight of the little settlement. For love of her, George Robinson, who was of the Church of England, very gladly ac- ceded to her request to be married in Meeting or, indeed, anywhere else that Katherine said. But the older Friends had scruples that Georges sudden conversion to Quakerism was not upon established principles, and he came before the Meeting to be asked this searching question: Friend Robinson, dost thou join the Society of Friends from conviction or for the love of Katherine Hollings- worth ? This was a dilemma, but George could not moderate the charms of his sweetheart, and he an- swered valiantly: I wish to join the Society for the love of Katherine flol- lingsworth. The overseers hesitated and consulted, and finally ordered de- lay, and that Friend Robinson be gently, persuasively, and instructively dealt with. All this dealing was done by a gentle and persuasive instructor, and soon George was sure of his con- victions. They married, and were for many years an Example of Piety and AMONG FRIENDS. 21 Goodness to all around them, retain- ing ever their love of Truth and Loy- alty to the Society. If a Friend married out of meeting, he might by profoundly humbling himself, and acknowledging his error, still be retained in the Society, though for a time not in good report. No Quaker groom could express contri- tion for an offense in marrying out of meeting, nor indeed submit patiently to discipline for it without unmanly disloyalty to his confiding consort. Occasionally an apology was ex- pressed and recorded. One reads thus: To the Monthly Meeting of friends now in meeting at So. Kingston. I through In- attention to the Lights of Christ have Mar- ried a wife out of the good order of Friends, neither was she a member of their Society. Therefore now being Sincible that their Rules and orders therein is Con- sistant with truth, and Seeing the Error of my Doings, am sorry for my Transgression therein, and Desire friends to pass by my offense, and still Continue their Care for me, Desiring I may be preserved to walk according to good order for time to come.~~ Among New England Quakers a wedding was a very solemn and rather dull affair. Again the couple stood up in the meeting-house side by side; and instead of gay young bridesmaids and groomsmen, two judicious, grave and weighty men stood up with the groom, and two such wo- men with the bride. Holding hands, the man said, in an audible and sol- emn manner: I, Jonathan Coffin, take this woman to be my wife, prom- ising through divine assistance to be unto her a loving and faithful hus- band until it shall please the Lord by death to separate us. The bride then made a similar pledge, and they were husband and wife. This was accord- ing to the teaching of George Fox, who said: We marry none, but are witnesses of it. All present then signed the marriage certificate as wit- nesses and retired to some house, usu- ally the brides home, for discreet cele- bration by marriage feasting, and be- ing decently merry. Even there solemn Quaker inspectors intruded to prevent unseemly mirth and over- eating and drinking. In Pennsylvania, especially in Phila- delphia, Quaker weddings were much more cheerful; the marriage cere- mony was the same, but after the first declaration of intentions was given a handsome treat, ~vhich preceded the great feast after the marriage. In Philadelphia, not only did the friends of the bride and groom come and eat and drink and all kiss the bride, but every evening for a week the entire bridal party received friends, and again the bride ran a gauntlet of kisses. When Mrs. Robert Erwin received her wedding visitors, four hundred gentlemen came in two days, ate the wedding cake, drank the wedding punch and, doubtless, all kissed her. In some towns the custom was after a wedding to set a table in front of the house and feast all passers-by. In the country, Quaker brides had an infare or wedding treat, often so lib- eral as to be a serious drag on the family that provided it. The Yearly Meeting tried to limit these expensive feastings. In 1716, in Philadelphia, it advised no extraordinary provision for weddings, and the avoidance as much as may be of inviting those not under our discipline. The brevity of their addresses has given rise to many slurring and false anecdotes of Quaker sermons. This, told meby a Quaker, has the merit of be- ing truthful: In a certain Narragansett meeting one preacher rose and gave out his text from the Scriptures thus: Put off the old man with his deeds. After a moments stillness he added: It would be a long job for some of us, and sat down in a silence that was not broken again that First Day Meet- ing. They had a quaint sectarian dialect, a use of terms and expressions which would scarcely be understood by worlds people to-day. Who could tell what was meant by meetings for sufferings, renewed engagements, appearing in supplication, testi- mony of denial, bound by con- 22 AMONG FRIENDS. venient, as used by Friends? Meeting for sufferings was the working of a committee composed of from twenty-five to fifty of the most worthy, sensible and reliable Friends appointed at the Yearly Meeting to take charge of the correspondence with other meetings, to oversee any necessary publications, in fact, to transact any outside business requir- ing good judgment, tact and faithful- ness. The name originally was given without doubt because to that com- mittee was given the adjusting or at any rate the recognition of the suffer- ings of Quakers at the hands of their Christian neighbors of other denomi- nations. Sufferers reported seizure of property for refusing to pay taxes to support the militia, arrests for refusal to take part in training day, also losses by fire, and various affronts in intol- erant Boston. The sect is now rapidly decreasing in numbers. Some lover may turn Quaker to win a Quaker husband or bride; there has not been for a century any adding to the Quaker ranks through conversion to the faith. Chil- dren were born into the Quaker so- ciety; at first both parents had to be Quakers; then they admitted as half- members children one of whose pa- rents was a Quaker. But these chil- dren did not always remain in the so- ciety. Often all the discipline the repression, the quietism, became re- pugnant to those in whom the un- reasoning joy of living was strong. Bayard Taylor expresses this feeling. He lived among the Quaker and Ger- man elements of Pennsylvanian life, and knew them. Life still bears the stamp of its early strug- gle and later Still is shorn of its color by pious Quaker repression, Still is turbid with calm or only swift in the shallows. Weary am I with all this preaching the force of example, Painful duty to self and painfuller still to ones neighbor. Thus slowly at first, then more quickly, as young lives wearied of Quaker principles and usages, has the sect decreased in numbers. For some years but two Quakers attended the meeting at Wickford, Rhode Island. Every first day they met, Beriah Brown and Holland Vaughan, and sat with their hats on in solemn silence through a proper term, then rose, shook hands, and parted. Sometimes one only was present, but he sat the time out in silent testimony. A Quaker meeting-house, set in a large lot, shaded with tall cedars, pines and hemlocks, was my next door neighbor in my New England home. Twenty-five years ago a drab coated and drab petticoated congregation of wealth and influence came within the leaden hued walls, opened the heavy shutters each First and Fifth day, and sat, sometimes for hours, on the hard narrow benches, rows of broad brimmed hats on one side of the house, rows of white net caps and rich gray silk bonnets on the other, the older and grayer and weightier members on the higher seats in the background overseeing the meeting literally as they did spiritually. Sub- stantial carriages and good horses had borne them to the door and filled the horse sheds, from whence an occa- sional impatient whinny and stamp- ing mingled with the sound, monoto- nous and droning, yet pleasing, of the inspired testimony and teaching of visiting preacher or home teacher which floated out, half chant, half speech, on the sweet summer air. At other and many more meetings the spirit did not move. To one not of Quaker birth or faith these hours of stillness and rest bestowed a balm and blessing on the last years of his life, as he sat each First day among the rapidly thinning ranks of Friends. In their homes, as in their meet- ings, these Quakers had no pianos, and no songs were heard, and ever plain were they of speech; but, alas, times have changed since that fatal Yearly Meeting at Lynn where music was approved. To-day the old meeting-house is smugly painted yel TO HER I LOVE. 23 low and white, and has new green window blinds. The horse sheds have vanished, and the horses and carriages too. Every Sunday the shrill re- sounding notes of Moody and Sankey hymns with parlor organ accompani- ment rend and pierce the air. Scarce one who enters within the garish walls ever, heard a thee and thou, and I doubt whether a child in the Sunday School has ever seen a Quaker man or Quaker woman in Quaker garb; there is not a Colton, a Hadwen, a Harts- horn, an Earle, a Chase or any of good old Quaker names among them; and people say with much satisfaction, it is no longer a dull old Quaker meet- ing, but a hustling mission. TO HER I LOVE. By 7. Zitella Cocke. I SAW a lonely moor at close of day, A dreary waste, bereft of cheer and light, Reaching afar into the bourneless night, As ever deepening darkness oer it lay. But ah, how changed beneath the morning ray, What beauteous vision burst upon my sight! The wild rose smiled, the pools were mirrors bright. And lilting linnets gladdened all the way. Dear Love, see there the reflex of my h.art, A solitude uncheered, until thine eyes, Like glorious morn, did shine away its gloom, And quicken to glad life its every part, Waking dead hopes, that in a sweet surprise Now fill with melody its fragrant bloom! THE FOGS. By Frank Walcott Huff. THERE were no mists in all the morning sky, And here lay open lea and heather-wold, And yonder, cliffs and uplands, steely-cold, And in the offing, fair ships coursing by. But late I heard the sea-mew prophesy Along the downs, with clamor harsh and bold; And at high noon a little cloud uprolled, And shut the world out from the days great eye. And now a deep bell booms far out at sea; And all the windward islands and the plains Dip in the sudden miracle of white; And sighingly the waves lone minstrelsy Falls on the ear like the far plash of rains, While the Fog lover comes to woo the THE SATURDAY CLUB. By Gecrge Willis Cooke. HE Saturday Club, which has occupied so unique a place in the literary life of Boston, originated in Emersons custom of, visiting Boston on the last Saturday of each month to take a look at the new books in the Old Corner Bookstore. He was also in the habit of dining on these occasions with a few intimate friends at the Albion restaurant or the Parker House. This practice began with him so early as the time of the Town and Country Club, founded by Alcott about 1849, and was perhaps one of 24 the results of the manner in which its meetings were conducted. In his diary, under date of October i4, 1854, Alcott made this record: Dine at the Albion with Emerson, Lowell, Whipple, Dwight, Hayne (of South Carolina), and Woodman; and we ar- range to meet there fortnightly here- after for conversation. Mr. Frank B. Sanborn records in his life of Al- cott that in December, 1854, he was at the Albion with Emerson, Dwight, Alcott and an Englishman by the name of Cholmondeley, when various literary topics were discussed. A few months later, during the last week in May, 1855, a dinner was Night. THE SATURDAY CLUB. 25 given to Lowell, at the Revere House, by his friends. At the head of the ta- ble on this occasion sat Longfellow, and at the foot Felton. On Longfel- lows right were Lowell, Agassiz, George T. Davis, F. H. Underwood, Holmes, T. K. Parsons, Estes Howe, Charles W. Storey, H. Woodman, and B. R6lker. On his left were Emer- son, Edmund Quincy, Charles E. Norton, J. S. Dwight, Thomas G. Ap- pleton, William W. White, John Holmes, Robert Carter, Henry Ware and Professor Benjamin Pierce. It is evident that the personal and intel- lectual associations begun in the Transcendentalist and Town and Country clubs continued even after those clubs had ceased their exist- ence; and that from time to time there came together the men who composed them, with others of the same intel- lectual and literary interests. In his biography of Richard Henry Dana, Charles Francis Adams says that when Emerson visited the book- store of Phillips and Sampson, on the last Saturday of each month, he met there Horatio Woodman; and by de- grees they got into the custom of go- ing to the old Albion restaurant or to the Parker House to dine. At this time Dwight was accustomed to dine at the Parker House, and he probably joined Emerson whenever he was there. Then Woodman invited oth- ers, including Samuel G. Ward, a banker and one of Emersons friends. The next person added to the group seems to have been Edwin P. Whip- ple, the essayist and lecturer, then a rising literary man in Boston. Wood- man was a lawyer, a man of attractive social qualities, and one who had a gift for managing such dinners as these. Mr. Sanborn says, he had no partic- ular sympathy with the Transcenden- talists, except as they became famous, but a certain love for literature and literary men; he was also an epicure, knowing how to provide good din- ners and at which Boston tavern his friends ought to dine. It will thus be seen that the Satur day Club owed its existence to acci- dental causes or to the demands of in- tellectual fellowship. In 1854 ~t had taken a definite form, so far at least as it had become an established custom for a few literary friends to meet once a fortnight or once a month for a din- ner and literary conversation. Long- fellow recorded in his journal that he dined with the club February 28, 1857, at the invitation of Agassiz, and was asked to join it, which he thought he would do. At the meeting of the club in April, the fiftieth birthday of Agas- siz was recognized. Longfellow pre- sided and read the poem beginning: It was fifty years ago, In the pleasant month of May. Clever and humorous poems were also read by Lowell and Holmes. In September Longfellow says that Charles Mackay dined with the club, that the session was a quiet one, and that the heat of the room took away all life and animation. He mentions that in May of the next year he again dined with the club, and that he felt vexed on finding plover on the table, and proclaimed aloud his disgust at seeing the game-laws thus violated. He added that if any one wanted to break a law, let him break the Fugi- tive Slave law, as that is all it is fit for. The fullest and most explicit ac- count of the origin of the Saturday Club was that set down in his journal by Richard Henry Dana, the younger, under date of August 6, 1857. It has become an important and much valued thing to us, he wrote. The members are Emerson, Longfellow, Agassiz, Lowell, Pierce, Motley, Whipple, Judge Hoar, Felton, Holmes, S. G. Ward, J. S. Dwight, H. Woodman and myself. We have no written rules, and keep no records. Our only object is to dine together once a month. Our day is the last Saturday in every month, and we dine at Parkers. A unanimous vote is re- quired to elect a member. The ex- pense of the dinner is assessed upon those present, and charged at the of- a6 THE SATURDAY CLUB. fice, so we have no money affairs to attend to. Guests are permitted, but each man pays for the guest he in- vites. The club had an accidental origin, in a habit of Emerson, Dwight, Whipple and one or two more dining at Woodman s room at Parkers oc- casionally; for Woodman is a bach- elor, a literary quidnunc and gossip, or as Gould says, a genius broker. Ward is a friend of Emersons, and came. From this the club grew, Ward, Dwight, Woodman, Whipple and Emerson being the originals. Agassiz, Pierce and I were early in- vited to meet with them. This made it more of a regular thing, and we es- tablished our verbal rule as to mem- bership, guests and expenses. Lowell came in soon after, and then Motley and Longfellow. The first formal vote we had for members was at this stage, for up to this time unanimous consent was obtained by conversation. The vote brought in Holmes and Fel- ton, which made the number fourteen, as many as we think it best to have. The Saturday Club was sometimes known as the Atlantic Club; but the two were quite distinct from each other, though in his biography of Em- erson Doctor Holmes seems to con- fuse them together. Longfellow says that on May 5, 1857, he dined at the Parker House with Phillips, the pub- lisher, to talk about the new magazine the latter was proposing to publish. The other persons present were Em- erson, Lowell, Motley, Holmes, Cabot and Underwood. In i86o James T. Fields, of Ticknor and Fields, then the publishers of the Atlantic Monthly, breakfasted Longfellow, Bryant, Holmes and others. Such gatherings as these, called together by the pub- lishers of the magazine to bring about acquaintance and goo~ fellowship amongst its leading contributors, and that suggestions might be secured as to its management, formed what has properly been called the Atlantic Club. It included many of the mem- bers of the Saturday Club; but they were not only not the same, but they had no connection with each other except as the same persons belonged to both. In his biography of Emer- son, Doctor Holmes says that the At- lantic Club never bad an existence, and that there had erroneously been supposed to be some connection be- tween the Saturday Club and the Atlantic Monthly. On the 6ther hand, Francis H. Underwood, who took an active part in bringing the magazine into existence, and who was the assist- ant or office editor for some years from its very beginning, said in a let- ter to Doctor Holmes: You remem- ber that the contributors met for din- ner regularly. It was a voluntary, in- formal association. The invitations and reminders were from my hand, as I conducted the correspondence of the magazine. I have hundreds of letters in reply, and it is my belief that the association was always spoken of either as the Atlantic Club or the At- lantic dinner. Your very decided state- ment seems to me (in the ordinary use of phrases) erroneous.~ In his biog- raphy of Doctor Holmes, Mr. John T. Morse confounds the Atlantic dinners and breakfasts with the meetings of the Saturday Club, though Dr. Holmes himself did not fall into such an error. He did somewhere speak of the Atlantic Club as suppositi- tious; and it is this statement against which Mr. Underwood protested. The fact seems to be that the Atlantic Club consisted only of the gatherings of the contributors to the Atlantic Monthly, on invitation of the publishers, who on such occasions gave them a breakfast or a dinner. A letter written by Moses Dresser Phillips, the head of the firm of Phil- lips and Sampson, and given in Doc- tor Hales James Russell Lowell and His Friends, describes the first din- ner given by the publisher to his con- tributors, in the early summer of 1857. Doctor Hale says that this was the first of a series which the Saturday Club of Boston has held from that day to this day; but in this statement he is mistaken, as already clearly mdi- THE SATURDAY CLUB. 27 cated. Mr. Phillips wrote to a rela- tive in these words: I must tell you about a little dinner party I gave about two weeks ago. It would be proper, perhaps, to state that the or- igin of it was a desire to confer with my literary friends on a somewhat ex- tensive literary project, the particu- lars of which I shall reserve till you come. But to the party: My invita- tions included only R. W. Emerson, H. W. Longfellow, J. R. Lowell, Mr. Motley (the Dutch Republic man), 0. W. Holmes, Mr. Cabot, and Mr. Underwood, our literary man. Im- agine your uncle at the head of such a table, with such guests. The above named were the only ones invited, and they were all present. We sat down at 3 P. M., and rose at 8. The time occupied was longer by about four hours and thirty minutes than I am in the habit of consuming in that kind of occupation, but it was the richest time intellectually by all odds that I have ever had. Leaving myself and lit- erary man out of the group, I think you will agree with me that it would be difficult to duplicate that number of such conceded scholarship in the whole country beside. Mr. Emerson took the first post of honor at my right, and Mr. Longfellow the second at my left. The exact arrangement of the table was as follows: Cabot. Motley. Longfellow. Mr. Underwood. Phillips. Lowell. Holmes. Emerson. They seemed so well pleased that they adjourned, and invited me to meet them again to-morrow, when I shall again meet the same persons, with one other (Whipple, the essayist) added to that brilliant constellation of Philo- sophical, Poetical and Historical tal- ent. Each one is known alike on both sides of the Atlantic, and is read beyond the limits of the English lan- guage. Though all this is known to you, you will pardon me for intruding it upon you. But still I have the van- ity to believe that you will think them the most natural thoughts in the world to me. Though I say it that should not, it was the proudest day of my life. It was natural that the Saturday Club should have been given the name of the Atlantic on the part of outsiders, who recognized the fact that many of the members contributed to the magazine. The Saturday Club was also sometimes spoken of as the Literary Club; and it was popularly designated as Emersons or Agassizs club. It was also now and again laughed at as The Mutual Admira- tion Society, probably by those who would have been rejoiced to have se- cured entrance to it. Of this designa- tion of the club Dr. Holmes wisely said: If there was not a certain amount of mutual admiration among some of those I have mentioned [as members,] it was a great pity, and im- plied a defect in the nature of men who were otherwise largely en- dowed. In 1859 Richard Henry Dana dedicated his Cuba and Back to the gentlemen of the Saturday Club; and this fact sufficiently fixes the name made use of by the members from the beginning. About the year i888, a bequest of money being made to the club, it was incorporated as The Saturday Club. In his account of the club Dana says that it was thought best not to have more than fourteen members. His biographer tells us that this limit was imposed by Dana himself, and in a somewhat arbitrary manner. In other words, Dana, in this as in other cases, held himself high and believed in exclusiveness; accordingly, though never allowing his position to be mis- understood, he had been liberal with his blackballs. The result was that, in order to elect any one, it became nec- essary for the other members to watch for some occasion when Dana was away, and then rush in their candidate before he got back. The club slowly grew in its membership, however, Prescott being added in 1858; Haw a8 THE SATURDAY CLUB. thorne, Thomas G. Appleton and John M. Forbes in 1859; Charles Eliot Norton in i86o, the earliest member admitted of those now living; J. Eliot Cabot, S. G. Howe, F. H. Hedge and Estes Howe in i86i; Charles Sumner in 1862; Henry James in 1863; Martin Brimmer, James T. Fields, S. W. Rowse in 1864; John A. Andrew and Jeifreys Wyman in i866; E. W. Gurney in 1867; John G. Whittier in i868; Wil- liam M. Hunt in 1869; Charles Fran- cis Adams and Charles W. Eliot in 1870; Charles C. Perkins in 1871; Francis Parkman, Alexander Agassiz, R. H. Dana, Sen., Wolcott Gibbs, Horace Gray, Edward N. Perkins in 1873; Asa Gray and William D. How- ells in 1874; Edmund Quincy in 1875; and James Freeman Clarke in 1877. An interesting incident in the early history of the club was that Emerson, Hawthorne and E. Rockwood Hoar, living at Concord, to which the Fitch- burg road then had no train running after the club broke up, were obliged to leave in the midst of the session or remain in town over the night and Sunday. Under these conditions Judge Hoar provided a remedy by having his carry-all meet them at Waltham and convey them to their homes. It may be supposed that this last part of the journey may have had in store the best wine of the feast; for Lowell describes Agassiz at the club meetings as listening intently to Hoar, Pricked with the cider of the Judges wit (Ripe-hearted homebrew, fresh and fresh again). The reason for this night ride will be seen from a note made by Emerson in his journal, in 1862: Cramped for time at the club, by late dinner and early hour of the return train; a cramp which spoils a club. For you shall not, if you wish good fortune, even take the pains to secure your right- and-left-hand men. The least design instantly makes an obligation to make their time agreeable, which I can never assume. Another incident was the formation of the Adirondack club, which in Au- gust, 1858, made an excursion into the wilderness of the Adirondack Mountains. The party consisted of Emerson, Lowell, Agassiz, Hoar, John Holmes, Wyman, W. J. Still- man, Estes Howe and Woodman. Lowell was the leader and planned the excursion; though Woodman seems to have been the practical guide and factotum. A rough hut was built on the shore of Follausbee Pond; flannel shirts were worn, fir boughs and blankets furnished the beds, and the fare was the fish and game of the wil- derness. After breakfast each morn- ing a mark was shot at, which Agas- siz once hit, having never before fired a gun, and steadily refusing to do so again. Emerson bought a rifle, which he seems not to have used. A guide one night paddled him into the lake, and a deer was pointed out to him, but he did not shoot. This trip was described by Emerson in his poem called The Adirondacks, published in his Mayday and Other Pieces, 1867. He fitly described the wild life of the woods, saying that: No placard on these rocks warned to the polls, No door-bell heralded a visitor, No courier waits, no letter came or went, Nothing was ploughed or reaped or bought or sold. He describes how Agassiz and Wy- man dissected the deer, trout and other creatures slain in wood and water; and he thus speaks of the man- ner in which the other members of the party spent their time: All day we swept the lake, searched every cove, Watching when the loud dogs should drive in deer, Or whipping its rough surface for a trout; Or bathers, diving from the rock at noon; Challenging Echo by our guns and cries; Or listening to the laughter of the loon; Or, in the evening twilights latest red, Beholding the procession of the pines; Or, later yet, beneath a lighted jack, In the boats bows, a silent night-hunter Stealing with paddle to the feeding-grounds Of the red deer, to aim at a square mist. THE SATURDAY CLUB. 29 Longfellow refused pointedly to go on this excursion, because he had heard that Emerson had bought a gun, and he keenly felt the danger which might arise from such an in- strument in the hands of a philoso- pher, one more familiar with the in- finite than with powder and game. When asked why he would not join the party, he said that somebody will be shot. During the earlier years of the Sat- urday Club, Horatio Woodman was its purveyor, giving voluntary atten- tion to the menu and the other neces- sities of its existence. He was a clever and a witty man, had a social quality that his intellectual gifts did not equal, and by his genial comradeship won the friendship of men who in every way were greatly his superiors. In later years he appropriated the funds of his friends, resigned from the club, and committed suicide, as Adams says, or disappeared from sight, about 1870, as is stated by Mr. Sanborn. Doctor Holmes says that the club had no Boswell, and its golden hours passed unrecorded. Mr. Adams ex- presses the regret that Woodman did not serve it in this capacity, for he had all the qualities that would have made him successful in such a role, adding that he had a craving for the ac- quaintance and society of men of rep- utation, and indeed lacked only the industry to have been a sort of Bos- well. In connection with the Satur- day Club also an abundant field of in- teresting gossip and reminiscence opened before him, had he known enough to labor in it. An amusing story-teller, with a natural eye for character and a well developed sense of humor, Woodman had at his command an almost inexhaustible fund of anecdotes relating to the men who in those days made the Parker House and its somewhat famous res- taurant a sort of headquarters. Though during the rebellion he was sufficiently active and prominent to have been offered the position of As- sistant Secretary of War, yet in his own mind the great achievement of his life was the founding of the Satur- day Club, and his connection with that club, which could only have come about through his being its founder, was the thing of which he most prided himself. After the disappearance of Wood- man, it seems to have in part fallen upon Dwight to manage the affairs of the club.* Writing to a friend, in Oc- tober, 1877, he said: We had a de- lightful club dinner yesterday, Will- iam Story sat at my side. J. F. Clarke too was there as a new member, and seemed radiantly happy. Also Bay- ard Taylor, who is giving a course of Lowell lectures on German literature how that would have interested you! I had a long talk with him and Doctor Hedge on the Nibelirngen Lied, and in the evening I heard him lecture on that subject, which was very inter- esting; his lectures are crowded. Some of Dwights plans for seating the members and guests, preserved by him, indicate who were present or ex- pected on certain dates. Thus, in April, 1873, his sketch provides for Holmes, Dana, Adams, Howe, Dwight, Eliot, Jioar and Estes Howe. In May of the same year twenty-one members were present and eight guests. On this occasion Longfellow sat at the head of the table and Agas- siz at the foot. On the right of the chairman were Robert Dale Owen, Parkman, Perkins, Dana, Appleton, Dwight, Judge Kent, Holmes, Adams, Senator Boutwell, Forbes, Wyman and Professor Gurney. On his left were Emerson, H. W. Bellows, Hedge, Henry James, Fields, Eliot, Hoar, Count Corti, C. C. Perkins, Cabot, Rev. Charles H. Brigham, H. G. Denney, Whipple and Dr. E. H. Clark. The journal of Richard Henry Dana gives the reason for so large an attendance. Our club dined to-day, he wrote, the largest number we * It is Dwights connection with the club which has led me to make this study, as a part of my forthcoming bi- ography of Dwight, whose life touched so many of the in- tellectual interests of Boston in his time, in so interesting a way. THE SATURDAY CLUB. 30 ever sat down, partly as the last of the season to which many come, but chiefly to welcome Emerson, on his return from Europe and Egypt. It was really rather a brilliant gathering. Yet, as we sit at a long table, and the room is on the street and, being warm, the windows open, we have no general conversation. All the talking is in sets of two to four each. Towards the end of the dinner we change places a little. Emerson looks years younger for his European tour, and is in good spirits. Dana was wrong in saying that this was the last meeting of the season, for at the June dinner Emerson sat at the head of the table and Agassiz at the foot. There were present Holmes, Brimmer, Pierce, Forbes, Cabot, Dwight, Howe and Hoar, with Weiss and Barnard as guests. At the Jan- uary meeting of 1877, Judge Hoar was at the head of the table, and op- posite him was Edmund Quincy. On the right of the chairman were Holmes, Harding, C. C. Perkins, Brimmer, Estes Howe and Dwight; and on his left were Emerson, Park- man, Gibbs, Gray, Godkin, Norton and Edward N. Perkins. A pleasant episode in the history of the club was the admittance of Rich- ard Henry Dana, senior, the author of The Buccaneer, The Idle Man, and other works in prose and poetry, as an honorary member of the club, the only person accorded such distinc- tion. Under the date of October 28, 1873, the younger Dana wrote in his journal: Yesterday my father had a great success and pleasure. I took him to the club to dine. We had Em- erson, Longfellow, Agassiz, Charles Francis Adams, Sumner, Holmes, Judge Hoar, President Eliot and oth- ers, our usual set; and, after a while, Emerson rose and asked a moments attention, and said: We are gratified to-day by the presence of Mr. Dana. He has a higher as well as an older claim on the respect and honor of men of letters and lovers of literature than any of us here, and we must not let the occasion go by without an expres- sion of our feeling towards him. I propose that, instead of nominating him for election as a regular member of the club, which we would gladly have done years ago, we unanimously declare him an honorary member and permanent guest of the club, etc., etc. Agassiz put the question, and they all rose to their feet in response, and gave him a hearty cheer. It was very grat- ifying, touching, and in the best pos- sible taste. During the first decade of its exist- ence, at least, before other clubs in great numbers had been organized, the Saturday Club was of real service to its members. It gave them social recreation, and it brought to them mental stimulus. It brought together many distinguished people, as Doctor Holmes mentions, and it was a place where the intellectual leaders of the city could meet men from other cities and other countries in a friendly and happy way. At one end of the table, says Doctor Holmes, sat Longfel- low, florid, quiet, benignant, soft voiced, a most agreeable rather than a brilliant talker, but a man upon whom it was always pleasant to look, whose silence was better than any other mans conversation. At the other end of the table sat Agassiz, ro- bust, sanguine, animated, full of talk, boy-like in his laughter. Mrs. Agas- siz says that her husband was espe- cially attached to the club; and Doctor Holmes remarks that the most jovial man at table was Agassiz, his laugh was that of a big giant. Around him were usually grouped the men of wit, and those who most enjoyed laughter and fun. In this connection Jules Marcou, the biographer of Agassiz, has said that the members lingered long round the table, while hour after hour passed in animated conversation, in which bon nwts and repartees were exchanged as rapidly as a discharge of fireworks an encounter of anec- dote, wit and erudition. At such times Agassiz was at his best, with his inexhaustible bonhomie. With a THE SATURDAY CLUB. 3 lighted cigar in each hand, he would force the attention of every one around him. Excited by the pyro- technic wit of James Russell Lowell, Judge Rockwell Hoar and Doctor Holmes, Agassiz, whose vivid imagi- nation was always on the qui vive, was not a man to let others eclipse him. Then would come one of his made-up stories a mixture of dream and sci- ence. If he thought any one in the company was doubting its truth, he would look at him with a dumb re- quest not to betray him. On the next occasion he would repeat the same story without any hesitation, and the third time he told it, he was sure that it really happened, and was true. Lowell said nothing about the club in his letters, so far as they have been published; but he wrote to Motley, when ambassador of the United States to Great Britain: I have never seen society, on the whole, so good as I used to meet at our Saturday club. In his memorial poem to Agassiz, however, he described the club with a poets appreciation and sympathy. Of Agassiz and his place at the table these are his words: Once more I see him at the tables head When Saturday her monthly banquet spread To scholars, poets, wits, All choice, some famous, loving things, not names, And so without a twinge at others fames; Such company as wisest moods befits, Yet with no pedant blindness to the worth Of undeliberate mirth, Natures benignly mixed of air and earth, Now with the stars and now with equal zest Tracing the eccentric orbit of a jest. Again he says of Agassiz: Ample and ruddy, the boards end he fills As he our fireside were, our light and heat, Centre where minds diverse and various skills Find their warm iiook and stretch unham- pered feet; I see the firm benignity of face, Wide-smiling champaign, without tame- ness sweet, The mass Teut,nic toned to Gallic grace, The eyes whose sunshine runs before the lips While Holmess rockets curve their long ellipse, And burst in seeds the fire that burst again To drop in scintillating rain. Later on in the poem he describes the breaking up of the club meeting, and says: Now forth into the darkness all are gone, But memory, still unsated, follows on, Retracing step by stcp our homeward walk, With many a laugh among our serious talk. Then follows an account of his con- versations with Agassiz as they find their way homeward, and of the re- luctant Good-night with which they parted from each other when the end of their walk had been reached. Doctor Holmes said that he was not able to forget the very modest, deli- cate, musical way in which Longfel- low read his charming verse addressed to Agassiz on the occasion of his fifti- eth birthday; and Mrs. Agassiz says the poet had an exquisite touch for occasions of this kind, whether serious or mirthful. If the wit and laughter of the club flowed around Agassiz, the quieter conversation secured its opportunity near Longfellow, on whose left Emerson most often found his place. Longfellow often spoke of the club in his diary, and with evident enjoyment and appreciation of its meetings. He seldom does more than mention his attendance, with perhaps some brief word as to who was pres- ent and what was done of special im- portance; but his frequent reference to it indicates how much it was in his life for some years. Emerson was described by Doctor Holmes as usually sitting near the Longfellow end of the table, talking in low tones and carefully measured utterances to his neighbor or listening and recording any stray word worth remembering on his mental photo- graph. I went to the club last Sat- urday, wrote Holmes to Motley, in April, 1870, and met some of the friends you always like to hear of. I sat by the side of Emerson, who al- ways charms me with his delicious 32 THE SATURDAY CLUB. voice, his fine sense and wit, and the delicate way he steps about among the words of his vocabulary, and at last seizing his noun or adjective, the best, the only one which would serve the need of his thought. I well remember amongst other things, says Doctor Holmes again, how the club would settle itself to lis- ten when Dana had a story to tell. Not a word was missed, andthosewho were absent were told at the next club what they had lost. Emerson smoked his cigar and was supremely happy, and laughed under protest when the point of the story was reached. Probably no one attended the club more regu- larly th~in Emerson, for he greatly en- joyed the meetings; and he was wont to praise the brilliant conversation he heard there. His own attitude was that of an eager listener, and he took less satisfaction in speaking himself than in hearing the clever men about him. In 1864, when the club held a Shakespearean anniversary meeting, he rose to speak, stood for a minute or two, and then quietly sat down. Speech did not come, and he serenely permit- ted silence to speak for him. Emer- son continued his connection with the club until about 1875, always taking a warm interest in the meetings, until his failing speech and memory made them no longer attractive to him. No one can doubt that Doctor Holmes furnished his full share of the wit and wisdom of the club. He has written of it in his biographies of Mot- ley and Emerson, as well as on other occasions. In his letters it was a fre- quent subject of mention, especially to those correspondents, like Motley and Lowell, who were themselves rAembers of the club. He first men- tioned it in his biography of Motley, and then said that it offered a wide gamut of intelligencies, and the meet- ings were noteworthy occasions. The vitality of this club has depended in a great measure on its utter poverty in statutes and by-laws, its entire ab- sence of formalism, and its blessed freedom from speech-making. His biographer says that outside of his own front door there was nothing that gave him so much pleasure as did the Saturday Club. He loved it; he hugged the thought of it. He could not keep its affairs out of his letters, and he gossiped about its doings with a flowing pen. Evidently it had a large place in his heart, because of the fellowship it gave him, and because of the noble men with whom it brought him into frequent contact. In writing to Motley, in February, i86i, Holmes shows how important the club had already become in his life, for he says: The club has flourished greatly, and proved to all of us a source of the greatest delight. I do not believe there ever were such agreeable periodical meetings in Bos- ton as these we have had at Parkers. Writing to the same friend, in 1865, he again expresses his interest in the club meetings. What a fine thing it would be, he says, to see you back at the Saturday club again! Longfel- low has begun to come again. He was at his old place, the end of the table, at our last meeting. We have had a good many of the notabilities here within the last three or four months; and I have been fortunate enough to have some pleasant talks with most of them. We come to- gether on Saturdays and have good talks and pleasant, he says in 1871, rather than jolly times. Many of your old friends are commonly there, among the rest Sumner not rarely. There is a great deal of good feeling, I think, in our little circle of literary and scientific people. I find Longfel- low peculiarly sweet in disposition, gentle, soothing to be with, not com- monly brilliant in conversation, but at times very agreeable, and saying ex- cellent things with a singular mod- esty. Ten years later many changes had taken place in the club; some of the members had died, and others had gone away to Europe or were too far away from Boston to atl~end the meet- ings. I go to the Saturday club quite regularly, wrote Doctor Holmes to THE SATURDAY CLUB. 33 4~ 0 TABLE PLAN FOR THE SATURDAY CLUB DINNER, MAY 31, 1873, BY JOHN S. DWIGHT. ,t5~ 4 (9 0 0 Q 0 C, ,~ ~6~f 34 THE SATURDAY CLUB. Lowell, in 1883, but the company ~s more of ghosts than of flesh and blood for me. He lamented the fact that Longfellow, Agassiz, Emerson, Low- ell, Hawthorne, Motley and Sumner no longer attended, and added, I feel as if I belonged to the past. He pro- posed, however, with the aid of the younger members, to keep the club alive until Lowell could return to give some fresh life to it. He had already lamented that the club was not what it was when Lowell had attended its meetings. Finally, in 1890, he com- plained that he hardly saw a face of the old times, except those of Dwight and Hoar, where we used to have those brilliant gatherings. His biog- rapher says that probably no other member of the club felt about it as Doctor Holmes did, and adds that of all who sat at its table he was by far the most brilliant talker. We may ac- cept this opinion without admitting the truthfulness of Mr. Morses state- ment that if Holmes had traveled largely he would have held the club in less esteem. Such a statement falsely assumes that more of cosmopolitan- ism would have made Doctor Holmes another man, and would have saved him from enjoying the men he met at the Saturday Club. Mr. Samuel G. Ward, now a resi- dent of Washington, is the only orig- inal member of the club now living. The other older members are Senator Hoar, Professor Norton, President Eliot, Judge Gray, E. L. Godkin, J. M. Forbes and Wolcott Gibbs. The club still continues to meet at the Par- ker House, on the last Saturday of each month, except July, August and September. There are now thirty- eight members. Chief Justice Field of the Supreme Court of Massachu- setts is the president, and Professor W. W. Goodwin of Harvard Univer- sity is the secretary. There is not in the club at present so large a propor- tion of literary men as formerly. A member has said of the club, in 1884, that Doctor Holmes was then presi- dent; and he was always present at the dinners, and so were Judge Hoar and Mr. J. M. Forbes. These three, with a few intimate friends like Lowell and James Freeman Clarke, who came less frequently, kept up a steady fire of bright sayings and jokes, to which the younger genera- tion was often glad to listen in silence. Since the death of Doctor Holmes and Judge Hoar, everything is changed in this respect; but the din- ners of the club still remain as social and informal as ever, though the old leaders are gone. For twenty years, beginning about 1856, the Saturday was the leading club of Boston, and it contained most of the men of wit, brilliant parts and literary reputation who lived in or near the city. It was a gathering of genial friends, who sought good fel- lowship and intellectual relaxation. The meetings were social and not lit- erary; no essays were read, and no lec- tures were given. At one meeting of the club, when a reporter forced his way into the room before dinner and asked Doctor Holmes what subjects were to be discussed, he received the reply, We do nothing but tell our old stories. We never discuss any- thing. Except on rare occasions the literary part of the meeting consisted of conversation only. The dinner was the central object, and that was expected to bring out quite enough of social chat and conversa- tional stir of thought to give the meet- ings a real interest. There being no rules to observe and no red tape to follow, the meetings were purely in- formal, and therefore cheerful and cordial. All the members knew each other intimately, and consequently felt quite at home with each other and ready for the free expression of thought and sentiment. Already the club has assumed a considerable im- portance in the literary history of Bos- ton, and that importance is likely to increase as the history of the club is more fully known and as its members are looked at from a time more re- mote. THE DESERTED HOUSE. By Edna A. Foster. THE house is empty, but the door stands wide, As if the last departing soul that fled To make his home thereafter with the dead Was loth the last warm glimpse to be denied, And left it thus ajar. By its gray side The roses cling and vines their tendrils spread Across the threshold, now unchecked by tread Of glad or weary feet; their blossonis hide The gap where sill and step have broken tryst. Along the bare, dim rooms there seems to steal A sweet, illusive shadow; laughters breath Is borne around me, and I almost feel The touch of hands; while thro the memorys mist There dawns a face refuting change and death. 35 THE transformation is wonderful; trast could be greater. In the yellow it seems almost a work of magic. light, thrown fitfully out from the The story of Aladdins Lamp burning logs in the huge fireplace, cannot be wholly a myth. The graceful forms flit to and fro, appear- sky no longer looks through a gaping ing and disappearing with the fantas- roof to a yawning cellar. The rain, tic shadows upon the red wainscoted the hail and snow no longer enter as wall. Sweet music is heard, soft and if welcome guests. Warp and woof, weird, as if afar off, and stories are fashioned and dyed in the Orient, sup- told of witches urging their broom- plants the rubbish on the rotting stick steeds across the stormy mid- floors. Stuffs, rich and rare, flow night sky to festive meetings in from walls no longer black with uncanny nooks with still more un- smoke and grime. Festoons, rivaling canny folk. in texture those from the loom of the The Antiquary sits upon the spider, which they displace, show ar- hearthstone and muses. The change tistic taste and delight the eye. Pic- seems so unreal and bewildering; he tures and works of art fill every cannot draw the line, and the past coigne of vantage. will mingle with the present. He Gone the staggering partitions; watches the sparks and the curling gone the low, brown, ragged ceiling, smoke as they rise towards boundless The long slanting rafters are in full space, and voices of the unseen catch view. The massive chimney and the his responsive ear. He hears, in rotund oven stand displayed. Kitchen the mouth of the cavernous oven and bedroom, pantry and parlor have hard by, whisperings and wailings disappeared in one generous whole. from the spirits of the past,the Through the narrow windows, invit- household familiars. Driven from ing streams of soft light from elegant old haunts they have crowded the lamps are sent abroad into the night oven for shelter, as one of the few towards every point of the compass. undesecrated spots. We claim, The genii of the place preside over they say, recognition before our final cheerful hospitality within, where so departure. Behold what we bring, lately a sad spirit of seclusion and and record what you will. And the gloomy content held sway. No con- Antiquary sees a shadowy procession 36 ~ Little Drown I-louse on the AlbanyRoad. THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE issuing forth from the mouth of the oven and bearing open scrolls on which are pictured events centering around this old hearthstone, plain matters of fact, scenes of joy, scenes of sorrowing, of triumph, of despair, de- tails of everyday life and duty in the far off past. Shadowy and dim, grow- ing brighter and clearer, the vision passes upward, disappearing with the smoke and the sparks. Thus im- pelled, the Antiquary records in homely phrase the result of his mus- ings in the little brown cottage by the old Albany road on the evening of its dedication to a new purpose and to a new lease of life by its new occupants. The little brown house stands on a part of the tract which in i686 the Proprietors of Pocumtuck seques- tered for the use of the ministry of Deerfield forever. In this service the lot was leased from year to year by a committee chosen by the town, the income of it going, during his life- time, to the Rev. John Williams, our Redeemed Captive, and afterwards 37 to his successor in office, Rev. Jona- than Ashley. As in later days, so in the olden time, leased lands fared hardly. Every thing possible was taken from it, and little or nothing returned. In 1759, after seventy years of this kind of treatment, the selectmen in a petition to the General Court say, the soil is poor and barren for want of manure, also that the land is of less benefit to the minister than its value in money would be, and they ask leave of the General Court to sell it. There was, however, another reason for this ac- tion, and, it may be, the main one. Deerfield was then the center of business for a large region round about, and craftsmen of many kinds tradesmen they were then called were seeking places here on which to build shops where they could exercise their handicrafts. Suitable locations were hard to get, and the ministerial lot, lying along the Albany road, was wanted for that purpose. In 1760, un- der the authority of an act of the cob- THE TRANSFORMATION Is WONDERFUL. 38 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE nial legislature, this tract was cut up into small lots by the town and sold to tradesmen. It had been laid out originally between the house lot of the Worshipful John Pynchon on the sQuth and the Middle Lane to the nieadows on the north. The Pynchon lot was later the home of Mehuman Hinsdale, the first white man born in Deerfield, twice captivated hy. the Indian salvages, as his grave-stone testifies. The Middle Lane became in dpe time the high road from Northern Hampshire to Albany and the scene of military operations against Can~W.~ Wy the way of the lakes. The lots sold do tradesmen faced north on this road. ~Many now living have seen the guide- board at the head of the Lane on which was a hand with the forefinger pointing westward, directing the trav- eler To Albany. Very soon this poor and barren land bore abundant fruit. Buildings sprang up, and new sounds were heard all a long its border. The clang of the anvil and the blast from the bel- lows of Armorer Bull answered to the hissing of the flip iron and tan of the toddy-stick of his neighbor, Landlord Saxton. The ting-a-ling of Silver- smith Parker more than held its own with the muffled thud from the loom of Elizabeth Amsden the weaver, and the soft music of the flickering bowstring of Felt- maker Hamilton, as it rained blows on the fine fur of the beaver, musk- rat or raccoon. The mallet of Hitchcock, the hatter, responded feebly in a dull monotone to the sharp speaking strokes of the hammer on the lap-stone of Da- vid Saxton, as he sat at the east window of the kitchen in the little cottage on the old colonial road. Should the traveler from the Hud- son, coming over the Hoosac Moun- tain to the Connecticut Valley, be waylaid by prowling Indians, and stripped of all his effects, he could be refitted and refreshed within the bor- ders of the old ministerial lot. Had his horse been spared, it could be fed, shod, furnished with a new saddle and a portmanteau; or had fortune been more cruel, had the horse been taken, the traveler could be provided with a new one from the choice stud of Breeder Saxton. He could buy a hat, shoes, cloth for a coat, and a watch for his fob. He could procure a sword, musket, or a pair of pistols, and, after THE HOUSEHOLD FAMILIARS. ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 39 a mug of hot flip and a bountiful din- ner with Landlord Saxton, the de- spoiled stranger could go on his way rejoicing, having obtained all these things without money, although not without price. In those days credit was universally given and was rarely abused. Come back again to the little cot- tage where, by the great window in the east end of the kitchen, David Saxton hammered the oak tanned soles, and xvith well-waxed home-spun thread closed the seams of honest up- per leather, with honest toil and good judgment. Concerning this latter quality there is a story told character- istic of the man and bringing him a little nearer to us. The shoemaker was so often called upon to act as referee, arbitrator, ap- praiser, etc., that he must be pardoned if he became a little vain of his repu- tation. He thoroughly enjoyed these labors and honors; a little grumbling at the burden he might have thouott increased his importance. One day, while at work on his bench, he was called upon by a neighbor to act as a referee on some question in dispute. Springing up suddenly, letting his lap- stone and hammer tumble to the floor, he exclaimed, while whisking off his leather apron with alacrity: What a cussed thing it is to be a man of judgment! Nevertheless, this son of Crispin went his way to exercise this judgment for the benefit of his fellows with real content. Assuming kitchen, dining room and shop to be one, while the husband and father hammered and pegged and sewed, and sewed and hammered and pegged, month after month and year after year, his good wife, l3athsheba, was always nigh. Here she baked, and here she brewed, washed, ironed, boiled and stewed. From his low bench by the east window one day in every week David could see the roar- ing red fire in the big brick oven in front of him, and could watch the fierce flames as they curled to its dome an(l darted their forked tongues to- wards him, only to be caught at its very mouth by the spirits of the air HE hAMMERED AND PEGGED AND sEWED: 40 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE and sent swiftly up the flue. David could watch his spouse, as with her long iron peel she removed the glow- ing coals when the oven had reached the right pitch of heat, and with her husk-broom, wetted as need be in a pail of water on the hearth, swept clean of ashes the oven floor. And when the oven door had been put up a suitable time to draw down the heat, he could see Bathsheba as she deftly tossed from her light wooden peel, into the farthermost depths of the heated cavern, the squat loaves of rye and Indian bread. This peel was as white as river sand and elbow grease could make it. In due time David could snuff the rich savor of the brown beauties as they were taken out on the peel and piled upon the table near him, a good weeks supply for the family. The front part of the oven may have been filled in with pumpkin pies, or tarts with the initials of the children cut in pie crust on the top, or, on state occasions, it may be with a spare rib of pork, or a pigling entire, a haunch of venison, a wild goose, or a turkey. Nothing came amiss to this great, warm-hearted friend of the family. But the oven had a rival in the at- tentions and affection of David. Close by, at its right shoulder, was a capacious fireplace, with its generous back log, fore log and top log, urging up the climbing flame, every day, and in season all day long. As the mouth of the oven was closed six days out of seven, it had a poor chance against the loquacious fireplace, which by a side glance came full in view from the shoemakers bench. Besides, there was the great iron dinner pot, which the swinging crane held out daily over the very heart of the merry fire, that welcomed it with great glee, laughing and dancing under and about it, em- bracing it with its red arms, and touching its very lid with its curling lips of flame. The stolid iron, yield- ing to its ardent friend, was forced to acknowledge its subtle influence, and soon David could hear the contents of the big-bellied pot merrily gurgling and babbling of the jolly time they were all having, although in hot water together. THE BUZZING WHEEL SANG A LULLABY. ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 4 So the pot was hued every day in the week. But the marvel and the mystery of it allthe leaping flame, the solid iron, the hissing steam! David was no philosopherthe shoe- maker should stick to his last. He was no Watt, to note the tilting lid. He was no chemist, to analyze effects. He had a good appetite, engendered by healthy toil and a clear con- science. He could do ample justice to the contents of the pot, when piled upon the pewter platter, as the style on the sun dial lined with the meridian. But he never stopped why should heor we either for that matter to speculate upon the daily miracle wrought by the loving fire spirit of the household. David saw Bathsheba put into the mouth of that pot cold water, and then beef, pork, cabbage, carrots, parsnips, turnips, all cold and indigestible; later he had stopped with upraised hammer, while pegging a sole, to see her swing out the crane and souse into the seeth- ing mass a bag of Indian pudding, re- suming his labor when this was safely accomplished. And daily he had seen these crude materials come out smok- ing, luscious food, fit to set before the king. Therefore the oven got the worst of it in the rivalry for the affections of David. If the oven had thought about it, if the fireplace had thought about it, if David had thought about it, which none of them did, they might have drawn this moral: Be faithful and useful not only one day in seven, but every day of the week. So by the great east window, where the morning sun shone full upon him, David hammered and pegged and stitched, and pegged and stitched and hammered, to secure the understand- ing of his customers and bread for his wife and children; while Goodwife Bathsheba baked and brewed and ironed and carded and spun, the hum of the wheel in harmony with the sound of the hammer. From flax taken in barter for the products of Da- vids labor, she spun and twisted the honest thread with which his seams were closed; and while her foot pressed the treadle, and her busy fin- gers gauged and guided the slender GOD~ 5 ACRE. 42 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE thread her buzzing wheel sang a lul- laby, and David with his stirruped foot gave an occasional jog to the cradle. For amid all the sights and sounds of this life of mutual industry and helpfulness, children came to be cared for and loved, and, alas, to be mourned for. Was David seen with arms extended as he had drawn home the last stitch of a seam, gazing ab- stractedly at the empty cradle by the oven door, we may be sure his thoughts were away among the little mounds, more or less grassed over, in the graveyard hard by. Four times during eight years had that cradle been robbed. Four times the dread messenger had led a procession out of the square room beyond the kitchen, over the threshold of the low-browed front door, to the Gods Acre at the west end of the ministerial lot. Should we wonder if the stricken Bathsheba put salt for sugar in her pies, or seasoned her bread with scald- ing brine, when we know that across the level field, in full view of the small shuttered window of her pantry, slept that city of the dead, where four of her five darlings had been laid, one by one and side by side? For she must work as well as weep. By straining her eyes, as the bright sunlight streamed across the little mounds, the mother fancied that she could distin guish between the fresh scar on the bosom of mother earth and those partly healed by the kindly ministra- tions of time, and she sadly compared them to the scars in her own bosom; only on these time had worked more slowly and across these only shadows fell. It may have been to remove his wife from a prospect so saddening that David before the birth of another babe, or before the brown had changed to green on the newest mound, left the little cottage and sought with Bathsheba at New Salem that comfort denied their parental longings here. In their new home the fates were kinder, and children were born and lived to cheer their de- clining years. On the west side of our Old Burying Ground, where the gentle breezes come up from the mur- muring Pocumtuck,where the aspen reaches out its kindly hands in benediction over the spot, and its restless leaves whis- per, perchance, tales of bygone years, the four little mounds lie, side by side, as of old; but now there are two larger and longer ones; and on the moss- grown stones standing at the head of these are recorded the last events in the lives of David and Bathsheba Saxton. From David Saxton the brown house passed to David Hoyt, Senior. If Hoyt then took up his abode here, it was doubtless to pursue his calling of maker of wiggs and foretops. In this polite generation, the owners of bald heads are told that this defect is a mark of wisdom and honor; conse- quently they are apt to be rather proud than otherwise of their sterile pates. Not so in the time of whichwe speak. Whether it was incense to the goddess Hygeia, or a tribute to the goddess of fashion, the bald head was carefully covered; the first ravages by THEY REST TOGETHER. 42 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE thread her buzzing wheel sang a lul- laby, and David with his stirruped foot gave an occasional jog to the cradle. For amid all the sights and sounds of this life of mutual industry and helpfulness, children came to be cared for and loved, and, alas, to be mourned for. Was David seen with arms extended as he had drawn home the last stitch of a seam, gazing ab- stractedly at the empty cradle by the oven door, we may be sure his thoughts were away among the little mounds, more or less grassed over, in the graveyard hard by. Four times during eight years had that cradle been robbed. Four times the dread messenger had led a procession out of the square room beyond the kitchen, over the threshold of the low-browed front door, to the Gods Acre at the west end of the ministerial lot. Should we wonder if the stricken Bathsheba put salt for sugar in her pies, or seasoned her bread with scald- ing brine, when we know that across the level field, in full view of the small shuttered window of her pantry, slept that city of the dead, where four of her five darlings had been laid, one by one and side by side? For she must work as well as weep. By straining her eyes, as the bright sunlight streamed across the little mounds, the mother fancied that she could distin guish between the fresh scar on the bosom of mother earth and those partly healed by the kindly ministra- tions of time, and she sadly compared them to the scars in her own bosom; only on these time had worked more slowly and across these only shadows fell. It may have been to remove his wife from a prospect so saddening that David before the birth of another babe, or before the brown had changed to green on the newest mound, left the little cottage and sought with Bathsheba at New Salem that comfort denied their parental longings here. In their new home the fates were kinder, and children were born and lived to cheer their de- clining years. On the west side of our Old Burying Ground, where the gentle breezes come up from the mur- muring Pocumtuck, where the aspen reaches out its kindly hands in benediction over the spot, and its restless leaves whis- per, perchance, tales of bygone years, the four little mounds lie, side by side, as of old; but now there are two larger and longer ones; and on the moss- grown stones standing at the head of these are recorded the last events in the lives of David and Bathsheba Saxton. From David Saxton the brown house passed to David Hoyt, Senior. If Hoyt then took up his abode here, it was doubtless to pursue his calling of maker of wiggs and foretops. In this polite generation, the owners of bald heads are told that this defect is a mark of wisdom and honor; conse- quently they are apt to be rather proud than otherwise of their sterile pates. Not so in the time of whichwe speak. Whether it was incense to the goddess Hygeia, or a tribute to the goddess of fashion, the bald head was carefully covered; the first ravages by THEY REST TOGETHER. 44 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE his fathers adventures while in Cana- dian captivity and his terrible experi- ences when, with three other young men, he escaped and made his way home through the wilderness, where he arrived in a demented state and nearly famished. John Williams, Na- than Catlin, John Sheldon could each relate tales of Indian warfare and cap- tivity, heard from their grandfathers; while his next door neighbor, Justin Hitchcock, could talk of a later war and thrill his hear- ers with his own experiences while responding to the Lexington alarm. He could tell how the inspiring notes of his fife renewed the tired muscle Qf the Deerfield Minute Men under Captain Locke on their march to meet the enraged British lion in Boston. The fifer could also relate as an eye witness the particulars and the result of the disastrous campaign of Bur- goyne, and could tell with a relish how the company of Captain Joseph Stebbins and others swooped down upon the personal baggage train of the harassed general, and could perhaps show, like some of his fellows, trophies harvested on that occasion. Captain Joseph himself, whose house stood in sight across lots, cotild repeat the well known pranks of the mobs he led in visiting the tories and enforcing their signatures to patriotic resolutions. Others could tell stories of witches, or of ghosts, as the current talk of the evening might run. Meanwhile, the light from the blazing hickory logs was casting shadows of the group around the hearthstone upon the green baize cur- tains of the turn-up bed and the red wainscoted walls, where they ap- peared huge and weird, like the ghosts of restless giants; pictures quite in keeping with the tales that were told. About a century ago, Epaphras Hoyt, son of David and Silence, be- came the owner and occupant of the cottage, which then retained its origi- nal external form, to which recent changes have re- stored it. Al- though a young man, Hoyt brought with him a valued experi- ence, and the at- mosphere as well as the form of the house was gradu- ally changed. Hoyt was a man of genius, whom science had marked for its own, and he gath- ered here all kin- dred elements in the town. His Experience, or Spiddy, as she was called, bore fruit from time to time, audwider ac- c o m modations were required; so Aunt Spiddys bedroom and back kitchen were added in the rear, and Aunt Spiddys stoop in front. The favorite studies of General Hoyt were the art of war, natural philosophy, astronomy and colonial history. He was in the meridian of life when the great wars of Europe which followed the Reign of Terror convulsed that continent. As a mili- tary man, he watched the course of Napoleon with the deepest interest. He followed him step by step, over the Alps into Italy, over the sea into Egypt, over the Pyrenees into Spain, DOORSTONE TALES. ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 45 where his cannon disturbed the burial of Sir John Moore ; across the Rhine to the fields of Ulna and Aus- terlitz and Jena and Eylau and Wag- ram, as he raged to and fro like a demon of destruction, ignoring or tearing into tatters, all the established rules which had hitherto been the guide for the movements of European arms on the march or in manceuvres on the field of battle. Here was a rare chance to study the art of war on a grand scale from a new master. Hoyt, like an enthusiastic patriot, gave him- self up to it with ardor and success. Can we not see him with the poker drawing plans in the ashes on this great hearth, plans of recent battles to illustrate his theme, showing his friends how Napoleon had beaten the Italians, the Austrians or the Rus- sians, by this or that movement, at this or that critical moment? The point once demonstrated, Aunt Spiddy with a few whisks of her birchen broom sent the offending ashes under the fore stick, sweeping aside these plans no more effectually than some new burst of genius in the Corsican did those of the crowned heads of Europe. One result of these studies was a treatise on The Military Art, issued in 1798, for the use of the United States army. This work attracted the attention of the first President, and it was doubtless by the light of our east window that General Hoyt read the letter from Washington offering him a command in the United States army, which was then being organ- ized for a conflict with France. Hoyts work passed through several editions, and was followed by more elaborate works, largely prepared under this roof. All were illustrated by plates, showing the formation and evolutions of companies, regiments and armies, on parade and in active service on the field. Imagine sketches of these plans pinned up on the red wainscoting of the kitchen, and note the trouble they gave Aunt Spiddy, when the frolic- some wind from the open window sent them scurrying over her nicely sanded floor, with the possibility that some might be caught in the draft and whisked with the flame and smoke up the wide-throated chimney. Hoyts reason for declining the commission from Washington we do not know. We do know that it was not a lack of patriotism or waning love of the mili- tary art. Probably he felt the call for home duties more urgent. He was Inspector-General of the state troops. Trouble was brewing with Great Brit- am as well as with France, and many feared that the great Corsican himself would turn his arms across the waters to our shores. The hand of General Hoyt may be seen in the action of the Board of Trustees of Deerfield Acad- emy, when in i8o6 a new professor- ship was established. It was for teach- ing the Theoretical and Practical Art of War viz :tactics according to Stu- ben and Dundas . . . Practical Ge- ometry on the Ground; Elements of Fortifications, and the Construction of small works in the Field; Elements of Gunnery; Topography; Military History; Partisan War, or War of Posts; . . . These subjects will be un- der the direction of Major Hoyt, Lrigade Inspector. . . . It is be- lieved that the Present Critical Situa- tion of our Country will induce young men to qualify themselves for an hon- orable defence against every hostile attack on their native land and lay a foundation for military Glory. But our genius sacrificed not alone upon the shrine of Mars. Gradually, as the years went on, the little cottage on the Albany road became the un- doubted center of mental activity for Northern Hampshire. Around its hearthstone the young men gathered and listened to discussions of the most abstruse problems, not only of war, but of philosophy and pure science. Here space was measured with a line, the trackless star was traced to its hid- ing place by day, the sun after his go- ing down at night, and a path was predicted for the erratic comet. Some of the results of these hearthstone 46 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE studies are with us in published works on astronomy, military science and colonial history by Hoyt, and on mathematics, biblical criticism, civil law and general literature by Rodol- phus Dickinson, one of his young friends. Another boy of whom the world has heard received here his inspiration and here enjoyed his first laurels. Half a dozen rods from the great east win- dow, Epaphras and Experience could see Mercy, sister of the General and wife of Justin Hitchcock, as she leaned from her pantry window for a morning chat, or busied herself about her back yard chores, her chickens and her geese. Among her two- legged cares was a bright, dark-eyed boy, the torment of her life, who early came under the influence of his Uncle Ep. As a mere lad he would eagerly listen to the talk round his uncles hearthstone, and as he grew in years his love for the truths of science kept pace with his hatred of the great usurper Napoleon; for all along he had drunk in the current talk which represented this master of the art of war as a blood-thirsty tyrant, a cruel monster, whose pastime was the mur- der of women and children. Picture the scene at the cottage on the even- ing of Monday, March 4, 1805, as the General read the latest news, that three months before, at Notre Dame, Bonaparte had been crowned emperor of France. Did hatred for the French nation prevent even pity for its fate? Did righteous indignation or dread despair for suffering humanity come uppermost in the minds of the assem- bled group? One year lacking a day, other news came, and to the hearers the tables seemed turned. With what joy they heard the General read from the Green field Ga2ette a highly colored account of the success of Alexander and the allied army over the French in a battle of December 2, 1805, and the comments that sanguine hopes are now entertained in Europe that Bonaparte has at length arrived at the termination of his career.,~ This was the first report by the way of England of the battle of Austerlitz, a battle in which Napoleon gained one of his greatest victories over the combined armies of Russia and Aus- tria. The fulfilment of these san- guine hopes was not yet. More coun- tries were to be overrun, and more thrones to be overturned; thousands of widows and orphans were yet to taste the horrors of war. At length, however, Bonapartes hour struck. June 3, 1814, a hand-bill was received at Deerfield, which was published in the Franklin Herald of June 7, con- taining the joyful news that the allied armies had entered Paris and that the emperor was a fugitive. We of this day can hardly imagine the excite- ment and the thanksgiving which fol- lowed this announcement; and of all the coterie of the little brown house, not one was more strongly impressed than the bright, dark-eyed boy, Ed- ward Hitchcock. He at once began his tragedy, The Downfall of Bona NOW SILENTLY RESTING IN MEMORIAL HALL. ON THE ALBANY ROAD. parte. In its pages can be seen re- flected the sentiment of the time, which ranked Napoleon as the most heartless and crnel despot the sun ever shone upon, and Alexander, the czar of Rnssia, as the friend of human- ity and the prince of peace. It gives us qneer notions of our democracy to see the emperor stigmatized in this prodnction as a mud sprnng reptile, a filthy toad, a base born Corsi- can. This tragedy, which covered the leading events of the rise and fall of Napoleon, was put upon the boards and acted by the leading lights of Deerfield in the old meetinghouse, part of the pews being floored over for a stage. This was the event of that generation, and the assumed names of the actors clung to many of them through life. In my boyhood, the names of Blucher ~nd Ney, Lescourt and Platoff were as familiar as house- hold words. Tb is tragedy was evidently com- posed under the eye of General Hoyt, for his ear-marks can be seen on al- most every page. The low ceiling of Aunt Spiddys kitchen must have looked down ~ hundred times on the 4,7 author and his fellows, as they spouted the lurid lines before the critic in re- hearsal for the stage; and the copyist was doubtless often vexed by changes in the text in order to insert some new technical military phrase or let in a little more blood and thunder. How wide a circulation this historic effu- sion had is not known; but Horace Greeley relates that when an appren- tice at Poultney, Vermont, the tragedy was acted there, and he personated one of the characters. In after years, President Hitchcock made efforts to suppress this callow effort of his genius, and copies are scarce in con- sequence. Under the lead of his uncle, young Hitchcock became an ardent student of astronomy and, making a practical application of his acquirements, constructed the astro- nomical tables for a series of almanacs OLD-TIME CHEER. which he published at Deerfield. Some of his problems were questioned by the astronomers of Europe; but with General Hoyt at his back he maintained his ground, and after a sharp contest his positions were at length admitted as proven by the Continental Magnates. Doubtless 48 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE the big fireplace echoed the rejoicing which followed this victory of a self- made Deerfield boy over the savants of Europe. And well it might, for had it not for years been throwing light from its pine knots on these knotty questions? General Hoyt was a graduate of the Deerfield district school. Edward Hitchcock had in addition a few win- ter terms at the Deerfield Academy, and this was his Alma Mater. Al- though professor, and later president of a college, and the recipient of colle- giate honors from far and wide, he never saw as a pupil the inside of any college walls, and he may well be called a graduate of the little brown cottage on the old Albany road. Per- haps the honor must be shared with the great elm tree under xvhich it nestled so snugly, with its moss cov- ered roof. It is related that the Gen- eral and his nephew were in the habit of fleeing, to escape the disturbance from the children and the swash of Aunt Spiddys mop on the floor, to a seat among the branches of this even then giant tree, to study their most profound problems; and here Edward spent many a studious hour, refusing to join in the pastimes of his compan- ions. Certain it is that the seat in the old tree was a favorite place of resort, not only for the General and the future president, but also for their growing sons and daughters. Hoyt had such an appreciation of and admiration for the Duke of Wel- lington, that, in i8i i, he named his only son after him, Arthur Wellesley, thus anticipating the fame the Iron Duke gained later at Salamanca and Waterloo. European wars did not, however, wholly engross the attention of Hoyt. He is best known to-day by his Antiquarian Researches con- cerning the Indian wars of New Eng- land, a work of great value to students of New England history. The rise and progress of the events which led to the War of Impressment with England must have been watched with the deepest interest and discussed in all their bearings under the roof-tree of the Inspector Gen- erals cottage. Here would the patri- otic citizens gather; here would be first heard the declaration of the war, and here first came the stirring news of our gallant naval victories so unex- pected by either of the belligerents; and here, we may be sure, were sung the spirited songs they inspired. The General was not gifted in song, but what he lacked in tone and harmony he made up in energy, and doubtless the rafters shook as he emphasized the sentiment of Chancellor Kiltys varia- tion of Britannia Rule the Wave. For see, Columbias sons arise, Firm, independent, bold and free; They too shall seize the glorious prize, And share the empire of the sea; Hence then, let freemen rule the waves, And those who yield them still be slaves ; or as he joined in Rays stirring lyric: Too long has proud Britannia reigned The tyrant of the sea, With guiltless blood her banners staind, Ten thousand by impressment chaind, Whom God created free; or in the rollicking tribute to Commo- dore Perry: Hail to the chief, now in glory advancing, Who conquered the Britons on Eries broad wave; Who playd Yankee Doodle to set them a-dancing, Then trippd up their haels for a watery grave.~~ We have seen that the General did not live then, as in later years, in scholastic seclusion. Neither was he an exclusive devotee to science and mili- tary art. He was an active man of affairs, with a wide-spread political in- fluence, and was, in fact, one of the river gods. He was post-master and registrar of deeds for Northern Hampshire; and hundreds of pages written by his daughter, Fanny, by the light frm the east window are now daily consulted by the public. The little brown cottage was also the ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 49 center of the executive power of the new county of Franklin, for the Gen- eral was high sheriff. We may trust that when he went in state to open the courts, Aunt Spiddy saw to it that his blue, brass-buttoned coat was scrupulously clean, that his cockade and crimson silk sash were properly arranged, and the hangings of his dress sword were spotless as the sun. Time changes all things. The phil- osopher and friend, the student and the guide, the man of science and the man of power departed; and of his kith and kin the only representative left to-day on the old Albany road is a young woman who revels in the quick wit and the flight of imagina- tion which she inherited from an un- expended balance in the large brain of her great grandfather, Epaphras Hoyt. No greater contrast can be con- ceived than that between some of the early occupants and those who now for a year and a day make their abode in the little brown house,Rufus Rice and his fitting mate, Esther. Rufus was a first class representative of the typical Yankee, keen, shrewd and honest in business, droll and witty in words, wise, careful and far- sighted in action. He was the founder of the fourpence-hapenny packet express between Deerfield and Greenfield, which still flourishes un- der the whip of his grandson, another Rufus. Express Rice had small opportunity for book learning in youth; but his judgment was sound, and he came to be much relied upon in business by the manless maiden, the distressed widow, and the skilless professor. One of the latter class, after vain struggle to repair a water conduit, called in Mr. Rice. The following brief conversation illus- trates the prominent traits in both the interlocutors: I find, says the Professor, after thoughtful consideration and re- peated, carefully conducted experi- ments with this preparation, that all my attempts are fruitless, and that the water still continues to exude copiously. O, yaas, yaas, fix it so t 11 allus leak like sixty. I am compelled to acquiesce in your decisions; but, Mr. Rice, may I inquire what methods you would recommend to 0, Ill git it fixt as right s a hoe- handle. Dont you give yourself iio more trouble about it. In sorrowfully condoling with Mr. Rice on the great loss he had sustained in the death of his son, the Professor remarked with his voice full of tears, I understand, sir, that your son possessed a considerable amount of mechanical ingenuity, that in fact he had proved his constructive talent in practical achievements under ad- verse circumstances, and with great lack of needful appliances. 0, yaas! yis, you give Seth a jack- knife and gimlet and hed make eny most anything. The sphere of Mr. Rice was nar- row; he filled it well. He left no stain on his character or shadow on the little cottage. Neither the hearth- stone, the oven, nor the window had reason to complain in the companion- ship of these honest everyday folk. It is said that coming events cast their shadow before. With the next occupants of the little brown house, we will suppose in our musings the case is reversed. One of the fleeting scroll bears a name well known in bor- der warfare, that of Sergeant John Hawks, the hero of Fort Massachusetts, the compeer of Stark and Putnam, of Burke and Rogers and other noted partisans of the French and Indian wars. He died as colonel at his home in Deerfield Street, next door to that of David Hoyt, elder brother of Epaphras. Colonel Hawks in his old age spent much time at the Old Indian House, then a tavern, with the father of Epaphras as landlord. We may be sure that young Epaphras improved every opportunity of hear- ing the bar-room stories of this scarred veteran of two wars, that he 50 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE was often at his brothers house, and that he haunted the home of the hero listening eagerly to his door-stone tales. Nor can we doubt that here was born the spirit of research which seized upon the wide awake boy, and that in this primary school he began the study of the Art of War. In his Antiquarian Researches General Hoyt does full justice to the heroism of his aged mentor, and many a vivid scene of Indian warfare therein pic- tured was doubtless in language heard from one who could say, All of this I saw and part of which I was ; and the old warrior could have asked no better medium for a history of his deeds. These stories which our three steadfast friends had heard rehearsed a hundred times in the earlier days, the oven, the window and the fire- place now heard repeated to a new circle of listeners, gathered in the old kitchen; for John Hawks, the new- comer, had all these tales by heart, and took due pride in recounting the deeds of his grandsire. But the times had changed; blessed peace flooded the land, and the stories fell on comparatively listless ears. Epaphras and his coterie had no successors here. The hearthstone was no longer pre- sided over by Mars, Clio or Urania. With the passing of the shadow, the heroic days of the little brown house vanished for aye. But the shifting scene had not left the hearthstone desolate. On the ruins of the temple of Mars, the genius of music now established an altar. The first offering upon this was the babe, Charles, the first born of John and Emily, his wife, who in due time became a devotee of Apollo. He was a teacher of sacred music, a long time leader of the village choir, and, perhaps, through a strain in- herited from the hero of Fort Massa- chusetts, he was also a lover of mar- tial music, organizing and leading the village military band. Charles Hitchcock, son of Deacon Justin and brother of President Ed- ward, born on the adjacent lot, was the next occupant of the little brown house, with the additions of his Aunt Spiddys porch and Aunt Spiddys bed room. Charles was a man of versatile tastes, with strong salient points in his make-up. His regular occupation was farming, but in com- mon with his Uncle Ep he had a taste for local history. He was over- flowing with stories and anecdotes re- lating to former generations of his townspeople which he had accumu- lated, the greater part of which are now, alas! lost forever. The Anti- quary must not be held accountable for the loss of this inside view of the society of old Deerfield, for at the date of Deacon Hitchcocks death he had not been invested with the robes of the Oldest Inhabitant. He had, however, heard enough from the lips of the Deacon to become aware that here was a rich storehouse of local lore; he had called the attention of Professor James K. Hosmer to the fact, and had arranged for an inter- view in the little brown house, when Mr. Hosmer was to take down Dea- con Hitchcocks stories in writing. This movement proved too late; on the very day appointed, Deacon Hitchcock was called to a bed of sick- ness from which he never rose. This circumstance is told as a much needed warning to many who might profit by it. There are Hitchcocks and Hosmers of various grades in every community. Taking the warning to myself, I proceed to make a record, that of all the salient points in the character of the new owner of the little brown house, Deacon Hitchcocks love for music was the most notable. That was unmistakable. To this the oven, the window and the fireplace will cheerfully and unanimously testify. For it was still before the days of the iron stove and tin oven that the sing- ing master entertained at all hours of the day and untimely hours of the night his friend the minister, a musi- cal composer and writer of hymns. Here it was that new theories were ON THE ALBANY ROAD. .5 discussed, new combinations of notes tried, and especially new adaptations of language to tunes. The melodies of the sweet singer of Israel were re- leased from the harsh bondage of Steruhold and Hopkins, and made to clothe the more harmonious measures of the minister, while the more lurid verses of the uncompromising Watts were rehashed or banished without compunction to meet the more gen- erous interpretation of the Scriptures under a milder form of theology. The theology being settled, this did not trouble the twain, but to adapt the piety and beauty of Watts to the new conditions and new claims of musical science was a task requiring all the knowledge and all the skill of these earnest enthusiasts; and it was here that the Deerfield Collection of Sacred Music gradually took on substance and form. As the melody of music was in their hearts and voices, so the science of music was upon their lips; they talked earnestly and musefully by the light of the east window, the tallow candle or the pine knot, of oc- tave and compass, of pitch and ac- cent, of chords and triads and cadence, of points and counterpoints, of can- ons finite and canons infinite, of scale chromatic and diatonic, of sequence and modulation and transformation, even unto the weariness and confusion of the unlearned. Doubtless the big- bellied bass viol, made by Deacon Jus- tin, and the pitch pipe he used, both now silently resting in Memorial Hall, could testify, if summoned, of all these things more fittingly and more music- ally than the unmusical muser of this hour. It is natural to assume that Deacon Hitchcock inherited from the amateur builder of the bass viol his love of harmony; but this could not fail to be fostered by the example and in- fluence of William Bull, the composer and publisher of a musical treatise, who lived next door to the house in which Charles was born and brought up. However this may be, when Charles in early manhood became in- timately associated with Samuel Wil- lard, the unshackled minister of free thought and free expression, a great opportunity was given him for culti- vating and refining his strong native talent. The new friendship was har- monious and mutually helpful. The saintly Dr. Willard did not, indeed, dwell beneath this roof, but his hal- lowed voice seems on this occasion to echo from wall and ceiling, conjured up, it may be, by the subdued melody evoked by the skillful touch of his musically inspired granddaughter. Meanwhile the warm-hearted oven and the cheerful fireplace, ignoring all ancient rivalry, clung together as fast friends under the same mantel- tree, while the great east window smiled serenely on both. Well and faithfully each of the three served in its own way those who under- stood their secrets and their power. Charles, the singer, had readily made friends with the musical fireplace, but he understood not the mysteries lying in the depths of the oven; they were unfathomable to him. When he had pondered for a time what he should do, he hied away to the hills beyond the valley to the home of the setting sun, even to the house of Isaac, sur- named Baker. Now Isaac had a comely daughter who had aforetime looked with favor upon the itinerant singing master, and after a short re- sponsive wooing the twain became one. There were literally no cards for the wedding party. The venerable secretary of the Pocumtuck Valley Memorial Association, then a boy of ten, gave out the invitations verbally from door to door. It was on a birthday of Washing- ton three score and ten years agone, that the friends of Charles and Lois held high festival within these walls, and so was celebrated the advent of the bride and the new mistress, who then began a new life here with our three friends~ and with the pantry of Bathsheba and Silence and Experi- ence. These were all glad of her com- ing, especially the oven, which well 52 THE LITTLE BROWN HOUSE knew that, although no longer a Baker by name, she would continue to practice the art; and from its mouth came abundant proffers of good cheer, and thenceforth it gave Lois loyal and warm-hearted service. The pantry vied with the oven in the welcome. Al- though its shelve~ were weighted with pounds of pound cake, piles and piles of pies, dishes of doughnuts, jars of jams and jellies, baskets of bread and biscuits, cakes of cheese, plates of cookies and gingerbread these long shelves, ranged one above another, their edges newly decked with scalloped paper, laughed cheerily as they dis- played their tempting treasures to the optics and olfactories. Had a vote of ap- proval been then and there taken, it is doubtful whether the ayes or the noes would have carried it. All these culi- nary preparations had been made by volunteer friends of the groom under the lead of Aunt Hannah Hoyt, sister of our friend, the General. Being the head of the commissariat, she wore on this occasion, as the insignia of her office, the big gilded epaulettes of the bridegroom. Tallow candles made luminous spots here and there in the darkness. The electricity of that day shone on the faces and was manifest in the spirits and light movements of the guests. In the glowing hickory coals under the forestick lurked the loggerhead at a red heat. Cool mugs of home- brewed beer, flanked with eggs and sugar, stood hard by, ready to meet the fire fiend in a friendly contest. The result of all the hissing and foaming and spluttering which followed was like that of many heated, wordy com- bats: each side claimed the victory. In fact, however, the red iron always turned black and retreated under the forestick for re~nforcements, while the mug of flip xvent briskly about, cheered by, and cheering in turn, the company. On this occasion it was flanked by a big tumbler of Santa Cruz toddy, which was passed to old and young. Singing and playing games, like the Needles eye or the Barberry bush, may have been indulged in; but one amusement of wedding par- ties of the day, Chasing the bride round the chimney, certainly was not. The oven objected to the game and would not budge; it stood sturdily the whole evening, blocking the only path. It still objects, and still holds its position. Dancing, which at divers times and places, has been up and down the gamut of public opinion, from the lowest bass, where it was considered the most subtle device of Satan for the ingathering of souls, to the highest pitch of piety, where it ministered to the exaltation of saints, dancing at this time in Deerfield was ranging among the joyous notes and was at high tide of popular favor; it was an especuid accessory to wedding festiv- ity, and certainly the centennial of Washingtons birthday and the wed- ding day of Charles and Lois was cele- brated with the customary decorous hilarity. It is safe to assume that Harry, the brother of Charles, was master of ceremonies in this feature of the entertainment, for he was an ar- dent disciple of Terpsichore. We hear of one noteworthy occasion when Harry sacrificed his desire for this di- version on the altar of friendship or, perhaps, of friendship and indignation combined. It was the day when the mutual friend of the brothers, the mu- sical minister, had been refused ordi- nation by an adverse Council. Harry, in behalf of the young people, wrote a feeling letter notifying the rejected candidate that in consequence of their sympathy for him at the action of the Council the Ordination Ball arranged for the evening would be given up. The music furnished to regulate the tripping footsteps on such occasions was usually the sympathetic fiddle, the young chaps chipping in to hire a fiddler. If none was available, some of the musical ones would set and keep the time by singing, or hum- ming, or calling, or some combination of these methods. The muser recalls ON THE ALBANY ROAD. 53 one occasion when as the merest slip of a boy he went with his sister to a neighbor party and witnessed what would be called in the slang of to-day a kitchen shin-dig. The hostess, Mis- tress Sabrina, inspired and directed the old-fashioned contra dances in her long kitchen. Fragments of the sights and sounds still remain with me, im- pressed, it may be, by a knowledge of the parties, and by seeing the personal application. The director was perched upon the loom at one end of the room, whence her voice rang out with a free and easy swing somewhat like this, with all necessary adaptations: Now cross over my sort Stoddard, tum tum diddle dum, tum tum diddle dum down outside now my son Amos, tum tum diddle dum, tum tum diddle dum, come to your ma now Lisa Ann Parker, youre not big enough, youre not big enough, right and left now Jane Alcesta, tum tum diddle dum, tum tum diddle dum, down in the middle Stoddard Wil- liams, tum tum diddle dum, tum tum diddle dum. This lady was about the age of Chaies, and was doubtless at the wedding, and perhaps her peculiar tal- ent may have been called into requisi- tion; but as this is a tale of verities and the scrolls of the household familiars do not particularize, it cannot be as- serted. For the same reason it must be left to the imagination to picture how Captain Hannah beckoned Lois from the bright firelight of the kitchen into Aunt Spiddys dim little bed room for mysterious conference with certain wise matrons, her new aunts, and how Experience gave her timely words of advice and warning from her ample store of hard earned knowledge, or how Marcy and Betsey and Persis showered upon her max- ims of wisdom for her guidance in her new sphere, and how the words of her mentors fell upon the ears of the happy and trustful bride with the same abiding effect as water show- ered upon the back of the proverbial duck. The year hand on the clock of time crept on. For two-score years Charles the singer and Lois the baker abode together under the roof tree of the little brown cottage, growing browner year by year, and then were gathered to their fathers. Of the two childreff who first saw the light within these walls, justin took unto himself a help- meet and dwelt in a new house hard by, but Harriet remained alone in the old home. Three decades passed. Time was left unmolested to work his will upon the failing habitation and its 54 THE RISING OF CALEB BALLARD. forlorn, clouded inmate. Little by lit- tle the roof gaped here and there as if to invite the rain, the hail and the snow. The floor of the square room and the pantry of Bathsheba found sad companionship in the dark yawn- ing cellar. Ruin and decay rioted in Aunt Spiddys bed room. The linger- ing partitions, black with grime and smoke and festooned with dust-laden cobwebs, faltered and staggered. Still, Harriet with bent form and tot- tering steps clung steadfastly to the old-time home, all for love of it and for the associations which filled every nook and cranny. All else failing, she crept close to our three old friends for sympathy and cheer, and the staunch fireplace, the tried oven and the great east window proved as true to Harriet as Harriet was true to this taleful relic of by-gone days the little brown house on the old colonial road to Al- bany. THE RISING OF CALEB BALLARD. By Florence Tinsley Cox. OWN in the valley twilight had already fallen, darkest where the western moun- tain shut out the de- clining rays of the chill November sun, and lightening up to dim daylight on the top of Black Hill, where the old Ballard homestead stared out bleakly upon the desolate landscape. Two miles away as the crow flies lay Fremont, nestled warmly among the hills, and offering in its two stores and public library a centre of attraction for the young people of the neighbor- hood. In the middle of the village stood the church and the post office, both equally dependent on the stage coach of Hartley Gakes, who brought impartially mail bags and minister from Taylors Crossing, the nearest railway station. In summer he brought tourists as well, men in golf stockings and knickerbockers, and gorgeously attired women attended by trim maids. The great hotels on the lower road were filled with gay society people, and the Fremont weekly ball was reported by special men sent up by the city dailies. In September the crowd gradually ebbed away, and by November the hotels stood in dis- mal state and the village had sunk to its usual winter quiet, enlivened now and then by a sociable or sleigh- ing party. Two miles back on the Pine Road the difference was~ little felt; and the Ballards especially lived on calmly in the gray house. That it was gray was the only drop of bitterness in Deborah Ballards cup. In her dreams she saw it painted white, a tower of purity on the hill-top; and once, by the exercise of Spartan self-denial, she had saved up sufficient to paint the gable end nearest the road. That time was now so long past that the thin white coat had sunk into close union with the gray boards; but the picture of its splendor had never quite faded~from her mind. Seated in the old armchair with the cushioned seat, she took up the tale once more, as the gay patches of a quilt, known in New Hampshire THE RISING OF CALEB BALLARD. 55 parlance as a tack, fell into place under her nimble fingers. When I married Caleb, I never sposed Id live stiddy in a gray house. You take care o the outside, Caleb, says I, on the very day of our weddin, forty year ago, an Ill take care o the inside. There aint a prettier house than this in Fremonton the inside; but I never see a man so cantankerous bout paint as Caleb is. All the Bal- lards is near. Calebs grandther wouldnt let his wife hey more than one apron to onct; an Calebs father sawed the rockers off this here chair, so as Calebs mother shouldnt rock. Not as she hed turrble much time for rockin, nuther! Caleb aint stinted me in nothin ceptin paint,but hes sot on his own way. She sighed pa- tiently and tried a red patch by a blue one. I do hope hell paint in the spring. There aint no use doin it now, for the city folks is all gone,an I do want them ter see the paint when its fresh. I heerd one say last sum- mer: What a pretty place! An an- other said: Why dont they paint? Land sakes! Id paint if I could; but I dont see no way cept I steal! Maria says shed sell butter n eggs, n a ham or two; but Calebd know. He knows how many cans o preserve Ive got, an how many dish towels, an he counts the eggs regular; an hes that high sperrited that I dont dast. I did spose arter all the girls married an went off, wed hey easier times, bein only me an Reub for Caleb ter care for; but things aint changed one mite an I declare I do feel sorry for Reu- ben, kep up tight the way he is. Never a cent of his own money, nor his way in nothin, an he with the Ballard sperrit, too! Dont you think its jest turrble dont you think so? She glanced questioningly over her spectacles, and then exclaimed indig- nantly: I dont blieve youve heerd a word Ive ben sayin, Sallie May- hew ! Her companion raised her head from her book and laughed. I aint jest sure I hey, Aunt Debby; but I know its bout paint, an really, Aunt Debby, Im jest in the most excitin part ! Do tell ! her aunt responded leniently. Well, I used ter be jest like you when I was a girl, allers readin, pattern medicines, old newspapers, almanacs, anything. I reclect how my father used ter scold. Sech a sin- ful waste o time, he said; an Ca- lebs exackly the same way. He hates ter see me read the county paper. Not that I ever touch it till all the work is done ! She settled back more comfortably, and gazed about the room. It was clean, painfully clean. The walls, newly whitened in the fall, were sparsely covered with photographs framed in primitive fashion. One rep- resented Caleb Ballards father and mother, taken in their sere and yellow age; another showed the old house, with Mt. Jefferson rising gray in the background; another, the schoolhouse where Deborah Ballards mother taught in her youth; while in a con- spicuous position, between the two front windows, hung an elaborate pic- ture of great-grandfather Ballards tomb at Portsmouth. This latter Deborah had surrounded with a wreath of dried autumn leaves and small pine cones. Coarse scrim cur- tains were looped back stiffly at the three windows, a few cane-seated chairs stood primly against the walls, home-made mats were strewn over the painted floor, and a large lamp stood on a small table in the centre of the room. Deborah surveyed it all blissfully. Each object was person- ally dear to her, while many were the result of toilsome hours. At length her eyes settled upon Sallie, who had drawn close to the western window and was strivingto make use of the few remaining minutes of daylight. Sarah Mayhew was the daughter of Mrs. Ballards only brother, and, like her aunt, had inherited the sanguine complexion and mild blue eyes that conferred a certain charm on the least favored of the Mayhew race. She was 56 THE RISING OF CALEB BALLARD. tall and upright, and her face, though not distinguished by particular beauty, was comely enough in a way, fresh and good-natured. She laid aside her book with a sigh, and looked out into the darkness. Aunt, she said, I do wish Reub could take me over to Fremont to- night. Ive ben here a week now, an he hesnt ben able to do it yit. There comes Uncle up from the barn. I blieve Ill ask him. Mrs. Ballard threw down her work. The kettle aint on, an the table aint sot, an me a-settin here as if I hed a month afore me! Fetch out the pie an doughnuts, Sallie, while I go down cellar. If theres one thing your uncle hates, its ter wait for his meals. And she disappeared into the kitchen as a measured tramp came along the side piazza. The two women bustled about, and the table was soon prepared for the coming meal. At last Mrs. Ballard stopped, and glanced inquiringly at her niece. Wheres your uncle? she asked. I heerd him come in, but I aint seen him sence, though Ive called him twice. He went into the bedroom, Aunt, an hes there yit. He aint sick! Dont tell me hes sick ! The strong woman tottered as she ran through the parlor to the hall, a hundred vague fears flitting through her mind. Not upstairs, Aunt, cried Sallie. Hes in the spare bedroom, out of the parlor. Mrs. Ballard sat down on the bot- tom step with a sigh of relief. Land sakes, Sallie! how you did scare me! I thought of paralysis. All the Bal- lards go off suddin like. Caleb keeps his papers in the spare room, an bein a little deef, he cant allers hear me callin. Caleb, Caleb, suppers ready ! Passing through the, parlor she opened the bedroom door. The cur- tain was pulled up to the top, and in the deep twilight the room looked empty. Caleb ! Light the lamp, commanded a cross voice out of the darkness. The lamp, Caleb? Why, suppers ready an waitin. A snort of indignant protest was the only reply. Mrs. Ballard edged over to the bureau and struck a match. It took her some time to lower the wick and adjust the chimney, for her hands still shook from her agitation. When the lamp was lighted, she turned about, and gave a cry of terror that brought Sallie trembling inside the door. On a chair by the side of the bed was neatly folded a suit of clothes, and in the bed, propped up with pil- lows, lay Caleb Ballard. His hair was ruffled up defiantly onitop of his head, his great, strong arms were folded upon the bedclothes, and his black eyes glared out menacingly upon the two frightened women. Oh, Caleb, whatever is the mat- ter? cried Mrs. Ballard. My poor old man! Was you took so that you couldnt call me? Oh, Caleb, cant you speak? You dont give me a chance, he snapped. Im vergin on the grave, an hem no count, an not hevin no jedgment, Ive made up my mind ter hey comfort in my last days. Ill send for the doctor, cried Mrs. Ballard, laying her hand on his hot forehead, an Ill fix you up a nice mustard plaster shant I, Caleb? It will do you a mint o good. An Ive got some camomile somewhere in the house. Now, look a-here, cried Caleb, if you spose Im goin ter let you tor- ture me with mustard plasters, youre mistaken. Im goin ter die in peace, I am, an no doctor nuther. He nodded his head decisively. Caleb, you mustnt die, cried his wife, sobbing. I cant git on without you, Caleb ! ThQ tears came into Calebs eyes, and his grim face quivered. Im sorry ter leave you, Debby, he said, slipping his arm about her, as she THE RISING OF CALEB BALLARD. 57 knelt by his side. Youve ben a good wife ter me, but my time is come. Reuben will soon fill my place. Never ter me, Caleb. Yes, ter you. Hes a turrble smart man, is Reuben, an nobody dast learn him nothinnot even his old father. The two sobbed in unison, closer to- gether than they had been in years. Sallie slipped out quietly and left them alone. Caleb was the first to recover himself. There, there, he said, go give the boy his supper, Debby, an leave the lamp on the table an the Bible. I dont feel so bad now, an I aint complainin. Isnt there something you could eat, Caleb ? I dont care for nothin A piece o cold chicken an a hot doughnut? Well, jest ter please you. My dear old man She kissed him affectionately. Still blinded by her tears, she passed through the parlor and into the kitchen. Peter Colley and Reuben were already at the supper table. A giant was Reuben, tall and muscular, with his fathers dark beauty and dom- ineering disposition, tempered some- what by his mothers mildness. Peo- ple still told tales of the frantic rages into which the elder Ballard had fallen in his youth, and he was still a man whose wrath it was unsafe to excite. His son was the sole person who oc- casionally dared to stand out against him; and frequently civil war raged in the old house. Reuben, however, was generous; and the knowledge that he did the work of two ordinary men had hitherto prevented Caleb from going beyond a certain limit in his treatment of him. Then, too, Reuben served faithfully, year after year, without recompense; although it was under- stood in the family that he should ulti- mately inherit the farm, the two daughters of the house having mar- ried well and settled in the West. So far Reuben had shown no disposition to follow their example; but Sallie Mayhew often made long visits to the farm, and Mrs. Ballard had of late imagined that Reuben was becoming rather attentive. It was a union that would have been particularly agree- able to her; she felt how pleasant it would be to have Sallie always about her. To-night, however, her xvorld xvas slipping away, and she never no- ticed Sallies blushing face nor the grin that Peter strove to conceal at her en- trance. Reuben, your fathers very sick, she quavered, standing in the door- way, looking at them all. The whole scene stood out distinctly, and the self- ish comfort of it gave her an addi- tional pang. So sick, Reuben, that he ought ter hey a doctor, but Im scart ter send for one. She knew that this strong son of hers often took both decision and re- proach on his own broad shoulders. Now he only laughed. Why, Mother, he said, hes only mad. There aint nothin the matter with him. She stared at him incredulously. Hes not sick, ceptin in his pocket. I told him he must pay me wages next year, an, Lord, but we hed a hot time in the barn! He pays Peter wages,an I work harder than Peter. He said some dreffle hard things ter me, Mother, an I said some, too, an the upshot was, he went off in a towerin rage, an said I might run the farm. He looks turrble sick, Reuben. There aiut nothin the matter, Mother. You jest fix up a nice sup- per, an hell come round. Why, Mother ! for she broke out into a passionate fit of weeping. They were all around her at once, and Reuben drew her head to his shoulder. There, there, dont cry ! he said tenderly. I swear, if he was another man, Id thrash him within an inch of his life! Yes, I would, he shouted, defiantly, fancying he heard a smoth- ered roar from the bedroom. You fix up some supper, Sallie, an let Mother take it in. Shell feel bet- 58 THE RISING OF CALEB BALLARD. ter when shes seen him eatin. Git out some o that citron preserve, Mother. Mrs. Ballard laughed and disen- gaged herself from his arms. I dont see how I copiie ter be sech a fool, she said, wiping her eyes. I were that upset! Yes, Sallie, Ill take in the tray. He did give me sech a turn! I cant reclect when he went ter bed afore. Peter, you might drive over ter Fre- mont an git the paper, an see if theres any mail. An, Peter, buy some oranges. Oranges was allers Calebs favrite fruit. She picked up the tray, temptingly arranged by Sallie, and went back in- to the bedroom. Caleb still lay propped up on the pillow, but all soft- ness had vanished from his face. Oranges is awful dear this time o year, Debby, he complained. I blieve you think Ive got a gold mine somewheres. Mrs. Ballard put down the tray, and looked at him reproachfully. Reu- ben is jest right. You aint one mite sick, Caleb; an youve ben out in the parlor listenin. Youre so deef you could never have heerd about oranges way in here. You ought ter be ashamed o yourself, Caleb Ballard, scaretin me ter death the way you done! Calebs eyes shifted to and fro, and be curled up his toes under the bed- clothes. I aint never said I was sick. I said I were on the verge o the grave an so I be; an I spose I can stay in bed when Ive a mind ter, cant I? Mebbe you think I oughter ask Reu- ben first. Mrs. Ballard sighed and brought the tray to the bed. Heres your sup- per, she said. I spose you can eat it in bed if you want ter. We aint got no table the right height, so Ill hey ter put it on a chair. Caleb raised himself on one elbow and surveyed the spread. Youve brought out some o that citron pre- serve, he exclaimed in an ag- grieved tone. There aint but three cans on it left. You allers pamper up Sallie Mayhew. Why cant she eat plum preserve? Theres twenty-six plum. Eat your supper, an stop findin fault. Sallie got out .the citron for you, seem as you were sick. I de- clare, Caleb Ballard, youre enough to provoke a saint! Youve slopped the tea right over on my best tack! When you git through, you can jest climb up ter our room, an Ill fetch up your clothes. I aint a-goin ter stir, declared Caleb, defiantly. You want ter get me upstairs, where I cant see how things goes ter wrack an ruin, an where Ill be out o the way. Oh, no, Deborah Ballard! This room is warm from the parlor stove, an here I stay. Mrs. Ballard regarded him with consternation. Why, Caleb, baint you goin ter git up ter-morrow mornin ? Mebbe I be, an mebbe I baint, he returned oracularly, stirring his tea; and with this answer she was forced to be content. Meanwhile in the kitchen affairs had gone on swimmingly. Peter, clad in a huge cloak, departed on his cold ride, chuckling over the new situation at the farm, and conscious that his re- cital would bring a delighted audience about him at the store, where Calebs failings had often elicited much mirth from the council that assembled around the blazing stove. When the dull winter days come in the country, many a lonely woman in some desolate back farm hurries her husband off to the store for a needed household ne- cessity, being content to pass several companionless hours in return for the gossip he is sure to bring back. Never were there such pitiless gossips as the Fremonters. Many a mans life has been laid out before that assembly, and if it was a black and horrid thing they gloated over it, and afterwards poured the tale into feminine ears that burned while they listened. As the sound of the wheels died out, Reuben turned away from the win- THE RIS[NG OF CALEB BALLARD. 59 dow. Sallie had gathered up the sup- per dishes, and now stood, with boih of her plump arms bared, deftly wash- ing the cups and saucers. The teapot was placed on the back of the stove to keep warm, and Mrs. Ballards supper awaited her at one end of the empty table. Reuben stood watching his cousin. He looked so lazy in his free hours that few people realized how much energy and decision was hidden under that careless exterior. To see Reuben work was a revelation, and to see him angry was a warning. Sallie, he said, leaning against the wall, its an awful thing ter hey a temper.~~ Everybody hes, thats wuth any- thing, she answered, not looking at him. Do you think so? Ive got an aw- ful temper, Sallie. Did you know that? She smiled at him sunnily. You allers hed, Reub. You used ter scare me most ter death when II was a little girl. Do I scare you now, Sallie? Not at all, Reuben. For one thing, you dont git angry at sech silly things; an then, even when you are in a regular downright rage, I allers know jest what will smooth you down. Im on your side in this last fuss. I wish you were allers on my side, Sallie. You know I must marry some day, if the woman I love will hey me; an I was thinkin jest now how tur- rble it would be if my wife was scart o me. Mother is scart o Father; an when he goes into one of his passions, her eyes hurt me. If my wife looked at me like that, Id kill myself. Its like some poor dumb critter ketched in a trap an hearin the dogs. He ended almost with a sob. Oh, Reuben, cried Sallie, the tears coming in her eyes, you need never be scart of that! Its only in- justice an cruel things that make you rage, an she will like you better for it! Will she? he cried, catching both her wet hands in his. Sallie, cant you guess whose face I see when I think of my wife? Im not rich, Sallie, an Im not smart, an I dont wear clothes like the men in the books you read, but I love you! Do you dare ter marry me, Sallie, temper an all? Sallie flushed crimson, but raised her eyes bravely. I love you, temper an all ! she said. An I wouldnt hey you changed the least mite in the world. Reuben drew her to him and kissed her passionately. Im so glad, Sallie. I was most scart ter ask you. That Ezra Hutchins hes ben hangin round you so long, an all the women is stuck on him ever sence he first preached ter Fremont ! I never seed him, Reub, when you was there. Well git him ter marry us Git who ter marry who? asked Mrs. Ballard, coming in that moment, tray in hand. Ezra Hutchins ter marry us, Mother! Reuben cried. Sallies goin ter be Mrs. Reuben Ballard. We hey settled it. Land sakes! Well, its what I allers wanted. Not that Im any great hand for advisin folks ter marry. Matrimony is a dreffle unsartain state, an men folks is turrble hard ter live smooth with at the best. Whats Father done now, Mother? Hes still in bed, Reuben, an he aint calculatin ter git up again. The young man broke into boister- ous laughter. Yes, he will. Do you think hed let anybody else do the bossin on this farm? Dont you fuss any more, Mother. You jest eat your supper, an go ter bed, an hell be up afore you are in the mornin. With these predictions in her ears, Mrs. Ballard went up to the gable bed- room that had been hers and Calebs through the many years of their mar- ried life. It looked strangely empty without him, but, surrounded as she was by so many of his possessions, it seemed most unlikely that the morrow 6o THE RISING OF CALEB BALLARD. would prove different from past days. Still her sleep was broken through the night, and twice she awoke under the impression that Caleb had come back to his place beside her. It was rather late in the morning when she rose and went down stairs. The bedroom door was open, and with a vague feeling of hope she passed i~hrough. Caleb was awake, and his face shone out ruddy against the white sheets. The moment he saw her he began to complain peev- ishly. Its dreffle late, Deborah, he said, an I want my breakfast. I dont see why Reub didnt call you. I allers said the hull place would go ter wrack an ruin when I was dead. Sixty years, man an boy, Ive ben up at four, an here its past six, an you jest down ! The months slipped quickly by, and April came with its deceitful warmth to send a thrill through the maple trees and loosen the ice in the streams. The whole world was suffused with moisture, and the greedy earth, fore- warned of the summer drought, filled rocky springs and wells with water, while grass and flowers sprouted lust- ily and prepared fragrant pleasures for coming days. The sun shone cheer- fully, and there was a feeling of youth in the world that made the blood run quicker even in old veins, and turned the eyes of the young towards the fu- ture with prescience of joys. Up at the Ballard house Sallie stood on the sunny piazza and looked up at the mountains. Life was growing very real to her as the days of maiden- hood passed away, bringing nearer and nearer the morning of her wed- ding. Little time had she for dream- ing, however, for at the farm her pres- ence had become essential, and she already held the place of daughter in the disordered household. Caleb Ballard still lay in the spare bedroom, and what had begun by being the joke of the countryside had ended by becoming its problem. They made bets at the village store as to when he would rise, and they concoct- ed elaborate schemes for his undoing. In his family Caleb had, however, found an unexpected ally. For three days Deborah viewed him with impa- tience and expressed her opinion with an openness altogether foreign to her meek character; then for three days she watched him with misgivings; and the end of the week found her installed as nurse by his bedside. That he was afflicted with some mysterious disease became her secret conviction, and she bore his whims in angelic silence. The doctor came, laughed and de- parted, but still her belief remained unshaken. Doctors cant see a mans insides, she declared. Calebs jest like a rotten apple, all color an shine out- side, an unwholesomeness in. I rec - lect when Job Brewster were a little bare-footed boy, an now hes set- tin up ter know a Ballards insides! Caleb is took jest like his grand- mother, who pined an pined tell she were the color of the wall, an that soft in her mind she didnt know a calf from a settin hen. Calebs pined a hull lot already. I aint soft in my mind, growled the sufferer in the bed. Yes, you be, Caleb ! returned Mrs. Ballard. Youve lost count of the preserves twict ! The young minister came, with spiritual admonitions for this unruly member of his flock. He went sooner than the doctor had gone, and laughed as the tired horse drew him slowly homeward. He was blessed with a sense of humor, and although he took himself severely to task for his laxness, and returned determinedly to the Bal- lard farm the very next day, he was obliged to confess that neither levity nor sternness could move that grim old head from the pillow. Mrs. Ballard regarded his visits as an intrusion. Caleb aint no show, she declared hotly. Him ter come a-speechif yin an rilin up a poor sick man, what aint got so dreffle long ter live nuther! I call it pre- sumin! What did he mean by Proverbs THE RISING OF CALEB BALLARD. XXVii., 22? asked Caleb. I wish you would look that up, Debby. She found the verse aud read it slowly: Though thou shouldst bray a fool in a mortar among wheat with a pestle, yet will not his foolishness de- part from him. Did he mean me by that? cried Caleb, angrily. However, on the whole the winter bad passed pleasantly for the invalid, and if he had lost flesh, only the eyes of love could discover it. Enthroned in the spare bed, he exercised a cer- tain supervision over the housework, and received affably the curious neigh- bors who came to regard him. His talk was of politics and the country in general, and if a friend strove to give the conversation a personal tone, he waved the subject aside with so much spirit that the most persistent was dis- couraged. Sallies presence at the farm he regarded with unspoken re- sentment, for, although he evinced lit- tle interest in the matter, he knew that the day set for the marriage xvas rapid- ly drawing nearer, and that Reuben had quietly assumed the position that he had thrust upon him, that of master of the place. Reuben, however, although direct- ing the work of the farm, was without funds, and unable either to hire help or buythe necessary seed for the spring sowing. Old Ballard chuckled when he thought of his sons difficulty. Reuben swore quietly to himself at times, but showed no outward emo- tion. Of all the members of the household Sallie was the happiest; for, accepting the situation as final, with the sim- plicity of her nature, she performed the work that came to hand, and went on her unruffled way. Standing on the piazza, her thoughts were busy with the future, while her eyes were turned upon the distant mountains, when suddenly Reuben, looking ex- cited, came around the corner of the house, and stepped cautiously upon the piazza, while at the same moment his mother opened the kitchen door. The three met in the sunshine. Ive fixed the old man this time, Reuben began, gleefully. What do you spose Im goin ter do? The women shook their heads. Im goin ter paint! Oh, Reuben ! both exclaimed to- gether. Not the hull house! his mother cried, excitedly. Yes, the hull house, an the hull barn, an the hull granary, an the chicken house, an the sugar house, an the ice house, an the pig pen, if the paint holds out ! Mrs. Ballard clasped her hands and turned pale. It dont cost so much, Reuben went on. I never sposed paint were so cheap, for Father allers talked as if it were diamonds. Now, this house, its so low-studded, it wont be hardly nothin. Wherell you get the money from, Reub ? I sold a ton of hay yesterday, an Harvey hes bought the sugar crop in the trees. Peter an I will help him when it comes sugarin time. Caleb was askin somethin bout hay this mornin, his mother put in, anxiously. He was out in the barn last night, Reuben returned. I know you dont blieve it, Mother, but its the solemn truth. Hes out evry night. What on airth do you spose he wears? I kind o think its Salhies waterproof. Thats what makes it so hard. The paintin hes got ter be done in one day, so he wont know. Eight of the boys will be here at ten, ter paint all day, an they wont charge a cent. You must give them a bang- up dinner, Mother. Im scart your father will hear em, Reub. No, he wont. Well eat in the barn; an you might make up a dress or something on the machine, so ter drown us out. Well paint the back of the house the very last thing, ter make it safer. It dont seem hardly right. 6a THE RISING OF CALEB BALLARD. Reuben laughed scornfully. I aint never hed no wages. Now, Im goin ter spend them all ter onct, thats all. Mrs. Ballard raised her troubled eyes to the house. What color, Reub ? she asked. You allers said white, Mother. The barn will be red. Folks mostly puts on three coats; but Ill tell the boys ter put on our one coat thick. Its in honor o my weddin, he added, merrily, with a glance at Sallie. At ten oclock a big farm wagon drove up to the door, and eight young men, paint brushes in hand, got out quietly. Reuben was there to give di- rections, and Mrs. Ballard beamed upon them from the doorway. They departed in different directions, like industrious ghosts. At eleven oclock Mrs. Ballard closed the door between the parlor and the bedroom. Why, Debby ! cried Caleb, sitting up in bed, whats that for? Im goin ter sweep, Caleb, she answered, with one guilty eye at the crack. Its only Wednesday. Yes, I know, but the rooms dreffle dirty. Wheres Sallie ? Gettin dinner. Do you want her? Do I ever want her? From eleven to twelve Mrs. Ballard swept the parlor and hall, while four men worked on the front of the house. Caleb fidgeted. He was sure some- thing was wrong. At twelve oclock thirty ham sandwiches, a gallon of cof- fee, three dozen doughnuts and half a dozen pies were carried out to the barn, and the eight sat down to a merry meal. Mrs. Ballard, much flushed, bore in the invalids din- ner. Didnt I hear a wagon stop? he questioned querulously, while she ar- ranged the tray. Peleg Gill left your paper. Why didnt he come in? Im tired of lyin here without a soul ter speak ter. I might jest as well hey a tombstun over me. He was in a turrble hurry. Jane was waitin for her yeast. Hes allers in a hurry. Whats Reuben doin ? Hes eatin his dinner. Whens he goin ter plant the south field ? the old man inquired, with a chuckle. Ask him how much he got for that hay. He cant do nothin on this farm without my knowin it. At one oclock Peter, passing by, looked in at the back window and winked wickedly. Caleb slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the window. All was quiet; the only object in sight was Peter carrying a long ladder toward the barn. Coin ter git more hay, the invalid murmured. Wonder what he sold that load for? He was cheated, at any rate, hes sech a fool ! Ten minutes later Deborah, coming in, found him lying back on the pillow with such a weak expression, that she had serious qualms of conscience. Goin ter set with me? he asked affably. Ive ben turrble lonely this mornin. Ive read my paper through twict. Do you mind, Caleb, if I stitch up a skirt? No. That makes three skirts youve hed in a year. Youre dreffle extravagent in clothes, Debby ! That aint so, Caleb, an you knows it. There aint many women as self-denyin as I be. Forty year hey we ben married, an this house aint hed a coat o paint,an paint is cheap, turrhle cheap ! I dont want ter hear no more bout it. Its paint, paint, paint, from morn- in ter night. If you want paint so bad, you can buy it yourself! What with? demanded Mrs. Bal- lard, scornfully, pulling the machine to the window. I say any woman who marries is a fool ! Sos a man ! returned Caleb. After this interchange of civilities, the pair were silent. Debby stitched away industriously, and Caleb lay watching a point on the hillside where THE RISING OF CALEB BALLARD. 63 the road showed through the naked trees. His keen old eyes were able to discern every object that passed this open space, and in many cases to rec- ognize pedestrian or vehicle. Pres- ently, with a sidelong glance, he again began a conversation. There aint a funeral in the neigh- borhood, is there, Debby? Not that I knows of. I thought I hednt heerd o nobody bein dead, he remarked amicably; but layin here, I dont know what happens. What made me think so was seem so many wagons. Ive counted ten in a half an hour. Theres ben a good many passin here ter day. Goin ter Fremont? I spose so. Again there was silence. Debby finished the skirt, and began to run up some sheets, and Caleb had a nap. He had just opened his eyes, when there came a knock on the bedroom door. Come in ! Caleb cried, sitting up eagerly. The young minister opened the door. What ! he exclaimed, still in bed! Why, I thought you were up long ago! Still in bed, Caleb answered, shaking hands. Set down. Im glad ter see you. Debby, git him a rockin chair. With a flushed face, Deborah turned toward the parlor door, but the minister stopped her. Dont let me trouble you, Mrs. Bal- lard, he said. Ill .take this old patri- arch here in the corner. A hundred years old, isnt it? I thought so. My grandfather down in Maine has its brother. I suppose you will be buying new things now. New things? What for? Aint the old ones good enough? demanded Caleb. I meant for the wedding, of course. Oh, for the weddin! Wal, I spose Sallie an Reuben would be fools enough ter try ter fix up; but, preacher, the old man holds the purse strings. There aint never ben no change made in the place sence my granthers day. Debby hes ben worry- in me an worryin me for forty years ter paint, you know what women be, but shell hey ter worry forty years longi~r. Exactly. The young minister laughed. But, perhaps, now that you are so fine, youll want to keep it up. I declare it was a great surprise. I looked up from the lower road, and I said, Can that be the old Ballard place! I really didnt know before what a fine situation you had. I dont understand, Caleb said with a bewildered look and putting a hand to his ear. Im a little deef. It was seldom he acknowledged his fail- ing. I said the new paint made your house stand out from the lower road. I think all Fremont must be driving by to see it. I met a dozen teams. It looks very well, Mrs. Ballard. My house painted? The question was a roar. Painted! I should think so. And the barn and granary. Why, is it pos- sible you didnt know? Oh, you woman ! Caleb screamed, darting a look at his wife, under which she cowered. This is what hes ben goin on, is it? This is what sweepin rooms an stitchin meant, is it? Oh, jest let me and he made a sud- den dart from the bed, while his wife sunk fainting. The minister put out his strong arm and caught him. That is enough, Mr. Ballard, he declared sternly. How dare you disgrace your man- hood? Your wife has cost you a little paint; but what have you cost her? Do you realize, man, the anxious hours she has passed this winter, the sleepless nights spent in brooding over your supposed sickness? Any one who saw her in the fall, and sees her now, can guess at what her life has been. She is nearer the grave than you are. He towered over the old man in in- 64 THE HORIZON. dignant wrath. Caleb burst into tears. She isnt dead, he cried wildly, throwing his arms about her. I never meant it, sir; I never meant it! Im an old fool, but I love my wife. Debby, Debby ! The minister lifted Mrs. Ballard ten- derly onto the bed. Hush ! he said. Bring that glass of water from the table, and I will bathe her head. Caleb clung to her with effusive af- fection, as she came to. If I get you your clothes, Mr. Bal- lard, the minister exclaimed, per- haps you would like to come out and stop the painting. I should like my clothes, Caleb answered, sheepishly,but let them go on with the paintin. Debby wants the house painted, an she shall hey what she wants. A praiseworthy resolution! It is a pity it did not occur to you forty years ago.~~ Ten minute~ later the minister climbed into his buggy. A smile was still on his face, but as he drove away he grew grave. A wife, he murmured, who for forty years has stood bravely by her husbands side, and given him love and duty, the best of her life and heart! And she had asked that little thing on which her simple mind was set an indulgence that could have been given for fifteen dollars and at last obtaining it by fraud, she, naturally the soul of honor! I won- der if women marrying such fellows think what marriage means In sick- ness and in health till death do us part. Its a large contract. He was silent a moment, and then he gave a sigh. I hope Sallie will be happy, he said aloud, and drove on. Back at the Ballard farm, the eight men were singing as they kept paint- ing on in the spring sunshine. THE HORIZON. By Mary Laura Mason. IT is as if we stood on some vast shore Of one great sea. And waiting there, we send Our gaze far, fj~tr away, until at last We mark some distant line that seems the end. But Soul, reach on undaunted, bold and free, And for thy aspirations fear no bond, What man calls Death is but the limit of His vision: all the Ocean lies beyond. MONHEGAN, HISTORICAL AND PICTURESQUE. By A. G. Pe/tengill. Illustrated chiefly from photographs hy 5. P. R. Triscott, William Claus and sketches hy Frank Myrick. days long gone by a party of Eng- I ish explorers set sail for the shores of the New World. Prevented by head winds from reaching the particu- lar point ~of their destination and driven by the pressing need of wood and water, theyturned theirshipsprow to the north and approached what is now the upper New England coast. It was near evening of a late spring day; and as the good ship sped on her untried way the watchers aboard saw appearing out of the depth of the dis- tance ahead a bit of land. Fearing to sail on to an unknown shore at night, they stood off, and early the next morning again turned their vessels bow to the land of the evening before. As they drew closer in, the dim mass began to take shape; and sailing around to the north they found it to be a bold and rocky island, far out at sea ,and very fair to look upon. One of the party, he who chronicled the event, deeply grateful for deliverance from 65 the perils of stormy ocean and treach- erous shore, and greatly refreshed by the sight of the beautiful isle of green and gray, gave impulsive utterance to his feelings in the words: It is but an island of some six miles in com- pass, but I hope the most fortunate ever yet discovered. It may be that this ardent expression reflected the thought of the whole company. The massive pile of land and rock that was hailed with so much delight by those wind-stayed and needy an- cient mariners is known to-day as Monhegan, the La Nef and La Tortue of Champlain, the St. George of Weymouth, the l3arties of John Smith, and the Southack of later days. While this bold-to isle of a rug- ged clime may not be the most fortu- nate ever yet discovered; while it does not possess the political signifi- cance of a Corsica, nor the religious meaning of an lona, nor the soft air, rare herbage, rich fruitage, and class- 66 MONHEGAN. ical associations of its sisters of the Aigean sea, it is yet rich in pic- turesque beauty, full of historic interest and abundantly supplied with the most striking legends of land and sea. Small though the island is it has played an important part in the industrial and political be- ginnings of New England, and is to- day the Mecca of the summer pilgrim- age of a constantly increasing number of unspoiled and cultured people, business men, teachers, artists, and writers. Like more ambitious history the chronicles of Mon- hegan divide them- selves into periods. Up to 16o5 is the period when navi- gators, from the Cabots to Cham- plain, came upon the coast, sailed by the island, looking a~dmiringly upon its rugged beauty, no doubt, but left no mention of landing. The authentic his- tory of this key- stone of New Eng- land, begins in 1605, from which time down to 1619 is the period of the first visitations and initiation of industrial activities. About noon of Saturday, May i8, 1605, an Englishman, Captain George Weymouth by name, commanding the good ship Archangel, dropped anchor half way between Monhegan and the group of islands now known as the Georges. Some hours after, accompanied by twelve of his crew, he went ashore upon the former for the purpose of making observations and replenishing his supply of wood. After a short stay the party returned THE MAIL BOAT. rroui aii uiu ~ WEYMOUTH 5 EXPEDITION, 1605. MONHEGAN. 67 to the ship with the plenteous fruits of their visit, and the next day sailed their vessel to a safer anchorage among the islands nearer to the main. This is the first recorded visit of Europeans to Monhegan. Rosier, the narrator of Weymouths voyage, says by way of brief description of the place: This island is woody, grown with fir, birch, oak, and beech, as far as we saw along the shore, and so likely to be within. On the verge grow goose- berries, strawberries, wild pears and wild rose bushes. The water issued forth down the rocky cliffs in many places; and much fowl of divers kinds breed upon the shore and rocks. Following the visit of Weymouth, many navigators and adventurers stopped at the island during this peri- od, some for a rendezvous, others for fishing a~nd fur-trading, while a few established there the base of their op- erations for exploring expeditions along the coast. Among the last was the famous Captain John Smith, who sought the North Atlantic region for gold and whales. Failing these, he intended to load his ship with cod and other fish in which the waters were re- ported to abound. In his deeply in- teresting General History of New England he says: In the month of April, 1614 with two ships from London, I chanced to arrive at Monhegan, an isle of Amer- ica in 430 4 of northeasterly latitude. Again, speaking of the mountains, headlands and islands of the new coast and their remarkable adaptability to service as landmarks for explorers, he says of Monhegan: It is a round high isle, and close by it Monanis, be- twixt which is a small harbor where we rid. Later on, while writing elo- quently to his countrymen to try their fortunes in this promising land on the main despite its newness and strange- ness, he alludes to the fertility of New England soil and asserts, by way of illustration: I made a garden upon the top of a rocky isle in three and forty degrees and a half, four leagues from the main, in May, that grew so well that it served for sallets in June and July. It is more than probable that this reference is to Monhegan. Although Weymouth made the first CLIFF5 AT MONHEGAN. 68 MONHEGAN. recorded visit to this secluded spot, John Smith is the first who mentioned its name. Monahigen, as he gives it in his history, is of Indian derivation and, according to some authorities, means grand island. Being a good Christian, the doughty captain did not like the name, for it smacked too much of heathenism. He accordingly changed it to Barties, and so indicated the island upon his map of New Eng- land. This pioneer in American dis- covery lingered at and about Mon- hegan for several months, probably, making plans, building boats, it is said, exploring the coast from Penob- scot Bay to Cape Cod, gathering data for a map of the country, and perfect- ing it for the publisher, as far as was possible. Five years later, in 1619, Captain Dermer, the last of the real explorers of this region, arrived at the island to rendezvous with a fellow navigator. Not finding him, he left his ship and crew there to fish, while he himself sailed in a pinnace along the coast, going south as far as the place now occupied by Plymouth. Returning soon to his base of operations, he sent his vessel with her crew home and, embarking in his smaller craft, ranged the shore again, reaching this time a point as far south as Virginia. It is pleasant to lovers of this iso- lated sentinel of the sea to know of its close association with such emi- nent explorers and with their praise- worthy activities in opening up the land for the beginnings of settlement and of that new social, political and religious life which in its present high development is the cherished posses-- sion of the people of New England. Until 1619 the population of Mon- hegan was of the summer sort. People came to rendezvous and fish and trade with the Indians upon the adjacent main; and when the pleasant season was over and cold and storms threatened, they betook themselves to more genial climes, to return when weather conditions should be more~ favorable. But from 1619 on there was a growing tendency to form a permanent settlement. Englishmen FI5H HOUSES. MONHEGAN. 69 had been going to the island for years. It was well and widely known; it was advantageously situated for commer- cial purposes; it was comparatively safe from Indian depredations; it had been acquired by men believing in colonization. Settlement follows quickly on the heels of repeated visita- tion, and, though the exact date is not known, nor the names of the people first locating there, Monhegan probably had the beginnings of a per- manent population before the main- land, and possibly before Plymouth. Three Englishmen put ashore at Saco in the fall of i6i8 for mutinous con- duct found their way to this island and spent a miserable winter there in some abandoned fishermens huts, waiting for the relief that would come with the ships in the spring. Thus for the first time was there practically occupation through the year. The next summer the beginning of a permanent colony of fishermen and fur-traders was prob- ably made. Professor Johnston, the historian of ancient Pemaquid, says: Probably from this time (1619) the island was permanently occupied, at least until the breaking out of the first general Indian war. With a possible temporary suspen- sion at long intervals, but with ever increasing prosperity, the colony con- tinued to the last quarter of the cen- ~tury, when it reached its highest de- gree of activity and wealth. At this time, it is said, the island was filled with dwelling houses. A busy place the village must have been in those fifty years. Many a vessel made the island her chief destination, or stopped there for stores and trade on the way between England and Boston, Salem and Piscataqua. Pinnaces and ships plied between its narrow harbor and the adjacent settlements, bent on trade. The haggling of buyer and seller resounded among the rocks; the hillsides were covered with fishflakes men in ancient costume climbed the bluffs to watch for schooling mack- erel, and paced the borders of the east- ern cliffs hoping to sight the ships bringing news 01 home and the price of fish in English markets. Into the midst of the earliest of these scenes and events, no doubt, came Samoset at times. Sachem of the tribe inhab- iting the adjacent coast and, by his own declaration Lord of Moratig- gon (Monhegan), he often came into contact with the captains frequenting his domain and doubtless learned from them the Welcome English- nien ! with which he greeted the Pil- grims on the Plymouth shore. To this settlement and to the ships at anchor in the harbor came Bradford and Winslow in 1622, seeking food for the starving colonists at Plymouth. They got what they asked, and that without pay. The next year, the success of these men being noised abroad, the hungry people of Weymouth sent rep- resentatives to the same place for bread. History does not state, but the probability is that they were as well treated as their brothers of the neigh- boring colony. Thus was the infant Massachusetts nourished of her who in later times became dependent in turn. To show the great comparative prosperity of the settlement in 1672 and on, and the influence it exerted in the joint affairs of the colonies at that time, it is only necessary to allude to 70 MONHEGAN. the establishment of a certain new county in that region and the part Monhegan took in the matter. In 1672 the people inhabiting the settle- ments east of the Kennebec River and within the jurisdiction of Massachu- setts, feeling the pressing need of more law and order in their social and business life, petitioned the Massachu- setts General Court to take them under its care. The petition was granted; and in the summer of 1674 a county organization was formed and a court established at Pemaquid. The new county was called Devon, or Devonshire. The original petition contained the names of ninety- six men, represent- ing seven settle- ments. Of these names, eighteen several more than the average from each colony belonged to Monhegan par- ties. The ex- pense attending the establishment of the court and county was 20, of which the isl- and colony of the Georges was assessed 5 los. an amount far greater than the tax of any other one settlement. In addition, out of a total of thirty-three officers created by the needs of county and court, Monhegan had nine, distrib- uted as follows: Recorder and clerk of courts, constable, two grand jury- men, sargeant, corporal, two county commissioners out of four, and clerk of writs. Without doubt, at this time Monhegan was of greater importance in point of wealth and enterprise than any of her sister communities. It would be very satisfying to the lover of this unique isle to know that TIlE HARBOR. MONHEGAN. 7 all her wealth came through legiti- mate channels. This, however, is im- possible; for it is pretty well substan- tiated that the bounty of 5 offered in the last part of this period for every Indian brought to the settlement, means not so much their extermina- tion as dangerous neighbors as their capture for sale into slavery. There was little of buying and selling in the northern regions, in those days, with which Monhegan was not experimen- tally familiar. It will ever remain a blot upon the fair fame of the earliest settlements of the Maine coast that the detestable practise of stealing and selling human beings was pursued, even to small degree. But all the prosperity of the island was destroyed and further develop- ment ah-ested by the first Indian war, which burst upon New England in 1675. It was not, however, until the summer of 1676 that the colonies on the mainland, in the new county, were swept away and the settlers compelled to flee for their lives to the islands off shore. Finally, they all gathered at ilYlonhegan for refuge. From this temporarily safe retreat and compre- hensive point of view, the hunted whites witnessed in all directions toward the main the burning of their hard-earned houses. The island set- tlement itself being threatened after a while, the inhabitants, in company with their distressed neighbors, took ships and sailed away to the west for safety to Salem and Boston. From the fall of 1676, the time of the departure of the settlers west, to the treaty of peace between Eng- land and France in 1763, was the period of practical abandonment of permanent business and home-mak- ing. The reason of this condition of things is not hard to find. From the commencement of King Philips war in i675 to the fall of Quebec in 1759, there was a continual succession of Indian wars, bloody and cruel. They were five in all, and after each the set- tler had scarcely time to raise a new house from the ashes of the old and gather the fruit of the spring planting, before the war-whoop of the painted THE LIGHTHOUSE. 72 MONHEGAN. savage was again heard in the clearing and the sharp report of the gnn in the qniet woods, while white-faced men and xvomen rushed from field arid home to the shelter of cabin and stockade. Uncertainty and terror reigned snpreme for almost a centnry. To be snre, Monhegan was off the beaten track of maranding savages; yet so great was the confusion of things everywhere, and so profound the dread of the Indians, that even the advantage of isolation did not avail for the retnrn of the old prosperity. Another canse still prevented re- newed activity the restrictions placed npon commerce by the gov- ernment of the Duke of York, which, the next year after the destrnction of the settlements, in 1677, took posses- sion of the conntry and tried to rednce the savages to a state of peace and build np a colony at Pemaquid. The rule was that no vessel of any other government should fish in the waters ronnd about withont first reporting to the Dukes agent at Pemaqnid and receiving permission. Besides, all the trade of that region, upon recovery from the great shock of the year be- fore, was enconraged to center at the seat of government. Such conditions along with the general confnsion in- cident to the Indian war, gave little encouragement to the self-exiled in- habitants of Monhegan to retnrn, or for others from the west to take their places. Being of an independent cast, they preferred to fish and trade with absolute freedom from the restrictions of the government of the Dnke of York, whose benefactor, Charles II., WHITE HEAD. the stnrdy Puritans hated with a most cordial hatred. Yet, despite savage wars and an- noying political conditions, there was some activity on the island through this period, although of small pro- portions. In 1679 an enterprising trader by the name of Cox, a resi- dent of Pemaqnid, but at that time at Piscataquid, wrote to Boston for a small loan to help fit out his vessel for Monhegan, where he hoped to exchange his commodi- ties for fnrs, and thus make a profit- MONHEGAN. 73 able voyage. In i686 there was a sale of land near the harbor to a party planning to engage in bnsiness. In 1730 William Vaughan, a prominent man living on the Damariscotta River, had a fishing station on the island, bnt all details concerning the matter are lacking. These facts indicate that the settlement was trying in a small way to recover itself. There may have been a few inhabitants all throngh this period, bnt if so, the commnnity was of snch little importance that it at- tracted no particular notice from its neighbors over the sea at Pemaquid. The records of this ancient settlement have little to say, in this period, of the far-away isle. Bnt when Quebec fell and, four years later, peace was established be- tween the long contending European disputants, New England people be- gan to take heart and pnsh east. All along the Maine coast and in the in- terior old settlements were revived and new ones established. Seekers for home and fortune were again attracted to Monhegan. They came from the west and north. The Bickfords of Beverly purchased the island in 1770 for i6o, and in 1790 disposed of it to Henry Trefethren, who with his two sons-in-law, sharers of the property, occupied it for a long time; and their descendants now hold much of the land. As time wore on and business up and down the coast improved, Monhegan began to grow popu- lous and thrifty again. Fishing was profitable, good homes were built, and general advance was made, until 1839, when the settlement became a plantation. Since then things have gone quietly on; and to-day the com- munity consists of a hundred souls and is a part of a great state; privileged to share her blessings, and able to assist in bearing the burdens of her govern- ment, even as its forerunner was wont to do in relation to the county of Devon over two hundred years ago. In addition to well authenticated historical events and personages, countless traditions cluster about Monhegan guesses at fact mixed with island folk-lore. It was said in Spain, over three centuries ago, that a number of Englishmen were living on an island in the northern seas in lat. 430 and eight leagues from the mainland. Attempts have been made to identify this place with Monhegan. It is contended by some that the fa- mous Popham expedition rendez- voused here, in the summer of 1607, on its way to found a colony at the mouth of the Kennebec, and that, de- laying their departure, the people held a religious service on the island on Sunday, August 9, during which the chaplain preached a sermon, said to 74 MONHEGAAJ. be the first sermon in English on New England soil. There is an interesting old painting representing this rendez- vous. Two ships and a pinnace of an- cient style lie at anchor on the east side of the island. Several boat-loads of people approach the shore to land. At some remove from the water line a huge cross stands. On the right towers White Head with Burnt Head beginning to rise at the left. Original sources of information wholly support neither the story of the visit, nor the conception of the artist. There were those living years ago who told of a British warship that lay at anchor in the harbor some time during the war of the Revo- lution. While quietly riding on the little bay a squall came up from the northwest. The people warned some of her officers, who were ashore, to slip the vessels cable and put out to sea, as her position was dangerous. The advice was ignored. In the mean- time the squall sped swiftly on, black and ominous. Over the loom of Ma- nana, up the narrow harbor, it rushed, and with tremendous force hurled it- self upon the doomed ship. She was driven ashore and pounded to pieces by wind and wave. To-day her great guns lie among the rocks close in shore, but hidden from prying eyes by plentiful seaweed. Other stories there are, of murderous Indians, and wreck, and treasure, thrilling to the soul and captivating to the fancy, ex- cellent material for poet and novelist, but hardly meeting the requirements of sober history. But had Monhegan no history and no tradition whatever, the island would still be of the greatest interest scenically. From the standpoint of the picturesque, this Advanced Guard of the island host of Maine is, in many respects, not surpassed, if indeed equalled, by any of its companions on the coast. There is no other just like it. Its nature and its life are pecu- liarly its own. It lies ten miles from the nearest mainland, far out on the bosom of the restless sea. No fog but gently envelops its mighty form; no storm but fiercely beats upon its devoted head; no billows but severely lash its rocky sides; no summer waters but reflect their richest radiance to dress the isle in beautiful tints; no brightly shining moon but softens its rugged outlines and gives to the pass- ing mariner pleasing impressions of repose and grandeur. Alone, yet not alone; for a huge black rock whale- back Manana rises abruptly from MONHEGAN. 75 the sea and stands close by; sharer of the isolation of its greater sister, ef- fective foil to her beauty. From the northern end of this huge bulk, a much smaller ledge, called Smutty Nose, crosses nearly to the main island, forming a harbor of miniature proportions. This little arm of the sea partakes of every mood of the great body to which it belongs. When the ocean is calm, the little bay is as still as a mill-pond, save for the long swell undulating gently along its course; but when the sea is disturbed and angry, it hurls its great billows into the harbors wide-open mouth, quickly changing the quietude of the place to a boiling caldron, on the broken surface of which the boats pitch and toss and roll in wild con- fusion. The common landing-places for vis- itors coming by packet are the two little beaches named North and South. Grouped in picturesque confusion at their head are the principal fish- houses, while all kinds of fishing para- phernalia are scattered about. Be- yond, commanding a good view of the harbor from many points, lies the straggling village. The hamlet is divided into two parts by an almost imaginary line, consisting of the slender stream that forms the outlet of an extensive marsh. One part of the village goes by the name of the North end; the other, the South end. The little schoolhouse stands in one part, and the modest chapel in the other, while half way between is the public library. Along the irregular line drawn through these points runs the single ragged roadway, on either side of which, in valley and on hillside, ex- tend the houses and business estab- lishments of the people. But one building is pretentious the old square mansion called the Trefethren house, built one hundred years ago. The dignified bearing of old colo- nial homes is still apparent in its aged form; and the wondering visitor asks himself how it was that such an ambi- tious structure could have come into existence in so great isolation. The homes generally are modest but comfortable. The people are of MONHEGAN. 77 the unwritten law that lobsters shall be trapped only in winter when other fishing is not safe. A little gardening is done just enough for a fresh vegetable in its season and a bright flower for the sit- ting room. But the vocation is fish- ing; and at this the men toil hard through summer and winter, through sunshine and rain, and, when op- pressed by the monotony of it all, lighting up their lonely lives by oc- casional visits to the mainland, and by sings and parties at home. Monhegan business establishments the fish houses are deeply inter- esting to lovers of t h e marine. Of the simplest archi- tecture, and often somewhat di lap i- dated, they are yet exceedingly picturesque by reason of the yel- lowing touch of age, the artistic grouping of roofs, and the odd bits lying about. To the painter seek- ing novelties, they are a prize. If the outside is unique, the in- terior is more so. Everything is marine, in itself or by association, lines, nets, floats, oars, masts, sails, dories, decoy ducks and a score of other objects, hung here and heaped there. With an old gray- bearded sea-dog, possessed of a strong propensity for telling yarns, sitting in the midst of all these sea-tools, a Dickens could make much of such material. As to other aspects of Monhegan,it istobe saidthatthe island proper isone and five-eighths miles long and five- eighths wide, containing about one thousand acres. At the highest point it towers more than one hundred and fifty feet above the ocean, while in its lowest parts the marshy land is at about the level of the sea. Between the frequent hills, for the most part rock-covered and bare, valleys lie, at thebottom of which miniature streams run their little journey to lowland and sea. In the spring and fall, when rains are heavy and frequent, these streamlets rush in foaming torrents down their rocky beds, for their water sheds are often steep and high. The general trend of the surface is down- ward from the heights at the north, to Lobster Point at the south. The west- ern shore is comparatively low, while the eastern coast is broken up into a series of immense rocks and lofty headlands, the latter terminating, in most cases, in high, precipitous cliffs. These rocky heights are very fine, and are not surpassed this side of Grand Manan. White Head and its com- panion just over the deep, wide gorge are fully one hundred and fifty feet high. Ragged and wild their descent to the ever restless water laying their base. The climber needs the utmost skill and nerve to make his way safely down their bold front, even if it can be done at all. The sure-footed sheep that have had free range of the island for years, sometimes venture too far A FI5HERMAN 5 HOUSE. MONHEGAN. 77 the unwritten law that lobsters shall be trapped only in winter when other fishing is not safe. A little gardening is done just enough for a fresh vegetable in its season and a bright flower for the sit- ting room. But the vocation is fish- ing; and at this the men toil hard through summer and winter, through sunshine and rain, and, when op- pressed by the monotony of it all, lighting up their lonely lives by oc- casional visits to the mainland, and by sings and parties at home. Monhegan business establishments the fish houses are deeply inter- esting to lovers of t h e marine. Of the simplest archi- tecture, and often somewhat dilapi- dated, they are yet exceedingly picturesque by reason of the yel- lowing touch of age, the artistic grouping of roofs, and the odd bits lying about. To the painter seek- ing novelties, they are a prize. If the outside is unique, the in- terior is more so. Everything is marine, in itself or by association, lines, nets, floats, oars, masts, sails, dories, decoy ducks and a score of other objects, hung here and heaped there. With an old gray- bearded sea-dog, possessed of a strong propensity for telling yarns, sitting in the midst of all these sea-tools, a Dickens could make much of such material. As to other aspects of Monhegan, it istobe saidthatthe island proper is one and five-eighths miles long and five- eighths wide, containing about one thousand acres. At the highest point it towers more than one hundred and fifty feet above the ocean, while in its lowest parts the marshy land is at about the level of the sea. Between the frequent hills, for the most part rock-covered and bare, valleys lie, at thebottom of which miniature streams run their little journey to lowland and sea. In the spring and fall, when rains are heavy and frequent, these streamlets rush in foaming torrents down their rocky beds, for their water sheds are often steep and high. The general trend of the surface is down- ward from the heights at the north, to Lobster Point at the south. The west- ern shore is comparatively lov~, while the eastern coast is broken up into a series of immense rocks and lofty headlands, the latter terminating, in most cases, in high, precipitous cliffs. These rocky heights are very fine, and are not surpassed this side of Grand Manan. White Head and its com- panion just over the deep, wide gorge are fully one hundred and fifty feet high. Ragged and wild their descent to the ever restless water laying their base. The climber needs the utmost skill and nerve to make his way safely down their bold front, even if it can be done at all. The sure-footed sheep that have had free range of the island for years, sometimes venture too far A FJ5HERMAN 5 ilOUsE. 78 MONHEGAAT. down among the crags in their search for tufts of tender grass and, failing to find their way back, miserably perish on some rocky shelf, leaving their wool and bones to whiten in the sum- mer rain and sunshine, pathetic re- minder of the poor dumb life there wretchedly brought to an end. It is said by observing ones among the islanders that, when the winter storms are hardest, the huge billows rush with so great force upon these bold head- lands that their spray, hurled many scores of feet into the air, is car- ried by the swiftly moving blasts across the island a n d against the window-panes o f the dwelling- houses, where the evaporating water leaves the salt de- posited to g i v e proof of its distant source. To him who loves t h e rocks, and the sea-weed, and the bits of ocean life among them, and the breaking w a v e s with their rushing foam and tossing spray, the shore line of this out- post of the main is a continual marvel. In the whole circuit of the coast there are scarcely two places that are similar. The minerals range from fine sand at the landing, up through wonderfully varied pebbles and gigantic boulders, to the great shapeless masses of rock forming the headlands at the north. Here the tourist conjures up all sorts of objects among the ledges and crags. Nature gives the suggestion, indeed, but the imagination of the en- thusiastic onlooker gives it complete form. Staircases there are leading up from the waters edge, balconies over- looking sheer descents, and the inevi- table pulpit-rock. His satanic majesty one time visited the island, for here the place where he sat, and there the pool where he bathed. In Gull Rock, the huge projecting ledge near the south end, there is a cave-like opening, quite extensive and very interesting, but difficult of access. This rocky room of generous entrance looks out upon the eastern sea, and is just the place of a summer morning to dream the hours away, or of a late afternoon to watch the shadows lengthen upon the silent deep. The finest examples of sea-washed rocks are to be found at the North end. Huge their forms, rich their colorings, marvel- ous their tints changing with the moving sun! Could artist trans- fer them to his canvas as they really are, he would do what artist never yet has done. There is a ragged place south of Gull Rock called the W a sh e r w o man. Removed a little from the shore is a ledge making, with t h e black rocks about, a deep and wide pool. A bil- low rushing in from the sea is broken upon the ledge and destroyed. All over the rock its waters flow. Whirl- ing, tossing, foaming, they reach the basin. Still wild and restless, they hurry back and forth, chafing in their narrow confines. In all their dis- quietude, they take upon themselves in the bright summer sun the most marvelous colors and delicate tints. There is no white like that of their foam, and no greens like those of tl{eir ceaseless fiowings and tossings. The energy and vividness of it all enchain one. It is a place to wonder and ad- mire, and worship. MONHEGAN. 79 In the old days the island was well covered with woods; but now they are confined to the northern end. The trees are mostly evergreen. As one rambles through the wooded parts, he is surprised to find much of the beauty of great forests meeting him. Old wood roads and pathways abound, as on the main; and scarcely a walk but is bordered by bush and fern and car- peted by the softest and greenest of grass. The most delicate flowers grow on the barren hillsides and among the crags. It is with a thrill of delight that the appreciative tourist plucks from the most unpromising nook some sweet-scented, graceful lit- tle blossom. The views to be obtained on this Island of the Wild Rocks are rich, varied, and comprehensive. The scenery is not all watery waste, and not all dismal ledge. As one sits of a summer afternoon on the veranda of his cot- tage close by the shore, and looks dreamily out upon the harbor and up to the summit of the towering b 1 a c k pile opposite, he at once be- comes conscious of the singular beauty of the scene. The gentle wave- lets of the quiet bay soft- ly lap the shore almost under him, making a subdued singing noise in the sand as they flow and ebb. A little way out rides the diminutive fishing fleet of the island- ers at their moorings thirty boats or more punts, dories, and tiny open sloops a score of feet in length; and over on the other side, close under the frowning mass of Manana, a schooner keeps rhythmic motion with the long swell, with, perchance, a white mackerel steamer near by, patiently awaiting the appearance of her prey. As the spectator begins to feel his enthusiasm kindling at the sight, there appear on the sunlit waters at the mouth of the harbor a number of boats returning from the fishing grounds. Lazily they move over the scarcely rippling surface, and with conscious effort make their moor- ings and discharge their freight. Over all are the mid-afternoon sun and the clear, pure atmosphere; and to the north and south, the long reaches of placid, shining ocean. As one leaves the village and seeks the higher land, his eyes are blessed by scenes of greater beauty still. As he climbs, new vistas appear, one a rocky valley bordered by hardy vege- tation sufficient to soften its severity, 8o MONHEGAN. and descending gradually to the sea shining silver white tinder an August sun; ont upon the ocean, a ship almost becalmed; beyond, a large schooner hull down. As one continues his progress he reaches the most com- manding outlook on the island. Here he sees what the eyes of few are privi- legedto restupon. Comprehensive and grand is the view. The horizon line is broken only here and there. From the northeast to the west the Maine coast stretches in rugged beauty, the adjacent waters shimmering in the sun. Numerous islands, of varying size and aspect, fringe the shore, and at the north, looming in the hazy at- mosphere, rise the beautiful blue Cam- den hills. Seguin lies a score of miles to the west, and Matinicus the same distance to the east. The rest is ocean; ocean with his wonderful sweep; ocean with his variant moods; ocean with his Jour- neyiug ships. Rambling still further in his quest for the beatitiful, tl~ie tourist ar- rives at the western verge of Light House hill just as the sun is going down, attended by his retinue of sum- mer clouds. His slant rays yield slowly to the gath- ering chill and gloom of evening. A narrow path of reddish gold leads from the north of the Great Rock, over the sea to the shore in the far distance. A little fleet of fishing boats under the huge shoulder of Manana try for bait, partly within the golden path. The sun disappears; the brightness rises from sea and land to the upper clouds; the heavens are aflame; the sunset is in its glory. At that su- preme moment the light above the watchers head streams out white and bright, to shine while the sun sleeps, to give clear rays to needy men in place of the god of day. The dew falls faster and the chill increases, but no gloom is felt by the wayfarer as he descends the hill to the village; the up- lifting influences of the island sun- set fill his soul to the full. And on the morrow as, perchaiice, lie sails out of the little harbor bound for his distant home, he finds himself repeating to himself the words of the song: THE POET. 8i Monhegan is a pleasant isle, As fair as fair can be, The sweetheart of the summer sun, The jewel of the sea. Yes, Monhegan is full of interest and charm; and its power of attraction is increasing every year. The histo- rian goes there to solve perplexing problems of local history; the artist turns hither for new and striking sub- jects, of which village and shore are full, making the island the most paint- able of any on the coast; the literary man seeks in this far-away place new motives, situations, characters and pictures for his book, and finds them in the simple life of the people and in the varied scenery. So the beauti- ful and historic island is contributing to make still more precious Amer- ica s rich possessions of art and letters. THE POET. By Frederick Rossijin. HE sang of trailing showers and wind-swept downs, He who but knew the tragic hearts of towns; Of scudding cloud and storm-tossed waters wide ; And twixt-the four walls of an attic died. BRUTE OR MANTHE ANNEXATION PROBLEM. By Raymond L Bridgman. N a few years, as the history of mankind goes, men and women will he studying the deeds of the United States as we stndy those of Rome and of Athens, of Egypt and of Assyria, with an equal lapse of time rolling between and with solicitude for their future as we now are solicitous for ours. They will forecast their duty and their destiny, in part, by the successes and by the failures of antiquity, among which will stand the record of the great American republic. In the development of mankind dur- ing a period of such length, whether it be upward or downward, it is inevi- table that our status will change great ly. We cannot stand still. Personal traits will change as our many race ele- ments become blended, as new ideas affect lifes motives, and as new sur- roundings and enlarged perspective alter the minds and the bodies of men. Even physical types change. The Cav- alier and the Puritan are no longer with us. The Highlander and the Lowlander are not as they were five hundred years ago. We here include all races. Our political institutions are changing rapidly. Our successors twenty centuries hence will not think 82 or act with our purposes or our methods. But our acts as a nation are free, and they are our own. It is for us, here and now, to have a share in de- termining the course of the current which will continue for ages to come, when the great names of our times are mere items in chronology and when only the organic acts of our mighty republic will be studied for their bear- ing upon the development of mankind. Shall the acts which are done just at the juncture of these two centuries be such as shall be acknowledged here- after to have been in direct line with straightforward progress to the high- est ideal of the race, or shall the stu- dent of the records of a shattered and vanished nation put his finger upon this point in our career and say: Here began that departure from the path of national rectitude and that offence against the law of national growth and integrity which led to its calamitous and needless downfall? Shall the na- tion to-day so act as to insure its per- petual life and growth in the trans- formed conditions of national exist- ence scores of centuries hence, or shall it stand in history as do Greece and Rome, as the ruins upon which have been erected still later structures? Some people believe that there is a THE ANNEXATION PROBLEM. 83 law for the development of mankind which includes all the nations and all time, wherein humanity exists. They believe that there is that far-off divine event toward which all creation moves. They believe that there is a high ideal, an ultimate goal, than which there can be no human ideal or attainment higher, and beyond which there is no advancing. They believe that this ideal will be reached when the nations shall learn war no more,~~ and when reason shall succeed brute force as the ruler of mankind. This means, politicalfy speaking, that there will prevail around the globe, if this ideal is realized, a code of international law so general that every community will obey it, as it now obeys its own national and local laws, joined with local codes, which will protect fully all personal rights and which will give free scope for all desirable personal ac- tivity. National existence then, will have been merged in the broader and deeper unity of all mankind. Inter- course between the ends of the earth xXTill be absolutely free, and will be hin- dered only by the limitations of time and space. Small nations and great nations, as, we now speak of nations, will occupy their several areas without thought of aggressive action against each other and without a dollar paid for national defence. The rights of each will be secure under the guaran- tee of all the world for peace. And this ideal will have been reached, not by brute conquest of the weak by the strong, nor by offensive and defensive alliances whereby selfish foresight sup- plements brute force, but by the growth of genuine friendliness be- tween nations and by a general recog- nition of the profit of peace with the unity of mankind. In that unity the ideal of the human race as an organic whole will be reached. Each part will contribute to the good of every other and will re- ceive contributiong from every other. Personal activity and success will be limited only by inborn hindrances. This is the high ideal which we may expect to attain, above which there can be no higher, and beyond which there is no possibility of going. This is the ideal to attain which we are bound to shape all our national policy, and failing to realize which we are working at cross purposes with the law which underlies the development of humanity. Some people are pleased not to recognize this omnipotent factor in human progress. They are contempt- uous toward all who do. But they need not consider that factor unless they choose. It will crush them just the same. Other people, however, ac- knowledge it to the full; and such will regard the highest motives which can animate us and the broadest wisdom which can guide us, provided they are not swept off from their feet4by the newness and the strangeness of the prospect of annexing more territory to the Union. The question whether or not the United States shall pursue the policy of annexation is to be determined by this highest possible standard, the agreement of that policy with the ideal condition when the world shall be at perpetual peace, with justice to every individual. Such an ideal is not be- yond human attainment, and by as much as men or nations fail to strive for it, by so much are they false to the light which they have already. It is not necessary to prove that the destruction of the Union would follow if annexation prevails. It is sufficient to demonstrate that in all probability the interests of the United States and of mankind at large would suffer by the policy of annexation, and that peace and prosperity will be promoted by restricting our domain to our pres- ent boundaries. The annexation of Hawaii is an accomplished fact; but it may prove to be best for both parties, as they were before the annexation, to maintain as large a measure of home rule for the islands as possible, with as little as possible of participation on their part with any affairs upon the continent. But the nation now faces 84 THE ANNEXATION PROBLEM. the annexation of the Philippines, the Ladrones, the Carolines, Porto Rico, and even Cuba; for, shameful to say, some men are so seared to the moral effect of the declaration with which the United States began the war for the liberation of Cuba that they regard its annexation in the near future as a profitable and unobj ectionable pro- ceeding. VVith these questions to be answered, the problem is to be studied in the long perspective of centuries. The largest standard of measurement must be used. The forces which have shaped the development of mankind thus far must be weighed as accurately as we can from the records of history, while into the future must be project- ed the forces of the present, all of them, not only mans present, stand- ard, but the loftiest height to which he can attain. The measure in which we discharge our duty in this crisis must be judged by the degree to which we rise to the possible attainment of humanity. Thus far in the development of the status of nations, as well as in the de- velopment of all things on the face of the earth and in the waters of the sea, physical force and brute motives have been predominant. Selfish fitness to survive has been the inexorable stand- ard, and the law of the survival of the fittest is recognized as the controlling factor in the struggle of races of men and of races of brutes alike. But the fatal consequences of this universal law have their lesson ~for intelligent men who would rest content under it. The fighting monsters in the animal kingdom have had their triumphs and have disappeared. Great fighting na- tions have arisen with the rapidity of a summer thunder cloud, have attained their terrible proportions, have wreaked their fury and have spent their force, leaving wrecks and devas- tation behind them, conferring little or no benefit upon humanity, and con- tinuing no longer, in comparison with the ages during which they might have survived, than the thunder storm continues compared with the year dur- ing which it occurs. Thus far in the history of nations, brute qualities, physical and mental, have triumphed. Physical strength, mere material weight, has been a chief factor. Animal qualities of mind have been joined with it. Cunning and in- genuity have borne their part. Deceit and selfishness, but always with the in- tellectual qualities degraded to the level of the cunning of the fox or the subtlety of the serpent, have prevailed. It is the brute which has triumphed thus far in the record ~f thenations of the past which have overrun the world, while the permanence of the present occupants of the globe is not sufficiently assured to make any pre- diction safe regarding the period dur- ing which they will remain in their relative position. Three hundred years is a very brief time in human his- tory. Yet during that period Spain has sunk from the foremost rank in civilization and splendor of material power to a most contemptible posi- tion. National traits change with the generations. We cannot be assured that the descendants of any of the pres- ent nations, two thousand years hence, will retain the present qualities. It would apparently be safe to predict that they will not. Hence present strength is no reason for assuming that it will continue forever. The development of the nations thus far having been on the plane of the animal, the issue for us in this crisis is whether a new and honorable depart- ure shall occur at this point in the his- tory of mankind, or the old law of force shall thrust its discreditable form further into the future and shall dis- grace our subsequent progress. To state the issue would seem to be suffi- cient for an answer. It may not only be conceded, it may be asserted, that in the progress of the centuries the spiritual element in man will in time so far overcome th~ animal that there will be an evolution out of the control of the animal into the full domain of the spiritual, so that the ultimate at- TI JE ANNEXATION PROBLEM. 85 tainment of a high standard may be reached, even through the continued predominance of the material and gross considerations in the develop- ment of humanity. But the question, facing us with pertinence, is, whether the time has not already come for the spiritual to assert itself and to drive the mere material side back to its de- served subordinate position in the ad- vance of humanity. Force has ruled the world thus far. In a material realm, matter must shape the outward conditions, whatever be the powers behind it to control the forms which it may take. The issue for the United States in this juncture is, whether the greed of property, the earth-hunger of the people, the purely selfish and commercial side shall en- gross all the energies of the nation, so that it will enlarge and enlarge, till the mutual hostility of diverse interests shall drive them asunder and break the nation into fragments, or whether the persistent holding to a high ideal shall prevail, transforming the selfish into the self-sacrificing, raising our people to a higher level than is possible for any people under a different system of government and with lower ideals, and cementing national unity until there can be no stronger or more homo- geneous people upon the face of the earth. The issue presented to us is like that which every man has to face continually, whether his higher nature shall retain its rightful supremacy, or shall be overwhelmed by the sordid pursuit of mere material gain. Will the United States risk its magnificent birthright for the mere rubbish of goods and land? This is the choice which is presented to our people thi5 day. Immediately after Dewey~s victory at Manila it was he~ird from many quarters, and doubtless many people believed it to be true, that the United States had entered upon a new era. Magnificent, not to say magniloquent, utterances were heard regarding the new destiny which had suddenly opened before our country consequent upon the destruction of a few Spanish ships by our ships, which survived un- injured. To many people it seemed as if a sudden break had been made in our national consciousness; and, a shame it is to say, among this number were high officials whose years and supposed intelligence and sense of truthfulness ought to have preserved them from such a pitiable mistake. There seemed to run over the country, like the flame of a furious prairie fire, a feeling that we were the masters of a domain inconceivably larger than our own, and that we were responsible for the good conduct and prosperous de- velopment of a large portion of the earth. All of a sudden the world, which had seemed to be limited to the northern half of the western hemi- sphere, loomed up as unspeakably big, and the United States was the only thing of size and strength in it. All of a sudden, too, and especially from quarters xvhere we were wont to hear nothing but advice for the exclu- sion of all other nations from stiaring our trade or our acres with us, arose the cry that our isolation was at an end, and that hereafter our national career must be shaped on other lines, and that we were henceforth to have a serious share in deciding the destiny of a large part of mankind, including those without, as well as those within our boundaries. At the very outset, a protest must be made against this po- sition. It is essentially untrue. The outcry against our national isolation is not founded on fact. The isolation which has marked the career of the United States is either the isolation which we have attempted in our trade relations (which those who do not think it an error niay defend as best they can), or it is merely that sagacity in keeping out of international com- plications which has saved us doubt- less many a million of dollars and many lives which would otherwise have beeii wasted in foolish wars. In the true sense of isolation, as China has been isolated we have had little of it. 86 THE ANNEXATION PROBLEM. Look at the facts, arvi see whether our national policy has made us with- out influence in the world. Isolation is to be judged by the fact whether or not this nation has been a command- ing influence in the history of man- kind since it bad a separate existence of its own. How does our country stand in the estimation of the civilized world,not the few governing classes, but the millions of men? For answer, turn to the records of immigration. See how the light of the American re- public has pierced the darkness in all parts of Europe. See how the dawn of the best democracy the world has ever witnessed has stirred the hearts of pa- triots wherever manhood exists to re- spond to tbe living embodiment of truth and hope for humanity. See how genuine is the suspicion with which thc American republic is regarded among the monarchies of the Old World. The words of Longfellow speak in no exaggeration: Humanity, with all its tears, And all its hopes and all its fears, Is hanging hreathless on thy fate, Is that isolation? Is the nation upon whose success hang the hearts of mil- lions in foreign lands, and upon whose advance the old aristocracies and oli- garchies see their own ruin portrayed, an isolated nation? Instead of being isolated, there is not, in all truth, a single other nation on this round earth which is so well known in so many other nations, which is the standard and secret hope of so many people, and whose progress is so earnestly desired by so many. See how the people of the Old World flock to our shores to escape from their bard conditions at home. They came to us for their own good. It is not abstract devotion to political principles which brings them here, to endure worse burdens than at home. Our democratic government gives all people under the sun the best chance in the world to make the most of the powers which they have, and to ac- cumulate and to enjoy the fruit of their labors after they have employed na- tures strength to the utmost. The story of the improved condition under the government of the mass of the people, where kings are unknown and where born aristocrats never intrude, has penetrated to all climes, to the snows of Norway and Russia, and to the heats of the tropics, and peoule from all parts of the world come here to make their permanent homes, and to abide in peace tinder our laws. That is not isolation, but tbe very reverse. No nation on earth, judged by the best tests, is so little isolated as ours. But what the United States is to the people who seek her protection tells only half of the story. The positive influence which emanates from these shores to the countries of the Old World is no less powerful and refutes no less overwhelmingly the untrue as- sertion that we have pursued a policy of isolation. Since early in this cen- tury people from this country have been pushing forward into the heart of ignorance and heathenisr~i, right in the face of suffering and sometimes of death, carrying the gospel of the Bible, raising up a few workers whose rapid multiplication in recent years is the conspicuous and complete demonstra- tion of the success of the policy of Christian missions. Our country has been none the less influential because these workers have not been under the government. They have come from Christian America, and they have made our country thereby known and respected wherever they have gone. But if governmental action is demand- ed, look at such events as the opening of the Japanese empire by an official of the United States navy. The great and secluded nations of the East have opened their doors to foreigners through the influence of the United States more than from any other cause. This is not national isolation; nor has our course in the East been in contra- vention of the principles in the fare- well address of Washington. Look further at the international re- lations of this country with others in THE ANNEXATION PROBLEM. 87 the way of science and invention. When our accomplished scientists go abroad to conventions of cheir peers from other nations, though they do not represent our government, hey do represent the accomplishments of this country in the foremost lines of - thonght in the world. They have weight, too, according to the value of the new truth which they have to bring to the common fund. They stand upon an equality with all mankind, and they are part and parcel in the de- velopment of humanity in their par- ticular fields of research. This is not isolation, but the amplest comity and friendliness with all that is good in all the world in their particular sphere. Again, in the matter of inventions, does not America confessedly lead the world? Our machines and implements are now exported in vast quantities, and it is the fault of our legislation, not of our inventors, nor of the possi- ble demand from abroad, .if they are not sent out in still larger aggregate. American ideas penetrate to all parts of the world. American methods are found to be more economical and more productive than the methods of other people. We are exerting to-day unquestionably more influence upon the world than any other nation. Is this isolation? Is there anything in this policy to be ashamed of? Can any new departure be made from it which will improve the present conditions? The plea of past isolation for a new departure and for the annexation of new territory, in order that it may be opened to our ideas or to our inven- tions, is based upon essential lack of information regarding our present powerful influence in other civilized countries, or it is based upon a sordid ideal of national influence which it will be folly to follow. But the annexation policy is to be resisted, not only because in its outcry against isolation it is egregiously false to the facts and to the highest ideal of national influence, but because it would inevitably degrade our nation from a destiny which may be higher than building docks and warehouses and planting coffee or sugar in Ha- waii, or playing the overseer for naked wretches in hemp fields in the Philip- pines, or domineering Cubans on sugar plantations, or waving the flag of the republic over the ignorant na- tives of the Carolines or the Ladrones. Two distinct standards are before our people, just as they are before the pri- vate person. Shall he give his life for houses and lands, for dress and ser- vants, for stocks and bonds, or shall he, making small account of the poor stuff which destroys all appreciation for the best there is in nature and in humanity, give his thought to that which is most real and which alone is worth his noblest powers, and is none the less potent because it is not listed on the stock exchange, nor valued by the assessors, nor to be measured or weighed by any government standard sealed by the sealer of weights and measures? This nation, under the almost miraculous impulse of inven- tion and the cheapness of material things, is already neglecting the better things which were made more of when luxury was not so plentiful; and there- in is an imminent danger that the cry of annexation for material advantage will outweigh the solid objections on the other side. The animal, the brute in man is pushing to the front as the supplies for animal luxury are cheap- ened by invention; and the question is whether the animal is not getting alto- gether too much attention, compared with the spiritual. Certainly the popu- lar thought does not run as much to great and ennobling truths as it did since persons now living can remem- ber. Shall the United States be ab- sorbed by the material products which it makes in such enormous quantities, or will it use these things as means to the higher end, and will it assert the real supremacy of the spiritual over the animal? Will the luxury and ex- pansion of Rome cause the downfall of the Roman republic? In her case the answer, emphasized by two thou- sand years and undisputed by any one, 88 THE ANNEXATION PROBLEM. was yes. Shall the American republic follow the Roman republic and give the same answer? When the war with Spain broke out, our people were in the midst of a pop- ular agitation, threatening to cleave society into txvo great classes. As there is vitality in the republic, that question, in the long run, would have been settled on the side of justice and humanity. The issue between great aggregations of capital on one side and the millions of people employed by the capitalists on the other would have been settled so that each side would have received its dues, each would have bad just reward for its risk and effort, and tyranny, whether of capital over labor or of labor over cap- ital, would have been overthrown. Doubtless this progress would have been slow and painful. The human race, under the lead of this republic, was advancing over ground where hu- manity had never gone before. l3ut we xvere making progress. The people were thinking on these questions. The agitation, the suffering, the strikes, the lockouts, the consolidations of capital, the displacement of labor, the rejec- tion of half-used machinery, the polit- ical discussions, the threats of social revolution, all these things, which are phases of progress toward an adjust- ment, were in progress. The pdlitical campaign of 1896 made many people serious as they thought of the future. The growing conviction that some- thing deeper than the currency was the cause of the immense vote for Bryan made many men thoughtful. But the people were patriotic. The republic would have survived aIld progress would have been achieved, genuine progress toward a standard which the world has never seen yet, and which would have meant permanent gain for the masses in their larger share in the fruit of their labors and greater secur- ity for capital in the larger justice which it would accord to its employ~s and still retain a sufficient profit. But the war with Spain has inter- rupted all this. Already it looks as if the war had set back our civilization for years. No one can tell how long it will be before the popular craze for military and naval heroes, how long before the burden of the war debt, how long before the disturbance of the peoples purpose will be outlived and the nation once more be thinking seriously upon the genuine problems for it to solve. The war costs us im- measurably more than can ever be computed in dollars or measured in lives lost and limbs missing and health shattered. This remains true, although it is also true that the war has brought certain large and inspiring gains to this nation and to humanity. But xvhen the war is ended, shall we be kept upon the low plane of brute struggle and mere wire-pulling politics by the extension of our borders, with- out annexing at the same time a soli- tary idea to uplift us or a single man who is worth something to us because he supplies an element which we do not have? If the problem be discussed upon the ground of our highest service to the world at large, regardless of our own condition, so as to meet the plea of those who assert that we have a di- vine mission to fulfill and a divine mes- sage to deliver, the answer remains the same. We can do most for the uplift- ing of the human race when we our- selves reach our highest possibility of ~character, intellect and organic activ- ity. But these traits are of quality, not in the slightest degree of quantity. Extent of territory and numbers of people will not in the least help us in gaining that ideal. It is sufficient to offset the life of a single saint or phi- losopher against the lives of thousands of plutocrats of antiquity, powerful in their day, but forgotten now, to en- force the point. It is for the nation to grow upward, not horizontally, to reach its greatest efficiency for the up- lifting of other nations. Mere bigness compels no respect, save from the minds which dwell on the level of the l)rute. The 400,000,000 people of China never appeal to the admiring THE ANNEXATION PROBLEM. 89 judgment of mankind, because they constitute such a mighty nation. The three hundred Spartans at Thermopy- lie are not despised because they were so few; nor did the exploit of Lieuten- ant Hobson, with his seven men, seem contemptible in the eyes of any one because such a handful tried to do so much. By carrying forward our de- velopment within our present expan- sive boundaries, by solving the prob- lems which are pressing us hard, by proving that a stable democratic gov- ernment is the best on earth, we shall do more for the elevation of humanity than by any amount of material en- largement. A plausible plea for annexation which is entertained by some men in high position and is being repeated by men of lower grades as if it were an enunciation of eternal and immutable law, is that the law of life implies growth, and that our nation can be strong vitally only as it enlarges its boundaries. If we live, we must grow territorially, it is ~said; as soon as we .cease to annex territory, we enter the stage of decay and our disappearance from the face of the earth is only a matter of time. Not only does this argument put the cart before the horse in its assumption that annexation will increase or promote vitality, thus making an. effect masquerade as a cause, but it is open to two fatal ob- jections, which bring out clearly its utter absurdity. It being a general principle, as it is said, that national vitality involves national extension, it must apply to all other nations as well as to our own. Therefore each na- tion, in its extension of boundaries, will soon run up against the others. What becomes of this principle of na- tional development? Logically, hav- ing no further territory in which to ex- pand, all the nations must simul- taneously enter upon their stage of decay, humanity has reached its maxi- mum, and the era of crash and catas- trophe is at hand. But suppose that by some mysteri- ous necromancy~ this eternal, immut able justification of annexation applies only to the United States, and does not hold for any other nation! The relief from the final catastrophe is only tem- porary. We should speedily annex all the other outlying continents and isl- ands of the earth, including- all Arctic and Antarctic regions, the crest of Chimborazo, the heights of Kunchin- ginga and the expanses of Sahara. The English lion and the Russian bear would whimper at our feet, and the vast empire of China, one overgrown, personified coolie, would beg to carry our valise for us; but still that vitality which is the soul of the argument for annexation would impel us on, or we should face national stagnation and decay, and all mankind would go - down to oblivion with us. Should we throw out grappling irons and annex the moon, then the outlying planets, and the Pole Star? But all creation might be taken in before the insatiate maw of this latest and favorite annexa- tion theory would be satisfied. Yet if it fails at any point, it fails at the be- ginning; and there it does fail by the test of the true direction which na- tional vitality takes when it rises to the level of genuine humanity instead of groveling on the level of the brute. National greatness and possibility of great service as a nation are not neces- sarily joined with immense territory or with countless millions of people. If people are homogeneous and so close- ly compacted that a representative from one end of their territory is near enough to the other to be qualified to legislate for it, then large populations may exist under one government, even in a democracy. But when the people whom it is proposed to annex are the positive reverse of homogeneous, when the territory is so remote that the peo- ple of the distant parts cannot know each others condition, then there is no possible gain, but constant threat of loss in putting them under one gov- eminent. It rpust be remembered, too, that in a democracy the parts have equal power. It might not be the ques- tion what we would do with them so 90 THE ANNEXATION PROBLEM. much as what they would do with us which would fill our days aud nights with anxiety. Under our govern- ment, men count by units, and a vote is a vote, whether the man who casts it be wise or ignorant. In our senate and house decisions are made by ma- jorities, and wealth and intelligence have no advantage in the count. By bringing in these outlying islands as part of our country, we needlessly ex- pose ourselves to the mercy of their people, foreign to our ideas, foreign to our methods of enterprise, foreign to our customs, having no bond with us, not desiring to come in, and bringing iiot a solitary element of strength which we do not possess. If there is no affinity between us and them, be- tween our institutions and theirs, be- fore annexation, the mere act of com- pulsory union will not develop those essentials, nor make them one at heart with us. They would never become patriotic Americans, nor would the United States ever seem fatherland to them. A peculiar feature of the situation, which would be amusing were is not so discreditable, is the tactic assump- tion on the part of some that whatever we do is right because we are a patri- otic, Christian nation. It is evident, in some instances,that the fact that Spain is a Catholic country adds to the un- conscious idea that whatever we do against her must be right. It is as- sumedto be an impartial and righteous judgment, though this nation (an in- terested party) is the judge, that we can use the people and the property of Spains colonies better than she can, therefore it is our duty to take them from her by force, even though such taking be wholly removed from the purpose of the war to free Cuba. War for conquest on the ground that the conqueror is a better administrator of property than the conquered, as a per- manent principle in international rela- tions, is justified by professing Chris- tians who would be shocked beyond measure by an intimation that they would steal or in any unlawful way do injury to their neighbor. War justi- fies conquest, their argument runs; therefore it is right for us to conquer all of Spanish territory which we can, and keep it for our permanent posses- sion. Wars of conquest have been known from the beginning of the world. Whether wars of conquest have always been righteous wars, whether the purpose of those wars was justified by the Christianity which these people profess, they never seem to consider. The brute customs of a past above whose level we hope we have ascended are taken blindly to justify us in ag- gression which has no better moral basis than highway robbery, on the ground that the highwayman (in his ju(lgment) could put the money to bet- ter use than could his victim. The moral sense which sees distinctions re- garding property rights of individuals becomes totally blind when inthepres- ence of the larger problem of nations, and falls back upon vague talk of a divine mission~~ or manifest destiny, when there is no more divinity or fore- ordained destiny in it than there is in a crime which a thief commits in order to gain property for himself. The rights of the other party are wholly overlooked, and because Spain stands in a lower moral, educational and com- mercial level than we, it is assumed that therefore it is right for us to take property to which we have no moral right or pretext whatever. Right of conquest and divine mission are made to serve as excuses for a downright act of robbery by the nation. Again it is the brute in man, not the manliness in him, not his best part, which comes to the front in this plea for the annexa- tion of Spanish islands. If there is any force in the plea that this nation has a divine mission to per- form, that it is our manifest destiny to be a mighty factor for the elevation of mankind, then it is evident that that mission will be performed and that destiny will be accomplished only as we give to mankind something which the world does not possess now, some- THE ANNEX~ATION PROBLEM. 9 thing higher and better, grander and stronger than has been attained by any other people in the past, something which is the high ideal of those xvho see only in ideality the perfection of administration and the exactness of justice to each person which can be attained by the best government possi- ble on earth. But such a mission can be accomplished only by the most self- sacrificing attention to the details of administration and to the adjustment of classes to each other, only by the solution of the extremely complicated problems which must inhere in the in- ternational relations of our now sev- enty millions of people, grown to three hundred millions, to five hun- dred millions, each group with its duties to and claims upon every other, each individual with his service to give and demand to be paid, all upon the simple principle of justice, but justice to be established against organized greed and oppression at every step. There is the field of our divine mission. The annexation of mere acres or of savage, half-civilized, or even civilized men, who have no ideas to bring to the solution of these perplexities, will not aid us one particle in the discharge of our divine mission. On the con- trary, they will be just so much of hin- drance, as a mans absorption in the management of his property, no mat- ter how many millions he may accu- mulate, takes his mind from the things in life which are better than dollars and beside which social position is a foolish dream. If the time of Con- gress be demanded by bills relating to colonial or territorial administration, to the exclusion of measures for a mathematically perfect currency, for the promotion of international friend- liness in regard to improvements of business or invention, or for the dis- cussion of that vast possibility of re- form in the treatment of labor and the regulation of accumulated wealth, for the establishment of perfect political equality for every voter, for the for- warding of the educational interests of our ignorant classes, for the assimila tion bf our alien immigrants, for the regulation of our internal means of transportation and communication by rail and by water, for the thousand other problems of internal importance which have never yet failed to press upon the people of state and nation far in excess of their ability to solve them, if annexation tends to retard our in- ternal progress, as it surely would, then we~are failing in the discharge of that divine mission which is urged as the pretext for annexation, and we are preventing our own progress in what would not only be positive gain for ourselves, but which, being secured by us for the first time on earth, would thereby be an example to all ~5ther people and thus give something tangi- ble to humanity. To live on the gross material level in a world which com- bines the material and the ideal, as we would tend to do by annexation and by yielding to the materialistic faction, would prevent our attaining the ideal by which we can most benefit man- kind. But yet other reasons are to be urged in debating whether the brute or the man shall triumph in the an- nexation policy. If there is any one respect in which this nation commands the attention of the world by reason of a marked difference in origin and pur- pose, that respect is its moral strengih and its definite moral purpose in the realms of personal character and polit- ical liberty. England grew out of the misty past, Saxons, Angles, Jutes and Danes, bent on adventurous mission, mingling with the Britons and Gaels, back of whom we cannot go. The Gauls were in France when history made the acquaintance of the country. Teutonic tribes dwelt in the forests of Germany before we know to the con- trary. So with other nations of the Old World, great and small. At no one point have they stepped upon their soil, a new arrival, with strong pur- pose, laying the foundation of a new political system or declaring new and high ideals for the direction of political 92 THE ANNEXATIQN PROBLEM. affairs and for the guidance of individ- ual life. But in our case, at a particu- lar hour, there stepped upon Plymouth Rock a party of men who had signed a political compact just before landing, who laid the foundation upon which this great republic is built. Nor is this truth affected a particle by any pre- vious settlements at any point along our coast or in the interior, nor by any multiplicity of subsequent arrivals which did not harmonize with the principles or customs of the real founders of the republic. Plymouth Rock to-day is the one strong and great representative of true American- ism. The United States is to-day as large as Plymouth Rock, an(l no larger, and Plymouth Rock is as large as progress and justice, toleration and liberty. That is the true foundation upon which Americanism rests. That embodies the principles by which our national existence must be guided, if that existence is to continue. That is the one historical fact which diFferenti- ates the United States eternally from every other nation on the face of the earth. That is our sole claim to the confidence and the respect of the world. If this country has any divine mis- sion, it is not to steal the property of other nations, nor to take it from them by force of arms or at the muzzle of the thirteen-inch guns of our battleships, nor to force a hard bargain of any sort from any people too weak to resist our tremendous might; but it is to set so high a standard of self-sacrifice and effort for humanity that the xvorld will drop its suspicion audwill emulateus in our unselfish devotion to the good of mankind, seeking mere justice for our- selves. But such a standard can never be realized by grasping the property of the world. Achievement in the true line of our destiny is solely in the realm of the moral, first of all, with material and financial achieve- ments following that and conditioned upon it. It is the strength of Plym- outh Rock, and of Plymouth Rock ~ione, which has brought us to our present national stature. Other parts of the world are fairer in luxuriance of vegetation than ours. Nature has poured out possibilities upon other lands equally with our own. Her lav- ish hand did not scatter her benefits solely upon the middle portion of the northern continent of the western hemisphere to the exclnsion of every other quarter of the globe. It has been our moral strength, fostering activity, thrift and foresight, which have made us what we are, so far as we have any distinction over any other nation on earth. To bring out of this war all which may be brought out, and failing to bring out which we shall fail in our duty and shall deserve a reprimand by the voice of mankind, as Shafter would have deserved a national reprimand if lie had squandered his strength and lost Santiago, we are bound to be so broad and so humane, so generous in our policy to our prostrate foe, so con- siderate of the weak, that all mankind will be compelled at least to admit the facts and to say that such and such things were done. Beside such a tribute from mankind, no number of millions of war indemnity, no number of islands conquered and annexed by force would have any weight. The choice is thrust upon us. Each act would stand forever in history as an event which could not be altered or effaced, either as a sublime inspiration to every nation, an example to the vic- torious, a hope for the vanquished, or as an eternal monument of disgrace, of a high ideal spurned, and of a base motive victorious. Now is opportunity, such as comes to nations but once in a century. The choice is ours to take the right hand or the left. Having passed by this part- ing of the ways, we shall never pass this way again. Material considera- tions, such as the commerce of the isl- ands, are utterly beneath notice com- pare(l with the greater benefits to be sectlre(l. But even tIle commercial benefits may all be secured as fully as by an- THE ANNEXATION PROBLEM. 93 nexation, if we pursue the right course. It is not the government which makes property and profits in business, but private enterprise, under the protection of government. If such governmental protection is assured, and if the opportunity for trade with the islands is offered, whereby the pri- vate owners there may exchange prod- ucts xvith private producers here, as liberally as if all were under one flag, then we gain as much commercially and avoid the dangers of political com- plications. But all such considerations are sec- ondary. First of all is the obligation to hold this nation, founded upon Plymouth Rock, to the lofty signifi- cance of the movement to Plymouth Rock, to set a standard of self-govern- ment such as the world never saw be- fore, of such self-restraint for the bene- fit of humanity as no nation ever put upon the page of history, of such mag- nanimity that the world will say in ad- niiration that nothing higher could be possible, of such enthusiasm to make this war count for the permanent ad- vancement of mankind that all the na- tions shall catch the inspiration of the ideal Stars and Stripes, and join us in our sublime progress toward the dis- bandment of armies and toward the coming sJvereignty of the republic of nations. This standard ~is not too high. Its attainment is easily possible. The dis- position to do this is already strong in many hearts, which realize that the most sublime moment. in our history for many a year is just upon us, and that the thrilling question now is, whether we shall rise equal to our duty and our responsibility or shall forever suffer the evil consequences of selfish short-sightedness by yielding to the brute in our nature instead of asserting our manhood. We did not make the opportunity; it was forced upon us without our understanding how mo- mentous was the issue to be raised. We did not make our responsibility; that is forced upon us by our very na- tures as men, with power to rise above the level of the brute. But the oppor- tunity is here, and the responsibility is here. It is simply for us to say whether the manhood in us is equal to the emergency, xvhether we shall be brutes or men. THE CENTURY PLANT. By Louise Bet/s Edwards. IDST garden glories stands the century plant, ~As lonely as some hearts among their kin, hose barren stems no gracious token grant For all the tender tillage that has been The nurture of the life that lies within. Its grim, gray leaves the glisterin g sunlight store; The service of the skies they freely take; No tear-drop trembles where the storm swept oer, A symbol of the pride and pain that ache Within the heart that weeps not, though it break. Then, miracle that mocks the doubting years The flower nnfolds,but, ah, for other eyes Than those that watched and watered with their tears, And other hands than those whose labor lies Deep at the root of this fair, sweet surprise. For these long since have gone, long since made glad By common weeds that flowered at their feet, And quickly gave what loveliness they had, Nor needed the slow centurys ripening heat Their crown of blossoming beauty to complete. Ah, tardy triumph of a heart too proud, Cold brow, that wore too late loves diadem, A nine days marvel to the careless crowd, What meaning has its messagenow to them? And the hearts flower withers on its stem. 94 THE QUEST OF AN ANCESTOR. By William E. Barton. I HAVE not always mourned the fact seph Carver and Elizabeth Snow. that I am unable, up to date, to Elizabeth Snow was the daughter of trace my descent from the May- Benjamin Snow and Elizabeth Alden. flower. My maternal grandfather, who Elizabeth Alden was the daughter of came from Scotland when my mother Joseph, the son of John Alden and his was a lassie and made his way to the good wife Priscilla. prairies of Illinois on board that trans- I will not deny the joy that I felt formed Mayflower, a prairie schooner, when my feet were thus taken out of told me when a lad that through his the common clay and set on Plymouth maternal grandmother I am descende(i Rock. But I was elated and sought from Alexander Selkirk. For a good further. That was my mistake. A many years, covering my boyhood, man should let well enough alone. I being a descendant of Robinson Cm- was also studying the higher criticism. soe seemed to me a thing beside which I came to see that there was some evi- the Mayflower appeared very tame. deuce of the duality of Isaiah. At last, But the time came at last when I as I found how many brave things wept for more worlds to conquer. I William Barton did, I came to suspect knew that my father was the soii of a the duality of my great-grandfather. soldier of 1812, whom I can just re- Alas, my suspicions proved correct! member, and that he was the son of a There were two William Bartons, Revolutionary officer whose name I and among the good things which my bear, and that he was the son of a British soldier who died with Braddock at Fort Du Quesne. Clearly there was no Mayflower at the end of my paternal line. But my great-grand- mother, I thought, might have been a Mayflower de- scendant. So I gave such data as I had to a society which exists for the purpose of helping people to find their ancestors, and with this great-grandfather did, he left one Un- result: done: he did not marry Rhoda Carver. ~ Lieutenant-Colonel William Barton I have no fault to find with my great- married Rhoda Carver, daughter of grandmother, of whom I shall say Joseph Carver, who was the son of Jo- more later; but just at that time I 95 \\ :vK SITE OF MY GREAT-GRANDFATHER S HOME. 96 THE QUEST OF AN ANCESTOR. thought that if my great-grandfather had known how anxious I was to have come over in the Mayflower, he would have married Rhoda Carver and let the other William Barton marry Mar- garet Henderson. I have few family relics. The sword of this same great-grandfather hangs on my study wall, and it is my most priceless bit of property, loaned me by an uncle. If I knew that he would never see this article, I would confide to the gentle reader the hope that he will never call for it. And I have my grandfathers family Bible. The t\yo seem somehow to belong together, and I photographed them a while ago. My good wife has more relics. With what pride does she pour tea from her grandmothers teapot! I have seen her stand and dream before her great- great-grandfathers clock. He was a brother of Abraham Davenport, the hero of Whittiers poem; and this old clock kept time on the dark day in Connecticut. My wifes ancestors really came over in the Mayflower. But she is better than I, as every one knows. I have wondered for some time whether I could not find some- thing more about this refractory an- cestor of mine; and I determined to spend a part of my summer vacation in tracking him. So I left my good wife and the children beside a pretty lake, where the children play in the water, and the trees sometimes are reflected so clearly that the picture may be re- versed and show almost as well. Then I set out for New Jersey. I had learned other things about my ancestor, which I may as well tell here. He was born in England in I7~, and while yet a lad drifted into the British army. He came to America, under Gage, about 1773, and was in Boston during the disturbances that led up to the Revolution. Growing up with a love for the land where his father lay buried, and coming to it with joy, he felt increasing dissatisfaction as the war approached at the prospect of an event which might place him in arms against the men with whom his father had fought. There seemed no way out of it, and he did his duty as a British soldier. On that side he fought, but with little heart, at Lexington and Bunker Hill. When Boston was evac- uated, he went with the army to Hali- fax, and registered a vow that, at what- ever hazard, he would fight no more against the side in which now he had come to believe. On Howes return, in July, he sought some opportunity to escape from the service which had grown irksome and false to him, but found no chance for several weeks. There followed that long series of dis- asters to the Colonial arms, the battles of Long Island, Harlem 1-leights, White Plains, and the surrender of Forts Washington and Lee. It was the darkest hour, except Valley Forge, in all the history of the Revolution. Fort Washington had fallen, and Washington was about to give up Fort Lee and begin his long retreat through the Jerseys. The Hudson River di- vided the armies. Then seemed his first desperate opportunity. Taking a bucket, he made his way through the lines to the river. On the way he met a mounted officer, who ordered him to return. Too eager now to be thwart- ed, he refused, and the officer drew his sword and struck at him. He beat the horse back with his bucket, and for a time kept the officer at bay, backing MY GREAT-GRANDMOTHERS SPINNING WHEEL. THE QUEST OF AN ANCESTOR. 97 meantime toward the river. At length the officer struck him across the face, leaving a deep scar for life; but he got the return blow with the bucket, and dismounted the officer, captured his sword, swam with it to the other side, wounded as he was, entered the Con- tinental army, and served with honor to the close of the war. He became a lieutenant; and the sword IHAVESEENHERSTAND which he wore, and which I have, is said to be the one which he cap- tured, and bore in his teeth across the Hudson. I like to go to the Fort Lee ferry in New York and look at the river, and think of that brave fellow, wounded but d e s p e rately c o u r ageous, making h i s w a y across. Our family tra- ~dition affirms that Washing- ton had known his father, and that he greeted the son cordial- ly, and said some pleasant things to him about his father :and himself; but these are more interesting to me than they would be to the reader. Indeed I am quite conscious that this is a very personal story altogether; but I remem- ber that the world is made up of per- sons, and that persons like personal stories if they illustrate something, and that many persons besides myself, now- cadays, are in quest of ancestors, ~d I am not without hope that some BEFORE THE CLOCK. will have a warm heart for a fellow- seeker and an interest in his fortunes and perhaps get lessons from his quest. Back inthe hills of New Jersey, then, this brave man settledatthe close ofthe Revolution,and there he died. I went first to Morristown, the county seat, and found his will and the inventory of his estate. His wagons, horses, grain, tools and household furniture made a long list; and I was glad to read the items, for I felt confident that some of the articles listed must be in existence. And so I found it to be. A goodly num- ber of distant relatives, who are also his descendants, but whom I had never seen, still live near his old home, and with the aid of the inventory identified vari- ous articles therein described. One razor, I read. Ive got that, said one third cousin. (I have it now!) One large r o n kittle. Ive got the kettle, s a i d another. One large spinning- wheel. Mar- thas got the s p i nning- wheel. And so with a good many articles, which had be- longed to the o 1 d Revolu- tionary v e t- eran. I pho- tographed my gre a t-grand- mothers spin- ning-wheel. I brought away with me my great- grandfathers old axe, and my great- grandmothers tongs, bless her! and a root of her favorite peony, and one of her smoothing irons, and some minor relics. I hung her old pancake griddle to a tree above the large kettle. Only the edge of its disk and the long handle show in the pic- ture,but it was a most interesting MY WIFES HEREDITARY CHINA. 98 THE QUEST OF AN ANCESTOR. piece of kitchen furniture to me. They raise much buckwheat in that part of New Jersey, and I learned that, besides the toothsome pancakes, the dear old lady was famous for her shortcakes, baked before the open fire on that same griddle. I got one of her great- granddaughters to stand beside the extemporized fireplace, and photo- graphed the outfit, axe, flatirons, half a cannon-ball mould from Hibernia furnace, kettle, tongs, griddle and all. I picked up some interesting bits of gossip about my ancestor. He was a hard worker, and compelled others to work also. He was a pleasant man in his disposition, but sometimes when imposed upon, or discovering evi- dences of insincerity, got very mad. He always took his bottle when he went away, and got it filled, but drank very little liquor for that day, and was never known to be the worse for it. He was a warm patriot and a good hater of King George and a great admirer of George Washington. He must have enjoyed fighting, for he left his allit- erative declaration that a fight is a frolic. I also learned about his court- ship, of which anon. By rare good fortune, I was able to identify his grave and that of his wife. By putting together what my father had told me and what two distant rela- tives on the ground remembered, the spot and the graves were identified to a certainty, a thing that in a few years would have been impossible. I had taken xvith me a Revolutionary marker and a small bronze tablet. With the help of my cousins, I ob- tained two granite stones, unhewn. One was nearly three feet high, prac- tically square at the base and slightly tapering; the other was fiat on two faces. I wanted nothing better. I had brought with me a stone cutter s chisel, and I had to stop and grind it often, for the rock was very hard. In one I cut the letters W. B., and in the other, M. H. B. Before his headstone I fastened the marker and tablet, and covered the stone with the flag. It was perhaps crudely, certainly very simply done, but it seemed to me better to do it with my own hands, and more appropriate than to have taken there a more costly and showy and less enduring monument. On my way back to the train, I ob- tainedaveryinteresting relic of Hiber- nia. There was a furnace there in the days of the Revolution, and Washing- ton depended upon it for solid shot. Now and then an excavation brings to light a rusty three-inch shot. The superintendent of the mine still in operation there gave me one of those old revolutionary cannon balls, which I was glad indeed to secure. And this brings me to the incident which I have been keeping till the last. I had known it in part all along, but I learned a little more of the detail. THE 5WORD AND BIBLE SEEMED TO BELONG TOGETHER. THE OLD KETTLE, TONGS, GRIDDLE AND CANNON-BALL MOULD. THE QUEST OF AN ANCESTOR. Toward the close of the Revolution, there was a guard at Hibernia, com- manded by a lieutenant with a deep scar on his face. He was tall and gaunt and awkward and sensitive about the scar. Not till later were such things counted a source of hon- est pride. There was a merry-making at Hibernia, and the belle of the even- ing was one Margaret Henderson, a plump, vivacious little woman, and just a bit coquettish. She was de- scended from the Scotch-Irish immi- grants to that region in the days shortly before the Revolution. The ap- ples had been peeled and put on to cook, and the apple butter was stir- ring, and the room was cleared for a game. It was Drop the handker- chief, an ancient and innocent game that has had no small share in settling the social destinyof a considerablepart of the people of the republic. As they were beg~inning to play, the lieutenant came in and took a seat on a bench near the door. They pressed him to join the game, but he refused. He was over twenty-five, and was consid- ered a hopeless bachelor. He eyed Margaret Henderson a little; but there 99 were a half dozen young fellows there, some of them his own soldiers, who were fully intending to see her home that night. He drew his long legs under the bench to keep them out of the way, and watched the game. The handkerchief was dropped be- hind Margaret. She took it, and walked slowly around the ring, debat- ing in her coquettish little head behind which of the young men she should drop it. She walked entirely around the ring, and still could not make up her mind. She started a sec- ond time, and got half way round. Bless her heart, she did not know how much was hanging on her de- cision! But she decided, and, turning on her heel, she flung the handker- chief full in the face of the lieutenant, and ran. The lieutenant was a brave man. He was taken by surprise; but he ral- lied his forces, got his feet out from under the bench in an astonishingly short time, caught her half way round the ring, saw her home that night, proposed to her next day, and mar- ried her two weeks afterward. It was a shocking thing for Mar- WHERE MY FATHER WAS BORN. 100 THE QUEST OF AN ANCESTOR. garet to do, no doubt, and I hope that her mother scolded her properly for it. But I am glad that she did it. And I am not sorry to have made a most interesting journey to mark her grave and that of the man she married. I found where they built their home. I drank from the pure spring beneath the hill. I found her best table, and the crane that hung over her fire. Most precious of all, I found their family Bible, with the family record intact, and I have a promise that some day it shall be mine. So I came back from my journey of less than a week, with many pleasant memories and a better understanding of some things connected with my ances- tors. I know now the rocky farm where my father was born. I know now where his father and his fathers father lived, and how they lived. I have the pic- tures, too, and can show them to my children. I may never go there again; but I am heartily glad to have taken this journey in quest of my ancestor. I cannot help thinking that it would be a pleasant thing in this day, when we are nearly all Sons or Daughters of something or other, for a good many people to take similar trips, with stone chisels and cameras. My cous- ins objected to the planting of laurel on the old soldiers grave. Laurel, they said, was too common there. But I am glad to have a little growing above him, for he deserved it, and the more common such virtues as his be- come the better. And I am glad to think that on the grave of his plucky little wife there is to bloom next year her own favorite peony. HOW WE MARKED THE GRAVES. FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. By Char/es W. Burpee. ANS personal endeavors may M be crowned with success for a time, he may establish a busi- ness which gives him a satisfactory return, he may have mastered the problem of material existence; but fire may come, and in an hour his hard-earned savings, the source of his income, the proud result of his in- genuity and perseverance may vanish. Experience has taught this, and few are the men who have not learned the lesson. There must have been some form of insurance in the earliest his- tory of commerce and industry. It is well established that in the old Eng- lish guilds there was a common fund, maintained by fixed periodical pay- ments, for security against fire, water, robbery or other calamity. After the days of William the Con- queror, it appears that in any great calamity in England an appeal was made to the whole nation through MARSHALL JEWELL. the clergy and the parish churches. The sovereign granted to individuals the right to collect for sufferers. The first definite form of insurance we have record of, is in the presentation by some unknown person to Count Anthony Gunther of Oldenburg of a plan, by which the count should take upon himself the losses of all who should pay him one dollar annually on each one hundred dollars valua- tion either in his own or other coun- tries. The count did not desire to mix up in such matters, fearing that if he did Providence might be tempted; and the man was sent on his way with a hint that this sort of business be- longed to private persons. The next record we have though undoubtedly houses were individually insured much earlier is when a peti- tion for forming a fire insurance com- pany was laid before Charles I., in 1635. Those were troublous times; life insurance might have proved a more absorbing topic for that un- happy monarch. Not till the Restora- tion is there further reference to the need which was demanding to be pro- vided for as Englands trade increased. Then a petition from several persons of quality and eminent citizens of London for forming a company was referred to Charles II.s council. It was rejected on the ground, forsooth, that it was not reasonable that any but a city should reap profits of this kind. Life insurance began to flourish, and there may have been fire insur- ance in other countries; but it can be asserted almost positively that there was none of the latter in England in 1662. It took the great fire of Lon- don, September 2, i666, to arouse England to action. The following year Dr. Barton opened an office for assuming risks on the individual basis. 102 FIRE INSURANCE [N NEW ENGLAND. The first office in France was not opened till i7~5, and in Germany Hanover not till 1750. Deputy Newbold had a scheme for interesting the city of London in insurance, but though he pushed it with great perse- verance he met with a cold reception. In i68o Dr. Bartons office became a joint stock company, Englands first. It took the name of Insurance Of- fice for Honses. This stirred New- bold to fresh activity; history shows that insurance rivalry is as old as or- ganized insurance itself. Newbold finally succeeded in getting what we nowadays should call a pull, and a city company was formed. The hints we get of the hot war of rates which followed have a somewhat familiar sound. Whatever the reasons may have been, Dr. Bartoiis company won, and the city company went to the wall in about a year. The office company now became known as the Phcenix, and soon as the Old Phce- nix, in distinction from others which selected this suggestive name. Its principle was the establishment of a fund of ground rents, to answer in case of loss. Dr. Bartons earliest vigorous rivals were the Friendly Societies, whose tempting feature was that each sub- scriber should pay toward building up the house of any contributor de- stroyed. All the societies learned in due season that an ounce of pre- vention is worth a pound of cure. Placing little dependence on the night watch, they engaged men whose duty it was to do all in their power to sub- due flames wherever they started. Primitive as that may seem, in the days before firemen, it is remembered with credit that one of Hartfords largest companies, in this century, set aside a sum for the payment of men for fire service; that a similar idea is carried out in Providence, and that in general insurance people have done about as much to save communities from fire as they have to make losses good. A company was organized in Lon- don in 1704 to insure household goods; and in 1710 the renowned Sun Insurance Company came into exist- ence, illustrating the growth of the in- surance idea. This company adver- tised to insure movable goods, mer- chandise and the like. It engaged skilled men in all crafts, whose busi- ness it was to hasten to any house that was threatened and remove the goods in it. If the house bore one of the signs of the Sun Insurance Company, the men received their pay from the company, the amount being deducted from the sum paid the insured. If it was any other house, the men were to look to the proprietors of that house for remuneration according to fixed rates. For a century this company did a large business, not only in London, but in many other cities on the island. The English companies naturally established branches in America; one in Boston is mentioned in 1724. The honor of having the first purely Amer- ican company belongs to Philadel- phia, where the Philadelphia Con- tributionship for the Insurance of Houses from Loss by Fire was or- ganized in 1752. Judging by the change it made in the conditions of its GEORGE L. CHASE. President of the Hartford Fire insurance company. FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAATD. Jog insurance in the course of years, this company had some remarkable ex- periences, from which it deduced a peculiar maxim: it refused to accept risks on houses where there were shade trees on the premises. There- upon some of its members left it, to set up an independent company, which was dubbed the green tree company. Its right name was the Mutual Asso- ciation Company of Philadelphia. The original company, of which Franklin was a member, continues to-day, in- suring brick buildings. The first company in New York was a mutual the Mutual Fire In- surance Company founded in 1787. The Knickerbocker Company came next, ni 1796. British offices began to push the agency business in New York and elsewhere in 1805. The first fire insurance lawsuit in this country was brought by one John L. Sullivan; that was in 1807, and the Massachu- setts Mutual Fire Insurance Company was the defendant. Steam fire engines were first used in 1829. The National Board of Fire Underwriters, which has done so much in the interests of honest insurance, came into existence in i866. After this preliminary history, we pass to show how the New England states, particularly Massachusetts, Rhode Island and Connecticut, have made so noteworthy a record for them- selves in their achievements in fire in- surance. We must understand the character of the native New Eng- lander before we can appreciate the delay and then the comparatively slow growth at the outset. Puritan descend- ants of the English guildsmen had a wholesome fear of corporations; they were for independence in all things; they led isolated lives; there was small community of interests; and nothing brought them together till the Revo- lution came. In fire insurance they had to learn for themselves the lessons learned by people across the ocean. There were a few agencies of foreign companies, but for the most part busi- ness was done on the old individual THE HARTFORD FIRE IN5URANCE COMPANY S BUILDING, HARTFORD, CONN. 10~1 basis, chiefly marine. It was not till after the new government had been formed that there was much indication of a tendency to organize companies; and in general the early history of fire insurance in New England is much like that in the mother country. The rapid strides in the present century prove a striking contrast with this early hesitation and delay. John Marion was the agent for the London societies in Boston in 1724. When business took a fresh start under the state constitution, and as the number of fires increased, the im- portant consideration of protection for invested capital was forced home. If profits were to accrue, there was no need that they should go across the seas; and that profits would accrue was evident, as also was the fact that individual underwriting did not meet the requirements. Moreover, a vital point in insurance is prompt settle- ment, which was made most difficult by the distance from the London com- panies. The peoples dread of cor- porate greed was conquered. In 1784 an invitation was extended to Providence people, who already were deeply interested in insurance, to attend a meeting at the tavern of John Marston on State street, Boston. Some enthusiasm was aroused; yet the petition of Boston men in 1785 for a fire office insurance company was re- fused as not for the advantage of the town. The petitioners themselves approached the subject with fear and trembling, accompanying their argu- ments with excuses for their boldness. The names of these pioneers were William Shattuck, William Wetmore, Jesse Putnam, John Winthrop, Jona- than Harris, William Brown, Samuel Salisbury and John Andrews. They pointed out that neighborly charity, however generous, was inadequate and too precarious to bring relief to sufferers, whereas by paying a very inconsiderable premium, they can se- cure a permanent resource competent to every possible loss. But the times were ripening. Ten years later, June 25, 1795, the legisla- ture granted a charter for the Mas- sachusetts Fire Insurance Company, with a capital of $300,000 and not to exceed $6oo,ooo, in shares of $ioo each. The stock was to be paid in in ten annual installments. If at any time the losses exceeded the capital so far received, assessments were to be levied and $io extra was to be paid on each share, provided always that no proprietor should be liable for more than $ioo on each share. No div- idends were to be declared till the losses were all paid. The company was not to insure for an amount ex- ceeding three-quarters of the value of the property. This would seem like reaching modern times with a jump, were it not that the old-time timidity was shown by limiting the existence of the company to twelve years. The company more than fulfilling expecta- tions, it obtained a change of name to the Massachusetts Fire and Marine Insurance Company in 1799 and an extension of time for eight years. It was required to increase its capital stock by $300,000, of which $i8o,ooo was to be paid in. Careful restrictions were made to protect the insured, J. D. BROWNE. President of the connecticut Fire insurance Company. FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. 105 among them one that $300,000 should be held for fire risks only. Further- more and this is the first instance of state supervision the company must make reports to the legislature whenever called upon to do so. Further extensions of time being granted, the company continued till 1848, when it retired by its own re- quest. Mutual fire insurance was the more popular form, perhaps we might say more in keeping with the sentiments of the people. No company was in- corporated, however, till March i, 1798, when a charter w~s given to the Massachusetts Fire Insurance Com- pany. We get here a good idea of what it was then thought a solid mutual company should be. After $2,000,000 had been subscribed to be insured, the corporation might in- sure any building in the common- wealth for seven years; if any mem- bers loss was more than the existing funds, the directors must make an assessment; no member to pay more than two dollars for each dollar ad- vanced by him as premium deposit. The company had a prosperous career till the Boston fire wrecked it, and within a month after that event it re- organized and continued till 1894, when it reinsured its risks and retired. According to Nathan Warren, who has made a careful study of the sub- ject, the Newburyport Marine Insur- ance Company (1790), the Boston Fire Insurance Company, and one other, five in all, completed the list for Massachusetts up to i8oo. With the opening of the new century, however, insurance asserted itself. Not only were companies permitted to organ- ize; they were welcomed. Before 1830 there were twenty-seven com- panies. Not many of these lived till the Boston fire in 1872, and only two of them survived that. The question now was, How shall insurance companies be controlled? rather than, Shall charters be granted? From a steel engraving by John A. Lowell. THE CONNECTICUT FIRE INSURANCE COMPANY 5 BUILDING, AT HARTFORD. io6 FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. A new kind of laws was called for. Among the earliest of these laws was one, passed in 1807, requiring a state- ment of stock paid in, the character of investments and the amount of out- standing risks. Eleven years after that, the powers and duties of marine companies, with their restrictions, were defined by statute. It was de- creed that not over ten per cent of the capital stock should be written on any one risk, and that annual state- ments should be made. Until 1820, right to insure against fire was dele- gated by special charter; in that year a law was passed giving all companies the authority to effgage in this branch of the business. Dissatisfaction hav- ing made itself felt, it was, in 1827, forbidden that policies should be writ- ten with foreign companies with less than $2,000,000 capital, or ever for more than ten per cent of the capital. Five years later a further restriction was made by requiring agents of for- eign companies to give bonds of $5,000, to make returns of all business done, and to pay a tax of one and one- half per cent on premium receipts. Mutual companies were allowed in 1835 to issue policies in Massachusetts for seven years for three-quarters value, when the company had $50,000 subscribed to be insured, every policy to constitute a lien on property in- sured for the purpose of securing the deposit notes and any lawful assess- ment. In 1837 all companies were re- quired to make annual returns to the secretary of state, instead of to the treasurer, as previously. The first of- ficial insurance report was issued by Secretary John P. Bigelow in 1838. It covered only the Massachusetts stock companies, of which there were forty-eight, including twenty-nine in THE NATIONAL FIRE INSURANCE COMPANYS BUILDING, HARTFORD. FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. Boston. Ten companies failed to report. The aggregate capital was $9,415,000, and the outstanding risks amounted to $139,000,000. The legislature of 1849 granted per- mission to the mutual companies to go into all New England states and New York. The year i86o marked the inauguration of factory insurance in Massachusetts. The experiment first tried in Rhode Island in 1835 had proved eminently successful, and the only wonder is that the results had not been more quickly appreciated by manufacturing New England as a whole. In this year, i86o, the indus- trial concerns in Lowell were allowed to contract with each other for mutual protection against fire, and the Boston Manufacturers Fire Insurance Com- pany was organized in Boston. In 1852 the state secretary, treas- urer and auditor were designated as the Board of Insurance Commission- ers. The insurance department, bring- ing all the insurance business under the supervision of three commission- ers, was established in 1855, being the first in the country, and a tremendous step forward it was. Of the i5z~. fire and marine insurance companies then doing business in the state, 113 were home companies, 41 came from other states, and ~ were foreign. Of the Massachusetts companies, 34 were stock companies, and Boston was the home of i~ of them. The aggregate paid up capital was $6,386,100, and the amount of outstanding risks was $i85,ooo,ooo. Fifteen of the com- panies were mutual marine and mu- tual fire and marine, of which 7 were in Boston. The assets of all were $6,398,389, with outstanding risks of $130,000,000. Mutual fire companies numbered 69, including ii in Boston, and the aggregate risks of all were $200,089,637. Not a few outside com- panies were utterly unreliable and depended on fraudulent methods. These the department quickly drove out. All companies seeking to do business in the state were obliged to show $i,ooo,ooo in cash funds and 107 $i,ooo,ooo in deposit notes, and new Massachusetts companies were pro- hibited from going outside the state. The insurance laws of Massachusetts are frequently taken as models by the legislatures of other states. The first codification of them is dated 1854. Periodically since the days of Dr. Bartons office in London municipal control of insurance has been urged by this or that reformer. The stand taken by Massachusetts on the subject is worthy of study. The first serious agitation in this direction was in i86o. The insurance commissioners an- nounced it as their opinion that good insurance companies were sufficient, though a system might be devised by which the companies should give a bonus (on a fixed ratio) to the firemen. Then the Virginia and Maine as well as the Massachusetts legislatures be- gan to show a tendency to favor state insurance not being so afraid of tempting Providence as was Count Anthony Gunther. In Massachusetts the subject was referred to the insur- ance commissioner, who reported em- phatically that state insurance was not wise unless it should appear that regu- lar fire offices lacked honor and JAMES NICHOLS. President of the National rire Insurance company. ioS FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. integrity, which was not the case. The plan was opposed to the spirit of republican institutions and opened the doors for politicians and placernen. To quote from the report The results of such loose and extra-hazard- ous method of underwriting as would be likely to follow are not difficult to predict. The state would thus hold out the strongest possible incentive to wholesale fraud and incendiarism. Moreover, these crimes would be en- couraged, under such a system, by that lax sentiment of public morality which, as in the case of smuggling or false invoicing by respectable import- ers, does not scruple to defraud the government, so boundless in re- sources, of its dues; while the same persons, as a general rule, are strictly honorable in their private dealings and would shrink from dishonest action between man and man. Hence, in order to meet its inevitable losses on the score of incendiarism, bred and born of such a system., the state would either be compelled to raise its pre- mium rates above the present standard of our private stock companies thus exploding the delusive idea of state insurance or it would have to meet this deficiency by falling back upon revenue from other sources. The manifest injustice to general taxpayers ~\Thich the latter method would inau- gurate would not long be tolerated, since the large class of heavy con- tributors to the state treasury either do not count among their possessions any insurable property, or that prop- erty (suburban residences and farm- houses, for instance) is so secure and isolated in its position that it would not be fair to tax it for the benefit of such as may be exposed to the dan- gers of a sweeping conflagration. The fundamental principle of reciprocity upon which all equitable insurance is THE TNA FIRE INSURANCE COMPANYS BUILDING, HARTFORD. FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. 109 based would be clearly violated by such an alternative. At the same time the commissioner pointed out evils in mutual insurance as con- ducted. As to municipal insurance, the law of 1872 the year of the Bos- ton fire provided that there must be $50,000 in subscriptions before policies could be issued. The legis- lature of 1873 investigated this mat- ter and the commissioner reported that the requisite amount of subscrip- tions should be $500,000, as with the mutual companies. The Chicago fire in 1871 and the Boston fire in 1872 made an epoch in Massachusetts insurance, not only as to the companies themselves, but as to legislation. By the Chicago fire io6 companies doing business in Mas- sachusetts lost $56,000,000, or about one-half of the total loss. Twenty- three Massachusetts companies lost $4,471,500; yet only 3 had to suspend, and the other 20 had a surplus of over $io,ooo,ooo after losses were paid. And that was a bad year, too, for the marine insur- ers. The disaster of the Arctic whal- ing fleet, chiefly a Massachusetts en- terprise, entailed a loss of $86o,- 000 on three New Bedford companies. The flames in Boston in 1872 ate up $8o,ooo,ooo worth of property. Of the $56,ooo,ooo insurance, only $37,000,000 was paid by the 192 com- panies. No insurance man in Boston at that time will ever forget that day. The losses for the 52 Massachusetts companies footed up $35,500,000. Twenty-six of the 32 companies that went into insolvency were Massachu- setts companies, four mutuals and 22 joint-stock companies. Of the latter, one-half managed to pull through in time. Among those that failed were some of the oldest and most reliable in the land, paying magnificent divi- dends on the investments of hundreds of people who had no other depend- ence. Their combined capital was $6,ooo,ooo. The highest percentages of losses paid were as follows: the Massachusetts, 100; the Boot and Shoe Manufacturers Mutual, ~o; the Bay State, 89.7; and the Mechanics, 85. The lowest percentage was 20, by the Franklin. The legislature was called together in special session. A bill was put through immediately, allowing under- writing by companies without special charter, by mutual companies with a capital of from $ioo,ooo to $300,000, and by mutual marine companies with a permanent fund of not less than $400,000. The mutual companies were required to have $500,000 sub- scribed. Advocates of municipal insur- ance came to the front with renewed zeal, and a law was passed allowing towns and cities of less than 4,000 in- habitants to form themselves into in- surance companies, while in towns and cities of over 4,000 population, fire in- surance districts w e r e authorized within the limits of the amount of in- surance in each district. Courage re- vived when Deputy Stephen H. Rhodes, acting commissioner, secured statements from all the companies that carried the Boston insurance. Par- ticularly gratifying was the good news from Connecticut. Another result of the fire was the passage of a general law increasing the amount of paid-up capital re WILLIAM B. CLARK. President of the /Etna Fire Insurante Company. iio FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAATD. 9 quired. Dividends were limited, but at the same time a capitalization of surplus was allowed, in the interests of both the stockholder and the policy- holder. A new system was inaugu- rated also with the foreign companies, the department taking full supervision of all their business. This was an in- novation for America. With the companies themselves, it had been demonstrated that premiums were too low, and rates were increased and revised. The variety in the forms of policies caused trouble, so that in THE JOHN c. PAIGE BUILDING, BOSTON. FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. III 1873 a standard form was prescribed by law. In i88i this form was altered somewhat, to make it more elastic and also to provide for arbitration. This is the form in use at the present day, and it has been followed by sev- eral other states. Another act of that legislature was to remove the three- quarters restriction on mutual com- panies and to permit them to insure for full value, like the stock com- panies. There have been times when it seemed as if incendiarism were the at- tendant curse of fire insurance. For years there has been constant work on the part of the companies to eradicate this evil mostly due to over-insur- ance and competition in rates; and all sorts of methods have been resorted to, perhaps with too much timidity about contesting claims in court. The Massachusetts commissioners in 1862, Elizur Wright and George W. Sar- gent, called attention to the danger of too many companies and agents, and suggested consolidation as a remedy. In 1865 they declared that the public suffered more from fully insured men than from burglars. The stock com- panies, they held, suffered little, as fires raised rates as surely as the moon does the tides. With mutual companies, they contended, over-in- surance was pre- vented by statute, every proprietor being required to bear one-quarter of the risk of a total loss. More- over, every one in- sured in a mutual is a co-proprietor and is on the watch. Evidently in or- der to make good to the community the weak point with insurance companies as to prosecution in the courts, Massachu setts in 1894 established the office of fire marshal, whose duty it should be to investigate all fires in the state, with power to arrest and also to attend to the matter of protection from fire. The state was divided into ten dis- tricts, and officers were detailed to hold inquests whenever necessary. The wisdom of this course was soon demonstrated. There had been an enormous amount of incendiarism, as is shown by the reports, mostly due to over-insurance. There are now 203 companies do- ing business in Massachusetts, as fol- lows: 6 state stock companies for fire only, 58 for fire and marine, ioo mutuals, and 39 foreign companies. Rhode Island, which state in many ways has led fin insurance, did not have a company till the close ~of the last century. Private underwriting was done in Providence by Stephen Hop- kins, John Garnish, Joseph Law- rence and Thomas Manchester in 1756. Henry Paget was added to the number in 1762. In 1794 John Mason in Providence started a business up- on such principles and under such regulations as were established by the principle merchants of this town, at a regular meeting, which are nearly similar to those established in Bos- ton. It was a typical Lloyd busi- ness and had its or- igin, like the Lloyd of London, in a coffee house. Each man put down his name with t h e amount to be in- sured by him at the end of a policy stating the condi- tions. Judging by the character of the business done in Rhode Island at that time, t h i s probably was mostly marine in- surance. Joseph Lawrence, Masons competitor, put his GEORGE P. FIELD. 112 FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. price for a policy at one dollar, with no other office fees, and guaranteed that in case of loss no deduction should be made from the sum insured. Masons company grew into the Providence Insurance Company, of which he was the first president, with William Hail Mason as secretary. The organization was on February 3, 1799, the capital was $150,000, and marine insurance was the only kind handled. The Newport Insurance Company was launched the same year, but soon found the seas too tempestu- ous. Though there had been a pre- vions attempt, no mutual company was established till i8oo, when the Providence Mutual Insurance Fire Company began to bid for business. Lawrence was back of this company. It sought subscriptions for insurance on one hundred houses with payment of twenty-five cents on every one hun- dred dollars. This was the first distinctive fire insurance work in the state; and the company has contin- ued it with success to this day. The Washington Fire Insurance Com- pany, which was des- tined to consolidate with the Providence Fire Insurance Com- pany in the well- k n o w n Providence Washington C o m- pany of to-day, dates from January, i8oo, when its capital was $ioo,ooo, quickly in- creased by $io,ooo. E. L. Watson, who has delved in the old records of Rhode Is- land companies, noted a peculiar custom of the early directors of this company early in a double sense. They held their meet- ings at six oclock every Tuesday evening, and they were so annoyed by the tardiness of some of their number that JOHN c. FRENCH. President of New Hampshire Fire Insurance Company. THE NEW HAMPSHIRE FIRE INSURANCE COMPANYS BUILDING, MANCHESTER. FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. 3 they adopted a rule making tardiness punishable by the payment of a quart of porter. Richard Jackson was the first president and George Benson secre- tary. The company placed an agency in New London, allowing two and a half per cent commission. The Bristol Insurance Company,. organized in Bristol in i8oo, took slaveship risks, and ended its career in 1803. Rhode Island suffered terribly by the war of 1812, and most of her in- surance companies were forced to the wall. But as soon as peace was de- clared, more companies were formed, and nine more before 1821. The Providence and Washington consol- idation took place in 1817, with a cap- ital of $132,000, and a new charter was taken out in 1820. As the Provi- dence Fire Insurance Company, char- tered in i8i8, never had organized, the directors of the consolidated com- pany resolved to work the fire field. To-day the company has a fine build- ing of its own and a name that is known far and wide. The history of manufacturers in- surance in Rhode Island is full of in- terest. Zachariah Allen of Providence owned a cotton mill in Allensdale, which had been built as nearly fire- proof as possible, even to laying the shingles in mortar. A heating ap- paratus was put in and the stoves re- moved, and finally the best known de- vices for extinguishing fire were pro- vided. Then Mr. Allen confidently asked for a reduction in his rates. The only reply was that cotton mill rates would continue at two and a half per cent. Then, said Mr. Allen, cotton mills will insure themselves. He laid his methods before other manufac- turers, and before long the Manu- facturers Mutual was started, with Amasa Mason as president and John H. Ormsbee as secretary. When policies were written at a rate lower than the old companies could think of, there were many prophecies of failure, and even though the first year yielded a dividend of fifty per cent the wise ones shook their heads. There were indeed losses and assessments in the second year, but the principle was ac- cepted by manufacturers in other places, and eventually the great manu- facturers mutual system was the re- sult. It is said that none of the com- panies in that system has had to levy an assessment since the second year of Mr. Allens pioneer company. The reason is to be found in the strict re- quirements as to construction and fire apparatus. The original company was soon followed by the Firemens Mutual, the State Mutual, the Black- stone, the Mechanics, the What Cheer, the Merchants, the Enterprise, the Hope, the American and the Mer- cantile, all of which are successful to- day. The Rhode Island insurance com- missioners office was established in 1859, with power to examine any com- pany whose solvency was doubtful. At first there were three commission- ers, but the number was reduced to one. The leading mutual companies formed were more successful than in some of the other states. The Union Mutual, which takes risks only on dwellings and contents, and the Amer- ican Mutual Fire and Steam Boiler Insurance Company, which changed its name to the Providence Mutual and Steam Boiler, are good examples. The Insurance Association of Provi- dence was organized by the under- writers in 1883, to prevent fraudulent practices. The Providence Protective Department is a voluntary association of underwriters for the maintenance of a salvage corps, and consists now of twp companies, which are practi- callya poi~tion of the regularmunicipal fire department, though supported by insurance funds. There are to-day 147 fire insurance companies doing business in Rhode Island, of which 30 are Rhode Island companies. A group of men were engaged in fire insurance under a company name in Hartford before there was any char- tered company in the state of Con- necticut. The agents were Peleg San- ford and Daniel Wadsworth, and the ~ 4 FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. name of the company which they signed for was the Hartford Fire In- surance Company. This was in 1794. The association proving successful, the group of private individuals was enlarged the following year by adding to the list the names of Colonel Jere- miah Wadsworth of Revolutionary fame, John Caldwell and John Mor- gan, and also Elias Shipman of New Haven. The new name was the Hart- ford and New Haven Insurance Com- pany. Mr. Shipman not long after- ward removed his interests to New Haven, where he set up the New Haven Insurance Company, which flourished from 1795 to 1833. San- ford and Wadsworth dissolved part- nership in 1798, which ended the Hart- ford company. Ezekiel Williams, Jr., had by this time built up considerable business in marine insurance, encouraged by the members of the other association. But as commerce increased it was found that there were serious disadvantages in the Lloyd system which was being followed, since subscribers developed a faculty of keeping out of sight ex- cept when dividends were due. Con- sequently, in October, 1803, the gen- tlemen interested secured a charter, and the Hartford Insurance Company was organized to do marine business. In 1825 it became the Protection In- surance Company. Marine companies were also established in New London, Norwich and Middletown. The war of 1812 wrecked marine business. The Norwich company went into fire in- surance, the Hartford became the Protection as stated above, and the others that had been formed previous to the war gave up. Mutual insurance in Connecticut has been exceptionally successful, largely because of conservative men and methods. The Mutual Associa- tion Company of the city of Norwich started in the untried field in May, 1795, and it is doing business to-day along the lines it then adopted. Each person joining was to pay on the sum insured by him a premium of one-half of one per cent the first year, one-third the second, and one-fourth the third and thereafter. When the profits had amounted to 2,000, the surplus was to be divided annually. If everything was swept away by a single loss, the members were to contribute not ex- ceeding one per cent on the amounts insured by each. Growth was slow. It was almost twenty years before the first surplus was divided. But it was a sort of a family affair, every person insured being known to the officers of the company and to each other. The meetings were held in the court house, and partook of the nature of a town meeting. Policy number one is still in force. The assets to-day are $13,000; only dwelling houses are in- sured, and no risk of over $i,ooo is taken, and there is no desire to extend business. A similar experiment in New Haven in i8oi failed miserably. The first stock company to go out- side of the state for risks was the Nor- wich Marine, which became the Nor- wich Fire in i8i8. The Chicago fire destroyed it. This left the Hartford Insurance Company the oldest in the field, it having been incorporated in i8io, with a capital of $i5o,ooo, and with General Nathaniel Terry as its president. Its chief investment was in the stock of the Hartford Bank, which was established in 1792. As has been remarked by Secretary Woodward of the Hartford Board of Trade, one thing which has had much to do with making Hartford one of the foremost insurance centres in the world is the high character of the men who established its companies and xvho have maintained them. This company is an illustration. It took risks almost at the outset for one-third more than its entire assets, yet each risk was so carefully placed that there was no anxiety. The second year of its existence it tried placing agents in outlying towns, and ten years there- after was encouraged to go still farther. The secretary, Walter Mitchell, in whose office the business was done, received a salary of $300, FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. 5 and $30 a year rent. The president had no salary till 1823, when he got $200. The company went on the principle that the secret of success in insurance is to insure; whenever there was a fire in which the losses were particularly heavy, the officers hurried to the place and let it be known that the Hartford stood ready to pay all claims. It was seldom that they went away from the place without taking more insurance. The Chicago fire loss, $1,968,225, was paid in full by the help of the companys old stand- by, the Hartford Bank, and of the Connecticut Mutual Life. The loss of $485,356 in the Boston fire was paid out of the current receipts. A stock dividend of twenty-five per cent was paid out of the profits in 1877, raising the capital to $1,250,000, at which figure it now stands. In 1870 the pres- ent handsome office building was erected, and enlarged in 1897. The New Haven Fire Insurance Company, incorporated in 1813, was absorbed by the Hartford in 1819. The Middletown Fire, incorporated in 1813, was taken up by the A~tna of Hartford, which came into existence in May, 1819. The reason for starting the A3tna was peculiar. Secretary Mitchell of the Hartford lived in Wethersfield, and he was so erratic about his business hours that he ex- asperated the enterprising men of Hartford, till they resolved to have a fire insurance company of their own. The capital was $i5o,ooo. The com- pany at an early date began to push its agencies. When the Protection Com- pany gave up its business, it left an opening in the West, which the 2Etna quickly filled; and since then it has continued to expand. In i866 its capital was increased to $300,000. Full of ambition to be the largest com- pany in the country, it issued io,ooo new shares at par in i88i, bringing its capital up to the present figure, $~,- ooo,ooo. Mr. Woodward says that to it belongs the credit of first using out- line charts, out of which grew the in- valuable system of Sanborn maps. To meet its loss of $3,782,000 by the Chi- cago fire, it reduced its capital one- half, and at once built it up again by cash payments of $i,5oo,ooo. The Boston fire loss, $1,635,067, was met with a further contribution of $i,ooo,- 000 from the shareholders. The City Fire Insurance Company of Hartford was destroyed by the Chicago fire. The Connecticut Fire Insurance Company of Hartford is another company which has prospered by hon- est, conservative management. With a capital of $200,000 when it started in 185o, it now has a capital of $i,ooo,- 000, assets of ever three and one-half millions, and one of the handsomest buildings in the city for its home. The Phcenix is still another of the same kind, founded by Henry Kellogg in 1854 with a capital of $ioo,ooo. Its advance has been remarkable. When the Chicago disaster brought it losses of $937,219.23, it had assets of $1,900,- 000. Governor Marshall Jewell, who was connected with the company, ap- peared among the smoking ruins of the city, and in a short speech an- nounced that the Phamix was ready to give its check in full for every proved claim. The Boston fire caused no trouble whatever. The capital to- day is $2,000,000. Like the other companies, the Phcenix has an ele- gantly equipped building. The Merchants Company having been ruined by the Chicago fire, the National Fire Insurance Company, just starting, decided to continue its business, and despite the sudden re- verse by the Boston fire has taken its place among the first of Hartford companies. It has a beautiful build- ing, erected in 1893. To complete the list of Hartford stock companies, mention is to be made of the Orient, succeeding the City in 1871, with a capital of $xoo,ooo. To show that mutual insurance can be reliable and successful when prop- erly conducted, reference may be made to the Hartford County Mutual Company, organized in May, 1831, modest and careful always, and with a FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. name as good as gold. Further evi- dence is to be found in the Middlesex Mutual Association Company of Mid- dletown, chartered in May, 1836, and a success from the first. The New London Company is still another mutual company which has had a long and honorable career, having been or- ganized in 1840. The State Mutual of Hartford is the youngest, but gives excellent promise. The office of the insurance commis- sioner in Connecticut was created by law in 1865, but the department was not established till I87r. Since then it has been foremost in promoting true insurance interests. Its report this year indicates the care that is always taken by the department. The na- tional convention of Insurance Com- missioners of the United States last year adopted a form for annual state- ments which the Connecticut depart- ment has accepted. It shows for each company, as the underwriting and in- vestment exhibit, the net premiums received during the year, the interest earned, the net losses incurred, the expenses, the loss for the year, the amounts remitted to the home office, the surplus at the end of the year, the per cent of the total net losses incurred to the net premiums earned, and the per cent of the total expenses incurred to the total of the net premiums earned. This is followed by tables of statistics, which the Connecticut office has been publishing for some years. They cover: i, capital, assets, liabil- ity, surplus and per cent of assets to amount at risk; 2, items composing assets; 3, items composing the liabil- ities; 4, income during the year; 5, items composing the expenditures; 6, income, expenditures, premiums re- ceived, commissions paid during the year; 7, fire risks, premiums, losses incurred and per cent thereof; 8, fire insurance transferred in Connecti- cut during the year; 9, fire risks writ- ten, premiums received and average premium per cent in last three years; 10, marine and inland business; ii, summary comparison of fire business (including mutuals) in Connecticut for the past twenty years; 12, summary comparison of condition of fire insur- ance companies authorized in Con- necticut from 1878 to 1898. And this gives but a feeble idea of the careful- ness in detail essential for the insurer and the insured. The report just is- - sued shows 142 companies doing business in the state. Of these the number of Connecticut stock com- panies is 9; mutuals, 17; outside stock companies, 75; outside mutuals, 6; foreign companies, 35. Maine had little insurance of its own till i868, although the laws had been favorable since 1821. After the state banks had been taxed out of existence, Governor Chamberlain in i868 recom- mended the appointment of a bank and insurance examiner. Albert W. Paine was appointed. In the face of considerable opposition, he made two distinct departments of banking and insurance. In 1895 a law was passed requiring that fire inquests in every municipality, should be reported, and a fire inspector was ordered rn every town of more than 2,000 inhabitants to examine buildings in process of erection and to give directions as to precautions. A tax of two per cent is levied on all premiums received by foreign companies in excess of losses actually paid during the year. There are 145 companies doing business in the state, divided as follows: home mutuals, 48; Maine stock, ~ stock companies of other states, 64; mutuals of other states, ~ foreign companies, 28. The first New Hampshire fire in- surance companies were mutuals, and they proved very unsatisfactory. Three commissioners made the first report in 1852. The first regular com- pany established, not chartered, was the New Hampshire Fire Insurance Company of Manchester, in 1869. Governor B. A. Straw was the presi- dent, Governor James A. Weston, vice-president, G. 113. Chandler, treas- urer. The success of the company has carried its name into almost every FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. 7 part of the country, and it has made an annual progressive growth for twenty- eight years. In 1885 laws were passed forbid- ding the transfer of suits from the state to the United States courts, for- bidding combinations of companies and the use of any but valued policies on buildings, and decreeing that xvrong descriptions of warranties should not invalidate unless fraudu- lently given. Such legislation caused the out-of-state companies to with- draw at once. As a result of that, twelve mutuals were established, and the greatest precautions were taken against fire. At length the old com- panies went back, but declined to take farm buildings as risks. The failure of the Peoples Fire Insurance Com- pany of Manchester in 1893 was a memorable event. The company was wrecked by the president and treas- urer, and three hundred stockholders lost everything. The total number of companies at work in the state is 94, of which 33 are mutuals and 6 are New Hampshire stock companies. The aggregate paid-up capital of the stock companies is $1,475,000. What are known as the cash mu- tuals charge a full cash premium, and in addition insert a stipulation in the policy that once or twice the amount of the premium paid can be assessed on the policy-holders if necessary to pay losses. The county and town mu- tuals collect no premiums, but depend wholly on assessments to pay the losses as they occur. The Grange Mutual, whose business is confined wholly to the members of that order, charge a cash premium of one-half of one per cent of the amount insured, and in addition a premium note of three per cent of the amount insured, upon which an assessment can be made when necessary. Vermont people made good their fire losses in the last century by means of the lottery. Then companies were chartered and organized to extinguish fires. The Vermont Fire Insurance Company was organized in 1827. Daniel Baldwin, long chief engineer of the Montpelier fire department, was the prime mover in this enterprise. Associated with him were Thomas Reed, Jr., James H. Langdon, Joshua Y. Vail and Chester Hubbard. The company was required to pay the state a tax of six per cent of its profits. Its first modest office cost $1,177.33; its present structure cost $48,000. Until recently representatives from each town in the state, when they went to attend the legislature, made it their first duty, says Joseph A. DeBoer, to carry into the treasurer of the com- pany the assessments of the company from their towns, by them sent to pay their insurance tax, a service gratu- itously rendered by the representa- tives. The annual meeting was held early in the session; the representa- tives were also the representatives of the company. The insurance depart- ment was organized in 1852, and the first report was issued in 1869. In all 47 companies are placing insurance in Vermont. Of these all are from out- side the state except three, and of these two are mutuals. The policies of the mutuals are mainly for five years. The foreign fire insurance com- panies which do business in New Eng- land are so many in number, so great in influence and so large a factor in the making of New England insurance history, that an article on the fire in- surance of New England without men- tion of them would be incomplete, in- deed. There are thirty-four foreign com- panies now regularly admitted to do business in some or all of the New England states. They include nearly all the great companies of the world. Until recently many companies con- tented themselves with having a repre- sentative in this country and received surplus lines, but recent laws re- stricting the opportunities of the sur- plus line company, together with the great competition for business and, above all, the splendid future which ii8 FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. far-seeing managers saw awaited this country, caused the strong companies who were on the outside to come prop- erly into the fold, and quite recently half a dozen English and German companies have chosen United States trustees, deposited $300,000 or $500,- 000 with the treasurer of some leading state, and regularly applied for admis- sion to the chief states of the Union. Of the thirty-five companies doing business here, twenty-seven are Brit- ish. They have assets of seventy-five millions of dollars and a surplus above all liabilities (including capital) of over thirty-two millions of dollars. These figures are constantly changing, and are greater now than when the records from which they were taken were made up, but this suffices to show the magnitude and strength of the foreign corporations. In the year 1897 all the stock fire in- surance companies doing business in the United States wrote risks with pre- miums amounting to $124,132,687, and of this the foreign companies ob- tained $42,494,120, or about 34 per cent of the whole. In New England the foreign companies wrote even a larger percentage of the business. All companies together took in New Eng- land premiums amounting to $12,928,- 406, and of this amount foreign com- panies captured $4,832,645, or about 37 per cent of the whole. It is a matter of history that the for- eign companies obtained their prestige through the magnificent manner in which those who were here in 1872 settled their losses at the great Boston fire. It is true that their losses were not as great as those of the Boston companies; but the princely way of dealing with the property owners im- pressed everyone, and the foreign cor- porations will never be forgotten by those who held their policies in 1872. To the Boston manager of the Royal of Liverpool at that time the English manager cabled: Delighted to hear our loss is only a million; help the suf- ferers and push the business vigor- ously. Added to this, while financial death and dismay met home com- panies at every turn, not a single for- eign company of the first or second rank failed to pay one hundred cents on the dollar of every claim. The first great English companies to enter the United States were the Liverpool and London and Globe and the Royal Insurance Company of Liv- erpool. They came in 1850 and 1851 respectively. They started in a small way, but to-day the Royal has funds in this country for the exclusive pro- tection of American policy holders amounting to nearly eight millions of dollars, and if a succession of calam- ities should eat this up, as much of the fifty-one millions held on the other side would be sent over as may be needed. The North British and Mercantile of Edinburgh is the next oldest foreign company here, coming in i866, and two years later the great Imperial of London came. This company took a great impetus in New England when the late John C. iPaige of Boston be- came United States manager, and the success it then had has been continued by his successors, who still represent it in Massachusetts. The Imperial has two millions of dollars here, and the millions in the companys vaults on the other side are ready when neededi In 1871 the Lancashire entered the United States; and in 1872 the Lon- don Assurance Corporation and the Commercial Union of London were admitted. Other companies followed quickly, and within the past three years seven or eight English and German companies have made their deposits and started in to do a regular agency business. Here are a few figures which serve to show the part foreign fire companies play in the New England field. One hundred and twenty-four companies from all places took in New England in 1897 the following premiums: Massachusetts $8,825,281 Maine 1,554,500 New Hampshire 974,246 Rhode Island 1,073,043 Vermont 501,336 FIRE INSURANCE IN NEW ENGLAND. 9 Thirty-five foreign companies took in the same states as follows: Massachusetts $3,105,839 Maine 417,879 New Hampshire 204,572 Vermont 116,062 Rhode Island 339,336 Connecticut 648,957 This amount of $4,832,645, being the New England premiums in 1897, is over one-third of all the premiums taken from New England by all classes of companies. Of this amount the Royal of Liverpool wrote about 12 per cent of all the business written in for- eign companies. The two houses in New England which have had the greatest influence on the business in New England, and which to-day do the largest business in these states are Field & Cowles and John C. Paige & Co. Both these houses are in Boston, and they do the largest business in the city. The National Board of Fire Under- writers was established in i866, at a time when the Portland fire had em- phasized the need of controlling cut- throat competition. It was apparent that large companies were being un- dermined and becoming unreliable. This body has exercised a strong in- fluence for good. Nearly every state and large city now has its board of fire underwriters to regulate rates and to attend to other matters of general interest. The New England Board of Fire Underwriters, with headquarters in Boston, is to New England what the national board is to the whole country. One of the beneficial results obtained is uniformity in policies. In special cases variations from the standard are printed separately and pasted upon the policy. It is held that combinations as re- gards rating are to be commended when based on an analysis of the re sults of insurance. But there are lim- its to this, fixed always by the possibil- ity that if the rates are unreasonably high, members of the combination will break away and adopt a schedule of their own. Much has been heard in re- cent years about combinations to rob the people. Color for such rumor should be studiously avoided. It had its origin, no doubt, in the attempt to get companies onto a better paying basis, it being a notorious fact that for some years insurance capital in gen- eral has brought poor return. Perpetual fire insurance has never been popular in New England. The North America of Boston issued a few such policies, and some have been given by British underwriters. They are based usually on about ten annual premiums. It appears to New Eng- land people that deposits from per- petual insurance cannot be appor- tioned, but must go into convertible securities, where they may be returned on three days notice; only the inter- est can be used for dividends, and there are likely to be sudden demands at any time, which may prove embar- rassing. Co-insurance has been adopted quite generally within the past few years as a means of protecting com- panies. In the beginning it developed considerable opposition, and is still a subject of legislative debate. By the conditions of this plan, the insured as- sumes part of the risk and in return gets a special rate. It is clear that insurance in New England has been advanced steadily by the thoughtfulness and energy of the best class of men; and while there is more or less clashing as to details in the different states, the general in- surance interest is on a sound and secure basis, affording the secure protection which business and so- ciety demand. A LAST ASSEMBLING. By Alice Brown. ~HIS happened in what Dilly Joyce, in deference to a form of speech, was accnstomed to call her young days; though real- ly her spirit seemed to renew itself with every step, and her body was to the last a willing instrument. She lived in a happy completeness which allowed her to carry on the joys of youth into the maturity of years. But things did happen to her from twenty to thirty- five which could never happen again. When Dilly was a girl, she fell in love, and was very heartily and honestly loved back again. She had been born into such willing harmony with natural laws, that this in itself seemed to be- long to her life. It partook rather of the faithfulness of the seasons than of human tragedy or strenuous over- throw. Even so early she felt great delight in natural things; and when her heart turned to Jethro Moore, she had no doubt whatever of the straightness of its path. She trusted all the primal instincts without knowing she trusted them. She was thirsty; here was water, and she drank. Jethro was a little older than she, the son of a min- ister in a neighboring town. His father had marked out his plan of life; but Jethro had had enough to do with the church on hot summer Sundays, when fourthly and si~thlv lulled him into a pleasing coma, and when even the shimmer of Mrs. Chases shot silk failed to awaken his deen eyes to their 2ccilstomed delight in fabric and color. To him the church was a concrete and very dull institution: to his father it was a city set on a bill, whence a shin- mg path led direct to Gods New Terusalem. Therefore it xva~ easy ~non~h for the boy to say he preferred V ~ss, and that he wanted Uncle Silas to take him into his upholstery shop; and he never, so long as he lived, understood his fathers tragic silence over the choice. He had broken the succession in a line of priests; but it seemed to him that he had simply told what he wanted to do for a living. So he went away to the city, and news came flying back of his wonderful fit- ness for the trade. He understood colors, fabrics, design; he had been sent abroad for ideas, and finally he was despatched to the Chicago house, to oversee the business there. Thus it was many years before Dilly met him again; but they remained honestly faithful, each from a lovely simplicity of nature, but a simplicity quite differ- ent in kind. Jethro did not grow rich very fast (Uncle Silas saw to that), but he did prosper, and he was ready to marry his girl long before she owned herself ready to marry ~him. She took care of a succession of aged relatives, all afflicted by a strange and interesting diversity of trying diseases; and then, after the last death, she set- tled down, quite poor, in a little house on the Tiverton Road, and went out nussin, the profession for which her previous life had fitted her. With a careless generosity, she made over to her brother the old farm house where they were born, because he had a fain1 ily and needed it. But he died, and was soon followed by his wife and child; an now Dilly was quite alone with the house and the family debts. The time had come, wrote jethro, for them to marry. She was free, at last, and he had enough. Would she come? Dilly answered onite frankly and from a serenity born of faith in the path be- fore her and a certainty that no feet ,ioed slip. She was ready, she wrote. & h~ hoped he was williup she should sell the old place to pay Toms debts. A LAST ASSEMBLING. 121 That would leave her without a cent; but since he was coming for her, and she neednt go to Chicago alone, she didnt know that there was anything to worry about. He would buy her ticket. There was an ineffable sim- plicity about Dilly. She had no re- spect whatever for money, save as a puzzling means to a few necessary ends. And now the place had been sold, and Jethro was coming in a month. Meanwhile Dilly was to pack up the few family effects she could af- ford to keep, and the rest would go by auction. Little as she was accustomed to dread experiences which came in the inevitable order of nature, she did think of the last day and night in the old house as something of an ordeal. People felt that the human meant very little to Dilly; but that was not true. It was only true that she held herself remote from personal intimacies and confidences; but all the fine invisible bonds of race and family took hold of her like irresistible agencies, and welded her to the universe anew. As she started out from her little house, this summer morning, and be- gan her three mile walk to the old homestead, she felt as if some solemn event in her life was about to happen, and her heart beat higher in her breast and brought about the suffocating feel- ing of a hand laid upon the throat. She was a slight creature with a deli- cate face and fine black hair. Her slender body seemed all made for ac- tion, and the poise of an assured mo- tion dwelt in it and wrapped about its angularity like a gracious charm. She was walking down a lane, her short skirts brushed by the morning dew. She chose to go cross lots, not be- cause, in this case, it was nearer than the road, but because it seemed impos- sible to go another way. Yet never in her life had she seen less of the out- ward garment of things than she was seeing this morning. A flouting bob- olink flew from stake to stake in front of her, and bubbled out in melody. She heard a scythe swishing in a neighboring field, and the musical call of the mowing machine afar, and she did not look up. Dumb to the beauti- ful outer world, she was broad awake to human souls: the souls of the J oyces, alive so long before her and stretching back into an unknown past. They had lived, one after another, in the old house, since colonial times; and now, after this quiet act of a con- cluding drama, Dilly was going to lower the curtain and sweep them from the stage. Her mind was peopled with figures. She thought of Jethro, too. He seemed to be coming ever nearer and nearer. She could hear his tread marching into her life, and could see his face. It was very moving, as she remembered it. A long line of schol- arly forbears had dowered him with a refinement and grace quite startling in this unornamented spot, and some old Acadian ancestor had lent him beauty. His eyes were dark, and they held an unfathomable melancholy. The line of his forehead and nose ran haughtily and yet delicate; and even after years of absence, Dilly sometimes caught her breath when she thought of the way his head was set upon his shoul- ders. She had never in her life seen a man or woman who was entirely beautiful, and he saturated her long- ing like a prodigal stream. She was a little dazed when she climbed the low stone wall, crossed the road, and came into the grassy wilder- ness of the Joyce back yard. Nature had triumphed riotously, as she will when niggardly thrift is away. The grass lay rich and shining, lodged by last nights shower, and gate and cel- lar-case were choked by it. The cin- namon roses bloomed in a spicy hard- iness of pink, and the gnarled apple trees had shed their broken branches and were covered with little green but- tons of fruit. Dilly stopped to look about her, and her eyes filled. The tears were hot; they hurt her, and so recalled her to the needs of life. There ! she said, I mustnt do so ! and she walked straight for- 122 A LAST ASSEMBLING. ward through the open shed, and fitted her key in the lock. The door sagged, but she pushed it open and stepped in. The deserted kitchen lay there in deso- late order, and the old Willard clock slept upon the wall. Dilly hastily pushed a chair before it (this was the only chair old Daniel Joyce would al- low the children to climb in) and wound the clock. It began ticking slowly, with the old, remembered sound. Somehow it seemed beautiful to Dilly that the clock should speak with the voice of all those years agone; it was a kind of loyalty xvhich appealed to the soul like a piercing miracle. Then she ran through to the sitting- room, and started the old eight-day in the corner; and the house breathed and was alive again. She threw open the windows, all save those on the Dilloway side (lest kindly neighbors should discover she was at home), and the soft rose-scented air flooded the rooms like an invisible presence and bore out the smell of age upon gra- cious wings. Now Dilly worked fast and steadily, lest some human thing should come upon her. She tied up bedclothes, and opened long closed cupboards. She made reverent piles of clothing from the attic; and finally, her mind a little tired, she sat down on the floor and began looking over pa- pers and daguerreotypes from her fathers desk. Just as she had lost herself in the ancient history of which they were the signs, there came a knock at the back door. So assured had become her idea of a continued housekeeping, that the summons did not seem in the least strange. The house lived again; it had thrown its arms open to human kind. Come in ! she called; and a light step sounded in the kitchen and crossed the sill. It was a man, dark eyed and very handsome. Oh ! murmured Dilly, catching her breath and holding both hands clasped upon the papers in her lap. Jethro ! The stranger was much moved, and his black eyes deepened. He looked at her kindly, perhaps lovingly, too. Yes, he said at last. So youd know me? Dilly got lightly up, and the papers fell about her in a shower; yet she made no motion toward him. Oh, yes, she said softly, I should know you. You aint changed at all. That was not true. He looked ten years older than his real age; yet time had only dowered him with a finer grace and charm. All the lines in his face were those of gentleness and truth. His mouth had the old delicate curves. One meeting him that day might have said, with a throb of in- voluntary homage, How beautiful he must have been when he was young ! But to Dilly he bore even a more sub- tile distinction than in the faraway time; he had ripened into something which harmonized tremblingly with her own years. He came forward a lit- tle, and held out both hands; but Dilly did not take them, and he dropped the left one. Then she laid her fingers lightly in his, and they greeted each other like old acquaintances. A flush rose in her smooth brown cheek. Her eyes grew bright with that startled questioning which is of the woods. He looked at her the more intently, and his breath quickened. She had none of the blossomy charm of more robust womanhood, but he recognized the old gypsy element which had once be- witched him, and felt he loved her still. Well, he said, and his voice shook a little, are you glad to see me? Dilly moved back, and sat down in her mothers little sewing-chair by the desk. I dont know as I can tell, she answered. This is a strange day. J ethro nodded. I meant to sur- prise you, he said. So I never wrote I was coming on so soon. I was real disappointed to find your house shut up; but the neighbors told me where youd gone and what youd gone for. Then I walked over here. Dillys face brightened all over with a responsive smile. Did you come through the woods? she asked. What made you? A LAST ASSEMBLING. 123 Why, I knew youd go that way, he answered. I thought youd get wool-gathering over some weed or an- other and maybe Id overtake you. They both laughed, and the ice was broken. Dilly got briskly up and gathered a drawer-full of papers into her apron. I cant stop workin, she said. I want to fix it sos not to stay moren one night here. Now you talk! I know what these are. I can run em over an listen, too. I think twas real good of you to turn in the place to Toms folks, said J ethro, also seating himself, and, as Dilly saw with a start, as if it were an omen, in her fathers great chair. Not that youll ever need it, Dilly. You wont want for a thing. Ive done real well. Dillys long fingers assorted papers and laid them at either side with a neat precision. She glanced up at him then, and her eyes had again the quick, inquiring glance of some wild creature in a situation foreign to its habits. Well, she said, well! I guess I dont risk anything. An if I did why, Id resk it! Jethro bent forward a little. He was smiling, and Dilly met the glance, half fascinated. She wondered that she could forget his smile; and yet she had forgotten it. Like running water, it was never twice the same. Dilly, said he, much moved, Youll have a good time from this out, if ever a woman did. Youll keep house in a brick block, where the cars run by your door, and you can hire two girls. Oh, my ! breathed Dilly. A quick look of trouble darkened her face, as a shadow sweeps across the field. What is it? asked Jethro, in some alarm. Dont you like what I said? Dilly smiled, though her eyes were still apprehensive. It aint that, she answered slowly, striving in her turn to be kind. Only I guess I never happened to think be- fore just how twould be, I never spec- lated much on keepin house. But somebodyd have to keep it, said Jethro good-naturedly, smiling on her. We can get good help. Youll like to have a real home table, and you can invite company every day, if you say so. I never was close, Dilly, you know that. I shant make you ac- count for things. Dilly got up and, still holding her papers in her apron, walked swiftly to the window. There she stood a moment, looking out into the orchard, where the grass lay tangled under the neglected, happy trees. Her eyes travelled mechanically from one to an- other. She knew them all. That was the sopsyvine, its red fruitage fast coming on; there was the Porter she had seen her father graft; and down in the corner grew the August sweet. Life out there looked so still and sane and homely. She knew no city streets,yet the thought of them sounded like a pursuit. She turned about, and came back to her chair. I guess I never dreamt how you lived, Jethro, she said, gently. But it dont make no matter. Youre con- tented with it. I aint a rich man, said Jethro, with some quiet pride; but Ive got enough. Yes, I like my business; and city life suits me. Youll fall in with it, too. Then silence settled between them; but that never troubled Dilly. She was used to long musings on her walks to and from her patients, and in her watching beside their beds. Con- versation seemed to her a very spuri- ous thing when there is nothing to say. What you thinking about? he asked suddenly. Dilly looked up at him with her bright, truth-telling glance. I was thinkin, she answered, with a clarity which never seemed ruthless, because it was so sweet, I was thinkin you make me homesick, somehow or an- other. Jethro looked at her doubtfully, and then, as she smiled at him, he smiled also. I dont believe its me, he said, 124 A LAST ASSEMBLING. confidently. Its because youre go- ing over things here. Its the old house. Maybe, said Dilly, nodding and tying her last bundle of papers. But I dont know. I never had quite such feelins before. Its the nearest to bein afraid of anything Ive ~come acrost. I guess I shall have to run out into the lot an take my bearin s. Jethro got up, put his hands in his pockets, and walked about the room. He was very gentle, but he did at heart cherish the masculine theory that the unusual in woman is never to be judged by known or unknown rules. But it is a queer kind of a day, owned Dilly, pushing in the last drawer. Why, Jethro ! She faced him, and her voice broke in excite- ment. You dont know, I aint begun to tell you, how queer it seems to me. Why, Ive dreaded this day for weeks! but when it come nigh, it begun to seem to me like a joyful thing. I felt as if they all knew of it: them that was gone. It seemed as if they stood round me, ready to uphold me in what I xvas doin. I shouldnt be surprised if they were all here now. I dont feel a mite alone. Her voice shook with excitement; her eyes were big and black. Jethro came up to her, and laid a kindly hand on her shoulder. It was a fine hand, long and shapely, and Dilly, looking down at it, remembered, with a strange regretfulness, how she had once loved its lines. There, poor girl ! he said, youre tired thinking about it. No wonder youve got fancies. I guess the ghosts wont trouble us. Theres nothing here worse than ourselves. And again, in spite of the Joyces, Dilly felt homesick and alone. There came a soft thudding sound upon the kitchen floor, and she turned, alert, to listen. This was Mrs. Eli Pike in her carpet slippers; she had stood so much over soap-making that week that her feet had taken to swell- ing. She was no older than Dilly, but she had seemed matronly in her teens. She looked very large, as she padded forward through the doorway, and her pink face and double chin seemed to exude kindliness as she came. There, Dilly Joyce! if this aint jest like you ! she exclaimed. Creep in here an not let anybody know! Why, Jethro, that you? Recognize you! Well, I guess I should ! She included them both in a neigh- borly glance, and Dilly was very grate- ful. Yet it seemed to her that noxv, at last, she might break down and cry. The tone of olden friendliness was hard to bear when there were no other voices to answer. She could endure the silent house, but not the inter- course of a life so sadly changed. There ! continued Mrs. Pike, with a nod, I guess I know! Youre tired to pieces with this pickin and sortin, an youre comm over to dinner, both on ye. Elis dressed a hin. I had to wring her neck. He wouldnt ha done it; you know that, Dilly! An Ive been beatin up eggs. Now dont you say one word. You be there by twelve. Jethro, you got a watch? You seet she starts, now ! And Mrs. Pike marched away victorious, her apron over her head, and waving one hand before her as she went. She had once been stung by bees, on just such a morning as this, and she had a set theory that they infested all strange door-yards. Dilly felt as if even the Joyces could not save her day in its solemn signifi- cance unless, indeed, they should ap- pear in their proper persons. She thought of her bread and butter and boiled eggs lying in her little bundle, and the simple meal seemed as unat- tainable as if it were some banquet dreamed of in delirium. It was of one piece with cars going by the house, and two maid-servants to correct. To Dilly, a car meant a shrieking monster propelled by steam; yet not even that drove her to such insanity of revulsion as the two servants. They alone made her coming life seem like one eternal school, with the committee ever on the platform, and no recess. A LAST ASSEMBLING. 125 But she worked very meekly and sob- erly, and Jethro took off his coat and helped her; then, just before twelve, they washed their hands and went across the orchard to Mrs. Pikes. The rest of the day seemed to Dilly like a confused though not an un- familiar dream. She knew that the dinner was very good, and that it choked her, so that Mrs. Pike, alert in her first pride of housekeeping was quite cordially harsh with her for not eating more; and that Jethro talked about Chicago; and Eli Pike, older than his wife and graver, said Do tell ! now and again, and seemed to picture in his mind the outlines of city living. She escaped from the table as soon as possible, under pretext of the work to be done, and slipped back to the empty house; and there Jethro found her, and began helping her again. The still afternoon settled down in its grooves of beauty, and its very loveliness gave Dilly a pain at the heart. She remembered that this was the hour when her mother used to yawn over her long seam, or her knit- ting, and fall asleep by the window, while the bees droned outside in the jessamine, and a humming bird there had always been one, year after year, and Dilly could never get over the impression that it was the same birdhovered on his invisible perch and thrilled his wings divinely. Then the day slipped over that unseen height, and fell into a sheltered calm. The work was not done, and they had to go over to Mrs. Pikes again to sup- per, and to spend the night. Dilly longed to stretch herself on the old kitchen lounge in her own home; but Mrs. Pike told her plainly that she was crazy, and Jethro, with a kindly au- thority, bade her yield. And be- cause words were like weapons that returned upon her, to hurt her anew, she did yield, and talked patiently to one and another neighbor as they came in to see Jethro and to inquire when he meant to be married. Soon, said Jethro, with assur ance. As soon as Dilly makes up her mind. All that evening, Eli Pike sat on the steps, where he could hear the talk in the sitting-room without los- ing the whippoorwills song from the Joyce orchard, and Dilly longed to slip out and sit quietly beside him. He would know. But she could only be civil and grateful, and when half past eight came take her lamp and go up to bed. Jethro was given the best chamber, because he had suc- ceeded and came from Chicago; but Dilly had a little room that looked straight out across the treetops down to her own home. At first, after closing the door be- hind her, she felt only the great bless- edness of being alone. She put out the light and threw herself, as she was, face downwards on the bed. There she lay for long moments, suffering; and this was one of the few times in her life when she was forced to feel that human pain which is like a stab in the heart. For she was one of those wise creatures who give them- selves long spaces of silence and so heal them quickly of their wounds, like the sage little animals that slip away from combat to cure their hurt with leaves. Presently a great sense of rest enfolded her, a rest which seemed ineffably precious because it was so soon to be over. It was like great riches lent only for a time. Outside this familiar quiet was the world, thrilled by a terrifying life pressing upon her and calling. She longed to put her hands before her eyes and shut out the possibility of meeting its garish glory; she did cover her ears lest its cry should pierce them and she could not resist. And so she lay there shivering, until a strange inviting that was peace and not commotion seemed to approach her from another side, and her inner self became conscious of unheard voices. They were not clamorous, but sweet, and they drowned her will and drew her to themselves. She got softly up and, going to the darkened 126 A LAST ASSEMBLING. window, looked out across the or- chard. There in the greenness lay the old house. It called on her to come. It seemed to Dilly that she could not make haste enough to be there. She slipped softly down the narrow stair- way, and across the kitchen, where the shadows of the moonlit windows lay upon the floor. A great excite- ment thrilled her blood; and though quite safe from discovery, she was not wholly at ease until she had en- tered the orchard path, and knew her feet were wet with dew, and heard the whippoorwill, so near now that she might have startled him from his neighboring tree. No other bird note could have fitted her mood so well. The wild melancholy of his tone, his home in the night, and the omens blended with his song seemed to remove him from the world as she herself was removed; and she hast- ened on with a fine exaltation, fitted her key again in the lock, and shut the door behind her. As soon as Dilly had entered the sitting-room, where the old desk stood in its place, and the clock was ticking, she felt as if all her confusion and trouble were over. She smiled to herself in the darkness. She had come home, and it was very good. They had begun with the attic in their rearranging, and this room remained unchanged. She had wished to keep it in its sweet familiarity, unaltered till the last. She drew forward her fathers chair, and sat down in it, with luxurious abandonment, to rest. Her mothers little cricket was by her side, and she put her feet on it and exhaled a long sigh of content. Her eyes rested on the dark cavern which was the fireplace; and there fell upon her a sweet sense of completed joy, as if it were alight and she could watch the dancing flames. And sud- denly Dilly was aware that the Joyces were all about her again. She had been sure, in her coming through the woods, that they knew and cared; now she was certain that, in some fashion, they recognized their bondage and loyalty to the place, as she recognized her own, and that they upheld her to her task. She thought them over, as she sat there, and saw their souls more keenly than if she had met them, men and women, face to face. There was the shoemaker among them, who, generations back, was sitting on his bench when news came of the battle of Lexington, and who threw down hammer and last and ran wildly out into the woods, where he stayed three days and nights, call- ing with a loud voice upon Almighty God to save him from ill-doing. Then he had drowned himself in a lit- tle brook too shallow for the death of any but a desperate man. He had been the disgrace of the Joyces; they dared not think of him, and they know, even to this day, that he is re- membered among the townsmen as the Joyce who was a coward and killed himself rather than go to war. But here he stoodwas it the man, or some secret intelligence of him? and Dilly, out of all his race, was the one to comprehend him at last. She saw, with a thrill of passionate sym- pathy, how he had believed with all his soul in the wickedness of war, and how the wound to his country so roused in him the desire of blood that he fled away and prayed his God to save him from mortal guilt,and how, finding that he saw with an over- whelming delight the red of antici- pated slaughter, and knew his traitor- ous feet were bearing him to the ranks, he chose the death of the body rather than sin against the soul. And Dilly was glad; the blood in her own veins ran purer for his sake. There was old Delilah Joyce, who went into a decline for love, and wasted quite away. She had been one of those tragic fugitives on the island of being, driven out into the storm of public sympathy to be beaten and undone; for she was left on her wedding day by her lover, who vowed he loved her no more. But now Dilly saw her without the pathetic bravery of her silken gown which A LAST ASSEMBLING. 127 was never worn, and knew her for a woman serene and glad. That very day she had unfolded the gown in the attic, where it had lain, year upon year, wrapped about by the poignant sympathy of her kin, a perpetual re- minder of the hurts and faithlessness of life. It had become a relic, set aside from modern use. She felt now as if she could even wear it her- self, though silk was not for her, or deck some little child in its shot and shimmering gayety. For it came to her, with a glad rush of acquiescent joy, that all his life, the man, though blinded by illusion, had been true to her whom he had left and that, instead of being poor, she was very rich. It was from that moment that Dilly be- gan to understand that the soul does not altogether weld its own bonds, but that they lie in the secret core of things, as the planet rushes on its appointed way. There was Annette Joyce, who married a Stackpole, and to the dis- gust of her kin clung to him through one debauch after another, until the world found out that Annette couldnt have much sense of decency herself, or she wouldnt put up with such things. But on this one night Dilly found out that Annettes life had been a continual laying hold of Eternal Being, not for herself, but for the crea- ture she loved; that she had shown the insolence and audacity of a thou- sand spirits in one, besieging high heaven and crying in the ear of God: I demand of Thee this soul that Thou hast made. And somehow Dilly knew now that she was of those who overcome. So the line stretched on until she was aware of souls of which she had never heard; and she knew that, faulty as their deeds might be, they had striven, and the strife was not in vain. She felt herself to be one drop in a mighty river, flowing into the water which is the sum of life; and she was content to be absorbed in that great stream. There was human comfort in the moment, too; for all about her were those whom she had seen with her bodily eyes, and their presence brought an infinite cheer and rest. Dilly felt the safety of the universe; she smiled lovingly over the preciousness of all its homely ways. She thought of the twilights when she had sat on the door-stone, eating huckleberries and milk and seeing the sun drop down the west; she remem- bered one night when her little cat came home, after it had been lost, and felt the warm touch of its fur against her hand. She saw how the great chain of things is held by such little links, and how there is nothing that is not most sacred and most good. The hum of summer life outside the window seemed to her the life in her own veins, and she knew that nothing dwells apart from anything else, and that, whether we wot of it or not, we are of one blood. The night went on to that solemn hush that comes before the dawn. Dilly felt the presence of the day, and what it would demand of her; but now she did not fear. For Jethro, too, had been with her, and at last she un- derstood his power over her; and could lay it away like a jewel in a case, a precious thing, and yet not to be worn. She saw him, also, in his stream of being, as she was swept along through hers, and knew how that old race had given him a beauty which was not his, but theirs,and how, in the melancholy of his eyes, she loved a soul long passed and, in the wonder of his hand, the tender lines of other hands that had waved to fiery action. He was an inheritor; and she had loved not him, but his inheritance. Now it was the later dusk of night, and the cocks crowed loudly in a clear diminuendo dying far away. Dilly pressed her hands upon her eyes, and came awake to the outer world. She looked about the room with a warm smile, and reviewed, in feeling, her happy night. It was no longer hard to dismantle the place. The room, the house, the race were ia8 A LAST ASSEMBLING. hers forever; she had learned the abidingness of what is real. When she closed the door behind her, she touched the casing as if she loved it, and, crossing the orchard, she felt as if all the trees could say: We know, you and we! As she entered the Pike farmyard, Eli was just going to milking, with clusters of shining pails. Youre up early, said he. Well, theres nothin like the mornin ! No,~~ answered Dilly, smiling at him with the radiance of one who car- ried good news, except night time! Theres a good deal in that! And while Eli went gravely on, pondering according to his wont, she ran up to smooth her tumbled bed. After breakfast, while Mrs. Pike was carrying away the dishes, Dilly called Jethro softly to one side. You come out in the orchard. I want to speak to you.,~ Her voice thrilled with something like the gladness of confidence, and J ethros own face brightened into vivid anticipation. Dilly saw it, and caught her breath. Though she knew it now, the old charm would never be quite gone. She took his hand and drew him forward. She seemed like a child, unaffected and not afraid. Out in the path, under the oldest tree of all, she dropped his hand and faced him. Jethro, she said, we cant do it. We cant get married. He looked at her amazed. She seemed to be telling good news in- stead of bad. She gazed up at him smilingly. He could not under- stand. Dont you care about me? he asked at length, haltingly; and again Dilly smiled at him in the same warm confidence. Oh, yes, she said, eagerly. I do care, ever and ever so much. But its your folks I care about. It aint you. Ive found it all out, Jethro. Things dont always belong to us. Sometimes they belong to them that have gone before; an half the time we dont know it. jethro laid a gentle hand upon her arm. Youre all tired out, he said soothingly. Now you give up pick- ing over things, and let me hire some- body. Ill be glad to. But Dilly xvithdrew a little from his touch. Youre real good, Jethro, she answered, steadily. She had put aside her exaltation, and was her old self, full of common sense and kindly strength. But I dont feel tired, an I aint a mite crazed. All you can do is to ride over to town with Eli, hes goin after he feeds the pigsan take the cars from there. Its all over, Jethro. It is, truly! I aint so sorry as I might be, for its borne in on me you wont care this way long. An you neednt, dear; for nothin be- tween us is changed a mite. The only trouble is, it aint the kind of thing xve thought. She looked in his eves with a long, bright farewell glance, and turned away. She had left something xvhich was very fine and beautiful behind her; but she could not mourn. And all that morning she sang little snatches of song about the house, and was content. The Joyces had done their work, and she was doing hers. VOICES OF OUR FATHERS. By G/uzrlotte W. Tizurston. MASSACHUSETTS! Massachusetts! Ah, thy days of long ago When our brave old patriot Fathers faced their savage Indian foe! Here to-day within thy pastures graze serene the tranquil sheep, And mens anxious hearts no longer need those fearful vigils keep. Undisturbed the horses wander on the upland green and cool; Undisturbed the sleepy cattle linger knee-deep in the pool; Thundering down the peaceful valleys glides along the writhing train, Sounds the locomotives war-whoop echoing over hill and plain; Still to-day the corn is waving as it waved in days of yore; Still to-day the May-weed clusters round the farmers open door; Still to-day the scarlet lily rears her splendid head on high, Turns her gorgeous face in greeting blithely on the passer-by. Here to-day the fireweed flashes from its seared and blackened bed; Thistles nod a grim defiance, armed with spears from heel to head; Sleepy primrose with her slumbers still her lover-bee repels; Meadow rue gleams by the roadside, dogbane rings her pink-white bells; Vervain blue and elder-blossoms wave their greeting as we pass; Milkweed, celandine and spikenard, from the tangle of the grass. And the old-time sturdy spirit of our Fathers has not fled! From their graves their voices echovoices of the pa- triot dead: Guard the Union, 0 our children! shield the land we won for you; Choose ye rulers for the nation, robed in honor, brave and true. 129 AT Nantucket, the schoolmaster took us to The Captains Room; and the hour spent with the Captains was the most interesting hour spent in our two days on the island. The official name for the place is the Pacific Club; which does not mean that its members are pacific above all that dwell at Nantucket, hut that they all once had much to do with the Pacific Ocean. The club is half a century old, no doubt; and when it was founded, in Nantuckets golden age, when the town, now of three thou- sand people, had ten thousand, and stood only behind Boston and Salem among Massachusetts ports, these men commanded whalers in the Pacific, going on three or four year voyages, and sometimes clearing ten thousand dollars on a voyage, in the income from which I suppose some of them still feel secure and comfortable as they sit and smoke in the Captains Room. It was a large club once, the Pacific Club, and the Captains were a hale and hearty lot; but there are but few of them left now not a dozen and the snow is on all their heads. Hale and hearty they are in- deed in their winter, but pensive, and live chiefly in the past. I suppose that they talk mostly of the past as they sit there together in the Captains Room, where many of them do sit together almost all of almost every day, going home to dinner and to supper, but then coming back. And it is of the past that you will want to have them talk if y on are privileged to be taken to the Captains Room, and taken into good fellowship, as we were. It was a time when all America was a Pacific Club, as it never was before, a most assertive and belligerent Pacific Club; and all the talk which 130 did not run upon Pacific whaling ran on Pacific politics. What was to most of us a thing of maps was ~o these men as real as Nantucket. They knew Samoa well before Stevenson was born, and had firm opinions on its land system. This one, who had sailed round the world eight times, had made New Zealand his headquarters before there was an Englishman there, and had visited Auckland when its Eng- lish population was over sixty thou- sand. The people of the Pacific, to the Captains, were not figures in the last census, but men of flesh and blood, men and brothers, that was the thing we felt the most, the poorest of them, men and brothers. They had been, some of them, in the Philippines. They had been in the Hawaiian Islands a dozen times, and knew them better than we knew Nan- tucket. And now the Hawaiian Islands were annexed to the United States; the vote had just been passed. What did they think of it? Well, said Captain Grant, I think its a good thing for em; but Im afraid we didnt have a square deal with em. * * * We are afraid so too. When all the sophisticated politicians and sophisti- cated missionaries have made all their fine distinctions, and the sugar folks have had their whole frankly selfish say, and others of us have registered our opinion that the Hawaiians will be better off annexed to the United States, the plain people, to whom men, even Pacific Ocean men, are still men and brothers, feel in the middle of their honest hearts that it wasnt a square deal; and so far, as mem EDITORS TABLE. 3 hers of the hody politic, as they have heen made privy to it, they have heen made worse hy it, more amenahie to the next invitation to moral com- modiousness and accommodation, as we are all made flabbier by every compromise or crookedness to which we are led or driven unprotesting. The plain people believe, almost all of them, we think, that the Hawaiians will be better off under our govern- ment and united to us; and they would probably say, if asked, that they would believe the same of the Mexicans and the Nicaraguans and the Cretans. But they feel that some- how the Mexicans and Cretans and Hawaiians should have the privilege of choice in such matters, even the privilege of foolish and short-sighted choice. They are troubled for, not being politicians nor in the sugar busi- ness nor missionary business, they are still capable of being troubled with the misgiving that, in playing with the Hawaiians, we used loaded dice. They dont doubt the divine right of revolution they are too good Puritans for that. Cromwell was all right, and George Washington was all right; and it is altogether likely that Mr. Dole and his friends gave Hawaii a much better government than it had before and that it sadly needed a better government. But they think that if Cromwell had had the Dutch navy at the mouth of the Thames on the eve of Naseby, and a Dutch army landing in Norwich to look afterthe interests of the Dutch Puritans there during the unpleasant- ness, and if, immediately after the Kings head was off, he and his Iron- sides had ceded England to Holland, without any appeal to the English people, for fear that Stuartism would else get the upper hands (and do we not all agree that Stuartism was a cursed thing, bad for England and bad for the world, and forced to Dutch treatment in the end?), the plain people, we say, would not think that was a square deal. And they think that in Hawaii we simply traded with ourselves that we helped get an American agency into control of the Hawaiian government, and then got our agents, in their role of govern- ment, without any appeal to the peo- ple, to turn Hawaii over to America. They wish that the American gunboat hadnt been in the harbor when the revolution was going on, and that the American marines hadnt landed and kept themselves in evidence, and that the new government hadnt kept in such close and constant touch with Washington. They wish that an- nexation hadnt been rushed through at last just when the country was in a hot wave of imperialism and fair and sober consideration of the ques- tion had for the time become impos- sihle. They think that this way of doing things does not become the great republic, they think it is not democratic, they are afraid it is dangerous, they are afraid that Crom- well would say it was not common honesty. They think, too, that we should carry on our imperialism some of them call it stealing, but they are the uncultivated ones on the same principles on which we discipline and educate the Democratic Party in the South. One man, one vote, is democ- racy, they say, and every man, one. The Hawaiians are certainly as vote- worthy as the Black Belt; and if the foundations will be destroyed if every negro does not vote, why shall the Hawaiians not vote, at least on their own destiny? If government by the First Families is not good in Alabama, why is it good and necessa:y in Ha- waii? Because the sum total of edu- cation and solid sense in the little group of Americans now running the government, you tell them, is greater than that of the Hawaiian people; but they answer you that that is the sort of thing the wicked Southerners used to say. Because then, you tell them, we could not otherwise have annexed Hawaii; but that troubles them. * * * 132 EDITORS TABLE. In truth, this is what ought to trouble every one of us; and this kind oftrouble is the only trouble we need any of us have very much over this whole question of imperialism or expansion, which is now the chief question with us. The annexation of Hawaii although it can do us no particular good, can bestow nothing of any account upon us which under free and rational trade relations could not be secured just as well without annexation can do us no harm, saddle no responsibility upon us beyond what every great nation ought to take for civilization, if we deal squarely. The proper limits of ex- pansion for any nation are hard to define; the sagacious practical states- manship of each time has got to deter- mine them for that time as best it can. Each push of our own to the Miss- issippi, the Rocky Mountains, the Pacific, Alaska has been through controversy. Geographically there is no reason why we should taboo islands why we should take in Alaska and refuse to take in Cuba and Ha- waii; such reasons as there once were cease to exist. Great empires com- monly die of indigestion, Napoleon said, and said truly; and Gladstone has warned England of the indiges- tion which has already attacked her and is weakening her to-day. But great and small are relative terms. The French philosophers of the last cen- tury believed~ that republics must al- ways be small, that large republics never could be strong and stable, be- cause public spirit and opinion could not make themselves felt freshly and unitedlyover great areas; but this was because they could not foresee those means of communication and relation xvhich have made our United States smaller for political purposes than the thirteen States along the Atlantic coast which elected George Washing- ton president. North America will be smaller for such purposes a generation hence than the United States to-day; and we are of those who believe that this republic will in due time be co extensive with North America. With the victory of Wolfe at Quebec, says Green, the English historian, with true discernment, began the history of the United States; and Quebec will by and by be a happy city in the United States, finding there its natu- ral place. Until it does find its place there happily and naturally, of its own free will, we do not want it there at all. Until then for we have no fears, either, of adjacent islands, archipelagoes of them, on the basis of a square dealwe do not want San Salvador, where Spain first stepped ashore, nor Cuba nor Porto Rico, where her flag last flew. Expansion for expansions sake, the thirst for conquest by a nation suddenly made drunk and heady by startling and sen- sational military successes, national highway robbery, are things for every sober man to set the seal of his damna- tion on as the temptations to public sin and the sure ways to national dis- aster and doom. But the annexation to the United States, at a proper time, by proper means, of Cuba or Por.to Rico is nothing to b& afraid of, but doubtless a desirable thing, and, we think, ultimate and manifest destiny. * * * The annexation of the Philippine Islands is a very different question leaving the morals of the matter en- tirely out of the account. No man of common sense can for a moment ap- prove such annexation. It is not because a hundred million dollars put into the Philippines would not yield half the returns of the same millions put into Oregon or Texas, al- though we have no doubt that is the truth. It is not because, as some are fond of saying, a republic has not wis- dom or capacity, such as kings and kaisers have, for dealing with colonies and dependencies; we refuse to be- lieve it. It is because we have no logical or natural affiliations with the Philippine people, no common history or traditions, no considerable rela. EDITORS TABLE. 33 tions of any sort, no points of con- tact, nothing to make them digesti- ble; and because a nations first duty is to its own integrity, is to keep itself strong and healthy and definite and united, that so it may do well its work for the world. If there are conditions which make expansion proper and profitable, none of these conditions exist in connection with the Philip- pines; there would be, for us, every- thing to risk and nothing to gain. Yesterdays newspaper had the fol- lowing word from the United States consul at Shanghai. We incorporate it as being as good an illustration as could be asked for of the devils gos- pel which has been preached to America in this time by a thousand men of standing, even in pulpits and missionary societies, confounding the confusion which presses so hard upon the plain people so sincerely anxious to know and do what is sensible and progressive and right. W.e should hold the Philippine islands, the Caroline islands and the Ladrone islands, also Cuha and Porto Rico. It does not matter whether we call them war indemnity or what. We need them in our husiness. You have no idea and cannot have until you get out here how all na- tions are fighting for trade and what an intense jealousy there is of the Unit~id States. Just now the continental peoples seem more jealous of us than even of Eng- land. If we are to have anything to say we must have a navy. To have a navy, we must have coaling stations. That means the Sandwich islands and the Philippines. It does not matter how we get them, or what we call it; we need them in our business! The con- scienceless brigandage of the position does not seem once to dawn on this official of our government. But worse, if possible, in an official, than the wickedness of words like these is their wantonness and folly, the adven- turism stealing the livery of states- manship, oblivious of a hundred com- plications dangerous and looming clearly up, forgetful of all the high re- sponsibilities with which the republic is charged, of every precious thing with which it is freighted in trust for humanity, and blinded by materialism and the proximity of petty things to the fact that every argument for what they urge is an obvious and decisive argument against it. But our duty to the Philippine peo- ple? Is not giving them back to Spain like giving back fugitive slaves in 1850? Is not our duty, once hav- ing them in our power, to hold them for freedom and a better life, under the protection of the republic? We believe in the American people in such a way as makes us confident that this is the principal question with them. We decline to believe that the American people are thieves and rob- bers. With great matters such as they never dreamed of when the war began suddenly thrust upon them by its course, they have been unable to think as fast as events have trans- pired, and their minds are not ripe either as to their true interest or as to their duty. The possible obligation to the people of the Philippines, the pos- sible opportunity for freedom and progress there under our aegis, have presented themselves so strongly as to make good people forget their ob- ligation to Spain, to worthy inter- national usage, to the national se- curity, stability and welfare, and to those republican principles in whose preservation, integrity and power alone we can continue to be of real service to freedom and humanity, or continue permanently to be at all. There are indeed wrong things in the Philippines to be righted; there are wrong things to be righted in China and Siam, wrong things in Honduras and Hayti, and Turkey and Italy. We are responsible, to the extent of our proper influence, for all. Our duty as a people is to keep our ears and hearts open to all the wrongs in all the world. There are a hundred ways by which, if we are indeed in earnest, we can help to right them. The true way either as concerns the Philippines or any other place is not that whereby we endanger international honor or 34 EDITORS TABLE. endanger the nation itself. Without any such danger, without any taint of gambling, there are ways by which, from our present point of vantage, we can insist, through an international protectorate or otherwise, upon better government in the Philippines. Let us insist upon it. * * * This has been the first great war in human history waged professedly, and we believe really, on altruistic grounds, not in behalf of ourselves, but in behalf of oppressed and suffer- ing neighbors. It was an unnecessary war. It accuses us of immaturity and lack of self-control that we did not achieve its really valuable and desira- ble results in another way. By and by we shall achieve such things in better ways, because the whole nation will rise to the level of its to-days best thinkers. But the primary and deter- mining motive of the war was noble, sympathy with the oppressed and suffering. The great mass of the American people, as we said in these pages when the war began, have taken the position which they have taken in obedience to righteous and heroic impulses, to instincts and con- victions which are the safeguard of liberty and humanity. That which is aroused in them is not selfishness, not greed, not any grubbing instinct, but the instinct of justice and sympathy. It is a war, said Senator Hoar at Washington, in which there does not enter the slightest thought or desire of foreign conquest or of national gain or advantage. I have not heard tbroughout this whole discussion in Senate or House an expression of a desire to subjugate and occupy Cuba for the purposes of our own country. There is nothing of that kind sug- gested. It is disclaimed by the Presi- dent, disclaimed by the committee, disclaimed by everybody. And when the declaration of war came, an ex- press resolution declared that we entered upon it with no thought or purpose of territorial aggrandizement. So, says one, we entered upon the war of the Revolution with no thought or purpose of independence. The men of Lexington and Bunker Hill had no thought of it; Washington dis- claimed it, Congress disclaimed it, everybody disclaimed it. They were thinking only of resisting unjust taxa- tion; the thought of independence only gradually ripened. So we entered upon the Civil War with no purpose of emancipation, but only of preserv- ing the Union. Lincoln solemnly pro- tested, in his inaugural address, that he had no power or purpose to eman- cipate the slaves, and he continued to disclaim that purpose for a year and a half. Who can foretell the changing chances and problems and duties of war? Shall we be literally bound for- ever by abstract, general declarations? No, we shall not. This only shall we, be bound by, through every changing circumstance, as Washington was bound and Lincoln, the Congress of the Revolution and the Congress of the Civil War: that no high resolution ever decline into a lower, that no great cause ever become a selfish and a mean one. It may well become our duty, on some morrow or other, to annex Cuba and Porto Rico to the United States; it may be that both islands will desire it, and that every true interest of theirs will be subserved by annexation. If so, we shall not be hampered nor affected in the slightest degree by any reference to the resolu- tion in our declaration of war, nor by any sneers in Spain or Austria or any- where else that the appropriation of Cuba and Porto Rico was what we were really concerned with at the be- ginning and the real motive of the war. No man and no nation confi- dent of their own purposes, conscious of rectitude, ever bother themselves about such criticism. Only they must be conscious of rectitude, their pur- pose and their policy must be honest and true, consistent with their own principles. It would not be consistent in our republic, and it would not be EDJTOR~S TABLE. 35 right, to impose ourselves upon Cuba or Porto Rico, to do with them as we please without their consent. The fun- damental principle of this republic is that all governments derive their just powers from the consent of the gov- erned. This is no glittering par- ticularity, true for Massachusetts and Virginia, possibly for Anglo-Saxon- dum. It is the great truth for which the American republic stands in this world, which it came into being to em- phasize and illustrate to the world, a possession so much more precious than the possession of Porto Rico or Cuba that these beside it are but as the fine dust in the balance. Our duty, our most simple and plain duty, to Cuba and to Porto Rico is to help them to that good government which they themselves elect. If one of these days they elect to come to us, then it is for us to determine whether our national welfare and the welfare of the world will be best served by making them integral parts of the republic. We have no suspicion that we have done Porto Rico wrong by cutting her loose from Spain. Although it has been said that she has been the most loyal of all Spanish dependencies, the hearty and even jubilant reception everywhere of General Miless army shows how slack was her allegiance, and how grateful and happy she is for a new chance in life. But we should do her great wrong, having cut the bonds of her allegiance, if we did not let her determine what her own nexv chance shall be and, in faithfulest re- membrance of Sam Adams and of Jefferson, keep from imposing our will upon her, contrary to her own judgment and her own wishes. The case with Porto Rico is precisely like the case with Cuba; and as there is no doubt that we shall let the larger island elect her own destiny, so there should be no doubt about the smaller island. If we understand the American people aright, there is no doubt. As, by declining to ask of Spain any in- demnity, the republic, in this war to liberate our oppressed neighbors, has shown itself superior to the poor money consideration which has marked the close of previous wars, so we believe she will be true to the higher opportunity and demand of civilization. The theory that good men have a right to steal so long as they steal from bad menand that we may determine for ourselves whether we are the good will no longer pass muster in the worlds politics any more than in the Berkshire village. The theory that strong men have a right to steal from weak men is also passing. The theory that conquerors must be honest and magnanimous to the con- quered, that Americans must do unto Spaniards as they would have Span- iards do unto them in similar ex- tremity, is coming in. No longer any- thing that will not be approved as a square deal in the Captains Room! * * * It was, we think, a convention of Latter-Day Saints which once passed these resolutions: Resolved, that the earth is the Lords and the fullness thereof. Resolved, second, that the Lord bath given the earth to his saints. Resolved, third, that xve are the saints. This is what sinners calling them- selves saints have been resolving through all the former and the latter days, Spanish sinners once, Anglo- Saxon sinners lately, and putting their resolutions into practice. The right of conquest has been the chief right alleged for the most gigantic thieveries and crimes in human his- tory. The right of conquest! The new conscience, the mind of the dawning century, thunders that that right will be recognized no more. The time past will suffice for that su- perfluity of naughtiness; God now commandeth all nations everywhere to repent. The laws of war sanction this and that! The laws of the new era will make short work with these 136 OMNIBUS. laws of war, as, please God, at a vastly earlier day than some men dream, they will make short work with war itself. The right of conquest, the laws of war,the republic invoked them quite suf- ficiently, steeped itself in their infamy quite enough, in the day of its crimes against Mexico. Let there be no second chapter. If we began this war in the service of humanity, let us end it in a higher service to humanity, nor sell the mighty space of our large honors for any trash. God sets be- fore the republic to-day blessing and cursing. We can go on indulging in the original sin of nations. We can strike such a high, new note in the settlement of the problems left us by the war as shall purify and ennoble our whole national life, make every people honor us, and enable the his- torian to look back to this hour as the beginning of a great and beneficent new epoch for America and for man- kind. Mr. Ananias Bounce Has the honor to announce The first issue of The Day, Number Naughty-Naught, Broadway. Nothing eve~ seen as yet Touches it; videlicet: Its supreme desire shall be Not for size, but brevity. All the news, with sober sense, It will test, assort, condense, Throw the straw and husks away, Give the kernel in The Day. When it does not chance. to know, It will dare to tell you so. When a thing should not be told, Though editions might be sold, Though its readers optics itch, It will scorn to handle pitch. What it honestly believes, It will wear upon its sleeves, Though the whole two-cented town Shall unite to call it down. As to parties, it will dare Get its truth from everywhere. As to news, it will report More the church and less the court, More the good that men have done Than the sin beneath the sun. It will not attempt to be A diurnal library: Comic Weekly, Art Review, Fashion Journal, Sporting, too, Literary Magazine, Scientific Bulletin Childrens Paper, Kitchen Guide, Sermon Digest, Poets Pride! Thus it will have time to be Quite a Newspaper, you see! As for its advertisements, (Listen, 0 ye men of sense!) Fake or honest, large or small, It will orint no ad at all. Now that it may meet with ease Probable emergencies Not a buyer in the crowd It is suitably endowed. Thus its virtue will endure; Thus its courage we insure; For if buyers, in the end, Fail, for foe or lack of friend, Were prepared on any day Just to give the sheet away! Knowing how success succeeds, When a man no friendship needs, On immediate favor counts MR. ANANIAS BOUNCE. By Amos R. Wells. A PROSPECTUS. MONTREAL FROM MOUNT ROYAL.

THE NEW ENGLAND MAGAZINE. OCTOBER, 1898. VOL. XIX. No. 2. THE ARNOLD ARBORETUM. By William Howe J9ownes. SOUTHWEST of Boston, in the suburban ward of Jamaica Plain, lies a park of two hundred and twenty-two acres, which forms a part of the municipal park system, and is joined by parkways to Franklin Park on the one hand and to Jamaica Park on the other. Yet the Arnold Ar- boretum is different from all other parks, and it is more than a park. That which makes it different and more is thisthat it is an outdoor school of arboriculture, a vast museum of trees and shrubs, and a department of Harvard University. But, while this special character sets it apart from all other parks in Christendom, it does not in the least interfere with its beauty, does not prevent it from being one of the most delightful of public recreation grounds, and, in fact, might not even be suspected by the casuai visitor. Therefore the grumbler who would complain because everything in this age of pedagogy has to be edu- cational; who would lament to see 39 NEW SERIES. ENTRANCE TO THE ARBORETUM GROUNDS. 140 THE ARA~OLD ARBORETUM. poor old Dame Nature made a branch of study, and all her works classified, labeled, arranged, dissected; who would declare that the groves were the first temples of the gods and not merely so many healthy specimens of Castanea vesca, Quercus alba, Abies Canadensis, and Ulmus campestris, to be catalogued and ticketed by a prag- matic generation, therefore this grumbler, I say, has no case, no gronnd to stand on, for the shrewdest argnment in favor of knowledge is that knowledge is not only power, but pleasure. In i886, that great American artist, Frederick Law Olmsted, wrote: As a seat of learning and an Academy, Boston is yet the most metropolitan of American cities. Others are gaining at many points with gratifying rapid- ity, but, on the whole, Boston is mov- ing in a more simply evolutional and democratic way, taking ground less by forced marches and at isolated points in advance of her main line, conse- quently with a firmer footing. Her ad- vantage in this respect is a good form of civic wealth. Any sterling addition to it is worth more to the reputation and commercial good will of the city than an addition of the same cost to its shops, bai~ks, hotels, street railroads, or newspapers. The Arboretum, with the library, cabinets, laboratory, co- respondence and records, of which it \,\Tili be the nucleus, will not simply bring a certain excellent accession to A-i Lile population of Boston; it will extend her fame, and will make in a measure tributary to her every man on the con- tinent who wishes to pursue certain lines of study, and lines rapidly com- ing to be known as of great economic national importance. The lines of study here alluded to are those that concern forestry in its large sense; and the national impor- tance of this subject may easily be un- derstood when it is known that the preservation of the remaining forests in our national domain is essential to the future existence of successful agri- culture in the Far West. THE ]3U55EY IN5TITUTE. THE ARNOLD ARBORETUM. i~i Science, says Wilson Flagg, has built an altar under the trees, and de- livers thence new oracles of wisdom, teaching men how they are myster~- ously wedded to the clouds, and are the instrnments of their beneficence to the earth. Thns science not only spares the ro- mance and poetry of the trees king- loin, but even adds to it a larger and more inspiring significance. We ~re told that the crafty druidical priests had a practical reason for ascribing sacred- ness to the oak. Knowing the value of its wood, and foreseeing the extinction of the best trees, they took the only means of preventing this waste by ap- pealing to the superstitions of their fol- lowers. May there not be some snch device by which to cnrb the avarice and circnmvent the vandalism of the forest-destroyers of onr time? The study of trees rhust surely be among the most uplifting, pure and useful vocations; and I rec- ommend it, more or less blindly, as a specialty for the young men who wish to create a career for NEAR THE HEMLOCK WOODS. themselves in a department of activity combining the most undeniable utility and the most inexhaustible delights. For, like architectnre, this profession means a livelihood, withont which the charms of the most attractive arts are likely to prove more or less hollow. When the late James Arnold of New Bedford beqneathed one hnndred thonsand dollars to Harvard Univer- sity for the foundation of the Arbore- tum, it may not have been so mnch be- canse he foresaw the need of the gene- rations to come, as becanse he was wise enough to heed the advice of his friend, George B. Emerson, of Boston. the author of Trees and Shrubs of Massachusetts ; but he should have all the honor due, nevertheless, for opening the opportunity of a career such as I have hinted at, at the same time establishing the foremost institu- tion of its kind in the world. The Arboretum as we know it is due to a sort of partnership entered into by Harvard University and the City of Boston. In consideration of its value as a part of the park system, and its lo ENTRANCE TO THE ARBORETUM 142 THE ARNOLD ARBORETUM. cation with relation to the other parks, a contract was drawn up which pro- vided that the city should construct all the roads and paths through the place and maintain them in good order, and should police the grounds, while the university assumed the entire care and maintenance of the remaining portion. The contract further provides that the Arboretum shall be maintained in this place for nine hundred and ninety-nine years, the city having taken the land by right of eminent domain and hav- ing leased it back to the university for that picturesque term. According to the director, Professor Charles Sprague Sargent, of the chair of ar- boriculture at Harvard University, and author of The Sylva of North Amer- ica, trees have never been planted with better promise of undisturbed old age. The Arboretum will eventually contain every species and variety of tree and shrub that will flourish in this climate. Much of the planting has been done, and the trees have been given the most favorable conditions possible for their perfect growth and development. Individual specimens and groups are planted in a systematic arrangement. Furnished at the start with the most liberal supply of the soil that their nature requires, says Syl- vester Baxter, in his Boston Park Guide, their growth is remarkably iapid and healthy. In the order of planting, the regular botanical se- quence of groups and species agreed upon by modern authorities and ob- served by Professor Sargent in his Sylva of North America is pursued as closely as practicable, beginning at the museum, near the main entrance, with the Magnoliac~, and following the general lines of the drives, terminating at the Walter street entrance with the larches. By a fortunate circumstance the existing oaks and chestnuts, of which strikingly fine large specimens were already in existence on the grounds, fell into their natural place in this sequence. It is intended to cover almost all the area with the plan- tations, leaving no open lawn or meadow spaces as in other par.ks. Wherever trees naturally grow with underwood, thickets of shrubs cover the ground, and so far as possible these are planted with the trees to which they are related. Although the arrangement is scientifically formal, and the visitor sees a gradual progress ENTRANCE NEAR FORE5T HILLS. THE ARNOLD ARBORETUM. 43 from species to species, no formality is sioners report for i886, is as primeval evident to the casual observer, the im- as those forests described by Longfel- pression given being that of the natn- low in Evangeline, where the mur- ral sylvan park. mnring pines and the hemlocks None of the trees in the type groups Stand like Druids of eld, with their voices have been planted in pits less than ten sad and prophetic, feet square, and all trees intended to Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that grow singly and develop into speci- rest on their bosoms. mens are planted in pits twenty-five The perpetual twilight that reigns feet square. Rock, gravel and sandy under the sombre masses of foliage, loam have been removed from all pits the irregularly regular ranks of tall to a depth of three feet, andreplaced by straight sterns that rise from the THE loam and peat. The soil has been deepened and enriched all over the plantations. The result of this work will naturally be more apparent in the fnture than at present. Many of the trees are now in their yonth, and the aspect of the park to-day affords bnt a faint idea of what it will be when all the trees are well grown. An exception to this rule, however, is the impressive hemlock wood which covers the steep northern slope of a hill near the South street entrance. This hanging-wood, as Olmsted called it in the Boston Park Commis MUSEUM. needle-carpeted earth, the green mosses that clothe bark and rock, tes- tifying to the constant shade, pene- trated only by vagrant shafts of late afternoon sunlight, and the atmos- phere of age, of solemnity, of mystery, that fills the place, combine to make it one of the most pictnresque, romantic and majestic of woods. No descrip- tion and no illnstration can give more than the faintest hint of its awe-inspir- ing and dreamland grandeur. Its fath- omless qniet and incalcnlable antiqnity mock the fretful stir unprofitable and the fever of the world. It is Gothic in LOOKING TOWARDS BOSTON FROM TIlE TOP OF BUSSEY HILL. THE ARNOLD ARBORETUM 45 its simple nobility of strnctnre, in its soaring lines of height, in its cloistered retirement and seclusion, and in its ir- resistible appeal to the sentiment of reverence. What tales of winter nights, of fearful tempests, of love and hate, of tryst and fend, what volumes of for- gotten legends, antedating the discov- ery of the continent, are forever buried in the stern silence of these haunted aisles! This deep and gloomy wood, this wild, secluded scene, fit theatre for tragic events, reaching back to savage prehistoric years, before the hardy Northmen or the valiant Latins had solved the mystery of the unknown western seas, stands to-day, saved by some miracle from fire and axe, within the very boundaries of the city of IBos- ton, and not a stones throw from the macadamized park road over which roll the pleasure carriage and the glit- tering four-in-hand. No snch woods exist elsewhere in the park system. Even in the thou- sands of acres of forest that cover the Blue Hills of Milton, there is no such patriarchal spot. The vast and boskv wilderness of the Middlesex Fells, the labyrinthine dells and ridges of the Lynn Woods, the rnde and tangled thickets and coppices of the Stony Brook Reservation have nothing to compare with the hanging-wood of hemlocks in the Arboretnm. There is a pretty brook, to which the maps give no name, rnnning through the Arboretnm, and its course brings it close to the foot of the steep slope on which the hemlock wood grows. It passes out of the park near the South street gate. The original name of the hemlock wood was the Bnssey wood. The topography of the Arboretum is so simple as to require little explana- tion. According to the map in the Boston Park Commissioners report for 1895, which shows the extension comprising the large area of land on Peters hill, since taken in, there are entrances from the Arborway, South street, Centre street, Walter street, and THE HEMLOCK WOODS FROM BUSSEY HILL. 146 THE ARNOLD ARBORETUM. Mendum street, the grounds being substantially bounded by the above- mentioned roads and streets. The northern entrance, from the parkway, which is likely to be used by nine visi- tors out of ten, who drive from the city through the park system, opens upon a level road traversing a meadow and running southward till it forks at the foot of the gradual ascent to Bussey hill. The turn to the left will bring the visitor back to the parkway near the il3ussey Institution; that to the right will bring him by easy grades in a long circular swing to the summit of Bus- sey hill. This road passes between masses of lilacs, which, in the spring, are a revelation of the immense nuni- bers of different varieties and colors. They are all labeled; each variety has its distinctive hue and character; the air is positively heavy with sweet odors. The road which enters from Centre street, at the west, joins the winding road up the hill, and also leads down an easy slope south and south-east to the hemlock wood and the South street gate. Shrubberies of great profusion line the way; here the laurel family, there the rhododendrons, in every phase and diversity; and in their season the wild roses deck the road- sides with their delicate colors, wan- dering over the edges of the paths, for the bushes and plants in this happy spot are encouraged to stray where they will, breaking in upon the regu- larity of the borders. The road which enters at South street diverges to the left and passes westward at the foot of the hemlock wood slope, ascending the gentle val- ley of the brook to another entrance at the west of the grounds, on Walter street, at which point the West Rox- bury Parkway will establish a connect- lug link between the Arboretum and the Stony Woods Reservation, one of the least known of the large state reser- vations around Boston, belonging to the metropolitan parks system. The entire southern section of the Arbore- tum may be roughly included in the Peters hill portion, which was added to the grounds only a few years ago. Almost all visitors to the Arbor- SOUTH FROM BUSSEY HILL. THE ARNOLD ARBORETUM. 47 etum climb by the winding carriage road to the summit of Bussey hill, which commands a most interesting view of the surrounding country. The ascent is very gradual, and the road passes between plantations of hardy shrubs which are continual sources of interest and enjoyment throughout the changing seasons. Although the hill is not lofty, the panorama is ex- tremely satisfactory, affording an ex- cellent general impression of the well favored and rich landscape character- istic of the Boston Basin. A rolling and well wooded country, accented by comfortable villas half hid under mas- sive shade trees, and presenting an appearance of peaceful life that sug- gests the neighborhood of a large and thrifty city, but without any hint of its ugliness, congestion or clamor. One relatively squalid part of the view will soon be shut off by a curtain of trees, and after that is done there will not be a single jarring note in the smiling prospect. The look off to the east and south-east takes in the range of the Blue Hills of Milton, a horizon celebrated for its soft and graceful un- dulations. The focus is favorable for getting the Blue Hills at their very best in point of form and color. They appear, in most conditions of the at- mosphere and light, an almost per- fectly flat mass against the sky. Morn- ing shows them veiled in a violet haze of wonderful depth and bloom; and the evening light again poetizes their distant tones in a variety of mysteri- ous and fascinating shades of blue. They are superb under the clear, steely skies of midwinter, when snow lies on the ground. From Bussey hill also one gets a good look at the hang- ing-wood of hemlocks, over across the little intervening valley in the park. Thus seen, the wood looks as black and forbidding as those fearful pine forests in German juvenile picture- books, whence issue ogres, monsters YOUNG 5HRUB5. 148 THE ARNOLD ARBORETUM. CHARLES SPRAGUE SARGENT. and beasts of prey; and it would re- quire Gustave Dord to do them jus- tice. To the southward we see the rounded top of Peters hill, and the rough, tree-covered ledges and ridges of the Stony Brook reservation, with the water-tower of Bellevue Hill in West Roxbury, a well known land- mark and view-point. Most of the distant views to the westward are cut off by the near hills of Jamaica Plain and Brookline and the thick woods under which nestle so many cosy sub- urban homes. Over beyond the em- bowered buildings of the Adams Ner- vine Asylum lies Jamaica Park, and the gay streams of pleasure carriages and bicycles roll to and fro on the long, sinuous parkways which con- nect the Arboretum with the city proper by way of the Pens. Boston, with its spires and towers, its domes and fluttering plumes of steam, lies stretched all along the smoky north- ern horizon. Far away one sees for an instant an express train darting towards the Park Square terminus over the long granite viaduct; then it is lost to sight behind a mass of foli- age. The graceful silhouette of the white Roxbury standpipe is a con- spicuous object to the northward, and it can not be denied that some of the big brick buildings yonder are pro- saic breweries, to which distance lends such enchantment as it may. The out- look to the northeast embraces the thickly wooded western slopes of Franklin Park, the so-called Wild- erness and, further south, the ob- servatory tower and clustering me- morials of Forest Hills cemetery and of Mount Hope. It is a view in which tranquillity and rural charm are con- stantly blended with stir and life; and, with the steady growth of the trees in the foreground, it must improve vastly from year to year. Bussey Hill was well known to Washington, who made his headquar- ters at the old Peacock Tavern, not far away, at the corner of Centre street and Allandale road; and it is said that the hill had been chosen as one of the points to fall back upon in case of need during the siege of Bos- ton. The view from Peters lull, which is still higher ground, is more exten- sive, and brings within sight a very distant horizon, including a consider- able reach of Massachusetts Bay. The first plans contemplated a winding carriage road to the top; but this scheme has been modified, so that for the present the summit will be acces- sible only by a foot-path. The public knows little of the im- portant scientific work that is being carried on by Professor Sargent and his assistants in the Arboretum. The museum, located near the main en- trance, at the northern extremity of the grounds, is a brick building, one hundred by forty feet in dimensions, the lower story being a dendrological museum, open to the public, and the upper story containing the library, the herbarium and the offices of ad- ministration. This building, devoted to the study of trees, as the plate on the front declares, was erected by Horatio Hollis Hunnewell, in the year 1892. Here the practical scientific work of the dendrological station is THE ARNOLD ARBORETUM. 49 done. Every tree and shrub planted is catalogued in a card catalogue, with notes showing where the plant or seed came from; and every important tree is systematically charted and num- bered, so that its location can be fixed, and its date, age, etc., recorded. The abbreviated history of the work accom plished from year to year is to be found in Professor Sargents annual reports to the President and Fellows of Harvard University. From these succinct statements may be learned the condition and progress of the Arboretum at regular annual periods; how many trees have been planted, IN THE HEMLOCK ~OOD5. 150 THE ARNOLD ARBORETUM. and of what kinds; how many shrubs planted, where and how; what has been done in the propagating-houses, the frame-yard and the nursery; the condition of the nurseries, plantations and natural woods; the results that have been obtained by pruning and caring for the. older self-sown trees; the number of seeds and plants dis- tributed among other botanical and horticultural establishments, at home and abroad; the number of seeds and plants received from donors; the num- ber of shrubs collected from the woods of New England and planted in the borders and the nurseries; the number of sheets of dried plants added to the herbarium, and the number of dupli- cates distributed, etc. Possibly few people are sufficiently interested to read these reports, which are neither thrilling nor romantic; but the series tells a significant story of patient, thorough and valuable work, the real fruition of which must be looked for generations hence, long after the la- borers shall have passed away. Seldom has anything of conse- quence been done in Boston without somebody writing a solemn protest to the Transcript; and the construction of a massive stone wall all around the Arboretum in 1897 and 1898 was no exception to this rule. When gates are added, as they soon will be, at the seven entrances, another indignant re- monstrance from Constant Reader and Lover of Nature may be ex- pected. The fact of the matter is that the Arboretum is open to the public at all reasonable times, subject only to such restrictions as are usually adopted in well kept public grounds and such limitations as are found nec- essary for the due protection of the trees and plants. The grounds are open, therefore, only between sunrise and sunset; for it obviously would be unwise to admit visitors in the night, when, under cover of darkness, one small hoodlum might do irreparable injury to some plant which could not be replaced. Moreover, from an aesthetic point of view, a well built stone wall is, to say the least, inoffen- sive to the sight, and it further sug- gests that degree of seclusion desir- able in a park or an arboretum. A ROAD IN THE ARBORETUM. THE ARNOLD ARBORETUM. 5 1~Jherever the outside surroundings of the grounds are of an unsightly char- acter, quick-growing trees have been planted in masses to shut out the view. Thus, on the northeast side, near the parkway, willows are shooting sky- ward from thd moist soil at the edge of the meadows. An illustration of the enormous economic importance of the kind of special knowledge to which the Ar- boretum is dedicated occurred in 1896 and 1897, when Professor Sargent was appointed chairman of the committee formed by the National Academy of Sciences, upon the request of the Sec- retary of the Interior, to investigate and report upon the inauguration of a rational forest policy for the forest- ed public lands of the United States. The report of this eminent committee (consisting of Professor Sargent, Gen- eral Henry L. Ahbot of the United States Engineer Corps, Professor Wil- liam H. Brewer of Yale, Mr. Arnold Hague of the United States Geologi- cal Survey, Mr. Alexander Agassiz, Mr. Gifford Pinchot, and Professor Wolcott Gihbs, ex-officio, president of the National Academy of Sciences) was sent to the Secretary of the Inte- rior on May i, 1897; hut three months earlier, Professor Sargent, as chair- man of the committee, had signed a preliminary report containing recom- mendations of the utmost importance, which were promptly acted upon hy the President, with the result that, on February 22, 1897, thirteen new for- est reserves, with an estimated total area of over twenty-one millions of acres, were added to the parts of the public domain already withdrawn from sale and entry. These thirteen additional forest reserves are the Black Hills Reserve, with an area of 967,680 acres, in South Dakota; the Big Horn Reserve, with an area of 1,198,080 acres, in the mountains of Wyoming; the Teton Forest Reserve, containing 829,440 acres, just south of the Yellowstone National Park~ the Flat Head Forest Reserve, of 1,382,- 400 acres, emhracing hoth slopes of the Rocky Mountain range in north- ern Montana; the Lewis and Clark Reserve, comprising both slopes of the continental divide in Montana, ex- tending from near the line of the Great Northern Railroad southward nearly to the forty-seventh degree of north latitude, with an area of ahout 2,926,080 acres; the Priest River For- est Reserve, with 645,120 acres, in the northern part of Idaho and the north- eastern part of Washington; the Bit- ter Root Forest Reserve, of 4,147,- 200 acres (the largest unsettled region in the United States, it is thought), lying on hoth sides of the houndary between Montana and Idaho, and ac- cessible only by rough and difficult THE MEADOW BY THE MU5EUM. 152 THE ARNOLD ARBORETUM. trails; the Washington Forest Re- serve, of 3,594,240 acres, in the Cas- cade Monntain region of Washing- ton; the Olympic Forest Reserve, of 2,188,800 acres, in the high Olympic Monntain region in northwestern Washington; the Monnt Rainier For- est Reserve, of J,267,2oo acres, also in Washington; the Stanislans Forest Reserve, of 691,200 acres, embracing six townships along the sommits of the Sierra Nevada in California; the San Jacinto Forest Reserve, of 737,- 280 acres, containing the San Jacinto Monntains in Sonthern California; and the Utah Forest Reserve, taking in both slopes of the eastern part of the Uintah Monntain range in north- ern Utah. Speaking of the Olympic Forest Reserve, Professor Sargent says: This is a region of steep and jagged monntains, their highest peaks clothed with glaciers and with per- petnal snow. The forests here, wa- tered by more copions rains than fall THE BROOK IN THE HEMLOCK WOODS. THE ARNOLD ARBORETUM. 53 on any other part of the United States, are composed of enormous spruces, firs and cedars, and in productiveness are surpassed in the world only by the redwood forests of the California coast region. Few explorers have penetrated far into this region, which from the denseness of its forest cover- ing offers exceptional difficulties to travel; and there is no record that it has been crossed in a north and south direction. This reserve no doubt con-~ tains for its area the largest and most valuable body of timber belonging to the nation; and here is probably the only part of the United States where the forest unmarked by fire or the ax still exists over a great area in its pri- meval splendor. . . . The character of its forests, which can be made to yield permanently vast quantities of timber, its wildness, the picturesque- ness of its surface and its remoteness make the Olympic Reserve one of the niost valuable of all the forest reserves which have been made or proposed. The commission fullyrecognizedthe fact that the forest reserves established could not be maintained unless a plan were formed under which their boun- daries might be modified so as to take from them all lands better suited for agriculture than for the production of forests, and under which their timber might be made available for domestic and commercial purposes, and valua- ble minerals might be freely sought and mined within their_ boundaries. The commission therefore perfected a scheme of forest management which is calculated to make the administra- tion of the reserves possible, and which was formulated in the proposed acts of Congress accompanying the report. The gist of the recommenda- tions was, first, that the Secretary of War, upon the request of the Secre- tary of the Interior, shall be author- ized and directed to make details of troops to protect the forests, timber and undergrowth on the public reser- vations, and in the national parks not otherwise protected under existing laws, until a permanent forest bureau in the Department of the Interior has been authorized and organized; sec- ond, that the Secretary of the Interior shall be authorized and .directed to is- sue the necessary rules and regula- tions for the protection, growth and improvement of the forests on the for- est reserves of the United States; for the sale from them of timber, firewood and fencing to actual settlers on and adjacent to such reserves and to the owners of mines legally located in them for use in such mines; for allow- ing actual settlers who have no timber on their own claims to take from the reserves firewood, posts, poles and fencing material necessary for their immediate personal use; for allowing the public to enter and cross the re- serves; for granting to county com- missioners rights of way for wagon roads in and across the reserves; for granting rights of way for irrigating ditches, flumes, pipes and reservoir sites; for permitting prospectors to enter the reserves in search of valua- ble minerals; for opening the reserves to the location of mining claims under the general mining laws; and for al- lowing the owners of unperfected claims or patents, and the land-grant railroads with lands located in the re- serves, to exchange them under equit- able conditions for unreserved lands; third, that a bureau of public forests shall be established in the Department of the Interior, composed of officers specially selected with reference to their character and attainments, hold- ing office during efficiency and good behavior, and liberally paid and pen- sioned; fourth, that a board of forest lands shall be appointed by the Presi- dent to determine from actual topo- graphical surveys to be made by the Director of the Geological Survey, what portions of the public domain should be reserved permanently as forest lands, and what portions, being more valuable for mining or agricul- ture, should be open to sale and set- tlement; fifth, that all public lands of the United States, more valuable for the production of timber than for ag 54 WILL. riculture or mining, shall be xvith- drawn from sale, settlement and other disposition, and held for the growth and sale of timber; sixth, that certain portions of the Rainier Forest Re- serve in Washington and of the Grand Cafion Forest Reserve in Arizona shall be set aside and governed as na- tional parks. The sonnd special knowledge on which this report is based, having such a direct and practical bearing upon the welfare of so many people, can not be regarded as a subject to which any of us should remain indif- ferent; and it is because the far-reach- ing interests affected by the legislation alluded to testify so convincingly to the usefulness and worth of such spe- cial knowledge, that I have tried to show, by the above brief r~sume~ of the work of the forestry commission, the intimate connection between the purposes of the Arnold Arboretum and vital, present, pressing national issues and needs. WILL. By Margaret W. Fuller. I THOUGHT I could not tame my will to plow The drudging level of plain every-day, Now up, now down, a toilsome, turning way Pack past the furrOws of my lifes dull Now. Yet, though I cannot mount To~morrows brow To gaze across Times distant slope, I pray Let me not fix my eyes on furrows gray, Nor harness too my soul, and spirit bow. As Jason sowed, divinely sure that he Strength could not lack to do what fate should ask, And reined brute force with a laborious zest; So be plain paths heroic fields. Let me, With eyes and soul uplift, pursue my task And drive my will at Dutys high behest. A SCION OF THE COVENANT. By A. Edwin Crockett. ONALD McKENZIE / had a sore heart, not from his own failings, but be- cause other people were departing from the old straight paths of the Covenant. Rev. Mr. McCrae, after thirty years in Streamville pulpit, had gone to his fathers, and a young man had been chosen in his stead. The thump of his fist on the cushion as he denounced the Scarlet Woman, the little reference to Bobbie Burns, and the proud lift of his face as, with a voice that swelled and trem- bled, he pictured the far off moors of Scotland in the times when their heather was stained with martyrs blood, had been enough. He had touched as with fire their stern Scotch hearts, and henceforth they were his. But he was young, very young, and despite those references to the sacred past he early gave signs of those mod- ern notions which many of the good people feared. He was zealous, keenly zealous, butalas for the church !in the manse on the little hill there was no wife yet to give him the quiet coun- sel which the wisest needs. So he was left much to the mercies of the leading elder, a scheming and ambitious man, little loved by Donald McKenzie. Petty little changes began to be made, and the people were asked to support new schemes. This was rank extravagance in the frugal eyes of the old farmers; and the grandfathers, se- vere and strict as the old Camero- nians themselves, shook their gray heads doubtfully. None grumbled openly, for Mr. McNutt was the Lords anointed; but in the hearts of a few a bitterness waxed deep and strong against this Flint Fraser, his counsellor. The blackness of night seemed to fall upon the soul of Dan McKenzie when these two, Mr. McNutt and Elder Fraser, began to agitate for a great and costly bell. It seemed to him indeed that his old forefathers would rise up from their graves across the sea to protest and to warn. Fierce- ly they had fought, some of them, and dauntlessly they had died, that the service of God might be simple and plain; and now their children in a free land were choosing the way of the backslider. Oh, the pity of it! The sad, sad pity of it !the recklessness, the blindness, the expense! For days he hugged his grief, speak- ing no word of what was in his heart. At last he began to feel himself a Lot in a modern Sodom, and his eyes grew solemn and his air marvellously se- vere. After this, as he sat behind the great stove in the kitchen, he would mutter many things to himself and shake his head darkly, as if he were overwhelmed by the sins of the peo- ple. Margaret, his slim wife, crooning psalm tunes on the other side, thought rebelliously on the same things, but being only a woman she gave no hint of the volcanic wrath her broodings excited within her. It was not human, of course, that they should avoid this topic long. One night after milking, Dan sighed sev- eral pious sighs and at intervals of pain let forth a groanfor he wrestled mightily with his trouble. Hoigh! Hoigh ! he sighed heavily. And Mar- garet, hunched in her chair, echoed Deane me! Deane me Then he cocked hi~ little eyes at the ceiling and complained: Its winder- ful what poor craethers will be fussin after in these days ! He seemed to address his remarks 156 A SCION OF THE COVENANT. to no one, just as if he were alone, yet Margaret answered quickly: Deed its yourself thats speakin truth, Dan McKenzie. His chair was tilted back against the wall, and his slipperless feet rested on its upper rung, so that, bending far forward with arms around his wide- spread knees and his fingers clasped in front, his very shoulders even were almost out of sight. Aye! Aye, he muttered on, just as if Margaret had said not a word, an its one o them revivals theyd be wantin next. The grand old doctrines good enough for our fathers 11 be na good at all, at all. The religion the Covenanters died for wint suit them o these days. Aghh! its the dirty popery theyll be pittin on till us soon! Donald, man, its yourself as has the wise words the night ! Margaret said with a sparkle in her eye. The day is not far when the Con- fession of Faith will be mocked, and the essence of the Scriptures, the Cate- chism, will be neglected. Its the wud- den machine, the contrivance o mens minds and the work o mens hands, called the organ, theyll be wanting next to praise the Lord with in the singin of psalms ! he groaned in dis- gust. Two little red spots had been rising into Margarets sallow cheeks. Two tired gray eyes, a little ago so dreamy and meek, were flashing now. Sure isnt Elder Fraser him thatll be speakin o that already? Deed its little the poor man gives bit his talk. A blatherin trawlin of a busy-body thats what he is! Elder or no elder, I say it, Dan McKenzie. Her voice rose marvellously shrill, shriller indeed at every word. Then low in the stinging bitterness of a Picton womans tongue she sneered: Him, the miserable craether, with the debts and debts to pay! Its a pretty elder he isthe fool ! Dan shook his head. Wumman, wumman, he said, judge not, judge not. But Margaret was like a lioness. She jumped up from her chair; her hands sought her hips, and leaning over the stove towards Dan, she hissed: Judge him the dirty trash that he is? Deed I widdnt the fool is his own judge. Who is bit him thatll be wantin to sing the psalms o David no more on the Sabbath, the grand old psalms o the sweet singer o Israel? Isnt it the wee bits o trashy himes hes for singin in their stead? Is it you, Dan McKenzie, hus- band o mine, is it you, the son of your own father, thatll be wantin to sit under the like o that? With eyes ablaze, cheeks one flare of red, and bitter wrath written in the set of every line of face and form, she stood looking down on Dan. Wise man, he kept silent, sighing crafty sympathy, but never raising his eyes from his knees. For a little they re- mained so, without a word being spoken. Then Margaret slowly sank back again in her chair. There was no sound in the long, low, dim room save the plaintive whine of the tea ket- tle still singing on the stove. By the light from the open damper bright with burning hardwood coals, Dan watched the red spots on her cheeks slowly fade, and when they had died away, he rose up gravely and stretched himself. Hoi! Hoi! Its a queer world, a queer world ! he said sagely. Chil- dren will be ever cryin out for a bau- ble, and the poor people o Streamville will be wantin a poor brass bit of a bell! Hoi! Hoi! The poor craethers! The poor silly craethers ! He sighed, and looked down at Margaret. He sighed yet again, a long, sad sigh. Then he said slowly: Margaret, wumman, well take the Book now. Perhaps wed best take the Book now. Without a word Margaret rose wearily, with a shaving lighted a bit of tallow candle on the table, took down the old Bible from the shelf above, and reverently put it near the flickering light. Then she sat down again, bending far over in her chair, A SCION OF THE COVENANT. 57 and with elbows resting on her knees and the thin face of her buried in the palms of thinner hands she dreamed with heavy eyes into the fire. Solemnly and low Dan began to read the evening psalm, but up the scale he went, louder and louder, till at the end of the first line his voice was grand and rolling ahead, as though a wall could not stop it. Yet the second began at a low whis- per, and barely a whisper it was at the close. The third line swung and crashed like the first. The fourth was breathed merely, just like the second. Thus in monotonous sing-song, sing- song, the verses quaintly went throughout the whole psalm. Then repeating the first two lines he ended them with a long, low groan, which when lifted to the proper pitch ex- panded into singing. From the bowed figure by the stove came Margarets high, shrill quaver, and thus with hearts nearer Heaven than their wont their untuned and nublended praise went up to Him who listened. When they had done, Dan turned over and read a chapter from the Book, after which they knelt rever- ently in prayer. It was the old tongue, the crooning Gaelic, the only lan- guage with which a man of pure Scotch blood can lay open his hearts full tenderness and yearnings, that he used; and when he rose there were new and moister depths in his eyes. Three weeks later, Deacon McTav- ish, a stout and placid man, ambled up to the McKenzie farm on his old pie- bald mare, to beg a subscription for the bell. There was a sweet per- suasiveness about this ambassador of the church which was hard to resist. Nevertheless he left Donald McKen- zies doorstep empty handed. Marga- ret made great moan and lamentation, and Dans face and mein were very solemn and very stern as he refused the barest pittance to the cause. Keen is his conscience when his pocket cries, whispered the diplo- matic elder to himself, and he would have tried to reason with them. But Margarets sharp eyes and keen face lighted up for battle, and he sighed in his heart, good man, politely prophe- sied many things regarding the weather and the crop, and went on his way. It was not pleasant even to this mild member of the session to have a gibing spirit within him hint that the fierce light in a little thin womans blue eyes and the faint twitchings of her nostrils had daunted the doughty champion of the church; but such must ha,ye twitted him, for down through the scant thickets by the roadside he was unwontedly impatient with his gentle piebald steed. Only the birds saw it, and the session never believed the tale, for ever with them he was most father- ly and calm. Still the cause of the bell prospered. The young folk, with the recklessness of their age, were eager and deter- mined, while those among their seniors who wished to stand in well with the minister became enthusias- tic. And little did they think, young and old, that Elder Flint Fraser be- hind the scenes was guiding them all and their events to his own triumph. How adroitly he played the game! Ah me! the like of him Streamville will never see again. And so it came to pass that when the crops were in the ground the men of the congregation left their farm work and became carpenters for the time, until the little low church grew quite stately to their eyes, with a tower in front and a coat of white paint shining in the sun. High up at last hung the pride of the village, the great, untried brazen bell, ready to sing out a sweet welcome to the wor- shipers in the valley and on the bonny hills beyond. The whole countryside, of course, was in a ferment from the day that all was done till the Sabbath came. Around the village counters and about the village post office men forgot the old themes and the old stories in this one new topic. Even the young fel- lows, who of evenings sat on the edge of the platforms like sparrows on a A SCION OF THE COVENANT. rail and talked of love and manythings, boasted little as they smoked or spat their Montreal, and listened soberly for once to the brags of young Jim Kerr, who had been in the States and there had heard the hundred bells of Boston clang loudly together and in the quiet evenings had listened to marvellous chimes that rang out soft and solemn tunes into a trembling air. Yes, they were keen for the sound, these people were. But back on his little farm Dan McKenzie, troubled in spirit, felt his sky grow blacker, and more black as the time grew near. Groaning and lamenting, he and Mar- garet scolded and complained, and over all his soul there subtly stole a dread of coming trouble. Reason had little Dan for his fearsaye, reason had he. Yet surely the Garden of Eden in its one-time loveliness lay less beauti- ful than on that sweet Sabbath in the summer rested the little hamlet of Streamville. The grass in the fields by the roadside waved gently in changing green. The softer hued pastures on the barer hillsides shone with the kisses of a bright sun. The maples and beeches, clustered on high on the hilltops, shook their leaves lightly with limbs almost motionless in the little breeze whispering softly from the west. On high through a blue heaven tiny gray clouds like trails of mist slowly slipped towards the east. Above the hush of the old Sabbath there was only the sound of birds chirping, the complaint of lonely crickets, a sheeps occasional bleat, the surprised bawl of a grazing cow whose companions were hidden over a knoll, while from the winding road came the faint undertone of old- fashioned wagons as they lumbered slowly to church. And then the solemn music of the bell rose and fell with a sweetness that lingered long and tremulously in the pure country air,and struck againand then again. In the manse Mr. McNutt, fum- bling with his white cravat, turned his eyes a moment to heaven. Standing in his own doorway Elder Fraser leaned a little forward and put a hand behind his ear, and he smiled and whispered: A bonny sound it has! Aye, a bonny, bonny sound ! And nearly every woman throughout the length and breadth of the countryside looked up quickly into her mans face and said: Aye! man, is it not sweet? And their lords answered at once: Aye! Aye! its grand,and then reflec- tively, bit it costaye it cost a penny. Dan McKenzie and Margaret had risen that morning low in heart and unwontedly silent with one another. The glories of the morning with east- ern sky and the eastern hills bright- ened with the sun had not cheered them. Margaret quietly lit her fire and stirred her porridge, while Dan with his lean black dog went to the pasture and brought home the cows. When they had milked, the two sat down to their frugal meal, the solem- nity of the Sabbath and the cloud of trouble heavy on their faces. The groaning of Dan in his long Gaelic grace was mournful. Mournful too was the Returning of Thanks and the Taking of Books. Hoigh! Hoigh ! sighed he after he had slowly risen from his knees and had glanced long at the tall clock standing against the wall. Its time we wis gettin ready, Margaret. I suppose we should not be late this day. Then in his old bitter scorn of the bell he added, slowly: Its sich a momentous occashion. Aye! yie! sich a momentous occashion. And they began to make ready. Dan McKenzie was but a man, and Margaret, his wife, but a woman. So almost from the moment that Dan rose slowly and paused with a droll awe at his folded Sunday clothes, and Margaret had skipped away to her own toilet, a mild clamor arose in the farm house and kept things on the fret till they moved churchward. Dan had the start of Margaret, and was already in a gentle sweat when his excited A SCION OF THE COVENANT. 59 spouse bustling about upstairs with as much hurry as speed began to admon- ish him. Well be late, Dan ! she cried from the bed room, where he could hear her slipping off rustling garments and rushing around. Her lord was al- ready uncomfortable in his stiff white shirt and his Sunday trousers; one shining long-legged boot was on, and the tight-fitting trouser leg pulled down over it as far as the ankle; a white-socked foot was just in the en- trance of the other, and his fingers were in the straps ready for a pull. Hough! be quaet, wumman ! he grunted, no wise disturbed. A couple of minutes passed. Then the sound of the first ringing from the church, a mile away, came trembling into the house. The bells ringin! The bells ringin! Hear till it! Hear till it ! screamed Margaret in an ex- cited and half-smothered cry from the folds of a mutinous garment with which she was feverishly struggling. The deil with the dan~ bell ! sav- agely muttered this son of the Coven- anters with a black frown. His clum- sy fingers were tugging frantically with a bone collar button and a stiff white collar, and they slipped badly; his face was flushed a brick red with his exertions, and his eyes rolled des- perately. He stopped a moment and drew breath. Then he asked in mocking rage: Oh, its the bell thats tellin you the time o day, Mrs. McKenzie? Is the clock stopped when you forget it clean and particlar? Margaret gave no answer, and Dan fiercely turned his attention and wrath upon the collar button, and made it do his will. He soon finished his dressing paying great attention to the brushing of his hair, and then, staff in hand and shiny beaver on his head, he called up the stairway, Are you ready, Margaret, girl ? Tn a minute, came the hurried and almost breathless reassurance. He stood for a while in the low doorway watching the slow wagons pass on to church and the people on foot trudge along by the roadside. But at last he grew impatient. Wum- man, will ye be ready the day? Ay! ay! Donald, man, in a wee bit- tee, jist a wee bittee ! Every Sabbath it was so. Every Sabbath Dans patience oozed out as he waited at the doorway. So he stood there still, with the sun shining on his stern little face, quaintly whis- kered, and his eyes dwelt on the glory of Gods blue sky, then traveled up and down the tender hillsides, noting lights and shades, then followed the sweep of the gentle little glen lying like a maiden in the sun, and he forgot Margaret. Its a braw day, he mut- tered, bit itll be rainin the morra the birds are oer fond o hoppin on the ground. See that robin there, the red roguea sure sign! a sure sign! Ah! and is it Sandy McTavish thats comm round the turn with the gray horse he got in trade, and a dear trade it wis, Im thinkin! Its no hard to see that Sandy is mighty keen to sell. Jist look how hes pretendin to hold back on the reins, as if the old sheep wis crazy to bolt! Ay! and the whips in the other hand Ill be seein~, Sandy man; bit you hold it very gentle likevery gentle like, Mister Mc- Tavish. And my! doesnt Mrs. McTavish sit big and proud with her red nose in. the air an the green parasol held fore- ninst the sun. Deed Sandy mie~ht sit back and let the mare jogshes too old and lazy, Ill be thinkin, to run away. Agh! theyre keen on the bell. I hear, Mister and Mistress McTavish are; bit its myself that warrants it wis few groats they giveproud as the missus looks the day. Is that plague of a wumman never comm! Wumman, will you be ready? he called up the stairway in exasperation. Im jist comm, Donald, she called back, with a note in her voice that every husband knows, no matter how homely his wife may be. It told him i6o A SCION OF THE COVENANT. that at last she was dressed to her full satisfaction and was just a little pleased with her glass. So there re- mained nothing for her impatient lord to do but grumble crustily: Ill wait not a haight longer. Deed its late we are already, when Sandy McTavish and the big wife, thats always last, has gone round the corner afore us. He blew his nose loudly with his red ban- danna, replaced it inside his ancient beaver, stamped his staff shortly on the platform, and started. With the dignified humility and with the solemn face befitting a Pres- byterian of the old school on the Sab- bath, Dan walked on towards the litt1~ white church, and never turned to look at Margaret trudging along se- dately a few yards behind. And as he walked and as with an air of pious ab- straction he passed the time o day with people on the way, he was bitter at heart against the bell, and he raged at the thought of how the good old customs sacred to his fathers hearts were being dropped by a frivolous generation one by one. Thus as they entered the churchyard with that thing of brass ringing again its loud and bit- ter refrain in his old heart, ringing as if in triumph it mocked him, every thingto his solemn eyes seemed differ- ent, and yet what was changed he could not tell. The same old line of horses still harnessed and in their wagon shafts stood hitched all along the unpainted fence; careless groups of men chatted in low tones of crops, horses and weather, listened at times with critical ears to the ringing above them, and, I fear, at ungodly moments dropped little bits of gossip that at some firesides furnished interest for a week; and as ever, about the church door the young bloods of the hamlet, bright eyed, rosy cheeked and bash- ful, stood awkwardly as they watched the lasses trip haughtily into their seats, dressed like little queens in their finery. It had been Dans wont to stop and chat. But on this Sabbath he had not the heart. He slackened up his step till Margaret passed him and went in; then with a sigh he followed her through the doorway, through the rustling hall where women removing their veils and neckerchiefs exchanged greetings and gossip in whispers and nods, and then down the aisle into the hush of the Lords presence. Up to the very front they went, a queer pair, and turned into their old side pew by the pulpit. Margaret sat down quietly and without ceremony. But Dan, being a man, though of little presence, abrupt in his movements, and fidgety, must needs lean his short staff in the corner, put his hat on the seat, and then, gath- ering his spreading coat tails about him with convulsive tightness, sink down beside her solemnly. Putting out his right hand he drew the red bandanna from the depths of his beaver, mopped his bare crown and brow thoughtfully, and completed the ceremony with sundry trumpet blasts from his nose. Then hat and handker- chief were put beneath the seat, and with his hands folded in his lap like a saint and his thumbs twirling around each other at a gentle pace he bowed his old bald head and gave himself up to his thoughts. But Margaret with keen eyes swept the church, from the pulpit, where on high the min,ister in his gown sat throned in calm-eyed dignity, to the precentors seat in the gallery over the hall, where in front of an adoring choir and above an admiring congre- gation, Elder Flint Fraser, the cham- pion of the bell, could not disguise his triumph. Bitterness came black and biting into her heart as she watched the elder, for he sat up straight and puffed his spare frame to a kingliness it had never shown before. His glance was like an eagles after battle, and his shaven lips curved into a half smile, while combed and stroked with un- usual care that day his long wispy side xvhisk~rs stuck out from his cheeks as if threatening to spike through the eyes any one that smiled behind him. Margaret thought him vain; and in- A SCION OF THE COVENANT. i6r deed he may have been and no doubt he would have been, were he not so bald. She turned her head away from the sight of him, bitterer than ever. The rattling of pulleys ceased, and with a dying clang the bell stopped. Even while the last vibrations were singing tremulously in the air the Rev. Mr. McNutt was on his feet, read- ing in low tones the morning psalm. When he had done, the choir in the gallery rose and drew a long breath, and the people below stood up rever- ently in their pews. Precentor Flint Fraser, with his head well back, his left hand holding the book far out from his eyes, while his right grasped a tuning fork, cleared his throat care- fully, and then with majestic air struck the little instrument on the gallery railing. With canted head and lips pursed he judged the vibrations, and then broke forth; an ambitious but childless woman in the choir came next; the others followed; and at last with a grand mingling of voices preacher and congregation took up the strain. But the old precentor in his lofty perch was as one possessed. Now he pealed out with his mouth turned to the ceiling; now he listened for mo- ments with sundry puckerings and smackings of his lips; and then with a new swing and a leaders clarion note he would sweep onward the lagging stream of song. Bass, soprano, tenor, in turn he took, always singing out clear and strong above the rest, his head and chest thrown back, his body jerking nervously, his hand waving, and the sharp stamp of his foot beat- ing time loud enough to be heard throughout the church at intervals. Surely indeed in this day of his tri- umph the elder surpassed himself. Ah me! did he guess how his arch enemy, Dan McKenzie, would be smitten with shame and humbled before him? The end of the singing came too soon. The long morning prayer fol- lowed, the people standing with un- shut eyes just as their fathers for gen erations had stood. The solemn read- ing of the Scriptures came next; and then another psalm was sung. When the hush had stolen over them again, Mr. McNutt gave out his text, waited motionless and silent till the people found it and clattered their Bibles into the book troughs before them. Then he began his sermon. Alas! it is time to confess that Don- ald McKenzie was a man much given to sleep, particularly on the Sabbath day. And even on this morning of which I tell, he had, notwithstanding his pious wrath against the bell and the importance of his office of Beg- gar, half dozed through the reading of the Scripture; and now, satisfied with the Heads of the discourse and lulled by the familiar voice of Mr. McNutt,he glided gently with his chin on his breast into the sweet land of dreams. At times, indeed, he seemed to fight against the spell, jerking his head tip fitfully and blinking a bit; but not even an occasional nudge from Margarets elbow nor the ticklings of a sacreligious fly coursing gayly across his shining pate could bring him nearer than spasmodic consciousness. Still the people in the pews had long ceased to think anything of his weak- ness. In fact, it had grown customary, when any of the godless laughed, to cant the head a little to one side and answer quaintly in mingled Scotch re- proof and Scotch apology: Deed, if Dan kept awake, its me that ud be lookin at him all the day, and its not a mite o good Id be gettin o the sa~ mon, at all, at all. Theres nothin astray in the doctrine either, while Donald McKenzies at the sleepin Ill tell ye that. But they did marvel forever after- wards how any one of flesh and blood and possessing the symptoms of a soul could sit that day and doze under Mr. McNutts burning words. For this sermon had been prepared with great care for this great occasion, and the minister was delivering it with a fervor that held the people before him spell- bound. The men with heads bowed r6a A SCION OF THE COVENANT. humbly and hands clasped tightly be- tween their knees listened hard. The women sat bolt upright with flashing eyes and ears that dared not m~ss one word. The aged fathers leaning for- ward, with wrinkled faces buried in their shaking hands, whispered silent- ly through dry lips: Aye, aye! bit its mighty, mighty! Hes deep! Deed! bit its, grand words hes breakin till us this day! Mr. McNutt reached his thirdly, and Dan still slept, sounder perhaps than ever. The preacher was mortal and young, and the sound of his eloquence racked his own heart into tingling ecstasies of emotion that swept him on and on with vague yearnings past the border land of passion. The tune of pleading was at hand. In a moment those clarion tones would soften to croonings like a mothers over her babes; andthe strong menwouldfidget about in the seats, the old fathers would sit wrapt, their faces shining, while the women would sniff audibly here and there, and wipe red eyes with their handkerchiefs. But when the last peal- ing masterpiece had been thundered forth, there was a choking catch in Mr. McNutts throat, his hands which had been pounding the cushion rested motionless before him, while in a hush like the judgment he looked over the heads of the worshipers and above the silent choir with misty eyes which could not see. Arrows of conviction were striking right and left into hearts whose defenses were down, when, disturbed by the silence, Dan McKen- zie awoke with a start. He was late, he thought at once, for the collection; and grasping the ladle in front of him before Margaret~s hand could touch him, with eyes a-blink lie hurried down the aisle and at the end of the church began to solicit coppers as usual. The snickering of godless J amie Munro, who shook in his seat catching his breath convulsively and biting into his handkerchief, and the horrified face of Elder McTavish, whose eyes stared from Dan to the ceiling as if it would fall and from the ceiling to Dan, gave him warning. Dazed he glanced around the wide- eyed congregation, saw Margaret writhing in shame in her pew and the minister towering white-faced and stern in the high pulpit. He was too bewildered to slink into an empty pew by the door, but bent his head and in a dream walked back to his place by his wife and his dry old Scotch face was a blank that told no tales. It was well that the Rev. Mr. Mc- Nutt had not forgotten his notes, but had them before him, else he would have broken down, as he did that first Sabbath of his catechising days in the little bare schoolhouse on the South Shore. Even as it was, he labored hard and lamely, and the people listened with the flush on their cheeks faded and the fire that had burned so in their hearts black and cold. Still, fourthly, lastly, in conclusion and even the old one word more were given as duty demanded, and then with a sigh of relief and a cold sweat on his brow he sat down. Now the light-hearted and the giddy, forgetting even the proper show of reverence due the sanctuary, looked about exchanging knowing looks and smiles. Even Mrs. McTavish, after a short struggle with her pride, unbent her commanding front to whisper feverishly to her lord: I winder what Donal4ll do now? But Sandy, with a mans awe for the church and a sense of the scandalous nature of a whisper, looked sternly before him and an- swered nothing. The choir sat silent in their places, for the days of singing light hymns to drown the clinking of coins on the wooden ladles had not come. But the childless woman be- hind the precentor held her nose high and was already sniffing on the verge of pious tears,while the sharp-featured old elder, his lips pursed out and his head cocked, with eyes askance, ca- ressed a side whisker thoughtfully with one hand, while with the other he soft- ly turned over the leaves of the Psalm Book. What Dan did not see he felt. And A SCION OF THE COVENANT. 163 though it hurt cruelly, he rose stiffly with the other beggars, grasped the long handle of his ladle for the second time, and staidly walked down the aisle with John Munro. The eyes of the whole congregation were on him, and he knew it. But all his feelings were fairly benumbed; and it was just as if it were in a dream that he saw the girls smirk and giggle as he paused a moment before them, and saw t~he young fellows leer and laugh as they rang their coppers with a jingle into his box. But he was of martyr stuff, as Picton people are, and would have died before one feature of his hard lit- tle face would show hoW his heart was stung with shame. The pride of his fathers and a pride born of a free land and life stood up stiff and stern within him. So, very quietly and with calm eyes, he moved from seat to seat, till at last he stood before the platform by the pulpit stair, with Margaret at his left, and Mr. McNutt, chin in hand, tower- ing above him on the lofty pulpit chair at his right. The ordeal was prac- tically over, and Dan began to get nervous and to long to be away from the hundreds of staring eyes that in his momentary weakness seemed to bore right through him. According to beggars custom, he slipped the ladle handle back through his left hand till it balanced nicely, and then with his right thumb and forefinger began to fumble in his vest pocket for his own penny offer- ing. But the mischie-vous copper was hiding somewhere in the lining, and, silly man, he began to wonder if Mar- garet could really have put it there. Desperate at last he thrust his hand down into his trousers pocket, felt a coin, and with the dexterity of guilt slipped it out and let it jingle among the others in the box. With a quick push he put the ladle into its place and hurriedly sought his pew and Mar- garet. Had he but cast one glance back at John Munro, he would have seen his solemn face all twisted with one great spasm of astonishment. And had he but watched that stately man as he walked away from the ladles, he would have seen him shake his head in quaint perplexity, and no doubt even at that one moment he would have marvelled at the sight of little waves of wonder beating and beating on his countenance against that severe as- sumption of calm and dignity which so well befitted the face and figure of that functionary of Streamviie church. Flesh won, as flesh often does, and, wrong as it was, John Munro soon leaned a little towards Mrs. Munro and whispered: Wumman, Donald McKenzies fair crazy the day. Haugh, be quaet! is he now? she asked eagerly with her white handker- chief at her mouth. Deed thats jist what he is! Its a feefty cent piece hes pit intil the box the day a feefty cent piece ! Aw! the poor craether! the poor craether! What will Margaret say? Its her thatll be sore ! and in polite solicitude fat little Mrs. Munro sighed and nodded and shook her head many, many times. Dan had seen nothing. His heart was over-burdened already, and lie sat still in the soothing presence of Mar- garet, blind and deaf to all that went on around him. The concluding para- phrase was sung, the benediction pro- nounced, and the people, hurrying out, jammed the aisles quickly from door- way to pulpit stairs. Behind the crush, glad that at last the weight of staring eyes was off them, but with the shad- ows of their misery dark now upon their faces, Margaret McKenzie and Dan slowly followed. People passing them as they trudged homeward nodded kindly, and mechanically they returned their courtesies. But there was no relief to their shame till they left the highway and turned up their own little farm road. The black dog rushed down the hill to meet them, and he leaped around Dan with glad barks; but with sorrow in every action his master waved him away and with 164 A SCION OF THE COVENANT. chin almost touching his breast walked listlessly forward. Dark enough had he been when in the gladness of the morning he had gone forth! Darker now was he under the deluge of shame which had fallen over him since! Never a word said Dan as he en- tered the house, never a word as he carefully took off his meeting clothes and donned plainer raiment. Then he went back to his chair be- hind the stove and, given up to his humiliation, brooded, bent and sigh- ing, over his troubles. He hoped without hope that Margaret might have mercy and be a comfort to him. But her wrath was great, and her tongue, sharpened by waiting, cut him with bitter words. Wise man, he said nothing in reply, suffering in silence with a heart bitterer than ever against the vain bell, the cause of it all. With a last scornful glance at him, Margaret flounced out of the kitchen to put away his fine clothes. In the middle of her folding and brushing she suddenly thought of the half dol- lar piece she had forgotten to take from the trousers after the last mar- ket day. Well! I wis near as big a gawk as that Dan himself, she whispered, with a queer little drawing of her thin lips. Highh! she added, not un- complacently, its little winder a buddy gits through-other with all these carryings on down yonder at Streamville. Her hand had already slipped into the right pocket of her lords garment and was seeking the touch of metal. But on a sudden her eyes leaped and a tremor of fear quivered through her, for her fingers running along the seam at the bottom met nothing but the scratchy feel of coarse cotton. She pulled it out to the light of day, but the coin was not there. Then fever- ishly and with a queer dread over her she turned every pocket of his clothes inside out, and at last as she flinped the lining of one in his vest the mean copper showed its dark brown face for a moment and rang guiltily down on the floor. She gasped; she fairly reeled; and snatching the hateful cop- per coin from the floor with one wild swoop, she rushed into the presence of her spouse, who still cowered in his chair. Dans first feeling was one of relief that the stove was between him and Margaret. But she stood just across, with her head leaned far forward, her eyes staring wide with wild alarm, and between her thumb and forefinger she held right beneath his nose the dam- ning coin. Man, what have ye done with the silver bit? What have ye done with the silver bit as was in your trousers? Did ye pit it intil the ladle? Dan leaped to his feet as if a bullet had ripped through his heart. He was dizzy, for it all came back to him; and he sank back with feelings akin to woe. It xvould not be possible to tell in words that are only words how Mar- garet lamented, and how at times the very gall of bitterness seemed to drip from her tongue as she stepped about the kitchen, or with her hands on her hips stood regarding him in scorn. Neither could one describe the horror in Dans own accusing soul as it re- flected upon this thing he had done. Surely it is enough that towards even- ing, dressed again in his Sabbath clothes, he walked down to the church in the hope of finding Elder Fraser before the usual prayer meeting be- gan. Luckily enough he found that good man in the little bare vestry off the hall; and with even better luck, as he thought, the stout canvas bag con- taining the days collection lay on the table. The leading elder listened quietly; but all the while the long bony fingers of his left hand played lovingly with a tawny whisker, and his eyes hid themselves behind half shut lids, and he pouted his lips and smacked, and he pursed them as if he would whistle, and smacked them again. He shook his old bald head very sagely when A SCION OF THE COVENANT. 165 Dan was done, but seemed still to wonder over something which had puzzled him, and of which he had just received but a half revelation. After a half minutes silence, however, he screwed his face to the dignity befit- ting his high office, and said in a very calm and solemn voice: This noon, Meester McKenzie, the session thanked the gude Lord for the bountiful hand Heaven opened in our midst. Deed ye should a hard the thanksgivin of Meester McNutt. Rale deep! Rale deep and grand it wis ! Deep in discourse is Meester Mc- Nutt, Don answered, as dignitary to dignitary, an his peteetions are very grand, bit its me as is sorry, mighty sorry, Elder Fraser, that him and the session wis thankful for that feefty cent piece of Don McKenzies. For its him as didnt mean it, at all, at all. Its my change Ill be wantin from ye the day forty-nine cents change. Then with a fine touch of scorn: Did ye think Id be pittin in half a dollar when a black cent ud do? Haugh! be quaet, Elder Fraser! Be quaet, man Flint Fraser did not seem to hear a word, but went on again, as if the thoughts which came while Dan talked awed him. Winderful! win- derful, he mused, are the ways of the Almighty! He wis afraid, Ill be seem, that maybe its no with the proper cheer that youll be givin o your substance till Him. This angered Dan, as perhaps the elder intended, but though his little eyes shot fire, he cried in amazement and bitterness: Haugh, man, ye re not wise the day! Me thats ever ready with the steepends and the bit for the missions? Is it my white bit youll be takin to give to that old rogue of a sexton? Ay! ay! an old sour rogueand then call that Provi- dence? Still unmoved and in the same dreamy way the elder went on softly: It wis Elder McTavish as wid be wantin it to go till the missions, bit Elder McLeod wis sore hot for the grand scheme of French evangeliza- tion. Elder Dunbar wid be thinkin, he said, as the superannuation fund must no be forgot, an indeed Meester McNutt wis like to favor that himself for a whilie. But they couldnt agree, nor they widdnt. Till all at once the minister clapped his hands soft like an smiled like a slip of a boy: Its for the bell, brethren, he said. Its been sent for the bell! An we agreed an were glad together. Aye! aye! It was a happy time we had then, an its the grand prayer of Meester McNutt ye should a hard, Meester McKenzie. Aye, man! bit it wis mighty ! Dan choked. His eyes rolled ter- ribly. It seemed as if his very breath had fled. But at last he managed to gasp, and then he spluttered: Till the bell? Till the bell? My money till that dang bell? and he menaced the elder with his fist. Ay, Dan Mc- Kenzie, the old man answered grim- ly, as he rose to his full height, yeve contributed till a good cause in spite o yourself. Yeve contributed till the bell. Through the window Elder Flint Fraser watched the wretched Dan make his slow way towards home. The solemnity had faded from the old mans face, and one might have sworn that a sly twinkle was playing in his eyes. No smile, however, broke the line of his stern lips. But his eyes were still amused a minute later when, as he stroked his starboard whisker and pulled its point out far, he mur- mured slowly for his own ear: A clear dispensation! Aye, aye, a clear dispensation ! Then he chuckled, Laik some dispensations hard to bear! Whether the worthy elder was right I do not know. Whether he would have seen so clear a dispensation had Margaret come to him at Dans right hand I fear to guess. Even as it was, it is something about which opinions must ever differ. That they do differ I know well; for when I last heard that bland old bell ring in the clear, calm air of Streamville, only a sum- i66 THE HOME OF SOPHIA AND OLIVER SMITH. mer ago, I heard two farmers talk, and one said impatiently, as if settling the thing from dispute forever: Haugh, man! the silver bit went till the bell, and Dan McKenzies name was pit on the list. Yere not wise, the other an- swered as scornfully, for there wis forty-nine Sabbaths afterwards, as yell remember, that Donald McKen- zie gave not a haight till the collec- tion. A queer man, Dan is! Deed, a queer man Thus I must leave this. And as for the man Dan McKenzie, upon whom the burden of this tale lies, I can only say that he ponders still over what one of his forefathers of the Covenant might have done had he in such an evil hour fallen into similar troubles and made a like mistake. It is in the twilights, when all is dark in the dingy kitchen, save the red coals glowing at the damper, and while he can still see Margaret before him, a shadowy figure bent over in her chair swinging her body a little as she croons an old Jacobite song of Prince Charlie or a bit of a psalm tune, that he looks across the stove at her and wonders with many wonderings whether any of his stern old ancestors could have suffered as much as he and borne it in other way than he did. THE HOME OF SOPHIA AND OLIVER SMITH. By Giles B. Slebbins. Sing on! bring down, 0 beautiful river, The joy of the hills to the waiting sea; The wealth of the vales, the pomp of the mountains, The breath of the woodlands bear with thee.~~ THUS has some unknown poet given a glimpse of what the beautiful Connecticut bears to the waiting sea. On either side, towards its source near the Canadian border, are narrow glens, and rocks and mountains; further south, fair meadows, broad and rich, and pleasant woodlands, with billowy mountain ranges in the distance. Hatfield, Massacbusetts, is one of the most beautiful of the rural villages along the banks of the beautiful river. Northampton and Springfield farther south, have felt the thrill and rush of modern life, yet are still attractive towns, beautiful for situation. A na- tive of Springfield myself, moving up to old Hatfield with my parents when a child, and living there most of the time for twenty years, the history of the place is familiar to me, the old attachments strong, and the scenery still fresh in my minds eye. Quaint collections of old household goods tables with many feet, chairs, desks, side-boards, porringers and pots, warming pans and foot stoves, were stowed away in the garrets of old farmhouses in Hatfield; now and then a curious book, tucked under a dusty rafter, or laid away in some drawer. In reach of my hand lies a volume of sermons by Richard Steele, doubtless a famous preacher in his time, printed in London in 1695, which I found in the garret of the old Meekins house. On its opening page several genera- THE HOME OF SOPHIA AND OLIVER SMITH. tions of the family had written their names. Evidently it was a precious volume to them, with some real spir- itual nourishment in its strange sen- tences; but few of any creed would read it to-day. Can it be that our best homilies shall become so poor and useless, two centuries hence? One of the Meekins race was one of the odd and striking characters to be found in every old New England vil- lage. My mother used to tell how, during the great eclipse of i8j6, when the fowls went to roost and the people were looking at a little fragment of the sun through smoked glass, he never stopped from his work, but said to the idlers, as he toiled on stoutly: Somebodys got to hoe corn. Strange stories were told of a black cat, as big as a yearlin calf, its yel- low eyes flashing, spitting fiercely as it ran along on the big beams over the barn floor, a witch in that uncanny shape, as the man who saw it believed; and of poor old women riding through the air at night, on broom- sticks, to witch meetings. 0 1 d men who told these stories, early in this century, would not say they believed them; but they never quite dared to deny their truth, and the most warm blooded children had strange chills as they lis- tened to such weird tales. Perils beset the early settlers. I have seen an embankment, almost smoothed away, which ran a mile north and south just west of the main street, and had been the foundation of a stockaded defence against the Indi- ans. One dark September day in 1677, an Indian foray was made near the north end of the settlement. Houses were burned, men shot, and captive women, a child five years old, and a man or two, carried off, through two hundred miles of trackless forest, to Canada, to be brought back again the next year by the skill and heroic daring of Benjamin Wait and his steadfast helper, Samuel Jennings. A friend of mine, who had searched the town records of over a century, found frequent mention of the abo- rigines, called Indians, only once, heathen, or heathen-dogs in every other mention. For over a hundred and fifty years the steadfast town had but one parish one church, one faith, one bap- tism, and that one church has hardly a rival to-day. Such influences shaped the lives of the people, as I knew them. The turbid tide of immi- gration had not then begun to set in, social life was simple, but it was on a high level; the Puritan air was full of thought, for it was lofty ideals that brought the best blood of England across the ocean. The faults of our ancestors may be outgrown but their virtues are to be kept in mind. They laid solid foundations for human free- dom. In my childhood there was but one foreigner among the thousand dwell- ers in Hatfield,Mr. Wilkie, a good man, a Hessian soldier, one of King Georges hired fighters, who deserted at the close of the Revolutionary War, as all did who could. THE CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH, HATFIELD. i68 THE HOME OF SOPHIA AND OLIVER SMITH. For generations the Smith family had lived in this community, a strong race of leading men and women. The story I am to tell of Oliver and Sophia Smith is a story of large giving for the good of the people. Some may ask: How did these Smiths, living in stingy times, and belonging to a close-fisted race, happen to give so much ? Those were not stingy times; and the Yankees were not, and are not a meanly selfish race. With the salt sea on one side, and a howling wilder- ness on the other, they had a struggle for life, such as we can but faintly im- agine. Economy became a second na- ture, plain living a habit, running sometimes indeed to sordidness and meanness. But I have seen plain men, careful and saving in their personal ways, with hands open as day to melting charity, but whose hearts never ran away with their heads, and who must first know that their charity was wise. Let the appeal to-day be for the stricken victims of fever in our southern cities,or for the sufferers by western forest-fires, or for some wise plan of education or reform, and help comes as generously from New Eng- land as from any other quarter,I believe more generously and comes largely from those trained in simple and self-helping ways and inspired by the Puritan sense of duty. A grassy street a hundred feet wide extends a mile north and .south not far from the west bank of the Connecticut, its solidoldhousesmade to stand, with massive chimneys and steep roofs; and many of them do stand, as they have for a century, with some changing touches of modern style and comfort. Side streets Upper Lane, and Middle Lane, their old names reach westward; and the Northampton road turns west and south, across Mill river. Around each house is the home lot of days gone by, with room for barns and orchards, ~ the farm back in the great meadows, often in fragments a mile or two apart. Noble elms stand along the streets, their branches swinging far over the chimneys. Some begin to show decay, but many are still per- fect. Nearly opposite the old home- stead of my grandfather, on the Northampton road, and in front of the house of Mr. Lovell, are two magnifi- cent elms, as fresh in their growth as when I first knew them, almost sev- enty years ago. They stand some fif- teen feet apart, their trunks five or six feet through, and dividing a few feet up into a score of branches, each large enough for a tree, these sub- dividing, wide-spread and interlacing, rising over ninety feet in height and reaching out as far in width a marvel of massive limbs and delicate tracery of twig and leaf, a fairy world of foliage and bird-song far up where no venturesome boy ever climbed. A hundred years Nature had wrought to perfect this master-piece, all a free gift to me and others of the group of children who loved to stand in the shade, or lie on the grass, and look up, open-eyed and happy, not knowing how they were drawn auct held there. For a hundred years the old meet- ing-house stood in the middle of the main street, bare, many-windowed and with a tall spire. It is now push~d away behind a barn and used as a tobacco shed. To such base uses do we come at last ! On the west side of the street, just above the meeting-house, stood the home of Benjamin Smith, Squire Ben, a brother of Oliver, who, never marrying, lived pleasantly with that brother to the close of his earthly life. It was a noble old mansion, with gam- brel-roof and dormer windows. The family were above putting on airs. They had a decent sense of good blood and good breeding, but their daily life was unpretending and neighborly. Once or twice a year the north par- lor was opened on some great occa- sion, its close shutters thrown back, and the sunshine actually let into its stately space. To try to sit in the high-backed, hair-seated chairs, in which none but the watchfully up- THE HOME OF SOPHIA AND OLIVER SMITH. 169 right could stay, and to look at the rich velvet wall-paper, with its rows of shepherdesses and poppies, was not a daily privilege. Just south of the house, by the front fence, stood the great elm, known as such by the first settlers, and with Indian marks of high floods cut in its trunk. Four feet from the ground, just above the spread of its roots, it measured thirty-two feet in circum- ferencethe largest girth, I think, of any New England tree. Its three enormous branches were not lofty nor graceful. The whole tree was a gnarled and knotted mass of enduring strength; and it lived over two centu- ries. Not far north, on the same side of the street, is the Academy, built and endowed by Sophia Smith for the ben- efit of her townsfolk. On the oppo- site side of the street, just south of the meeting-house, was the ample and comfortable house of Joseph Smith, father of Sophia, where most of her life was spent. Oliver was in the fourth generation from Samuel Smith and his wife Elizabeth, who crossed the Atlantic in 1634, in the ship Elizabeth, from Ips- wich to New York, with their three young children, found their way to Hadley and Hatfield, lived to be over eighty and left six children, who reared large families,ancestors of a true-hearted race. Samuel was a trustworthy and capable man, hold- ing offices in Church and State. His son John was killed by the Indians in Hatfield meadows in 1676. Uncle Oliver was a frequent and welcome visitor in our Hatfield home. He was social, cheerful and of simple habits. It was my delight to hear him talk, for he knew much of men and things, and his genial and sagacious humor instructed us. When sixty years of age, he was the youngest of six brothers, residents in or near the town, a family of steadfast men, who aimed to do true work and helped hold the commonwealth together. He was the rich man of that region. We boys u ed to talk over his wealth, and try to figure up how big a pile, in silver or gold, his money would make. A million was then incredible, THE BIRTHPLAcz OF OLIVER AND 5OPHIA 5MITH. 170 ELM STREET, HATFIELD. THE HOME OF SOPHIA AND OL[VER SMITH. 7 quite beyond the scope of our small brains. He was a banker and a money lender, not given to robbing the poor, but exact and thorough, and expecting others to be so. He made good investments, loaned money at six per cent, spent littleand the sur- plus grew large. I have known of his rendering men great service in money matters, in troublous times, on terms not burthensome to them, but safe to himself, when a hard and selfish man would have ground them. His per- sonal reputation was fair and high. People did not fear or hate him, as they do many money-lenders. Not only his justice, but his genial and kindly ways, saved him from that ca- lamity. He was sometimes called pe- nurious; but I know of his quiet chari- ties,one hand hardly knowing what the other gave. In his later years those charities were more appreciated. In matters of conduct or opinion, praise or blame had small weight with him. Without controversy he quietly did his duty as he saw it, and held firm to his own convictions. Seventy years ago, in the early days of Unitarian- ism, he was for years the only sub- scriber in the village to the Christian Register, when such a subscription was held as a proclamation of a dan- gerous heresy, subjecting whoever made it to prejudices such as few realize to-day. Through all these he kept on the even tenor of his way, without retaliation or any ruffling of his peace of mind. With charity for all, his convictions were as strong as those of any Puritan. Once a week, on Monday, he rode to Northampton bank, four miles, his old gray horse and green wagon known to all. This regular trip, occasional visits to distant cities, the care of his affairs at home and a genial social life filled his time. Cer- tain village oracles, after figuring up the matter, announced that it did not cost Uncle Oliver more than five or six hundred dollars a year to live, an opinion probably nearer correct than many in such cases. His for- tune was known to be large,im- mense for those times. Who would have it? His kindred did not need it. His plans were secrets in his own heart. People wondered at his buoy- ant cheer. Cares he had, but they did not depress him. The fears that haunt miserly souls never seemed to trouble him. Some hidden fountain, some high aim unrevealed, there must be, to account for such a life. Years must pass, and bodily death must come, to reveal his hidden well-spring of happiness, by making known the wise and kindly plans which he had secretly matured through many years. Born in Hatfield in 1776, he passed away peacefully in his native place in 1845. His will .was duly opened, and it was found that, save a few small legacies, his estate was left to found The Smith Charities. The estate was valued in 1847 at $391,562, which was less than its real value. The trustees report for 1896 shows the total properties, mostly bonds, stocks, and mortgages, to be $1,283,850; the year s receipts, interest, etc., $64,070; expenses and payments, $46,860, the funds in the year gaining $17,210. This gain is in accord with the design of the founder, to make his charities hold their own, gain gradually, and be perpetual, as they will be, if as well managed in future as up to the present date. The will, dated 1844, (making a pamphlet of 25 pages) is clear and strong, and provides for the choice of officers and their duties; for gifts to boys and girls apprenticed to useful trades or services, to indigent widows, to the sick or disabled, to young women on their marriage, etc., in sums of about $50; also for loans of $500 to young men to help their start in life, they paying yearly interest for a fixed term, and then their note to be given to them, if all is satisfactory; for the education of boys and oirls iii Hatfield and other towns named; and for the future building of schools of agriculture and industry. No distinc- tion or preference for any creed or 172 THE HOME OF SOPHIA AND OLIVER SMITH. party is to be shown, and the prac- tice of economy, frugality, temper- ance, indnstry and every moral vir- tne is enjoined npon every benefi- ciary. A substantial stone building stands in Northampton, bnilt for the offices of the Smith Charities. Hnndreds of persons have been helped and trained in self-help by its fnnds. So long as that building stands, or any building devoted to the same purpose, it will be a monnment needing no chiselled inscription heavy with praises; for The daily benefactions starting from within its walls will keep alive and sacred the blessed memory of Oliver :Smith. After their danghter became the wife of Samuel T. Lyman, of North- ampton, Benjamin Smith and his wife took into their family a young girl to fill her place. She came and took up her nseful daily tasks pleas- antly. The beanty of her gracious and noble life lent new charm to the old home. Her education was in the public school, but her genins had wide range. The best books were in reach; she had the companionship of a gronp of gifted women, such as were and are still to be found in New England villages; she wrote for maga- zines, carefully hiding her identity; she rarely visited distant cities. She was always the bright particular star of the little town. Tall and delicate, with high forehead, dark eyes deep and tender, finely expressive features, and a singular charm of manner, heightened by goodness and sincerity, her intellect was superior, her spiritual life deep and tranquil. An intimate friend of my only sister, her visits to us were always welcome,her influ- ence over me, I am grateful to say, a saving grace. Strict in the daily do- ing of duty, competent and accu- rate, although fond of the ideal and romantic, she was of great service to Oliver Smith as a private secretary, and their mutual friendship was affec- tionate and devoted. By a modest allowance in his will and by the care of his trustees, she was well provided for. After a separation of twenty years, I saw herwith the silver crown of beautiful old age, her steps feeble, but the old light in her eyes as she called my name. Years bad ripened the beauty of her character and en- larged her thought. Soon after- MAIN 5TREET, HATFIELD. THE HOME OF SOPHIA AND OLIVER SMITH. 73 wards she passed into the higher life, the change to her being like the open- ing of a golden gate. Sophia Smith, the founder of Smith College for Women at Northampton, was a niece of Oliver Smith. It is not supposed that either knew anything of the beneficent and far-reaching plans of the other. The woman kept her secret, as the man kept his. Only when bodily death came to them was it revealed; a surprise, a delight, a glad anticipation of rich results then came to many. In i86i Sophia Smiths first will was made, giving $50,000 for founding a scientific school at Amherst College. In 1862 this was set aside, and a like sum be- queathed for a library in Hatfield. For several years this stood, until Rev. John M. Green, pastor of the Hat- field church, proposed a college for women. This plan was fully dis- cussed and adopted, the college to be in Hatfield, the site changed to North- ampton at the suggestion of Mr. Green, who was her trusted helper in the matter for years. For the building and endowment of the Hat- field Academy $75,000 was provided, and for the womans college at North- ampton about $500,ooo,her whole estate with small exceptions, as her kindred needed no help of this kind. During her last years the query of the inquisitive was: Who will get her money? but a silence like that of the Sphinx brooded over the mys- tery. Occasionally a stranger would reach the old tavern near her home, by stage or carriage, go to the house for a few hours, and silently steal away as he came, leaving no name be- hind. The few who saw them said they looked like preachers or lawyers. Nobody thought of them as suitors. Miss Smith was not an unattractive woman, but all felt that her strong and reticent life would never be shared by another in marriage. THE LOWELL ELMS - ON ELM 5TEE~T. 174 THE HOME OF SOPHIA AND OLiVER SMITH. Her home was the substantial house, about a century old, left by her father, Joseph Smith, for the joint use of Austin, Sophia and Har- riet, his unmarried children. There the larger part of her life was passed, a new house near by being the family home for a few last years. The old house still stands. There I knew the family, as an occasional visitor. Austin was a shrewd man of business, honest, keen, and clear in his deal- ings. Harriet was kind and intelli- gent. The sisters were economical in their habits, quiet and reticent, but neighborly. They gave for charity, and for such religious purposes, mis- sionary work, etc., as came within the scope of the Hatfield church, where they were constant attendants. Tb,eir givings were about in propor- tion with those of their neighbors. For the higher education of women they never revealed any especial inter- est. That was Sophias secret. Prob- ably her sister knew it, but she kept it well. They were deeply religious, sincere believers in the Puritanism in which they were trained. Sophia nobly illustrated one of its sacred ideas, that we are but stewards of our worldly goods, and should use them for the glory of God, and the good of man. The sisters were quite deaf, and this led them still more to lives of thought. The village library, not large, but of choice books, gave them a wide range of study, and in Sophias life, with her strength of character and. her deep~ sense of duty, took wise and practical form, and became a blessing to the lives of others. Their school education was small; their ed- ucation by thoughtful reading, large. Sophias plans for the college were so wisely shaped that they have been fol- lowed with marked success and with little change. I remember Sophia Smith as hardly of medium stature, and of slight form, not frail, but healthful. I had a sense of her mental and moral strength, her firm and clear judgment, her care- ful kindness, and a frugal economy, in which there was no tinge of mean- ness, but the life-long habit which had become a second nature. About once a year the Smith sis POST OFFICE CORNER. THE HOME OF SOPHIA AND OLIVER SMITH. 75 ters made a party, inviting about fifty of the young and middle-aged. The tall wax candles, the great brass andirons, the bright open fires, the solid mahogany furniture, the silver tea service, the old china, and the fra- grant tea, the delicate and perfect homemade biscuit and cake, all gave the fortunate visitors a glimpse of old-time gentility. Once a year, for a long time, the three occupants of the house went to Saratoga for a few weeks. While there, they came so near the fashion- able world, in equipage and dress, as to say by their acts: We have a good right to be as brave and fine as you are; we can if we choose. Thus they had views of life in these aspects, and then dropped back in quiet content, to their plain village ways. In course of time, Austin passed away, leaving to Sophia $450,- ooo. The gentle Harriet followed, her fair fortune laid in her sisters lap. In 1870, Sophia, at the age of seventy- four, closed her earthly career. Her estate was appraised at $500,000, less than its real value. This went to found the Northampton and Hat- field schools, largely to the former. In I875 the Smith College for Wo- men opened with two buildings and fourteen students. To-day it has a score of buildings and a thousand students. This growth is doubtless beyond her most sanguine expecta- tions, and shows the excellence of her plans and the prophetic wisdom of these words in her will: It is my opinion that by the higher and more Christian education of women their weight of influence in repairing the evils of society will be greatly in- creased; as teachers, writers, mothers, members of society, their power for good will be incalculably enlarged. In 1677, among the captives taken by Indians from Hatfield to Canada, and brought safely home again the next year by the heroic Benjamin Wait, were his wife and a child but six months old, born in the In- dians forest home fitly named Can- ada Wait. Grown to womanhood in 1696 she married Joseph Smith, great- grandfather of Sophia, lived to the ripe age of seventy-two years, and left ten children. In Hatfield, at a public meeting in 1894, Daniel W. Wells said: Canada Wait never dreamed, in her wigwam in far-off Sorel, that she would be the mother of the frugal Smiths, who, in later time, would scatter charity and learning with lavish hands. THE PARTRIDGE ELM OPPOSITE THE SMITH HOMESTEAD. TO THE CONCORD RIVER. By (arles-Edward Arnory Winslow. DEAR stream, I know thy every mood as well As Love the changes in his mistress eyes, From early morn, when still the shadows dwell, And wreathing mists from off thy bosom rise, While glens and dales are xvrapped in virgin sleep, On moss and fern the nights cool dews lie deep, And mornings kiss caresses crag and steep. For noons still honr a cool retreat I know, And oft thro shading boughs my conrse have steered, To lie beyond the currents rippling flow, Where vines hang down and sedges tall are reared, While only here and there a single gleam Of light breaks through, to dance upon the stream, A shadowing of Natures happy dream. At sunset I have songht a spot where slow The flood rolls northward with a broad expanse, And over meadows wide the sun hangs low, To cast soft shadows where the midges dance; And seen the bittern wing his clumsy way Toward one tall pine that holds nnbroken sway Above the wood of maples autumn-gay. 176 TO THE CONCORD RIVER. 77 To-day, fair river, I am far away From thy cool reaches, in a barren land; Yet still I see thy slender birches sway, Hear still thy placid mnrmnr close at hand, And in my sonl thy peace and calm abide, As when I wandered by thy tranqnil tide, Or idly drifted where thy lilies ride. And I have loved, where drooping willows bend And hemlocks tall are mirrored in the stream, To float between two worlds, which have no end And no beginning: both enchanted seem; While neath the arched stone bridge which lies below, The evening star, with steady silver glow, Swims on the snrface of the cnrrent slow. THE GREAT SHELL MOUNDS OF DAMARISCOTTA. By George Stiliman Berry. O Nnumerous river banks and other water shores all over the globe are found large deposits of shells, both of the oyster and other bivalves. These collections usually take the form of banks or mounds, and in many instances are covered with soil and vegetation to so great an extent that their discovery has been made only by accident. Often, how ever, by the encroachment of water upon land the shell banks have been eroded so that large sections are exposed to view. There are thousands of these small heaps on every conti- nent, ranging in quantity from a few bushels to a mass whose huge dimen- sions form a feature of the landscape. Some of the greatest of these mounds are widely known, having for years received the investigations of scientists and the pilgrimages of the curious. Among them may be mentioned the ones on the peninsula of Denmark, in Japan, in Florida and in British Co- lumbia. These and similar deposits of shell were formerly thought to he natural beds of bivalves, raised by ele- vation of the land from their former position underneath the waters of bays and inlets. But investigation has es- tablished the fact that these are not natural beds, but are heaps of the cast off valves of those animals whose suc- culent parts were consumed by a hu- man population: New England isby no means destitute of these relics, as numerous shell banks on the coast of Maine and Massachusetts testify. It is the purpose of this article to con- fine attention to the immense oyster shell deposits on the Damariscotta river in Maine, not only because they are nearly, if not quite, the largest oyster shell mounds in the world, but also because a description of them would apply very closely to all other artificial clam and oyster heaps. 178 The Daniariscotta is a short but broad tide-water river, lying midway betxveen the Kennebec and the Penob- scot. Fifteen niiles from its mouth, at the bridge connecting the towns of Damariscotta and Newcastle, the river narrows perceptibly and runs between hilly banks in a channel not more than a hundred yards xvide. A little over a mile above the bridge the river bends at right angles towards the west, and a hundred rods further enlarges into a bay nearly two miles long and half a mile wide. This bay receives the waters of a lake, which rests upon the higher land terminating at this point the upper course of the river. The de- posit of oyster shells, in continuous or solitary heaps, lie on both sides of the river for a few hundred yards below and above the bend. There are five mounds of large size, besides numer- ous other deposits containing from a few bushels to many tons. The existence of these mounds has been known to white men from the time when George Popham, cruising off the coast of Maine in the early part of the seventeenth century, was in- formed by the Indians of immense de- l)Osits of oyster shells in the interior. The conspicuous position of the mounds, particularly the one lying on the western shore just below the bend in the river, could not fail to attract marked attention. This great mound on the peninsula extends in the form of a bluff four hundred feet along the shore and is exposed on the side towards the river throughout its whole extent. The northern portion has a thickness of only a few feet, its posi- tion on higher ground making it rise to nearly the same level as the part be- low, where the shells have an altitude of thirty-one feet, exceeding the height of any other recorded mass of shells in the world. The dense growth of GREAT SHELL MOUNDS OF DAMARISCOTTA. 79 pine and sprnce trees, which cover the whole peninsula and encroach upon the shells, makes it difficult to ascer- tain the exact width of the heap. The widest portion appears to extend about seventy-five feet inland; bnt there are traces of shells in the rear of this, con- sisting mostly of small circular mounds, the exploration of which is not easy on accOunt of the tenacions roots that permeate the soil in all di- rections. The present appearance of the shell-bank gives an indication of the enormons losses which it has suf- fered by erosion froni the river since the shells were deposited. This fact will at once be discovered by the most superficial observer, as he traverses the little shelly beach which lies in front of the bluff. Wherever the alti- tnde of the shells is not too great, he will see a vertical wall of closely packed shells lying above the yellow soil. It is evident by a glance that the shells did not originally terminate in this wall, but that the land once ex tended many yards out in front, giving room for the natural slope of the shells as they were thrown on the ground in the original piles. In the higher parts of the blnff the shells conld not well sustain a vertical position and have fallen upon the beach in steep slopes. It has been a frequent pastime for boys in their sports to wallow with glee in the shells from the top of the steep in- cline down to the beach. This heap has sustained other losses than those caused by the depredations of nature. For many years the Oys- ter Banks was a favorite place for the denizens of the surrounding towns to obtain material for walks and other purposes. In consequence of this de- mand hundreds of tons of shells were taken away by scow and cart. A lime kiln was also erected at the southern end of the great mound and many tons were burned therein. Of late years, however, the owners of the property have shown a laudable desire to pre- serve the features of the mound, and have allowed no encroachments to be made upon it. All along the edge of the bank trees and shrubs are growing. Trunks of trees have fallen upon the shore, dragging soil and shells after them, and have been floated away by high water and by retreating ice in the spring. It is a pleasant occupation to draw up ones boat on the shelly beach and explore along the base of the mound. In one place successive hands have picked away the shells under- neath the roots of a tree and have hol- lowed out a little cave large enough for one to sit in. Its side and roof are of compact shell, xvhite as alabaster, and we may have the pleasure of plucking away a few shells to make the con- cavity larger. Up to a few decades ago it was gen- erally assumed that the banks were natural beds of oysters. But just be- WHALEBACK MOUND, DAM ARIscOTTA. iSo GREAT SHELL MOUNDS OF DAMARISCOTTA. fore the war of the rebellion Professor Chadbourne of Bowdoin College made a brief examination of the monnds and showed conclusively that they had been left there as remains of savage feasts at a period in the past whose limits he did not attempt to describe. Besides the larger heaps, he found fre- quent occurrence of shells in piles ten or fifteen feet in diameter, two or three feet deep. The soil beneath was made up of the diluvial deposit of sand, gravel and boulders, like all the land in the vicinity beyond the shells. He also noticed scattered among the shells numerous bones of animals broken into fragments, as if by some instru- ment, bones of birds and beavers, and some sturgeons plates. A dark line was seen near the bottom of the large mound, probably vegetable mould formed during temporary aban- donment of the heap, and in places along that line the shells for a few inches underneath were decomposed, or turned to lime, as if acted upon by fire. The shells of clams, quahaugs and other bivalves, moreover, were found scattered through the heap. A hundred yards down stream, on the same side of the river as the de- posit just described, is another bank of shells, extending about eight hundred feet along the shore, and broken at the lower end into several small heaps. In some places it is seventy-five feet wide, and its greatest depth is eleven feet. This heap is at the lower edge of what is now a large field, in which, during the progress of cultivation for many years, countless numbers of arrow- heads and various other aboriginal tools and weapons have been dis- closed. Evidences of the local manufac- ture of Indian implements have here been found, and it is beyond doubt that this field and its immediate vicin- ity formed the site of a long-continued aboriginal encampment. The shell de- posit hereto annexed is covered with grass and a few scattered trees of large size. Upon digging into the bank from the beach are found the roots of great trees whose upper parts, having been exposed to the air, long since be- came dust and vanished from the land- scape. Like the mound on the penin- sula, this mound also has been sub- jected to great erosion along the shore, and like the other has lost large quantities of its shells. There is no ex- aggeration in the statement that both these shelly banks have lost fully one- half their original contents. This mound is now exposed along its whole front. On account of the lesser height, WHALEBACK MOUND. GREAT SHELL MOUNDS OF DAMARISCOTTA. i8i however, it is by no means so con- spicuous to the view as its neighbor above, and is therefore the object of less attention. Many who have idly ex- plored these deposits will receive with incredulity the statement that the lower heap contains fully as many shells as the peninsula mound; but a careful examination will convince one of the correctness of this conclusion. About twelve years ago a business m a n from abroad at- tempted to buy the de- posits on the w e 5 t e r n shore of the river, for the purpose o f grinding the shells, to be used as food for hens and fertilizi n g material for the soil. He was unable to secure these de- posits, how- ever, and turned h i s attention to t h e eastern bank, where traces of shells were seen out- cropping upon the shore three hundred feet across the river, and directly opposite the penin- sula mound. By few, if any, had the extent of this new deposit hith- erto been suspected. Scientific and idle investigation had on the west- ern shore found so many shells to manipulate, where the water had made easy access to them, that the possibilities of the neighboring heaps had received only casual thought. As the process. of removing the incum- bent soil was continued and tentative excavations were made on the heap, it became apparent that an immense deposit of shells had been discovered. The prospective dealer in hen food lost no time in securing the property and erecting at the river bank a large drying and grinding mill. From early spring until late in the autumn a large crew of men was at work upon the heap, and when the snows of winter began to fall and financial coolness settled upon the enter- prise, only a small por- tion of the mound was left. Many years ago, Professor F. W. Putnam, of the Pea- body Mu- seum at Cambridge, in company with the dis- tin gui s he d s c ientists, Jeifries Wy- man and Edward S. Morse, had made explo- rations of the shell de- posits in this vicinity, and had collect- ed a good deal of material, especially from the peninsula mound. Since thattime other contributions have been made to the Peabody Museum, so that now this famous institution contains a large and well classified assortment of pot- tery, implements and bones from the shell banks in the region of the Dam- ariscotta river. Professor Putnam learned of the intended depredations upon the newly found heap, aud, real- iziug the importan e of securing com- plete data in regard to the structure A SECTION OF WHALEBACK MOUND. GREAT SHELL MOUNDS OF DAMARISCOTTA. and contents of this monnd, pnr- chased for the Mnsenm the right of all relics fonnd in the deposit. A com- petent local antiqnarian was engaged to he constantly on the gronnd, for the pnrpose of obtaining relics, meas- nrements and pertinent facts ahont this great deposit. As a resnlt of this labor a large amonnt of material was forwarded to the Peahody Mnsenm, together with photographs and other important data concerning the monnd. This material, on acconnt of lack of room in that large hnt already crowded edifice, is still nnclassified and not yet on exhihition. We are able, nevertheless, to present here most of the important facts concern- ing this monnd and to give reprodnc- tions of the best photographs taken dnring its destrnction. This newly discovered collection of shells hegan on the river hank and ex- tended np hill for three hnndred feet at right angles with the stream. Its width was one hnndred and twenty- five feet, no measnrements being taken from those points where the shells were less than a foot deep. The monnd was a solid, and compact mas of shells with a comparatively great depth thronghont. It had the appear-~ ance of an immense whaleback, and converted what was once a slight de- pression of the land into a hill. The greatest height of the shells was six- teen and one half feet, and it was es- timated that the average height was nearly ten feet. Yielding in some de- gree to sentiment, the workmen left for a