Bob Taylor’s Magazine

           $1.00 a Year.      Monthly.       10 Cents a Copy.




                         Contents for May, 1905.


    ═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
    FRONTISPIECE—The Robert E. Lee Monument                     122

    ADDRESS TO OLD CONFEDERATES              _Robert L. Taylor_ 123
                 Illustrated with photographs.

    IN THE DARK                          _Grace MacGowan Cooke_ 128
              Story. Illustrated by Mayne Cassell.

    THE SPINNER. (Poem)                        _Eloise Pickett_ 133

    MEN OF AFFAIRS                                              134
                 Illustrated with photographs.

    COTTON AND WAR                    _Richmond Pearson Hobson_ 140
                    With portrait of author.

    THE MASTER-HAND. (Poem)                 _Garnet Noel Wiley_ 144

    THE BOY IN GRAY                            _Will N. Harben_ 145
           Story. Illustrations by Lamira A. Goodwin.

    SONG. (Poem)                               _Robert Loveman_ 152

    THE PEOPLE OF THE SOUTHERN MILLS       _Leonora Beck Ellis_ 153
                 Illustrated with photographs.

    THE MERRY LADY. (Story)                      _Roger Pocock_ 159

    A ROYAL RESIDENCE                   _James Henry Stevenson_ 165
                 Illustrated with photographs.

    THE FINEST HOTEL. (Story).       _A. Lytle Peterman, Ph.D._ 173

    INDEFINITELY POSTPONED                _Eva Williams Malone_ 180
          Story. Illustrations by Mayna Treanor Avent.

    TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. (Poem)      _Isabella Howe Fisk_ 183

    TRAINING SCHOOLS IN TENNESSEE AND THE South
                                _J. H. Kirkland, D.C.L., Ph.D._ 184
                  Illustrated with photographs.

    THE FOREIGN WIFE                      _Claude M. Girardeau_ 192
                         Continued story.

    WHEN NELLIE SMILES. (Poem).                  _D’Arcy Moore_ 196

    SERIOUS PROBLEMS OF SCIENCE TO-DAY
                                   _Charles Baskerville, Ph.D._ 197
                     With portrait of author.

    “THE MESSAGE OF THE VIOLET.” (Story)             _G. D. G._ 201

    WHOSE TEMPLE YE ARE. (Poem).          _Isabella Howe Fiske_ 202

    LYRICAL AND SATIRICAL—Conducted by Vermouth                 203

    EDITORIAL                                                   206
           FRENZIED POLITICS. A TALE OF A LECTURE TOUR.
                        FOOLISH DREAMERS.

    LEISURE HOURS                                               213

    BOOKS AND AUTHORS—Conducted by Mrs. Genella Fitzgerald Nye  221

    THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW                   _Robert L. Taylor_ 225
                            Continued.

    SOUTHERN PLATFORM                                           227

        THE HUMOROUS, THE PATHETIC AND THE DRAMATIC.
        THE MYSTERIES                        _James Hunt Cook._
        THOMAS JEFFERSON AND THE AVERAGE MAN _Dana C. Johnson._
        THE LYCEUM PLATFORM                 _Dr. James Hedley._
        ECHOES FROM THE FIELD.
        A GREAT LECTURER                           _Opie Read._
    ═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════

  Copyright 1905 by The Taylor Publishing Co.      All rights reserved
            THE TAYLOR PUBLISHING COMPANY, Publishers,
                         _Vanderbilt Law Building_, Nashville, Tenn.




_BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE ADVERTISEMENTS._


THE WONDERFUL ELECTRIC CANDY MACHINE

WHICH TOOK THE PRIZE FOR “NOVELTY OF INVENTION” AT THE WORLD’S FAIR. ST.
LOUIS, MO., 1904

THE CANDY MADE BY THIS MACHINE IS ABSOLUTELY PURE.

[Illustration]

Granulated sugar is poured into the spinner and is instantly changed
into flossy filaments of PURE candy without the touch of a contaminating
finger.

Our machines are NEVER SOLD but leased for a period of ten years, giving
Lessee EXCLUSIVE control of the territory leased.

At Los Angeles, Cal., our Lessee made and sold 850 ten cent packages of
FAIRY FLOSS candy in one day from one machine.

Four FAIRY FLOSS candy machines which were operated at the Mechanics’
Pavilion, Boston, Mass., for twenty days in October, 1904, earned in that
time $1,750.00.

Our Lessee in Minneapolis, Minn., sold in seven days from one stand
running one machine, $205.00 worth of FAIRY FLOSS candy.

Our Lessee in Nashville, Tenn., sold $60.00 worth of FAIRY FLOSS candy
from one machine in one day.

A pound of sugar will make sixteen packages of FAIRY FLOSS candy, such as
was sold at the World’s Fair for ten cents each.

Our machines are fully protected by patents, dated January 31, 1899, and
January 6, 1903, and other patents pending.

Like money and other good things, our machines are being imitated.

The Public is Warned that machines not having this name plate are
infringements and users are liable to prosecution:

                             THE PROPERTY OF
                   THE ELECTRIC CANDY MACHINE COMPANY,
                     Nashville, Tennessee, U. S. A.

            Candy machine patented Jan. 31, ’99; Jan. 6, ’08.
               Motor patented Oct. 14, ’90; Nov. 10, ’91.

                   GENERAL ELECTRIC COMPANY, U. S. A.

                     FOR FURTHER INFORMATION ADDRESS
                     ELECTRIC CANDY MACHINE COMPANY,
                          NASHVILLE, TENNESSEE.

_In writing to advertisers please mention Bob Taylor’s Magazine._

[Illustration:

  EQUESTRIAN STATUE OF ROBERT E. LEE AT RICHMOND.
]




BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE

  ───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
  VOL. I                        MAY, 1905                           NO. 2
  ───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────




                      ADDRESS TO OLD CONFEDERATES.

                          By Robert L. Taylor.

          Delivered at the Confederate Reunion at Brownsville,
                         Tenn., in August, 1902.


Time in its tireless flight has brought us again to the full leaf and
flower of another summer. The grass grows green about the dust of heroes;
the roses twine once more about their tomb, and the morning-glories
point their purple bugles toward the sky as if to sound a reveille to
our immortal dead. Another year with its sunshine and its shadows, its
laughter and its tears, its sowing and its reaping, its cradle songs and
funeral hymns, now lies between us and that dark day at Appomattox when
the star of Southern hope went down and the flag of Southern chivalry was
furled forever. Another year has added whiter locks to the temples of
those old veterans who wore the gray, and deeper furrows to their brows,
and they now stand among us like solitary oaks in the middle of a fallen
forest, hoary with age, covered with scars, and glorious as the living
monuments of Southern manhood and Southern courage.

[Illustration:

  SAM DAVIS.
]

But we are not yet far enough away from that awful struggle to forget
the bloody hills of Shiloh, where Albert Sidney Johnston died, and the
fatal field of Chancellorsville, where Stonewall Jackson fell. We are
not yet far enough away to forget the frowning heights of Gettysburg,
where Pickett’s charging lines rushed to glory and the grave. We are
not yet far enough away to forget Murfreesboro, Missionary Ridge and
Chickamauga, and the hundred other fields of death and courage, where
the flower of the South, the bravest of the brave and the truest of the
true, fought for the cause they thought was right, and died for the land
they loved. We are not yet far enough away to forget the agony and the
tears of a nation that was crushed when the shattered armies of Lee and
Johnston, weary, half-starved, bare-footed and in rags, stacked their
arms in the gloom of defeat, and left the field of valor overwhelmed
and overpowered, yet undaunted and unconquered. When time has measured
off a thousand years, the world will not forget the sufferings and
the sacrifices of the brave men who so freely gave their fortunes and
shed their blood to preserve the most brilliant civilization that ever
flourished in any land or in any age, for literature loves a lost cause.

[Illustration:

  ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON.
]

Historians will some day sit down on our battlefield and write true
history—history that will surpass the wildest dreams of fancy that were
ever woven into fiction; and poets will linger among our graves and sing
sweeter songs than were ever sung before. For each monument is within
itself a volume of wild and thrilling adventure, and every tombstone
tells a story touching as the soldier’s last tear on the white bosom of
his manhood’s bride, tender as his last farewell.

I would not utter a word of bitterness against the men who wore the blue.
They fought and died under the old flag to perpetuate the Union, and they
were men worthy of Southern prowess and Southern valor. I would not, if I
could, rob Grant, the great and noble chieftain, of his fame and glory.
Every Southern soldier ought to stand with uncovered head when his name
is spoken. For when all was lost, in the darkest and saddest moment of
Southern history, he was magnanimous to Lee, and kind to his famished
and shattered army. Along the blue lines of the triumphant foe, when the
unhappy Confederates marched between them and laid down their guns, there
was no shout of victory nor flourish of trumpets, but only silence and
tears.

When the conflict had ended the Confederate soldier proudly stood among
the blackened walls of his ruined country, magnificent in the gloom of
defeat, and still a hero. His sword was broken, his home was in ashes,
the earth was red beneath him, the sky was black above him; he had placed
all in the scales of war and had lost all save honor. But he did not sit
down in despair to weep away the passing years.

His slaves were gone but he was still a master. Too proud to pine, too
strong to yield to adversity, he threw down his musket and laid his
willing but unskilled hands upon the waiting plow. He put away the
knapsack of war and turned his face toward the morning of peace. He
abandoned the rebel yell to enter the forum and the court room and the
hustings. He gave up the sword to enter the battles of industry and
commerce, and now, in little more than a third of a century, the land of
desolation and death, the land of monuments and memories, has reached the
springtime of a grander destiny, and the sun shines bright on the domes
and towers of new cities built upon the ashes of the old, and the cotton
fields wave their white banners of peace and the fields of wheat wave
back their banners of gold.

Who can portray the possibilities of a country that has produced the Lees
and Jacksons and the brilliant Gordon and the dashing Joe Wheeler, who is
as gallant in the blue as he was glorious in the gray, and the impetuous
and immortal Bedford Forrest, the Marshal Ney of the Confederacy? Who
can portray the possibilities of a country which has produced the
stalwart and sinewy men of the rank and file, who followed the stars and
bars through the smoke and flame of every desperate battle and stepped
proudly into history as the greatest fighters the world has ever known?—a
country so richly blessed not only with brave men and beautiful women,
but whose blossoming hills and fertile valleys are so generous and kind,
and whose mountains are burdened with coal and iron and copper and zinc
and lead enough to supply the world for a thousand years; whose virgin
forests yet stand awaiting and sighing for the woodsman’s ax, and whose
winding rivers flow clear and cool and make music as they go. It is the
beautiful land of love and liberty, of sunshine and sentiment, of fruits
and flowers, where the grape-vine staggers from tree to tree as if drunk
with the wine of its own purple clusters; where peach and plum and
blood-red cherries and every kind of berry bend bough and bush and glow
like showered drops of rubies and pearls. It is the land of the magnolia
and the melon, the paradise of the cotton and the cane.

They tell us now that it is the new South, but the same old blood runs
in the veins of these old veterans and the same old spirit heaves their
bosoms and flashes in their eyes; the same old soldiers who wielded
the musket long ago are nursing their grandchildren on their knees and
teaching them the same old lessons of honor and truth, and the same old
love of liberty. The mocking-bird sings the same old songs in the same
old tree, and the brooks laugh and leap down the same old hollows. It is
the same old South and we are the same old Southern people:

  There may be skies as blue, but none bluer;
  There may be hearts as true, but none truer.

[Illustration:

  STONEWALL JACKSON.
]

It is the same old land of the free and the same old home of the brave.
It is the same old South resurrected from the dead, with the prints of
the nails still in its hands and the scars of the spear still in its side.

  “I’m glad I am in Dixie,
    Look away! Look away!
  And live and die for Dixie,
    Look away! Look away!
  Look away down South in Dixie.”

Within the borders of this fair land of Dixie the finest opportunities
for investment and the richest fields for enterprise ever known in the
Western Hemisphere are now open to all who wish to come and help us to
make it blossom like the rose. A new development has already begun.
Thirty years ago there was not a factory in South Carolina. To-day she
is spinning and weaving more cotton than she raises and is second only
to Massachusetts in the manufacture of cotton goods; and North Carolina
and Georgia have made equal progress with South Carolina in this new
idea of making the South not only the leader in agriculture, but also
in converting our raw material into finished articles of commerce and
trade, and thus saving to our section countless millions of wealth. In
the mountains of south-western Virginia, south-eastern Kentucky, East
Tennessee, North Alabama, where the sunshine plays hide and seek with
the shadows, and where many rivers are born, there is a beautiful valley
six hundred miles in length and from one to thirty miles wide. Until
a quarter of a century ago the principal product of that country was
children. The people did not realize that the north rim of the valley was
almost an unbroken vein of coal and that the South was an exhaustless bed
of iron, and they placed but little value on the vast parks of timber
where the ax had never gleamed, but now the dynamite has just begun to
jar the silent hills and the forests have just begun to fall. Birmingham
is making the sky of night red with the glare of her furnaces, and all
the way up the valley to the new city of Roanoke new furnaces are being
lighted and new industries are developing, and Huntsville, Decatur,
Chattanooga, Knoxville, Johnson City and Bristol on the line, will soon
be great manufacturing centers, where the pig iron and the logs of
hardwood that are now being shipped away to be converted into finished
articles will pass through our own mills and we will cease to be the
fools we have been in the past, buying furniture made in foreign cities
out of our own timber and all the implements of agriculture made out of
our own iron.

[Illustration:

  GENERAL GORDON.
]

Until twenty years ago the sons of Mississippi, Louisiana and Arkansas
were contented to sit on their verandas and watch the “nigger” and his
lazy mule in the cotton field and listen to the melodies of the old
plantation. But now the mills of Mississippi are beginning to mingle
their music with these melodies, and the marshes of Louisiana are being
converted into rice fields and she is making enough sugar to-day to
sweeten the tooth of the world. Arkansas is building factories and
opening her mines and mineral wealth, and sawing down her great forests
of pine. At the close of the Civil War Texas was a wilderness, but now
the howl of the wolf has given place to the whistle of the engine, and
the whoop of the Indian has been hushed by the music of machinery. From
Texarkana to El Paso prosperous cities and towns have sprung up like
prairie flowers where the wild horse once galloped and the buffalo
grazed, and great geysers of coal oil have solved the fuel problem.

In the full development of this new idea of transforming our raw material
into finished goods lies our hope of regaining our prestige and power
in the management of national affairs, and of winning back billions of
wealth which were wiped out by the destroying angel of war. God grant
that our beloved old South may be as happy in reaping the golden harvest
of prosperity in the years to come as she has been brave and true through
the suffering and woes of adversity in the sorrowful years of the past.

And now, my grizzled old friends who once wore the gray, in the name of
the young men I congratulate you upon having lived to see the dawn of
a brighter day for your battle-scarred and war-swept country. You must
soon answer to the roll call of eternity and join your comrades on the
other side. I give you the pledge of your sons that they will ever defend
the record you have made and themselves live up to the traditions of
their fathers. In the name of our women, both young and old, I implore
the blessing of the Lord upon you, and pray that as the dews of life’s
evening are condensing on your brow and the shadows of the long, long
night are gathering about you, you may linger long in the twilight, with
loving hands to lead you and loving hearts to bless.

[Illustration:

  HARRISON’S GIFT AT CAMP CHASE.
]




                              IN THE DARK.

                             [Illustration]

                         By Grace MacGowan Cooke


Virginia sat late at her work. Or rather, she sat before the desk
which contained her work and fought the battle which is as old as our
conception of a woman’s duty. She had that day listened to words of love
from a man whom her heart rose up to answer—she, betrothed to Parke
Winchester. Hasn’t a woman a right to change her mind? Ah, but Parke—his
salvation as well as his happiness was in her hands! Had he not told her
so a hundred times? Was he not drinking hard, and going straight to the
dogs when she was coaxed into this secret pact with him? If she let him
go, if she pushed him away from her, would he not fall lower? Could she
ever forgive herself?

Then, she was uneasy about Fair; her young brother was evidently finding
companions who did him no good. Twice he had come home of late so much
under the influence of drink that she was put to the utmost of her powers
to keep the matter from her father. She had no mother, she and Fair were
the only children. In her desperation she had gone to Winchester; he
would know, he would understand. She remembered the feverish eagerness
with which he had answered her.

“You know, of course, Virginia, that I haven’t touched a drop since you
promised to marry me. I can’t bear the thought of the stuff now. But I’ll
hang around some of the places where it’s sold and catch up with Fair. I
can help him. I can save him for you, Virginia, honey, because I’ve been
there myself.”

Now, if she broke her word to Winchester she was losing more than her
lover, for he had added fiercely, “But if you cast me off, if you
break with me, I’ll go straight to the devil. You’ve got that on your
conscience, little woman. I’ll go, and I’ll take Fair with me if I can.
You’ve got the souls of two men in your keeping, for if you were my
wife—as long as you have promised to be my wife—I’d as soon think of
stealing a Bible from a church as taking a drink of whisky.”

Then came the thought of the other man, whom she could really love—the
man who would save his own soul and not ask the sacrifice of a woman’s
happiness for his salvation. Yet, she reasoned, it was a marvelous thing
that her influence should have kept her betrothed from even the desire
for drink. She half wished for a moment that influence were not so great.
Then she reproved herself, sighed and pushed the heavy, dark hair from
off her forehead. A vagrant, scuffling sound from the hallway outside
kept intruding upon her consciousness. Finally the little intermittent
noise secured her attention, and then she thought a dog or a cat must
have been left inside when the house was closed for the night. She
stepped to the door, to be met by a shambling, bowing old figure, and
Uncle Vete’s deprecating, apologetic face.

“I hates ter ’sturb you, li’l Mis,” he protested. “I hates might’ly ter
’sturb you; but dey’s trouble out to my house—I spect you knows ’bout it,
honey.”

Virginia drew back, took up her lamp and motioned the old man to follow
her downstairs to the dining room. “Don’t wake father, if it’s about
Fairfax,” she cautioned. “It would only hurt his feelings, and make a bad
matter worse.”

“Yas, baby chile, dat des’ what Vete was fearin’.” They stole softly
to the dining room, and stood there confronted in the lamplight, the
tall girl in her white dress, and the wizened little old negro in his
comically ill-fitting broadcloth, hat in hand.

“You see ’t ’uz dishyer way: Marse Fair, he come out ter my place dis
mawnin’—you know, Mis’, he train wid a feller what allers come out dar
when he git ter spreein’. I uzzen’ dar. ’Ouldn’t ’a’ been no trouble ef
I’d a’ been dar. Unk’ Vete can manage de bofe of ’em, tell dey git too
bad.”

“Who was with my brother?” inquired the girl sharply.

The little old black man stole a side-long look at his interlocutrice. He
was a slave, born on the Sevier plantation, body servant to her father,
General Sevier, in whose discarded wear he now stood; and loyalty to the
name warred in him with that freemasonry which keeps the male silent
about the shortcomings of another male, when speaking to the woman who
most needs to be warned of them.

“Dey dest one feller lef’ wid Marse Fair,” he mumbled. “Dey wuz a whole
passel o’ boys dis mawnin’. But dem yutheh boys tuk an’ went home, whiles
dey could walk. An’ I cain’t git Marse Fair to move.”

“Well, Uncle Vete, I’ll put on my things and go with you,” said Virginia,
with sudden resolution. “I can manage Fair.” Returning, hat in hand, she
had the curiosity to inquire, “How did you get in, Uncle Vete?”

“W’y, yo’ cook lady hyer, she a sisteh in de ‘Ban’ o’ High and Glor’ous
Wardens,’ an’ I b’longs to de same division; an’ she lef’ me in, honey;
she lef’ me in.”

“Did you drive?”

“I come ’long er’ ol’ Belzybug an’ de cyart.”

“And Beelzebub has made two trips to-day,” added Virginia. “He must be
tired. Put him in the barn, Uncle Vete, and we’ll get a street hack as we
go down past Summer Avenue.”

“An’ have ol’ Marse askin’ quisti’ns ’bout dat mule in de mawnin’? No,
ma’am. No, li’l lady. I got a frien’, down de road hyer a piece, what
keep a wagon yawd. I gwine leave dat mule dah, Miss Ginnie.”

The streets were quite deserted; it was near twelve o’clock. Virginia was
glad that she met no one, though the little old black man bobbing after
her was as efficient an escort and protector as she could have had. The
street hack of the small Southern city is most commonly a vehicle of the
family carriage style; probably many of them have descended from the
estate of domestic privacy. One found, its sleeping driver wakened, his
gaunt horse prodded into action, Virginia leaned forward, and began to
ask Uncle Vete further questions in a carefully lowered tone, as he sat
beside the driver.

“Is he worse than before?”

“’Bout de same, honey, des ’bout de same. I is saw ’um mo’ ’rageous; an’
ergin, I is saw ’um less ’rageous. ’Bout so an’ so, honey. Des ’bout so
an’ so, Miss Ginnie, chile.”

“You say there’s some one with him; are they inside the house?”

Uncle Vete grinned, and twisted in his seat. “Yas, honey,” he admitted,
finally. “Dey bofe inside de house, an’ de fambly, dey on de outside. Dat
whut mek me come fer you dis time er night.”

“Do you mean that they turned you out?”

“Yas, honey. I foun’ Cindy an’ de chillen all turn’t out an’ blockaded,
an’ young Marse a shootin’ th’oo de do’ ef anybody speak ter ’im.”

Virginia leaned back in silence. The crazy old vehicle creaked and
rattled over the rough road. Its one sorry horse made slow progress.

Fairfax Sevier, less than two years older than his sister, Virginia, was
a handsome, brilliant, lovable young fellow, endeared to her by the same
qualities and the same odd unexpected little lapses and weak spots which
endlessly charmed and perplexed her in her father.

The general was a peculiarly high-minded, honorable man, with all in his
character that makes for good citizenship. He had brought through a youth
which was not without its little scattered patches of wild oats, and a
famously dare-devil military career during the Civil War, an unpollutable
vein of childlike innocency. It was not that he failed to see evil, or to
know it and understand it. But he saw and knew these things as a child
does, intelligent, but unsoiled.

His most marked characteristic was a determined disposition to meddle
with the affairs of no human creature, to refuse authority, because it
implied responsibility; to let—as he felicitously phrased it—every fellow
go to the devil his own gait.

This trait made him, among his children, always more a brother than
a parent, and was most amusingly displayed during their infancy and
childhood. He would stand aloof from a small offender who was weltering
defiantly in infantile crime. Bending his handsome head, he would look
from his very considerable height down to the little sinner before him,
and addressing it in the most confidential tone of perfect equality,
remark:

“You’re making a pretty mess of things there; now, aren’t you? Think you
want to bust that, do you? Do you know, you’re going to be mighty sorry
when you get done this business? And like enough your mother’ll spank
you, too.”

When, as had occurred twice of late, Fair was led to participate in wild
sprees, this was scarcely the father to whom an appeal for assistance or
the exercise of salutary authority would be addressed. Virginia could
hear him saying, with a flash of those big dark eyes, “Well, well,
Ginnie, I can’t keep him in a glass case, just because he happens to be
my son. Let him see the folly of it. Let him find out whether he wants
to be a drunkard or not. Every man must do that for himself. Your
conclusion—or mine—that he doesn’t want to do this sort of thing, isn’t
valid. It could not be incorporated into his character. He must be free
to make some selection of his own.”

Arrived at the cabin, a belated, waning moon showed them the little hut,
dark and silent. “I boun’ y’ Marse Fair done break dat lamp. Hit ’uz
burnin’, time I lef’,” muttered the old man.

The sound of their wheels brought a dusky, straggling group to the gate.
The nucleus of this group was Uncle Vete’s last wife, a round-faced
young mulatto woman, with a baby in her arms. About her churned and
bobbed a tribe of various sizes, part of them clinging to her skirts and
whimpering sleepily.

Cindy was a cheerful soul, with a giggle ready to burst forth upon the
slightest provocation, or no provocation at all. Virginia glanced in
distress at the baby. “Oh, Cindy,” she cried, “poor little thing! Why,
it’s too bad for you to be out here in the night air with that young
child.”

“He ain’t des’ so overly turrible young, Miss Fa’ginny,” returned Cindy
with her comfortable chuckle. “De big chillen mo’ skeerter dan whut he
is.”

Virginia, full of indignation, sprang from the carriage. “Tek keer,
honey!” cautioned Uncle Vete, as she hurried through the yard. “Dey’s
th’ee o’ my youngest sleepin’ dah un’neath dat ’simmon tree.”

Avoiding the slumberers beneath the persimmon, Virginia made directly for
the door.

“Hol’ on! Hol’ on! My precious chile! Yo’ gwine get yo’se’f shot!” urged
Vete. Cindy screamed, and all the children who were awake began to wail
in concert.

Like a sensible girl, Virginia stood aside from the panels, back where
the heavy logs protected her. (“An’ one dem shots might sail th’oo de
chinkin’ des’ easy ez not!” Cindy whimpered.) She struck on the door and
cried, “Fair—Fairfax! Open this door!”

The answer came in the form of a bullet.

[Illustration:

  “Buddy,” she said, huskily, “Buddy, dear, I brought a hack out for you.”
]

At the report, Cindy uttered a yell so efficient and comprehensive that
Virginia supposed her no less than mortally wounded. The children, even
those lying so soundly asleep on the ground that they had not been
wakened when Virginia stepped almost upon them, rose up and fled to their
mother’s wide-spread, sheltering arms, like a brood of alarmed chickens
fleeing from a hawk.

“Eph’um! Bandoline! Baxter! Pearline! Commodory? Whey is you-all—whey is
you-all? Oh, Lawdy! _Lawdy!_ I is got mo’ child’en dan dis! I _knows_ I’s
got mo’ child’en dan whut dis is! Young Marse done kill some on ’em!”
rose Cindy’s excited shriek.

There came a second shot, before Virginia rapped again, crying angrily,
“It is I, Virginia. Put up your pistol and open the door!”

After a very long silence within the hut. “I ’spects dey done napped
off,” mildly suggested Uncle Vete. Virginia was preparing to knock again,
when a little gust of wind arising, the door swung silently open, showing
that it had been unbarred for some time.

Virginia stepped into the room, carrying one of the carriage lamps and
unheeding Uncle Vete’s caution to “Go easy, honey, an’ holler ’fo’ you
git inside, so dey know who comin’.”

Fair’s companion lay sprawled upon the gay patchwork quilt of Cindy’s
best bed. He was, or pretended to be, sleeping heavily. The hack driver
would have to be called if he was to be roused and gotten into the
vehicle.

At the table, his head among half-filled and empty glasses, and the wreck
of a poker game, sat Fairfax Sevier. Virginia went with averted eyes past
the bed to her brother, and shook him by the shoulder.

“Buddy,” she said huskily, “Buddy, dear, I brought a hack out for you.
Can you walk to it?”

“Who’s goin’—take care—Parke? Parke’s been drinkin’,” explained poor
Fair, with something like a whimper.

Virginia turned to the bed; and contempt fell cool upon her suffering. A
face in drunken slumber is not calculated to command respect, even to win
much sympathy.

The girl took the shock like the daughter of warriors that she was. “Does
Parke Winchester drink now?” she inquired, finally, of the negro.

Again Vete stole that quick, side-long glance at her. “I ain’t never
knowed de time Marse Parke quit,” he returned finally. “He might fool de
white folks ’bout hit, but he ain’t take dat trouble wid de niggers. Him
an’ Marse Fair been at my house mo’ dan onct lately.”

Parke, then, had not only never given up his drinking; he had been
actually initiating Fairfax Sevier into the great and inglorious guild of
topers, while he deceived the sister with promises that he would find who
it was Fair drank with and look after the boy.

She was free; but not yet could her heart rise to the knowledge. The
bowed, boyish figure before her, the degradation of that sleeper upon the
negro’s poor bed—these left her very pitiful. “He’ll be quiet and behave
himself now, Uncle Vete.” she said; “I’ll take Fair with me—we can’t move
him,” indicating Winchester. “Let him sleep.”

“O, yassum, yassum. He be all right in de mawnin’. He been all right
ternight, ef I could jest er got hol’ ’er ’im. Dishyer negoshulatin’ wid
’er man th’oo er do’, an’ him er doin’ his talkin’ wid er gun, hit’s
unsartin kin’ er wuyck.”

Still in a daze Virginia picked up a pistol from the floor, turned the
cylinder to see that it was unloaded, and dropped it into the pocket of
Parke’s light overcoat.

At the action, Fair showed his first consciousness of her presence
“You’ll get yourself shot one—these days, Virginia,” he muttered, half
irritably, half penitently. “—’dvise you—let such things ’lone.” And one
could not have said whether he meant, by this, her present handling of
the firearm itself, her former reckless demand that he open the door, or
her presence on such a scene.

Uncle Vete assured Virginia that he would look after Parke for the night,
and would see that he reached home in the morning. She gently declined
the old man’s offer to return to town with her, and promised to send
Beelzebub out by Sam, Cindy’s eldest, who was acting as house-boy at the
Sevier home. The drive in the night air, and Virginia’s presence somewhat
sobered her brother. “Does dad know?” he asked, as they neared home.

“I didn’t wake him,” responded Virginia.

Fair turned, as he lay with his head against her shoulder. He was
beginning to be deathly sick—the end of all Fair’s essays at drinking.
“You’re a good girl, Virginia. Mighty good girl. I reckon you’ll get your
reward in heaven.”

But, driving home under the stars, freed from a self-imposed bond, warned
that she might in future protect this well-beloved sinner whose head lay
on her breast, ready now to accept the love of the man she loved, with no
shadow on her conscience—Virginia felt that she had her reward here, now
and in this world.




                              THE SPINNER.

                           BY ELOISE PICKETT.


               Wearied to death of my thoughts!
               Is there none, in this epoch of wondrous wares,
               Will sell me a fair, sweet dream?

               I summoned my spirit, this morn, to be chid
               For her endless weaving of gloom;
               But she lifted me retrospective eyes,
               Burning and dry (for the tears, dammed back,
               Have found them a pool in my heart);
               Her face was wan, and her mouth was set
               In the hard, thin line of resolve.
               And I left unsaid my stern rebuke,
               But her answer cried loud in her mien:
               “_I_ weave; but the warp and the woof are thine;
               Thou madest them yesterday.”
               And so I watch, with sickening hope,
               As her busy fingers ply
               ’Mongst threads from the throbbing Other Days,
               And wisps from the ominous Days to Come,
               And skeins from the stagnant Now.

               Wearied to death of my thoughts!
               Is there none, in this epoch of cunning skill,
               Can weave me thought-fabrics fair?

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

                             MEN OF AFFAIRS


                            Joseph W. Bailey.

One of the most youthful members of the government’s gravest and
most august legislative body is Senator Joseph W. Bailey, a typical
representative of the biggest, the breeziest and the most untrammeled,
if not the most patriotic and progressive commonwealth in the Union. A
natural leader, an orator of plausibility and power and a politician
of resource and acumen, he is besides admittedly one of the ablest
constitutional lawyers in public life.

Though a native of Mississippi and a legal product of Cumberland
University, Tennessee, Senator Bailey is a Texan seemingly to the manner
born. He looks, speaks, thinks and feels Texas, and having won his spurs
so creditably in the congressional jousts his people have gratefully
recognized his talents by entrusting him with the higher responsibilities
of senator.

While Senator Bailey is a virile product of the present and coming
generation in the South he has not been inclined to relinquish the
habits, dress and thought of the passing regime and his picturesque
personality is doubtless as readily recognized by resident of and
visitor to Washington as any other public character of the times. In
no particular do his old-school propensities more emphatically display
themselves than in his native love for rural life and natural objects.
His chief hobby comprises the maintenance of an expansive estate whereon
he rears the sportive thoroughbred, so dear to the heart of the rural
Southerner, and whereon he spends in the open very much of his leisure
time.

Senator Bailey is a close student of men, politics and affairs, and
is of the South, social, though he has no taste for the conventional
society of the city.


                            James D. Porter.

For nearly half a century has the Honorable James D. Porter figured
eminently but modestly as a public servant politically, civilly and
commercially. A native of Tennessee, in which State he has spent nearly
all of his eventful life, he was born at Paris, in 1828, and was admitted
to the bar in 1859. With a disposition toward the public service, from
a State legislator he became a circuit judge, and from the bench he
ascended to the gubernatorial chair, which he was twice called upon to
occupy. His large and worthy talents coming to the notice of President
Cleveland, he was invited during his first term to serve as Assistant
Secretary of State, which he did with such satisfaction as to receive
during the President’s second term his credentials as the government’s
official representative to Chili, in which capacity he attracted
attention by his tactful reestablishment of friendly relations between
the two countries.

In the active commercial affairs of life he has been likewise prominent,
being sometime president of the Nashville, Chattanooga and St. Louis
Railroad Company, and as a soldier of the gray he gallantly participated
in many of the fiercest conflicts of the war as Adjutant General under
General Frank Cheatham.

[Illustration:

  HON. JOSEPH W. BAILEY.
]

In 1901 he was selected by virtue of his wide experience in affairs,
executive ability, character and attainments, as the most suitable head
of the great Peabody benefaction to the cause of Southern education,
and he is successfully rounding his period of long and devoted public
service to the administration of this popular munificence as President
of the Peabody Normal College and University of Nashville. With every
assurance of early success he is now engaged in raising from the State of
Tennessee, the City of Nashville, and by popular subscription, $250,000
which, when attained, will carry with it a permanent endowment of a
million dollars from the Peabody estate. President Porter is a man of
distinguished bearing and impressive address.

[Illustration:

  JAMES D. PORTER.
]


                             Joseph W. Folk.

Missouri’s young governor has received probably more free and favorable
publicity than any other citizen of the Republic, and the public is so
well informed as to his life and record that anything said of him here
would be merely cumulative and by way of favorable repetition. It is
gratifying to command the approval of friends and partisans, but it is
a delicate and trying obligation to have to live up to the encomiums of
non-partisans and erstwhile opponents. With nothing but good said of
his ability and integrity, Governor Folk’s position in politics, which
now has a decided national aspect, presents a most interesting field of
speculation to the student of politics and affairs.

First coming into local prominence in St. Louis as an able and fearless
criminal prosecutor whom a powerful and never-before-thwarted partisan
political machine could not influence or intimidate, Governor Folk
developed into national prominence through his relentless warfare upon
the local boodling regime, his successes influencing municipal reforms
throughout the country and rendering him so strong with the masses of
statesmen regardless of political complexion, that they triumphantly
elevated him to the gubernatorial station in the face of an otherwise
astonishing landslide in the other direction.

[Illustration:

  JOSEPH W. FOLK.
]

Governor Folk is a native of Brownsville, Tenn., where he was born about
thirty-seven years ago, and is a product of purely Southern environment,
rearing and education. Graduating from the Vanderbilt University law
school fifteen years ago, he started at about the lowest and roughest
rung of the ladder, a struggling young country lawyer in his native
town. In quest of opportunities more in keeping with his talents and
ambitions, he soon joined the large Tennessee colony in St. Louis, not
long thereafter attaining to some local notice as a political leader by
being elected president of the representative Democratic organization.

[Illustration:

  WARREN A. CANDLER.
]

It is truly said that all great human successes are a combination of
fortuitous circumstance, and the genius to take advantage thereof.
Governor Folk’s mastery of a complicated local situation wherein he
represented a supposed hopeless political movement, turned seeming defeat
into a brilliant victory, and he was elected District Attorney, since
which time his record is known to the country at large.


                           Warren A. Candler.

A virile and dominant figure in Southern religious life is Rev. Warren
Akin Candler, youngest bishop of the Methodist Episcopal Church, South.
Of a family probably second to none in Georgia from the standpoint of
the prominence of its sons in public life in that State to-day, Bishop
Candler was born forty-eight years ago in Carroll County. Educated
at Emory College, from which he graduated with first honors in 1875,
he immediately entered the ministry, ascending rapidly the ladder of
ecclesiastical promotion from the humblest rural circuit to the most
influential urban charge. From presiding elder of the Dahlonega and
Oxford districts he served for two years in the editorial field as
assistant editor of the _Christian Advocate_ in Nashville. In 1888 he
was called to the very large activity of presiding over the destinies
of Emory College, his _alma mater_, which institution enjoyed during
the decade of his administration its highest period of strength and
usefulness.

With a distinguished record in all vital departments of his church
labors, Bishop Candler’s early elevation to the bishopric when barely
past forty years of age was a merited and logical testimonial to his
eminent capacity for religious leadership and organization. This exalted
promotion came to him at the hands of the Baltimore Conference of 1898.

Besides being a pulpit orator of vigor and lucidity, Bishop Candler
is a luminous expositor of secular themes and has rounded out a very
busy career by producing several well-known religious and general
publications, including a “History of Sunday Schools,” “Georgia’s
Educational Work,” “Christus Auctor,” “High Living and High Lives,” and
“Great Revivals and the Great Republic.”

Bishop Candler’s official residence is Atlanta.

[Illustration:

  RICHMOND PEARSON HOBSON.
]

  Richmond Pearson Hobson, who contributes the following
  thoughtful paper to the MAGAZINE, is so well known to our
  readers that it is hardly necessary to say anything here by way
  of comment upon his eventful history. Since his retirement from
  the navy, Captain Hobson has devoted much attention to political
  affairs, and it is safe to predict that his services to the
  public will be marked by the earnestness and devotion to duty
  which brought him his well-merited fame as an officer in the
  United States navy.—ED.




                             COTTON AND WAR.

      [Part of an address delivered by Mr. Hobson before the Cotton
                   Growers’ Association last January.]

                       By Richmond Pearson Hobson.


The price of cotton, like other prices, is settled by the relation
of supply and demand. In face of the sudden depression, due to the
increased volume of supply in the large crop, we are liable to overlook
and underestimate the importance of the factors influencing the demand.
Sojourning about the world has convinced me that the factors of demand
are more pliable and more accessible than those of supply. In truth, a
single factor reducing demand, the war in the Orient, is responsible
for depression amounting to from 7 to 8 cents a pound, while the total
depression due to the big crop is scarcely more than 3 cents a pound.

Furthermore, the question of adjusting the supply for the next year,
cannot be intelligently settled until after investigation of the probable
demand.

Therefore, I invite your attention for a few minutes to the question of
demand, and especially to the factor of war, since we are now in the
presence of the great struggle in the Orient.

The old sources of demand, Europe and America, have gone on slowly
increasing with the increase of population, and the rise of the standard
of comfort, though a check was sustained by the outbreak of the Boer War,
which saw a falling off of over one million bales in the consumption of
the united commodities. This slow increase in demand has been more than
balanced by the steady increase in supply, coming chiefly from the larger
acreage and larger increase of commercial fertilizers in the South.
Consequently, for several decades the price of cotton has had a steady
trend downward. It was only when new demands came from new markets that
the price started upward. The chief of the new markets are those of the
Orient. Japan has made great strides in the cotton mill industry, until
at the outbreak of the present war, she was consuming over $50,000,000
worth of cotton annually.

But more important even than Japan, has been the new market of China,
which, when the present war came, amounted to $90,000,000 annually,
chiefly coarse cotton goods, of which a large part has been furnished by
Southern mills.

These two markets have come to consume more cotton than is produced by
Alabama and Mississippi combined. It is not surprising, therefore, that
in spite of the steadily increasing production, the price has steadily
risen. The rise has been especially marked since the Boxer disturbances
that were followed by a new impulsion in the opening up of China.

As great as this new market has become, it is only in its infancy.

If China were opened up, free to the commerce of all nations, its four
hundred and thirty millions of industrial people, would rise from a five
cent wage basis to a 20 cent, 30 cent, or even 40 or 50 cent basis, and
the average man, instead of having his present outfit of about a half
suit of cotton clothes, would have four or five whole suits, which are
pulled on in multiple numbers, according to the coldness of the day.
This would so increase the world’s demand for cotton that even with a
20,000,000 bale crop, the price could be hardly kept down to 20 cents per
pound.

The picture here disclosed is not visionary. Thousands of Chinese worked
under my inspection for months reconstructing gun-boats at Hong Kong. The
above estimates of their industrial capacity are conservative. Knowing
both peoples, I do not hesitate to say that the industrial capacity of
a Chinaman is far greater than that of a Japanese, while there are over
ten times as many Chinese as Japanese. Moreover, the facilities for
communication are advancing. The eyes of the world have been thrown upon
China, and the point of the wedge has been entered. A few decades can
see marvelous growth in this young giant of a market. I estimate that
before this century is half turned, China, properly opened up, will add
more than $5,000,000,000 annually to the world’s commerce, and one of
the chief staples of this commerce will be cotton, first the goods, then
the raw materials, creating a consumption as great as that of all Europe
combined.

But this greatest of all coming cotton markets is the most sensitive
and the most exposed. When war broke out in the Orient last year, it
was clear that Japan and Russia, under the exhaustion, would decline
in buying power, and that the thriving cotton trade of Manchuria would
be cut off entirely, while the fate of China might become involved and
endanger the whole Chinese market. Consequently, the day after war was
declared, cotton slumped 5 cents a pound, and started on its downward
path, going off nearly 8 cents a pound before indications came in of the
large crop, which brought about a further decline of about 3 cents a
pound.

The grievous depression we are passing through must be attributed to the
war in the Orient. Without war cotton would now be from 12 to 15 cents
per pound, even with the big crop. Think what prosperity this would have
meant. Can anyone contend that the United States should be indifferent to
this war? It may be pointed out that our diplomatic moves were masterful,
both in getting the powers to commit themselves to limiting the war zone,
and to preserving the integrity of China, and also in negotiating, by
cable, treaties with China, not Russia, opening up Mukden, Dalny and
Antung, in Manchuria, thus recognizing Chinese sovereignty, and placing
the United States in the same attitude as Japan, in standing for the
evacuation of Manchuria. Unfortunately, our diplomatic moves had but
little deterrent effect, not being backed by an adequate navy. Had we
possessed an adequate navy, I am bold to say that Manchuria would have
been evacuated and the war would not have come to disturb the earth and
bring the present depression over the Southern people.

It is hardly necessary to point out that our losses already incurred
would have covered many fields over the cost of such a navy.

But as great as are these losses they cannot compare with the greater
losses that may lie ahead, if the present drift of events should go
unchecked and lead to a general war over the division of China.

Naturally, the Continental powers of Europe do not wish to have to
compete with our industrial nation on the basis of an equal footing in
this great market. They have, therefore, combined to seize China by
force, and partition it among themselves, leaving the industrial nations
out.

The first step taken in this direction came at the conclusion of the
war between China and Japan, when the Continental powers intervened to
despoil Japan of the fruits of victory, preventing the consummation
of the treaty of Shimonosoki, that would have ceded to Japan part of
Manchuria, including the Liaotung Peninsula with Port Arthur. Soon Russia
came to occupy the same territory wrested from Japan, Germany seized
Kiaochao, and part of the Shantung Peninsula, Italy attempted to seize a
Chinese port, and France became active on the frontier of Indo-China.

The next step in the seizure of China is planned for the present war.
Indeed, the seizure of China is the very purpose of the war, and to this
end Russia is conducting her war operations.

The chief aim of this year’s campaign has been to change the public
opinion of Europe. Thus it is that Russia has conducted a pre-arranged
system of retreats, and that the inspired press of Europe has raised the
hue and cry of “Yellow Peril,” with such success that the peoples now
stand with their governments on the side of Russia. The combination is
ready to move, and we can expect renewed reports of Chinese violation,
of neutrality, of Chinese disturbances and Japanese intrigues in China,
Russia reporting upon the affairs in Mongolia, France upon the affairs
in Kwangsi, and Germany in Shantung and Chili. The agents of these
powers will probably facilitate and exaggerate the Chinese disturbances,
and then upon the pretext of preventing massacre and a general Chinese
uprising, the armies by pre-arranged program will enter and occupy the
Provinces of China, never again to leave.

Opposition on the part of Great Britain is evidently anticipated, and the
inexplicable seizure of British ships, followed later by the inexplicable
firing upon British fishing vessels, appears as part of a plan to excite
British indignation, so that at the opportune moment, the British may be
the more easily provoked to commit an act of war which would at once put
into operation the Russian treaty of alliance with France, and this would
be the signal for Germany, Austria-Hungary and Italy to join Russia and
France.

Thus the present war is producing a grouping that imperils the balance
of power, placing a heavy preponderance on the side of the military as
against the industrial nations or on the side of war as against the peace
forces. No thoughtful observer can fail to see here all the elements for
a world war; nor can we look except with alarm upon the declination by
the military powers of the interstate to the proposed second convention
of The Hague, and the Russian note complaining of alleged violation of
neutrality by China. It is idle to imagine that the United States, the
foremost industrial power, with more at stake in the Orient than any
nation, could look on with indifference.

We should awaken to the full significance of the events gathering in the
Orient. The two antagonistic systems, militarism and industrialism, are
gathering for a death struggle. The Orient is the battle ground—China is
the objective.

If militarism succeeds in intrenching itself upon the yellow race,
securing the myriads upon which to levy for men and for means, then it
will perpetuate its harsh reign for centuries yet to come.

On the other hand, if thwarted in obtaining the spoils of war and left
simply to a fair competition, militarism will be unable to hold its own,
and will be driven to the wall, and be compelled to disarm by the great
economic forces of commerce and industry, and we can then confidently
expect the establishment of general and enduring peace long ere this
century is gone.

What would be the effect upon cotton?

If peace is restored and maintained, cotton will start again upon its
upward course and in a few years, with such a vast demand as China would
create, I am conservative in saying that the price would pass the 20 cent
mark, and remain above this mark, no matter how large the crop.

On the other hand, if events are allowed to drift on and a general war
comes, cotton would become a drug on the market, even though reduced
acreage, calamity and distress would spread over the South. Indeed, with
militarism uppermost, wars and rumors of wars would continually disturb
the world, nations would be exhausted and lose in their buying capacity,
and the myriads of helpless peoples would pass under the military yoke
and remain unable to buy clothing. The greatest source of Southern
prosperity would be permanently blighted, and a serious blow would be
struck at the general prosperity of America, and at the happiness of
mankind.

Under these circumstances, when it is a question of 3½ cent cotton or 25
cent cotton, I do not hesitate to say that the solid influence of the
South should be felt for having our country act promptly and vigorously,
to use every proper means to restore the balance of the world on the
side of peace, and to bring about the ending of the present war and the
restoration of Manchuria to the commerce of the world.

It only remains for us to refer summarily to the factors of supply. It
is practically certain that the South will continue to produce the bulk
of the world’s cotton. During the Civil War, when cotton was over $1.00
a pound, persistent efforts were made all over the world to develop
cotton growing, but in vain. The Gulf Stream on one side, and a vast
continent on the other, produce climatic conditions for cotton culture
not duplicated anywhere else in the world. We may expect some increase
in the output of Egypt on account of developing irrigation, and possibly
a temporary increase in the output of India, and other secondary sources
due to the recent high price, but the present depression will tend to
check this movement. Therefore, the South may be expected to continue to
produce over 80 per cent of the world’s supply so that the question of
supply lies in our own hands.

The two factors in determining the supply are the seasons and the
acreage. While the general law of the average holds, history shows that
the temperate zone is liable to wide fluctuations in seasons, which it is
impossible to foresee. The recourse to offset the unhappy consequences of
wide fluctuations is a reservoir or fly-wheel, into which the fat years
can pour their supplies for making up the deficit of the lean years. The
uncertainty of cotton demand, hinging upon war or peace, is now added to
the uncertainty of the cotton season. Recourse to storage is therefore
absolutely necessary, and a wide system of warehouse storage should be
created. I will not endeavor to go into the details of such a system, but
venture to suggest that it should be organized on bedrock principles,
and operate on the securest lines, so that a warehouse certificate would
be absolutely safe and universally negotiable. Lessons could probably be
learned from the systems in use in pig iron storage, where the market
is also subject to wide fluctuations. The American Pig Iron Storage
Warehouse Co. would probably be the best pattern.

The factors of acreage should be carefully investigated before any
radical action is taken.

I know it is best for a farmer to have a diversified crop as it is best
for a city to have diversified industries, and it is wise for a farmer,
like a nation, to produce the necessities required for home consumption.
The present fearful depression will doubtless have a partial benefit
in this direction, but I fear too much importance is now being given
to this question. While I would urge the farmers to diversify their
crops, I would hesitate to recommend a sweeping reduction in the world’s
production. In fact, as an economic principle, there can be no such thing
as over production at this stage of the world’s progress, particularly
in the great world’s staples, like those of food and clothing. For
generations to come mankind, on the whole, will go hungry and half
naked. The true principle is not to try to reduce the product but to
provide for a general increasing buying capacity and particularly for
the case of the undeveloped peoples of the earth, by increasing their
opportunities to work for the world’s market, and to make the wages
necessary to purchase the products. If we could only be sure that peace
is to prevail, so that the market of China would be restored, and could
go on increasing, I would not hesitate to urge against any reduction in
acreage. On the contrary, I would urge a steady increase, for no matter
how great the increase, the supply would never keep up with the growth of
demand. As conditions now stand, however, I believe conservative action
is advisable—action that would lean rather toward the side of preparation
to store up for future use the surplus, if war should come, than to
materially reduce the acreage, and my advice to the individual farmer is
to become independent and diversify his crop, and then plant his usual
acreage in cotton.

It may be pointed out that one effective way to offset the losses from
low-priced cotton is for the South to invest more and more in cotton
mills, that benefit from these prices, and the logic of the situation
would have cotton growers invest their available capital and saving in
cotton manufacture. The true aim of the South should be not only to
produce the cotton, but the clothing for the world. And every country in
the South should have cotton mill industries organized with local capital
and should develop and educate its labor for the high grades as well as
coarse.

Summing up, the general conclusions and recommendations are as follows:

1. The cotton growers should have a wide, permanent organization with a
general convention once a year.

2. A standing committee composed of, say, two members for each cotton
growing state, should be appointed to investigate and report each year
upon the existing and prospective conditions of supply of cotton.

3. A similar committee should be appointed to investigate and report
each year upon the existing and prospective conditions of the demand for
cotton.

4. There should be established a comprehensive and carefully organized
storage warehouse system.

5. The great agents for increasing the price of cotton are _peace_,
prosperity and civilization.

6. The arch-enemy of the cotton growers is _war_. The permanent cause
of cotton must look to the peoples beyond the sea, especially China.
The fate of China hangs upon peace or war—peace or war depends upon
America—America’s influence depends upon her navy.




                            THE MASTER-HAND.

                          BY GARNET NOEL WILEY


                  Sometimes at half-mast, all my hours
                    A drooping banner seem to lie
                  In listless folds, along the calm,
                    Still blue of boundless stagnancy.
                  Grieving, I think, because somewhat
                    Within my soul is near to die.

                  Enow the master-hand of Love
                    Plucks at my banner’s guiding string,
                  Until it flutters in the breeze,
                    And pulses like a living thing.
                  Joyous, I think, because somewhat
                    Within my soul hath need to sing.




                            THE BOY IN GRAY.

              By Will N. Harben, Author of “Abner Daniel.”


One day in midsummer I went to visit the old plantation of the Lansdale
family. The moment I entered the cooling shade of the tall trees on the
lawn something seemed to tell me that I was on a spot hallowed by human
suffering and misfortune.

The house had two stories and an L. There was a long veranda in front,
the roof of which was supported by large white columns. My interest in
the place was due to the fact that prior to the Civil War it had been
the rendezvous of the aristocracy for miles around it. The wide halls
and spacious rooms had once rung with gay laughter, sweet music and the
tripping of feet in merry dances.

Behind the uninhabited dwelling the shrubbery had grown into a riotous
tangle. Choice rose bushes had been dwarfed and choked to barrenness by
an army of interlopers—Jamestown weeds, hollyhocks and giant sunflowers.
Only here and there might be seen a pale-leaved geranium or a dandelion
in the edges of the gravel walks, now almost completely overgrown. Here,
bent to the earth, lay a decayed lattice, pulled down by a fragrant
jasmine; in another place stood the rotten remains of what had once been
a graceful summerhouse.

As I wended my way further from the old mansion the silence and shade
seemed to thicken and blend into the pervading melancholy. When about
two hundred yards from the house, I suddenly came upon a log cabin
almost hidden from view behind a close growth of gnarled and twisted
apple trees. In the door sat an old negro man. His face was pinched and
wrinkled and his eyes, peeping through their brown slits, looked like
blue beads. With his old bell-shaped hat on his knee, he glanced up in
surprise, and, rising quickly he hobbled towards me, bowing politely.

“Who dis heer?” he asked, as he shaded his eyes with his hand and peered
up at me. “It seems like I don’t know you, but you may know who I is.
Most white folks knows me, dough, thank de Lawd! I carn’t see you good,
suh; my sight is failin’ me powerful fast.”

“I’m a stranger in this part of the South,” I told him. “I have heard
so much about the Lansdale family that I wanted to see their old home;
that’s all. I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Lawdamussy, bless you, no, suh!” he replied quickly. “You is welcome
to roam ’round all you want. Ef ’twuz des in de ol’ time, suh, my young
marster, er my ol’ marster, would done met you down de carriage drive an’
’scort’ you in an’ took yo’ hat an’ pass roun’ de wine an’ cigars, but”
(a long sigh escaped his lips, and he shook his head sadly), “but dat
time done gone, suh—dat time done gone.”

“Tell me something about your master’s family,” I said, taking a chair
near his own at the cabin door. “I have heard that Mr. Lansdale’s only
son was killed during the war when he was hardly more than a child.”

“Dat so, suh,” the old man answered in a tender tone, as he sat down in
his chair and leaned it back against the wall. “Dat was Marse Eddie. He
wasn’t fifteen year old when he ’listed. It all come o’ him actually
itchin’ ter be a soldier from his cradle up. Long ’fo’ de war was ever
start up, when he wasn’t ten year old he had soldierin’ in his head, an’
nobody couldn’t stop ’im. His maw say he wouldn’t study his school books
lessen dey tell ’bout wars an’ bloodshed. Away back den Marse Eddie’s
soldierin’ was de chief talk ’mongst de slaves.

[Illustration:

  “He wasn’t fifteen year old when he ’listed.”
]

“He didn’t keer fur hosses, ur fishin’, ur huntin’ like other boys, but
ef you des mention soldierin’ he would pick up his ears an’ open his
eyes. He used to had his army, an’ what you reckon dat army was made
out’n, suh? Nothin’, ’cept ten ur ’leven pickaninnies in deir shut-tails
an’ bare laigs. But, suh, dey would march round dis plantation tell dey
raidy to drap in deir tracks to please dat boy. An’ dey didn’t know no
mo’ ’bout what a rail army was dan a blind kitten. But ’fore he got thoo
wid um, Marse Eddie had um trained so dey will march straight in er
breast-line, ur wheel round, double-quick step, an’ charge bayonets when
he give de command des de same as reg’lar troups.

“Des as soon as he had his breakfust in de mawnin’ Marse Eddie ’ud tramp
out’n de house wid his hat pinned up on one side an’ his pants stuck in
his red-top boots an’ old Miss’ shawl flung acrost his shoulder to make
’im look like a general.

“He would al’ays find his army at de front do’ pushin’ an’ kickin’ one
’nother, all um tryin’ to be haid in de row. But when dey see ’im dey
stand mighty quiet kase he done whacked deir laigs too often wid his
stick sword. Den Marse Eddie ud stand on de veranda wid his maw ur Miss
Grace long side o’ him while he call de roll. It uster sound mighty funny
’fo’ any of us know how it was gwine to end.

“James Lansdale! Heer! Thomas Lansdale! Heer! Abrum Lansdale! Heer! Tobe
Lansdale! Heer! an’ so on dey all answered deir names. Old Marster listen
to ’em one day while he was smokin’ on de veranda an’ low to ’im, he
did—des jokin’: ’Son’, he say, smilin’ like he al’ays did, ’I do hope
an’ pray you won’t have no diverses in battle, kase it would be too bad
to had we-all’s kin-folks in Firginny read in de papers dat so many
Lansdales is kilt in war. Seem like dey is a sight of um in yo’ army.’

“Young Marster didn’t say nothin’ but it sorter made ’im mad. He got raid
in de face, an ordered de string o’ darkies to shoulder deir stick guns
an’ march off todes de spring-house, whar he say he count on campin’ out
an’ ’rangin’ ’bout buildin’ abridge cross de branch so dey kin git at de
enemy prowlin’ round. Dat’s de way he carried on, an’ all de darkies in
his crowd held deir haids so high dey wouldn’t speak to de niggers on de
place j’inin’ we-all’s plantation, an’ dey got so triflin’ dat dey wasn’t
fittin’ fur anything but fightin’ under Marse Eddie.

“Miss Grace cert’ney did keer mo fur her brother dan she did fur anything
in de worl’, even de young mens dat come to see ’er. Anything Marse Eddie
do is des right. She made ’im his newniform, an’ flags, an’ his raid
sash, an’ gloried in ’im.

“He was off in Firginny at his uncle’s when de sho-nough war broke out.
Old Marster had done made up his company in we-all’s settlement an’ was
most raidy to go. De very same day dat de guns come dat dey was waitin’
on, who shall ride up on a hoss des reekin’ wid sweat but Marse Eddie. He
lef’ de hoss in de front yard an’ run in de dinin’ room whar his maw an’
sister was. He kissed um mighty quick an’ strange like an’ den say, ‘Whar
is father?’

“Old Miss an’ young Miss bofe turn pale an’ trembly, but dey ain’t say
a word at fust. Den Marse Eddie say powerful impatient, ‘Grace, whar is
father?’

“‘He’s down in de quarter,’ she say an’ den when de boy done lef’ de room
most as quick as a skeerd rabbit kin jump, de two women look one ’nother
in de face fer a long time powerful still an’ troubled. Den old Miss say,
mighty husky in ’er throat:

“‘He must not go, Grace; I carn’t stand it; he’s too young—I carn’t stand
dat!’

“De tears was comin’ in young Miss’ eyes an’ she left ’er maw an’ went
an’ stood in de kitchen do’ to meet Marse Eddie an’ his paw as dey was
comin’ up de garden walk, talkin’ low an’ arm in arm. Somehow young
Marster looked like he was all at once as old an’ ’sponsible as his paw.
When dey was bofe in de house, Miss Grace tuck ’er brurr by de arm an’
led ’im off to one side, an’ I heer ’er say:

“‘Brurr Eddie, father is goin’ off to fight de Yankees an’ me’n mother
carn’t live by ourse’ves. You must stay wid us—one is enough to lose.’

“‘Oh, sister,’ Marse Eddie say, very impatient. ‘Don’t talk nonsense at
sech a serious moment. Father, did you say all yo’ men gwine be raidy in
de mawnin’? We must not had no mistakes. I’m not tired. I believe I’ll
git a fresh hoss an’ ride round mongst ’em.’

“Well, suh, dat was de end o’ de women folks tryin’ to ’fluence ’im. It
seem to me dat he was every bit an’ grain as sensible as his pa. It look
like Marster was too backward ’bout tryin’ to make ’im stay at home. De
next day all marched off an’ dey tuck all de men slaves ’cep’ me. Dey
lef’ me kase I was too lame to march an’ somebody had to stay at home.

“Den a whole year went by. Sometimes letters ud come an’ sometimes word
ud reach us in one way an’ another. Den old Miss tuck down sick, an’ Miss
Grace kept all de bad news from ’er ’bout de war. Den come a letter from
Marse Eddie hisse’f. He writ dat he is a little wounded in de arm an’ dat
he got a furlough to come home an’ will be wid us as soon as he kin git
thoo de lines. But de time went by, day in, day out fur a week an’ no mo’
news ’cep’ old Marster writ dat de boy is done put out fur home some time
back; so dar we is—old Marster say he ain’t in de war, an’ he ain’t got
to we-all.

“While we-all in dis fix an’ worriment, de Yankee army des swoop down on
us lake a swarm o’ grass-hoppers. Dar wasn’t a single Rebel ’cep’ women
folks an’ me anywhars around. Den we know dat Marse Eddie is cut off fum
us. While de Yankees is camped round us as thick as fleas, a old man come
to us, he did, an’ said he’d met up wid Marse Eddie one day up in de
mountains what you kin see over dar, an’ ’at he was mighty nigh starved
to death an’ unable to git stuff to eat.

“Marse Eddie tol’ de man ’at he’d started home on his furlough but was
tuck down sick at a house on de way, an’ when he got so he could travel
an’ come nigh home de Yankees done s’round us so he earn’t git home nur
back to his regiment nuther. So he was des obleeged to stay hidin’ out in
de woods like a wild animal. Dis news got, to ol’ Miss, an’ it made her
wuss an’ we ’lowed she gwine die sho’.

“One night I woke up kase I heerd somebody walkin’ on de porch, an’ when
I went to de do’ dar is young Miss standin’ dar lookin’ to’ds de Yankee
camp what you could see fum de’r fires dey kept burnin’ so we couldn’t
slip up on um an’ throttle um in de’r sleep.

“‘Don’t tell mother, Ham’ she say; ‘po’ thing, she’s very sick, an’ we
mustn’t ’sturb ’er. I carn’t sleep wid all dis on my mind. How do we
know, Ham, but my po’ brother may be dis minute in gre’t danger? I must
keep watch kase I know in reason he’ll try to pass thoo de lines some
night to get to we-all’s, an’, Ham, somebody must be up to receive ’im
an’ hide ’im less’n dey catch ’im an’ try to kill ’im.’

“She was alraidy a-cryin’, an’ I didn’t have de heart to tell ’er how
dangersome it was to try to pass guards on picket duty, kase I had heerd
’bout one po’ feller gittin’ daylight let thoo ’im while he was tryin’ to
do it on his all-fours.

“It was as still, suh, dat night as a graveyard. De wind wasn’t blowin’
’nough to move a blade o’ wavy grass. An’ all of a sudden I heerd a sound
way down de road like somebody’s feet—pit-pat, pit-pat, comin’ nigher an’
nigher. Den we heer somebody a-pantin’ mighty nigh out’n breath.

“Young Miss laid ’er han’ on ’er breast an’ breathed hard. De sound kept
gittin’ closer an’ closer tell all at once somebody sprung over de fence
into de yard. My Gawd, it was Marse Eddie, an’ no dead white pusson could
look paler’n he did an’ so thin an’ raggety.

“‘Grace,’ he say, blowin hard, ‘is dis you? My Gawd, sister, dey is atter
me. I started to slip thoo de lines an’ dey seed me an’ so I had to run
fur my life. Do you heer um?’

“We all listen an’ sho ’nough we heerd de Yankees comin’ as fast as dey
kin lick it. Young Miss carn’t speak; she des throwed ’er arms ’roun ’er
brurr’s neck an’ tried to pull ’im in de house. But he say, ‘No, no; I
mus’ run furder; dey gwine s’arch dis house fust place, kase we-all fur
de Souf—good-bye!’ an’ ’fo’ Miss Grace could open ’er mouf he’s off thoo
de woods an’ out o’ sight in de dark, dough he wasn’t runnin’ out’n a
slow dog-trot kase he was too broke down. In a minute ’bout ten men jump
de fence an’ come to us.

“‘Here he is!’ one of um say, an’ he stuck a pistol in my face fur de
worl’ like he gwine blow my brains out. Dis was a sho ’nough s’prise to
me, I tell you, fur it was a powerful good chance fur young Miss ter
tell um, yes, I was de one, an’ git um to stop runnin’ after her brurr.
I didn’t know what she was gwine to do ’bout it, but it didn’t suit me
one bit. I never seed de line o’ pickets I’d try to run thoo, an’ my time
hadn’t come to die nohow.

“But one of de men say, ‘No, it was a white man, an’ a reb to boot kase
I seed his face an’ his newniform. Dis is des a’ ol’ nigger dat stays
’roun’ dis house.’ Den he up an’ ’dress young Miss. ‘Young lady,’ he ax
’er, ‘is a man pass heer des now?’

“Well, suh, I ’lowed she wouldn’t find ’er tongue, she was so bad put
out, but she up an’ say: ‘No, suh, not sence I been standin’ here,’ an’
she say it as cool as ef she was des givin’ ’im a passin’ s’lute. But I
reckon dat officer seed thoo ’er kase he said: ‘Some o’ you fellers run
down dat way an’ fo’ of us will s’arch de house. Miss,’ he say to Miss
Grace, ‘we all know you is fur de downfall o’ de republic, an’ you mus’
’scuse me fur not takin’ yo’ word, but we is been fooled so many times by
you women in de Souf dat we got to be partic’lar.’

“Wid dat, fo’ of um go thoo we-all’s house fum bottom to top an’ ol’ Miss
was mighty nigh ’stracted. She riz bodily fum ’er bed an’ fronted um. It
was a big wonder to me dat dem Yankees ain’t shot ’er daid in ’er tracks
fur de way she belittled um.

“‘You dirty gang o’ raid-hand murderers an’ cut-th’oats,’ she say,
‘I hope an’ pray high heaven will fall down on you an’ crush you in
everlastin’ punishment. You ain’t satisfied wid takin’ our sons an’
husbands fum us, but you must go an’ tromple our houses wid yo’ muddy
feet an’ fo’ce yo’ ugly se’ves into de sick rooms o’ yo’ betters. Dat
shows yo’ raisin’; no Southern gen’man ain’t gwine be so brutish.’

“‘Now, madam,’ de leader say as cool as a watermelon in a deep spring,
‘des keep on yo’ jacket. You ketch yo’ death wid cold, A sudden change
fum a warm bed is a bad thing whar doctors is so scarce, anyhow. You
better not ’cite yo’se’f—’twon’t do a speck o’ good, an’ in fact you
ain’t lookin’ well. You act sorter s’picious. Ef dar is a spy in yo’
house we gwine have ’im fur our meat, an’ all yo’ rampageousness won’t
stop us. Dough, I make bold to say, madam, dat we-all ud like to have you
on we-all’s side. At close range dat tongue o’ yo’n ud beat a grape-gun
all holler.’

“Ol’ Miss didn’t say anything back. She looked out’n ’er eyes, dough,
like you seed a balkin’ mule ’fo’ now, mebby, when his laigs is been tied
together to break ’im fum kickin’ an’ you stan’ hind ’im wid a whip an’
sorer tap ’im in de flank atter he found out he earn’t kick ’nough to
skeer a hoss-fly off’n his back.

“Well, dey all go plumb thoo de house widout a speck ur luck, ’cep’ what
dey come acrost in de cupboard. When dey et all dey want an’ is raidy to
go, de head man say to ol’ Miss: ‘Madam,’ he say, lookin’ at me kinder
’chievous, ‘we got some work in de camp to be done an’ dis ol’ nigger
mus’ go an’ tend to it. We’ll sen’ ’im back in de mawnin’ sho ef he gits
thoo.’

“Dat ain’t de fust time I had to do odd jobs fur um, an’ I ain’t
s’prised. I had to march back wid one lill swivelly white man dat I could
a-mashed twixt my fingers like a skeeter, an’ I would a-tried it, too,
ef he hadn’t kep’ a musket level’ on me de whole time. De other soldiers
went on after Marse Eddie.

“He’s a spy,’ I heer um say, as dey went off, ’an’ he carn’t git away,
nuther, kase he is s’rounded on all sides an’ day is breakin’.’

“By de time we got to de camp de sun was ’ginnin’ to rise an’ a kettle
drummer was out wakin’ um all up wid his clatter. I had to he’p wash
dishes at de officer’s tent, an’ all dat mawnin’ I heerd um axin’ one
another is de spy done kotch. To’ds dinner de men all come back an’ wid
um was po’ Marse Eddie. He was so weakly dey had to mos’ drap ’im along.
Pon my word, I don’t b’lieve de boy know who had ’im; he looked so wild
out o’ his raid eyes.

“Dey tuck ’im to a big tent an’ all de officers got in it and held a
court martial—dat’s what dey called it. I couldn’t heer a word dat
passed, but de Lawd know I seed Marse Eddie was in a bad fix, kase dey
was makin’ sech a big to-do.

“Terrectly dey all come out de tent. De haid man ’mongst um give a order
an’ ’bout ten men come up wid deir guns an’ formed a line o’ battle. Den
dey marched Marse Eddie out wid his back to a tree. You know, suh, I kin
’member when young Miss an’ ’im used to go to dat selfsame sweetgum when
dey was lill. He used to take his knife an’ gouge out de gum an’ put it
twixt ’er white teeth an’ she’s say, ‘Quick, Brurr Eddie, give me some
dat’s hard ’fo’ my teeth stick together—dis heer is too saft.’

“Den young Marster ud take some o’ de dry gum in his fingers, kase it
wouldn’t lay on de knife-blade, an’ when he’d make ’er shet ’er eyes he’d
drap it in ’er mouf. Yes, suh, I kin ’member dat as plain as ef ’twas
yesterday.

“Well, when dey got de po’ droopy young man agin de tree, an’ yell at ’im
to hold his haid up, all de big, strappin’ soldiers stand in front an’ de
captain drilled um. All deir clothes looked so blue an’ deir buttons an
shoulder straps flashed in de sun like a lookin’-glass in de light. Seem
like I kin heer de same locust a-singin’ in de woods right now dat was
singin’ den. De sky was blue, an’ wide open, des like Gawd Almighty done
tore de clouds apart so Marse Eddie’s white soul could git away fum dat
measly crowd o’ blood-thirsty cowards. I knowed I couldn’t do a thing to
help ’im, an’ I tried to hold steady an’ take one las’ look at my young
Marster, but I couldn’t see any plainer dan you kin thoo a frosty window.
But when de captain say, ‘Raidy, take aim!’ I looked away. De guns all
went off wid one crack, an’ when de smoke is ris’ a lill, I seed Marse
Eddie settin’ on de groun’ agin de tree wid his haid down des fur de
world like I seed ’im one day when he’d been watchin’ us cut wheat an’
got drowsy an’ fell asleep in de shade.

“Dey tuck ’im off to bury ’im, an’ I went back to work; but I couldn’t
do it jestice, an’ kept drappin’ de dishes an’ pans, I was so outdone
thinkin’ ’bout de folks at home. Den de captain pass me an’ say: ‘Look
heer, what you snifflin’ ’bout? Did you know dis young man?’

“An’ when I told ’im yesser, dat captain got mighty serious in de face
an’ yell out to de rest um, ‘Why didn’t you-all had dis man testify?’

“But nobody wouldn’t answer. Den de captain set down nigh me an’ I could
see his hands was tremblin’ powerful. He talked low like he was sorter
ashamed. An’ he ax me: ‘Who is de young man? Whar do he live?’

“I told ’im Marse Eddie was my young Marster an’ at he was s’rounded in
de mountains when he was tryin’ to git home on his furlough, wid his so’
arm, an’ sick an’ hungry.

“Well, suh, I hain’t never had too much use fur Yankees, but dat one’s
face cert’ney did look troubled.

“‘Gawd furgive us,’ he say, dat’s what he said, ‘and we-all thought he
was lyin’ to git free;’ an’ he most stagger as he walked off. Den I heer
’im order um not to bury Marse Eddie yit but to wait. Dey fixed ’im as
nice as dey kin on a litter an’ put a new gray blanket on ’im an’ send
’im off to we-all’s place, kase I reckon dey lowed dey had done all de
damage dey kin an’ thought it would be a kindness to old Miss to bury ’er
own child.

“After dey done gone, I heer de captain say: ‘Dis is a mistaken duty. I’d
ruther myse’f lie on dat litter. Heaven is gwine to curse dis bloodshed,
Lieutenant,’ he say to a spry young man. ‘Lieutenant, you know’ what
we-all shot dat po’ boy fur? We shot ’im kase he come home wounded to
see his fair-faced sister back on dat plantation, an’ his old bedridden
mother. Lieutenant, let dat be a lesson to you. Dat letter in his pocket
wasn’t no spy-letter. It was des to his pa back in de army of de Souf
tellin’ ’im he was nigh his home. When he writ he was tryin’ to git thoo
de lines it wasn’t to spy. Yo’ maw’s a-livin’, ain’t she, Lieutenant?’ De
young man nodded his haid, an’ den de captain went on agi’n: ‘Well, des
put yo’se’f in dis young man’s place an’ den you gwine see how yo’ maw ud
feel to had you sent home dat away.’

“Wid all de ’sturbance, it seemed like dey done furget dat I ort to be at
home wid my white folks at sech a’ awful time, an’ dey kep’ me till long
atter dinner. Den who shall come right in de camp ’cep’ young Miss? I
never in all my days seed sech a look as was in her face. Seemed like she
was in ’er sleep, ur out’n ’er mind, ur suppin another. It looked like
all de officers in de camp wanted to hide out, but de captain was man
enough to face ’er an’ went right up to whar she was.

“‘I come to see de spot whar de young Confederate died dis mawnin’, if
you please,’ she said, as cool as I ever seed young Miss in my life,
dough ’er eyes was flashin’ like diamonds in de sun.

“‘Young lady,’ de captain say, mighty white in de face, ‘dis is a po’
time to ’spress regrets, but Gawd knows dis is a gre’t mistake. I’d
ruther be daid myse’f. I pray Gawd to furgive us. We acted too quick. De
evidence showed dat yo’ brother was a spy, an’ we never knowed no better
till it was all over.’

“‘I did not come to discuss his death,’ young Miss said mighty haughty.
‘I des want to see de spot whar he fell. We-all is grateful fer his
remains—sometimes it ain’t done, I believe.’

“‘Young Miss,’ I said to ’er, ‘come, le’s go back home; dey will let me
go wid you.’

“Den she looked at me fur de fus time. ‘Was you heer, Ham?’ she say; ‘den
you’ll do; you kin show me ’dout troublin’ dese gentlemen. Show me whar
my brurr fell, an’ den I’ll go back to mother. I was des afraid de army
would march off an’ I never would know de exact spot whar de outrage
happened.’

[Illustration:

  “When she passed ’im she tuck out a copper piece an’ drap it in his hat.”
]

“Den I led ’er to’des de sweetgum an’ p’int it out. She des took one look
at it, an’ den she put ’er han’ over ’er face an’ said in a awful low
voice: ‘Le’s go quick, Ham,’ an’ I knowed she was afeerd she’d break down
’fo’ dem low-lived soldiers, an’ dat she’d druther be daid ’an to do it.
All de way home she ain’t open ’er lips.

“Well, to close my tale, when old Marster come home after de war was over
ol’ Miss was daid. It seems a long time ago. Young Miss an’ ’er pa went
to Richmond to live, whar he had a lill property dat ’scaped de Yankee’s
hands. She turned out to be a gre’t lady an’ had big men—governors an’
congressmen runnin’ atter her to git ’er to marry um. De funniest thing
of all was de way dat Yankee captain did after de war was over; I heer
some o’ my white folks say he writ two dozen letters to young Miss. He
told ’er in um dat she was the onliest woman he ever laid eyes on dat
completely tuck his heart and he say ’twas all kase she had so much pride
and fine sperit. He begged ’er to let by-gones be by-gones an’ let ’im
come down to Richmond an’ ’splain, but she didn’t so much as answer de
letters an’ got so she sent um back to ’im dout openin’ um. Dey say he
managed to meet ’er at a big dinner somebody give up in Richmond an’
was introduced to ’er. Of co’se, young Miss was too much of a lady to
’suit ’im when dey bofe visitin’ de same house, so she bowed to ’im an’
’changed a few words, but she left de house an’ called her carriage.
Dat’s what my white folks done tole me; I dunno, but it cert’ney was like
young Miss. Dey say dat treatment didn’t faze dat captain, he was so
dead bent on gittin’ ’er fur his wife; so one day, some time atter dat,
he follered ’er to a big chu’ch in Richmond, whar she went to worship.
Dey say it had high steps to it, an’ when she come out’n de do’ she seed
’im at de foot o’ de steps waitin’ fur ’er, wid his hat helt out in his
hand. Well, suh, what you reckon young Miss did? She had her purse in ’er
hand wid some small change in it, an’ when she passed ’im she tuck out
a copper piece an’ drap it in his hat widout so much as lookin’ at ’im,
des as ef he was a begger. Dey say dat settled ’im. He went off an’ never
bothered ’er again.

“Did she marry? Yes, suh, she did, fer she had pickin’ choice o’ de whole
country, Norf an’ Souf. She married a big rich man in Richmond, an’ she’s
got some o’ de likeliest childern in de world. Her pa is dar doin’ well,
too; dey send me money every now an’ den an’ wish me well. Dey is folks
right, suh, an’ ef you ever run across um you’ll know I’m tellin’ you de
trufe.”




                                  SONG.

                           BY ROBERT LOVEMAN.


                      Drenched in the dew of tender tears,
                        A song doth blossom in my heart;
                      The trembling words are fraught with fears,
                        The melody is love’s sweet art.

                      O, to my lady, song, away!
                        Be thou my courier, true and fleet,
                      Mesh her in music all the day,
                        Then die in fragrance at her feet.




                    THE PEOPLE OF THE SOUTHERN MILLS.

           A HOPEFUL SIDE TO LIFE IN THE FACTORY COMMUNITIES.

                         By Leonora Beck Ellis.


While the political economist knits his brows in perplexity over the
immoderate increase of cotton mills in the Southern States, and the
social reformer cries vehemently against their child labor and low adult
wages, these problems are solving themselves by natural processes which
man’s economics or sociological theories can neither hurry nor retard.

Cotton manufacturing has traversed the road to its base of supply,
and can no more be severed from it again than the descending rivulet
can turn and run up hill. Child labor is only a complicated error of
new conditions, and will in due process fall to inevitable decay. The
wage problem mutates everywhere, yet optimism assures us that it bears
steadily towards solution.

But the mill people of the South are a new and picturesque labor class.
Some glimpses of their homes and family life will, we believe, afford
interest to the reader for entertainment as well as to the student of
sociology.

       *       *       *       *       *

There are points of distinct difference between the factory operatives of
the South and those of any other section of our country or of Europe.

In the first place, there are no urban instincts in these Southern mill
communities. Whatever virtues they lack at least they have not the vices
of cities. The good and the evil in them are still such as belong to a
strictly rural people. But no one must expect, after another decade and a
half, to find the same thing true; for, with the passing of the present
generation, this unique characteristic must of necessity be largely lost.
Gregariousness of living is potent to efface such a mark even when
deeply stamped.

It may be asked, What are the indications of this quality which, for
want of a better name, is termed rusticity? The signs are many and easy
to read. No observant person can miss the plain evidence even in his
first day with the mill people. He walks past the cottages, row on row,
and sees prince’s feather and bachelor’s button growing in the tiny
yards, patchwork quilts sunning from the windows, and strings of red
pepper festooned on the back porches. The boys are quite often chewing
tobacco, but they are not smoking cigarettes. Often, alas! the girls dip
snuff, but they do not lace in their waists, nor attempt handkerchief
flirtations. The women are given to quiet, and a profound reserve
usually marks their social intercourse. The festive gatherings in the
entertainment halls on Saturday nights are either stiff parties or
genuine country dances. The “barbecue” is common on a general holiday and
the “all day singing” of a Sunday still remains the acme of enjoyment,
affording the perfect blending of sociality and devotion.

A second quality differentiating our people from the Northern factory
communities of to-day, is what may well be called their unmodified
Americanism. Up to the present time there is an entire absence of the
foreign element of population among them, and the effect of such absence
is very marked. Not only do better manners prevail in this people sprung
from our own soil, but better morals, greater social purity, less
turbulence and lawlessness. Remember, that observance of law is easier,
more natural, even to illiterate Americans, than to other nations,
because Law has typified to them from childhood the majesty of right, not
the tyranny of might.

[Illustration:

  MILLS 1, 2 AND 3, PELZER, S. C.
]

The finer respect for women which marks American manhood, extends also to
these toilers. Except among their very lowest, motherhood inspires the
regard it meets with in other social strata. And while in many of the
mills the number of female employees exceeds that of males, yet in few of
the better kind are there any mothers of young children at work.

These considerations lead at once to the questions, Where does such a
class of labor come from? What are its antecedents?

The first is easily answered: The operatives have poured into the new
factories, not from town or city, but from the country, direct from
the cotton fields, we may say, to the mills. It was certainly not an
anomalous movement when cotton was bringing 4¾ cents per pound. But
as the staple moves back to its old prices, 10 and 12 cents, some
reactionary phases must be looked for and provided against.

The antecedents of this class of labor deserve attention. A great
majority of the operatives come from the agricultural class known as
tenant farmers; that is, men who farm the land for others, paying as rent
a considerable portion of each year’s crop. The tenant system was adopted
in the South during the period of disorder and chaotic ruin following the
Civil War, when our old system of labor was dissolved and no better base
remained on which to build anew the fabric of agricultural life. Unfit
as it is for a country of such institutions as ours, and the source in
itself of very sore evils, the tenant system still had a necessary part
in the last half century.

Many of the tenant farmers of the last generation had indeed “seen
better days.” Not a few had been freeholders before the war, although
usually of the little farms interspersed here and there among the great
plantations of the aristocrats. Many others had been overseers, factors,
agents of various sorts. A very small proportion came from the class of
decayed gentlemen. The rest were made up from those strata usually lumped
together in our designation, “crackers,” or, in the South Carolina term,
“poor Buckra.”

[Illustration:

  HOMES FROM WHICH THE MILL PEOPLE COME.
]

Such are the antecedents of the mass of operatives in the new mills
of the South. Bearing in mind this derivation, you will not find it
difficult to account for many qualities, traits and habitudes that
might otherwise appear anomalous. For example, their extravagance is a
characteristic almost without parallel among other classes of toilers.
But it is simple of explanation.

The transition from a dollarless past to a many-dollared present would
render any class of untutored human beings extravagant. Through a long
period of tenant farming, these people scarcely saw a piece of money
from Christmas to Christmas. Each year’s supplies were either furnished
by the owner of the land, or bought on credit at a nearby store, to
be paid for when the cotton was picked. The harvest came, sometimes
good, sometimes bad; but good or bad, it seemed uniformly to take it
all to pay the merchant and the landlord. The tenant rarely enjoyed
even the sorry pleasure of selling his cotton and paying the hard cash
to these creditors; instead, he usually hauled the raw product of his
toil directly to them, then turned apathetically away to begin his
half-hearted preparations for another year’s crop. His wife and children
shared his labors, sharing also his empty-handedness.

This went on through the dragging years of the South’s agricultural
prostration, until the last decade came, with its mills and its
industrial revolution, when the moneyless and landless ones drew into
the new communities, to try bread-winning under unfamiliar conditions.
The mothers and daughters had often worked on the farms, so they did not
hesitate at the factory door, except when very young children claimed the
care of the former. In most instances, indeed, the women’s fingers proved
the readiest for the new occupation.

[Illustration:

  THE MOUNTAIN TOP CABIN
]

But neither women nor men acquired dexterity without a period of
laborious effort, such as all workmen must struggle through when,
possessed of only the inherited instincts of generations of bucolic
ancestors, they set themselves to some form of mechanical labor. That
period being done with, a certain amount of skill began to appear in all
fairly intelligent operatives, and shortly they found themselves bringing
home each Saturday night, or alternate Saturday night, according as pay
day fell, an amount of money that to them seemed an amazing treasure-pile.

[Illustration:

  A TYPICAL MILL COTTAGE.
]

Cases such as the following are found in every prosperous factory
community: The father, mother, and six or eight boys and girls, ranging
from twelve to twenty odd years, are at work in one mill. Large families
are the rule in this class, remember. Now, the adults, if fair weavers,
easily average $22.99 apiece per month. The younger members of the family
are probably spinners, and average about $14 each. This family, then,
that in the old life of the farm thought themselves fortunate indeed to
handle $100 in cash throughout a year, now bring home something like
$175 every month!

Is it strange to you that extravagance seizes upon this metamorphosed
household? If the sudden transition from pennilessness to plethoric
pocket-books did not lead in itself straight to spendthrift living, the
precedents of their neighbors would speedily teach the trait.

So the housewife loads the table with luxuries hitherto unknown; the
pretty girl is tempted into all the caprices of dress that her little
Vanity Fair may flaunt, while the father and brother can scarcely tell
whither their dollars speed on such swift wings.

[Illustration:

  THE LYCEUM, PELZER, S. C.
]

Yet this wastefulness, too, is but a phase, destined to gradual
elimination in the development of the process by which an agricultural
people are converted into a manufacturing one. With all their illiteracy
this class is not devoid of understanding; and when a certain
bewilderment of these early years is past, it will be borne in upon them
in countless ways, by their school privileges, their larger experience,
their clearer views of the outside world, by their own innate manhood,
indeed, that there are far other uses for hard-earned money than to be
lavished on mere food, clothing and shelter. Many of them are already
opening their eyes to the fact that for an abundance of things to eat
and wear, they have bartered a certain independence and manliness which
are fostered by agricultural pursuits, even the lowliest, and which
breed sturdier virtues than mere factory dependents can hope to transmit
to their children. Awakening perceptions such as these are leading to
different results: to a rescinding of extravagance always; sometimes
a return to the farm; occasionally to the laying aside of money or
investing it in a home just outside the factory property. But in most
cases I find a steadfast purpose growing,—to work straight on where they
are for the present, and save every cent possible to educate the coming
generation and set their feet in the path that leads to freedom. I have
even found several young men and women putting aside money to go to
school on when enough is saved, and many go to school and work through
alternate half years.

But how can they save money? clamor those who have been studying the
comparative wage-scale of Northern and Southern factories, without
acquaintance with the actual conditions of the latter. By reasonable
economy, is the answer in this case as others.

From $20 to $30 per month is paid good weavers throughout this section,
while the average spinner draws from $10 to $16. These are regarded as
good living wages in a country where the prices of necessaries range much
lower than in the East or the West. Houses are to be heated only about
four months in the year, and fuel is comparatively cheap, in many places
less than $1.50 per cord for wood, while coal averages less than half the
price it brings in Northern markets. Clothing in this warm climate costs
far less than in a colder region. Farm and garden supplies are purchased
for what seems to the Northern mind an absurdly low price, and dairy
products are never high. Besides, in all the rural mill communities,
which are now counted by the score to every one in a city, a garden patch
always and often pasturage for one cow can be counted on with every
cottage.

House rent is not a considerable item. The mill cottages rent by the
month on the basis of 60 cents to $1 per room, and the houses range in
size from three to eight rooms, four, however, being the rule. With few
exceptions, these cottages are fairly comfortable, and built with due
regard to sanitation. Outside of cities, each one has its ground space
where the inmates may grow flowers and vegetables, thus fostering a form
of local attachment that is by no means weak.

From this brief survey, it may be deduced that while the one-time tiller
of the soil has surrendered something in becoming a factory operative,
he has also come into new privileges and potentialities. When you
strike your balance between gain and loss, do not overlook the weighty
consideration of the school advantages and other educational facilities
which such people have acquired by coming from sparse and remote
settlements into their present community life.

       *       *       *       *       *

During a recent cold snap the young and tender editor of this youthful
publication accompanied the blizzard to a small Tennessee town. The
office of the little hotel was full of commercial travelers trying to
keep warm around a single grate. A half-frozen Italian organ grinder,
with his monkey, entered, but was crowded away from the fire by the
traveling men. He found a chair away back in the corner of the room and
soon fell asleep. But suddenly he woke with a scream; the traveling men
rushed to him and asked him what was the matter. He said he dreamed he
was in hell and was freezing to death. “Freezing to death in hell! How is
that?” asked one of the boys. “Well,” replied the Italian, “the drummers
crowded around the fire so I couldn’t get to it.”—_Robert. L. Taylor._

[Illustration]




                             THE MERRY LADY.

            By Roger Pocock, Author of “A Frontiersman,” etc.


                                   I.

The poplar groves were gemmed with diamond frost, and they stood in a
fairy circle surrounding a glade of snow. Beyond lay all the immensity
of the Canadian Plains, above rode the sun in a heaven of cloudless
blue, but within the glade there was war. Jets of sharp flame flickered
from all the groves, giving birth to clouds like pearls, which drifted
on the serene air and made a bluish film of smoke above the waves of
the snowdrift. Across the foot of the glade some sleighs were drawn up
for defence, each giving shelter to a knot of men, though the woodwork
shattered in splinters about their ears. Lying with carbines at rest
underneath the sleighs, they watched for the smoke pearls in the woods,
then sighting low to clear the combs of the snowdrifts, they fired
steadily at hidden enemies. A shower of diamond dust would fall from
some fairy tree while the marksman swore thoughtfully, and loaded to try
again. So rifles blazed and crashed, so bullets whined or sang, but all
this was merely a twittering as of summer birds amid that mighty silence
of the plains, which filled the vault of heaven sun-high with peace.

Yesterday a village of retired buffalo-hunters, French-Indian
half-breeds, sorely annoyed with the Canadian government, had set up
a toy republic, and persuaded some Indian tribes to come out on the
warpath. To-day a troop of the Northwest Mounted Police, assisted
by a handful of volunteers, had come out from Fort Carlton to make
enquiries—and been neatly ambushed. The party of the first part numbered
three hundred and sixty-one and the party of the second part only
ninety-six, as witnessed this Disagreement, dated near Duck Lake, in the
District of Saskatchewan, in the Northwest Territory of Canada, this 26th
day of March, 1885.

The trooper farthest to the left of the sleigh rampart was a man of giant
girth and stature, with an ugly face. Officially he was Regimental Number
1107, Constable la Mancha, J., but his pet name was the Blackguard,
presumably because of his manners and customs. When the fighting began
he had been much alarmed, then displeased because a bullet whipped some
fur from his buffalo overcoat, and in another minute full of cheerful
fury, boiling hot with a frantic appetite for trouble. Moreover, the
very moment he began pumping lead into the nearest clump of bushes a
naked Indian was seen to leap into the air, and fall headlong. “My meat!”
cried the Blackguard, and took a ferocious interest in getting more. A
few minutes later he heard the man next him on the right utter a little
grunt, and gave his hot carbine a rest while he looked round to see what
was wrong. A gallant young Canadian, Corporal Buck McCannock, had been
hit, and rolled over on his back beside la Mancha. The Blackguard felt
rather sick, watching the red flush fade beneath the tan while the man’s
strong features became wan and pinched.

“Say, Buck, old chap, can I help?” Buck’s eyes were closed, and he did
not seem to hear. The sunlight glowed on the scarlet serge of his jacket,
the glittering buttons, the bright accoutrements, as he lay with his
buffalo coat spread wide upon the snow. Only his face was in shadow.

“Buck, old man!”

His eyes opened, his right hand moved out, his fingers plucking at la
Mancha’s sleeve, then very slowly his left hand groped at the breast of
his jacket, and drew out a paper until it caught between the buttons. La
Mancha saw that Buck’s lips were moving now, and bending down he heard a
broken whisper, “Take this—tell her—tell her—”

The clay-white face relaxed, and the Blackguard saw a bluish shadow
come up like rising water over it, over the glazing eyes. Then the lips
parted. He wrenched the letter from the clutch of a dead hand, which slid
away down the breast of the scarlet jacket, and dropped to the ground.

It was the shattering blow of a bullet in the sleigh box above his head
which roused la Mancha to turn and fight again. Hitherto he had merely
disliked those men behind the snowdrifts, but now he wanted to skin, and
burn a few of them slowly, and prayed to the saints that each bullet
should inflict a painful and mortal wound, followed by a disagreeable
hereafter.

Then he heard footsteps in the creaking snow, and knew that the troop
surgeon had found the corpse beside him. He heard the doctor whisper:
“Buck? Poor Buck!”

When la Mancha looked round again Dr. Miller was gone and a red-haired
trooper was busy stripping the ammunition from the dead man’s belt.

“Down, fool,” said the Blackguard; “that scalp of yours draws fire—you
ruddy oot.”

Red lay down on the edge of the dead man’s coat, and threw his feet
across the Blackguard’s legs lest the snow should wet them. Then he
grunted with content.

“Happy?” asked the Blackguard.

“’Ungry—gimme blood! Look there!”

Red jerked his thumb backwards over his shoulder and showed his chum
how one of the officers, Inspector Sarde, lay near them. Sarde was
hiding behind the next sleigh on the left, making an abject display of
cowardice. “The lantern-jawed, swivel-eyed, white-livered, scarehead,
misbegotten, jumped up son of a dog’s wife,” was the Blackguard’s
comment.

“I kicked ’im,” Red grinned in ferocious joy, “cruel ’ard, too.”

“Red, help me to clear that bluff in front there; sight at one hundred
yards, and fire low.”

“Low it is.” Red settled himself to work, fired, and pumped a cartridge
while he watched results.

“What makes you sing, eh, Blackguard? I’m in a funk, I am—” he fired
again.

“Was I singing?” La Mancha let drive at a smoke puff. “I bagged a buck
Indian just now—aim low—got ’im.

  “Carry him reverently, gently, slow—
    Pace by the trunnions with patient tread;
  Over the drifts of the rolling snow,
    With arms reversed for the Dead.”

“Nice and cheerful, ain’t yer!” cried Red sarcastically, but la Mancha
enjoyed himself.

  “Little we thought of him while he shared
    All that was worst in the long campaign;
  Little he guessed that we really cared,
    But drums roll now for the slain.

  Spreading the Flag o’er his last long sleep,
    Leading the horse which he may not ride.
  Tho’ for the living the roads are steep—
    The road for the Dead rolls wide.”

“’Ere, stop that!” Red howled at him, then wiped his eyes with his
sleeve, as the Blackguard went on in a broken voice, revelling in grief.

  “Bravely he suffer’d and manly fought;
    Great with Death’s majesty rides he there;
  Royal the honors he dearly bought—
    The peace which we may not share.”

“Oh, shut up!” Red wailed, but la Mancha grinned at him. “Blackguard, got
any more ammunition?”

The Blackguard chuckled: “For my self? why, plenty!” and he fired at a
pearly gust of smoke among fairy trees of diamond. Then he heard the
death scream of a horse at the rear, the shouting of orders, and a bugle
crying, “Cease firing! Retire!”


                                   II.

The horses were bought up from the rear, bucking, fighting, breaking
away, or falling in their traces as the teamsters took them in charge.
Then the enemy charged, the rear guard held them back, and confusion
verged towards panic under a galling fire. La Mancha, with Red for his
off man, was lucky enough to get a team away unharmed, but, as his horses
plunged through breast-high drifts, he heard the outcry of two wounded
men. Their sleigh, with one horse killed, and the other dying, had been
abandoned.

“All right, Gilchrist!” he called. “Keep your hair on, Smith!” then swung
his team about—“Drive on!” yelled Inspector Sarde, jumping directly in
his path.

For answer the Blackguard drove straight over him to the rescue. In
another moment willing helpers had carried the wounded men to la Mancha’s
sleigh, and half a dozen jumped in to defend them, as the teamsters swung
away towards the trail.

When he had tailed in with the retreat he turned, “What became of Sarde
the Coward?” he called back over his shoulder.

“In your sleigh, constable!” answered the officer. “Sergeant, put this
man under arrest.”

“Yes, sir,” the sergeant saluted. “Constable la Mancha,” he called, “for
charging an officer with cowardice in the field, consider yourself under
arrest.”

The charge was made, and only la Mancha could withdraw that now. Sarde
looked from face to face and all eyes accused him; all these men were
witnesses against him on a charge of cowardice in the field. He set his
teeth.

“Sergeant,” he said, “when we reach the Fort you will put this constable
under close arrest.”

The Blackguard was singing gaily as he drove, singing in vengeful
triumph, forgetting the dozen or so of his comrades whose bodies lay on
the bloody snow, abandoned. Then he remembered and was silent, while the
crackle of musketry dwindled away astern, as the men of the rear guard
fell back. Only the lope of the horses, the creaking of the runners,
and occasional sobbing gasps of a hurt man in the sleigh, disturbed the
silence of the wilderness. La Mancha handed the reins to his off man:

“Take the team, Red; I want—”

He took a letter from his pocket, and sat, all humped up, reading
gloomily.

Eight miles away the fellows down in the Fort were waiting for news, the
news of victory. Red’s heart, as he drove, was aching; his face burned
with shame as he thought of the Outfit thrashed—the Greatest Regiment on
Earth disgraced—the dead left in the field, the sleighs full of wounded
men in their agony—then the settlements! What could save the far-strung,
lonely settlements now from being sacked and burned, the men tortured to
death, the women—the children! He dared not think of them at the mercy
of Red Indian tribes at war. And Buck was dead; poor old Buck, who had
rooked him last night at cribbage—dead!

“Dearest,” the Blackguard read, “I can’t bear him any longer. Meet me
behind the stockade at dusk. Your poor Polly.”

Who the deuce was Polly? What had he to tell her anyway from Buck? He
put away Buck’s letter, and drove on, climbing the hillocks, swishing
down the hollows among lakes and groves, until the deep valley of the
Saskatchewan opened ahead, and far down beside the river he saw the old
Hudson’s Bay Company’s post, Fort Carlton, where the Union Jack flamed
out above the stockade, and the garrison waited for news of victory.

Away to the right, upon the eastern trail, a string of loaded sleighs was
sweeping down long slopes toward the Fort, covered by mounted men with
all the glitter and pageantry of war—the reinforcement which had come too
late—B Troop, triumphant after a tremendous forced march to the rescue.
The Blackguard grunted his disparagement, and spoke to his off man:

“Who’s poor Polly?”

Red laughed: “Sarde’s wife, of course.”

The Blackguard whistled softly. “So she’s poor Polly—oh, you sly dog! Oh,
Buck!”


                                  III.

The Blackguard slept in the cells a prisoner—“Pretty well, thank you!”
as he told Red, through the window, afterwards. All day he lay at ease
while the rest of the fellows made dismal lamentations about overwork.
That soothed him, also the aftertaste of a nice fight, while in his
cheery soul he gloated on things to come, the war, the downfall of Sarde,
and meetings with that officer’s merry lady. No wonder she could not bear
any more Sarde—small blame to her, for he was dismal and the lady gay,
with a sense of humor, an engaging laugh, a dimple or two, and a pert eye
for any fun in sight. Poor Polly! And so she let Buck hold her hand of an
evening? Poor Buck! The Blackguard sighed. “But I’m rather nice”—he felt
that Buck would approve—“and disengaged, too! I’m grateful, refreshing,
comforting, well broken, docile, with the sweetest manners, the dearest
little ways.” He chuckled as he thought of other merry ladies whom he had
fondly loved, two or three at a time, charming girls by swarms down the
perspectives of nice memory. “I did my duty.” He crooned, and composed
himself for a nap.

Red came in the afternoon with news. The fort was to be abandoned,
evacuated at midnight, and the garrison was to fall back, defending the
settlements eastward. The boys had been turned loose to loot the Hudson’s
Bay store—and here was the Blackguard’s share, flung in through the bars:
a box of cigars, a mouth organ, a fine revolver, a baby’s bottle, some
chocolate creams, and a family Bible which caught him full in the eye and
floored him.

The Blackguard found that he could not play the mouth organ while he was
eating chocolates and smoking, but had to take them by turns. The shadow
of night stole softly in through the bars before he was bored.

Later on he began to get hungry, and as supper was delayed some hours
he clamored at the door. To his amazement he was at once let out by a
half-breed washerwoman, and looking round saw that the guardroom was
full of civilian refugees. For a minute he stood watching them as they
sat around a glowing stove, whose naked iron flue went red-hot through
the wooden ceiling. “You’ll have the place on fire soon,” he said, and
they only smiled at him. Where was the Guard? Away relieving sentries,
he supposed, as he reached his sidearms down from a peg, belted on his
revolver, and strolled outside. He found himself in the covered entry
of the fort, under the gate house. On his right the great courtyard was
littered with sleighs, and swarming with men at work preparing for the
retreat. On his left the gates swung ajar. To look more business-like
he swung an axe across his shoulder, and marched out, explaining to
the sentry that he was on duty. The riverside meadows lay silver below
the moon and the fresh night allured him as he skirted the stockade,
answering a challenge from the bastion, then turned towards the rear side
of the fort. He was thinking of the merry lady who might have been there
had he come last night. She was there!

He drew near to the cloaked and silent woman, and lifted his cap; “Mrs.
Sarde, I think?”

She shrank back against the upright posts of the stockade, thrust out
white hands against him, and barely repressed a scream. “Who are you?
What are you?” she cried.

He saw that her face was pale, touched by the moonlight into a spiritual
delicacy. “The Blackguard, madam,” he answered.

“Oh, how you frightened me! What is it, la Mancha? You’ve brought a
message for me?”

“You thought I was a ghost,” he whispered; “you thought I was—”

“Buck? Yes.” He saw a tear run down her cheek. “Yes, I thought so.”

“I am his messenger.” The Blackguard’s voice was soft and low, he leaned
towards her, his hand against the stockade, as he bent down. “His last
thought was of you, he tried to give me a message, but his voice failed
then.”

“My brother! My poor brother!” The Blackguard started back.

“The deuce!” he stammered, “what a beastly sell! Your brother, madam?”
He uncovered his head. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Sarde; I beg your
forgiveness.”

“Nobody knew,” her voice was broken with tears; “not even my husband.
Poor boy—things had gone wrong down East. He had to change his name, and
when he joined the Force—for my sake, he wouldn’t say that he was my
brother. He was in the ranks, you see, and I—”

“You are in trouble, madam”—a new reverence had come into la Mancha’s
manner. “I was your brother’s friend—may I take his place and serve you?”

“How kind of you to think of that, Mr. la Mancha. But then, you see, my
husband—you understand?”

“Has the right to protect you; yes, he has that great honor.”

“Oh, don’t mind me!” came Sarde’s sarcastic interruption, and both of
them turned round, startled, horrified, to face the officer of the guard,
visiting round unattended. “You may well start—the pair of you,” said
Inspector Sarde, his eyes glittering with rage, then with bitter sarcasm
he went on; “A husband’s rights? Moonshine! Myths! Lies! Woman, get back
to the fort at once, or I’ll have you arrested for being out of bounds.”

“But, Cuthbert,” she pleaded, “you don’t understand. This gentleman—”

“Go, I say; go! Leave me to settle with this—this gentleman!”

Poor Polly crept away, and the two men watched her in silence until she
had turned the corner of the stockade.

“Ah!” the Blackguard laid his axe against the wall. “At last!”

“And now, mister gentleman, may I venture to ask what you’re doing
outside your cell?”

“You may.”

“Stand to attention; call me ‘sir’ when you address an officer.”

“Dear, dear! I would shout, I would screech if I were you. Then everybody
will hear.”

“The Commissioner shall hear.”

“What? That I’m here to defend your wife’s honor, which you have
insulted, you—you poached cat!”

“Right about turn, quick march for the guard room, or—”

“Or what?”

The officer was silent.

“That’s right. Now be good. I want to point out,” said the Blackguard
with yearning sweetness, “that although I am tempted, without witnesses,
I have not kicked you. No. I have denied myself even calling you names,
you—you mule-foaled outrage on nature’s modesty; you stridulating,
splay-footed, pop-eyed mistake of Providence; you supercilious
brass-mounted, misdirected Excuse. I will not shock myself by speaking
the truth about your appearance, origin, or destiny as a spatchcocked and
fried Sin, but I daresay you’ll understand this—”

He flicked his glove across the officer’s face, and stood back, smiling
blandly.

“How dare you!”

“With my glove, so—” he struck again, lightly, gracefully, tigerishly.
“You see there are the snipers in the hills, taking the pot-shot, eh?
which will explain your death, without my inconvenience; eh? It will
account for all—we have revolvers—and so! Carramba! What more does the
fool want?”

“Sir! I’m an officer, a gent—”

“Exactly—gent. Something less than a gentleman, eh? Well, I waive that. I
waive the matter of rank—I accommodate you with every kindness; eh, what?”

Sarde hesitated.

“Come, I know you’re a coward, but never mind that. Brace up! You shall
be a man for once. There now; at fifteen paces, eh? No? Don’t disappoint
me, please,” the Blackguard pleaded. “I spoil for it—I beg you—have you
no inside? Are you a shadow in trousers? Nombre de Dios! It’s for your
wife’s honor!”

“I tell you that officers can’t fight with—”

“With me, Senor? I waive that, I tell you—I, Jose Santa Maria Sebastian
Sant Iago Nuñez Ramiro de Guzman, de la Mancha, Marques de las
Alpuxarras, Conde del Pulgar, a peer of Castile, am ready to waive my
rank and fight a scrambled skunk! Draw! Stand back! At the word three I
fire—one—two—Sangre de Cristo!”

Sarde had fired.

“What the deuce do you mean by firing before I give the word, eh? I’ll
punch your head for that!” The Blackguard clutched at a burning pain on
his shoulder, his hand was dyed with the blood of a spurting artery—and
yet this seemed to concern him less than the red glare from within the
fort which had flushed the face of his adversary. He reeled backwards
now, staring up at the stockade, whose timbers loomed black against a
fiery glow, which was rapidly mounting to heaven above Fort Carlton.

“Sarde,” said la Mancha, gravely, “you see that?”

“Had enough?” asked Sarde; “I’m going to kill you now. I fire when I
count three—one—two—defend yourself—”

“Presently, my good man, presently,” la Mancha waved his hand to Sarde.
“Don’t you see that the fort is on fire?”

“On fire—what? On fire! By the living—”

“Hush, don’t gabble, Sarde. You’ve played the man at last; I forgive you
for firing too soon—I let you off the charge of cowardice in the field.
Oh, you needn’t thank me—it’s for your wife’s sake. Yes, I let you off—I
ask your pardon, sir. Oh, yes, why not?”

Within the fort a bugle was crying the terrible monotonous repetitions
of the General Assembly, and men were yelling, as they ran, of wounded
patients shut up in the blazing house. “The fort’s on fire. The fort’s on
fire,” Sarde moaned.

La Mancha clutched Sarde’s arm to steady himself as he reeled backwards
faint with pain from his wound.

“Those refugees,” he explained; “half-breeds in the guard room with a red
hot stove. I warned them. Look, the gate house is on fire, the gate is
blocked with flames, the only gate, and the fire will spread all round
the buildings! All those people going to be burned to death unless we can
cut a road through the stockade—you’ve hit my shoulder—I can’t use the
axe. But you”—he shook the officer with frantic violence—“a Canadian, a
born axeman— Do you hear? Save the garrison or they’ll burn to death!
Take that axe!”

The Canadian sprang forward, the axe became a live thing in his hands;
the gleaming blade flamed in red air, buried itself in quivering timber,
then swung again, and lit, and swung again in a whirl of splinters.

La Mancha sat down in the snow, his blood-drenched hand upon the wound,
his body rocking to the steady swing of the axe, though he could hardly
see his enemy now, because of the red smoke curling between the timbers.

“Good man!” he gasped, “you are a man at last! You’ll save the garrison,
you’ll get promoted, you’ll win back that lady’s love-you’re winning back
your honor! Strike, man—strike!”

       *       *       *       *       *

It is well known to the two hundred thousand readers of this magazine
that its bald-headed editor often pulls his hair on the platform. He
boarded the cars one day and slung his big valise between two seats and
sat down by a drummer. The drummer looked at the valise and then at
the bald-headed man and bluntly asked, “Are you a traveling man, sir?”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply. “What line of goods are you selling?” queried
the drummer. “Sweetened wind,” was the answer. “Oh, you are!” said the
drummer; “preacher or lecturer?”—_Robert L. Taylor._




                           A ROYAL RESIDENCE.

                        By James Henry Stevenson.


One morning the Professor, whom I had not seen since I left Tennessee,
accidentally unearthed me in London and proposed that we should visit
Windsor. Now, I may as well confess to defective initiative, in regard to
sight-seeing, for I had been within reach of Windsor on several former
occasions and had not yet seen the home of the most gracious queen the
world has ever known. This, too, in face of the fact that a German
professor had assured me that Windsor was “himmlisch.” When a German so
far forgets himself as to say that anything English is “heavenly,” be
assured he has great provocation.

[Illustration:

  WINDSOR CASTLE FROM THE THAMES.
]

Of course, I acceded without hesitation to the Professor’s proposal and
we selected a train, appointed a _rendezvous_, and agreed to go the
following morning.

The Professor’s traveling companion was a “blue grass” doctor of
divinity, while I was courier, guide, and advance agent to the
“delegate,” sent by his admiring countrymen and brethren to unload some
ecclesiastical “thunder and lightning” on their conservative confrères
in the old land. The “delegate’s” wife was traveling with him as a sort
of balance wheel on his too impetuous energy and to see that he was not
imposed on by the overbearing foreigner; she was not averse to a little
vigorous sight-seeing when otherwise unemployed. They also joined the
party, which was completed by “Wee McGregor,” as the eight-year-old was
called, who looked to me for his traveling expenses.

Having visited London before, and being possessed of an unearned
reputation as a _dragoman_, I felt it was incumbent on me to show the
party the best and quickest way to reach Windsor. Accordingly I hailed
one of those obsolete conveyances which the London City Fathers provide
for the traveler, to whom the conservation of energy is of more moment
than arriving at a destination.

In due time, somewhat shaken but still in good humor, for the day was
yet young, we arrived at King’s Cross station on the Metropolitan
Railway, better known by the more modest and suggestive title of the
“Underground.” “Here,” I had said to the prospective sightseers, “we
shall get a train that will connect direct and without change at
Paddington station with the train for Windsor.” This was all true except
the “without change” clause. For this slight deviation from strict
veracity I have no apology to make. Indeed, I doubt whether I am entitled
to play the role of guide while so generous with the truth.

I kept my tourists “rounded up” and prevented them from embarking in
various directions. As there were trains passing every two or three
minutes it seemed a waste of time not to take one and I had, as a
consequence, a very busy quarter of an hour. At last our train came, and,
after rushing madly up and down the platform the entire length of the
train, we found places, though in different “stalls.”

When an American train arrives at a station you go in and find a seat.
When an English train, especially of the old style which is now happily
disappearing, arrives, you must first find a seat and then go in. You
trail up and down the platform and poke your nose into every compartment
answering to the class for which you have purchased tickets. Here is one
with two or three places vacant, but you have a party of four, and as
they are strangers in the country, you must keep them together to ensure
their alighting at the right place. Besides you naturally want to be
within speaking distance of one another. So you start back again to the
other end of the train, terrified every moment lest the engineer grow
weary of your bootless explorations, and decide to start. Ah! Here is a
vacant apartment at last, but just as you are about to step in with a
light heart you notice that it is marked “first class” and unfortunately
you are not a millionaire. You continue your search and find eventually
a vacant apartment of the class in which you are entitled to ride. Your
troubles are now ended; your party is seated; your _impedimenta_ are
laboriously stowed away in the racks, when, with envious nonchalance,
enters a smoker armed with a little cigarette that vomits smoke like
a factory chimney. The ladies are indignant; you rack your brain for
something sufficiently withering to say, and just as you are ready to
deliver, you notice, faintly etched on the window, the word “smoking.”
Now, if you were traveling in Austria, you would give the “guard” a
quarter to remove the label with the offensive word, and would settle
back virtuously into the leather cushions, but here, while the English
guard would be equally obliging—for a like “bakshish”—it is a more
serious matter to remove the door or window. In the meantime you have
left the smoker in quiet possession to fill the vacant space with clouds
of the fragrant weed. In despair you apply to the guard and when you
appropriately recognize his importance, he finds you a place in a moment.

The stations on the “Underground” are open to the surface and are light
and airy, but when the train plunges under London, and the compartment
fills up with the gases, that have been accumulating down here for the
past thirty years, you realize that traveling on the “Underground” does
not differ widely from suicide by slow asphyxiation.

The “delegate” put his silk handkerchief to his nostrils and looked
suspiciously at me. It requires some ten minutes to make the distance
between King’s Cross and Paddington, so he was unable to hold his breath
all the way. Every time he breathed I felt as if I had murdered a man.
My Tennessee friend and the Kentucky parson were not yet disposed to
be critical, so they chatted merrily, breathed regularly, and acted as
though these sulphur laden fumes were their “native air.”

But after we had quitted Paddington station, and the train had taken its
last few plunges under ground; when we had actually shaken off the dust
and grime and roar of London, the beauty of the incomparable English
landscape began to make us glad. Patchwork hillsides, where tiny fields
are partitioned off by greenest hedges, lovely valleys, where brimming
streams shimmer their length along, came, one by one, into view. The
English streams have no visible banks. The turf, green as an emerald,
grows clear to the water’s brink and dangles its luxuriant growth into
the quiet brook, as a barefoot boy, playing truant, cools his feet
in some wayside stream, while the master’s wrath grows warm. These
rivers—for rivers I must call them, though a good athlete might almost
leap from side to side—are always full and seem as though the accidental
dropping in of a pebble would make them overflow.

As hill and valley, hedge and garden, country home and quiet hamlet,
all of surpassing loveliness, swept past us, my entire party began to
fall under the spell of this exquisite beauty, and I felt that there had
arisen the unanimous, though unexpressed, conviction that now, at last,
the self-appointed guide was earning his salary.

[Illustration:

  WINDSOR CASTLE FROM THE THAMES.
]

As Windsor is distant from London by about forty minutes ride, the
tourist arrives at his destination fresh and “fit,” to use an expressive
English phrase. When we issued forth from the station we encountered, as
a matter of course, the ubiquitous hackman who, in all lands, stands ever
ready to drive you to all the places you especially do not want to visit.
The object of our pilgrimage was the Castle, distant a stone’s throw
from the station, so there was no occasion to provoke an unnecessary and
futile dispute with the “cabbie.” We next encountered an army of small
boys distributing handbills, on which were set forth, in eloquent terms,
the merits of the various “tea rooms” of the city, which unselfishly
cater to the comfort of the stranger. We accepted this service as a
matter of course, first, because it was gratuitous; second, because it
was the easiest way to get rid of the boy, and third, because, though a
sight-seer may pull through the day without the assistance of a hansom
or a “growler,” I have never known one who was not ready to take a
little refreshment, especially when he was traveling abroad. After we
had become thoroughly tired out, with climbing the steps of the Round
Tower and general sight-seeing, we found a cosy, clean and restful upper
room, where the actual bill of fare was not badly out of harmony with the
promises of the card.

The town of Windsor, itself, possesses nothing of special interest to the
traveler. The Castle, situated in a commanding position on the Thames,
dominates the town from every point of view, and is, with its environs,
the sole reason for a visit.

The group of buildings enclosed by the walls is nearly a mile in
circumference and has been the favorite home of most of the sovereigns of
England since the days of William the Conqueror. Each one has continued
the lavish expenditures of his predecessor to enrich and beautify it.
It fascinates, therefore, not only by its great beauty, the romance
suggested by wall and tower, but also, and especially, by the variety of
its architecture. Here we can study the master-builder’s art, as gate,
chapel, and tower step forth, in quick succession, to instruct us. The
space, enclosed by the walls of the castle, is divided into two wards—the
lower and the upper—by the great Round Tower, which occupies the brow of
a hill, or mound, commanding the upper ward, which is level, and looking
down upon the lower ward, which is situated on a gradual incline. The
walls are pinched together at the Tower, but swell out around either
ward, suggesting somewhat the figure eight.

We arrived at Windsor by the Great Western Railway, and after walking up
a little hill, High Street, passing on the left the beautiful Jubilee
statue of Queen Victoria, we found ourselves at the main entrance of the
lower ward, Henry VIII’s gateway. Notice this splendid example of Tudor
architecture, built about 1510. Either side of the gateway is flanked
by a mighty tower, which you will notice has three sides to make more
effective the defence. Over the gateway, in a row, may be seen the badges
of Henry: the _fleur-de-lis_, suggesting the English claim to the French
crown; the Tudor Rose; and the portcullis, used so frequently after the
twelfth century to protect the gateway from sudden assault.

My readers will remember that Henry was rather indulgent to himself in
the matter of marriages. He experienced, all told, six wives, of whom
Providence removed two, divorce set aside two more, and the executioner’s
axe cut short the career of the remaining pair.

His second wife, Anne Boleyn, the most charming of the lot, whom Henry
first married, afterward divorcing her rival, paid the penalty of her
attractiveness, or coquetry, at the executioner’s block in the Tower of
London. She, with a gorgeous retinue attending her, was met at this gate
by Henry and welcomed to the place with the assurance that she would
shortly be its real mistress. All this, however, to the great regret of
the “delegate’s” wife, took place before our arrival.

How different is the architecture of the Norman gate with its graceful
round towers! Here, in these chambers which you may see above the
entrance, and in the rooms of the towers themselves, were kept, during
the struggle between Crown and Parliament, many famous prisoners.

As we entered the lower ward, by Henry VIII’s gateway, the beautiful
proportions of St. George’s Chapel rose before us on the left. Adjoining,
on the east, is Albert Memorial Chapel, the gem of the entire group.
Still traveling east and ascending the hill, we come first to the
residence of the Dean and Chapter, and then to the famous Round Tower.
Directly across from St. George’s the group of buildings is the residence
of the Military Knights, who date from the founding of the order of the
Garter, when Edward III established this to provide for the relief of
poor knights. It was called by Elizabeth, “Poor Knights of Windsor,” but
William IV took away its reproach by giving it the present name.

These are the main features of the lower ward, the buildings being
grouped around a large balloon-shaped court.

[Illustration:

  WINDSOR CASTLE, NORMAN GATEWAY.
]

Beyond the Round Tower lies the upper ward, perfectly level, with
stately buildings on three sides of a square which contains a splendid
example of artistic gardening. The buildings on the north are the State
apartments, and those on the south and east the royal suites. This group
has twenty-four towers, seventeen state apartments, forty-eight rooms,
seventy-nine bedrooms, sixty-five sitting rooms, and rooms containing two
hundred and thirty-one beds for servants.

Our first objective point was St. George’s Chapel. The exterior of this
building is very beautiful and singularly in harmony with the surrounding
structures. This effect the architect accomplished by avoiding the use
of the conventional church tower, while at the same time preserving the
ecclesiastical appearance.

We found, within, a group of people in charge of a verger, who was
explaining to them the various objects of interest. We went our own
way and when we had finished, found that the verger and his flock had
departed and the door was locked. It felt, at first, a trifle like being
in jail, but conscious of our rectitude, we waited till the door opened
again and then passed out. As we had found the door open when we arrived
and had entered in unchallenged, it did not occur to us that the verger
considered it necessary to personally conduct us through the building and
bid us farewell when we left; nor did we think that we had in any way
slighted him till the Kentucky parson, who had remained behind to ask
a few questions, later reported that the ecclesiastical pathfinder had
enquired of him, with fine scorn, if “that aristocratic party belonged
to him.” The “aristocratic party,” was the professor, the “delegate” and
myself, who were now safely out of reach, while the verger’s fee jingled
merrily at the bottom of our pockets.

On every hand, at Windsor, are posted notices forbidding the servants
to receive any gratuities, but we learned, that notwithstanding the
seemliness of such a regulation in such a place, none but a novice took
it seriously. Consequently, when we later visited the Royal Stables, we
emerged proudly from the ordeal after having deposited a shilling in the
ever ready hand of the guide.

But to return to the chapel. It was begun by Henry I and mutilated as
usual by the soldiers of the Puritans, and restored again by Charles II
and his successors, but Victoria has perhaps done most for it.

[Illustration:

  HENRY VIII GATEWAY.
]

There are many tiny chapels around the various walls, in the fashion of
the churches of Europe. We noticed, especially, the Braye chapel to the
right of the entrance. On the walls hung a sword and swordbelt, showing
evident marks of service in the field. An inscription explained that they
belonged to Captain Wyatt-Edgall, who recovered the body of the Prince
Imperial, in Zululand. He, himself, was also killed in South Africa. The
same chapel contains the monument to Prince Imperial—son of Napoleon III
and Eugènie,—who fought with the English in South Africa, and there died.

A translation of the inscription at the foot of the marble figure—a
figure of the recumbent prince, grasping his sword which lies along his
body—reads: “The well-beloved youth, the comrade of our soldiers, slain
in the African war, and thence carried to the tomb of his fathers, and
represented in funereal marble in this holy domicile of kings, Queen
Victoria receiveth as her guest.”

There is also an interesting extract from the will of the prince, which
reads: “I shall die with a feeling of profound gratitude for her Majesty,
the Queen of England, and for the royal family, and for the country in
which, during eight years, I have received so cordial a hospitality.”

The choir, a church within the church, is situated in the center of the
chapel and at the east end. A passage runs the entire way round the sides
and rear. It is raised some four feet above the level of the floor and
is a long gallery with two rows of lateral seats, and an organ, said to
be the finest choir organ in Europe, at the farthest end. The seats,
on either side, are the stalls of the Knights of the Garter. They are
most elaborately carved from floor to ceiling, decorated with crests and
emblems.

The remains of Henry VIII and Lady Jane Seymour, who was neither divorced
nor beheaded, since she lived only a year after her marriage, are buried
beneath the center of the choir. Under the entire chapel a royal vault
was constructed by George III, cut out of the chalk rocks below. It is
seventy by twenty by fifteen feet and designed for eighty-one bodies.

[Illustration:

  THE ROUND TOWER, WINDSOR CASTLE.
]

Directly in the rear of St. George’s is Albert Memorial Chapel, the most
interesting feature, as well as the most artistic and costly creation at
Windsor. The chapel was begun by the pious, though much married, Henry
VIII, who soon abandoned it for Westminster. Constancy was, perhaps, not
one of Henry’s strong points. Wolsey, who was Henry’s pope and aspired
to be the real one, begged and obtained the chapel for himself, but
fell from Henry’s favor, as the ladies had done, before he could finish
it. When the Parliamentary forces obtained possession of Windsor, they
desecrated it as usual, and sold its plunder for $3,000. Wolsey’s
sarcophagus, which escaped, was removed by George III, three hundred
years later, to St. Paul’s, where it now holds the dust of Nelson.

It is well known that Victoria decided to convert this chapel into a
memorial for the Prince Consort after his death. No expense was spared,
and when it was completed in 1874, its interior rivaled the most splendid
ecclesiastical structures in the world.

The fourteen windows, with panels beneath thirteen of them, are dreams
of art. The windows contain portraits and arms of various kings, queens
and princes, and some symbolical figures. The panels beneath picture
scenes from the Old and New Testaments, suggestive of various virtues and
religious truths. The chapel contains in the center, besides the Prince’s
cenotaph, the tombs of the Dukes of Albany and Clarence.

The Round Tower is the most picturesque feature of the castle. Nothing
is so interesting as a tower. Not a modern tower—a mere imitation—but
a real tower, with dungeons, where prisoners have clanked their chains
in despair, with great halls where knights in armor foregathered, with
secret passages and musty mysteries in every corner—a tower that has
lived on to see this age of civilization superimposed upon its own rough,
ready and bloody past.

[Illustration:

  VICTORIA TOWER AND SOUTH SIDE.
]

The tower is over three hundred feet in circumference and is built on the
top of a high mound in a most commanding situation. It is reached, after
one passes through the Norman Gate, by a long flight of steps, which
is continued up through the structure till the base of the turret is
reached. This flight is commanded by a cannon placed at the head of the
stairs. The turret, a good-sized tower itself, is built upon the top of
the old tower of George III. Within the turret, the stairs wind around a
massive bell, brought from Sevastopol.

Finally the top is reached, three hundred and twenty-five feet from the
ground, and we walk round the ample promenade—the turret is twenty-five
feet wide—dumb in the presence of the loveliness before us. How beautiful
is an English landscape, with its living green, threaded here and there
by the silver sparkle of a stream. West and south we looked out over
Windsor forest and parks, while in the north Eton College was plainly
visible with the inevitable cricketers, dressed in white flannel, moving
to and fro over the matchless sward, or facing the “crease,” which is, I
believe, the “correct” name for the “pitcher’s box.”

How much history and mystery might not the walls of this old tower, built
by Edward III, teach us, could they but speak! This tower once contained
the great round table of the Knights of the Garter and was the home of
the constable-governors, who were responsible for the safe keeping of the
state prisoners, among the most famous of whom have been John, of France,
and David, of Scotland.

As illustration of the possible mysteries that may still lurk about the
tower, I will mention a recent discovery. While investigating a stone
cover with an iron handle, the mouth of a well was uncovered. It was
found to descend one hundred and sixty-four feet, to the level of the
Thames, and was lined up with masonry most of the way.

From the turret a fine view is obtained of the state and private
apartments of the castle. These contain magnificent collections of rare
bric-a-brac and art objects of all kinds. Paintings, tapestries, and
ceramics of priceless worth, are kept in the various rooms and galleries.
The Van Dyck room recalls the fact that this Dutch artist was brought to
England, knighted and pensioned by Charles I. There are also a Zuccarelli
room and a Rubens room, with famous paintings from the artists whose
names they bear.

Our next visit was paid to the Royal Stables. Here we were received at
an office, and after registering our names and nativity were put in
charge of guides. Words cannot do justice to the splendid appearance of
the well-matched horses, a large proportion of which were greys, and the
cleanliness and order of the stalls. Even the straw beneath the horses’
feet was unruffled. At the foot of the stall was laid a nicely plaited
braid of straw, forming a pretty border, and on either side stood little
sheaves of straw, daintily bound, and presenting the appearance of a row
of sentinels down the long line.

We were conducted through stable after stable, and shown horses for
all sorts of uses, and horses that were no longer of any use but were
pensioners of His Majesty, for services already rendered the State. Then
came the carriages. Carriages for royal purposes, and for State purposes
and for “breaking in” purposes.

What impressed me most was an old chair on wheels—such as one sees
invalids moved about in. It was as commonplace looking as one could
well imagine. To it were attached a pair of shafts, and I recognized
it at once as there rose before me the vision of the Queen, with broad
brimmed straw hat, and accompanied only by a little child, usually one
of her grandchildren, while a humble donkey ambled through the grounds
of Windsor and pulled the improvised carriage. Such was the picture I
had seen in the Sunday school papers, and now the sight of the actual
carriage gave the much needed air of reality. This mode of taking
exercise emphasized at once both the Queen’s independence and simplicity
of manner.

The Great Park, adjoining Windsor Castle, contains 18,000 acres. Within
it is located Frogmore House, another royal residence, near which is
the Royal Mausoleum. Everyone must have been impressed, at some time
or other, with the faithfulness of the late queen to the memory of the
Prince Consort. Throughout her long widowhood, she seems to have lived
in the presence of his death. The monuments, that perpetuate his name,
unless one looks at their artistic value, seem an extravagant waste of
money. Certainly he rendered no conspicuous service to the State, so that
we are justified in regarding these costly memorials as tributes of the
loyal and undying love which the Queen cherished for her husband.

Royal marriages, that are so frequently the result of political
exigencies, are not always happy. Perhaps it would not be wide of the
mark to say, are not often happy. All the greater reason, therefore, that
this one, which was conspicuously congenial, should iterate its testimony.

On the fourteenth of December, the anniversary of the Prince’s death,
the Dean of Windsor regularly held a memorial service at the mausoleum,
during the lifetime of the Queen. Those who had obtained tickets were
admitted to the mausoleum after the service, but this was the only date
in the year when it might be seen.

The foundation stone of the structure was laid by the Queen, herself, and
contains the following words:

  “His mourning widow, the queen, directed all that is mortal
  of Prince Albert, to be placed in this sepulchre, A. D. 1862.
  Farewell, well-beloved: Here at last I will rest with thee; with
  thee, in Christ, I will rise again.”

Windsor Castle has had a long and varied history; it has been associated
closely with many of the kings of England and with stirring scenes of
English history, but for many, many years to come, its mention will call
to memory the good and universally beloved woman—Victoria.




                            THE FINEST HOTEL.

             A SKETCH OF LIFE IN THE MOUNTAINS OF KENTUCKY.

                          By A. Lytle Peterman.


“Boys, is there a hotel in this place?” the traveler asked of two
youngsters lounging near, as he stood, suit-case in hand, on the cinder
path by the track, looking inquiringly about him, while the train pulled
off down the road.

“What place?” putting answer and inquiry into one. It aroused their
interest and surprise to hear Montvale called a “place.”

“This village, or hamlet, or station, or whatever you call it—is there a
hotel hereabout?” he replied, a little impatient and determined to make
himself understood.

“A hotel? Yes, _sir_,” answered the larger of the boys.

“Then I’ll thank you and pay you to show me to it,” the stranger said, as
he brightened up, throwing off the lost look that had struck his face at
the same moment his foot had struck the cinders, when he stepped from the
train.

“All right; up this a-way,” the larger boy answered, as he turned into
the path, and the smaller fell in behind him. The traveler and his
suit-case, side by side, brought up the rear. The boys were agreeable,
but not over-polite, neither thinking to say, “I’ll take the baggage.”

When they had gone perhaps a hundred yards, the traveler’s eyes all the
while seeking sight of a hotel and finding none, the leader stopped
suddenly, raised his arm, pointed his finger back down the railway, and
remarked, “The _finest_ hotel is ’way down hyander.”

“Very well,” said the stranger, an experienced traveler, therefore past
the “kicking” stage; “take me to the finest.”

The procession faced about, headed down the track, retraced its steps,
passed the depot, and continued on its way.

But we are not yet to “the finest hotel.” In fact, there is time to “view
the landscape o’er” before we arrive, especially as the boys are quiet,
remarkably quiet for Kentucky boys—“mighty say-nothin’ shavers,” as the
landlady afterwards described them to her guest.

It was dusk, on a Sunday evening in September. The rain had just begun
falling gently—the prelude to the first cool snap of the autumn. The
stranger had left the train to spend the night, preparatory to his
cross-country trip on the following day.

Montvale is a station on the Chesapeake & Ohio Railway, in the mountains
of Kentucky, seventy-five or a hundred miles east of Lexington. It is
of consequence chiefly because it is on the road to somewhere else—the
point of departure from the railway to the country lying beyond. Contrary
to the rule, its inhabitants seemed to realize its urban limitations,
especially the meagerness of its population. The two boys, unprepared for
such compliment, were surprised to hear it called a “place.”

At that time, less than a decade ago—and doubtless ever since,—Montvale
straggled around over a wide expanse of flat woods and weedy fields,
between ranges. Space to spare was the most striking thing about it. The
land, too swampy for tillage, except after elaborate artificial drainage,
was “good to fill a hole in the ground and hold the world together.”

The houses, after the “boxed” style of carpentry, seemed not to have
been built, but to have grown up, like the weeds. They had never peeped
into a paint-bucket; their complexion was that of the crawfish land on
which they stood. Most of the doors, off the hinges, whether they ever
had any or not, stood leaning against the inside wall, ready in case a
storm or other emergency arose.

There was little direct communication between the homes, partly because
the weeds overhung the pig-trails of travel; partly because it was about
a Sabbath-day’s journey from each house to its nearest neighbor; partly
because all paths led to or through the depot yard, as the literal
and figurative center of the hamlet. The railway station was at once
the market, the park, the amusement hall, the shipping center, the
business section, the social resort, the lounging place, the nursery and
playground of all Montvale. The railway track, with the path beside it,
was the main and only street of the “place.”

Just as the traveler was wondering if they were going to tramp down to
the next station, the leader said, “Out this hyer way,” turning off
to the right, through a sea of white-topped weeds. The rain was still
falling, and night had come on. A few pale rays of the moon, struggling
through the clouds, showed the boys’ heads now and then bobbing above the
watery weeds, like porpoises at play on the surface of the ocean.

At last, the little procession reached a plank fence with a gap in it.
The boys stopped, confronted the traveler, and the leader said, “_This_
is the finest hotel anywhar about hyer.”

“Where?” the stranger asked.

“Right yander—go through this gate,” tapping with his hand a piece of
frame-work standing across the path.

The boys took the proffered pay, dropped it into their pockets, thrust
their hands down to keep it from getting out, and plunged again into the
depths of the weedy sea.

The traveler peered through the rain and fog into the yard, where the
weeds had lost so much of their stature that he thought he must be
nearing the shore. He picked up the gate leaning across the path, from
panel to panel of the fence, and set it out of the way, remarking,
“Everything about here is off its hinges—I’m nearly off myself.”

He approached the “hotel,” consisting mostly of “boxed” lean-to, and
rested one foot upon the sill of the shed—by courtesy known as the
“porch.” He paused; in the language of eastern railway danger signs, he
thought he would “Stop, Look and Listen.” Silence and the clouds reigned.
No sound but the patter of the drops on the roof. No light gleamed from
the skimpy window, nor crept through the generous cracks in the wall.

He rapped at the door; no answer. He rapped again—louder; still no
answer. There must be nobody at home in “the finest hotel.” So he
hammered the rickety, raky, crazy shutter just because there wasn’t, till
it shook, rattled and shivered, and the boards on the rear wall creaked
and groaned in sympathy.

A cracked, rasping, whining voice from the inner depths called out,
“Well!”

“Madam”—for that voice could belong to none but a crone—“I want to get to
stay over night.”

“This is a purty time o’ night to be a-prowlin’ ’round, a-draggin’ uv
honest, hard-workin’ folks out’n the bed ter wait on ye,” the landlady
replied. The reprimand came mixed with the rattle of straw-ticks and the
rustle of bedclothing.

“I am sorry,” the traveler answered, “but I came as early as I could.
Really, I am neither the conductor, engineer, nor superintendent of that
train. Don’t you keep hotel?”

“Yes, sorter, a leetle, sometimes, when I feel like it. But can’t ye wait
tell a body gits on her cloze; ur will ye jist come in anyhow, whether ur
no?”

“Oh, certainly, I’ll gladly wait,” the traveler said; “take your own
time—mine, too.”

“Whar air you frum?” asked the voice from within, somewhat muffled as it
poked its head up through a calico dress.

“I don’t see what that has to do with it, but I came directly from
Lexington.”

“Yes, I ’lowed so;” she answered. “I jist thought it ’uz some o’ them
Bluegrass fellers what sets up all night and sleeps all day—what hain’t
nothin’ to do but keep awake them that has to work.”

After taking time enough to have arrayed herself for presentation to the
queen, Madame Calico now approached the door, holding a little sputtering
brass lamp—apparently the model of the first invention—in one hand, while
she vainly tried to tie her apron strings with the other. She knocked
up the wooden latch with her elbow and a clatter, and the door swung
open. Holding high her lamp—a rustic model for “Liberty Enlightening the
World”—she waited for the stranger to speak.

“Madame, I’m very sorry—,” he began.

“Yes, I know it,” she snapped, cutting him off from the remainder of his
sentence. “’Bout ever’ thing ’at comes frum Lex’n’ton’s sorry, mighty
sorry. Guess they’s some good people down thar, but I hain’t never seed
’em. They don’t never come up hyer. I _reckin_ you kin stay, but I can’t
give ye no bed all to yerself; an’ I tell ye now, ye needn’t to ax it.”

Meanwhile, Madame Calico had admitted him and led the way through a
side door into an adjoining room which served as a lounging hall for
guests, whether “by the day” or “by the week.” Having learned how to make
allowances for the moods of hotels, landlords and landladies, he had
followed meekly, without invitation.

By “the dim and flaring lamp,” he now caught the outlines of a
half-finished stairway winding up to the garret. There was no railing to
this gangway; safety consisted in keeping away from the brink. Madame
Calico stood on the third step, her countenance and kerosene jet beaming
contemptuously down upon the upturned face of the hesitating guest at the
bottom.

“Madam,” he asked, hearing, as he thought, a chorus of snores winding
down the gangway, “does anybody else sleep up there?”

“No, they hain’t nobody hardly now, sence the mill ’uz shot down.” Rather
an evasive answer.

“How many?” he inquired.

“The mill is shot down, an’ most uv the hands has quit work, an’ they
hain’t many stays hyer now.”

The guest, growing insistent, asked the third time, as he took a single,
hesitating step upward, “Well, who are they—can’t you say just how many?”

Madame Calico, now on the defensive, grew more amiable—rather, less
hostile—, but again took refuge in “the mill” and its shutting down:
“Sence the mill wuz shot down, the’ve mos’ly all went away; they’s hardly
any ub ’em left now.”

The guest was growing impatient, as she could readily see. Not liking the
outlook, he stopped, turned as if to descend, and once more demanded,
“Well, Madam, will you tell me just how many or not?”

She was loath to lose her guest and his pay, “after a-bein’ drug out’n”
her bed. So she at last came to the point, but in her own roundabout
way: “Sence the mill ’uz shot down they hain’t nobody sca’cely sleeps
up hyer—nobody but Sam Thompson, an’ Tim Turney, an’ Joe Alley, an’ Bob
Redford, an’ Jack Johnson, an’ Bill Ed Jeckley—I b’lieve them’s all—oh,
yes, an’ Less Wilson. You kin sleep with Bill Ed, but he won’t sleep
nowhar exceptin’ the fore side uv the bed.”

“Well,” the traveler muttered to himself, “in an adventure, even a
formidable certainty is better than a gloomy doubt.”

They had now reached the landing at the angle in the wall. Madame Calico
handed the little lamp to the guest, and turned to go, saying, “You kin
bunk up with Bill Ed.”

“But how shall I know Bill Ed from the others?” he asked.

“W’y, he’s in the empty bed by hisself; t’others is a-sleepin’ three an’
four tergether. Bill Ed won’t sleep ’ith none uv ’em, ’caze, he says,
he ruther sleep ’ith a meal-sack uv augers an’ hammers then ’ith a man.
Sometimes I jist have to slip a stranger like you in terhin’ him, an’
Bill Ed don’t know nothin’ about it tell mornin’.”

As she clambered down the gangway, hugging the wall, and the new guest
crept up into the garret, he called out, “What time do we rise in the
morning?”

“Oh, most any time,” she answered. “Sence the mill ’uz shot down, ever’
feller jist suits hisself about crawlin’ out.”

“About what hour?” he asked.

“Well, when the mill ’uz a-runnin’ we used to git up purty soon, but
sence hit ’uz shot down we’re all sorter lazy-like, so we purty giner’ly
al’ays have late eatin’.”

“But, Madam, please name the hour for breakfast,” he insisted.

“Well, you kin do purty much to suit yerself sence the mill ’uz shot
down. Jest sleep ez late as yer please. We al’ays eat late when comp’ny’s
hyer, sence the mill ’uz shot down. So you git yer hands an’ face washed
an’ ready by four o’clock’ll do.”

No wonder the mill hands went to bed before nightfall! They had to, in
order to get in in time to get out.

Till now, the sounds coming down from the garret had blended into
something like harmony. When the new guest neared the top of the gangway,
it seemed to him like poking his head into a den of infuriated wild
beasts. The roaring, growling and groaning made “confusion dire and
dreadful din.”

A glance around caused him to wonder how many slept in that one room
before “the mill ’uz shot down.”

The bedsteads were made from pieces of undressed scantling, nailed
together; not one of them had ever felt a plane or seen a chisel. The
little forest of posts and frames looked like a railway trestle; and
the groans and sighs issuing from it sounded as if an express train had
just plunged over, mangling passengers and crew. The mill “hands” lay
uncovered in that stifling atmosphere, tumbled and tangled into all
shapes and attitudes, looking like a band of contortionists struck dead,
each in the midst of his favorite trick. There lay Bill Ed—two hundred
fifty pounds of mountaineer—spread along the front railing, his arm
thrown out and hanging over, to keep him from rolling back and wedging
himself under the rafters of the roof. His was the “empty bed”—fairly on
the way to occupancy!

The new guest, lifting his lamp and peering over huge Bill Ed to the
sleeping place beyond, observed to himself, “In the language of the sweet
girl graduate, ‘Beyond the Alps lies Italy.’ The ‘valley’ is all right,
if I can ever scale the mountain.”

But he found an easier way. He undressed, sneaked into the “valley” from
the foot of the bed, and taking care not to thrust his nose against the
roof, he stretched himself out, but not to sleep—to listen! His entrance
had not disturbed the snorers. In fact, it had seemed to give them a new
inspiration, for the expiration grew louder. They might have supplied
steam enough to keep the mill from shutting down. They made up a whole
band of wind instruments, each blowing a different horn. The listener now
had time to analyze and classify them.

One sounded like a March gust whistling through the splinters on the
end of a hickory rail. Another had the hiss of the air-brake under a
passenger coach, when the train is about to start. There was one gasp
like the continued tearing of brown domestic, and another that made you
look around for a stream of broken stones pouring into a tin bucket. One
long-winded horn, out of tune with all others, hissed like a jet of steam
escaping from the steam-chest when a heavy freight engine is beginning
to move. Bill Ed, evidently the sawyer of the mill, had a long-drawn
snort like the sound of a circular saw ripping through a seasoned oak,
closing with the confused ring of the steel as it clears the end of the
log, combined with the clatter of the “carriage” rushing back for a fresh
start.

To sleep amid such a din was a problem. By and by the traveler dozed
off, but not out of reach of that roar—it lingered in the distance. At
last it ceased—the snorers had risen and gone!

Just when well asleep—so it seemed to him—, a bell—it must have been
first cousin to the little lamp—tinkled on the gangway. The traveler
withdrew from the crevice between rafter and railing—where he had
literally lodged,—and turned over.

By and by a cow-bell bellowed, not rang, in the lounging hall below. The
traveler turned over once more, yawned, slumbered again.

After a time—the clock knew how long—, a conch-shell thrust up the
gangway roared; and the sleeper, thinking it a through freight, pushed
on, making for the next station.

Another silence. At last, behold, Madame Calico stood at the foot of the
gangway, and shouted: “Air you a-gona git up to-day? Ur do ye want me to
git yer breakfas’ and then drag ye out’n the bed, an’ put yer cloze on
ye, an’ wash ye, an’ chaw yer victuals fur ye?”

“I’ll be down in a moment, Madam,” the traveler answered.

“Ever’body but you has eat an’ gone, an’ done furgot hit, by this time,”
she replied. “You’ll fin’ the wash-pan a-settin’ on the porch.”

He arose, dressed hurriedly, made his way down, and by raking around on
the “porch,” finally stumbled against the wash-pan. The morning was still
dark, but a gray spot was in the eastern sky—daylight was on its way to
“the finest hotel.”

Toilet finished, with the aid of his handkerchief in place of a towel,
he began wondering where the dining-room could be. He heard no footsteps
about the “hotel,” and search revealed neither kitchen nor fire. Peering
around, he at last caught sight of smoke curling up from a stick-and-clay
chimney some hundred yards away, beyond a bay of the weedy sea he had
crossed the evening before. Parting the weeds overhanging the path was
much like swimming across.

Breakfast—varied, wholesome, well-cooked—was on the table—had been for
an hour or more. Madame Calico, first seeing him seated and busy, then
remarked, “You’ll jist have to wait on yerself, but I reckin ye ain’t
noways bashful. I’ll have to go back to the hotel to clean up atter ye.
It’s a blessed thing the mill’s shot down, fur we couldn’t a-had no sich
layin’ up in the bed a-soakin’ an’ a-sobbin’ this time o’ day, ’way hyer
might’ nigh dinner.” He was not sorry to make his meal in silence, peace
and the landlady’s absence.

Breakfast finished, the guest made his way back toward his lodging place.
Turning the corner and confronting the entrance, he read, on a board
over the shed, the name of “the finest hotel,” “Traveler’s Rest;” and
immediately, by the law of contrast, his memory reverted to the garret,
the snoring, Bill Ed and the “empty bed,”—to the hand-bell, the cow-bell
and the conch-shell.

Just before he paid his bill and left, in quest of a turnout for the
day’s drive, Madame Calico, still in the act of cleaning up, favored him
with her views on affairs in and about Montvale, and divers and sundry
bits of information—some of a startling kind. “No,” she said, “the hotel
business don’t amount to nothin’ much sence the mill ’uz shot down. Wunst
in a while some feller comes stragglin’ along way hyander in the night,
when all honest white folks is asleep, but the trouble o’ waitin’ on ’im
an’ cleanin’ up atter ’im’s more’n the pay.

“Them revenue men an’ marshals an’ sich rakin’s an’ scrapin’s uv the
yearth has might nigh ruint Montvale. A passel uv ’em comes here t’other
day—jist week afore last—an’ axes me ’bout Sam Ben Jeckley’s ’stillery,
whar it wuz. Sam Ben is Bill Ed’s brother. An’ I up an’ tells ’em I don’t
know nothin’ about it—hain’t never seed it, nur smelt it, nur tasted it,
nur been about it, nur had nothin’ to do with it, in no shape, size,
form, nur fashion.

“They said they knowed it ’uz around hyer somewhar. An’ sir, they
rummaged over this lan’ an’ country a-s’archin’ fur that ’stillery—hit uz
the mill the hands worked at. Atter cavortin’ aroun’ two ur three days,
like a lot o’ male-cows a-tarrin’ up a paster, they afinally finds the
mill—’stillery, as they called it—about two miles frum hyer.

“An’ they taken axes an’ smashed the whole thing tell they wuz nuther
ha’r nur hide uv it left. An’ they spilt out three tanks o’ sour-mash
byer, an’ we hain’t had none fur the table sence. It beats all uv yer
sasafac tea, yer spicewood tea, an’ yer Californy byer.

“They poured out five barl’s uv the best whisky—’cordin’ to what’s said
uv it—that ever went to town on ’lection day. They say jist one drink
’ould run a man wil’ enough fur the ’sylum, an’ one drap ’ould make a
rabbit pick a qua’rl with a bull-dog, ef he had to spit in his face to do
it.

“It’s all sech ez that has ruint the country—stark-nater’ly wiped
business out’n Montvale. The dirty, low-flunged, lazy good-fur-nothin’
imps uv the devil, prowlin’ aroun’, ’stroyin’ what other people’s sweat
has earnt!

“But still they wuzn’t satisfied! Then they went up above the
mill—’stillery, as they called it—, an’ drawed the’r Winchesters an’
Smith & Westerns, an’ farred bullets all through the ruff, an’ poked
the door ez full o’ holes ez a sifter. They jest blowed the whole thing
bodyaciously all to flugens an’ flinderations, with the’r guns an’
pistols.

“An’ that’s how the mill come to be shot down,” she added, as her parting
guest once more lifted the gate aside.

“Good day, Madam,” he said, as he lifted it back.

“Wush ye well,” she answered. “Ef ye’re ever hyer agin, come to see us—I
_reckin_ we kin stand ye, an’ Bill Ed won’t know nothin’ about it tell
he’s up an’ out. He may be gone by that time any way, fur he’s speenied
to Feder’l Court up at Louisville purty soon, fur a witness ’gin the
government, to swar Sam Ben an’ tother ’shiners out’n trouble.”

“Yes,” said the traveler to himself, “when I put up again at ‘the finest
hotel,’ Bill Ed will be gone—to Federal Court, or some lower or higher
tribunal.”

[Illustration]




                         INDEFINITELY POSTPONED.

                         By Eva Williams Malone.

      [During the period immediately following the Civil War, many
      former slaves, after living in matrimonial harmony for years,
       were “married over again.” The writer recalls several such
           instances on her father’s plantation in Tennessee.]


Mr. Josiah Crabtree, gentleman of color, Grand Master of the Lodge of
Colored Masons and holder of various other offices of emolument and
trust, had, metaphorically speaking, run against a snag. Being a plain
and simple man of direct methods, the ornate made small appeal to his
mentality. However, Mr. Crabtree had consented to argue the matter; and,
in differences matrimonial, the husband who argues is lost.

“But, Penelope,” he began—he always called his wife Penelope when they
disagreed, possibly because she disliked the name—“Penelope, what’s de
use ob it? Here we is been libin’ togedder, happy an’ contented wid de
few words Uncle Jake said ober us dat ebenin’ in de cabin on de ol’
plantation. Dey tuk us all fro’ war times, an’ we ain’t nebber fit yit;
an’ what in de name o’ peace you want t’ hop up an’ git mahried all ober
agin at dis late day fur, beats my time! You ought t’ know by now dat I
ain’t gwine quit you; an’ effen you ain’t pleased wid me, all you got t’
do is t’ say de word.”

Mrs. Crabtree tossed her comely black head, and said petulantly: “’Pears
lak I can’t git no notion o’ style or keepin’ up wid de pussession in
yo’ nigger haid! You don’t seem t’ hab no mo’ ambitions dan a mole! You
t’ink jes’ ’case we-alls had suttin’ ways in slave times, dem ways gwine
fit de presen’ suckumstances. In cose it were ’missible for us t’ g’long
satisfied wid de few words from Uncle Jake den; but dat don’t prove it’s
de propper t’ing _now_! We’se innerpennant ’Merican citterzens dese days;
we’se got as good a right t’ go t’ de Cote house as de next un.”

“Fo’ de Lawd, Penelope! you ain’t gwine trot me t’ de Cote House effen I
gib in t’ you ’bout dis mattah, is you?”

“You got t’ go t’ de Cote House fo’ de license, you po’ fool nigger you!
All de ladies an’ gemmens in our S’ciety is bein’ mahried ober agin, wid
a license an’ a ring, an’ a preacher, an’ flowers an’ sech! It make me
feel reel slavish, it sho’ do, t’ go on libin’ lak we is been. I’m de
Seccertary o’ de Good S’maritans, an’ Sist’ Hapgood ain’t nothin’ but
a privit member; yit her an’ Brer Hapgood done been mahried agin las’
mont’ wid a gol’ ring an’ dat beutiful piece writ about ’em in de paper.
It make me feel pintedly lef’ out in de col’—it suttinly do;” and a few
self-pitying tears fell on the shirt bosom Mrs. Crabtree was ironing.

[Illustration:

  “I’m de Seccertary o’ de Good S’maritans.”
]

“But what you gwine do ’bout Orleeny an’ Cato?” asked Mr. Crabtree,
referring to the ebon-hued pledges of their conjugal love.

“Do? Nothin’ ’tall; ain’t nothin’ t’ be did! Des let ’em come ’long t’
dere Ma’s an’ Pa’s weddin’, an’ unnerstan’ dat effen we wuz bawn in
slavery, an’ got mahried by jumpin’ de broomstick, we’se keepin’ up wid
de pussession now. Mis’ Hapgood had her Aleck as one o’ de ushers when
her an’ he’s pa got mahried las’ mon’; so we’ll des let our Orleeny be de
maid o’ honnah. Dat’s de berry lates’ style.”

So, despite his perfect content with matters as they were, Mr. Crabtree
listened to the siren voice, and finally consented, after twenty years of
apparent matrimony, to have the entire thing done over again according to
post-bellum methods, and in a style befitting American citizens living
in the full blaze of an amended constitution. Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree
were to be married again; by a preacher, with a license, in a church,
with a gold ring. Orleeny was to be maid of honor, and Cato, in all the
glory of white cotton gloves and other festal accessories, was to be
usher in chief. In his honest soul Mr. Crabtree thought the whole thing
unmitigated nonsense; but, like many a man with a lighter skin, concluded
that, if nothing else would make his wife happy and give her proper éclat
before the members of her S’ciety, he would consent to be a reluctant
victim on the altar of matrimonial precedent!

“Effen you gwine do the t’ing, you might ez well do it right”—was his
conclusion, in which his progressive wife fully coincided. A tidy little
sum that had gradually accumulated in the bank was drawn out; and
preparations for the belated nuptials went on apace. It was to be not
only a church wedding, but a S’ciety wedding likewise, where the various
“Orders” with which Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree affiliated were to appear in
full regalia and lend spectacular glory to the occasion.

[Illustration:

  A few self-pitying tears fell on the shirt bosom Mrs. Crabtree
  was ironing.
]

“Dere ain’t nothin’ fitten to be bought in dis heah measly little town,”
argued Mrs. Crabtree. “We’ll des git on de cyars an’ go ober t’ de county
seat an’ lay in de trosso; you’ll hatter go dere for de license anyhow.”

By the time they had purchased a “trosso” befitting a sixteen-year-old
bride, Mr. Crabtree’s arms were heavy-laden. The bride-to-be, radiant
with visions of her coming loveliness, beamed upon him and insisted that
an entire suit of black broadcloth for the groom was indispensable.

“Why, Pennie, it ’pears lak dat las’ blue suit dat ol’ Mas’ gin me ’ud
do berry well. We could shine up de brass buttons an’ freshen it up wid
benzine—” protested Mr. Crabtree, with prudent consideration for his fast
diminishing exchequer.

“Now, honey,” insisted Mrs. Crabtree in her most coquettish manner, “you
don’t ’spose I’m gwine ’low a good-lookin’ man lak you t’ ma’ch up de ile
in dat ol’ blue suit, an’ me des ez fresh ez de mawnin’ jew in dat white
swiss an ’dat long veil! An’ you de Master o’ de Lodge, too? It ’ud be
scan’lous!”

So the broadcloth suit was added to the multitudinous bundles; and, at
the suggestion of Mrs. Crabtree, deposited with their grocer for safe
keeping. Then the bridal pair hastened towards the courthouse to procure
the license. When this priceless document had been filled in with due
solemnity, Mr. and Mrs. Crabtree felt their ante-nuptial arrangements
were well-nigh perfected. As, arm in arm, and at peace with all the world
they ambled towards the grocery store to reclaim their relinquished
packages, Mrs. Crabtree exclaimed:

“Lawsee, Si! we done furgit de ring!”

The selection of the golden circlet that was to bind them in renewed
wedded security was so momentous a question that the sun was slipping
behind the hills before it was satisfactorily accomplished. At this
juncture the absorbed bridal party recalled the fact that it must be
nearly train time.

“We’ll des race ober t’ de grocery sto’ an’ grab up our bundles an’ scoot
t’ de depo’—” urged Mr. Crabtree as he impelled his panting companion
onward.

“Your bundles? Ah, yes; to be sure,” said the custodian of the “trosso;”
“they’re all right. The colored man you sent after them carried them to
the station some time ago.”

“De cullud man whot I sont atter em?” ejaculated Mr. Crabtree, with
bulging eyes.

“Yes, he said you had been delayed, and would go straight to the train
from the courthouse. Isn’t that all right?”

“Golly! I should say it wan’t all right!” cried the prospective groom,
forgetting in the stress of the moment the dignity becoming the Master
of the Lodge. “I ain’t never sont nobody atter dem bundles; I wouldn’ a
trusted ’em wid de preacher hisse’f effen he’d a been a dark-complected
genterman! What for looks was dat thievin’ nigger?”

The grocer’s face wore a look of puzzlement:

“Why, I couldn’t tell for my life. I didn’t notice him specially; I just
supposed of course you sent him. Better go over to the station—maybe
you’ll find your stuff there all right.”

But this cheerful prophecy failed of fulfillment, as no clue to the
missing “trosso” or its mysterious purloiner could be gained.

“Dem Jingo mines closed down yistiddy, an’ dis heah town’s full o’
loafin’ thievin’ niggers—” Mr. Crabtree explained to his wife after
two hours’ diligent search had failed to disclose any clue to thief or
packages; “some ob ’em is hyerd us ’scussin’ our plans, an’ has followed
us an’ swiped dat trosso.”

Which very plausible solution did credit to Mr. Crabtree’s powers of
discernment.

Weary, footsore, with blighted hopes and flabby pocket-book, a
disgruntled colored gentleman and lady boarded the midnight train for
Ducktown. On the lady’s finger a golden circlet gleamed in mocking irony;
from the gentleman’s coat pocket a superfluous marriage license protruded.

“What you gwine do about it?” the gentleman finally took heart of grace
and demanded of his sulky spouse.

“Don’t ax me what I’m gwine do! Effen I tole you, you’d be sho’ t’ put in
an’ do sumpin t’ spile de whole puffommance. You might a knowed sumpin
gwine happen t’ dat trosso when you tuhn it loose.”

With true feminine logic Mrs. Crabtree entirely overlooked the fact that
the relinguishment of the packages was her own suggestion.

“I can tell you one t’ing,” she resumed with asperity, “dere ain’t gwine
be no weddin’ wid dat trosso gone a glimmerin’! You can des put dat in
yo’ pipe an’ smoke it!”

Later, as Mr. Crabtree extinguished the candle before retiring, he
observed that his wife took a vial labelled “_Ipecac_” and stealthily
deposited it beneath her pillow. But for this timely observation, the
violent illness with which Mrs. Crabtree aroused the household the next
morning would doubtless have caused graver concern in Mr. Crabtree’s
kindly soul.

For some days Orleeny, whose epistolary attainments were the pride of the
Crabtree household, was closeted with her suffering parent; and later,
each individual who had been bidden to the intercepted nuptials received
the following announcement:

“Owing to the suddent illness of the Bride, the marriage of Mr. and Mrs.
Josiah Crabtree have been indeffanately bosboned.”




                       TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

                         BY ISABELLA HOWE FISK.

     “Carry the lad that was born to be king over the sea to Skye.”


          Thoughts wait upon me, grateful thoughts that throng
          Prayer-wise and eager. To the master’s feet
          I fain would speed them, offering tribute meet.
          But, mute for very love, I cannot voice my song.
          Dear chief of utterance, I have lingered long
          As at deep wells in shimmering noons of heat,
          And like dumb beasts that drain the waters sweet,
          I, too, have quenched my thirst, and, silent have grown strong.
          Dear Louis—best of kings to bear the name.
          I think a smile still quivers on thy face
          That oval-wise, soul-white and bravely strong,
          Bears eyes, that look low loves and lives to shame.
          Thou, unawares, hast learned new lore of upward ways,
          And wondering taught the words—“The king can do no wrong.”




              TRAINING SCHOOLS IN TENNESSEE AND THE SOUTH.

                   By James H. Kirkland, D.C.L., Ph.D.

       Illustrated by views of the Campus, Vanderbilt University.


It is the purpose of this paper to describe an educational movement that
has grown largely out of the influence of Vanderbilt University. In its
relation toward secondary schools this institution has been impelled by
the necessity of securing students. At the opening of the University
there were two methods of procedure open. One was to put the requirements
for admission at a point where they could easily be met even by untrained
pupils; the other was to adopt a high standard, exclude unprepared
students, and accept the burden of getting them ready to meet these
requirements. It has been this latter policy that has brought about the
vital connection between Vanderbilt University and a large number of
preparatory schools.

Southern educational conditions are bad enough now, but they were far
worse in 1875, the year Vanderbilt University opened its doors. At that
time the public school systems of the South were striving to get under
way and make some impression on the mass of illiterates. Nothing could
be attempted outside a few favored cities in the way of public high
schools. The common schools were running ninety-three days in the year,
spending 81 cents per capita of population and meagerly educating 45
per cent of the school population. Clearly it was useless to await the
coming of the public high school. The old antebellum academies for the
most part had passed out of existence. Here and there a few survived,
preserving charters that antedated the war and memories of happier and
more prosperous existence. If the early copies of the reports of the
Commissioner of Education are consulted there will be found few secondary
schools having any historic background. The Episcopal High School near
Alexandria, Va., has a charter dating from 1854. The Abingdon Male
Academy was organized in 1822, and the Bingham School at Mebaneville,
N. C., in 1793. These and quite a number of others opened again after
the end of the Civil War, but most of them had a brief and uncertain
career. In the report for 1877, the earliest one at hand as this is
written, we find also mentioned the old Mt. Zion Institute of Winnsboro,
S. C., then in charge of R. Means Davis, who was afterwards prominently
known in the educational history of that state. Others are the Hanover
Academy, Taylorsville, Va., the Yeates School, Belleville, Va.; Fletcher
Institute, Thomasville, Ga.; Dawson Institute, White Plains, Ga. The
Madison Academy, Rutledge, Tenn., has now become a public high school,
the Sam Houston Academy at Jasper, Tenn., has given place to Pryor
Institute, and Green River Academy at Elkton, Ky., to the Vanderbilt
Training School at the same place. Of all those mentioned only two, the
Episcopal High School and the Bingham School, seemed to be really taking
up the task of preparing students for college. Each of these sent ten
students to college from the class of 1877.

As an attempt to meet the educational needs of the South, quite a large
number of new schools sprang into being between 1870 and 1880. These were
generally considered academies or secondary schools, but undoubtedly
most of their pupils were of an elementary age. In many cases the
teachers were unprepared for their tasks. They were doing the best they
could, trying to instruct according to the needs of their pupils and
trying to make a living for themselves. Many an old soldier and many a
good woman, whose property was gone and whose natural supporters had
fallen on the battle field, took up these opportunities to earn a scant
subsistence. From such schools, few if any students went to college. The
preparation was insufficient, the atmosphere of school life was not such
as to awaken a desire for a college education, and the colleges made no
effort to get in touch with the schools. In the report just mentioned,
of 1877, about forty such schools—male academies—are enumerated in
Tennessee, yet it was a rare thing for one of their pupils to go to
college.

[Illustration]

In general the preparation for college was done by the colleges
themselves. Practically all established preparatory departments; in many
cases the college professors taught these departments, and frequently
they contained more students than the college classes proper. As
endowments had been swept away and state appropriations hardly begun, the
faculty had to be supported from the fees alone. In 1877 East Tennessee
University, now the University of Tennessee at Knoxville, Tenn., is
credited with 195 preparatory students and 90 college students; the
University of Mississippi with 257 preparatory and 174 college students;
South Carolina College with 95 preparatory and 89 college students. Where
some other institutions give no reports of preparatory students, we are
inclined to believe it was because these had been fully incorporated
with college students, under a most injudicious system of grouping,
rather than that they were altogether lacking. From that system with all
its faults we have not yet recovered. The best Southern colleges and
universities have tried to eliminate this preparatory work, and where
this could not be done, they have established independent academies,
dissociated from all connection with the college proper. But quite a
large number have not been able to take this step and still maintain the
confused practice of reconstruction days.

[Illustration]

Worse than the evils above enumerated was the creation of a number of
chartered colleges and universities that were really nothing more than
high schools, and in many cases did not furnish as good an education as
an honest academy. Such institutions of course never sent students to
college, but rewarded with baccalaureate and master degrees attainments
insufficient to grace a freshman. Instead of being friends and fosterers
of education, these institutions have often been its worst foes. They
have served to transform ignorance into conceit, and make impossible true
progress on a substantial basis. Boom towns have started universities as
an advertisement; local high schools are called colleges in order to
gratify local pride, and college degrees have become a farce. Thus we
have in every Southern State colleges whose libraries contain less than
a hundred volumes, whose scientific apparatus could be hauled away in a
cart and cost less than $100, and whose endowment is nothing.

[Illustration]

When Vanderbilt University opened its doors in 1875 it had no intention
of receiving preparatory students; indeed, its first plan was to receive
only such students as had completed half of their college course. Hence,
preparation was made for two college classes and two university classes.
But with the coming of the first class the ideals of the faculty were
rudely shattered. A crowd of earnest but untrained students poured
into the college halls. A large number of the courses that had been
provided was found to be unsuitable and uncalled for, while there was an
imperative demand for elementary classes in English, mathematics, Latin
and Greek. In his report on the first year’s work Chancellor Garland
stated that if the University had stood firmly by its rules it would
have rejected fully two-thirds of those who had presented themselves for
matriculation: “few had any power of fixed and prolonged attention or
any practical knowledge of the modes of successful study.” In this way,
then, Vanderbilt University found itself compelled to begin preparatory
classes. These were continued for twelve years under protest. They were
not advertised, no effort was made to secure students for them, but there
were always enough candidates to make them a necessity. This continued
until 1887 when they were finally abolished and the task of preparing
students for the freshman class was boldly thrown upon the schools of
Tennessee and the South. The immediate result of this step was alarming.
Many prospective students saw it was needless to apply for admission, and
of those that did apply a large per cent had to be rejected. The number
of literary students fell to 112 in 1889-90; only 29 students finished
the year in freshman English, and only 16 had been enrolled during the
whole year in freshman Greek. But slowly the situation began to improve;
schools arose to do the work demanded by the University and the number of
students surpassed even the totals of former years. Gradually, too, it
was seen that the University had not merely furthered its own interests,
but had been the means of building up a whole system of training schools,
thereby directly influencing for good the educational development of
Tennessee and setting an example to the whole South. The results of this
movement are worthy of special consideration.

[Illustration]

Perhaps the University would not have dared to make the experiment it did
if it had not felt sure of at least one strong school on which entire
reliance could be placed from the very beginning. This was the Webb
School, which had then been in operation seventeen years and which had
recently been moved from Culleoka to Bell Buckle, Tenn. Shortly before
Vanderbilt University was founded Mr. W. R. Webb came to Tennessee from
North Carolina to engage in school work. Educated at Bingham School and
the University of North Carolina, he had become familiar with the best
methods of school work and realized the great need of such work in the
South at that time. The establishment of a university in close reach of
his school gave him an objective point for his labors, and his students
were very promptly turned in that direction. So successful was the
Culleoka school, from the very beginning, that in a few years Mr. John
Webb, a younger brother, was brought in as partner. It would be hard
to overstate the value of the work of these two men for Tennessee and
the South. For thirty-five years they have labored, and have put their
stamp for good on at least 2,500 Southern boys. Their patronage has come
from every Southern State and the size of their school has been limited
only by the number they were willing to receive. Their old students
are scattered over all the world. A year ago when this writer was in
Constantinople without an acquaintance, as he supposed, within a thousand
miles, he was surprised to receive a call from the resident physician
of Robert College, who was an old Webb boy, delighted at the chance of
seeing some one he had known while at school. The Webb School has always
been considered unique. Its buildings are plain and its furnishings are
of the simplest kind. It has no scientific apparatus, for it is strictly
a classical school. But it has a good library, the doors of which stand
open winter and summer, day and night, and the books are used. Life is
keyed to a high tone in the schoolroom, and the boys feel it. Form counts
for little—perhaps too little—but substance counts for much. Professional
students of pedagogy, visiting the school, go away surprised—and grieved,
for they do not find much respect shown their pet theories. The whole
school is wrapped up in the personality of the two men who have made it.
Some of the Tennessee training schools could not have come into being or
could not now continue without the support of Vanderbilt University, but
the Webb School would have been a success under any circumstances. When
the surroundings at Culleoka did not seem to be suited at one time to the
success of school work, Messrs. Webb quietly informed the citizens that
they would move the school, and they did. The success of the Webb School,
as well as the demands of Vanderbilt University, have made it easy for
other schools to come into being.

[Illustration]

The Mooney School deserves mention next on our list. In 1886 Messrs.
S. V. Wall and W. D. Mooney took charge of the school at Culleoka.
After three years they removed to Franklin, Tenn., where they built up
the well-known Battleground Academy. About eight years ago Mr. Wall
removed to Honey Grove, Texas, where he still has a large school. Mr.
Mooney continued the work at Franklin. In 1902 his school building was
destroyed by fire, and he was induced to move to Murfreesboro, where
handsome grounds and buildings had been provided for his use at an
expense of about $30,000. The Mooney School has furnished many students
to Vanderbilt University and they have frequently carried off the honors
of the University for high scholarship. The Wallace University School was
opened in Nashville, in 1886. The principal, Mr. C. B. Wallace, impressed
himself so strongly on his pupils and patrons that a building was soon
erected for his use in order to fix his school at Nashville. The Wallace
School has sent more pupils to Vanderbilt University within the past
ten years than any other school except Webb’s, and in proportion to its
enrollment it is far ahead of any in University attendance. Fourteen of
its graduates of June, 1904, entered Vanderbilt a few months later.

But it is necessary that our sketch proceed more rapidly. The popularity
of the training school idea began to be manifest in many quarters. In
McKenzie there had been established an institution known as McTyeire
College—a college doing the work for an academy. Later this was
transformed into McTyeire Institute, and Joshua H. Harrison, a Vanderbilt
graduate, was put in charge. At present this school has for its principal
James A. Robins and is growing in strength and influence every year.
In 1892 the Louisville Methodist Conference established the Vanderbilt
Training School at Elkton, Ky. This action was taken against the efforts
of many who wanted a college, and is another proof of the recognition of
sound educational values.

Quite a large number of other schools can be enumerated that owe their
origin more or less directly to the policy of Vanderbilt University.
Among these are the Branham and Hughes School, Spring Hill, Tenn.; the
Peoples School, Franklin, Tenn.; the Morgan School, Fayetteville, Tenn.;
the Smyrna Fitting School, Smyrna, Tenn.; Pryor Institute, Jasper, Tenn.;
Union City Training School, Union City, Tenn.; Dresden Training School,
Dresden, Tenn.; McFerrin School, Martin, Tenn.; Howard Institute, Mt.
Pleasant, Tenn.; Jonesboro Training School, Jonesboro, Ark.; Fordyce
Training School, Fordyce, Ark.; Bridgeport Training School, Bridgeport,
Ala.; Luna Training School, Franklin, Ky.; Smith Grove Academy, Smith
Grove, Ky.; Weatherford Training School, Weatherford, Texas; Hawkins
School, Gallatin, Tenn.; Fitzgerald School, Trenton, Tenn.; Cornersville
Training School, Cornersville, Tenn.; Training School, Anniston, Ala.;
Bowen School, Nashville, Tenn.; Training School, Thomasville, Ala.;
Culleoka Academy, Culleoka, Tenn. Not all of these schools have been
equally successful; some of them, perhaps, have ceased to live, but
the training school idea is stronger to-day than ever before. In some
communities this kind of work finds little support or encouragement.
Consequently, no training school can live or succeed there. Honesty and
thoroughness are the qualities that have marked Vanderbilt training
schools, and some people wish neither of these in educational work.
Educational shams and fake universities and colleges still command the
admiration and patronage of many.

Special attention should be called to the Branham and Hughes School
at Spring Hill, Tenn. Though one of the youngest, this is now the
largest and one of the most flourishing of the Tennessee training
schools. Recently $15,000 has been spent for improvements of property.
The enrollment for the present year is 316, and nine teachers are
employed. The Peoples School at Franklin, Tenn., and the Morgan School
at Fayetteville, Tenn., are also meeting with great success. Both of
these have strong local support, having been provided with splendid new
buildings, with dormitories and gymnasium; both have strong men at their
head and more than 200 students apiece.

The result of this movement is that Vanderbilt University now receives
a majority of its incoming class from the best schools in the South.
In the fall of 1903 seventy-five students entered the University from
schools more or less directly affiliated with Vanderbilt and imbued
with Vanderbilt ideals. In September, 1904, four schools furnished the
University fifty students. Within the past ten years ten schools have
furnished the freshman class with more than five hundred students—that
is, more than fifty every year.

Greater still is the result that has been accomplished for the general
cause of education. While the Webb School has furnished the University
about one hundred students in ten years, it has in that same time
assisted in educating seven or eight hundred. Many of these did not
finish their course at school, some finished and attended other
universities, more finished and went to work. But on all the influence
of those years of earnest, thorough school work will be an incalculable
benefit. Similar is the record of all the other schools.

Still another outgrowth of this movement has been that training schools,
owing no allegiance to any particular university, have sprung up in many
points and are contributing largely to the intellectual development of
our people. Excellent schools of this character may now be found in
Memphis, Chattanooga, Atlanta, Birmingham, Montgomery, Mobile, and many
small places.

Stimulated by Vanderbilt’s example, the Association of Colleges
and Preparatory Schools of the Southern States has been formed,
an organization that is devoting itself to the upbuilding of good
preparatory schools, whether public or private, and the enforcement of a
respectable standard of admission to college.

Finally, we may ask the question whether this work will be permanent.
Will not these schools disappear before the advance of the public high
school? Perhaps so, to some extent, but never entirely. The public high
schools have made great progress in Mississippi and Texas, stimulated by
the demands of the state universities, but elsewhere in the South their
progress is still slow. A recent article by Commissioner Harris gave a
most cheering account of the growth of public high schools in the South.
In that he records one hundred public high schools for Tennessee, with
more than 5,000 students. But the records of the Commissioner himself
will show that not as many students go to college from all this number as
from half a dozen Vanderbilt training schools. In fact, one is forced
to doubt the accuracy of many returns. For example, twenty-five of these
hundred schools report a four year high school course; but only three
years are reported for the high schools at Nashville, Knoxville, Jackson,
Murfreesboro, and Columbia. Only Chattanooga and Memphis, of the larger
cities, claim to have a four year course. The twenty-three other superior
high schools are in many of the most unexpected localities. White’s Store
reports a four year course, with one teacher and twenty-five pupils;
Piney Flats, a four year course, with one teacher and twenty-one pupils;
Dancyville, with one woman teacher and twenty-two pupils; Chuckey City,
with one woman teacher and six pupils. From statistics such as these it
is dangerous to make hasty generalizations.

Let the public high school come as rapidly as possible. Vanderbilt
University will be its friend and fosterer, as it has been in the city of
Nashville. But in any event it will ever remain true that a great work
for education has been accomplished in its relation to private secondary
schools. It was truly said by President H. N. Snyder, of Wofford College,
some years ago; “If ever Vanderbilt University has had a mission, and has
fulfilled it greatly and even gloriously, it is in the way it has helped
to form what we understand as training or fitting schools.”

[Illustration]




                            THE FOREIGN WIFE.

                         By Claude M. Girardeau.


                               CHAPTER I.

It was the last of January, 1815. The harbor of the city of Charleston
was enveloped in a cold gray fog, that rose above the ramparts of the sea
wall and advanced its phantom cohorts upon the houses facing the Battery,
capturing their outposts one by one, gradually submerging gable-end
and piazza, surmounting tiled roof and overtopping chimney, until at
nightfall the city, like a second Germe Ishausen, although resting upon
the surface of one ocean, was buried in the impalpable profundity of
another.

Invisible to the eye, even at the distance of a few yards, the street
lamps were mere ineffectual points of light in the dense and watery
atmosphere.

The solid wooden shutters of the Battery houses were tightly battened so
that they presented an impenetrable front to the fog, which nevertheless
insinuated itself beneath threshold and window-sill and made its ghostly
presence felt upon the very hearths where fires of pitch-pine and
seasoned ash were lighted to dispel the dampness.

At the conjunction of the South and the East Battery, the mansion of
Governor Grantham occupied the right angle of the corner, its stone
steps encroaching upon the narrow sidewalk. Overhanging them, at the
second story, the iron balcony bore upon the middle panel of its rail the
entwined “G. G.” of the eldest son of the house of Grantham from time
immemorial.

A visitor admitted beyond the front door would have found himself in
a dark and somewhat cramped hall, or entry, from the center of which
mounted a flight of carefully waxed stairs, leading to an upper hall of
dimensions more in keeping with the outward aspect of the building.
Turning to the right and guiding one’s steps warily over its icy surface,
converted into a mirror by the daily brush of the slave, one would have
been ushered into the drawing room, an apartment high of ceiling, scant
of furniture, also slippery of floor, extending perhaps fifty feet along
the west side of the mansion. On this account it was easily convertible
into a ball room.

Although it was half an hour since the conclusion of the last meal of
the day, this room was unoccupied—at least at first glance. Then in
its extreme end appeared a pleasing tableau in the blazing firelight—a
tableau that in the fifty feet of polished perspective might have been
mistaken for an oil-painting by a master-hand for mural decoration.

A divan of turquoise-blue damask had been rolled up to the chimney-piece
and upon the soft white fur of an immense cloak thrown over one end of
it, reclined a woman. Her white draperies were scarcely distinguishable
against the fur, in which she sank luxuriously. Closer inspection would
have remarked the rise and fall of her bosom but partially concealed—one
might say almost entirely revealed—by the transparent material of
her bodice; for she was attired _a la Grecque_, in an Indian muslin
embroidered in silver lama, whose diaphanous skirt clung to her lower
limbs as the wet sheet clings to the sculptor’s model.

The short puffed sleeves of her Josephine waist left her beautiful arms
entirely naked save for the cameo medallion in white and rose-color,
set in thin gold, at her wrists. Her figure so openly displayed was
of sufficient elegance to excuse the frankness, but beautiful as were
its proportions, attentive admiration would have been first bestowed
upon her face, oval, ivory-tinted, under a superb quantity of pale
red hair confined by a classic fillet of gold with a pendant of pearl
upon her white forehead. Her elongated eyes, half closed in reverie,
were apparently dark grey, with heavy lids whose lashes cast crescented
shadows upon her cheeks.

Her full, red lips were slightly open, disclosing the even edges of
milkwhite teeth, giving a luxurious, sensuous and somewhat cruel
expression to her vivid countenance. Her languid head leaned upon one
fair hand, whose long fingers were embedded in the thick mass of hair,
the elbow supported by the curved shoulder of the divan. The other hand,
dazzling with jewels, held in her lap an ivory-handled fan of flamingo
feathers, rose-colored like her cameos and the knot of velvet ribbon at
the depression between the soft elevations of her bosom.

Occasionally she surveyed the foot resting upon the blue damasked
hassock; it was slim and arched, encased in a heelless white satin
slip-shoe which barely covered the toes and was strapped about the ankle
and visibly halfway up the leg by narrow white ribbons. The flesh-colored
stockings met skin-tight silk under-garments of the same hue, conveying
the impression of a body clad in a single dress, according to the fashion
of the day for those whose perfection of figure permitted or excused it.

When the contemplation of the foot lost interest, the young woman—for she
was hardly more than twenty-three—would draw from its hiding-place behind
the rose-colored velvet loveknot a medallion set in brilliants attached
to a slender gold chain of exquisite workmanship, whose fine thread fell
upon her delicate shoulders from the necklace of spinel rubies which
embraced her swan’s throat like linked pomegranate seeds or tiny drops of
transparent blood.

An East Indian screen with numerous painted silk panels framed in ebony,
stood in fantastic zigzags behind the divan, and the thick, blue-flowered
damask curtains of the shuttered casements had been carefully drawn;
nevertheless she shivered now and then and pulled up about her arms her
yellow scarf of Canton crepe heavy with silk embroidery and fringe.

Wax candelabra in silver-gilt were reflected from the paneled mirrors and
in the shining floor of polished rosewood, pervading the apartment with a
light at once soft and lustrous.

Just above the mantelpiece, dominating the entire _mise en scène_, hung
an oil painting, a portrait by Copley of the master and mistress of the
mansion. The lady in becoming a Grantham could not forget that she had
been a Vizard, and therefore closely related to the last of the Royal
Governors of the Province.

The two figures were represented seated at a table engaged in a game of
chess, the position of the pieces indicating a decided “check” on the
part of the lady, whose haughty countenance appeared somewhat flushed
with anticipated victory.

The motive of the composition had evidently been at her suggestion, for
her husband’s face expressed polite resignation either to superiority of
skill or the triumph of accidental good fortune, giving him a position of
secondary importance more or less unmerited.

His daughter-in-law half asleep before the fire, glanced up at the
two figures for the hundredth time and yawned as one—even a pretty
woman—yawns in the freedom of solitude: that is to say, open-mouthed.

The tap, tap of a cane came across the desert of waxed rosewood.

“My dear Nadège, I sympathize most cordially with you,” said a voice at
the young woman’s elbow.

Nadège turned her ruddy head languidly and opened her sleepy grey eyes
upon the fantastic figure before them.

“Why do you sympathize with me, my dear cousin?” she inquired. Her
English was perfect, with, perhaps, a slight foreign precision rather
than accent.

The dear cousin sat down upon the divan beside her. She was an ancient
dame whose much wrinkled face, surmounted by the mingled purple and
yellow dyes of an extraordinary turban, was still alive with a pair of
malicious, sparkling black eyes. She grasped a tall cane at arm’s length
in her skinny left hand, confronted the yawning beauty sharply, pressing
a pointed forefinger of her equally skinny right claw upon the middle of
the loveknot.

“You were stretching your mouth in the very face of Madam and the
Governor. I saw you. It was done openly, without so much as the
interposition of fan or finger. How often have I done it myself!” She
chuckled at the thought. “You are bitterly regretting that you ever left
St. Petersburg to bury yourself alive in this provincial capital of a
republican colony. Is it not so, _ma chère_?”

“Perhaps you are right,” admitted the accused, “but it is only because
Geoffrey is away. I declare, you people are so amusing.”

“Amusing? Then why do you yawn at us?”

“Ah! If I were only in Paris! How I hate the English.”

“Sh!... Reflect! Madam Grantham is English” (with an upward glance of
deviltry), “the Governor, my cousin, is English, I am English, Geoffrey
is English, you are—”

“No, no! I am not. Not in the very least bone of me. That is why I find
you so amusing. You cherish English blood, you boast loudly of your
English connections, you cultivate English manners—which God knows thrive
without much cultivation—! You emblazon your English coats of arms with
their bastard French mottoes, on your carriage doors, your silver plate,
your slaves—”

“One would think we branded them, to hear you,” interpolated the old
lady, with amusement, “but go on—go on. Let us have the full extent of
the indictment.”

“And where is Geoffrey now?” continued Geoffrey’s wife; “and where were
the Granthams in 1719, in 1749, in 1775? Why, fighting the English for
dear life.”

“That is more English than anything else,” retorted her cousin-in-law.
“What would you have Geoffrey do? Stay at home?”

“By no means. I encouraged him to go. But then I thought he would take me
with him since he was so absolute of victory.”

“Take you with him? On board a privateer?”

“There were other modes of transportation.”

“My dear child! He could not be willing to have you exposed to danger.”

“Ah!—so he said.”

“Surely you do not blame him for that? Why do you not amuse yourself in
his absence?”

“With whom, pray?”

“If the gallants of the city could but hear you!”

“Perhaps I would endeavor to find amusement in any other place than this.
Truly I am dazed with ennui.”

“I know, I know! I have not lived elsewhere myself for nothing. These
ridiculous provincials forget that the Nevsky Prospekt and the Boulevards
were ancient ways when King and Queen streets were Indian trails and the
Battery a sandbank.”

She gazed into the glowing fire and fell into a retrospection; the path
of memory led from the past to the present, so she said after a time:

“I heard something to-day that may interest you.”

“I thought there was scandal in the wag of your turban, and gossip in the
tap of your cane.”

“Oh, you did? Well, you are an impudent baggage, madam. This is neither
the one nor the other, yet, inasmuch as recounted to an indiscreet ear it
might cause both, I think I should not repeat it.”

“I assure you, cousin, you may rely upon my discretion. Since Leonora’s
absence there is no one but yourself to talk to.”

“Thank you, madam, for the implication,” retorted the old lady, rising
and executing an extraordinary courtesy with her most witchlike
expression, then sitting down again: “The Governor, my cousin, is of your
mind. Poor man, he confides in me, and I would not betray his confidence.
But you are a foreigner—forgive the phrase, as it only means that you
will understand without being prejudiced—and I run no risk in telling
you what he said to me. It was more to ease his mind than to obtain
advice; for which I was properly grateful, as I had only sympathy and not
counsel in the simples of my pharmacy.”

While she discoursed in this illustrative strain the listener said to
herself:

“Lord, will she never come to the point? What a garrulous old parroquet.”

Then aloud:

“Your introduction is perfumed with interest. I am more curious to hear
than ever. What has happened, or is going to happen, that excites your
sympathy, or would justify advice? (I will let her see that I can turn an
English period as glibly as herself!)”

“Well, then, to be brief, Mistress Geoffrey, Captain Grantham is coming
home. Hence the arrival, post-haste, of the Governor at a time that
affairs of state should have detained him in the capital.”

“_Captain_ Grantham? Who is he?”

“A well-known officer in the French army. A personal friend of Prince
Eugène de Beauharnais.”

“Ah, yes; I saw him once in Paris. A very young man at that time. But
handsome, gallant and dashing. Altogether the _Frenchman_.”

“Geoffrey should hear you,” replied the old lady dryly. The other laughed:

“Seeing that Geoffrey is an officer in the American navy I do not think
he would have any fault to find with my eulogy of French gallantry. I am
rejoiced to hear that this flower of chivalry is coming home. Now that
the Bourbons are in power again I suppose he finds his occupation gone.”

But Miss Anne was looking into the fire, the ghost of a smile puckering
her bloodless lips disagreeably.

“You might be rejoiced to hear it in Paris or Petersburg, but not in this
place; no, not in this place.”

“You are right, I daresay. In Charleston I have discovered that a
brother-in-law is a blood relation, not a flimsy connection by marriage.
Flirtation with one is therefore robbed of all its venom—of all its
fascination, also. Still, as I remember Captain Grantham—”

“This is not the one you remember.”

“You said Geoffrey’s brother?”

“_Sans doute_! But Reginald’s brother also.”

“Reginald’s brother? You speak in riddles; you have just said it was
Reginald’s self. Is he not Captain Grantham?”

“No; I should have said his _alter ego_. Reginald is now _Colonel_ of
artillery.”

“Another Grantham!”

“Truly; and about the same age.”

“Oh, a twin.”

“By no means. You saw one brother in Paris, but I do not think you saw
the other. Yet, very likely you did; they are, I am told, wonderfully
alike. They were at the Ecole Militaire together. The relationship is
unmistakable except to those who will not see.”

The old gossip laughed aloud, enjoying the other’s mystification.

“What singularity!” exclaimed Nadège. “Pray go on. I am no longer bored.
I can even regard this portrait without a yawn. Who is this Captain
Grantham? And why should I not know him here or see him in Paris? You
tell me he is famous and the companion of princes.”

“He has a name of his own. It is descriptive and picturesque, besides
being symbolic.”

“Ah? Pray pronounce it.”

“Brugnon.”

“What then? Where is the symbolism?”

“Well, then, this Monsieur Brugnon is like his brothers Reginald,
Garrick, and Geoffrey in all respects save one; unfortunately, the most
important one of all.”

“What is it? Why have I been kept in ignorance of this, since it is
evidently a family affair? What is this difference of such vital
importance?”

“His color.”

Mistress Geoffrey sank back into her furry nest, her expression of lively
curiosity and irritation instantly effaced by one of bland indifference.

“I see. Why does he not remain in Europe? He is a fool to come here.”

“So he is,—but he does not know it. He wrote to his father, the
Governor, your father-in-law and my cousin, to say that since the
abdication of the Emperor and the enforced residence of Prince Eugène
in Vienna, he revolts from the service of a _lackey at court_ after the
activity of the battlefield, and now desires to _see his own people_ once
more and his home—the home of his childhood, the plantation, the other
_Court_ hardly less celebrated than—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” exclaimed Nadège hastily, “named for the English
estate of the Granthams near Twickenham, Middlesex, which contains
‘fourteen hundred acres of land, and gardens, fishponds, hedges, terraces
and fountains unsurpassed by anything in the South.’ My memory, you see,
is excellent.”

“You have been reading the family annals of late?”

“Oh, no; it was not necessary! Tell me, cousin, is this _petite histoire_
generally known?”

“Yes: the Governor was much censured for sending the boy to France, and
his rapid promotion has been a sore on the foot of those who will tread
him in the very mire when he comes to see _his own people_, poor devil.”

“Why does the Governor permit his return?”

“He cannot help it. Brugnon wrote that he would take ship at once.”

“Who is his mother?” was the next question.

“Ah, who knows?” And Miss Ann peaked up her sharp shoulders under their
gay flowered silk covering and wagged her oriental headgear until the
filigree silver ornaments in the lobes of her large ears jingled audibly.

“I think I could guess,” she added, with a wizened smile at her
companion, “but what difference? Society here, my dear Nadège, as you
have already discovered, is in the hands of the men. We women are the
vases on the mantelpiece.” She grinned in Mistress Geoffrey’s face: “Some
of us are particularly decorative. Mistress Grantham, for example.”

The younger woman eyed meditatively the sharp yellow face under the
resplendent turban.

“One has a good view from the mantelpiece,” she began, when a young man
entered the room and advanced to the fireplace.

                          [_To be continued._]




                           WHEN NELLIE SMILES.

                            By D’Arcy Moore.


                  When Nellie smiles across at me,
                  She’s well worth coming miles to see.
                  Deep dented dimples find a place,
                  Best suited for their added grace,
                  The one on either side her face,
                    Dan Cupid capers high in glee
                        When Nellie smiles.

                  When Nellie smiles, dear girl, at me,
                  Her blue eyes twinkle roguishly;
                  She bows her dainty head the whiles
                  (She’s mistress, past, of woman’s wiles)
                  And thus the willing wretch beguiles.
                    Ah! surely there is witchery
                        When Nellie smiles.

                  L’Envoi:

                  If you would keep your peace of mind,
                  So often wrecked by woman-kind,
                  Be warned in time. While yet you may—
                  Cover your eyes and run away
                        When Nellie smiles.




                   SERIOUS PROBLEMS OF SCIENCE TO-DAY

                     By Charles Baskerville, Ph.D.,
      Professor of Chemistry, the College of the City of New York.


Dr. Charles Baskerville, whom we present this month to our readers,
belongs to the younger generation of Southern men who are giving
evidence of their capacity for leadership in fields other than political
and forensic. Born in Mississippi in 1870, he is now, at the age of
thirty-five, head of the Department of Chemistry in the College of the
City of New York. After his graduation at the University of Virginia,
he spent some time studying in Germany, and was called upon his return
to the University of North Carolina, where he occupied the chair of
chemistry. He is the author of a text-book on chemistry, and has written
numerous articles on scientific, educational and technological subjects.
He has distinguished himself in the field of original research and
experiment, and belongs of right to the select band of scientific men who
in these latter days, are so eagerly bringing to the light the laws that
govern phenomena in the wonderful world of Nature.

[Illustration]

The world to the human interpreter appears as a paradox of complexes.
Scientific progress, during late years, has not been along the lines of
the least resistance. One who has to do with the problems of nature is
fascinated by the difficulties. Lord Rayleigh attached this motto to his
recently issued, but already famous, “Collected Papers:”

  “The works of the Lord are great
  Sought out of all them that have pleasure therein.”

To be sure, the gratification of overcoming obstacles is often the only
compensation.

Science has a wide range in the size and nature of the things with which
it deals. With the microscope, it enlarges for vision the unseen world of
bacterial life; with the telescope it draws the celestial bodies near and
interrogates them with the spectroscope; it drags the lifeless element
from the inanimate world, curiously plays with it and then puts it to
man’s use, while seeking his origin and forcing him ever to show cause
for his existence and right to question.

Much of the very recent work in physical science has distinct leanings
towards metaphysics. It is scarcely to be wondered at, when the
experimental data obtained appear to question tenets which devotees
have become accustomed to regard as immutable. Facts are stubborn,
however. When they cause the giving away of the least portion of the
boundaries of our cherished systems, the imagination is unchained. The
discovery and development of our knowledge of the wonderful phenomena
of radio-activity, about which much that is true and more that is false
have appeared in reputable journals of a not remote date, ensample the
groping of our restlessness. These marvels, according to those who have
worked with them most and whose opinions deserve the first consideration,
spontaneously and continuously give out energy appreciable to the senses.

Where does this energy come from? Where does it go? One mudsill of
science is the law of the conservation of energy. This division of
science has a host of investigators busy with the problem of sustaining
this fundamental. The harvest, which is not all grain but contains some
tares, indicates that substances, which we have been pleased to regard
as elemental constituents of nature, undergo voluntary alterations. Some
appear to be breaking down into simpler matter, while others are building
up. This virtually carries us back to the days of the alchemist.

It is a long story, which may not be related here, the deep-seated belief
of most chemists in the unity, hence transmutation, of the elements. It
is a far cry to its accomplishment, however. We need not go back to the
time of the black-art for other examples of efforts to transform one
element into another. Victor Meyer sought to build up thallium shortly
after Crookes found it. Winkler dissipated Fittica’s transformation of
phosphorus to arsenic. So chemists will be busy asking questions of
Ramsay’s formation of a body like lead, through the agency of penetrating
rays of radium.

Another foundation stone of science is the law of the conservation
of matter. J. J. Thompson, from experimental work, explains certain
observations by the existence of substances called electrons, a thousand
times smaller than hydrogen, which we have regarded the lightest chemical
element. The electrons appear to carry an electric charge. One farther
step is then taken by the Cambridge professor, who says these corpuscles
are electricity. They are attenuated matter. Electricity is a form of
energy. We need no law for the conservation of the matter. Ostwald has
taught that when one struck his shin on a chair in the dark, it was not
the solid wood, but the force involved which produced the sensation. One
would not have been conscious of the existence of the obstacle, but for
the energy. Matter is energy.

Here one is on the boundary lines of experimental science and dealing
with a metaphysical problem. It must not be forgotten, however, that two
hundred years ago any suggestion of the Röntgen rays could well have been
placed in a similar category.

Whether the explanations be accepted or not, it may be noted that
Lodge has already illustrated, by beautiful lecture experiments, the
possibility of a practical utilization of the facts of some of the
observations. Fog is easily dissipated through the agency of electricity.
The application of the principle on a gigantic scale, to a city like
London, may yet be realized.

There are in the world, as is well known, numerous organisms belonging
to the vegetable kingdom that do not resemble at all any of those things
we are accustomed to look upon as plants. These bacteria are extremely
small. They are from .00002 to .00004 inch in diameter. They are studied,
not by ordinary vision, but by means of microscopes and by microscopes
of only the very best kinds. They are, also, studied by their effects.
They propagate very rapidly. Starting with one organism they may grow,
within twenty-four hours, to 281,470,000,000 individuals. This rapidity
of growth does not actually take place in nature; it is checked through
natural conditions, or through excretions of the organism inhibiting such
propagation.

We hear a great deal as to the production of virulent diseases through
the agency of bacteria; but, while there are evil bacteria, there are,
also, bacteria that are good. In short, we may understand, that all
good bacteria are not dead bacteria. These bacteria exist in very large
numbers in the soil. The upper portion of rich garden soil may contain,
on an average, from one to five millions per cubic centimetre. This
number may be very much greater, depending upon the amount of decomposed
matter that is present and the favorable conditions for their propagation.

We are accustomed to think of bacteria as living only on the richest food
and being the cause solely of putrefaction. This is not true. There are
bacteria that live on the bare rocks and get their sustenance from those
rocks and the surrounding air. Under these conditions they actually store
up food material. They are really miracle workers. They render the soil
fertile and the farmer is largely dependent upon them for the growth of
his crops. They reduce mineral substance to the powdered form, assist in
storing up organic matter for the soil and thus render it suitable for
the growth of higher plants.

Under the influence of sunlight the green portions of plants, by
absorbing carbon dioxide from the air and water from the soil, produce
starch, which is one of the important foods for animals. This is not
the work of bacteria, yet some of these organisms are capable of
accomplishing similar work in the dark. It has been suggested that they
derive their energy directly from the oxidizing processes that they set
up. This is one of the problems of the soil bacteriologist.

Many micro-organisms act upon nitrogenous matters and destroy them, in
that the substances are rendered less available for higher plants. These
are denitrifying agents. There is another class of these micro-organisms,
however, that takes nitrogenous food, which is only a little or not at
all utilized by higher vegetables, and makes it available plant food.
These micro-organisms thus contribute to the fertility of the soil. They
oxidize ammonium compounds, from whatever sources they may be had, and
form nitrites first and then nitrates. The nitrates are used by common
plants. The nitrifying bacteria are composed of two groups of active
agents: one group serves to make the first change, namely from ammonium
compounds to nitrites; and the other, to change the nitrites to nitrates.
The conditions most favorable for their activity are just the opposite
for most other micro-organisms. In a soil having much organic matter
already decomposed, these bacteria may be practically inactive until
the decomposition has passed certain stages. During this transition,
the soil is barely suited for crops. Nitrification requires the oxygen
of the air; denitrification can go on in a compact soil with the least
portion of the atmosphere. So really the soil is cultivated largely to
favor the growth and propagation of the nitrifying bacteria. The result
of experimentation has shown that this may be facilitated in some cases
by denitrification first, and in other cases by stirring the soil for
the penetration of the air, and again by applying lime to the soil to
overcome the acidity. Professor Burrill recently said, “Some day farmers
will come to understand that specialists working in the laboratory, and
for years gazing through microscopes, are gaining knowledge for them.”

While many bacteria do not necessarily render food available for plants,
they are most valuable in putting useless matters out of the way. One of
the absolutely essential chemical elements for the growth of plants is
nitrogen. It is most expensive. It is present in the greatest unavailable
abundance, constituting three-fourths by weight of our entire atmosphere,
and it is, also, the one element most likely to be deficient in the soil.
It constitutes an essential constituent of albumenoid material. Under the
influence of the denitrifying bacteria, it is converted into ammonium
compounds, which are converted then through the nitrifying agents into
nitrates. The nitrates are extremely soluble in water; consequently,
there is no tendency towards the accumulation of the valuable food
matter in the soil, as the same is leached out. The growing green plant
is surrounded by the food that it wants but, as with the Ancient Mariner,
there is not a drop to drink. Green vegetation cannot, or only to a
limited extent can, absorb and utilize directly the free nitrogen of the
air.

As a result of a long series of experiments, it has been learned that
there grow excrescences, somewhat similar to galls, on the roots of
certain plants. These natural structures have a character peculiar to the
species of plants on which they occur. In a manner not understood, these
tubercles, inhabited by bacteria, are capable of securing sufficient
nitrogen from the air for their own growth, when the soil is practically
able to furnish none. Other plants, next door, without these nodules,
will die of starvation.

The number of bacteria in these nodules is very great but, although
countless, they are insignificant compared with those in the soil
outside. Those within the nodules, however, are specifically different
from those without, perform different functions, and appear to be
characteristic of the particular plant in which they exist. The
leguminous plants, as peas, beans, clover, have these peculiar nodules.
Other plants, however, like maize, cotton, wheat, are devoid of these
assistants.

It has been known for a long time that the fertility of the soil could
be augmented by rotating the crops and thus adding nitrogen to the soil
by means of these leguminous plants. One of the problems engaging the
attention of scientific agriculturists at present is to learn whether or
not these leguminous organisms may be made to form tubercles on other
plants, as for example corn or wheat. The importance of the successful
issue of such experimentation requires no emphasis. While successful
results have not yet been reported, something has been learned: namely,
the fruit of corn may be very much modified in its chemical composition
by breeding. Grain very much richer in nitrogenous matter has been grown
by changes in the breeding. Such grain is a better food.

This is indeed a day of almost excessive specialization in science: Great
things have been accomplished by the intense method. Some have thought,
and spoken their thoughts, that such tended to carry men of science away
from the contemplation of a unit or the system as a whole. Not a few
have argued, perhaps with reason, that the great generalizations, as for
example Darwin’s theory of evolution, were no longer to be hoped for. It
is impossible for any single brain to follow the details of the varied
branches of science. It is rare that one man pretends to know the detail
of that division of science to which he gives attention. It is equally
true, however, that many systematic minds are gathering, collating and
publishing in readable form accurate summaries of details in the several
branches. Men of broader vision are gathering these authentic digests and
offering concepts, which encompass the phenomena of the Universe.

Such have been hinted at as the efforts of some to do away with what we
have been pleased to term axiomatic truths. Whether this be desirable,
is really of no moment. The facts point to the present movement of
efforts to simplify matters. The most beautiful things after all are the
simplest. This idea, of course, should not convey the impression of being
boldly plain.




                      “THE MESSAGE OF THE VIOLET.”

                               By G. D. G.


Down the long corridor swept the theater-goers, men in the sober black
and white of evening clothes, women in the brightest of theater gowns.
Debutantes paused to chat with college men as they found their way to
boxes and orchestra chairs; bachelors stopped to talk of the affairs of
the day before taking their places in the front rows. The old playhouse
was fast filling, for it was “The Princess of Tyrolia” that night.

With the first notes of the orchestra a young man hurried down the aisle
and dropped into a seat far back in the shadow of the balcony. His eyes
swept hastily over the audience and then became fixed on a box near the
stage.

“I knew she would be here,” he murmured softly; “she could never keep
away from this music.”

It was a pretty picture he found to gaze upon and it was little wonder
that he looked but seldom at the stage. More attractive even than the
rows of gorgeously dressed girls in the chorus was that box near the
stage. Seated toward the front was a young girl, just rounding into the
beauty of the woman—while retaining all the freshness of girlhood. Behind
her laughed and chatted a few companions of her own age, but she kept her
eyes fixed upon the stage and seemed to fairly revel in the beauty of the
ringing chorus. To her the music seemed everything, and the great bunch
of violets in her hand was beating unconscious time to the march.

Far back in the shadow the boy, for he was little more, leaned forward
and watched the rapidly changing expression on her face. He followed
the action of the play only through the varying moods which found a
reflection in her eyes. Many times had he watched her thus, haunting the
theaters only to sit unobserved and gaze longingly at her every moment
that he could, then slipping quietly away before the curtain dropped to
avoid meeting her in the throng. Never once, in all the long months, had
their eyes met, and if she had been conscious of his presence she had
given no sign.

“It has been a long time,” he muttered, moving restlessly in his seat.
“What a fool a man can be when there is a woman in the case.”

He had met her only the summer before, a summer filled with little
excursions to nearby resorts where city folk threw off the burden of
formality in the jolly little dances and moonlight strolls. How it all
came back to him now—the open pavilion with the negro musicians, the
rapturous waltzes and the swinging two-steps and the long talk on the
broad veranda afterward, talk of nothing of great importance but which
now seemed to him to be worth years away from her.

Then had followed the autumn and the return to the city. The long
evenings at her home, where the soft glow of the candles behind a crimson
shade had lent a new beauty to her clearly moulded features. She had
loved the soft light of the candles as she had loved the moonlight.
It had seemed that everything about her had breathed of softness and
quiet. Changing moods she had shown—he had often called her his “Maid of
infinite variety,” but each new mood had given her a new attraction in
his eyes; every new phase of her character had brought her closer to him.

It all passed in rapid review before him. Now he sat in the old lawn
swing beside her, now he turned her music as she sang the old songs they
both loved. He remembered the good-byes at the gate and the long walk to
the city afterward. There had never been cigars with so sweet a flavor as
those which kept him company on the long way home. Just the moonlight and
the blue smoke and thoughts of her.

But it had ended at last. Only a misunderstanding which caused a growing
coldness and then a sudden interruption of his dream. He had been too
proud to ask but once for an explanation—she was as proud as he. It had
been months since the two had met—months when the city seemed to be as
lonely as only a great city can.

“It’s hard,” he muttered, and though his lips kept their stern, almost
defiant expression, his eyes had a half appealing look as they rested
upon the girl in the box.

As the music broke into a new strain the girl leaned suddenly forward in
her chair and her face showed a new interest. Then her eyes dropped and
she seemed to be in a deep study. It was “The Message of the Violet” now,
and as the lovers on the stage began the song the audience was hushed
into silence. Over the footlights came the strains, mellow, vibrant,
charging the very air with the smell of violets and of spring. The girl
saw instead of the picture on the stage a vision of a summer night, a
quiet corner on the old veranda. The music floated toward them while the
dancers swept over the floor and he was repeating to her the story of his
love. She had listened half in joy, half in fright, and tears had mingled
with smiles before a bevy of laughing girls had called them back to the
dance.

The song ended and a great burst of applause awoke the girl from her
reverie. Her eyes turned instinctively toward the audience and far back
in the shadow she saw him, his eyes half covered with his hand. Over her
swept a new feeling, a sudden resolve. She fingered the violets on her
lap as the song rose once more into the chorus:

  “I love you, love you, love you,
  And my heart’s true blue.”

The young man felt a tap on his shoulder. A boyish usher was dropping a
tiny bunch of violets into his hand.

“From the young lady in the third box,” he said.




                          WHOSE TEMPLE YE ARE.

                         BY ISABELLA HOWE FISK.


                    In the quarry of its earthly life,
                    Works the soul.
                    Though it suffer toil and strife,
                    Thy control
                    Canst hew out the rough material
                    For a master-builder’s plan;
                    And the soul shall rise ethereal
                    From the structure of the man.
                    In beneath the granite arches
                    Swings the spirit’s censer fair,
                    And amid the ritual arches
                    Incense rises through the air.




[Illustration]

                          Lyrical and Satirical

                         CONDUCTED BY VERMOUTH.


                             WHAT’S THE USE?

                        (A Rhyme of Spring Fever)

          There’s so much to do and there’s so little time,—
                      What’s the use?
          There’s so much that’s prosy and so little rhyme,—
                      What’s the use?
          The fishing is fine and you can’t get away,
          And you have to sleep night time instead of by day,
          And when you feel gloomy you’ve got to be gay.—
                      What’s the use?

          Most folks are stupid and very few true,
                      What’s the use?
          If the evenings are purple, next mornings are blue,—
                      What’s the use?
          If mentally strong you are morally weak,
          And you never attain what you most fondly seek;
          You choose a companion and find him a freak,—
                      What’s the use?

          The good are as bad as the wicked are pure,—
                      What’s the use?
          The famous unhealthy, the saintly obscure,—
                      What’s the use?
          And when you have passed through the dark vale of tears,
          And St. Peter enjoins you to cast off your fears,
          You’ve got to sing hymns for some six million years,—
                      What’s the use?


                          AN INTERESTING PLOT.

The rumored threat of President Castro of Venezuela to overrun and lay
waste this fair land of ours is not creating the popular interest that
such a dread announcement might be supposed to arouse. Possibly public
sentiment is not entirely convinced that His Presidency would act the
bully merely because it is in his power to do so. So far only a single
element has exhibited jingo propensities, but there is no telling how
far it may go to embroil the nation in a sanguinary entanglement that
could have but one possible termination. The lone disturbing element in
question consists of a party of intrepid soldiers-of-fortune fictionists,
comic opera librettists, pure humorists and promotors of high-class
vaudeville who are keen to feel the possibilities of so much rich
material being imported to their very doors. Richard Harding Davis is
reported to be mobilizing a bunch of bold buccaneers, ably assisted by
Mr. Dooley, George Ade, Dinkelspiel, O. Henry and other intrepid spirits,
to meet the incoming hosts and apply for syndicate privileges. That the
situation demands finesse and diplomacy, however, is obvious, for all
would be lost should some irreverent band of roving cowboys round up and
rope the outfit before they could get at it, or should some thoughtless
and lacking-in-humor police squad run amuck and confine the layout in
some local bastile. The amusement loving public might be expected to at
least stand between this patriotic movement and such a dread contingency.

The following may be reasonably conceived as the final preparation
for the impending invasion: President Castro: “Are the choruses well
drilled and are the comedians and soubrettes in good voice?” Leader of
the Orchestra: “Si, Senor.” President Cas.: “Are the costumes new and
up-to-date, and is scenery in good order and packed for shipment?”
Master of Properties: “Si, Senor.” President Cas.: “Has the vanguard
of press agents and bill posters taken the field?” Booking Agent: “A
most formidable array, your Augustness.” President Cas.: “Then on the
road! And may your performances prove so meritorious that you will carry
everything before you till you reach the great Metropolis itself. This
feat your proud people expect you to accomplish in time for the fall
openings.” After which labored and patriotic outburst the president lit a
cigarette and called for a demi-tasse with which to restore his depleted
energies.


                               HARD LUCK.

It was his sixtieth birthday and in times agone he had fondly anticipated
the arrival of that occasion as marking a happy fruition of his talents
and a mature mellowing of his energies. Instead, however, he found
himself summoned to appear before the public executioner with the family
Bible and prove its records false or be humanely extinguished in the
interest of modern enlightenment. “This is too hard,” he murmured, “but
it would be infamous as well as futile to question the authority of
the Good Book, and besides I am too young to die. Though I appreciate
theoretically the demands of civilization, as a practical proposition the
idea has its limitations.”

It was with difficulty that he was enabled to restrain a tear when he
thought of the young wife whom he had taken unto himself just prior
to the enactment of the regulation for the removal of the innocuously
obsolete, and whom he now felt that he had procured under false
pretences. His pessimistic misgivings were accentuated by a picture of
her after he had gone to his reward striving for sustenance wherewith
to nurture the innocent infant cooing at her breast. But every remedy
was exhausted. The President had declined to interpose with as much as
a temporary respite, regretting his painful obligation but tactfully
reminding him of the majesty of the law, the interests of society and
the demands of the strenuous life. In due season he was led face to face
with the public chloroformer, who humanely inquired of him if he had
aught to observe by way of valedictory. Not anticipating such courteous
consideration, he was temporarily abashed, but recovering his dormant
speech, feebly but feelingly observed: “Only a single request. When I
shall have yielded up and taken flight to that somber realm whence no
traveler has as yet returned, spare my modest memory from the obituary
paragrapher, who would chronicle the lamented departure from our midst
of another consistent church member and well beloved citizen.” Saying
which he inhaled deeply and peacefully passed into the big slumber while
his fair young wife adopted the proud profession of a laundress and his
innocent babe was carefully safe-guarded in a local institution for the
homeless progeny of those who had they been permitted to ramble at large
would have been “only in the way.”


                          WHY NOT BE SENSIBLE?

It is not to be presumed that in the present age of popular enlightenment
people do not know better than to trifle with germs. It is, therefore,
alarming to note that with light they will continue to practically commit
suicide by a failure to observe the most ordinary rules of hygiene. In
the mad pursuit of pelf and position little heed is being given to the
omnipresence of bacilli, bacteria and other mischievous, pernicious and
fatal agencies. Why will people supinely continue to court death in
street cars, theaters, churches and at crowded entertainments, where the
most casual movement sets into motion myriads of germs that are inhaled,
eaten and absorbed by those present? And why will they disregard common
caution by eating food in hotels, cafés, restaurants, Pullman cars and at
home, when all food is known to be gorged with murderous molecules of one
sort or another? And why perpetuate the dangerous habit of washing when
both soap and water are teeming with baleful bacteria? There are still a
few who continue to take water into their system in full realization that
it contains something more than a million germs per drop. And is there
no way of impressing the public with the fatal consequence of sleeping
in beds and sitting in chairs, and of riding and walking through streets
surrounded by air which is composed largely of corrosive sublimate—a
deadly poison? And as for kissing? Only Igorrote, Hottentots and Russians
can be forgiven for not knowing better. So deathly does modern research
recognize this primitive and all but obsolete practice to be, that it
is being seriously considered of adoption as a pleasing and more humane
substitute for chloroform as an antique exterminator. Why not conform
to the simple necessities and observe the rational precaution of doing
nothing without first being sterilized and aerated? And let those
determined to drink remember to recognize as sanitary only those fluids
commonly known to be strongly germicidal. It would seem that the present
generation will never reach a true realization of its peril until it has
already become extinct.


                         THE NORTHERN VIEWPOINT.

                      His heart went out in feeling
                      To the colored brother kneeling
                          At the white man’s feet;
                      His brother’s wrongs oppressed him
                      And a poem he addressed him,
                          Warm and neat.

                      He suffered indignation,
                      He swore by all creation
                          ’Twas a crime,
                      To deny him social right—
                      Wasn’t black as good as white
                          Every time?

                      By the way, in this connection
                      He’s now visiting this section,—
                          He finds the matter clear—
                      And without aid or suggestion
                      He has come to view the question
                          As one of atmosphere.

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

                                EDITORIAL


                           FRENZIED POLITICS.

There are thousands of men in politics who are the very salt of the
earth. Indeed, the majority are honest and true. But it is rapidly
becoming fashionable for clans of bold, political schemers to put their
heads together and capture the floating vote and thus defeat the will of
the people; and to such these lines are dedicated.

Modern machine politics is the most subtle and exquisite art that
ever crushed a hope or shattered a dream. It is the beautiful art of
chloroforming public confidence and stealing the reins of power from the
hands of the sleeping sovereigns. It is the mysterious art of political
hoodoo, which works shady miracles in every theater of government, from
the county courthouse to the national capitol.

The jugglers of this art slip into conventions, caucuses and legislative
halls, and whisper a magic word, and lo! in the twinkling of an eye,
majorities are changed to minorities, and minorities to majorities; oft
expressed opinions and deep rooted convictions upon vital principles
and policies of government are reversed in an hour, and the enchanted
floating solons, forgetting old hickory shirt and copperas breeches at
home, forgetting the men with cheeks of tan who walk in the furrow,
forgetting the sturdy toilers at the anvil, the workbench and the drill,
losing sight of the confiding multitudes who but yesterday twined the
laurel wreath of honor about their brows,—fall down upon their faces
before the golden Combine, in that sacred temple of free government which
is dedicated to righteousness and the liberty of the people, crying with
a loud voice both night and day, “Great is Diana of the Ephesians!” That
whispered word, so full of the music and the dream, is “Pie.” O, wondrous
word of marvelous power! O, sweet and juicy symbol of perfect happiness.
O, ravishing synonym of golden eagles and the goddess of liberty! In
it are reflected the bewildering glories of a thousand heavens of pure
delight; golden slippers and laurel wreaths to burn; heaving seas of
“sour mash” whose amber surfs forever break on fragrant shores of mint;
sweet journeys on Pullman palaces of rosewood and mahogany to the land
of the orange and the palm. In it are the stolen fires of the stars,
flashing in diamond shirt studs, and the crimson glow of sunset skies
imprisoned in rubies set in gold on lily white hands that will toil again
never more. In it are visions of mansions in spreading groves where the
wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. Is it any wonder,
then, that opinions so suddenly change and promises and pledges so
swiftly dissolve into a puff of wind and leave not a rack behind? Is it
any wonder that Samson is shorn of his locks while yet he slumbers, and
only wakes to find his window up, his strength and piety gone and his
breeches pockets turned wrongside out? Is it any wonder that when, at
last, the Rip Van Winkle of Public Confidence rises up from his trance
he finds only the skeleton of Fidelity at his feet and the gunstock of
safety rotted away from the rusted barrel of sovereignty by his side?
And is it any wonder that he exclaims, in the language of old Rip of the
Adirondacks, “Am I so soon forgot?” Is it any wonder that the bewildered
Commonwealth, like poor old Rip, so often looks around, and failing to
recognize the little pile of bones near by, asks with tearful eyes, “Vare
iss mine leetle dog Schneider?”

  But what doth great Diana care
  For Samson when he’s lost his hair?
  The tears are vain that Rip doth shed:
  He slept too long, his dog is dead.
  So states are shorn, and nations weep,
  For crime committed while they sleep.

Scheming lobbyists of mighty combines juggle together and whisper into
the listening ears of shrewd politicians, “You’ve got the power and we’ve
got the pie. We are willing to swap pie for power. What _we_ want is
legislation or no legislation, as our interests may require. What _you_
want is _office_.” Then the politicians juggle and honey fuggle the
floating vote, and there is a mighty shuffling of political cards and
soon they all join hands behind closed doors and the soft whisper passes
round the ring, “We are one and inseparable for power and for pie; we are
the flowers that bloom in the spring, tra, la! Let the word be mum.” Then
follows the secret banquet of bargain and intrigue under the very dome of
liberty. It is quite exclusive, even more so than a banquet of the four
hundred in the great metropolis. Old Copperas Breeches is not invited nor
Brother Hickory Shirt, nor Dr. Honesty, nor ’Squire Patriotism, nor any
of the old folks at home. There is no room around the festive board for
Professor Pedagogue, of Purity High School, nor Deacon Righteousness, of
Churchville. The public welfare is lost in the shuffle. After a short
blessing is whispered by the Rev. Judasio Iscarriotis, the sumptuous
feast begins, the menu consisting alone of pie: senatorial pie, sweetened
with ring syrup; gubernatorial mince pie, flavored with moonshine;
speakership pie, highly seasoned with the sunshine of spicy promises
of favors to come; clerkship pie, dripping with the honey of fat and
succulent salaries; and on down, to a little half moon dried apple pie of
a free pass to oblivion.

  They clink their merry glasses,
    Now hear them softly sing—
  “The people are all asses,
    Diana’s in the swing!”
  And after the feast is over,
    After the pie is gone,
  The combines are in clover,
    As we go marching on.

Then the band begins to play, and the elephant moves around, bearing on
his spacious back the anointed high priests of Pie and Power, followed by
a great procession of worshipers, and heralded by a flourish of trumpets
in the hands of the jugglers, who alternately blow and shout, crying out,
as with one voice, “Great is Diana of the Ephesians, who hath the world
by the tail and a down-hill pull! Clear the way for the most high priest
of power! Clear the way for the priestly priest of Pie! Hail, all hail!!”

Thus the dismal tale of history runs; hopes of free government are
crushed; dreams of liberty are shattered; blind Samson nurses his wrath
until his shorn locks grow out again; and then, with giant strength and
insane rage, he lays hold of the pillars of the temple,

  And with a crash republics fall,
  Down go liberty, combines and all.

This is the shady side of politics. But the burnished crest of the
darkest cloud reflects in golden arcs the splendors of the sun, and the
angels of hope hang a rainbow on its bosom. All power is inherent in the
people, and there are patriotism and courage enough in their bosoms to
weather the storms that rise dark o’er the way, if they do not get lost
in the Adirondacks of Prosperity and drink from the jug of indifference
and sleep too long on their rights.

Combined capital is digging its own grave when it becomes the Diana of
modern machine politics. And combined Labor is driving the nails in its
own coffin when the spirit of anarchy directs its blows for the redress
of its grievances. Until recently the South has maintained its integrity
and its immunity from the hoodoo art of machine politics; but the methods
of destruction have found their way into Southern capitols, and, unless
Samson wakes, he will soon find himself utterly powerless to use his
favorite jaw-bone, or any other kind of a weapon, on the Philistine
combines who are plotting against him in the temple.

God speed the day when Capital and Labor shall combine under the banner
of arbitration and of peace, and when the battle cry of the Republic
shall be, “Equal and exact justice to all, with special favors to one.”


                        A TALE OF A LECTURE TOUR.

I entered the car, threw my grip between two seats and sat down by a
drummer. He looked at my valise and then at me and dryly asked, “Are
you a traveling man?” “Yes,” was my reply. “What is your line?” asked
he. “_Sweetened wind_,” quoth I. A smile lighted his face as he quickly
asked, “Preacher or lecturer?” And then there was a laugh and a lull.

After an all day’s travel which wore me into a frazzle, I reached my
destination at 8.30 P.M. It was a cold, drizzling evening. The skies
were leaking spray, and in the language of Mrs. Partington, the street
was a perfect “lullaby” of soft and sticky mud. The little freckle-faced
dreamer who had bought me for a hundred and fifty caught me by the arm
with one hand as I stepped off the cars and seized my grip with the other
and literally pushed me head foremost into a Jim Crow hack drawn by one
old spavined horse,

  With one eye out and t’other blind,
  He racked before and paced behind,

until we reached the hall where I was to lecture. I found a little cold
and shivering crowd seated there, waiting to be warmed by my eloquence,
and without a chance to make my toilet and don my little “swallow tail,”
I was ushered on the stage and introduced as the greatest orator,
philosopher, poet, musician, statesman, scientist, actor and artist that
ever came down the pike, whereupon I began to shake my jaw and pour out
my metaphors; but somehow or other my eagle wouldn’t soar that night. He
flopped his cold and flabby wings and rose and fell for an hour and a
quarter. The audience departed like mourners from a funeral; but one good
old lady lingered in the hall till I came off the stage and in her pity
she sidled up to me and whispered, “I liked your little talk right well.”
I found the freckled-face dreamer waiting at the door, and, cold as it
was, the sweat was rolling down his cheeks. His face was the picture of
despair when he handed me a hundred dollar bill and ten fives. I knew
that his castle in the air had fallen. “How did you come out?” I asked.
“Well, Governor,” he said, with a tremulous voice, “I’m out just eighteen
dollars.” I took the roll he had given me out of my pocket and skinned
off four bills in the light of the lamp dimly burning and said, “There
are twenty dollars, my boy, and my blessing upon you.” He almost shouted
and pressed my hand continuously as we walked through the mud to the
little hotel on the starvation plan. Then there were a brief sleep and an
easy conscience. I crossed the Father of Waters in triumph next morning
and tarried in Memphis till the next train out. I went to the bank to buy
New York exchange, took out my roll and lo! I had given old freckle-face
the one hundred dollar bill and three fives. Then again there was a laugh
and a lull—he laughed and I lulled. I pocketed my laugh and my loss
and climbed into the pouch of a Southern Kangaroo on wheels and with
a single hop I cleared the state of Mississippi and lit in Alabama. I
climbed out and got into the ’bus in a beautiful little town among the
blushing hills. Before I had washed the dust of travel from my brow, a
spider-legged dude, with ambrosial locks curled and parted in the middle,
came strutting like a clean-shaven and musk-scented dream into the dingy
and time-honored little room where my valise and I were safely deposited,
and with Chesterfieldian bow and a fluted voice announced that he had
been designated by the ladies to introduce me that night to the audience.
He shook his curls and said, “Governor, I have never delivered a speech
in my life, but I have been at work on this one for about two weeks; and
pardon me for saying that I think she’s a daisy.”

“Well, my friend,” I said, “I am fond of daisies.” With another shake
of his locks he said, “The society people are all coming out to-night
to hear me introduce you.” I shook my scanty locks and said, “I am glad
there is something bringing them out.”

The clock struck 8. An elegant carriage stopped at the hotel door where
I was waiting, and the sweet-scented dream in full evening dress,
emerged, and gently took me by the arm and ushered me into it. We went
whirling to the stage entrance of the theater, but as we walked up the
stairs I observed that he tottered like a man ascending the gallows and
his lips were colorless and quivering. We took our seats side by side
behind the curtain. I motioned to the curtain man that all was ready,
and with a whiz and a bang the curtain went up, and, sure enough, there
in front of us, in the brilliantly lighted auditorium, was a breathing
bouquet of youth and beauty and old age which greeted us with a storm of
applause—the society folks had indeed come out to hear him introduce me.
I nudged my friend and said, “Shoot.” He never budged. I nudged him again
and said, “Go ahead!” He never budged. I looked around and his face was
as white as a sheet and great drops of perspiration like beads of pearl
were standing on his pallid brow. I said again, “Go ahead!” and in his
agony he mumbled with muffled voice, “Governor, she’s gone.” There was
a lull and a laugh, and in about two seconds he was gone. Before I had
delivered half my sweetened goods I observed a number of yawns and stolen
glances at watches and increasing signs that my crowd wanted to go. There
is no anguish like that which a lecturer feels when his listless audience
turns to frost and nips all his flowers of speech. The saddest spectacle
in all the tide of time is a frost-bitten orator. He gathers up his
little withered tropes and similes and vanishes, and all that saves him
from suicide is the dream that he will blossom again in a more congenial
garden. I collected my tribute money in the Alabama town and mounted a
grasshopper train and went hopping and stridulating from rail to rail
until I found a patch of clover in a rich and aristocratic Georgia town
where I lounged and exchanged anecdotes with traveling men and with
the natives until the lights were turned on and I stood all robed in
my “swallow tail,” in the midst of as delightful an audience as ever
listened to a sap-sucker speech or laughed at the unwinding of my little
ball of yarns. A tall and handsome Georgia lawyer rose to introduce me
and thus he spake:

“Ladies and Gentlemen: I have traveled a great deal in my life and on
one of my journeys I took in the mountains of East Tennessee. I paused
in that peculiar country to study the customs of that peculiar people.
They make maple sugar in East Tennessee. They have great sugar orchards
there, and one of the customs of the people is to tap the sugar trees
in the spring when the sap begins to rise and they give the children in
the family a tin cup and turn them out into the sugar orchard and never
see them any more for six weeks. I have the pleasure to introduce to you
to-night a sap-sucker from East Tennessee!”

  There was a lull and a laugh,
    And the sap began to run,
  And they kindly took a quaff
    From my sugar-trough of fun.

I settled with the secretary of the treasury and mounted a March hare
train and sped away through many a cotton patch, from town to town, out
of Georgia into the Old North State, and, flanking Charlotte, squatted at
the State University at Chapel Hill, that classic spot of earth so rich
with memories of the glorious past and still teeming with joyous student
life, like those who have gone before, dreaming of the glorious future.
There I met Dr. Battle, that grand old man who has fought a thousand
battles for enlightenment and human happiness. There I met Alphonso
Smith, one of the South’s foremost young men in the field of educational
endeavor and whose soul is in tune with Southern progress and Southern
development.

There, too, I met Eben Alexander, a brilliant star from the sky of
Tennessee, shedding the soft light of Grecian literature upon the
youthful brain of Carolina. I met a score of other stars in the faculty
of this great University. I stood on the platform of its splendid
auditorium and tossed bouquets at as refined and cultured an audience as
ever sipped sap from a sugar tree. And when I packed my grip and started
Southward I could not repress the sweet old song:

  “Hurrah! hurrah! for the Old North State forever!
  Hurrah! hurrah! for the good Old North State!”

Finally, I landed in Charleston, South Carolina, where I played
Beauregard, but instead of firing bomb shells at Ft. Sumter, I fired
soap bubbles at the heads and hearts of a magnificent audience of
representative Charlestonians; and whether I pleased them or not, they
were so generous and hospitable as to flatter me with occasional bombs of
laughter and a few volleys of applause.

I swung back through Alabama to my home in Nashville, on hearing the
news that the political sap was rising; but, alas! only to find that the
Tennessee sugar tree was already tapped, you see, and that the senatorial
sugar-trough was full of sap-suckers holding a snap caucus, and there was
a lull and a laugh—I lulled and they laughed. When I awoke from my lull
I kissed my wife and children good-bye, and broke for Texas, the queenly
young sister of Tennessee, who took me in her arms, and brushing away my
political tears, pressed me to her loving heart.

There is no state in the Union that gives a Tennesseean a warmer welcome
than Texas, because her lap is full of Tennesseeans, and, moreover, she
is naturally hospitable and kind. There is a place on her fat knee for
every troubled soul, a kiss of sunshine on her lips and a lump of sugar
in her hand for every weeping wanderer.

O, glorious empire state of the sun-kissed South, with thy hundred and
seventy-five thousand square miles of as rich a country as was ever
tickled by the plow or the pick, and as ever laughed a harvest of cotton
and grain for the comfort and happiness of man! With thy cattle on a
thousand hills, thy countless flocks, thy gushing wells of oil, thy
fields of rice and sugar cane stretching far away like the sweet fields
of Eden on the other side of Jordan! With thy fatness thou canst feed
and warm the world! I wonder why the poor huddle in the smoke and filth
of crowded cities when Texas smiles and beckons them to her landscapes
of beauty, where the prairie flowers bloom and the sunshine plays with
the zephyrs from the Gulf and sometimes scuffles with a cyclone. I
wonder why toiling millions dwell amid blackened walls only to be slaves
to heartless masters, when untouched fields invite the happy home and
virgin soil still waits for the plowman and his merry song. I wonder why
helpless children are doomed to die by thousands in polluted hovels and
crowded alleys, when the green meadows of Texas bid them come and chase
the butterflies among the bluebells and the daisies, and the blossoming
hills call them hither to romp and play where the happy birds sing and
the cows come home in the evening fragrant with the breath of alfalfa and
the sweet wild grasses of the plains. Texas is a Paradise for the poor,
it is a third heaven for the rich.

But I am about to forget that I was talking about my lecture tour. Let me
see!—O, yes!—“All aboard for Nashville!” the conductor cries. Well, the
rest of my story I will tell around the happy hearthstone of home.


                            FOOLISH DREAMERS.

It is a marvelous truth that this golden era of the world’s history has
inspired no great poets that rank with Byron and Burns and Tom Moore and
a long list of other immortals who have enriched literature with their
songs; and it has developed but few prose writers worthy to wear the
mantles of Blackstone and Kent in law, of Gibbon and Macaulay in history,
and Scott and Bulwer in romance and fiction.

It is well we call it the golden era, for it is an era of commercialism,
when men are trampling literature and art and music under their feet
in the mad rush for gold and the gilded glory that it buys. To be a
millionaire is greater in the estimation of modern worshipers of mammon
than to be a Goldsmith; and a multimillionaire is greater in their
gold-jaundiced eyes than a William Shakespeare. The highest aspiration of
these nervous and strenuous generations is the acquirement and hoarding
of gold. Religion is tinged with it. Politics is its ally—and alloy
in the ratio of sixteen of gold to one of Patriotism. And most of the
business and social relations of this enlightened age are purely golden
and measured only by the circumference of a dollar. The English poet
sounded the keynote of true philosophy when he sang:

  “Ill fares the land to hastening ills a prey
  Where wealth accumulates and men decay.”

The true wealth of a nation rests not so much on bricks of gold as upon
golden thought—the riches of brain and heart—the treasures of truth and
the pure and beautiful sentiments of life. In the wild scramble for
sordid gain and the golden reins of power in these wing-footed days of
avarice and materialism, the angels of happiness no longer beckon from
the landscape and the stream nor call from the sweet solitudes of the
forest; but they stand tip-toe on the burnished domes and glittering
towers of the city and the town, with crowns of gold in their hands. And
the brain and brawn of the land gather there from the hills and hollows
to climb after them on a thousand ladders of dreams. But the environments
of domes and towers, while they stimulate the brain to grasp great
financial problems and to weave the web of glory around the thrones of
money kings, contract the nobler and better ideals and impulses of the
heart to the gilded forms of artificial pleasure.

Did you ever watch a bevy of city swells and society belles swinging and
whirling under flaming chandeliers until the coat-tails of the swells
popped like whip crackers and the skirts of the belles flapped like the
sails of a schooner in a high wind? That was a piping gale of pleasure in
high life in the town. Did you ever attend a great reception in the heart
of the metropolis? It was a gorgeous scene of icicles and spectacles,
of broadcloth, and jewels arrayed in white slippers and costly gowns
of richest colors; and the icicles and spectacles bowed to the jewels,
and the jewels bowed to the icicles and spectacles and they held sweet
converse on the subject of their bicycles and tricycles and various and
sundry articles and drank champagne and sherry and all got very merry and
wound up with oysters and dill pickles. And then the tipsy icicles and
spectacles got in their elegant vehicles and went home with the jewels in
the morning. That was the cream of urban civilization. Did you ever gaze
on a gaudy throng of bald-headed Apollos and painted Minervas walling
their eyes in speechless rapture before the garish lights of the grand
opera? How the fans and ribbons fluttered and the side-whiskers swayed
and spluttered amid the inscrutable harmonies of Wagner! That was the
tuneless pandemonium of urban music. Did you ever watch the bulls and
bears of finance turn the stock exchange into a howling wilderness of
confusion in the struggle to raise or lower prices? That was the third
heaven of artificial pleasure and excitement in the city.

But what is a thrill of victory in the gambling hell of frenzied finance
compared with the joy a fisherman feels down on the farm when a game
trout strikes his baited hook in the darkening eddy of a crystal stream
and the good reel sings as he gives him line and the fishing rod bends
and the waters splash? What is the gilded club room where the wizards of
finance meet to sip and smoke and shuffle the cards of fortune compared
with a fisherman’s tent and a fisherman’s luck on the bank of a moonlit
river where hearts are trumps and souls overflow with song and story?

Did you ever hear the tale of Mark Antony, the funeral orator of Rome
and the Romeo of the Nile? He went angling in Egypt one day on the royal
barge with the beautiful Cleopatra and he fished and fished and fished,
unrewarded by a nibble, until the hours grew dull and heavy. But the
cunning queen conceived a plan to change her lover’s luck and unfolded
the scheme to a slave; and the slave secretly dived from the larboard
side of the boat and hung a dried herring on the General’s hook and then
gave his line a vigorous pull. “By Jupiter!” shouted Mark Antony, “I have
hooked a monstrous fish.” “Take care, my lord, and give him line lest
he drag thee into the sea,” cried the dark-eyed queen, as she chuckled
behind her fan.

“By the gods! that fish shall flounder on thy deck, or I shall flounder
beneath the waves!” cried the impetuous Roman. He squared himself and
gave a mighty jerk, but fell sprawling on his back at the feet of the
laughing queen, and when he looked up and saw nothing but a little dried
herring dangling among the ropes above him, he blandly smiled and dryly
said: “He was a monstrous fish while biting, but between his bite and my
jerk, he has wonderfully shriveled. But he’s the oldest looking fish and
has the loudest smell of any that ever perfumed the royal barge.”

And so many an ambitious Antony sits in the stock exchange of the
great city and drops his hook in the sea of speculation, and he fishes
and fishes with his little wad of hard earned cash, until some shrewd
manipulator, just to change his luck, takes the little wad off and gives
the line a heavy pull, and when our guileless Antony thinks he has hooked
a million, he jerks and falls at the feet of fickle fortune, and finds
dangling in the air above him only the dried herring of a shrivelled
hope, and there is nothing left but the aged look of an empty purse and
the smell of a dream that is vanished!

[Illustration]




[Illustration]

                              LEISURE HOURS

          For Conference Between the Magazine and its Readers.


When The Taylor Publishing Company made its announcement of the
forthcoming appearance of BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE, its statements were
received with interest by all, with enthusiastic approval by many and
with predictions of disaster by sundry Jeremiahs and Thomases. For the
last named class the fact that a Southern magazine had not succeeded,
though many had been projected, was sufficient reason for the conclusion
that none could succeed, and possible success versus probable failure was
discussed throughout the length and breadth of the land.

Meanwhile, Governor Robert L. Taylor and his co-laborers in the
enterprise, imbued with a belief in the feasibility of the venture,
with the idea of the vital necessity to the people of the South of a
literary periodical which might adequately and fittingly represent the
literary life and customs and romance and ideals of the South, and with
an indomitable intention of firmly establishing such a useful vehicle of
thought and expression, proceeded with their organization. Literature in
regard to BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE was prepared, a campaign of publicity
was inaugurated, articles and stories were secured for the first number,
paper was bought, and an issue of 10,000 copies was determined upon, as
amply sufficient for the first number.

But herein the projectors of the enterprise underestimated the demands of
their friends. No sooner was the prospectus issued which indicated the
character of the magazine and gave a partial list of the contents of the
first number, than the mails were congested with correspondence; agents
were appointed by the hundred; subscriptions poured in; and it was
decided to print 15,000 copies instead of 10,000 copies.

The size of the magazine, too, grew rapidly in the hands of the staff,
until, instead of the 116 pages originally planned, it was found
desirable to give 164 pages. This was rendered necessary, in part, by the
large amount of advertising secured; and this is one of the best indexes
of the faith of the people in the success of BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE.
Hard-headed men of business do not give up their money for mere sentiment
or out of compliment to even so eminent and widely loved a man as
Governor Taylor. No. They look upon BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE as a valuable
advertising medium—and they are right.

At last, on the 21st of March, the eagerly awaited magazine appeared,
and far surpassed the most sanguine expectations of its readers. In the
intrinsic merit of its articles, stories and departments, in its dainty
and appropriate cover, in its numerous and handsome illustrations, in its
excellent typography and press-work, and equally in its well displayed
and interesting advertisements it fully satisfied the most critical. The
realization of a literary magazine worthy of the South was apparent.

And yet the Jeremiahs, silenced as to the initial number, muttered _sotto
voce_: “Well, you can’t do it again.” Nevertheless, the present number
bears internal evidence that we have “done it again.” And we shall “do
it” every time. This we promise. We shall no longer pay heed to that
(fortunately small) class which experiences a melancholy pleasure in
making direful predictions.

The avidity with which the first number of BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE was
greeted was astounding even to the editor-in-chief and his staff,
notwithstanding the thousands of encouraging letters, the enormous influx
of subscriptions, even before a type had been set, and the fact that the
interest was not confined to the South but was manifested with especial
earnestness by the people of the North. Letters of congratulation by the
bushel, and complimentary editorials, reviews and press notices have told
the tale from Androscoggin to San Jose. Space, of course, precludes the
reproduction of them here, even if it were desirable, but the following
selection from a letter of the senior member of one of the largest
advertising agencies in the United States is so significant that it is
felt that its insertion will be pardoned:

“I thought it was hardly possible there could be a place for another
magazine, and consequently took little interest in your first
announcements. When your first number came to hand, however, I was so
attracted by the dainty cover showing the ‘fiddle’ with which the name
of Bob Taylor is so intimately associated in the minds of those who know
anything of the South, and especially of Tennessee, that I carried it
home last night, and did not lay it aside until every word in it by Bob
Taylor had been read and several of the articles re-read.

“Heartiest congratulations on the merit of the first number, the
character of which, if maintained in succeeding numbers, will surely make
a place for this new apostle of sunshine.

“Only give us more of Bob Taylor, if possible. Why not let him have a
page between each other article each number may contain. Why restrict
him to a department or departments? John Brisben Walker wrote the entire
September, 1904, _Cosmopolitan_ unaided. It is believed Bob Taylor could
write an entire number without any assistance if he would make up his
mind to do so, and it would be certain to prove a hummer.”

Fifteen thousand copies is a large number for the first issue of any
magazine; yet they were exhausted within one week after the magazine
came from the press, and thousands of copies have since been ordered by
agents and dealers, while an ever increasing army of new subscribers
demand, like so many Oliver Twists, with vehemence and iteration—MORE,
MORE. _And yet every copy is sold!_

It is a situation that pleases while it embarrasses, and it gives the
valuable pointer that we must provide larger issues, which we shall do,
that no one may miss a single number.

Considering these facts, so briefly outlined, we would not be human
were we not elated and happy and thankful. And yet we have not, we
trust, been spoiled by lavish praise, but rather spurred on to greater
efforts to measure up to our opportunities, to the expectations of the
Southern people, and to our mission to exploit the virtues, resources and
capabilities of this section, while bringing every month more sunshine
and happiness into the heart of every reader of BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE.

       *       *       *       *       *

For the information of new subscribers we repeat that we invite, for
insertion in this department, communications on all subjects of unusual
interest and importance, such as

Prose and poetry of sentiment, fact and fancy.

Forgotten or unpublished bits of history and tradition.

Anecdotes of famous men and women, and of quaint and curious occurrences.

The best short stories and tales you have heard or read, if unusual or
unfamiliar.

Suggestions for the special benefit of BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE—how it may
be improved, what it should contain, what it should admit.


           Industrial Energy and Enterprise of the Old South.

There is little danger that the glories and beauties of the Old South,
as reflected in its social life and ideals, will be forgotten in the
industrial progress and prosperity of the New, for these things have
been made immortal by the sure touch of tradition and literature, but
there is another phase of the old regime well worth our pride and
attention, which seems to have well nigh faded out of popular impression
and consideration. We refer to the industrial and commercial activity
achieved by the South before the war, of which the general idea takes so
small and disparaging account. It is tacitly assumed and loosely declared
that previous to 1860 the South lived in ease and sloth upon slave-labor
and the cotton crop, paying no heed to manufactures or industrial
development, and that before the wonderful business progress of the last
decade commercial enterprise and ability were unknown qualities in this
section. There were heroes before Agamemnon, however, and the truth is
that long before the New South existed in phrase or fact, the Old South
was holding its own in wealth-producing industries with other sections of
the country.

In a pamphlet, published some years ago, Mr. Richard H. Edmonds,
of Baltimore, first drew attention to these facts, and in so doing
performed a unique and important service to historic truth, no less
than to sectional pride. “Facts about the South” is the title of Mr.
Edmond’s brochure and he prefaces his summary of present prosperity
and prophecy of future development by a somewhat novel presentation of
Southern industrial conditions previous to 1860. He boldly challenges
the assumption that the South during that period was not fully abreast
of the times in all business interests and quotes indubitable statistics
and historic records to prove his case. In the decade between 1850 and
1860 the growth in Southern railroad and manufacturing interests was
especially marked, the government reports showing a greater percentage of
gain in the South than in New England and the Middle States, or, indeed,
the whole country at large. Moreover, the popular idea crediting the Old
South with producing only cotton, rice and sugar, is clearly disproved by
Mr. Edmonds, who gives the figures of Southern crop production for 1860,
showing a condition of agricultural diversity and prosperity unsurpassed
in any part of the country.

This vigorous protest against a prevailing delusion should be read in its
entirety by every Southerner who, as he reads of the thrift and energy
of the Old South, will be inspired with a firmer faith in the growth and
strength of the New, recognizing in the industrial development of to-day,
as Mr. Edmonds expresses it, “not a novel creation” in this section, but
“the result of evolution.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  MR. EDITOR:

  After all the flowery speeches and kind words that have been
  showered upon BOB TAYLOR’S MAGAZINE, all of which I heartily
  endorse, I am afraid you will not appreciate what I am going
  to say, but I’ll say it, nevertheless; it will be as good as a
  corrective; too much sweets are always cloying.

  I have read the magazine through from cover to cover, even to
  the advertisements, and found everything good, better, best, yet
  I was disappointed and will tell you why. There was no smallest
  fraction thereof devoted to women. Why is this thus? It cannot be
  that you do not think women of enough importance as to be worthy
  some part of it especially fitted for her eye alone. I know our
  editor-in-chief doesn’t feel that way, at least he does not talk
  that way, as every woman knows who ever talked to him for five
  minutes by the clock. I don’t mean a page devoted to Housewives,
  Motherhood, Cooking Recipes, or Fancy Work, altogether. These
  are all good, every one of them, and we are all more or less
  interested in them, but a page, pure and simple, devoted to
  things that women are specially interested in. Will you rise and
  explain, and satisfy several women?

                                                           E. A. C.

The above communication is self-explanatory and is published for what it
is worth. Possibly others of our friends may have something to say along
this line. At any rate, whatever is worthy of space, pertaining to women,
can, at least for a time, find expression in this department.


                            “LOCAL COLORING.”

                 (Dedicated to Our Descriptive Writers.)

                The tale told thrillingly of lemon skies,
                Of salmon hills beneath a blue sunrise;
                It feelingly described a cerise field
                Where purple rabbits ate pink onions, peeled.

                The color card passed to another pen,
                And lightning changes awed our common ken;
                For lo, we’re told those hills are palest mauve,—
                Like molten gold the fiery sun above.

                The lemon sky has veered to cherry red,—
                Maroon, the field where purple rabbits fed;
                Has Nature cursed us with a spotted land?
                Nay, “highly colored” tales are in demand.

                                                    HESTER GREY.


                              IN TENNESSEE.

                      Where the Mississippi washes
                        Round the shores of Tennessee,
                      There’s a large and stately forest,
                        And it’s very dear to me.

                      There I roamed in days of boyhood
                        With companions free from care,
                      As the tree tops sway ed above us
                        With the west wind playing there.

                      There we hunted ducks and turkeys;
                        Or as leaves came drifting down,
                      Sat and watched the graceful squirrel—
                        Heard the distant deep-mouthed hound.

                      I can see the old tent standing,
                        Scent the fragrant coffee pot,
                      And can see the fish a-frying
                        On the coals so red and hot.

                      We could hear the steamboat whistle,
                        Coming to us from afar;
                      And the wild geese loudly calling
                        Far out on the sandy bar.

                      As the darkness gathered round us,
                        The tree tops bare and high
                      Seemed to touch with inky fingers
                        The azure autumn sky.

                      And the shadows in beneath them,
                        Where the firelight did not go,
                      Made a background for dream pictures
                        In those days of long ago.

                      Ah, those faces in the firelight
                        Glowed with ruddy health and joy,
                      As I pictured golden futures
                        Round the camp fire as a boy.

                      I have walked the crowded city,
                        With restless, weary feet—
                      In search of praise and pleasure—
                        But neither seemed complete.

                      For the wine the city offers
                        Must be drunk in little sips,
                      Or like the Dead Sea apples
                        ’Twill be ashes on the lips.

                      So I’m going back a-camping,
                        ’Neath the sunset’s mellow glow,
                      There to dream the dreams of boyhood
                        As in days of long ago.

                                             G. W. BROWDER.

                      _Clinton, Ky._


                           A People Peculiar.

Twenty years or more ago, riding through the flat, palmetto-fringed
pine woods of east Florida, before Standard Oil Flagler built his
coast railroad to Miami, sundry lean, swarthy, active people of both
sexes, were frequently to be met with, more especially in and about St.
Augustine, and to the southward towards New Smyrna. They are doubtless to
be found there yet, though the great influx of miscellaneous strangers
renders their racial traits less noticeable than formerly.

Ask one of the large-framed Swedes, Germans, or other scions of a more
pronounced North-of-Europe type, who and what these Latin looking
peasantry are, the chance is you will be answered, or at least would have
been at the time I alluded to above:

“When folks want to be civil they call them Minorcans; when they don’t
they are mighty apt to say something about Doc. Turnbull’s niggers. So,
there you are—take your choice.”

As a matter of fact, they are a really worthy and industrious element
of our composite population, not unlike the descendants of Longfellow’s
Acadians, the “Cajuns” of southern Louisiana. Though of a hybrid sort
of Spanish ancestry, from the Balearic Isles in the Mediterranean Sea,
they have Americanized themselves through several generations of quiet
usefulness in an humble, unobtrusive way.

What is their history? How came they here?

That takes us back to the year 1767. The Floridas had only recently been
ceded by Spain to England, when some fifteen hundred colonists, mostly
from Minorca, one of the Balearic group, were landed at Musquito Inlet,
one hundred miles south of St. Augustine.

Many think that the only people held as slaves in the South prior to
the Civil War, were negroes, or possibly in very early colonial times,
a few spiritless tribes of Indians. Yet these colonists (ancestors of
the present Minorcans now strung along the lagoons and bayous of the
east coast, intermittently for many leagues) were made, willy-nilly, for
nine long, weary years, to toil amid the swamps and hammocks of what is
now Volusia County, as the virtual slaves of a British Trading Company
of that era, headed by Sir Wm. Duncan and a Dr. Andrew Turnbull, shrewd
Scotchmen of wealth and social position, who operated their scheme from
London; Sir William being the resident manager there, and a financial
magnate on the Stock Exchange himself.

Turnbull, the immediate head of the colony in Florida, was hard-hearted,
energetic, indomitable and persevering—one of that unconscionable,
never-give-up sort of task masters, who worked the helpless peasants
mercilessly in the malarious swamps embraced within the area of the
immense land grant held by the Company’s charter.

Tradition avers that he founded the original town of New Smyrna, dug
drainage canals, built stone warehouses, cleared several thousand acres
of dense forest, and began to raise indigo on a large scale.

The contracts of the colonists, under which they were to receive
allotments of land, proper wages and maintenance, were ruthlessly and
systematically violated. The region was then remote and inaccessible, and
the poor, ignorant peasantry, helpless to a degree hard to realize, in
our own day, outside of, perhaps, Siberia, or Tibet, in far-off Asia.

So isolated was that section from all connection with the outside world
that this sort of thing went on for years without its being known, even
at St. Augustine. The lands were not divided, nor the wages paid.
Instead the Minorcans were compelled to work like the Israelites in
Egypt, under harsh overseers, amid all the discomforts of a semi-tropic
wilderness, environed by savage tribes to the west and south, trailed by
bloodhounds to prevent escape, punished like convicts, and wretchedly
housed and fed. Guarded also by armed men, their condition was, indeed,
most forlorn and miserable.

It was said that our own Revolution against Great Britain had been going
on for a year or more, before these long suffering Minorcans heard that
such a thing had been even considered by the more northerly colonies.
Then, however, the worm turned. There was a great uprising, for such a
life, now tinged with a ray of hope, was unendurable.

Harsh measures were resorted to by Turnbull, who also evoked the aid of
the civil law, claiming that the Minorcans had violated their contracts
as a sort of “Redemptioners,” bound to serve for a stipulated period,
etc. Some of the ring leaders were taken to St. Augustine by soldiers,
and five actually condemned to death. Of these, two were pardoned; one
was reprieved, on condition that he act as executioner of the remaining
two; a number of others were, for a time, imprisoned.

The wretched colonists, however, continued to run away in larger numbers,
either defying or defeating recapture, so that Turnbull eventually
found himself without labor. The town, the plantations, and the various
public works were deserted, and the vast enterprises thus despotically
inaugurated, were at last stranded.

In vain did he, in the name of the now semi-defunct London Trading
Company, make most liberal offers of land and wages to his recalcitrant
and vanishing slaves. They wanted no more of Turnbull, his methods, or
his works. The entire scheme fell through; Dr. Andrew Turnbull went
back to England a ruined man; the town crumbled into ruins, the indigo
plantations lapsed into a second forest growth; the labyrinth of ditches
filled up, until only the remains of the old canal, some crumbling
coquina ruins, and the name of the chief despot himself, now given to
the ancient land grant which was the scene of his cruelties, and known
generally as Turnbull Hammock, are left as mementoes of one of the
gloomiest pages of our by no means untroubled colonial annals.

Instead of a natural increase in numbers during ten years of bondage and
escape, not more than seven or eight hundred of the immigrants were left.
But they were naturally thrifty and economical. Once scattered out and
doing for themselves, unburdened by the incubus of Turnbullism, their
numbers and resources gradually increased. Probably several thousand of
their descendants, more or less intermixed with alien blood, still occupy
the land of their forefathers’ adoption. These are small farmers (engaged
in truck, and semi-tropic fruit growing), fishermen, boat sailors, and
petty traders. A few have risen to social and political eminence as well
as wealth. But these cases are rather exceptional.

As a whole, they are patriotic American citizens. The late war with
Spain, for the relief of Cuba, proved that. Many of the younger men
volunteered for service. Some even went to the Philippines.

“Free America vur beeg contree,” said a returned soldier to one of his
home folks who had never seen a hill higher than some of the great shell
mounds on the eastern shore of the Matanzas River. “Mountains higher
than clouds, lakes wide like sea. Minorcans vur small people. Room for
ever’one here. Home best place after all.”

And so it is, even for the posterity of those so woefully misused by the
British Trading Company’s George the Third methods, as to be miscalled
five generations later by local detractors, “Turnbull’s slaves.”

                                                         WM. PERRY BROWN.


                              The Mosquito.

There are more than three hundred and fifty tribes belonging to the
mosquito race. These have been classified by the detectives of science
into twenty-two families, and all placed in the same category with
gnats, which are looked upon by most people as suspicious characters.
These families are known by names of such “learned length and thundering
sound” that it is thought safest to abstain from giving a list of them
here; but like man, they may be known better by their color, habits and
eccentricities than by name.

The mosquito is cosmopolitan, for he has explored and settled many parts
of the arctic regions, including Alaska, Greenland and Iceland, and
established his home on the continents of Europe, Asia and Africa, and in
the remotest islands of the sea. He had very probably discovered America
before Christopher Columbus set sail for the new world, and it is now
pretty certain that he first colonized New Jersey.

He has figured extensively in the history of the world, yet he wears no
laurel wreath of glory for valor in war. All martial victories and renown
of his race belong to the gentler (?) sex of the family. She is a kind
of Joan of Arc, of a fierce, restless and war-like spirit; but it is
consoling to know that she is less savage in the temperate than in the
torrid zone; for, we are informed by travelers that in the tropics she
often leads her legions in a charge with fixed bayonets directly upon a
sleeping man’s face, when they fall upon him in myriads, like pelting
hailstones out of a storm-cloud.

There are instances of record in which her furious armies have filled the
air for many miles, darkening the heavens like dense columns of flying
cloud, and attacking man and beast like blood-thirsty demons. A Greek
historian relates that such an army once swooped down upon ancient Greece
and drove the inhabitants from their homes.

Besides being thus famous as a soldier, she enjoys the unique distinction
of being a queen of song. Strange to say, in this gift she has a complete
monopoly, while the male has been left to regret the sad fate of being
forever songless and silent. However, he has been well compensated for
this privation. Some tribes of his race have less musical talent than
others; but those who have studied his anatomy, habits and genius declare
that in tribes in which there are queens of song, he is, without doubt,
the king of listeners, since nature has provided him with many hundreds
of ears, no doubt to enhance his pleasure from vocal music. These curious
ears are small hairs located on his antennæ, or feelers, which, like
the strings of harp or violin under the touch of a virtuoso, tremble
in unison with the harmony that flows from the living melodion of his
queen, until his soul is on fire with melody. Not one of these delicately
attuned ears ever seems to be shocked by a falsetto note from the vocal
chords of his charmer. To him her song, like that of Wynomoinen, the
magical singer, or the sirens of mythical story, is full of the power of
enchantment; and the eavesdroppers of science who watch him and listen,
tell us that he draws near her whenever she pours out her soul in song.
The manner in which she produces her buzzing tones is very wonderful: The
lower or contralto note is the result of the rapid vibration of her wings
at the rate of three thousand per minute. It is not remarkable, then,
that her flight is so swift from her enraged human pursuer. But when
she trills and yodles and sings her high soprano, her fantastic music
flows from stridulating organs which resemble tiny drums at the openings
of minute air tubes. These higher runs thrill Monsignor Mosquito into
ecstacies of pure delight. His ravished soul is borne out upon the silver
sea of song as he sits on a honeysuckle sipping nectar, listening the
while to the wooing voices of his divine inamoratas—the Pattis, Nilssons
and Nordicas of his race. But not so with the human auditor of the
mosquito prima donna who lies peacefully on his bed at night under the
hypnotic spell of sweet sleep. Perchance it is midnight’s holy hour when
he is suddenly awakened by a still small voice more pricking than the
voice of conscience. He springs up and lights the gas or lamp and tries
to draw nigh unto lady mosquito as did her enchanted knight with wings;
he is thirsting for her life while she is thirsting for his blood.

But not only is our heroine celebrated in history as a warrior and a
vocalist, but as a most dangerous enemy of mankind. Nature has seen fit
to give her a long nose, or proboscis, which, according to the Darwinian
theory, might prove her to be related to the elephant. She does not
hesitate “to stick her nose into other people’s business,” and this is
precisely the thing which, in the case of mosquitoes as of men, leads
her into irreparable injury to humanity and very frequently to her own
instant demise.

Those versed in the origin and evolution of the Culex (a nickname for
the mosquito) teach us that his ancient grandmothers did not have the
blood-sucking habit, but acquired it in later ages. Whether in acquiring
this habit she was beset, like Mother Eve in Eden, by the power of a
mighty temptation through the wily arts of his Satanic majesty, we are
unable to say with certainty; but we are informed by her anatomists that
alongside her formidable proboscis with its suction pump fixtures, are
from two to six keen lances or spears, admirably adapted for making the
necessary incisions in the skin of man and beast. Armed with such weapons
for drawing blood, it is easy to guess how, during some of her nightly
wanderings as a minstrel, temptation might have won an easy victory
over her by giving her a taste of blood. It is probable that while on
one of these lonely serenades she became enamored of some sleeping
Apollo, and, stooping down to snatch a sweet warm kiss from his lordly
brow, accidentally stuck her bill through the rosy cuticle and drew
blood—taking another sip she said it was good, and thus she contracted
the blood-sucking habit.

It is interesting to note that as with many other nations of the air so
with this one, there is a sort of national anthem to which the Culex
patriots seem more devotedly attached than human patriots are to theirs.
Its divine strain, to the chivalrous male, is the very keynote of love,
and he is charmed by its resistless power and drawn toward it as a beetle
to a beacon light, or a boat to a whirlpool; for when its clarion note is
sounded, like the weird, wild melody of Orpheus of old that thrilled dumb
brutes and drew them in myriads around him, he is caught up and borne
onward by its powerful pull to the spot whence the music comes.

While experimenting with harmonic telegraphy, a scientist of the South
who resides at Jackson, Miss., happened to strike this key, and he
reports that the mosquito came toward the “sounder” in great swarms. He
soon afterwards devised a machine for electrocuting every mosquito that
should respond to the magical note. Upon the very first trial they came
teeming to the “sounder,” and when he turned on the electric current by
pressing a button, they fell dead by the scores at his feet.

What a boon to humanity this novel application of electricity is
destined to be. With such an instrument having a “sounder” attached,
the disturbed sleeper of the future, who is not overly fond of mosquito
song, can touch a button, by his bedside, to set the “sounder” to going,
and then press another button to turn on the deadly current, and thus
instantly electrocute every mosquito that disturbs his slumbers without
ever moving from his pillow. Now, it has been urged by some that only
the male mosquitoes will answer to the note made by the “sounder,” and
thus only they would suffer death by the device. But this is by no means
established, and even if shown to be true, it is evident that upon the
males being thus dispatched the females would soon all withdraw or pine
away with grief.

How vastly different and superior is the male Culex to the female from
an ethical standpoint. He is opposed to war and is a harmless vegetarian
and honey-sucker, while the female is a dangerous savage. He does not
find his happiness in sucking the blood of his human or other neighbor,
but in the contemplation of the beautiful. He may well be called the poet
of his race; for he ever lives among the nectar drips and the paradises
of color and perfume of the waiting flowers. He soars aloft into the
sweeter, purer air to bathe his pinions in seas of radiant sunshine. He
roams among the beauties of nature, seeking its sweets from every bud and
leaf. All thoughts that flit across his microscopic brain are free from
blood and war. He loves the beautiful wherever he finds it in the visible
and tangible world and even in the fascinating buzz of his mosquito
prima donna. But as ideally good as he seems to be, he, like man, has
his faults and frailties. He is fond of travel and has been caught with
many of his female companions stealing long rides on Pullman palace
cars and ocean steamers. He is also very fond of beer, wine and whisky,
and has been found “dead drunk” on sundry occasions. In this taste for
intoxicants the female Culex does not indulge.

The mosquito has been recently charged with murder, arrested and brought
to trial before a competent tribunal composed of medical men and others,
and convicted. They have proved that his spouse is the principal and
he the accomplice. The evidence shows that they belong to a family of
mosquitoes, known by the infamous name of _Anopheles_, and they have
used malaria, yellow fever and several other diseases with which to slay
man; that the female is the entertainer of a very small creature, a kind
of Jonah, whom she swallows, and after a time he gets down from her
stomach into her proboscis, and when she bites her human victim he leaps
into the wound where he remains and eats red-blood corpuscles, and when
grown he breaks up into from six to ten pieces, each piece making a new
animal life like the original; that they go on multiplying in this way
into millions in the blood upon which they feast, and thus produce these
dreadful maladies and consequent death.

                                                                 WATAUGA.




[Illustration]

                            BOOKS AND AUTHORS

                  CONDUCTED BY GENELLA FITZGERALD NYE.


  PRISON LIFE OF JEFFERSON DAVIS. By Bvt. Lt. Col. John J. Craven,
    M.D. G. W. Dillingham Company, New York. Price, $1.20.

The recent controversy concerning General Miles and the shackling of
Jefferson Davis while the latter was a prisoner of war at Fortress
Monroe, makes this new edition of Dr. Craven’s book, originally published
in 1866, of timely value and importance. Dr. Craven was the medical
adviser of Mr. Davis during most of his imprisonment, and his notes,
taken from daily and intimate intercourse with his patient, form the
basis of this volume. While written with professional reserve and
military discretion, it is a most satisfactory and reliable account
of the facts concerning the imprisonment of Mr. Davis, and throws an
interesting and significant light on his character as viewed on close
range by a political enemy at a time when prejudice and passion so
generally usurped the place of judgment. Dr. Craven frankly expresses
his original prejudiced and bitter attitude toward his patient, even to
naming the precise occasion on which a kindlier sentiment was aroused
in his breast. A stronger, sincerer tribute to Mr. Davis’ character
could hardly be conceived than this plain and unadorned record of
the change effected in the attitude of an honest enemy toward the
man whom he abhorred as a kind of moral monster. Dr. Craven was not
only impressed with the learning and ability of his distinguished
prisoner, but again and again bears impartial witness to his modesty,
fortitude, and unselfishness, relating conversations and incidents which
particularly impressed him at the time. The strength of that impression
is sufficiently evinced by the fact that Dr. Craven had the courage to
publish such a book at a time when sectional feeling ran so high.

The facts in regard to the shameful treatment of Mr. Davis by General
Miles are fully confirmed by copies of the official reports bearing on
the matter, and the account is a painful commentary on the injustice and
cruelty of the policy allowed to rule in regard to a conquered people.
Mr. Davis was sick and feeble; moreover, he was closely guarded night and
day, in an impregnable fortress. Under the circumstances his shackling
was a wanton and unnecessary humiliation of a helpless man, and the
bare relation of the incident as witnessed by Dr. Craven, though set
down without comment or criticism, is enough to make the blood of any
generous reader boil with indignation and revolt. It is impossible to
doubt the honesty and accuracy of such a record, and it must remain a
heavy indictment against those responsible for the outrage here detailed.
Dr. Craven’s son, who republishes this book, is fully justified in so
doing, not only for the satisfaction of a present interest, but for the
consideration of future generations.


  THE MARRIAGE OF WILLIAM ASHE. By Mrs. Humphrey Ward. Harper and
    Brothers, New York. Price, $1.50.

Mrs. Ward in her latest novel works very much the same combination which
proved to so exactly fit the public taste in “Lady Rose’s Daughter,”
and if the result is not the same success, it will be only because the
popular impression will be dulled by repetition. Again we have a heroine
nurtured in a scandalous menage in Paris and shadowed by a criminal
heredity, and Lady Kitty, like Julie in the earlier novel, has two
lovers, contrasted in character much as were Delafield and the caddish
young soldier to whom Julie so nearly yielded. The crucial moment of
temptation, however, comes to Lady Kitty after her marriage, and the
hand of fate which snatched Julie from danger plunges the later heroine
into the abyss of ruin and disgrace. William Ashe, like Marchmont, is
of a noble house and high in political circles, but he is not quite so
much of an archangel, though he, too, exhibits a patient and tolerant
forbearance toward the indiscretions and errors of the woman he loves,
which, however philosophical, somewhat removes him from the normal human
type and its sympathies. Geoffrey Cliffe, the objectionable lover, is
a poet instead of a soldier, but he, too, woos Kitty to disgrace and
finally meets a violent death. Both novels are elaborate studies of
heredity, and in each the final decision between irretrievable error and
duty hangs upon an unforeseen incident which turns the scales like a fate.

Again Mrs. Ward has drawn on real life for her characters and plot. The
Byronic inspiration of Geoffrey Cliffe is sufficiently obvious and the
suggestion of Lady Caroline Lamb’s story is plainly to be read in Lady
Kitty and her obsession. More than one prominent political figure of a
generation ago has been promptly identified by the English reviewers.

Of the two heroines, Lady Kitty is a better realization than Julie, who,
to our mind quite failed to keep the novelist’s promise of intellectual
brilliancy and social magnetism. It is really a wonderful and poignant
impression conveyed by Mrs. Ward’s elaborate picture of Lady Kitty,
frail and fair, passionate and weak, poetic and frivolous, sweet and
perverse—with a lack of moral and mental balance which spells for us
nothing less than insanity. For after all, we are disposed to question
whether such a character is not properly a study in alienism rather than
in feminine psychology. That she was not a responsible agent, but merely
the unfortunate creature of her own impelling fancies and passions,
is the view stressed by every implication of the author, and indeed,
against the very shady record of Lady Kitty’s life can only be pleaded
temperamental insanity and hereditary sin.

An equally elaborate, but not so successful, piece of work is the
presentation of William Ashe. He is depicted as a kind of Admirable
Crichton—handsome, learned, amiable—a scholar, a statesman, and a social
lion. “Religiously he was a skeptic, enormously interested in religion.
Politically he was an aristocrat, enormously interested in liberty.”
But with all the author’s keen analysis and clever descriptive phrases,
this versatile and philosophical hero never becomes very real to our
perceptions or sympathies. It would seem that his creator had fashioned
and molded him carefully and perfectly, but had failed to breathe into
him the breath of life.

Mrs. Ward’s rich literary equipment is no less manifest in this novel
than in her previous works, and her power to deal with the larger
interests of life is undiminished. The old time English society novel
in her hands has been expanded, dignified, transformed, into a serious
and significant presentation of life and its problems. Her outlook on
the world of thought, of affairs, and of men and women is technically
informed and philosophically impartial; her talent is enormously
efficient. Perhaps her remarkable ability was never better demonstrated
than when she made in “Lady Rose’s Daughter” a deliberate bid for a
wider and lower kind of popular favor. The new appeal, so marked in that
book and in “The Marriage of William Ashe,” was so skilfully turned and
has been so successful in enlarging the writer’s clientele, that as a
literary _tour de force_, it challenges a kind of unwilling admiration.
There seem to be lacking to her marvelous gifts and powers only the touch
of spontaneity, the flash of dramatic fire.


  THE GEORGIANS. By Will N. Harben, author of “Abner Daniel,” “The
    Substitute,” etc. New York: Harper and Brother. Price, $1.50.

The plain people of the South, the sturdy common folk who made no
pretensions to aristocratic grandeur but who in self-respect, prosperity
and character, formed in this section, as elsewhere, the backbone of
civilization and society, have not received their due representation in
Southern fiction, generally speaking. Baronial splendors, “po’ white
trash” peculiarities, and darky picturesqueness have been the favored
themes of most Southern story-tellers, moving in the lines of least
resistance to romantic and dramatic interest, while the great middle
class has been made to occupy a disproportionately small place in their
pictures of Southern life. It is not mere accident that the Georgia
writers have given us the fullest and best treatment of this class, for
in Georgia pre-eminently it dominated and colored the political and
social body to a marked degree. Richard Malcolm Johnson, Joel Chandler
Harris, and Watson have all given us stories with a strong flavor of the
soil and the people who chiefly owned and cultivated it, and Mr. Harben’s
tales of north Georgia have been notably successful in this line of
fiction.

In “Abner Daniel,” Mr. Harben achieved one of the rarest things in modern
fiction—a genuine creation. Typically, sympathetically, imaginatively,
Abner Daniel rings true; in spirit and letter he is a perfect
presentation. Broadly human as he is unmistakably North Georgian, he may
be described as a Southern David Harum; but of the two characters Abner
Daniel seems to us far more vital, far less dependent on his make-up and
gags for reality. In “The Georgians,” Abner reappears, this time as the
_deus ex machina_ of a mysterious murder case, involving the love affair
and various other interests of the story. The little village of Darley
is sketched faithfully and sympathetically, and it is peopled with folk,
whom we either know, or instinctively recognize as real. Under the not
very deceptive alias of Tom P. Smith, Mr. Harben pictures a certain noted
evangelist of Georgia and his revivalist methods, while as a companion
piece he presents Jack Bantram, of another ecclesiastical type, who makes
a simple and direct appeal to conscience and manhood. The religious
ideals and customs of such communities have never received fuller or more
sympathetic treatment than in this story, and, indeed, we may find here
in simple, but effective narration, a most truthful picture of plain,
provincial Georgia life in all its phases and forms. Among the real
historical novels—those which are recording the vanishing social history
of our nation—“The Georgians” deserves place and consideration.


  MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN. By E. Phillips Oppenheim, Author of “A
    Prince of Sinners,” “Anna, the Adventuress,” etc. Boston:
    Little, Brown and Company. Price, $1.50.

A most remarkable as well as mysterious individual is the villain of
Mr. Oppenheim’s latest yarn. He appears in London with a beautiful girl
who turns all the men’s heads and inspires young Lord Wolfenden with a
sudden and serious passion. By a curious coincidence this young man’s
father is a retired admiral, with a mania for writing up the coast
defenses of England, while Mr. Sabin’s mission in England is to get
possession of these papers to sell to the German Emperor. A political
intrigue is involved, in which Mr. Sabin, as agent for the French
Bourbons, has conceived the brilliant scheme of buying Germany’s aid with
naval secrets of England, fully set forth in the maps and notes of the
naval monomaniac. The success of these plans would be followed by war
between England and Germany, and the coronation of Princess Helene—the
mysterious young lady, of course—as Queen of France. There are all sorts
of complications and sensational happenings, and just as things begin to
look rather dark for the lovers and the peace of England, a nihilistic
order checks Mr. Sabin’s operations and crushes his hopes and ambitions.
This winds up the troubles of Wolfenden and his Princess, and prefaces
the most remarkable and exciting adventures of Mr. Sabin as he flees
incognito to America to escape the wrath of the disappointed war lord
of Germany. Greatly to the reader’s relief, this most engaging villain
arrives safely in Boston Harbor and we leave him settling down to a
peaceful obscurity with his first love, to whom his bitterest enemy had
rather inconsequentially directed him before he left England.

To the critical eye, the machinery of Mr. Oppenheim’s story is somewhat
too evident, and occasionally it rattles and creaks, but it goes at
a rapid rate, and the result is just what is intended—an interesting
and exciting story, to be read with easy and pleasurable interest and
forgotten immediately.


  THE MONKS’ TREASURE. By George Horton, Author of “Like Another
    Helen.” Indianapolis: The Bobbs-Merrill Company. Price, $1.50.

Walter Lythgoe, the nephew of Erasmus Lythgoe, head of the great Lythgoe
Baking Powder, is sent by the firm to Greece to lay in a supply of crude
cream of tartar, and is dispatched on his errand with the admonition,
“Keep out of all scrapes and complications with women.” Naturally
the first thing done by the young man as he arrives on the island of
Andros is to fall in love with a fair maiden and to immediately involve
himself in the most gratuitous scrapes and astounding complications
ever concocted for a novel hero to wriggle out of. Of course the fair
maiden whom he loves so artlessly and chivalrously as the servant of
the missionary turns out to be a duchess, and equally, of course,
the treasure discovered by Walter and his friend in the vault of the
monastery is her stolen patrimony. Walter conceives the brilliant scheme
of carrying off the bags of gold, and after a series of incredible
adventures, in which he and his Scotch crony pit their wits and courage
against a jealous Greek lover and some murderous monks, the hero sails
out triumphant from the island of Andros with his lady love and a trunk
full of treasure.

The local coloring of the story is confined to the adjectives “rosy” and
“purple,” sprinkled plentifully throughout the book, and despite the
often stressed conjunction with the “amphora,” the beautiful Polyxene
seems not widely differentiated from any unsophisticated heroine of more
familiar climes. In fact, Mr. Horton has not succeeded in galvanizing a
very mechanical series of adventures into real vitality by transporting
his puppets and wheels to Greece.


  THE RIVER’S CHILDREN: An Idyl of the Mississippi. By Ruth McEnery
    Stuart. New York: The Century Co.

In her “Sonny” stories Mrs. Stuart struck the note of original and homely
humor to which the popular taste is so quick to respond and for that
reason achieved therein her greatest success, but her tales of Creoles
and negroes in the Lower Mississippi region have distinctive merit in
their vivid and poetic pictures of the great river and its children. To
her imagination the Mississippi is not the Father of Waters, but “Old
Lady Mississippi,” a witch, a siren, a queen—to fear, to propitiate, and
to worship, and to the strength of this conception “The River’s Children”
bears striking testimony. The slender thread of story runs almost unnoted
among the poetic and picturesque descriptions of the river and the quaint
and charming patois of the river people. The great stream sweeps supreme
through the book, its poetry, beauty and tragedy looming up larger upon
our impression than the magnificence of the Le Ducs or the rather highly
colored sketches of Israel and Hannah. Wonderful is the account of Brake
Island in its days of fatness culminating in the glories of the famous
house-party long ago; and a clever bit of reproduction, at once keen and
kindly, is the talk of “Felix” and “Adolphe” on the peril of the rising
waters. Not even Cable has caught more perfectly the foreign idiom and
softened English of these foreign Americans, or their pleasure-loving,
childlike temperament.

Mrs. Stuart’s imagination and poetry, like her beloved river, sometimes
overflow unhappily, as may be noted in some of the talk between Uncle
Israel and Mammy Hannah, where instead of the flash of poetic imagery so
characteristic of the negro, Mrs. Stuart gives us sustained and elaborate
rhetoric and sentiment. To our perception, too, the story should have
ended with the death of the old negro couple, and what follows seems a
decline to an anti-climax.

Mrs. Stuart is fully imbued with the traditions of the lordly, lavish
life of the old Creole days, and she knows and loves the land of the
Lower Mississippi. The result has been seen in some charming and vivid
sketches of which “The River’s Children” ranks among her best.


  RETURN: a Story of the Sea Islanders in 1739. By Alice MacGowan
    and Grace MacGowan Cooke. L. C. Page and Company, Boston.
    Price, $1.50.

This is an extremely hollow piece of literary labor, with seemingly no
other inspiration than Mary Johnson’s romances. There is no atmosphere
wherefrom incident or characters could draw any vital semblance, and the
style is the thinnest and stalest decoction of Miss Johnson’s manner and
diction. It is to be hoped that the writers will once for all forswear
the field of colonial history and romance, and return to their own—the
life they know and can describe so well in Texas and Tennessee.




                         THE FIDDLE AND THE BOW.

                          By Robert L. Taylor.


                              PART SECOND.

What is this life but a whirling tide of pleasure and pain—glowing with
gladness, darkening with grief, leaping with rapture, eddying with tears,
now kissing the smiling cliffs of hope, now dashing against the frowning
crags of fear and then vanishing in the darkness! What would it all be
worth to us unblessed by love and mercy and the milk of human kindness?
What would it all be worth to us bereft of music, that noblest gift of
the soul?

The spirit of music, like an archangel, presides over mankind and the
visible creation. Her afflatus, divinely sweet, divinely powerful, is
breathed on every heart and inspires every soul to some higher thought,
some grander sentiment.

I heard a great master play on his wondrous violin. His bow quivered
like the wing of a bird. In every quiver there was a melody, and every
melody breathed a thought in language sweeter than was ever uttered by
human tongue. I was conjured, I was mesmerized by his music. I thought
I fell asleep under its power and was rapt into the realms of visions
and dreams. The enchanted violin broke out in tumult, and in its music I
thought I heard the rustle of a thousand joyous wings and the burst of
song from a thousand joyous throats; mocking-birds and linnets thrilled
the glad air with warblings; goldfinches, thrushes and bobolinks trilled
their happiest tunes and the oriole sang a lullaby to her hanging cradle
that rocked in the wind. I heard the twitter of skimming swallows, the
scattered coveys’ piping call. I heard the robin’s gay whistle, the
cawing of crows, the scolding of blue-jays and the melancholy cooing of a
dove. The swaying tree tops seemed vocal with bird song while he played,
and the labyrinths of leafy shade echoed back the chorus.

There was a shifting of the bow, and I heard a flute play and a harp and
a golden-mouthed cornet. I heard the mirthful babble of happy voices
and peals of laughter ringing in the swelling tide of pleasure. Then I
thought I caught glimpses of snowy arms, voluptuous forms and light,
fantastic slippered feet all whirling in the mazes of the misty dance.
The flying fingers now tripped upon the trembling strings like fairy
feet dancing on the nodding violets, and the music glided into a still
sweeter strain. The violin told a story of human life: Two lovers strayed
among the elms and oaks and down by the river side where daffodils and
pansies bend and smile to rippling waves, and there, under the bloom
of incense-breathing bowers, the old, old story—so old and yet so new,
conceived in heaven, first told in Eden, then handed down through all the
ages,—was told over and over again. Ah! those downward drooping eyes,
that mantling blush, that trembling hand in meek submission pressed! How
well they told of love’s victory won and Paradise regained! And then he
swung her in a grape-vine swing:

  “Swinging in the grape-vine swing,
  Laughing where the wild birds sing
      I dream and sigh
      For the days gone by,
  Swinging in the grape-vine swing!”

But the violin laughed like a child and my dream changed again. I saw a
cottage among the elms and oaks and a little curly head toddled at the
door. He toddled under the trees, prattling to the birds and playing
with the ripening apples that fell upon the ground. He toddled among the
roses and plucked their leaves as he would have plucked an angel’s wing,
strewing their glory upon the green grass at his feet. He chased the
butterflies from flower to flower and shouted with glee as they eluded
his grasp and sailed away on the summer air. Here I thought his childish
fancy had built a Paradise and peopled it with dainty seraphim and made
himself its Adam. He saw the sunlight of Eden glint on every leaf and
beam in every petal. The flitting honey bee, the whirling June bug, the
fluttering breeze, the silvery pulse beat of the dashing brook, sounded
in his ears notes of its swelling music. The iris-winged humming bird
darting like a sunbeam to kiss the pouting lips of the upturned flowers
was to him the impersonation of its beauty. And I said, truly childhood
is the nearest approach in this world to the Paradise of long ago. Then
I saw him skulking like a Cupid in the shrubbery, his face downcast with
guilt, his skirts bedraggled and soiled. He had waded the Atlantic ocean
in the mud puddle, and stirred up the Mediterranean sea in the slop
bucket. He had shipwrecked the young ducks, capsized the goslings, and
drowned the kitten, which he imagined a whale. And I said, there is the
old original Adam coming to the surface.

“Lawd bless my soul, jis look at dat chil’! Look at dat face and dem
hands, all kivered wid mud and mulberry juice! You’s gwine to ketch
it! Jis ’zactly like your fadder,—always gittin’ into some scrape or
nudder—always breakin’ into some kind uv debilment! Gwine to brek into
Congress some uv dese days, sho! Dey can’t keep you out’n it! Come
along wid me dis instinct to de baf tub! I’se gwine to wash dat face uv
yown an’ lucidate some uv dat dirt off’n dem han’s an’ dem clo’es, you
triflin’ rascal, you!” and so saying she carried him away kicking and
screaming like a young savage in open rebellion.

And I said, there is some more of the original Adam. Then I saw him come
forth again, washed and dressed in spotless white like a young butterfly
fresh from its chrysalis, and when he got a chance, I saw him slip on
his tiptoes into the pantry, and there was the clink of glassware as
though a mouse was playing there among the jam pots and preserves. There
two little dimpled hands made trip after trip to a rose-colored mouth,
bearing burdens of mingling sweets that dripped from cheek and chin and
skirt and shoes, subduing the snowy white with the amber of the peach and
the purple of the raspberry as he ate of the forbidden fruit. Then I saw
him glide into the library and soon there was a crash and a thud in there
which brought a frightened mother into the room only to find the young
rascal catching his breath while streams of cold ink trickled down his
drenched bosom. And as he wiped his inky face, which grew blacker with
every wipe, the remainder of the ink was pouring from the bottle onto the
carpet and making a map of darkest Africa. Then the rear of a small skirt
went up over a curly head and the avenging slipper in lightning strokes
kept time to the music in the air. And I said, there is Paradise lost!
The sympathizing, half angry old nurse bore her weeping, sobbing charge
to the nursery and bound up his broken heart, and soothed him to sleep
with her old-time lullaby:

  O, don’t you cry, little baby; don’t you cry no mo’,
  For it hurts ole mammy’s feelin’s for to hear you weepin’ so!
  Why do dey bring temptation to de little hands and feet?
  What makes ’em ’buse de baby, kase de jam and ’zarves am sweet?

  O, de sorrows, triberlations, dat de joys of mortals break;
  O, it’s heaven when we slumber, it’s trouble when we wake!

  O, go to sleep, my darlin’, now close dem little eyes
  And dream uv de shinin’ angels an’ de blessed Paradise;
  O, dream uv de blood red roses and de birds on snowy wing,
  O, dream uv de fallin’ waters and de nebber endin’ spring!

  O de roses, O de rainbows! O de music’s gentle swell!
  In de dreamland uv little children whar de blessed spirits dwell.

“Dar now, dar now, he’s gone! Bless its little heart! Dey treats it like
a dog. Ole black mammy’s de best friend de chile’s got in de world!” And
then she tucked him away in the Paradise of his childish slumbers.

[_To be continued._]




                                SOUTHERN
                                PLATFORM
                               DEPARTMENT

                        _Devoted to the interest_
                                  _of_
                        _The Lyceum of The South._

[Illustration]




[Illustration: Southern Platform]


              The Humorous, the Pathetic and the Dramatic.

These are the ruling elements of the platform. Around them are built all
the successes of the Lyceum, and the lack of them is responsible for all
the failures that stand like tombstones, along the route, as we journey
with the truly great.

We are all agreed on the efficacy of humor, and we join without dissent
in lauding the man who has the power to make the world laugh. He is as
much our benefactor as the man whose scholarly and laborious research
solves for us some great scientific problem which sets civilization
forward; for, does he not unlock for us the gates of mirth, and climax a
day of toil with an hour of restful merriment? His side-splitting joke
pays the Doctor’s bill in advance by keeping us well and hearty; it
settles pro tem. the grocer’s bill by making us forget it. His clever
story charms and fascinates us, and we follow him down sunny lanes of
laughter, and through sighing groves of pathos until the cares and
vexations of our busy lives recede from us like a troubled shore. With
the God-like power of genius, he leads us out of the thorn-hedged paths
of everyday life, into the happy garden of the ideal where the flowers
of sentiment bloom perennial, and the song of every bird is a lilted
fragment of the universal chorus of love. This magic garden on the margin
of the dusty field of reality from which we dig our daily bread, is an
oasis to which we may not long repair, but to linger for an hour rests us
from toil and refreshes us for labor. From behind its roses no venomous
serpent is privileged to strike, and from its peaceful skies no hurricane
may swoop down to lay waste. ’Tis there that the eye of despair is
kindled with hope, the brow of care is smoothed with forgetfulness, and
the lips of melancholy are curled with a smile.

All hail to the man of humor and pathos! (He cannot possess one without
possessing the other.) Pathos is but the gentle sister of humor. Her
emotions have no kinship with sorrow; her tears are the trembling jewels
of tender memories, and she has only to dry her eyes to disclose a smile.

Next to humor and pathos, the most important requisite to a successful
career on the platform, is the dramatic element which enables a man to
“suit the action to the word,” and by the subtle power of the actor’s
art, bring us to worship or despise, at his will, the character he
portrays, or the principle he advocates. We hang at highest tension on
the words of such a man, when the same words spoken in a commonplace way,
would send us to sleep in our seats. How often have we seen the beauty of
the Lord’s Prayer marred by some guttural-voiced exhorter who delivered
it as coldly as he would have read a report of the mule market, or the
price of pumpkins! and yet it is said that the great Booth with his
incomparable rendition of this sacred prayer could lead an audience into
the very presence and smile of God. Since time began, the dramatic in art
and literature has received the homage of all people and all nations.
This love of the dramatic sits enthroned alike in the heart of the savage
and the man of letters, the highwayman and the clergyman, the ignoramus
and the intellectual Titan. This strange attribute in the make-up of
humanity is at once a dangerous and a glorious element. Too often it
has nerved the murderer’s hand and steeled the heart of cruelty, but
civilization is the master which is taming it.

In the long gone ages of heartless kings and fawning subjects, when
fierce gladiators met in the death struggle, and the cruel ruler and his
multitudes cheered the ending of a human life, they were but satiating
their unholy love of the dramatic. Before such a picture, the great
common heart of to-day turns sick with horror, but there is another
picture dimmed also with many centuries, which makes the blood leap with
different emotions, and which the future will guard with jealous pride.
It is the dramatic picture of a little band of Christians in the center
of a vast arena, awaiting the approach of the wild beasts which are to
tear their limbs apart, and quietly kneeling in their last prayer. The
dramatic effect of that prayer sent a thrill through all the ages, and
nerved the hearts of the millions who were to follow the martyrs, as no
common incident could have done.

We worship tragedy, and find satisfaction only in thrilling climaxes, and
out of the multitudes of the passing years, history hands us the names of
only a few who have paid the price of deathless fame. The tragic death of
Julius Cæsar magnified his mighty deeds a hundred fold, and the dramatic
but inglorious climax of St. Helena sent the great Napoleon thundering
into history.

[Illustration:

  GUY CARLTON LEE, PH.D., LL.D.

  Dr. Guy Carlton Lee, Literary Editor of the Baltimore _Sun_,
    and formerly of the faculties of Johns Hopkins and Columbia
    Universities, is the latest acquisition of the platform among
    the strong literary men of to-day. He is the most distinguished
    of our younger school of historians, and as an orator he
    belongs to the vigorous, dramatic type so ably represented by
    Wendling and Gunsaulus, who have long been familiar figures
    on the American platform. Dr. Lee’s first lecture tour will
    include the South the coming season, under the direction of The
    Rice Bureau of Nashville.
]


                              The Mysteries

                           By James Hunt Cook

The early sunlight filtered through the filmy draperies to where a
wondering baby stretched his dimpled hands to catch the rays that lit his
face and flesh like dawn lights up a rose. His startled gaze caught and
held the dawn of day in rapturous looks that spoke the dawn of Self, for
with the morning gleam out came the greater wonder. It was the mystery of
Life.

Across a cradle where, sunk in satin pillows, lay a still, pale form as
droops a rose from some fierce heat, the evening shadows aslant, and
spoke of peace. The twilight calm enclosed the world in silence deep as
Truth, and on the little face the wondering look had given place to one
of sweet repose. It was the mystery Death.

At head and foot the tapers burned, a golden light that clove the night
as Hope the encircling gloom. Across the cot where lay the fair, frail
form, his hand reached out to hers and met and clasped in tender burning
touch. Into the eyes of each there came the look that is the light of
life; that spoke of self to each, yet told they two were one. It was the
mystery to which the mysteries, Life and Death, bow down—the mystery of
Love.


                  Thomas Jefferson and the Average Man.

  [Extract from lecture of Dana C. Johnson on “Thomas Jefferson.”]

The epitaph on the monument of Thomas Jefferson, written by himself,
reads thus:

                             HERE WAS BURIED
                            THOMAS JEFFERSON
                                AUTHOR OF
                The Declaration of American Independence,
                of the Statute of Virginia for Religious
                          Freedom and Father of
                            the University of
                                Virginia.

These three deeds he doubtless regarded as the greatest of his life. But
the real greatness of Thomas Jefferson, and his value to his country,
cannot be comprehended in any recital of specific deeds. His influence
is of a broader scope and flows in a deeper current. He stood for a
principle which to-day constitutes the very bulwark of this nation, and
is not only her strength but her pride. That principle is the right of
every citizen to have a part in the government of the nation—to direct
its policy—to be responsible for its errors—to share in its triumphs.

Thomas Jefferson recognized the value and stood for the rights of the
average man, in a time when those rights were in great jeopardy. In this
he displayed his characteristic political foresight, for the average man
is the backbone of the nation. He has achieved the triumphs of her past
and holds the key to her future destiny.

In my mind’s eye I scan the history of our nation as one might view a
panorama.

I see a company of stern-faced men land on the bleak New England shore
and kneel in prayer upon a rocky beach. They have crossed a stormy ocean
to engage in the hard task of establishing a colony in the New World,
where they may worship God as they desire—the earnest, stalwart, heroic
Pilgrim Fathers. But who are they? Average men.

Yonder is a company of men standing at Concord Bridge awaiting the
advance of British regulars. They fight and some fall in the battle and
by that sacrifice become immortal—the first martyrs to American liberty.
Who are they? Volunteer soldiers—farmers and tradesmen—average men of the
community.

I see a caravan of crude and picturesque conveyances wending their way
across the Western plains—each wagon containing a family of pioneers—the
advance-guard of civilization—enduring hardships and performing mighty
labors of which we reap the benefits. Who are they? Average men and women.

Here are two armies drawn up in battle order—hundreds of thousands
of young and valiant men; fighting for what they regard their rights
and duties; suffering unspeakable privations and performing deeds of
matchless valor—the army of the North and the army of the South—whose
conflict demonstrated to the world the extraordinary resources of this
nation, the exceptional qualities of the American soldier and the
absolutely unconquerable strength of a united country. Who are these
soldiers? Fathers and sons from farm and store and factory. Average men.

I see a half-dozen regiments charging a Cuban hillside to dislodge a
fortified enemy—strong, alert, confident soldiers—their courage born of
the consciousness that they are fighting for right and justice against
wrong and oppression. Who are they? A strange conglomeration of militia
men, regular army soldiers, nabobs from New York, rough riders from the
plains—but all of them average men.

So through all the years of our nation’s history, in the hours of her
peril and of her achievements, she has been saved from shame and has been
crowned with glory by the deeds of her average men.

Great men have arisen from time to time to lead her armies into battle
or to defend her principles of liberty and justice, but, after all,
these leaders had been powerless and, indeed, impossible except for the
rank and file—the host of average men, who followed them and put into
effect their teaching; not as slaves, but as free men doing their duty as
intellect and conscience had directed.

Who is it that will determine the future policy of this nation and
write success or failure above her gates? Not her millionaires, nor her
statesmen, nor her scholars, nor her soldiers, but the average men whose
votes count millions in the aggregate and whose will is law.

Thomas Jefferson understood this and read the future with unerring mind.
Therefore he made it his chief concern and his great political work to
protect the rights and enlarge the privileges of the average man—the bone
and sinew of the state.

[Illustration:

  HON. ALF TAYLOR,

  One of the most eloquent and scholarly contributions to the
    intellectual menu of the coming season will be the new lecture
    of Hon. Alf Taylor, “If Columbus Should Wake.”
]

[Illustration:

  SAMUEL SIEGEL.

  Samuel Siegel, the great mandolinist, who is known to more people
    than any other player of this instrument, is very popular
    throughout the South. He is the originator of the system used
    by the Siegel-Myers Correspondence School of Music, and is
    also exclusive mandolinist for the Edison, Victor and Columbia
    Phonograph Companies. Mr. Siegel will tour the South next season
    at the head of the Siegel-Meyer-Reed Concert Company.
]


                          The Lyceum Platform.

                          By Dr. James Hedley.

The Lyceum Platform is one of the world’s evangels. It has its teachers,
heroes, apostles and prophets. It has had a wonderful history, and is
still making history. It is a marvellous power for intellectual, social
and moral good, and never more so than to-day. Its lecturers are strong
not only in their ability to entertain, but in all those attributes which
make for the best in human character. It goes without saying that such
men come to the people with a message. Whether it be Watterson or Graves,
or De Motte, or Conwell or Wendling, or Willitts; whether Dolliver,
Gunsaulus, Hillis, Miller, Bain, McIntyre, McClary, or delightful Bob
Taylor, the minds, hearts and consciences of men are turned in the
direction of right things, and there is an impetus and an uplift which
blesses all who hear.

How wide the influence, and how great the responsibility of the lyceum
lecturer! In a general way, at least, all men concede the power of
oratory. The close student of the sources of human influence fully
recognizes that power, in all its good and evil possibilities. Eloquently
spoken words produce more immediate and fully as permanent results as
eloquently written ones. When Demosthenes delivered a patriotic oration,
the people who heard him said at once, “Let us go and fight Philip!”
A little child after listening to George Whitefield’s beautiful and
impassioned pictures of Heaven and the Deity, sobbed, “Let me go to Mr.
Whitefield’s God!” There are hundreds in our country to-day who are what
they are, not only in the success and happiness of their own lives, but
as factors toward the wise solution of the profoundest problems of being
because of the spoken words, the messages of the present-day lyceum.

The Lyceum Platform thirty and forty years ago could boast of a score
of thinkers, some of whom were orators; they served well their day and
generation; products of the “form and pressure of the time,” they met
its requirements, and left behind them evidences of work nobly done, and
no man can say the memory of them shall perish. In far greater measure,
because of the infinitely greater number of superior lecturers, the
common people to-day are being educated in every phase of thought and
purpose worthy earnest consideration. When one considers all this, the
faint cry occasionally heard from those who do not take wide views of
existing conditions, as to the “decay of the lyceum” is not warranted.
Wherever and whenever the true lyceum idea is conserved in the work of
the platform, the evidences of strength, wisdom and beauty are at once
evident and undeniable.

Since the earlier days, the Lyceum has taken on an entertainment phase,
which, while not wholly related to the lyceum idea, serves admirably
in meeting and filling the desire there is and ever will be in the
human heart for the joyous pleasures of life. The entertainment side
of the Lyceum belongs to the realm of the heart paramountly, if not
wholly, while the work of the lecturer appeals to the intellect and
the conscience, and so the “three thirds” which make men up—the Mind,
the Heart and the Conscience—are accorded that which strengthens and
enriches. Herein have we all of life’s philosophy, brought to us with
mental conviction, with emotional delighting, and spiritual moving. We
get glimpses of what may be called the Trinity of Man. There is no side
of us which does not respond. Let all this triune service of the Lyceum
be clean and high; let not the desire for financial gain hush one worthy
voice, or turn aside from the straight path a single lofty purpose,
and the Lyceum shall be maintained so long as time endures, because it
shall be of the blessed things which are not born to die. Lecturers and
entertainers may come and go as individual factors of lyceum work, but
the Lyceum as an idea, a force, an inspiration, shall go on forever.

The traveler looking upon Niagara sees the onward rush and surge
of countless drops of water. They sweep by and pass on, and return
not again. Still other countless millions of drops follow them, and
forever follow, and so in spite of separateness, there is perpetuity
and permanence. Niagara is immortal. The teachers, heroes, apostles,
prophets, singers and entertainers, come and go, and pass out to the
great sea beyond, but others come with word and song and smile, and
forever shall they come, and so as with Niagara, there is perpetuity and
permanence. The Lyceum Platform is immortal.

[Illustration:

  WARD BAKER.

  “Music is God’s voice heard in a language without words.”

  Among the strong popular companies which will visit the South
    next season, is the Boynton Concert Company, and one of the
    leading performers of this Company is Ward Baker. Mr. Baker is
    one of the few musicians who play to the soul and the heart, as
    well as to the technical ear.
]


                         Echoes from the Field.

Frederick Warde opens his Southern tour May first.

       *       *       *       *       *

Alton Pachard, the popular chalk talker, is entertaining Southern
audiences with his unique and excellent program.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Standard attractions,” is the decree the committees are pronouncing, and
“the survival of the fittest” will be the result.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ida Benfey is adding to her laurels in the South. She recently gave
George Eliot’s beautiful story of “The Mill on the Floss” before an
audience of nearly four thousand people, in Nashville, as one of the
numbers of the Lyceum Course.

       *       *       *       *       *

W. G. Escott, the popular secretary of the Hillsboro, Texas, Y. M. C.
A., writes the following report of the recent state convention held at
Hillsboro:

The Twenty-second Annual State Convention of the Texas Young Men’s
Christian Association was held in Hillsboro, Texas, March 18-21. The
Hillsboro Association made preparation for three hundred delegates but
only about two hundred were in attendance. It was said by all to be one
of the best conventions in every respect that has been held in years in
Texas. The prominent speakers of the convention were Dr. Ira Landrith, of
Nashville; Rev. Dr. Carroll, of Dallas, Texas; Dr. T. S. Clyce, president
Austin College, Sherman, Texas; Judge John C. Townes, of Texas State
University, and Dr. S. P. Brooks, president Baylor University, Waco,
Texas. The program was very strong in every particular. The delegates
all expressed themselves as being royally entertained by the citizens of
Hillsboro. The only thing that could have added to the pleasure of the
gathering would have been better weather.

The Texas Lyceum Association met during the convention and met the
different Bureaus represented and considered their talent. The following
were represented: New Dixie Bureau, Midland Bureau, Slayton Bureau, and
The Rice Bureau. After considering all the talent offered, the decision
was in favor of the Rice Bureau. The Associations of the state have
dealt with the Rice Bureau for several years and their attractions have
been first-class and according to representation and the service so
satisfactory that the members felt that there could be nothing gained by
making a change, so the Association business will be with The Rice Bureau
again the coming season. The new officers of the T. L. A. are Samuel
Warr, Cleburne, President; J. L. Hunter, Waco, Secretary and Treasurer.

[Illustration:

  GEO. C. MILN,

  Of International Fame.

  It is a matter of much interest both North and South that Geo.
    C. Miln, the great orator-actor, after many years of absence
    from America, will make a tour of the United States next season,
    presenting his great lecture, “The Story of a Strolling Player.”
    Mr. Miln has played the plays of Shakespeare in almost every
    civilized country under the sun. He will be remembered by
    Americans as the brilliant orator who succeeded Robert Collyer in
    the pulpit of Unity Church, Chicago. His oration on the death of
    Garfield is considered one of the modern classics.
]


                            A Great Lecturer.

                              By Opie Read.

I wonder whether many of the people of Nashville remember a newspaper
printed in that city in 1876? To the few it was known as the _Evening
Mail_. To the many it was not known at all. We had not advocated
municipal ownership, we who conducted the enterprise, but the sheriff
somehow took it into his head that we did; and as he could not turn the
property over to the city, he kept it for the county. I don’t know what
was finally done with it. I suppose it became but an echo of dust.

The paper was “established” by a number of printers and newspaper men who
had nothing else to do. As we were to share alike in the profits we went
alike to the free lunch counter. It was a pure democracy and the man who
owned fifteen shares of stock received no more than the man who owned
one. The paper was edited with longing and printed with hope. We were
all of us optimists. If a cloud arose in our sky we looked upon it as a
balloon ascension. I remember but one day of reproof and censure. The
foreman came into the “sanctum” and said to the editor-in-chief: “There
is trouble in the composing room, sir.”

The editor, an old gentleman who loved to write and who vaguely believed
that eventually one of his editorials might be read from beginning to
end, looked up and sighed.

“Trouble?”

“Ah, and serious trouble, sir.”

“What is it?”

“Why, Ewing says that he’s got to eat.”

“Eat!” echoed the editor. “What can he mean by such impudence? Did you
reason with him?”

“I did, sir; I told him he ought to be ashamed of himself.”

“And was he?”

“No, sir; he forthwith gave me an example of insubordination. He accused
me of hiding a sandwich in my desk.”

The editor thought a long time. He had written on the situation in
Europe and had given advice to England, France and Germany—he had told
the Powers what to do with Turkey, but this sandwich required deeper
meditation. “How many shares of stock does Ewing hold?” he inquired.

“Ten, I believe, sir.”

“Well, it seems to me that a man holding so many shares ought to be
possessed of more dignity. Let him transfer his stock to some one who
stands not high in his regard, and resign. You may go. But, wait a
moment, foreman. If you should happen to have a sandwich hidden in your
desk, don’t forget me. We have always been good friends, you know.”

It was about this time that Major DeMaine made his appearance in
Nashville. He came with a heavily-worded recommendation from the Boston
School of Oratory. It was declared that he was the greatest orator of
the day or night. He had talked in Faneuil Hall. It appeared in the
paper Flanel Hall, but that made no difference. He would have been the
greatest of all actors but that he was religiously inclined and deplored
the thought of giving up his earnest life to the trivial mimickry of the
stage. He was not well dressed but we ascribed this lack of duds to his
individuality. But some of us questioned his greatness until he came
around to the office and put into the _Mail_ a full page advertisement.
Then we knew that he was great. This full page was an announcement
together with the press notices of his great lecture on Humanity.
Beecher said that it was profound and in an autograph letter Mark Twain
swore that it was funnier than Artemus Ward among the Mormons. We were
possessed of a small job press, and on this machine the tickets were
printed. We were to receive so much a hundred and we looked forward to
a time when we might eat, sitting down. One man, a pampered youth named
Billings, said that he must have a pair of shoes. At first we took this
for _badinage_, for one of this fellow’s whimsical jokes, but soon we
discovered that he meant it. We called a meeting of the faculty. The
editor sighed. For a man who possessed all wisdom he was the most
sighing man I ever knew. With him a sigh answered for declaration and
for epigram. He was never at a loss for sigh. So he sighed and asked
Billings if he had well considered the situation. Billings answered that
he thought he had.

“And you must have shoes, you Beau Brummel! Just at this time of dawning
prosperity you must come forward to swamp our hope with needless
extravagance. Transfer your stock, Billings, and resign.”

The lecture was to be given in a building which stood somewhere in Summer
Street. We were to sell the tickets to our friends and were to share in
the profits. And with what will we went forth! A stranger might have
thought that the city had been invaded by a gang of hold-up men. Well,
the night came. We were present, eighteen of us. The editor and the
business manager were absent, having been invited to attend a luncheon
given by a politician. But eighteen of us were there to hear that great
out-rush of the human mind. It may have been that the learning was too
deep for us, that the humor was too skilfully hidden. There was a large
audience and at first there was much applause, but it dropped off along
about the second round. At the close, however, there came something to
arouse our interest. Upon the table the lecturer emptied about a bushel
of cubes wrapped in paper. “Each one of these cubes contains a piece
of soap,” said he. “It is the finest that has ever been made. And this
is the offer that I shall make to you: I shall sell these cubes at
twenty-five cents each, and in at least half of the papers is contained
a yearly subscription to the _Evening Mail_, a paper which Mr. Watterson
declares is the freest and best-written journal in America. He himself is
thinking of taking the editorship of it on the first day of next July.
Let us open a few of these papers. Ah, we here have a subscription, here
is another—another—why, there are no end of them. I will now pass out
among you.”

They bought his soap. He was giving our paper a boost and none save a
great man could do that. Surely, the day of our prosperity was about
to dawn. “I will be around early in the morning to settle for the
advertisement, the tickets and the many subscriptions,” he said to one of
us. “And now don’t think me presumptuous in what I said. Watterson has
his eye on this paper.”

He did not come around the next day. We called on the business manager
and he said that no arrangements for subscriptions had been made with
him. We spoke to the editor and he sighed. Then, and for days afterward,
there came broken streams of people with orders for yearly subscriptions.
It was difficult to explain. The most of our stockholders had been
present and had heard the promises made by Major DeMaine. So we dozed off
into the bed prepared by the sheriff.

The last time I saw the editor he took my hand with a sigh and said: “It
was a great pity that I went to that political luncheon. Ah, politics,
ruination of mighty empires!”

Years afterward, in company with Col. Zeb. Ward, I was going through the
Arkansas penitentiary. Near the wall I observed an oldish man washing a
buggy. He had a familiar look, in spite of his stripes, and I spoke to
Colonel Ward concerning him. “He is known as Commodore Sassafrac,” said
the Colonel. “He got up a great land scheme down in the bottoms—told the
negroes that he had the management of the great Mexican war land claim.
Seventy million acres were set aside for the colored citizens, and all
they had to do was to show an order from the Commodore, which he gave for
five dollars apiece.”

I went up to him and spoke. He looked at me. I reminded him of the
_Nashville Evening Mail_. “Ah,” said he, “I am pleased to meet anyone
from the glowing past. Back upon that time I look with fondness. Your
great journal made life worth living.”

[Illustration:

  DAVID BISPHAM,

  One of the great stars of Grand Opera, who devotes a few weeks of
    his time each season to lyceum work. The fact that an artist of
    Bispham’s standing can be brought to the platform, is one of
    the strong evidences of its phenomenal development.
]

[Illustration:

  DR. THOMAS E. GREEN.

  Dr. Thomas E. Green, whose lecture, “The Key to the Twentieth
    Century,” has been so widely and favorably commented upon by
    the Press of the Country within the last year, will add a few
    Southern cities to his platform itinerary, the coming season.
]

[Illustration:

  MISS CLYDA B. REEVES,

  of Whitewright, Texas,

  one of the brightest and most promising aspirants for platform
    honors, among Southern young women.
]




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


  1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
  2. Archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as printed.
  3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.