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VoL. XIV. 

OCTOBER, 1895. No. I. 


Notes upon painters and paintings of the day, with a series of engravings of 
representative canvases. 

api DE CHAVANNES is a painter 
to whom fame has come late, but in 
abundant measure. He was not a 
precocious genius. He was nearly thirty 
before his name appeared in the Salon 
catalogue ; and even when he had, after 
a fashion, asserted his position, for many 
years he received vastly more of ridi- 
cule than of praise. Itis only within the 
last few years that the 
world has discovered that 
in a very important branch 
of art—architectural decor- 
ation—Puvis de Chavannes 
has opened a_ new era. 
His simple, solemn, almost 
somber compositions, which 
were once stigmatized as 
crude and flat, or derided 
as grotesque freaks, are 
now more prized than the 
smoothest and most. bril- 
liant mural paintings of 
Cabanel or Laurens. 
‘‘From a distance,’’ said 
a critic of some of his 
earlier works, ‘‘the fantas- 
tic coloring has the effect 
of a tinted map of Europe ; 
from a nearer point of 
view one sees that they 
are really oil paintings, but 
by a hand so unskilled that 
they haven’t the relief of 
a fire screen.’’ Yet it was 
the same painter in whose 
honor five hundred of the 
most distinguished men of 
France met at a banquet in 
Paris last winter. | 
At seventy one M. de 
Chavannes is still full of | 
work and energy. He is 
tall and stalwart of frame, 

with closely trimmed gray hair and beard. 
He is a good deal of a recluse, and divides 
nearly all his time between his modest 
home in the Place Pigalle—where his 
neighbor is Jean Jacques Henner—and his 
studio at Neuilly. 
# % x x 

‘“THE Golden Age,’? which forms the 

frontispiece of this number of MUNSEY’s, 


Puvis de Chavannes. 

From a photograph by Pirou, Paris. 



ea AREAS aan 


“ Happy Hours.” | 
From a photograph by Ad, Braun & Co, (Braun, Clément & Co., Successors) after the painting by C. Detti. j 
was one of the last pictures painted by the the painter was born in France, and from * 
late Charles Joshua Chaplin. Itisacapital that event till the day of his death he never 
specimen of the style of this delicate, traveled away from French soil. 
piquant, dramatic painter of pretty feminine “i a i sj 
figures. In spite of his English name, THREE masters of German art celebrate 
Chaplin was most thoroughly French in his their eightieth birthdays within a few 
art. Though his father wasan Englishman, months of each other—Julius Schrader in , 





a pe na 





‘*Well Retrieved.” 


Krom the painting by C. F. Deiker 

diss Re 

‘© A Southern Belle.’ 

From the painting by S. Melton Fisher—Dy permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 14 East 230 

d St., New York, 

a wnctllnagsesslizsitts 

La | 


a entciataB 

- erg “ia ncetiinasdiasaiaiyas 



June, Andreas Achenbach in September, 
and Adolf Menzelin December. Schrader 
is a member of the Berlin and Vienna 
academies, and held a professorship at the 
former during most of his active life. His 
mastery of color is the leading quality of 
his work, and his services to the art of his 
country have been very great. He may be 
said to have been the founder of the best 

ground to an aristocratic huntsman or two, 
clad in spick and span uniforms. It was 
Achenbach who first saw the weakness of 
this old style, and determined to picture 
nature as she really is. 

When Heine’s “‘ Pictures of Travel’’ were 
published, Achenbach illustrated the series 
of poems on the Baltic, relying, at first, 
upon descriptions furnished by the author. 

‘The Faraglioni Rocks, Capri.’ 

From a photograph by the Berlin Photographic Company after the painting by August Leu. 

school of historical painting Germany has 
ever had. 

Achenbach was equally a pioneer in the 
field of landscape, being the leader of 
the realistic school that fought for rec- 
ognition in the forties, at Diisseldorf. 
German landscape painting had hitherto 
been romantic and intrinsically conven- 
tional—a_ thing of rocks and ruins and 
vistas of oak forest, forming a back- 

Becoming interested in the work, he made 
an expedition to the northern coast of Ger- 
many, and spent several months in study 
there. His marine pictures afterward be- 
came as well known as his landscapes. 
Menzel’s career has to a certain extent 
paralleled that of Schrader, his fellow pro- 
fessor at Berlin. He is best known as the 
painter of the so called rococo period,though 
he abandoned that historical field some 



“A Question.” 

From the painting by E, Blair Leighton—By permission of the Berlin Photographic Company, 14 East 23d St, New York. 

years ago, and has since, in spite of his 
great age, struck out on entirely new lines, 
largely upon contemporary themes. He 
has perpetuated a long list of court func- 
tions, reviews, street scenes, and similar 
events and phases of the life of his own day. 

Menzel’s brush is still busy, but Achen- 
bach and Schrader have ceased active work. 
* * * * 

It transpires that the purchaser of Gains- 
borough’s ‘‘ Lady Mulgrave ’’—of which we 
spoke last month as haying brought ten 



"YO, nay “ig pss BOT rs ‘huvduw rydnsbowyy wiysag ay) fo wor usad hgg—sobsaqqaziog *Yy Ag Guyurwd ay; wo.g 

1 Hg SI9AO7Z USUM,, 

s 22S 


‘*The Old Mill by Moonlight.” 

From a photograph by the Berlin Photographic Company after the painting by L, Douzette. 

thousand guineas at Christie’s—was Corne- 
lius Vanderbilt, and the picture is coming 
to his New York gallery. It will be a 
notable addition to the fine canvases he 
already possesses of the English school. 
Two of the finest area pair of Turners— 
‘*Boulogne Harbor’’ and the gorgeous Ve- 
netian ‘‘Grand Canal’’—for each of which 
he is said to have paid a sum precisely 
equal to the cost of ‘‘ Lady Mulgrave’? when 
be bought them through the well known 
London dealer Agnew—who has recently 
become Sir William Agnew, Baronet. 
iw x % oa 

THE two newly elected members of the 
Royal Academy in London are E. Onslow 
Ford, the sculptor, and W. B. Richmond, a 
painter whois best known for his fine deco- 
ration of the choir of St. Paul’s cathedral. 

Both have been associates of the Academy 
for seven years, and their promotion is gen- 
erally regarded as well deserved. Americans, 
however, would have been pleased to hear 
of the recognition of an associate of longer 
standing and at least equal reputation— 
George H. Boughton, formerly of New York. 
& * % 

‘““THE largest picture ever painted’’ is 
perhaps a topic that has no proper place 
among art notes ; yet it may be of interest 
to note that the distinction is claimed for a 
panorama of the Mississippi, executed by 
John Banvard, who died four years 
Watertown, South Dakota. This gigantic 
canvas was twenty two feet wide and nearly 

‘two miles long, and gave a detailed repre- 

sentation of two thousand miles of the 
course of the Father of the Waters. 



MHOA M3N "SAY HLdt4 262 ' OO P L3W379 ‘NOWHS AG ‘teat “LHOIYAdOD 

Johann Strauss. 
Drawn by V. Gribayédoff from a photograph. 


The famous musical family of the Strausses, of Vienna—The work and personality of its 
present head, the composer of the ‘‘ Beautiful Blue Danube.” 

HEN Johann Strauss was a little fel- 
low of six he wrote his first waltz. 
It was the germ of his genius, but 
it took a mother’s hope aud love to recog- 
nize it. His father, himself a conductor 
and composer of ability, brought his fist 
down upon the family table with a bang, 
and declared that one fiddler in the Strauss 
family was quite enough ; Johann should 
not be a musician. The mother was silent. 
With a little money of her own she sent 
her boy to the best teachers she could 
find. And Johann, senior, stormed and 
raved, and finally separated entirely from 
his wife. 

The father’s opposition to his son’s study 
of music could hardly have been due toa 
desire to spare the boy the hardships of a 
musician’s life, for his own had been made 
comparatively easy. Born in March, 1804, 

of poor Viennese parents, the elder Strauss 
had had such good fortune that he hardly 
knew what the study of music under diffi- 
culties meant. His father kept a little inn, 
‘*Zum Guten Hirten ’’ (At the Sign of the 
Good Shepherd), where an orchestra of 
three interpreted music of the lighter order 
to the delight of strolling guests. Little 
Johann loved their music, and was invari- 
ably to be found under the table, listening 
attentively. Of the toys given him, he was 
chiefly interested in a small violin. He 
would play upon it for hours, running over 
snatches of dances and airs he had heard 
while in hiding under the inn table. 

He had no liking for school, though he 

-was fortunate enough in being sent to a 

teacher who at once recognized that the boy 
should have a thorough musical education. 
His parents could not afford this, and 



9 ee oP 

Sy ee 


Johann was sent to learn bock 
binding. But he soon tired of 
his trade, and before he was four- 
teen years old, with his violin 
under his arm, he started out to 
play for a living. 

One of the frequenters of the 
‘*Zum Guten Hirten’’ was Herr 
Polischansky. He had taken an 
interest in little Strauss, and 
finally got the consent of the 
boy’s parents to let him have— 
at Polischansky’s expense—a 
systematic musical education. 
He learned rapidly. What it 
took the usual student a year 
to acquire, he accomplished in a 
week ; and soon he was playing 
in Vienna with a favorite string 
quartet. A little later he was 
engaged by Joseph Lanner to 
play in the various gardens and 
beer halls of the Austrian capital. 

Lanner and Strauss became 
good friends. On one occasion, 
when the former was prevented 
from writing a waltz promised 
for a concert on the following 
evening, Strauss undertook the 
task. The composition met with 

Josef Strauss, Younger Brother of the Waitz King. 

Frau Strauss, Wife of the Waltz King. 

an outburst of applause; and al- 
though Lanner’s name appeared on 
the program as the composer, 
Strauss recognized the piece’s suc- 
cess as his. Thus encouraged he 
continued composition. Eventually 
he organized and conducted an 
orchestra of his own, which became 
famous at once. 

Strauss had married the pretty 
daughter of an innkeeper, and it was 
on October 25, 1825, just before his 
first concert tour began, that the 
second Johann Strauss, heir to the 
genius of hisfather, was born. The 
boy’s early love of music, and the 
elder Strauss’ vain attempt to stifle 
it, have already been mentioned. 
In spite of his father’s preference 
for any other calling for his son, 
little Johann often managed to 
be present at the rehearsals of 
the Strauss orchestra. With his 
younger brother Josef he would 
play, on the piano, waltzes of his 
father’s composition; and Vienna 
soon prophesied that the lad would 
be the elder Strauss’ successor. 

At eighteen Johann was obliged, 
by the lack of money,to enter a bank 

The Fist Johann Strauss, Father of the Present Waltz King 

as a clerk ; but he soon left the 
desk and began his career as com- 
poser and orchestra conductor. 
As early as 1844 the Austrian 
capital had gone wild over him. 
In October of that year, when he 
first conducted some of his own 
dance compositions at Dom- 
mayer’s Garden in Vienna, the 
audience recalled him sixteen 
times, and the musical world 
rang with his praise. Although 
the two conductors’ relations had 
been strained, the son performed. 
as a compliment to his father, the 
latter’s ‘‘ Loreley Rhein Klange ”’ 
waltzes. The act made the 
younger Strauss the idol of the 
hour, and he was_ proclaimed 
“ Waltz King Johann Strauss the 

At this period of his career he 
was a most prolific writer. He 
wrote day or night, whenever the 
fancy took him, and he had a 
habit of jotting down musical 
thoughts on his cuffs or collars. 
Some of the most popular dance 
music ever composed was thus first 
recorded. The Strauss dances 


Frau Strauss, Mother of the Waltz King. 

now number nearly five hundred, and 
many of them are familiar the world 
over. ‘‘ Artist Life,’’ ‘‘ The Beautiful 
Blue Danube,’’ ‘‘ Wine, Woman, and 
Song,”’ ‘‘From the Mountains, ’’ ‘‘Ger- 
man Hearts,’’ ‘‘Harmony of the 
Spheres,’’ ‘‘ Village Swallows,’’ and 
the ‘‘Lob der Frauen,’’ are among 
the best known. The ‘‘ Blue Danube,’’ 
almost a national air in Austria, was 
originally written for a male chorus 
with orchestra. 

The early success of Johann Strauss 
is thus described by Hanslick, the 
musical critic of Vienna : ‘‘ The young 
man’s animal spirits, so long re- 
pressed, now began to foam over. 
Favored by his talent, intoxicated 
by his rapid successes, petted by the 
women, he passed his youth in wild 
excitement, always productive, always 
fresh and enterprising, always daring 
to the point of recklessness. In ap- 
pearance he resembled his father, but 
was handsomer, more refined, and 
more modern in dress and air. His 
waltzes combined the unmistakable 
Strauss family physiognomy with 
unique and original qualities of their 

After the death of his father, in 



Eduard Strauss. 

From a photograph by Gertinger, Vienna. 

1849, for a number of years Strauss and his 
orchestra gave concerts in all the principal 
cities of Europe, notably in St. Petersburg, 
Berlin, London, and Paris. It was in Paris 
that the writer first met the famous com- 
poser. He was to lead the orchestra at one 
of the masked balls given at the Opera. The 
musicians were French, and were inclined to 
resent the leadership of a German. At the 
morning rehearsal they were inattentive. 
The newspapers, too, had commented on 
the subject. Strauss requested me to wait. 

“You will see if there is the slightest in- 
attention on the part of the orchestra,’’ he 
said. ‘If there is, I will break my baton 
and will not conduct a bar.”’ 


I waited. Strauss took his position, violin 
in hand. He was facing the orchestra. In 
a moment he raised his instrument and be- 
gan to play. It was his beautiful ‘‘ Artist 
Life’? waltz, and his rendering of it was 
perfect.“ The enormous audience sat spell- 
bound, and as he finished, rose to their feet 
with thunderous applause, Strauss had 
conquered ; there was no further difficulty 
in Paris. While there he was further 
honored with the cross of the Legion of 

In June, 1872, the Waltz King came to 
this country. The late Patrick S. Gilmore 
had engaged him, at a large salary, to conduct 
at the Boston Peace Jubilee. His presence 


‘The Beautiful Blue Danube *’—The 

Composer's Autograph Copy of the 

Opening Bars. 

there was one round of triumphs. He di- 
rected an orchestra of a thousand musi- 
cians, and more than ever popularized his 
melodious compositions. In the same 
month he gave four concerts in New York, 

The Wreath Presented to Johann Strauss by His American Admirers, 
October 15, 1894. 

at the Academy of Music. Rarely, if ever, 
has a composer received such an ovation in 
the American metropolis as was given to 
Strauss. His audiences seemed never to 
tire of his music, while the magnetism of 
the man with both audience and 
orchestra was simply astounding. 

I shall never forget an incident 
onthe composer’s first appearance 
here. He was leading from a little 
platform in front of the orchestra, 
and playing himself, In some way 
his foot slipped, and he fell, break- 
ing his violin. He scrambled to 
his feet, took another violin from 
one of the players, and went on 
with his waltz as if nothing had 
happened, losing only eight bars 
of the music. 

It was while in New York that 
Strauss composed the ‘‘ Manhat- 
tan’’ waltzes, in which he in- 
troduced ‘‘Old Folks at Home’’ 
and ‘‘ The Star Spangled Banner.”’ 

Following the advice of Jacques 
Offenbach, in 1871 Strauss entered 
the field of operetta. Between that 
time and the present he has pro- 
duced the following fourteen 
pieces: ‘‘ Indigo,’ ‘‘ Karneval in 
Rom,’’ ‘‘ Die Fledermaus ”’ (orig- 
inally produced in Paris under 
the title ‘‘La Tzigane ’’), ‘‘Cag- 
liostro,’’ ‘‘ Prince Methusalem,’’ 
“Blinde Kuh,’ ‘‘The Queen’s 
Lace Handkerchief,’’ ‘‘ The Merry 
War,’’ “ Night in Venice,’ ‘‘ The 
Gipsy Baron,” ‘‘ Simplicius,’’ 

‘‘ Ritter Pazman,’’ ‘‘ Fiirstin Ninetta,’’ and 
‘‘Jabuka.’’ The last of these was first pre- 
sented in October, 1894, at Vienna. Nearly 
all of them have been performed in America, 
‘‘The Queen’s Lace Handkerchief’’ in- 
augurating the Casino as the home of 
comic opera in New York, in October, 1882. 

Johann Strauss has enjoyed the friendship 
of Liszt, Meyerbeer, Verdi, Brahms, and 
Rubinstein, the last of whom rearranged 
and frequently played Strauss’ ‘‘ Nachtfalter 
Walzer.’’ Richard Wagner said of his 
music: ‘‘One Strauss waltz overshadows 
in respect to animation, finesse, and real 
musical worth most of the mechanical, 
borrowed, factory made products of the 
present time.”’ 

The Waltz King lives in a handsome house 
in Vienna, No. 4 Igelgasse. He was ap- 
pointed musical director of the Vienna court 
balls in 1864, succeeding Philip Fahrbach, 
who in tufn had followed the elder Johann 


Strauss. As his engagements multiplied, 
however, he resigned in favor of his brothers 
Josef and Eduard, the latter of whom has 
held the post since 1874. 

Americans hold Strauss and his music in 
great esteem. Last October, at the celebra- 
tion of his golden jubilee in Vienna, a 
number of the most eminent musicians of 
this country sent a silver and gold wreath 
to the famous composer, in token of their 
respect. To present the gift was the writer’s 
pleasure. It was a work of exquisite design 
and finish, each leaf being inscribed with the 
name of a favorite composition of the master. 

Herr Strauss accepted the token with ex- 
pressions of deep gratitude. He said that 
he owed everything to his predecessors, 
and above all to his father, who showed 
him the way to musical progress, especially 
in the sphere of dance music. ‘‘ My feeble 
merit,’’ he said, ‘‘is only the methods of 
the past enlarged and broadened.’’ 

Rudolph Aronson. 


Past was the royal pageant of the leaves, 
And yet the poet crickets at high noon 

From fields wide widowed of their saffron sheaves 
Sent up a jocund tune. 

No more they made the violet twilight-tide 
To throb and thrill with bursts of lyric glee ; 
Yet, true to song, they would not be denied 
Their midday minstrelsy. 

And listening, enamored of the sounds, 

The golden vestured hours were loath to go 
Adown the dark declivity to the bounds 

Of icy night and snow. 

And we, the close companions of the hours, 
Beguiled, at heart were fain to linger too, 
Clinging to memories of the vanished flowers, 

Opaled with morning dew. 

Ah, all too brief the choric interludes! 
The seal of silence beauty soon immures ; 

And yet they solaced many wintry moods, 
These autumn troubadours. 

They were the links that bound us to the skies 
That hung the birth of all our bliss above ; 

And who but backward looks with gladdened eyes 
Upon the days of love? 

Clinton Scollarad. 


By Thomas H. Brainerd, 

Author of ‘Go Forth and Find." 


HE short summer night was almos 
over. Silence reigned supremnie. 
Even the waves had for once almost 
ceased their sound ; their low, regular mur- 
mur was like the breathing of sleeping 
nature. ‘True, Venus already hung like a 
jewel over the dark mountains in the east, 
but not even the earliest bird had fluttered 
awing. The moon, her vigil nearly fin- 
ished, dropped slowly down through the 
western sky. She still shone on the win- 
dows of the cottage, and made fantastic 
etchings of the vine shadows on the porch. 
Within the house there seemed to be 
profound repose. One of the windows was 
open, anda wire screen softened the moon- 
light which fell through it across the bed, 
where a girl, half lying, half sitting, was 
wide ewake and dreaming. She had 
crowded the thin pillow into a little bunch, 
and curved one arm over it to raise her head 
higher. Her tawny brown hair was un- 
coiled, and fell in wavy masses over her 
shoulders, making a lovely frame for the 
sweet, girlish face and wide open eyes. 
It was late when they had come in from 
a sail on the bay, and her aunt, Mrs. Tow- 
ers, and her cousin Margaret had both been 
tired and sleepy ; so as soon as the men 
who were with them had said good night 
and left the cottage, they had gone to bed. 
In a few minutes Sara knew by the sound 
of regular breathing that came to her from 
her cousin’s room, that Margaret was fast 
asleep. ‘hen she sat up in bed and began 
slowly to review the events of the past three 
days. One after another the scenes passed 
before her; and after each one, with a 
peculiar thrill which sent the blood to her 
heart, came the sound of his voice, say- 
ing very slowly ‘‘Good night,” and with 
it the firm pressure of his hand on hers, 
ashe turned away. Once or twice she held 
her hand up and looked at it; then she 
laid it on her breast and her dream went on. 
Suddenly she heard in the distance the 
faint sound of a guitar. The player was 

evidently coming nearer. Now the foot- 
steps sounded on the sidewalk—light foot- 
steps, keeping rhythmic time with the notes 
of the guitar. They did not pause at the 
gate, but came on up the walk. 

Sara sat up, listening intently. Then 
softly, as if intended for only one to hear, 
a voice—his—began to sing— 

“The lark now leaves his wat’ry nest, 

And climbing shakes his dewy wings ; 

He takes this window for the east, 

And to implore your light he sings. 
Awake, awake ; the morn will never rise 
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes ; 

Awake, awake, awake, awake !”’ 

Sara’s lips were slightly parted, and in 
her eyes were gleams which came and went 
like soft, warm flashes of light. She put 
one foot out of bed and paused. 

‘* Awake, awake !’’ 

Now she stood on the floor, winding her 
hair about her head, while the roses of her 
cheeks grew brighter. Her simple toilet 
was soon made. Noiselessly she went to 
the window and looked out. A shade of 
disappointment crossed her face. She could 
see no one. Again the guitar repeated, 
‘Awake, awake!’’ Putting on her hat and 
ulster, she passed silently through the hall 
and opened the outer door. 

He was sitting on the steps in front of 
the porch, playing softly on the guitar. 
His face lighted with great joy. 

“‘How good you are! Come, let us go,”’ 
was all that he said. 

She went down the steps, and side by 
side they walked through the garden and 
cut into the quiet night. 

‘““We will go down to the lime wharf,"’ 
he said. ‘‘I have been there ever since I 
left you, and when I knew that the morning 
was coming I hurried back for you.”’ 

She did not answer, but walked on beside 
him. Presently he began to sing again: 
“The merchant bows unto the seaman’s star, 

The plowman from the sun his season takes; 
But still the lover wonders what they are 

Who look for day before his mistress wakes.”’ 

Wakened by his song, a linnet started 
from its nest, and, seeing that day had not 

~ < 

yet come, twitteringly remonstrated, then 
sank into silence again. 

They went on past the sleeping hotel, 
across the bridge, through lanes and by- 
ways, down the steep old wharf that slopes 
from the cliff and runs so far out into the 
bay that the land seems to be quite left be- 

The water was solemn. It moved slowly 
in great swells towards the distant beach. 
It still had the gleam of the moonlight upon 
it, but there seemed, in the breeze that 
ruffled its surface, to be promise of another 

Near the end of the wharf were two pro- 
jecting piles close together. One of them, 
which was used as a mooring post for the 
little freight steamers, rose higher than the 
other. Robert stopped beside it. 

“Sit here,’’? he said. ‘‘ You will catch 
the first ray of morning here.”’ 

She sat down on the higher one, resting 
her feet on the top of the other great tree, 
her face toward the east. Then Robert 
threw himself down upon a coil of ropes a 
few feet away from her. He put his hands 
under his head, and looked up at the sky. 
They sat in silence for a few minutes; then 
the moon set, and it wasdark. Sara turned 
toward him. She could not see him, but 
she felt his watching eyes and smiled a 
little, then looked away again. 

Against the horizon Loma Prieta rested, 
dark and somber. Above it, thrilling with 
hope, the morning star mounted higher 
and higher. 

‘‘Courage,’’ it seemed to say to all the 
darkened earth. ‘‘I see the sun. It is his 
light I send to you.’’ All promise, all de- 
light, were in its beams. 

Along the black edge of the mountain a 
soft light suffused itself. Robert could see 
Sara’s eyes, full of wonder and awe. 

“It is the dawn,”’ he said to himself. 

The light grew apace ; the stars began to 
fade and the shadows to flee away. 

Moment by moment her perfect profile 
came out more clearly against the dark 
water. Her sweet mouth trembled with 
great expectancy. 

Slowly the mists of the morning with 
their robes of fleecy gold came marching 
up the sky. The water shivered with the 
long waiting. 

Robert was not impatient. He so loved 
to mark the delicate eyebrows, the rings of 
hair which the wind moved softly on her 
forehead, and the tender curve of her chin. 
He wished the moments to move more 

The growing light seemed to concentrate 


itself around her. She was so young, so 
bright, so full of hope and life; she seemed 
to him to be the very type and essence of 
the morning. 

Suddenly with passionate rapture the 
long light swept across the water and 
wrapped her in its splendor. 

He bent toward her breathlessly. Her 
bosom heaved, her eyes filled full of unshed 
tears of joy. Thenshe turned and shed her 
light upon him, and he rose and clasped 
her in his arms and kissed her eyes and 

‘“My day, my life, my love,’’ he whispered. 


SARA GARDNER had returned to Cali- 
fornia a few weeks before the night just 
passed. She was the only daughter of Mrs, 
Towers’ brother, and since her earliest 
childhood she had known no home except 
at her aunt’s house. Her father was indeed 
living, but he was a wanderer over the face 
of the earth, and she did not remember ever 
to have seen him. It could not be said that 
he had neglected her, for he had bestowed 
the greatest care and thought on all that 
concerned her life and health, her mental 
and moral training. She had lived at 
schools which had been selected with an 
evident purpose ; her vacations had all been 
planned to further the same design, and in 
the letters that came with melancholy 
regularity from her father he kept con- 
stantly before her mind the end to be 
striven for—health and strength, physical 
and mental. 

“If you wish to be happy, be well; if 
you wish to be useful, be strong.”’ 

To the accomplishment of these ends he 
had always lent himself in every way, ex- 
cept by his own presence ; and all that the 
science of the day and the wisdom of the 
teachers had gathered together was freely 
placed at her disposal. 

About three years before, Mr. Gardner 
had written to Mrs. Towers vaguely that he 
might come home, that he longed for a 
sight of his own country. In the same 
letter he asked for a photograph of Sara— 
‘‘one that looks as she really does.’’ Mrs. 
Towers had sent it without saying anything 
to Sara, because she knew what the effect 
would be; and she was not surprised that 
no more was said of coming home. 

Sara was a lovely reproduction of her 
mother at her age. She had the saime 
tawny brown hair, the same tender mouth, 
and the same grayish green eyes, full of 
indescribable depths of emotion, and some- 


times burning with fires of enthusiasm. 
Her school days proper were now ended ; 
she had just graduated at Vassar, and she 
was twenty one years old. During the last 
year of her college course she had written 
to her father to ask if she might join him 
in Japan after her graduation. He had re- 
plied, rather coldly, that his plans were un- 
certain, and had urged her to take a post 
graduate course, to choose a profession for 

‘‘T wish to see you independent of every 
one,’’ he wrote. ‘‘ More and more, I see, 
the tendency among educated women is to 
remain unmarried. This is well. I know 
better than you can how improbable it is 
that a broad minded, intelligent woman, 
who knows the laws of God as revealed to 
us in the laws of nature, will meet any man 
who will answer to the demands which she 
must and will make. It is necessary, however, 
that every human being should have some 
absorbing interest, something upon which 
he can spend whatever he is, and through 
which he can grow to his final possibilities. 
If you have learned what I hope you have, 
you will agree with me ; and I hope, before 
the close of the year, you will have decided 
upon some well defined plan of life. You 
can rely upon me to assist you to the extent 
of my ability.” 

Sara was disappointed and a little hurt, 
but she was so strong and well, so per- 
fectly light hearted, so young, that nothing 
could depress her long. She wrote a cheery 
letter to her father, and began to consider 
what she would like best to do if she was 
to be doing it all her life. 

She had been chiefly interested in the 
natural science studies of her college course, 
and, as far as the course was elective, had 
given most of her timetothem. During the 
latter part of the time she had been greatly 
absorbed in biology. When commencement 
was over, she wrote to her father that she 
would spend the summer with her aunt and 
cousin in California, then go to Philadelphia 
and begin to study medicine. 

Mrs. Towers and Margaret were at their 
cottage in Santa Cruz, and Sara joined them 
there. They were all very fond of the 
quaint town, with its terrace upon terrace 
rising from the sea to the mountains behind 
it. The foam scalloped bathing beach had 
been the scene of many hours of childish 
glee for both Sara and her cousin. Sara 
probably had more of the feeling which we 
call ‘‘ home-like ’’ when she sat on the warn 
sand, her back against a log, her book lying 
in her lap, dreamily watching the waves 
break at her feet, than in any other place in 

the world. Nowhere else did she feel the 
responsive love that nature has for her 
children as when, resting on the buoyant 
water, her strong young arms sweeping in 
steady strokes, she swam away out beyond 
the raft, beyond the noisy group of paddlers 
in the foam, and was alone with the sea and 
the sky. 

Her cousin Margaret was a gentle, sweet 
girl, gay and light hearted, with an enthusi- 
astic admiration for her brilliant cousin. 
She had, however, been brought up in an 
entirely different way from that which Sara’s 
father had chosen for his daughter. She 
had been at home from school and ‘“‘out”’ 
in the world for two years, had enjoyed 
and endured all that society in San Francisco 
can give and inflict, and was now engaged 
to Joseph Hunter, a young lawyer in the 
Golden Gate city. He was a Harvard man, 
of good talents and very pleasant ways. 
His ambition was to make a success in his 
profession, if possible be elected to one of 
the superior judgeships, and have an elegant 
home where he could gather his friends 
about him and shine in society, as he knew 
himself fitted to do. 

Joseph came to Santa Cruz for a few days 
every now and then. When Margaret ex- 
pected him, she and Sara usually walked 
down to the train to meet him. Three 
days before our story opens he had come 
down, and when he had given the girls the 
first greeting he: turned to a young man 
who stood waiting near him. 

‘‘Margaret,’’ he said, ‘‘this is my old 
friend, Robert Atterbury, who happens to be 
in this part of the world for a week or two. 
I saw him in the city just before I left, and 
persuaded him to come down with me. I 
have pronised him everything—swimniing, 
boating, riding, and most of all, good com- 
pany. I hope we shall have good weather. 
I am almost afraid he has too great expecta- 
tions and may be disappointed.”’ 

Margaret welcomed Robert with kind 
cordiality, then presented him to Sara. 
While he spoke to Margaret, Sara noticed 
that there was a mourning band on his hat, 
and that his mouth had a tired, sad expres- 
sion. When he turned to speak to her, his 
eyes met hers, and she saw that they were 
strong and steadfast. He took her hand in 
his, and held it firmly for a moment. A 
light seemed to come into his face as he 
looked at her. 

‘‘T am sure there is no possibility that I 
shall be disappointed,’’ he said in answer 
to Joe’s remark. 

They dined at the hotel, and then walked 
over to Mrs. Towers’ cottage. Robert ex- 

teat snseescininal 


Sa oe 


cused himself, pleading that he had letters 
to write. 

‘‘ Your friend is charming, Joseph,’’ said 
his hostess, ‘‘ but I do not remember to 
have heard of him. Who is he, and where 
does he come from ?”’ 

‘He is one of my old college friends, Mrs. 
Towers. His homeis in or near Boston, and 
he comes just now from Southern California. 
He was in the class below me at Harvard, 
so that I did not know him at all intimately 
then ; but while I wasin the law school he 
was at the Episcopal Divinity College, and 
we met very often at a mutual friend’s. I 
liked him immensely, although as a rule 
one does not take to the divinity students. 
He had to leave on account of his brother’s 
illness. His brother, Dave, was a splendid 
fellow ; he was in the ’varsity crew, and no 
slouch at work, either. He broke up all of 
a sudden, had a hemorrhage of the lungs, 
and had to be carried home. Bob went 
with him, of course, and when he got a 
little better the doctor ordered him off 
toa milder climate. His father had died 
the year before, and his mother was not 
able to travel, so Bob calmly put his own 
life aside and went with Dave. He took 
him everywhere, but it was all for nothing. 
Poor Dave died at the Sierra Madre Villa 
about two months ago, and now Bob is on 
his way home. His mother is with him, 
and as she is with friends in San Francisco 
he was very much pleased to come down 
here with me. I have not talked with 
hin) much, and do not know if he still 
means to be a clergyman or not; but he is 
a first rate fellow with lots of talent, and I 
should say might make a place for himself 
in the world.” 

Sara, who as usual was reading, laid her 
book in her lap to listen. Why did she feel 
this unusual interest in a perfect stranger? 
She did not know, and when Joseph had 
finished she took her book again and read 
on. She turned the page, but she was 
thinking of Robert and repeating Joe’s 
words—“‘ put his own life aside.’’ She 
smiled tenderly, understanding fully that 
to go with the poor sick boy, to comfort 
him by the clasp of his firm, strong hand, 
to give him courage by the steadfast light 
in his own eyes, to go with him down 
through the dark valley, had been, to 
Robert, diving his life, not putting it aside. 
All the evening she realized him as some- 
thing new and wonderful which had come 
into her world, and in the morning, when 
they met on the beach, it was not as 
strangers but as familiar friends. 

Who can explain why the flower opens to 

the sun, or why, when heaven has decreed 
that a man and woman shall be one, there 
should come to them such marvelous under- 
standing and knowledge of each other? 

It was so with Robert and Sara. The 
three days of his visit more than sufficed. 
His whole life, his ambitions and hopes, her 
strange, lonely childhood with its unspoken 
longings, were all plain and simple and com- 
prehended each by each. 

The last night of their stay in Santa Cruz 
the moonlight was entrancing, and Mar- 
garet asked Joseph to take them out for a 
sailon the bay. She took her guitar, and 
they sang songs, gay and sentimental, to 
which she played accompaniments. 

‘‘Madge, dear, please give the guitar to 
Robert,’’ Joe presently said. Then turning 
to Robert he continued, ‘‘And, Robert, sing 
some of the old songs, will you?” 

Robert took the guitar and sang the songs 
that had been their favorites three years be- 
fore in the dear old college days. Sara, 
leaning back in the boat and looking out 
over the rippling light on the water, felt 
that she had never heard any singing be- 
fcre; and again it seemed to her that she 
had known this voice, that it had been sing- 
ing in her heart always. 

They all walked together from the land- 
ing up to the cottage, Robert carrying the 
guitar; and when he bade Margaret good 
by he asked her if he might keep it for a 
little while. 

“I am not going to bed just yet,’’ he 
said. ‘I will leave it with the clerk at the 
hotel, to be sent to you tomorrow.”’ 

Margaret was very glad to have him keep 
it. Joe and he were going on the early train 
the next morning, so they were to say good 
night and good by at once. Mrs. Towers 
went into the house, but Margaret and Joe 
lingered for a few last words. Robert had 
spoken no word of love to Sara. Neither 
of them had in any way defined their rela- 
tion, even in thought, but each one knew 
that life had been made complete and per- 
fect in the other. He was near her, playing 
softly on the guitar and looking up to the 
light. She stood back in the shadow of 
the vine which covered the porch, and read 
his face in the moonlight. It was grave 
and serious, perhaps beyond his years, but 
its chief expression was that of manly gentle- 
ness, the gentleness that is the outcome of 
great strength of character. Her heart 
swelled with joy and happiness while she 
looked at him. 

Joe came slowly down the steps, still 
holding Margaret’s hand and bidding her 
good by. Robert turned and smiled into 


Sara’s eyes, and said ‘‘Good night.’’ Not 
good by—that he had planned to say later. 



““My beloved is mine and I am hers.”’ I 
sang the Song of Songs over and over in my 
heart this morning on the train. My beloved! 

I seem to have told you so much and to have 
so much to tell. We will have all our lives to 
tell it in, so need not hurry. All our lives, did 
I say? What I mean is, a//, that is eternity ; 
because we are one; nothing could now come 
to divide us and make two lives of our united 

Dearest, when I first saw you there at the depot 
I knew. Not perfectly, because no one could 
bear such joy if it came fully at once; but 
faintly, yet certainly, I knew. It was asif some 
one had whispered to me, ‘‘ This is your other 
self ; itis for her you have been waiting ; for 
her you have been longing ; because of her you 

It is only three days since that far away for- 
gotten time when I had not seen you. I am 
happy, rapturously happy, but not satisfied. 
Why is it, dear love, that our soul is never 
satisfied ? I think it is because of that eternity 
of which I was just writing, through the end- 
less ages of which we are to grow. Think of 
it. On and up through sorrows, perhaps, and 
joys, through living and dying, but always /o- 
gether; that is, the Alpha and Omega, the all 
in all, ogether. 

I have been trying to picture our life, dear- 
est. What a revelation of light in the dark 
places, of comfort and rest in the tired places, 
your sweet presence will be as we go on our 
mission of love to men and women ! 

This morning when the train drew up at Los 
Gatos I looked out. On the platform there 
stood a woman with two children clinging to 
her dress. She looked anxiously at the train, 
evidently expecting some one who had not 
come. In her eyes was atired hungry look, 
and her lips were thin and compressed, as if to 
keep back the cry of her heart. 

In this new world, where I now live with 
you, love, I understand many things, and I 
knew that it was love which she hungered for, 
and broken faith that caused the pain in her 
heart. Her eyes met mine, and mine said to 
her, “‘ Courage, dear sister.’”’ Her face flushed 
a little, but she stooped and took the smaller 
child in her arms and smiled at it and kissed 
it, and I saw that her pain was lessened. It 
was help from you which I had given her. 

Then we went on, and I fell into an old bad 
habit which belonged to that other life when I 
was alone. I began to fancy your face—yours, 
beloved, with that look upon it. It was ter- 
rible ; it tortured me, and I must have groaned 
aloud. Joe, who sat opposite, asked if I was 
ill. I answered “‘no,’’ but I opened the win- 
dow and put my head out to breathe the fresh 
air, and your spirit came to me in the breeze, 

and the horrible vision passed away. My own! 
My love! It may be, I know that it must be, 
that there will be sorrows for us to bear—but 
God do so to me and more, if ever act of mine 
shall mar your perfect loveliness. 

IT is most wonderful to realize how all things 
are changed to me and those which I have con- 
sidered small and unimportant are become of 
absorbing interest. Last night I went for a 
few minutes to the opera. It was not a very 
good troupe. They were singing Faust—that 
universal story, told in immortal music. The 
scene was at the church door and while I 
listened to Marguerite’s baffled prayer, I longed 
to grapple this monster, Prejudice, which 
under the holiest names, the names of Purity 
and Religion, has with fiendish cruelty pushed 
down and back the struggling sinners. My 
soul wailed with her anguish, and sank down 
exhausted with her despair. As the curtain 
fell a harsh, metallic laugh struck upon my ear. 
I turned to see a woman, painted, bejeweled, 
horrible. She smiled at me with her sicken- 
ing polluted mouth. I shuddered ; then your 
tender eyes shone before me and it was as if 
you had said, ‘‘ She is my sister, Iam degraded 
by her shame, I am lost in her waywardness.”’ 
I longed to kneel at her feet, and with tears 
and prayers beseech her to come back to life 
and love from the charnel house where she 
now lives. Can we not help them, you and I, 
dearest love? Will we not try with all our 
heart and strength ? 

If we could only solve this problem, could 
understand why this demon of evil passion 
has taken possession of our Holy of Holies, 
why our whole race is under its all crushing 
slavery ! I was thinking of this when there came 
into my mind these words: ‘‘ His delight is in 
the law of the Lord, and in His law doth he 
meditate day and night.”’ 

Is the answer to be found here? Let us 
search for it, my own. 

* * * * 

When I first awakened this morning, I lay 
still, with closed eyes, slowly thinking overall 
your perfectness, my love. I tried to think if 
there were any little possible change which I 
would be even willing to have in you. There 
was none—none at all, beloved, but suddenly 
there came to me a feeling that I was away 
from you ; a longing to see you. ‘There was a 
rap at my door and a letter was slipped under 
it. Howgood you are, how kind and how ador- 
able! My soul rests in perfect blessedness in 
your love. 

I looked for a long time at the envelope be- 
fore I opened the letter. What joy to have a 
letter from you tome! And your handwriting ! 
What a new revelation of you it was; and I, 
foolish, thought I knew you so well. Yet, I 
reasoned, she could not have had any other 
handwriting. It belongsto her. ‘‘So candid 
and simple, and nothing withholding, and 
free.’’ Itis well! I stopped to pray a little 
prayer of thankfulness. 

Thank you, darling, for having put the little 



ROD iste tsccisie th 

photograph in. It is sweet and dear and good, 
as photographs go, and I am glad to have it. 

I have been trying to see how many pictures 
of you I have. I close my eyes to look at them. 
There are many, and each one represents to me 
something typical of perfection in woman- 
hood. When I see you with the little blue hand- 
kerchief tied around your head, and only here 
and there a wilful curl upon your forehead, 
your eyes smiling at me from the bright waves, 
through which you swim with such strong 
strokes, I call you Joy. Then comes a vision of 
your sweet, girlish form, leaning back in the 
shadow of asail. The boat glides gently over 
amoonlit sea. Your eyes, solemn and serene, 
are looking up into the depths of the night 
sky. I love this picture ; it rests my heart, 
and Icallit Peace. But most of all, beloved, 
my love, I see you as I saw you that morning, 
the morning of our birth into this promised 
land, when the air grew bright as it touched 
you, when the wind and the sea sang for joy in 
you, and the sun wreathed his glory in a halo 
around your head. When I see this—and still 
more, when you turn your glorified eyes on me 
—I lose all consciousness of self, and call you 

* * * * 

Yes, love. You are right as always. For- 
give me if I seemed to forget that there is an- 
other who has claims on you. I will write to 
your father tonight. ‘Tomorrow my mother— 
how she will love you !—goes home. I will go 
with her, and when we are at home I will tell 
her all that I have found, and then I will come 
back to you. It will not be long, not more 
than three weeks at farthest. We will wait 
for the answer from your father, and then, 
beloved, do nct let any outside consideration 
come between us. Bemy wife at once. Wife ! 
How unutterably sweet the little word is ! 

* * * * 

Dearest, I have had an evening of great ex- 
perience—and of pain. Now itis gone, and I 
realize how wise and best it is that joy should 
be tempered with sorrow, else we should grow 
to be giants in egotism, taking all good as our 
own deserving. It was in this wise ; in accord- 
ance with my promise I began a letter to your 
father. It had seemed to me a simple thing to 
write, and—yes, I will confess my sin to you— 
I had so entirely recognized that you are mine, 
as I also am yours, that the letter seemed to be 
merely a courtesy, a form. 

I wrote the address, and held the pen sus- 
pended for a moment over the paper, when, 
presto! Change! There arose before my mind 
the image of a strong, earnest man, such as 
your father must be, whose piercing eyes 
seemed to look into my very soul and plainly 
to ask, ‘‘On what ground do you, a perfect 
stranger, come to ask from me the gift of my 
precious, glorious daughter ?”’ 

I laid the pen down, abashed, and with those 
eyes fixed upon me reviewed my life. I put 
myself in his place and saw the day, which the 
future may bring, when another, such as I, 
should come to me and ask for my daughter to 


be his wife. My daughter! Ours! Oh, my 
beloved, I wonder if in your sweet springtime 
of life you will understand how this new, en- 
tapturing thought swept over me, and with 
what passionate pain I saw that ‘they, these 
children of ours, are the reason for all your 
loveliness, for all your dazzling perfections ; 
that motherhood is the fulfilment of your life 
as you are the fulfilment of mine, and that God 
has gathered all beauty together in you in 
order that the glad earth may be happy and re- 
joice in your children ? 

For a while I was troubled and sorrowful, 
but as always your spirit came to me and com- 
forted. I realized your need of me, your rest 
and dependence on me, and grew glad again. 
Now I rejoice to know myself strong and well 
for your sake and for theirs; and love has 
grown and taken yet another office, because 
whereas before it filled the length and breadth 
and height of our own lives, it now sits in 
faithful guard over the holy mystery of those 
lives that are to be. 


TEN days had passed since the morning 
of Robert’s farewell to Sara—that last morn- 
ing when they had sat together upon the 
pier and watched the dawn break over land 
and ocean. 

‘“‘Sara, do you know that we have been 
sitting here for just one hour, and that you 
have not spoken nor moved once? I hope, 
since your thoughts are so absorbing, that 
they are pleasant ones.”’ 

Mrs. Towers looked a little anxiously at 
her niece, and Sara smiled at her reassur- 

‘“ Thank you, auntie, my thoughts are 
more than pleasant; they are happy. I am 
sorry to have been so inattentive, however.”’ 

She made an effort to bring herself back 
to the scene around her. All about on the 
white sand were groups of gaily dressed 
women, the older ones gossiping or reading 
according to their natures, the younger 
ones gathering about the few good 
swimmers, anxiously arranging to go into 
the surf with them. The prevailing idea 
seemed to be that there was safety in num- 
bers, and that in some occult way the great 
green waves would respect a crowd. Here 
and there was a man, usually very old or 
very young; but nowhere was the sex in 
sufficient numbers to affect the appearance 
of the assemblage. 

Everywhere, beside every log, along the 
edge of the water, under the feet of the 
horses, were the serious workers of this 
otherwise idle crowd. Little children, boys 
and girls, with shovels in hand, buckets be- 
side them, and patient determination in 
their faces, were digging wells, building 


forts, making mountains, caves, and tunnels. 
They worked with unfailing, absorbed in- 
terest, and were in strong contrast to the 
pink legged little imps who were running 
in and out of the curving, dancing sea foam, 
and whose piercing shrieks of joy rose 
above the sound of the waves and the hum 
of other noises. It was a scene full of life, 
of human stories, living themselves out 
sweet under the summer sun. 

A new realization of it all came to Sara 
as she looked around. She seemed never 
before to have really looked at people. ‘‘I 
had eyes, but saw not,’’ she said to herself. 
Just then Margaret came and flung herself 
down upon the sand beside them. She held 
an open letter in her hand. 

‘‘Joe writes that Mr. Atterbury has gone 
East with his mother. He says he is very 
sorry, because he wanted him to come down 
here again next week. I do not think that is 
very complimentary to us, do you, mother ?”’ 

“Well, Ido not know. I would not look 
at it in that way,’’ Mrs. Towers said. ‘‘It 
is very natural that Joseph should enjoy 
having his old friends down here. I would 
not be jealous of other men, if I were in 
your place. What did you think of Mr. 
Atterbury, Sara?’’ she asked. 

‘*Oh, mother, Sara did not think of him 
at all,’’ Margaret interrupted. ‘‘ Don’t you 
know that she is too much absorbed in all 
the theories about mankind in general, to 
give any time to thinking about any man in 
particular? ”’ 

She made a little pouting moue at her 

The color came and went in Sara’s face 
for a minute, and she looked from her 
cousin to her aunt. They were startled by 
the wave of wonderful beauty that swept 
over her. Her eyes were glorified. 

‘‘Margaret is wrong for once, auntie 
dear,”’ she said softly. ‘‘ I think of him all 
the time ; he fills the universe to me. I 
should have gone with him now, only we 
are waiting to hearfrom father. I am going 
to be his wife.’’ 

Margaret sprang up in great excitement, 
and began to ask a thousand questions. 
Sara did not see that her aunt grew sud- 
denly white, and that a strange expression, 
a look of terror, came into her eyes. 

‘* Have you written to your father, Sara ?’’ 
Mrs. Towers asked, after a few ininutes. 

““ Yes, we have both written. We ought 
to have an answer in about six weeks. 
Robert will come back before then, and we 
shall be married as soon as the letter 

Her aunt turned her head away, and 

Margaret took possession of her again. In 
afew minutes Mrs. Towers rose, and, say- 
ing that she was tired, went up to the cot- 
tage. Whenthe girls came in later, they 
learned that she had a headache and had 
gone to bed. They did not see her again 
that night. 


WHEN Robert and his mother reached 
the Mississippi they found a warm wave 
passing over the country. The air was 
stifling, and the cars almost unendurable. 
Mrs. Atterbury was prostrated by the heat, 
and although Robert devoted himself inces- 
santly to efforts for her comfort, he could 
do little for her. They ran behind time, and 
missed their train at Chicago, and had to 
choose between taking a slower one from 
there to Boston or waiting over for a day. 
Mrs. Atterbury preferred togoon. Her only 
hope seemed to be to reach the salt air; 
the inland heat was so oppressive. 

These physical discomforts added to the 
dreariness of their home coming, which at 
best must have been sad. Home is dear, 
although those who have made it so are no 
longer there ; but it is a dear desolation, 
full of sweet memories that pain, of sad re- 
collections that torture. Mrs. Atterbury and 
Robert felt all this when they entered their 
house without the one who would never 
again brighten it with his presence. There 
was no one to welcome them except old 
Martha, the servant who had taken care of 
the house in their absence. She was watch- 
ing for them, and threw the door open with 
asemblance of gladness, but as it closed upon 
them their loss came over them again as 
fresh and strong as on the day when Dave 
had died. 

Robert threw open the windows and 
pushed out from the corner his mother’s 
favorite chair. He helped her to take off 
her traveling wraps, and threw his own 
things about on the chairs and tables, try- 
ing to give an air of life and occupancy to 
the room; but he was himself tired, very 
tired and very sad, and the assumed cheer- 
fulness was a poor disguise for his real feel- 
ings. Presently he saw the tears in his 
mother’s eyes. He knelt beside her and 
took her in his arms, while she let her grief 
have way. ; 

They had been in the house but a little 
while when Martha brought Robert a note. 

‘‘Mr. Blethen has been here three or four 
times today. He says he must see you at 
once, and the last time he came he wrote 
this note.’’ 



Robert opened it and read : 

Claire is gone. I do not know where. If 
you get home before twelve o’clock tonight, 
for God’s sake come to me at my old apart- 
ment. I must find her before this gets out. 
Yours, P. Van Ruger Blethen. 

Robert shut his hand on the note and 

‘What is it, Robert?’ Mrs. Atterbury 

‘“A note from Van Ruger, mother. He 
seems to want to see me about something 
of great importance. I think I will go to 
see him as soon as we have had supper.’’ 

When tea had been served, Robert bade 
his mother good night. 

“Try to rest, dear,’ he said. ‘‘I may 
very likely be late, and I am sure bed is the 
best place for you this sultry night.”’ 

Claire Blethen was Mrs. Atterbury’s niece. 
Her father, Mr. Whitwell, Mrs. Atterbury’s 
only brother, had lived most of his life in 
Europe. When nearly fifty years old he had 
married in Nice a pretty French girl, Mlle. 
Rose Bauvais. Shortly afterwards, he sud- 
denly returned to Boston, and established 
himself in the old home of his childhood, on 
the outskirts of Concord. The house was old 
fashioned, having been built by his grand- 
father. Its rooms were grave and solemn 
with furniture of dark oak and mahogany. 
In the garden were stately poplar trees 
whose shadows lay in long, prim lines on 
the smooth green lawns. Mr. Whitwell 
had fled from it in the first freedom of his 
early manhood, but now it seemed to him 
to be the most desirable place in the world; a 
place of rest after vain wanderings ; a haven 
of peace and repose, where he was glad to 
feel that he could pass the remainder of his 
days. Had he not tasted every pleasure 
that every city of Europe could offer; and 
had he not proved to his own satisfaction 
that they were all, or nearly all, vanity and 

Rose had been married almost as soon as 
she had left the convent where her youth 
was spent, and it often seemed to her that 
she had only exchanged prisons. She even 
contrasted this prison, where she had only 
gloomy old rooms to wander through, and 
the caprices of an old man to study, with 
that other one, where, although the walls 
were severe, the garden walks were full of 
light hearted girls whose laughter made 
even the black robed sisters smile. Some- 
times she wished with real homesickness 
for the old convent days, but usually the 
strain of her life was onward toward that 
fairy life of pleasure from which her husband 
was resting. 

While she sat half listening to his rem- 
iniscences of a time before she was born, her 
own imagination took wild and airy flights. 
Along the Bois de Boulogne, through the 
Champs Elysees, she seemed to see a line 
of stately equipages, perfect in every detail, 
filled with lovely women whose gay smiles 
were answered by the courtly cavaliers who 
rode beside them. In the most brilliant of 
the carriages she saw herself, happiest and 
most admired of all. Or perhaps it wasa 
ball room where, in a costume of unimagined 
grace and beauty, she floated on in a never 
ending waltz to strains of longing, beseech- 
ing, tender music. 

She did not say much and she did nothing, 
but the inward coolness became daily more 
apparent. Before Claire was born, Mr. 
Whitwell, who was by no means without 
knowledge of human nature, fully realized 
that he had made a mistake; that is, he re- 
alized it from his own standpoint. He 
accepted the fact that the solitude in which 
he chose to spend the remainder of his life 
was not to be cheered, as he had hoped, by 
the loving devotion and gentle mirth of a 
young wife. Looking around for something 
to take the place of the relaxation which he 
had planned, he happened on a friend who 
was a celebrated microscopist. He plunged 
into the study of microbiology, and, fired 
with an amateur’s zeal, began to form a 
collection which he intended to bequeath to 
Harvard University as a memorial of him- 

Winter passed, and Claire was born. For 
a little while Rose amused herself with the 
baby, as with a new toy; but with the 
spring and returning strength all the old 
longings took possession of her, and finally 
found expression. She wrote to her mother, 
and obtained the desired invitation. Armed 
with her mother’s letter she went into the 
library, where Mr. Whitwell sat poring 
over his microscope, in which he had just 
placed a new and rare atom. 

‘* Mama writes that she wishes very much 
to see me,’’ she said. ‘‘ She asks that I 
should come across as early as possible. 
They are going to Paris for May and June, 
and she wishes me to go with them. Have 
you any objection ?”’ 

Mr. Whitwell looked up carelessly. 

‘* It is out of the question,’’ he said. ‘I 
cannot possibly leave my work at present.’’ 

She hesitated for a moment, then with 
charming politeness bowed in acknowledge- 
ment of the weighty importance of his 

‘“ No, mama does not dare to hope that 
you will be able to come with mie, but she 


says that Augustine can take me over per- 
fectly well. She has crossed so many 

Suddenly Mr. Whitwell seemed to under- 
stand. He pushed his chair back from the 
table, took his glasses off, and regarded her 
steadily. It would not do to make a mis- 
take now. 

“‘If you go you will have to leave the 
child here. I cannot consent that she should 

For a moment her eyes quailed, and her 
color came and went. 

“‘T agree with you. It is better that she 
should stay.”’ 

A few days later, Mr. Whitwell wrote to 
his sister : ‘‘ Rose has gone to France to 
her mother. She will not return, and I 
shall need your help and advice in the care 
of the child.” 

At the same time, on the deck of the out- 
going steamer, Rose Whitwell walked up 
and down with light and airy tread. She 
watched the hills and headlands as the ship 
left them behind, and felt the chains of 
ennui and weariness drop from her with each 
point that faded from sight. Her pulses 
throbbed, her eyes shone, and she said in a 
low, happy tone to herself, ‘‘ Ah! sz0n Dieu! 
How delicious it is to be free!”’ 

There was never any scandal. It was 
understood at first that Mrs. Whitwell would 
return in the autumn; then that she was not 
very strong, that she was spending the 
winter ina milder climate, and would come 
back in the spring. Gradually people for- 
got to ask for her. Claire grew up chiefly 
under Mrs. Atterbury’s care, although Mr. 
Whitwell selected her schools, and con- 
sidered himself in every respect a model 
father. Her vacations were spent with her 
aunt ; Robert and Dave always hoped to 
find her there when they came home from 

Her pale ivory skin, black eyes, and soft 
yellow hair made a combination of color 
that always attracted the attention of 
strangers. They would look at her as they 
passed, then turn and look again. The 
charm she had for those who knew her 
was, however, not in her beauty, but in the 
witchery of her impulsive, passionate, 
French nature, mingled as it was with 
occasional moods of puritanical and almost 
preternatural gravity. 

Each year she received two or three let- 
ters from her mother. They were always 
accompanied by some little gift, and always 
expressed the hope of seeing her soon. Just 
before the time when Robert went away 
with Dave on their useless search for health 

and life, Mr. Whitwell died, quite sud- 
denly. After the funeral was over Mrs. At- 
terbury closed the old house, and took Claire 
home with her. They had telegraphed to 
Mrs. Whitwell, but neither Claire nor her 
aunt had any thought that the change 
would bring her nearer to them. Great was 
their surprise when, on the arrival of the 
next French steamer, Mrs. Whitwell pre- 
sented herself in person. 

Time had dealt gently with her, and in 
the clinging robes and long veil of her 
widowhood she looked even younger than 
she was. Her demonstrative joy at seeing 
Claire, her tender, caressing tones, and the 
little exclamations of delight over each 
beauty and grace which she found in the 
girl, completely won her daughter’s heart ; 
and it was with joyful anticipations, if with 
present pain, that she made ready to ac- 
company her mother back to France. 

Troubles came so thick and fast to the 
Atterburys that they did not follow Claire 
Whitwell closely in her short career of 
pleasure. After a year or so, they received 
a letter, telling them that she was to be 
married to Peter Van Ruger Blethen. ‘They 
had many sad misgivings when they read 
it. Robert knew Blethen very well; had 
known him asa boy, and later in college. 
He had not seen him for several years, but 
he knew that Blethen could not be sucha 
man as he would have wished his warm 
hearted, impressionable little cousin to 
marry. There was nothing to be done, 
however. Robert and his mother were in 
southern California, watching the slow days 
take with them the little remaining strength 
of their dear invalid. The wedding would 
be over before they could interfere, even if 
their interference would accomplish any- 
thing ; so they sent kind wishes and hoped 
for the best. 

A few months later Robert received a let- 
ter from a friend who was a student in 
Paris. It gave him some unpleasant details 
regarding the affair, and confirmed his mis- 
givings about it. The letter told him that 
Van Ruger had been living ata terrible 
pace, and that both his doctor and banker 
had whistled down breaks ; that the former 
had strongly advised him to marry and 
settle down ; that the devil, in the shape of 
a mutual friend, had pointed out Claire to 
him, and suggested that it might be amusing 
to marry her, adding that she was young, 
very pretty, and that her ample fortune 
would repair the ravages which the pleasures 
of the past had made in his own. 

Later, from time to time, they learned 
that the Blethens had returned to Boston, 

had opened the family house on Common- 
wealth Avenue, and were entertaining a 
number of their friends from Paris with 
every kind of pleasure and amusement 
which the vicinity offered. Claire’s letters 
were infrequent, but Mrs. Atterbury sup- 
posed this to be owing to the press of her 
social engagements, and did not consider it 


ROBERT seated himself in the car which 
was going into Boston, and for the first time 
tried to understand Blethen’s note. What 
in the world did it mean? Claire gone! 
Where and how? Neither his knowledge 
nor his imagination came to his assistance ; 
but of one thing he was certain—there was 
bitter trouble involved in the mystery, and 
already he began to feel his sympathies 
rallying around Claire. She might have 
been rash and foolish, but nothing more, he 
was sure. ‘The nearer he drew to town the 
less he desired to see Van Ruger, and when 
he arrived at his door it required all of his 
almost brotherly love for Claire to make him 
ring the bell. 

“Mr. Blethen is waiting for you,’’ the 
servant said. 

Robert went up into the old rooms, where 
he had occasionally called years before. 
Blethen was sitting at his writing table, 
smoking. His face was gloomy almost to 
ferociousness, but he sprang up and greeted 
Robert eagerly. 

‘*- You are very kind to come so soon,’’ he 
said. ‘‘Have you just comein? ‘The train 
was late, Isuppose. It always is late. Sit 
down. It is dreadfully hot. Will you take 
soinething—a cigar, brandy and soda, or 
anything? I am ina deuce of a row, or I 
would not have troubled you.”’ 

Robert took a cigar, and, after lighting 
it, sat in silence, waiting. Slowly the 
eagerness died out of Blethen’s face. He 
seemed to find some difficulty in beginning. 

““You see,’’? he said, ‘‘ Claire lived so 
much with you when she was on this side 
that I thought you would be just the one to 
know where to look for her. It is deuced 
awkward, because I cannot make any in- 
quiries. Of course the most important 
thing is to keep people from finding out 
that I donot know where she is.’’ Then, 
replying to a look of Robert’s, he went on, 
‘“*Oh, no, Iam not alarmed about her, not 
in the least. She istoo’’—he hesitated, and 
substituted “timid’’ for the word which 
had come to him first—‘‘too timid to do 
herself any harm, but what I want is to pre- 


vent any scandal, any notoriety, don’t you 
know? It is so damned disagreeable to a 
fellow to have his wife talked about.” 

‘‘Perhaps you had better tell me all 
about it,’’ Robert said. 

‘“Well,”’ said Blethen, ‘“‘ you know, or 
rather you don’t know, that we have been 
spending the summer at my little cottage 
up on the North Shore. I took Claire 
there because it is just the place for her 
now; cool and near the water and very 
quiet. She is not in a condition to wish to 
see people, and I thought it would suit her 
perfectly. She is rather difficult at the best 
of times, as you probably know, but since 
she has not been well she has been simply 
impossible. I am not telling you this to 
find fault, however ; only because you will 
have to know that there have been scenes ; 
sometimes because I did not go down, 
sometimes because I did. Any way, yester- 
day morning I telegraphed to her that I 
would be detained by business until very 
late, and so would not be down. In the 
afternoon I went out for a spin along the 
river, when who should come along but 
Leslie Fay, an old friend of mine, as you 
may remember. There is absolutely no one 
in town, and she looked so longingly at me 
that I had not the heart to refuse her, so I 
drew up and told her to jumpin. She has 
a lot of sense. She took a thick veil out of 
her pocket and tied it over her face so that 
no one in the world would have known 
her. We drove for an hour or so, and were 
just coming into town. I was thinking 
where I had better leave Leslie when we 
came around acorner right upon the Evans- 
ton carriage. Emma Evanston was on the 
front seat with the driver, and on the back 
seat, with Mrs. Evanston, who but Claire 
herself! She leaned forward and looked at 
us. I whipped up and we passed like a 
flash, but I saw that she turned pale and 
looked at me with positive hatred. Of 
course I shook Leslie as soon as possible, 
and came here. She was not here. Then 
I went to the Evanston house. They were 
just starting back to the shore, and said 
they had left Claire here. Then I came 
back.’’ His face changed a little. ‘‘She 
was not here, but I found evidence that she 
had been. ‘Then I went down to the 
cottage. She was not there, and the ser- 
vant said that she had gone for a drive 
with the Evanstons and had not come back 
with them. That was all I could find out. 
I instructed the servant to telegraph me if 
she returned, and then came back to town. 
Today I have been everywhere where there 
seemed to be the least chance of finding 



her. Itis pretty hard work, going about 
in this infernal heat, and it’s a damned out- 
rage, too! The silly girl! It all comes 
from the ridiculous way in which girls are 
brought up. It is not enough that they are 
kept absolutely ignorant of the world as it 
really is, but they have a lot of the most 
absurd prejudices, so that an ordinary man 
of the world, such as I am, has no idea 
what to do with them. I can tell you, a 
man has little idea what he is in for when 
he gets married.’’ 

‘Perhaps it would be as well not to dis- 
cuss that,’’ said Robert, ‘‘ but to try and 
find Claire.”’ 

‘Yes, that is what I want. And now, 
have you any idea where she would be likely 
to go? Any old friends or something of that 
sort? She is only trying to frighten or 
annoy me, or both.’’ 

Robert had said almost nothing. He felt 
a positive loathing for Blethen, and yet he 
was sorry for him, too. The years had 
written their story on his face, and Robert 
read there how absolutely unfit he was to 
solve any real problem of life, or to meet 
any emergency in a manly, straightforward 
way. Weak, dissolute, and self indulgent, 
he could understand nothing except from 
the standpoint of his own desires. 

‘What do you suppose Claire thought 
when she saw you driving with Leslie?” 
Robert finally asked. 

“Oh, I don’t know. She has such high 
and mighty ideas about everything; she 
does not think a man has a right to any 

‘* Does she know of your former relations 
with Leslie ?’’ 

Blethen moved a little uneasily in his 

‘“‘T am afraid she does,’’ he answered. 
‘You see, Atterbury, I am not a bad fellow 
at all. Ionly do what everybody else does ; 
and by Jove, I did not know that a girl could 
be as ignorant and prejudiced as Claire was 
when we were married. I give you my 
word I was as innocent of any intentional 
offense asa babe unborn, the first time I 
told her a funny story which was going the 
rounds. She turned on me as if I were not 
fit for her to walk on, and asked what kind 
of people I had lived with to know such 
things. She actually forbade me ever to 
tell her such athing again. Since then she 
has always been more or less suspicious, and 
I do not know how much she knows. But 
the question is, do you think that you can 
find her ?’’ 

‘“*T think I can find her; indeed, I know 
that I zw7// find her,’’? Robert answered. 

‘‘T am not going to discuss the matter with 
you, Blethen, but I may as well say that I 
do not think it probable that she will come 
back to you.”’ 

A spasm of something like real pain 
crossed Blethen’s weak face, and instantly 
gave place to a look of passionate anger. 

‘Damn it all!’ he broke out. ‘‘I would 
be glad enough to cut the whole thing, and 
be rid of her, if it were not for what people 
will say. Why aman wants to tie himself 
to a whining, puritanical wife, when there 
are plenty of women who know how to 
make themselves agreeable and keep their 
own places, is more than I know.”’ 

He was walking up and down the room, 
his eyes bloodshot, his voice quivering with 

‘“She has got to come back, I say. I 
won’t be treated in this way. I won’t be 
made the laughing stock of the whole town 
by the damned littlk—~-’’ He did not 
finish the sentence. Robert caught his 
arm, and one jook into Atterbury’s face 
silenced him. He threw himself into his 
chair, and, putting his head upon the table, 
burst into hysterical sobs. 

“I will send you word in the morning 
whether I have found her or not.’’ So say- 
ing, Robert went out and closed the door. 
He walked away withaheavy heart. ‘The 
man is a coward, and more than half a liar 
too,’’ he said to himself. He knew the 
story had been only half told. At the end 
of the room he had seen an uncleared table 
which had been laid for two, and beside the 
wine glasses lay a woman’s glove, a long 
evening glove, and on the floor were faded 
Devoniensis roses. 


ROBERT did not hesitate as to the direc- 
tion in which he should first look for Claire. 
In the porter’s lodge, at the gate of the 
house where she was born, lived her old 
nurse. Robert had little doubt that he 
would find her there. It was now nine 
o’clock, and the heat was still insupport- 
able. He hurried as fast as possible in order 
to catch the nine thirty train for Concord. 

When he arrived at the lodge everything 
was in darkness, except that a dim light 
shone under the blinds of the front room. 
Robert smiled to see it; his question was 
already answered. In response to his knock, 
he heard heavy steps ascend the stairs, and 
in a minute the upper window was slowly 
raised and old Nancy put her head cautiously 

‘“ Who be you ?”’ she asked. 

‘‘Nancy, it is I, Robert Atterbury. Will 
you let me in ?”’ 

‘‘For the Lord’s sake,’’ she ejaculated. 
‘‘Tt’s Mr. Robert. Whatever shall I do?” 

‘¢ Come, Nancy, be quick, please,’’ Robert 
said. ‘‘I am very tired.’’ 

The old woman came down stairs, talking 
to herself, and opened the door a little way, 
evidently in doubt as to what she ought to 
do. Robert pushed it open and entered. 

‘‘Where is Mrs. Blethen ?”’ he asked. 

He closed the outer door, and put out his 
hand to open that of the front room. 

‘No, no; ye mustn’t go in there,’’ old 
Nancy began. 

Robert had opened the door; he stood 
on the threshold, and Claire was before 
him. She lay on the black haircloth sofa, 
her eyes red and swollen from much cry- 
ing, her whole attitude expressive of abso- 
lute despair. She rose to her feet and 
turned angrily toward Robert, evidently 
thinking it was her husband who had come. 
When she saw who it was she sat down. 

‘Robert! You here? What have you 
come for ?’’ she asked coldly. 

‘To find you, dear,’’ he answered. ‘‘ Are 
you not glad to see me?”’ 

‘No. I shall never be glad of anything 
again,’’ she said. 

She did not look at him again, nor speak 
tohim. She sat with her hands clasped 
before her, her head bowed in utter misery, 
her eyes fixed on the floor. Robert gazed 
at her with absolute wonder. Could two short 
years have changed the gay, debonair girl 
whom he remembered into this hollow eyed, 
stern, and unbeautiful woman ? He did not 
know what to do or say. 

‘‘Well,”’ she finally said, ‘‘ I suppose you 
agree with Van Ruger. He says no woman 
who looks as I do could expect a man to 
stay with her. Youevidently think so, too. 
You had better go back and sympathize 
with him. I do not want you here, you 
may be sure. One thing, since you have 
come, you may as well tell him—that I 
shall stay here. And he shall not come 
here; tell him that, too. I will never see 
him again, and never enter his house again; 
tell him that please, and make it very 
plain to him.”’ 

“‘T am not going back just now, Claire,”’ 
he said, ‘‘and when I do go it will not be 
to Blethen. You know we have just come 

home, mother and I, and we hoped——’”’ 
She sprang up and went to him, the tears 
filling her eyes. 
‘Oh, Robert, forgive me,’’ she said. ‘I 
I forgot for a 

am so selfish and so wicked. 

moment. Poor Dave! darling 



auntie! I have grieved so for it all. [ 
have so longed to go to you. Did you 
think it very strange that I did not come 
when Dave grew worse? I wanted to, oh 
so much; but I couldn’t.’”’ She added 
bitterly, ‘‘I never can do anything that I 
want to now. Tell me about auntie, and 
about Dave, too, if you can.”’ 

So Robert talked to her, quietly and 
sadly, holding her hand in his. In a little 
while she seemed quite her old self again. 

‘*Mother will come out for you tomor- 
row,’’ he said, ‘‘and you will come home 

- with her, will you not ?”’ 

‘*No,’’ she said, ‘‘no, Robert. I will 
not go away from here. I can stay here 
away from every one, and bury my misery. 
Oh, you do not know, you cannot imagine, 
what I have suffered; all the shame and 
degradation and horror of the past year. 
That, at least, I have ended ; I will never 
go back to it again, never.” 

‘*T donot ask you to go back to Blethen,”’ 
he said, ‘‘ but only to come to us now. You 
can decide everything else afterwards.”’ 

She got up and moved away from him. 

‘“No,”’ she said. ‘‘I do not want you to 
help me, nor any one else. No onecan help 
me; there is no cure for me. I am ill, and 
wretched, and wicked. Yes, wicked,’’ she 
repeated, and her eyes began to blaze and 
her cheeks to flush. ‘‘I suffer horribly, 
but I would endure anything, anything, 
to make him suffer as Ido. He said to me 
yesterday, ‘You area pretty looking wife 
fora man tocome home to. Perhaps you 
think it amuses me to play sick nurse,’ and 
then he went off to amuse himself with— 
those other women, whom he likes so much 
better than he does me. He says they know 
their business, and that a man does not 
have them dragging around after him all 
the time. I feel so degraded, so loathsome, 
and, oh, howI envy them! Yes,I do. I 
envy them. Do they have this to bear? 
Are they old, and ugly, and ill?” 

She was wringing her hands now and 
sobbing violently. 

‘‘Don’t Claire, please don’t,’? Robert 
said; ‘‘if not for your own sake, then oe 

‘* Hush !’’? she said. ‘‘ Don’t finish it. I 
will not be careful for its sake. I want it 
to die. Whatdo you suppose I want it for? 
I tell you I hate it. Look at what it has 
done for me—and I cannot get away, I can- 
not doanything. Oh, what shall I do, what 
shall I do?” 

Suddenly she came to Robert and knelt 
beside him, clasping her hands on his knee 
and looking up at him with wild, frightened 


‘‘Oh, Robert,’’ she whispered, ‘‘I am so 
afraid, so terribly afraid. I cannot bear it, 
the horrible pain, and—I am so afraid—I 
am sure that Iam going to die. Oh, I can- 
not die ; I cannot die !”’ 

She sank to the floor, completely pros- 
trated. Robert lifted her up and laid her 
on the sofa. Then he sat down beside her. 
Softly as a mother soothes a suffering child, 
he quieted her, talking in tender tones and 
comforting words. Slowly the sobs ceased, 
and by and by she slept. 

Morning had dawned when Nancy came 
in, and they succeeded in putting a pillow 
under Claire’s head without waking her. 
Then, without waiting for even a cup of 
coffee, Robert started for the train. He 
thought he would go home, and tell Mrs. 
Atterbury what he had done, and leave 
Claire in her hands, while he took the rest 
of which he stood in so great need. 


WHEN Robert opened the door and 
stepped out, he thought the cool air which 
struck him was only the morning freshness; 
but when he came out into the road he 
found that one of the sudden changes of the 
New England climate was upon them. 
The temperature had fallen many degrees, 
and the east wind was blowing strong and 
cold from the ocean. His thin summer 
clothes offered slight protection to his 
already exhausted frame. 

He hurried on, but before he reached 
the train he knew that he had taken cold. 
That unmistakable sense of great fatigue, 
which seems to start in the bones and to 
creep over the whole body, gave warning of 
a coming chill. He fought against it. He 
summoned all his strength of will and pur- 
pose to oppose the enemy whose approach 
struck terror to his soul; but it was in vain. 
Huddled together in one corner of the car, 
where he tried to shelter himself, he shook 
from head to foot, and his teeth chattered. 

When the train reached Boston, he called 
a cabman, took a blanket that had covered 
the man’s horse, and, telling him to drive 
at once to Dr. Newton’s, sprang into the 
cab. The horse started off at a quick pace, 
and the vehicle jolted over a rough pave- 
ment. Robert swayed forward, then put 
his handkerchief to his mouth to meet the 
rush of warm blood which filled it. He 
looked at the crimson stain, and knew his 

““Oh, my love, my precious love,’’ he 

Rapidly there passed before him the clos- 

ing scenes of his father’s life and of Dave’s, 
and he felt that they were about to be re- 
peated in his own. It was horrible! Life 
had just become so beautiful, so wonderful. 
He cowered before the blow, and Death 
triumphed over him. 

* * * 

Weeks passed. Robert’s mother watched 
and tended him with ceaseless devotion, but 
with a breaking heart. For himself, he 
submitted to all the wearisome round of 
medical treatment without question and 
without hope. He wished that his mother 
and the doctor should feel, afterwards, that 
they had done what they could; but he had 
no expectation of being better. 

Before his mind there was continually the 
one thing which he had still todo. That 
thing accomplished, they might do what 
seemed good to them. 

‘““We must get him away,’’ the doctor 
said. ‘‘ The disease is not yet settled, and 
in a milder climate, with good care, he may 
have many years yet before him. I think 
a voyage on a good clipper ship is the best 
thing for him. If he goes at once he will 
get into the south before the cold weather 
has really come, and the warm sea air may 
do wonders for him.” 

“T am not a very good sailor, but of 
course I shall go with him,’’ Mrs. Atterbury 
said. ‘‘ We will stay togetheras long as we 

Her voice quivered, but she would not 
give way to her grief. Already she felt the 
coming of the days when Grief and she 
would sit together at her desolate hearth, 
and she forbade his presence now. 

‘JT do not understand Robert’s great de- 
pression,’ she added. ‘‘ Usually, in these 
cases, the last person to. be convinced of 
danger is the patient; but he has been hope- 
less from the first.’’ 

The doctor looked very grave. 

‘“‘That complicates matters,’ he said. 
‘There may be something on his mind, or 
his nerves may be unstrung.’’ 

The doctor, who was also Mrs. Atterbury’s 
life long friend, had a painful duty to per- 
form. He felt that it was necessary to 
oppose her, but he did it with infinite tender- 
ness, gentleness. 

‘*My dear Mrs. Atterbury,’’ he said, ‘‘ if 
you will be guided by me, you will not 
go with Robert. Not on your own account, 
of course, but because it will be far better 
for him to be in the care of a young, strong, 
light hearted man ; one who, while taking 
intelligent care of him, will not himself be 
depressed by anxious fears. Now, John 
Richards has just returned from Berlin. 





He is a full fledged M. D., and he wishes to 
come intomy office. Ilike him very much, 
and have been thinking of taking him to 
relieve me of some of my night duties. 
Suppose we see if he would not like to go 
on this voyage with your son? It seems to 
me that he would fulfil all the requirements 
of the case.’’ 

The blow struck home. Mrs. Atterbury 
bowed her headin silent agony, but mother- 
like she resigned her last sad pleasure to 
even a faint hope of prolonging her son’s 

When they told the plan to Robert, he 
listened without interest, recognizing in it 
only one step of the well known path. 
After his mother and the doctor had left 
the room he ordered the nurse to bolster 
him up with pillows, and to give him pencil 
and paper. He was white when he began 
to write, and the cheek bones seemed ready 
to protrude through the transparent skin. 
As he wrote, bright, hectic spots burned red 
on his cheeks. He began slowly : 

Beloved, I must be strong, for your dear 

There he stopped, looked at what he had 
written, and tore it up. ‘‘I need not tell 
her that I must be strong,’? he thought. 
‘‘T must be really so.’’ He leaned back on 
the pillows and closed his eyes. From 
under the lids two bitter tears found way, 
and on his forehead stood great drops of 
sweat. Again he took the pencil and this 
is what he wrote : 

Beloved, a great calamity has befallen us. I 
am stricken down by the same fatal disease 
which has taken so many of my family. There 
is no hope; Iam already as a man dead. 

What can I do for you, O my love? Would 
that my arms might be around you when you 
feel this blow, that my breast might receive 
the tears which you will shed for me. I know, 
my love, all that you would say, all that you 
would wish to do; du¢ J will not have it so. 
I give you up. 

What can you do for me, dearest? I will 
tell you.. Z7ve. From this deathbed let my 

(Zo be continued.) 


voice reach your soul and give you help and 
strength. Live out allithe grand possibilities 
of your great woman ’s nature. 

Give way to your grief for a little while, 
dear love ; then rise to meet what life brings 
to you. I see her coming, in her hands all 
joys and pains, wifehood, motherhood. Fulfil 
yourself, beloved, and do not let me cast a 
shadow upon you. I, who owe to you all the 
bliss of my life, dless you. 

When he had sealed the letter he sent the 
man out to postit and lay quietly back 
upon the pillow. Presently his mother 
bent over him, listening to his breathing. 
He opened his eyes and looked at her, and 
she smiled at him—one of those heart 
breaking smiles, so much sadder than tears, 
His lips moved and she stooped low to 
catch the faint sound. 

‘The bitterness of death is passed,” he 

* * * * 

That night he slept well, and the next 
he seemed better and stronger, so that the 
doctor, who was impatient to get him off, 
urged that he should go on one of the 
the steamers to Aspinwall and then cross 
over to Panama, where he could get a ship 
bound for some of the South Pacific Islands. 
He made no objection to anything, so in 
less than a week he was carried on board a 
steamer and, with Dr. Richards, was south- 
ward bound. 

The days were wonderful in the beauty 
of the Indian summer. The doctor put 
Robert on a long steamer chair where the 
warm salt air was around him and the sun 
shone on him. He lay, looking now at the 
blue sky, now, as the great ship rolled from 
side to side, at the heaving billows. He 
recognized all the soothing influences 
around him, and he thought they were 
ministrant angels who were lulling him to 
his last sleep. He had no more to do on 
sea or shore ; he had made his last perfect 
sacrifice ; now he had but to wait. 

But God’s angels come with healing in 
their wings. 


The true story of the Vacaresco incident, which almost drove Charles of Roumania from 
his throne—Carmen Sylva’s part in a romance that proved to be a conspiracy. 

‘“TN our century of prose and reality love 
has for once manifested its power 
despite all opposition. It is from the 

land of the sun, from the land of Carmen 
Sylva, who sings from the heart and soul— 
it is from Roumania that this ray of light 
comes,’’ wrote Queen Elizabeth in the sum- 
mer of 1891, while her kingdom trembled 
with the excitement caused by the Va- 
caresco incident. ‘‘ Prince Ferdinand and 
Heléne,’’ she continued, ‘‘stand before us 
a precious example of valiant love, braving 
the thousand storms raised by the shadow 
of that crown which hovers over the young 
man’s head. The Roumanians will applaud 
their union, and all truly patriotic hearts 
will beat with joy when the happy couple 
plight their troth at the altar.’’ 

Today the poet queen, resting among the 
verdure clad mountains of Sinaia at the 
picturesque castle of Pelesh, in harmony 
with her husband and people, surrounded 
by friends, respected and honored by the 
great dignitaries of state, blushes as she 
recalls these pages from her diary. Her 
romantic friendship for her former maid of 
honor, which was ended by the king’s order 
despite Elizabeth’s hysteric protests and 
impotent threats—this fanciful attachment 
that came near wrecking her throne, proved 
to be a one sided, sentimental illusion, as 
her majesty is now well aware. The gentle 
Heléne was long ago unmasked as an ad- 
venturess, and the lovelorn Ferdinand has 
for two years been the contented husband 
of another woman. 

Three summers ago, the most sanguine 
observer would not have dared anticipate 
so happy and prosaic a solution of the im- 
broglio that set the war ministers of all 
Kurope to overhaul their marching orders. 
The writer, at the time, was a foreign cor- 
respondent stationed in Vienna, and the 
passage just quoted from the queen’s diary 
was among the choice bits of gossip that 
reached his office from her majesty’s ‘‘cabi- 
net ’? in Bucharest, the communications be- 
ing invariably signed ‘‘ Schaeffer, Her 
Majesty’s Secretary.’ 

They say journalists are born, like 
strategic and poetic geniuses. Bismarck is 
of opinion that they are men who have 
missed their proper vocation. Both maxims 
fit the case of Schaeffer. A journalist by 
the grace of nature, he became amanuensis 
toa royal mistress who dealt in anything 
but facts. 

I have read through several of Carmen 
Sylva’s romances, but none of them—nor 
even her majesty’s translation of the ‘‘Songs 
of the Dimbovitza,’’ gathered by Heléne 
Vacaresco among the gipsies—wild and un- 
real as they are, can compare, as works 
of untrammeled imagination, with the ver- 
sion of the Vacaresco affair sent out by the 
queen’s secretary on official, crowned, and 
crest laden paper. It was all in the general 
key of the queen’s diary effusions—un- 
bridled, rhapsodical, of childlike artlessness, 
presupposing a state of the public mind 
which hardly existed in the days of the 
troubadours. Denuded of highfalutin 
phrases, endless periods, fulsome declara- 
tions, hysterics and hyperbole, the queen’s 
typewritten statements were to the effect 
that her nephew, Prince Ferdinand, heir 
presumptive to the crown of Roumania, had 
fallen desperately in love with the young 
and innocent Heléne Vacaresco, who was 
a lady of the court of Bucharest, a renowned 
poetess, and daughter of a noble family ; 
that she—Carmen Sylva—had permitted 
the couple to become engaged ; that they 
were man and wife before God’s altar, and 
that the people of Roumania were’ eager to 
hail Heléne as their future queen. 

Photographs exhibiting the queen, Prince 
Ferdinand, and Heléne, posed together in a 
loving group, were inclosed, and the sym- 

pathies of the correspondents enlisted on: 

the plea of chivalry. 

Of course, when a queen—and, forsooth, a 
lovely woman—unbends to ask favors of a 
handful of journalists in a foreign country, 
the readers whom they serve are liable to 
become her majesty’s converts. Oh, the 
wonderful romances concerning the royal 
trio we telegraphed and cabled to all parts 





of the globe, during the fortnight when we 
put our trust in the loquacious and sly 
Schaeffer! Alas, the lovely mess of crow 
upon which we dined a little later! 

The. Roumanians, and __ particularly 
Bucharest society, do not incline to prudery. 

arose a storm that threatened to sweep 
King Charles from his throne. Ministry, 
court, and people had at last discovered a 
point on which they could agree,and declared 
themselves bitterly opposed to the con- 
templated mesalliance. ‘‘ It is not love that 

Heléne Vacaresco. 

From a photograph by Mandy, Bucharest. 

While the love making between Heléne 
and Ferdinand was the theme of general 
gossip in the capital, it excited little more 
than passing comment. Not until the 
foreign press busied itself with the case, 
and declared it an affair of state, did 
the journals of the kingdom take cog- 
nizance of the subject. Then, at the mere 
mention of the fact that the crown prince 
intended to marry Mlle. Vacaresco, there 



inspires the Vacaresco woman,’’ they 
vociferated ; ‘‘it is treason, tempered by 
blackmail.’? And Prince Ferdinand was 
characterized as a ‘‘ noodle—just such an 
imbecile as an ambitious woman would vic- 

The queen was abused in even more 
shanieful style. ‘Two days after the scandal 
had become noised about in Bucharest, I 
saw a caricature of Carmen Sylva posted in 


Elizabeth, Queen of Roumania (‘Carmen Sylva"’). 

From a photograph by Mandy, Bucharest, 

the neighborhood of the royal palace. It 
represented the queen as she entered Rou- 
mania, poor, bare headed, and in a dress 
much the worse for wear—a German As- 
chenbroedel. A companion picture ex- 
hibited her majesty as a person grown rich 
and puissant by the bounty of her people, 
dealing out royal crowns to her inferiors. 
This cartoon, the more objectionable 
as it affected a semblance of truth, was per- 
mitted to disgrace the dead walls for many 
hours, and hundreds of thousands came in 
steady procession to look and gloat over the 
coarse likeness. ‘Then came the queen’s 
journey to Venice, which was nothing short 
of flight, followed by rumors of divorce and 
of King Charles’ abdication. The uproar 
lasted five or six weeks, finally to be quieted 

by the reports of a visit paid by the king to 
his ailing wife, in company with the pre- 
mier, the secretary of the ministerial coun- 
cil, and a number of other officials. The 
nucleus of a settlement of the whole affair 
was then and there agreed upon. Elizabeth 
consented to discharge Mlle. Vacaresco and 
secretary Schaeffer, withdrew her approval 
of the contemplated match between Heléne 
and Ferdinand, and promised not to inter- 
fere in her husband’s selection of a wife for 
the heir presumptive. A month or so later 
she was moved to Neuwied, the residence 
of her brother, the Prince of Wied. ‘There 
she remained in seclusion until October last, 
when she returned to her kingdom a changed 
woman, a queen who had profited by the 
political lessons that had been taught her. 

— msecnioragges 





At present Carmen Sylva is holding court 
on Mount Sinaia, a district which the royal 
authoress has charmingly described in 
‘‘Tales of the Pelesh.’? The Roumanian 
sovereign’s summer residence is the Mecca 
of hundreds of scientists, artists, and liter- 
ary men and women, every season. There 
one meets no end of celebrities, and all are 
cordially welcomed by king and queen, who 

ask silk of a very delicate red, streaked 
with silver threads. A chemise of white 
wool, very soft and fine, and richly em- 
broidered at the neck, sleeves, and edgings, 
serves for a waist. 

Carmen Sylva has a classical mouth, a 
musical voice, deep set eyes of light blue, 
and teeth of pearly whiteness. Her wavy 
hair is prematurely white, but her tall, fine 

Charles, King of Roumania. 

From a photograph by 

give each a day or two to become thor- 
oughly acquainted, and then politely proffer 
their regrets that the guest’s departure 
should be made necessary by the host of 
other names on the court marshal’s invi- 
tation list. 

At Pelesh Queen Elizabeth and her ladies 
wear the national costume, a motley garb, 
the most unusual feature of which is the 
apron, worn at the back, and made of dam- 

Mandy, Bucharest. 

figure stands as erect asever. Her majesty’s 
complexion is fresh and healthy, her step 
elastic, and her whole manner winsome. 
Behold, in contrast to this truly royal 
woman, her quondam ‘‘friend’’ and all but 
destroyer—Heléne Vacaresco. Below me- 
dium height, dark skinned, of full figure, 
she has thick lips, an abundance of raven 
tresses, and a smooth, round forehead. Like 
most ancient families of Roumania, the 


house of Vacaresco claims Roman origin. 
All its members of this generation are es- 
sentially French in training and tastes. Be- 
sides Heléne and her parents, there are two 
brothers and a sister. The latter married a 
Catargi, a member of the family which de- 
throned the former ruler of the Roumanian 
country, Prince Couza, in spite of the fact 
that he had a son, Demetrius by name, by 

leagues. The Bucharest government today 
possesses positive documentary evidence 
that the love affair between the crown prince 
and Mlle. Heléne was the result of a con- 
spiracy entered into by the Vacaresco family 
to the end of driving King Charles to abdi- 
cation and of enthroning Demetrius, Carmen 
Sylva being their unconscious tool, and 
Russia furnishing the funds. Secretary 

taper me 


# # 

The Crown Princess of Roumania and Her Eldest Son. 
From a photograph by Mandy, Bucharest. 

the elder Catargi’s sister. This boy, heir 
to all the Couza millions—stolen millions, 
by the way—is the favorite candidate of 
the Panslavist party in Russia and the Bal- 
kans for the Roumanian throne, and herein 
lies the key of the historical intrigue of 
which we have been speaking. 

The father and brothers of the young 
woman who aspired to the Roumanian 
crown, share her unpleasant characteristics. 
Through Heléne’s influence they secured 
high positions in the diplomatic service, 
four or five years ago, but wherever they 
went—to Belgrade, Vienna, or Rome—they 
gained a most unenviable reputation, and 
were treated with contempt by their col- 

Schaeffer, who has been a fugitive from 
justice for years, is known to have been a 
Russian agent. 

While the removal of King Charles from 
the throne, and the demolition of the ram- 
part that blocks Russia’s way to Bulgaria 
and Constantinople, was the chief issue in- 
volved, the Vacarescos, as usual, had pri- 
vate irons in the fire. By extortion—or, to 
be more explicit, by common blackmail— 
they succeeded in fleecing both the king 
and queen out of hush money to the 
amount of several million francs. The 
authorities have proof of all this, and 
the Vacarescos need but lift their hand 
against the crown to be clapped into jail 


under charges of high 
treason. Thanks to this 
fact, Mlle. Heléne’s 
threatened memoirs 
have never seen the 
light of a printing office; 
and for the same reason 
the world has_ been 
spared a perusal of the 
love letters indited by 
Prince Ferdinand to his 
aunt’s wily maid of 

Mlle. Heléne differs 
from the rest of her 
family in that she is 
highly educated, and 
has really brilliant tal- 
ent. Many years of her 
life have been passed 
in Paris, where she ob- 
tained a reputation as 
one of the clever young 
women who sat at the 
feet of Victor Hugo. 
This famous patron cor- 
rected her verses, and 
probably for that reason 
her ‘Chants d’Aurore”’ 
won a prize from the 
French Academy, seven 
or eight years ago. She 
also published a volume 
of Roumanian folk 
songs, ‘‘ The Bard of the 
Dimbovitza,’’ already 
mentioned as translated by Carmen Sylva. 

Prince Ferdinand was only twenty six 
when he achieved notoriety as the lover of 
a clever woman four years his senior in age, 
and twenty in knowledge of the world. He 
is the second son of the Prince of Hohen- 
zollern-Sigmaringen, and was originally in- 
tended to spend his life as 2a German officer, 
drilling recruits or riding at the head of a 
regiment or two. King Charles, his uncle, 
having no son of his own, selected him for 
the post, it is said, as the candidate least 
calculated to excite the suspicions and 
jealousies of the great powers. That may 
be true or not; it is quite certain, however, 
that Ferdinand, since his marriage to the 
eldest daughter of the present Duke of 
Saxe-Coburg, has given evidence of in- 
creased mental activity and of devotion to 
his military and administrative duties. His 
clever wife, the Princess Marie Alexandra, 
a bride of two years, has presented her hus- 
band with as many bouncing babies, and 
Roumania has its wished for male heir. 

Ferdinand, Crown Prince of Roumania. 

From a photograph by Uhlenhuth, Coburg, 

She is deservedly popular with all classes, 
and, being a granddaughter of Czar Alex- 
ander II, as well as of Queen Victoria, , 
guarantees Russia’s sympathetic tolerance 
of the status quo, which is an excellent 
thing in the Balkans. 

King Charles, who won military distinc- 
tion in the war with Turkey, is a ruler of 
twenty nine years’ experience, and a firm 
adherent of the Triple Alliance. He is a 
fine looking man, famous for boldness, grit, 
and perseverance. His very crown denotes 
as much, being constructed of hammered 
steel, the metal of Turkish cannons cap- 
tured by his own hands at Plevna. 

As a younger son of the house of Hohen- 
zollern, he was called to the throne in his 
twenty seventh year, when holding a lieu- 
tenantship in the second Prussian dragoons. 
He entered his country gripsack in hand, 
and with a posse of Austrian gendarmes 
at his heels. ‘‘ First class promotion for a 
lieutenant, at any rate,’’ said Bismarck at 
the tise. 

Henry W. Fischer. 




SINCE the death of her husband by an 
assassin’s knife, Mme. Carnot, widow of 
the late martyred President of the French 
Republic, has been living in strict seclu- 
sion; but that she is not forgotten by the 
people of France has been shown by the 
warm and repeated expressions of public 
sympathy she has received. 

She was a Mlle. Dupont White, the daugh- 
ter of a prominent politician of the second 
republic. She was twenty when she was 
married, in 1865, to M. Carnot. The match 
was not considered as a brilliant one. Her 
husband was a young engineer, the bearer 
of a historic name, but possessed of a very 
slender fortune. His rise, however, was 
rapid, and much of his success was due to 
the tact and popularity of his wife. 

Always a devoted mother, Mine. Carnot 

Mme. Sadi Carnot. 
From a photograph by Pierre Petit, Paris. 

is more than ever attached to her children, 
the eldest of whom, a daughter, is married 
and herself the mother of a son and daugh- 
ter. The eldest son, Sadi, holds a lieu- 
tenant’s commission in the French army, 
and may one day repeat the achievements 
of his father and of his great grandfather. 
The others, Victor and Francois, have not 
yet completed their education. 

that you ought to devote all your energy to 
the work you have on hand ; that you should 
not divide your interest and fritter your time 
away onagreat many things. He is himself 
a good example of the success of this theory. 
He has followed it carefully, and he has been 
an eminently useful member of the New 
York State Legislature, an admirable civil 
service commissioner, and he 
is now the energetic and prac- 
tical ‘‘reform’’ president of 
the board of police com- 
missioners of the City of 
New York. 

There is a cheerful and 
courteous aspect about police 
headquarters now that has 
never been there before, and 
Roosevelt not only sets an 
example for the employees 
in the building, but he in- 
sists that they shall be con- 
siderate of the feelings of 
every caller. The old woman 
in the sunbonnet can ask 
questions of the brass but- 
toned young man in charge 
of the elevator with the same 
impunity that the police 
commissioner himself en- 
joys, and receive the same 
sort of an answer. Courtesy 
to citizens is one of the prin- 
cipleson which the reformed 
police force is based. Its 
members are instructed to 
recognize the taxpayer as 
their employer, and show 
him the deference due. Mr. 
Roosevelt is gaining a prac- 
tical knowledge of the work- 
ings of the police system 
by looking after all its de- 
tails in person. A woman 
came to the commissioner a 


few days ago and waited patiently in the 
outer office until Mr. Roosevelt made one 
of his periodical visitations. When he 
asked her what she wanted, she told him 
that her husband, a member of the force, 
allowed her only three dollars a week, and 
abused her shamefully. 

‘*T will look into the matter 
and see that justice is done you 
so far as I can,”’ said the com- 

The woman started to tell him 
of the language her husband had 
used to her. 

“T haven’t time for that,’’ said 
Mr. Roosevelt, pleasantly but 
firmly. ‘‘ Your case shall have 
full attention.’’ 

A little later the commissioner 
said to Acting Chief Conlin, 
‘*Call officer so and so before 
the board. I don’t know what 
authority we have in this matter, 
but I am going to tell him that 
he cannot abuse his wife, and 
that he must provide for her 
better. We don’t want men on 
the force who do not care for 
their wives.”’ BA 

Men seeking appointments 
come to the commissioner in 
swarms. He smilingly refers 
them to the civil service board. 

If they are known to him per- 
sonally, he tells them that so 
far as character is concerned he 
will be glad to recommend them, 
but that he has no power to go 
behind the action of the board. 

The president of the Liquor Dealers’ As- 
sociation called to see the commissioner 
while the writer was in his office. He 
wanted to tell Mr. Roosevelt what power 
his association wielded, and what good or 
harm it could do. Mr. Roosevelt listened, 
and then told him pleasantly but positively 
that he did not care a snap of his fingers 
about the power of the association. 

‘‘T want to see justice done to you as to 
every one else,’’ he said. ‘‘ You shall have 
the protection of the laws, you may be sure, 
whether you are powerful or weak.”’ 

Mr. Roosevelt’s offices are on the third 
floor of the building on Mulberry Street, 
which has been the headquarters of the 
police force for many years. Across the 
way are a couple of tenements, on the 
lower floors of which are the offices of the 
police reporters of the daily newspapers. 
From this point of vantage they can survey 
the building at all times, see who goes in 

and who comes out, and form their own 
judgment of what is going on inside. Oc- 
casionally they come forth from their dens 
and visit the office of the chief on the first 
floor, or that of Police Commissioner Roose- 
velt on the third. 

In the outer room of Mr. Roosevelt's suite 

Theodore Roosevelt. 

is a big desk, standing between two win- 
dows, and a typewriter desk in the corner. 
In another corner stands a rack on which 
are the files of all the New York morning 
papers. All articles about the police board 
in these papers are marked in red, so that 
the commissioners can know each morning 
at a glance just what the journals are say- 
ing about them. 

The second room is an anteroom to the 
third. In it sits the attendant who guards 
the commissioner’s door. He is an officer 
in full uniform, and he takes visitors’ cards 
in to Mr. Roosevelt. When several cards 
have accumulated, the commissioner comes 
out, excusing himself if he has any visitors 
in his private office, and disposes one by 
one of the people who have been waiting to 
see him. It does not take him long to deal 
with them. If any one has business of 
importance, he makes an appointment for 
an hour when he can discuss the matter at 


length. From about 9:30 until 11:30 the 
reception in the commissioner’s outer office 
continues. Then, on days when the board 
holds meetings, the commissioner goes to 
join his colleagues. He comes out half an 
hour or an hour later and returns to his 

Wilhelmina, Queen cf Holland. 

From a photograph by Kameke, The Hague. 

office, to receive more visitors, until one 
o’clock. He remains until fouro’clock. He 
is up and down stairs a great deal, consult- 
ing with his colleagues and with the chief. 

While Mr. Roosevelt has other ambitions 
than thief catching or managing a force of 
four thousand police officers, he is content 
for the present with the reform work. This 
he is doing with energy and success. 

% % 7 a 

In less than four years little Wilhelmina 
will be Queen of the Netherlands de facto, 
with power to select her ministers, her coun- 
cilors of state, and her husband. 

For some time the atmosphere of The 

Hague has been hazy with political intrigue. 

Every royal house of Europe—except the 

Roman Catholic families—that has a 

marriageable prince to offer, has designs 

upon Wilhelmina’s hand. Quite recently 

Count Rantzau, the German ambassador at 

the Dutch court, was 

recalled on the plea 

that his father in 

law, Prince  Bis- 

marck, desired his 

society at Friedrichs- 

ruh. The real reason 

for his retirement 

may have been the 

ill success of his al- 

leged mission to pre- 

vent the extente cor- 

diale between the 

royal houses of the 

Netherlands and 

Great Britain. The 

Kaiser has six sons, 

and one of them, he 

thinks, would make 

a handsome prince 

consort to Wilhel- 

. mina, even if the 

Hollanders could not 

be persuaded to ac- 

cept him as king. 

The King of Saxony 

and the irrepressible 

a Coburgers—the old 

line as well as the 

new Edinburgh 

* branch — have let 

Queen Emma know 

that several impe- 

cunious scions of 

their houses are wait- 

ing for an opportun- 

ity to offer their 

hand and heart to 

the young queen. 

The Tecks, the Bat- 

tenbergs, and the princes of Schleswig-Hol- 

stein are in line, as a matter of course ; but 

the most formidable candidate, so far, is 

Prince Albert of Belgium, son of the Count 

of Flanders. If Wilhelmina should choose 

him, their marriage might possibly lead to- 

wards a reunion of the Netherlands with 

Belgium, a state of affairs which France 
would not approve. 

There is still another possibility weighing 
upon the mind of Queen Emma. Her 
daughter might prefer to remain single, and 
to designate a successor to the throne, 
according to the Dutch constitution. All 
these are questions of grave moment, which 



Four Generations of English Royalty. 

Queen Victoria, tne Prince of Wales, the Duke of York, and Prince Edward of York. 

may, in a few years, make WilLelmina’s 
life more burdensome than is that of her 
humblest subject. 
WHATEVER may be said regarding the 
probable duration of the English mon- 

* * * 

archy, there is certainly no present pros- 
pect of its coming to an end for lack of an 
heir to the throne. Should Victoria lay 
down her scepter, her son, her son’s son, 
and her son’s son’s son are ready to take it 
ud in their turns. A group that contains 


William Morris. 
From a photograph by Elliott & Fry, London. 

four generations of one family is always 
unusual ; and when, as in the quartet pic- 
tured on page 41, they represent a sovereign 
and her heirs, apparent and presumptive, it 
is even more remarkable. 

Eight or nine years ago there was pub- 
lished a similar photograph of four gener- 
ations of the German imperial family. It 
was called ‘‘Hohenzollern Gliick’’; but 
the Hohenzollern luck was speedily changed 
by the death of two members of the royal 
quartet within afew months. It would be 
a strange repetition of history if any such 
fate should befall their cousins, the Coburg- 
Guelph dynasty of England. 

WILLIAM MorRIs is without doubt one of 
the most gifted and versatile men of his 
time. He has won brilliant success in a 
dozen different fields. He is a poet, de- 

signer, inventor, and manufacturer ; he has 
his own weaving establishment, his print- 
ing house, and a dyeing plant of his own 
contrivance. ‘To the tattered and homeless 
masses of London he is familiar as an 
orator of great power, in commercial circles 
he has the repute of a man of wealth, and 
ainong the lovers of art and literature he is 
hailed as a leader. 

Morris has of late thrown himself heart 
and soul into the socialistic movement. 
He is a determined foe of the capitalistic 
system, which, he asserts, has killed the 
beautiful in the nineteenth century, and has 
plunged us into a morass of ugliness from 
which there seems no escape. His disgust 
with existing conditions is, however, tem- 
pered with an unbounded and optimistic 
belief in the future—differing in this from 
Ruskin, whose conception of a remedy for 



present evils lay in a return to the primitive 
conditions of the past. 

Mr. Morris is a tall man, of erect bearing, 
with keen eyes, a forceful brow, and a heavy 
gray beard. Like other members of the 
socialistic group to which he belongs, he has 
discarded the regulation form of modern 

asa common scold, a malignant Tory, op- 
posed to the comfort, welfare, and prosperity 
of the ‘‘plain people’’; a snob, a prig, a 
dyspeptic mugwump, and what not! 

It is not our purpose to pass upon the va- 
rious criticisms of which Mr. Godkin has 
been the object, but we are bound to admit 

E. Lawrence Godkin. 

attire, and dresses in soft hats, long cloaks, 
and shirts of cloth, after the fashion of a 

It is not so very long ago that E. Law- 
rence Godkin, editor of the New York £ven- 
ing Post, was regarded by one portion of 
the reading public as a hopeless Utopian in 
political matters, a dreamer to whom the 
practical side of popular government had no 
meaning whatever ; while another section of 
the community—that which patronizes the 
New York Suz, for instance—set him down 

that the main cause which he has cham- 
pioned so earnestly and so long, that of non 
partisan municipal government, has to a 
great extent become an accomplished fact 
in the metropolis, and to no single citizen is 
credit due for this achievement more than 
to him. For his persistent ‘‘ pounding ’’ of 
what he describes as the ‘‘ powers of dark- 
ness,’’ both in municipal affairs and in the 
ranks of the national parties, Mr. Godkin 
has aroused bitter animosities and has suf- 
fered virulent personal abuse—all of which, 
however, has not caused him to budge one 


John James Ingalls. 

From a photograyh by Kleckner, Atchison, Kansas. 

inch from his position. He can now afford 
to look back with complacency on the last 
dozen years of his editorial career, for this 
period has witnessed the realization of many 
of his cherished dreams. His advocacy of 
Cleveland against Blaine in the campaign of 
1884 is considered to have carried great 
weight with independent voters, if not to 
have actually turned the scale in Cleveland’s 
favor. His onslaught on the ‘‘spoils sys- 
tem ’’ contributed largely to the introduction 
of civil service reform methods all over the 
country, while his denunciations of the suc- 
cessive political heresies of the day have 
done much to form a correct and healthy 
public opinion. 

Mr. Godkin’s methods have often been 
criticised as unnecessarily harsh and aggres- 
sive; but, like Dr. Parkhurst, he doubtless 
believes that cancers are not to be cured 
with bread poultices. It should be remem- 
bered that he is a native of the Green Isle 
with Cromwellian as well as Celtic blood in 
his veins—an ideal combination, one would 
think, for fighting purposes. But aside 
from its scathing editorials, in which politi- 

cal evil doers are handled without gloves, 
and often with the ‘‘slangisms”’ of their 
own creation, Mr. Godkin’s paper occupies 
a unique position in the daily press of 
America, as an exponent of what good 
English writing should be. Its avoidance of 
sensationalism, of all that panders to the 
morbid instincts of a portion of the com- 

munity, has doubtless closed many sources. 

of revenue to the /os¢; but it has placed the 
paper on its high plane, and made it one 
of the intellectual powers of the country. 

JOHN JAMES INGALLS of Kansas has an- 
nounced his intention of appearing before 
the Legislature of his State as a candidate 
for the seat in the Senate now held by Mr. 
Peffer. Five years ago, when some one 
told Mr. Ingalls that a man named Peffer 
was a candidate for the seat he had held 
with such distinction, he asked rather 
scornfully, ‘‘ Who is Peffer?’? Mr. Ingalls. 
has identified Peffer since. 

The fame of Mr. Ingalis in public life 
was due largely to his power of invective. He 
possessed a remarkable speaking vocabulary, 



gained by reading and study. He achieved 
a reputation asa coiner of phrases, made up 
frequently of words seldom used in ordinary 
conversation. He seldom made a speech 
that he did not use some phrase that lin- 
gered for many days after on the public 
tongue. He was a parliamentarian of rec- 
ognized ability, and he owed to that fact, 
rather than to personal popularity, his 
election to the post of president pro tempore 
of the Senate, on the death of 
Vice President Hendricks. As 
a presiding officer he was gen- 
erally recognized as fair, 
though some of his decisions 
were accounted partisan by his 
political opponents. He con- 
spicuously refused to have any- 
thing to do with a scheme to 
ignore the Senate rules and 
pass the so called Force Bill in 
defiance of the protests of the 

The most remarkable speech 
which Mr. Ingalls made during 
his term in the Senate was a 
denunciation of the rich, made 
just before his retirement. 
This was commonly interpreted 
as a bid for the favor of the 
Populists in his State, and it 
lost him many friends. Some 
of the attacks he made upon 
his fellow members will live 
long in the traditions of the 
Senate. Notable among these 
were his assaults on Joe Brown 
of Georgia, and his famous com- 
bat with Senator Voorhees of 

Mr. Ingalls could always pack the Senate 
galleries when he spoke, and he was con- 
sidered such an oratorical marvel that his 
friends thought he would be an instant 
success on the lecture platform. He began 
lecturing when he left the Senate; but 
the result was scarcely what had been ex- 
pected, and presently he retired to Kansas, 
where he has been spending most of his 
time for the last four years, living on a farm, 
cultivating crops and public sentiment. 

Mr. Ingalls is a heroin his own home. 
He is an affectionate husband and father, 
and he had no more earnest and attentive 
listeners, whenever he made a public speech, 
than his wife and daughter. 

% % * * 

SuSAN B. ANTHONY lays down the scepter 
of command in the women’s movement, 
having, like Gladstone and Bismarck, set 
her standard of victory on the crumbling 

walls of the enemy’s citadel. There are 
few figures so picturesquely impressive as 
this of the venerable champion of her sex. 
For more than half a century she kas be- 
lieved with all her heart, taught with 
all her might, and wrestled with her- 
culean force against the powers of igno- 
rance and despotism. She found her sex 
in the deeps of social and political inequal- 
ity. She takes off her harness now with 

Susan B. Anthony. 

From a photograph by Veeder, Albany. 

every woman in the land conscious at heart 
of her imprescriptible rights, and, in a 
measure, competent to enforce them. 
Before the temperate persistency of Miss 
Anthony, all the old sophistries of the 
‘unsexing’’ of women, the sepulchral 
train of evils supposed to be involved in ad- 
mitting their equality, have become a de- 
rision and an emptiness. It was not for the 
‘*new woman,’’ or the man woman, or the 
fantastic nondescript who outmans man, 
that Miss Anthony battled. Her plea was 
for the mother’s right, the wife’s prerogative, 
the imaid’s security before the law. All 
these have been substantially won. 
‘““BRUSQUE as Brutus was,’’ sedate of 
temperament, honest to a fault, and gener- 
ally disliked—such is Henri Brisson, one of 
the foremost French politicians of the day. 
He wears shabby clothes, inhabits a fifth 



Henri Brisson. 
From a photograph by Pierre Petit, Paris. 


story flat in a back street, and is said to 
possess all the virtues, but not a single at- 
tractive quality. Do you wonder that as a 
candidate for the presidency, after the 
resignation of M. Grévy, he received only 
twenty six votes? 

M. Brisson has just completed his sixtieth 
year. Under the empire he was an obscure 
lawyer. Gambetta made of him a success- 
ful journalist, who delighted in proclaiming 
himself an advanced mason and the un- 
alterable foe of Jesuitism. In September, 
1870, when the second empire fell, the gov- 
ernment of national defense appointed 
Brisson deputy mayor of Paris; and five 
months later he saw the great ambition of 
his life fulfilled, when he was elected to 
the Assembly. Newspaper readers are fa- 
miliar with his subsequent career as parlia- 
mentarian, as vice president and still later 
as president of the chamber of deputies, as 

chief of the Panama Commission, and as 
minister of justice. Brisson’s attempt at 
premiership, in 1885, was_ satisfactory 
neither to his party nor to the nation at 
large. Today he stands midway between 
radicalism and opportunism—which latter 
signifies that blind conservatism met with 
on the European continent. 

Brisson isa man who would rise to the 
highest position within the gift of the 
people in almost any country but his own. 
Honesty, force of character, high intellect, 
and political integrity are a tolerably com- 
plete equipment for a statesman in most 
lands, but in the Gallic mind these virtues 
lose much of their significance if unaccom- 
panied by grace of personality, by brilliancy 
and verve. M. Brisson will probably live 
and die in his fifth story flat; the Elysée 
was built for cleverer, if not more courag- 
eous men, 

A Ward in the Hiroshi 


ma Hospital, 


An eyewitness’ account a) the remarkable work done by the Red Cross Society of Japan 
during the recent war with China—The phenomenal development of an 
organization that was formed upon American models, 

W HEN the civil war broke out in Japan, 
twenty seven years ago, the Red 
Cross Society wasa thing unknown 

there. There were no surgeons, doctors, or 
trained nurses attached to the forces of 
either belligerent party, and it was then 
with the Japanese exactly as it has been 
with their Chinese adversaries during the 
recent war. The wounded were left to die 
on the battle fields, and for lack of medical 
aid and proper nursing hundreds of men, 
whose lives might easily have been saved, 
perished in misery and neglect in the places 
where they had happened to fall. Soon 
after peace had been reéstablished, the 
Japanese applied themselves to the cultiva- 
tion of western civilization, and as a natural 
result began the formation of the army and 
navy which have lately won the admiration 
of the world. Their desire has been to get 
the best of everything, including not only 
instructors, weapons, and ammunition, but 
also the perfection in minor details without 
which no army can be said to be complete. 
Special attention has been paid to obtaining 
signal corps, military telegraphists, and a 

commissariat of absolute reliability and 
efficiency. In the march of improvement 
the medical department was not forgotten, 
and a Red Cross Society was duly organized, 
the empress and the ladies of the court tak- 
ing the utmost interest in its establishment. 

Under the direct auspices of her Japanese 
majesty, a school for trained nurses was 
founded in Tokio. I visited it some years 
ago, and was amazed to observe the perfec- 
tion of the system which governsit. In ali 
branches of modern surgery and medicine 
the Japanese have achieved the same suc- 
cess that has crowned their labors in other 
fields, and many of their surgeons and 
physicians have already made their mark 
in the world of medical science. To the 
chief surgeon of the second Japanese army, 
who was for many years director of the 
Tokio hospital, is assigned the credit of a 
very interesting discovery—that of the 
wonderful antiseptic properties of ashes. 
‘“ The great advantage of this knowledge,”’ 
he remarked to me, ‘‘is that one can almost 
always obtain the ashes. Merely light a 
handful of straw, for example, and in a 


lS cS Rag Ai ci si 



moment you have this simple antiseptic, 
which when applied to a wound will pre- 
vent all further complication.’’ Many trials 
of the efficiency of this discovery have been 
made not only in the hospitals in Tokio, but 
during the war, and all have been very suc- 

The services rendered by the Red Cross 
Society of Japan, by the medical staff of 


short of miraculous. When the troops be- 
gan to retreat to their camps, they remained 
behind on the field to aid all who might be 
in need of their services. Many, however, 
they could not reach, because of the un- 
ceasing fire from the Chinese forts. And 
woe to the unfortunate Japanese soldiers 
left upon the field. With the advent of 
night the Chinese scouted far and near, and 

Japanese Nurses Dressing the Wounds of a Japanese Soldier and a Chinese Prisoner, 

the army and of the hospitals, during the 
recent war, can hardly be estimated. And 
not only did they look after their own in- 
jured soldiers, but everywhere and in every 
case after the Chinese wounded as well. 

At the battle of Pen Yang, when General 
Oshima unsuccessfully tried to dislodge the 
Chinese from their forts, the medical corps 
without exception behaved like heroes. 
Those in charge of the ambulances, and the 
entire staff of the Red Cross Society, had 
been on the alert since the beginning of the 
fighting. Surgeons, nurses, and bearers, with 
the utmost courage and self sacrifice, braved 
all dangers and seemed to be everywhere at 
once. Under a continuous and deadly fire 
from the enemy they managed to attend to 
nearly all the wounded ina manner little 

cut off the head and hands of every wounded 
foeman they could find. 

On the morning of September 16, when 
the Mikado’s army entered the forts, they 
found in several of them the frightfully 
mutilated bodies of their friends who had 
been made prisoners. Hands and heads 
were missing, others had been scalped, 
others lay with their eyes plucked out and 
ears Slashed away. ‘The city itself had been 
long since deserted by the Coreans and 
sacked by the Chinese. It presented a 
pitiful sight. Every house had been broken 
into, the streets were piled high with 
broken furniture and strewn with the bodies 
of dogs, horses, and men, while the ground 
was covered with Chinese uniforms and 
long queues. Strange to say, as soon as 

the Chinamen perceived their defeat, they 
had cut off the latter and thrown aside their 
uniforms in the hope of being able to pass 
themselves off as Coreans. 

General Notzu and his staff immediately 
proceeded to the governor’s palace, but 
lately abandoned by the Chinese command- 
ers. There, in the middle of the large hall, 
was discovered the bloody and mutilated 
head of a young and gallant Japanese 
officer, Lieutenant Takeuchi. The day be- 
fore he had been slightly wounded and 
taken prisoner, and in all the disorder and 
haste attendant upon the evacuation of Pen 
Yang the Chinese had not forgotten to ac- 
complish this last horrible deed. 

After such horrors would it have been 
surprising to see the Japanese soldiers, ex- 
cited by the battie and by this barbarous 
execution of their comrades, cast all discip- 
line to the winds, and avenge their friends 
by shooting every Chinese prisoner? Yet, 
in spite of the rage which filled their hearts, 
the Japanese exhibited the most marvelous 
self control. Such was their discipline that 
not one soldier, though half maddened by 
the fighting and by the sight of so bloody a 
harvest, would have dared to ill treat one of 
the eight hundred prisoners without an 
order to do so. And the only order that 
caine from the officers was: ‘‘ These men 
must be well treated.”’ 

Well treated? Yes, and more—treated 
more kindly than the prisoners of any na- 
tion were ever treated by their conquerors. 
Iwent to see them a few days after the 
battle, and what a sight they presented! 
With their cruel and ferocious faces they 
were more like savages or wild beasts than 
human beings. Among them, in a private 
room, were a coniunander and_ several 
officers. At first the commander could not 
be induced to speak, but after I had told 
him that I knew Li Hung Chang, and many 
other officials in Tientsin, and that I had 
come to see whether he needed anything, 
he became more communicative. I asked 
him how he was treated. 

‘“*Oh, so well, so well,’’ he answered ; 
“three meals a day and all the rice and 
fresh water I wish for. I cannot under- 
stand it.’’ 

Considering what it cost Japan to carry 
rice and provisions to such a distance and 
through a mountainous country, where 
roads are unknown, such treatment was 
more than generous. 

‘So you cannot understand it?’’ I said. 
“‘Well, it is because the Japanese are civ- 
ilized and you are barbarians. Are you not 
glad they did not cut off your head ?”’ 



“Yes, very glad. No words could ex- 
press my gratefulness.’’ 

‘“‘Suppose you should in some way re- 
cover your liberty and return to your own 
forces, what would you do if one of these 
officers who are treating you so kindly now, 
fell into your hands? Would youtreat him 
in the same way ?”’ 

‘“‘T would like to, but’’— and he shook 
his head—‘‘ I fear I could not.” 

‘‘But why? Are you not ashamed of the 
treatment you accord to prisoners ?”’ 

“Ves, itis very bad. But it is the result 
of orders from higher authority.” 

It cannot be doubted that almost without 
exception the Chinese officials approve of 
the slaughter and mutilation of prisoners. 
In the papers which the Chinese general 
left behind him were found proclamations 
promising rewards for Japanese heads, or 
parts of ahead! The governor of Formosa 
aud other high officers issued similar pro- 
clamations, and at the same time the Em- 
peror of Japan was directing his ministers 
to announce that all the Chinese residing 
in Japan need have no fear; that should 
they be attacked in any way, they would be 
guarded ; in short, that they were under 
the imperial protection. 

I told the Chinese commander that in 
passing through Hiroshima I had seen 
seventy Chinese prisoners, and that they 
were treated as well as he himself was. It 
seemed to be beyond his comprehension. 

From the prisoners’ quarters I went to 
the hospital for wounded Chinese. I may 
mention here that the Chinese had no 
doctors, no ambulances whatever, and that 
they were accustomed to abandon their own 
wounded to die like dogs. ‘The Red Cross 
Society had picked up eighty of the latter, 
and they were treated exactly as were the 
Japanese. ‘Their hospital was admirably 
fitted up, and fully provided with medicines, 
drugs, and surgical instruments. These 
were carried in large and very strong lacquer 
chests, divided into compartments. I wit- 
nessed a number of operations, some of 
them extremely difficult, and I was amazed 
at the quickness, dexterity, and wonderful 
skill of the Japanese surgeons. I have seen 
operations performed in the best hospitals 
of America and Europe, and it is my con- 
viction that nowhere was quicker or better 
work to be observed. Upon my arrival 
at the hospital, a Chinese soldier who had 
received two rifle balls in the chest was in 
the hands of the surgeon, one bullet having 
pierced him through, the other being still 
in the wound. In much less time than it 
takes to write it, the first wound had been 


Saige yf al ee a ee ie 

a ES > — enrich aa, 

me SRB 

mt Ae 

Fe ee 


ee ee 


attended to, the bullet had been extracted 
from the second, and both had been washed 
and dressed. It was admirably done. Only 
three of those eighty wounded men died. 

Upon my return to the military head- 
quarters, where I was the guest of the com- 
mander in chief, I witnessed two extremely 
interesting scenes. 

Four Chinese boatmen were brought in 
by soldiers. These men owned a large 
junk, and on the day of the battle it had 
been seized upon by some Japanese soldiers, 
who commanded the boatmen to ferry them 
across the river, which of course they were 
obliged to do. They were terribly frightened, 
and dropped upon their knees fully expect- 
ing that they would be beheaded. To their 
surprise, a generous sum of money was 
handed to them ‘for the help they had 
rendered the Japanese soldiers, and they 
were told that they could return to their 
country ; and in order that they should not 
be stopped on the way by Japanese men of 
war, a passport was given them. 

Just behind these men stood a very pretty 
Chinese woman, of extremely refined ap- 
pearance. She did not seem in the least 
alarmed. She was the wife of the Chinese 
telegraph operator of Pen Yang, and was 
the only woman found in the deserted city, 
the Corean women having fled long before 
the arrival of either hostile party. She had 
not been annoyed in any way, but had been 
left perfectly free, and provided with food 
and provisions. She had come to head- 
quarters to ask that her husband, one of 
the prisoners, be set at liberty. This re- 
quest, of course, had to be refused, the man 
being considered a very important prisoner 
on account of the knowledge of Chinese 
secrets and plans which he had undoubt- 
edly obtained as telegraph operator. She 
was assured that he would be kindly treated, 
and was then advised to take the opportu- 
nity of reaching her family offered by the re- 
turn of the Chinese junk—which she finally 
decided to do. ‘Those who have any famili- 
arity with the customs of war know how 
victorious soldiers, in any country, usually 
treat the women of a conquered city ; and 
yet in a town occupied by twenty thousand 
soldiers and coolies—these last belonging 
to the very lowest class of people in Japan 
——the only woman present, the wife of an 
enemy, was entirely unmolested. 

Everywhere, at Kinchow, Tallian Wan, 
aud Port Arthur, the Japanese medical staff 
and the many aids were constantly at the 
front, bestowing their attention and skilled 
care upon friends and enemies alike. 

The military headquarters of Japan are 

situated in Hiroshima, and during the war 
the residence of the emperor was in the 
same city. It is but two miles distant from 
Ujina, the great seaport from which all the 
ships and transports were sent. The city 
lies on a beautiful delta in one of the heaith- 
iest and most picturesque spots of Japan. 
To it the transports brought all the wounded 
from the field hospitals, as soon as they could 
safely be removed. I arrived from Pen 
Yang with a large number of wounded offi- 
cers, ten days after the battle ; for, know- 
ing that a second army was soon te leave 
Japan for China, I was anxious to follow it 
rather than toremain with the first army in 
Corea. The day after my arrival in Hiro- 
shima, I went to visit the hospital, or rather 
the hospitals. They are situated on ground 
presented by the emperor, a short distance 
from the city, at the back of the old and 
wonderfully picturesque castle, in a charm- 
ing little valley divided into gardens and 
parks, many of which extend as far as the 
wooded hills which entirely surround it. 
There are four series of hospital build- 
ings, accommodating a total of more than 
three thousand patients. 

I was graciously received by the surgeon 
major general of the Japanese armies, T. 

‘‘T have heard much about you from Pen 
Yang,’’ he said. ‘‘In his report (which I read 
yesterday to his majesty )our surgeon general 
in Corea mentioned your presence there, 
your visits to the ambulances and hospitals, 
and the interest you manifested in both 
the Chinese and Japanese wounded. If 
you wish to visit our hospitals here, I shall 
be very glad indeed to show you around.”’ 

Before leaving his room, the surgeon 
general opened a silk bag, and taking from 
it a roll of bandages made of the finest ma- 
terial, he said: 

‘‘These have been inade by her majesty, 
the empress. You know that she takes the 
greatest interest in our wounded and sick 
soldiers. Since the beginning of the war 
she and the ladies of the court have been 
accustomed to spend several hours a day in 
making bandages and a dozen other useful 
things. An apartment in the imperial 
palace at Tokio has been turned into a 
work room, and her majesty and the other 
ladies work very hard, I can assure you.” 

Upon this we started on our visiting tour, 
the surgeon general taking along the 
precious bag. The buildings, which are 
one story in height, are separated by small 
but attractive gardens, Immense windows 
open on both sides upon the wide surround- 
ing verandas. 


The first hospital we visited was divided 
into private rooms, occupied by officers. I 
never in my life saw daintier or cleaner 
apartments. The patients were undoubtedly 
well treated, for in each room I saw flowers, 
fresh fruit, cigarettes, books, and a dozen 
other luxuries. A commander was being 
attended by his daughter, a pretty young 
girl of fourteen or fifteen, dressed in a mag- 
nificent silk Azono. 

To each officer the surgeon general pre- 
sented one of the bandages made by the 
empress, and I cannot describe the emotion 
with which the gifts were received. It re- 
minded me of what I had read some years 
ago about Napoleon visiting the ambulances, 
and I could well imagine the feelings of a 
wounded soldier receiving the cross of 
honor, or a mere look of interest and sym- 
pathy from his beloved emperor. 

The buildings occupied by the common 
soldiers were equally well kept and clean— 
so clean, indeed, and so well furnished that 
nowhere could I detect any of those dis- 
agreeable odors always met with in our 
own hospitals. In these, instead of private 
rooms, were long dormitories, at one end 
of which were lavatories and bath rooms. 
Each bed was covered with a spotless white 
quilt, thickly padded with feathers, and 
each man was dressed ina long white £7- 
mono with a red cross on the left sleeve. 
They were provided, as I have already in- 
timated, with the best tonics and wines, the 
choicest fruits, cigarettes, books, and news- 

The surgeon general took the keenest 
interest in everything, inquiring about the 
serious cases, carefully examining some of 
them, and addressing a kind word to all. 
Among the Japanese was a Chinese soldier 
wounded at the battle of Assan, but now 
looking well, clean, and perfectly satisfied. 
I asked him whether he was well treated. 

‘‘Ves,’? he answered, ‘‘ but I would like 
to have Chinese food. I do not see why 
they do not give me Chinese food.”’ 

It was a staggering demonstration of in- 
gratitude. And while he was offering his 
petty complaint his comrades were mutilat- 
ing and beheading every Japanese unfortu- 
nate enough to fall into their hands! 

Among the buildings of each hospital 
there is one entirely devoted to surgical 
operations. In one of them, while I was 
there, the surgeons were amputating a 
soldier’s leg, above the knee. It could not 
have been done with more dexterity or 
nicety. The man was a common soldier, 
and yet, the case being very serious, the 


chief surgeon of the hospital himself oper- 
ated. I need not say that the latest devices 
and methods in medicine and surgery were 

The staff in charge of the hospital was 
composed of a chief, thirty surgeons and 
doctors, seven druggists, eighteen head 
nurses, and two hundred and thirty eight 
ordinary nurses. 

The kindness and attention of the nurses 
towards the patients was beyond description, 
At their head was one of the most respected 
women of Japan, Countess Nere, wife of 
Admiral Count Nere. Like the other nurses. 
she was very simply dressed in a white linen 
gown. Many of the wealthiest and noblest 
ladies of Japan were among her assistants, 
having left their beautiful homes and given 
up all the pleasures of life to come to these 
hospitals and care for the wounded. The 
noble example set by the empress was fol- 
lowed by women of all ranks. 

On returning with the surgeon general to 
his office, he showed mea package of dis- 

-infectant bandages. Every Japanese soldier 

carries one of these under his coat, so t! it 
as soon as he is wounded he is able 
dress his wound or to have it dressec ’ 

“Thanks to this,’ the surgeon general 
added, ‘‘and to the quick attention given 
to injuries, we can cure in fifteen days a 
wound that otherwise would require two 

As I was leaving, a band began to play in 
the garden. 

‘‘ What is this?’’ I asked. 

‘*A military band which the emperor has 
sent to play for the amusement of the 
wounded. His majesty has ordered a mili- 
tary and a naval band to come here in turn, 
every day.” 

Where in the world are wounded soldiers 
or prisoners better treated ? 

Nor did the Red Cross Society and 
the ambulance service neglect the sailors. 
One of the finest steamers of the Nippon 
Yusen Kaisha (Japanese Steamship Com- 
pany )—the Kobe Maru—was fitted up asa 
hospital, and followed the fleet everywhere. 
Its magnificent cabins, larger than those of 
any ship I know, and its beautiful saloons, 
were transformed into a model hospital. 

No one will deny after this simple state- 
ment of fact, that the Red Cross Society of 
Japan, together with the medical staff, 
earned as substantial glory in the late war by 
their good work in the cause of mercy, as 
did the Mikado’s sailors and soldiers by 
their victories in battle. 

A. B. de Guerville. 


is tetrad | eee te 


“T°HE train strolled along as only a 
Southern train can, stopping to pick 
flowers and admire views and take 

an unnecessary number of drinks. Why 

should you hurry when you have barely a 

dozen people in your three cars, and the 

down train will keep you waiting anywhere 
from half an hour to half a day at the 
switch? Everybody in the three cars would 
have taken the same view, except the young 
man from the North, who was trying to get 
back there again. He read his paper down 
to the last ‘‘ Wanted,’’ and calculated on 
its margin how much it must cost the com- 
pany to run a car for one commercial 
traveler, very sleepy, one old man near 
enough to his second childhood to claim 
half fare, a negro nurse with a white baby 
that wasn’t big enough to have any fare at 
all, and himself, Gardiner Forrest—of New 

York City, thank goodness ! 

If only things were different and she were 
on thistrain! He had heard her tell Doug- 
las that she éxpected to go North about the 
twenty seventh, though she hadn’t taken 
the trouble to mention it to him. If she 
had chanced to take this train and things 
had been different, they could have dis- 
posed of her aunt some way. Perhaps fate 
would have sent her one of her numerous 
headaches. Amy never had things the 
matter with her, which was one reason you 
liked to travel with her; and she was the 
nicest, jolliest girl in the world, which was 
the other reason. 

Was there ever such a slowcoach of a 
train, or such a stupid journey? It was a 
relief when the conductor banged the door, 
and, coming down the aisle with a step 
that was almost hurried, stopped at the op- 
posite section tospeak to the negro nurse. 

““There’s a lady fainted in the forward 
car, and there don’t nobody seem to know 
what to do with her,’’ he said. ‘‘ There’s 
nothing but men in there, and they ain’t 
much good at nursing. Can’t you come in 
and lend a hand ?” 

‘‘Course I can,’’ she said with only a 
slight negro accent, rising in evident enjoy- 
ment of the situation. ‘I’m a fust rate 
nurse. I’ll drap the baby right here, sir, 
if you’ll just see he don’t fall off. Hewon’t 



trouble you a mite.’’ And to Forrest’s dis- 
may, she plumped the child down on the 
seat facing him, and bustled off after the 

The two eyed each other in silence a few 
minutes, each measuring his man. Forrest 
decided to begin with a high hand, and let 
the other see who was master. 

‘“ Young man,”’ he said, ‘‘if you dare to 
yell or wiggle or do anything unusual, I’ll 
lick you !”’ 

The nurse had said ‘‘he,’’ and he took 
her word for it. If it should turn out to be 
a lady, he would apologize and retract. 
The baby leaned towards him and said 
distinctly, ‘‘ Papa !’’ 

“Good heavens !’’ ejaculated Forrest. 
**Do you want to start a scandal? I’m not 
your papa. You have made a mistake.”’ 

‘* Papa,’’ repeated the baby, breaking into 
a gummy smile with two absurd teeth in the 
middle of it. 

“* Don’t say it so loud,’’ implored Forrest. 
“Really you're all off. We're not related 
at all. You can’t bunco me, my friend.” 

This evidently reminded the baby of 
something funny, for he burst into a hic- 
coughing little giggle that made his tem- 
porary guardian roar with laughter. 

‘* Papa, take baby,’’ he shouted. 

‘*Oh, I can’t possibly. I don’t know 
how. I’d lose your head off or something,”’’ 
remonstrated the other. The baby still held 
out eager arms, crying, 

‘“*Take him, take him !’’ and a warning 
change began to come over his face. Even 
Forrest knew what that meant. 

‘*Say, drop that,’’ he exclaimed. ‘‘ You 
mustn’t cry, you know. Nobody does now, 
it’s bad form. Here, I’ll come over beside 
you and you can get in my lap if you know 
how to work it. Steady there, general. 
I suppose the proper way is to grip you 
around the waist, only you don’t seem to 
have any. What a lot of clothes you do 
wear !”’ 

He was so absorbed in getting the baby 
safely settled that he did not notice that the 
train had stopped at a wayside station, and 
that a tall girl, evidently of the North, was 
staring at him in utter amazement from the 
door of the car. 

= ad 

‘‘There you are, Napoleon Bonaparte,’’ 
he was beginning triumphantly, when a 
girl’s voice with a suspicion of laughter in 
it said, close beside him, 

‘““You seem to have a new business, Mr. 

Forrest started to spring to his feet, but 
remembered the baby just in time. 

‘‘Miss Baramore!’’? he said. ‘‘I never 
was so glad to see any one in my life, but I 
can’t get up very well. Do sit down and 
tell me if I’m holding the little beggar all 

Amy Baramore laughed outright as she 
dropped into the opposite seat. 

‘* Did you steal it?’’ she asked. 

‘‘No; it isa ward in chancery. I am to 
manage its affairs till its nurse comes back 
from the forward car, where some one is ill. 
What good luck brings you here—without 
your aunt,’’ he was going to say, but chang- 
ed it to a rather lame ‘‘ any way ?”’ 

‘“My aunt is going to join me at Ross. 
She went on there while I stayed over 
night with the Carters,’’ she said, answer- 
ing the unspoken question with calm 
directness. It was much better to say a 
thing right out than to have it in your 
mind and try to hide it, when you were 
talking with Amy Baramore. 

‘Papa !’’ broke in a little voice. 

‘““There he goes again,’’ Forrest ex- 
claimed. ‘‘It is a clear case of blackmail, 
Miss Baramore. I offered to compromise 
on ‘uncle’ and a gold watch, but he 
wouldn’t even consider it. Dll smash him 
if he doesn’t give it up before your aunt 
comes. She doesn’t like me any too well 

Miss Baramiore leaned forward and held 
out a gloved finger to the baby, without 
noticing the last remark. 

‘“‘T never knew a baby intimately,’’ she 
said. ‘‘ We haven’t had any in the family 
for years, except some little cousins that 
were too far off tocount. I didn’t know 
how dear they were,’’ she added, as the 
baby’s hand curled around her finger and 
tried to put it in his mouth. 

‘““Mamma?’’ suggested the baby, evi- 
dently not very sure on that point. 

“That will do,’’ said Forrest severely. 
‘‘ This has got to be stopped. He’ll be set- 
ting up some little brothers and sisters next. 
I suppose the first duty of a nurse is to tap 
on the window and point out objects of 

‘* Pretty horsies and baa lambs and choo- 
choos,’? added Amy. Forrest looked dis- 

‘‘Say, I don’t really have to talk that 


rot, do I?’’ he broke out. ‘It won’t injure 
his brains or anything to hear straight 
ahead English for a little while? I’ll stick 
to words of one syllable, if necessary, but I 
can’t do baby talk, and I won’t.”’ 

“‘T’ll interpret for him,’’ she answered. 
‘‘T can do it fairly well. I used to practise 
it on my dog.”’ 

Forrest laughed a little to himself. 

‘“T’ll tell him a story, and you translate 
it for him,’’ he said. ‘ Nurses always tell 
stories. Well, once upon a time there was 
a poor little boy who played all day in a 
shabby back yard; and right next door 
there lived a beautiful little girl who had 
everything she wanted, including a stun- 
ning back yard to play in. The little boy 
loved her so much that he couldn’t keep 
away from the fence that divided them ; but 
when the little girl saw him she always 
nodded pleasantly, but coolly, and strolled 
away to another part of the garden, some- 
times with another little boy. He was 
miserably conscious that his little coat was 
disgracefully patched and his little trousers 
disgracefully unpatched, and that his back 
yard was no place for such a beautiful little 
girl, but still he went on—why don’t you 
interpret ?”’ 

‘It isn’t very much of a story, baby,”’ 
said Amy, ‘‘ but of course if you want to 
hear it, you shall. It’s about a little boy 
who was poor and loved a little girl who 
had lots of pretty toys, and he wouldn’t 
come near her because he hadn’t so much 
as she had. And when she looked over and 
smiled at him, he was always looking down 
at his poor patches, so he didn’t see it. 
Wasn’t that silly ?’’ 

‘‘She is not a literal translator, baby,’’ 
said Forrest, ‘‘ but she improves on the or- 
iginal. I advise you to keep to her version. 
Do you think he could have induced that 
beautiful little girlto play in his dingy back 
yard, Miss Baramore ?’’ 

‘Perhaps it only needed some straight- 
ening to be a very attractive little back 
yard,’’ she answered, looking out of the 
window. ‘ Girls are rather clever at that.”’ 
Her lips twitched a little, then their eyes 
met, and they both laughed. 

‘*T wonder ” he began. 

‘‘ Kid all right?’ asked the conductor, 
pausing at their section. ‘‘ Nurse says 
she’ll stay in there a spell longer, if he isn’t 
troublesome. ‘The lady is sort of nervous, 
and don’t want to be left alone.’’ 

‘‘He’s all right now,’’ said Forrest. 
‘‘ We'll send for her if there are any com- 

‘“Yes. Well, we may stop on this switch 

Gee viasasact"t eens ot co oe — 

Sa ee See a 

odes a oe 

Pt ar» Ce ee 


a considerable time if you want to get 
down. ‘The other train is generally pretty 

‘‘Shall we?’’ Forrest asked his com- 

“I'd like the air, but I am afraid the baby 
would be in the way.”’ 

‘‘We’ll go and sit on the back platform, 
then,’’? he said, shouldering the baby and 
leading the way through an empty car that 
was behind theirs to the rear platform, 

‘‘Give me little Napoleon,’’ she said, 
seating herself on the steps. ‘‘ He is going 
to take a nap right here. What a delicious 
day it is!’”? Forrest dropped down on the 
step below, leaning his back against the car 
that he might face her. 

‘‘When did you leave St. Augustine ?’’ he 
asked presently. 

‘‘ About a week ago. We have been mak- 
ing two or three necessary visits.”’ 

‘‘ T suppose you left Mr. Douglas in tears?”’ 

Miss Baramore laughed. 

‘‘It is very humiliating,’’ she said; ‘‘ butan 
awfully pretty Southern girl, a Miss Potter, 
turned up the day you left, and she utterly 
cut me out intwenty four hours. Mr. Douglas 
and his yacht and his millions were entirely 
at her service all the rest of the time. Aunt 
Emma was horribly disappointed. I was 
sorry not to see more of you, but you only 
stayed such a minute.”’ 

“‘I was glad to get away,’’ he said 
frankly. ‘‘It’s dismal to be at a place like 
that on business when every one else is 
there for pleasure. You were the only per- 
son there I cared anything about, and I saw 
so little of you.”’ 

‘‘ You didn’t try very hard to see more.”’ 

“No, I didn’t care to compete with 
Croesus, Jr., and his yacht. A rising young 
lawyer, who hasn’t risen yet, wouldn’t 
stand much of a chance.”’ 

Miss Baramore gave him an inscrutable 
look, and turned her attention to the baby. 

“T had quite a long talk with your aunt 
one day while I was at St. Augustine,’’ he 
said, after the rickety little down train had 
scrambled past them. ‘‘She gave me some 
of her views on matrimony.”’ 

Amy looked a little annoyed, but only 
said, ‘‘ Yes; she has a great many of them.”’ 

*‘T didn’t know but what some of them 
were yours, too,’? he went on. ‘‘ She dwelt 
particularly on how unhappy a girl was 
when she gave up the things she had always 
been accustomed to.”’ 

‘Oh, if she loves her brougham and her 
maid better than she does her husband, I 
suppose she is,’’ Amy answered, bending 
over the sleeping baby, who would have 


seen something if he had been awake. ‘I 
wonder why we don’t start ? The train passed 
some time ago.”’ 

Forrest leaned out to see the reason, then 
jumped to his feet with an exclamation of 
dismay. Neither engine nor train was in 
front of them. The little way car stood all 
alone in state upon the switch. Over the 
tops of the trees, several miles below them, 
lay a vanishing trail of smoke. 

‘‘ What on earth shall we do ?”’ she asked, 
after a bewildered silence. 

‘““We might walk on to the next station 
and telegraph to your aunt,’’ he suggested. 

‘‘She wouldn’t get it in time. The train 
must be half way to Ross now. I’m not 
worrying about Aunt Emma. It’s the 

‘‘Confound it! I never once thought of 

“His poor nurse will be simply crazy. 
Oh, we must catch that train !”’ 

‘* The last station was behind that ridge, 
wasn’t it?” 

‘‘The one ahead may be just as far off, 
and you never can carry this heavy baby, 
He weighs a ton.”’ 

“Isn’t it just like this lazy, slipshod, 
good for nothing country, leaving cars 
around on switches! Oh, I wonder—wait 
here a minute.’’ 

It was fully fifteen before Forrest came 
back and seated himself again on the step. 

““You know we’re ina hole,’’ he began 
seriously. ‘‘If it were just for ourselves, 
I should propose walking, but we’ve got to 
get that baby back as soon as possible, ox 
the nurse will be wild. We have passed the 
morning train, and there won’t be another 
along till three thirty. Now, we are on a 
down grade, and it looks like an easy slope 
for several miles. What do you say to 
coasting as far as we can in this car?’ 

They looked at each other in silence a 

‘What do you think ?”’ she said at last. 

‘*T think there is acertain risk init. We 
may strike a bad grade or jump the track, 
though I don’t think it is at all likely if we 
are careful. Moreover, Ross is in a valley, 
I know, and we may coast almost to the 
town, where the baby’s nurse will probably 
get off to look for us, poor woman, I think 
we ought to try it, but I will do just what 
you say.”’ 

She looked off at the blue outlines of the 
hills, rising above the thick tangle of woods 
in which they stood ; then down at the baby 
in her lap. 

“‘T’ll take little Napoleon in before we 
start,’’ she said. They laid the sleepy little 




passenger on a seat near the front door ; 
then Forrest started the car, and they began 
to roll slowly towards the North. 

‘‘Tsn’t this delicious ?’’ Amy cried, leaning 
against the rail of the front platform while 
Forrest kept his hands on the brake and 
watchful eyes on the track, which wound 
easily down through the dense woods. 
‘“Why don’t people always travel this way? 
You are spared all the noise and dirt of the 

‘It might be awkward when you wanted 
to go up hill,’’ he answered. 

‘Oh, you wouldn’t. You would start at 
the North Pole and coast down to the South. 
I never get over the feeling that you go up 
hill to go north.”’ 

‘‘It’s lucky for us you don’t,’’ he was be- 
ginning, when the car rounded a curve and, 
without a second’s warning, plunged down 
a sudden grade. Forrest’s heart leaped as 
he looked first at the descent before him 
and then at Amy beside him, for there was 
real danger. 

‘“‘Hold that!’? he shouted, giving the 
brake a vigorous turn and dashing through 
the car to set the oneat the rear. When 
he came back, they were still traveling 
along uncomfortably fast, bumping and 
jerking on the uneven track. Gripping the 
brake with one hand, he flung his arm 
around her to steady her. Their eyes met, 
and it was all said without words. At last 
the track began to stretch out level before 
them, and even a little up hill, and the 
tension relaxed. Forrest drew a long 
breath, and, without preface or apology, 
stooped and kissed her. 

““You’re dead game, Amy,’ he said. He 
might have added more, for he had taken 
his other hand from the brake, but a long 
wail came through the open door of the 

‘« That poor kid!’’ he exclaimed remorse- 
fully. ‘‘If I didn’t forget his little exist- 
ence. There, old man, it’s allright. Here’s 
your friend. Do you think it’s too cold for 
him out here?’’ 

‘“‘Not a bit. Give him to me and I’ll 
fasten his cloak. What do you say to 
getting off the car now and walking the rest 
of the way? I don’t care for any more 
tobogganing, myself.”’ 

‘“‘T don’t believe there are any more bad 
grades,’’ he answered, sitting down on the 
step beside her. ‘‘ You can see that we are 
nearly at the bottom of the valley.’’ He 
did not add that as both brakes were set, 
and the car was still running along at a 
pretty good rate, he saw no way of getting 
off with her and the baby. ‘Well, little 

Napoleon Bonaparte,’’ he went on, ‘‘ have 
you heard about the latest engagement ?”’ 

‘‘It isn’t announced yet, baby, so you 
mustn’t breathe a word about it to any 
one,’’ she added. 

“Tell me, Amy,’’ he said presently, ‘‘ did 
you care forme down at St. Augustine? 
You took a funny way of showing it, if you 

“T wondered if I didn’t, but I wasn’t 
sure. I'll tell you something if you’ll pro- 
mise never to breathe it to Aunt Emma.”’ 

‘I’m not likely to.”’ 

‘Well, then, Mr. Douglas asked me to 
marry him the day you left, and I refused.’’ 

‘‘ Because of—somebody else ?’’ 

‘‘T suppose so, though I didn’t acknowl- 
edge it till I saw you in the car with 
the baby. You were so dear with him! 

‘¢ Phen” 

“IT knew I wanted to play in your back 

They were at the bottom of the valley 
now, and the car was moving very slowly. 
Forrest had taken off the brakes, but it was 
evident that their ride was nearly at an end. 
As the car came to a standstill near a bend 
in the track, a sharp whistle close in 
front of them made his heart contract with 
fear that was not for himself. Was it a be- 
lated freight train? Had the time table 
been wrong? Before Amy could get her 
breath, he had swung her and the child 
down to the ground with a command to 
“ Run!’ and was dashing down the track, 
pulling off his coat to wave asa signal. 

At the bend she saw him stop suddenly, 
lean against a tree fora minute, then put 
on his coat and turn back again. Around 
the corner stood the little station of Ross, 
and in front of it lay their own train, 
whistling signals to its scattered passengers, 
Buckets and a hose near one of the wheels, 
at which men were still tinkering, showed 
that the daily hot box had not been omitted. 

They mounted the rear platform, and sank 
down with a sudden feeling of exhaustion. 

‘* Poor child, you look all done up,”’ said 
Forfest. ‘‘We must go and pacify the 
baby’s nurse, and then you shall rest ?”’ 

‘*Oh, here you is,’’ said a cheerful negro 
voice behind them. ‘‘ Hope the baby ain't 
troubled you. You’ve been right kind to him. 
I stayed till the lady dropped off. She hadn’t 
no business to be on the road at such a time. 
There, honey, come back to your mammy.”’ 

They stared at each other blankly after 
she had left them, then Amy began to laugh 

‘*They never knew it,’’ she exclaimed. 



“Conductor !’’ shouted Forrest. 

‘*Oh, you’re back, are you ?”’ he returned, 
pausing at the steps. ‘‘I was whistling for 
you. Thought you might have walked 
farther than you meant. We're most ready 
to start.”’ 

‘Yes, we are back,’’ said Forrest. ‘‘I 
think that car you left on the switch must 
have followed us. I saw one like it around 
the bend there. You couldn’t have been 
very careful about the brakes !’’ 

‘Them brakes are no good,’’ said the 
conductor calmly. ‘‘She’s done that several 
times before. Lucky she didn’t smash into 
us. I was going to pick her up on the 
return trip, but we might as well take her 
along, now as she’s come so far.”’ 

He disappeared, and Forrest was bending 
over Amy for a little private communion 
when a somewhat acid voice remarked from 
the doorway of the car, 

‘“‘When you are at liberty, Amy, per- 
haps you will come and speak to me.”’ 

“Oh! Aunt Emma,’? Amy explained, 
‘‘[’m so sorry. I quite forgot you.”’ 

‘‘And yourself too, apparently,’ re- 
turned Aunt Emma, inspecting Forrest 
through her lorgnon. ‘I should think you 
might have waited to speak to me before 
plunging off into the woods with a casual 

‘But, Aunt Emma, you don’t under- 
stand,’’ began Amy. 

‘* And I don’t wish to,’’ said Aunt Emma 
severely, leading the way back into the 
car. ‘* You are under my chaperonage at 
present. When you are home again, you 
may do as you please. I shall wash my 
hands of you.”’ 

They followed her lingeringly, not as 
abashed as they ought to have been, and 
stopped to look at the baby, now lying at 
happy ease on his nurse’s broad lap. 

‘‘We ought to do something handsome 
for him, Amy,’’ Forrest said. 

‘“Ves, indeed,’’ she answered. ‘‘ Dear 
little man! But for him it might never 
have happened. What shall we give him ?”’ 

‘‘Dindin!’’ suggested the little Napo- 

Juliet Wilbor Tompkins. 


HE persimmon tree that marked the 
forks of the road was laden with frost 
ripened fruit. In the woods scores of 

nuts awaited the shake of vigorous hands ; 
the wild grape vines hung low with their 
burden of juicy black bunches, and the red 
haws gleamed like tiny points of flame amid 
the low growing bushes. It was distinctly 
the ‘‘accepted time’’ to garner in the harvest 
so dear to boys, but all these things were as 
naught to Dan Mason, that October day. 
He was even deaf to the appeals of Cuff, his 
dog, to whose keen ears the ‘‘whirr’’ of the 
quail, as they broke cover, was a call to 
come and kill. 

In the fourteen years of Dan’s life, mighty 
few things had lived as close to his heart as 
this same Irish setter, with his silky hair 
and great human-like brown eyes. As the 
boy sat there on the horse block, his 
battered hat drawn low and his dark brows 
lower, his thoughts were mostly of the dog. 

But they were of his father, too, who lay 
within the rough log house, racked with 
rheumatism; and now and again the vision 
of the young man from New Orleans, and 
the gold coin he had offered for Cuff, 
obtruded itself. 

Dan had at the time laughed his offer to 
scorn. He was poor, but then so were most 
of the people thereabout, save the folks up at 
the big house. He did not sharply feel the 
need of money, and no amount of it, he had 
proudly declared, could buy Cuff ; but sick- 
ness brought necessities, and resultant per- 
plexity as to ways and means. 

Notwithstanding the reiterated statement 
of Aunt Polly, who had ‘“‘ brought him up 
by hand,’’ that she had taken a ‘“‘ sight o’ 
pains in his raisin’,’’ Dan’s knowledge of 
various Scriptural teachings, whereby we are 
adjured to love and honor our parents, was 
of the vaguest description. In the ‘old 
man’s’? right to ‘lick’? him when he 

ain Set Bl a 


deemed it wise, he recognized parental 
authority ; but of parental affection he knew 
nothing. What wonder, then, that he 
shrank from duty which pointed to the 
comforts ten dollars would buy for the sick 
man, and instinctively turned toward in- 
clination which in doggish guise thrust a 
loving, if cold, nose into his palm. 

The boy’s fancy was not of the liveliest, 
but the impossibility of life without Cuff 
was strongly borne in upon him, and again 
and again he said he could not give him 
up. Yet by and by, when the slanting 
shadows proclaimed the approach of even- 
ing, and the faint blue haze of the autumn 
day took on a gray tone, he slipped down, 
his young face stern with resolve. Whis- 
tling to Cuff, he set off through the woods 
to the ‘‘ big house,’’ where the young man 
was visiting. 

Deep in his heart, I doubt not, Dan 
prayed that the possible purchaser of Cuff 
might have gone. He must have felt as 
deeply the hopelessness of his hope, for, 
before he reached the house, he went down 
on his knees, and, taking the dog’s head 
between his hands, looked appealingly into 
his eyes. 

‘*Yo’ sho’ly know I don’t want to sell 
yo’,’”’ he said; ‘‘ but I’m ’bliged to.’’ 

And Cuff whined and licked his master’s 
tense young face sympathetically and un- 
derstandingly, for just so had Dan confided 
his joys and sorrows since the day when 
Cuff, a curly brown ball of puppyism had 
been given to him for his own. 

The visitor from New Orleans was loung- 
ing on the gallery, chatting with the son 
and the fair young daughter of his host, 
when Dan came up and timidly asked if he 
still wanted Cuff, and would give ten dol- 
lars for him. ‘The young man had not 
learned to look beneath deeds to ascertain 
the motive ere sitting in judgment, nor had 
years brought to him the force of what 
Goethe says about ‘life teaching us to be 
less strict with others than with ourselves.’ 
Just now he was somewhat pessimistic, and 
rather proud of being so. Smiling obliquely 
toward Miss Hallie, he murmured something 
about ‘‘everything having its price with 
the lower class,’’ and thought of several high 
sounding and sarcastic remarks upon the 
subject, to be said later. Yet, at the same 
time he was conscious of a sense of disap- 
pointment. He had appreciated the fine- 
ness of the boy’s refusal, and felt vaguely 
regretful that he had not kept to it, though 
he assured Dan of his willingness to pay 
the price asked. He handed over the ten 


dollars, and straightway began to make 
friends with Cuff, after the approved fashion 
of gentle pats and low toned confidences. 

Dan took the money silently and half 
turned away. Then he stopped. 

‘* Tf yo’ please, sir,’’ he said slowly, while 
the cords of his throat seemed to be tying 
themselves into uncomfortable knots, 
‘‘would yo’ mind if I kept his collar? Of 
co’se you'll buy him a nice one, an’— 
an’ re 

‘And that one will do for another dog, 
when you get him someday. Certainly 
you may keep it.’’ 

The young man smiled meaningly again. 
He was thinking that the lad had evidently 
no intention of giving too much for his ten 
dollars. He mused upon the grasping dis- 
position generally evinced by the ‘ lower 
class,’’ while Dan, with a boy’s reluctance 
to justify himself where he felt to be mis- 
understood, did not explain that he wanted 
to keep the collar as we keep the posses- 
sions of our loved dead; nor did he give 
voice to the passionate protest sent up by 
his whole being against owning another 

“*Go back,’’ he cried, with a stern ges- 
ture, as Cuff bounded after him, though he 
could not bring his eyes down to the ques- 
tioning ones of the brute. Cuff, not ventur- 
ing todisobey, shrank back to his new mas- 
ter’s feet, only expressing his perplexed 
misery in one prolonged howl, which was 
dumbly echoed in Dan’s heavy heart, as he 
walked away, holding his head rather higher 
than usual. 

Once more in the woods, quite away from 
those people to whom life, he fancied, was 
all laughter and song, he stopped and 
looked about. The world seemed suddenly 
to have become a very wide and lonely 
place. The wind sighed among the trees, 
the dead leaves showered down with a dis- 
consolate rustle, and there was no hope 
nor comfort anywhere. He dropped down, 
his face hidden in his hands, which tightly 
clenched the money and the worn leather 
band, sobbing bitterly and uttering useless, 
disconnected mutterings against the hard- 
ness of his lot. 

The young man did not give back the 
dog and insist that Dan keep the money 
also; nor did the young daughter of the 
house of Autrey take the Masons under her 
gracious care and favor, for she never knew 
of the boy’s sacrifice. It even came to 
pass in the course of time that Dan fitted 
the collar about the neck of another dog, 
for this was life. 

Blanche Carr. 


HE storm was over. The Pacific had 
calmed again. The waves rolled in 
and broke on the sandy shore of the 

little guano island as monotonously as be- 
fore ; but nowhere was the schooner Martha, 
a week overdue with water and provisions 
for the men, to beseen. It was hardly prob- 
able that she could have lived through the 

The ‘‘niggers,’’ the cowardly wretches, 
had stolen the bulk of the water the night 
after the storm, and had put off in an open 
boat for their nearest neighbor, miles away 
over the tracklessocean. ‘There were twelve 
of the blacks. They might have killed 
their two white ‘‘ bosses,’’ but they seemed 
to have been satisfied with leaving them to 
die of thirst and to bleach with the guano 
beneath the burning sun of the South 

The two white men were brothers. They 
had come to the island a few months before 
to superintend the guano gathering. The 
tropic fever had seized Harry, the younger 
of the two, and even when the storm broke 
he was raving with delirium. A week later, 
when calm came over the troubled waters, he 
was slowly recovering. Their scanty supply 
of water was fast diminishing, and no signs 
of the Martha. The elder brother, Tom, was 
becoming hopeless. They would have been 
without water long before, but Tom had 
not taken his share. He had hardly drank 
enough to keep his dry parched throat 
from cracking during those days when 
Harry’s fever was the worst, and Harry 
raved about rippling brooks, the orchard 
and the old apple tree that grew by their 
bedroom window at homie. 

Another morning, and no sign of the 
boat in all the wide stretch of blue sea. 

Harry roused himself from his stupor, 
and looked eagerly into his brother’s face. 

‘‘No signs of the Martha this morning, 
Tom ?’’ he said feebly. 

‘* None, Harry, none.”’ 

The sick man fell back wearily. Tom 
Dudley turned his face away to hide his 

‘Well, never mind, old man,’’ Harry 
tried to say cheerfully, ‘‘ we’ll pull through 
all right, never fear. How long did you 
say the water would last??? Tom had not 


said, but Harry caught him unguarded for 
the moment. 

“Two days only, Harry, and—and’’— 
Tom’s voice faltered—‘‘two days at the 
most, and—and the storm ihe 

‘*Yes, yes, I know, Tom,’’ the sick man 
went on; ‘‘the Martha may have gone 
down in the storm last week, but ‘ while 
there is life there is hope,’ you know, old 
man, and I suppose the same may be said 
of water ; so cheer up, old fellow ; two days 
are a long tine sometimes, you know, and 
the schooner has probably only been driven 
off her course. If such is the case she’ll be 
here before Wednesday ; we’ll be all right, 
after all. Make the best of it, Tom, and 
let’s see what we have for breakfast.”’ 

There was little enough to eat, and but a 
drop of water to quench their consuming 
craving. They ate in silence. When they 
had finished, Tom left their little hut and 
hastened down to the beach. He gazed 
long and wistfully over the sea, but there 
was only the placid blue water glistening 
in the sunlight. Nota sign of life in all the 
great expanse, except now and then a sea 
bird skimming over the waves toward that 
line in the distance where the blue sea and 
the still bluer heavens met. 

‘“No sign of a sail, no hope for relief,’’ 
he sighed, as he threw himself down upon 
the sand. There was a terrible pain in his 
head and his limbs were becoming unbear- 
able. He knew what that meant—before 
long he, too, would be down with the fever. 
His throat was dry and parched, and burned 
with a terrible heat. He had already con- 
sumed his share of the water for the morn- 
ing and to take more would be death to 

“Two days, only two days,’’ he mur- 
mured ; ‘‘not much chance in that time if 
the Martha has gone to the bottom. Four 
or five there might be hope.”’ 

He began to wonder how he could make 
the water last four or five days instead of 
two. The pain in his head was intense. A 
few hours and he must give up to the 
fever. He knew, too, that he had no 
chances of recovery. He knew that Harry 
would give him all the water there was, 
when he became delirious, and go without 
himself. He couldn’t measure it out then, 

oo einai . 

esi as 

ait siensiiai 

aan Te 

as he did now, and soon, very soon, it 
would all be gone. Twodays. What were 
two days? He would only be shortening his 
brother’s life so much by living them. Ah, 
what was the use? 

A few minutes later a pistol shot rang out 
amid the sound of breaking waves and the 
silence of the sands, and Tom Dudley sank 
with a moan upon the beach. 

* * * * 

The forced expression of cheerfulness 
went out of Harry’s face as his brother left 
the hut, and he fell back exhausted upon 
the bed. 

“* Poor Tom, poor Tom !’’ he murmured. 
‘*To die like a rat ina trap! Oh, God! will 
the Martha never come? Oh, if I could 
but do something !’’ He half rose from the 
couch and gazed around the little hut. 

‘“ Two days, only two days more,’’ he 
groaned, ‘‘ and then—and then—oh, will 
aid never come !’’ He closed his eyes and 
sank back upon the bed. 

‘* Water enough for both for two days, 
Tom said,’’ he repeated to himself ; ‘‘ only 
two days for both, but were there but one 
to drink, four or maybe five days with care. 
The Martha or some other vessel will 
surely be here in that time. But in two 
days the owners will hardly have had time 
to learn of her loss and send out another 

“Tom, dear old Tom ’’—and his blue 
eyes filled with tears—‘‘ vou shall be saved, 
any way.’’ His eyes wandered around the 
hut again as if in search of something, and 
fixed upon a cupboard on theewall. ‘ They 
say it is an easy death,’? he murmured— 
‘‘that stuff we took from Malay Tom ?’’ 

By asuperhuman effort he arose, staggered 
to the cupboard, and took a small tin can 
from one of the shelves. It was filled with 
a sticky green mass. 

‘Ten grains should do it,’’ he decided, 
“ though Malay Tom used to take as much 


as that to make him drunk.’’ He put some 
of the stuff on the blade of his knife, looked 
at it eagerly for a moment, and then 
swallowed it. He staggered back to the 
bed, and fell limp across the mattress. A 
moment he lay there still. It was then 
that Tom’s pistol broke the silence. Harry 
started, raised his head and tried to get up. 
But the drug was acting, he could not rise. 

‘*T wonder what Tom is shooting at,’’ he 
said half aloud ; ‘‘ dear old Tom, he’ll be 
sorry at first, but then, he’ll be saved—to 
go home—and take care of mother.’’ He 
felt happy, strangely happy, and he began 
to laugh. 

He thought he could see the old home 
again. He could hear the birds singing in 
the apple tree before his bedroom window; 
there seemed to be so many—more than 
ever before. He wandered down by the 
little brook that ran through the meadow. 
How sweet the water sounded as it rippled 
over the pebbles; and the long grass, how 
tempting ; it was so cool and shady, he 
longed to lie in it forever. But he could 
not, he must not. Tom was calling from 
down in the orchard—calling to hiin—was 
waiting for him. 

‘* Yes, Tom, yes, I’m coming, coming,”’ 
he called. He sprang from the bed and 
commenced to run. He was speeding 
through the meadow ; then he climbed the 
high fence that separated it from the 
orchard. He was running as fast as he 
could, but Tom kept calling, and his 
mother, too. Their voices were growing 
fainter, fainter, as though they were run- 
ning away from him. 

x x x * 

Even then the Martha had sighted the 
little guano island and was making for the 
cove of anchorage. 

They found the bodies of the two brothers 
side by side on the sand, and in the hut 
water enough for both for two days. 

Herbert WM. Brace. 



I SOMETIMES wonder when and how 
You will come back to me, 

Across what stretch of burning sand, 
Across what sobbing sea ? 

What word will break the silence long 
That now sweet Speech denies, 

And what will be the tale that each 
Reads in the other’s eyes? 


Will floods of sunshine, golden fair, 
Across our pathway flow, 

Or will our souls in rapture meet 
Beneath the starlight’s glow? 

Will flowers bloom, birds sweetly sing, 
To welcome in the day, 

Or will dead leaves be blown across 
A sky of tearful gray ? 


Let it be soon! Come as it may, 
Enough there is of pain 

Without the added weight of woe 
If love like ours were slain ; 

Come back to life and hope and joy, 
These arms are open wide ; 

Come back and find our early love 
Thorn crowned but sanctified ! 

Clarence Urmy. 

ew 1 


Seventh Regiment was the most popu- 
lar man in his company, and deserv- 

edly so. His hearty laugh, his amusing 
speeches, and his faculty for picking up the 
newest songs and singing them ina good 
baritone voice to a rattling piano accompani- 
ment, were all potent factors in insuring 
this popularity; and the general impression 
among his comrades was that the company 
would be a very lifeless organization were it 
not for the abundant jocularity of Teddy 

In one way Teddy was a paradox—a kind 
of happy family of earthly blessings. He 
had health and wealth in abundance—two 
desiderata rarely found together—and also 
a liberal allowance of cleverness and good 
looks, qualities that are usually regarded as 
deadly enemies. Laughing, light hearted, 
and to all appearances entirely care free, he 
won for himself the affectionate appellation 
of ‘‘ Joyous Ted,’’ and was generally looked 
upon as among the blessed of the earth and 
the beloved of the gods. 

This was Teddy Dwight, as he appeared 
in the company room, or on the various 
festive occasions when the men were gath- 
ered together. But there were those who 
contended that in the seclusion of his trim 
bachelor quarters, with his enormous cherry 
pipe clouding the air with fragrant wreaths 
of smoke, Teddy was not only melancholy, 
but absolutely morbid. Charley Keene, 
who knew him best, once confided to a few of 
us that on entering Teddy’s room the night 
before he had discovered our little comrade 
on his knees by the divan, with his face in 
his hands, and big tears creeping out between 
his fingers. From this and other stories of 
a like nature arose an impression that 
Teddy had some secret sorrow ; and natur- 
ally this imbued him with a peculiar inter- 
est. We all admired his self control, and 
wondered what the hidden thorn could be, 
little guessing in what a dramatic manner 
we were destined to witness its revelation. 

I distinctly remember the night when 
Joyous Ted announced his engagement to 
Winifred Schuyler. She was a remarkably 

eautiful girl, a member of an old New 
York family, and accounted a brilliant 
match. And yet here and there there were 

dubious shakings of heads and whispered 
words of hope that she would make him 
happy, with so strong an emphasis on the 
‘‘ hope ’’ as to convey serious doubts of the 
desire ever coming true. 

Frankly, Miss Schuyler was reported to 
have no heart. She had broken three en- 
gagements, sending one man to South 
Africa, another to the dogs, and the third 
into politics, without a symptom of regret. 
Now Teddy was all heart, and a sensitive 
little chap, in spite of his careless ways; 
and it made us niiserable to think what an 
effect such treatment might produce upon 

He had the most strikingly original way 
of doing things, and the fashion in which 
he elected to announce his engagement was 
thoroughly characteristic of the man. The 
first sergeant had just dismissed the com- 
pany, and we were all turning to our lockers, 
when Teddy stepped forward and remarked 
in a loud voice that he had a few words to 
say. There was a general hush, in the 
midst of which Teddy stood looking about 
him with a smile that seemed to meet be- 
hind his ears. 

‘*Well,’”’ he said, ‘“‘ I’m engaged to Miss 
Winifred Schuyler, and I want to mark the 
event. There’s some punch over at my 
rooms, and no end of tobacco, and every 
man has to come over and celebrate ;’’ and 
he burst into a mighty shout of laughter, in 
which we all joined with much cheering 
and slapping of his fat shoulders. 

The celebration was an immense success. 
Teddy sang all his latest songs, danced 
breakdowns, and enjoyed himself hugely. 
Some of us noticed that in spite of his 
rapturous rejoicings he did not once touch 
the punch, although he was very liberal 
with it, as well as with his cigars, which 
vere short and fat,.and altogether had much 
the same appearance as their owner. Char- 
ley Keene said that during the past year 
Teddy had been a total abstainer. We 
puzzled over it somewhat, but Joyous Ted 
fell upon us with a whoop, and we were 
whirled off to join in the chorus of the next 
song. We remembered the circumstance 
of his not drinking when later events sup- 
plied an explanation. 

That was in February, if I remember 


rightly, and Teddy seemed to grow happier 
with each succeeding hour. Miss Schuyler 
was wearing a magnificent hoop of dia- 
monds on her finger, and he used to walk 
up and down the.avenue with her every 
day, his short legs twinkling along, and his 
round eyes beaming with joy. 

Some time in May there wasa celebration 
in honor of the dedication of the Washing- 
ton Arch, and the Seventh paraded in all 
the glory of full dress uniform. It wasa 
blistering hot day, with the pavements like 
the top of a range, and a great swarm of 
people banked up on both sides of the 
avenue to see the troops. We swung along 
at a rattling pace, with only a momentary 
halt or two, until about Seventeenth or 
Eighteenth Street, when something blocked 
the head of the column, and we all came 
to a standstill, and had a chance to look 
about us and cool off a bit. 

Teddy was the fourth man from the left 
of the second platoon—a position assigned 
him as a tribute to his small stature. He 
was a prodigiously funny spectacle at that 
moment,with his round,red face beaded with 
perspiration like the outside of a tumbler of 
ice water. Most of the company were look- 
ing and laughing at him; and Joyous Ted rel- 
egated his discomfort to a secondary place, 
and gave free rein to his powers of repar- 
tee. Metaphorically he bowled over one 
after another of his adversaries, and the 
spectators were enjoying the exhibition 
immensely. Then something strange hap- 

A hoarse voice from somewhere in the 
throng on the sidewalk shouted ‘‘ Edward 
Dwight !’’ very distinctly. It was so clearly 
and unmistakably intended for our comrade 
that the chaffing ceased instantly, every 
one turning to discover the speaker. I was 
standing near Teddy, and had a quick in- 
tuition that something was wrong when I 
saw him wince and throw his hand, palm 
outward, before his eyes, as though avoiding 
a blow. 

He did not look up as the author of the 
interruption pushed his way through the 
crowd and stood before him, but remained 
with his head bent and his lips drawn in 
till his mouth looked like a thin red line. 

The man who had spoken was as disrepu- 
table a specimen of humanity as could well 
be imagined. His face was bloated by the 
telltale stamp of drink, his clothes soiled 
and shabby to the last degree, his eyes mere 
red blots beneath shaggy brows. Standing 
with his legs far apart he swayed to and 
fro, and regarded Teddy with the veriest 
wreck of a smile. 


‘BR’ ward,’’ he said, ‘‘doan’ sher know 
me? Why doan’ sher speak to me?”’ 

Teddy’s comrades had gathered close 
about the two men, surveying their faces 

‘Doan’ sher know me?’’ repeated the 
man, adding, ‘‘damn yer,’ half to him- 

Teddy appeared to gather himself to- 
gether with an effort. 

‘‘T know you—yes,’’ he answered. ‘‘ What 
do you want here? Go back on the side- 

The other’s face showed that he did not 
immediately comprehend this. When its 
meaning finally dawned upon him, his 
small eyes fairly blazed with fury, and lung- 
ing forward, he dealt Teddy a sharp blow 
across the eyes, with a savage growl of 
“Take that, ye young devil!”’ 

Sergeant Ripley, who was standing di- 
rectly behind the man, here justified his 
reputation asa fighter. Grasping him firmly 
by the collar, he whirled the wretched 
creature around, and tossed him, as limp 
as a bundle of rags, upon the curbstone. 

“And you take (¢hat,’? he remarked 
blithely, ‘‘and get out, unless you want to 
feel the point of a bayonet.”’ 

In the excitement of the moment no one 
noticed that Teddy had sprung forward un- 
til we saw him on one knee, carefully sup- 
porting the man’s head and smoothing 
back the tousled hair. He looked up at 
Ripley beseechingly, and on his face one 
conld see the print of the blow, while his 
honest blue eyes winked rapidly to keep 
back the tears of mingled emotion and pain. 

‘““Sam,’’ he said, ‘‘of course you didn’t 
know, but this won’t do. You have struck 
my father.’’ 

His father! That! 

The men stepped back blankly, some 
turning their heads aside as if in the pres- 
ence of death. Ripley stood motionless, 
his fine eyes shifting from side to side. 

‘‘ All right, Ted,’’ he said, after a mo- 
ment. “Allright, old man. I apologize.’’ 

He wheeled about and went slowly back 
to his place, and as he passed we heard him 
mutter, ‘‘ His father—good God !”’ 

It was reverently said, as one might 
breathe a prayer, and it was the thought of 
all. Ripley said it half aloud, the rest of us 
in our hearts. 

When the bugle sounded the advance, 
Teddy was left behind. We saw him, aided 
by a police officer, supporting the miserable 
form of his father through the crowd, his 
white belts soiled and disarranged, and the 
pompon on his shako black with the mud 

us west naoeriinlitbat + 

en ee 

into which it had fallen. We saw R'pley 
run forward, and, after a whispered word 
with the lieutenant, drop out and follow 
them. Then the scene was blotted out as the 
column marched forward to the clapping of 
appreciative hands and the swelling music 
of the band. 

Jack Pennington had news for us when 
we reached the armory again, and were 
eagerly discussing the incident in the com- 
pany room. Jack always was an obser- 
vant sort of a chap, who saw both sides of 
questions and the minor features of every 
situation. Heaven knows the case of 
Teddy’s father was deplorable enough at 
best, but when we heard what Jack had to 
tell us, we felt the crisis to be greatly mag- 
nified. Lieutenant Harvey, who had seen 
the whole affair, sighed and said, ‘‘ The 
sins of the father shall be visited on the 
children,’’ and that was about what we were 
all thinking. 

It seems that Jack had been watching a 
group of girls in a balcony directly opposite 
our halting place, and that he had seen 
Winifred Schuyler step forward when 
Teddy’s father first called his name. How 
she came to be there without his knowing 
of it was a mystery, but nevertheless there 
she was, as straight and slender and beauti- 
ful as ever—so Jack said—with a cool smile 
on her lips, and her calm eyes watching the 
little tragedy before her. Yes, she had 
seen it all; seen the man that was to be 
almost her father, seen the blow, and seen 
poor broken hearted Teddy on his knees in 
the street with a drunkard in his arms. We 
knew Winifred Schuyler too well to doubt 
the inevitable outcome of it all. 

None of us saw Teddy Dwight again, with 



the single exception of Charley Keene. ‘To 
the latter he intrusted a letter, which was 
read aloud at the last company meeting of 
the year. For once the careless chatter was 
hushed, and the men listened with serious 
eyes and compressed lips. 

I feel that I cannot leave you without some 
*little word of farewell. My father is as nearly 
recovered as I can ever hope to see him, and I 
am taking him to the far West for the few re- 
maining years it is likely that he will live. 
What this has all been to me it is not necessary 
or possible for me to tell you. You will believe 
me when I say that my heart is with you al- 
ways, aud that if in the future I am able to re- 
join you—and you will have me—the best hour 
of my life will be when Iam once more a mem- 
ber of the Seventh. 

That was his last farewell, and with it he 
vanished more or less completely from our 
lives. Young Rathebone, a new recruit, 
has taken his place at the piano, and sings 
the newest songs very creditably, but it is 
not the same as having Joyous Ted. We 
hear of him at long intervals, and know 
that he is doing his duty, and know, too, 
that the sacrifice his willing, childlike heart 
has made will be laid to his account at the 

Miss Schuyler was married early the fol- 
lowing autumn, Her husband had a title 
and — strange combination ! — unlimited 
means. It was a brilliant wedding, with a 
bishop to officiate, hosts of presents, and 
an imposing reception. Nearly all of us 
were invited, but on comparing notes after- 
wards we discovered a singular coincidence. 
No one went. 

Guy Wetmore Carryl 


WITHIN his soul are singing birds, 

And diamond thoughts and golden words, 

Mountains, meadows, lowing herds, 
Within his soul ; 

And joy and sorrow, darkness, light, 
Sunshine and shadow, day and night, 
Hatred of wrong and love of right ; 

And one eternal, constant prayer 

A hunger and a thirst are there, 

For deathless deeds to do, to dare— 
Within his soul. 

Robert Loveman. 

THAT genial and appreciative theorist, 
Max Nordau, has had his fling at music 
along with about everything else in this 
degenerate world and under this degenerat- 

ing sun. His attitude is not new, and has* 

few terrors to one who is at all widely read 
in the literature of satire, that strange 
backward aspiring world where each satirist 
finds the Golden Age in the generation 
before him. So though Herr Nordau may 
bark exceedingly, loud at the moon and 
other bodies far above him, the rest of the 
world is not likely to follow his example 
and go to the ‘‘demnition bowwows.’’ He 
advises a conspiracy of silence toward the 
degenerates. It would be better, perhaps, 
if his advice should be turned upon himself. 

When Lombroso the criminologist, and 
Nordau, his disciple, lay down as the char- 
acteristic of a maniac ‘‘a stubborn persever- 
ance in one and the same fundamental 
idea ’’—a quality that was once preached 
as a virtue and a trait of genius—it is easy 
to see how anybody can be dubbed de- 

Nordau’s chief musical ailment is acute 
Wagner-phobia. After howling at supposed 
faults which the majority of musicians have 
now learned to understand as invaluable 
and noble, he says patronizingly: ‘‘As a 
personality, Wagner will occupy an import- 
ant place in music; as an initiator, or 
developer of his art, hardly any ora very 
narrow one. For the only thing that musi- 
cians of healthy capacity can learn from 
him is to keep song and accompaniment 
closely connected with the words, to de- 
claim with sincerity and propriety, and to 
suggest pictorial ideas to the imagination 
by orchestral effects.’’ These three gigantic 
oracles are alone enough to give any com- 
poser something quite different from a 
‘‘very narrow ’’ place inthe development of 
his art. 

* * * * 

ANOTHER bit of silly inconsistency is 
Nordau’s attack on fiz de siécle music. 
** At opera and concert,’’ he says, ‘‘ the 
rounded forms of ancient melody are coldly 
listened to. The translucent thematic 
treatment of classic masters, their conscien- 
tious observance of the laws of counter- 
point, are reckoned flat and tedious. A 
coda graceful in cadence, serene in its 
‘ dying fall,’ a pedal base with correct har- 
monization, provoke yawns.’ All of which 

is founded about equally on ignorance of 

the real spirit of the classic composers and 

glaring misrepresentation of the present 

status of the art. It is vanity to argue with 

a man who bawls, ‘‘Black is white! Ifyou 

deny it, you are a color blind degenerate !’’ 
* * * * 

NorDAU makes the antique plaint that 
not all recent art and literature is intelligible 
to the general public. Is Bach intelligible 
to everybody? Whose fault is it if Shak- 
spere is a ‘‘mystic’’ to Hottentots and 
babes? It was once hard to understand 
things that are now conimonplaces of 
science. ‘The kindergarten pupil can see 
through many things that once puzzled So- 
crates. So with the arts, it is necessary 
that every creator and every explorer should 
bring forth things that must for long be 
mysteries to any but his intimate disciples. 
This does not prove that he is a ‘‘ inystic ”’ 
surrounded by a clique of ‘degenerate 
maniacs.’’ Early operas of Wagner’s, so 
revolutionary as to provoke riots, are now 
patronized as ingenuous and Italian. 

* * * * 

THE opera season has been very well laid 
out. Except in a very few instances, we 
know who is to come over—it is always 
“come over’’; none of the singers claims 
America as home any more—and awaken 
the Metropolitan and the Academy of Music 
from their long sleep. Just now the Metro- 
politan stage is a place for piles of scenery, 
and checked cloths are draping the boxes. 
By the 18th of November those saine boxes 
will make a chain of brilliants about the 

Mr. Abbey may not know all the people 
he has engaged, and whether all of them 
are coming or not, but he has made up his 
mind that Calvé shall open the season in 

Bevignani, who has been a little neglected 
by the side of his fellow conductor Man- 
cinelli, will have an opportunity to take the 
baton a little oftener this winter, with his 
old friend absent. It is doubtful, however, 
if Bevignani, with all his solid musical 
ability and fine personality, will ever be- 
come the popular favorite that Mancinelli 

was. There were dramatic touches about 

the old conductor that held his audience. 
He put actual physical force into his work. 
One of the members of the official staff at 
the opera house, who had only known Man- 


Marie Brema. 

Brand, Bayreuth, 

hhy Wans D 

From a photogra} 

66 (Bek a 


Marie Engle. 

From a photograph by Landy, Cincinnati. 

cinelli as the poet musician, the dreamer, 
who seemed to wave his baton like a fairy 
wand, asked that he might have the baton 
with which ‘ Falstaff’? and ‘‘Samson and 
Delilah ’’ were first conducted in America. 
Signor Mancinelli sent him a bundle of 
splintered sticks, on one or two of which he 
had written his autograph. 

“T break a dozen every evening,’ he 
said. ‘‘ You are welcome to the splinters.’’ 

Bevignani brought his daughter last 
winter, and kept up a domestic home here 
in a strange land. 

Seidl will conduct the popular Sunday 
concerts during the winter. 

* * * * 

THE contraltos never make the impression 

upon the public that comes from a soprano, 


but Marie Brema, who is to be a member of 
Mr. Abbey’s company this season, is gaining 
many friends for herself among critics and 

She is an English woman of German de- 
scent. Her operatic career has been a very 
short one. It was only six years ago that 
she made her initial bow to the musical 
world at St. James’ Hall in London. Con- 
ductor Levi, who had always taken a great 
interest in the young girl, introduced her to 
Frau Wagner, who engaged her for the part 
of Ortrud in “ Lohengrin’’ and gave her 
the benefit of personal instruction. Even 
the great composer’s widow was surprised 
at the brilliant results. 

It was a surprise to the musical world 
when Damrosch allowed this voice to escape 


him. It was confidently ex- 
pected that Brema would be 
seen with his company this sea- 
son in her Wagnerian roles. 
It appears now that Damrosch 
is going to have a very serious 
rival in the Metropolitan’s short 
season of German opera. With 
Seidl as conductor, and with 
the fine voices he has to call 
upon, there is no reason why the 
interpretation given at the latter 
house should not be the finest 
* * * * 

MARIE ENGLE, who hails 
from Chicago, and who is in 
private life Mrs. Gustav Am- 
berg, is one of the very few 
grand opera singers who have 
not gone to Europe for their 
musical education. Miss Engle 
learned all she knows about ‘ 
music and the arts from Amer- ' 
ican teachers, in New York and at 
her home. She has been heard 
this season at Covent Garden, as 
Sir Augustus Harris’ prima 
donna in several réles of im- 
portance. The London critics 

Mme. Bauermeister. 

praise her sympathetic 
charm of manner and her 
high soprano, which is de- 
clared to be of the purest 

Miss Engle is of medium 
height, with a _ willowy 
figure, hazel eyes, a fair, 
clear complexion, and 
masses of burnished, light 
brown hair. Her father is 
a German, her mother a 
Frenchwoman. The parts 
of Zerlina in ‘‘Fra_ Dia- 
volo”? and of Saucis in 
‘*Philemon and Baucis,’’ in 
which Miss Engle appeared 
in London, were entirely 
new to her; she had not 
even seen the operas played 
before she was called upon 
to sing inthem. Her success 
in these rdles was therefore 
the more creditable. 

ONE of the most useful 
members of the Metropol- 
itan company, one of the 
best liked, and the one who 
receives most presents from 

Mme. Mantelli. : 2 : 
From a photograph by Dupont, New York. her fellow artists, is a singer 


Georgine von Januschowsky. 

From a photograph by Sarony, New York, 

of whom the public hears comparatively 

Mile. Bauermeister might be called the 
professional understudy. She was brought 
up by the great Teresa Titiens, which ac- 
counts for her thoroughness and conscien- 
tiousness. She sang in Madrid years ago— 
for she is no longer particularly young— 
and was a great favorite there. Jean de 
Reszke says of Bauermeister : 

‘*She has had a long training and a thor- 
ough one. She should do better things, but 
she is now so fully identified with the work 

she does, that it is impossible for her 
to change.’’ 

It never was possible for her to 
change. She has not the dominating 
personality that would make her a 
star. She knows almost every second 
role in opera, and is ready to take any- 
body’s place on an instant’s notice. 
Her voice keeps its clearness and sweet- 
ness as remarkably as Patti’s, but it is 
a fact that is seldom noticed. It is her 
lot to do a great deal of work, and see 
others take most of the applause. She 
is never allowed to keep a part long 
enough to make it peculiarly her own. 

Last year, at the height of the sea- 
son, somebody asked her how she 
managed to keep so well. 

“T have no time be ill,’’ she said. 
‘*T am too busy taking the parts of the 

There is no singer who is so much 
loved by her companions as Bauer- 
meister. No young prima donna ever 
went to her for instruction without be- 
coming more fully equipped for her 
part before the public. There is no 
selfishness, no jealousy, in the singer’s 
heart. As one looks at her career it 
naturally brings up a query as to 
whether it pays in this world to be 

If Bauermeister were to leave the 
stage and become a teacher, she would 
doubtless make a great fortune. Asa 
member of the opera company said re- 
cently, “‘ Bauermeister could not make 
the success that Calvé makes as Car- 
men, but she could teach another to 
do it.”’ 

MANTELLI is the best actress of all 
the singers who come back to the opera 
house this season. Like Nilsson, she 
was driven back to the stage, after 
several years of retirement, by heavy 
financial losses. She married a wealthy 
South American, and went to live 
with him in a beautiful home just out- 
side of Milan. Their house was a gath- 
ering place for the artists in the days 
when a successful début at La Scala meant 
world wide success to an opera singer. 
Here, in her gardens, the voice which had 
been priceless was given to her friends. 
But invalidism came to her husband, and 
financial reverses followed. The gift of 
song remained, and Mantelli went back to 
the stage. Her husband travels with her, 
and she gives up all social life to spend her 
time with him. If her voice were to leave 


Max Alvary. 

From a photograph by Bieber, Berlin. 

her, Mantelli would still have, in her JANUSCHOWSKY has been heard here a good 
great gift as an actress, a sufficient equip- many times before, although the fact has 
ment for the stage. not been widely heralded. Indeed, we were 


hinted that he may throw up his 
part entirely, as he considers that 
there is only one perfect /so/de, 
and she is engaged for Mr. Dam- 
rosch’s season. 

Frau Klafsky lives in Ham- 
burg whence the Damrosch 
tenor, Wilhelm Gruening, also 
comes, . She was very lately mar- 
ried to Herr Lohse, and lives ina 
magnificent home in Kloster Al- 

* * * * 

IN Milka Ternina Europe 
sends us an interpreter of Wag- 
nerian roles who is said to be un- 
surpassed. It was in 1888 and 
1889 that she rose from utter ob- 
scurity to be a féted prima donna, 
the admiration of the Wagner 
school. She was born in a small 
village near Agram, where she 
was sent to school. An unknown 
music teacher showed the child 
that she had a voice worth culti- 
vating, although even she never 
dreamed of an operatic career for 
her pupil; but the latter grew 

Signor Kaschmann. 

asked to look upon her as a 
new importation. Long ago she 
sang with Emma Juch and the 
Boston Ideals. Her first ap- 
pearance here was in ‘‘ The Beg- 
gar Student’’; her last with 
Hammerstein’s English opera 

Januschowsky, whose real 
name is Mrs. Neuendorff, was 
born in the Austrian town of 
Olmiutz, of a noble Polish fam- 
ily. This season she is to sing 
Isolde, Elizabeth, Brunnhild, 
and perhaps Aida and Jichaela 
in Italian. 

THERE is a disposition to ac- 
cept the verdict of Jean de 
Reszke as final upon all ques- 
tions of operatic casts. He has 
been for so long the one suc- 
cessful tenor, and belongs toa 
family so distinguished in opera, 
that he is considered to be en- 
tirely unprejudiced and compe- 
tent to speak. The great tenor 
is said to have been studying 
‘* Tristan ’’ for the Metropolitan 
season, and it is an open secret 
that he was very much disap- 
pointed that Klafsky was not se- Signor Bevignani. 
lected to sing /solde. It is even From a photograph by Sarony, New York. 

Rosa Sucher. 

From a photograph by Schaarwichter, Berlin. 


ambitious. When she was sixteen she went 
to Vienna to see Professor Gausbacher. He 
heard her sing, looked delightedly into her 
face, and said, ‘‘ We shall make an excellent 
artist of you.”’ 

He sent the young girl to the Viennese 
conservatory. Upon one occasion, at a 

Theodore Thomas. 

performance given by the conservatory 
pupils, young Fraulein Ternina sang the 
second act of ‘‘Lucrezia Borgia.’’ She 
eagerly looked for the account by the critic. 
He mentioned the fact that ‘‘ Fraulein 
Ternina had an aristocratic profile.’”’ It was 
not until she went to Bremen as the suc- 
cessor of Frau Klafsky—who comes to 
America with her this winter—that Ter- 
nina,made her great success. 
* * * * 

RosA SUCHER and Max Alvary came 
over with a great flourish of trumpets last 
year, but the reception they met was disap- 
pointing, and when they went back to Ger- 


many it was generally supposed that they 
had bidden a long farewell toAmerica. Mr. 
Damrosch announces, however, that Alvary 
will be here again this season. 

* * * * 

AN old favorite of the New York public 
comes back this year in the person of 
Kaschmann, who was 
here long ago for the 
opening of the Metro- 
politan. He has sung 
all over Europe since 
then, and returns with 
an added reputation. 
THE great Chicago or- 
chestra will be heard 
here for the first time in 
its entirety during the 
coming season,and New 
York will have another 
opportunity to realize 
what she lost in Theo- 
dore Thomas. 

A series of seven con- 
certs, popular in charac- 
ter, will be given at the 
Metropolitan in March. 
The orchestra will also 
go to Philadelphia for 
two days. 

The Chicago orches- 
tra will break its regular 
routine of rehearsals and 
engagements this sea- 
son, giving Mr. Thomas 
an opportunity for pri- 
vate work. It is said 
that its last season’s re- 
ceipts exceeded the in- 
come of any previous 
year by twenty thou- 
sand dollars. 

% “ x 

SOME little dissatis- 
faction is showing itself 
here and there concerning the series of 
fashionable recitals which are given in New 
York every winter. Itis said that they are 
not only expensive and rather poor for 
their cost, but they are ceasing to be even 
fashionable. Almost anybody who cares to 
pay the price of a ticket is welcome, and 
the morning concerts, to which the singers 
come in the poorest possible voice, are not 
quite as exclusive as the opera house. . The 
fashionable woman stays away, because she 
finds herself attending a. half way social 
function with a great many people she does 
not care to know. As:musical events—well, 
the musicians smile at that ‘tern. 

5 gg 

WITHOUT we heard the north wind roar, 
The night we played at battledore ; 

Without we heard the north wind mock, 
The night we played at shuttlecock. 

And more and more, and more and more— 
The night we played at battledore, 

I felt my heart with every shock 
Tossed like the smitten shuttlecock. 

And since that night my heart is sore— | | 
fhe night we played at battledore ; 

And since that night I take no stock 
In battledore and shuttlecock. 
Clinton Scollard. 


The numerous and important organizations founded on patriotic American descent— 
Their insignia, their leaders, their remarkably rapid growth, and 
the work they are doing. 

JATRIOTISM is a virtue, and pride of 
ancestry is a commendable or at least a 
permissible feeling. The success in re- 
cent years of the many hereditary societies, 
to which descent from a worthy patriot is 
the essential requirement for admission, is 
significant of the fact that more and more 
we are developing a faith in the heroism and 
worth of those who first settled in this 
The growth of the movement is readily 

traced. It began with the centennial cele- 
bration of the battles of Lexington and 
Bunker Hill in June, 1875, and culminated 
in the great celebration of the inauguration 
of George Washington that took place in 
New York in April and May, 1889. 

All these patriotic societies are hereditary, 
but they may be grouped into two classes— 
first, those in which membership is re- 
stricted to the eldest male descendant of an 
officer who participated either in the war 

General Horace Porter, President of the Sons of the American Revolution. 


of the Revolution, the war of 
1812, the war with Mexico, 
or the civil war; second, 
those in which membership 
is free to any descendant of 
a patriot who participated in 
the colonial wars, the war of 
the Revolution, the war of 
1812, or the civil war. The 
societies connected with the 
civil war are too numerous 
and too well known to be 
included in a paper such as 
this, and therefore they may 
be dismissed at the outset. 
Oldest, most honorable, and 
the one in which member- 
ship is most prized, is the 
Society of the Cincinnati. It 
was organized in the quaint 
old Verplanck house, near 
Fishkill on the Hudson, on 
May 13, 1783, by the Ameri- 
can and foreign officers who 
had served together in the 
Revolutionary war. Baron 
Steuben, the Prussian Amer- 
ican soldier, presided over 
the preliminary meeting, 
and George Washington was 
requested to act as chief officer of the society until the first general meeting, which was 
appointed for May 4, 1784. 
The curious wording of 
the society’s statement of its 
purposes is worthy of pre- 
sentation. It says: ‘‘ To per- 
petuate therefore as well the 
remembrance of this vast 
event (the war of the Revo- 
lution) as the mutual friend- 
ships which have been formed 
under the presence of com- 
mon danger, and in many 
instances cemented by the 
blood of the parties, the of- 
ficers of the American Army 
do hereby, in the most solemn 
manner, associate, constitute, 
and combine themselves into 
one Society of Friends, to 
endure as long as they shall 
endure, or any of their 
closest male posterity, and 
in failure thereof, the col- 
lateral branches who may be 
deemed worthy of becoming 
its supporters and members.”’ 
At this preliminary meet- 
ing provision was made for 
thirteen State societies, cor- 
Frederic y. de Peyster, President of the Society of Colonial Wars. responding, naturally, to the 

The Rev. Morgan Dix, President of the Military Society of the War or 1812, 

General John Cochrane, President of the New York Society of the 


original thirteen States; and 
triennial meetings of delegates 
from the State societies were to 
be held, beginning with 1784. 
The feature of hereditary descent 
gave umbrage to many influ- 
ential persons, among whom was 
Benjamin Franklin, and the so- 
ciety was at once fiercely and bit- 
terly attacked. In consequence 
an amendment was presented at 
the meeting held in Philadelphia 
in 1785, abolishing all succession, 
and confining a society to those 
who had actually served in the 
Revolution. This amendment 
was carried by the general so- 
ciety, but failed to receive the 
assent of a sufficient number of 
State organizations, and in con- 
sequence the Cincinnati fell back 
upon its original constitution. 
Another element of peculiar in- 
terest is attached to the failure 
of thisamendment. It provided 
for the establishment of a chapter 
in France, and before the failure 
of the amendment had been an- 
nounced such a_ society was 
organized. It was disbanded in 


1793, at the time of the French 
Revolution. Notwithstanding the 
fact that without constitutional 
sanction the French society could 
have no proper existence, as has 
been very clearly shown by General 
John Cochrane, president of the 
New York State Society, still the 
Cincinnati authorized its revival 
in 1877, and it now flourishes in 

The Cincinnati continued full 
of vigor until the arrival of La- 
fayette in this country in 1824, but 
thereafter the interest waned, and 
seven State societies disbanded. 
In 1854 the last of the original 
members died ; and there are now 
but two or three survivors of the 
second generation. General Wash- 
ington was succeeded in the presi- 
dency by Alexander Hamilton, and 
other distinguished officers fol- 
lowed, until 1854, when Hamilton 
Fish, of New York, was called to 
the chair. His death has left the 
post vacant, although the vice 
president, Robert M. McLane of 
Maryland, is the acting president, 
and if precedent is followed he 
will be elevated to the presidency 

Robert M. McLane, Acting President of the Society of the Cincinnati. 


age ~ 



at the meeting to be held in 
Philadelphia in May, 1896. 

The present membership of 
the Cincinnati is about 500, 
distributed among the State 
societies in Massachusetts, 
New York, New Jersey, Mary- 
land, South Carolina, Pennsyl- 
vania, and the revived societies 
in Rhode Island, Connecticut, 
and France. The eagle, as the 
badge of the society is called, 
was designed by Major Pierre 
Cc. L’Enfant, the French en- 
gineer who planned the city of 
Washington, and the colors of 
its rosette and ribbon are light 
blue and white. 

Scon after the celebration of 
the first of the centennial an- 
niversaries in 1875, overtures 
were made to the Society of the 
Cincinnati to broaden its policy 
so as to admit all male de- 
scendants of participants in the 
war of the Revolution, but the 
society declined to take such 
action. Accordingly, early in 
1876, John Austin Stevens of 
New York issued a call, in 

John Lee Carroll, President of the Sons of the Revolution. 

which he said: ‘‘ The approach of the centennial anniversary of American independence 

John Cadwalader, President of the General Society of the War of 1812. 

is an appropriate time for 
the foundation of a society 
on a broader basis’’ (than 
the Society of the Cincin- 
nati), ‘‘which may include 
all descendants of those 
who served in the war of 
the Revolution,’ and 
named February 22, 1876, 
as the time when a meet- 
ing for organization ‘‘ will 
be held in the rooms of 
the New York Historical 

It was in this way that 
the Sons of the Revolution 
came into existence. For 
some years the organiza- 
tion was maintained, but 
not as an active body until 
December 4, 1883, when 
at a meeting held in 
Fraunce’s Tavern steps 
were taken ‘‘ toward effect- 
ing permanent organiza- 

To follow in detail the 
growth of the Sons of the 
Revolution is impossible 
in this article, but the 


organization steadily increased 
in membership, until in Feb- 
ruary, 1890, it had 539 sons on 
its rolls. In 1888 a State society 
was organized in Pennsylvania, 
and others followed in the Dis- 
trict of Columbia and in Iowa. 
Its development led to the organ- 
ization of a general or national 
society in March, 1890; and at 
the last meeting, held in Boston 
on April 19, 1895, the secretary 
reported twenty five State so- 
cieties, with a total membership 
of 4,192 persons, of which num- 
ber the New York society had 
1,574 names enrolled. 

In considering these patriotic 
societies the question naturally 
arises : ‘‘ What have they done ?”’ 
Let us apply the question direct 
to the Sons of the Revolution. 
In their constitution they say 
that the society has been institu- 
ted ‘‘ to perpetuate the memory 
of the men who, in the military, 
naval, and civil service of the 
colonies and of the Colonial Con- 
gress, by their acts or counsel, 
achieved the independence of 

General John P. 

Mrs. Archibald Gracie King, President of the National Society of 

Colonial Dames. 

Hatch, President of the Aztec Club. 

the country, and to further the 
proper celebration of the anni- 
versaries of the birthday of Wash- 
ington and of prominent events 
connected with the war of the 
Revolution ; to collect and secure 
for preservation the rolls, records, 
and other documents relating to 
that period ; and to inspire the 
members of the society with the 
patriotic spirit of their fore- 

In the accomplishment of these 
objects they have furnished ad- 
dresses on patriotic subjects; they 
have celebrated Revolutionary 
events with patriotic exercises ; 
and have held commemorative 
church services on Washington’s 
Birthday. The New York society 
has marked nine historical sites 
with bronze tablets, and raised a 
statue tothe memory of Nathan 
Hale, whose last words were, 
‘*T only regret that I have but one 
life to lose for my country.’’ The 
Pennsylvania society has likewise 
been active. Its members erected 
memorials to mark the location 
of Washington’s encampment at 
Gulph Mills, of General Wayne’s 



1. Society of the Cincinnati. 5. General Society of the War of 1812. 
2. Sons of the Revolution. 6. Society of Colonial Wars. 

3. Sons of the American Revolution. 7. Aztec Club. 

4. Military Society of the War of 1812. 8. National Society of Colonia! Dames. 

g. Society of Colonial Dames. 

10. Daughters of the American Revolution. 
11. Daughters of the Revolution. 

12. Naval Order of the United States. 



nation, and to perpetuate 
the principles for which 
these heroes. pledged their 
lives and their sacred 
honor,’’ was organized in 
the Golden Gate city. This 
society, which took the 
name of the Sons of Revo- 
lutionary Sires, was the first 
of the newer societies to 
effect a permanent organ- 
ization, and is fully entitled 
to recognition as such. 
Certain members of the 
New York society of the 
Sons of the Revolution de- 
sired, in 1888, to form a New 
Jersey society, but their 
action failed to receive the 
the sanction of the parent 
body. This led to the or- 
ganization of a separate 
society, whose members 
promptly turned their en- 
ergies toward the forma- 
tion of branches in every 
State and Territory of the 
Union. A call was issued 
for a convention to be held 
in Fraunce’s Tavern in 
Mrs. John W. Foster, President of the Daughters of the American Revolution. New York, on April 30, 

1889. Delegates from eigh- 

headquarters at Centerville, and of 
the struggle near Fort Washington 
after the battle of Germantown. They 
have in hand the collection of funds 
for an equestrian statue of General 
Wayne, to be erected in Philadelphia. 

The general president of the national 
society is John Lee Carroll of Mary- 
land ; the presiding officer of the New 
York organization is Frederick S. 
Tallmadge, a gentleman who has done 
much for the society. The insignia 
of the Sons of the Revolution con- 
tain a medallion of gold bearing on 
its face the figure of a soldier in 
Continental uniform; the ribbon is 
dark biuc, edged with buff, recalling 
that uniform’s colors. 

On July 4, 1875, the ninety ninth 
anniversary of the Declaration of In- 
dependence was celebrated with un- 
usual exercises in San Francisco. In 
the procession a platoon of men in 
Continental uniform attracted much 
attention, and along the route were 
suspended the names of celebrated 
battlefields and heroes of the Revo- 
lution. In the following October, a Mrs, Edward Paulet Steers, President of the Daughters of the 
society ‘‘ to honor the founders of the Revolution. 


teen States, including California, there met, 
and after the withdrawal of the represent- 
atives from New York and Pennsylvania, 
the National Society of the Sons of the 
American Revolution was organized. 

This society, as there formed, and as it 
today exists, has two important character- 
istic features. First, it admits no man to 
membership ‘‘ unless he is a lineal descend- 
ant of one who participated in the Ameri- 
can Revolution,’’ and second, it consists of 
one national society divided for convenience 
into coequal State societies, and the latter 
subdivided to some extent into local 
branches or chapters. At the meeting of 
the general society held in Boston on the 
Ist of last May, a membership of 5,878, 
distributed among 31 State societies, was 
reported. It is also proper to add that since 
then societies of the Sons of the American 
Revolution have been formed in France and 
in the Hawaiian Islands. 

The objects of this society do not differ 
materially from those of the Sons of the 
Revolution, but the newer society is en- 
titled to credit for its remarkable activity. 
It has celebrated more than a hundred an- 
niversaries and important events in the 
Revolution. The popular observance of 
June 14 as ‘‘ flag day’ is largely due to it. 
The headquarters of Jonathan Trumbull 
(Brother Jonathan) have been saved from 
destruction, and through the society’s ef- 
forts the building has been converted into 
amuseum. The Massachusetts society has 
undertaken to mark the grave of every 
Revolutionary soldier with a bronze marker, 
on which appears the design of a minute 
man, with the letters S. A. R. (Soldier of 
the American Revolution) and the date, 
1775. In New York it was largely through 
the influence of the Sons of the American 
Revolution that the City Hall was saved 
from destruction ; and elsewhere many me- 
morials have been raised to the memory of 
American heroes. 

The president of the general society of 
the Sons of the American Revolution is 
General Horace Porter. Its insignia follow 
in their general form the cross of the order 
of St. Louis of France, thus commemorating 
the fact that Louis XVI, who sent his sol- 
diers to the aid of the Americans, as well as 
nearly all of the French officers, were mem- 
bers of that order. The colors of the ribbon 
and rosette are blue and white, which were 
the colors of the uniform of Washington’s 

The excellent patriotic work accom- 
plished by the two foregoing societies led 
to a revival of interest in two patriotic so- 


cieties that had long been in existence, but 
which had almost entirely passed from pub- 
lic view. Both were originally organized 
by participants in the war of 1812, and 
membership in them is restricted to de- 
scendants of those who took part in that 

The Military Society of the War of 1812 
was instituted in 1826 by army and navy 
officers who had taken part in the second 
war with England. In 1848 it was consoli- 
dated with the Veteran Corps of Artillery, 
in the State of New York, which had been 
founded as far back as 1790 by officers and 
soldiers of the war of the Revolution, and 
which had been called into the military 
service of the United States in 1812 and 
1814. On September Io, 1890, the anniver- 
sary of the battle of Lake Erie, the twenty 
two surviving members of this body met 
and adopted a new constitution. On Janu- 
ary 8, 1892, the anniversary of the battle of 
New Orleans, the society was incorporated 
anew as a hereditary institution, with many 
new members. Its membership clause was 
amended in 1895, so that only descendants 
of officers are eligible. The society meets 
annually on the 8th of January, in the New 
York City Hall, and its membership is less 
than a hundred, including six surviving 

Besides its publications and reunions, no 
actual patriotic work has as yet been under- 
taken by this society. Its president is the 
Rev. Morgan Dix, whose father, General 
John A. Dix, saw active service from De- 
cember, 1812, until the close of the war. 
Its insignia consist of a Maltese cross, on 
which isan American bald eagle with wings 
displayed. Its colors are red and blue, 
and were so chosen because during the war 
of 1812 dark:blue coats edged with red were 
the regulation uniforms of the militia artil- 
lery and infantry in most of the States. 

Distinct from this association is the Gen- 
eral Society of the War of 1812. This latter 
body is of similar character to the two so- 
cieties of descendants of soldiers who took 
part in the war of the Revolution, and 
freely admits to membership any lineal 
descendant of one who served in the 
war of 1812. That is, the membership is 
not restricted to descendants of officers, as 
is the case with the Military Society of the 
War of 1812. 

The society’s history is an honorable one. 
It was formed at a general convention held 
in Philadelphia in January, 1854, of surviv- 
ing veterans of the war, who then organized 
the Pennsylvania Association of the Defend- 
ers of the Country in the War of 1812. 


When the present interest in patriotic so- 
cieties became prevalent, the society was 
reorganized under its new title, and the 
Pennsylvania Association became the Penn- 
sylvania State Society. At the same time 
the Association of the Defenders of Balti- 
more in 1814, which had dwindled down to 
a very small number, was admitted as the 
Maryland State Society. More recently, 
State societies have been organized in Mas- 
sachusetts, Connecticut, and Ohio, and the 
rolls now show the names of over five 
hundred persons, forty of whom are surviv- 
ing veterans. 

The society has grown slowly but steadily, 
and has already a satisfactory balance in 
its treasury. Its work has included elaborate 
exercises under the auspices of the Mary- 
land societies on the centennial anniversary 
of the occupation of Fort McHenry by the 
United States government, and the eightieth 
anniversary of the battle of North Point ; 
and it has published many historical docu- 
ments pertaining to the war of 1812. John 
Cadwalader, of the Pennsylvania Society, 
is president general. In common with 
other similar societies, it has a vice presi- 
dent general from each of the five State 
societies. Its colors—dark blue, white, 
black, and red—appear in its rosette and in 
the ribbon from which its insignia are sus- 

A vacant field was discerned in the failure 
of the foregoing societies to provide for the 
descendants of the soldiers of colonial 
times. Messrs. S. Victor Constant, Charles 
H. Murray, Nathan G. Pond, and Edward 
Trenchard were among those who first re- 
cognized this fact, and who, on the 18th of 
August, 1892, at the office of the first named, 
in New York, organized the Society of 
Colonial Wars. This was a success from 
the beginning, and numbers among its 
more than one thousand members the 
names of the very best families in the 
United States. State societies exist in 
Pennsylvania, Maryland, Massachusetts, 
Connecticut, the District of Columbia, New 
Jersey, Virginia, New Hampshire, Ver- 
mont, Illinois, Missouri, and Ohio. Mem- 
bership is rigidly restricted to descendants 
of residents of the colonies between May 
13, 1607, and April 19, 1775, and military 
service of an ancestor is a necessary requis- 
ite. Indeed, an examination of the year 
book shows that most of the members are 
descendants of officers, so that it may 
almost rank as a military society. 

The Colonial Wars has had the good for- 
tune to be officered from the outset by men 
of experience and executive ability. Its 

president, Frederic J. de Peyster, was for 
some years the presiding officer of the St. 
Nicholas Society, and knew well where to 
lead. Much of its success, too, is due to 
Howland Pell, its secretary. As chairman 
of its committee on the Louisburg memo- 
rial, Mr. Pell planned and carried to a suc- 
cessful inauguration the beautiful monu- 
ment that was erected last June at Louis- 
burg, Nova Scotia, in honor of the victory 
over the French which made Canada an 
English province. A handsome medal was 
issued to commemorate the event. Men- 
tion should also be made of the facsimile 
reproduction—issued by Dr. Charles S. 
Ward of the Connecticut Society—of the 
historical record of the ‘‘ Conquest of Cape 
Breton,’ taken from the Loudon Magazine 
and Monthly Chronologer, dated 1745. 

The colors of the society are red and 
white, and its flag consists of the red cross 
of St. George on a white field, bearing in 
the center the society’s escutcheon, sur- 
mounted by a crown and surrounded by 
nine stars. 

Also of colonial times is the Society of 
Mayflower Descendants, which was organ- 
ized last December, and now has a mem- 
bership of some seventy five persons. Its 
badge is a ship under full sail, surrounded 
by a wreath of hawthorn, the ribbon being 
pink with white stripes. The button is a 
hawthorn blossom—the mayflower of Eng- 
land. Its board of officers has not yet been 
chosen, but Captain Richard H. Greene, 
to whom the society owes its origin, is the 
acting president. 

Very brief mention must be made of the 
Aztec Club of 1847, which holds the same 
relation to the war with Mexico as do the 
Cincinnati and Society of the War of 1812 
to earlier wars. Itisa military society, and 
its members include participants in the war 
with Mexico or their lineal representatives. 
Its mission is to ‘‘ keep alive the traditions 
that cluster about the names of those officers 
of the army, navy, and marine corps who 
took part in the Mexican War.’’ Its mem- 
bership is about 250, but among the names 
that have been on its rolls are those of 
Grant, Sherman, McClellan, Scott, Lee, and 
others chiefly associated with the history of 
the civil war. The Aztec Club holds 
annual meetings, has a large collection of 
historical material, and has published some 

Its officers have included Hancock, Joseph 
E. Johnston, and Fitz John Porter among 
its presidents. The incumbent for 1895 is 
General John P. Hatch, who served as 
second lieutenant of the Mounted Rifles 


during the Mexican War. The colors of 
the society are those of Mexico—red, green, 
and white, which are conspicuous in its 
insignia and also in the enameled button. 

None of the foregoing societies, except 
that of the Mayflower Descendants, admits 
women to membership. It was therefore 
but natural that the patriotic women of our 
country should rise to demonstrate that 
they too were capable of doing honor to the 
illustrious ancestors of whose noble deeds 
they were justly proud. Younger in organ- 
ization, but already greater in members, 
they have indeed performed a magnificent 
work, putting to envy their less energetic 

On May, 1890, several women who were 
“legitimately descended in their own per- 
sons from some ancestor of worthy life who 
came to reside in an American colony prior 
to 1786’’ met in New York, and organized 
the National Society of Colonial Dames of 
America. While this body is distinctly 
exclusive, and membership is only permitted 
by invitation, yet there were excellent rea- 
sons for such procedure. The society’s ob- 
ject was the study of the history of promi- 
nent persons connected with colonial 
times, and especially of their ancestors, as 
procurable from family archives. Meetings 
were held in the drawing rooms of the 
members, and only their personal friends 
were invited to join them. A valuable 
library has been accumulated, in which the 
béautiful book plate of the society, designed 
by Mrs. John King Van Rensselaer, its 
secretary, is conspicuous; and commemo- 
rative entertainments are held twice a year. 
The Colonial Dames are now collecting 
funds for the preservation of the old iman- 
sion of Fort Crailo, which was built in 1642. 
It is on the east bank of the Hudson, oppo- 
site Albany, and was General Abercrombie’s 
headquarters in 1756. It was here that 
Richard Schuckbury wrote his famous 

Yankee Doodle came to town 
Riding on a pony, 
Stuck a feather in his hat, 
And called it macaroni, 
when the Connecticut contingent, com- 
manded by Thomas Fitch, reported at head- 
quarters. These tall, lean Yankees rode 
small, sorry looking horses, the best their 
farms afforded, and were dressed in blue 
homespun, with a turkey tail feather in 
their caps, the parting gift of their wives, 
sisters, or sweethearts. 

The courtly Mrs. Archibald Gracie 
King is the society’s president, and the 
badge, rich and dignified in pure gold, with 
a stately colonial dame upon its face, is 

worn attached with a gray ribbon bordered 
with white. For convenience, there are 
societies of the Dames in Philadelphia and 
Baltimore, but candidates for membership 
must be elected in New York. 

The conservatism of the original Colonial 
Dames was not without its influence, anda 
rival organization, called the society of the 
Colonial Dames of America, came into ex- 
istence, formed by delegations from the 
Pennsylvania, Maryland, Delaware, and New 
Jersey State organizations that met in Wil- 
mington, Delaware, May 9, 1892. Member- 
ship in this body is more extended, and while 
the rule that ‘‘no person shall be a candi- 
date for admission unless invited’’ prevails, 
there are now nearly 1,500 dames on the 
rolls of the State societies which exist in the 
thirteen original States and the District of 
Columbia, and of the branch organiza- 
tions in some of the non colonial States. 
In the prosecution of patriotic work 
this society has shown its activity by organ- 
izing series of patriotic lectures, by offering 
prizes for essays on colonial history, and by 
presenting schools with portraits of national 
heroes. It president is Mrs. John Howard 
Townsend, and its colors are blue and buff. 

By far the most important of these patri- 
otic societies for women is the Daughters of 
the American Revolution, whose member- 
ship of over eight thousand women, claim- 
ing descent from the heroes of the war of 
the Revolution, extends into every State 
and Territory in the Union, excepting only 
Alaska, Arizona, Idaho, Nevada, North 
Dakota, and Utah. Local chapters may be 
formed wherever twelve or more members 
reside ; in Connecticut alone, for example, 
thirty four such chapters exist, each of 
which busies itself with some good and 
patriotic work. 

Of all that this society has accomplished, 
mention can be made only of two items. It 
has obtained possession of the old block 
house (Fort Pitt) in Pittsburg, and the 
chapters in that city are engaged in restor- 
ing it. In New York funds have been 
raised for the endowment of a chair in co- 
lonial and Revolutionary history in Bar- 
nard College, New York’s first women’s 
college of standing. Its participation in 
patriotic exercises and its many celebra- 
tions of Revolutionary anniversaries can 
only be hinted at, for they are so numerous 
that a mere catalogue of them would fill 

The Daughters of the American Revolu- 
tion were organized in Washington in Octo- 
ber, 1890, and each year, during the week 
in which Washington’s birthday falls, a 

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Continental Congress is held in that city. 
The first president general was Mrs. Benja- 
min Harrison. She was succeeded by Mrs. 
Adlai E. Stevenson, who this year gave way 
to Mrs. John W. Foster. The insignia of 
wheel and distaff, so suggestive of the early 
history of our country, are pendent from a 
blue and white ribbon corresponding to 
the similar colors of the Sons of the Amer- 
ican Revolution. 

The admission to the society of members 
who were of collateral descent proved an 
element of discord, and although this prac- 
tice has since been abandoned, it was not 
until the flourishing society of the Daugh- 
ters of the Revolution was organized. In 
this latter body only descent that is lineal 
will admit to membership. Since the soci- 
ety’s inception in 1891 its membership has 
grown to 1500, all direct descendants of 
Revolutionary ancestors. It has its head- 
quarters in New York, and Mrs, Edward 
Paulet Steers is the president of the general 
society and also of the New York society. 

The Daughters of the Revolution have 
been industrious in the celebration of patri- 
otic anniversaries, and they have collected 
much historical data. At present they have 

in hand the collection of funds for a memo- 
rial to be erected in Brooklyn to the ten 
thousand American prisoners who perished 
in Wallabout Bay, where the navy yard now 
is. Their colors are blue and buff, similar to 
those of the Sons of the Revolution. 

Space is wanting for a description of the 
United States Daughters of 1812, and of the 
Daughters of the Cincinnati, two societies 
of recent origin. The Children of the Amer- 
ican Revolution are an organization that 
came into existence in 1895, in which 
membership is restricted to those who are 
under eighteen years of age. The Naval 
Order of the United States, the Military 
Order of Foreign Wars, and the Colonial 
Order of the Acorn are likewise very recent 

That a grand wave of patriotism is spread- 
ing over our beloved country is clearly shown 
by the growth of the societies whose history 
been given in bare outline in the foregoing 
article. Itis well that the young should 
be taught to honor their ancestors, to be 
proud of the history of their land, and to 
reverence their nation’s flag. The accom- 
plishment of such objects is the mission of 
our American patriotic societies. 

Marcus Benjamin. 


THE year once more is verging to its close ; 
The monitory wind all day long grieves ; 
And from the hedge, like startled birds, the leaves 
Are scattered far on every gust that blows. 
The blithe birds are departed with the rose 
That bloomed but now along the cottage eaves— 
All save a few that ’mid the garnered sheaves 
In silence build against impending snows. 
Although beyond this gloom and dearth, you say, 
The spring shall come with song and flower and bee, 
And all these scenes forlorn again be glad, 
My soul keeps sighing this dark autumn day ; 
The summer, too, must follow, and, ah me! 
Ounce more the fall with empty fields and sad ! 

Henry Jerome Stockard. 



By Robert McDonald. 


MAN may be in the midst of adven- 
tures, may hold his life in his hand, 
may not know what tomorrow will 

bring him, yet there are things that can 
make him content, and can put him to 
sleep with a smile of gratified happiness on 
his face. Howlett had passed through such 
an experience in his interview with the 
Princess Wasia. 

It was of small moment to him that he 
had left a man for dead behind him. What 
was the life of one man more or less, when 
men died somewhere and somehow every 
minute, compared to the fact that he had 
held Wasia in his arms and knew that she 
loved him? It was not that he was heart- 
less, but the greater fact dwarfed the lesser 
in his mind. Stefanie’s warning appeared 
of little consequence, and he went peace- 
fully to sleep. 

It was noon when he awakened, to find 
his man standing over him, and Curt in the 
doorway behind. 

‘‘Get out! Get out!’’ the young Russian 
called. ‘‘I have ordered breakfast for you. 
Get through your bath, and I will talk to 
you. Ifyou are going off on that hunting 
trip with me, you should have your traps at 
the station in two hours. Better let your 
man begin to pack at once.’’ 

With an accurate aim, he threw a heavy 
package across the room to Howlett, who 
lazily broke the seal, and found a long and 
rambling letter from Mr. Folsom. Evident- 
ly the minister had for the moment given 
his secretary a holiday, and had taken his 
pen in hand to give good advice and 
admonishings to his young friend. The 
letter was supplemented by a cheery note 
from Mrs. Folsom, and very full and elabo- 
rate passports, allowing Lieutenant Howlett 
to travel wherever he would. It appeared 
that, upon thinking it over, the minister 
concluded that a holiday would do his hot 
headed young attaché a world of good, and 
that the dominions of the Czar were by no 
means the place for him. There was all 

Europe to choose from. He could be gay 
in Paris, solemn in London, or anything he 
liked anywhere else. Until his recall came 
he might play. 

The man had hardly closed the door when 
Curt came close and sat down on the edge 
of the bed. He was trying to look serious, 
but there was a beam in his eye, and a line 
about his mouth, which showed that his 
soul was full of joy. 

‘‘That was one of Johann’s men,’’ he 
said. ‘‘I haven’t been able to find out 
whether you finished him or not. I hunted 
up Serge—or, to be more explicit, Serge 
hunted up me—at an early hour. He sent 
word that he wanted me. I have just come 
from there. Marie sent a messenger to 
him immediately after we left, and then 
another when they found the blood on the 

“Did you—— ?”’ 

‘Did 1? I told him that I had heard of 
a nihilist plot, and had gone out to warn 
him ; that I had evidently been followed, 
for I had been attacked. Serge suggested 
that it might be advisable for me to take a 
little run over to Paris.’’ 

‘‘I suppose that in Russia the police 
know everything,’’ Howlett said, while he 
inspected and rejected a coat. 

Curt gave a crow of laughter. 

‘‘Know everything ! That’sgood! If they 
did, how do you suppose the nihilists and 
all their ridiculous machinery could exist? 
There is nothing on earth any stupider than 
most of these Russian detectives. All sorts 
of schemes go on under their noses, day 
and night. Johann could have us both 
killed if he had time to make a plot. I 
don’t want to give him time, nor do I want 
him to know that I am off toCarpathia. It 
is puzzling me that the stupidity of my 
own brain will not allow me to think of a 
way to outwit him.”’ 

Howlett looked gravely at him for a mo- 

‘* Passports all right ?”’ 

‘©Oh, yes!’ Curt slapped hischest. ‘I 
am always at liberty to travel.’’ 

*This story began in the August number of MUNSEY'S MAGAZINE. 

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Howlett discarded the clothes he had 
taken out, and arrayed himself in a full 
dress uniform. ‘‘I am going down to 
Cronstadt on official business, to consult 
the captain of the war ship Nebraska, lying 
there in harbor. Come along.”’ 

‘* All right,’’ Curt said carelessly. 

‘“‘T am afraid,’? Howlett went on, as the 
two young men tramped down the steps, 
‘that my traps will stay in Russia for some 
time. We can buy clothes anywhere.”’ 

‘‘ Are your naval officers accommodating 
enough to take you anywhere you like?”’ 

‘‘ Not by any means, but there is a yacht 
which belongs to aman I know lying in 
Cronstadt harbor. We will take that down 
to the German coast.”’ 

‘* And lose several days.”’ 

‘It is the only way I see.”’ 

‘‘And tame enough,’’ Curt grumbied, 
as they came within two steps of the street. 

At the door a woman with a basket on 
her arm, a fat woman, almost shapeless, 
with quantities of cheap jewelry on her 
person, knocked against them, letting her 
basket fall. Curt swore a little and passed 
on, but Howlett saw that the things which 
had fallen were embroideries. 

“What do you want?’ he asked in 
French, as his head and that of the woman 
came together over the fallen goods. 

‘*Johann’s favorite servant was killed last 
night,’’ she whispered. ‘‘He is wild. You 
are not safe from open attack in the streets. 
He knows that you have seen the princess. 
Make haste away. Make your country help 
you away. Your life is not safe for an 
instant, nor is Count Curt’s. There are 
assassins all about your house.”’ 

‘““My good woman,’’ Howlett said in 
Russian, ‘‘we do not care for your em- 
broideries. Pick them up and get along.”’ 

He took Curt by the arm and pulled him 
back up the stairs. Walking into his bed 
room, he pulled out another uniform. It 
was his best, kept for great occasions. 

‘* Get into that,’’ he said. 

‘* But——”’ Curt began. 

“Oh, nonsense! A woman who had 
stolen the crown jewels of Russia once saved 
herself from arrest by wrapping herself in 
the American flag. I don’t believe a hired 
assassin is going to dare to kill either of us 
in the open street in the uniform of an 
American officer. We can be in Cronstadt 
before the matter can be carried to the 
police. Our passports are all right. Come 
along ;’’ and merrily whistling ‘‘ Yankee 
Doodle,’’ the two young men ran down the 
steps and into the street, arm in arm and 
clothed in the United States livery. 

They looked neither to the right nor to 
the left, but walked jauntily forward, as 
if they were entirely ignorant of danger, or 
defied it. Consequently they did not see 
that the woman with the embroideries had 
been put into a closed troika, and was being 
driven rapidly away ; nor did they see that 
aman ran up the steps of their apartment 
and met the Swiss coming down. 

‘“ Where to?’ the German asked. 

‘To Cronstadt, where they will take a 
yacht and go to Carpathia. The prince 
will try to stir up a rebellion.”’ 

The Swiss spoke with a degree of calm- 
ness which belonged to his nationality. It 
was a simple commercial transaction. There 
was an exchange of bank notes, and then 
the German hesitated on the landing. 

‘I make you a free gift of all of the 
Anierican’s belongings,’? he said. ‘‘He 
will never come back for them.”’ 


THE little village on the west side of 
Carapeth, the old capital city of Carpathia, 
is as quaint as if it had been forgotten since 
the middle ages. Curious old doorways and 
rough flagged streets seem like some com- 
position which must have been made for an 
artist’s temporary use. They have the 
familiarity of theatrical scenery. 

The way south had been long, and now 
that they were here, staying at the little inn 
as two British tourists, poor young men of 
little consequence, they felt that a whole 
century separated them from St. Petersburg 
and its modern life. Spring had dawned 
upon the south, and the little blue flowers 
were coming up along the edges of the 
roads, and the yellow jonquils were all 
abloom in the old stone courtyard of the 

‘*So far,’? Curt said, as they sat in the 
dusk of the evening and smoked cigars, 
“we are merely on our travels. Iam going 
up to the city tomorrow to see the Russian 
representative. He is an old friend of my 

At the next table a stolid young German, 
his face dimpled with scars, evidently made 
by thrusts of swords, sat and smoked. He 
wore thick heather stockings and English 
shoes, and at a first glance might have been 
taken for an Englishman. While a second 
glance assured Howlett that he was German, 
the touch of England in his attire made the 
young men careful of their conversation. 
Presently Howlett, apropos of some question 
about the university, turned and spoke to 
their silent companion in German. To his 

os ae ica ~ Allie 



amazement the latter arose, lifted his beer 
mug, and put it down at their table. 

‘“‘Bob Howlett!’’ he said in excellent 
English. ‘‘ Where did you come from ?”’ 

‘*Klessner !’? Howlett put out his hand, 
which the German took. ‘This is my 

‘‘Count Petrovsky,’’ Klessner interposed, 
as Howlett hesitated. ‘‘ I have often seen 
him in Petersburg.’’ Klessner looked easily, 
smilingly, into Curt’s face. ‘‘When are 
you going to come over here and pack 
Johann about his business ?”’ 

‘“*T fear I should have an unpleasant time 
of itif I were totry. Carpathia elects her 
princes. Who knows me here?”’ 

‘‘Come over and try. I ama Carpathian, 
a professor over yonder in the university ;’’ 
and he pointed to the distant hill where 
the fine old towers of the university build- 
ings cut the sky line. ‘‘We keep up with 
the times, if the stones in our walls are old.”’ 

“And you went to school with Von 
K6nig,’’ Howlett said dryly. 

‘* And stood your second when you gave 
him that little memento he still carries. 
Von Kénig was a brute, and the boy was 
father to the man. He never moves here 
without a menace. This good marriage 
seems likely to settle him on the throne, 

‘‘Would there really be a chance for 
Russian intervention?” Curt asked, as if 
he were discussing some trivial question of 

Klessner was evidently keen enough to 
read the strain underneath. 

“Would you make the trial now, when 
this marriage is about to come off?’ he 

Howlett could contain himself no longer. 

** Klessner,’’ he said, putting his hand 
on his old friend’s shoulder and gripping it 
hard, ‘‘ that marriage shall never take place, 
if the whole country—all Europe—is blown 
up with dynamite. That bully, that devil, 
that low brute, already married, shall not 
ruin the life of the sweetest and noblest of 

‘HY’ m—ah !’ Klessner said, and he looked 
at Curt with interest. Evidently he sup- 
posed that Howlett had been enlisted on 
the side of Curt, who hoped to win Johann’s 
throne and Johann’s bride by» the same 

““You need not look at me,’’ Curt said. 
““There is the madman. The Princess 
Wasia of Hesse-Arnheim is too high and 
mighty a personage for me to aspire to. 
That audacity is left to an American. It 
looks like fair play for a woman of title to 


marry an American now and then; we have 
it the other way round so often.”’ 

Klessner’s eyes, behind their glasses, 
took on a look of deep if amused admira- 

‘‘Bob Howlett,’ he said slowly, ‘‘we 
used to say at school that there was no 
audacity too stupendous for you to under- 
take. Our imaginations were unable to 
grasp your possibilities.’ He stretched 
out his hand across the table, and Howlett 
could see the gleam of his white teeth under 
his mustache. ‘I helped you nearly kill 
Johann once. Take my hand on the com- 
pact to try and do it effectually this time.’’ 

‘Oh, we don’t want to kill him,’’ How- 
lett replied, while he grasped the offered 
hand. ‘‘Let him live and take care of his 
wife and child.”’ 

‘*The university is full of students, hot 
headed young fellows, ready for anything. 
What are your plans ?’’ 

“They are vague, but we must act as 
soon as possible.’’ 

Klessner arose to his feet and looked 
about him, peering into the dusk, which 
the little colored lanterns in the trees hardly 

‘* This is not a safe place to talk. I will 
go. Come up to the university tomorrow 
early, and ask for me. My rooms are very 
quiet. I will introduce you to some of the 
other men. Count Petrovsky will find that 
his name has been mentioned in those 
rooms before.’’ 

After Klessner had gone, Curt and How- 
lett stood fora moment silently congratulat- 
ing each other upon the luck of the en- 
counter, when the professor’s step was again 
heard on the gravel. 

‘Come up tothe university before you 
see the Russians,’’ he said, and turned 

“* Let us go along the road with Klessner,”’ 
Howlett said, ‘‘ and find the way.’’ 

But in another moment they saw kim 
speeding along the road on a bicycle. The 
effect was so incongruous that the two young 
men laughed and walked on. Their road 
seemed to be opening before them. Only 
a few days more, and it might be that their 
plot would be ripe fruit, ready to drop. 

They did not talk of their plans. The 
road was smooth, but it ran abruptly up a 
hill bordered by jagged rocks and over- 
hung by trees. The rising moon cast her 
rays on the branches, fuzzy with new foli- 
age, and the light filtered softly down upon 
the young men. Howlett’s heart went ten- 
derly back to Wasia, and he thought again 
of that night in the country house when he 

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had held her in his arms. How girlish and 
young she was! How completely his own! 
He walked on in a mist of tenderness, and 
when an arm clutched his shoulder, and he 
felt a revolver at his temple, it brought him 
back to solid things with a drop. 

But Howlett had not spent some exciting 
years in the Indian country for nothing. 
His shoulder was wrenched free and his 
own revolver was cracking in a space too 
short to reckon. He did not even see Curt 
in the embrace of the two who had fallen 
upon him, but he heard the mighty oath 
the young Russian gave as he shouted, 
‘* This is some of your friend’s work !”’ 

For an instant Howlett believed that it 
was, but he remembered the Klessner of the 
old days, and chided himself as harboring 
an unworthy suspicion, even while he was 
whirling the revolver and pouring bullets 
wildly into the crowd about him, whose 
ranks visibly lessened. 

‘** Kill him !’? he heard a voice say, and a 
bullet plowed its way along his shoulder, 
paralyzing his arm, just as another seemed 
to explode in his brain. But in the moment 
of losing consciousness he heard some one 
say, ‘‘Do not hurt him, fool! Dolt!’’ and 
then came unconsciousness. 


WHEN Howlett regained his senses, he 
was lying on a rude camp bed in a stone 
room. For several minutes his brain seemed 
sore and numb, and unable to go through 
the natural processes of reasoning. When 
it regained its power, he turned his face to 
the stones, and some of the grimness that 
he had inherited from Puritan ancestors 
must have come into his face. ‘‘ Defeated !”’ 
was the message the rocky walls gave him. 
Who was to help Wasia now? He and 
Curt were prisoners. Even the hope that 
Curt might have escaped was denied him, 
forgagainst the opposite wall he could see a 
bed similar to his own, on which his coin- 
rade lay. The young Russian appeared to 
be seriously hurt. His face was gray. 

Howlett started up in horror. It was 
within the bounds of Carpathian cruelty to 
put him here in this room with a dead man, 
and leave him to starve beside the body of 
his friend. They told more terrible tales 
than that. 

Sore as he was, Howlett sprang from the 
bed, and put his hands on Curt’s face. 
There was a dry, ugly streak down his 
cheek, from a cut in his head, which had 
been rudely boundup. But it was not dead 
flesh. It was living, and at the touch of 

Howlett’s fingers the black eyes opened 
and looked coolly and calmly into his. 

‘* Well,’’ Curt said, stretching his arms, 
‘* I can hardly say that I call that a comfort- 
able night’s rest, but I have slept in worse 
beds ;’? and he thumped the thin mattress. 
‘“You were unconscious. I killed one of 
them, thank heaven.’’ 

It seemed strange that the two should 
have been imprisoned together, where they 
could talk and plan for escape. Perhaps it 
was simply through the negligence of their 
captors; perhaps Johann’s prisons were 
overcrowded already. Possibly their enemy 
had more subtle terrors in store for them 
than solitary confinement. At any rate, 
Howlett did not stop for speculation on the 

‘“Why didn’t they kill us?’’ he asked 

‘** What is the reason a red Indian out in 
your country doesn’t kill an enemy at once ? 
Oh, we are reserved for better things. 
Johann will come home now, and they will 
have us up before a tribunal. We shall be 
asked to give the particulars of our plot. 
When we say we are simple travelers, they 
will pull our finger nails out by the roots, 
slit our ears, and, after pouring oil over us, 
set us on fire. Yes, my dear Lieutenant 
Howlett, the eagle may scream and the 
Stars and Stripes may wave, but you will 
make an illuminating torch for Johann. 
And ’’—the boy’s voice broke—‘‘a d——d 
fool you were to embark upon this wild 
goose chase to put me on the Carpathian 
throne, and a cad I was to let you.”’ 

‘“‘Tam not afraid. My position is some 

“In Carpathia? Not much! Don’t build 
any hopes there. We have done everything 
to cover up our trail. Actually nobody ex- 
cept Klessner knows that you are in this 
country ; and if he was not our betrayer, 
how is he to know where we are?”’ 

“‘Curt,’’ Howlett said, ‘‘ talk with some 
sense. We are going to get out of this 
mess. ‘This is too ridiculous. Such things 
cannot happen in the end of the nineteenth 
century. It is preposterous.’’ 

Curt laughed. ‘‘If there is anything 
more medieval than Carpathia, you will 
have to go back toa very ancient history 
after it. »*Behold this dungeon! These 
rocks are just as strong as they were four 
hundred years ago, and will hold the king’s 
enemies just as securely, even if he is 
elected by the people instead of born in 
Carpathia’s cradle. But the fact is, How- 
lett, it would be ridiculous for us to be 
offered up as a sacrifice to Johann’s gods, 

LAist MOSES — ag 

and whatever fate does is usually dignified. 
Her little ironies are more delicate than 
this. Something must happen. How’s 
your head ?”’ 

But Howlett was not paying any attention 
to him. He was listening to asound which 
came faintly to his ears through the iron 
door. A padlock rattled, and a little square 
in the door opened, to show a barred grat- 
ing with a man’s face behind it. 

“‘ Get back there,’’ the man said. ‘‘ Get 
in the corner, and I’ll give you food.’’ 

“We'll turn our backs,’’ Curt said good 
naturedly, and a big jug of water and two 
loaves of bread were pushed through. 

Curt burst out laughing. ‘If it were a 
drama it couldn’t be more complete! Say, 
my good man, you are wrong,”’ he called 
to the visitor. ‘‘They give decent food to 
prisoners nowadays.”’ 

The man was gone. Curt ran to the trap 
door and gave a bang against it. He looked 
back with a curious expression on his face, 
picked up the water and the loaves, and 
brought them to Howlett’s bed. He took 
his handkerchief from his pocket, moist- 
ened it, washed his face, and then in the 
calmest tone said, ‘‘ The door is not fast.’’ 

Howlett started up, but Curt held him. 

“Don’t touch it yet. Let them all get 
away. ‘The hinge has been pulled from the 
wall. It has rusted. It gave when I knocked 
on the little door. Let us eat our breakfast, 
such as it is, and see where we are.”’ 

But Howlett could not wait. A little 
window high above their heads had let the 
sunlight in. Howlett turned the bedstead 
on end, and, standing on it, looked out. 
He could see a dry moat, filled with weeds 
and rubbish, and showing evidences, in its 
gray grimness, of long disuse. 

Curt climbed up beside him. 

‘“We are well hidden up here,’’ said the 
Russian, ‘‘ somewhere in the hills. It can- 
not be far from where we were attacked, but 
doubtless our guard is a strong one.’’ 

Even as he spoke, a big fellow who wore 
a peasant’s dress, but carried himself like a 
soldier, walked across their line of vision. 
The iron grating of the window was solid ; 
and even if it had not been, the fall to the 
moat below would have been too great. 
Howlett sat down for a few minutes, and 

‘‘ What did you come here for ?”’ 

‘“To set myself upon the throne of Car- 
pathia,’’ Curt said solemnly. 

‘“It was to foment discontent, wasn’t it ? 
To stir up the people, to make them believe 
that Johann was a bad ruler, and that you 
would be a better ?”’ 



‘‘ That’s a plain exposition of the case.”’ 

‘““Why not begin with the jailers? The 
country is made up of men, These are two 
or three, or half a dozen, as it may be. 
Convince them.”’ 

‘*« The first one hardly stays long enough.’’ 

‘‘He will stay longer next time,’? How- 
lett said. 

The jailer did not return until the next 
morning, and a diet of bread and water, 
with the long night in which to examine 
the door, had sharpened up the wits of the 
young men. When the fumbling came at 
the lock, the man looked in and saw the 
two iron beds side by side at the other end 
of the cell. Apparently his two prisoners 
were lying upon them, fast asleep. He 
pulled the grating back and put his arm 
through. Quick as a flash Howlett, who 
was crouching in the angle beside it, pulled 
the arm through, and, bringing the man’s 
face into the opening with a jerk, he put 
his hand upon his throat before he could 
cry out. Then Curt sprang from his bed, 
and pushing aside the iron door, whose 
hinges had rusted until they were like 
matches, drew the man inside. 

‘* Call out,and I will kill you,”’ the Russian 
said cheerfully. 

The man looked at him stupidly. 

‘* Are you a Carpathian ?’”’ Curt asked. 

The man nodded. 

‘‘You are at pretty work, imprisoning 
the man who has come to save your coun- 
try.”’ Evidently the country’s salvation 
meant little to the jailer, compared to his 
own, judging by his expression. ‘‘ How 
many men are there in the place ?”’ 

‘* Six,’ in a whisper. 

‘*Germans—Johann’s countrymen — or 
Carpathians ?”” 

‘** Two Germans.’’ 

“I see nothing for it but to kill them,”’ 
Curt said in his mildest voice. 

The man suddenly fell upon his knees. 

‘* Sirs,’’? he said, ‘‘I had nothing to do 
with locking you up. Iam the caretaker 
of this castle. They make me bring you 
food because they do not wish to be seen. 
They have known too many changes in 
Carpathia to wish to be seen by one who 
may some time come into power.”’ 

‘‘Ah, indeed !’’ Curt said complacently. 
“A fine lot of loyal gentlemen! Prince 
Johann appears to have a noble retinue. 
Here, go!’’ He held the door open. ‘“‘ We 
will wait here. Do you tell those men to 
appear before me at once. Tell them that 
the whole country is in a state of revolt, 
that the government will be changed ina 
week, and that they are all known. If they 

e yee 
a EN 





make their allegiance now, some part of 
their assault shall be forgiven them. Send 
them here.’’ 

The jailer arose, in a dazed condition, and 
walked out. Three minutes later six men 
came into the room ; neither Howlett nor 
Curt had expected to see the two Germans, 
but they were there, and their presence threw 
new impressiveness into Curt’s voice as he 
made his dignified little address to the men. 
He confidently expected them to go to 
Johann’s friends and tell all he had said, 
but he hoped to be able to make his words 
good before any result could follow. 

One of the Germans, an old fellow, had 
been looking at Howlett, paying little at- 
tention to Curt’s fiery periods. His gaze 
compelled Howlett’s glance, and their eyes 
held together foran instant. Then the Ger- 
man stepped forward. 

‘*T remember your mother, sir,’’ he said, 
‘and if there is anything we can do, it 
shall be done. We are hired servants of 
the prince’s suite, and there is not a man 
among us who would not be glad to see him 
lose his throne. Putting him there was no 
affair of ours.”’ 

Howlett drew Curt to one side and spoke 
to him. The Russian’s eyes took on a 
peculiar gleam which made a part of their 
black balls appear white. 

‘« That isa capital idea !’’ he said. Then 
he turned to the men. 

‘“ One of you go to the university and 
ask Professor Klessner to come here. We 
will stay here in this place. See to it that 
no one suspects that we are not held as close 


A WEEK runs rapidly by when life is full 
of action; and to Curt it seemed that seven 
days had never been so short as those be- 
tween the night of the aftack on the moun- 
tain side, and the day when the news of 
Johann’s return was placarded everywhere 
in the city with the date of his coming 
marriage. For the young men had laughed 
in the face of fate, and now it appeared that 
she was about to play into their hands after 
her fickle fashion. Night after night they 
left their prison, and went to the university 
or down into the town, and night after 
night they came back and were locked be- 
hind hingeless doors. They even took in 
the daily dole of bread and water, and ate 
and drank of it, although they knew sup- 
pers where wine flowed merrily and toasts 
went round. They had heard the glasses 
ring down on the table to a ‘ Long live 


Prince Curt! Down with the black Bran- 
denburger !”’ 

The rebellion was ripe and in a day 
Johann could be set off histoy throne. ‘The 
Russian representatives and the handful of 
Johann’s friends were the only people left 
in Carapeth who were ignorant of it. The 
half oriental Carpathians love an intrigue, 
a secret, and they hugged the news to 
themselves. The merchants could do no 
business while stable laws were unknown; 
the army could hope for nothing but the 
defeat of their puny arms, into whatever 
field they embarked. The whole nation 
wanted the security which annexation to a 
great country like Russia would bring. 
Added to this, everybody hated Johann; 
everybody regarded him as an _ upstart 
forced upon them by a few schemers in the 

Klessner had advised that now was the 
time to take the Russian representatives 
into their confidence, to let the news of the 
turn in popular favor be sent to Petersburg, 
and to make Johann an exile before his re- 
turn; but Curt objected. 

‘It looks like a lack of hospitality to en- 
tertain a man and steal his throne while he 
is away from homie; and there are more rea- 
sons than one.’’ 

Howlett was lying down in their cell, but 
Curt and Klessner were sitting on the edge 
of the old moat, smoking. 

“And that would break up the marriage,”’ 
Curt added. 

‘But surely,’’ Klessner began, ‘‘ you do 
not want to marry the Princess to that 
brute ? I thought that was your object in 
coming here ; or was that only Howlett’s 
object ?”’ 

‘You know my mother was an Amer- 
ican,’’? the young Russian began. He was 
hugging his knees and looking off over the 
ragged tree tops where a few crows were 
whirling about before they settled down for 
the night. ‘‘ My mother was an American, 
and she made an irregular marriage, and 
was happy. Wasia is half English, and 
her head is full of all this ‘new woman’ 
movement. She will never be happy mar- 
ried to a man she hates. No woman could 
be who was like Wasia. There are no 
hereditary traditions alive in my blood to 
make me consider that she is committing a 

rime if she marries an honorable gentleman 
whom she cares for. Iam going to help 
her to marry Howlett.”’ 

‘¢ But how can bringing her here to marry 
Johann help her to marry Howlett ?”’ 

“Your Carpathian wits need shaking up, 
Professor Klessner,’? Count Curt said 


a ae 

politely, ‘if you do not realize that almost 

anything may happen in a time of revolu-’ 

tion. What will happen to Wasia I am 
sure I do not know; but I think the mar- 
riage in the cathedral next week will hardly 
take place.’’ 

An hour or two later the jailer came run- 
ning down the corridor, put his mouth to 
the grating, and whispered excitedly, 

‘‘ Sirs, prepare yourselves! His royal 
highness is about to appear.’’ 

Curt was lying on his bed, reading, by 
the light of a student lamp which he had 
purchased in a shop in Carapeth the day 
before, and Howlett was writing. The 
Russian put his feet a trifle higher on the 
iron framework at the foot of his bed, and 
Howlett did not move. The six men came 
in, bowing backward, as if to a stage king, 
and Johann, impressively wrapped ina long 
military cape, made his entrance. But it 
would have taken the dignity from an older 
monarch to receive such a greeting. 

‘* Stand up !’’ he said furiously. 

Howlett wrote on, Curt looked around 
his legs, twisting his head to do so. 

‘*Hello, Johann!’’ he said easily. ‘‘Speak- 
ing tome? Sorry I haven’t a chair to offer 
you, but our landlord neglected to provide 
ns with superfluous furniture. He evidently 
did not expect us to remain so long, or to 
receive such distinguished visitors. How 
did you leave the cousins in Petersburg ?”’ 

Johann opened his mouth to order them 
set on their feet before him, and then he 
gulped down his anger and spoke suavely. 

‘*T left them very well. I have the plea- 
sure of announcing my marriage, on Thurs- 
day of next week, to the Princess Wasia of 
Hesse-Arnheim. Icame in to invite you to 
the wedding—you and Mr. Howlett.’’ 
Johann turned towards Howlett with an 
ironical bow. 

‘“‘We shall be delighted to come if we can 
only get away from our many engagements 
in this part of the country,’’ Curt said. 

‘*{ will attend to that,’? Johann said. 
“You shall be amply provided for, and I 
will see that you attend and witness the 
whole celebration—the procession through 
the streets and the ceremony itself. You 
shall see the Princess Wasia securely seated 
on the throne of Carpathia.”’ 

“Thank you. We will try to be there,”’ 
Curt said. ‘*So kind of you to remember 
us simple travelers.”’ 

After Johann had gone Curt turned to 
Howlett with a smile, but he found the Amer- 
ican looking at him with a troubled face. 

‘* We'll take that day for a coup a’ état,” 
Curt said, but Howlett stopped him. 


‘* We must get away from here. Johann 
means to change our prison, to torture us by 
showing us the wedding from captivity.” 

‘* But the people will rise.”’ 

‘“Not without a leader. The problem 
now is to reckon how long we can safely 
stay here. When our absence is known, 
something will be suspected. If we are 
taken by Johann’s own suite, we may be 
kept prisoners until the marriage is over, 
or there will be no one to take care of 
Wasia, and she will be sent back to Hesse- 
Arnheim, and lost—to me. What was that ?’’ 

He stopped and listened. A sound of 
many feet echoed in the stone corridor, the 
key turned in the lock, and the little room 
seemed to be filled with strange German 
faces. One man carried coils of rope. 

Howlett sprang by them to the open door, 
but half a dozen hands grasped his arms. 
He plunged his fists into a man’s face, send- 
ing him reeling, but before he could recover 
his own equilibrium, his arms were tied with 
ropes, he was flung to the floor, and his legs 
were treated in the same fashion. 

The lamp had been overturned, and How- 
lett could not tell what had become of Curt; 
but when he was carried out and thrown 
into a carriage he felt the bound form of the 
Russian beside him. Handkerchiefs had 
been bound tightly over their mouths, so 
that the relaxation of speech was impossible. 

They drove for several miles over hilly 
roads, and finally settled into a steady trot 
on roughly paved streets. They could see 
nothing, for their eyes were covered; but as 
Howlett was finally lifted out, he felt rather 
than saw that there were lightsin his vicinity. 
He was carried through a narrow door which 
rubbed him on either side, and then into an 
echoing place full of drafts. It smelled 
like achurch. There was a heavy odor of 
incense everywhere, and that peculiar at- 
mosphere which inhabits old churches, like 
selfish prayers that had been too earthly to 
ascend to heaven. A narrow staircase, 
winding, turning, came next, and then 
Howlett felt a sudden sense of fear. 

‘* Don’t move, on your life ! ’’ one of the 
men said to him. ‘‘ Catch the rope,”’ he 
added, to a companion. 

Then, rigid as he was, helpless, Howlett 
felt himself passed, or almost tossed, across 
what he divined to be a bottomless depth. 
The men breathed hard, and drew sighs of 
relief when it was over. Then he felt him- 
self laid down on cold stones in a lighted 
room. One hand—his left—was untied, 
and the door clanged and all was silence. 

Howlett put out his hand as far as it 
would go, and tried to sit up. His fingers 

ea Ee Te ERR re 

PRC Nat ET aA A ads Dee. Lat 


= ae a 


encountered something which he felt was 
a knife, evidently placed there that he 
might free himself from his bonds. It was 
the work of an instant to free his right hand, 
and working with them both together, to 
take off his bandages and bonds, look about 
him, and free Curt. Then they arose, 
cramped and sore, and took in the situation. 

They were in a tiny room, built for some 
unknown purpose, in the cathedral wall. 
On one side a window showed the cathedral 
square below, and on the other an opening 
gave a full view of the altar, alight now 
with a few votive lamps. 

‘‘Johann has certainly kept his word,’’ 
Curt said coolly. ‘‘ We have all the advan- 
tages of a private box for the wedding 

A wax candle, very short and small, 
burned on the floor, and beside it were food 
and wine and a jar of water. The door was 
of iron. Howlett went over to it. To his 
surprise it was not locked, but opened in 
his hand. He took the light and looked 
out, or rather down. They were in one of 
the towers. The cathedral was built on a 
hillside, and they were in a tower on the 
lower side. The fall to the ground was 
at least three hundred feet, sheer to the 
stones below, while to the body of the 
church it seemed to be about two hundred. 
But from the body of the church they were 
effectually concealed by carved masonry, as 
they were from the square. There was a 
gloom here always. Lights below showed 
them the interior, but while Howlett or 
Curt could push out an arm, it was too 
small an object, at so great a height, to 
attract attention. 

Fifteen feet away they could see how 
a ladder had been pushed out, and rested 
on a ledge, making a way across. It had 
been steadied by ropes, and the whole 
machinery pulled back after they were im- 
prisoned. Johann had an ingenious mind. 
He had thought out the most cruel torture 
to which he could subject them. They 
would witness the great bridal procession, 
the wedding itself, and after that they might 
be left in that hole to starve. Future gene- 
rations might find their bones. 

Curt put his head as far out as possible, 
and, reckless of consequences, gave a yell 
which exhausted his lungs. The sound 
died peacefully away without making an 
echo in the church, dissipated in the depth 
below them, and lost in the groining and 
carving around their lofty prison. 

Day after day they sat and looked at each 
other, watching the beard grow on each 
other’s faces, watching the haggard lines 

deepen, watching hope die, until Wednes- 
day night came—the eve of Wasia’s mar- 
riage. They could see the whole city illu- 
minated in honor of the coming day. Lan- 
terns and flags swung from every point ; the 
square was filled with holiday makers from 
all Carpathia, and tourists from every country 
of Europe, who had come to see the gaiety 
of the king’s nuptials. 

“They are our people. ‘The revolution 
will break tomorrow,’’ Curt said. 

‘‘Do not mistake the crowd,’’ Howlett 
said gloomily, from his place in the opening 
overlooking the square. ‘‘ They will never 
rise without a leader. How will you ever 
reach them? And should they rebel, Wasia 
will be taken back to Petersburg, and that 
will be the end.”’ 

For once even Curt had no answer. He 
drew the cork from a bottle of red wine, and 
drank enough to clear his throat. Then he 
filliped the cork out into the square. 

‘* Howlett,’’ he said suddenly, ‘‘ we are a 
pair of fools, and Johann is another. Give 
me your pencil.’ 

“‘T have none.”’ 

‘Of course you haven’t. We should not 
be properly romantic unless we were reduced 
to the prisoner’s time honored writing fluid 
—his own blood. Paper ?’’ 

Howlett shook his head. Curt went to 
the opening, which looked down upon the 
altar. A woman was kneeling there with 
bowed head. 


THE morning of Johann’s wedding day 
seemed as if it had been made for the cele- 
bration of some greatevent. The roses were 
in bloom in all the hedges, and the sweet 
wind blew even into the streets of the town, 
and brightened up the faces of the holiday 
makers. Carpathia had never seemed more 
peaceful than on this brilliant spring day, 
when the prince was to ally himself with 
half a dozen of the royal families of Europe 
by means of the delicate graft from Hesse- 

The princess, her sister, and several cousins 
had come to witness the event. The old capi- 
tal city of Carpathia was filled with tourists 
who had flocked here out of curiosity to 
see as much as possible of the royal pag- 
eant. It wassaid that Johann was so proud 
of the beauty of his bride that he had had 
a glass coach made, in which she was to 
ride to the cathedral by his side. There 
had been a great deal of discussion upon 
that point, everybody except Johann insist- 
ing that the glass coach should only be 

used after the ceremony, when, as Prince 
and Princess of Carpathia, they might show 
themselves together to their loyal subjects. 

As for Wasia herself, she appeared to 
have no opinions upon the subject. She 
was pale and white, with dark circles under 
her eyes. People who looked at her said 
that she had had a struggle to give up the 
English church, in which she had been 
educated, for the Greek religion of Car- 
pathia. It appeared to enter the mind of 
nobody that she was not delighted at giving 
up her own life to marry a man she hated. 
But to the surprise of every one who knew 
her, the sight of her wedding gown made a 
new woman of Wasia. 

At first she would not look at it. For two 
days after it came, the Frenchwoman who 
had brought the embroideries and ermine 
cape from Paris, had vainly and passion- 
ately wept, and assured everybody that her 
reputation would be ruined unless she were 
allowed to fit the gown to Wasia’s own 
figure. The day before the wedding she 
had forced her way into the princess’ pres- 
ence, and had only whispered a word, when 
Wasia allowed her to bring the gown to 
her. Sending every one else away, she put 
it on. When she came out of the room it 
was with dancing eyes and a high color, 
and yet the news that she had heard was of 
doubtful purport. 

‘“‘ Madame,’’ the Frenchwoman had said 
to her, ‘‘do you know the whereabouts of 
Prince Curt and the American ?”’ 

Wasia gripped the woman’s shoulder as 
she bent over the folds of her velvet train. 

‘* Where are they ?”’ 

‘““That is the secret,’? the woman said. 
‘* Until a few days ago they were in a castle 
in the hills, ostensibly prisoners of Johann, 
but really going out every night, stirring 
up the people, making a plot to put Prince 
Curt on the throne. Heller, one of my old 
servants, had served the mother of the Am- 
erican years ago in Dresden. He was fora 
time one of the guard at the castle. Last 
week the guard was changed, and no one 
seems to know where they are.”’ 

‘They are here.’? There was hope and 
joy in Wasia’stone. ‘He is here! Every- 
thing will be right. I £uew I was right to 
come! I kuxew he would find a way tosave 
me! I knew it!’ She looked at herself in 
the glass, and two tears rolled out of her 
eyes and down her cheeks. 

‘*But nobody knows where they are. It 
may be that Johann——”’ 

‘* Johann !’’ Wasia said with scorn. ‘‘ That 
fool! What is he to a man like Lieutenant 
Howlett ?”’ 


The woman’s face flushed. 

“He isin his own country, and the power 
is his for the moment.”’ 

‘“Who are you? How do you know?” 

‘‘T am Stefanie Levasseur, of whom you 
may have heard,’’ the woman said. ‘‘I had 
the honor to precede your highness in the 
affections of the Prince of Carpathia.’’? Her 
voice was full of bitterness. A flush rose in 
Wasia’s cheek. 

‘‘T am sorry,’’ she said. She looked at 
the gorgeous wedding gown, and realized 
what a stinging humiliation its existence 
must be to the woman before her. ‘‘I am 
sorry,’’ she said again ; but for herself, her 
heart was full of joy. Howlett was there. 
There was no danger now. She persuaded 
herself that there never had been a moment 
when she doubted that he would come to 
her rescue. 

She let the gown be taken away. All 
through dinner she was gay. The gossips 
whispered to each other and laughed. 

‘‘Wasia has tried on the ermine cape,”’ 
they said. ‘‘ She is beginning to realize her 
new dignity, to understand the happiness in 
store for her.”’ 

After dinner, Wasia even allowed the 
prince to lead her to the piano, where she 
sat and sang love songs, sometimes looking 
triumphantly up into Johann’s face in a way 
that set his dull pulse beating. 

If he could only keep that look on Wasia’s 
face tomorrow, man could ask no more. If 
only his arch enemy might look down 
upon his wedding with that expression 
upon the face of his bride, then his triumph 
would be complete. In a spasm of gener- 
osity, he thought that he might even let 
the young men go. They would be harm- 
less after his marriage. Curt had rightly 
read his first intention to let them starve to 
death in the tower after the wedding was 

As Wasia sang, one of her sister’s attend- 
ants came to the piano and stood respectful, 
as if waiting. 

‘* What is it??? Wasia asked kindly. 

‘‘The grand duchess begs that you will 
attend her fora moment: She is ill.” 

Wasia ran hastily, and went into her 
sister’s room. She found her walking the 
floor excitedly. 

‘* Shut the door !’’ she gasped ; and then, 
with shaking fingers, she held out a heavy 
ring bearing the royal arms of Russia for 
Wasia to see. 

‘It is Curt’s ring. It was thrown at my 
feet from the cathedral wall. The nihilists 
have killed him and sent this as a warning.”’ 

‘“ You are insane on the nihilist subject. 



Why would they harm you? Where were 

“* At the very altar. 
those fiends.” 

‘It is probably some trick of Curt’s. He 
intends coming to the wedding although he 
was not invited. Give me the ring.” 
Wasia controlled her voice, although she 
was trembling. Where Curt was, there 
Howlett would be. She soothed her sister, 
went to her room, and sent for Mme. Berg 
and Lady Jane. 

‘“‘ITam going to the cathedral to—say a 
little prayer,’’ she said. ‘‘Can you arrange 
it that I may go unnoticed, and will you 
come with me ?’’ 

An hour later, when Howlett and Curt 
looked down into the church, watching, as 
they had been doing since the ring was 
thrown to Marie, they saw three heavily 
wrapped figures stealing up the aisle of the 
dim, silent place. Howlett gripped Curt’s 
arm, and the breath of both came in short 

As Wasia approached the altar, she put 
back her head covering, and stood under 
the great altar lamp, looking up. To How- 
lett, even at that distance, she seemed like 
a saint come down from her niche. 

‘*Curt,’? she called, ‘‘if you are here, 
answer me.”’ 

They could not hear her in their eyrie, 
but they knew that it was she, and that she 
asked a message from them. 

A white object came through the air and 
fell at her feet. It was Howlett’s empty 
match box with Curt’s handkerchief twisted 
about it. Onthe handkerchief’s heavy hem 
Curt had managed to write, with the ends 
of the burnt matches, ‘‘ We are prisoners in 
the southeast tower. A man could release 
us with a ladder at the head of the tower 
steps. Go for Professor Klessner at the 

Wasia read the message, and, giving a 
glance upward which was brilliant with 
smiles, ran toward the door of the tower, 
followed by Mme. Berg and Lady Jane. 
There was a heavy oak door here which 
evidently led to the staircase. It was fast- 
ened with an old padlock and chain. 

Lady Jane, cool as a capable English- 
woman who has hunted everything from 
foxes to boars, gave this a contemptuous 
glance and looked about her. Wasia had 

Nothing is sacred to 

slipped a votive lamp from its shrine, and 
held it up by its chains. There was nothing 
in sight, and Jane took a heavy gold hairpin 
from her head. 

“*T’ve picked many astiffer gate lock than 
this,’’ she said. 

After five minutes’ fumbling, the bar 
shot back and left the chain in their hands. 
Crowding together, they pushed their way 

up the narrow steps. There was a room at 
the top, and here lay the heavy ladder. 
The two young men had comie to the door 
and stood in it, watching. Wasiasaw them, 
and stood smiling in their faces. 

‘* You should not be here,’’ Howlett said. 
‘Go back! I beg of you, goback! Sup- 
pose you were seen !”’ 

“‘Oh, let them alone. 
ladder over,’’ Curt said. ‘‘ Easy now, Jane. 
Help her there, madame. Don’t try it for 
the door ; push it back to the ledge.”’ 

‘““Oh, you shall not come!’’ Wasia 
gasped. ‘‘ That place is too narrow !’’ 

But before she could say another word, 
Howlett’s feet were on the narrow way, he 
was over the shaking bridge, and was hold- 
ing her in his arms, while Jane and Mme. 
Berg steadied the ladder for Curt to cross. 

It was almost dawn when the carriage 
brought the excited girls back to the palace. 

‘‘T heard somebody say once, Wasia, that 
they didn’t know what you would do with 
a latch key in Carpathia. One turns out to 
be no end handy tonight,’’ Jane whispered, 
as they unlocked a little door and slipped 
in. ‘‘ This is a gay old world, where we 
all do unconventional things when it suits 
us, and pretend at other times that they are 

They can push the 


WHEN Johann awoke that morning, it 
was to lie for an instant watching the sun- 
shine, his heart full of content. He was out 
long before any of his suite, changing ar- 
rangements, giving orders here and there, 
and admonishing the photographer who 
was to take pictures of every movement of 
the procession. 

‘‘The coach shall stop for an instant at the 
entrance to the cathedral square, and you 
will take a photograph of us there,’’ Johann 
said to the man. He was smiling, thinking 
how Howlett and Curt would have time to 
have a good view of them before they 
entered the cathedral for the ceremony. 

A little balcony overhung the front of 
Johann’s castle, and looked down upon the 
town. He went there now and stood look- 
ing over Carapeth and at the crowds already 
beginning to move. He heard a movement 
behind him, and turned ; and as he did so, 
coward that he was, he put his hand up to 
shield his face. Vet Stefanie, who looked 
at him, had no weapon but her eyes. 

‘“‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, 

and started towards a bell across the room; 
but Stefanie put her hand on his arm. 

‘‘T have come to make a last appeal to 
you. Remember me, remember the child. 
You can only make that beautiful girl 

‘* You must be a fool !’’ he said roughly. 

“You will be killed! Heaven knows I 
am a fool to warn you, but the people do 
not intend to let this marriage take place. 
They hate you! They do not want you. 
The girl hates you, too.”’ 

She fairly flung the words at him, and 
his answer was to throw his heavy hand 
against her face and knock her to the floor. 
Heller came in answer to his bell. 

“ Take this woman, and send her over the 
frontier ; and discover who let her in.’’ 

But a drop of poison had been put into 
Johann’s cup. A cloud had come upon his 
day. Suppose the people should rise! He 
would certainly ride in the glass coach now, 
whatever anybody said. They would not 
kill him at Wasia’s side. The woman was 
angry ; she would say anything. But he 
would send a guard to that door in the 
cathedral tower. He had not put one there 
before because it might excite comment. 
The cathedral was under the charge of the 
metropolitan, and the metropolitan was a 
Russian; but until the ceremony was over, 
he would be sure. 

He was just stepping into his coach, for 
the hour of the wedding had arrived, when 
his messenger caine hastily back to say that 
the tower door was wide open, the ladder 
had been put across at the top of the steps, 
and the American and the Russian were at 

There was no time tostorm now. The 
marriage must not be delayed for an instant. 
Upon it depended Johann’s salvation ; but 
his face was livid. It brightened for an 
instant when he looked at Wasia. There 
was none of the pallor of the traditional bride 
on her cheeks. Her tread was almost 
jaunty, as she stepped down the steps over 
the crimson carpet that led to the glass 
coach, leaving relations and friends behind 
her, taking Johann’s hand. 

She was in such a state of exaltation that 
Johann hardly dared speak to her. He 
could not so much as touch her hand after 
they were seated inside the coach, for the 
whole world was there to see. Wasia, a gay 
smile upon her lips and in her eyes, bowed 
to the right and left, and the people shouted 
themselves hoarse. But even in Johann’s 
ears the huzzas were a bit ironical. It 
appeared to him that a great many people 



were laughing. He wished that he could 
call out to the driver to go faster. He 
knew that the priests and the great digni- 
taries of the church were waiting at the 
altar. The carriages of the Carpathian no- 
bility had gone ahead, and as the glass 
coach stopped in the square the coaches that 
held Wasia’s friends moved on. The out- 
riders and guards pushed out of the way, on 
account of Johann’s orders that the photo- 
graph might be taken. He knew now that 
Howlett was not in the tower, and he cursed 
his folly in having given such an order, but 
there was notime tochangeit. The people 
pressed closer, and then, Johann never knew 
how it happened, but the soldiers were 
gone, and surrounding the carriage was a 
howling mob of university students. 

Johann put his hand to his pistols, and 
snapped one in the face of a man who opened 
the coach door. Half a dozen yelling stu- 
dents took him by the feet and the shoulders, 
and dragged him to the ground. The 
driver was pushed from his box, and with 
a guard of students, Wasia and the glass 
coach were driven rapidly away. 

‘*Down with the black Brandenburger !”’ 
were the last cries she heard. There was a 
shot or two, but it was a bloodless revolu- 
tion, with army and people in one accord. 

At the edge of the city the glass coach was 
exchanged for a carriage containing Mme. 
Berg. When Johann’s state carriage turned 
and was driven back, it held the gem em- 
broidered skirt of the wedding gown, and the 
ermine cape. The careful Wasia had worn 
her traveling gown underneath. 

The whole of the story never got into the 
papers. In court circles they know where 
Wasia is, but it is popularly supposed that 
she went into retirement for a few years, 
sick with disappointment over losing the 
Carpathian throne. As a matter of fact she 
joined Howlett at the frontier and traveled 
with him and Mme. Berg to Paris, where 
she married him. 

That was last year. They aresaying now 
that Curt’s brief tenure of the Carpathian 
throne is about over, and that he will soon 
be another king in exile in Paris. Lady Jane 
is one of the great society women of London, 
waiting for the end of his royalty. 

And Johann? He sits in a box while 
Stefanie dances. They say he is growing 

Lieutenant Howlett and his wife are 
stationed in the West. If Wasia has re- 
gretted exchanging a throne for an Ameri- 
can army post, it isa discovery her husband 
has not made. 


Woukber Sowa 

WITH the opening of the year at the princi- 
pal universities and colleges throughout the 
country, sport, which has been more or less a 
mere pastime during the summer, takes ona 
new life. The return of the student to his 
books brings the football man into his canvas 
suit, and places him in the arena from now un- 
til the first of December, as the hero of the 

* * ” * 

IN speaking of the game of football as 
played today, it has been said, and said well, 
that ‘‘history repeats itself in football as in 
other human events. Once more the demand 
is for more open play, less concentration upon 
the center, more kicking and passing, less of the 
scrimmage and wedge work—in a word, more 
strategy and less brute force.’”’ Back in 1876, 
when the first Rugby game was played in Am- 
erica, passing and kicking and free individual 
running abounded ; while but two years ago 
tangled masses of shock headed players dis- 
figured the field from ‘‘play’’ to the call of 
“time.’’ Only at long intervals, when such a 
play became forced, did a kick afford a bright 
spot in the game. 

Last year it was confidently expected, early 
in the season, that the kicking game would pre- 
dominate, and rule the play of all the teams. 
This anticipation was never fully realized ; yet 
the tendencies of a return to the old methods 
became more and more marked as the season 
progressed, and finally, at its close, warranted 
the prediction that this year the hopes of last 
season would be realized. 

In the illustration of the Yale wedge, on 
page 98, it will be observed that the players are 
not massed as closely as they might be—a fact 
which clearly illustrates the remarks made in 
the foregoing paragraph. Four years ago a 
wedge would have been shown to consist of 
eleven men in the form of a triangle—solid and 
compact. Note in the picture the position of 
George Adee, quarter back. He can be seen 
easily, peeping over Stillman’s back, the latter 
being the one with right hand upon the ball. 
In the old wedge the individuality of the play- 
ers would have been entirely lost. In accord 
with the ‘‘complete return,” this ’94 wedge 
will have broadened out still more, rendering 
the play still more open. 

* * * * 

THIS return to old methods is an absorbing 
topic among football men now that the season 
is opening. Until the games actually begin, 
however, the unpleasant discussions of last 
year—the charges of brutality, Harvard’s stand 
in the matter, and Yale’s action—will be taken 
up and rehearsed. 

So far as brutality goes it really seems a pity 
that the football Solons should not have seen 
fit, the past winter, to undertake the modifica- 
tion of the playing code, with a view, in one 

important respect at least, more clearly to de- 
fine the duties of the officials, and in particular 
those of the umpire, who is the judge of the 

players as to their fair or foul actions. But 
no one in authority has had the necessary 
push to undertake this work, and the existing 
rules, acknowledged by all to be faulty and in- 
complete, will govern the play of another year. 
Hinkey’s alleged kneeing of Wrightington in 
the Yale-Harvard game at Springfield, on the 
19th of last November, will receive renewed 
attention. It is too bad that such things can- 
not be dropped. There was kneeing in plenty 
during that particular game, as in other contests 
of the season, and, indeed, as there will be this 
year, unless the officials for 1895 are an alto- 
gether different lot of men. 

So much for brutality. The question of Yale’s 
action in demanding an apology from Harvard 
for her charges requires attention and will 
have its due. 

It is one of the most regrettable features of 
the football game today that so much ill feeling 
has been engendered between the colleges and 
between individuals connected with them. 
The great games between the university teams 
are deadly battles, and are often fought in the 
spirit of bitterest malice insteadof being played, 
as they should be, ina manner befitting gentle- 
men and sportsmen. So extreme had the 
feeling between Harvard and Yale become at 
the close of last season, that their future meet- 
ings on the football. field were threatened, and 
no dates were left open for games between the 
two teams this season. Recently, however, it 
has been stated authoritatively that the Yale 
mediators would succeed in their efforts at re- 
union, and that the teams would meet as usual. 

* * K * 

WHILE Yale and Harvard have always been 
considered the leaders in American college 
athletics, Princeton, and more recently the 
University of Pennsylvania, have won first rate 
prominence in football. The Yale-Princeton 
games, usually played in New York on Thanks- 
giving Day, have been beyond all comparison 
the most important events of each successive 
season. But this has not been the ideal type 
of a ‘college game.’’ The element of pro- 
fessionalism has been so marked—in its en- 
vironment, if not in its personnel—that many 
lovers of the sport attribute to it the spirit of 
professional contention that now marks nearly 
all the meetings of college athletes. But of this 
there is food for other articles. 

Football in the West has followed naturally 
in the development of the Western universi- 
ties. The teams of Stanford and Berkeley 
develop as much interest among the people 
of the Pacific Coast as the elevens of Harvard 
and Yale attract along the Atlantic, while 
through the central States and in the South the 
State university teams carry the game to the 

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people. So that football, for the fall months 

at least, is the reigning amateur sport every- 

where in the United States. 
% * % * 

Ir is not the purpose of this department to 
treat sports technically. The question of 
where it is best to play the captain of a football 
team may sound that way, though it is not. 
Yale’s captains have played in every posi- 
tion in the college eleven. ‘‘Pa’’ Corbin, the 

of sharp, snappy plays and short, fierce rushes 
right through Harvard’s center, they had almost 
teached the goal when the call of time pre- 
vented a touchdown and a tie game. 

In 1891 McClung, who was chosen captain of 
both baseball and football teams, played at 
half back. He hada peculiar way of running— 
an uneven stride that gave him the appearance 
of moving slowly with one foot and fast with 
the other; and this, with his clever dodging, 

The Famous Yale Wedge—Yale Begins the Game. 

From a photograph by Hemment, New York. 

1888 captain, was center rush. His first day on 
the field he made a most awkward exhibition 
of himself. Even the big Heffelfinger was 
scarcely more clumsy ; yet Corbin earned the 
name of being Yale’s best center, while ‘‘ Heff’’ 
came to be unquestionably the greatest guard 
that ever played the game. 

Billy Rhodes, who was captain in 1890, and 
who played at tackle, lost the Springfield game 
through his center’s lack of experience. Har- 
vard saw the advantage such a weakness gave 
her, and by hammering away at the center and 
putting in a fresh man against Rhodes himself, 
finally weakened the Yale line. Nevertheless 
Rhodes’ team, during the last ten minutes of 
play, gave the most magnificent exhibition of 
‘‘brace’”’ ever seen on any gridiron. By aseries 

made it well nigh impossible to tackle him. 
No half back ever followed his interference 

McCormick, his successor, directed the play 
from quarter back, and brought the Yale team 
successfully through three fiercely contested 
games played in the last ten days of the season. 

All football men were surprised to see Hin- 
key, the silent, slightly built freshman, de- 
velop into the wiry and energetic captain of 
the 1893 and 1894 teams. Hinkey seemed to 
follow the ball by instinct, and when he tackled 
an opponent who was trying to circle his end, 
there was never any question of its being a 
““down.”? That he played fiercely everybody 
knows; it was the passion of the man; but 
that he would intentionally harm an opponent 

ia a: 


in friendly contest no one who knows 
him can believe. 

Thorne, Yale’s captain for 1895, was 
full back on his freshman team, but 
on reaching the ’varsity has been 
playing half back. He is a heady, 
aggressive player, strong and speedy. 
Much of Butterworth’s success in 
‘‘ bucking the line”’ is due to the man- 
ner in which Thorne opened up the 
way for him. The present captain’s 
team is sure to be a credit to the uni- 

THE general enthusiasm manifest 
in tennis a few years ago is on the 
wane. Championship games are still 
being played about the country, but, 
except as they interest the locality in 
which they occur, few pay much at- 
tention to them. It is characteristic 
of sport in America that its life is 
dependent upon its variety. One 
year it is tennis, the next baseball, 
the next golf. None of these games 
dies out altogether, but they cease to 
be popular, or become too common 
to be suggestive of material for the 
newspapers, and so publicly are 
dropped. People who enjoy tennis 
play the game whether it is the pre- 
vailing fad or not ; and people who 
do not enjoy it, and who never 
played it, have their day at golf or 

Still there has been some marvel- 
ously good tennis this summer. Per- 
haps the work of W. A. Larned, 
though sometimes surpassed, has 
been as brilliant as any. He has 
won any number of cups, including 
the Canadian championship at Ni- 
agara in July, the Longwood bowl, 
taken from F. H. Hovey, the Long 
Island championship, for the fourth 
time, won from John Howland at 
Southampton, and the Norwood tour- 
nament cup, over Wrenn. Hobart 
and Hovey, last year’s champions in 
doubles, have not played up to their 
usual form. In the contest at West Newton, 
early in the summer, they met and won games 
from the famous Irish players Pim and Ma- 
honey, but their off days have been notice- 
able, and they lost the national championship 
in doubles at Newport to R. D. Wrenn and Mal- 
colm Chace. Other players of note in the sea- 
son’s contests have been John Howland, W. 
Gordon Parker, Arthur E. Foote, Richard Ste- 
vens, and the Neil brothers of the University 
of Chicago. 

THE Grand American Handicap, which is the 
recognized event of the year among lovers of 
the gun whose talents run to shooting pigeons 
from traps, is coming to be more and more 
popular each season. Not alone is the meeting 
attracting crack shots from all parts of the 


Captain Thorne of the Yale Eleven. 

From a photograph by Pach, New York, 

country, but the number of interested specta- 
tors present at the shoot increases steadily, 
showing a general interest in the sport. 

This year the handicap was held at Willard 
Park, New Jersey, early in April. There were 
sixty fourentries,and the contest was sharp. The 
winners were J. G. Messner of Pittsburg, J. A. R. 
Elliott of Kansas City, and Frank Class of Mor- 
ristown, New Jersey. Each killed his twenty 
five birds and tied. Messner shot from 25 yards, 
Class from 32, and Elliott from 33. In the 
shoot off, ten birds are required, each shooter 
standing at his original handicap distance. 
Messner won first place by killing all his birds, 
while Elliott scored 9 and Class 7. 

THE conditions of the Grand American Han- 
dicap prescribe an entrance fee of twenty five: 



George Work, at Fire. 

THE coming Corbett-Fitzsimmons fight in Texas will offer 
two fields of speculation to those who interest themselves in 
such sport. Will it come off at all? And, if it does, who 
will be the champion ? 

Prize fighting in this country is no longer simply a ques- 
tion of strength and training ; it is a matter of evading the law 
and locating a governor that can be bulldozed. Governor Cul- 
berson of Texas appears to the pugilistic element to be such 
a statesman, and sporting eyes are turned in his direction. In 
its many years of existence, the 
to any high moral plane. The champions of recent days have 
proved themselves to be men of the same stripe as their prede- 
cessors, and decent people are pretty well disgusted with their 
performances. It was not much different in 1719, in the days of 
Tom Figg, England’searliest champion, orin those of Tom Hyer, 
the first champion of America. After Hyer, Yankee Sullivan 
held the American championship honors until 1853. Then 
Morrissey was a street fighter, but he 
had higher ambitions, and attained wide reputation as a Con- 
Still, he did nothing to elevate the 
sport. The men who succeeded him seemed more than ever 
to represent nothing but the brute element. Some of them 
served their terms in prison, some of them were killed in fights, 
some drank themselves to death. 

During his period of supremacy, John I,. Sullivan enjoyed 
a marvelous prestige among a numerous class. For years he 
was petted, applauded, idolized, and it is probably true to say 
that he became one of the best known men in the world ; but 
his tactics and principles were little better than those of the 
pugilists who had gone before him. 

Ruin is in the life led by achampion prize fighter. It is fast, 
furious, and brutal in every detail, and it leads to no good end. 

came John Morrissey. 

gressman from New York. 


dollars. Twenty five birds are allowed, and the three highest guns 
divide the money, fifty, thirty, and twenty per cent respectively. 
The handicaps are from 25 to 33 
yards; the gun is limited to 8 
pounds in weight, and must not 
be larger than 12 gauge. Modi- 
fied Hurlingham rules govern 
the shooting, and killing is done within a 50 yard 
boundary and a 33 yard dead line. 

The contest is most interesting. A line of traps occupies the 
field before the spectators. The shooter takes his place on a 
plank walk extending into the field, and marked off into handi- 
cap distances by cleats. Walking to his handicap mark he awaits 
the signal ‘“‘Are you ready ?”’ from the judges. His reply of assent, 
‘* Ready, pull,”’ is followed by the opening of a trap and the rising 
ofa bird. He does not know which trap is to be opened, and the 
bird rises before him unmarked. Now it flies directly towards 
him, circles and dives, or speeds away across the field to cover. 
It must be a quick eye and a steady hand that mark its rise and 
follow its course over the sights, and the trigger must be pulled 
at just the right second, or the bird is off out of bounds. Birds 
must fall within the 33 yard dead line, or their death does not 
score for the marksman. 

At the climax of the last handicap, ten men had killed 24 birds 
each when they came to the score for the final round. The interest 
was intense. Messner, the champion, was first to shoot. He 
walked to his 25 yard line with marked coolness, answered his 
‘“‘ready’’ but hesitated to say “‘pull,’’ and the bird rose uncalled 
for. Without lowering his gun, Messner turned his head and said 
calmly, ‘I didn’t say pull.’’ He got another bird, and killed it 
easily. Elliott and Class followed, each killing his bird. 

The illustrations of George Work and J. A. R. Elliott are from 
instantaneous photographs, and give a correct idea of the manner 
of these well known shots in 
holding and firing. 

prize ring ’’ has not advanced 

J. ALR. Elliott at ‘Ready, Pull.” 

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The sport had some hopes of elevation in Cor- 
bett, but he, too, seems to be fast going the 
way of his predecessors. 

AMONG the men whose money and time have 
been spent freely in the interest of American 
yachts and yachting, George Gould has in the 
last two years won a high place. The illustra- 
tion on this page shows him sailing his famous 
centerboard sloop Vigilant, and is engraved 
from a ‘‘snap shot’’ photograph taken aboard 
the boat during one of her races in English 

seventh presented to golf players by Mr. 
Havemeyer this season. 

OF the sportsmen who have come across seas 
to meet Americans in the field or on the water, 
Lord Dunraven easily ranks first. At the 
present time his name is as familiar as that of 
his beautiful boat, and his sportsmanlike bear- 
ing has made many American admirers for him. 

Lord Dunraven’s personal name is Sir Thomas 
Wyndham-Quin. The Quins were one of the 
oldest of Ireland’s noble families. They came 

Aboard Vigilant, Cowes, August 4, 1894. An Exciting Moment: Passing the Britannia on Second Tack. Pilot 
Draper at the Wheel, with George Gould and Sailmaker Wilson. 

waters. Sailmaker Wilson and Pilot Tom 
Draper are well known characters in the yacht- 
ing world, and their names were often men- 
tioned in the news of the Vigilant that came 
from abroad last season. 

THE amateur golf championship, which is 
to be played for at Newport the first week in 
October, will give another impetus to the sport 
in thiscountry. The trophy of the champion- 
ship is an elaborate silver cup, the gift of T. A. 
Havemeyer, president of the United States 
Golf Association. Until the next tournament 
it will be held by the club of which the winner 
isamember. The present amateur champion 
is IL. B. Stoddard, who belongs to the St. 
Andrew’s Golf Club, of Yonkers. To retain 
the honor he will have to defeat players from 
fully a hundred clubs in this country, and pro- 
bably some from abroad. The cup will be the 

from the Celts, and trace their descent from 
kings. More directly Lord Dunraven is de- 
scended from Donogh Quin of Kilinallock in 
County Cork. The family was prominent 
among the landed gentry, and after the union 
of Ireland with Great Britain its head was en- 
nobled under the title of Baron Adare, later be- 
coming Earl of Dunraven. 

The present Lord Dunraven was brought up 
in southern Ireland, where he gained his love 
for an outdoor life. He was educated at Ox-' 
ford, and in 1865 entered the 1st Life Guards. 
He served two years, and then went to Abys- 
sinia as correspondent of the London Dazly 
Telegraph. In the same capacity he went 
through the Franco German war. He succeeded 
to his title and estates in 1871. A little later he 
was made under secretary for the coionies in 
Lord Salisbury’s first administration. 

The motto of Dunraven, ‘“‘ Que sursum volo 



itscamaemtsnesssne NIN aici 


Lord Dunraven. 

From a photograph by Davis & Sanford, New York. 

videre ”’ (‘‘I wish to see what is above me ’’), 
is characteristic of the man. His predilec- 
tions have always been for everything aquatic, 
and in Valkyrie III he realizes one of his 
cherished dreams. 

THE American firm of yacht builders known 
as “the Herreshoffs’’ is famous the world 
over. Boats of their designing and build sail 
every sea; the medals and honors they have 
secured for their patrons are the richest and 
best, and they have done notable service in 
our long defense of the America’s cup. The 
two brothers, John B. and Nathaniel, have 
made an art of yacht building. Though the 
elder Herreshoff has been totally blind for 
more than forty years, he is nevertheless a very 
active part of the firm. His marvelously de- 
veloped sense of touch enables him to give 

valuable suggestions on the lines of a hull. 
Following his directions, a tiny model of the 
boat to be built is made and then turned over 
to him. He retires to his rocking chair in the 
seclusion of his room, and endeavors to obtain 
a complete picture of the craft by rubbing his 
hands lightly over the model. He often spends 
days in this silent occupation, alone with his 
thoughts. When he finally passes on a boat, his 
mind is fully made up as to the alterations and 
improvements necessary. Thus have been con- 
ceived, in the dark, as it were, some of the best 
yacht models of the day. 

But on Nat Herreshoff falls the burden of 
designing and carrying out the plans for the 
boats of the house. He is head as well as eyes 
and hands; and the fame of the Herreshoff 
business is due chiefly to his good judgment 
and vast experience. 


Eh 2 


[ . Wea! BE, 

WHEN she proposed my heart beat fast ; 
My blushes came ; with eyes downcast 
I listened while she told her love, 
While earth below and heaven above 
Had seemed to meet at last, at last ! 

She begged me not her hope to blast, 
And showed the wealth she had amassed 
Was for us twain more than enough, 
When she proposed. 

1 could not turn from love so vast 
When I was as an angel classed, 
And caught and kissed and called ‘‘ her dove’’; 
So, while I thrilled with joy thereof, 
A trembling ‘‘ yes’’ from my lips passed, 
When she proposed. 
Vincent F. Howard. 

Se il 



LILLIAN RUSSELL’s début was made under 
conditions exactly the reverse of those that 
usually fall to the lot of the tyro. Tony 
Pastor had heard her sing one night at a 
friend’s house, and induced her to consent to 
an appearance at his theater. Ordinarily, per- 
sons with such an ordeal before them are be- 
set with nervous qualms that make them 
miserable up to the moment of appearing on 
the stage. But Miss Russell, in telling of the 
occasion, declares that she was quite calm and 
collected until she heard the first note of the 
orchestra presaging her entrance. 

Lillian Russell. 

From a photograph—Copyright, 1895, by John II. Ryder, Cleveland, Ohio. 

“From that moment,’ she says, ‘“ until I 
had finished my third song, I was practically 
ina trance. I was told afterward that I did 
splendidly, but to this day I cannot tell what 
occurred from the time I went on the stage 
until I reached my dressing room and donned 
my street clothes.”’ 

Previous to this she had striven to obtain an 
opening with some manager of opera, but 
McCaull, D’Oyley Carte, and others said 
frankly that she was not up to their standard. 
Tony Pastor advertised her as “the English 
ballad singer,’’ and she passed for a “‘ find”’ at 




the London music halls. Her salary was fifty 
dollars a week. 

One night Arthur Sullivan and D’Oyley 
Carte came to the theater. Going behind the 
scenes after the performance, Carte engaged 
the supposed English girl at a salary of $150, 
never dreaming it was the timid, nervous ama- 
teur who had shaken in her shoes while she 
was singing for him in the hope of meeting his 

brated players it is usually different. Give 
them but the opportunity, and they leap, 
almost at a bound, to the pinnacle, if they are 
to leap at all. 

Ada Rehan is one of the exceptions. She 
had been playing for several seasons with her 
sister, Mrs. Oliver Doud Byron, without setting 
the world on fire, and was also leading woman 
for Mrs. John Drew. Then Mrs. Byron took 
her to Mr. Daly, and persuaded him to give the 


Ada Rehan. 

From her latest photograph by Sarony, New York. 

During the past summer Miss Russell has 
succumbed to the fad for bicycling, and. has 
found it so fascinating that her devotion to it 
is said to have been the reason for the post- 
ponement of her August engagement at Ab- 
bey’s to February. 

Most workers in the various fields of art have 
to toil through a long period of obscurity before 
fame comes to reward theirefforts. With cele- 

ambitious girl a trial. He consented, and she 
appeared in an adaptation of Zola’s ‘‘L’ Assomi- 
moir.’”? She did not make an immediate hit, 
and it was as much Mr. Daly’s genius for dis- 
covering latent ability as it was Miss Rehan’s 
own capacity for improvement that gave the 
American stage the most noted leading woman 
of the epoch. 

The American season at Daly’s London 
theater opened on June 25, with ‘‘ The Railroad 



of Love,’’ and lasted for two 
months, when Miss Rehan went 
to her bungalow on the Irish 
coast. The company begins its 
American tour in Chicago, on 
September 23, and, learning a 
lesson from experience, Mr. Daly 
will not divide his forces. 
* Ba H te 

SINCE Gilbert and Sullivan 
terminated their mutual rela- 
tions, each is constantly finding 
a new collaborator—than which 
no higher compliment could be 
paid to the partnership that once 
existed betweenthem. Pinerois 
the latest mate for Sullivan. He 
is at work on what he calls a 

‘“melodious satire’? on the de- 
cadent movement in art and 
literature. The new work is to 
be brought out this fall at the 
London Savoy, when the Aubrey 
Beardsley ‘‘dreadfuls” will 
doubtless make their first ap- 
pearance on any stage. Mean- 
time we are to have here, at the 
Broadway, Gilbert’s ‘“‘ His Ex- 
cellency,’? with music by F. 
Osmond Carr, while Francis 
Wilson gives us, at Abbey’s, 
Sullivan’s ‘‘Chieftain,’”’ the ah 
book of which is by F. C. 

“His Excellency’ is preceded 
at the Broadway by “‘ Princess 
Bonnie,’’ whose long run last 
year was the marked feature of 
the season in Philadelphia. In 
August, 1894, we printed the 
answer of the representative of the com- 
pany to the question whether he would bring 
the opera to New York. Here itis: 

“Not for a mint. We are not hazarding a 
Philadelphia success in the metropolis.”’ 

Now that ‘‘ Princess Bonnie ’’ has determined 
to have a New York verdict, the reader already 
knows whether this business manager’s reason- 
ing was based on good ground. 

An interesting incident in connection with 
the production of ‘‘ His Excellency’”’ will be 
the American début of Nancy McIntosh, sister 
to Burr McIntosh, the original 7af/y. She has 
been singing for some time at the Savoy with 
great success. 

A CERTAIN St. Louis photographer made 
rather a specialty of theatrical folk. His little 
daughter, a tot of three or four, was in and out 
of the shop, and her precocious ways early 
took the fancy of managers who happened to 
need a child in their performances. For in 
those days only the principals accompanied a 
play on tour, all the accessories, from the 
policeman on his beat to the infant in arms, 
being recruited en route. Mr. Fox was asked 
to let his daughter help a company out, and 
thus little Della obtained her start. 


a) Lita 
Jefferson De Angelis. 

She took to the business at once, and when 
she was seven appeared as the midshipmite in 
“Pinafore.’’ Whether this was her first ap- 
pearance in boy’s attire, deponent saith not. 
We all know, however, that it was not her last. 
In her new opera at Palmer’s, ‘‘ Fleur de Lis,”’ 
she discards gowns for one of the three acts, 
but as Miss Fox is no longer the sylph she was 
in ‘“‘Wang,’’ she may soon cease to be able 
to fill male réles, except possibly a well known 
one in ‘“‘ The Merry Wives of Windsor.”’ 

THE leading comedian this year, as well as 
last, in the Fox company is Jefferson De 
Angelis, who has been actively engaged in the 
business of making people laugh since he was 
five years old. Although one of his names sug- 
gests the South, and the other France, San 
Francisco was his birthplace. 

Like most sons of the West, he has been a 
great traveler. Asaboy he had manya stirring 
adventure while journeying by wagon with a 
company of players from St. Louis to the Pa- 
cific coast. In 1880, he organized an opera 
company for a tour of the world, visiting 
Hawaii, New Zealand, Australia, India, Africa, 
and Europe. His career as a member of thie 
McCaull company is well remembered, and the 




Della Fox. 


From a@ photograph—Copyright, 1895, by W. M. Morrison, Chicago. 

summer before last he made the hit of ‘“‘ The 
Passing Show.”’ 

While Mr. De Angelis has a humorous line 
all his own, in one respect he is like all his 
brother comedians—he has a constantly grow- 
ing desire to see his name lead in size all others 
on the billboard. But just when he will turn 
from a satellite into a star is not yet determined. 

COMMENT has frequently been made on the 
monotony that must fall to the lot of the actor 
who plays the same part night after night for 
months. But what of that “artist in vaude- 
ville,’’ as he would doubtless call himself, who 
has learned one “‘ turn ”’ and executes it year 
in and year out, at the continuous shows in 
winter and on roof gardens in summer, till age 
incapacitates him from further work? It is 
said, however, that these people infinitely pre- 
fer going through the ‘‘same old grind ”’ to the 


labor of learning something new. They have 
become mere automata. 

A somewhat singular fact has come to our 
notice in connection with the craze for vaude- 
ville with which the country has of late been 
afflicted—the acts introduced into comic operas 
and burlesques have been superior to those 
seen on stages devoted solely to variety. 

Among our portraits this month are those of 
two members of this branch of the profession— 
Lillian Thurgate, who appeared in ‘The 
Twentieth Century Girl,’’ and Vesta Tilley, 
the famous impersonator of men’s parts, 
whom Tony Pastor imported from England 
last spring. Miss Tilley made an instant suc- 
cess, and tempting offers at once poured in 
upon her from other managers. But hereupon 
she placed herself ona niche apart from all 
her ilk. She resolutely refused to leave Tony 


‘“No,”’ she said; ‘Sit was arisk to bring me 
out. He was willing to take it, and whatever 
rewards there may be, he ought to reap them.”’ 

LIty HANBURY, of whom a portrait is given 
on page 112, is one of the beauties of the Lon- 
don stage. She was here with 
Beerbohm Tree last winter, and 
captivated her audiences by the 
simple charm of her manner, as 
much as by her altogether pleas- 
ing personality. 

Mr. Tree’s London season, by 
the way, suffered from the same 
cause that is bringing managers 
everywhere to grief—the lack of 
good plays. He hopes to re- 
trieve his fortunes with Potter’s 
“Trilby,’? for which he has se- 
cured the English rights. Of 
course the Trees are coming to 
America again. What English 
star ever contented himself with 
one visit ? 

Henry Irving is to be with 
us again this season, too, and 
John Hare is to come over for 
the first time. Mr. Hare brings 
us ‘The Notorious Mrs. Ebb- 
smith,’? Pinero’s nasty play, in 
which Mrs. Patrick Campbell 
made another of her many hits. 
She was succeeded in the part 
by Olga Nethersole, who, accord- 
ing to the foreign correspond- 
ents, was artistically great, but 
commercially a failure. The réle 
is to be played here by Julia 

Miss Nethersole will also be 
with us again. She is this time 
under the management of Charles 
and Daniel Frohman, and opens 
at the Empire in the early 
autumn, probably in ‘“‘ Carmen.”’ 
Whatever the reception accorded 
her performance of Mrs. Ebb- 
smith, Olga Nethersole is one of 
the few artists endowed with the 
capacity of arousing enthusiasm 
in the most unexpected quarters. 
Men blasé and cynical have gone 
perfunctorily to see her Camille, 
and come away to rave about 
this quiet, little advertised Eng- 
lishwoman, as they never thought 
of doing after seeing Bernhardt 
or Terry. 

Miss Nethersole’s mother was 
Spanish, but the name has lived for centuries 
in the county of Kent, sometimes known as 
the Garden of England. 

* * * * 

APROPOS of Mr. Tree’s last visit to America 
anew story has reached us. He was approached, 
in one of the New York clubs of which he was 
a guest, by a young man whom he did not re- 
member ever having met, but who greeted him 


mosteffusively. His self styled friend fluttered 
about him all the evening, apparently seeking 
to impress every one with the tremendous 
intimacy existing between the famous actor 
and himself. 

After supper the young man arose and ina 

Vesta Tilley. 

From a photograph by Sarony, New York. 

loud voice remarked for the benefit of the as- 
sembled company. 

“Harry, old man, I take pleasure in proposing 
your health.”’ 

‘“Awfully good of you,’”’ replied Mr. Tree, 
“but if you are going to call me by my first 
name, please make it Bertie. My name is Her- 
bert, you know, not Henry.” 

The answer was appreciated by the listeners, 




and it is said that its object made no further 
demonstrations of intimacy. 

HAMMERSTEIN’S New Olympia promises to 
be one of the sights of the metropolis. Many 
handsome theaters have been put up in New 
York during the past decade, but little pains 
has been taken with the exterior effect of any 
of them. The Olympia, however, is so advan- 

of the music hall, red and gold, Renaissance ; 
of the concert hail, cream and gold, Gothic. 
The house is to be thrown open Monday even- 
ing, November 18—the theater with Rice’s 
“Excelsior, Jr.,’’ the title rédle filled by Fay 
Templeton, and the music hall with Yvette 
Guilbert, at an announced salary of $3,000 a 
week. There isa wager outstanding, made in 
July, to the effect that the place will not be 

sparcrerbesste uh a ones 

i Hh 


/ 4 



4 i 

Olga Nethersole. 

From a photograph by Baker, Columbus. 

tageously situated, where Broadway widens out 
at Forty Fourth Street, that it would have 
been a pity not to make the most of the oppor- 
tunity, and this Mr. Hammerstein’s architect 
has done. The front ofthe structure is of Indi- 
ana limestone, supported by pillars of polished 
granite. Free use is made of ornamental work 
in the iengthy facade, and yet all is in good 
taste. The interior decorations of the theater 
are to be of blue and gold, Romanesque style ; 

teady by December, but work is going on 
rapidly, and both Mr. Hammerstein and Mr. 
Rice are smilingly sanguine. 

EDWARD E. RICE’s career has more of ro- 
mance in it than that of many a hero of fiction. 
Equipped pretty comfortably with this world’s 
goods, years ago, by the success of ‘‘ Evange- 
line,’’? he lost everything, and went knocking 
about the world, finding its cold shoulder 




Lillian Thurgate. 

From a photograph—Copyright, 1895, by J. Schloss, New York. 

turned to him everywhere. About three years 
ago he arrived from Australia, worse off than 
ever, if possible. In Boston he saw an amateur 
performance of a burlesque on a theme just 
then extremely popular and timely — Chris- 
topher Columbus. 

‘Ill take ‘1492’ and give it a professional 
production,’ he said to the makers of the bur- 

Mr. Rice’s outward manner was confident, 
but as the fingers of the hand in his pocket 
sought in vain for one coin to jingle against 
another, he must have experienced a slight 
inward sinking sensation. The young men to 
whom he made the offer were naturally flat- 
tered by it, and did not trouble themselves 
about the ways and means to which the man- 
ager might have to resort in order to carry out 
his contract. 

Mr. Rice went home and set his wits to work. 
Some ready money he must have, but with his 
recent record it was not likely he would find 
anybody willing to advance it after his succes- 
sive failures. He thought over the piece, and 

wondered how he could contrive a maximum 
of display in the mounting with the minimum 
of money. Suddenly a great and brilliant 
scheme suggested itself to him. 

‘““Why not make the mounting pay for it- 
self ?”? he exclaimed, as he recalled the illumi- 
nated sign on the side of the apartment house 
overlooking Madison Square, New York, where 
the second act was laid. 

He at once put himself in communication 
with the Long Island property owners whose 
announcements made luminous the dead wall 
in question. He told them what he was will- 
ing to do—for a consideration, and the result 
was a bargain. 

Everybody knows the enormous hit scored by 
Rice’s ‘‘ 1492,’’ but few have been aware of the 
clever device that made it possible. During 
the past summer that same dead wall which 
was instrumental in giving this ingenious man- 
ager his new start, blazoned forth, among the 
Manhattan Beach attractions, the announce- 
ment of the ‘“‘ Rice’s Burlesquers’”’ it was the 
means of calling into being. Time’s whirligig 

2 > 
Y 3 i) 
7 = 
= & 

j1 3 





does not often give such a happy turn to for- 
tune’s wheel within so brief a period. 
* * * * 

Way should the people of the stage be ex- 
pected to be more self sacrificing than other 
folks? Nobody berates the artist who makes 
more money by drawing in black and white 
for the weekly papers than he would by paint- 
ing in oil for fame. The author who earns a 
fortune by writing humorous stories is not 
scolded because he does not try to give the 
public the ‘great American novel.’’ The pub- 
lisher of light literature that pays is not held 
up to scorn because he does not devote his 
presses to essays and historical works. But 
what do we find when we look at the domain 
of the stage ? 

Actors who have labored faithfully for years, 
and given the public the best that was in them, 
are taken to task because they do not create 
new parts or found a theater devoted to a style 
of drama that would elevate the public taste— 
and bankrupt the manager. All this in spite 
of the financial ruin that Edwin Booth incurred 
by conducting a theater of his own, and in 
defiance of the persistency with which the 
people prefer to see their favorites in their 
favorite parts. 

If somebody must be preached to, let it be 
the public. Here is Richard Mansfield, an- 
nouncing that during the coming season he 
will not appear in any of his old réles. His 
new repertoire consists of pieces embody- 
ing what he calls a new school of dramatic 
art. We shall see how successful the depar- 
ture will be. Should it fail, Mr. Mansfield 
will receive small sympathy, even from those 
critics who deplore the profession’s lust after 
the almighty dollar. They will make fun 
of his attempt to stem the tide of popular 
taste, and then calmly proceed to abuse some 
other manager because he produces what people 
are eager to see. 

* * * * 

THE theatrical season of 1895-96 may be said 
to have opened on September 2, and by the 
time this number of MUNSEy’s is in the hands 
of the reader, a few successes and a good many 
failures will doubtless have been already 
achieved with sufficient distinctness to make a 
perceivable impression. one way or the other, 
on managerial bank accounts. 

Charles Frohman, as usual, launches the 
majority of the new bids for favor, but at this 
writing neither he nor any other can foretell 
whether it will be ‘‘ The Sporting Duchess” 
at the Academy of Music, ‘‘The Gay Par- 
isians’’ at Hoyt’s, or ‘‘ The City of Pleasure ”’ 
at the Empire that will prove a second “ Char- 
ley’s Aunt.’’ Besides the foregoing, all of 
which are imported, and all to be produced in 
New York before October 1, Mr. Frohman is 
going to give us “Fhe Shop Girl ”’ (opening at 
Palmer’s in October), with Seymour Hicks and 
his wife, Ellaline Terriss, who were here two 
years ago in ‘‘Cinderella’’; and (following 
each other at the Broadway) Gilbert’s comic 
opera, ‘‘ His Excellency,” and the George Ed- 



wardes company in “‘ An Artist’s Model.” All 
of these are English, with the exception of 
‘“The Gay Parisians,’’ referred to in this de- 
partment last month as the great Paris comedy 
success, ‘‘Z’Hdtel du Libre Echange.”’ 

Mr. Frohman had considerable trouble in se- 
curing a new title for this piece. He finally 
decided to offer a prize of fifty dollars for one 
that would suit him. This was won with ‘‘ The 
Gay Parisians’? by a woman from somewhere 
off in the country, who had never been to a 
theater in her life. 

* * * * 

AT Abbey’s we are to have not only foreign 
plays, but foreign actors, after the Francis 
Wilson season ends. Henry Irving’s engage- 
ment opens October 28, and continues eight 
weeks. John Hare, with his Garrick Theater 
company, follows on December 23, opening in 
Sydney Grundy’s ‘‘A Pair of Spectacles.”’ Then 
will come Sarah Bernhardt. 

The only American venture of importance is 
to be Bronson Howard’s new play, to be brought 
out late in November at the Empire, when the 
stock company returns to that house, which 
during the fall is to be given over to Olga 
Nethersole and John Drew. The latter opens 
his season in San Francisco in “‘ An Imprudent 
Young Couple,’’ the new comedy by Henry 
Guy Carleton. 

* * * * 

THEATER goers often wonder how actors can 
stand the strain of long runs, doing exactly the 
same thing night after night. They forget that 
while the performer is going over familiar 
ground, in each instance the audience is a new 
one. and consequently he may enjoy the excite- 
ment of finding out just how the play will im- 
pressits hearers. Itis unquestionably true that 
the attitude of the ‘‘house’”’ has a wonderful 
influence on the work ofthe players. For this 
reason matinées are never so successful as even- 
ing performances. Women, who form the major 
part of the afternoon audiences, are poor ap- 
plauders, their gloves stifling the sound. 

The Hanlon brothers, now touring with 
““Superba,”’ once gave ninety two performances 
in a single week, undoubtedly a greater strain 
than that entailed by a long run spread out 
over a series of years. This record was scored 
in 1875 at St. Petersburg, during the Mamlitz 
Fair, where they had a theater seating two 
thousand people. There were sixteen doors, 
the old audience being dismissed by the eight 
on one side as the new one began to come in 
by the eight on the other. 

* * * x 

ASK an actor how many members of his 
profession there are in the United States, and 
he will probably tell you twenty or twenty five 
thousand. It is perhaps characteristic that this 
estimate should be twice as large as the real 
figures. The census takers of 1890 counted 
5,779 actors and 3,949 actresses, a total of less 
than ten thousand ; and it is probable that the 
number has been diminished rather than in- 
creased during the recent period of general 
theatrical depression. 

T was the stormiest rehearsal of the season. 
Everybody’s temper was rough edged, 
from the leader of the orchestra down to 

the jolly little drummer who played zylophone 
solos while the comic man was doing his 
dance. The slender baton which the professor 
held tightly in his nervous hand had beaten a 
continuous tattoo on the music rack ; the stage 
manager’s voice seemed harsher than ever, 
and his commands all the more dictatorial. 

Perhaps it all never would have happened 
but for the carelessness of several of the 
chorus girls, whose groupings and poses at the 
last few performances had been worse than the 
tableaux at a car drivers’ ball. The star had 
noticed this shirking, and, with commendable 
ambition to make the New York run a series 
of brilliant hits, had conferred with the stage 
manager ; and a call for a dress rehearsal posted 
in the wings was the result. Of course it had 
made everybody mad. 

‘To think of it,’ said the man who played 
the part of a fat, awkward old prince, who was 
always getting a laugh for the way he trod on 
the trains of the court ladies, “‘it is simply 
provoking that with the work of a hard per- 
formance on us, we’ve got to rehearse and re- 
hearse, just because a cheap chorus can’t do 
its work.”’ 

“And the day before a matinée, too,’ said 
the tenor, whose chief ambition was to save his 
voice for his duet with the prima donna. 

Such remarks were being made on all sides, 
and they only ceased when the cues carried the 
talkers to the stage. The leader of the orches- 
tra, whom every one feared, and whose reinarks 
and criticisms were cuttingly sarcastic, had the 
fiercest temper of all. He was as mad asa 
baby elephant that finds its trunk too short to 
reach the best hay on the hay wagon. He had 
said all he could to the members of the 
orchestra, and every one expected to see him 
throw his chair at some discordant player at 
any moment. 

He rapped his baton again, and the sweet, 
restful air of a lullaby floated up from reed and 
string. It had a quieting effect, but not half 
so much as the presence of the beautiful woman 
whose soft, rich voice was mingling with its 
notes in exquisite harmony. Though they had 
heard the song a hundred times and more, all 
listened, so sweet was its melody. With per- 
fect ease and enchanting expression she touched 
her highest notes, until they sounded through 
the vacant theater like the tinkling of some 
sweettoned bell. Her face, fairand serene, was 
as beautiful as the song she sang, and each note 
found a responsive chord in the hearts of those 
around her; for in the company of three score 


there was not one who did not love her. She 
was the prima donna, the one particular star of 
the cast. To hersinging thousands had listened 
spellbound, only to break forth in rapturous 
applause—yet she was so lovable,so companion- 
able, so kind and willing to help those below 
her. Many atime a single word from her lips 
had fanned into a blaze of success the smolder- 
ing fagots of ambition that failure and the lack 
of an encouraging word had left to die out on 
the hearth of trial. 

Presently there was a fearful discord in the 
orchestra. It broke into the song like a black 
cloud across a summer sky. It came from one 
of the violins. The singer ceased, and the 
music stopped. With angerin his eyes, and 
lips quivering with rage, the leader turned to- 
wards a crouching figure in a chair beneath the 

‘What do you mean—what do you mean, I 
say? Have you not played that barathousand 
times ?”’ 

There was no reply, but a boyish face, with 
anguish in every feature, was uplifted towards 
the angry man. 

“Do not look at mein that stupid way. Have 
I not taught you better ?”’ 

“But, sir,” pleaded the boy, ‘‘it was all a 

“Bah, a mistake, indeed! It was all your 

“Never mind,’’ said the prima donna; ‘‘ he 
could not help it. I will sing it again.”’ 

““Madame, I will attend to this part of the 
company. Franz, leave the place. Anton, you 
take the second violin.” 

The boy, for that was all he was, picked up 
his instrument, and looked up over the lights. 
His eyes met those of the singer. She smiled, 
and he, brushing a tear from his blue eyes, 
opened the door and went down into the musi- 
cians’ room beneath the stage. 

‘‘T will sing no more today,’’ said the prima 
donna, and she left the stage. 

Poor Franz! He threw himself down on an 
old property bench, and, burying his face in his 
hands, cried as only a heart wounded boy can. 
Poor little fellow! Fourteen years old, and 
his father, an old instrument maker, had died, 
leaving Franz and a widowed mother, with 
but little tosupport them.’ His little heart had 
leaped with joy when the professor consented 
to place him in the orchestra, for it was his 
life’s ambition to become a virtuoso like 
those of whom his father had talked so often. 
But the professor had not always been kind, 
and the tender feelings had been cut more than 
once. As he sobbed, he was wondering if he 
would be sent back home, a failure. 

The idea sickened him, and tears were fast 
returning, when agentle hand touched his 
pulsing forehead. He raised his tear stained 
face timidly, thinking the time for the dreaded 
scolding had come. But instead of seeing the 
cold, hard features of the professor, he saw the 
gentle face of the prima donna. He had never 
seen her so close before, and her countenance 
seemed to him like that of an angel. 

“Don’t cry, dear,” she said, as she brushed 
back the hair from his forehead. ‘‘ Don’t cry, 
for my sake, and you shall play for me to- 

His face lighted up, and the great choking 
lumps in his throat melted away under the car- 
esses of that comforting hand. 

““Go home now,”’ she said, ‘‘and come back 
tonight. No one shall scold you.” 

Then she handed him a flower, and left the 
room. He could say nothing, he was so happy. 
His eyes, beaming with joy, followed her to 
the door ; and when it closed, the sound of her 
footsteps on the narrow staircase was like the 
sweetest music to him. 

In the evening he took his place in the orches- 
tra and played as he never had played before. 
When the time for the lullaby came, and his 
“beautiful friend,’ as he had described her to 
his mother, came on the stage, he bowed his 
head down over his violin, and the music that 
rose from that one instrument alone was in it- 
self a symphony. Then came the applause, 
and as it died away in echoes, she looked down 
at him and smiled. The audience saw it, but 
not one of them knew how much sunshine that 
one look had placed in a boy’s heart. 

* * * * 

Days had passed since the unpleasant re- 
hearsal, and it had almost been forgotten. One 
night there was a stir behind the curtain when 
the stage manager, after reading a note brought 
by a messenger, had called for the prima 
donna’s understudy. It was not long before 
the news spread to the dressing rooms, and 
every heart was saddened, for the note had 
brought the tidings of the illness of the loved 
singer. Franz missed her, too; and when the 
curtain had dropped on the last act, he put his 
violin under his arm, and went up the dark, 
winding steps to the stage. 

The “light”? man, who had always been 
kind to Franz, was shutting off the circuit for 
the house lights. Franz asked him about the 
prima donna’s absence, and was told that she 
had been taken suddenly ill. The answer to 
his inquiry startled and pained him. He started 
home with his heart heavy, and his thoughts 
all centered around the sweet voiced being who 
had been his comforter. Hestopped for a mo. 



ment before the window of a music store, and 
his eyes fell upon the score of the lullaby his 
friend had sung. With asudden impulse he 
started off in a different direction. 

He walked on for many blocks, and came 
finally to a brightly lighted apartment house. 

A hall boy opened the door for him. With a 
tremor in his voice, Franz asked if the boy 
could tell him if Mme. Cantori was very ill. 
The boy simply replied, ‘“‘ Second story front,” 
and taking this as an invitation, Franz passed 
in and up the broad stairs. 

He was just turning the landing, when he 
met a man coming down. Franz stopped him, 
and politely asked if he could direct him to 
the singer’s room. The man was a physician. 
He stopped, looked at the boy, and said that 
madame was very, very ill, and could not see 
him. What was the matter, the boy asked? 
An attack of the heart had stricken her down, 
the man replied, and life was only hanging by 
a thread. 

Tears came into the boy’s eyes, and a sob 
passed his lips. He went on, and stopped be- 
fore the door. It was as quiet as death within. 
He waited there a long time. The physician 
came and went again, but only shook his head 
sadly and meaningly, and went on. 

Franz knelt down, noiselessly unlocked the 
case, and took out his violin. He raised the 
bow, and placing the instrument against his 
face, began to play. It was the soft, sweet 
notes of the lullaby that floated through the 
quiet building, and into the room where the 
singer lay. 

Life was ebbing fast, but as the music reached 
her ears, her eyes opened, and a smile of inef- 
fable sweetness came tothe beautiful face. The 
watchers leaned over her couch. 

‘“* Hear, hear,” she murmured; ‘‘it is Franz, 
dear little Franz !’’ 

Still the music kept on, sweeter and softer 
as each note was played. The singer tried to 
rise, and loving hands supported her. 

‘Listen, the lullaby,’’ she whispered. 

Not another sound disturbed the scene, so 
solemn and sad. But just as the closing notes 
of the music were being played a string on the 
violin snapped. 

The singer opened her eyes, and faintly 
breathed, ‘‘ God bless little Franz.” 

The eyes closed again, and her head sank 
back on the pillow. A voice, rich and beautiful, 
was hushed, and the soul of the singer had 
passed into that chorus whose melodies ring on 
through eternity. 

They opened the door, and found Franz pros- 
trate on the floor. The violin with its broken 
He was sobbing bitterly. 
Wells J. Hawks. 

string lay at his side. 

OPINIONS differ as to the exact relationship 
between literature and journalism; but few 
will criticise the mention in this department 
of the battle that is just now shaking the world 
of American newspaperdom. It is only echoes 
of the war between the United Press and the 
Associated Press that have reached the public, 
though the subject is of interest to news readers 
(and that means to every one) because these 
two organizations are the chief sources of the 
news presented morning and evening by the 
great daily journals. We shall give here an 
absolutely impartial statement of the condi- 
tion of affairs. 

In the past, the two agencies worked atnicably 
together ; they exchanged news, and agreed 
not to take clients one from the other. Ifa 
paper was receiving the Associated Press re- 
ports, the United Press was bound not to sub- 
stitute its own dispatches. It could furnish 
an auxiliary service, however; and in many 
cities—Cincinnati and St. Louis were conspicu- 
ous examples—the principal papers received 
both services and used parts of each. In those 
days there was a healthy competition between 
the associations, simply because the employees 
and officers of each took a natural pride in 
trying to produce the better work. 

Those were the days of the old Associated 
Press. When that association went to pieces, 
the United Press tried to obtain control of the 
press news service of the entire country. Local 
antagonisms between publishers, notably in 
New York, made it impossible for all the 
papers to work together harmoniously ; so the 
Western Associated Press, which had main- 
tained its organization, extended its wires to 
the East, and began a fight with the United 
Press to obtain some of its subscribers. It suc- 
ceeded in securing a number of recruits, and 
for a year the struggle for supremacy has con- 
tinued. So bitter is the rivalry at present that 
papers receiving one report are under contract 
not to take the other. 

Both associations have been spending money 
freely, and there is no doubt that both are 
losing steadily. While the reading public is 
getting the immediate benefit of the contro- 
versy, it may sufferin time, for the losses of 
the last year can be recovered only by curtail- 
ing news service in some quarters when the 
long expected truce between the associations 
is patched up. Papers in large cities must 
publish the news at any cost; but the smaller 
communities, now being supplied at a heavy 
loss, will probably suffer whenever the rivals 
decide to end their expensive warfare. 

The ostensible ground of disagreement is 
the faith of some publishers in the handling of 
news by an association of newspapers (the 
Associated Press), and the belief of others that 
it is betterto buy news from a commercial 

jj, @. 

e yyy YY y KG (CaS Hf, oD 

company (the United Press), which collects 
and vends it. Beneath this there is the old 
time jealousy between publishers. Mr. Danaand 
Mr. Laffan of the New York Sum are the ag- 
gressive agents for the United Press, while a 
committee of Chicago journalists heads the 
fighting forces of the Associated Press. 
* * * * 

EXCEPTING the Bible, ‘“‘ The Imitation of 
Christ,’? by Thomas 4 Kempis, has probably 
been more often translated, and has gone into 
more editions than any other book. A collec- 
tion was recently sold to the British Museum 
which contained six manuscript copies of this 
famous treatise, and eleven hundred and ninety 
nine editions in thirty seven languages and 
dialects. ‘They had been gathered together by 
the Rev. Mr. Waterton. The total number of 
editions is reckoned at three thousand. 

x x * * 

THE little book which Ernest Renan wrote 
in memory of his sister, and whose one edition 
was limited to a hundred copies, distributed 
among his nearest and most appreciative 
friends, has been brought out anew by a Paris 
publisher. Renan said of his sister, when the 
book appeared after her death, ‘‘ My sister was 
so modest, she had such an aversion to the 
noise of the world, that I should have thought 
I saw her reproaching me from the tomb if I 
had given these pages to the public.’’ In later 
years, however, the old philosopher thought 
better of his decision, and concluded that the 
book might be published after his death. He 
expressed his wishes as to its form to his wife ; 
but Mme. Renan died without attending to the 
matter, and now Ary Renan, her son, who is a 
well known artist in Paris, has taken the work 
upon himself. 

The book is illustrated with designs by Ary 
Renan and Henri Scheffer, a brother of Mme. 
Renan, and with portraits. It tells the story of 
a strong and loving woman, who may be said 
to have created the Ernest Renan the world 

The father of the Renans was a sailor, with- 
out any knowledge of business, who lost his 
fortune and then his life, leaving his children 
in poverty. Henriette, only seventeen, took 
the five year old Ernest and managed to edu- 
cate him and herself by studying and giving 
lessons. Although she was dowerless, she 
might have married to advantage ; but she had 
already devoted her life to her brother, and she 
would not leave him. It was her ambition, 
too, to pay the debts her father had left. She 
put the boy to school, designing him for a 
priest, and went as a governess into the family 
of Count Zamoyski, a Polish noble with a 
castle in Austria. It was while she was absent 
that Renan experienced the loss of faith that 
led him to give up the priesthood. It was 

oni i 



aetna. as 


after a struggle that the young man wrote this 
decision to his sister. To his surprise, she re- 
ceived it with delight. Her own mind had led 
her to the same conclusions. 

When the two came together again, in 1850, 
Renan says of their life, ‘‘ The general plan of 
my career, the design to be inflexibly sincere 
that I was forming, wasso much the combined 
product of our two consciences, that had I 
been tempted to prove false to it she would 
have been near me like another part of myself, 
to recall me to duty.”’ 

Henriette Renan died in Syria, where she had 
accompanied her brother ona scientific mis- 
sion, in 1860. 

* * * x 

THE present Pope, Leo XIII, is a most liberal 
minded man, who is said to combine a fine 
sense of humor with his learning and judg- 
ment. Researches of all sorts are in order in 
Italy just now. Among other treasures of 
ancient lore, the Vatican library is being thor- 
oughly overhauled, and its multitudinous rec- 
ords investigated. Dom Gasquet, the librarian, 
is reported as saying that the Pope had given 
the order to ‘‘publish everything of interest, 
whether it tends to the credit or the discredit of 
the ecclesiastical authorities. You may be 
sure,’’ added the pontiff, ‘‘that if the gospels had 
been written in our day, the treachery of Judas 
and the denial of St. Peter would have been 
suppressed for fear of scandalizing weak con- 

* * * * 

MARE TWAIN is perhaps the most popular 
author in the United States, if we consider him 
in his own private person. He has friends 
everywhere, forthe reason that he does not 
keep all of his good things for the printers. 
Almost every one of them holds dear some 
original reminder of the humorist ; from little 
Elsie Leslie with the slipper he embroidered 
for her and the letter he wrote about it, to his 
latest poem, written for Mrs. Thomas K. 

Mrs. Beecher is one of Mr. Clemens’ dear- 
est friends. One day, when they were talking 
together,the subject of the immortality of the 
soul was mentioned, and Mr. Clemens took the 
side of unbelief. Mrs. Beecher exhausted her 
arguments, and finally said, 

‘‘Now, Mr. Clemens, if you meet me in 
heaven a million years from now, will you con- 
fess yourself wrong ?”’ 

Mr. Clemens said that he would; but Mrs. 
Beecher insisted upon a contract being drawn 
up and carved in the living rock for future 
generations to note. Mr. Clemens wrote the 
agreement, which read thus : 

Contract—Mark Twain with Mrs. Thomas K. 
Beecher, Elmira, N. Y., July 2, 1895. 

(On first stone.) 
If you prove right and I prove wrong, 
A million years from now, 
In language plain and frank and strong, 
My error I’ll avow. 
(To your dear mocking face). 


(On second stone.) 
If I prove right, by God His grace, 
Full sorry I shall be, 
For in that solitude no trace 
There’ll be of you and me, 
(Nor of our vanished race). 

(On third stone.) 
A million years, O patient stone ! 
You’ve waited for this message. 
Deliver it a million years— 
Survivor pays expressage. 

Mr. Clemens has started on a lecturing tour 
around the world. It will be a long and ardu- 
ous task, one from which most men in his 
physical condition would shrink. But there 
are debts to be paid, and Mr. Clemens intends’ 
to pay them to the last penny, if hard work can 
do it. They are debts which his creditors 
ought to regard as paid twice over, for the 
work which Mark Twain turns out, when he 
must, is adistinct gain to every English 

* * * * 

Mr. BLACKMORE is about to publish a book 
of poems called ‘“‘Fringilla.’”’ It is said to be the 
second collection of verses that the author of 
the immortal ‘‘ Lorna Doone ”’ has brought out, 
although the first one was not over his own 

In Mr. Blackmore’s own neighborhood, we 
are told, people have not discovered that he is 
an author. They know him only as a very 
enthusiastic cultivator of vegetables and fruits. 

* * * * 

A story has been going the rounds about 
Heinemann, who had the courage to publish 
Sarah Grand’s books. 

One day, passing along the street, he saw 
two toy venders side by side, crying their 
wares. One of them had a queer, fat faced doll 
which he was pushing into the faces of the 
passers by, giving it the name of a well known 
woman reformer. His dolls went rapidly, 
while the man beside him, who had bladders 
on which a baby’s face had been painted, was 
passed by. Mr. Heinemann stopped. 

““My friend,’’ he said to the baby seller, 
“trade seems to be bad with you. Hold up 
two of the babies, and cry them out as ‘The 
Heavenly Twins.’ ”’ 

Mr. Heinemann says that the idea was so 
successful that the seller of the woman re- 
former dolls was compelled to move up the 
street, andthe neighborhood began at once to 
offer a market for the famous novel. 

* * * * 

W. H. MALLock, who has put immoral 
literature into a more attractive form than 
almost any other living writer, and succeeded 
in giving it so artistic a finish that we forget its 
character, is out with his own solution of the 
marriage question. A great many people who 
pay little attention to the book they read the 
year before last, and much less to the book 
that was the talk of the last decade, will 
imagine that Mr. Mallock is talking about the 
marriage question because some English ladies 
directed his attention tothat popular stream 


of thought. They only need to go back to ‘‘A 
Human Document,’’ to see that Mr. Mallock 
was in the field long ago. 

In thiscase he makes his hero expound his 
views, and he brings the church and its 
sacrament of marriage into ridicule by means 
of his portraits of its representatives. Mr. 
Mallock as a philosopher never bores us, but 
he seldom convinces us, and we confess to en- 
joying him most when he tells a straight- 
forward story, asin ‘“‘ A Romance of the Nine- 
teenth Century.’’ Personally he predisposes 
us to consider him as an altogether artificial 
poseur. He looks like a man whose ideas 
were fostered in an unreal atmosphere. His 
hair, parted smoothly inthe center and pasted 
down to his ears, covers a fine high head, but 
his thick mustache does not conceal a rather 
unpleasant mouth, and his eyes are neither 
wide open nor frank. We are inclined to 
imagine him as being the unpleasant sort of 
man who would believe that love unsanctified 
by contract is holy, and that it is the right of 
every individual to override the conventions 
of society in the matter. Mr. Parnell is said 
to have been Mr. Mallock’s moral model. 

* * * * 

CapTAIN KING has been charged with mon- 
otony of theme and treatment ; but that he has 
not exhausted his material is shown in his 
latest book, ‘‘ Fort Frayne,’’ which is as lively 
with action and interest as any of his tales of 
army life. The story was originally written 
three years ago, and cast in the form ofa play. 
It had just been completed when the manu- 
script—of which there was but one copy— 
mysteriously disappeared. Captain King re- 
wrote it as a novel, and as such it now meets 
the public eye, its publisher being F. Tennyson 

It will probably be more popular between 
covers than it would have been upon the 
boards, though its dramatic possibilities are 
evident. It is easy and pleasant reading, and 
would be still more so were it not for the be- 
setting sin of its author’s pen—its habit of 
slipping along in almost interminable sen- 
tences. Take the following as a sample, with 
its wearisome succession of ‘‘ands’’: 

Out in quick and ready imitation leaped a 
hundred more,and instinctively the jog changed 
to a lively trot, and the dull, thudding hoofs 
upon the snow muffled earth rose louder and 
more insistent, and Ormsby, riding at the 
colonel’s left, gripped tighter his revolver and 
set his teeth, yet felt his heart was hammering 
loud, and then dimmer and dimmer grew the 
first line as it led away, and still the colonel’s 
firm hand kept Roderick dancing impatiently 
at the slower gait and then, just as it seemed as 
though the line would be swallowed up in snow 
and disappear from view, quick and sudden, 
two muffied shots were heard from somewhere 
just in front, the first syllable perhaps of some 
stentorian shout of warning, and then one 
magnificent burst of cheers and a rush of charg- 
ing men, and a crash and a crackle and sputter 
of shots, and then fierce rallying cries and pierc- 
ing screams of women and of terrified little 
ones, and like some huge human wave the first 
line of the Twelfth rode on and over and 


through the startled camp, and bore like a 
whirlwind, yelling down upon the pony herds 

One hundred and ninety seven words, with 
twenty four ‘“‘ands’”’ and nineteen commas ! 

* * * * 

In the new school of English writers of ro- 
mance, there is no one whose work is more 
thoroughly able and satisfying than Mr. Max 
Pemberton. Unlike the majority of his fel- 
lows, his literary career has been a success 
almost from the start. His first book, ‘“‘ The 
Diary of a Scoundrel,’”? won for him a moder- 
ate popularity, which his succeeding works, 
“The Iron Pirate,’’ ‘‘ The Sea Wolves,”’ ‘‘ The 
Impregnable City,’’ and “‘ The Little Hugue- 
not,’”’ have served greatly to increase. 

Mr. Pemberton is still a young man, having 
but lately entered his thirty third year, and yet 
he is today one of the most prominent figures 
in literary London, noted alike for his personal 
charm, his hospitality, and his marked ability. 

“The Impregnable City,’? published this 
year, is an extremely strong and absorbing 
story of a purely imaginative character, which, 
while very original, contains a considerable 
suggestion of Jules Verne in its portrayal of 
men and things. It is by far the best work 
the author has done ; indeed, it is undeniably 
one of the books of the year, rivaled in its line 
only by Mr. Pemberton’s previous novel, ‘‘ The 
Sea Wolves.”’ 

Apropos of the latter, it is said that Mr. Pem- 
berton’s description of the theft of a large 
amount of gold in course of its transportation 
to Russia, has created much discussion among 
English financiers. The question of such a 
theft being probable or possible has resulted 
not only in a searching inquiry, but even in 
radical changes in the method of shipping gold. 

As for ‘‘ The Little Huguenot,” lately pub- 
lished by Dodd, Mead & Company, it has a con- 
siderable interest of its own, albeit not so am- 
bitious a story as the others. There is this to 
be said of Mr. Pemberton’s work. Be his 
books short or long, they are always interest- 
ing, always ingeniously conceived and well 
constructed. And that is more than can be 
said of many authors. 

In addition to his regular literary work, Mr. 
Pemberton has had a good deal of experience 
in editorial labor, having been on the staff of 
Vanity Fair, the Daily Chronicle, the Jilus- 
trated London News, and the Sketch. Per- 
sonally he is dignified and courteous, more 
than ordinarily good looking, and eminently 
well dressed. 

* * * * 

Two books from the press of Stone & Kim- 
ball are well worth reading. ‘‘ When Valmond 
Came to Pontiac,’’ a story of a lost Napoleon, 
by Gilbert Parker, is a vigorous little narra- 
tive, full of a peculiar charm. Where Pontiac 
is or was we do not know or care. It is a 
charming place, as portrayed by Mr. Parker, 
and the character of Valmond is full of origi- 
nality and pathos. We are told that he was a 
natural child of Napoleon, and his loyalty to his 



great father, his life, and his tragic death hold 
the attention from the first line to the last. 

In Kenneth Grahame’s ‘‘ Golden Age’”’ there 
lies the attraction of an undisputed novelty. 
It is a book of children’s stories for “grown 
ups,’’ if the paradox is allowable. So de- 
liciously fresh and naive is the style, so tender 
and picturesque in spots, and again so full filled 
with the subtlest humor, that one reads on 
with ever increasing pleasure, stopping now 
and then to smile at some shrewd bit of de- 
scription that recalls his own childhood with 
amazing vividness. 

Particularly clever is the description of an 
old uncle, who rather incurred the enmity of 
the children until a parting gift of half a crown 
apiece secured his reincarnation as a saint. 

A solemn hush fell on the assembly, broken 
first by the small Charlotte. ‘I didn’t know,”’ 
she observed dreamily, ‘‘that there were such 
good men in the world anywhere. I hope he’ll 
die tonight, for then he’ll go straight to 
heaven !”? But the repentant Selina bewailed 
herself with tears and sobs, refusing to be com- 
forted; for that in her haste she had called this 
white souled relative a beast. 

“‘T’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said Edward, 
the master mind, rising—as he always did—to 
the situation. ‘‘We’ll christen the piebald pig 
after him—the one that hasn’t got a name yet, 
and that’ll show we’re sorry for our mistake !”’ 

“TI christened that pig this morning,”’ 
Harold guiltily confessed ; ‘‘I christened him 
after the curate.” 

The deftness of this humor is too mature for 
the child mind, for which, no doubt, it was 
never seriously intended. But what oldereyes 
could read such delicious nonsense without 
appreciating its delicacy and finish ? 

* * * * 

THaT clever Dutchman who, under his 
adopted name of Maarten Maartens, has given us 
“The Sin of Joost Avelingh,’’ ‘‘God’s Fool,”’ 
and ‘‘The Greater Glory,’’ has surpassed even 
his own high standard in his last book, 
“My Lady Nobody.”’ Mr. J. van der Poorten- 
Schwartz, to give him his own name, is a Hol- 
lander, still in his fourth decade, and one of the 
most deservedly popular novelists of the day. 
His wonderful command of English idiom, his 
masterly manipulation of sarcasm, and the in- 
evitable purpose pervading all his work, are, no 
doubt, the qualities that make him so. 

One of his own shrewd little allegories is 
rather characteristic of the man. 

There was aman once—a satirist. In the nat- 
ural course of time his friends slew him, and he 
died, and the people came and stood about his 
corpse. ‘‘ He treated the whole round world 
as his football,” they said, ‘“‘and he kicked it.”’ 

The dead man opened one eye. ‘‘ But always 
toward the goal,’’ he said. 

That is exactly what Maartens does in “ My 
Lady Nobody’’; he kicks the world, and he 
kicks it hard, but when we come to think it 
over, we find it has been always toward the 
goal. His method is suggestive of Thackeray, 
with whom, indeed, Maartens possesses many 
qualities in common. With hypocrisy, affecta- 
tion, selfishness, and mercenary motives he 


deals ina spirit of unsparing ridicule. Not that 
he wholly spares the nobler qualities, but his 
banter is less pointed, and before he has finished 
one recognizes the value he places upon them. 

“My Lady Nobody” is in many ways a 
painful book. It is rife with suffering, but the 
author has contrived to demonstrate how large 
a factor this may be in the perfecting of char- 
acter. The scene painting and atmosphere of 
the story are admirable. 

* * * * 

It is a curious fact that nowadays the books 
which would seem most unfitted for dramati- 
zation are invariably announced as being in 
preparation for the stage. We hear that Mrs. 
Humphry Ward’s “Story of Bessie Costrell ”’ 
is to be thus distinguished. It is a strong 
story, but so brief that it is difficult to under- 
stand how it could be utilized except as a cur- 
tain raiser. The book has been a great success, 
and yet as a play it is well nigh certain of fail- 
ure. Why not let it rest upon its laurels ? 

““Chimmie Fadden,” too, which the author 
is dramatizing, is about as far removed from 
dramatic promise as a book well could be. 
However, there is no telling what the result 
will be. ‘‘Pudd’nhead Wilson” met with 
favor on the stage, and as for ‘‘ Trilby ’’—well, 
it is an open question how much of its success 
was due to merit as a play and how much to 
the insane enthusiasm which Mr. Du Mauriet’s 
very pretty little story aroused in this land of 
lion worshipers. 

* * * * 

WHEN we first opened Mr. George Herbert 
Bartlett’s ‘‘ Water Tramps, or the Cruise of the 
Sea Bird ’’ and commenced its perusal, we re- 
ceived the very natural impression that it was 
a book for boys. Such it would be were it not 
for the introduction of the love element, com- 
monly omitted from fiction for the young. 

“Water Tramps ’”’ is a story of four young 
fellows, who, their accumulated finances being 
reduced to a few dollars, evolve the brilliant 
scheme of hiring a boat for the summer and 
selling fish. This truly independent and noble 
inspiration arouses admiration, until it trans- 
pires that they are ashamed of the occupation, 
and spend most of their time striving to elude 

The narrative is enlivened by detailed bills 
of fare as consumed by the young mariners, 
and by daily finarcial bulletins to post the 
reader on their monetary standing. Of course 
the cruise is a success. It goes without saying 
that any four college men can catch enough 
fish in and around Long Island Sound to main- 
tain them in luxury, whereas the fishermen 
along the shores are scarcely able to earn their 
daily bread. Such is the advantage of a col- 
lege education. 

Each of the four young gentlemen acquires 
a thorough knowledge of seamanship, a coat of 
tan, and a rich wife, and allof them return to 
New York rejoicing, and, unless appearances 
are deceitful, live happily ever after. It isa 
restful little story, with no moral or immoral 
tendencies and not obtrusively interesting. 


For several years Miss Mary E. Wilkins has 
been recognized as the leading authority on 
New England character, but lately there has 
arisen a mightier than she. Miss Alice Brown, 
author of ‘‘ Meadow Grass,’? which is pub- 
lished by Copeland & Day, is a native of 
Hampton, New Hampshire, though her liter- 
ary work has been done chiefly in Boston. 
She is at present onthe staff of the Youth's 
Companion, and her name has been made 
more or less familiar to the reading world from 
her many contributions to the magazines. 

So far as Miss Brown’s ‘‘ Meadow Grass ’’ is 
concerned, it proves conclusively that even the 
well trodden paths of New England may be 
made to yield much that is novel ifone has the 
“finding eye.’? We are all familiar with Miss 
Wilkins’ typical story ; the little schoolhouse, 
the milk pans, and the spinster with straight 
hair, whose bosom is like a board, and whose 
life all monotony; and from much reading 
thereof we have wearied somewhat of the 
scene. ‘‘ Meadow Grass’’ comes to us like a 
salt breeze upon a desert, and New England 
is no longer a land of gray tones and somber 

The exquisite pathos, the absolute fidelity, 
and the keen perception of humor that lie in 
every line of Miss Brown’s work are things to 
be thankful for. She has not only caught the 
atmosphere of the New England town—sonie- 
thing which Miss Wilkins, to do her justice, 
has often depicted admirably—but she has 
looked into the hearts of its inhabitants, and 
what she has found there she has given us in 
“Meadow Grass.’’ Those of us who were born 
and bred with the savor of new mown hay in 
our nostrils and the rasp of the katydid in our 
ears will not need to be told how faithfully the 
author has done her work; and even in city 
hearts the completeness of “ Meadow Grass ”’ 
will win its own way without the praise of 
critics to make straight its path. 

* * * * 

THAT would-be wicked young man, Mr. 
Robert S. Hichens, who in fear and trembling 
published ‘‘ A Green Carnation ’’ anonymously 
and then made haste to announce its author- 
ship when it proved a success—save the mark ! 
—has lately given the world another novel. 
“An Imaginative Man’? was evolved in 
Egypt some time before ‘“‘ A Green Carnation ”’ 
thrilled the hearts of mankind. It is a story of 
atall, thin man to whom we are first intro- 
duced as he stands in a smoking suit with a 
cigar case in one hand, a candlestick in the 
other, the fourth edition of the Pall Mall 
Gazette under his arm, and his dark brown, 
bright and restless eyes watching his wife, who 
is praying. Henry Denison has been all his 
life waiting with dread to be called ‘‘a good 
fellow.’’ This, according to Mr. Hichens, 
never happened. No wonder. Denison is 
from first to last a thorough cad, who is con- 
sumed with the thought of his own greatness, 
and uncommonly brutal to his wife. He 
finishes his erratic career by falling in love 
with the Sphinx. This aged lady, as might be 

expected, is stony hearted, and therefore her 
lover runs violently down a steep place (as 
others of his species did before him) and 
dashes himself, ‘‘with arms stretched out, as 
if in an embrace, against the mighty rock that 
has defied the perpetual, intangible embrace 
of the gliding ages.’’ We are not told that he 
was killed, but we hope for the best. 

One gift Mr. Hichens has in abundance. His 
descriptions of scenery are admirable, and his 
depiction of life in Egypt, of the silence of the 
desert, of the hideous depravity of the people, 
is wonderfully well done. It is a pity that his 
powers are not employed in a better cause. 

* * * * 

OF all the utterly and hopelessly vapid books 
ever foisted upon a confiding public, ‘‘ The 
Making of Mary,’’ by Jean Forsyth, deserves 
the palm. The heroine is a small waif who is 
adopted by a family of apparently harmless 
idiots, consisting of a husband (who tells the 
story), a wife, who believes in theosophy, and 
five children, to say nothing of a mother in 

The waif develops into a handsome young 
woman, who spells ‘‘uniform’”’ with a double 
n, plays the cornet, and whose conduct on 
hearing of the marriage of a fancied lover is of 
the following high order : 

‘Then she lay down on the sand and _ bawled, 
kicking and squealing like a year old infant. 

Mary’s conversation is equally attractive, 
and all heractions are of the same nature. She 
takes headers into Lake Michigan in a sky 
blue bathing suit, holds téte-a-tétes with bar- 
bers, waiters, and other shining society lights, 
and finally ends up ina hospital, with small- 
pox and acontrite heart. In addition to her 
refinement, docility, and command of English 
orthography, Wary has other lovable qualities 
which make her doubly dearto her doting adopt- 
ed parents, the aforementioned harmless idiots. 
The book is full of such expressions as ‘‘ that 
pretty, innocent young girl,” ‘“‘sweet girl,” and 
“pink and white creature.’’ Her innocence is 
substantiated by much miscellaneous kissing, 
her sweetness by the spasm on the sand quoted 
above, and we presume the pink and whiteness 
may be ascribed to the smallpox. 

Whether the book is a piece of monumental 
incapacity or a laborious concoction of alleged 
humor, we know not. In either case ‘‘The 
Making of Mary” was a failure, and the raw 
material far preferable to the manufactured 

* * * * 

THESE are days when a new work of fiction 
makes its appearance every few hours, and 
when, as a natural consequence, novelists are 
sore pressed for new plots and novel situations. 
The first meeting of hero and heroine, to use 
two much abused but indispensable words, is 
a crisis in every story, and it is indeed a master 
hand that can bring it about in a natural and 
reasonable way. 

A master hand is something that Miss Flor- 
ence Warden does not possess. Miss Warden 



aids anti 

is one of the writers whom we intuitively as- 
sociate with Mrs. Forrester and ‘‘ The Duchess,”’ 
to the proper enjoyment of whose books a 
hammock and sufficient time to sleep between 
chapters are absolutely essential. The meeting 
of the leading characters in Miss Warden’s 
new book, ‘‘A Spoilt Girl,” is a radical depar- 
ture from hackneyed methods. The young 
lady approaches on horseback at a full gallop, 
with the intention of careering across the 
hero’s flower beds, a manceuver effectually 
checked by the latter, Hubert Besiis, who 
grasps the bridle rein, and, suddenly stopping 
the horse, precipitates its rider headlong to 
terra firma. ‘Thereupon the young lady, who 
rejoices in the masculine name of Harrington 
Bracepeth, falls upon him tooth and nail, and 
rends open his face with her riding whip. Then 
Besils calls her a wretched, cowardly cad, who 
is not fit to live in a civilized country, and de- 
serves to be knocked on the head. 

Any one who is familiar with Miss Warden’s 
methods will recognize in this a most promis- 
ing opening for a romance, and shortly after, 
when Miss Bracepeth throws a stone at Besils 
and he boxes her ears, the mind of the reader 
is at rest. Of course they will be married at 
last, and so indeed they are, though not with- 
out much tribulation. 

* * * * 

THE American craze for novelty supplies the 
raison a@’étre of several wild eyed little period- 
icals which are just at present endeavoring to 
amaze and in a mild way to shock their readers. 
The Lark, which comes from San Francisco, is 
the weirdest of these. It is printed on curious 
yellow paper, and contains certain prose bits 
and illustrations of an entirely meaningless 
nature, with here and there a poetical spasm of 
the following variety : 

I never saw a purple cow, 
I never hope to see one, 
But this I’ll tell you anyhow, 
I’d rather see than be one. 

There is a theory some deny, 

That lamp posts once were three foot high ; 
But a little boy was terrible strong, 

And he pulled ’em out to ’Jeven foot long. 

The Lark’s verses are amusing in a way, 
when taken at their face value, but when, as 
has already happened, some astute critic en- 
deavors to deduce psychology, philosophy, and 
what-not therefrom, it must give exquisite joy 
to their writer. 

The Philistine, a native of East Aurora, has 
already, at the tender age of four months, 
proved its ability exceedingly to harass, beset, 
and annoy others of its kind. It has a curious 
system of marginal notes, such as “ What rot 
is this ?”? ‘“‘ Where are we at ?”’ and other quota- 
tions from celebrated authors. This system is 
pursued without apparent reason or sequence, 
to the great bewilderment of the unhappy 

The Lark has an unobtrusive sort or humor 
in the things that it does, as when the an- 
nouncement appeared in the initial number 


that it was to bea monthly magazine, five cents 
a copy, one dollar a year. 

Moods, a Journal Intime, is without doubt 
the most imposing of the new periodicals. In 
fact, it is a book rather than a magazine, elabo- 
rately printed and illustrated. The material 
which is so lavishly treated is not particularly 
fine, and almost without exception the contribu- 
tors are unknown to fame. 

* * * * 

Mrs. JAMES MEADE BELDEN is one of the 
new writers who deserve more than cursory 
notice. Her first novel, from the press of the 
Lippincotts,is entitled ‘‘ Fate at the Door,” and 
shows a good deal of promise. It deals with 
society life in New York, which, considering 
that she lives in Syracuse, the author describes 
excellently, and the whole story reveals a re- 
markable knowledge of music and of Wall 
Street. It is tiresome to the average reader to 
wade through a book containing much musical 
atmosphere—witness the dreary wastes of 
‘‘Miss Traiimerei.’’ But Mrs. Belden has in- 
troduced her technical phrases skilfully, and 
makes one feel as if he understood all about 

We are told that the author of “‘ Fate at the 
Door’’ is extremely modest, and that her 
many contributions to periodicals have all ap- 
peared under a nom de guerre. 

* * * * 

THE establishment in England of a literary 
order of merit for the recognition of those 
who as journalists and writers of books have 
done good work will undoubtedly be carried 
through to the Queen's taste. Certainly the 
knighting of a writer will have its effect on the 
sale of his books, if not on their composition. 
The works of a Knight of the Grand Cross, or a 
Knight Commander, or of even a Knight Com- 
panion, will seem to havea sort of personal 
recommendation from the Queen, and will sell 
in consequence. A knight of today is only one 
whose personal merit in this or that art has 
been recognized by some sovereign. He may 
emblazon the cover of his book with the in- 
signia of his uonor and sign his name witha 
K. G. C. or any of the other letters of the hon- 
orary alphabet, and he will find many readers 
that he would not have found without the 
letters and the honors, for, there is no doubt 
about it, letters and crests and the Queen’s 
honors ave attractive to the great reading 
public. But in the writing of his book the 
insignia will have little weight. It will be a 
compliment to be thought of with pleasure, 
though in general the honor will appeal chiefly 
to the business eye of the publisher. 

Sir Walter Besant is the latest man of letters 
to receive a title, though it is supposed that he 
was knighted in recognition of his position as 
a reformer rather than as a tribute to his 
novels. It is certain that his last work, “‘In 
Deacon’s Orders,’’ is sufficiently commonplace 
to substantiate this theory. 

His next book, ‘‘The Master Craftsman,”’ 
will be the first to bear the name S77 Walter 
Besant on the title page. 

[eve] rete te Tele pode loti 3 Gs 

‘ Kaa 12 


Just under the bridge, where the people 
pass and pass and pass between the great cities, 
there is a little shop so small that it could 
scarcely be called a shop except in a story. 
There is not even room fora name above the 
door, but its purpose is shown by a case at the 
entrance, where there are many little images 
and idols exquisitely mended. And it is so 
conveniently situated under the bridge where 
the people are passing, that the business done 
in this shop is said to be the vastest in the 

A young stranger entered one day, and see- 
ing no one there but Love, who sat on a high 
stool at the repairing table, he hesitated. ‘‘ Are 
you the proprietor?’’ he asked. ‘‘ Do you do 
all this fine repair work ?” 

Love pushed up the shade that had covered 
his eyes, and the young stranger saw that he 
wore a jeweler’s glass held by a strap around 
his head. 

“Yes,’’? Love answered ; ‘““Iam the proprie- 
tor. What do you wish to have repaired ?”’ 

“This heart,’’ said the young stranger. ‘‘It 
is not mine, you know. I broke it acciden- 
tally, and it is such a precious thing that I did 
not dare to take it to an ordinary jeweler. I 
was not altogether sure that it was safe to 
bring it here, and yet I could not return it to its 
owner in this shape.’’ He held out the fragile 
pieces in his hand. 

Love took them with skilled fingers. ‘‘ How 
you could have been careless enough to let an 
accident happen to anything as beautiful as 
this is more than I can understand,” he said. 
“Do you know that not the most perfect re- 
pairing can ever make it the same heart it was 
before ?”’ 

The stranger met Love’s glance, but his face 
flushed, and he stood silent. Love opened a 
great book. 

““The owner’s name ?’’ he asked. ‘I must 
know that.’’ 

The stranger told it, and Love wrote it in the 

“Her age?” 

“As young as she is beautiful.”’ 

“That will not do,’ said Love. ‘‘ This rec- 
ord is strictly for purposes of identification. 
Her age ?”’ 

The young stranger knitted his brow. .‘‘It 
is not that I don’t want to tell you,” he said; 
“but I have forgotten it. You see I always 
thought of her as a little girl—until this hap- 

““H—m,” said Love. ‘‘ We will have to let 
your answer stand. Now, as to her looks, is 
she fair or——”’ 

“Fair ?”? echoed the stranger. ‘‘ Did I not 
say just now that she was beautiful? She is 
the fairest thing the sun shines on.”’ 

Tove shook his head and wrote. ‘‘ Her 
eyes ?”? 

““Her eyes change so,” the stranger ex- 
plained, ‘‘and—she does not like to have me 
look at them, and——’”’ 

Love closed the volume. ‘‘I promise you 
I will be here when she calls,’’ he said, “and 
of course there can be no mistakes when I am 

“Then it is all right?’ asked the young 
stranger. ‘‘ That is all you need to know?” 

“Yes, it’s all right,” said Love; ‘‘but she 
must come in person when she wishes it 

The stranger lingered. ‘I do not like to 
have her come,” he said. ‘‘I would rather that 
she should not know, if possible.’’ 

“My friend,” said Love solemnly, ‘that 
much you must pay. Tell her to whom you 
have brought it, and that it will be perfectly 
safe with me until she calls. I promise that 
she will forgive you everything. 

‘““And more is the pity,’’ Love added as the 
young stranger went out, ‘“‘that just at my 
name they should forgive everything.”’ 

He hurried to mend the heart, and as the 
days and the people passed between the great 
cities, and yet she did not call for it, he placed 
it with many others in the vaults of the little 
shop under the bridge, and he kept it for years 
and years and years. 

Marguerite Tracy. 


Every hilltop flung a pennon 

Flecked with red or amber stain ; 
Fiery maples marched like men on 

Some embattled Dunsinane. 
Sumacs flared, a crimson study, 

On the day I rode with Bess, 
With our load so ripe and ruddy, 

Toward the bubbling cider press. 

When the ardent sunlight caught her 
Braided hair and burned it gold, 
Fair she looked as Atlas’ daughter 
Of the faméd isle of old. 
Laughter lurked her Cupid lip in, 
Though she seemed a maiden meek, 
And as tempting as a pippin 
Was the flush upon her cheek. 

Sweet was the ambrosial vintage 
Yielded by the orchard side, 
With the autumin’s mellow tintage 
In the sparkle of its tide. 
Yet, with love as lip director, 
On the day I rode with Bess 
Did I quaff a sweeter nectar 
Than the cider from the press ! 

Clinton Scollard. 


Look, love, along the low hills 
The first stars ! 
God’s hand is lighting the watchfires for us, 
To last until dawn. 

Hark, love, the wild whippoorwills ! 

Those weird bars, 

Full of dark passion, will pierce the dim 

All night, on and on, 

Till the over brimmed bowl of life spills, 

And time mars 

The one perfect piece of his handicraft, love’s 

From dewrise till dawn. 

Foolish heart, fearful of ills! 
Shall the stars 
Require a reason, the birds ask a morrow ? 
Heed thou love alone! 
Bliss Carman. 

THE little play was over, and Death sat 
Upon the new made grave and grinned. 
He buried his chin and chuckled low: 
The player had suffered—and sinned. 

The curtain fell on the act of life ; and still 
The actor lay : as some fair sun 
An angel watched at his head and smiled: 
The player had struggled—and won. 
Virginia Letla Wentz. 

THE man who idly sits and thinks, 
May sow a nobler crop than corn, 
For thoughts are seeds of future deeds, 
And when God thought—the world was born! 
Harry Romaine. 

THE wind has hushed its whisperings in rapt 
The brook, reluctant, lingers there, as loath to 
move along, 
The dainty little rubythroat neglects to preen 
her dress, 
And all because a bobolink has lost himself 
in song! 

’TIs well that when the goal is gained 
Of one ambition strong, 
There is another, not attained, 
That urges us aiong. 
‘rank HI, Sweet. 


From her cold lips that careless ‘‘ No” 
Made all life’s garden bare ; 

Ah, from what little seeds may grow 
The thorny plant Despair ! 

Philip Rodney Paulding. 



Out of the purple drifts, 
From the shadow sea of night, 
On tides of musk a moth uplifts 
Its weary wings of white. 

Is it a dream or ghost 
Of a dream that comes to me? 
Here is the twilight on the coast, 
Blue cinctured by the sea, 

Fashioned of foam and froth— 
And the dream is ended soon. 
And, lo, whence came the moon white moth 
Comes now the moth white moon! 
Frank Dempster Sherman. 

SHE’S coming home from other lands 
Across the sea’s wide, wondrous breast, 
And I shall touch her little hands 
When at my side again she stands, 
And see her eyes; and that is best ! 
Straight steered into the glowing west, 
Unerring borne where breakers comb, 
And all my longings are at rest, 
For oh, she’s coming home ! 

Again in that dim lighted room 
Where all my dearest memories cling, 
I'll find the hyacinth’s perfume 
And hear, soft stealing through the gloom, 
The tender songs she used to sing. 
I doubt me much if life can bring 
Me brighter hours where’er I roam, 
Than those that soon with her shall wing, 
For oh, she’s coming home ! 

She’s coming home, and all the air 
Grows soft as spring when she draws near, 
And if my heart recks not of care, 
If that one thought makes life so fair, 
What will it be when she is here ? 
Alone with her I deem so dear 
My heart grows light as laughing toam, 
And even now the skies are clear, 
For oh, she’s coming home ! 

O strange, great sea, O fickle wind, 

She trusts her frailness unto you ; 
With her within your arms be kind, 
In her dear heart my love is shrined, 

So bear her safe, so guide her true ; 

And, heaven, stretch unclouded, biue, 
Above her head your depthless dome, 

And guard her all the voyage through, 
For oh, she’s coming home ! 

Guy Wetmore Carryl. 

DEAR little verse, the careless eye 
And heedless heart will pass thee by, 
And never needst thou hope to be 
To others as thou art to me. 

For Jo, I know thy bliss and woe, 

Thy shallows, depths, and boundless heights, 

How thou wast wrought, patient and slow, 

Through crucibles of sleepless nights. 
Robert Loveman. 

) i 



“Democracy is dead !’’ is the startling cry 
that has been raised in England by a little knot 
of political cynics who regard the present 
fallen estate of Lord Rosebery’s party as mark- 
ing the final and permanent failure of liberal- 

It is true that a wave of what may be termed 
reaction has recently swept over the chief 
countries of Europe. France, Germany, Italy, 
and Belgium have felt it, as well as the British 
islands. In modern times, when universal 
education and improved communications have 
done so much to unify the world, political sen- 
timent is contagious toa marked degree. It 
spreads in waves that now advance and now 
recede, though the movement of the tide may 
meanwhile have been steady, though slow or 
even imperceptible. There was such a wave 
in 1848, for instance, which shook every throne 
in Europe, and washed away prerogatives and 
pretensions that have never been reasserted. 
The present day may be one of triumph for 
the reactionists, but we may remind them that 
in many European countries the conservatives 
of today occupy more advanced ground than 
the liberals of fifty years ago. 

From such a slender premise as the election 
of 338 conservative members out 670 in the 
British Parliament to infer so tremendous a 
conclusion as the total downfall of democracy 
is an instance of mental agility that would be 
extremely interesting were it not utterly ridi- 


THERE are few phases of bad form in enter- 
taining so objectionable, so senseless, as ‘‘ over 
feeding’’ your guests. A dinner of endless 
courses is intolerable. No one enjoys it ; no 
one wants it. To eat it is a crime against one’s 

self—one’s stomach, if you please. And 
people are beginning to learn that their 
stomachs will not forever stand abuse. There 

comes a day of reckoning. Every one knows 
this, and yet every one, when he becomes the 
host, ‘‘ puts up’’ the conventional feast. Did 
we Say every one? Hardly every one, for there 
are, we are glad to add, a few exceptions—a 
few people who, sure of their position, are 
broad enough to be independent. These, rising 
above conventionality, have cut the menu in 
half. Otherswill follow them. Good sense,when 
it once works its way to the surface, will pre- 
vail. To prolong adinner beyond a reasonable 
point, forcing one course after another upon 
your guests after the appetite has been satis- 
fied is inanity. It becomes nothing more nor 
less than a process of genteel stuffing. It 

means discomfiture and rebellion—rebellion 
against a conventionality that sanctions such 
torture, for it is torture to be plied with food 
and feel obliged to eat it when the stomach 
protests, and you know that you are deliber- 
ately injuring yourself, and all this that you 
may seein to be appreciative of a lavishness 
that falls little short of vulgarity. 


AN “apostle ’’ of London’s socialistic democ- 
racy recently landed on these shores clad in the 
costume which he probably regards as a sort of 
trademark since, with the characteristic and 
charming modesty of the typical ‘ apostle,” 
he so unostentatiously wore it in Parliament. 
Sad to say, on landing here, he found that his 
trademark did not suit the American market, 
his cloth cap and knee breeches being regarded 
as a symbol rather of the haughty aristocrat 
than of the professional foe of caste. 

Had Mr. Carlyle been alive, the incident 
might have suggested a new chapter of “‘ Sartor 
Resartus,’’ dealing with the subtle connection 
between headgear and democracy, or between 
the length of aman’s trousers and his standing 
as an ‘‘apostle.”” The historian of the ‘ phil- 
osophy of clothes’? might have noticed the 
charges brought, at about the same time, 
against the Governor of Connecticut, who was 
accused of wearing too gorgeous apparel. To 
go back a little further, he might have found 
food for reflection in the celebrated shirt 
sleeved speech delivered by a candidate for 
the governorship of the Empire State, and 
might have traced the political decadence of 
a former Colorado Senator to his thousand dol- 
lar night shirts. 

As civilized man walks abroad, he presents 
to the world’s critical eye several square feet 
of clothes and but a few inches of epidermis. 
It is not strange that the apparel should oft be 
regarded as proclaiming the man, and that the 
politician, whose success or failure depends 
upon his neighbors’ estimation, should need to 
take thought wherewithal he shall be clothed. 


THE present attorney general of the United 
States having been criticised for maintaining 
his connection with his law firm in Cincinnati, 
it is answered that not one of his predecessors, 
since the foundation of the government, has 
wholly abandoned private business upon tak- 
ing office. Besides this, there is the increasing 
impossibility of living in suitable style upon 
the salary of $8,000 a year which Uncle Sam 
provides for his cabinet ministers. 

In spite of the precedent to the contrary, it 

DON’T FORGET THIS.—TIf you will show MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE fo your friends and 
secure for us five new subscribers, sending us one dollar for each name, we will give you a 

year’s subscription free for yourself in return for your trouble. 

would seem as if the headship of the legal de- 
partment of the United States government was 
an office that should have all the time and 
energy of its holder. It is certainly unsatis- 
factory that its salary should be such as to ren- 
der this impracticable. Uncle Sam needs the 
services of the very best brains in the country, 
and he ought, it may be urged, to pay them as 
much as they could earn in other employ. 
Does his salary list need revision? 


As between the letter and the novel, the 
letter has given to the world the more 
pleasure. It comes closer to one—comes 
from husband, wife, father, mother, child, 
friend, lover. Here lies an interest different 
and deeper than that felt in the hero or the 
heroine of a novel. And it is this difference 
that makes the letter queen. The following 
from the New York 77zbune may be consid- 
ered with advantage : 

Notwithstanding the educational facilities of the 
day and the increased amount of culture, very few 
people write a really good letter, or seem to have 
the power, when separated from their friends, of 
giving an idea of their daily life, or manage to in- 
fuse any of their own personality into their 
epistles. A good letter should leave the recipient 
with the feeling that he has actually been talking 
with the writer, and should consist not of meager 
and unsatisfactory mention of events or, what is 
even worse, descriptions of places, but of details of 
the daily life of the individual and purely personal 
chatter. Nothing is more annoying or disappoint- 
ing on opening, with feelings of pleasant antici- 
pation, a thick packet from abroad than to find 
sheet after sheet filled with guide book platitudes, 
which are utterly conventional and uninteresting. 
One feels that, notwithstanding the writer has 
labored conscientiously and painfully to write a 
long letter, he or she has utterly failed in establish- 
ing that mysterious rapport between parted friends 
that the right sort of correspondence should evoke. 

Pray remember, therefore, fair traveler, that 
every average library has a plentiful supply of 
books of travel containing far better descriptions 
of foreign lands than you could write, books which 
are seldom, if ever, opened ; and that it is of you 
and your friends and associates that we care to 
hear. Do not be afraid to dot your paper plenti- 
fully with capital ‘‘I’s"’; for that, after all, is the 
subject matter that interests your readers. 

A wooden letter is a shock to the recipient. 
His expectations are quickened. He fancies 
he will see something of his friend—feel some- 
thing of his presence—his nature. Instead 
he merely has a glimpse of environments— 
sees not the friend, but a lot of external 
things in which he has no earthly interest. 
This is not letter writing ; not what the reader 


A MEMBER of the French Academy of Medi- 
cine has published the result of an investiga- 
tion of his country’s waste of human life dur- 
ing the wars of the lastcentury. He calculates 
that the struggles, foreign and civil, of the first 
republic, and Napoleon’s long fight against the 
forces of Europe, cost the lives of 4,100,000 



French soldiers. Underthe restored monarchy 
and the second republic the exhausted country 
enjoyed a period of comparative quiet, losing 
only 215,000 menin war. The second empire 
renewed the slaughter, and 1,600,000 French- 
men perished in the Crimea,.in Italy, in Mexi- 
co, and in the great struggle with Germany. 
In all, during a hundred years, six million men 
have fallen in war. 

These figures utterly dwarf the losses sus- 
tained by the United States in all the wars 
since the birth of the Union. In the four 
years of our civil war, bloody conflict as it was, 
the losses on both sides, from wounds, dis- 
ease, and Other causes, were only about half a 
million. Perhaps 150,000 additional would be 
a fair estimate for all our other wars, making a 
total of little more than one fifth of France’s 
loss during a shorter period. 

Of war and pestilence, the two great scourges 
of the human race, the latter is to a certain ex- 
tent a blessing in disguise ; it carries off the 
weak and the unfit, leaving the sounder con- 
stitutions to propagate a stronger type. But 
war is utterly cruel and unnatural ; it reverses 
the selective process, leaving the weak and the 
unfit in safety, while it immolates the flower 
of a nation’s manhood upon the lurid altar of 
military glory. 


Most millionaires, probably, in a maritime 
city like New York, at one period of their life 
or another own a yacht. The public, however, 
generally accords the name of ‘‘yachtsman’”’ 
to these wealthy skippers with something of a 
sneer. There is an idea that they take up the 
sport simply as a passing fad, or as a means of 
ostentation, rather than from any real liking 
for the sea, or any willingness to endure the 
toil and discomforts that even the millionaire 
must face who sails his sloop or schooner 
They have the money—a very necessary 
element in yachting on anything but the 
smallest scale—and that is all, people often 
say; they have no other element of real seaman- 
ship. On their own craft they are merely 
privileged passengers, the work being done bya 
hired captain who “‘runs”’ the yacht, ‘‘ bosses ”’ 
the crew, and gives all necessary orders. 

Now it so happens that all this is far from 
being a correct statement of the case. Like a 
good many other popular impressions, this 
particular one is decidedly unfair. There are 
exceptions, of course, but it is a fact that asa 
rule the rich New York yachtsman is a com- 
petent sailor. Were he not, he would speedily 
find that there is little pleasure in the owner- 
ship of a sailing yacht. He gets his skill by 
going through a regular course of practical in- 
struction, and he demonstrates it more fre- 
quently than his critics imagine. 

In several American seaport towns there are 
private nautical schools specially organized for 
amateur yachtsmen. They are generally pre- 
sided over by old sea captains, and naval offi- 
cers and other experts are among their instruc- 
There is one in New York that has 



graduated most of the millionaire seamen of 
the metropolis, its head being Commander 
Howard Patterson, formerly admiral of the 
Haytian navy. It usually has thirty or forty 
pupils; most of them are New Yorkers, but 
some hail from elsewhere. Several have come 
from the cities on the great lakes, where yacht- 
ing has made a great advance in the last few 
years. The course of study is long and really 
laborious. It is recorded that Chester W. 
Chapin, now reputed one of the best fore and 
aft sailors in yachting circles, attended for five 
seasons. Commodore Gerry studied still 
longer, and afterwards passed the regular gov- 
ernmental examination, qualifying as a cap- 
tain. Henry M. Flagler, of Standard Oil fame, 
and owner of the Columbia, Anson Phelps 
Stokes, and Colonel Delancy Kane and other 
well known graduates. 

It is an easy thing—sometimes—to be a mii- 
lionaire, but to be a millionaire yachtsman re- 
quires study, industry, and some self negation. 
Itis only fair to recognize that these qualities 
are part of the contribution that some of our 
wealthiest citizens have made to the magnifi- 
cent and expensive sport. 


THERE is constantly before the public some 
project to purchase and hold as a national 
possession the house where a famous man has 
lived. In New York a society has been organ- 
ized for the “‘ preservation of scenic and his- 
toric places.’’ In Tennessee a band of patriotic 
women have purchased the Hermitage, Andrew 
Jackson’s old home; and in England a fund has 
been collected to pay for Carlyle’s old house in 
Chelsea, that it may be held as a shrine for 
literary pilgrims. 

As to scenic beauties, all intelligent people 
will certainly approve of their preservation, 
even though a little toll may be taken from 
commercial interests. No less strongly does 
patriotism center about those historic buildings 
to which we are linked by great national events 
or by association with the giants of the race. 
Men have an instinctive feeling, which they 
sometimes call a superstition, that places retain, 
and can give out again, like some subtle per- 
fume, something of the forces and emotions of 
which they have been the theater. A young 
man chooses an old university for his Alma 
Mater, in preference to a new one, because he 
believes in the inspiration given by the minds 
that have congregated there, and left some 
echoes of themselves in its halls. 

Yet there is a limit to this sentiment. Few 
would care for the preservation of a common- 
place dwelling in which some man of the 
second order of greatness had once lived, and 
whose walls might perhaps have sheltered a 
dozen other tenants since his day ; especially 
when, as is often the case, the environment has 
so changed that the original owner would hardly 
recognize his home. ‘Take, for instance, S. F. 
B. Morse’s New York residence on Twenty 
Second Street, now surrounded and over- 


shadowed by commercial buildings. But such 
a house as the Hermitage—typical of a great 
American and of an age of American history— 
is well worth the effort and the cost of its 
preservation. Its needless destruction would 
be widely felt as a misfortune even by this age 
that measures too many things by the standard 
of dollars and cents. 

IT is now possible to secure the B. A., and 
consequently the M. A., degree at one of the 
two great English universities—that of Cam- 
bridge—without a knowledge of Greek. It is 
only indirectly, so to speak, that the privilege 
is extended to the scholar who has not learned 
the tongue of Hellas. To the Cambridge 
undergraduate its study is still compulsory ; 
but the regular degrees have been opened to 
the graduates of other universities who may 
come to Cambridge for post graduate courses, 
and who—as at Harvard, for instance—may 
never have taken up Greek asa part of their 

In the war between the assailants and the 
defenders of classical scholarship as the basis 
of a university education, the trend of opinion 
seems to be rather in favor of the former. 


THERE are few race courses in British India ; 
pool rooms and policy shops are unknown 
there ; lottery sharps do not vex the postal 
authorities, and the guileless natives have no 
taste for poker and faro. Yet the great Asiatic 
peninsula is not a happy land where gambling 
does not exist—a paradise modeled upon the 
ideals of our associations for the promotion of 
public virtue. There is betting in every 
bazaar, the favorite form of wager being based 
upon the chances of rain. The government, 
in its paternal care for morals, is said to be 
considering the question seriously, and to have 
found it a difficult one. Gambling upon horse 
races it might stop by abolishing the races, but 
it cannot prevent the uncertainties of the 
weather from arousing the speculative instinct 
that seems to be innate in almost all branches 
of the human race. Man seems to be a born 
gambler, nearly everywhere, and it is hard to 
reform him. 


THAT all laws should either be enforced or 
repealed is undeniably a sound principle ; yet 
to follow it out to the end would entail some 
unexpected consequences. What a stir would 
be created, for example, by a full assessment of 
property for taxation ! 

How far apart the legal theory and existing 
facts now are, may be evidenced by one sample 
fact—in New York, a city with billions of 
wealth and many hundreds of millionaire citi- 
zens, there are just two individuals—the heads 
of the two branches of the Astor family—who 
pay taxes upon as much as a million dollars of 
personal property. 

F-. leith, 

g i = 




MunsEY’s #s the only magazine in the world 
of standard size (128 pages) ¢hai sells for ten 
cents a copy, and one dollar a year. MUNSEY’S 
MAGAZINE, w7/h i/s 128 reading pages 4s just 
fourteen and two-sevenths per cent /arger than 
the magazine of 112 reading pages and it is Just 
thirty three and one-third per cent larger ‘han 
the magazine with only 96 reading pages. The 
112 page magazine, to sell at the same ratio as 
MUNSEY’s, should bring but eight and three- 
quarter cents, while the 96 page magazine 
should bring but seven and one-half cents. 


The dramatic growth of a magazine— The 
record of two years’ dealing with the “im- 
possible” —A move that has revolutionized 
magazine publishing — What MUNSEY’S 
MAGAZINE has done for the people. 

WITH this issue MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE be- 
gins a new volume and enters upon a new 
year of its existence as a magazine. It was 
just two years ago that we faced an impossible 
problem. Precedent shed no light upon it. 
The annals of publishing told always the same 
story, disaster, disaster, disaster, to the man 
whose soul led him beyond the narrow chan- 
nels of monopoly—whose nature lifted him 
above conventionality. We were as familiar 
with this state of things as any one. We had 
seen the wrecks strewn upon the shore and 
heard the ceaseless grind of monopoly’s wheels. 
We knew the power of conservatism, and what 
it meant to break away from it. There was no 
light anywhere save that of faith—faith in the 
sober intelligence of the people. In this we 
believed ; on this we were willing to risk all, 
because we knew that we were right—that our 
price was right, our stand against the middle- 
man was right, and our theory of an up to date 
magazine was right. ; 

This is a good time to look back upon the 
situation that faced us in the hot, close days of 
the waning summer of 1893. Then the world 
had never dreamed of a magazine of standard 
size and standard excellence at ten cents. In- 
deed, under the conditions that existed then, 
such a publication was impossible. The entire 
periodical business of the country was handled 
by the middleman. He could make or break 
apublisher. In his omnipotence he offered us 
four and one half cents for MUNSEY’s MAGa- 
ZINE. And this, after many interviews, was his 
ultimatum. He had offered five cents if the 
magazine should weigh less than half a pound, 
but as it was to exceed that weight, the price 
stood at four and one half cents. 

A standard magazine at this price was impos- 
sible ; five and one half cents to the middleman 
and retailer out of ten cents was ridiculous— 
tobbery. But what could be done? ‘The 
middleman was absolute. He had practically 
said that no first rate magazine should ever be 
sold in America at ten cents, and his word was 
law. His voice reached from the Atlantic to 
the Pacific. The whole country was under his 
eye, and his agents everywhere responded to 
his wishes as one man. No publisher who had 
ever attempted to reach the retail trade direct 
had lived. He had been ground to pieces 
under the heel of this mighty agency. We 
record this with no feelings of animosity. The 
management of this gigantic concern are all 
good fellows—first rate fellows. Personally 
we like them very much. Itis as representa- 
tives of a tremendous monopoly that we speak 
of them. Itis not unlike all other concerns 
which have, or think they have, absolute -com- 
mand of the situation, They were doing busi- 
ness to make money—to make all they could 
legitimately. In this they are right from their 
point of view. But our point of view was not 
the same as theirs. Our interests and theirs 
did not run parallel; the ten cent magazine 
and their interests did not run parallel. 

To enter into a fight with so powerful a con- 
cern seemed tocall fora capital running up 
into the millions. But, just then, there were 
no millions lying around within our reach. 
Our capital was all on the wrong side of the 
ledger. No one believed in the proposition 
save ourselves. It was ridiculed. We were 
regarded as insane. This is the way matters 
stood with us just two years ago; this is the 
situation we had to face, and we faced it as we 
like to see men face serious problems, with 
reliance on themselves and a thorough belief 
in their cause. 

We returned to our office after receiving the 
the ultimatum of the middleman, and straight- 
way wrote a notice for the September issue 
saying that beginning with the next number— 
the October number—the price of MUNSEY’s 
MAGAZINE would be ten cents a copy and one 
dollar by the year. Then we wrote to our friend 
the middleman, telling him what we had done, 
adding that as there was so wide a difference 
between the price he was willing to pay and 
what we regarded as a right price, there 
was little likelihood of our doing business 
together ; but that in the event of his having 
occasion to fill any orders he could have the 
magazine at six and one half cents. 

This letter brought forth no response. 

We notified the retail trade of our action, 

IMPORTANT NOTICE.—Do not subscribe to MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE through agents un- 
known to you denseniaiae, If you do you may find that you have been victimized. Every few 
days we receive complaints from people in various parts of the country who have subscribed 
to MUNSEY’s through some swindler. The subscription, of course, never reaches this office. 


saying that dealers could buy direct of us at 
seven cents, plus transportation, and that it was 
doubtful if the magazine could be had through 
the usual channels of the wholesaler. We 
sent out eight thousand of these notifications. 
They brought back less than eight responses. 
We continued on, however, getting out our 
edition just as if there were some way in view 
to market it. Our net sales of the September 
number, the last at twenty five cents, and the 
last as well handled by the middleman, were 
about two thousand copies. Notwithstanding 
these facts we printed an edition of twenty 
thousand for October. 

The day of issue was drawing dangerously 
near. We then wrote another letter to the 
middleman, saying that as we had made a better 
magazine than we had at first intended, we 
found that we must charge him seven cents in- 
stead of six and one half cents, as per our for- 
mer letter. This time we were honored with 
aresponse. A prominent official called with 
the purpose of making terms. His concern 
had given more thought to the matter, and had 
concluded that it was desirable for us to try 
and get together. Ina word, they would pay 
us a higher price than at first named. 

‘“No,’’ we said, “‘you forced us to make the 
break—forced us into this position, and now 
we will see what there isinit. You had the 
chance to make terms with us; it is too late 

Our twenty thousand edition was still on our 
hands, and no orders. The day of issue cane, 
and still no orders. But we had something to 
say to the public. We had been making a 
magazine for the public, and through the col- 
umns of the press we told them what we had 
been doing; what we had for them. We inter- 
ested them. They wanted to see the magazine. 
They asked their dealer for it. He hadn’t it, 
but would orderit. He did so—ordering from 
the middleman. His order received no atten- 
tion. The customer came back for his maga- 
zine. The dealer was sorry, but his order had 
not been filled. He wrote again, and again no 
response. The customer came a third time, 
and no magazine. He was annoyed. Every 
day he saw a new advertisement of MUNSEY’s. 
The advertisement was large and brief. Itsaid 
half a dozen words, but they were the right 
words. They struck the eye, and left an im- 
press. Every morning he read ‘“‘ No middle- 
man; no monopoly.’’ His curiosity was up. 
He was determined to see MUNSEY’sS MAGA- 
ZING at all hazards. Our advertisements read 
“On all news stands,’’ and yet his dealer failed 
him. In fact, no dealer had it. This made 
him want it all the more. He went to his 
dealer the fourth time, and still no magazine. 

Matters tookaturn. We were not present. 
We did not hear the conversation. At all 
events the dealer abandoned the middleman 
and wrote to us direct for a copy of the mag- 
azine. He did not write in a cheerful mood. 
He would not be bothered by sending direct to 
us ; would not handle the magazine unless he 
could get it through his regular wholesale 


agency. Neither would he handle it at the 
price, and above all things he would not send 
money in advance. This was conservatism. 
This was what the middleman had relied upon 
—what had killed every man who had hitherto 
ventured beyond the grasp of the wholesaler. 
It was natural that the dealer should take this 
position. Our plan was radical, and ten cents 
was a ridiculous price fora magazine. It meant 
less to the dealers, he argued. He was notin 
sympathy with us. MUNSEY’S MAGAZINE 
had no circulation, and he had no time to 
bother with dead stock. He was in business 
to make money, to handle the things that 
sold. Uncertainties did not appeal to him. 
And he was right—right all the way through— 
as right then in his disinclination to handle 
the magazine as he is now, and has been, in 
his splendid handling of it since it began to 
make a place for itself—began to show such 
selling qualities as he had never in his life 
seen before. 

We have recorded this much about the news- 
dealer’s position, as well as the position of the 
middleman, to show the conditions that con- 
fronted us. But all the while we were relying 
confidently upon the sober sense of the people. 
We went on without swerving to the right or to 
the left from the lines we had laid down. Every 
day our advertising forced itself upon the reader 
when he took up his morning paper ; every 
day we were busy on our November issue, and 
yet barely a copy of October was sold. 

But ten days later the sun had broken through 
the clouds. Copies of MUNSEyY’s had made 
their way into a number of communities, and 
forthwith there came back a flood of orders. 
In afew days our edition of twenty thousand 
was exhausted, and another of ten thousand was 
onthe press ; and before it was off, this second 
edition was exhausted, and a third ran the sales 
for the month up to forty thousand. November 
followed with sixty thousand, and December 
with one hundred thousand. From a sale of 
two thousand in September, we shot forward 
to a sale of two hundred and fifty five thou- 
sand in the following September, and six 
months: later—in March of the present year— 
we reached the magnificent figures of five hun- 
dred thousand. 

This is the history of the ten cent magazine— 
the history of how we made the ten cent mag- 
azine possible. 


THAT business is looking up is evidenced 
by an examination of our advertising pages. 
There is no more accurate barometer of the 
condition of trade and of the feeling of busi- 
ness men than the handsome advertising pages 

As it is the leading magazine in the world 
in circulation so also it is recognized as the 
leading medium for advertisers—a medium 
through which manufacturers and business 
houses may tell the people--the wide awake, 
up-to-date people—what they are doing ; what 
they have for them. 

"Iris" (Mrs. J. J. Shannon), 

From the painting by J.J. Shannon.