green bays. verses and parodies. by arthur thomas quiller-couch (q). et, si non alium late jactaret odorem laurus erat. most of the verses in this volume were written at oxford, and first appeared in the 'oxford magazine.' a few are reprinted from 'the speaker' and a few from certain works of fiction published by messrs. cassell and co. q. contents. in a college garden. the splendid spur. the white moth. irish melodies i. tim the dragoon. ii. kenmare river. lady jane (sapphics). a triolet. an oath. upon graciosa, walking and talking. written upon love's frontier-post. titania. measure for measure. retrospection. why this volume is so thin. nugae oxonienses. twilight. willaloo. the sair stroke. the doom of the esquire bedell. 'behold! i am not one that goes to lectures.' caliban upon rudiments. solvitur acris hiemps. a letter. occasional verses. anecdote for fathers. unity put quarterly. fire! de tea fabula. l'envoi (as i laye a-dreamynge). in a college garden. senex. saye, cushat, callynge from the brake, what ayles thee soe to pyne? thy carefulle heart shall cease to ake when dayes be fyne and greene thynges twyne: saye, cushat, what thy griefe to myne? turtur. naye, gossyp, loyterynge soe late, what ayles thee thus to chyde? my love is fled by garden-gate; since lammas-tyde i wayte my bryde. saye, gossyp, whom dost thou abyde? senex. loe! i am he, the 'lonelie manne,' of time forgotten quite, that no remembered face may scanne- sadde eremyte, i wayte tonyghte pale death, nor any other wyghte. o cushat, cushat, callynge lowe, goe waken time from sleepe: goe whysper in his ear, that soe his besom sweepe me to that heape where all my recollections keepe. hath he forgott? or did i viewe a ghostlye companye this even, by the dismalle yewe, of faces three that beckoned mee to land where no repynynges bee? o harrye, harrye, tom and dicke, each lost companion! why loyter i among the quicke, when ye are gonne? shalle i alone delayinge crye 'anon, anon'? naye, let the spyder have my gowne, to brayde therein her veste. my cappe shal serve, now i 'goe downe,' for mouse's neste. loe! this is best. i care not, soe i gayne my reste. the splendid spur. not on the neck of prince or hound, nor on a woman's finger twin'd, may gold from the deriding ground keep sacred that we sacred bind: only the heel of splendid steel shall stand secure on sliding fate, when golden navies weep their freight. the scarlet hat, the laurell'd stave are measures, not the springs, of worth; in a wife's lap, as in a grave, man's airy notions mix with earth. seek other spur bravely to stir the dust in this loud world, and tread alp-high among the whisp'ring dead. _trust in thyself_,--then spur amain: so shall charybdis wear a grace, grim aetna laugh, the libyan plain take roses to her shrivell'd face. this orb--this round of sight and sound- count it the lists that god hath built for haughty hearts to ride a-tilt. the white moth. _if a leaf rustled, she would start: and yet she died, a year ago. how had so frail a thing the heart to journey where she trembled so? and do they turn and turn in fright, those little feet, in so much night?_ the light above the poet's head streamed on the page and on the cloth, and twice and thrice there buffeted on the black pane a white-wing'd moth; 'twas annie's soul that beat outside and 'open, open, open!' cried: 'i could not find the way to god; there were too many flaming suns for signposts, and the fearful road led over wastes where millions of tangled comets hissed and burned- i was bewilder'd and i turned. 'o, it was easy then! i knew your window and no star beside. look up, and take me back to you!' --he rose and thrust the window wide. 'twas but because his brain was hot with rhyming; for he heard her not. but poets polishing a phrase show anger over trivial things; and as she blundered in the blaze towards him, on ecstatic wings, he raised a hand and smote her dead; then wrote '_that i had died instead!_' irish melodies. i. tim the dragoon (from 'troy town') be aisy an' list to a chune that's sung of bowld tim the dragoon- sure, 'twas he'd niver miss to be stalin' a kiss, or a brace, by the light of the moon- aroon- wid a wink at the man in the moon! rest his sowl where the daisies grow thick; for he's gone from the land of the quick: but he's still makin' love to the leddies above, an' be jabbers! he'll tache 'em the thrick- avick- niver doubt but he'll tache 'em the thrick! 'tis by tim the dear saints'll set sthore, and 'ull thrate him to whisky galore: for they 've only to sip but the tip of his lip an' bedad! they'll be askin' for more- asthore- by the powers, they'll be shoutin' 'ancore!' irish melodies. ii. kenmare river. 'tis pretty to be in ballinderry, 'tis pretty to be in ballindoon, but 'tis prettier far in county kerry coortin' under the bran' new moon, aroon, aroon! 'twas there by the bosom of blue killarney they came by the hundther' a-coortin' me; sure i was the one to give back their blarney, an' merry was i to be fancy-free. but niver a step in the lot was lighter, an' divvle a boulder among the bhoys, than phelim o'shea, me dynamither, me illigant arthist in clock-work toys. 'twas all for love he would bring his figgers of iminent statesmen, in toy machines, an' hould me hand as he pulled the thriggers an' scattered the thraytors to smithereens. an' to see the queen in her crystial pallus fly up to the roof, an' the windeys broke! and all with divvle a trace of malus,- but he was the bhoy that enjoyed his joke! then o, but his cheek would flush, an' 'bridget,' he 'd say, 'will yez love me?' but i 'd be coy and answer him, 'arrah now, dear, don't fidget!' though at heart i loved him, me arthist bhoy! one night we stood by the kenmare river, an' 'bridget, creina, now whist,' said he, 'i'll be goin' to-night, an' may be for iver; open your arms at the last to me.' 'twas there by the banks of the kenmare river he took in his hands me white, white face, an' we kissed our first an' our last for iver- for phelim o'shea is disparsed in space. 'twas pretty to be by blue killarney, 'twas pretty to hear the linnets's call, but whist! for i cannot attind their blarney, nor whistle in answer at all, at all. for the voice that he swore 'ud out-call the linnet's is cracked intoirely, and out of chune, since the clock-work missed it by thirteen minutes an' scattered me phelim around the moon, aroon, aroon! lady jane. sapphics. down the green hill-side fro' the castle window lady jane spied bill amaranth a-workin'; day by day watched him go about his ample nursery garden. cabbages thriv'd there, wi' a mort o' green-stuff- kidney beans, broad beans, onions, tomatoes, artichokes, seakale, vegetable marrows, early potatoes. lady jane cared not very much for all these: what she cared much for was a glimpse o' willum strippin' his brown arms wi' a view to horti -cultural effort. little guessed willum, never extra-vain, that up the green hill-side, i' the gloomy castle, feminine eyes could so delight to view his noble proportions. only one day while, in an innocent mood, moppin' his brow ('cos 'twas a trifle sweaty) with a blue kerchief--lo, he spies a white 'un coyly responding. oh, delightsome love! not a jot do _you_ care for the restrictions set on human inter -course by cold-blooded social refiners; nor do i, neither. day by day, peepin' fro' behind the bean-sticks, willum observed that scrap o' white a-wavin', till his hot sighs out-growin' all repression busted his weskit. lady jane's guardian was a haughty peer, who clung to old creeds and had a nasty temper; can we blame willum that he hardly cared to risk a refusal? year by year found him busy 'mid the bean-sticks, wholly uncertain how on earth to take steps. thus for eighteen years he beheld the maiden wave fro' her window. but the nineteenth spring, i' the castle post-bag, came by book-post bill's catalogue o' seedlings mark'd wi' blue ink at 'paragraphs relatin' mainly to pumpkins.' 'w. a. can,' so the lady jane read, 'strongly commend that very noble gourd, the _lady jane_, first-class medal, ornamental; grows to a great height.' scarce a year arter, by the scented hedgerows- down the mown hill-side, fro' the castle gateway- came a long train and, i' the midst, a black bier, easily shouldered. 'whose is yon corse that, thus adorned wi' gourd-leaves, forth ye bear with slow step?' a mourner answer'd, ''tis the poor clay-cold body lady jane grew tired to abide in.' 'delve my grave quick, then, for i die to-morrow. delve it one furlong fro' the kidney bean-sticks, where i may dream she's goin' on precisely as she was used to.' hardly died bill when, fro' the lady jane's grave, crept to his white death-bed a lovely pumpkin: climb'd the house wall and over-arched his head wi' billowy verdure. simple this tale!--but delicately perfumed as the sweet roadside honeysuckle. that's why, difficult though its metre was to tackle, i'm glad i wrote it. a triolet. to commemorate the virtue of homoeopathy in restoring one apparently drowned. love, that in a tear was drown'd, lives revived by a tear. stella heard them mourn around love that in a tear was drown'd, came and coax'd his dripping swound, wept '_the fault was mine, my dear!_' love, that in a tear was drown'd, lives, revived by a tear. an oath. (from 'troy town'.) a month ago lysander pray'd to jove, to cupid, and to venus, that he might die if he betray'd a single vow that pass'd between us. ah, careless gods, to hear so ill and cheat a maid on you relying! for false lysander's thriving still, and 'tis corinna lies a-dying. upon graciosa, walking and talking. (from 'troy town'.) when as abroad, to greet the morn, i mark my graciosa walk, in homage bends the whisp'ring corn, yet to confess its awkwardness must hang its head upon the stalk. and when she talks, her lips do heal the wounds her lightest glances give:- in pity then be harsh, and deal such wounds that i may hourly die, and, by a word restored, live. written upon love's frontier-post. (from 'troy town'.) toiling love, loose your pack, all your sighs and tears unbind: care's a ware will break a back, will not bend a maiden's mind. in this state a man shall need neither priest nor law giver: those same lips that are his creed shall confess their worshipper. all the laws he must obey, now in force and now repeal'd, shift in eyes that shift as they, till alike with kisses seal'd. titania. by lord t-n. so bluff sir leolin gave the bride away: and when they married her, the little church had seldom seen a costlier ritual. the coach and pair alone were two-pound-ten, and two-pound-ten apiece the wedding-cakes;- three wedding-cakes. a cupid poised a-top of each hung shivering to the frosted loves of two fond cushats on a field of ice, as who should say '_i_ see you!'--such the joy when english-hearted edwin swore his faith with mariana of the moated grange. for edwin, plump head-waiter at the cock, grown sick of custom, spoilt of plenitude, lacking the finer wit that saith, 'i wait, they come; and if i make them wait, they go,' fell in a jaundiced humour petulant-green, watched the dull clerk slow-rounding to his cheese, flicked a full dozen flies that flecked the pane- all crystal-cheated of the fuller air, blurted a free 'good-day t'ye,' left and right, and shaped his gathering choler to this head:- 'custom! and yet what profit of it all? the old order changeth yielding place to new, to me small change, and this the counter-change of custom beating on the self-same bar- change out of chop. ah me! the talk, the tip, the would-be-evening should-be-mourning suit, the forged solicitude for petty wants more petty still than they,--all these i loathe, learning they lie who feign that all things come to him that waiteth. i have waited long, and now i go, to mate me with a bride who is aweary waiting, even as i!' but when the amorous moon of honeycomb was over, ere the matron-flower of love- step-sister of to-morrow's marmalade- swooned scentless, mariana found her lord did something jar the nicer feminine sense with usage, being all too fine and large, instinct of warmth and colour, with a trick of blunting 'mariana's' keener edge to 'mary ann'--the same but not the same: whereat she girded, tore her crisped hair, called him 'sir churl,' and ever calling 'churl!' drave him to science, then to alcohol, to forge a thousand theories of the rocks, then somewhat else for thousands dewy cool, wherewith he sought a more pacific isle and there found love, a duskier love than hers. measure for measure. by o--r k--m. wake! for the closed pavilion doors have kept their silence while the white-eyed kaffir slept, and wailed the nightingale with 'jug, jug, jug!' whereat, for empty cup, the white rose wept. enter with me where yonder door hangs out its red triangle to a world of drought, inviting to the palace of the djinn, where death, aladdin, waits as chuckerout. methought, last night, that one in suit of woe stood by the tavern-door and whispered, 'lo, the pledge departed, what avails the cup? then take the pledge and let the wine-cup go.' but i: 'for every thirsty soul that drains this anodyne of thought its rim contains- free-will the _can_, necessity the _must_, pour off the _must_, and, see, the _can_ remains. 'then, pot or glass, why label it "_with care_"? or why your sheepskin with my gourd compare? lo! here the bar and i the only judge:- o, dog that bit me, i exact an hair!' we are the sum of things, who jot our score with caesar's clay behind the tavern door: and alexander's armies--where are they, but gone to pot--that pot you push for more? and this same jug i empty, could it speak, might whisper that itself had been a beak and dealt me fourteen days 'without the op.'- your worship, see, my lip is on your cheek. yourself condemned to three score years and ten, say, did you judge the ways of other men? why, now, sir, you are hourly filled with wine, and has the clay more licence now than then? life is a draught, good sir; its brevity gives you and me our measures, and thereby has docked your virtue to a tankard's span, and left of my criterion--a cri'! retrospection. after c. s. c. when the hunter-star orion (or, it may be, charles his wain) tempts the tiny elves to try on all their little tricks again; when the earth is calmly breathing draughts of slumber undefiled, and the sire, unused to teething, seeks for errant pins his child; when the moon is on the ocean, and our little sons and heirs from a natural emotion wish the luminary theirs; then a feeling hard to stifle, even harder to define, makes me feel i 'd give a trifle for the days of auld lang syne. james--for we have been as brothers (are, to speak correctly, twins), went about in one another's clothing, bore each other's sins, rose together, ere the pearly tint of morn had left the heaven, and retired (absurdly early) simultaneously at seven- james, the days of yore were pleasant. sweet to climb for alien pears till the irritated peasant came and took us unawares; sweet to devastate his chickens, as the ambush'd catapult scattered, and the very dickens was the natural result; sweet to snare the thoughtless rabbit; break the next-door neighbour's pane; cultivate the smoker's habit on the not-innocuous cane; leave the exercise unwritten; systematically cut morning school, to plunge the kitten in his bath, the water-butt. age, my james, that from the cheek of beauty steals its rosy hue, has not left us much to speak of: but 'tis not for this i rue. beauty with its thousand graces, hair and tints that will not fade, you may get from many places practically ready-made. no; it is the evanescence of those lovelier tints of hope- bubbles, such as adolescence joys to win from melted soap- emphasizing the conclusion that the dreams of youth remain castles that are an delusion (castles, that's to say, in spain). age thinks 'fit,' and i say 'fiat.' here i stand for fortune's butt, as for sunday swains to shy at stands the stoic coco-nut. if you wish it put succinctly, gone are all our little games; but i thought i 'd say distinctly what i feel about it, james. why this volume is so thin. in youth i dreamed, as other youths have dreamt, of love, and thrummed an amateur guitar to verses of my own,--a stout attempt to hold communion with the evening star i wrote a sonnet, rhymed it, made it scan. ah me! how trippingly those last lines ran.- _o hesperus! o happy star! to bend o'er helen's bosom in the tranced west, to match the hours heave by upon her breast, and at her parted lip for dreams attend- if dawn defraud thee, how shall i be deemed, who house within that bosom, and am dreamed?_ for weeks i thought these lines remarkable; for weeks i put on airs and called myself a bard: till on a day, as it befell, i took a small green moxon from the shelf at random, opened at a casual place, and found my young illusions face to face with this:--'_still steadfast, still unchangeable, pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast to feel for ever its soft fall and swell, awake for ever in a sweet unrest; still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, and so live ever,--or else swoon to death._' o gulf not to be crossed by taking thought! o heights by toil not to be overcome! great keats, unto your altar straight i brought my speech, and from the shrine departed dumb. --and yet sometimes i think you played it hard upon a rather hopeful minor bard. nugae oxonienses. twilight. by w--ll--m c--wp--r. 'tis evening. see with its resorting throng rude carfax teems, and waistcoats, visited with too-familiar elbow, swell the curse vortiginous. the boating man returns, his rawness growing with experience- strange union! and directs the optic glass not unresponsive to jemima's charms, who wheels obdurate, in his mimic chaise perambulant, the child. the gouty cit, asthmatical, with elevated cane pursues the unregarding tram, as one who, having heard a hurdy-gurdy, girds his loins and hunts the hurdy-gurdy-man, blaspheming. now the clangorous bell proclaims the _times or chronicle_, and rauca screams the latest horrid murder in the ear of nervous dons expectant of the urn and mild domestic muffin. to the parks drags the slow ladies' school, consuming time in passing given points. here glow the lamps, and tea-spoons clatter to the cosy hum of scientific circles. here resounds the football-field with its discordant train, the crowd that cheers but not discriminates, as ever into touch the ball returns and shrieks the whistle, while the game proceeds with fine irregularity well worth the paltry shilling.- draw the curtains close while i resume the night-cap dear to all familiar with my illustrated works. willaloo. by e. a. p. in the sad and sodden street, to and fro, flit the fever-stricken feet of the freshers as they meet, come and go, ever buying, buying, buying where the shopmen stand supplying, vying, vying all they know, while the autumn lies a-dying sad and low as the price of summer suitings when the winter breezes blow, of the summer, summer suitings that are standing in a row on the way to jericho. see the freshers as they row to and fro, up and down the lower river for an afternoon or so- (for the deft manipulation of the never-resting oar, though it lead to approbation, will induce excoriation)- they are infinitely sore, keeping time, time, time in a sort of runic rhyme up and down the way to iffley in an afternoon or so; (which is slow). do they blow? 'tis the wind and nothing more, 'tis the wind that in vacation has a tendency to go: but the coach's objurgation and his tendency to 'score' will be sated--nevermore. see the freshers in the street, the _elite_! their apparel how unquestionably neat! how delighted at a distance, inexpensively attired, i have wondered with persistence at their butterfly existence! how admired! and the payment--o, the payment! it is tardy for the raiment: yet the haberdasher gloats as he sells, and he tells, 'this is best to be dress'd rather better than the rest, to be noticeably drest, to be swells, to be swells, swells, swells, swells, swells, swells, swells, to be simply and indisputably swells.' see the freshers one or two, just a few, now on view, who are sensibly and innocently new; how they cluster, cluster, cluster round the rugged walls of worcester! see them stand, book in hand, in the garden ground of john's! how they dote upon their dons! see in every man a blue! it is true they are lamentably few; but i spied yesternight upon the staircase just a pair of boots outside upon the floor, just a little pair of boots upon the stairs where i reside, lying there and nothing more; and i swore while these dainty twins continued sentry by the chamber door that the hope their presence planted should be with me evermore, should desert me--nevermore. the sair stroke. _o waly, waly, my bonnie crew gin ye maun bumpit be! and waly, waly, my stroke sae true, ye leuk unpleasauntlie!_ _o hae ye suppit the sad sherrie that gars the wind gae soon; or hae ye pud o' the braw bird's-e'e, ye be sae stricken doun?_ i hae na suppit the sad sherrie, for a' my heart is sair; for keiller's still i' the bonnie dundee, and his is halesome fare. but i hae slain our gude captain, that c'uld baith shout and sweer, and ither twain put out o' pain- the scribe and treasurere. there's ane lies stark by the meadow-gate, and twa by the black, black brig: and waefu', waefu', was the fate that gar'd them there to lig! they waked us soon, they warked us lang, wearily did we greet; '_should he abrade_' was a' our sang, our food but butcher's-meat. we hadna train'd but ower a week, a week, but barely twa, three sonsie steeds they fared to seek, that mightna gar them fa'. they 've ta'en us ower the lang, lang coorse, and wow! but it was wark; and ilka coach he sware him hoorse, that ilka man s'uld hark. then upped and spake our pawkie bow, --o, but he wasna late! 'now who shall gar them cry _enow_, that gang this fearsome gate?' syne he has ta'en his boatin' cap, and cast the keevils in, and wha but me to gae (god hap!) and stay our captain's din? i stayed his din by the meadow-gate, his feres' by nuneham brig, and waefu', waefu', was the fate that gar'd them there to lig! o, waly to the welkin's top! and waly round the braes! and waly all about the shop (to use a southron phrase). rede ither crews be debonair, but we 've a weird to dree, i wis we maun be bumpit sair by boaties two and three: sing stretchers of yew for our toggere, sith we maun bumpit be! the doom of the esquire bedell. adown the torturing mile of street i mark him come and go, thread in and out with tireless feet the crossings to and fro; a soul that treads without retreat a labyrinth of woe. palsied with awe of such despair, all living things give room, they flit before his sightless glare as horrid shapes, that loom and shriek the curse that bids him bear the symbol of his doom. the very stones are coals that bake and scorch his fevered skin; a fire no hissing hail may slake consumes his heart within. still must he hasten on to rake the furnace of his sin. still forward! forward! for he feels fierce claws that pluck his breast, and blindly beckon as he reels upon his awful quest: for there is that behind his heels knows neither ruth nor rest. the fiends in hell have flung the dice; the destinies depend on feet that run for fearful price, and fangs that gape to rend; and still the footsteps of his vice pursue him to the end:- the feet of his incarnate vice shall dog him to the end. 'behold! i am not one that goes to lectures.' by w. w. behold! i am not one that goes to lectures or the pow-wow of professors. the elementary laws never apologise: neither do i apologise. i find letters from the dean dropt on my table--and every one is signed by the dean's name- and i leave them where they are; for i know that as long as i stay up others will punctually come for ever and ever. i am one who goes to the river, i sit in the boat and think of 'life' and of 'time.' how life is much, but time is more; and the beginning is everything, but the end is something. i loll in the parks, i go to the wicket, i swipe. i see twenty-two young men from foster's watching me, and the trousers of the twenty-two young men, i see the balliol men _en masse_ watching me.--the hottentot that loves his mother, the untutored bedowee, the cave-man that wears only his certificate of baptism, and the shaggy sioux that hangs his testamur with his scalps. i see the don who ploughed me in rudiments watching me: and the wife of the don who ploughed me in rudiments watching me. i see the rapport of the wicket-keeper and umpire. i cannot see that i am out. oh! you umpires! i am not one who greatly cares for experience, soap, bull-dogs, cautions, majorities, or a graduated income-tax, the certainty of space, punctuation, sexes, institutions, copiousness, degrees, committees, delicatesse, or the fetters of rhyme- for none of these do i care: but least for the fetters of rhyme. myself only i sing. me imperturbe! me prononce! me progressive and the depth of me progressive, and the bathos, anglice bathos of me chanting to the public the song of simple enumeration. caliban upon rudiments[1]. or autoschediastic theology in a hole. rudiments, rudiments, and rudiments! 'thinketh one made them i' the fit o' the blues. 'thinketh one made them with the 'tips' to match, but not the answers; 'doubteth there be none, only guides, helps, analyses, such as that: also this beast, that groweth sleek thereon, and snow-white bands that round the neck o' the same. 'thinketh, it came of being ill at ease. 'hath heard that satan finds some mischief still for idle hands, and the rest o 't. that's the case. also 'hath heard they pop the names i' the hat, toss out a brace, a dozen stick inside; let forty through and plough the sorry rest. 'thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in them, only their strength, being made o' sloth i' the main- 'am strong myself compared to yonder names o' jewish towns i' the paper. watch th' event- 'let twenty pass, 'have a shot at twenty-first, 'miss ramoth-gilead, 'take jehoiakim, 'let abner by and spot melchizedek, knowing not, caring not, just choosing so, as it likes me each time, i do: so they. 'saith they be terrible: watch their feats i' the viva! one question plays the deuce with six months' toil. aha, if they would tell me! no, not they! there is the sport: 'come read me right or die!' all at their mercy,--why they like it most when--when--well, never try the same shot twice! 'hath fled himself and only got up a tree. 'will say a plain word if he gets a plough. [1] caliban museth of the now extinct examination in the rudiments of faith and religion. solvitur acris hiemps. my juggins, see: the pasture green, obeying nature's kindly law, renews its mantle; there has been a thaw. the frost-bound earth is free at last, that lay 'neath winter's sullen yoke 'till people felt it getting past a joke. now forth again the freshers fare, and get them tasty summer suits wherein they flaunt afield and scare the brutes. again the stream suspects the keel; again the shrieking captain drops upon his crew; again the meal of chops divides the too-laborious day; again the student sighs o'er mods, and prompts his enemies to lay long odds. again the shopman spreads his wiles; again the organ-pipes, unbound, distract the populace for miles around. then, juggins, ere december's touch once more the wealth of spring reclaim, since each successive year is much the same; since too the monarch on his throne in purple lapped and frankincense, who from his infancy has blown expense, no less than he who barely gets the boon of out-of-door relief, must see desuetude,--come let's be brief. at those resolves last new year's day the easy gods indulgent wink. then downward, ho!--the shortest way is drink. a letter. addressed during the summer term of 1888 by mr. algernon dexter, scholar of -----college, oxford, to his cousin, miss kitty tremayne, at -----vicarage, devonshire. after w. m. p. dear kitty, at length the term's ending; i 'm in for my schools in a week; and the time that at present i'm spending on you should be spent upon greek: but i'm fairly well read in my plato, i'm thoroughly red in the eyes, and i've almost forgotten the way to be healthy and wealthy and wise. so 'the best of all ways'--why repeat you the verse at 2.30 a.m., when i 'm stealing an hour to entreat you dear kitty, to come to commem.? oh, come! you shall rustle in satin through halls where examiners trod: your laughter shall triumph o'er latin in lecture-room, garden, and quad. they stand in the silent sheldonian- our orators, waiting--for you, their style guaranteed ciceronian, their subject--'the ladies in blue.' the vice sits arrayed in his scarlet; he's pale, but they say he dissem -bles by calling his beadle a 'varlet' whenever he thinks of commem. there are dances, flirtations at nuneham, flower-shows, the procession of eights: there's a list stretching _usque ad lunam_ of concerts, and lunches, and fetes: there's the newdigate all about 'gordon,' --so sweet, and they say it will scan. you shall flirt with a proctor, a warden shall run for your shawl and your fan. they are sportive as gods broken loose from olympus, and yet very em -inent men. there are plenty to choose from, you'll find, if you come to commem. i know your excuses: red sorrel has stumbled and broken her knees; aunt phoebe thinks waltzing immoral; and 'algy, you are such a tease; it's nonsense, of course, but she _is_ strict'; and little dick hodge has the croup; and there's no one to visit your 'district' or make mother tettleby's soup. let them cease for a se'nnight to plague you; oh, leave them to manage _pro tem_. with their croups and their soups and their ague) dear kitty, and come to commem. don't tell me papa has lumbago, that you haven't a frock fit to wear, that the curate 'has notions, and may go to lengths if there's nobody there,' that the squire has 'said things' to the vicar, and the vicar 'had words' with the squire, that the organist's taken to liquor, and leaves you to manage the choir: for papa must be cured, and the curate coerced, and your gown is a gem; and the moral is--don't be obdurate, dear kitty, but come to commem. 'my gown? though, no doubt, sir, you're clever, you 'd better leave fashions alone. do you think that a frock lasts for ever?' dear kitty, i'll grant you have grown; but i thought of my 'scene' with mcvittie that night when he trod on your train at the bachelor's ball. ''twas a pity,' you said, but i knew 'twas champagne. and your gown was enough to compel me to fall down and worship its hem- (are 'hems' wearing? if not, you shall tell me what is, when you come to commem.) have you thought, since that night, of the grotto? of the words whispered under the palms, while the minutes flew by and forgot to remind us of aunt and her qualms? of the stains of the old _journalisten_? of the rose that i begged from your hair? when you turned, and i saw something glisten- dear kitty, don't frown; it _was_ there! but that idiot delane in the middle bounced in with 'our dance, i--ahem!' and--the rose you may find in my liddell and scott when you come to commem. then, kitty, let 'yes' be the answer. we'll dance at the 'varsity ball, and the morning shall find you a dancer in christ church or trinity hall. and perhaps, when the elders are yawning and rafters grow pale overhead with the day, there shall come with its dawning some thought of that sentence unsaid. be it this, be it that--'i forget,' or 'was joking'--whatever the fem -inine fib, you'll have made me your debtor and come,--you _will_ come? to commem. occasional verses. anecdote for fathers. designed to show that the practice of lying is not confined to children. by the late w. w. (of h.m. inland revenue service). and is it so? can folly stalk and aim her unrespecting darts in shades where grave professors walk and bachelors of arts? i have a boy, not six years old, a sprite of birth and lineage high: his birth i did myself behold, his caste is in his eye. and oh! his limbs are full of grace, his boyish beauty past compare: his mother's joy to wash his face, and mine to brush his hair! one morn we strolled on our short walk, with four goloshes on our shoes, and held the customary talk that parents love to use. (and oft i turn it into verse, and write it down upon a page, which, being sold, supplies my purse and ministers to age.) so as we paced the curving high, to view the sights of oxford town we raised our feet (like nelly bly), and then we put them down. 'now, little edward, answer me'- i said, and clutched him by the gown- 'at cambridge would you rather be, or here in oxford town?' my boy replied with tiny frown (he'd been a year at cavendish), 'i'd rather dwell in oxford town, if i could have my wish.' 'now, little edward, say why so; my little edward, tell me why.' 'well, really, pa, i hardly know.' 'remarkable!' said i: 'for cambridge has her "king's parade," and much the more becoming gown; why should you slight her so,' i said, 'compared with oxford town?' at this my boy hung down his head, while sterner grew the parent's eye; and six-and-thirty times i said, 'come, edward, tell me why?' for i loved cambridge (where they deal- how strange!--in butter by the yard); and so, with every third appeal, i hit him rather hard. twelve times i struck, as may be seen (for three times twelve is thirty-six), when in a shop the _magazine_ his tearful sight did fix. he saw it plain, it made him smile, and thus to me he made reply:- '_at oxford there's a crocodile_;[1] and that's the reason why.' oh, mr. editor! my heart for deeper lore would seldom yearn, could i believe the hundredth part of what from you i learn. [1] certain obscure paragraphs relating to a crocodile, kept at the museum, had been perplexing the readers of the _oxford magazine_ for some time past, and had been distorted into an allegory of portentous meaning. unity put quarterly[1]. by a. c. s. the centuries kiss and commingle, cling, clasp, and are knit in a chain; no cycle but scorns to be single, no two but demur to be twain, 'till the land of the lute and the love-tale be bride of the boreal breast, and the dawn with the darkness shall dovetail, the east with the west. the desire of the grey for the dun nights is that of the dun for the grey; the tales of the thousand and one nights touch lips with 'the times' of to-day.- come, chasten the cheap with the classic; choose, churton, thy chair and thy class, mix, melt in the must that is massic the beer that is bass! omnipotent age of the aorist! infinitely freely exact!- as the fragrance of fiction is fairest if frayed in the furnace of fact- though nine be the muses in number there is hope if the handbook be one,- dispelling the planets that cumber the path of the sun. though crimson thy hands and thy hood be with the blood of a brother betrayed, o would-be-professor of would-be, we call thee to bless and to aid. transmuted would travel with er, see the land of the rolling of logs, charmed, chained to thy side, as to circe the ithacan hogs. o bourne of the black and the godly! o land where the good niggers go. with the books that are borrowed of bodley, old moons and our castaway clo'! there, there, till the roses be ripened rebuke us, revile, and review, then take thee thine annual stipend so long over-due. [1] suggested by an article in the _quarterly review_, enforcing the unity of literature ancient and modern, and the necessity of providing a new school of literature in oxford. fire! by sir w. s. written on the occasion of the visit of the united fire brigades to oxford, 1887. i. st. giles's street is fair and wide, st. giles's street is long; but long or wide, may naught abide therein of guile or wrong; for through st. giles's, to and fro, the mild ecclesiastics go from prime to evensong. it were a fearsome task, perdie! to sin in such good company. ii. long had the slanting beam of day proclaimed the thirtieth of may ere now, erect, its fiery heat illumined all that hallowed street, and breathing benediction on thy serried battlements, st. john, suffused at once with equal glow the cluster'd archipelago, the art professor's studio and mr. greenwood's shop, thy building, pusey, where below the stout salvation soldiers blow the cornet till they drop; thine, balliol, where we move, and oh! thine, randolph, where we stop. iii. but what is this that frights the air, and wakes the curate from his lair in pusey's cool retreat, to leave the feast, to climb the stair, and scan the startled street? as when perambulate the young and call with unrelenting tongue on home, mamma, and sire; or voters shout with strength of lung for hall & co's entire; or sabbath-breakers scream and shout- the band of booth, with drum devout, eliza on her sunday out, or farmer with his choir:-iv. e'en so, with shriek of fife and drum and horrid clang of brass, the fire brigades of england come and down st. giles's pass. oh grand, methinks, in such array to spend a whitsun holiday all soaking to the skin! (yet shoes and hose alike are stout; the shoes to keep the water out, the hose to keep it in.) v. they came from henley on the thames, from berwick on the tweed, and at the mercy of the flames they left their children and their dames, to come and play their little games on morrell's dewy mead. yet feared they not with fire to play- the pyrotechnics (so they say) were very fine indeed. vi. (p.s. by lord macaulay). then let us bless our gracious queen and eke the fire brigade, and bless no less the horrid mess they've been and gone and made; remove the dirt they chose to squirt upon our best attire, bless all, but most the lucky chance that no one shouted 'fire!' de tea fabula. plain language from truthful james[1]. do i sleep? do i dream? am i hoaxed by a scout? are things what they seem, or is sophists about? is our "to ti en einai" a failure, or is robert browning played out? which expressions like these may be fairly applied by a party who sees a society skied upon tea that the warden of keble had biled with legitimate pride. 'twas november the third, and i says to bill nye, 'which it's true what i've heard: if you're, so to speak, fly, there's a chance of some tea and cheap culture, the sort recommended as high.' which i mentioned its name, and he ups and remarks: 'if dress-coats is the game and pow-wow in the parks, then i 'm nuts on sordello and hohenstiel-schwangau and similar snarks.' now the pride of bill nye cannot well be express'd; for he wore a white tie and a cut-away vest: says i, 'solomon's lilies ain't in it, and they was reputed well dress'd.' but not far did we wend, when we saw pippa pass on the arm of a friend --doctor furnivall 'twas, and he wore in his hat two half-tickets for london, return, second-class. 'well,' i thought, 'this is odd.' but we came pretty quick to a sort of a quad that was all of red brick, and i says to the porter,--'r. browning: free passes; and kindly look slick.' but says he, dripping tears in his check handkerchief, 'that symposium's career's been regrettably brief, for it went all its pile upon crumpets and busted on gunpowder-leaf!' then we tucked up the sleeves of our shirts (that were biled), which the reader perceives that our feelings were riled, and we went for that man till his mother had doubted the traits of her child. which emotions like these must be freely indulged by a party who sees a society bulged on a reef the existence of which its prospectus had never divulged. but i ask,--do i dream? _has_ it gone up the spout? are things what they seem, or is sophists about? is our "to ti en einai" a failure, or is robert browning played out? [1] the oxford browning society expired at keble the week before this was written. l'envoi. as i laye a-dreamynge. after t. i. as i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, o softlye moaned the dove to her mate within the tree, and meseemed unto my syghte came rydynge many a knyghte all cased in armoure bryghte cap-a-pie, as i laye a-dreamynge, a goodlye companye! as i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, o sadlye mourned the dove, callynge long and callynge lowe, and meseemed of alle that hoste notte a face but was the ghoste of a friend that i hadde loste long agoe. as i laye a-dreamynge, oh, bysson teare to flowe! as i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, o sadlye sobbed the dove as she seemed to despayre, and laste upon the tracke came one i hayled as 'jacke!' but he turned mee his backe with a stare: as i laye a-dreamynge, he lefte mee callynge there. stille i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, and gentler sobbed the dove as it eased her of her payne, and meseemed a voyce yt cry'd- 'they shall ryde, and they shall ryde 'tyll the truce of tyme and tyde come agayne! alle for eldorado, yette never maye attayne!' stille i laye a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, a-dreamynge, and scarcelye moaned the dove, as her agonye was spente: 'shalle to-morrowe see them nygher to a golden walle or spyre? you have better in yr fyre, bee contente.' as i laye a-dreamynge, it seem'd smalle punyshment. but i laye a-wakynge, and loe! the dawne was breakynge and rarely pyped a larke for the promyse of the daye: 'uppe and sette yr lance in reste! uppe and followe on the queste! leave the issue to be guessed at the endynge of the waye'- as i laye a-wakynge, 'twas soe she seemed to say- 'whatte and if it alle be feynynge? there be better thynges than gaynynge, rycher pryzes than attaynynge.'- and 'twas truthe she seemed to saye. whyles the dawne was breakynge, i rode upon my waye. the end [illustration: a tree with a bird in it (front cover)] a tree with a bird in it: a symposium of contemporary american poets on being shown a pear-tree on which sat a grackle by margaret widdemer author of "factories," "the old road to paradise," "cross currents," etc. with illustrations by william saphier [illustration] new york harcourt, brace and company copyright, 1922, by harcourt, brace and company, inc. printed in the u. s. a. by the quinn & boden company rahway, n. j. this is dedicated with my forgiveness in advance to the poets parodied in this book and the poets not parodied in this book foreword by the collator a little while since, i had the fortune to live in a house, outside of whose windows there grew a pear-tree. on the branches of this tree lived a green bird of indeterminate nature. i do not know what his real name was, but the name, to quote our great exemplar lewis carroll, by which his name was _called_ was the grackle. he seemed perfectly willing to be addressed thus, and accordingly was. aside from watching the pear-tree and the grackle, my other principal occupation that winter was watching the poetry society of america now and then at its monthly meetings. it occurred to me finally to invite such members of it as cared to come, following many good examples, to an outdoor symposium under the tree. the result follows. margaret widdemer. p.s.--the tree died. table of contents page foreword: by the collator v jessie b. rittenhouse _resignation_ 3 edwin markham _the bird with the woe_ 4 witter bynner _the unity of oneness_ 7 amy lowell _oiseaurie_ 8 edgar lee masters _imri swazey_ 9 edwin arlington robinson _rambuncto_ 10 robert frost _the bird misunderstood_ 12 carl sandburg _chicago memories_ 13 edith m. thomas _frost and sandburg tonight_ 17 charles hanson towne _the unquiet singer_ 18 sara teasdale _at autumn_ 20 ezra pound _rainuv_ 21 margaret widdemer _the sighing tree_ 24 richard le gallienne _ballade of spring chickens_ 27 angela morgan _oh! bird!_ 29 conrad aiken _the charnel bird_ 30 mary carolyn davies _a young girl to a young bird_ 34 marguerite wilkinson _the rune of the nude_ 35 aline kilmer _admiration_ 37 william rose and stephen vincent benet _the grackle of grog_ 38 lola ridge _preenings_ 42 edna st. vincent millay _tea o' herbs_ 46 john v. a. weaver _the weaver bird_ 50 david morton _sonnet: trees are not ships_ 52 elinor wylie _the grackle is the loon_ 53 leonora speyer _a landscape gets personal_ 54 corinne roosevelt robinson _the symposium leading nowhere_ 57 ridgely torrence _the fowl of a thousand flights_ 59 henry van dyke _the roiling of henry_ 61 cale young rice _pantings_ 63 bliss carman _the wild_ 65 grace hazard and hilda conkling _they see the birdie_ 67 theodosia garrison _a ballad of the bird dance of pierrette_ 69 william griffith _pierrette remembers an engagement_ 71 edgar guest _ain't nature wonderful!_ 72 don marquis _the meeting of the columns_ 75 christopher morley _the mocking-hoarse-bird_ 80 franklin pierce adams _to a grackle_ 83 thomas augustin daly _carlo the gardener_ 84 vachel lindsay _the hoboken grackle and the hobo_ 85 percy mackaye } josephine preston peabody } _dies illa: a bird of a masque_ 89 isabel fiske conant } arthur guiterman _a tree with a bird in it: rhymed review_ 101 illustrations page edwin markham 5 witter bynner 6 carl sandburg 15 margaret widdemer 25 conrad aiken 31 the benets 39 lola ridge 43 edna st. vincent millay 47 leonora speyer 55 edgar guest 73 don marquis and christopher morley 77 vachel lindsay 87 a tree with a bird in it _jessie b. rittenhouse_ (she steps brightly forward with an air of soprano introduction.) resignation i look from out my window, beloved, and i see a bird upon a pear bough, but what is that to me? because the thought comes icy; that bird you never knew- it's not your bird or pear tree, and what is it to you? _edwin markham_ (who, though he had to lay a cornerstone, unveil a bust of somebody, give two lectures and write encouraging introductions to the works of five young poets before catching the three-ten for staten island, offered his reaction in a benevolent and unhurried manner.) the bird with the woe poets to men a curious sight afford; still they will sing, though all around are bored; but this wise grackle does a kinder thing; silent he's bored, while all around him sing! [illustration] [illustration] _witter bynner_ (prefaced by a short baritone talk on chinese architecture.) the unity of oneness celia, have you been to china? there upon a mystic tree sits a bird who murmurs chinese of the me in thee. 'neath that tree of willow-pattern twice seven thousand scornful go paraphrasers and translators of the long-deceased li-po: chinese feelings swift discerning without all this time and fuss let us eat that bird, thus learning of the him in us! _amy lowell_ (fixing her glasses firmly on the rest of the poetry society in a way which makes them with difficulty refrain from writhing.) oiseaurie glunk! i toss my heels up to my head ... that was a bird i heard say glunk as i walked statelily through my extensive, expensive english country estate in a pink brocade with silver buttons, a purple passementerie cut with panniers, a train, and faced with watered silk: but it is dead now! (the bird) probably putrescent and green.... i scrabble my toes ... glunk! _edgar lee masters_ (making a statement which you may take or leave, but convincing you entirely.) imri swazey i was a shock-headed boy bringing in the laundry; why did i try for that damn bird, anyway? i suppose i had been in the habit of aiming for the pears. but i chucked a stone, anyhow, and it ricocheted and hit my head, and as it hadn't any brains inside the stone busted it and there i was, dead. and dead with me were all the improper things i'd got out of the servants about their employers bringing in the laundry; but the grackle sings on. sing forever, o grackle! i died, knowing lots of things _you_ don't know! _edwin arlington robinson_ (he mutters wearily in an undertone.) rambuncto well, they're quite dead, rambuncto; thoroughly dead. it was a natural thing enough; my eyes stared baffled down the forest-aisles, brown and green, not learning what the marks were. still, who learns? not i, who stooped and picked the things that day, scarlet and gold and smooth, friend ... smooth enough! and she's in a vault now, old jane fotheringham, my mother-in-law; and my wife's seven aunts, and that cursed bird that used to sit and croak upon their pear-tree--they threw scraps to him- my wife, too. lord, that was a curious thing! because--"i don't like mushrooms much," i said, and they ate all i picked. and then they died. but ... well, who knows it isn't better that way? it's quieter, at least.... rambuncto--friend- why, you're not going?... well--it's a stupid year, and the world's very useless.... sorry.... still the dusk intransience that i much prefer leaves place for little hope and less regret. i don't suppose he'd care, to stay to dine under the circumstances.... what's life for? _robert frost_ (rather nervously, retreating with haste in the wake of mr. robinson as soon as he had finished.) the bird misunderstood there was a grackle sat on our old pear tree- don't ask me why--i never did really know; but he made my wife and me feel, for really the very first time we were out in the actual country, hindering things to grow; it gave us rather a queer feeling to hear the grackle grackle, but when it got to be winter time he got up and went thence and now we shall never know, though we watch the tree till april, whether his curious crying ever made song or sense. _carl sandburg_ (striking from time to time a few notes on a mouth-organ, with a wonderful effect of human brotherhood which does not quite include the east.) chicago memories grackles, trees- i been thinkin' 'bout 'em all: i been thinkin' they're all right: nothin' much--gosh, nothin' much against god, even. _god made little apples_, a hobo sang in kankakee, shattered apples, i picked you up under a tree, red wormy apples, i ate you.... that lets god out. there were three green birds on the tree, there were three wailing cats against a green dawn.... 'gene field sang, "the world is full of a number of things," 'gene field said, "when they caught me i was living in a tree...." 'gene field said everything in chicago of the eighties. now he's dead, i say things, say 'em well, too.... 'gene field ... back in the lost days, back in the eighties, singing, colyumning ... 'gene field ... forgotten ... back in arkansaw there was a green bird, too, i can remember how he sang, back in the lost days, back in the eighties. uncle yon swenson under the tree chewing slowly, slowly.... memories, memories! there are only trees now, no 'gene, no eighties gray cats, i can feel your fur in my heart ... green grackle, i remember now, back in the lost days, back in the eighties the cat ate you. [illustration] _edith m. thomas_ (she tells a friend in confidence, after she is safely out of it all.) frost and sandburg tonight apple green bird on a wooden bough, and the brazen sound of a long, loud row, and "child, take the train, but mind what you do- frost, tonight, and sandburg too!" then i sally forth, half wild, half cowed, till i come to the surging, impervious crowd, the wine-filled, the temperance, the sober, the pied, the poets that cover the countryside! the poets i never would meet till tonight! a gleam of their eyes in the fading light, and i took them all in--the enormous throng- and with one great bound i bolted along. * * * * * if the garden had merely held birds and flowers! but i hear a voice--they have talked for hours- "frost tonight--" if 'twere merely he! half wild, half cowed, i flee, i flee! _charles hanson towne_ (who rather begrudged the time he used up in going out to the suburbs.) the unquiet singer he had been singing, but i had not heard his voice; he had been bothering the rest with song; but i, most comfortably far within the city's stimulating jar feeling for bus-conductors and for flats, and shop-girls buying too expensive hats, and silver-serviced dinners, and various kinds of pleasant urban sinners, and riding on the subway and the l, had much beside his song to hear and tell. but one day (it was spring, when poets ride afield to wild poetic festivals) i, innocently making calls was snatched by a swift motor toward his tree (alas, but lady poets will do this to thee if thou art decorative, witty or a man) and heard him sing, and on the grass did bide. but my whole day was sadder for his words, and i was thinner because, in spite of my most careful plan i missed a very pleasant little dinner.... in short, unless well-cooked, i don't like birds. _sara teasdale_ (who got miss rittenhouse to read it for her.) at autumn i bend and watch the grackles billing, and fight with tears as i float by; o be a fowl for my heart's filling! o be a bird, yet never fly! _ezra pound_ (mailed disdainfully by him from anywhere but america, and read prayerfully by a committee from chicago.) rainuv: a romantic ballad from the early basque ... so then naturally this count rainuv i speak of (certainly i did not expect you would ever have heard of him; you are american poets, aren't you? that's rather awful ... i am the only american poet i could ever tolerate ... well, sniff and pass....) therefore ... well, i knew rainuv. (my p. g. course at penn, you'll remember; a little anglo-saxon and basuto, but provencal, mostly. most don't go in for that.... you haven't, of course ... what, no provencal? well, of course, i know rather more than you do. that's my specialty. but then--_omnis gallia est divisa_--but no matter. not fit, perhaps you'd say, that, to be quoted before ladies.... that's your rather amusing prudishness....) well, this rainuv, then, a person with a squint like a flash of square fishes ... being rather worse than most of the usual _literati_ said, being carried off by desire of boasting that he knew all the mid-victorians _et ab lor bos amics:_ (he thought it was something to boast of.) we'll say he said he smoked with tennyson, and--deeper pit--_pax vobiscum_--went to vespers with adelaide anne procter; helped bob browning elope with elizabeth and her lapdog (said it bit him) said he was the first man blake told all about the angels in a pear-tree at peckham rye blake drew them for him, he said; they were grackles, not angels- (blake's not a mid-victorian, but you don't know better) so ... we come, being slightly irritated, to facing him down. "... and george eliot?" we ask lightly. "_roomed with him_," nodded rainuv confidently, "_at college!_"... ah, _bos amic! bos amic!_ rainuv is a king to you.... three centuries from now (you dead and messy) men whispering insolently (eeni meeni mini mo...) will boast that their great-grand-uncles were kicked by me in passing.... _margaret widdemer_ (clutching a non-existent portière with one hand.) the sighing tree the folk of the wood called me- "there sits a golden bird upon your mother's pear-tree--" but i never said a word. the sleepy people whispered- "the bird is singing now." but i felt not then like leaving bed nor listening beneath the bough. but the wronged world beat my portals- "come out or be sore oppressed!" so i threw a stone at the grackle and my throbbing heart had rest. [illustration] _richard le gallienne_ (advancing with a dreamy air of there still being a yellow book.) ballade of spring chickens spring comes--yet where the dream that glows? there only waves upon the lea a lonely pear-bough where doth doze a bird of green, and merely he: why weave of him our poetry? why of a grackle need we sing? ah, far another fowl for me- i seek spring chickens in the spring. though may returns, and frisking shows her ankles through this white clad tree, alas, old spring's gone with the rose, gone is all old romance and glee- yet still a joy remains to me- softly our lyric lutes unstring, far from this grackle we shall flee and seek spring chickens in the spring! too soon youth's _mss_ must close, (_omar_) its rose be pot-pourri; what of this bird and all his woes! catulla, i would fly to thee- bright bird of luring lingerie, of bushy bob, of knees aswing, this golden task be mine in fee, to seek spring chickens in the spring! _envoi_ prince, let us leave this grove, pardie, a flapper is a fairer thing: let us fare fast where such there be, and seek spring chickens in the spring! _angela morgan_ (carefully lifting her greek robe off the wet grass, and patting her fillet with one white glove, recites passionately.) oh! bird! i heard a flaming noise that screamed- "man, panting, crushed, must be redeemed! man! all the crowd of him! quiet or loud of him! men! raging souls of them! heaps of them, shoals of them! hurtling impassioned through fiery-tongued rapture! leaping for glories all avid to capture bounteous æons of star-beating bliss!" i heard a voice cry, and i'm sure it said this: though the cook said the noise was a tree and a bird ... _but i heard! gods, i heard!_ _conrad aiken_ (creeping mysteriously out of the twilight, draped in a complex.) the charnel bird forslin murmurs a melodious impropriety musing on birds and women dead æons ago.... was he not, once, this fowl, a gay bird in society? can any one tell? ... after an evening out, who can know? perhaps cleopatra, lush in her inadequate wrappings, lifted him once to her tatbebs.... perhaps helen of troy found him more live than her paris ... a bird among dead ones.... perhaps semiramis ... once ... in a pink unnamable joy * * * [illustration] i tie my shoes politely, a salute to this bird in his pear-tree; ... what is a pear-tree, after all.... what is a bird? what is a shoe, or a forslin, or even a senlin? what is ... a what? ... is there any one who has heard? ... what is it crawls from the kiss-thickened, freudian darkness, amorous, catlike ... ah, can it be a cat? i would so much rather it had been a scarlet harlot, there is so much more genuine poetry in that.... (note by the collator: it was, in fact, fluffums, the angora cat belonging to the jenkinses on the corner; and the disappointment was too much for mr. aiken, who fainted away, and had to be taken back to boston before completing his poem, which he had intended to fill an entire book.) _mary carolyn davies_ (impetuously, with a floppy hat.) a young girl to a young bird when one is young, you know, then one can sing of anything: one is so young--so pleasurably so- how can one know if god made little apples, or yet pears, or ... if god cares? you are young, maybe, grackle; that is why i want to cry seeing you watch the poems that i say to-night, to-day ... this little boy-bird seems to nod to me with sympathy: he is so young: it must be that is why ... _as young as i!_ _marguerite wilkinson_ (advancing with sedate courtesy in a long-sleeved, high-necked lecture costume.) the rune of the nude i will set my slim strong soul on this tree with no leaves upon it, i will lift up my undressed dreams to the nude and ethical sky: this bird has his feathers upon him: he shall not have even a sonnet: until he is stripped of his last pin-plume i will sing of my mate and i! my ancestors rise from their graves to be shocked at my soul's wild climbing (they were strong, they were righteous, my ancestors, but they always kept on their clothes) my mate is the best of all mates alive: his voice is a raptured rhyming: he chants "come down!" but it cannot come, either for him or those! my ancestors pound from their ouija-board: my mate leaps in swift indignation: i must tell the world of their wonders, but i must be strong and free- though all sires and all mates cry out in a runic incantation, my soul shall be stripped and buttonless--it shall dwell in a naked tree! _aline kilmer_ (with a certain aloofness.) admiration kenton's arrogant eyes watch the widdemer pear-tree, his thistle-down-footed sister puts out her tongue at him.... kenton, what do you see? that yonder is only a bare tree; come, carry deborah home; she is gossamer-light and slim. "aw, mother, but i don't want to!" kenton replies with devotion, "i've gathered you stones for the bird; come on, don't you want to throw 'em?" ah, kenton, kenton, my child, who but you would have such an emotion? but in spite of it i admire you, as you'll see when you read this poem. _the benet brothers_ (they sing arm in arm, stephen vincent having rather more to do with the verse and william rose with the chorus. their sister laura is too busy looking for a fairy under the tree to add to the family contribution.) the grackle of grog it was old yale college made me what i am- you oughto heard my mother when i first said damn! i put a pin in sister's chair, she jumped sky-high ... i don't know what'll happen when i come to die! _but oh, the stars burst wild in a glorious crimson whangle,_ _there was foam on the beer mile-deep, mile-high, and the pickles were piled like seas,_ _noeara's hair was a flapper's bob that turned to a ten-mile tangle,_ _and the forests were crowded with unicorns, and gold elephants charged up trees!_ [illustration] forceps in the dentist's chair, razors in the lather ... lord, the black experience i've had time to gather ... but i've thought of one thing that may pull me through- i'm a reg'lar devil but the devil was, too! _there were thousands of trees with knotholed knees that kicked in a league-long rapture,_ _birds green as a seasick emerald in a million-mile shrieking row--_ _it was sixty dollars or sixty days when the cop had made his capture...._ _but god! the bun was a gorgeous one, and the faculty did not know!_ _lola ridge_ (who apparently did not care for the suburbs.) preenings i preen myself.... i ... always do ... my ego expanding encompasses ... everything, naturally.... this bird preens himself ... it is our only likeness.... ah, god, i want a ghetto and a freud and an alley and some immigrants calling names ... god, you know how awful it is.... here are trees and birds and clouds and picturesquely neat children across the way on the grass not doing anything improper ... (poor little fools, i mustn't blame them for that perhaps they never knew how....) [illustration] but oh, god, take me to the nearest trolley line! this is a country landscape- i can't stand it! god, take me away- there is no sex here and no smell! _edna st. vincent millay_ (recites in a flippant voice which occasionally chokes up with irrepressible emotion, and clenching her hands tensely as she notices that the grackle has hopped twice.) tea o' herbs o i have brought in now bergamot, a packet o' brown senna and an iron pot; in my scarlet gown i make all hot. and other men and girls write like me setting herbs a-plenty in their poetry (_bergamot for hair-oil,_ _bergamot for tea!_) and they may do ill now or they may do well, (little should i care now what they have to sell--) but what bergamot and rue are none of them can tell. [illustration] all above my bitter tea i have set a lid (as my bitter heart by its red gown hid) they write of bergamot because i did.... (from its padded hangers they've snatched my red gown, men as well as girls and gone down town, flaunting my vocabulary, every verb and noun!) and the grackle moans high above the pot, he is sick with herbs ... _and am i not,_ _who have brought in_ _bergamot?_ _john v. a. weaver_ (with a strong note of infant brutality.) the weaver bird gosh, kid! that bird a-cheepin' in the tree all green an' cocky--why, it might be me singin' to you.... wisht i was just a bird bringin' you worms--aw, you know, things i've heard 'bout me--an' flowers, maybe.... like as not somebody'd get me with an old slingshot an' i'd be dead.... gee, it'd break you up! nothin' would be the same to you, i bet, knowin' my grave was out there in the wet and we two couldn't pet no more.... say, kid, it makes me weep, same as it always did, to think how bad you'd feel.... i got a thought, an awful funny one i sorta caught- nobody never thought that way, i guess- when i get blue, an' things is in a mess i map out all my funeral, the hearses an' nineteen carriages, an' folks with verses sayin' how great i was, an' all like that, an' wreaths, an' girls with crapes around their hat tellin' the world how bad their hearts was broke, an' you, just smashed to think i had to croak.... i can't stand that bird, somehow--makes me cry.... _the world'll be darn sorry when i die!_ _david morton_ (who, being very polite, only thought it.) sonnet: trees are not ships there is no magic in a living tree, and, if they be not sea-gulls, none in birds: my soul is seasick, and its only words murmur desire for things more like a sea. in this dry landscape here there seems to be no water, merely persons in large herds, who, by their long remarks, their arid girds, come from the poetry society. what could be drier, where all things are dry? what boots this bird, this pear-tree spreading wide? oh, make this bird they all discuss to pie, hew down this tree and shape its planks to ships, send them to sea with these folk nailed inside, that i may have great sonnets on my lips! _elinor wylie_ (with an air of admitting the tragic and all-important fact.) the grackle is the loon never believe this bird connotes jade whorls of carven commonness: nor as from ordinary throats slides his sharp song in ice-strung stress. he is the cold and scornful loon, who, hoping that the sun shall fail, steeps in the silver of the moon his burnished claws, his chiseled tail. _leonora speyer_ (speaking, notwithstanding, with unshaken poise.) a landscape gets personal beloved.... i cannot bear that bird he is green with envy of my songs: "_cheep! cheep!_" this tree has a furtive look and the brook says, "oh ... splash...." and the grass ... the terrible grass ... it waves at me.... it is too flirtatious! beloved, let us leave swiftly ... _i fear this landscape!_ _it would vamp me!_ [illustration] _corinne roosevelt robinson_ (who, having engagements to speak at ten unveilings, and nine public schools and twelve other symposiums, stayed away, but sent this handsome tribute by wire.) the symposium leading nowhere i sing of the joy of the small paths the paths that lead nowhere at all, (though i never have gone on them nevertheless they are admirable, and so small!) i go out at midnight in motors but, being a roosevelt, i drive straight ahead on the neatly paved highway, for i wish with much speed to arrive. oh, the joy and effulgence of small paths surrounded with birds and with trees i would love to go down on a small path and sit in communion with these! oh, grackle, i yearn to be with you, for poetic communion i yearn but i have ten engagements to speak in the suburbs and alas, i've no time to return. _oh alas, the undone moments,_ _oh, the myriad hours bereft_ _trying to be twenty people_ _and to do things right and left._ _i would sit down by a small path_ _and would make me a large rhyme_ _i should love to find my soul there_ _but i haven't got the time!_ _ridgely torrence_ (who felt that the bird did not sufficiently uphold art.) the fowl of a thousand flights grackle, grackle on your tree, there's something wrong to-day, in the moonlight, in the quiet evening, you will rise and croak and fly away; oh, you have sat and listened till you're wild for flight (and that's all right) but you have never criticised a single song (and that's all wrong) lo, would you add despair unto despair? do you not care that all these lesser children of the muse shall sing to you exactly as they choose? you are ungrateful, fowl. i wrote a poem, once, in the middle of august, intending to show 'em that you should not be shot: what saw i then, what heard? multitudes--multitudes, under the tree they stirred, and with too many a broken note and wheeze they sang what each did please.... and thou, o bird of emeraldine beak and brow, thou sawest it all, and did not even cackle, grackle! _henry van dyke_ (who, although for different reasons, did not care for the grackle either.) the roiling of henry (a song of the grating outdoors) bird, thou art not a veery, nor yet a yellowthroat, ne'erless, i knew thy gentle song, long, long e'er i could vote; thou art not a blue flower, nor e'en a real blue bird; yet there's a moral high and pure in all thy likings heard: "_grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ _go on and ne'er look back!_" the noble tow'rs of princeton hear high thy pensive trill, and eke my ear has heard thee the while i fished the rill; thy note rings out at daybreak before i rise to toil; thou counselest persistence; thy song no stone can spoil; "_grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ _go on and ne'er look back!_" yet, bird, there is a limit to all i've undergone; from five o'clock till five o'clock thou'st chanted o'er my lawn; i cannot get my work done ... i give thee, bird, advice; if thou wouldst save thy skin alive, let me not warn thee twice, "_grack-grack-grack-grack-grack-grack--_ _go on and ne'er look back!_" _cale young rice_ (who came out rather tired from trying to choose a new suit, and could not get it off his mind.) pantings pantings, pantings, pantings! gents' immanent furnishings! on a mystic tide i ride, i ride, of the clothes of a million springs! i take the train for the suburbs or i sweep from pole to pole, but where is the window that holds them not, gents' furnishings of my soul! pantings, pantings, pantings! shirtings and coatings too! how can i think of mere birds, nor blink in the cosmic hullaballoo? the hot world throbs with immenseness, the voidness plunks in the void, and all of it doubtless has something to do with employer and unemployed! pantings! pantings! pantings! trousers through all the town! and the tailors' dummies with iron for tummies smirk in their blue and brown; i float in a slithering simoon of fevered and surging tints, and my ears are dulled with the mighty throb of the male best dressers' hints: _pantings! pantings! pantings!_ _my wardrobe, they send it fleet...._ _ah, the is and the was and the never does...._ _and the cosmos at last complete!_ _bliss carman_ (who, incidentally, happened to be correct.) the wild ho, spring calls clear a message.... the grackle is not green.... the mighty mother nature she knows just what i mean. the lilac and the willow the grass and violet they are my wild companions where i was raised a pet. the secrets of great nature from childhood i have heard; oh, i can tell a wild flower swiftly from a wild bird; and gwendolen and marna and myrtle (dead all three ... among my wildwood sweethearts was much mortality). if they my loves returning might gather 'neath these boughs (oh, they would sniff at pear-trees who loved the northern sloughs). their wild eternal whisper would back me up, i ween: "this bird is not a grackle: a grackle is not green." _grace hazard and hilda conkling_ they see the birdie (mrs. conkling points maternally.) oh, hilda! see the little bird! if you will watch, upon my word he will come out; a veery[1] he as like an oboe as can be: he shall be wingèd, with a tail, mayhap a beak him shall not fail! and i will tell him, "birdie, oh, this is my hilda, you must know- and oh, what joy, if you but knew- she shall make poetry on you!" (the birdie obliges, whereupon hilda recites obediently, while her mother, concealing herself completely behind the bird, takes dictation.) oh, my lovely mother, that is a bird: sitting on a tree. i am a little girl standing on the ground. i see the bird, the bird sees me. _bird!_ _color of grass!_ _i love my mother_ _more than i do you!_ [footnote 1: note by the collator: i do not pretend to explain the veery-complex of american poets. they all seemed possessed to rub it into the poor bird that he wasn't one.] _theodosia garrison_ (who began cheerfully, but reduced her audience to tears, which she surveyed with complacence, by the third line.) a ballad of the bird dance of pierrette _pierrette's mother speaks:_ "sure is it pierrette yez are, pierrette and no other? (och, pierrette, me heart is broke that ye shud be that same--) pertendin' to be frinch, an' me yer poor ould irish mother that named ye bridget fer yer aunt, a dacent dublin name! ye that was a pious girrl, decked out in ruffled collars, with yer hair that docked an' frizzed--if father pat shud see! dancin' on a piece o' grass all puddle-holes an' hollers, amusin' these quare folk that's called a pote-society!" _but it was bridget sullivan,_ _her locks flour-sprent,_ _that danced beneath the flowering tree_ _leaping as she went._ "if there's folk to stare at ye ye'll dance for all creation (since ye went to settlements 'tis little else i've heard), letting yer good wages go to chat of 'inspiration,' flappin' up an' down an' makin' out yez are a burrd! sure if ye got cash fer it 'tis little i'd be sayin' (och, pierrette, stenographin' 'tis better wage ye'll get,) sorra wan these long-haired folk has spoke till ye o' payin', talkin' of yer art, an' ye a leppin' in the wet!" _but it was bridget sullivan,_ _her head down-bent,_ _went back on the three-thirteen,_ _coughing as she went._ _william griffith_ (who felt for her.) pierrette remembers an engagement pierrette has gone--but it was not exactly that she lied; she said she had to catch a train; "i have a date," she cried. to keep a sudden rendezvous it came into her mind as quite the quickest way to flee from parties of this kind; she went most softly and most soon, but still she made a stir, for, going, she took all the men to town along with her. _edgar guest_ (who has an air of absolute belief in the true, the optimistic, and the checkbook. he seems yet a little ill at ease among the others, and to be looking about restlessly for ella wheeler wilcox.) ain't nature wonderful! how dear to me are home and wife, the dear old tree i used to love, the pear it shed on starting life and god's outdoors so bright above! for virtue gets a high reward, noble is all good scenery, so i will root for virtue hard, for god, for nature, and for me! [illustration] _don marquis_ (who, it appears, refers to departments which he and certain of his friends run in new york papers. he swings a theoretical barrel of hootch above his head, and chants:) the meeting of the columns chris and frank and i each had a column; chris and i were plump and gay, but not so f.p.a.: f.p.a. was solemn- not so his column; that was full of wit, as good as my column nearly every bit! we sat on each an office chair and all snapped our scissors; their things were pretty fair but all of mine were whizzers! frank wrote of cyril, an ungrammatic sinner, but i wrote of drink and chris wrote of dinner; and frank kept getting thinner and we kept getting plump- frank sat like a bump translating from the latin, chris wrote of happy homes i wrote of alcoholic foams, and we still seemed to fatten; frank wrote of swell parties where he had been, i wrote of whisky-sours, and chris wrote of gin! but we both got fatter, so the parties didn't matter, though f.p.a. he published each as soon as he'd been at her.... f.p.a. went calling and sang about it sorely ... "_pass around the shandygaff," says brave old morley!_ f.p.a. played tennis and told the world he did.... _i bought a stein of beer and tipped up the lid!_ frank wrote up all his evenings out till we began to cry, _but we drowned our envy in a long cool rye!_ and then we got an invitation, frank and chris and me, to come and say a poem on a grackle in a tree: [illustration] but chris and i'd had twenty ryes, and we began to cackle- "oh, see the ninety pretty birds, and every one a grackle! a grackle with a hackle, a ticklish one to tackle a tacklish one to tickle ... to ticker ... to licker...." and we both began to giggle and woggle, and wiggle, and we giggled and we gurgled and we gargled and were gay ... _for we'd had an invitation, just the same as f.p.a.!_ _christopher morley_ (acting, in spite of himself, as if the bird were his long-lost brother, and locating the grackle, for poetic purposes, in his own home.) the mocking-hoarse bird good fowl, though i would speak to thee with wonted geniality, and oxford charm in my address, it's not quite easy, i confess: _suaviter in modo's_ hard when poets trample one's front yard, and this is such an enormous crew that you've got trailing after you! i'd washed my youngest child but four, put the milk-bottles out the door, paid my wife's hat-bill with no sigh (ah, happy wife! ah, happy i!) tossed down (see essays) then my pen to be a private citizen, written about that in the post, when lo, upon the lawn a host of poets, sprung upon my sight each eager for a poem to write! to a less placid bard you'd be a flat domestic tragedy,- bird--grackle--nay, i'd scarcely call you bird--a mere egg you, that's all- only a bad egg has the nerve to poach (a pun!) on my preserve! to p.q.s. and x.y.d. (both columnists whom you should see) and l.m.n (a man who never columns a word that isn't clever,) and b.c.d. (who scintillates much more than most who get his rates) a thing like this would be a trial.... it is to me, there's no denial. why, bird, if they would sing of you, or sin, or broken hearts, or rue, or what young devils they all are, or scarlet dames, or the first star, or south-sea-jazz-hounds sorrowing, it would be quite another thing: but, bird, here they come mousing round on my suburban, sacred ground, and see my happiness--it's flat, you wretched bird, they'll sing of that! they'll hymn my happy hearth, and later the joys of my refrigerator, burst into song about the points of babies, married peace, hot joints, the jimmy-pipe i often carol, my commutation, my rain-barrel, and each uncontroverted fact with which my poetry is packed ... in short, base bird, they'll sing like me, _and then, where will my living be?_ _franklin p. adams_ (coldly ignoring the roistering of his friends, addresses the grackle with bitterness:) to a grackle (horace, ode xvixxv, p. 23) bird, if you think i do not care to gaze upon your feathered form rather than converse with some fair or make my brow with tennis warm; if you should think i'd liefer far hear your sweet song than fast be driving within my costly motor car and in my handsome home arriving, if you should think i would be gone far sooner than you might expect from off this uncolumnar lawn; bird, you'd be utterly correct! _tom daly_ (showing the italian's love of the beautiful, which he makes his own more than the anglo-saxon dreams of doing.) carlo the gardener de poets dey tinka dey gotta da tree, dey gotta da arta, da birda--but me, i lova da arta, i lova da flower, (ah, _bella fioretta_!) i waita da hour: i mowa da grass, i rake uppa da leaf- i brava young carlo--maria! fine t'ief! i waita till later. da poets go homa, go finda da sup', i creep by dis tree and i digga her up, (da grackla, da blossom, da tree-a i love, _per dio!_ and da art!) so i giva da shove, i catcha da birda, i getta da tree, i taka to rosa my wife, and den she- she gotta in potta! _vachel lindsay_ (bounding on toward the end of the proceedings with a bundle over his shoulder, and making the rest join in at the high spots.) the hoboken grackle and the hobo (an explanation) as i went marching, torn-socked, free, [_steadily_] with my red heart marching all agog in front of me and my throbbing heels and my throbbing feet making an impression on the hoboken street [_with energy_] then i saw a pear-tree, a fowl, a bird, and the worst sort of noise an illinoiser ever heard! [_with surprise_] banks--of--poets--round--that--tree- _all_ of the poetry society but _me_! all a-cackle, addressed it as a grackle [_chatteringly showed me its hackle (that proved it was a fly) like parrots_] tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet, [_cooingly, yet gosh, what a packed street! with impatience_] the secretary, _president_ and treasurer went by! "that's not a grackle," said i to all of him, seething with their poetry, iron-tongued, grim, "_that's an english sparrow on that limb!_" and they all went home no more to roam. and i watched their unmade poetry raise up like foam [_intemperately_] and i took my bandanna again on my stick [_with calm majesty_] and i walked to the grocery and took my pick and i bought crackers, canned shrimps, corn, [_with domesticity codfish like flakes of snow at morn, for the moment_] buns for breakfast and a fountain-pen laid down change and marched out again and i walked through hoboken, torn-socked, free, _with my red heart galumphing all agog in front of me!_ [illustration] dies illa: a bird of a masque being a collaboration by percy mackaye, isabel fiske conant and josephine preston peabody. dramatis personæ the grackle (who does not appear at all) the spirit of the rejection slip the spirit of modern poetry chorus of elderly ladies who appreciate poetry chorus of correspondence, kindergarten, grammar, high-school and college classes in verse-writing chorus of young men running poetry magazines chorus of poetry critics chorus of assorted culture-hounds the person responsible for the poetic renaissance in america the non-poetry writing public (composed of two citizens who have never learned to read or write) semi-choruses of magazine editors and book-publishers até, goddess of discord the muse time: _next year._ place: _everywhere._ scene: _a level stretch of monotony._ the spirit of the rejection slip (_entering despairingly_) alas--in vain! yet i have barred the way as best i might, that this great horror fall not on the world. _returned with many thanks_ _and not because of lack of merit,_ i have said to twenty million poets ... nay ... profane it not, that word ... to twenty million persons who wasted stamps and typewriting and midnight oil, to add unto the world more bunk.... in vain--in vain! (_she sinks down sobbing._) (_from right and left of stage enter semi-choruses magazine editors and book publishers, tearing their hair rhythmically._) semi-chorus of editors we have mailed their poems back to every man and woman-jack who weigh the postman down from country and from town; but all in vain, in vain, they mail them in again! semi-chorus of publishers though we've sent them flying, we are nearly dying, from the books of poetry sent by people unto we; in vain we keep them off our shelves, they go and publish them themselves! spirit of the rejection slips all, bravely have ye toiled, my masters, aye, and i've toiled with you.... all in vain, in vain-(_enter, with a proud consciousness of duty well done, the chorus of correspondence, kindergarten, grammar, high-school and college classes for writing verse. they sing joyously_) the day has come that we adore, the day we've all been working for, now babies in their bassinets and military school cadets, and chambermaids in each hotel and folks in slums who cannot spell, professors, butchers, clergymen, and every one, have grabbed a pen: the day has come--tra la, tra lee- _everybody_ writes poetry! (_they do a symbolic dance with typewriters, during which enters the chorus of young men who run poetry magazines. these put on horn-rimmed spectacles and chant earnestly as follows_) chorus of young men who run poetry magazines we're very careful what we put in; this magazine is of highest grade; if it doesn't appeal to our personal taste there's no use sending it, we're afraid; we don't like shelley, we don't like keats, we don't like poets who're tactlessly dead; if you write like us there will be no fuss- that's the best of verse, when the last word's said.... (_bursting irrepressibly into youthful enthusiasm, and dashing their horn spectacles to the ground_) yale! yale! yale! our poetry! fine poetry! nobody else's poetry! raw! raw! raw! raw! (_enter, modestly, the person responsible for the poetic renaissance in america. there are four of him--or her, as the case may be--miss monroe, miss rittenhouse, mrs. stork, mr. braithwaite. the person stands in a row and recites in unison:_) i've made poetry what it is today; or ... at least ... that's what people say: earnest-minded effort never can be hid; the others think they did it- but--i--did! spirit of the rejection slip, editors and publishers, (_faintly:_) you _did_? (_they rush out._) person responsible (_still modestly_) well, so they say- but i have to go away. i'm due at a lecture i give at three today. (_the person goes out in single file, looking at its watch. as it does so, there enters a pale and dishevelled girl in greek robes. it is the muse._) muse in mount olympus we have heard a noise and crying as swine that in deep agony are dying, a voice of tom-cats wailing, a never failing thud as of rolling logs: a chattering like frogs, and all this noise, unceasing, thunderous, making a horrible fuss, cries out upon my name. oh, what am i, the muse and giver of fame, so to be mocked and humbled by this use? i--i, the muse! (_enter spirit of modern poetry, a lady with bobbed hair, clad lightly in horn glasses and a sex-complex._) spirit of modern poetry you're behind the times; quite narrow, don't you want culture for the masses? muse no; i am greek; we never did. besides, it _isn't_ culture. chorus of elderly ladies who appreciate poetry, (_trotting by two by two on their way to a lecture, pause._) oh, how narrow! oh, how shocking! she's no muse! she must be mocking! muse (_sternly, having lost her temper by this time_) i am a goddess. trifle not with me. elderly ladies (_with resolute tolerance_) she _looks_ like a pupil of isadora duncan, but she says she's a goddess; what folly we'd be sunk in to believe a word she says; she needs broad'ning, we conjecture- my dear, come with us to miss rittenhouse's lecture! muse (_lifting her arms angrily_) até, my sister! até, (_behind the scenes_) i come! (_enter from one side, band of poets--very large--with lyres and wreaths put on over their regular clothes. from the other side, a chorus of poetry critics. at their end steals até, goddess of discord, disguised as a critic by means of horn glasses and a cane. the poets do not see her--or anything but themselves, indeed. they sing obliviously_) my maiden aunt in keokuk she writes free verse like anything; my great-grandmother is in luck, she's sold her three-piece work on spring; my mother does poetic plays, my dad does rhymes while signing checks, and my flapper sister--we wouldn't have missed her- she's writing an epic on sin and sex- the world's as perfect as it can be, everybody writes poetry! chorus of critics, (_chanting yet more loudly:_) the world's not _quite_ as perfect as it yet might be, excepting for our brother-critics' poetry! (_the spirit of discord now creeps softly out from among the critics._) spirit of discord rash poets, think what you would do- there's nobody left you can read it to! poets (_aghast_) we never thought of that! an audience, 'tis flat, is our most pressing need, to listen to our screed; (_each turns to his neighbor_) base scribbler, get thee hence or be my audience! semi-chorus: we want to write ourselves! we'll not! semi-chorus: but what _you_ write is merely rot! hush up and let _me_ read my great, eternal screed! até (_stealthily_) ha, ha! (_each poet now draws a fountain pen with a bayonet attached, and kills the poet next him, dying himself immediately from the wound of the poet on the other side. they fall in neat windrows. there are no poets left. meanwhile the non-poetry-writing public, two in number, who have been shooting crap in a corner, rise up at the sound of the fall, take three paces to the front, and speak:_) what's the use o' poetry, anyhow? _i_ always say, 'if you wanta say anything you can say it a lot easier in prose.' _i_ never wrote no poetry, and i get along fine in the hardware business. chorus of critics and culture-hounds, (_thrilled:_) ah, a new gospel! let us write reviews about it! the spirit of the rejection slip (_entering, and addressing the editors and publishers who follow her._) now i shall pass from you. my task comes to a close. i wing my hallowed way to the fool-killer's paradise, and there for aye repose. editors and publishers nay, our great helper, nay! leave us not yet, our only comforter! we'll need thee still; folks who write poetry there's naught on earth can kill! (_during this the_ culture-hounds, critics, _etc., have clustered round the_ non-poetry-writing public, _whispering, urging, and pushing. it rises and scratches its head in a flattered way, and finally says:_) b'gosh, i do believe, now that you speak of it, i could do just as good as any of those there fool dead fellers could! (_the late non-poetry-writing public are both immediately invested with lyres, and wreaths which they put on over their derby hats._) semi-chorus of editors (to spirit of rejection slip) you see? too late! semi-chorus of publishers who shall escape o'ermastering tragic fate? (_they go off and sob in two rows in the corners, while the rest of the masque, except_ até, _who looks at them as if she weren't through yet, and the_ muse, _form up to do a dance symbolic of one being born every minute. they sing:_) the day has come that we adore, the day we've all been working for; the day has come, tra la, tra lee! _everybody_ writes poetry! the muse (_unnoticed in the background_) farewell. _arthur guiterman_ (he recites with appropriate gestures.) a tree with a bird in it: a rhymed review it seems that margaret widdemer possessed a tree with a bird in it, and being human, prone to err, thought 'twould be pleasant to begin it, or christen it, as one might say, by asking poets closely herded to come around and spend the day and sing of what the tree and bird did. (poor girl! when next she takes her pen some bromide critic's sure to say, "don't dare do serious work again- this stuff is your true métier!") no sooner said than done; the bards rush out in quantities surprising, and, overflowing four front yards they carol till the moon is rising; with ardor, or, as some say, "pash," in song kind or satirical, asking, apparently, no cash, they make their offerings lyrical. i'd be the first a spear to break for poesy; but this to tackle ... it seems a lot of fuss to make about one tree and one small grackle. [in the "tom thumb" article, latin "-que" was abbreviated with a notation similar to "-q;". it has been "unpacked" for this e-text as [que] in brackets. the original texts printed all names in italic type; italicized passages put names in roman type. to avoid ambiguity, these have been marked with *asterisks*. all verse citations were printed in italics.] the augustan reprint society _parodies of ballad criticism_ (1711-1787) william wagstaffe, _a comment upon the history of tom thumb_, 1711 george canning, _the knave of hearts_, 1787 selected, with an introduction, by william k. wimsatt, jr. publication number 63 los angeles william andrews clark memorial library university of california 1957 * * * * * general editors richard c. boys, university of michigan ralph cohen, university of california, los angeles vinton a. dearing, university of california, los angeles lawrence clark powell, clark memorial library assistant editor w. earl britton, university of michigan advisory editors emmett l. avery, state college of washington benjamin boyce, duke university louis bredvold, university of michigan john butt, king's college, university of durham james l. clifford, columbia university arthur friedman, university of chicago louis a. landa, princeton university samuel h. monk, university of minnesota ernest c. mossner, university of texas james sutherland, university college, london h. t. swedenberg, jr., university of california, los angeles corresponding secretary edna c. davis, clark memorial library * * * * * the augustan reprint society regrets to announce the death of one of its founders and editors, edward niles hooker. the editors hope, in the near future, to issue a volume in his memory. * * * * * introduction joseph addison's enthusiasm for ballad poetry (_spectators_ 70, 74, 85) was not a sheer novelty. he had a ringing english precedent in sidney, whom he quotes. and he may have had one in jonson; at least he thought he had. he cited dryden and dorset as collectors and readers of ballads; and he might have cited others. he found comfort in the fact that molière's misanthrope was on his side. the modern or broadside version of _chevy chase_, the one which addison quoted, had been printed, with a latin translation, in the third volume of dryden's _miscellany_ (1702) and had been appreciated along with _the nut-brown maid_ in an essay _of the old english poets and poetry_ in _the muses mercury_ for june, 1707. the feelings expressed in addison's essays on the ballads were part of the general patriotic archaism which at that time was moving in rapport with cyclic theories of the robust and the effete, as in temple's essays, and was complicating the issue of the classical ancients versus the moderns. again, these feelings were in harmony with the new longinianism of boldness and bigness, cultivated in one way by dennis and in another by addison himself in later _spectators_. the tribute to the old writers in rowe's prologue to _jane shore_ (1713) is of course not simply the result of addison's influence.[1] those venerable ancient song-enditers soar'd many a pitch above our modern writers. it is true also that addison exhibits, at least in the first of the two essays on _chevy chase_, a degree of the normal augustan condescension to the archaic--the vision which informs the earlier couplet poem on the english poets. both in his quotation from sidney ("... being so evil apparelled in the dust and cobweb of that uncivil age, what would it work trimmed in the gorgeous eloquence of _pindar_?") and in his own apology for the "simplicity of the stile" there is sufficient prescription for all those improvements that either a ramsay or a percy were soon actually to undertake. and some of the virgilian passages in _chevy chase_ which addison picked out for admiration were not what sidney had known but the literary invention of the more modern broadside writer. nevertheless, the two _spectators_ on _chevy chase_ and the sequel on the _children in the wood_ were startling enough. the general announcement was ample, unabashed, soaring--unmistakable evidence of a new polite taste for the universally valid utterances of the primitive heart. the accompanying measurement according to the epic rules and models was not a qualification of the taste, but only a somewhat awkward theoretical dimension and justification. it is impossible that any thing should be universally tasted and approved by a multitude, tho' they are only the rabble of a nation, which hath not in it some peculiar aptness to please and gratify the mind of man.... an ordinary song or ballad that is the delight of the common people, cannot fail to please all such readers as are not unqualified for the entertainment by their affectation or ignorance. professor clarence d. thorpe is surely correct in his view of addison as a "grandfather" of such that would come in romantic aesthetics for the next hundred years.[2] not that addison invents anything; but he catches every current whisper and swells it to the journalistic audibility. here, if we take addison at his word, are the key ideas for wordsworth's preface on the language of rustic life, for tolstoy's ruthless reduction of taste to the peasant norm. addison went on to urge what was perfectly just, that the old popular ballads ought to be read and liked; at the same time he pushed his praise to a rather wild extreme, and he made some comic comparisons between _chevy chase_ and virgil and homer. we know now that he was on the right track; he was riding the wave of the future. it will be sufficient here merely to allude to that well established topic of english literary history, the rise of the ballad during the eighteenth century--in _a collection of old ballads_ (1723-1725), in ramsay's _evergreen_ and _tea-table_, in percy's _reliques_, and in all the opinions, the critiques, the imitations, the modern ballads, and the forgeries of that era--in _henry and emma_, _colin and lucy_, and _hardyknute_, in gay, shenstone, and gray, in chatterton's rowley. all these in a sense testified to the influence of addison's essays. addison was often enough given honorable mention and quoted. on the other hand, neo-classic stalwart good sense and the canons of decorum did not collapse easily, and the cultivation of the ballads had, as we have suggested, a certain aspect of silliness. it is well known that addison's essays elicited the immediate objections of dennis. the spectator's "design is to see how far he can lead his reader by the nose." he wants "to put impotence and imbecility upon us for simplicity." later johnson in his _life of addison_ quoted dennis and added his own opinion of _chevy chase_: "the story cannot possibly be told in a manner that shall make less impression on the mind." it was fairly easy to parody the ballads themselves, or at least the ballad imitations, as johnson would demonstrate _ex tempore_. "i put my hat upon my head and walked into the strand, and there i met another man whose hat was in his hand." and it was just as easy to parody ballad criticism. the present volume is an anthology of two of the more deserving mock-criticisms which addison's effort either wholly or in part inspired. an anonymous satirical writer who was later identified, on somewhat uncertain authority, as the tory dr. william wagstaffe was very prompt in responding. his _comment upon the history of tom thumb_ appeared in 1711 perhaps within a week or two of the third guilty _spectator_ (june 7) and went into a second edition, "corrected," by august 18. an advertisement in the _post man_ of that day referred to yet a third "sham" edition, "full of errors."[3] the writer alludes to the author of the _spectators_ covertly ("we have had an _enterprising genius_ of late") and quotes all three of the ballad essays repeatedly. the choice of _tom thumb_ as the _corpus vile_ was perhaps suggested by swift's momentary "handling" of it in _a tale of a tub_.[4] the satirical method is broad and easy and scarcely requires comment. this is the attack which was supposed by addison's editor henry morley (_spectator_, 1883, i, 318) to have caused addison to "flinch" a little in his revision of the ballad essays. it is scarcely apparent that he did so. the last paragraph of the third essay, on the _children in the wood_, is a retort to some other and even prompter unfriendly critics--"little conceited wits of the age," with their "little images of ridicule." but addison is not the only target of "wagstaffe's" _comment_. "sir b-----b--------" and his "arthurs" are another, and "dr. b--tly" another. one of the most eloquent moments in the _comment_ occurs near the end in a paragraph on what the author conceives to be the follies of the historical method. the use of the slight vernacular poem to parody the bentleyan kind of classical scholarship was to be tried by addison himself in _spectator_ 470 (august 29, 1712) and had a french counterpart in the _chef d'oeuvre d'un inconnu_, 1714. a later example was executed by defoe's son-in-law henry baker in no. xix of his _universal spectator_, february 15, 1729.[5] and that year too provided the large-scale demonstration of the _dunciad variorum_. the very "matter" of tom thumb reappeared under the same light in fielding's _tragedy of tragedies or the life and death of tom thumb the great with the annotations of h. scriblerus secundus_, 1731. addison's criticism of the ballads was scarcely a legitimate object for this kind of attack, but augustan satire and parody were free and hospitable genres, always ready to entertain more than one kind of "bard and blockhead side by side."[6] no less a person than george canning (as a schoolboy) was the author of the second of the two parodies reproduced in the present volume. a group of precocious eton lads, canning, j. hookham frere, john smith, and robert (bobus) smith, during the years 1786-1787 produced forty octavo numbers of a weekly paper called _the microcosm_. they succeeded in exciting some interest among the literati,[7] were coming out in a "second edition" as early as the christmas vacation of 1786,[8] and in the end sold their copyright for fifty pounds to their publisher, charles knight of windsor.[9] canning wrote nos. xi and xii (february 12, 1787), a critique of the "epic poem" concerning "the reformation of the knave of hearts."[10] this essay in two parts, running for nearly as many pages as wagstaffe's archetypal pamphlet, is a much more systematic and theoretically ambitious effort than any predecessor. _the knave of hearts_ is praised for its _beginning_ (_in medias res_), its _middle_ (all "bustle and business"), and its _end_ (full of _poetical justice_ and superior _moral_). the earlier writers had directly labored the resemblance of the ballads to passages in homer and virgil. that method is now hardly invoked at all. criticism according to the epic rules of aristotle had been well enough illustrated by addison on _paradise lost_ (see especially _spectator_ 267) if not by addison on ballads. the decline of simple respect for the "practice and authority" of the ancient models during the neo-classic era, the general advance of something like reasoning in criticism, finds one of its quainter testimonials in the eton schoolboy's cleverness. he would show by definition and strict deduction that _the knave of hearts_ is a "_due and proper epic poem_," having as "good right to that title, from its adherence to prescribed rules, as any of the celebrated master-pieces of antiquity." the post-ramblerian date of the performance and a further if incidental aim of the satire--a facetious removal from the augustan coffeehouse conversation--can be here and there felt in a heavy roll of the periods, a doubling and redoubling of the abstractions.[11] the essay, nevertheless, shows sufficient continuity with the earlier tradition of parody ballad criticism--for it begins by alluding to the _spectator's_ critiques of shakespeare, milton, and _chevy chase_, and near the end of the first number slides into a remark that "one of the _scribleri_, a descendant of the famous _martinus_, has expressed his suspicions of the text being corrupted." a page or two of irony concerning the "plain and simple" opening of the poem seems to hark back to something more subtle in the augustans than the wagstaffian derision, no doubt to pope's victory over philips in a _guardian_ on pastorals. "there is no task more difficult to a poet, than that of _rejection_. ovid, among the ancients, and _dryden_, among the moderns, were perhaps the most remarkable for the want of it."[12] the interest of these little pieces is historical[13] in a fairly strict sense. their value is indirect, half accidental, a glancing revelation of ideas concerning simplicity, feeling, genius, the primitive, the historical which run steadily beneath all the ripples during the century that moves from "classic" to "romantic." not all of addison's parodists taken together muster as much fun, as such whimsical charm, as addison himself in a single paragraph such as the one on "accidental readings" which opens the _spectator_ on the _children in the wood_. but this passage, as it happens, requires only a slightly sophistical application to be taken as a cue to a useful attitude in our present reading. "i once met with a page of _mr. baxter_ under a christmas pye.... i might likewise mention a paper-kite, from which i have received great improvement." william k. wimsatt, jr. yale university notes to the introduction [footnote 1: the chief authorities for the history which i am summarizing are w. l. phelps, _the beginnings of the english romantic movement_, boston, 1893, chapter vii; e. k. broadus, "addison's influence on the development of interest in folk-poetry in the eighteenth century," _modern philology_, viii (july, 1910), 123-134; s. b. hustvedt, _ballad criticism in scandinavia and great britain during the eighteenth century_, new york, 1916.] [footnote 2: "addison's contribution to criticism," in r. f. jones _et al._, _the seventeenth century_ (stanford, 1951), p. 329.] [footnote 3: edward b. reed, "two notes on addison," _modern philology_, vi (october, 1908), 187. the attribution of _a comment upon tom thumb_ and other satirical pieces to the dr. william wagstaffe who died in 1725 as physician to st. bartholomew's hospital depends entirely upon the fact that a collection of such pieces was published, with an anonymous memoir, in 1726 under the title _miscellaneous works of dr. william wagstaffe_. charles dilke, _papers of a critic_ (london, 1875), i, 369-382. argues that not wagstaffe but swift was the author of some of the pieces in the volume. the case for wagstaffe is put by nicholas moore in a letter to _the athenaeum_, june 10, 1882 and in his article on wagstaffe in the _dnb_. paul v. thompson, "swift and the wagstaffe papers," _notes and queries_, 175 (1938), 79, supports the notion of wagstaffe as an understrapper of swift. the negative part of dilke's thesis is perhaps the more plausible. _a comment upon tom thumb_, as dilke himself confesses (_papers_, p. 377), scarcely sounds very much like swift.] [footnote 4: text, p. 6. the nursery rhyme _tom thumb, his life and death_, 1630, and the augmented _history of tom thumb_, c. 1670, are printed with introductory remarks by w. c. hazlitt, _remains of the early popular poetry of england_, ii (london, 1866), 166-250.] [footnote 5: cf. george r. potter, "henry baker, f.r.s. (1698-1774)," _modern philology_, xxix (1932), 305. nathan drake, _the gleaner_, i (london, 1811), 220 seems mistaken in his remark that baker's scriblerian commentary (upon the nursery rhyme "once i was a batchelor, and lived by myself") was the model for later mock-ballad-criticisms.] [footnote 6: for another early instance of our genre and a very pure one, see an anonymous cambridge correspondent's critique of the burlesque broadside ballad of "moor of moore-hall and the dragon of wantley," in nathaniel mist's _weekly journal_ (second series), september 2, 1721, reproduced by roger p. mccutcheon, "another burlesque of addison's ballad criticism," _studies in philology_, xxxiii (october, 1926), 451-456.] [footnote 7: _diary & letters of madame d'arblay_ (london, 1904-1905), iii, 121-122, 295: november 28, 1786; july 29, 1787; william roberts, _memoirs of the life and correspondence of mrs. hannah more_ (london, 1834), ii, 46, letter from w. w. pepys, december 31, 1786.] [footnote 8: advertisement inserted before no. i in a collected volume dated 1787 (yale 217. 304g).] [footnote 9: the source of the anecdote seems to be william jordan, _national portrait gallery_ (london, 1831), ii, 3, quoting a communication from charles knight the publisher, son of charles knight of windsor. the present reprint of nos. xi and xii of _the microcosm_ is from the "second" octavo collected edition, windsor, 1788. _the microcosm_ had reappeared at least seven times by 1835.] [footnote 10: iona and peter opie, _the oxford dictionary of nursery rhymes_ (oxford, 1951), are unable to find an earlier printed source for this rhyme than the _european magazine_, i (april, 1782), 252.] [footnote 11: no. xxxvi of _the microcosm_ is a letter from capel lofft defending the "middle style" of addison in contrast to the more modern johnsonian eloquence. robert bell, _the life of the rt. hon. george canning_ (london, 1846), pp. 48-54, in a helpful account of _the microcosm_, stresses its general fidelity to _spectator_ style and themes.] [footnote 12: canning's critique closes with an appendix of three and a half pages alluding to the eton shrovetide custom of writing latin verses, known as the "bacchus." see h. c. maxwell lyte, _a history of eton college_ (london, 1911), pp. 146-147.] [footnote 13: as late as the turn of the century the trick was still in a manner feasible. the anonymous author of _literary leisure, or the recreations of solomon saunter, esq._ (1799-1800) divides two numbers, viii and xv, between other affairs and a shandyesque argument about the nursery charm for the hiccup "peter piper picked a peck of pickled pepper." this author was most likely not byron's assailant hewson clarke (born 1787, author of _the saunterer in 1804_), as asserted in the _catalogue_ of the hope collection (oxford, 1865), p. 128. a historical interest may be not only retrospective but contemporary. the reader of the present volume will appreciate "how to criticize a poem (in the manner of certain contemporary poets)", a critique of the mnemonic rhyme "thirty days hath september," in the _new republic_, december 6, 1943.] * * * * * * * * * a comment upon the history of tom thumb. ----juvat immemorata ferentem ingenuis oculis[que] legi manibus[que] teneri._ hor. _london_, printed for _j. morphew_ near _stationers-hall_. 1711. price 3 _d._ a comment upon the history of _tom thumb_. it is a surprising thing that in an age so polite as this, in which we have such a number of poets, criticks and commentators, some of the best things that are extant in our language shou'd pass unobserv'd amidst a croud of inferiour productions, and lie so long buried as it were, among those that profess such a readiness to give life to every thing that is valuable. indeed we have had an enterprising genius of late, that has thought fit to disclose the beauties of some pieces to the world, that might have been otherwise indiscernable, and believ'd to have been trifling and insipid, for no other reason but their unpolish'd homeliness of dress. and if we were to apply our selves, instead of the classicks, to the study of ballads and other ingenious composures of that nature, in such periods of our lives, when we are arriv'd to a maturity of judgment, it is impossible to say what improvement might be made to wit in general, and the art of poetry in particular: and certainly our passions are describ'd in them so naturally, in such lively, tho' simple, colours, that how far they may fall short of the artfulness and embellishments of the _romans_ in their way of writing, _yet cannot fail to please all such readers as are not unqualify'd for the entertainment by their affectation or ignorance_. it was my good fortune some time ago to have the library of a school-boy committed to my charge, where, among other undiscover'd valuable authors, i pitch'd upon _tom thumb_ and _tom hickathrift_, authors indeed more proper to adorn the shelves of _bodley_ or the _vatican_, than to be confin'd to the retirement and obscurity of a private study. i have perus'd the first of these with an infinite pleasure, and a more than ordinary application, and have made some observations on it, which may not, i hope, prove unacceptable to the publick; and however it may have been ridicul'd, and look'd upon as an entertainment only for children, and those of younger years, may be found perhaps a performance not unworthy the perusal of the judicious, and the model superiour to either of those incomparable poems of _chevy chase_, or _the children in the wood_. the design was undoubtedly to recommend virtue, and to shew that however any one may labour under the disadvantages of stature or deformity, or the meanness of parentage, yet if his mind and actions are above the ordinary level, those very disadvantages that seem to depress him, shall add a lustre to his character. there are variety of incidents, dispers'd thro' the whole series of this historical poem, that give an agreeable delight and surprise, _and are such as *virgil* himself wou'd have touch'd upon, had the like story been told by that divine poet_, viz. his falling into the pudding-bowl and others; which shew the courage and constancy, the intrepidity and greatness of soul of this little hero, amidst the greatest dangers that cou'd possibly befall him, and which are the unavoidable attendants of human life. si fractus illabatur orbis, impavidum ferient ruinæ. the author of this was unquestionably a person of an universal genius, and if we consider that the age he wrote in, must be an age of the most profound ignorance, as appears from the second stanza of the first _canto_, he was a miracle of a man. i have consulted monsieur _le clerk_, and my friend dr. _b--ly_ concerning the chronology of this author, who both assure me, tho' neither can settle the matter exactly, that he is the most ancient of our poets, and 'tis very probable he was a _druid_, who, as _julius cæsar_ mentions in his _commentaries_, us'd to deliver their precepts in poetry and metre. the author of _the tale of a tub_, believes he was a _pythagorean_ philosopher, and held the _metempsichosis_; and others that he had read _ovid's metamorphosis_, and was the first person that ever found out the philosopher's stone. a certain antiquary of my acquaintance, who is willing to forget every thing he shou'd remember, tells me, he can scarcely believe him to be genuine, but if he is, he must have liv'd some time before the _barons_ wars; which he proves, as he does the establishment of religion in this nation, upon the credit of an old monument. there is another matter which deserves to be clear'd, whether this is a fiction, or whether there was really such a person as _tom thumb_. as to this, my friends tell me, 'twas matter of fact, and that 'twas an unpardonable omission in a certain author never once to mention him in his _arthur_'s, when nothing is more certain than that he was the greatest favourite of that prince, and a person who had perform'd some very eminent services for his country. and indeed i can't excuse his taking no notice of our poet who has afforded him such helps, and to whom he is so much oblig'd for the model of those productions: besides it had been but a debt of gratitude, as sir _r---b----_ was a member of the faculty, to have made honourable mention of him who has spoke so honourably of the profession, on the account of the sickness of his hero. i have an old edition of this author by me, the title of which is more sonorous and heroical, than those of later date, which for the better information of the reader, it may not be improper to insert in this place. _*tom thumb* his life and death, wherein is declar'd his many marvellous acts of manhood, full of wonder and strange merriment_: then he adds, _which little knight liv'd in king *arthur*'s time in the court of *great britain*_. indeed there are so many spurious editions of this piece upon one account or other, that i wou'd advise my readers to be very cautious in their choice, and it would be very wisely done, if they wou'd consult the curious _ælianus_ concerning this matter, who has the choicest collection of any man in _england_, and understands the most correct editions of books of this nature. i have took a great deal of pains to set these matters of importance in as clear a light as we criticks generally do, and shall begin with the first _canto_, which treats of our hero's birth and parentage, and education, with some other circumstances which you'll find are carry'd on in a manner not very inelegant, _and cannot fail to please those who are not judges of language, or those who notwithstanding they are judges of language, have a genuine and unprejudic'd tast of nature_. in _arthur's_ court _tom thumb_ did live; a man of mickle might, the best of all the table round, and eke a doubty knight, in stature but an inch in height, or quarter of a span; then think you not this worthy knight was prov'd a valiant man. this beginning is agreeable to the best of the greek and latin poets; _homer_ and _virgil_ give an idea of the whole poem in a few of the first lines, and here our author draws the character of his hero, and shews what you may expect from a person so well qualify'd for the greatest undertakings. in the description of him, which is very fine, he insinuates, that tho' perhaps his person may appear despicable and little, yet you'll find him an hero of the most consummate bravery and conduct, and is almost the same account _statius_ gives of _tydeus_. --------totos infusa per artus, major in exiguo regnabat corpore virtus. if any suppose the notion of such an hero improbable, they'll find the character _virgil_ gives _camilla_ to be as far stretch'd: illa vel intactæ segetis per summa volaret gramina, nec teneras cursu læsisset aristas: vel mare per medium, fluctu suspensa tumenti ferret iter: celeres nec tingeret æquore plantas. but to proceed, his father was a plowman plain, his mother milk'd the cow, and yet a way to get a son this couple knew not how, until such time the good old man to learned _merlin_ goes, and there to him in deep distress in secret manner shows, how in his heart he wish'd to have, a child in time to come, to be his heir, tho' it might be no bigger than his thumb. of which old _merlin_ was foretold, that he his wish should have, and so a son of stature small the charmer to him gave. there is nothing more common throughout the poets of the finest taste, than to give an account of the pedigree of their hero. so _virgil_, ----æneas quem dardanio anchisæ alma venus phrygii genuit simoentis ad undas. and the manner of the countryman's going to consult _merlin_, is like that of _æneas_'s approaching the oracle of _delphos_. ----egressi veneramur apollinis urbem. and how naturally and poetically does he describe the modesty of the man, who wou'd be content, if _merlin_ wou'd grant him his request, with a son no bigger than his thumb. the two next stanza's carry on the idea with a great deal of probability and consistence; and to convince the world that he was born to be something more than man, he produces a miracle to bring him into it. begot, and born in half an hour, to fit his father's will. the following stanza continues the miracle, and brings the _fairy queen_ and her subjects, who gives him his name, and makes him a present of his apparel. whereas she cloath'd him fine and brave, in garments richly fair, the which did serve him many years in seemly sort to wear. so _virgil_ of queen _dido_'s present to _ascanius_: hoc juvenem egregium præstanti munere donat. and again, --------quem candida dido esse sui dederat monumentum & pignus amoris. the description of his dress is very agreeable, and is not unlike what i have met with somewhere of a giant going a fishing, with an account of his implements equal to his proportion. his hat made of an oaken leaf, his shirt a spider's web, both light and soft for these his limbs that were so smally bred. his hose and doublet thistle down, together weav'd full fine; his stockings of an apple green, made of the outward rind; his garters were two little hairs pluck'd from his mothers eye; his shooes made of a mouse's skin, and tann'd most curiously. the next stanza's relate his diversions, bearing some analogy to those of _ascanius_ and other lads in _virgil_: thus like a valiant gallant he adventures forth to go, with other children in the street, his pretty tricks to show. una acies juvenum ducit quam parvus ovantem nomen avi referens priamus. there is a piece of revenge our little hero took upon a play-fellow, which proves, to what an height mechanical and experimental philosophy was arriv'd to in that age, and may be worth while to be considered by the _royal society_. of whom to be reveng'd, he took in mirth and pleasant game, black pots and glasses, which he hung upon a bright sun-beam. the third line is a demonstration of the antiquity of drinking out of black-pots, which still prevails in most counties of this nation, among the justices of peace at their petty and quarter sessions. the last four lines of this canto, and the beginning of the next, contain the miraculous adventure of the pudding-bowl: and, by the by, we may observe, that it was the custom of the _christians_ at that time, to make hog-puddings instead of minc'd-pies at _christmas_; a laudable custom very probably brought up to distinguish 'em more particularly from the _jews_. whereas about a _christmas_ time, his father an hog had kill'd, and _tom_ to see the pudding made, fear that it should be spill'd; he sat, the candle for to light, upon the pudding-bowl: of which there is unto this day a pretty pastime told: for _tom_ fell in---perhaps some may think it below our hero to stoop to such a mean employment as the poet has here enjoyn'd him, of holding the candle, and that it looks too much like a _citizen_, or a _cot_, as the women call it: but if we reflect on the obedience due to parents, as our author undoubtedly did, and the necessities those people labour'd under, we cannot but admire at his ready compliance with what could by no means be agreeable to the heroical bent of his inclinations, and perceive what a tender regard he had for the wellfare of his family, when he took the strictest care imaginable for the preservation of the hog-pudding. and what can be more remarkable? what can raise the sentiments of pity and compassion to an higher pitch, than to see an hero fall into such an unforeseen disaster in the honourable execution of his office? _this certainly is conformable to the way of thinking among the ancient poets, and what a good-natur'd reader cannot but be affected with._ the following part of this canto is the relation of our hero's being put into a pudding, and convey'd away in a tinker's budget; which is design'd by our author to prove, if it is understood literally, that the greatest men are subject to misfortunes. but it is thought by dr. _b--tly_ to be all mythology, and to contain the doctrine of the transmutation of metals, and is design'd to shew, that all matter is the same, tho' very differently modified. he tells me, he intends to publish a distinct treatise of this canto; and i don't question, but he'll manage the dispute with the same learning, conduct, and good manners, he has done others, and as dr. _salmon_ uses in his corrections of dr. _sydenham_ and the _dispensatory_. the next canto is the story of _tom thumb_'s being swallow'd by a cow, and his deliverance out of her, which is treated of at large by _giordano bruno_ in his _spaccio de la bestia trionfante_; which book, tho' very scarce, yet a _certain gentleman_, who has it in his possession, has been so obliging as to let every body know where to meet with it. after this, you find him carried off by a raven, and swallow'd by a giant; and 'tis almost the same story as that of _ganimede_, and the eagle in _ovid_. now by a raven of great strength, away poor _tom_ was born. nec mora: percusso mendacibus aere pennis abripit iliaden. a certain great _critick_ and _schoolmaster_ who has publish'd such notes upon _horace_ as were never seen before, is of opinion, and has very good authority for what he says, that 'twas rather an owl than a raven; for, as he observes with a wonderful deal of penetration and sagacity, our hero's shoes were made of a mouse's skin which might induce the owl to run away with him. the giant, he owns, looks very probable, because we find 'em swallowing people very fast in almost all romances. this canto concludes with our hero's arrival at court; after he had spent a considerable part of his youth in labours and fatigues, had been inur'd to nothing else but hardships and adventures, we see him receive the recompence of his merit, and become the favourite of his prince: and here we may perceive all the fineness of the gentleman, mixt with all the resolution and courage of the warriour; we may behold him as ready to oblige the ladies with a dance, as he was to draw his sword in their defence. amongst the deeds of courtship done, his highness did command, that he shou'd dance a galliard brave upon the queen's left hand. the which he did---this shews he had all the accomplishments of _achilles_ who was undoubtedly one of the best dancers in the age he liv'd, according to the character _homer_ gives him so frequently of the agility of his feet. i have consulted a master of the profession of dancing, who is excellently vers'd in the chronology of all dances, he tells me that this _galliard_ came into vogue about the latter end of the reign of _uter pendragon_, and continu'd during that of king _arthur_, which is demonstration to me that our poet liv'd about that age. it is asserted very positively in the later editions of this poem, that the four following lines are a relation of the king and _tom thumb_'s going together an hunting, but i have took indefatigable pains to consult all the _manuscripts_ in _europe_ concerning this matter, and i find it an _interpolation_. i have also an _arabick copy_ by me, which i got a _friend_ to translate, being unacquainted with the language, and it is plain by the translation that 'tis there also _interpolated_. now after that the king wou'd not abroad for pleasure go, but still _tom thumb_ must go with him plac'd on his saddle bow. ----ipse uno graditur comitatus achate. there is scarcely any scene more moving than this that follows, and is _such an one as wou'd have shined in *homer* or *virgil*_. when he was favour'd with his prince's ear, and might have ask'd the most profitable and important posts in the government, and been indemnified if guilty of a _peculatus_; he only used his interest to relieve the necessities of his parents, when another _person_ wou'd have scarcely own'd 'em for his _relations_. this discovers such a generosity of soul, such an humility in the greatest prosperity, such a tender affection for his parents, as is hardly to be met with, but in our author. and being near his highness heart he crav'd a wealthy boon, a noble gift, the which the king commanded to be done; to relieve his father's wants, and mother being old. the rest of this canto relates the visit to his father, in which there is something very soft and tender, something _that may move the mind of the most polite reader, with the inward meltings of humanity and compassion_. the next canto of the tilts and tournaments, is much like the fifth book of _virgil_, and tho' we can't suppose our poet ever saw that author, yet we may believe he was directed to almost the same passages, _by the same kind of poetical genius, and the same copyings after nature_. now he with tilts and tournaments, was entertained so, that all the rest of _arthur_'s knights did him much pleasure show; and good sir _lancelot_ of _lake_, sir _tristram_, and sir _guy_; but none like to _tom thumb_ for acts of chivalry. longeque ante omnia corpora nisus emicat---and agen, post elymus subit, & nunc tertia palma diores. in honour of which noble day, and for his lady's sake, a challenge in king _arthur_'s court, _tom thumb_ did bravely make. talis prima dares caput altum in prælia tollit, ostendit[que] humeros latos, alterna[que] iactat brachia portendens, & verberat ictibus auras, quæritur huic alius:--- 'gainst whom those noble knights did run, sir _chion_ and the rest, but, still _tom thumb_ with all his might did bear away the best. et primum ante omnes victorem appellat acesten. at the same time our poet shews a laudable partiality for his hero, he represents sir _lancelot_ after a manner not unbecoming so bold and brave a knight. at last sir _lancelot_ of _lake_, in manly sort came in, and with this stout and hardy knight a battle to begin. huic contra æneas, speculatus in agmine longo obvius ire parat--- which made the courtiers all aghast. obstupuere animi---this canto concludes with the presents made by the king to the champion according to the custom of the _greeks_ and _romans_ in such cases; only his tumbling thro' the queen's ring is observable, and may serve to give some light into the original of that ingenious exercise so much practis'd by the moderns, of tumbling thro' an hoop. the last canto treats of the champion's sickness and death, and whoever considers the beauty, regularity and majestic simplicity of the relation, cannot but be surpris'd at the advances that may be made in poetry by the strength of an uncultivated genius, and may see how far nature can proceed without the ornamental helps and assistances of art. the poet don't attribute his sickness to a debauch, to the irregularity or intemperance of his life, but to an exercise becoming an hero; and tho' he dies quietly in his bed, he may be said in some measure to die in the bed of honour. and to shew the great affection the king had for him, he sends for his physicians, and orders all the care imaginable to be taken for the conservation of his life. he being slender and tall, this cunning doctor took a fine perspective glass, with which, he did in secret look. it is a wonder that the learned world shou'd differ so in their opinions concerning the invention and antiquity of optic glasses, and that any one should contend for _metius_ of _alcmaer_, or, as dr. _plot_ does, for _fryar bacon_, when, if this author had been consulted, matters might have been so easily adjusted. some great men indeed wou'd prove from hence, our knight was the inventor of 'em, that his valet might the more commodiously see to dress him; but if we consider there were no beau's in that age, or reflect more maturely on the epithet here given to the doctor, we may readily conclude, that the honour of this invention belongs more particularly to that ingenious profession. how lovely is the account of the departure of his soul from his body: and so with peace and quietness he left the world below. placida[que] demum ibi morte quievit. and up into the fairy land his soul did fleeting go. ----at æthereas repetit mens ignea sedes. whereas the fairy queen receiv'd with happy mourning cheer the body of this valiant knight, whom she esteem'd so dear; for with her dancing nymphs in green she fetch'd him from his bed, with musick and with melody, as soon as life was fled. ----et fotum gremio dea tollit in altos idaliæ lucos---so one of our modern poets; thither the fairys and their train resort, and leave their revels, and their midnight sport. we find in all the most celebrated poets some goddess that takes upon her to be the peculiar guardian of the hero, which has been carry'd on very elegantly in this author. but agen; for whom king _arthur_ and his knights, full forty days did mourn, and in remembrance of his name, who was so strangely born, he built a tomb of marble grey, and year by year did come, to celebrate the mournful day, and burial of _tom thumb_, whose fame lives here in _england_ still, among the country sort, of whom their wives and children small, tell tales of pleasant sport. so _ovid_; ----luctus monumenta manebunt semper adoni mei, repetita[que] mortis imago annua plangoris peragit simulamina nostri. nor is this conclusion unlike one of the best latin poems this age has produc'd. tu taffi æternum vives, tua munera cambri nunc etiam celebrant, quoties[que] revolvitur annus te memorant, patrium gens tota tuetur honorem, et cingunt viridi redolentia tempora porro. and now, tho' i am very well satisfied with this performance, yet, according to the usual modesty of us authors, i am oblig'd to tell the world, _it will be a great satisfaction to me, knowing my own insufficiency_, if i have given but some hints of the beauties of this poem, which are capable of being improv'd by those of greater learning and abilities. and i am glad to find by a letter i have receiv'd from one of the _literati_ in _holland_, that the learned _huffius_, a great man of our nation, is about the translation of this piece into _latin_ verse, which he assures me will be done with a great deal of judgment, in case he has enough of that language to furnish out the undertaking. i am very well appris'd, that there has been publish'd two poems lately, intituled, the second and third parts of this author; which treat of our little hero's rising from the dead in the days of king _edgar_: but i am inform'd by my friend the _schoolmaster_, and others, that they were compos'd by an enthusiast in the last century, and have been since printed for the establishment of the doctrine of monsieur _marion_ and his followers, and the resurrection of dr. _ems_. i hope no body will be offended at my asserting things so positively, since 'tis the priviledge of us _commentators_, who understand the meaning of an author seventeen hundred years after he has wrote, much better than ever he cou'd be suppos'd to do himself. and certainly, a critick ought not only to know what his authors thoughts were when he was writing such and such passages, but how those thoughts came into his head, where he was when he wrote, or what he was doing of; whether he wrote in a garden, a garret, or a coach; upon a lady, or a milkmaid; whether at that time he was scratching his elbow, drinking a bottle, or playing at questions and commands. these are material and important circumstances so well known to the _true commentator_, that were _virgil_ and _horace_ to revisit the world at this time, they'd be wonderfully surpris'd to see the minutest of their perfections discover'd by the assistances of _modern criticism_. nor have the classicks only reap'd benefit from inquiries of this nature, but divinity it self seems to be render'd more intelligible. i know a divine, who understands what st. _paul_ meant by _higher powers_, much better than that apostle cou'd pretend to do; and another, that can unfold all the mysteries of the _revelations_ without spectacles. i know there are some people that cast an odium on me, and others, for pointing out the beauties of such authors, as have, they say, been hitherto unknown, and argue, that 'tis a sort of heresie in wit, and is like the fruitless endeavours of proving the apostolical constitutions _genuine_, that have been indisputably _spurious_ for so many ages: but let these gentlemen consider, whether they pass not the same judgment on an author, as a woman does on a man, by the gayety of his dress, or the gaudy equipage of his epithets. and however they may call me _second-sighted_, for discerning what they are blind to, i must tell them this poem has not been altogether so obscure, but that the most refin'd _writers_ of this age have been delighted with the reading it. mr. _tho. d'urfey_, i am told, is an admirer, and mr. _john dunton_ has been heard to say, more than once, he had rather be the author of it than all his works. how often, _says my author_, have i seen the tears trickle down the face of the polite _woodwardius_ upon reading some of the most pathetical encounters of _tom thumb_! how soft, how musically sorrowful was his voice! how good natur'd, how gentle, how unaffected was the ceremoniale of his gesture, and how unfit for a profession so merciless and inhumane! i was persuaded by a friend to write some copies of verses and place 'em in the frontispiece of this poem, in commendation of my self and my _comment_, suppos'd to be compos'd by _ag. ft. lm. rw._ and so forth. _to their very worthy and honour'd friend_ c. d. upon his admirable and useful _comment_ on the history of _tom thumb_; but my bookseller told me the trick was so common, 'twou'd not answer. then i propos'd a dedication to my lord _such an one_, or sir _thomas such an one_; but he told me the stock to be rais'd on dedications was so small now a days, and the discount to my lord's gentleman, _&c._ so high, that 'twou'd not be worth while; besides, says he, it is the opinion of some patrons, that a dinner now and then, with, _sir, i shall expect to see you sometimes_, is a suitable reward for a publick compliment in print. but if, continues my bookseller, you have a mind it shou'd turn to advantage, write treason or heresy, get censur'd by the parliament or convocation, and condemn'd to be burnt by the hands of the common hangman, and you can't fail having a multitude of readers, by the same reason, _a notorious rogue has such a number of followers to the gallows_. _finis._ * * * * * * * * * [illustration] the microcosm. by gregory griffin. no. xi. of the microcosm. monday, _february_ 12, 1787. res gestæ regumque, ducumque, et tristia bella, _quo scribi possint numero, monstravit homerus_.--hor. by homer taught, the modern poet sings, _in epic strains, of heroes, wars, and kings_.--francis. there are certain forms and etiquettes in life, which, though the neglect of them does not amount to the commission of a crime, or the violation of a duty, are yet so established by example, and sanctioned by custom, as to pass into statutes, equally acknowledged by society, and almost equally binding to individuals, with the laws of the land, or the precepts of morality. a man guilty of breaking these, though he cannot be transported for a felon, or indicted for treasonable practices, is yet, in the high court of custom, branded as a flagrant offender against decorum, as notorious for an unprecedented infringement on propriety. there is no race of men on whom these laws are more severe than authors; and no species of authors more subject to them, than periodical essayists. _homer_ having prescribed the form, or to use a more modern phrase, _set the fashion_ of _epic poems_, whoever presumes to deviate from his plan, must not hope to participate his dignity: and whatever method, _the spectator_, _the guardian_, and others, who first adopted this species of writing, have pursued in their undertaking, is set down as a rule for the conduct of their followers; which, whoever is bold enough to transgress, is accused of a deviation from the original design, and a breach of established regulation. it has hitherto been customary for all periodical writers, to take some opportunity, in the course of their labours, to display their critical abilities, either by making observations on some popular author, and work of known character, or by bringing forth the performances of hidden merit, and throwing light on genius in obscurity. to the critiques of _the spectator_, _shakespear_, and more particularly, _milton_, are indebted, for no inconsiderable share of the reputation, which they now so universally enjoy; and by his means were the ruder graces, and more simple beauties of _chevy chace_ held up to public view, and recommended to general admiration. i should probably be accused of swerving from the imitation of so great an example, were not i to take occasion to shew that i too am not entirely destitute of abilities of this kind; but that by possessing a decent share of critical discernment, and critical jargon, i am capable of becoming a very tolerable commentator. for the proof of which, i shall rather prefer calling the attention of my readers to an object as yet untreated of by any of my immediate predecessors, than venture to throw in my observations on any work which has before passed the ordeal of frequent examination. and this i shall do for two reasons; partly, because were i to choose a field, how fertile soever, of which many others had before me been reaping the fruits, mine would be at best but the gleanings of criticism; and partly, from a more interested view, from a selfish desire of accumulated praise; since, by making a work, as yet almost wholly unknown, the subject of my consideration, i shall acquire the reputation of taste, as well as judgement;--of judiciousness in selection, as well as justness in observation;--of propriety in choosing the object, as well as skill in using the language, of commentary. the _epic poem_ on which i shall ground my present critique, has for its chief characteristics, brevity and simplicity. the author,--whose name i lament that i am, in some degree, prevented from consecrating to immortal fame, by not knowing what it is--the author, i say, has not branched his poem into excressences of episode, or prolixities of digression; it is neither variegated with diversity of unmeaning similitudes, nor glaring with the varnish of unnatural metaphor. the whole is plain and uniform; so much so indeed, that i should hardly be surprised, if some morose readers were to conjecture, that the poet had been thus simple rather from necessity than choice; that he had been restrained not so much by chastity of judgement, as sterility of imagination. nay, some there may be perhaps, who will dispute his claim to the title of an _epic poet_; and will endeavour to degrade him even to the rank of a _ballad-monger_. but i, as his commentator, will contend for the dignity of my author; and will plainly demonstrate his poem to be an _epic poem_, agreeable to the example of all poets, and the consent of all critics heretofore. first, it is universally agreed, that an _epic poem_ should have three component parts, _a beginning_, _a middle_, and _an end_;--secondly, it is allowed, that it should have one _grand action_, or _main design_, to the forwarding of which, all the parts of it should directly or indirectly tend; and that this design should be in some measure consonant with, and conducive to, the purposes of _morality_;--and thirdly, it is indisputably settled, that it should have _a hero_. i trust that in none of these points the poem before us will be found deficient. there are other inferior properties, which i shall consider in due order. not to keep my readers longer in suspense, the subject of the poem is "_the reformation of the knave of hearts_." it is not improbable, that some may object to me that a _knave_ is an unworthy hero for an epic poem; that a hero ought to be all that is great and good. the objection is frivolous. the greatest work of this kind that the world has ever produced, has "_the devil_" for its hero; and supported as my author is by so great a precedent, i contend, that his hero is a very decent hero; and especially as he has the advantage of _milton_'s, by reforming at the end, is evidently entitled to a competent share of celebrity. i shall now proceed in the more immediate examination of the poem in its different parts. the _beginning_, say the critics, ought to be plain and simple; neither embellished with the flowers of poetry, nor turgid with pomposity of diction. in this how exactly does our author conform to the established opinion! he begins thus, "the queen of hearts "she made some tarts"-can any thing be more clear! more natural! more agreeable to the true spirit of simplicity! here are no tropes,--no figurative expressions,--not even so much as an invocation to the muse. he does not detain his readers by any needless circumlocution; by unnecessarily informing them, what he _is_ going to sing; or still more unnecessarily enumerating what he _is not_ going to sing: but according to the precept of horace, ----in medias res, non secus ac notas, auditorem rapit,---that is, he at once introduces us, and sets us on the most easy and familiar footing imaginable, with her majesty of hearts, and interests us deeply in her domestic concerns. but to proceed, "the queen of hearts "she made some tarts, "all on a summer's day." here indeed the prospect brightens, and we are led to expect some liveliness of imagery, some warmth of poetical colouring;--but here is no such thing.--there is no task more difficult to a poet, than that of _rejection_. _ovid_, among the ancients, and _dryden_, among the moderns, were perhaps the most remarkable for the want of it. the latter from the haste in which he generally produced his compositions, seldom paid much attention to the "_limæ labor_," "the labour of correction," and seldom therefore rejected the assistance of any idea that presented itself. _ovid_, not content with catching the leading features of any scene or character, indulged himself in a thousand minutiæ of description, a thousand puerile prettinesses, which were in themselves uninteresting, and took off greatly from the effect of the whole; as the numberless suckers, and straggling branches of a fruit tree, if permitted to shoot out unrestrained, while they are themselves barren and useless, diminish considerably the vigour of the parent stock. _ovid_ had more genius, but less judgement than _virgil_; _dryden_ more imagination, but less correctness than _pope_; had they not been deficient in these points, the former would certainly have equalled, the latter infinitely outshone the merits of his countryman.--_our author_ was undoubtedly possessed of that power which they wanted; and was cautious not to indulge too far the sallies of a lively imagination. omitting therefore any mention of--sultry sirius,--silvan shade,--sequestered glade,--verdant hills,--purling rills,--mossy mountains,--gurgling fountains,--&c. &c.--he simply tells us that it was "_all on a summers day_." for my own part, i confess, that i find myself rather flattered than disappointed; and consider the poet as rather paying a compliment to the abilities of his readers, than baulking their expectations. it is certainly a great pleasure to see a picture well painted; but it is a much greater to paint it well oneself. this therefore i look upon as a stroke of excellent management in the poet. here every reader is at liberty to gratify his own taste; to design for himself just what sort of "_summer's day_" he likes best; to choose his own scenery; dispose his lights and shades as he pleases; to solace himself with a rivulet or a horse-pond,--a shower, or a sun-beam,--a grove, or a kitchen garden,--according to his fancy. how much more considerate this, than if the poet had, from an affected accuracy of description, thrown us into an unmannerly perspiration by the heat of the atmosphere; forced us into a landscape of his own planning, with perhaps a paltry good-for-nothing zephyr or two, and a limited quantity of wood and water.--all this _ovid_ would undoubtedly have done. nay, to use the expression of a learned brother-commentator, "_quovis pignore decertem_" "i would lay any wager," that he would have gone so far as to tell us what the tarts were made of; and perhaps wandered into an episode on the art of preserving cherries. but _our poet_, above such considerations, leaves every reader to choose his own ingredients, and sweeten them to his own liking; wisely foreseeing, no doubt, that the more palatable each had rendered them to his own taste, the more he would be affected at their approaching loss. "all on a summer's day." i cannot leave this line without remarking, that one of the _scribleri_, a descendant of the famous _martinus_, has expressed his suspicions of the text being corrupted here, and proposes, instead of "_all on_" reading "_alone_," alledging, in favour of this alteration, the effect of solitude in raising the passions. but _hiccius doctius_, a high dutch commentator, one nevertheless well versed in british literature, in a note of his usual length and learning, has confuted the arguments of _scriblerus_. in support of the present reading, he quotes a passage from a poem written about the same period with our author's, by the celebrated _johannes pastor_[*], intituled "_an elegiac epistle to the turnkey of newgate_," wherein the gentleman declares, that rather indeed in compliance with an old custom, than to gratify any particular will of his own, he is going --------"all hanged for to be "upon that fatal tyburn tree."--- [footnote *: more commonly known, i believe, by the appellation of "_jack shepherd_."] now as nothing throws greater light on an author, than the concurrence of a contemporary writer, i am inclined to be of _hiccius's_ opinion, and to consider the "_all_" as an elegant expletive, or, as he more aptly phrases it "_elegans expletivum_." the passage therefore must stand thus, "the queen of hearts "she made some tarts, "all on a summer's day." and thus ends the first part, or _beginning_; which is simple and unembellished; opens the subject in a natural and easy manner; excites, but does not too far gratify our curiosity: for a reader of accurate observation may easily discover, that the _hero_ of the poem has not, as yet, made his appearance. i could not continue my examination at present through the whole of this poem, without far exceeding the limits of a single paper. i have therefore divided it into two; but shall not delay the publication of the second to another week,--as that, besides breaking the connection of criticism, would materially injure the _unities_ of the poem. no. xii. of the microcosm. monday, _february 12, 1787_. --------servetur ad imum, qualis ab incepto processerit, et sibi constet. horace. from his first entrance to the closing scene, let him one equal character maintain. francis. having thus gone through the first part, or _beginning_ of the poem, we may naturally enough proceed to the consideration of the second. the second part, or _middle_, is the proper place for bustle and business; for incident and adventure. "the knave of hearts "he stole those tarts." here attention is awakened; and our whole souls are intent upon the first appearance of the hero. some readers may perhaps be offended at his making his _entré_ in so disadvantageous a character as that of a _thief_. to this i plead precedent. the hero of the iliad, as i observed in a former paper, is made to lament very pathetically,--that "life is not like all other possessions, to be acquired by theft."--a reflection, in my opinion, evidently shewing, that, if he _did_ refrain from the practice of this ingenious art, it was not from want of an inclination that way. we may remember too, that in _virgil's_ poem, almost the first light in which the _pious æneas_ appears to us, is a _deer-stealer_; nor is it much excuse for him, that the deer were wandering without keepers; for however he might, from this circumstance, have been unable to ascertain whose property they were; he might, i think, have been pretty well assured that they were not _his_. having thus acquitted our hero of misconduct, by the example of his betters, i proceed to what i think the master-stroke of the poet. "the knave of hearts "he stole those tarts, "and----took them----quite away!!" here, whoever has an ear for harmony, and a heart for feeling, must be touched! there is a desponding melancholy in the run of the last line! an air of tender regret in the addition of "_quite away!_" a something so expressive of irrecoverable loss! so forcibly intimating the "_ah nunquam reditura!_" "they never can return!" in short, such an union of sound and sense, as we rarely, if ever meet with in any author, ancient or modern. our feelings are all alive--but the poet, wisely dreading that our sympathy with the injured queen might alienate our affections from his hero, contrives immediately to awaken our fears for him, by telling us, that "the king of hearts "call'd for those tarts,"-we are all conscious of the fault of our hero, and all tremble with him, for the punishment which the enraged monarch may inflict; "and beat the knave--full sore!" the fatal blow is struck! we cannot but rejoice that guilt is justly punished, though we sympathize with the guilty object of punishment. here _scriblerus_, who, by the bye, is very fond of making unnecessary alterations, proposes reading "_score_" instead of "_sore_," meaning thereby to particularize, that the beating bestowed by this monarch, consisted of _twenty_ stripes. but this proceeds from his ignorance of the genius of our language, which does not admit of such an expression as "_full score_," but would require the insertion of the particle "_a_," which cannot be, on account of the metre. and this is another great artifice of the poet: by leaving the quantity of beating indeterminate, he gives every reader the liberty to administer it, in exact proportion to the sum of indignation which he may have conceived against his hero; that by thus amply satisfying their resentment, they may be the more easily reconciled to him afterwards. "the king of hearts "call'd for those tarts, "and beat the knave full sore!" here ends the second part, or _middle_ of the poem; in which we see the character, and exploits of the hero, pourtrayed with the hand of a master. nothing now remains to be examined, but the third part, or _end_. in the _end_, it is a rule pretty well established, that the work should draw towards a conclusion, which our author manages thus. "the knave of hearts "brought back those tarts." here every thing is at length settled; the theft is compensated; the tarts restored to their right owner; and _poetical justice_, in every respect, strictly, and impartially administered. we may observe, that there is nothing in which our poet has better succeeded, than in keeping up an unremitted attention in his readers to the main instruments, the machinery of his poem, viz. the _tarts_; insomuch, that the aforementioned _scriblerus_ has sagely observed, that "he can't tell, but he doesn't know, but the tarts may be reckoned the heroes of the poem." _scriblerus_, though a man of learning, and frequently right in his opinion, has here certainly hazarded a rash conjecture. his arguments are overthrown entirely by his great opponent, _hiccius_, who concludes, by triumphantly asking, "had the tarts been eaten, how could the poet have compensated for the loss of his heroes?" we are now come to the _denouèment_, the setting all to rights: and our poet, in the management of his _moral_, is certainly superior to his great ancient predecessors. the moral of their fables, if any they have, is so interwoven with the main body of their work, that in endeavouring to unravel it, we should tear the whole. _our author_ has very properly preserved his whole and entire for the _end_ of his poem, where he completes his _main design_, the _reformation_ of his hero, thus, "and vow'd he'd steal no more." having in the course of his work, shewn the bad effects arising from theft, he evidently means this last moral reflection, to operate with his readers as a gentle and polite dissuasive from stealing. "the knave of hearts "brought back those tarts, "and vow'd he'd steal no more!" thus have i industriously gone through the several parts of this wonderful work; and clearly proved it, in every one of these parts, and in all of them together, to be a _due and proper epic poem_; and to have as good a right to that title, from its adherence to prescribed rules, as any of the celebrated master-pieces of antiquity. and here i cannot help again lamenting, that, by not knowing the name of the author, i am unable to twine our laurels together; and to transmit to posterity the mingled praises of genius, and judgment; of the poet, and his commentator. having some space left in this paper, i will now, with the permission of my readers of the _great world_, address myself more particularly to my fellow-citizens. to them, the essay which i have here presented, will, i flatter myself, be peculiarly serviceable at this time; and i would earnestly recommend an attentive perusal of it, to all of them whose muses are engaged in compositions of the epic kind.--i am very much afraid that i may run into the error, which i have myself pointed out, of becoming too _local_,--but where it is evidently intended for the good of my fellow citizens, it may, i hope, be now and then pardonable. at the present juncture, as many have applied for my assistance, i cannot find in my heart to refuse it them. were i to attempt fully explaining, why, at the _present juncture_, i fear it would be vain. would it not seem incredible to the ladies, were i to tell them, that the period approaches, when upwards of a hundred _epic poems_ will be exposed to public view, most of them nearly of equal length, and many of them nearly of equal merit, with the one which i have here taken into consideration; illustrated moreover with elegant etchings, designed either as _hieroglyphical_ explanations of the subject, or as _practical puns_ on the name of the author?--and yet in truth so it is,--and on this subject i wish to give a word of advice to my countrymen. many of them have applied to me by letter, to assist them with designs for prefixing to their poems; and this i should very willingly have done, had those gentlemen been kind enough to subscribe their real names to their requests: whereas, all that i have received have been signed, _tom long_, _philosophus_, _philalethes_, and such like. i have therefore been prevented from affording them the assistance i wished; and cannot help wondering, that the gentlemen did not consider, that it was impossible for me to provide _typical references_ for feigned names; as, for ought i know, the person who signs himself _tom long_ may not be four feet high; _philosophus_ may be possessed of a considerable share of folly; and _philalethes_ may be as arrant a liar as any in the kingdom. it may not however be useless to offer some general reflections for all who may require them. it is not improbable, that, as the subject of their poems is the _restoration_, many of my fellow-citizens may choose to adorn their _title-pages_ with the representation of his majesty, charles the second, escaping the vigilance of his pursuers in the _royal oak_. there are some particularities generally observable in this picture, which i shall point out to them, lest they fall into similar errors. though i am as far as any other briton can be, from wishing to "curtail" his majesty's wig "of its fair proportion;" yet i have sometimes been apt to think it rather improper, to make the wig, as is usually done, of larger dimensions than the tree in which it and his majesty are concealed. it is a rule in logic, and i believe may hold good in most other sciences, that "_omne majus continet in se minus_," that "every thing larger can hold any thing that is less;" but i own, i never heard the contrary advanced or defended with any plausible arguments, viz. "that every little thing can hold one larger." i therefore humbly propose, that there should be at least an edge of foliage round the outskirts of the said wig; and that its curls should not exceed in number the leaves of the tree. there is also another practice almost equally prevalent, of which i am sceptic enough to doubt the propriety. i own, i cannot think it by any means conducive to the more effectual concealment of his majesty, that there should be three regal crowns stuck on three different branches of the tree. horace says indeed, --------pictoribus atque poetis, quidlibet audendi semper fuit æqua potestas. painters and poets our indulgence claim, _their daring equal, and their art the same._--fran. and this may be reckoned a very allowable _poetical licence_; inasmuch as it lets the spectator into the secret, _who is in the tree_. but it is apt to make him at the same time throw the accusation of negligence and want of penetration on the three dragoons, who are usually depicted on the foreground, cantering along very composedly, with serene countenances, erect persons, and drawn swords, very little longer than themselves. * * * * * * * * * publications of the augustan reprint society [transcriber's note: many of the listed titles are or will be available from project gutenberg. where possible, the e-text number is given in brackets.] *first year (1946-1947)* numbers 1-6 out of print. [titles: 1. richard blackmore's _essay upon wit_ (1716), and addison's _freeholder_ no. 45 (1716). [13484] 2. anon., _essay on wit_ (1748), together with characters by flecknoe, and joseph warton's _adventurer_ nos. 127 and 133. [14973] 3. anon., _letter to a. h. esq.; concerning the stage_ (1698), and richard willis' _occasional paper_ no. ix (1698). [14047] 4. samuel cobb's _of poetry_ and _discourse on criticism_ (1707). [14528] 5. samuel wesley's _epistle to a friend concerning poetry_ (1700) and _essay on heroic poetry_ (1693). [16506] 6. anon., _representation of the impiety and immorality of the stage_ (1704) and anon., _some thoughts concerning the stage_ (1704). [15656] ] *second year (1947-1948)* 7. john gay's _the present state of wit_ (1711); and a section on wit from _the english theophrastus_ (1702). [#14800] 8. rapin's _de carmine pastorali_, translated by creech (1684). [#14495] 9. t. hanmer's (?) _some remarks on the tragedy of hamlet_ (1736). [#14899] 10. corbyn morris' _essay towards fixing the true standards of wit, etc._ (1744). [#16233] 11. thomas purney's _discourse on the pastoral_ (1717). [#15313] 12. essays on the stage, selected, with an introduction by joseph wood krutch. [#16335] *third year (1948-1949)* 13. sir john falstaff (pseud.), _the theatre_ (1720). [#15999] 14. edward moore's _the gamester_ (1753). [#16267] 15. john oldmixon's _reflections on dr. swift's letter to harley_ (1712); and arthur mainwaring's _the british academy_ (1712). [in preparation] 16. nevil payne's _fatal jealousy_ (1673). [#16916] 17. nicholas rowe's _some account of the life of mr. william shakespeare_ (1709). [#16275] 18. "of genius," in _the occasional paper_, vol. iii, no. 10 (1719); and aaron hill's preface to _the creation_ (1720). [#15870] *fourth year (1949-1950)* 19. susanna centlivre's _the busie body_ (1709). [#16740] 20. lewis theobold's _preface to the works of shakespeare_ (1734). [#16346] 21. _critical remarks on sir charles grandison, clarissa, and pamela_ (1754). 22. samuel johnson's _the vanity of human wishes_ (1749) and two _rambler_ papers (1750). [#13350] 23. john dryden's _his majesties declaration defended_ (1681). [#15074] 24. pierre nicole's _an essay on true and apparent beauty in which from settled principles is rendered the grounds for choosing and rejecting epigrams_, translated by j. v. cunningham. *fifth year (1950-1951)* 25. thomas baker's _the fine lady's airs_ (1709). [#14467] 26. charles macklin's _the man of the world_ (1792). [#14463] 27. out of print. [frances reynolds' _an enquiry concerning the principles of taste, and of the origin of our ideas of beauty, etc._ (1785). [#13485] ] 28. john evelyn's _an apologie for the royal party_ (1659); and _a panegyric to charles the second_ (1661). [#17833] 29. daniel defoe's _a vindication of the press_ (1718). [#14084] 30. essays on taste from john gilbert cooper's _letters concerning taste_, 3rd edition (1757), & john armstrong's _miscellanies_ (1770). [#13464] *sixth year (1951-1952)* 31. thomas gray's _an elegy wrote in a country church yard_ (1751); and _the eton college manuscript_. [#15409] 32. prefaces to fiction; georges de scudéry's preface to _ibrahim_ (1674), etc. [#14525] 33. henry gally's _a critical essay_ on characteristic-writings (1725). [#16299] 34. thomas tyers' a biographical sketch of dr. samuel johnson (1785). 35. james roswell, andrew erskine, and george dempster. _critical strictures on the new tragedy of elvira, written by mr. david malloch_ (1763). [#15857] 36. joseph harris's _the city bride_ (1696). [in preparation] *seventh year (1952-1953)* 37. thomas morrison's _a pindarick ode on painting_ (1767). [in preparation] 38. john phillips' _a satyr against hypocrites_ (1655). 39. thomas warton's _a history of english poetry_. 40. edward bysshe's _the art of english poetry_ (1708). 41. bernard mandeville's "a letter to dion" (1732). 42. prefaces to four seventeenth-century romances. *eighth year (1953-1954)* 43. john baillie's _an essay on the sublime_ (1747). 44. mathias casimire sarbiewski's _the odes of casimire_, translated by g. hils (1646). 45. john robert scott's _dissertation on the progress of the fine arts._ 46. selections from seventeenth century songbooks. 47. contemporaries of the _tatler_ and _spectator_. 48. samuel richardson's introduction to _pamela_. *ninth year (1954-1955)* 49. two st. cecilia's day sermons (1696-1697). 50. hervey aston's _a sermon before the sons of the clergy_ (1745). 51. lewis maidwell's _an essay upon the necessity and excellency of education_ (1705). 52. pappity stampoy's _a collection of scotch proverbs_ (1663). [#7018] 53. urian oakes' _the soveriegn efficacy of divine providence_ (1682). 54. mary davys' _familiar letters betwixt a gentleman and a lady_ (1725). *tenth year (1955-1956)* 55. samuel say's _an essay on the harmony, variety, and power of numbers_ (1745). 56. _theologia ruris, sive schola & scala naturae_ (1686). 57. henry fielding's _shamela_ (1741). 58. eighteenth century book illustrations. 59. samuel johnson's _notes to shakespeare_. vol. i, comedies, part i. [#7780] 60. samuel johnson's _notes to shakespeare_. vol. i, comedies, part ii. [#7780] * * * * * * * * * * * * * * errors corrected by transcriber: the _spectator's_ critiques of shakespeare [not underlined in original] artfulness and embellishments of the _romans_ [text reads "embel/llishments" at line break] the first person that ever found out the philosopher's stone [text reads "that that"] but if, continues my bookseller [text reads "conti/tinues" at line break] _denouèment_ _accent unchanged (grave on second "e")_ every thing larger can hold any thing that is less [text reads "every think"] something else again _by_ franklin p. adams _author of_ "_by and large_," "_in other words_," "_tobogganing on parnassus_," "_weights and measures_," _etc._ [illustration] doubleday, page & company garden city new york london 1920 copyright, 1920. doubleday, page & company all rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign languages, including the scandinavian to montague glass acknowledgment the author wishes to thank the _new york tribune_, _life_, _harper's magazine_, _collier's weekly_, and _the home sector_, for their kind permission to include in this volume material which has appeared in their pages. contents page present imperative 3 the doughboy's horace 5 from: horace to: phyllis 7 advising chloë 8 to an aged cut-up i 9 ii 10 his monument 11 glycera rediviva! 12 on a wine of horace's 13 "what flavour?" 14 the stalling of q. h. f. 15 on the flight of time 16 the last laugh 17 again endorsing the lady i 19 ii 20 propertius's bid for immortality 21 a lament 23 bon voyage--and vice versa 24 fragment 25 on the uses of adversity 26 after hearing "robin hood" 27 maud muller mutatur 28 the carlyles 31 if amy lowell had been james whitcomb riley 35 if the advertising man had been gilbert 37 if the advertising man had been praed, or locker 39 georgie porgie 40 on first looking into bee palmer's shoulders 41 to a vers librist 43 how do you tackle your work? 45 recuerdo 48 on tradition 51 unshackled thoughts on chivalry, romance, adventure, etc. 52 results ridiculous 53 regarding (1) the u. s. and (2) new york 54 broadmindedness 55 the jazzy bard 56 lines on and from "bartlett's familiar quotations" 57 thoughts in a far country 58 when you meet a man from your own home town 59 the shepherd's resolution 61 "it was a famous victory" 62 on profiteering 63 despite 64 the return of the soldier 65 "i remember, i remember" 66 the higher education 68 war and peace 69 fifty-fifty 70 "so shines a good deed in a naughty world" 71 vain words 72 on the importance of being earnest 73 it happens in the b. r. families 74 abelard and heloïse 77 lines written on the sunny side of frankfort street 79 fifty-fifty 80 to myrtilla 81 a psalm of labouring life 82 ballade of ancient acts 84 to a prospective cook 85 variation on a theme 86 "such stuff as dreams" 88 the ballad of justifiable homicide 89 the ballad of the murdered merchant 90 a gotham garden of verses 92 lines on reading frank j. wilstach's "a dictionary of similes" 94 the dictaphone bard 95 the comfort of obscurity 97 ballade of the traffickers 98 to w. hohenzollern, on discontinuing the conning tower 100 to w. hohenzollern, on resuming the conning tower 103 thoughts on the cosmos 105 on environment 106 the ballad of the thoughtless waiter 107 rus vs. urbs 109 "i'm out of the army now" 110 "oh man!" 112 an ode in time of inauguration 113 what the copy desk might have done 124 song of synthetic virility 133 something else again present imperative horace: book i, ode 11 _"tu ne quaesieris--scire nefas--quem mihi; quem tibi----"_ ad leuconoen nay, query not, leuconoë, the finish of the fable; eliminate the worry as to what the years may hoard! you only waste your time upon the babylonian table-(slang for the ouija board). and as to whether jupiter, the final, unsurpassed one, may add a lot of winters to our portion here below, or this impinging season is to be our very last one-really, i'd hate to know. apply yourself to wisdom! sweep the floor and wash the dishes, nor dream about the things you'll do in 1928! my counsel is to cease to sit and yearn about your wishes, cursing the throws of fate. my! how i have been chattering on matters sad and pleasant! (endure with me a moment while i polish off a rhyme). if i were you, i think, i'd bother only with the present-now is the only time. the doughboy's horace horace: book iii, ode 9 "donec eram gratus tibi----" horace, pvt. ----th infantry, a. e. f., writes: while i was fussing you at home you put the notion in my dome that i was the molasses kid. i batted strong. i'll say i did. lydia, anyburg, u. s. a., writes: while you were fussing me alone to other boys my heart was stone. when i was all that you could see no girl had anything on me. horace: well, say, i'm having some romance with one babette, of northern france. if that girl gave me the command i'd dance a jig in no man's land. lydia: i, too, have got a young affair with charley--say, that boy is _there_! i'd just as soon go out and die if i thought it'd please that guy. horace: suppose i can this foreign wren and start things up with you again? suppose i promise to be good? i'd love you, lyd. i'll say i would. lydia: though charley's good and handsome--_oh_, boy! and you're a stormy, fickle doughboy, go give the hun his final whack, and i'll marry you when you come back. from: horace to: phyllis subject: invitation book iv, ode 11 "_est mihi nonum superantis annum----_" phyllis, i've a jar of wine, (alban, b. c. 49), parsley wreaths, and, for your tresses, ivy that your beauty blesses. shines my house with silverware; frondage decks the altar stair-sacred vervain, a device for a lambkin's sacrifice. up and down the household stairs what a festival prepares! everybody's superintending-see the sooty smoke ascending! what, you ask me, is the date of the day we celebrate? 13th april, month of venus-birthday of my boss, mæcenas. let me, phyllis, say a word touching telephus, a bird ranking far too high above you; (and the loafer doesn't love you). lessons, phyllie, may be learned from phaëton--how he was burned! and recall bellerophon was one equestrian who thrown was. phyllis, of my loves the last, my philandering days are past. sing you, in your clear contralto, songs i write for the rialto. advising chloë horace: book i, ode 23 _"vitas hinnuleo me similis, chloë----"_ why shun me, my chloë? nor pistol nor bowie is mine with intention to kill. and yet like a llama you run to your mamma; you tremble as though you were ill. no lion to rend you, no tiger to end you, i'm tame as a bird in a cage. that counsel maternal can run for _the journal_- you get me, i guess.... you're of age. to an aged cut-up horace: book iii, ode 15 i "_uxor pauperis ibyci, tandem nequitiæ fige modum tuæ----_" in chlorin dear mrs. ibycus, accept a little sound advice, your manners and your speech are over-bold; to chase around the sporty way you do is far from nice; believe me, darling, you are growing old. now pholoë may fool around (she dances like a doe!) a débutante has got to think of men; but you were twenty-seven over thirty years ago- you ought to be asleep at half-past ten. o chloris, cut the ragging and the roses and the rum- delete the drink, or better, chop the booze! go buy a skein of yarn and make the knitting needles hum, and imitate the art of sister suse. ii chloris, lay off the flapper stuff; what's fit for pholoë, a fluff, is not for ibycus's wife-a woman at your time of life! ignore, old dame, such pleasures as the shimmy and "the bacchus jazz"; your presence with the maidens jars-you are the cloud that dims the stars. your daughter pholoë may stay out nights upon the appian way; her love for nothus, as you know, makes her as playful as a doe. no jazz for you, no jars of wine, no rose that blooms incarnadine. for one thing only are you fit: buy some lucerian wool--and knit! his monument horace: book iii, ode 30 "_exegi monumentum aere perennius----_" the monument that i have built is durable as brass, and loftier than the pyramids which mock the years that pass. nor blizzard can destroy it, nor furious rain corrode-remember, i'm the bard that built the first horatian ode. i shall not altogether die; a part of me's immortal. a part of me shall never pass the mortuary portal; and when i die my fame shall stand the nitric test of time-the fame of me of lowly birth, who built the lofty rhyme! ay, fame shall be my portion when no trace there is of me, for i first made æolian songs the songs of italy. accept i pray, melpomene, my modest meed of praise, and crown my thinning, graying locks with wreaths of delphic bays! glycera rediviva! horace: book i, ode 19 "_mater sæva cupidinum_" venus, the cruel mother of the cupids (symbolising love), bids me to muse upon and sigh for things to which i've said "good-bye!" believe me or believe me not, i give this glycera girl a lot: pure parian marble are her arms-and she has eighty other charms. venus has left her cyprus home and will not let me pull a pome about the parthians, fierce and rough, the scythian war, and all that stuff. set up, o slaves, a verdant shrine! uncork a quart of last year's wine! place incense here, and here verbenas, and watch me while i jolly venus! on a wine of horace's what time i read your mighty line, o mr. q. horatius flaccus, in praise of many an ancient wine- you twanged a wicked lyre to bacchus!-i wondered, like a yankee hick, if that old stuff contained a kick. so when upon a paris card i glimpsed falernian, i said: "waiter, i'll emulate that ancient bard, and pass upon his merits later." professor mendell, _quelque_ sport, suggested that we split a quart. o flaccus, ere i ceased to drink three glasses and a pair of highballs, i could not talk; i could not think; for i was pickled to the eyeballs. if you sopped up falernian wine how did you ever write a line? "what flavour?" horace: book iii, ode 13 _"o fons bandusiæ, splendidior vitro----"_ worthy of flowers and syrups sweet, o fountain of bandusian onyx, to-morrow shall a goatling's bleat mix with the sizz of thy carbonics. a kid whose budding horns portend a life of love and war--but vainly! for thee his sanguine life shall end- he'll spill his blood, to put it plainly. and never shalt thou feel the heat that blazes in the days of sirius, but men shall quaff thy soda sweet, and girls imbibe thy drinks delirious. fountain whose dulcet cool i sing, be thou immortal by this ode (a not wholly meretricious thing), bandusian fount of ice-cream soda! the stalling of q. h. f. horace: epode 14 _"mollis inertia cur tantam diffuderit imis"_ mæcenas, you fret me, you worry me demanding i turn out a rhyme; insisting on reasons, you hurry me; you want my iambics on time. you say my ambition's diminishing; you ask why my poem's not done. the god it is keeps me from finishing the stuff i've begun. be not so persistent, so clamorous. anacreon burned with a flame candescently, crescently amorous. you rascal, you're doing the same! was no fairer the flame that burned ilium. cheer up, you're a fortunate scamp, ... consider avuncular william and phryne, the vamp. on the flight of time horace: book i, ode 2 "_tu ne quæsieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibi_" ad leuconoen look not, leuconoë, into the future; seek not to find what the answer may be; let no chaldean clairvoyant compute your time of existence.... it irritates me! better to bear what may happen soever patiently, playing it through like a sport, whether the end of your breathing is never, or, as is likely, your time will be short. this is the angle, the true situation; get me, i pray, for i'm putting you hep: while i've been fooling with versification time has been flying.... both gates! watch your step! the last laugh horace: epode 15 _"nox erat et cælo fulgebat luna sereno----"_ "how sweet the moonlight sleeps," i quoted, "upon this bank!" that starry night-the night you vowed you'd be devoted- i'll tell the world you held me tight. the night you said until orion should cease to whip the wintry sea, until the lamb should love the lion, you would, you swore, be all for me. some day, neæra, you'll be sorry. no mollycoddle swain am i. i shall not sit and pine, by gorry! because you're with some other guy! no, i shall turn my predilection upon some truer, fairer jane; and all your prayer and genuflexion for my return shall be in vain. and as for _you_, who choose to sneer, o, though deals in lands and stocks you swing, though handsome as a movie hero, though wise you are--and everything; yet, when the loss of her you're mourning, how i shall laugh at all your woe! how i'll remind you of this warning, and laugh, "ha! ha! i told you so!" again endorsing the lady book ii, elegy 2 _"liber eram et vacuo meditabar vivere lecto----"_ i i was free. i thought that i had entered love's antarctic zone. "a truce to sentiment," i said. "my nights shall be my own." but love has double-crossed me. how can beauty be so fair? the grace of her, the face of her--and oh, her yellow hair! and oh, the wondrous walk of her! so doth a goddess glide. jove's sister--ay, or pallas--hath no statelier a stride. fair as ischomache herself, the lapithanian maid; or brimo when at mercury's side her virgin form she laid. surrender now, ye goddesses whom erst the shepherd spied! upon the heights of ida lay your vestitures aside! and though she reach the countless years of the cumæan sibyl, may never, never age at those delightful features nibble! ii i thought that i was wholly free, that i had love upon the shelf; "hereafter," i declared in glee, "i'll have my evenings to myself." how can such mortal beauty live? (ah, jove, thine errings i forgive!) her tresses pale the sunlight's gold; her hands are featly formed, and taper; her--well, the rest ought not be told in any modest family paper. fair as ischomache, and bright as brimo. _quæque_ queen is right. o goddesses of long ago, a shepherd called ye sweet and slender. he saw ye, so he ought to know; but sooth, to her ye must surrender. o may a million years not trace a single line upon that face! propertius's bid for immortality book iii, ode 3 _"carminis interea nostri redæmus in orbem----"_ let us return, then, for a time, to our accustomed round of rhyme; and let my songs' familiar art not fail to move my lady's heart. they say that orpheus with his lute had power to tame the wildest brute; that "variations on a theme" of his would stay the swiftest stream. they say that by the minstrel's song cithæron's rocks were moved along to thebes, where, as you may recall, they formed themselves to frame a wall. and galatea, lovely maid, beneath wild etna's fastness stayed her horses, dripping with the mere, those polypheman songs to hear. what marvel, then, since bacchus and apollo grasp me by the hand, that all the maidens you have heard should hang upon my slightest word? tænerian columns in my home are not; nor any golden dome; no parks have i, nor marcian spring, nor orchards--nay, nor anything. the muses, though, are friends of mine; some readers love my lyric line; and never is calliope awearied by my poetry. o happy she whose meed of praise hath fallen upon my sheaf of lays! and every song of mine is sent to be thy beauty's monument. the pyramids that point the sky, the house of jove that soars so high, mausolus' tomb--they are not free from death his final penalty. for fire or rain shall steal away the crumbling glory of their day; but fame for wit can never die, and gosh! i was a gay old guy! a lament propertius: book ii, elegy 8 _"eripitur nobis iam pridem cara puella----"_ while she i loved is being torn from arms that held her many years, dost thou regard me, friend, with scorn, or seek to check my tears? bitter the hatred for a jilt, and hot the hates of eros are; my hatred, slay me an thou wilt, for thee'd be gentler far. can i endure that she recline upon another's arm? shall they no longer call that lady "mine" who "mine" was yesterday? for love is fleeting as the hours. the town of thebes is draped with moss, and ilium's well-known topless towers are now a total loss. fell thebes and troy; and in the grave have fallen lords of high degree. what songs i sang! what gifts i gave! ... _she_ never fell for me. bon voyage--and vice versa propertius: elegy viii, part 1 _"tune igitur demens, nec te mea cura moratur?"_ o cynthia, hast thou lost thy mind? have i no claim on thine affection? dost love the chill illyrian wind with something passing predilection? and is thy friend--whoe'er he be-the kind to take the place of _me_? ah, canst thou bear the surging deep? canst thou endure the hard ship's-mattress? for scant will be thy hours of sleep from staten island to cape hatt'ras; and won't thy fairy feet be froze with treading on the foreign snows? i hope that doubly blows the gale, with billows twice as high as ever, so that the captain, fain to sail, may not achieve his mad endeavour! the winds, when that they cease to roar, shall find me wailing on the shore. yet merit thou my love or wrath, o false, i pray that galatea may smile upon thy watery path! a pleasant trip,--that's the idea. light of my life, there never shall for me be any other gal. and sailors, as they hasten past, will always have to hear my query: "where have you seen my cynthia last? has anybody seen my dearie?" i'll shout: "in malden or marquette where'er she be, i'll have her yet!" fragment _"militis in galea nidum fecere columbæ."_--petronius within the soldier's helmet see the nesting dove; venus and mars, it seems to me, in love. on the uses of adversity _"nam nihil est, quod non mortalibus afferat usum."_--petronius nothing there is that mortal man may utterly despise; what in our wealth we treasured, in our poverty we prize. the gold upon a sinking ship has often wrecked the boat, while on a simple oar a shipwrecked man may keep afloat. the burglar seeks the plutocrat, attracted by his dress-the poor man finds his poverty the true preparedness. after hearing "robin hood" the songs of sherwood forest are lilac-sweet and clear; the virile rhymes of merrier times sound fair upon mine ear. sweet is their sylvan cadence and sweet their simple art. the balladry of the greenwood tree stirs memories in my heart. o braver days and elder with mickle valour dight, how ye bring back the time, alack! when harry smith could write! maud muller mutatur in 1909 toilet goods were not considered a serious matter and no special department of the catalogs was devoted to it. a few perfumes and creams were scattered here and there among bargain goods. in 1919 an assortment of perfumes that would rival any city department store is shown, along with six pages of other toilet articles, including rouge and eyebrow pencils. _--from "how the farmer has changed in a decade: toilet goods," in farm and fireside's advertisement._ maud muller, on a summer's day, powdered her nose with _bon sachet_. beneath her lingerie hat appeared eyebrows and cheeks that were well veneered. singing she rocked on the front piazz, to the tune of "the land of the sky blue jazz." but the song expired on the summer air, and she said "this won't get me anywhere." the judge in his car looked up at her and signalled "stop!" to his brave chauffeur. he smiled a smile that is known as broad, and he said to miss muller, "hello, how's maud?" "what sultry weather this is? gee whiz!" said maud. said the judge, "i'll say it is." "your coat is heavy. why don't you shed it? have a drink?" said maud. said the judge, "you said it." and maud, with the joy of bucolic youth, blended some gin and some french vermouth. maud muller sighed, as she poured the gin, "i've got something on whittier's heroine." "thanks," said the judge, "a peppier brew from a fairer hand was never knew." and when the judge had had number 7, maud seemed an angel direct from heaven. and the judge declared, "you're a lovely girl, an' i'm for you, maudie, i'll tell the worl'." and the judge said, "marry me, maudie dearie?" and maud said yes to the well known query. and she often thinks, in her rustic way, as she powders her nose with _bon sachet_, "i never'n the world would 'a got that guy, if i'd waited till after the first o' july." and of all glad words of prose or rhyme, the gladdest are, "act while there yet is time." the carlyles [i was talking with a newspaper man the other day who seemed to think that the fact that mrs. carlyle threw a teacup at mr. carlyle should be given to the public merely as a fact. but a fact presented to people without the proper--or even, if necessary, without the improper--human being to go with it does not mean anything and does not really become alive or caper about in people's minds. but what i want and what i believe most people want when a fact is being presented is one or two touches that will make natural and human questions rise in and play about like this: "did a servant see mrs. carlyle throw the teacup? was the servant an english servant with an english imagination or an irish servant with an irish imagination? what would the fact have been like if mr. browning had been listening at the keyhole? or oscar wilde, or punch, or the missionary herald, or the new york sun, or the christian science monitor?" --gerald stanley lee in the satevepost.] by our own robert browning as a poet heartand fancy-free--whole, i listened at the carlyles' keyhole; and i saw, i, robert browning, saw, tom hurl a teacup at jane's jaw. she silent sat, nor tried to speak up when came the wallop with the teacup-a cup not filled with beaune or clicquot, but one that brimmed with orange pekoe. "jane welsh carlyle," said thomas, bold, "the tea you brewed for m' breakfast's cold! i'm feeling low i' my mind; a thing you know b' this time. have at you!"... bing! and hurled, threw he at her the teacup; and i wrote it, deeming it unique, up. * * * * * by our own oscar wilde lady leffingwell (_coldly_).--a full teacup! what a waste! so many good women and so little good tea. [_exit lady leffingwell_] * * * * * from our own "punch" a manchester autograph collector, we are informed, has just offered £50 for the signature of tea carlyle. * * * * * from our own "missionary herald" from what clouds cannot sunshine be distilled! when, in a fit of godless rage, mr. carlyle threw a teacup at the good woman he had vowed at the altar to love, honour, and obey, she smiled and the thought of china entered her head. yesterday mrs. carlyle enrolled as a missionary, and will sail for the benighted land of the heathen to-morrow. * * * * * from our own "new york sun" fortunate is mrs. jane welsh carlyle to have escaped with her life, though if she had not, no american worthy of the traditions of washington could simulate acute sorrow. mr. carlyle, wearied of the dilatory methods of the bakerian war department, properly took the law into his own strong hands. the argument that resulted in the teacup's leaving mr. carlyle's hands was common in most households. it transpires that mrs. carlyle, with a bolshevistic tendency that makes patriots wonder what the department of justice--to borrow a phrase from a newspaper cartoonist--thinks about, had been championing the british-wilson league of nations, that league which will make ironically true our "e pluribus unum"--one of many. repeated efforts by mr. carlyle, in appeals to the department of justice, the military intelligence division, and the city government, were of no avail. and so mr. carlyle, like the red-blooded american he is, did what the authorities should have saved him the embarrassing trouble of doing. * * * * * from our own "christian science monitor" it is reported that mr. thomas carlyle has thrown a teacup at mrs. carlyle, and much exaggerated and acrid comment has been made on this incident. if it had been a whiskey glass, or a cocktail glass, the results might have been fatal. in oregon, which went dry in 1916, the number of women hit by crockery has decreased 4.2 per cent in three years. of 1,844 women in oregon hit by crockery in 1915, 1,802 were hit by glasses containing, or destined to contain, alcoholic stimulants. more than 94 per cent of these accidents resulted fatally. the remaining 22 women, hit by tea or coffee cups, are now happy, useful members of society. if amy lowell had been james whitcomb riley a decade when you came you were like red wine and honey, and the taste of you burnt my mouth with its sweetness. now you are like morning bread-smooth and pleasant, i hardly taste you at all, for i know your savour, but i am completely nourished. --amy lowell, in _the chimæra_. when i wuz courtin' annie, she wuz honey an' red wine, she made me feel all jumpy, did that ol' sweetheart o' mine; wunst w'en i went to crawfordsville, on one o' them there trips, i kissed her--an' the burnin' taste wuz sizzlin' on my lips. an' now i've married annie, an' i see her all the time, i do not feel the daily need o' bustin' into rhyme. an' now the wine-y taste is gone, fer annie's always there, an' i take her fer granted now, the same ez sun an' air. but though the honey taste wuz sweet, an' though the wine wuz strong, yet ef i lost the sun an' air, i couldn't git along. if the advertising man had been gilbert never mind that slippery wet street-the tire with a thousand claws will hold you. stop as quickly as you will-those thousand claws grip the road like a vise. turn as sharply as you will-those thousand claws take a steel-prong grip on the road to prevent a side skid. you're safe--safer than anything else will make you-safe as you would be on a perfectly dry street. and those thousand claws are mileage insurance, too. --_from the lancaster tire and rubber company's advertisement in the satevepost._ never mind it if you find it wet upon the street and slippery; never bother if the street is full of ooze; do not fret that you'll upset, that you will spoil your summer frippery, you may turn about as sharply as you choose. for those myriad claws will grip the road and keep the car from skidding, and your steering gear will hold it fast and true; every atom of the car will be responsive to your bidding, and those thousand claws are mileage insurance, too- oh, indubitably, those thousand claws are mileage insurance, too. if the advertising man had been praed, or locker "c'est distingue," says madame la mode, 'tis a fabric of subtle distinction. for street wear it is superb. the chic of the rue de la paix-the style of fifth avenue- the character of regent street-all are expressed in this new fabric creation. leather-like but feather-light-it drapes and folds and distends to perfection. and it may be had in dull or glazed, plain or grained, basket weave or moiréd surfaces! --advertisement of pontine, in _vanity fair_. "c'est distingue," says madame la mode. subtly distinctive as a fabric fair; nor keats nor shelley in his loftiest ode could thrum the line to tell how it will wear. the flair, the chic that is rue de la paix, the style that is fifth avenue, new york. the character of regent street in may- as leather strong, yet light as any cork. all these for her in this fair fabric clad. (light of my life, o thou my genevieve!) in surface dull or glazed it may be had- in plain or grained, moiréd or basket weave. georgie porgie by mother goose and our own sara teasdale bennie's kisses left me cold, eddie's made me yearn to die, jimmie's made me laugh aloud,- but georgie's made me cry. bennie sees me every night, eddie sees me every day, jimmie sees me all the time,- but georgie stays away. on first looking into bee palmer's shoulders with bows to keats and keith's ["the world's most famous shoulders"] _"then felt i like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken, or like stout cortez when with eagle eyes he stared at the pacific--and all his men looked at each other with a wild surmise- silent upon a peak in darien."_ "bee" palmer has taken the raw, human--all too human--stuff of the underworld, with its sighs of sadness and regret, its mad merriment, its swift blaze of passion, its turbulent dances, its outlaw music, its songs of the social bandit, and made a new art product of the theatre. she is to the sources of jazz and the blues what françois villon was to the wild life of paris. both have found exquisite blossoms of art in the sector of life most removed from the concert room and the boudoir, and their harvest has the vigour, the resolute life, the stimulating quality, the indelible impress of daredevil, care-free, do-as-you-please lives of the picturesque men and women who defy convention.--from keith's press agent. much have i travell'd in the realms of jazz, and many goodly arms and shoulders seen quiver and quake--if you know what i mean; i've seen a lot, as everybody has. some plaudits got, while others got the razz. but when i saw bee palmer, shimmy queen, i shook--in sympathy--my troubled bean, and said, "this is the utter razmataz." then felt i like some patient with a pain when a new surgeon swims into his ken, or like stout brodie, when, with reeling brain, he jumped into the river. there and then i subwayed up and took the morning train to norwalk, naugatuck, and darien. to a vers librist "oh bard," i said, "your verse is free; the shackles that encumber me, the fetters that are my obsession, are never gyves to your expression. "the fear of falsities in rhyme, in metre, quantity, or time, is never yours; you sing along your unpremeditated song." "correct," the young vers librist said. "whatever pops into my head i write, and have but one small fetter: i start each line with a capital letter. "but rhyme and metre--ishkebibble!-are actually neglig_ib_le. i go ahead, like all my school, without a single silly rule." of rhyme i am so reverential he made me feel inconsequential. i shed some strongly saline tears for bards i loved in younger years. "if keats had fallen for your fluff," i said, "he might have done good stuff. if burns had thrown his rhymes away, his songs might still be sung to-day." o bards of rhyme and metre free, my gratitude goes out to ye for all your deathless lines--ahem! let's see, now.... what _is_ one of them? how do you tackle your work? how do you tackle your work each day? are you scared of the job you find? do you grapple the task that comes your way with a confident, easy mind? do you stand right up to the work ahead or fearfully pause to view it? do you start to toil with a sense of dread? or feel that you're going to do it? you can do as much as you think you can, but you'll never accomplish more; if you're afraid of yourself, young man, there's little for you in store. for failure comes from the inside first, it's there if we only knew it, and you can win, though you face the worst, if you feel that you're going to do it. success! it's found in the soul of you, and not in the realm of luck! the world will furnish the work to do, but you must provide the pluck. you can do whatever you think you can, it's all in the way you view it. it's all in the start that you make, young man: you must feel that you're going to do it. how do you tackle your work each day? with confidence clear, or dread? what to yourself do you stop and say when a new task lies ahead? what is the thought that is in your mind? is fear ever running through it? if so, just tackle the next you find by thinking you're going to do it. --from "a heap o' livin'," by edgar a. guest i tackle my terrible job each day with a fear that is well defined; and i grapple the task that comes my way with no confidence in my mind. i try to evade the work ahead, as i fearfully pause to view it, and i start to toil with a sense of dread, and doubt that i'm going to do it. i can't do as much as i think i can, and i never accomplish more. i am scared to death of myself, old man, as i may have observed before. i've read the proverbs of charley schwab, carnegie, and marvin hughitt; but whenever i tackle a difficult job, o gosh! how i hate to do it! i try to believe in my vaunted power with that confident kind of bluff, but somebody tells me the conning tower is nothing but awful stuff. and i take up my impotent pen that night, and idly and sadly chew it, as i try to write something merry and bright, and i know that i shall not do it. and that's how i tackle my work each day- with terror and fear and dread-and all i can see is a long array of empty columns ahead. and those are the thoughts that are in my mind, and that's about all there's to it. as long as it's work, of whatever kind, i'm certain i cannot do it. recuerdo we were very tired, we were very merry-we had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. it was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable-but we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, we lay on the hill-top underneath the moon; and the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon. we were very tired, we were very merry-we had gone back and forth all night on the ferry; and you ate an apple, and i ate a pear, from a dozen of each we had bought somewhere; and the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, and the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold. we were very tired, we were very merry, we had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. we hailed, "good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head, and bought a morning paper, which neither of us read; and she wept, "god bless you!" for the apples and pears, and we gave her all our money but our subway fares. --edna st. vincent millay, _in poetry_. i was very sad, i was very solemn-i had worked all day grinding out a column. i came back from dinner at half-past seven, and i couldn't think of anything till quarter to eleven; and then i read "recuerdo," by miss millay, and i said, "i'll bet a nickel i can write that way." i was very sad, i was very solemn-i had worked all day whittling out a column. i said, "i'll bet a nickel i can chirp such a chant," and mr. geoffrey parsons said, "i'll bet you can't." i bit a chunk of chocolate and found it sweet, and i listened to the trucking on frankfort street. i was very sad, i was very solemn-i had worked all day fooling with a column. i got as far as this and took my verses in to mr. geoffrey parsons, who said, "kid, you win." and--not that i imagine that any one'll care-i blew that jitney on a subway fare. on tradition lines provoked by hearing a young man whistling no carmine radical in art, i worship at the shrine of form; yet open are my mind and heart to each departure from the norm. when post-impressionism emerged, i hesitated but a minute before i saw, though it diverged, that there was something healthy in it. and eke when music, heavenly maid, undid the chains that chafed her feet, i grew to like discordant shade- unharmony i thought was sweet. when verse divorced herself from sound, i wept at first. now i say: "oh, well, i see some sense in ezra pound, and nearly some in amy lowell." yet, though i storm at every change, and each mutation makes me wince, i am not shut to all things strange- i'm rather easy to convince. but hereunto i set my seal, my nerves awry, askew, abristling: _i'll never change the way i feel_ _upon the question of free whistling._ unshackled thoughts on chivalry, romance, adventure, etc. yesterday afternoon, while i was walking on worth street, a gust of wind blew my hat off. i swore, petulantly, but somewhat noisily. a young woman had been near, walking behind me; she must have heard me, i thought. and i was ashamed, and embarrassedly sorry. so i said to her: "if you heard me, i beg your pardon." but she gave me a frightened look and ran across the street, seeking a policeman. so i thought, why waste five hours trying to versify the incident? vers libre would serve her right. results ridiculous ("humourists have amused themselves by translating famous sonnets into free verse. a result no less ridiculous would have been obtained if somebody had rewritten a passage from 'paradise lost' as a rondeau."--george soule in the _new republic_.) "paradise lost" sing, heavenly muse, in lines that flow more smoothly than the wandering po, of man's descending from the height of heaven itself, the blue, the bright, to hell's unutterable throe. of sin original and the woe that fell upon us here below from man's pomonic primal bite- sing, heavenly muse! of summer sun, of winter snow, of future days, of long ago, of morning and "the shades of night," of woman, "my ever new delight," go to it, muse, and put us joe- sing, heavenly muse! * * * * * "the rime of the ancient mariner" the wedding guest sat on a stone, he could not choose but hear the mariner. they were there alone. the wedding guest sat on a stone. "i'll read you something of my own," declared that mariner. the wedding guest sat on a stone- he could not choose but hear. regarding (1) the u. s. and (2) new york before i was a travelled bird, i scoffed, in my provincial way, at other lands; i deemed absurd all nations but these u. s. a. and--although middle-western born- before i was a travelled guy, i laughed at, with unhidden scorn, all cities but new york, n. y. but now i've been about a bit- how travel broadens! how it does! and i have found out this, to wit: how right i was! how right i was! broadmindedness how narrow his vision, how cribbed and confined! how prejudiced all of his views! how hard is the shell of his bigoted mind! how difficult he to excuse! his face should be slapped and his head should be banged; a person like that ought to die! i want to be fair, but a man should be hanged who's any less liberal than i. the jazzy bard labor is a thing i do not like; workin's makes me want to go on strike; sittin' in an office on a sunny afternoon, thinkin' o' nothin' but a ragtime tune. 'cause i got the blues, i said i got the blues, i got the paragraphic blues. been a-sittin' here since ha' pas' ten, bitin' a hole in my fountain pen; brain's all stiff in the creakin' joints, can't make up no wheezes on the fourteen points; can't think o' nothin' 'bout the end o' booze, 'cause i got the para--, i said the paragraphic, i mean the column conductin' blues. lines on and from "bartlett's familiar quotations" ("sir: for the first time in twenty-three years 'bartlett's familiar quotations' has been revised and enlarged, and under separate cover we are sending you a copy of the new edition. we would appreciate an expression of opinion from you of the value of this work after you have had an ample opportunity of examining it."--the publishers.) of making many books there is no end- so sancho panza said, and so say i. thou wert my guide, philosopher and friend when only one is shining in the sky. books cannot always please, however good; the good is oft interred with their bones. to be great is to be misunderstood, the anointed sovereign of sighs and groans. the moving finger writes, and, having writ, i never write as funny as i can. remote, unfriended, studious let me sit and say to all the world, "this was a man!" go, lovely rose that lives its little hour! go, little booke! and let who will be clever! roll on! from yonder ivy-mantled tower the moon and i could keep this up forever. thoughts in a far country i rise and applaud, in the patriot manner, whenever (as often) i hear the palpitant strains of "the star spangled banner,"- i shout and cheer. and also, to show my unbounded devotion, i jump to me feet with a "whee!" whenever "columbia, the gem of the ocean" is played near me. my fervour's so hot and my ardour so searing- i'm hoarse for a couple of days-you've heard me, i'm positive, joyously cheering "the marseillaise." i holler for "dixie." i go off my noodle, i whistle, i pound, and i stamp whenever an orchestra plays "yankee doodle," or "tramp, tramp, tramp." but if you would enter my confidence, reader, know that i'd go clean off my dome, and madly embrace any orchestra leader for "home, sweet home." when you meet a man from your own home town sing, o muse, in the treble clef, a little song of the a. e. f., and pardon me, please, if i give vent to something akin to sentiment. but we have our moments over here when we want to cry and we want to cheer; and the hurrah feeling will not down when you meet a man from your own home town. it's many a lonesome, longsome day since you embarked from the u. s. a., and you met some men--it's a great big war-from towns that you never had known before; and you landed here, and your rest camp mate was a man from some strange and distant state. liked him? yes; but you wanted to see a man from the town where you used to be. and then you went, by design or chance, all over the well-known map of france; and you yearned with a yearn that grew and grew to talk with a man from the burg you knew. and some lugubrious morning when your morale is batting about .110, "where are you from?" and you make reply, and the o. d. warrior says, "so am i." the universe wears a smiling face as you spill your talk of the old home place; you talk of the streets, and the home town jokes, and you find that you know each other's folks; and you haven't any more woes at all as you both decide that the world _is_ small-a statement adding to its renown when you meet a man from your own home town. you may be among the enlisted men, you may be a lieut. or a major-gen.; your home may be up in the chilkoot pass, in denver, col., or in pittsfield, mass.; you may have come from chicago, ill., buffalo, portland, or louisville-but there's nothing, i'm gambling, can keep you down, when you meet a man from your own home town. * * * * * if you want to know why i wrote this pome, well ... i've just had a talk with a guy from home. the shepherd's resolution _if she be not so to me, what care i how fair she be?_ --wither. by our own jerome d. kern, author of "you're here and i'm here" i don't care if a girl is fair if she doesn't seem beautiful to me, i won't waste away if she's fair as day, or prettier than meadows in the month of may; as long as you are there for me to see, i don't care and you don't care how many others are beyond compare-you're the only one i like to have around. i won't mind if she's everything combined, if she doesn't seem wonderful to me, i won't fret if she's everybody's pet, or considered by all as the one best bet; as long as you and i are only we, i don't care and you don't care how many others are beyond compare, you're the only one i like to have around. "it was a famous victory" (1944) it was a summer evening; old kaspar was at home, sitting before his cottage door- like in the southey pome-and near him, with a magazine, idled his grandchild, geraldine. "why don't you ask me," kaspar said to the child upon the floor, "why don't you ask me what i did when i was in the war? they told me that each little kid would surely ask me what i did. "i've had my story ready for thirty years or more." "don't bother, grandpa," said the child; "i find such things a bore. pray leave me to my magazine," asserted little geraldine. then entered little peterkin, to whom his gaffer said: "you'd like to hear about the war? how i was left for dead?" "no. and, besides," declared the youth, "how do i know you speak the truth?" arose that wan, embittered man, the hero of this pome, and walked, with not unsprightly step, down to the soldiers' home, where he, with seven other men, sat swapping lies till half-past ten. on profiteering although i hate a profiteer with unabat ed loathing; though i detest the price they smear on pants and vest and clothing; yet i admit my meed of crime, nor do one whit regret it; i'd triple my price for a rhyme, if i thought i could get it. despite the terrible things that the governor of kansas says alarm me; and yet somehow we won the war in spite of the regular army. the things they say of the old n. g. are bitter and cruel and hard; and yet we walloped the enemy in spite of the national guard. too late, too late, was our work begun; too late were our forces sent; and yet we smeared the horrible hun in spite of the president. "what a frightful flivver this baker is!" cried many a senator; and yet we handed the kaiser his in spite of the sec. of war. a sadly incompetent, sinful crew is that of the recent fight; and yet we put it across, we do, in spite of a lot of spite. the return of the soldier lady, when i left you ere i sailed the sea, bitterly bereft you told me you would be. frequently and often when i fought the foe, how my heart would soften, pitying your woe! still, throughout my yearning, it was my belief that my mere returning would annul your grief. arguing _ex parte_, maybe you can tell why i find your heart a. w. o. l. "i remember, i remember" i remember, i remember the house where i was born; the rent was thirty-two a month, which made my father mourn. he said he could remember when _his_ father paid the rent; and when a man's expenses did not take his every cent. i remember, i remember-my mother telling my cousin that eggs had gone to twenty-six or seven cents a dozen; and how she told my father that she didn't like to speak of things like that, but bridget now demanded four a week. i remember, i remember-and with a mirthless laugh-my weekly board at college took a jump to three and a half. i bought an eighteen-dollar suit, and father told me, "sonny, i'll pay the bill this time, but, oh, i am not made of money!" i remember, i remember, when i was young and brave and i declared, "well, birdie, we shall now begin to save." it was a childish ignorance, but now 'tis little joy to know i'm farther off from wealth than when i was a boy. the higher education (harvard's prestige in football is a leading factor. the best players in the big preparatory schools prefer to study at cambridge, where they can earn fame on the gridiron. they do not care to be identified with yale and princeton.--joe vila in the _evening sun_.) "father," began the growing youth, "your pleading finds me deaf; although i know you speak the truth about the course at shef. but think you that i have no pride, to follow such a trail? i cannot be identified with princeton or with yale." "father," began another lad, emerging from his prep; "i know you are a princeton grad, but the coaches have no pep. but though the princeton profs provide fine courses to inhale; i cannot be identified with princeton or with yale." "i know," he said, "that learning helps a lot of growing chaps; that yale has william lyon phelps, and princeton edward capps. but while, within the football guide, the haughton hosts prevail, i cannot be identified with princeton or with yale." war and peace "this war is a terrible thing," he said, "with its countless numbers of needless dead; a futile warfare it seems to me, fought for no principle i can see. alas, that thousands of hearts should bleed for naught but a tyrant's boundless greed!" * * * * * said the wholesale grocer, in righteous mood, as he went to adulterate salable food. spake as follows the merchant king: "isn't this war a disgraceful thing? heartless, cruel, and useless, too; it doesn't seem that it _can_ be true. think of the misery, want, and fear! we ought to be grateful we've no war here. * * * * * "six a week"--to a girl--"that's flat! i can get a thousand to work for that." fifty-fifty for something like eleven summers i've written things that aimed to teach our careless mealy-mouthéd mummers to be more sedulous of speech. so sloppy of articulation so limping and so careless they about distinct enunciation, often i don't know what they say. the other night an able actor, declaiming of some lines i heard, i hailed a public benefactor, as i distinguished every word. but, oh! the subtle disappointment! thorn on the celebrated rose and fly within the well-known ointment! (allusions everybody knows.) came forth the words exact and snappy. and as i sat there, that p.m., i mused, "was i not just as happy when i could not distinguish them?" "so shines a good deed in a naughty world" there was a man in our town, and he was wondrous rich; he gave away his millions to the colleges and sich; and people cried: "the hypocrite! he ought to understand the ones who really need him are the children of this land." when andrew croesus built a home for children who were sick, the people said they rather thought he did it as a trick, and writers said: "he thinks about the drooping girls and boys, but what about conditions with the men whom he employs?" there was a man in our town who said that he would share his profits with his laborers, for that was only fair, and people said: "oh, isn't he the shrewd and foxy gent? it cost him next to nothing for that free advertisement." there was a man in our town who had the perfect plan to do away with poverty and other ills of man, but he feared the public jeering, and the folks who would defame him, so he never told the plan he had, and i can hardly blame him. vain words humble, surely, mine ambition; it is merely to construct some occasion or condition when i may say "usufruct." earnest am i and assiduous; yet i'm certain that i shan't amount to a lot till i use "viduous," "indiscerptible," and "tantamount." on the importance of being earnest "gentle jane was as good as gold," to borrow a line from mr. gilbert; she hated war with a hate untold, she was a pacifistic filbert. if you said "perhaps"--she'd leave the hall. you couldn't argue with her at all. "teasing tom was a very bad boy," (pardon my love for a good quotation). to talk of war was his only joy, and his single purpose was preparation. * * * * * and what both of these children had to say i never knew, for i ran away. it happens in the b. r. families with the customary obeisances 'twas on the shores that round our coast from deal to newport lie that i roused from sleep in a huddled heap an elderly wealthy guy. his hair was graying, his hair was long, and graying and long was he; and i heard this grouch on the shore avouch, in a singular jazzless key: "oh, i am a cook and a waitress trim and the maid of the second floor, and a strong chauffeur and a housekeep_er_. and the man who tends the door!" and he shook his fists and he tore his hair, and he started to frisk and play, till i couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, so i said (in the gilbert way): "oh, elderly man, i don't know much of the ways of societee, but i'll eat my friend if i comprehend however you can be "at once a cook and a waitress trim and the maid of the second floor, and a strong chauffeur and a housekeep_er_, and the man who tends the door." then he smooths his hair with a nervous air, and a gulp in his throat he swallows, and that elderly guy he then lets fly substantially as follows: "we had a house down newport way, and we led a simple life; there was only i," said the elderly guy, "and my daughter and my wife. "and of course the cook and the waitress trim and the maid of the second floor, and a strong chauffeur and a housekeep_er_, and the man who tends the door. "one day the cook she up and left, she up and left us flat. she was getting a hundred and ten a mon th, but she couldn't work for that. "and the waitress trim was her bosom friend, and she wouldn't stay no more; and our strong chauffeur eloped with her who was maid of the second floor. "and we couldn't get no other help, so i had to cook and wait. it was quite absurd," wept the elderly bird. "i deserve a better fate. "and i drove the car and i made the beds till the housekeeper up and quit; and the man at the door found that a bore, which is why i am, to wit: "at once a cook and a waitress trim and the maid of the second floor, and a strong chauffeur and a housekeep_er_, and the man who tends the door." abelard and heloïse ["there are so many things i want to talk to you about." abelard probably said to heloïse, "but how can i when i can only think about kissing you?"--katharine lane in the _evening mail_.] said abelard to heloïse: "your tresses blowing in the breeze enchant my soul; your cheek allures; i never knew such lips as yours." said heloïse to abelard: "i know that it is cruel, hard, to make you fold your yearning arms and think of things besides my charms." said abelard to heloïse: "pray let's discuss the portuguese; their status in the league of nations. ... come, slip me seven osculations." "the fourteen points," said heloïse, "are pure woodrovian fallacies." said abelard: "ten times fourteen the points you have, o beaucoup queen!" "lay off," said heloïse, "all that stuff. i've heard the same old thing enough." "but," answered abelard, "your lips put all my thoughts into eclipse." "o abelard," said heloïse, "don't take so many liberties." "o heloïse," said abelard, "i do it but to show regard." and heloïse told her chum that night that abelard was awful bright; and--thus is drawn the cosmic plan-she _loved_ an intellectual man. lines written on the sunny side of frankfort street sporting with amaryllis in the shade, (i credit milton in parenthesis), among the speculations that she made was this: "when"--these her very words--"when you return, a slave to duty's harsh commanding call, will you, i wonder, ever sigh and yearn at all?" doubt, honest doubt, sat then upon my brow. (emotion is a thing i do not plan.) i could not fairly answer then, but now i can. yes, amaryllis, i can tell you this, can answer publicly and unafraid: you haven't any notion how i miss the shade. fifty-fifty [we think about the feminine faces we meet in the streets, and experience a passing melancholy because we are unacquainted with some of the girls we see.--from "the erotic motive in literature," by albert mordell.] whene'er i take my walks abroad, how many girls i see whose form and features i applaud with well-concealéd glee! i'd speak to many a sonsie maid, or willowy or obese, were i not fearful, and afraid she'd yell for the police. and melancholy, bittersweet, marks me then as her own, because i lack the nerve to greet the girls i might have known. yet though with sadness i am fraught, (as i remarked before), there is one sweetly solemn thought comes to me o'er and o'er: for every shadow cloud of woe hath argentine alloy; i see some girls i do not know, and feel a passing joy. to myrtilla twelve fleeting years ago, my myrt, (_eheu fugaces!_ maybe more) i wrote of the directoire skirt you wore. ten years ago, myrtilla mine, the hobble skirt engaged my pen. that was, i calculate, in nine teen ten. the polo coat, the feathered lid, the phony furs of yesterfall, the current shoe--i tried to kid them all. vain every vitriolic bit, silly all my sulphuric song. rube goldberg said a bookful; it 's all wrong. bitter the words i used to fling, but you, despite my angriest note, were never swayed by anything i wrote. so i surrender. i am beat. and, though the admission rather girds, in any garb you're just too sweet for words. a psalm of labouring life tell me not, in doctored numbers, life is but a name for work! for the labour that encumbers me i wish that i could shirk. life is phony! life is rotten! and the wealthy have no soul; why should you be picking cotton? why should i be mining coal? not employment and not sorrow is my destined end or way; but to act that each to-morrow finds me idler than to-day. work is long, and plutes are lunching; money is the thing i crave; but my heart continues punching funeral time-clocks to the grave. in the world's uneven battle, in the swindle known as life, be not like the stockyards cattle- stick your partner with a knife! trust no boss, however pleasant! capital is but a curse! strike,--strike in the living present! fill, oh fill, the bulging purse! lives of strikers all remind us we can make our lives a crime, and, departing, leave behind us bills for double overtime. charges that, perhaps another, working for a stingy ten bucks a day, some mining brother seeing, shall walk out again. let us, then, be up and striking, discontent with all of it; still undoing, still disliking, learn to labour--and to quit. ballade of ancient acts after henley where are the wheezes they essayed and where the smiles they made to flow? where's caron's seltzer siphon laid, a squirt from which laid herbert low? where's charlie case's comic woe and georgie cohan's nasal drawl? the afterpiece? the olio? into the night go one and all. where are the japeries, fresh or frayed, that fields and lewis used to throw? where is the horn that shepherd played? the slide trombone that wood would blow? amelia glover's l. f. toe? the rays and their domestic brawl? bert williams with "oh, _i_ don't know?" into the night go one and all. where's lizzie raymond, peppy jade? the braggart lew, the simple joe? and where the irish servant maid that jimmie russell used to show? charles sweet, who tore the paper snow? ben harney's where? and artie hall? nash walker, darktown's grandest beau? into the night go one and all. l'envoi prince, though our children laugh "ho! ho!" at us who gleefully would fall for acts that played the long ago, into the night go one and all. to a prospective cook curly locks, curly locks, wilt thou be ours? thou shalt not wash dishes, nor yet weed the flowers, but stand in the kitchen and cook a fine meal, and ride every night in an automobile. curly locks, curly locks, come to us soon! thou needst not to rise until mid-afternoon; thou mayst be croatian, armenian, or greek; thy guerdon shall be what thou askest per week. curly locks, curly locks, give us a chance! thou shalt not wash windows, nor iron my pants. oh, come to the cosiest of seven-room bowers, curly locks, curly locks, wilt thou be ours? variation on a theme june 30, 1919. notably fond of music, i dote on a clearer tone than ever was blared by a bugle or zoomed by a saxophone; and the sound that opens the gates for me of a paradise revealed is something akin to the note revered by the blesséd eugene field, who sang in pellucid phrasing that i perfectly well recall of the clink of the ice in the pitcher that the boy brings up the hall. but sweeter to me than the sparrow's song or the goose's autumn honks is the sound of the ice in the shaker as the barkeeper mixes a bronx. between the dark and the daylight, when i'm worried about the tower, comes a pause in the day's tribulations that is known as the cocktail hour; and my soul is sad and jaded, and my heart is a thing forlorn, and i view the things i have written with a sickening, scathing scorn. oh, it's then i fare with some other slave who is hired for the things he writes to a den of sin where they mingle gin--such as lipton's, mouquin's, or whyte's, and my spirit thrills to a music sweeter than sullivan or puccini-the swash of the ice in the shaker as he mixes a dry martini. the drys will assert that metallic sound is the selfsame canon made by the ice in the shaker that holds a drink like orange or lemonade; but on the word of a travelled man and a bard who has been around, the sound of tin on ice and gin is a snappier, happier sound. and i mean to hymn, as soon as i have a moment of leisure time, the chill susurrus of cocktail ice in an adequate piece of rhyme. but i've just had an invitation to hark, at a beckoning bar, to the sound of the ice in the shaker as the barkeeper mixes a star. "such stuff as dreams" jenny kiss'd me in a dream; so did elsie, lucy, cora, bessie, gwendolyn, eupheme, alice, adelaide, and dora. say of honour i'm devoid, say monogamy has miss'd me, but don't say to dr. freud jenny kiss'd me. the ballad of justifiable homicide they brought to me his mangled corpse and i feared lest i should swing. "o tell me, tell me,--and make it brief- why hast thou done this thing? "had this man robbed the starving poor or lived a gunman's life, had he set fire to cottages, or run off with thy wife?" "he hath not robbed the starving poor, nor lived a gunman's life; he hath set fire to no cottage, nor run off with my wife. "ye ask me such a question that it now my lips unlocks: i learned he was the man who planned the second balcony box." the jury pondered never an hour, they thought not even a little, but handed in unanimously a verdict of acquittal. the ballad of the murdered merchant all stark and cold the merchant lay, all cold and stark lay he. and who hath killed this fair mer_chant_? now tell the truth to me. oh, i have killed this fair mer_chant_ will never again draw breath; oh, i have made this fair mer_chant_ to come unto his death. oh, why hast thou killed this fair mer_chant_ whose corse i now behold? and why hast caused this man to lie in death all stark and cold? oh, i have killed this fair mer_chant_ whose kith and kin make moan, for that he hath stolen my precious time when he useth the telephone. the telephone bell rang full and clear; the receiver did i seize. "hello!" quoth i, and quoth a girl, "hello!... one moment, please." i waited moments ane and twa, and moments three and four, and then i sought that fair mer_chant_ and spilled his selfish gore. that business man who scorneth to waste his moments sae rich and fine in calling a man to the telephone shall never again waste mine! and every time a henchwom_an_ shall cause me a moment's loss, i'll forthwith fare to that of_fice_ and stab to death her boss. rise up! rise up! thou blesséd knight! and off thy bended knees! go forth and slay all folk who make us wait "one moment, please." a gotham garden of verses i in summer when the days are hot the subway is delayed a lot; in winter, quite the selfsame thing; in autumn also, and in spring. and does it not seem strange to you that transportation is askew in this--i pray, restrain your mirth!-in this, the greatest town on earth? ii all night long and every night the neighbours dance for my delight; i hear the people dance and sing like practically anything. women and men and girls and boys, all making curious kinds of noise and dancing in so weird a way, i never saw the like by day. so loud a show was never heard as that which yesternight occurred: they danced and sang, as i have said, as i lay wakeful on my bed. they shout and cry and yell and laugh and play upon the phonograph; and endlessly i count the sheep, endeavouring to fall asleep. iii it is very nice to think this town is full of meat and drink; that is, i'd think it very nice if my papa but had the price. iv this town is so full of a number of folks, i'm sure there will always be matter for jokes. lines on reading frank j. wilstach's "a dictionary of similes" as neat as wax, as good as new, as true as steel, as truth is true, good as a sermon, keen as hate, full as a tick, and fixed as fate-brief as a dream, long as the day, sweet as the rosy morn in may, chaste as the moon, as snow is white, broad as barn doors, and new as sight-useful as daylight, firm as stone, wet as a fish, dry as a bone, heavy as lead, light as a breeze-frank wilstach's book of similes. the dictaphone bard [and here is a suggestion: did you ever try dictating your stories or articles to the dictaphone for the first draft? i would be glad to have you come down and make the experiment.--from a shorthand reporter's circular letter.] (as "the ballad of the tempest" would have to issue from the dictaphone to the stenographer) _begin each line with a capital. indent alternate lines. double space after each fourth line._ _we were crowded in the cabin comma not a soul would dare to sleep dash comma it was midnight on the waters comma and a storm was on the deep period_ _apostrophe tis a fearful thing in capital winter to be shattered by the blast comma and to hear the rattling trumpet thunder colon quote capital cut away the mast exclamation point close quote_ _so we shuddered there in silence comma dash for the stoutest held his breath comma while the hungry sea was roaring comma and the breakers talked with capital death period_ _as thus we sat in darkness comma each one busy with his prayers comma quote we are lost exclamation point close quote the captain shouted comma as he staggered down the stairs period_ _but his little daughter whispered comma as she took his icy hand colon quote isn't capital god upon the ocean comma just the same as on the land interrogation point close quote_ _then we kissed the little maiden comma and we spake in better cheer comma and we anchored safe in harbor when the morn was shining clear period_ the comfort of obscurity inspired by reading mr. kipling's poems as printed in the new york papers though earnest and industrious, i still am unillustrious; no papers empty purses printing verses such as mine. no lack of fame is chronicker than that about my monicker; my verse is never cabled at a fabled rate per line. still though the halls of literature are closed to me a bard obscure i have a consolation the copyreaders crude and rough can't monkey with my humble stuff and change my punctuation. ballade of the traffickers up goes the price of our bread-up goes the cost of our caking! people must ever be fed; bakers must ever be baking. so, though our nerves may be quaking, dumbly, in arrant despair, pay we the crowd that is taking all that the traffic will bear. costly to sleep in a bed! costlier yet to be waking! costly for one who is wed! ruinous for one who is raking! tradespeople, ducking and draking, charge you as much as they dare, asking, without any faking, all that the traffic will bear. roof that goes over our head, thirst so expensive for slaking, paper, apparel, and lead-why are their prices at breaking? yet, though our purses be aching, little the traffickers care; getting, for chopping and steaking, all that the traffic will bear. l'envoi take thou my verses, i pray, king, letting my guerdon be fair. even a bard must be making all that the traffic will bear. to w. hohenzollern, on discontinuing the conning tower william, it was, i think, three years ago- as i recall, one cool october morning-(you have _the tribune_ files; i think they'll show i gave you warning). i said, in well-selected words and terse, in phrases balanced, yet replete with power, that i should cease to pen the prose and verse known as the tower. that i should stop this labyrinth of light- though stopping make the planet leaden-hearted-unless you stopped the well-known _schrecklichkeit_ your nation started. i printed it in type that you could read; my paragraphs were thewed, my rhymes were sinewed. you paid, i judge from what ensued, no heed ... the war continued. and though my lines with fortitude were fraught, although my words were strong, and stripped of stuffing, you, william, thought--oh, yes, you did--you thought that i was bluffing. you thought that i would fail to see it through! you thought that, at the crux of things, i'd cower! how little, how imperfectly you knew the conning tower! you'll miss the column at the break of day. i have no fear that i shall be forgotten. you'll miss the daily privilege to say: "that stuff is rotten!" or else--as sometimes has occurred--when i have chanced upon a lucky line to blunder, you'll miss the precious privilege to cry: "that bird's a wonder!" well, william, when your people cease to strafe, when you have put an end to all this war stuff, when all the world is reasonably safe, i'll write some more stuff. and when you miss the quip and wanton wile, and learn you can't endure the towerless season, o william, i shall not be petty ... i'll listen to reason. _october 5, 1917._ to w. hohenzollern, on resuming the conning tower well, william, since i wrote you long ago- as i recall, one cool october morning-(i have _the tribune_ files. they clearly show i gave you warning.) since when i penned that consequential ode, the world has seen a vast amount of slaughter, and under many a gallic bridge has flowed a lot of water. i said that when your people ceased to strafe, that when you'd put an end to all this war stuff, and all the world was reasonably safe i'd write some more stuff; that when you missed the quip and wanton wile and learned you couldn't bear a towerless season, i quote: "o, i shall not be petty.... i'll listen to reason." _labuntur anni_, not to say _eheu fugaces_! william, by my shoulders glistening! i have the final laugh, for it was you who did the listening. _january 15, 1919._ thoughts on the cosmos i i do not hold with him who thinks the world is jonahed by a jinx; that everything is sad and sour, and life a withered hothouse flower. ii i hate the pollyanna pest who says that all is for the best, and hold in high, unhidden scorn who sees the rose, nor feels the thorn. iii i do not like extremists who are like the pair in (i) and (ii); but how i hate the wabbly gink, like me, who knows not what to think! on environment i used to think that this environ ment talk was all a lot of guff; place mattered not with keats and byron stuff. if i have thoughts that need disclosing, bright be the day or hung with gloom, i'll write in heaven or the composing room. times are when with my nerves a-tingle, joyous and bright the songs i sing; though, gay, i can't dope out a single thing. and yet, by way of illustration, the gods my graying head anoint ... i wrote _this_ piece at inspiration point. the ballad of the thoughtless waiter i saw him lying cold and dead who yesterday was whole. "why," i inquired, "hath he expired? and why hath fled his soul?" "but yesterday," his comrade said, "all health was his, and strength; and this is why he came to die- if i may speak at length. "but yesternight at dinnertime at a not unknown café, he had a frugal meal as you might purchase any day. "the check for his so simple fare was only eighty cents, and a dollar bill with a right good will came from his opulence. "the waiter brought him twenty cents. 'twas only yesternight that he softly said who now is dead 'oh, keep it. 'at's a' right.' "and the waiter plainly uttered 'thanks,' with no hint of scorn or pride; and my comrade's heart gave a sudden start and my comrade up and died." now waiters overthwart this land, in tearooms and in dives, mute be your lips whatever the tips, and save your customers' lives. rus vs. urbs whene'er the penner of this pome regards a lovely country home, he sighs, in words not insincere, "i think i'd like to live out here." and when the builder of this ditty returns to this pulsating city, the perpetrator of this pome yearns for a lovely country home. "i'm out of the army now" when first i doffed my olive drab, i thought, delightedly though mutely, "henceforth i shall have pleasure ab solutely." dull with the drudgery of war, sick of the very name of fighting, i yearned, i thought, for something more exciting. the rainbow be my guide, quoth i; my suit shall be a brave and proud one gay-hued my socks; and oh, my tie a loud one! for me the theatre and the dance; primrose the path i would be wending; for me the roses of romance unending. those were my inner thoughts that day (and those of many another million) when once again i should be a civilian. i would not miss the old o. d.; (monotony i didn't much like) i would not miss the reveille, and such like. i don't ... and do i now enjoy my walks along the primrose way so? is civil life the life? oh, boy, i'll say so. "oh man!" man hath harnessed the lightning; man hath soared to the skies; mountain and hill are clay to his will; skilful he is, and wise. sea to sea hath he wedded, canceled the chasm of space, given defeat to cold and heat; splendour is his, and grace. his are the topless turrets; his are the plumbless pits; earth is slave to his architrave, heaven is thrall to his wits. and so in the golden future, he who hath dulled the storm (as said above) may make a glove that'll keep my fingers warm. an ode in time of inauguration (march 4, 1913) thine aid, o muse, i consciously beseech; i crave thy succour, ask for thine assistance that men may cry: "some little ode! a peach!" o muse, grant me the strength to go the distance! for odes, i learn, are dithyrambs, and long; exalted feeling, dignity of theme and complicated structure guide the song. (all this from webster's book of high esteem.) let complicated structure not becloud my lucid lines, nor weight with overloading. to shelley, keats, and wordsworth and that crowd i yield the bays for ground and lofty oding. mine but the task to trace a country's growth, as evidenced by each inauguration from washington's to wilson's primal oath- in these u. s., the celebrated nation. but stay! or ever that i start to sing, or e'er i loose my fine poetic forces, i ought, i think, to do the decent thing, to wit: give credit to my many sources: barnes's "brief history of the u. s. a.," bryce, ridpath, scudder, fiske, j. b. mcmaster, a book of odes, a webster, a roget- the bibliography of this poetaster. flow, flow, my pen, as gently as sweet afton ever flowed! an thou dost ill, shall this be still a poor thing, but mine ode. g. w., initial prex, right down in wall street, new york city, took his first oath. oh, multiplex the whimsies quaint, the comments witty one might evolve from that! i scorn to mock the spot where he was sworn. on next inauguration day he took the avouchment sempiternal way down in phil-a-delph-i-a, where rises now the l. h. journal. his farewell speech in '96 said: "'ware the trusts and all their tricks!" john adams fell on darksome days: march fourth was blustery and sleety; the french behaved in horrid ways until john jay drew up a treaty. came the eleventh amendment, too, providing that--but why tell _you_? t. jefferson, one history showed, held all display was vain and idle; alone, unpanoplied, he rode; alone he hitched his horse's bridle. no ball that night, and no carouse, but back to conrad's boarding house. he tied that bridle to the fence the morning of inauguration; john davis saw him do it; whence arose his "simple" reputation. the white house, though, with thomas j., had chefs--and parties every day. the muse interrupts the odist if i were you i think i'd change my medium; i weary of your meter and your style. the sameness of it sickens me to tedium; i'll quit unless you switch it for a while. the odist replies i bow to thee, my muse, most eloquent of pleaders; but why embarrass me in front of all these readers? madison's inauguration was a lovely celebration. in a suit of wool domestic rode he, stately and majestic, making it be manifest clothes american are best. this has thundered through the ages. (see our advertising pages.) lightly i pass along, and so come to the terms of james monroe who framed the doctrine far too well known for an odist to retell. his period of friendly dealing began the era of good feeling. john quincy adams followed him in eighteen twenty-four; election was exciting--the details i shall ignore. but his inauguration as our country's president was, take it from mcmaster, some considerable event. it was a brilliant function, and i think i ought to add the philadelphia "ledger" said a gorgeous time was had. old andrew jackson's pair of terms were terribly exciting; that stern, intrepid warrior had little else than fighting. a time of strife and turbulence, of politics and flurry. but deadly dull for poem themes, so, mawruss, i should worry! in washington did martin van a stately custom then decree: old hickory, the veteran, must ride with him, the people's man, for all the world to see. a pleasant custom, in a way, and yet i should have laughed to see the sage of oyster bay on tuesday ride with taft. (pardon me this parenthetical halt: that sight you'll miss, but it isn't my fault.) william henry harrison came riding a horse of alabaster, but the weather that day was a sin and a shame, take it from me and john mcmaster. only a month--and harrison died, and v.-p. tyler began preside. a far from popular prex was he, and the next one was polk of tennessee. there were two inaugural balls for him, but the rest of his record is rather dim. had i the pen of a pope or a thackeray, had i the wisdom of hegel or kant, then might i sing as i'd like to of zachary, then might i sing a taylorian chant. oh, for the lyrical art of a tennyson! oh, for the skill of macaulay or burke! none of these mine; so i give him my benison, turning reluctantly back to my work. o millard fillmore! when a man refers to thee, what direful, awful thing occurs? though in itself thy name hath nought of wit, yet--and this doth confound me to admit when i do hear it, i do smile; nay, more-i laugh, i scream, i cachinnate, i roar as wearied business men do shake with glee at mimes that say "dubuque" or "kankakee"; as basement-brows that laugh at new rochelle; as lackwits laugh when actors mention hell. perhaps--it may be so--i am not sure-perhaps it is that thou wast so obscure, and that one seldom hears a single word of thee; i know a lot of girls that never heard of thee. hence did i smile, perhaps.... how very near the careless laughing to the thoughtful tear! o fillmore, let me sheathe my mocking pen. god rest thee! i'll not laugh at thee again! i have heard it remarked that to pierce's election there wasn't a soul had the slightest objection. i have also been told, by some caustical wit, that no one said nay when he wanted to quit. yet franklin pierce, forgotten man, i celebrate your fame. i'm doing just the best i can to keep alive your name, though as a president, f. p., you didn't do as much for me. of james buchanan things a score i might recite. i'll say that he was the only white house bachelor- the only one, that's what j. b. was. for he was a bachelor- for he might have been a bigamist, a mormon, a polygamist, and had thirty wives or more; but this be his memorial: he was ever unuxorial, and remained a bachelor- he re-mai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ai-ained a bachelor. lincoln! i falter, feeling it to be as if all words of mine in praise of him were as the veriest dolt that saw the sun; and god had spoken him and said to him: "i bid you tell me what you think of it." and he should answer: "oh, the sun is nice." so sadly fitted i to speak in praise of lincoln. now during andrew johnson's term the currency grew stable; we bought alaska and we laid the great atlantic cable; and then there came eight years of grant; thereafter four of hayes; and in his time the parties fell on fierce and parlous days; and garfield came, and arthur too, and congress shoes were worn, and brooklyn bridge was built, and i, your gifted bard, was born. cleveland and harrison came along then; followed an era of cleveland again. came then mckinley and--light me a pipe-hey, there, composing room, get some new type! _i sing him now as i shall sing him again; i sing him now as i have sung before. how fluently his name comes off my pen! o theodore!_ _bless you and keep you, t. r.! energy tireless, eternal, fixed and particular star, theodore, teddy, the colonel._ _energy tireless, eternal; hater of grafters and crooks! theodore, teddy, the colonel, writer and lover of books,_ _hater of grafters and crooks, forceful, adroit, and expressive, writer and lover of books, nevertheless a progressive._ _forceful, adroit, and expressive, often asserting the trite; nevertheless a progressive; errant, but generally right._ _often asserting the trite; stubborn, and no one can force you. errant, but generally right- yet, on the whole, i indorse you._ _stubborn, and no one can force you, fixed and particular star, yet, on the whole, i indorse you, bless you and keep you, t. r.!_ it blew, it rained, it snowed, it stormed, it froze, it hailed, it sleeted the day that william howard taft upon the chair was seated. the four long years that followed--ah, that i should make a rime of it! for mr. taft assures me that he had an awful time of it. and yet meseems he did his best; and as we bid good-bye, i'll add he did a better job than you'd have done--or i. welcome to thee! i shake thy hand, new prexy of our well-known land. may what we merit, and no less, descend to give us happiness! may what we merit, and no more, descend on us in measured store! give us but peace when we shall earn the right to such a rich return! give us but plenty when we show that we deserve to have it so! mine ode is finished! tut! it is a slight one, but blame me not; i do as i am bid. the editor of collier's said to write one- and i did. what the copy desk might have done to: ("annabel lee") =soul bride oddly dead in queer death pact= =high-born kinsman abducts girl from poet-lover--flu said to be cause of death--grand jury to probe= annabel l. poe, of 1834-1/2 3rd av., the beautiful young fiancee of edmund allyn poe, a magazine writer from the south, was found dead early this morning on the beach off e. 8th st. poe seemed prostrated and, questioned by the police, said that one of her aristocratic relatives had taken her to the "seashore," but that the cold winds had given her "flu," from which she never "rallied." detectives at work on the case believe, they say, that there was a suicide compact between the poes and that poe also intended to do away with himself. he refused to leave the spot where the woman's body had been found. ("curfew must not ring to-night") =girl, human bell-clapper, saves doomed lover's life= =brave act of "bessie" smith halts curfew from ringing and melts cromwell's heart= (by cable to _the courier_) huddersfield, kent, england.--jan. 15.--swinging far out above the city, "bessie" smith, the young and beautiful fiancée of basil underwood, a prisoner incarcerated in the town jail, saved his life to-night. the woman went to "jack" hemingway, sexton of the first m. e. church, and asked him to refrain from ringing the curfew bell last night, as underwood's execution had been set for the hour when the bell was to ring. hemingway refused, alleging it to be his duty to ring the bell. with a quick step miss smith bounded forward, sprang within the old church door, left the old man threading slowly paths which previously he had trodden, and mounted up to the tower. climbing the dusty ladder in the dark, she is said to have whispered: "curfew is not to ring this evening." seizing the heavy tongue of the bell, as it was about to move, she swung far out suspended in mid-air, oscillating, thus preventing the bell from ringing. hemingway's deafness prevented him from hearing the bell ring, but as he had been deaf for 20 years, he attributed no importance to the silence. as miss smith descended, she met oliver cromwell, the well-known lord protector, who had condemned underwood to death. hearing her story and noting her hands, bruised and torn, he said in part: "go, your lover lives. curfew shall not ring this evening." ("the ballad of the tempest") =tot's few words keep 117 souls from dire panic= =babe's query to parent saves storm-flayed ship's passengers crowded in cabin= fearful thing in winter boston, mass, jan. 17--cheered by the faith of little "jennie" carpenter, the 7-year-old daughter of capt. b. l. carpenter, of a steamer whose name could not be learned, 117 passengers on board were brought through panic early this morning while the storm was at its height, to shore. george h. nebich, one of the passengers, told the following story to a courier reporter: "about midnight we were crowded in the cabin, afraid to sleep on account of the storm. all were praying, as capt. carpenter, staggering down the stairs, cried: 'we are lost!' it was then that little 'jennie,' his daughter, took him by his hand and asked him whether he did not believe in divine omnipresence. all the passengers kissed the little 'girlie' whose faith had so inspirited us." the steamer, it was said at the office of the company owning her, would leave as usual to-night for portland. ("plain language from truthful james") =ah sin, famed tong man, bests bard at card tilt= ="celestial" gambler, feigning ignorance of euchre, tricks francis bret harte and "bill" nye into heavy losses--solons to probe ochre peril= san francisco, aug. 3.--francis b. harte and e. w. nye, a pair of local magazine writers, lost what is believed to be a large sum of money in a game of euchre played near the bar-m mine this afternoon. there had been, harte alleged, a three-handed game of euchre participated in by nye, a chinaman named ah sin and himself. the chinaman, harte asserted, did not understand the game, but, harte declared, smiled as he sat by the table with what harte termed was a "smile that was childlike and bland." harte said that his feelings were shocked by the chicanery of nye, but that the hands held by ah sin were unusual. nye, maddened by the chinaman's trickery, rushed at him, 24 packs of cards spilling from the tong-man's long sleeves. on his taper nails was found some wax. the "mongolian," harte said, is peculiar. harte and nye are thought to have lost a vast sum of money, as they are wealthy authors. the legislature, it is said, will investigate the question of the menace to american card-players by the so-called yellow peril. ("excelsior") =dog finds lad dead in drift= =unidentified body of young traveler found by faithful hound near small alpine village--white mantle his snowy shroud= st. bernard, sept. 12.--early this morning a dog belonging to the st. bernard monastery discovered the body of a young man, half buried in the snow. in his hand was clutched a flag with the word "excelsior" printed on it. it is thought that he passed through the village last night, bearing the banner, and that a young woman had offered him shelter, which he refused, having answered "excelsior." the police are working on the case. ("the landing of the pilgrim fathers") =pilgrim dads land on mass. coast town= =intrepid band of britons, seeking faith's pure shrine, reach rock-bound coast, singing amid storm= provincetown, mass, dec. 21--poking her nose through the fog, the ship _mayflower_, of southampton, jones, master, limped into port to-night. on board were men with hoary hair and women with fearless eyes, 109 in all. asked why they had made the journey, they alleged that religious freedom was the goal they sought here. the _mayflower_ carried a cargo of antique furniture. among those on board were william bradford, m. standish, jno. alden, peregrine white, john carver and others. steps are being taken to organize a society of mayflower descendants. ("the bridge of sighs") =kinless young woman, weary, takes own life= =body of girl found in river tells pitiful story of homelessness and lack of charity= london, march 16.--the body of a young woman, her garments clinging like cerements, was found in the river late this afternoon. in the entire city she had no home. there are, according to the police, no relatives. the woman was young and slender and had auburn hair. no cause has been assigned for the act. song of synthetic virility oh, some may sing of the surging sea, or chant of the raging main; or tell of the taffrail blown away by the raging hurricane. with an oh, for the feel of the salt sea spray as it stipples the guffy's cheek! and oh, for the sob of the creaking mast and the halyard's aching squeak! and some may sing of the galley-foist, and some of the quadrireme, and some of the day the xebec came and hit us abaft the beam. oh, some may sing of the girl in kew that died for a sailor's love, and some may sing of the surging sea, as i may have observed above. oh, some may long for the open road, or crave for the prairie breeze, and some, o'ersick of the city's strain, may yearn for the whispering trees. with an oh, for the rain to cool my face, and the wind to blow my hair! and oh, for the trail to joyous garde, where i may find my fair! and some may love to lie in the field in the stark and silent night, the glistering dew for a coverlet and the moon and stars for light. let others sing of the soughing pines and the winds that rustle and roar, and others long for the open road, as i may have remarked before. ay, some may sing of the bursting bomb and the screech of a screaming shell, or tell the tale of the cruel trench on the other side of hell. and some may talk of the ten-mile hike in the dead of a winter night, and others chaunt of the doughtie kyng with mickle valour dight. and some may long for the song of a child and the lullaby's fairy charm, and others yearn for the crack of the bat and the wind of the pitcher's arm. oh, some have longed for this and that, and others have craved and yearned; and they all may sing of whatever they like, as far as i'm concerned. * * * * * the country life press, garden city, new york * * * * * transcriber's notes original variations in spelling, hyphenation, and punctuation have been retained. bold text is surrounded by =. italic text is surrounded by _. page 71: the oe in croesus was originally printed as a ligature. if winter don't =a.b.c.d.e.f.= =notsomuchinson= by barry pain new york frederick a. stokes company publishers copyright, 1922, by frederick a. stokes company all rights reserved first printing, september 9, 1922 second printing, october 19, 1922 third printing, november 22, 1922 fourth printing, december 5, 1922 printed in the united states of america _these parodies do good to the book parodied; great good, sometimes; they are kindly meant, and the parodist has usually keenly enjoyed the book of which he sits down to make a fool._ r. l. stevenson. prefatory note i "if winter comes" placed its author not only as a best seller, but as one of the great novelists of to-day. not always are those royalties crowned by those laurels. tarzan (of, if i remember rightly, the apes) never won the double event. and i am told by superior people that, intellectually, miss ethel m. dell takes the hindmost. personally, i found "if winter comes" a most sympathetic and interesting book. i think there are only two points on which i should be disposed to quarrel with it. firstly, though nona is a real creation, effie is an incredible piece of novelist's machinery. secondly, i detest the utilization of the great war at the present day for the purposes of fiction. it is altogether too easy. it buys the emotional situation ready-made. it asks the reader's memory to supplement the writer's imagination. and this is not my sole objection to its use. ii i wonder if i might, without being thought blasphemous, say a word or two about the great novelists of to-day. they have certain points of resemblance. i do not think that over-states it. they have the same little ways. they divide their chapters into sections, and number the sections in plain figures. this is quite pontifical, and lends your story the majesty of an act of parliament. the first man who did it was a genius. and the other seven hundred and eighteen showed judgment. i propose to use it myself when i remember it. then there is the three-dot trick. at one time those dots indicated an omission. to-day, some of our best use them as an equivalent of the cinema fade-out. those dots prolong the effect of a word or sentence; they lend it an afterglow. you see what i mean? afterglow ... one must mention, too, the staccato style--the style that makes the printer send the boy out for another hundred gross of full-stops. all the great novelists of to-day use it, more or less. iii let us see what can be done with it. here, for instance, is a sentence which was taught me in the nursery, for its alleged tongue-twisting quality: "she stood at the door of burgess's fish-sauce shop, strand, welcoming him in." in that form it is not impressive, but now note what one of these staccato merchants might make of it. "across the roaring strand red and green lights spelling on the gloom. 'burgess's fish-sau.' a moment's darkness and again 'burgess's fish-sau.' like that. truncated. the final --ce not functioning. he had to look though it hurt him. hurt horrible. damnably. and his eyes traveled downward. "suddenly and beyond hope she! isobel-at-the-last. standing in the doorway. white on black. slim. willowy. incomparable. incommensurable. she saw him and her lips rounded to a call. he sensed it through the traffic. come in. calling and calling. come in. "come in.... "out of the rain." it is like a plaintive hymn sung to a banjo accompaniment. incidentally it illustrates another favorite trick of these gentlemen--the introduction of a commonplace or even jarring detail into a romantic scene in order to increase its appearance of reality. it is quite a good trick. iv and sometimes, not every day but sometimes, one gets a little weary even of the best tricks. need the author depend quite so much on the printer for his effects? scenes and passages in a book seem to be standing very near the edge, and the wanton thought occurs to one that a little shove would send them over. in fact, one gets irritable. and then anything bad may happen. this parody for instance. if winter don't chapter i luke sharper. age, thirty-four. married, but not much. private residence, jawbones, halfpenny hole, surrey. favorite recreation, suffering. favorite flower---oh, drop it! let us rather listen to mr. alfred jingle, solicitor, talking to his artist friend. "met sharper yesterday. remember him at the old school? flap sharper we called him. not that they really did flap. his ears, i mean. they just crept up and bent over when he was thinking hard. people came to see it. came from miles around. "rum chap. rum ways. never agreed with anybody present, including himself. always inventing circumstantial evidence to convict himself of crimes he had never committed. remember the window? half-brick came flying through it. old borkins looked out. below stood flap sharper with the other half-brick in his hand. arm drawn back. no other boy in sight. the two halves fitted exactly. it certainly looked like it. poor old flap found that it felt like it, too. but he had never chucked that half-brick. ogilvie did it. remember him? the one we called pink-eye. have a drink? "i offered sharper my sympathy. wouldn't have it. said 'why?' maintained that we had all got to suffer in this life, and it was better to begin early. excellent practice. then his ears crept up and bent over. got it again later in the day for drawing a caricature of old borkins. never did it, of course. couldn't draw. can't remember who did it. oh, you did, did you? like you. have another? "yes, we have a certain amount of business in dilborough. i'm generally down there once or twice a year. i walk over to halfpenny hole and lunch with sharper. it's a seven mile walk. but lunch at the hotel is seven-and-six. doing uncommonly well, is sharper. he's in pentlove, postlethwaite and sharper. you know. the only jams that really matter. pickles, too. chutney. very hot stuff. oh, yes, sharper's all right. "you ought to run down and see halfpenny hole. what is it the agents say? old-world. it's very old-world. only three houses in it, and all different. whether the garden settlement will spoil it or not is another matter. you go and paint it before it gets spoilt. "strictly between ourselves, i am not quite sure that sharper and his wife hit it off. oh, nothing much. it's just that when he speaks to her she never answers, and when she speaks to him he never answers. in fact, if she speaks at all he groans and moves his ears. charming woman, very. quite pretty. there may be nothing in it. i saw no actual violence. sharper may merely have been suffering. he wouldn't be happy if he wasn't. have a drink. no?" chapter ii halfpenny hole lay in the bottom of a slope seven miles from dilborough. dilborough was almost the same distance from halfpenny hole. jawbones was, i think we must say, an old-world house, and had the date 1623 carved over the doorway. luke sharper had carved it himself. a little further down the road there was--there's no other word for it--an old-world bridge with--i'm afraid we must have it once more--an old-world stream running underneath it. it gave one the impression that it had always been like that. always the stream under the bridge. never the bridge under the stream. but now that the garden settlement had come things might be very different. houses were going up; mr. doom dagshaw's mammoth circus was going up; even the rates were going up. at the end of his honeymoon luke sharper went to see a man about a dog, and left his wife to prepare jawbones for his accommodation. she was a good housekeeper, and luke acknowledged it. whenever he thought about her at all, he always added "but she _is_ a good housekeeper." he was desperately fair. "this," said mabel, opening a door, as luke began his visit of inspection, "this is your den." luke's ears moved. he kissed her twice. "but, you know, i cannot bear it. there are some words which i am unable to endure, such as salt-cellar, tuberculosis, tennis-net and den." "very well," said mabel, a little coldly, "we'll call it your cage. and just look. there is a pair of my father's old slippers that i have brought for you. size thirteen. you've got none quite like that, have you?" he put one arm round her waist. "where did you say the dustbin was?" he asked. "but," she said amazed, "you don't mean to say----surely you wear slippers?" "i never was," he replied firmly. nor did he. "and now," said mabel, "come into the kitchen and see the two maids that i have engaged. two nice respectable sisters named morse--ellen morse and----" "there isn't an 'l' in morse," he said gloomily. "and kate morse," mabel continued. she opened the door into the spotless kitchen, and the two maids sprang instantly to attention. one of them was cleaning silver, the other was still lingering over tea. the first was very long, and the second very short. luke slapped his leg enthusiastically. "oh, by jove," he said, "this is ripping. morse. don't you see? dot and dash. dot and dash." he howled with laughter. dash dropped the tea-pot. dot had hysterics. "i think," said mabel, without a smile, "we had better go into the garden." everything in the garden was lovely. "luke," said mabel, "i did not quite like what you said in the kitchen just now. it was just a teeny-weeny----" "funny, wasn't it?" said luke. "you must admit it was funny. seemed to come to me all of a flash. i'll bet that nothing more amusing has been said in this house since the day it was built. dot and dash! dot and dash! oh, help!" he rolled about the path in uncontrollable laughter. mabel looked sadder and sadder. he said that made it all the funnier, and laughed more. after dinner he wrote the joke out carefully. it seemed a pity that _punch_ should not have it. mabel yawned, and said she would go up to bed. "tired?" asked luke. "a little. there's something about you, luke, that makes one feel tired. by the way, did you ever know mr. mark sabre?" "god forbid--i mean, no." "well, he called one of his maids high jinks and the other low, but it turned out later in the story that the one that was first low became high, while high became low. i thought i'd just mention it to you as a warning." "right-o. i'll be very careful. i may as well come up to bed myself. the editor of _punch_ will be a happy man to-morrow morning." at intervals that night mabel was awakened by screams of laughter. once she enquired what the cause was. "dot and dash," he replied, chuckling. "too good for words! oh, can't you see it?" "good-night again," said mabel. on the following night, when he returned from business, mabel met him in the hall. "darling," she said, "we've had trouble with the sink in the scullery." "what did you do about it?" "i sent for the plumber. he seemed such a nice, intelligent man." "have you kept him to dine with us?" "no. why on earth should i? he had a glass of beer in the kitchen." "people dine with me sometimes," said luke, "who are neither nice nor intelligent. oh, can't you see, mabel, that we are all equal in the sight of heaven?" "yes," said mabel, "but you're not in sight of heaven--not by a long way. i don't suppose you ever will be. besides, if he had stayed, the dinner could not have gone on." luke's ears twitched convulsively. "i can't see that," he said. "it is unthinkable. how can you say that?" "well," said mabel, "one of the vegetables we are to eat to-night happens to be leeks. and, of course, he, being a plumber, would have stopped them." luke did not swear. he simply went up to his bedroom in silence. there he began ticking certain subjects off on his finger. number one, den. number two, slippers. number three, dot and dash. number four, plumber. she would never see. she would never understand. and he was married to it. he put up both hands and pushed his ears back into position. (i had fully intended to divide this chapter into sections and to number them in plain figures. careless of me. thoughtless. have a shot at it in the next chapter? i think so. yes, almost ...) chapter iii 1 pentlove, postlethwaite and sharper occupied a large factory, with offices and showroom attached, in dilborough. they had no address. the name of the firm alone was quite sufficient to find them. some people added the word dilborough; some simply put surrey; some merely england. they were known to everybody. their motto--"perfect purity"--was in every daily paper every day. and during those weeks when the pickle manufacturing was going on, every little hamlet within a radius of twenty miles was aware of the fact if the wind set in that direction. there was no pentlove in the firm, and no postlethwaite, and hardly any sharper. an ex-schoolmaster, diggle by name, had secured the entire control of the business. he had no partners, though sharper had a small interest in the firm. he had achieved this position by unscrupulousness and low cunning. for of real ability he had not a trace. in fact, the staff mostly called him cain, because he was not able. another point of resemblance was that he was not much of a hand at a sacrifice. he looked after the financial side of the business, and did a good deal of general interference in every branch of it. the manufacturing side was under the control of arthur dobson, a red-faced man who had been with the firm for twenty years. he very wisely maintained its tradition of the very highest quality coupled with the very highest prices. "perfect purity." it was an admitted fact that pentlove, postlethwaite and sharper actually used limes in the manufacture of lime juice. another startling innovation was the use of calves' feet in the preparation of calf's-foot jelly. this was the more extravagant because, of course, only the front feet of the calf may be used for this purpose. three back feet make one back-yard. naturally the price was ruinous. but it all added to the reputation of the firm. and the best hotels thought it worth while to advertise that the pickles and preserves they provided were by messrs. pentlove, postlethwaite and sharper. it may be as well to add that arthur dobson was a knave. when he was talking to cain he always slated sharper. when he was talking to sharper he always slated cain. his specialty was the continuous discovery of some cheaper place in which to lunch. he would ask luke sharper to join him in these perilous adventures, but luke, in his sunny way, always refused. "standoffish," said dobson. "damn standoffish." luke sharper represented the literary side of the business. he wrote all the advertisements. it was a rule of the firm that the advertisements should be scholarly, and that none should appear which did not contain at least one quotation from a classical language. luke had also initiated the production of various booklets dealing with the materials and the methods of business. nominally they were published; practically they were given away to any considerable purchaser. some of these were written by sharper himself. there was, for example, "the romance of the raspberry," of which the _dilborough gazette_ had said: "an elegant little brochure." this was a great triumph. even diggle had to admit it. he had gone so far as to say that one of these fine days he would really have to think about making sharper a partner. other of the booklets were written in collaboration. for instance, in the composition of "thoughts on purity," sharper had the assistance of the reverend noel atall. luke kept a set of these booklets, bound in lilac morocco, in his room at the office. he loved them. he was proud of them. he regarded them as his children, and would sit for hours patting them gently. as the issue of each booklet was limited to one hundred copies, and it was customary to present one of them with each order of £20 or upwards, some of them were out of print, and difficult to obtain. this had been enough to start the collectors. in book catalogues there would sometimes appear a complete set of the pentlove, postlethwaite and sharper booklets. and the price asked was gratifying. luke fainted with joy the first time he saw this in the catalogue. at one time he had been in the habit of taking the booklet home in order to read it aloud to mabel. he never did it now. it was hopeless. no insight. no sympathy. no appreciation. no anything. blind and deaf to beauty. but she really was a good housekeeper. 2 luke bicycled from home to business every morning, and from business to home every evening. he enjoyed this immensely. every morning as he rode off he said to himself: "further from mabel. further and further from mabel. every day, in every way, i'm getting further and further." on his return journey in the evening he experienced the same relief in getting further from old cain, and further from the office. at the middle point of his journey it always seemed to him that he did not belong to the office any more, and that he did not belong to mabel either. he was all his own, in a world by himself. he would go on in a snow-white ecstasy. then he would get up, dust his clothes, and re-mount. he had some habits, which, to the stupid and censorious, might almost seem childish. he cut for himself with his little hatchet a number of pegs, and always carried some of them in his pocket. at every point on the road where he fell off, he drove in a peg. it seemed to him a splendid idea. in a wave of enthusiasm he told mabel all about it. "isn't it absolutely splendid?" he asked. "dotty," said mabel, briefly. he went out into the woodshed and cut more pegs. one monday morning as he started on his ride he saw before him at intervals all down the road little white specks. yes, every one of those pegs had been painted white by somebody. who could have done it? he decided at once that it must be mabel. she had repented of her harshness. she had made up her mind to try to enter more into his secret soul. this was her silent way of showing it. he determined that if this were so he would start kissing her again that evening. it overcame him completely. he drove in one more peg, and re-mounted. "mabel," he said that night at dinner, "it's good and sweet of you to have painted all those pegs white. it must have taken you a long time." "never touched your rotten old pegs," said mabel. "pass the salt." his ears twitched. 3 later that evening he sat alone in his bedroom. he also used this room as a study. he had been driven to this somewhat frowsty practice by the fact that he could not possibly sit in any room that had ever been called a den. a tap at the door. ellen morse entered to turn the bed down. a bright idea flashed across luke's mind. his ears positively jumped. he believed in liberty, equality and familiarity, especially familiarity. so did ellen morse. "dot," he said, "was it you who painted my fall-pegs white?" "well, old bean," said dot, "it was like this. i'll tell you." she seated herself on the bed. "you see, this house has only got four reception-rooms and eight bedrooms, and all the washing's done at home, and all the dressmaking, and there's a good deal of entertaining, mostly when you're not there, and everything has to be right up to the mark. well, as there were the whole two of us to do it, your old woman thought time would be hanging heavy on our hands, so now we do the garden as well. the other day mr. doom dagshaw was lunching here, and they were going to play tennis afterwards. your bit of skirt has some proper games with that dagshaw. i watch them out of the pantry window in my leisure moments. well, anyhow, i'd to mark out the tennis court, and i mixed up a bit more of the stuff than was needed, and i thought i might as well use it up on your pegs. you see, i get a half-sunday off every three months, and it was only a fourteen-mile walk there and back. and i'm sure i didn't know what else to do with my holiday." "dot," said luke, "you seem to be able to enter into things. you get the hang of my ideas. some do, some don't. if you can sneak off for half-an-hour to-morrow evening we'll go and play at boats together." "boats?" "yes. you know the bridge. we get two pieces of wood, throw them in the stream on one side, then run across and watch them come out on the other. and the one that comes out first, wins. won't that be glorious?" "well, you are one to think of things," said dot. (and now we'll have a little novelty. the great novelists of to-day number their sections. we'll have a number without any section. this has never been done be---4 chapter iv it can be hardly necessary to say that mabel caught luke and dot playing boats on the following evening. luke was always discovered. he was even detected when he had done nothing. as he dressed for dinner that night, he reflected that once more mabel had disappointed him. he had expected her to get into a fury of jealousy, and to suspect him of the most criminal intentions with regard to dot. this would have been real suffering for him, and he would have enjoyed it. but all she had said to him was that she wished he would behave a little more like a man and a little less like a baby, and an imbecile baby at that. all she had said to dot was that she thought she could find her some other occupation. it was difficult for him to keep his temper. but he exercised self-control. in fact, he never spoke another word for the rest of the evening. it was a pity. he was such a pleasant man. why could not mabel see it? things were no better at breakfast next morning. mabel said, "just fancy, mrs. smith in a sable stole at church last sunday, and i know for a fact that he only gets three-ten. if it was real sable it was wicked, and if it was not she was acting a lie." luke smote the table once with his clenched fist, spilt his tea, and resumed his newspaper. "further from mabel," he thought, as he mounted his bike. "every day, in every way, i'm getting further and further." about two miles from dilborough he became suddenly aware that two motor-cars were approaching him. they were being driven abreast at racing speed, and occupied the whole of the road. for one moment luke thought of remaining where he was, and causing mabel to be a widow. then, murmuring to himself, "safety first," he ran up the grassy slope at the side of the road and fell off. both the cars pulled up. a man's voice sang out cheerily: "hallo, sharper. hallo, hallo. who gave you leave to dismount?" luke recognized the voice. one of the cars was driven by lord tyburn, and the other by his wife, jona. luke hurriedly drove in a peg to mark the spot, and came down into the road again. "how's yourself?" said lord tyburn. "we've been away for two years. timbuctoo, margate. all over the place. only got back to gallows last night." luke shook hands with him and with jona. "you've not changed much," said jona. "same funny old face." "it is the only one that i happen to have, lady tyburn." "oh, drop it. call me jona. you always used to, lukie, you know. and bill don't mind; do you, bill?" "that? lord, no. but what you have been and done, sharper, is to spoil a very pretty and sporting event. jona and i were racing to halfpenny hole, and i'd got her absolutely beaten." "liar," said jona, "i was leading--leading by inches." "ah, but i'd lots in reserve." "strong, silent man, ain't you?" said jona. they both laughed. "yes," said luke, "i'm afraid i was rather in the way. i seem to be almost always in the way. it happens at home. it happens at the office. i say, i wonder what you two would have done if you'd met a cart?" "jumped it," said jona, and laughed again. "sorry," said lord tyburn, "but i must rush off. i've just spotted my agent, five fields away. so long, sharper. come up and inspect us soon." he drove the car up the grassy slope, smashed a way through the hedge--after all, it was his own hedge--and vanished. "he drives wonderfully," said luke. "he's that kind," said jona. "he does everything well. he does himself well. are you glad to see me again, lukie?" the tips of his ears crept slowly forward. "i shall have to think for a long time to know that i really am to see you again." "'fraid i can't wait a long time," said jona. "see you again soon." she waved her hand to him and drove off. luke rode on as if in a dream. suddenly he became aware that he had passed the door of his office. he thought of turning round in the street and riding back, but he had turned round in the street once before, and a great number of people had been hurt. he dismounted and walked back. as his custom was, he knocked at the door of mr. diggle's room and entered. mr. diggle, who still retained much of his schoolmaster manner, sat at his desk with his back to sharper. he did not look round. "that you, sharper?" he said. "yes, sir. good morning," said sharper. diggle went on writing for a minute in silence, and then said drearily: "well, what is it?" "please can i have that partnership now?" asked sharper. "not to-day. don't fidget with your hands. keep your ears quiet, if possible. close the door gently as you go out." luke went gloomily back to his own room. he had not done himself justice. he never did do himself justice with diggle. diggle made him feel as if he were fifteen. but thoughts of diggle did not long occupy his mind. once more he seemed to be standing in the road, with the warm fragrance of petrol and lubricating oil playing on his face. once more he saw her. jona. some would have hesitated to call her beautiful. to luke she was all the beauty in the world. concentrated. at one time jona had had the chance of marrying him, but apparently she did not know a good thing when she saw it. tyburn had the title and the property, and was better-looking and more amusing, and had stationary ears. but had he the character of a child martyr? he had not. now luke was great at martyrdom; also at childishness. for nearly an hour luke sat with his manuscript before him. he was writing another elegant little brochure. this one dealt with the jam-pots of ancient assyria. during that hour he did not write one single word, but thought continuously of jona. he pulled himself up abruptly. why, he was married to mabel. of course, he was. it was just as if he could not trust his memory for anything these days. he had been rather rude to mabel at breakfast. well, not rude exactly, but not friendly. mrs. smith had a sable stole. he ought to have said something about it. he must try at once to think of something that would be said about a sable stole. he must make it up to mabel in some way. what could he give her? he could give her more of his society. he would stop work, go back to her at once, and be just as nice as nice could be. he put on his hat, and met diggle in the passage. "where are you going?" said diggle. "i was going home, sir," said luke, "i'm not very well this morning." (for a christian martyr he certainly did lie like sin.) "don't let it occur again," said diggle. he encountered mabel in the hall of his house. she had a letter in her hand. she seemed surprised to see him, and very far from pleased. "what in goodness are you here for?" she said. "forgotten something?" he set his teeth. in spite of discouragement, he was going to be very nice indeed. "i am afraid," he said, "i rather forgot my manners at breakfast this morning. sorry." "i didn't notice they were any worse than usual. you surely didn't come back to say that?" "oh, no. i thought we'd take a holiday together. like old times, what? we'll go for a nice long walk, and take a packet of sandwiches and----" "oh, don't be silly. i can't possibly go out. probably mr. doom dagshaw is coming to lunch." "he's a damned sweep," said luke impulsively, and corrected himself. "i mean to say, he's not a man whose society i'm particularly anxious to cultivate." "how was i to know you would come barging in like this? i never wanted you to meet him." more self-control needed. "i shall be perfectly pleasant and chatty to him," said luke resolutely. "this letter's just come for you," said mabel. "the address is in lady tyburn's handwriting." he blushed profusely. his ears waved to and fro. why on earth had not jona warned him that this was going to happen? "read it," said mabel. he glanced through it. it was very brief. "well?" asked mabel. "it's nothing. nothing at all." "i should like to see it, if you don't mind." she took the letter and read aloud: "lukie, dear. just back from two years' travel. you two might blow in to lunch one day. any old day. chops and tomato sauce. yours, jona." "most extraordinary," said mabel. "why does she call you lukie?" "well, damn it all," said luke, "she couldn't call me lucky. oh, what does it matter? we were boy and girl together. innocent friends of long standing." "and what does this mean? chops and tomato sauce? chops! gracious heavens! and tomato sauce." "it's just a joke. silly, no doubt." "it might be an allusion to your complexion at the present moment. it might be a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence." he had an uneasy feeling that he had heard or read all this before somewhere. "merely a joke," he pleaded. "and what does it matter?" "she's a cat, anyhow. she'd better keep off the grass, and i'll tell her so. what did she say when she saw you this morning?" "hardly anything. her husband was with her. i say, how on earth did you know?" "her husband was not with her when i met her. but do you know what this sudden return of yours means? this unusual desire to apologize for your manners, and to take me out for the day? guilty conscience. i'm going into the garden to cut flowers for the luncheon table." "let me come with you and hold the scissors?" "if you hold the scissors, how the dickens am i going to cut the flowers? you're really too trying." no, it was not going well. more self-control would be needed. a happy idea struck him. "didn't you say that mrs. smith had a stable sole--i mean, a sable stole, in church or somewhere?" "and you don't try that on either." "i don't suppose i should look well in it," he said brightly. he followed her into the garden. the flowers were cut, and subsequently arranged, in complete silence. he had the feeling that anything he said might not be taken down, but would certainly be used in evidence against him. and then, in the hall, was heard the voice of mr. doom dagshaw, the proprietor of the mammoth circus at the garden settlement. "lunch ready? so it ought to be. don't announce me. waste of time. i know my way about in this house." he entered. he was a young man of sulky, somewhat dictatorial expression. his dress had something of the clerical appearance, an effect at which he distinctly aimed. "hallo," he said, and sat down on the table and yawned. then he caught sight of luke. "you here?" he said. "what for?" "just a little holiday," said luke nervously, "a little treat for me. you don't mind?" doom dagshaw did not answer him, but turned to mabel. "lunch is ready," he said, "let's get on to it." they passed into the dining-room. luke observing salmon at one end of the table, and cutlets at the other, asked, with a smile, if those two sentences generally ran concurrently. "oh, hold your jaw," said dagshaw. "that's the way to talk to him," said mabel approvingly. "yours, too," dagshaw added, turning to mabel. "i'll do any talking that has to be done. i'm here to talk about my circus. yes, and to eat ham. isn't any? ought to be. give me three of those cutlets. you don't realize what a circus is, you people. it's a church. it's a cathedral. it's more." "i hope," said luke, "that it's getting on nicely, and will be a great success." "bound to be. can't help it. when i bought the land from the garden settlement syndicate i made it a condition that there should be a clause in every lease granted that a year's season ticket should be taken for the mammoth circus." "i don't quite see," said mabel, "how it's like a church." "the circus has a ring. the ring is a circle. the circle is the symbol of eternity. will anybody be able to see my highly-trained chimpanzee in the trapeze act without realizing as he has never realized before, the meaning of the word uplift? think of the stars in their program. and by what strenuous discipline and self-denial they have reached their high position." "'per ardua ad astra,'" quoted luke. "hold your jaw. three more cutlets. think of the clowns. they tumble over, they fall from horses, they fail to jump through the rings. they are lashed by the whip of the ring-master. what a lesson in reverence is here. people who jeer, people who make fun, people who parody great works of fiction always and invariably come to a bad end. it will be not only a mammoth circus but a moral circus. it will be the greatest ethical institution in this part of the world. its work will be more subtle than that of any other. its appeal will be to the unconscious rather than to the conscious mind. freud never thought of that. i did it myself. i am a genius. potatoes." after lunch it was suggested that mr. doom dagshaw should take mabel up to the garden settlement to see the progress that was being made in the building of the mammoth circus. "you won't care to come?" said mabel to her husband. and it seemed less like a question than a command. "no, not in my line," said luke, still doing his best. "hope you'll enjoy yourselves." when they had gone, luke retired to his study-bedroom. there was a tap at the door. it was dot who entered. "she's out," said dot. "boats?" "right-o. gorgeous," said luke. * * * * * normally dinner was at half-past seven. but mabel did not get back till a quarter to eight. it was eight o'clock before they began. mabel offered no explanation beyond saying that there really had been a great deal of architectural detail to examine. luke had prepared a series of six pleasant and gratifying things to say about mr. doom dagshaw and the mammoth circus. he found himself absolutely unable to say any of them. he could say other things. he could say "windmill, watermill" ten times over, very quickly, without a mistake. but somehow he could not say mammoth circus. well, at any rate, he might be bright and amusing. at this time it was customary--perhaps too customary--to ask if you had read a certain book by a certain author, the name of the author being artfully arranged so as to throw some light on the title of the book. luke remembered three of these which had been told him at the office. unfortunately they were all of them far too improper for general use. so he just said any bright thing that came into his mind. mabel looked very tired. she admitted she was tired. she said she had walked about a thousand miles. "and then i come back to this kind of thing," she said. the rest of the dinner, which was brief, passed in complete silence. then mabel went into the drawing-room, and luke remained behind and lit a cigarette. "this will never do," he said to himself. "i must keep it up. i must be pleasant. i must say number one of those six sentences about doom dagshaw and the mammoth circus, even it if splits my palate and my tongue drops out." he threw down his cigarette, walked firmly into the drawing-room, and closed the door. "mabel," he said, "i hope you enjoyed your visit to the doom circus with mr. mammoth dagshaw." mabel looked up coldly from the book she was reading. "back again already?" she said. "well, what was it you were saying?" "i was saying," said luke gaily, "that i hoped you enjoyed your visit to the dammoth circus with mr. dag moomshaw." "port never did agree with you," said mabel. "you shouldn't take it." she resumed her book. luke tried the second of the pleasant sentences. "dagshaw always seems to me to be one of those masterful men who sooner or later----" he ducked his head just in time, and the book which mabel had thrown knocked over the vase of flowers behind him. "if you can't let me read in peace," she said, "at any rate, you shan't sneer at my friends. you're always doing it, and everybody notices it. i simply can't understand you. you're like nothing on earth. what have you done with that love-letter of yours?" "oh, come," he said, "i've had no love letter." "you silly liar; i mean the letter from your lady tyburn. have you been kissing it?" "really, mabel, this is absurd. i might as well ask you if you have been kissing the mammoth circus." "i'm going to bed," said mabel abruptly. "i'm absolutely fed up with you. i'm sick to death of you. i hate you. and i despise you." she went out and slammed the door violently. four more vases went over, and three pictures fell. luke went over to the open window and looked out into the cool night. at the house opposite a girl was singing very beautifully "the end of a perfect day." chapter v as he sat in his office on the following thursday morning, the whistle of the speaking-tube sounded shrilly and interrupted him in the act of composition. he went angrily to the tube. "what do you want to interrupt me for," he called, "when you know i'm busy? what the devil do you want, anyway?" "i want you, lukie," said a gentle voice in reply. "come up at once," he said. "awfully sorry. frightfully glad you've come. if there's a chance of making a mistake within a hundred miles of me, i seldom miss it." lady tyburn came radiantly into the room, drawing off her gloves. "nasty shock for you, isn't it?" she said. she held out both hands to him. "will you ... will you help yourself?" "thanks," he said, as he clasped them warmly. "i will have some of each." after a minute or two she withdrew her hands and sat down. "has that dirty dog given you a partnership yet?" she asked. "diggle? not yet. i ask him from time to time. he always seems too busy to talk about it at any length. it's wonderful to see you here, jona." "you got my letter?" "i did. in fact, there was some considerable beano about it at home. but never mind about that." "you didn't come to see me, so i was drawn here. magnet and tin-tack." he looked at her little white nose. "i see the point," he said. "say some more," she said, "i like to hear you talk, funnyface. funny old ears. funny old cocoanut with, oh, such a lot of milk in it. you do think a lot of thinky thoughts, don't you. and you put them all down in those dear little books of yours." "not all," said luke, "i'm limited in my subjects. jam, you know. pickles. sardines. that hurts--to be limited. i want to be free. here, i am imprisoned. i am buried alive. plunged, still teething, in the brougham." "still teething? i knew you were young at heart. still, at the age of thirty-two----" "i had intended to say that i was plunged, still breathing, in the tomb. i do get carried away so. sometimes i form plans. i think i will leave this business and write my biography. it would be a record, not of the facts that are, but of the facts as i should like them to be." "brilliant," said jona. "i don't know," said luke, wagging his ears, "i sometimes doubt whether i am sufficiently in touch with real life. i must consult somebody about it." "consult me. no, not now. show me the first of the little books that you ever wrote." he handed her the little lilac-bound copy of "the romance of a raspberry." she put it reverently to her lips, patted it gently, and laid it down again. "do you talk it over with mabel? isn't mabel tremendously proud of it?" "she is tremendously proud, but she has great self-restraint." he recalled the end of the perfect day. "as a general rule," he added, "when nothing happens to irritate her." "does she love you very much?" "i don't remember her mentioning anything of the kind recently. but it's you i want to talk about, jona. tell me about your life." "i don't live. i'm marking time. you throw a brick into the stream----" "no," said luke, "not a brick. i sometimes play boats." "i was going to say," jona continued, "that the brick remains motionless while the stream goes past it." "but cannot we apply the principle of relativity here?" he asked. "may it not be that the stream stands still while the brick goes past it? it would appear so to the brick." "that's one of your dinky, thinky thoughts, isn't it?" a sound of uproar, of crashes and loud voices, came up from the street below. "i wonder what that is?" said luke. "it's bill, probably. he said he'd call for me." she crossed over to the window and looked out. "yes, that's bill. driving the team of zebras he got from doom dagshaw. the horses don't seem to like it. there's a cart and horse just gone in at that draper's window. quite a number of horses seem to have fallen down on the pavement. there's a policeman with a note-book. he seems to be asking bill questions. and bill's making him laugh. he manages those zebras perfectly. he does everything well." luke had joined her at the window. "who's the lady sitting beside him?" he asked. "one of his harem. staying with us. don't pity me. i deserve nothing. i made a mistake once. don't ask me what. don't come down with me. good-bye, lukie, dear." luke watched her as she drove off. and then mr. diggle entered without knocking. "who's your lady friend?" said diggle, snappishly. "i mean the one that's just gone off in the circus. simply unendurable. the whole street outside my business premises in confusion. i opened my window to look out, and that man pointed me out with his whip and said to the girl beside him: 'that's our mr. diggle. if you like our chutney, try our cheddar.' i shall go down and speak to the policeman at once. this sort of thing must be stopped. come, come, sharper, give me the name, please." "the lady who called to see me," said luke, "was lady tyburn. it was her husband who was driving the zebras." "that makes a difference. our spirited young aristocracy! i understand that the firm's productions are used exclusively up at gallows. glad you mentioned the name, sharper." "and can i have that partnership now?" asked luke. "not immediately. get on with your work." * * * * * but it was impossible to work with the image of jona still in his mind. he was puzzled. grasping one ear in each hand he tried to think it out. what had she meant by "help yourself," and "the magnet and the tin-tack?" why had she kissed "the romance of the raspberry?" what did she mean by "i made a mistake?" it almost looked as if ... no, it could not be that. still, really you know, when you came to think about it ... he walked over to the window once more. in the street below the policeman was instructing a group of drivers, the draper, and other persons concerned, that all applications for compensation should be sent in to lord tyburn, and that they would be dealt with strictly in rotation. chapter vi 1 on his arrival at the office next morning luke was somewhat surprised to receive a visit in his office from mr. arthur dobson. apparently mr. dobson had something on his mind. he wandered about nervously saying incoherent things about the weather. "anything doing?" asked luke. "nothing much. i say, i've found a new place to lunch at. it's run by an italian, malodorato. quite a little place, in mud lane. still there it is, you know. five courses for one and threepence. that takes some beating." "stuff must be pretty bad." "well, possibly yes. but think what a lot of it you get for your money. come and lunch there to-day." "thanks. i have promised to go up to gallows to-day to lunch with the tyburns." "you and your aristocratic friends. well, i could tell you something, mr. sharper. i ought not to. it would have to be distinctly understood that you don't breathe a word about it to a soul." "of course, of course." "very well, then. you look at that sheet of office paper. old cain has got his name above the line, and yours and mine beneath it. well, i may tell you that in a few days' time the only name below the line will be your own. i'm being taken into partnership." "what a damned shame! i mean to say, i congratulate you. that old blighter has been talking about taking me into partnership for the last two years. at any rate, i have." "i only talked to him about it once. you see, i happen to be the only one of us three that understands the manufacturing side. you've never been inside the factory in your life. diggle hardly ever goes, except to make a fool of himself by some damn silly suggestion. no, he keeps to the financial side. he's got a whole pack of doubtful financial dodges, and he'll get seven years for one of them some day. all i did was to tell diggle that i was applying for the post of manager in a certain rival firm, having had twenty years' experience here. and i asked him if he would give me a testimonial. he said: 'no, but i will give you a partnership.' you don't seem to get hold of the right way of doing things, sharper." "all the same," said sharper, "i'm going straight off to diggle's room now, and i'm going to give him hell." "oh, i say, you can't do that. if he knew i'd told you, there'd be the very devil of a row." "oh, he won't know. i may be a high-minded sufferer, but i'm a very fair liar as well. i'll put it right for you." he entered mr. diggle's room. mr. diggle, seated with his back to him, continued the letter he was writing. "look here," said sharper impulsively, "what have you been and done with that partnership of mine?" "that you, sharper? sit down. i shall be a minute or two. i said, sit down. i did not ask you to twist your feet round the legs of the chair. refrain also from waggling your toes violently. it interrupts my train of thought. keep the hand still, if you please. thank you." there were three minutes of absolute silence during which diggle, in the most leisurely way possible, finished and blotted his letter. "and now, sharper," said diggle, "i think you wished to say something." "well, i mean to say, what have you been and done with my partnership?" "i was not aware that you had one." "no, but you promised me. and now you've gone and given it to dobson." "i promised you nothing. and that, i think, is what you have got. dobson is very gravely in error in telling you anything at all about it. if you will kindly send him here, i will speak to him on the subject." "dobson never said a single word about it. i'll take my bible oath he never did. he came into my room and began to speak in rather a dictatorial way, and i said, 'you might be a partner,' and he blushed." "i do not think so," said diggle. "dobson does not blush. if he did blush it could not show on that complexion." "but on my word of honor he did. white-faced men blush red. red-faced men blush purple. any man of science will tell you that." "the appointment of a partnership is entirely within my discretion. it has nothing to do with you. if you have nothing further to say, i need not detain you." "i've a lot more to say, only i can't think of it. i never can. but it's there. inside my head. on the letter paper you and he will have your names above the line, and mine will be below it." "that merely shows that i know where to draw the line. i wish you did." "it's not for myself i mind so much. it's those dear little books of mine. all bound in lilac morocco. sitting down. it's just as if they were slighted. if this kind of thing goes on, i shan't play any more." "i'm not asking you to. but you can return to your work. and you remind me. i have had a bill from the binders of those books sent in to the firm's account. i have explained that this should be charged to your private account. you will get it in due course. close the door quietly, please, as you go out." on his way back to his own room luke again encountered arthur dobson. "it's all right," said luke, "i said you didn't tell me, but had given it away by blushing when i chanced to speak of it." "couldn't you have thought of a better one than that?" "oh, it's all right. and i don't mind telling you i've given him a pretty good dressing-down. i let him have the rough side of my tongue." "ah," said dobson, "now that really is something like a lie." luke went back to his own room and sat there deep in thought. why was everybody so hard and cold? diggle, dobson, mabel--they were all so cruel and rude to him. nobody loved him. except dot and dash, and possibly ... no, that was not to be thought of. all the same it reminded him that it was time for him to brush his hair and wash his little hands, and go up to lunch at gallows. 2 it was a large luncheon party, for gallows was full of guests. everybody was very merry and bright, except luke. tyburn was specially elated, for his little drive with the zebras had only cost thirteen hundred altogether. there had apparently been a terrific rag the night before. while the guests were at dinner, tyburn arranged for a number of wild beasts to be brought up from the mammoth circus. one was put into the bedroom of each guest to greet him or her on going to bed. no, there had been no real damage done. one of the lions had fainted. it had been given sal volatile, and had recovered. only three of the animals and two of the guests were missing. and one of the guests was a bishop who had never been really wanted. jona told the whole story hilariously. why was it, luke asked himself, that she was always so merry and bright with others, and so very different when she was with him? could it be that she wore a mask to the rest of the world, and disclosed her real self only to him? it could. it could also be just the other way round. that was the annoying part of it. he was depressed during lunch. the story of tyburn's practical joke of the previous evening had upset him. he did not like these practical jokes. he was nervous. he felt that at any moment, at a preconcerted signal, the table might blow up, or the ceiling fall down. everybody else would laugh, and he would hate it. he seldom laughed at anything anybody else laughed at, though he enjoyed some little jokes of his own that nobody else seemed to appreciate. especially mabel. she seemed to be enjoying herself at the other side of the table, laughing at the stories that major capstan was telling her. from the major's expression, luke diagnosed that the stories were not quite--well, not exactly--oh, you know. would it be doom dagshaw or major capstan? oh, what was he thinking of? why had he not been put next to jona? why did the girl on his right, whom he had never met before, persist in addressing him as funnyface? why is a mouse when it spins? the world was full of conundrums. in the garden after lunch, jona came straight up to him. "we are going to play games," she said. "what games?" "well, this morning we played leap-frog down the stairs. that was a little idea of bill's." luke had noticed at lunch that two of the guests wore sticking-plaster on their noses. this explained it. "i don't think i should like playing leap-frog," he said. "i sometimes play at boats with dot." "we'll play at hide-and-seek," said jona. "you and i will hide together. come along." they hid in the cool dusk of the tool-shed. jona sat on the wheelbarrow and talked, and talked, and talked. at the end of half-an-hour, luke had failed to ask her what she had meant by certain things on the day that she had called at his office. he made rather a specialty of not being able to say anything that he particularly wanted to say. he said: "it's funny they've not found us yet." "not so very funny," said jona. "you see, i forgot to tell any of them that we were going to play this game. here's one of the gardeners coming. damn. i suppose we'd better join the rest of the crowd." it was not until mabel and luke were leaving that luke got a chance of another word with jona. "we're leaving for town to-morrow," said jona. "you'll write and tell me everything that's in your old head, won't you?" luke felt that he ought not to write. mabel would not like it. it would be wrong. "thanks," he said, "we so seldom have any postage stamps in the house. and i've lost my onoto pen, and i sprained my wrist falling off my bicycle." "oh, do write, lukie dear." she held out her hand to him. "good-by," he said, and ran down the steps. at the bottom of the steps stood the cab, an interesting antique, which was to convey mabel home. mabel and major capstan were waiting near the door. "you only took about twenty minutes saying good-by to lady tyburn," said mabel. "i'm giving major capstan a lift. if you think it's fair on the horse to ask it to draw the three of us, get in, of course. otherwise, it's beautiful weather for a nice walk." "i will walk," said luke. "i prefer it." he wished to be alone. he sat down on the first milestone in the road, and meditated with his head in his hands. mabel. his wife. he was very good to her. he had been perfectly faithful to her. and was it worth while? what did she think about him? how much did she care for him? there were two men after her. he seemed to visualize the situation as a scrap from the stop-press of a newspaper. 1. mabel. 2. doom. 3. capstan. also ran. luke sharper, esq. 3 he recalled some of the things jona had said to him in the tool-shed. she had been rather frank in speaking of her husband. "bill's wonderful," she said. "he caught the tiger last night. when the keeper couldn't get it. he does everything well. he is the most fascinating man in the world--until you get used to him. i've got used to him. he fascinates all women. that would not matter so much, but nearly all women fascinate him. i pretend not to notice it. i think he does it partly to see how i will take it. i remain merry and bright. with a breaking heart, you understand. how much longer i shall be able to stand it, i do not know. oh, my hands are so cold." he had noticed a pair of the gardener's gloves lying on the lawn-mower. he handed them to her. she flung them away, a little petulantly it seemed to him. he rose from the milestone and walked on. certain words seemed to keep time with his footsteps. "she wants me to write to her. and i ought not. she wants me to write to her. and i ought not." he passed the post-office, and turned back to it again. went on, and again turned back. this time he entered with his mind all bemused. "have you any nice stamps?" he asked. chapter vii mabel looked very enraged as she entered the house. "anything the matter?" he enquired. "yes. you might not think so. as i do, probably you wouldn't. but ellen's got a new parasol, and kate's got a swollen knee, and has got to have it up." "and i suppose it will be just the same with ellen's parasol. i suppose you wanted it the other way round--dot to have the parasol and ellen to have the----" "i wanted nothing of the kind. why should i want my cook to go peacocking about with a pink parasol, making a fool of herself, and bringing disgrace on the house? why should i want kate to be incapacitated from doing her proper work?" "i think," said luke, "i must go and see it." "go and see kate's knee? don't be indelicate." "no, i meant the parasol. i should imagine that dot's knee has solely a pathological interest at present. but i did mean the parasol--i swear it. how did it come about?" "love of finery. vanity. passion for wasting her money." "oh, this time i meant the knee--not the parasol." "well, that was just absolute selfishness. all servants love to get swollen knees, and chilblains and chapped hands. they like to make a fuss about themselves. and to make their employer pay a substitute to do their work. they're all like that. it was just the same before i married. yes, every housemaid i employ. contracts these swollen kneeses. they only do it to annoy. because they know it teases." "but what are you going to do about it? have you got medical advice? do you think a nurse will be needed? when i had the measles the only things i fancied were----" "kate has not got measles. she's got a cold compress, and she's got the entire contents of the plate-chest to clean. and when she's finished that, i'll find her something else. if she thinks she can't work sitting down, she will discover that she is mistaken." "wait a minute. i've got a joke. a real one this time. dot with a swollen knee. we shall have to call her dot-and-go-one. see? well, why don't you laugh? i must go into the kitchen and tell them at once." mabel sighed deeply. there were simply no words for him. he was right away outside, beyond the limit. in a few minutes he came back again. "it certainly does look very pink," he said. "that's the effect of the cold compress. though why on earth you should----" "i didn't mean the knee, i meant the parasol. i'll swear i did." "well, whatever you meant, i wish you would keep out of the kitchen. i wish you wouldn't address the servants by nicknames. i wish you wouldn't be so abominably familiar with them." "familiar? well, hang it all, when a poor girl's got a swollen knee it's unfriendly not to show a little sympathy. it does no harm. i just chatted her on the peak----" "you----?" "as i said, i just patted her on the cheek, and asked her how she was getting on. no harm in that." "and now perhaps you'll tell me what on earth i'm to do for a substitute. i don't know of a single girl in this neighborhood who could come in and help." "i have it. i can save the situation. i have an idea. on the 16th inst., at jawbones, halfpenny hole, surrey, mr. luke sharper, of an idea. both doing well." "would you mind telling me what you are talking about?" "i'm talking about old vessunt. he's a foreman. up at the factory. fine old chap. religious but quite honest. he's got a daughter, effie. very superior girl. and she's looking for a job. i can get her for you to-morrow morning. effie vessunt. rather bright and sparkling, what?" "at any rate, i can see her." "you can, even with the naked eye. but i say, you know, she really is rather superior. she'll have to have her meals with us." "if i engage her, she will feed in the kitchen." "mabel, must you always disagree with me? have you no spirit of compromise? can't you meet me half way in a little thing like this?" "if i met you half way the girl would have her meals in the passage. and i don't suppose she'd like it, and anyhow she'd be in everybody's way." "and this when i've just been of real use to you." "so you ought to be. you were indirectly responsible for the accident that gave kate the swollen knee. it was your wretched old push-bike that she fell over." luke wagged his ears. "indirectly," he said. "there are many of us in it indirectly. dunlop, for instance. niggers in a rubber plantation. factories in coventry. a retail shop in high holborn. and me. all working together. combining and elaborating in order to give dot a nasty one on the knee-cap. it's rather a great thought when you come to think it out that way." "i can't see why you want to ride that old job-lot of scrap-iron at all. you might just as well go by train, now that the new line is opened. all my friends do it. why can't you go by train?" "i believe i know the answer to that one. don't tell me. i'll go upstairs and think it out." he went up to the frowsty study-bedroom, and sat down at his table. mechanically he drew from his pocket the sheet of thirty stamps with which, after a few disparaging remarks, the lady at the post-office had supplied him. he spread them out before him. thirty stamps. thirty letters to jona. he felt inclined to kiss every one of them. he did not do so. he reflected that in the ordinary course of affixing them to the envelope he would put them to his lips in any case. it was not sense to do the same piece of work twice over. jona. should he, or shouldn't he? he knew that he shouldn't. mabel would not like it. he ought to put jona out of his mind, and to burn those stamps. but that was not economical. it was possible to have thirty stamps, and yet to avoid writing thirty love-letters to jona. he folded them up and put them back in his pocket. what was it he had come up to do? he remembered. mabel had asked him a question. he ran downstairs and rejoined her. "because of the season ticket," he said. "what do you mean?" "well, you asked me why i couldn't go by train. i could get a season ticket, but i should lose it the first day. then they fine you forty shillings, and make you buy another. and that would go on, and on, and on until i was bankrupt and a beggar. and we should have to go down the high street together, singing hymns. and you never did have any voice, and----" "oh, that'll do," said mabel, wearily. "look here," he said, brightly, "i've brought you a present, mabel. i think you will find these useful." he produced the postage stamps from his pocket. "just a few stamps," he said. "all right," said mabel, not taking them. "stick them down anywhere." "they should be stuck down in the top right-hand corner," he said; "but i leave it all entirely to you." he went out. she had not even thanked him. chapter viii effie vessunt remained at jawbones for a fortnight. at the end of that time dot's knee had, so to speak, submitted and returned to barracks, and she could resume her ordinary work. effie went to bournemouth, where she took a position as kennel maid. luke heard nothing from jona. occasionally he saw her name in the newspaper as one of those present at some social function. twice he read that her husband had been fined for being drunk while driving a motor-car. beyond this, nothing. luke adhered to his resolution. he never sent her a letter. he wrote one. it was a long and passionate letter, full of poetry and beauty. but he never posted it. he made a paper boat of it. and launched it on that old-world stream. it floated away under the bridge, and on and on for nearly twenty yards. then an old-world cow came down to the edge of the stream and ate it. the cow died. and so the months passed away. he completed another little monograph for the firm entitled "pulp," of which he said beautifully that it was the beginning of all jam and the end of all books. then he remembered that jona had rather seemed to encourage him in his idea of writing his biography. he planned it all out in his mind. he pictured himself wrongly suspected, loathed by everybody (except jona), suffering horribly, terribly ill. he thoroughly enjoyed it. he enjoyed it so much that he felt he had to tell mabel about it. he did. "mabel," he said, "have you ever realized that under certain circumstances the most awful things would happen to me that ever befell the hero of a melodrama? just take the train of events. effie has an illegitimate child. she writes and tells you about it." "but she wouldn't," said mabel. "she was with me for a fortnight, and i always kept her in her place." "well, she refuses to say who the father is." "why?" asked mabel. "because the story can't possibly go on if she doesn't. please don't interrupt me again until i've finished. effie has no money. she goes to see her father, who will take her in, but not the child. it's an accepted convention that the unmarried mother must be parted from her child. so effie and the baby turn up here. i say that they shall stay. you say that in that case you'll go, which you do, having previously dismissed dot and dash. in consequence, everybody in this neighborhood cuts me, i am turned out of my business, and as the dates agree, i am believed to be the father of the child. effie has the housework to do as well as the baby to look after, and in consequence, i am horribly neglected. the handle of the front door is not polished, and when an old friend comes down from london to see me, i have nothing to give him for lunch except cold meat and a fruit tart that is no longer in its first youth. so i take a week-end at brighton without effie. she cleans my straw hat with oxalic acid, which i have bought for her. i throw away the hat and buy another. while i am at brighton she kills herself and the baby with what is left of the oxalic acid. at the inquest i am unable to say anything except 'look here,' am severely censured by the coroner's jury, and nearly lynched by the crowd outside. i go back to the house and find a letter on the clock, which entirely clears me and tells me that the father of the child is the son of dobson, the dirty dog who sneaked my partnership. so i go to see dobson and find that he has just got the news that his son is dead. i therefore burn effie's letter so as to get the sole evidence of my innocence out of the way, and then have a hæmorrhage of the brain. and you divorce me, and then----" "look here, luke, you'd better go and lie down for a little. you've been bicycling in the sun, you know." "what do you mean? wouldn't it happen so? isn't it all absolutely inevitable?" "not absolutely," said mabel. "the previous knowledge that one has of you would go for something. there was never any sign of an attachment of that kind between you and effie. if you had been the father of the child you would most certainly not have left her alone, without any provision, at the time the child was born. i should be quite certain of that. so would the two maids here. effie would apply to young dobson, and failing him, to old dobson. this is about the last house to which she would come. her instinct would be to keep away from the neighborhood where she was known. if her own father agreed to take her in, it's almost certain that he would take the baby as well. your ideas about that convention are exaggerated, and old-fashioned. if she did come here, and you insisted on her staying, i should put up with it, though i should not like it, until some arrangement could be made for her to go elsewhere with her child. and that arrangement could be made easily and quickly. i do not see why i should dismiss the maids, and if i did they are paid with your money, and are much more devoted to you than they are to me. you would only have to speak and they would remain. no seducer would bring his victim and her child to the house where his wife was living. you would be thought quixotic but not guilty. if effie saw that you were cut by everybody and that she had brought trouble on you, she would be particularly careful not to cause more serious trouble for you by committing suicide. and if she committed suicide, she would not implicate you in it by making you buy the poison. she would neither make fruit tart, nor clean a straw hat, because she simply would not have the time. you don't know much about young babies, do you? i should not divorce you, and should have no evidence on which i could get a divorce. in fact, the whole thing's skittles. by the way, when did effie have her baby?" "she never did," said luke despondently. "that's always the way. whenever i make a beautiful thing, some cow always gets it. it's happened before. if i wrote my beautiful biography, some cow would parody it. the world's full of cows." "well, i'm sorry, of course," said mabel. "you can do most incredibly foolish things. you do frequently fail to say what you should say. but even with those advantages, i doubt if it would be possible for you to incur so much suffering and suspicion as you describe. i shall have to think out some other little martyrdom for you." chapter ix 1 looking out of his window at the office in the afternoon, luke sharper saw a motor-car stop in front of the draper's opposite. lady tyburn got out and entered the shop. so she was back. putting on his hat, so far as his agitated ears would permit, luke rushed out into the street, crossed the road, and met her as she came out. "jona," he panted. "lukie, at last," she gasped. "you were not long in the shop!" "just the same length that i am outside. i have been there three times to-day. standing there, looking up at your window. every time i bought a yard of elastic. do you want any elastic?" "no, thank you. will you have a cup of tea?" emotion would not permit her to speak. but she nodded and got into the car. he followed her. on the way to the confectioner's neither of them spoke a word. at the tea-room the following conversation took place: "tea?" "please." "milk?" "thanks." "sugar?" "no." "buns?" "one." and then they sat and gazed at one another, slowly champing buns in which they took no interest whatever. after twenty minutes lady tyburn said: "my chauffeur has had no tea. he must drive to gallows and have tea at once. will you come too?" "as far as the gates," he said. "i'll walk back. i'm not coming in." "do," she said. "bill has borrowed a panther from the mammoth circus, and they're having larks with it in the billiard-room." luke shook his head. "i don't like panthers," he said wearily. "i don't like anything much. mabel looks like a panther sometimes." during the twenty minutes' drive up to gallows neither of them spoke. when they reached the gate, jona said: "better come up to the house and finish our talk." "no," said luke; "stay here a little. there's something i must say to you. i've been trying to say it for the last hour. it gets stuck. i shall pull it out somehow." lady tyburn sent the car away, and they sat down on the trunk of a fallen tree. he sat on one side, and she on the other, back to back. they could not bear to look one another in the face. presently she said: "you're trembling, lukie. i can feel it. trembling. like a jelly." "you're another," said luke. "oh, jona. there's something i've been trying to ask you for the last ten months, and perhaps there will never be another opportunity. do you remember when you came to my office?" she drove her elbow lightly into his ribs. it seemed to him to signify she did remember. "there were things you said--'will you help yourself,' with your hands out--'magnet and tin-tack'--'i made a mistake once.' you said those things, jona." "what a memory the young man has got," said jona, wistfully. "yes, but what did you mean?" "well, they were what is called conversation. you talk too, you know, sometimes." "but that doesn't tell me what you meant." "they meant," she said in a plain, matter-of-fact way, "that i ought not to have married bill. i ought to have married you, lukie. my mistake entirely. don't apologize." she jerked herself backward, and he fell off the tree. he lay on the grass moaning. "o crikey! o crikey! o crikey, crikey, crikey!" 2 he got up slowly. he was entirely covered with small pieces of dried grass. jona came round the end of the tree and began picking pieces of grass off him. "you're in a mess," she said. "we're both in a mess," he said. "right in. up to the neck." "i don't know how much longer i shall be able to stand it," said jona. "in london it was actresses. down here it's ladies from the mammoth circus. we have three equestriennes and a tight-rope dancer staying with us, and he makes love to them all. he's not been sober--not noticeably--for the last six weeks. i still keep up the bright badinage, but it sometimes seems artificial. it's wearing thin. everything's wearing thin. very thin. oh lukie!" "listen," said luke resolutely. "i'm going to be noble. this is little lukie, underneath his straw hat, being noble. some men would confess their love for you. they would pour out in words the passion that was consuming them. i shall not. in fact, you'll have to guess. only, if the time ever does come that you simply cannot stand it any longer, apply to me. applications should be sent to the office address in care of mabel. write distinctly. good-by, jona." he tore himself from her, and reeled away, not knowing what direction he was taking. after an hour he found himself standing in front of his own office. it was just as well. he had left his bicycle there. diggle came down the stairs into the street, and luke walked up to him at once: "can i have that partnership now?" said luke. diggle glanced at his watch. "applications of this kind," he said, "should be made in office hours. it is now after six. good evening, mr. sharper." mechanically, automatically, not knowing what he did, luke prepared for his ride home to jawbones. then he became aware that he was pushing something along on the pavement. what was it? it was a bicycle. he pushed it into a policeman. the policeman asked him to take it into the road. he walked along in the road now, still wheeling his bicycle, and looking all around him. what a lot of shops seemed to be selling brooms. yes, and soap. long bars of yellow soap. there were big advertisements on the boardings. he read them aloud: "washo. works by itself." and again: "pingo for the paint. a penny packet of pingo does the trick." there was a picture of a beautiful lady using pingo, her face expressing rapture. what did it all mean? he did not know. but it meant that spring was coming. spring, with its daffodils, its pretty little birds and all the other things. he mounted and rode away. a meaningless string of words seemed to circle round and round in his brain. "jona. washo. crikey." at dinner that night, mabel said: "we shall begin our spring-cleaning to-morrow. i intend that it shall be done particularly thoroughly this year. it will take some weeks and will probably cause you inconvenience. but you like suffering, don't you?" "spring," said luke, thoughtfully. "not all daffodils. no." 3 a little later mr. alfred jingle, solicitor, talking to his friend the artist, may be permitted to throw some light on events. "saw sharper yesterday. don't like it. awful. went to his house. what? yes, looking for lunch. brass knob on the front door blazing fit to blind you. no curtains at any of the windows. sound like a carpet being beaten from the garden at the back. sharper himself leaning out of upstairs window. face ashen grey. ears twitching. 'don't come in,' he calls out, 'i'll come down. lunch in dilborough.' "terrific noise of sharper falling downstairs. out he comes, rubbing knee. hat bashed in. "'had a little accident,' he says. 'they took out the stair rods. carpet loose. we'll go in by train. wouldn't ask you to lunch here. had dinner in the bath-room last night. mabel's got her head in a duster.' "i asked him what was the matter. and if he spent the entire day leaning out of that window. "'yes, jingle,' he said. 'i have to lean out. do you know the smell of size? they use it a good deal in spring-cleaning. it's like glue and decayed fish. house is full of it. it hurts. horribly. damnably. i'm glad you've come, jingle. i was to have had lunch in the housemaid's cupboard. but mabel is an excellent housekeeper. thorough.' "tried to cheer him up. told him it would soon be over. and summer would come. "'ah,' he said, 'but if summer don't! size and spring-cleaning for ever and ever. do you believe in eternal punishment?' "lunched at the 'crown.' stuffed a whiskey into him. had six myself. no good. said the cold beef tasted of size. tried to switch him off; on to politics. hadn't anything to say on that subject, because there was no room in his house in which there was enough space left to open a paper. "'everything's put where everything else ought to be,' he said. 'place for everything, and my foot in a pail of soapsuds. did you know that washo worked by itself? have you tried pingo for the paint? these pickles taste of pingo. had to do the walls of my study-room with it. mabel made me. she's an excellent housekeeper. but the world does seem to be entirely filled with dust, and the smell of decayed fish, don't you think?' "cheerful talk for a luncheon party, wasn't it? that man's on the verge of a breakdown. don't like it at all. that wife of his is overdoing it. shall look him up again next week. his mind's not right. he forgot to pay for the lunch. i suggested that i should do it, and he let me. something seriously wrong there. seriously. have a drink." 4 three days later mr. alfred jingle resumed the subject. "i told you things were bad with sharper. they're worse. much. i was there this morning. enquired at his business place. they said their mr. sharper had gone out. took a cab to halfpenny hole. halfway there spotted sharper sitting on a bank by the roadside with his bicycle beside him. face like a tortured hyena. i got out and asked him what he was doing there. "'nowhere else to go,' he said. 'spring-cleaning at home. and now they've started spring-cleaning at the office. all my dear little children piled up on the floor in the dust.' "told him i didn't know he had a family. "'i mean my books. lilac morocco. at my own expense. the firm wouldn't stick it. decorators were sending out for more size when i left. i can't go back there. even if there were no spring-cleaning i couldn't go to jawbones. mabel gave me a list of things to buy in dilborough. glass soap and soft paper. i mean soft soap and glass paper. lots of other things. i've forgotten to get any of them. all i can do is to sit here until the world comes to an end.' "well, i shoved him into my cab, and drove back to the 'crown' at dilborough. on the way i tried to buck him up a bit, but it was no use. he was absolutely broken-down. i asked him whose turn it was to pay for lunch, and he said he thought it was mine. memory going. well, i stuffed a drink into him and took nine myself. i can tell you i needed them. then i got him to go back to business. said he must save those lilac-bound children of his. bright idea, what? then i told him he could buy the things for his wife afterwards. he went like a lamb, too broken to resist. i confess i am worried about him. i must try to see him again if 5 a chance of doing so." (and that shows you again, how the number of a chapter-section may be used economically.) chapter x luke knocked at the door of mr. diggle's room, and entered. "i'm back," he said. "been lunching with a man. can i have a partnership?" "not to-day, mr. sharper," said diggle. "you should be more reasonable. the whole office is more or less disorganized by the spring-cleaning. it seems to me that you try to make more trouble. you go out a great deal for a business man." "i have to. things for my wife, you know. soft glass and paper soap. things of that kind." "i don't wish to hear about it. they will not be actually beginning on your room till monday. it may be in some slight disorder, but that need not prevent you from going back there and getting on with your work. you have to write that full-page advertisement for the _'church times'_, you remember." he went on to his own room. he picked up the little booklets from the floor, dusted each one carefully, and wrapped it in white paper. as he was finishing the last a letter was brought in to him. the messenger was waiting for an answer. it was in jona's handwriting. "darling lukie," she wrote, "i can bear it no more. take me away, please. shall i come along to your office, or will you call for the goods? jona." he collapsed in a chair, his head buried in his hands. half-an-hour later the clerk came in to say that the messenger was still waiting. "sit down," said luke. the clerk sat down for half-an-hour. luke still meditated. then the office boy came in to fetch the clerk. it was necessary to do something, to decide at once. his promise to mabel had been quite definite. he would bring back the spring-cleaning requisites on his bicycle that evening. there had been a sardonic cruelty in sending him to purchase the materials for his own torture. still, he had promised. drawing a sheet of the firm's paper with the memo. head on it towards him, he wrote as follows: "jona: i can't get away to elope with you to-day. my wife won't let me. if you are still of the same mind on saturday, the train i shall take for brighton leaves victoria at eleven." he sent the letter down to the messenger, and then diggle entered. "do you want to see me about the partnership?" said sharper. "no. i wanted to see you about the full-page advertisement for the _'church times.'_ have you written it?" "i've not, so to speak, written it." "well, sharper, i've been talking to dobson about you. i don't want to hurt your feelings, but our office space here is very limited. we are of the opinion that perhaps the amount of room you occupy here is intrinsically of more value than any services which you render to the business, or even the pleasure that your society naturally gives us. i don't know if you take my meaning." "do you want to turn me out?" said sharper. "don't put it like that. you don't seem to know anything about business. you never do any work. you're playing about with lady tyburn in a way that'll bring scandal on the firm. but we don't want to turn you out. we don't want to do anything harsh. all we say is that we think it would be better for all concerned if you don't come here again. i think that will be all. good evening, mr. sharper." luke went out and purchased the articles mabel had asked him to buy. he then went to four different chemists, and at each one purchased a little oxalic acid, saying in each case that he wanted it to clean a straw hat. with his bicycle laden considerably above the plimsoll mark, he pedalled wearily homewards. he only fell off once, and it was a pity that this broke the bottle of turpentine, for he happened to be carrying it in the inside pocket of his coat. chapter xi 1 "we shall dine in the kitchen," said mabel. "the dining-room and drawing-room are finished, but i am keeping them locked up until the workmen are out of the house, and all the mess is cleared away." "you are an excellent housekeeper," said luke. "won't it be jolly to dine in the kitchen with dot and dash?" "ellen will sit in the garden while we are at dinner. kate will wait on us as usual. i am sorry to say that a workman spilt a pail of whitewash in your room. most of it went over your books. after dinner we will sit in the den." "mabel," said luke, "when i told you of the suffering that would happen to me in consequence of effie having the illegitimate child, which she never did, you said that it was all impossible. part of it has come true. they don't want me to go to the business any more, and they've said so." "have they?" said mabel. "of course i knew they would. i've been expecting it for some time past. you see, you're not fitted for business. i don't know that you're particularly fitted for anything. well, when you talked to me about that effie nonsense, i told you i'd arrange a little martyrdom for you if i could. haven't i done it?" "you have. in the interest of my sanity----" "in the interests of your what?" "in the interests of my sanity i shall go to brighton for the week-end." "do," said mabel. "you're terribly in the way here. it's about the first sensible idea you've had for this last year." by half-past ten next morning he was on the platform at victoria station. would jona be there? apparently not. he caught a distant glimpse of lord tyburn, but it was not with him that he was proposing to elope. besides, tyburn was accompanied by a somewhat highly painted and decorated young lady. luke waited till the last moment, and waited in vain. he stepped into the train just as it was moving off. 2 at this point we will ask our mr. alfred jingle to oblige again. "tell you what," he said to his artist friend. "i was wrong about sharper again. i thought he'd reached the limit of human mess and martyrdom. he hadn't. he'd not got within a street of it. he's there now. right up to the limit and leaning over the edge. "down at brighton this week-end with my old missus. sitting out on the pier. sunday morning. listening to the band. overture to 'william tell.' always is. whenever i strike a band, it's 'william tell' or 'zampa.' every time. "suddenly the missus says to me, 'who's that old chap over there with a face like a turnip?' "i looked up. it was luke sharper. looking ghastly. his hair was grey. his face was grey. even his flannel trousers were grey. all grey and worn. i don't mean the trousers particularly. general effect, you know. ears drooping down with no life or motion in them. i went up to him and asked him what brought him down to brighton. "'go away,' he said. 'i'm a leper. i'm an outcast. i'm a pariah dog. go before i bring misery on you.' "i told him i'd chance it, and asked him again what he was doing at brighton. "'i've eloped,' he said. "'with whom?' i asked. "'nobody. she never turned up. that's not my fault. in the sight of heaven we are all equal, and i'm an eloper. i'm a faithless hound. that's not all, jingle. they've thrown me out of the business. and that's not all. i bought four packets of oxalic acid. i've put them down where mabel is bound to see them. there's one on her pillow, one on the clock, one on the piano, and one on the mantelpiece. you see? i'm a murderer. mabel will take the hint, and will commit suicide. that will upset dot and dash, and they will commit suicide too. i only hope the man who spilt whitewash over my bookcase will commit suicide as well. don't come and see me in the condemned cell. i don't want to see anybody any more. that's why i'm sitting on brighton pier on a warm sunday morning.' "'you've got this wrong, sharper,' i said. 'i know your wife. she won't commit suicide because you've gone. she possibly might have done it if you had stopped. so your maids won't be upset, and they won't commit suicide either. and the painter's man who spilt the whitewash over your books will be enjoying the joke over his sunday dinner. you're no good at the leper-and-pariah business. come over and be introduced to my missus.' "'what you say might be true if i were a real man, but i have horrible doubts. i don't feel like a real man.' "'come off it,' i said. 'what do you feel like, then?' "'i feel like a lot of tripe out of some damn-silly book.' "well, i took him over to the missus, and she got on the buzz. she's an energetic talkist. he never got time to say he was a leper once. then some pals of hers came up to talk to her, and he and i escaped. i asked him what he was going to do. he said he was going back to halfpenny hole directly, in order to save the coroner's officer the trouble of fetching him. then he asked me to have a drink. we had three each. he rushed off to the station, and left me to pay. a man in that state is not fit to be alone. and it's not too safe for anybody who happens to be with him. i let him go." 3 it was half-past five when luke got back to jawbones again. he rang the bell. as the door was not opened, he rang again. then from the garden behind the house he heard the sound of voices and laughter. he recognized the laugh. it was dot's. it was a full-bodied, fruity laugh. luke walked round the house and into the garden to see what was happening. on the lawn sat dot, dash, and the first and second footmen from gallows. a table showed that tea, including bottled beer, had been served with some profusion. but the banquet was over and all four reclined in deck-chairs, smoking cigarettes. luke stared at them blankly. "afraid i'm rather interrupting," he stammered. "well, old bean," said dot. "you do come as a bit of a surprise. we'd not expected you before tuesday. but our two gentlemen friends--albert and hector--i think you've met them--have to be back at their job at six. so we shan't keep you long. the kitchen door's open if you care to slip into the house and wait." luke's powerful mind made a rapid deduction. this could never have happened if mabel had not been powerless to prevent it. so mabel must have ... yes, the oxalic acid. "can you tell me," he said in sepulchral tones, "where i shall find the body of my poor wife?" "afraid i can't," said dot. her laughter jarred on him. "let us," he said, "be reverent. when did she die?" here dash, under the pink parasol, broke in, "but she's alive. and i'll bet she's a good deal livelier than she's been for years past. i helped her pack, and it was some trousseau. the old girl's done a bunk. see? skipped it with a gentleman friend of hers." "you might have mentioned that before," said luke, aggrieved. "i quite thought that something was the matter." "well, she's left a letter for you in your almost-silver cigarette case. you'll find it in the bath-room, balanced on the hot-water tap. you run along and read it. you're the least little bit in the way at this tea party." 4 seated on the edge of the bath, luke read as follows: "you could always see every point of view except one, and that was your wife's. "once or twice the sting of your jelly-fish of a conscience made you try to be nice to me. there are words and acts from a man to a woman which may be lovely to the woman if they come spontaneously and naturally. if they are produced as by a force-pump, they are an insult. if you tried to hide the pump, it was a poor effort. "when you took up with that tyburn minx, i thought that you had realized the situation, that you saw that i found life with you detestable and intolerable, and that you meant to give me a chance to divorce you. i employed a private detective with what i had saved out of the house-money, and had you watched. the detective reported that there was nothing good enough--or bad enough----for the high court, and that the woman seemed to be doing most of the work. "so as the mixture of cowardice and selfishness which you call your conscience would not let you give me a chance to divorce you, i determined to make you divorce me. the first thing to do was to get you out of the way. it is so trying and undignified to elope if a husband is looking on, and possibly interfering. so i adopted a system of intensive spring-cleaning. i don't think i left out anything which could inconvenience and annoy you. it went on and on. no house has been spring-cleaned like this since the world began. i fancy it was the whitewash over your books that finally shunted you. you left in the early morning. i packed at leisure and left in the evening, taking with me a gentleman who financed that great success, doom dagshaw's mammoth circus. "as he is not in the book, i may mention that he is a mr. nathan samuel. but no matter. a nose by any other name would smell as efficiently. he is a true christian with no fault except his love for me. "the necessary particulars will be sent to your solicitors, and i hope you will then get busy. "ta-ta, old crock. yours, mabel. "p.s.--you shouldn't leave oxalic acid about like that. don't you know it's a poison? i've hidden it underneath your dress-shirts, in case of accidents." luke put the letter down. there was a step outside the door and dot entered. "thought i should find you here," said dot. "everything all right?" "couldn't be better. but why did she leave the letter on the hot-water tap?" "oh, that was just a little joke of hers. she said you always got into any hot water that might be going about, and so you'd be sure to find it there." "do you see what this means, dot? it means that in future we can play at boats without any fear of interruption." "m'yes," said dot. "it's not the very devil of a game, is it? been over the house yet? i must say it does look nice, now all the cleaning and decorating's finished. albert and hector both noticed it." "yes, very nice. i suppose you and dash would like to be getting dinner for me." "that's what we're panting after. but it can't be done, because there's nothing to eat. at least, there's nothing for you. besides, after this afternoon we are both emotionally worn-out. and that's not all. albert and hector brought us a bit of news from gallows. just you take my tip and ask no questions. you take the train into dilborough and dine at the 'crown.' you might--i don't say you will, but you might--get a bit of a surprise. if you hurry you'll catch the 7.5." luke thrust his wife's letter into his pocket, and hurried. 5 "no," said the sad-eyed waiter, in reply to luke's enquiry. "no, we do not serve the dinner on sunday night. in dilborough sunday night, there is what you call, nothing doing. you can have a nice chop." "i hate chops," said luke moodily. "all right, get me a chop." "the lady who stay here, she have a chop too. she also say she hate chops. you have to wait a little time perhaps, because the chef is out sunday evening. you wait in the drawing-room. it is very nice. very comfortable. there is a newspaper of last friday evening." luke submitted and entered the fly-haunted drawing-room. he sat down with his head in his hands. mabel's letter had been characteristically unlike her. her letters were never in the least bit like herself. that was perhaps their only attraction. it was only in the postscript that he seemed actually to hear her speak. "poor nathan samuel!" he said to himself. "poor moses nathan modecai samuel!" the door opened and jona came in, clad in a betrayed-heroine tea-gown. she looked beautiful but tragic. "jona," he cried, springing to his feet. she shrank back, covering her face with her hands. "don't speak to me," she said. "don't come near me. i'm a leper, a pariah, and an outcast." "oh, look here, hang it all, you can't, you know. that's mine. if there's any lepering to be done, i do that. outcast? how do you mean outcast?" "haven't you heard?" she said. "no," said luke. "come and sit on my knee, and tell me all your troubles." "i oughtn't," she said, but she did. "you didn't turn up at victoria yesterday. couldn't you leave your husband?" "i couldn't," she said. "i couldn't, because i've not got a husband. and have never had a husband. one of bill's previous wives started to make a fuss, and he made a clean breast of it to me. he'd married in two different names before he married me, and both wives are still living. he went to brighton on saturday to marry one more. because he wants to get his picture, as the peer convicted of trigamy, on the back page of the '_daily mail_,' with the fourth wife inset. so you see what has happened. it was my fault, but that's how i come to be in the pariah class. can you bear me any longer?" "yes," said luke, "you're not heavy." and then the sad-eyed waiter came in without knocking, and they broke away. "i beg pardon," said the waiter. "perhaps i interrupt a little. i come to say the chops is ready. shall i put the two places close together?" "very close together," said luke. 6 they entered the dining-room. "you needn't remain," said luke to the waiter. "we'll help ourselves." "ver' good," said the waiter. "i understand. i am since three years of experience in the week-end business. i come when you ring--not before." luke and jona talked together earnestly for an hour. then they remembered they had been intending to dine. luke removed the cover from the dish and looked at two large melancholy chops, frozen hard. "can we?" said luke. "not in this life," said jona. "get it removed." luke produced a visiting-card, and wrote on the back of it: "a present for a good dog. from jona and lukie!" he put the card in the dish and replaced the cover. then he investigated the wine list, rang the bell, and ordered champagne and dry biscuits to be put in the drawing-room. (the reader is requested to look out. once more the numbers of the section will be used as a part of the sections. the price of paper is still very high.) "just imagine," said luke. "only this morning i was convinced that life was hell. absolute hell." "and now?" asked jona, shyly. "now i know that it's 7," he said, and kissed her. luke walked back. it was some time in the small hours that he entered his house burglariously by forcing open the window of a room that had once been called a den. as he sat at breakfast the next morning, dot said: "hope they gave you a good dinner at the 'crown' last night." "i don't know," he said. "i don't really remember what we 8." "all love and honey, what?" suggested dot. "dot," said luke, "don't be asi-9." "oh, that's all right," said dot "you don't need to pay any at-10 tion to my chaff." epilogue luke sold jawbones for a much higher price than he had expected. "you see," the agent explained, "the place is in such a perfect condition. everything up to the mark. absolutely spotless." "yes," said luke. "mrs. sharper was an excellent housekeeper. i've always said so." luke had intended to pay dot and dash board-wages until he was free to marry jona, and then to take them into his service again. but this was not to be. "sorry," said dot, "but it won't do. of course we wish you every happiness, and no doubt in time you'll get used to not suffering so much, and not being misunderstood so frequent. but me and dash has been brought up respectable, and respectable we shall remain. i've no doubt your good lady thought it was all right, and went to church with him, and signed the book and all that. but facts are facts, and the fact is that for years and years she was living the life of open sin with that lord tyburn. no, we couldn't stick it. besides, i'm going to marry hector to take entire charge of a small flat, one in family, no children or washing, every sunday, and frequent outings. and my sister's doing the same with albert. all the same, here's luck." our friend, mr. alfred jingle, solicitor, arranged everything splendidly. he prevented luke from inserting, in a moment of enthusiasm, an advertisement under the fashionable intelligence in the daily press that a divorce had been arranged and would shortly take place, between luke sharper, esq., formerly of jawbones, halfpenny hole, and mabel, his wife. the case was undefended, and the day after the decree was made absolute luke married jona. nor did mr. alfred jingle forget, when he made out his bill of costs, to include in his out-of-pocket expenses, the cost of certain luncheons and drinks which mr. sharper would, no doubt, have defrayed had he not at that time been in a condition of absent-mindedness induced by martyrdom. not only did lord tyburn succeed in getting his photograph on to the back page of the "_daily mail_." there was also another photograph of the four ladies whom he had married, reading from left to right. he did everything well. the end transcriber's notes: 1. this book is a parody on the biographies of it's times; as a result, very few changes have been made, other than obvious typesetter errors. 2. on the title page, there were two lines of words that were typeset with "strikethroughs"; these have been indicated by the addition of "=" before and after the lines. a parody outline of history by donald ogden stewart wherein may be found a curiously irreverent treatment of american historical events imagining them as they would be narrated by american's most characteristic contemporary authors to gilbert holland stewart, jr. preface mr. h. g. wells, in his "outline of history," was of necessity forced to omit the narration of many of the chief events in the history of these united states. such omissions i have in this brief volume endeavored to supply. and as american history can possibly best be written by americans and as we have among us no h. g. wells, i have imagined an american history as written conjointly by a group of our most characteristic literary figures. apologies are due the various authors whose style and, more particularly, whose weltanschauung i have here attempted to reproduce; thanks are due the bookman for permission to reprint such of these chapters as appeared in that publication. i give both freely. d. o. s. contents i introduction: a critical survey of american history in the manner of william lyon phelps ii cristofer colombo: a comedy of discovery in the manner of james branch cabell iii main street: plymouth, mass in the manner of sinclair lewis iv the courtship of, miles standish in the manner of f. scott fitzgerald v the spirit of '75: letters of a minute man in the manner of ring lardner vi the whisky rebellion in the bedtime story manner of thornton w. burgess vii how love came to general grant in the manner of harold bell wright viii custer's last stand in the manner of edith wharton ix for the freedom of the world: a drama of the great war act i--in the manner of mary raymond shipman andrews act 2--in the manner of eugene o'neill chapter one introduction a critical survey of american history in the manner of william lyon phelps on a memorable evening in the year 1904 i witnessed the opening performance of maude adams in "peter pan". nothing in the world can describe the tremendous enthusiasm of that night! i shall never forget the moment when peter came to the front of the stage and asked the audience if we believed in fairies. i am happy to say that i was actually the first to respond. leaping at once out of my seat, i shouted "yes--yes!" to my intense pleasure the whole house almost instantly followed my example, with the exception of one man. this man was sitting directly in front of me. his lack of enthusiasm was to me incredible. i pounded him on the back and shouted, "great god, man, are you alive! wake up! hurrah for the fairies! hurrah!" finally he uttered a rather feeble "hurrah!" childe roland to the dark tower came. that was my first meeting with that admirable statesman woodrow wilson, and i am happy to state that from that night we became firm friends. when mr. wilson was inaugurated in 1913 i called on him at the white house, taking with me some members of my yale drama class. each one of us had an edition of the president's admirable "history of the american people", and i am glad to say that he was kind enough to autograph each of the ten volumes for all of us. early in mr. wilson's second term as president, just before the break with germany, i was sitting in the quiet of my library rereading browning's "cristina". when i came to the third stanza i leaped to my feet--the thing seemed incredible, but here before my eyes was actually browning's prophetic message to america in regard to the submarine sinkings. "oh, we're sunk enough here, god knows! but not so sunk that moments--etc." it is an extraordinary evidence of the man's genius that in 1840 he should have perhaps foreseen prophetically the happenings of seventy-six years later! not only did browning seem to know what was bound to happen, but he told us the remedy. i sat right down and wrote to my good friend the president, enclosing a marked copy of the poem. on the sixth of april, 1917, war was declared. may 7, 1912, was the one hundredth anniversary of the birth of robert browning. on that memorable date i was traveling to ohio at the request of my dear friend miss jones to deliver an address at the columbus school for girls. curiously enough the name of my pullman car was pauline. not only did that strike me as remarkable, but i occupied upper berth number 9 in car 11, two numbers which, added together, produced the exact age at which browning published the poem of that name. at once i recited the opening lines, "pauline, mine own, bend o'er me--thy soft breast shall pant to mine--bend o'er me," to the porter. i like to believe that the spirit of browning arranged that entire journey, for the other occupant of this well-omened berth was that admirable statesman warren g. harding. when i sat down i noticed that he was reading henry sydnor harrison's "queed", a book which was justly popular at that time. i at once showed mr. harding an article i had written in which i stated that not only was "queed" a real novel, with a real plot, and real characters, but that i believed the readers were stimulated by the spiritual advance of the hero. the future president agreed with me and said he thought that literature was a great thing. encouraged by this i confessed that i was on my way to deliver a lecture on modern poetry. mr. harding replied that he thought poetry was a great thing. "splendid!" i cried, and taking a copy of browning from my bag i read him several selections. mr. harding said that of the american poets he liked james whitcomb riley best. personally, while i have for mr. riley only wonder and praise, i think that the english poet strikes a more inspiring, more eternal note. i then read to mr. harding browning's "evelyn hope". he said that he knew a mrs. walter hope in marion, but that he was not sure her first name was evelyn. as i knew that mr. harding liked a good pun, i remarked facetiously that "hope springs eternal", meaning that probably there were in existence several families of that name. i am happy to state that with that meeting began a friendship which has lasted for many years. when mr. harding was nominated for the presidency, i wrote at once, enclosing a copy of "the advance of the english novel" which i had published in 1916. on the title-page i wrote, "to the hero of a much more spectacular advance", meaning that the progress made by the english novel was as nothing compared to mr. harding's rapid and well-deserved rise. in reply i received the following: 6 july, 1920. my dear professor phelps: many thanks to you for your congratulations and your kindness in sending me your brilliant, searching essays which i hope to be able to read in the near future. warren g. harding. just as i am always glad that i am an american, so i think we should all believe whole-heartedly in the glorious future which lies ahead of us. we should all pay high tribute to the ideals and sincerity of those great leaders woodrow wilson and warren harding. what a pity that some people believe that there is any antagonism or essential difference in the aims of those two worthy men. both are absolutely sincere--both try to make the world a better, more happy place. and to the critic of history--as to the critic of art and literature--those are the essential things. viewing the past and glimpsing the future of american history i cannot help feeling that browning had us perhaps unconsciously in mind when he wrote: god's in his heaven: all's right with the world! chapter two cristofer colombo a comedy of discovery. in the manner of james branch cabell in fourteen hundred ninety two in the city of genoa. --old song. they of genoa tell with a shrug how in the old days cristofer colombo whom men called the dreamer left dame colombo to go in search of the land of his imagining. and the tale tells how, on a twilight thursday, colombo walked alone on the edge of a doubtful wood, and viewed many things not salutary to notice. and there came to him one who was as perversely tall as a certain unmentionable object and bearded in a manner it is not convenient to describe. but colombo set about that which the stranger said was necessary and when he had finished he drank the contents of the curious skull as had been foretold on a certain all-saints day. then it was that the stranger spoke. "whom are you", said he, "to be thus wandering in the very unspeakable forest of the very unnamable sorcerer thyrston?" said colombo, "i have heard of this thyrston. and while i do not criticize, yet i cannot entirely agree with your improper use of the pronoun whom, and oh my dear sir", said colombo, "those two verys would surely--oh, most surely--be mentioned in 'the conning tower'." "eh!" said thyrston, frowning. "i allude", said colombo, "to the scribbling of a certain adams with whom you are doubtless familiar, and of course, my dear thyrston", said colombo, "i spoke only jestingly, for i am cristofer colombo whom men call the dreamer, and i go in search of the land of my imagining and it is truly a pleasure to meet the greatest sorcerer since ckellyr, and how", said colombo, "is dear mrs. thyrston?" then thyrston showed colombo what was written on the insecure parchment. it frightened colombo a little, but he assented. and when the sorcerer had borrowed a silk hat and a gold watch he caused the skies to darken and colombo saw that which men refuse to believe. "but, oh, now really sir", said colombo, "that is indeed extremely clever and i do wish that the children were here to see it and would you mind, my dear thyrston", said colombo, "doing that egg trick again?" then thyrston showed colombo that he had nothing up either sleeve and after an interval he consented to teach colombo the secret of his conjuring. "why now to be sure", said colombo, after he had thoroughly mastered the trick, "that is indeed quite simple and i am sorry i broke those four eggs by mistake in your silk hat, and while i do not wish to appear oversensitive, do you not think, my dear thyrston", said colombo, "that the trick would go just as well without those abominable jokes about married life?" "my dear sir", said thyrston, "those jokes have been used by every conjurer since merlin, and while perhaps without them your trick would work, yet i have never heard of it being done and i have found", said thyrston, "that in sorcery the best results are obtained by doing the customary thing." "which only goes to show", said colombo, "that sorcery is somewhat akin to business, and now that i think of it", said colombo, "i believe that the term wizard of industry is perhaps not entirely a misnomer." thus it was that colombo took leave of thyrston, and the tale tells how on walburga's eve he came to the court of king ferdinand and queen isabel. and as he entered one met him who was not unpleasing to the eye, and she was weeping. and, as it was somewhat dark, colombo decided to comfort her. "now, do you tell me, my dear", said colombo, after an interval, "why it is you weep, for i am colombo whom men call the dreamer, and i go in search of the land of my imagining, and i think", said colombo, "that you have most remarkably lovely eyes." "oh messire", said the lady, "i weep because it is this evening that i am to entertain the ladies of our progress literary club, and donna margarita whom men call the spanish omelet, but who really, messire, has a lovely voice, was going to sing 'the rosary' and now she has a cold and cannot sing, and king ferdinand is coming, and oh, messire, what", said the lady, "shall i do?" "why now, truly", said colombo, "in genoa it was the judgment of all the really musically intelligent ladies, except perhaps my wife, that i sang not an unpleasing baritone, and while i do not know the song to which you refer, yet i have devoted most of my life to the composition of a poem concerning the land of my imagining which might well be sung and besides that", said colombo, "i can do a most remarkable egg trick." so it was that colombo became for a short time not undeservedly the life of the progress literary club party. and the tale tells how, after a paper by donna violet balboa on "spanish architecture--then and now", colombo sang to them the song of the land of colombo's imagining. and poignantly beautiful was the song, for in it was the beauty of a poet's dream, and the eternal loveliness of that vision which men have glimpsed in all ages if ever so faintly. and when he had finished, the eyes of colombo were wet with tears, for into this poem had he woven the dreams of his disillusionment. and somewhat ironical to colombo was the applause of those fine ladies who did not at all understand. "now that is a pretty song", said king ferdinand, "and do you tell us, colombo, how one may get to this land, so that i may extend the borders of my most catholic kingdom and spread the teachings of the true faith, for to bring the world under the blessed influence of my religion is my only purpose, and really now", said king ferdinand, "is there as much gold there as you describe?" "ah, king ferdinand", replied colombo, "there is more gold than ever i can tell, and i see only too plainly how grievously you suffer to think that perhaps these people are living in ignorance of the true faith. and i could ask nothing better than that king ferdinand give me ships in which i may sail to the westward and come at last to the land of my imagining. this i would do in order that the blessed soldiers of king ferdinand who will follow me may show to the inhabitants of my discovered land the grievous errors of their ways and bring them at last to a realization of the true faith which has been so helpful to our own dear spain, and", added colombo, "our gracious sovereign ferdinand." and droll it was to colombo to think what might possibly happen were king ferdinand to take his dream seriously or were the king perhaps to be informed as to the true meaning of colombo's subtleties. "well, now", said king ferdinand, "of course, to fit out such an expedition would require great expense, my dear colombo--great expense. and, of course, you know, colombo, that when investors can buy inquisition 4 1/4's for 89 it would be extremely difficult to raise the money for such a speculative project--oh, extremely difficult. and then you must consider the present depression--tell me now, colombo", said king ferdinand, "how long do you think this depression will last, for i seek, above all things, a return to healthy normalcy." "well, truly", replied colombo, "that would be most difficult to say. i note that on rodigruez babsyn's last chart--" "i wish this babsyn and his charts were in hell", said king ferdinand, "for it was he who advised me to sell queen isabel's silver holdings. but it occurs to me, colombo, that in connection with this land-of-gold scheme of yours, you mentioned something about sailing to the westward. now colombo, that would be a distinct disadvantage when it came to marketing the bonds, for as you must already know, one cannot sail to the west without encountering fierce and enormous monsters who swallow, i am told, whole ships at a gulp." "now as to that", said colombo, somewhat embarrassed at the turn of the conversation for west had merely happened to better suit the rhymes of his poem, "you may be right, and i should not go so far as to say you are wrong, but still at the same time", said colombo, "is there any gentleman in the audience who can lend me an egg and a silk hat?" and when an unmentionable egg and a doubtful silk hat had been produced in a manner which it is not convenient to mention colombo rolled up both his sleeves and spoke the magic speech as he had learned it on a certain thursday from the sorcerer thyrston. "ladies and gentlemen", said colombo, "i have here a common household egg which i shall now ask the ushers to pass among you so you may see for yourself that there are no wires or strings attached. while this is being done, ladies and gentlemen, i wish that three of you would step up on the stage. any three--don't be bashful girls--i won't hurt you. won't that couple over there kindly oblige me--that married couple--no, folks, i guess they aren't married either--they look too happy." very painful it was to colombo to hear these horrible jokes coming from his mouth, but thyrston had quoted the authority of all successful sorcerers and not for anything would colombo have had his trick a failure. "now ladies and gentlemen", said colombo, "i am going to ask this lady and these two gentlemen if they will be so good as to see if they can take this little egg and make it stand on end without any support." and very droll it was to see the unsuccessful attempts which the three made. finally colombo said: "now ladies and gentlemen, i want you to watch me closely. i put the silk hat on my head--thus. and i take the egg in my right hand--thus. now, if this young lady will be kind enough to hold my left hand--i hope that her best fellow doesn't mind letting such a pretty girl hold my hand--it's lucky my wife can't see me, though--a friend said to me the other day, 'who was that lady i seen you with?' and i said, 'that wasn't no lady, that was my wife'. now ladies and gentlemen i take this egg, and in order to make it stand upright i tap one end gently--thus against the table until that end is flattened--and then, presto--the egg stands upright. ladies and gentlemen, i thank you one and all for your kind attention." thus it was that colombo impressed king ferdinand and his court with his profound knowledge of geography. next the tale tells how there came to colombo on michaelmas eve one sent by queen isabel, and when colombo had buckled on his sword impavide he followed the messenger through winding corridors and came at last to the chamber of the queen. and as he knelt before her it seemed to colombo that never before had he seen such unforgettable beauty as shone in the eyes of queen isabel. yes, truly, this was the loveliest girl that colombo had ever imagined. "now do you rise", said she, "and you and i shall have a nice chat alone here together, and you can tell me all about geography of which i am oh, frightfully ignorant. in truth", said she, "i have tried to get ferdinand to instruct me, but i fear", said queen isabel, "that ferdinand does not understand me." so colombo instructed queen isabel in the fundamentals of geography. and after a while he spoke. "now many people", said colombo, "believe that the earth is flat, but", said colombo, "such is not at all the case." and after an interval colombo said, "there, my dear, do you not see how ridiculous it is to suppose that the earth is anything but round?" "why surely, sire", said queen isabel, "you make it appear very round. and i wonder that i had not thought of that before. and i think", said queen isabel, "that geography is a most fascinating subject and oh, messire colombo", said the queen, "you must come and instruct me often." thus it was that colombo became royal geographer. and the tale tells how after a while various whisperings came to king ferdinand of his queen's curious enthusiasm for study. "now about this geography", said king ferdinand one evening to the queen, "i am, my dear, indeed glad to see you take an interest in such an important study and i have arranged", said the king, "to have your tutoring in the future done by father bernadino who has had fifty-two years' experience at the university, and your lessons", said the king, "will commence tomorrow." said the queen, "how can i thank you enough, dear ferdinand, for your untiring interest in my welfare. for i have been struggling along in my study of geography with a horribly dull clod whose name", said the queen, "i cannot remember." "was it, by any chance, colombo?" asked the king. "perhaps", said the queen. "but i am oh so glad to be rid of him." and indeed so great was the happiness of queen isabel that her pillow that night was wet with tears. but king ferdinand was an unusually efficient king, and he spared no pains in his craving for normalcy. so it was that the next day he called to him the man who had chanced to be royal geographer before the coup d'oeuf of colombo. "now tell me", said the king, "is there any chance that a man who sails to the westward will ever return?" "none, your majesty", said the ex-royal geographer. "for many have tried and horrible are the tales which they tell of demons and monsters lying in wait for the ships of men. and i should say definitely, oh king", said he, "that whoever sails to the westward will never return." and the tale tells how that afternoon colombo stood before king ferdinand. and very strange to colombo was the enthusiasm which burned in the king's otherwise somewhat fishlike eye. "for know you, colombo", the king was saying, "that god has spoken to me and commanded me to save from the fires of hell the inhabitants of those golden lands of which you sang. and to you, my dear colombo, is to be given the chance which you so ardently desire. for i have this day purchased three ships which await your command, and within a week you should be well on your way on this glorious mission for god and for spain, and", said the king, "i might add that the queen, too, is much interested in this voyage and has even been persuaded to dispose of her jewels in order that you may make haste." "such instant obedience to the will of god", said colombo, "and such fine enthusiasm to further his kingdom on earth, does your majesties great credit. and i shall indeed congratulate the inhabitants of this to-be-discovered land for their good fortune in obtaining such a devout king." and the tale tells how that night colombo took leave of queen isabel. "now do not weep, oh queen", said he, "for i am only colombo whom men call the dreamer, and i go in search of the land of my imagining, and perhaps", said colombo, "i shall return." but they tell how queen isabel refused to be comforted for many and many a day. and unexplainably curious to father bernadino was his absolute and complete failure as a royal instructor in geography, for father bernadino had taught for fifty-two years at the university. and so it was that colombo sat alone in the cabin of the ship which carried him towards the land of his imagining. and strange and somewhat fearsome it was to the sailors to see their captain sitting thus motionless night after night, for already had they left the canaries far behind and some there were who said that a madman commanded their ship, and others who whispered of horrible monsters in these western seas. and the tale tells how one night colombo observed across his table one who had not been sitting there a moment before and whose hair was strangely red. "well now, truly, sir", said colombo, "this is very curious. for i do not remember seeing you among the crew nor were you ever at the court, and on the whole", said colombo, "your red hair and your sneering grin interrupt my dreams, and dreams", said colombo, "are all that i have left." "for know you, sir", continued he to the stranger who did not speak, "that on this earth man has been able to endure only by playing the ape to his dreams. and in every generation", said colombo, "there have been those who dreamed of beautiful things and in every age there have been those who caught some glimpse of that perfect beauty which the greeks call helen, and to have seen helen", said colombo, "is to have been touched with divine and unbearable madness." and it became strangely quiet in the cabin as colombo continued: "and those authors who wrote perfectly of beautiful dreams", said he, "will, perchance, endure, and those who saw only men as they are, will perish--for so has it been in the past and so will it be in the future. all of which", said colombo, "is a rather tiresome and pedantic excuse for the fact that i am about to read you my own poem." and colombo read to the stranger the dream of the land of colombo's imagining, and when he had finished the stranger smiled and shook his head sadly. "come, now," said colombo, somewhat hurt. "do not, i pray you, pretend to like it unless you really do. of course it is not at all the kind of thing that will sell, is it--and the metre must be patched up in places, don't you think? and some of the most beautiful passages would never be permitted by the censor--but still--" and colombo paused hopefully, for it was colombo's poem and into it he had poured the heart of his life and it seemed to him now, more than ever, a beautiful thing. the stranger handed colombo a book. "there", said he, "is the land of your imagining", and in his eyes gleamed a curious sardonic mockery. and colombo read the book. and when he had finished his face was grey as are old ashes in ancient urns, and about the mouth of him whom men called the dreamer were curious hard lines. "now, by heaven", said colombo brandishing his sword impavide, "you lie. and your gopher prairie is a lie. and you are all, all contemptible, you who dip your pens in tracing ink and seek to banish beautiful dreams from the world." but the red-haired stranger had vanished and colombo found that he was alone and to colombo the world seemed cheerless and as a place that none has lived in for a long time. "now this is curious", mused colombo, "for i have evidently been dreaming and a more horrible dream have i never had, and i think", said colombo, "that while all this quite certainly did not actually take place, yet that grinning red head has upset me horribly and on the whole", said colombo, "i believe the safest course would be to put back at once for spain, for certainly i have no desire to take the remotest chance of discovering anything which may in the least resemble that gopher prairie." and the tale tells that as colombo started for the deck in order that he might give the signal for the return to spain, there came across the water from one of the other ships the faint cry of a sailor. and the sailor was waving his hat and shouting, "land ho!" thus it was that cristofer colombo became the discoverer of the land of his imagining, and as he stood on the deck colombo mused. "now this is a sorrowful jest and a very unfair jest that is happening," said he. "for i who have dreamed a beautiful dream of the land of my imagining will quite probably henceforth be known only as the discoverer of what will turn out to be merely one more hideous and stupid country." and tears came to the eyes of colombo, for on the waves behind him floated the torn and scattered pages of the poem which sang the imagined vision of beauty of him whom men long and long ago called the dreamer. thus it was in the old days. analysis and summary of the foregoing article in the manner of dr. frank crane there is a lesson for us all in this beautiful story of how columbus realized his ambition to be a great discoverer. men called columbus a dreamer--but that is just what folks once said about thomas a. edison and henry ford. the world has a place for dreamers--if they are practical dreamers. columbus was ambitious. ambition is a great thing if it is unselfish ambition. by unselfish i mean for the greatest good of the greatest number. shakespeare, the great teacher, shows us in "macbeth" what happens to the selfishly ambitious man. columbus got ahead by paying attention to small details. whatever he did, he did to the best of his ability. even when engaged in teaching geography to the queen, columbus was the best geography teacher he knew how to be. and before long he was made royal geographer. in our daily lives let us all resolve to be good teachers of geography. we may not all become royal geographers--but there will be to us the lasting satisfaction of having done our best. and that, as a greater than i has said, is "more precious than rubies--yea, than much fine gold". chapter three main street: plymouth, mass. in the manner of sinclair lewis i 1620. late autumn. the sour liver-colored shores of america. breaking waves dashing too high on a stern and rockbound coast. woods tossing giant branches planlessly against a stormy sky. cape cod bay--wet and full of codfish. the codfish--wet and full of bones. standing on the deck of the anchored "mayflower", gazing reflectively at the shores of the new world, is priscilla kennicott. a youthful bride on a ship full of pilgrims; a lily floating in a dish of prunes; a cloissone vase in a cargo of oil cans. her husband joins her. together they go forward to where their fellow pilgrims are preparing to embark in small boats. priscilla jumps into the bow of the first of these to shove off. as the small craft bumps the shore, priscilla rises joyously. she stretches her hands in ecstasy toward the new world. she leans forward against the breeze, her whole figure alive with the joy of expectant youth. she leaps with an irrepressible "yippee" from the boat to the shore. she remains for an instant, a vibrant pagan, drunk with the joy of life; pan poised for an unforgettable moment on plymouth rock. the next minute her foot slips on the hard, wet, unyielding stone. she clutches desperately. she slides slowly back into the cold chill saltness of cape cod bay. she is pulled, dripping and ashamed, into the boat. she crouches there, shivering and hopeless. she hears someone whisper, "pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall." a coarse mirthless chuckle. the pilgrims disembark. ii plymouth. a year later. night. she lay sleepless on her bed. she heard the outside door open; kennicott returning from prayer meeting. he sat down on the bed and began pulling off his boots. she knew that the left boot would stick. she knew exactly what he would say and how long it would take him to get it off. she rolled over in bed, a tactical movement which left no blanket for her husband. "you weren't at prayer meeting," he said. "i had a headache," she lied. he expressed no sympathy. "miles standish was telling me what you did today at the meeting of the jolly seventeen." he had got the boot off at last; he lay down beside her and pulled all the blankets off her onto himself. "that was kind of miles." she jerked at the covers but he held them tight. "what charming story did he tell this time?" "now look here, prissie--miles standish isn't given to fabrication. he said you told the jolly seventeen that next thanksgiving they ought to give a dance instead of an all-day prayer service." "well--anything else?" she gave a tremendous tug at the bedclothes and kennicott was uncovered again. "he said you suggested that they arrange a series of lectures on modern religions, and invite quakers and other radicals to speak right here in plymouth and tell us all about their beliefs. and not only that but he said you suggested sending a message to the roman catholic exiles from england, inviting them to make their home with us. you must have made quite a little speech." "well this is the land of religious freedom, isn't it? that's what you came here for, didn't you?" she sat up to deliver this remark--a movement which enabled kennicott to win back seven-eighths of the bed covering. "now look here prissie--i'm not narrow like some of these pilgrims who came over with us. but i won't have my wife intimating that a roman catholic or a quaker should be allowed to spread his heresies broadcast in this country. it's all right for you and me to know something about those things, but we must protect our children and those who have not had our advantages. the only way to meet this evil is to stamp it out, quick, before it can get a start. and it's just such so-called broadminded thinkers as you that encourage these heretics. you'll be criticizing the bible next, i suppose." thus in early times did the pious right thinkers save the land from hellfire and damnation; thus the great-grandfathers of middle-western congressmen; thus the ancestors of platitudinous editorial writers, sitters on committees, and tin-horn prohibitionists. kennicott got up to cool his wrath and indignation with a drink of water. he stumbled over a chair, reached for the jug, took a drink, set the jug down, stumbled over the same chair, and crawled back into bed. his expedition cost him the loss of all bed covering; he gave up the fight. "aside from dragging my own private views over the coals of your righteousness, did you and your friends find anything equally pleasant and self-satisfying to discuss this evening?" "eh--what's that? why, yes, we did. we decided to refuse permission for one of these traveling medicine shows to operate in plymouth." "medicine shows?" "yes--you know--like a fair in england. this one claims to come from down south somewhere. 'smart set medicine show' it's called, run by a fellow named mencken. sells cheap whisky to the indians--makes them crazy, they say. he's another one of your radical friends we don't want around." "yes, he might cut in on your own trading with the indians." "oh, for heaven's sake, prissie--hire a hall." silence. he began to snore. she lay there, sleepless and open-eyed. the clock struck eleven. "why can't i get to sleep?" ("did will put the cat out?") "i wonder what this medicine show is like?" "what is the matter with these people?" ("or is it me?") she reached down, pulled the blankets from under her, spread them carefully over the sleeping kennicott, patting them down affectionately. the next day she learned what the medicine show was like. she also learned what was the matter with the pilgrims. iii morning. a fog horn. a fog horn blowing unceasingly. at breakfast kennicott pointed with his fork in the direction of the persistent sound. "there's your smart set medicine show," he said glumly. "he doesn't seem to care much whether we give him a permit or not." then, a minute later, "we'll have to let him stay. won't do to have the indians down on us. but i tell you this, priscilla, i don't want you to go." "but will--" "prissie, please! i'm sorry i said what i did last night. i was tired. but don't you see, well, i can't just exactly explain--but this fog horn sort of scares me--i don't like it--" he suddenly rose and put both hands on her shoulders. he looked into her eyes. he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. he picked up his hat and was gone. it was five minutes before priscilla noticed that his breakfast had been left untouched. a fog horn, sounding unceasingly. she listlessly put away the breakfast dishes. she tried to drown out the sound by singing hymns. she fell on her knees and tried to pray. she found her prayers keeping time to the rise and fall of the notes of that horn. she determined to go out in the air--to find her husband--to go to church, anywhere--as far as possible from the smart set medicine show. so she went out the back door and ran as fast as she could toward the place from which came the sound of the fog horn. iv an open space on the edge of the forest. in the centre of the clearing a small gaudily-painted tent. seated on the ground in a semicircle before the tent, some forty or fifty indians. standing on a box before the entrance to the tent, a man of twenty-five or fifty. in his left hand he holds a fog horn; in his right, a stein of beer. he puts the horn to his lips and blows heavy blast. he bellows, "beauty--beauty--beauty!" he takes a drink of beer. he repeats this performance nine times. he takes up some mud and deftly models the features of several well-known characters--statesmen, writers, critics. in many cases the resemblance is so slight that priscilla can hardly recognize the character. he picks up a heavy club and proceeds to beat each one of his modeled figures into a pulp. the indians applaud wildly. he pays no attention to this applause. he clears his throat and begins to speak. priscilla is so deafened by the roar of his voice that she cannot hear what he says. apparently he is introducing somebody; somebody named george. george steps out of the tent, but does not bow to the audience. in one hand he carries a fencing foil, well constructed, of european workmanship; in his other hand he holds a number of pretty toy balloons which he has made himself. he smiles sarcastically, tosses the balloons into the air, and cleverly punctures them one by one with his rapier. at each "pop" the announcer blows a loud blast on the fog horn. when the last balloon has been punctured george retires without acknowledging the applause of the indians. the next act is announced as helen of troy in "six minutes of beauty". priscilla learns from the announcer that "this little lady is out of 'irony' by theodore dreiser". "all ready, helen--" the "little lady" appears. she is somewhat over six feet six in height and built like a boilermaker. she is dressed in pink tights. "six minutes of beauty" begins when helen picks up three large iron cannon balls and juggles them. she tosses them in the air and catches them cleverly on the back of her neck. the six minutes are brought to a successful conclusion when helen, hanging head downward by one foot from a trapeze, balances lighted lamp on the other foot and plays beethoven's fifth symphony on the slide trombone. the announcer then begins his lecture. priscilla has by this time gotten used to the overpowering roar of his voice and she discovers that once this difficulty is overcome she is tremendously impressed by his words. she becomes more and more attracted to the man. she listens, fascinated, as his lecture draws to a close and he offers his medicine for sale. she presses forward through the crowd of indians surrounding the stand. she reaches the tent. she gives her coin and receives in return a bottle. she hides it in her cape and hurries home. she slips in the back way; she pours some of the medicine into a glass; she drinks it. v a terrible overwhelming nausea. vomiting, which lasts for agonizing minutes, leaving her helpless on the floor. then cessation. then light--blinding light. vi at 3:10 priscilla drank the mencken medicine; at 3:12 she was lying in agony on the floor; at 3:20 she opened her eyes; at 3:21 she walked out of her front door; and at 3:22 she discovered what was wrong with plymouth and the pilgrims. main street. straight and narrow. a puritan thoroughfare in a puritan town. the church. a centre of puritan worship. the shrine of a narrow theology which persistently repressed beauty and joy and life. the miles standish house. the house of a puritan. a squat, unlovely symbol of repression. beauty crushed by morality. plymouth rock. hard, unyielding--like the puritan moral code. a huge tombstone on the grave of pan. she fled home. she flung herself, sobbing, on the bed. she cried, "they're all puritans that's what they are, puritans!" after a while she slept, her cheeks flushed, her heart beating unnaturally. vii late that night. she opened her eyes; she heard men's voices; she felt her heart still pounding within her at an alarming rate. "and i told them then that it would come to no good end. truly, the lord does not countenance such joking." she recognized the voices of miles standish and elder brewster. "well--what happened then?" this from kennicott. "well, you see, henry haydock got some of this mencken's medicine from one of the indians. and he thought it would be a good joke to put it in the broth at the church supper this evening." "yes?" "well--he did it, the fool. and when the broth was served, hell on earth broke loose. everyone started calling his neighbor a puritan, and cursing him for having banished beauty from the earth. the lord knows what they meant by that; i don't. old friends fought like wildcats, shrieking 'puritan' at each other. luckily it only got to one table--but there are ten raving lunatics in the lockup tonight. "it's an awful thing. but thanks to the lord, some good has come out of this evil: that medicine man, mencken, was standing outside looking in at the rumpus, smiling to himself i guess. well, somebody saw him and yelled, 'there's another of those damned puritans!' and before he could get away five of them had jumped on him and beaten him to death. he deserved it, and it's a good joke on him that they killed him for being a puritan." priscilla could stand no more. she rose from her bed, rushed into the room, and faced the three puritans. in the voice of priscilla kennicott but with the words of the medicine man she scourged them. "a good joke?" she began. "and that is what you puritan gentlemen of god and volcanoes of correct thought snuffle over as a good joke? well, with the highest respect to professor doctor miles standish, the puritan hearse-hound, and professor doctor elder brewster, the plymouth dr. frank crane--blaa!" she shrieked this last in their faces and fell lifeless at their feet. she never recovered consciousness; an hour later she died. an overdose of the medicine had been too much for her weak heart. "poor william," comforted elder brewster, "you must be brave. you will miss her sorely. but console yourself with the thought that it was for the best. priscilla has gone where she will always be happy. she has at last found that bliss which she searched for in vain on earth." "yes william," added miles standish. "priscilla has now found eternal joy." viii heaven. smug saints with ill-fitting halos and imitation wings, singing meaningless hymns which priscilla had heard countless times before. sleek prosaic angels flying aimlessly around playing stale songs on sickly yellow harps. three of the harps badly out of tune; two strings missing on another. moses, a jew. methuselah, another jew. old and unshaven. priscilla threw herself on a cloud, sobbing. "well, sister, what seems to be the matter here?" she looked up; she saw a sympathetic stranger looking down at her. "because you know, sister," he went on, "if you don't like it here you can always go back any time you want to." "do you mean to say," gasped priscilla, "that i can return to earth?" "you certainly can," said the stranger. "i'm sort of manager here, and whenever you see any particular part of the earth you'd like to live in, you just let me know and i'll arrange it." he smiled and was gone. ix it was two hundred years before priscilla kennicott definitely decided that she could stand it no longer in heaven; it was another hundred years before she located a desirable place on earth to return to. she finally selected a small town in the american northwest, far from the puritan-tainted plymouth; a small town in the midst of fields of beautiful waving grain; a small town free from the artificiality of large cities; a small town named gopher prairie. she made known her desire to the manager; she said goodby to a small group of friends who had gathered to see her off; she heard the sound of the eternal harp playing and hymn singing grow gradually fainter and fainter; she closed her eyes. when she opened them again she found herself on main street in gopher prairie. x from the "heavenly harp and trumpet": mrs. priscilla kennicott, one of our most popular angels, left these parts last tuesday for an extended visit to the earth. mrs. k. confided to ye editor that she would probably take up her residence in gopher prairie, minn., under the name of carol kennicott. the "harp and trumpet" felicitates the citizens of gopher prairie on their acquisition of a charming and up-to-date young matron whose absence will be keenly regretted by her many friends in the heavenly younger married set. good luck, priscilla! xi heaven. five years later. the monthly meeting of the celestial browning club. seated in the chair reserved for the guest of honor, the manager. the meeting opens as usual with a reading by brother robert browning of his poem "pippa passes"; as he proclaims that "god's in his heaven, all's right with the world", the members applaud and the manager rises and bows. the chairman announces that "today we take up a subject in which i am sure we are all extremely interested--the popular literature of the united states". the members listen to selected extracts from the writings of gene stratton-porter, zane grey, and harold bell wright; at the conclusion they applaud and the manager again bows. "i am sure", says the chairman, "that we are all glad to hear that things are going so nicely in the united states." (applause.) "and now, in conclusion, brother voltaire has requested permission to address us for a few minutes, and i am sure that anything brother voltaire has to say will be eminently worthwhile." brother voltaire rises and announces that he has listened with interest to the discussion of american literature; that he, too, rejoices that all is well in this best of all possible united states; and that he hopes they will pardon him if he supplements the program by reading a few extracts from another extremely popular american book recently published under the name of "main street". xii at the next meeting of the celestial browning club it was unanimously voted that the privileges of the club be denied brother voltaire for the period of one year, and that the name of priscilla kennicott be stricken from the list of non-resident members of heaven. chapter four the courtship of miles standish in the manner of f. scott fitzgerald this story occurs under the blue skies and bluer laws of puritan new england, in the days when religion was still taken seriously by a great many people, and in the town of plymouth where the "mayflower", having ploughed its platitudinous way from holland, had landed its precious cargo of pious right thinkers, moral gentlemen of god, and--priscilla. priscilla was--well, priscilla had yellow hair. in a later generation, in a 1921 june, if she had toddled by at a country club dance you would have noticed first of all that glorious mass of bobbed corn-colored locks. you would, then, perhaps, have glanced idly at her face, and suddenly said "oh my gosh!" the next moment you would have clutched the nearest stag and hissed, "quick--yellow hair--silver dress--oh judas!" you would then have been introduced, and after dancing nine feet you would have been cut in on by another panting stag. in those nine delirious feet you would have become completely dazed by one of the smoothest lines since the building of the southern pacific. you would then have borrowed somebody's flask, gone into the locker room and gotten an edge--not a bachelor-dinner edge but just enough to give you the proper amount of confidence. you would have returned to the ballroom, cut in on this twentieth century priscilla, and taken her and your edge out to a convenient limousine, or the first tee. it was of some such yellow-haired priscilla that homer dreamed when he smote his lyre and chanted, "i sing of arms and the man"; it was at the sight of such as she that rare ben johnson's dr. faustus cried, "was this the face that launched a thousand ships?" in all ages has such beauty enchanted the minds of men, calling forth in one century the fiesolian terza rima of "paradise lost", in another the passionate arias of a dozen beethoven symphonies. in 1620 the pagan daughter of helen of troy and cleopatra of the nile happened, by a characteristic jest of the great ironist, to embark with her aunt on the "mayflower". like all girls of eighteen priscilla had learned to kiss and be kissed on every possible occasion; in the exotic and not at all uncommon pleasure of "petting" she had acquired infinite wisdom and complete disillusionment. but in all her "petting parties" on the "mayflower" and in plymouth she had found no puritan who held her interest beyond the first kiss, and she had lately reverted in sheer boredom to her boarding school habit of drinking gin in large quantities, a habit which was not entirely approved of by her old-fashioned aunt, although mrs. brewster was glad to have her niece stay at home in the evenings "instead", as she told mrs. bradford, "of running around with those boys, and really, my dear, priscilla says some of the funniest things when she gets a little er--'boiled', as she calls it--you must come over some evening, and bring the governor." mrs. brewster, priscilla's aunt, is the ancestor of all new england aunts. she may be seen today walking down tremont street, boston, in her educator shoes on her way to s. s. pierce's which she pronounces to rhyme with hearse. the twentieth century mrs. brewster wears a highnecked black silk waist with a chatelaine watch pinned over her left breast and a spot of gordon's codfish (no bones) over her right. when a little girl she was taken to see longfellow, lowell, and ralph waldo emerson; she speaks familiarly of the james boys, but this has no reference to the well-known missouri outlaws. she was brought up on blueberry cake, postum and "the atlantic monthly"; she loves the boston "transcript", god, and her relatives in newton centre. her idea of a daring joke is the remark susan hale made to edward everett hale about sending underwear to the heathen. she once asked donald ogden stewart to dinner with her niece; she didn't think his story about the lady mind reader who read the man's mind and then slapped his face, was very funny; she never asked him again. the action of this story all takes place in mrs. brewster's plymouth home on two successive june evenings. as the figurative curtain rises mrs. brewster is sitting at a desk reading the latest instalment of foxe's "book of martyrs". the sound of a clanking sword is heard outside. mrs. brewster looks up, smiles to herself, and goes on reading. a knock--a timid knock. mrs. brewster: come in. (enter captain mikes standish, whiskered and forty. in a later generation, with that imposing mustache and his hatred of indians, miles would undoubtedly have been a bank president. at present he seems somewhat ill at ease, and obviously relieved to find only priscilla's aunt at home.) mrs. brewster: good evening, captain standish. miles: good evening, mrs. brewster. it's--it's cool for june, isn't it? mrs. brewster: yes. i suppose we'll pay, for it with a hot july, though. miles (nervously): yes, but it--it is cool for june, isn't it? mrs. brewster: so you said, captain. miles: yes. so i said, didn't i? (silence.) miles: mistress priscilla isn't home, then? mrs. brewster: why, i don't think so, captain but i never can be sure where priscilla is. miles (eagerly): she's a--a fine girl, isn't she? a fine girl. mrs. brewster: why, yes. of course, priscilla has her faults but she'd make some man a fine wife--some man who knew how to handle her--an older man, with experience. miles: do you really think so, mrs. brewster? (after a minute.) do you think priscilla is thinking about marrying anybody in particular? mrs. brewster: well, i can't say, captain. you know--she's a little wild. her mother was wild, too, you know--that is, before the lord spoke to her. they say she used to be seen at the mermaid tavern in london with all those play-acting people. she always used to say that priscilla would marry a military man. miles: a military man? well, now tell me mrs. brewster, do you think that a sweet delicate creature like priscilla-a voice (in the next room): oh damn! mrs. brewster: that must be priscilla now. the voice: auntie! mrs. brewster: yes, priscilla dear. the voice: where in hell did you put the vermouth? mrs. brewster: in the cupboard, dear. i do hope you aren't going to get--er--"boiled" again tonight, priscilla. (enter priscilla, infinitely radiant, infinitely beautiful, with a bottle of vermouth in one hand and a jug of gin in the other.) priscilla: auntie, that was a dirty trick to hide the vermouth. hello miles--shoot many indians today? miles: why--er er--no, mistress priscilla. priscilla: wish you'd take me with you next time, miles. i'd love to shoot an indian, wouldn't you, auntie? mrs. brewster: priscilla! what an idea! and please dear, give auntie brewster the gin. i--er--promised to take some to the church social tonight and it's almost all gone now. miles: i didn't see you at church last night, mistress priscilla. priscilla: well i'll tell you, miles. i started to go to church--really felt awfully religious. but just as i was leaving i thought, "priscilla, how about a drink--just one little drink?" you know, miles, church goes so much better when you're just a little boiled--the lights and everything just kind of--oh, its glorious. well last night, after i'd had a little liquor, the funniest thing happened. i felt awfully good, not like church at all--so i just thought i'd take a walk in the woods. and i came to a pool--a wonderful honest-to-god pool--with the moon shining right into the middle of it. so i just undressed and dove in and it was the most marvelous thing in the world. and then i danced on the bank in the grass and the moonlight--oh, lordy, miles, you ought to have seen me. mrs. brewster: priscilla! priscilla: 'scuse me, auntie brewster. and then i just lay in the grass and sang and laughed. mrs. brewster: dear, you'll catch your death of cold one of these nights. i hope you'll excuse me, captain standish; it's time i was going to our social. i'll leave priscilla to entertain you. now be a good girl, priscilla, and please dear don't drink straight vermouth--remember what happened last time. good night, captain--good night, dear. (exit mrs. brewster with gin.) priscilla: oh damn! what'll we do, miles--i'm getting awfully sleepy. miles: why--we might--er--pet a bit. priscilla (yawning): no. i'm too tired--besides, i hate whiskers. miles: yes, that's so, i remember. (ten minutes' silence, with miles looking sentimentally into the fireplace, priscilla curled up in a chair on the other side.) miles: i was--your aunt and i--we were talking about you before you came in. it was a talk that meant a lot to me. priscilla: miles, would you mind closing that window? (miles closes the window and returns to his chair by the fireplace.) miles: and your aunt told me that your mother said you would some day marry a military man. priscilla: miles, would you mind passing me that pillow over there? (miles gets up, takes the pillow to priscilla and again sits down.) miles: and i thought that if you wanted a military man why--well, i've always thought a great deal of you, mistress priscilla--and since my rose died i've been pretty lonely, and while i'm nothing but a rough old soldier yet--well, what i'm driving at is--you see, maybe you and i could sort of--well, i'm not much of a hand at fancy love speeches and all that--but-(he is interrupted by a snore. he glances up and sees that priscilla has fallen fast asleep. he sits looking hopelessly into the fireplace for a long time, then gets up, puts on his hat and tiptoes out of the door.) the next evening priscilla is sitting alone, lost in revery, before the fireplace. it is almost as if she had not moved since the evening before. a knock, and the door opens to admit john alden, nonchalant, disillusioned, and twenty-one. john: good evening. hope i don't bother you. priscilla: the only people who bother me are women who tell me i'm beautiful and men who don't. john: not a very brilliant epigram--but still--yes, you are beautiful. priscilla: of course, if it's an effort for you to say-john: nothing is worthwhile without effort. priscilla: sounds like miles standish; many things i do without effort are worthwhile; i am beautiful without the slightest effort. john: yes, you're right. i could kiss you without any effort--and that would be worthwhile--perhaps. priscilla: kissing me would prove nothing. i kiss as casually as i breathe. john: and if you didn't breathe--or kiss--you would die. priscilla: any woman would. john: then you are like other women. how unfortunate. priscilla: i am like no woman you ever knew. john: you arouse my curiosity. priscilla: curiosity killed a cat. john: a cat may look at a--queen. priscilla: and a queen keeps cats for her amusement. they purr so delightfully when she pets them. john: i never learned to purr; it must be amusing--for the queen. priscilla: let me teach you. i'm starting a new class tonight. john: i'm afraid i couldn't afford to pay the tuition. priscilla: for a few exceptionally meritorious pupils, various scholarships and fellowships have been provided. john: by whom? old graduates? priscilla: no--the institution has been endowed by god-john: with exceptional beauty--i'm afraid i'm going to kiss you. now. (they kiss.) (ten minutes pass.) priscilla: stop smiling in that inane way. john: i just happened to think of something awfully funny. you know the reason why i came over here tonight? priscilla: to see me. i wondered why you hadn't come months ago. john: no. it's really awfully funny--but i came here tonight because miles standish made me promise this morning to ask you to marry him. miles is an awfully good egg, really priscilla. priscilla: speak for yourself, john. (they kiss.) priscilla: again. john: again--and again. oh lord, i'm gone. (an hour later john leaves. as the door closes behind him priscilla sinks back into her chair before the fireplace; an hour passes, and she does not move; her aunt returns from the bradfords' and after a few ineffectual attempts at conversation goes to bed alone; the candles gutter, flicker, and die out; the room is filled of sacred silence. once more the clock chimes forth the hour--the hour of fluted peace, of dead desire and epic love. oh not for aye, endymion, mayst thou unfold the purple panoply of priceless years. she sleeps--priscilla sleeps--and down the palimpsest of age-old passion the lyres of night breathe forth their poignant praise. she sleeps--eternal helen--in the moonlight of a thousand years; immortal symbol of immortal aeons, flower of the gods transplanted on a foreign shore, infinitely rare, infinitely erotic.[1]) [1] for the further adventures of priscilla, see f. scott fitzgerald's stories in the "girl with the yellow hair" series, notably "this side of paradise," "the offshore pirate," "the ice palace," "head and shoulders," "bernice bobs her hair," "benediction" and "the beautiful and damned." chapter five the spirit of '75 letters of a minute man in the manner of ring lardner friend ethen-well ethen you will be surprised o. k. to hear i & the wife took a little trip down to boston last wk. to a t. party & i guess you are thinking we will be getting the swelt hed over being ast to a t. party. in boston. well ethen if you think that why you will be a 100 mi. offen the track because ethen i and prudence sent the kind that gets a swelt hed over being ast any wares like some of are naybers up here when they are ast any wares so you see ethen even if we had been ast any wares we wouldnt of had no swelt hed. on acct of being ast any wares. well last thurs. i and prudence drove old bessy down to boston bessy is are horse see ethen which is about 13 mi. from here boston i mean ethen as the crow flys only no crow would ever fly to boston if he could help it because all the crows that ever flew to boston was shot by them lousie taverin keepers to make meals out of ethen i never tast it nothing so rotten in my life as the meals they give us there & the priceis would knock your i out. 3 shillings for a peace of stake about as big as your i, and 4 pence for a cup of coffy. the streets sent the only thing about boston thats crook it. them taverin keepers is crook it to i mean see ethen. after supper i & her was walking a round giving the town the double o when we seen that fanny ewell hall was all lit up like charley davis on sat. night & i says to prudence lets go inside i think its free and she says i bet you knowed it was free al right befor you ast me & sure enough it was free only i hadnt knowed it before only i guess that prudence knows that when i say a thing it is generally o. k. well fanny ewell hall was pack jam full of people & we couldnt see nothing because there was a cockide stiff standing right in front of us & jumping up & down & yelling no t. no t. at the top of his lunges & prudence says well why dont you take coffy or milk & for gods sake stay offen my foot & he turns to her & says maddam do you want t. & slavery & she says no coffy & a hot dog just kidding him see ethen & he says maddam no t. shall ever land & she says no but my husbend will in a bout 1 min. & i was just going to plank him 1 when the door behint us bust open & a lot of indyans come in yelling every body down to grifins worf there is going to be a t. party only ethen they wasnt indyans at all but jest wite men drest up to look like indyans & i says to a fello those aint indyans & he say no how did you guess it & i says because i have seen real indyans many a time & he says to a nother fello say bill here is a man who says them sent real indyans & the other fello says gosh i dont believe it & they laffed only the laff was on them ethen because they wasnt real indyans & that is only tipical of how you cant tell these boston swelt heds nothing & i guess if they had ever seen a real indyan they would of known better than to laff. well i and prudence follered the crowd down to grifins worf & them indyans which was only wite men drest up clumb onto a ship there & begun throwing the cargo into boston harber & i says to a fello what is in them boxes & he says t. & i says well why are they throwing it away & he says because they do not want to pay the tacks which is about as sensable ethen if i was to rite a lot of letters & then as fast as i rote i would tare it up because i did not want to pay for a stamp. well i says somebody ought to catch he--ll for this & he says are you a torie & i seen he was trying to kid me & i says no i am a congregationalis & a loyal subject of king geo. rex & he says o i thought you was a torie & a lot of fellos who was with him give him the laff because he hadnt been abel to kid me. well after a whiles he says the indyans seem to be about threw & i says yes only they sent indyans & the laff was on him again & he seen it wasnt no use to try & kid me & prudence says come on lets beat it & on the way home i says i bet them boston birds will feel small when they find out that those wasnt indyans at all & she act it like she was mad about something & says well they cant blame you for not trying to tell them & its a wonder you didnt hire fanny ewell hall while you was about it & i says o is it & i might know youd get sore because i was the 1st to find out about the indyans being wite men in disgised & she says yes i suppose if somebody was to paint stripes on a cow you would make a speech about it & say that you had discovered that it wasnt no tiger & i wish i had been 1 of them indyans tonight because i would of loved to of beened you with a tommy hawk & i says o you would would you & she seen it wasnt no use to argue with me & anyway ethen nobody would be fool enough to paint stripes on a cow unless maybe they was born in boston. well ethen thats the way it goes & when you do put one over on the wife they want to hit you with a tommy hawk with best rgds. ed. friend ethen-no matter what a married man does in this world he gets in wrong & i suppose if i was to die tonight prudence would bawl me out for not having let her know i was going to do it & just because i joined the minit men the other eve. she has been acting like as if i had joined the baptis church & i bet you are saying what in the h--ll is a minit man. well ethen i will tell you. the other night i says to prudence i think i will drive over to lexington to get bessy shodd. bessy is are horse see ethen. well she says you will do nothing of the kind because all you want to do in lexington is get a snoot ful & if you think i am going to wate up all night while you get boiled well you have got another guess coming. she says the last time you had bessy shodd the naybers are talking about it yet & i says do you mean because i & charley davis was singing & having a little fun & she says no because nobody wouldnt call that singing & do you call it a little fun when you brought bessy up stares with you to show me how well she had been shodd at 3 a. m. in the morning answer me that which is only her way of exagerating things ethen because we didnt bring bessy only as far as the stares & i only did it because charley had been drinking a little to much & i didnt want to iritate him because the way to handel drunks is to not iritate them they are only worse only you cant tell a woman that & they think the way to handel drunks is to look him in the eye & say arent you ashamed of yourselves which only iritates him the moar. well i says i am not going to half no horse of mine going a round 1/2 shodd al the time & prudence says well i am not going to half no husband of mine going a round 1/2 shot al the time & i says i will not go near charley davis this time because i have lernt my lesson & she says al right if you will promise to not go near charley davis you can go & when i got to lexington i thought i would stop in the taverin a min. just to say hulloh to the boys because if a fello doesnt stop in the taverin to say hulloh to the boys who are just as good as he is they are lible to say he has a swelt hed & is to proud to stop in the taverin to say hulloh to the boys. who are just as good as he is. well i didnt have any i dear that charley davis would be there because i had told prudence i wasnt going to go near him & just because i said that i cant be expect it to sneek into toun like as if i was a convick can i ethen. well the taverin was crowd it & they had all got a good start & the long & the short of it was that the 1st person i seen was charley davis & he says hulloh there pink whiskers you are just in time to join the minit men which is only a nicked name he has for me because my whiskers are red brown. no i says i cannot join anything tonight fellos because i must go right back home & he says if you dont join the minit men now some day you wont have no home to go home to & i says what do you mean i wont have no home to go home to & he says because the brittish are going to burn down all the homes of we farmers because we will not sell them any food but first you had better have a drink. well ethen a fello dont like to be a sissey about taking 1 drink does he & then i says now fellos i must go home & then a couple of more fellos come in & they said ed you wont go home till we have brought you a drink & elect it you to the minit men will you & i said no but i must go home right after that. well then we got to singing & we was going pretty good & after a while i said now fellos i must go home & charley davis says to me ed before you go i want to have you shake hands with my friend tom duffy who is here from boston & he will tell you all about the minit men & you can join tonight but look out or he will drink you under the tabel because he is the worst fish in boston & i says sure only i have got to be going home soon because you remember what hapend last time & i would like to see any body from boston drink me under the tabel & bet. you & i ethen if that fellow is a fish then my grandmother is the prince of whales & let me tell you what hapend. after we had drank about 4 or 5 i seen he was getting sort of wite & i says well boston lets settle down now to some good steady drinking & he says listen & i says what & he says listen & i says what & he says do you know my wife & i says no & he says listen & i says what & he says shes the best little woman in the world & i says sure & he says what did you say & i says when & he says you have insult it my wife the best little woman in the world & he begun to cry & we had only had a bout 1 qt & wouldnt that knock you for a cockide gool ethen, only i guess you arent surprised knowing how much i can holt without feeling any affects. well i was feeling pretty good on acct. of drinking the pride of boston under the tabel & not feeling any affects only i was feeling good like a fello naturely feels & the fellos kind of made a lot of fuss on acct. me drinking him under the tabel so i couldnt very well of gone home then & after a while charley davis made a speech & well comed me into the minit men & so i am a minit man ethen but i cant exackly explain it to you until i see charley again because he didnt make it very clear that night. well after a while we woke the boston fish up & we all went home & i was feeling pretty good on acct. it being such a nice night & all the stars being out & etc. & when i got home i said prudence guess what hapend & she says i can guess & i says prudence i have been elect it a minit man & she says well go on up stares & sleep it off & i says sleep what off & she says stop talking so loud do you want the naybers to wake up & i says whos talking loud & she says o go to bed & i says i am talking in conversational tones & she says well you must be conversing with somebody in boston & i says o you mean that little blond on beecon st. & ethen she went a 1,000,000 mi. up in the air & i seen it wasnt no use to try & tell her that the reason i was feeling good was on acct. having drank a boston swelt hed to sleep without feeling any affects & i bet the next time i get a chanct i am going to get snooted right because a fello gets blamed just as much if he doesnt feel the affects as if he was brought home in a stuper & i was just kidding her about that blond on beecon st. some women dont know when they are well off ethen & i bet that guy from bostons tom duffy i mean wife wishes she was in prudences shoes instead of her having married a man what cant holt no more than a qt. without being brought home in a stuper. best rgds. ed. friend ethen-well ethen this is a funny world & when i joined the minit men last mo. how was i to know that they called them minit men because they was lible to get shot any minit. & here i am riteing to you in a tent outside boston & any minit a canon ball is lible to knock me for a continental loop & my house has been burnt & prudence is up in conk cord with her sister the one who married that short skate dum bell collins who has owed me 2 lbs. for a yr. & 1/2 well ethen it never ranes but it pores & you can be glad you are liveing in a nice quiet place like philly. well the other night i and prudence was sound asleep when i heard some body banging at the frt. door & i stuck my head out the up stares window & i says who are you & he says i am paul revear & i says well this is a h--ll of a time to be wakeing a peaceiful man out of their bed what do you want & he says the brittish are comeing & i says o are they well this is the 19 of april not the 1st & i was going down stares to plank him 1 but he had rode away tow wards lexington before i had a chanct & as it turned out after words the joke was on me o. k. well who is it says prudence charley davis again because you might as well come back to bed if it is & i says no it was some boston smart alick trying to be funny & i guess they are soar down there on acct. what hapened to their prize fish up here last mo. & are trying to get even do you know a paul revear & she says yes there was a boy at school named paul revear who was crazy about me was he dark well ethen if all the fellos she says has been crazy about her was layed end to end they would circum navygate the globe twicet & i says no he was yello & that had her stopt so we went back to sleep only i couldn't help laffing over the way i had slipt it across. about revear being yello. well along a bout a. m. there was a lot of gun firing tow wards lexington & prudence grabed me & says whets the shooting for & i says probably that fello revear who was so crazy a bout you has got funny oncet to oft ten & it will teach them boston doodes a lesson. well ethen i was wrong for oncet & the firing kept getting worse & i hitcht up old bessy & drove over to lexington bessy is are horse & ethen there was the h--ll to pay there because the g--d d--m brittish redcotes had marcht nup from boston & had fired on the lexington fellos & charley davis had been shot dead & a lot of the other fellos was wooned it & they said you had better get your wife to the h--ll out of your house because the g--d d--m brittish redcotes are coming back & they will burn everything along the rode the ---i guess you know what word goes there ethen & i was so d--m mad at those g--d d--m brittish redcotes on acct. shooting charley davis dead that i said give me a gun & show me the ---who done it & they says no you had better get your wife to a safe place to go to & then you can come back because the ---will be along this way again the ----. well i drove as fast as i could back to the farm & somebody had already told prudence what had hapend & as soon as i drove into the yd. she come out with my muskit & hand it it to me & says dont you worry about me but you kill every d--m redcote you can see & i says the ----s has killed charley davis & she says i know it & here is all the bullits i could find. well when i got back to lexington the redcotes was just coming along & ethen i guess they wont forget that march back to boston for a little whiles & i guess i wont either because the ----s burnt down my house & barn & prudence is gone to stay with her sister in conk cord & here i am camping in a tent with a lot of other minit men on the out skirts of boston & there is a roomer a round camp that to morrow we are going to move over to bunker hill which is a good name for a boston hill ill say & ethen if you was to of told me a mo. ago that i would be fighting to get boston away from the brittish i would of planked you 1 because they could of had boston for all i cared. well ethen i must go out and drill some more now & probably we will half to listen to some boston bird makeing a speech they are great fellos for speeches about down with brittish tirrany & give me liberty or give me death but if you was to ast me ethen i would say give me back that house & barn what those lousie redcotes burnt & when this excitement is all over what i want to know is ethen where do i get off at. yrs ed. chapter six the whisky rebellion. in the bedtime story manner of thornton w. burgess "just the day for a whisky rebellion," said aunt polly and off she ran, lipperty-lipperty-lip, to get a few shooting rifles. "oh goody goody," cried little emily. "now we can all shoot at those horrid revenue officers," for the collectors of internal revenue were far from popular with these kindly pennsylvania folk and aunt polly pinkwood had often promised the children that if they were good some day they would be allowed to take a shot at a revenue officer. soon she returned, bearing in her arms a number of bright shiny new guns. the children crowded around in glee and soon all were supplied with weapons except little frank who of course was too young to use a gun and was given a two-gallon jug of nice, old whisky to carry. jed hitched up old taylor, the faithful farm horse, and as quick as you could say jack robinson the little ones had piled into the old carryall. round mr. sun was just peeping over the purple hills when the merry little party started on its way, singing and laughing at the prospect of the day's sport. "i bet i kill five revenue officers," said little edgar. "ha ha ha--you boaster, you," laughed aunt polly. "you will be lucky if you kill two, for i fear they will be hard to find today." "oh do you think so, aunt polly?" said little elinor and she began to cry, for elinor dearly loved to shoot. "hush dear," said miss pinkwood with a kindly pat, for she loved her little charges and it hurt her to see them unhappy. "i was only joking. and now children i will tell you a story." "oh goody goody," cried they all. "tell us a true story." "all right," said aunt polly. "i shall tell you a true story," and she began. "once there was a brave handsome man--" "mr. welsbach," cried the children with one voice, for it was well known in the neighborhood that aunt polly had long been sweet on julius welsbach, the popular superintendent of the sabbath school and the best whisky maker for miles around. "hush children," said aunt polly blushing in vexation. "of course not. and if you interrupt me i shall not tell my story at all." but she was not really angry. "and one day this brave handsome man was out making whisky and he had just sampled some when he looked up and what do you suppose he saw?" "snakes," cried little elmer whose father had often had delirium tremens, greatly to the delight of his children. "no, elmer," said miss pinkwood, "not snakes." "pink lizards," cried little esther, elmer's sister. "no," said aunt polly, with a hearty laugh, "he saw a--stranger. and what do you suppose the stranger had?" "a snoot full," chorused the schultz twins. "he was pie-eyed." "no," replied miss pinkwood laughing merrily. "it was before noon. guess again children. what did the stranger have?" "blind staggers," suggested little faith whose mother had recently been adjudged insane. "come children," replied aunt polly. "you are not very wide awake this morning. the stranger had a gun. and when the brave handsome man offered the stranger a drink what do you suppose the stranger said?" "i know," cried little prudence eagerly. "he said, 'why yes i don't care if i do.' that's what they all say." "no, prudence," replied miss pinkwood. "the stranger refused a drink." "oh come now, aunt polly," chorused the boys and girls. "you said you were going to tell us a true story." and their little faces fell. "children," said miss polly, "the stranger refused the drink because he was a revenue officer. and he pointed his gun at the brave handsome man and said he would have to go to jail because he had not paid the tax on his whisky. and the brave handsome man would have had to have gone to jail, too; but fortunately his brother came up just at the right time and--" "shot the revenuer dead," cried the children in glee. "yes children," said miss polly. "he shot the revenue officer dead." "oh goody goody," cried all. "now tell us another story. tell us about the time your father killed a revenue officer with an ax." "oh you don't want to hear that again, do you children?" said aunt polly. "oh yes--yes--please," they cried, and aunt polly was just going to begin when jed the driver stopped his horses and said: "this hilltop is as good a place to shoot from as i know of, miss pinkwood. you can see both roads, and nobody can see you." "thank you, jed," said aunt polly giving him a kindly smile, and without more ado the children clambered out of the carryall and filled their guns with powder and bullets. "i get first shot," proudly announced robert, the oldest boy, and somewhat of a bully. "robert!" said aunt polly severely, and she looked almost ready to cry, for aunt polly had tried hard to teach the boys to be true knights of chivalry and it hurt her to have robert wish to shoot a revenue officer before the girls had had a chance. robert had not meant to hurt aunt polly's feelings but had only been thoughtless, and soon all was sunshine again as little ellen the youngest made ready to fire the first shot. the children waited patiently and soon they were rewarded by the sight of a revenue officer riding on horseback in the distant valley, as pretty a target as one could wish. "now do be careful, dear," whispered miss pinkwood, "for if you miss, he may take alarm and be off." but little ellen did not miss. "bang" went her gun and the little merry breezes echoed back and forth, "she got him. she got him", and old mother west wind smiled down at the happy sport. sure enough, when old mr. smoke had cleared away there was a nice dead revenue officer lying in the road. "well done, ellen," said miss pinkwood, patting her little charge affectionately which caused the happy girl to coo with childish delight. mary had next shot and soon all were popping away in great glee. all the merry wood folk gathered near to watch the children at their sport. there was johnny chuck and reddy fox and jimmy skunk and bobby coon and oh everybody. soon round mr. sun was high in the blue sky and the children began to tire somewhat of their sport. "i'm as hungry as a bear," said little dick. "i'm as hungry as two bears," said emily. "ha ha ha," laughed miss pinkwood, "i know what will fix that," and soon she had spread out a delicious repast. "now children," said miss pinkwood when all had washed their faces and hands, "while you were busy washing i prepared a surprise for you," and from a large jug, before their delighted gaze, she poured out--what do you think? "bronxes," cried little harriet. "oh goody goody." and sure enough aunt polly had prepared a jug of delicious bronx cocktails which all pronounced excellent. and after that there were sandwiches and olives and pie and good three year old whisky, too. "that's awfully smooth rye, aunt polly," said little prudence smacking her two red lips. "i think i'll have another shot." "no dear," said miss pinkwood, pleased by the compliment, but firm withal. "not now. perhaps on the way home, if there is any left," for aunt polly knew that too much alcohol in the middle of the day is bad for growing children, and she had seen many a promising child spoiled by over-indulgent parents. after lunch those children who could stand helped aunt polly to clear away the dishes and then all went sound asleep, as is the custom in pennsylvania. when they awoke round mr. sun was just sinking behind the purple hills and so, after taking a few more scattered shots at revenue officers, they piled once more into the carryall and drove back to town. and as they passed mrs. oliphant's house (aunt polly's sister) aunt flo oliphant came out on the porch and waved her handkerchief at the merry party. "let's give her a cheer," said fred. "agreed," cried they all, and so twelve little throats united in three lusty "huzzahs" which made auntie flo very happy you may be sure. and as they drove up before the pinkwoods' modest home twelve tired but happy children with one accord voted the whisky rebellion capital fun and aunt polly a brick. chapter seven how love came to general grant in the manner of harold bell wright on a brisk winter evening in the winter of 1864 the palatial fifth avenue "palace" of cornelius van der griff was brilliantly lighted with many brilliant lights. outside the imposing front entrance a small group of pedestrians had gathered to gape enviously at the invited guests of the "four hundred" who were beginning to arrive in elegant equipages, expensive ball-dresses and fashionable "swallowtails". "hully gee!" exclaimed little frank, a crippled newsboy who was the only support of an aged mother, as a particularly sumptuous carriage drove up and a stylishly dressed lady of fifty-five or sixty stepped out accompanied by a haughty society girl and an elderly gentleman in clerical dress. it was mrs. rhinelander, a social leader, and her daughter geraldine, together with the rev. dr. gedney, pastor of an exclusive fifth avenue church. "what common looking people," said mrs. rhinelander, surveying the crowd aristocratically with her lorgnette. "yes, aren't they?" replied the clergyman with a condescending glance which ill befit his clerical garb. "i'm glad you don't have people like that dans votre eglise, dr. gedney," said young geraldine, who thought it was "smart" to display her proficiency in the stylish french tongue. at this moment the door of the van der griff residence was opened for them by an imposing footman in scarlet livery and they passed into the abode of the "elect". "hully gee!" repeated little frank. "what's going on to-night?" asked a newcomer. "gee--don't youse know?" answered the newsboy. "dis is de van der griffs' and tonight dey are giving a swell dinner for general grant. dat lady wot just went in was old mrs. rhinelander. i seen her pitcher in de last harper's weekly and dere was a story in de paper dis morning dat her daughter geraldine was going to marry de general." "that isn't so," broke in another. "it was just a rumor." "well, anyway," said frank, "i wisht de general would hurry up and come--it's getting cold enough to freeze the tail off a brass monkey." the onlookers laughed merrily at his humorous reference to the frigid temperature, although many cast sympathetic looks at his thin threadbare garments and registered a kindly thought for this brave boy who so philosophically accepted the buffets of fate. "i bet this is him now," cried frank, and all waited expectantly as a vehicle drove up. the cabman jumped off his box and held the carriage door open. "here you are, miss flowers," he said, touching his hat respectfully. a silver peal of rippling laughter sounded from the interior of the carriage. "why jerry," came in velvet tones addressed to the coachman, "you mustn't be so formal just because i have come to new york to live. call me 'miss ella,' of course, just like you did when we lived out in kansas," and with these words miss ella flowers, for it was she, stepped out of the carriage. a hush fell on the crowd as they caught sight of her face--a hush of silent tribute to the clear sweet womanhood of that pure countenance. a young man on the edge of the crowd who was on the verge of becoming a drunkard burst into tears and walked rapidly away to join the nearest church. a pr-st---te who had been plying her nefarious trade on the avenue, sank to her knees to pray for strength to go back to her aged parents on the farm. another young man, catching sight of ella's pure face, vowed to write home to his old mother and send her the money he had been expending in the city on drinks and dissipation. and well might these city people be affected by the glimpse of the sweet noble virtue which shone forth so radiantly in this kansas girl's countenance. although born in jersey city, ella had moved with her parents to the west at an early age and she had grown up in the open country where a man's a man and women lead clean sweet womanly lives. out in the pure air of god's green places and amid kindly, simple, big hearted folks, little ella had blossomed and thrived, the pride of the whole country, and as she had grown to womanhood there was many a masculine heart beat a little faster for her presence and many a manly blush of admiration came into the features of her admirers as she whirled gracefully with them in the innocent pleasure of a simple country dance. but on her eighteenth birthday, her parents had passed on to the great beyond and the heartbroken ella had come east to live with mrs. montgomery, her aunt in jersey city. this lady, being socially prominent in new york's "four hundred", was of course quite ambitious that her pretty little niece from the west should also enter society. for the last three months, therefore, ella had been feted at all the better class homes in new york and jersey city, and as mrs. van der griff, the fifth avenue social leader, was in the same set as ella's aunt, it was only natural that when making out her list of guests for the dinner in honor of general grant she should include the beautiful niece of her friend. as ella stepped from the carriage, her gaze fell upon little frank, the crippled newsboy, and her eyes quickly filled with tears, for social success had not yet caused her to forget that "blessed are the weak". taking out her purse, she gave frank a silver dollar and a warm look of sympathy as she passed into the house. "gee, there went an angel," whispered the little cripple, and many who heard him silently echoed that thought in their hearts. nor were they far from wrong. but even an angel is not free from temptation, and by letting ella go into society her aunt was exposing the girl to the whisperings of satan--whisperings of things material rather than things spiritual. many a girl just as pure as ella has found her standards gradually lowered and her moral character slowly weakened by the contact with the so-called "refined" and "cultured" infidels one meets in fashionable society. many a father and mother whose ambition has caused them to have their daughter go out in society have bitterly repented of that step as they watched the poor girl gradually succumbing to the temptation of the world. let her who thinks it is "smart" to be in society consider that our brothels with their red plush curtains, their hardwood floors and their luxurious appointments, are filled largely with the worn out belles and debutantes of fashionable society. the next minute a bugle call sounded down the street and up drove a team of prancing grays. two soldiers sprang down from the coachman's box and stood at rigid attention while the door of the carriage opened and out stepped general ulysses s. grant. a murmur of admiration swept over the crowd at the sight of his manly inspiring features, in which the clean cut virility of a life free from dissipation was accentuated by the neatly trimmed black beard. his erect military bearing--his neat, well fitting uniform--but above all his frank open face proclaimed him a man's man--a man among men. a cheer burst from the lips of the onlookers and the brave but modest general lowered his eyes and blushed as he acknowledged their greeting. "men and women," he said, in a voice which although low, one could see was accustomed to being obeyed, "i thank you for your cheers. it makes my heart rejoice to hear them, for i know you are not cheering me personally but only as one of the many men who are fighting for the cause of liberty and freedom, and for----" the general's voice broke a little, but he mastered his emotion and went on--"for the flag we all love." at this he pulled from his pocket an american flag and held it up so that all could see. cheer after cheer rent the air, and tears came to the general's eyes at this mark of devotion to the common cause. "wipe the d--d rebels off the face of the earth, g-d d--'em," shouted a too enthusiastic member of the crowd who, i fear, was a little the worse for drink. in an instant general grant had stepped up to him and fixed upon him those fearless blue eyes. "my man," said the general, "it hurts me to hear you give vent to those oaths, especially in the presence of ladies. soldiers do not curse, and i think you would do well to follow their example." the other lowered his head shamefacedly. "general," he said, "you're right and i apologize." a smile lit up the general's handsome features and he extended his hand to the other. "shake on it," he said simply, and as the crowd roared its approval of this speech the two men "shook". meanwhile within the van der griff house all were agog with excitement in expectation of the arrival of the distinguished guest. expensively dressed ladies fluttered here and there amid the elegant appointments; servants in stylish livery passed to and fro with trays of wine and other spirituous liquors. at the sound of the cheering outside, the haughty mrs. rhinelander patted her daughter geraldine nervously, and between mother and daughter passed a glance of understanding, for both felt that to-night, if ever, was geraldine's opportunity to win the handsome and popular general. the doorbell rang, and a hush fell over the chattering assemblage; then came the proud announcement from the doorman--"general ulysses s. grant"--and all the society belles crowded forward around the guest of honor. it had been rumored that the general, being a soldier, was ignorant of social etiquette, but such proved to be far from the case. indeed, he handled himself with such ease of manner that he captivated all, and for each and every young miss he had an apt phrase or a pretty compliment, greatly to their delight. "pleased to know you"--"glad to shake the hand of such a pretty girl"--"what a nice little hand--i wish i might hold it all evening"--with these and kindred pleasantries the general won the way into the graces of mrs. van der griff's fair guests, and many a female heart fluttered in her bosom as she gazed into the clear blue eyes of the soldier, and listened to his well chosen tactful words. "and how is the dear general this evening?"--this in the affected tone of old mrs. rhinelander, as she forced her way through the crowd. "finer than silk," replied he, and he added, solicitously, "i hope you have recovered from your lumbago, mrs. rhinelander." "oh quite," answered she, "and here is geraldine, general," and the ambitious mother pushed her daughter forward. "comment vous portez vous, mon general," said geraldine in french, "i hope we can have a nice tete-a-tete to-night," and she fawned upon her prey in a manner that would have sickened a less artificial gathering. were there not some amid all that fashionable throng in whom ideals of purity and true womanhood lived--some who cared enough for the sacredness of real love to cry upon this hollow mockery that was being used to ensnare the simple, honest soldier? there was only one, and she was at that moment entering the drawing room for the purpose of being presented to the general. need i name her? ella, for it was she, had been upstairs busying herself with her toilet when general grant had arrived and she now hurried forward to pay her homage to the great soldier. and then, as she caught sight of his face, she stopped suddenly and a deep crimson blush spread over her features. she looked again, and then drew back behind a nearby portiere, her heart beating wildly. well did ella remember where she had seen that countenance before, and as she stood there trembling the whole scene of her folly came back to her. it had happened in kansas, just before her parents died, on one sunny may morning. she had gone for a walk; her footsteps had led her to the banks of a secluded lake where she often went when she wished to be alone. many an afternoon had ella dreamed idly away on this shore, but that day, for some reason, she had felt unusually full of life and not at all like dreaming. obeying a thoughtless but innocent impulse, with no intention of evil, she had taken off her clothes and plunged thus n-k-d into the cool waters of the lake. after she had swum around a little she began to realize the extent of her folly and was hurriedly swimming towards the shore when a terrific cramp had seized her lower limbs, rendering them powerless. her first impulse, to scream for help, was quickly checked with a deep blush, as she realized the consequences if a man should hear her call, for nearby was an encampment of union soldiers, none of whom she knew. the perplexed and helpless girl was in sore straits and was slowly sinking for the third time, when a bearded stranger in soldier's uniform appeared on the bank and dove into the water. to her horror he swam rapidly towards her--but her shame was soon changed to joy when she realized that he was purposely keeping his eyes tight shut. with a few swift powerful strokes he reached her side, and, blushing deeply, took off his blue coat, fastened it around her, opened his eyes, and swam with her to the shore. carrying her to where she had left her clothes he stayed only long enough to assure himself that she had completely recovered the use of her limbs, and evidently to spare her further embarrassment, had vanished as quickly and as mysteriously as he had appeared. many a night after that had ella lain awake thinking of the splendid features and, the even more splendid conduct of this unknown knight who wore the uniform of the union army. "how i love him," she would whisper to herself; "but how he must despise me!" she would cry, and her pillow was often wet with tears of shame and mortification at her folly. it was shortly after this episode that her parents had taken sick and passed away. ella had come east and had given up hope of ever seeing her rescuer again. you may imagine her feelings then when, on entering the drawing room at the van der griffs', she discovered that the stranger who had so gallantly and tactfully rescued her from a watery grave was none other than general ulysses s. grant. the poor girl was torn by a tumult of contrary emotions. suppose he should remember her face. she blushed at the thought. and besides what chance had she to win such a great man's heart in competition with these society girls like geraldine rhinelander who had been "abroad" and spoke french. at that moment one of the liveried servants approached the general with a trayful of filled wine glasses. so engrossed was the soldier hero in talking to geraldine--or, rather, in listening to her alluring chatter--that he did not at first notice what was being offered him. "will you have a drink of champagne wine, general?" said mrs. van der griff who stood near. the general raised his head and frowned as if he did not understand. "come, mon general," cried geraldine gayly, "we shall drink a votre succes dans la guerre," and the flighty girl raised a glass of wine on high. several of the guests crowded around and all were about to drink to the general's health. "stop," cried general grant suddenly realizing what was being done, and something in the tone of his voice made everyone pause. "madam," said he, turning to mrs. van der griff, "am i to understand that there is liquor in those glasses?" "why yes, general," said the hostess smiling uneasily. "it is just a little champagne wine." "madam," said the general, "it may be 'just champagne wine' to you, but 'just champagne wine' has ruined many a poor fellow and to me all alcoholic beverages are an abomination. i cannot consent, madam, to remain under your roof if they are to be served. i have never taken a drop--i have tried to stamp it out of the army, and i owe it to my soldiers to decline to be a guest at a house where wine and liquor are served." an excited buzz of comment arose as the general delivered this ultimatum. a few there were who secretly approved his sentiments, but they were far too few in numbers and constant indulgence in alcohol had weakened their wills so that they dared not stand forth. an angry flush appeared on the face of the hostess, for in society, "good form" is more important than courage and ideals, and by his frank statement general grant had violently violated the canons of correct social etiquette. "very well, mr. grant," she said, stressing the "mr."--"if that's the way you feel about it----" "stop," cried an unexpected voice, and to the amazement of all ella flowers stepped forward, her teeth clenched, her eyes blazing. "stop," she repeated, "he is right--the liquor evil is one of the worst curses of modern civilization, and if general grant leaves, so do i." mrs. van der griff hesitated for an instant, and then suddenly forced a smile. "why ella dear, of course general grant is right," said she, for it was well known in financial circles that her husband, mr. van der griff, had recently borrowed heavily from ella's uncle. "there will not be a drop of wine served to-night, and now general, shall we go in to dinner? will you be so kind as to lead the way with miss rhinelander?" the hostess had recovered her composure, and smiling sweetly at the guest of honor, gave orders to the servants to remove the wine glasses. but general grant did not hear her; he was looking at ella flowers. and as he gazed at the sweet beauty of her countenance he seemed to feel rising within him something which he had never felt before--something which made everything else seem petty and trivial. and as he looked into her eyes and she looked into his, he read her answer--the only answer true womanhood can make to clean, worthy manhood. "shall we go a la salle-a-manger?" sounded a voice in his ears, and geraldine's sinuous arm was thrust through his. general grant took the proffered talon and gently removed it from him. "miss rhinelander," he said firmly, "i am taking this young lady as my partner," and suiting the action to the word, he graciously extended his arm to ella who took it with a pretty blush. it was general grant's turn to blush when the other guests, with a few exceptions, applauded his choice loudly, and made way enthusiastically as the handsome couple advanced to the brilliantly lighted dining room. but although the hostess had provided the most costly of viands, i am afraid that the brave general did not fully appreciate them, for in his soul was the joy of a strong man who has found his mate and in his heart was the singing of the eternal song, "i love her--i love her--i love her!" it was only too apparent to the other guests what had happened and to their credit be it said that they heartily approved his choice, for mrs. rhinelander and her scheming daughter geraldine had made countless enemies with their haughty manners, whereas the sweet simplicity of ella flowers had won her numerous friends. and all laughed merrily when general grant, in his after dinner speech, said "flowers" instead of "flour" when speaking of provisioning the army--a slip which caused both the general and miss flowers to blush furiously, greatly to the delight of the good-natured guests. "all the world loves a lover"--truer words were never penned. after dinner, while the other men, according to the usages of best society, were filling the air of the dining room with the fumes of nicotine, the general, who did not use tobacco, excused himself--amid many sly winks from the other men--and wandered out into the conservatory. there he found ella. "general," she began. "miss flowers," said the strong man simply, "call me ulysses." and there let us leave them. chapter eight custer's last stand in the manner of edith wharton it was already late afternoon and the gas street lamps of the boul' mich' were being lighted for paris, or at least for paris in summer, by a somewhat frigid looking allumeur, when philip custer came to the end of his letter. he hesitated for an instant, wrote "your----," then crossed that out and substituted "sincerely." no, decidedly the first ending, with its, as is, or, rather, as ordinarily is, the case in hymeneal epistles, somewhat possessive sense, would no longer suffice. "yours truly"--perhaps; "sincerely"--better; but certainly not "your husband." he was done, thank god, with presences. philip sipped his absinthe and gazed for an instant through the cafe window; a solitary fiacre rattled by; he picked up the result of his afternoon's labor, wearily. "dear mary," he read, "when i told you that my employers were sending me to paris, i lied to you. it was, perhaps, the first direct lie that i ever told you; it was, i know now, the last. but a falsehood by word of mouth mattered really very little in comparison with the enormous lie that my life with you had become." philip paused and smiled, somewhat bitterly, at that point in the letter. mary, with her american woman's intuition, would undoubtedly surmise that he had run off with mrs. everett; there was a certain ironical humor in the fact that mary's mistaken guess would be sadly indicative of her whole failure to understand what her husband was, to use a slang expression, "driving at." "i hope that you will believe me when i say that i came to paris to paint. in the past four years the desire to do that has grown steadily until it has mastered me. you do not understand. i found no one in america who did. i think my mother might have, had she lived; certainly it is utterly incomprehensible to father." philip stopped. ay, there was the rub--general custer, and all that he stood for. philip glimpsed momentarily those early boyhood days with his father, spent mainly in army posts; the boy's cavalry uniform, in which he had ridden old bess about the camp, waving his miniature sabre; the day he had been thrown to the ground by a strange horse which he had disobediently mounted, just as his father arrived on the scene. philip had never forgotten his father's words that day. "don't crawl, son,--don't whine. it was your fault this time and you deserved what you got. lots of times it won't be your fault, but you'll have to take your licking anyway. but remember this, son--take your medicine like a man--always." philip groaned; he knew what the general would say when the news of his son's desertion of his wife and four year old boy reached him. he knew that he never could explain to his father the absolute torture of the last four years of enervating domesticity and business mediocrity--the torture of the beauty within him crying for expression, half satisfied by the stolen evenings at the art school but constantly growing stronger in its all-consuming appeal. no, life to his father was a simple problem in army ethics--a problem in which duty was "a", one of the known factors; "x," the unknown, was either "bravery" or "cowardice" when brought in contact with "a". having solved this problem, his father had closed the book; of the higher mathematics, and especially of those complex problems to which no living man knew the final answer, he had no conception. and yet---philip resumed his reading to avoid the old endless maze of subtleties. "it is not that i did not--or do not--love you. it is, rather, that something within me is crying out--something which is stronger than i, and which i cannot resist. i have waited two years to be sure. yesterday, as soon as i reached here, i took my work to the man who is considered the finest art critic in paris. he told me that there was a quality to my painting which he had seen in that of no living artist; he told me that in five years of hard work i should be able to produce work which botticelli would be proud to have done. do you understand that, mary--botticelli! "but no, forgive me. my paean of joy comes strangely in a letter which should be of abject humility for what must seem to you, to father, and to all, a cowardly, selfish act of desertion--a whining failure to face life. oh dear, dear mary if you could but understand what a hell i have been through--" philip took his pen and crossed out the last line so that no one could read what had been there. "materially, of course, you and little george will be better off; the foolish pride with which i refused to let your parents help us now no longer stands in their way. you should have no difficulty about a divorce. "you can dispose of my things as you see fit; there is nothing i care about keeping which i did not bring. "again, mary, i cannot ask you to forgive, or even to understand, but i do hope that you will believe me when i say that this act of mine is the most honest thing i have ever done, and that to have acted out the tragi-comedy in the part of a happy contented husband would have made of both of our lives a bitter useless farce. sincerely, philip." he folded the pages and addressed the envelope. "pardon, monsieur"--a whiff of sulphur came to his nose as the waiter bent over the table to light the gas above him. "would monsieur like to see the journal? there is a most amusing story about---the bill, monsieur? yes--in a moment." philip glanced nervously through the pages of the temps. he was anxious to get the letter to the post--to have done with indecision and worry. it would be a blessed relief when the thing was finally done beyond chance of recall; why couldn't that stupid waiter hurry? on the last page of the newspaper was an item headlined "recent news from america." below was a sub-heading "horrible massacre of soldiers by indians--brave stand of american troopers." he caught the name "custer" and read: "and by his brave death at the hands of the indians, this gallant american general has made the name of custer one which will forever be associated with courage of the highest type." he read it all through again and sat quietly as the hand of polyphemus closed over him. he even smiled a little--a weary, ironic smile. "monsieur desires something more, perhaps"--the waiter held out the bill. philip smiled. "no--monsieur has finished--there is nothing more." then he repeated slowly, "there is nothing more." * * * * * philip watched his son george blow out the twelve candles on his birthday cake. "mother," said george, "when i get to be eighteen, can i be a soldier just like grandfather up there?" he pointed to the portrait of philip's father in uniform which hung in the dining room. "of course you can, dear," said his mother. "but you must be a brave boy". "grandfather was awful brave, wasn't he father?" this from little mary between mouthfuls of cake. "yes, mary," philip answered. "he was very, very brave." "of course he was," said george. "he was an american." "yes," answered philip, "that explains it.--he was an american." mrs. custer looked up at the portrait of her distinguished father-in-law. "you know philip, i think it must be quite nice to be able to paint a picture like that. i've often wondered why you never kept up your art." chapter nine "for the freedom of the world" a drama of the great war act i: in the manner of mary raymond shipman andrews act 2: in the manner of eugene o'neill act one (mary raymond shipman andrews) scene i a principal street of an american city in the spring of 1918. at the rear of the stage, representing the opposite sidewalk of the street, are gathered many people come to bid farewell to the boys of the blankth regiment who are soon to march past on their way to france. extending across the "street", from footlights to "sidewalk", is a large white plaster arch, gayly decorated with the allied colors. on this arch is the inscription "for the freedom of the world." at the rising of the curtain, distant march music is heard (off stage, right); this constantly grows louder during the ensuing dialogue which takes place between three elderly women crowded together at the edge of the sidewalk. these women, although, before the war, of different stations in social rank, are now united, as are all mothers in the allied countries, by the glorious badge which each proudly wears pinned over her heart--the service star. the professor's wife--i hear them coming. the street-cleaner's wife--so do i. i hope my boy pat sees me. the pawnbroker's wife--i told my jean where to look. the approaching music and the cheering of the spectators drowns out further conversation. enter (right) the regimental band playing the "stars and stripes forever." they march through the arch and exit left. following them comes the flag, at the sight of which all the male spectators (young boys and men too old to fight) remove their hats. after the colors come the troops, splendid clean faced fellows, in whose eyes shines the light of civilization's ideals, in whose ears rings the never forgettable cry of heroic france and brave little belgium. the boys are marching four abreast, with a firm determined step; it is as though each man were saying to himself "they shall not pass." after the first few squads have marched through the arch and off left, the command is issued off-stage "company--halt." a young lieutenant repeats this order to his men, and the column comes to a stop. the men stand at attention until given the command "rest", when they relax and a murmur of conversation arises from the ranks, in which characteristic sentences "german ideals are not our ideals" and "suppose it was your own sister" show only too well what the boys are thinking of day and night. as the column halts, the three service star mothers rush out from the curb and embrace their sons who happen to be in this company. at the same time a very attractive girl runs up to the young lieutenant. the lieutenant--ellen! his fiancee--john! the professor's son} the streetcleaner's son } mother! the pawnbroker's son } the professor's wife } the streetcleaner's wife } my boy! the pawnbroker's wife } voice off stage--company--atten shun! the farewells are said, the men come to attention. voice off stage--forward--march the lieutenant--(pointing with his sword to the inscription on the arch)--forward for the freedom of the world--march. the men's teeth click together, their heads are thrown back, and with a light in their eyes that somehow suggests joan of arc the crusaders move on. scene 2 three months later. a section of an american front line trench now occupied by the blankth regiment. it is early morning and the three soldiers mentioned in scene 1 are conversing together for perhaps the last time, for soon they are to be given the chance which every american man desires more than anything in the world--the opportunity to go "over the top". the professor's son--well fellows, in a few minutes we shall be able to show the people at home that their boys are not cowards when the fate of civilization is at stake. the pawnbroker's son--here's a newspaper clipping mother sent me. it's from a speech made the other day in congress. (he reads) "and we and our children--and our children's children will never forget the debt we owe those brave boys who are now in france." the streetcleaner's son--that makes a fellow feel pretty good inside, doesn't it? it makes me glad i'm doing my bit--and after the war i hope the ideals which have inspired us all will make us better citizens in a better world. the professor's son--not only will we be better citizens--not only will the torch of liberty shine more brightly--but also each one of us will go back to his job with a deeper vision. the pawnbroker's son--that's right i am a musician--a pianist, you know--and i hope that after the war i shall be able to tell america, through my music, of the glory of this holy cause. the professor's son--i didn't know you were a pianist. the pawnbroker's son--yes--ever since i was a boy--i have had no other interest. my father tried to make me go into his shop but i couldn't stand it. he got angry and refused to support me; i had a hard time until i won a scholarship at a new york musical college. just before the war i had a chance to play the schumann concerto with the philharmonic; the critics all said that in another year i would be--but fellows--you must think me frightfully conceited to talk so, and besides what matters my musical career in comparison with the sacrifice which everyone is making? the streetcleaner's son--and gladly making, too, for it is easy to give up all, as did joan of arc, for france. attention, men! here comes one of our officers. the three stand at attention. enter the lieutenant. the lieutenant--well, men, do you feel ready? the three--more than ready, sir--eager. the lieutenant--brave men! (to the professor's son) come here a minute, keating. i have something to ask you before we go over the top. the professor's son and the lieutenant go to one side. the lieutenant--(to the other two in a kindly manner)--at ease! the streetcleaner's son--thank you, sir. they relax from their rigid posture of "attention". the lieutenant--(to the professor's son)--keating, when we "go over", we--may--never come back, you know. and i want to ask a favor of you. i am engaged--to a girl back home--here is her picture (he draws a photograph from his inner breast pocket and shows it to the professor's son.) the professor's son--she is beautiful, sir. the lieutenant--(putting the photograph back in his pocket)--yes very beautiful. and (dropping his eyes)--i love her. if--if i should "go west" i want you to write her and tell her that my last thoughts were of my country and--her. we are to be married--after the war--if (suddenly clearing his throat). her name is ellen radcliff--here, i'll write the address down for you. he does so, and hands the slip of paper to the professor's son, who discreetly turns away. the lieutenant--(brusquely)--that's all, keating. a bugle sounds. the lieutenant--attention men! at the next bugle call you go over the top--remember that you are americans and that americans know how to fight and die in the cause of liberty and for the freedom of the world. the three soldiers--we are ready to make the supreme sacrifice if need be. the bugle sounds. the lieutenant--(climbing up the ladder to the top of the trench)--follow me, men-the three soldiers--(climbing up after him)--lafayette--we come, though poppies bloom in flanders field. they go "over the top". scene 3 a section of a hun trench a minute later. two hun soldiers are conversing together; another hun is reading a copy of nietzsche. first hun soldier--and then we cut the hands off all the little children--oh it was wonderful. second hun soldier--i wish i had been there. a hun lieutenant rushes in. the hun lieutenant--(kicking the three men and brandishing his revolver)--swine--wake up--here come the americans. the three spring to their feet and seize their guns. at the top of the trench appears the american lieutenant, closely followed by the three soldiers. the american lieutenant--(coolly)--we come to avenge the sinking of the lusitania. the hun lieutenant--hoch der kaiser! might is stronger than right! he treacherously tries to shoot the american but the professor's son disarms him with his bayonet. the three hun soldiers offer a show of resistance. the streetcleaner's son--(to first hun soldier)--your hands are unclean with the murder of innocent women and children. first hun soldier--(dropping his gun)--kamerad! the pawnbroker's son--(to the other hun soldiers)--prussianism has destroyed the germany of bach and beethoven and you fellows know it, too. second and third hun soldiers--(dropping their guns)--kamerad! the american lieutenant--men--you have kept the faith. i am proud of you. forward! an explosion (not too loud to annoy the audience) is heard off stage right. the professor's son--(sinking to the ground) fellows, i'm afraid they've got me. the streetcleaner's son--what a shame! the lieutenant--is there anything we can do to ease the pain? the professor's son--(weakening rapidly) no--go on, boys, carry the--banner of--civilization's ideals--forward--without me--tell mother i'm glad--i did--my bit--for the freedom--of the world--fellows, the only--thing--i regret--is that i won't--be able to be with you--when you--go back--to enjoy the gratitude--of america--good-bye, fellows, may you drink--to the full--the rewards of a grateful nation. he dies. the others regretfully leave him behind as they push on after the fleeing huns. the stage is slowly darkened--the noise of battle dies away. enter an angel in the uniform of the y.m.c.a. she goes up to the fallen hero and taking him in her arms tenderly carries him off the stage. curtain two years pass act two (eugene o'neill) scene i the bedroom of a bachelor apartment in new york city in the fall of 1920. there is about the room an air of neglect, as though the occupant did not particularly give a damn whether he slept in this room or in hell. this is evidenced in a general way by the absence of any attempts at decoration and by the presence of dirty laundry and unopened letters scattered about the room. the furniture consists of a bed and a bureau; at the foot of the former is a trunk such as was used by american army officers in the recent war. although it is three in the morning, the bed is unoccupied. the electric light over the bureau has been left lighted. the lamp flickers and goes out for a minute; when it again flashes on, the angel and the professor's son are seen standing in the room, as though they had come there directly from the close of the preceding act; the angel, however, has completely removed all y.m.c.a. insignia and now has a beard and chews tobacco; from time to time he spits out of the window. the angel--why the hell weren't you satisfied to stay in heaven? the professor's son--well, i just wanted to see my old buddies once more--i want to see them enjoying the gratitude of the world. the angel--hmmmm--well, this is where your lieutenant now lives--and i think i hear him coming. they step behind a curtain. the noise of a key rattling in a lock is heard, then a light flashes on in the next room. the sound of unsteady footsteps--a vase is knocked over--a curse--then enter the lieutenant. he wears a dinner-coat, one sleeve of which hangs empty. his face is white, his eyes set, his mouth hard and hopeless. he is drunk--not hilariously--but with the drunkenness of despair. he sits down on the bed and remains for several minutes, his head in his hands. the lieutenant--god, i'm drunk--(after a pause)--drunk again--well, what of it--what the hell difference does it make--get drunk if i want to--sure i will--get drunk--that's the dope drunk--oh christ--! he throws himself on the bed and after lying there a few minutes sits up. the lieutenant--gotta have another drink--can't go sleep, god damn it--brain too clear--gotta kill brain--that's the dope--kill brain--forget--wipe out past-he opens the trunk in his search for liquor. he suddenly pulls out his lieutenant's coat and holds it up. the lieutenant--there's that god damn thing--never wanted to see it again--wound stripes on right sleeve, too--hurrah for brave soldier--arm shot off to--to make world safe for democracy--blaa--the god damn hypocrites--democracy hell--arm shot off because i wasn't clever enough to stay out of it--ought to have had sense enough to join the--the ordinance department or--or the y.m.c.a. he feels aimlessly through the pockets of the coat. suddenly, from the inside breast pocket he draws out something--a photograph-the lieutenant--ellen! oh god! he gazes at the picture for a long time. the lieutenant--yes, ellen, i should have joined the y.m.c.a. shouldn't i?--where they don't get their arms shot off--couldn't marry a man with one arm, could you?--of course not--think of looking at an empty sleeve year after year--children might be born with only one arm, too--children--oh god damn you, ellen, you and your y.m.c.a. husband! he tears the picture in two and hurls it into the trunk. then he sinks onto the bed, sobbing drunkenly. after a few minutes, he walks over to the trunk and picks up one half of the torn picture. he turns it over in his hand and reads the writing on the back. the lieutenant (reading)--"i'm waiting for you, dear--when you have done your bit 'for the freedom of the world'." he smiles, wearily, and reaches down to pick up the other half of the picture. his eye is caught by something shiny; it is his army revolver. he slowly picks it up and looks at it for a long time. the lieutenant--for the freedom of the world-he quickly opens his top bureau drawer and takes out a box of cartridges. one of these he inserts in a chamber of his revolver. the lieutenant--for the freedom-he laughs. as the curtain falls he presses the revolver against his temple and fires. scene 2 a bare room in a boarding house. to the left is a bed, to the right a grand piano--the latter curiously out of keeping with the other cheap furnishings. the room is in partial darkness. the door slowly swings open; the angel and the professor's son enter. the angel--and here you have the room of your friend the pawnbroker's son--the musical genius--with a brilliant future. they hide in a closet, leaving the door partly open. enter jean, the pawnbroker's son. he has on a cutaway suit--a relic of his first and last public concert before the war. his shoulders sag dejectedly and his face is drawn and white. he comes in and sits on the bed. a knock--a determined knock--is heard at the door but jean does not move. the door opens and his landlady--a shrewish, sharp faced woman of 40--appears. he gets up off the bed when he sees her and bows. the landlady--i forgot you was deef or i wouldn't have wasted my time hitting my knuckles against your door. jean gazes at her. the landlady--well mr. rosen i guess you know why i'm here--it's pay up today or get out. jean--please write it down--you know i cannot hear a word you say. i suppose it's about the rent. the landlady takes paper and pencil and writes. the landlady--(reading over the result of her labor)--"to-day--is--the--last day. if you can't pay, you must get out." she hands it to jean and he reads. jean--but i cannot pay. next week perhaps i shall get work-the landlady--(scornfully)--yes--next week maybe i have to sell another liberty bond for seventy dollars what i paid a hundred dollars for, too. no sir i need the money now. here- she writes and hands it to him. jean (reading)--sell my piano? but please i cannot do that--yet. the landlady--a lot of good a piano does a deef person like you. that's a good one--( she laughs harshly). the deef musician--ho ho--with a piano. jean--madam, i shall pay you surely next week. there has been some delay in my war risk insurance payment. i should think that you would trust a soldier who lost his hearing in the trenches-the landlady--that's old stuff. you soldiers think just because you were unlucky enough to get drafted you can spend the rest of your life patting yourselves on the back. besides--what good did the war do anyway--except make a lot of rich people richer? she scribbles emphatically "either you pay up tonight or out you go." handing this to jean with a flourish, she exits. he sits on the bed for a long time. finally he glances up at the wall over his bed where hangs a cheap photo frame. in the center is a picture of president wilson; on one side of this is a crude print of a soldier, on the other side a sailor; above is the inscription "for the freedom of the world." jean takes down the picture and looks at it. as he replaces it on the wall he sees hanging above it the bayonet which he had carried through the war. he slowly takes the weapon down, runs his fingers along the edge and smiles--a quiet tired smile which does not leave his face during the rest of the scene. he walks over to the piano and plays the opening chords of the schumann concerto. then shaking his head sadly, he tenderly closes down the lid and locks it. he next writes a note which he folds and places, with the key to the piano, in an envelope. sealing and addressing the envelope, he places it on the piano. then, walking over to the bed, he picks up the bayonet, and shutting his eyes for an instant, he steps forward and cuts his throat as the curtain falls. scene 3 same as act 1, scene 1 except for the changes made in the city street by a year or more of peace. the arch across the thoroughfare still stands, although it has become badly discolored and dirty; the inscription "for the freedom of the world" is but faintly visible. as the curtain rises workmen are busy at work tearing the arch down. enter the angel and the professor's son. the angel--stand over here, out of the way, and you'll see the last of your cronies--pat, the streetcleaner's son--enjoying the gratitude of the world. the professor's son does not answer. enter pat. he has on an old pair of corduroy trousers, with his brown army shirt, and shoes out at the heel. he looks as if he had not slept for days certainly he has not shaved for a week. he approaches one of the workmen. pat--say buddy any chance for a job here? the workman--hell no. they was fifty applicants yesterday. (looking at his army shirt) most of them ex-soldiers like you. jobs is mighty scarce. pat--i'll tell the world they are. i'd almost join the army again, except for my wife and kid. the workman--god--don't do it. pat--why--was you across? the workman--yes, god damn it--eight months. next war i'll let somebody else do the fighting. pat--same here. the wise guys were them that stayed at home and kept their jobs. the workman--i'll say they were. pat--(growing more excited)--and while we was over there fighting, nothing was too good for us--"brave boys," they said, "we shall never forget what you have done for us." never forget--hell! in about a year everybody forgot there ever was a war and a fellow has a hell of a time getting a job--and when you mention the war they just laugh--why god damn it, i've been out of work for six months and i ain't no loafer either and my wife has had to go back to her folks and i'm just about all in- during this speech the work on dismantling the arch has steadily progressed. suddenly there comes a warning cry--"look out"--as the supports unexpectedly give way. pat is too engrossed in his tirade to take heed, and as the center portion of the arch falls it crushes him beneath its weight. after the cloud of dust clears, he is seen lying under the mass. by a curious twist of fate he has been crushed by the portion of the arch bearing the inscription "for the freedom of the world." his eyes open for an instant--he reads, through the mist of approaching death, the words, and he laughs-pat--for the freedom of the world--oh christ! his mocking laughter is interrupted by a severe fit of coughing and he sinks back dead. the professor's son--oh god--take me somewhere where i can't ever see the world. the angel--come to heaven. curtain who was who 5000 b. c. to date biographical dictionary of the famous and those who wanted to be by anonymous edited by irwin l. gordon note the editor begs leave to inform the public that only persons who can produce proper evidence of their demise will be admitted to who was who. press agent notices or complimentary comments are absolutely excluded, and those offering to pay for the insertion of names will be prosecuted. as persons become eligible they will be included without solicitation, while the pages will be expurgated of others should good luck warrant. who was who contains over 500 biographies of those who did or endeavored to become famous. in a work of such magnitude errors occasionally occur. should this be the case, the editor will be glad to receive corrections from the ex-celebrities or their enemies. these will be accepted gratis. proofs will be sent to all subscribers. members of the family will be able to order the coming editions in advance by applying and remitting to the publisher. the work is fully protected by the libel laws of the united states and great britain. under no circumstance will duels be fought. the editor wishes to express his thanks to those who have furnished material for this book. he also trusts they will show their good feeling by purchasing a copy, and that all the unfortunates will speedily be returned to who's who. the editor. abbreviations a1.......... can open charge account. a. b........ four years hard sentence. a. m........ when we get up. cit......... common people. c. o. d..... no credit. cong........ a washington organization used for social and investigation purposes. d. d........ be careful of your jokes. dem......... politicians who get in office, once in awhile. d. h........ pull. d. t........ delirium tremens. ets......... the rest of us. f. r. a..... brains. f. r. g. s.. people who do not stay at home. g. o. p..... hic jacet. hon......... speaker of the occasion. h. r. h..... chief advertiser for cigarettes, mustard and kid gloves. i........... roosevelt. incog....... prominent men in paris. iou......... hard luck. ire......... mother of politicians. ll. d....... american millionaires. m. p........ home rule debaters. parl........ where the m. p.s debate. p. m........ when we go to bed. r. a........ any kind of a painter but a cubist. rep......... see g. o. p. r. i. p..... see following pages. sir......... writers and tea merchants. u. s. a..... bryan + wilson. obituary bryan, william jennings, of u. s. a. cannon, joseph g., of u. s. congress. castro, cipriano, of venezuela asphalt trust. cavalieri, lina, of paris and new york city. cook, doctor fred. a., of new york city and denmark. dewey, george e., of u. s. n. diaz, perfiro, of mexico. din, gunga, of kipling. dreyfus, captain, of france. fallieres, armand, of the french republic. gorky, maxime, of russia. hafid, mulai, of morocco. hamed, abdul, of turkey. hammerstein, oscar, of new york city and london. holmes, sherlock, of doyle. huerta, v., general of mexico. irish home rule, of ireland and london. johnson, jack, of u. s. a. lloyd-george, david, of england. manuel, king, of portugal. pankhurst, mrs., of england. patti, adelina, of wales. roberts, frederick s., of kandohr. rojesvensky, admiral, of russia. roosevelt, theodore, of "the outlook." shackelton, earnest, of england. shuster, morgan, of persia. sulzer, william, of tammany fall. taft, william howard, of cincinnati, u. s. a. time, father, of everywhere. turkey. widow, merry, of paris, london, and new york city. biographies a adam(1) (last name unknown), ancestor, explorer, gardener, and inaugurator of history. biographers differ as to his parentage. born first saturday of year 1. little is known of his childhood. education: self-educated. entered the gardening and orchard business when a young man. was a strong anti-polygamist. married eve, a close relative. children, cain and abel (see them). was prosperous for some years, but eventually fell prey to his wife's fruitful ambitions. lost favor of the proprietor of the garden, and failed in business. a. started a number of things which have not been perfected. diet: fond of apples. recreation: chess, agriculture. address: eden, general delivery. clubs: member of all exclusive clubs. (1) ed. note: adam should not be first, but he is given that position out of respect. abel, son of the above. spent early days in the garden of eden with his parents, and later traveled with them. conducted a sheep raising business. finally had a row with his brother, and was knocked out in the first round. abraham, a patriarch whose descendants now own new york city, jerusalem, vast sections of the remainder of the globe, and control the pawn-broking, diamond, theatrical, and old clothing markets. camel and sheep merchant. considerable land was willed him. a. prospered. married sarah (last name unknown). marital infelicity followed, a. having an affair with mrs. abraham's maid. the woman was discharged, and the family lived happily ever afterward. ambition: the chosen people. recreation: riding, tennis, camel racing. address: caanan. clubs: country. abrussi, prince luigi amedeo guiseppe maria ferdinando francesco, of the italian nobility. spent the greater portion of his life taking care of his name, climbing mountains, fighting turks, and denying rumors regarding his marriage. achilles (first name unknown), a baby whose mother gave him a bath, but forgot to wash all of his feet. later was veteran of the siege of troy. died before receiving pension. aesop, novelist, nature faker. little is known of his childhood except that he was fond of dogs and played with the cat. later he made animals his life's study. a. discovered the zoological principal that a turtle can run faster than a rabbit, and that foxes never eat sour grapes. publications: fables; the book has had a good sale. address: greece. clubs: zoological societies. aladdin, of somewhere. an ancient who possessed a lamp and a genii with which he could secure anything an american millionaire or actress can now purchase. aldrich, senator n. w., architect of the aldrich plan, a system for removing the financial interests of the country from the common people and placing them in the hands of the few. alphonso xiii, a king who enjoyed paris without losing his job. amundson, captain roald, another pole discoverer. away back in the year 1912 he reached the south pole after a considerable journey through the arctic regions. like his predecessors he became an author and lecturer. publications: the south pole. price, pd2.2s in england; $10.50 in the u. s. later a. retired and lived on his royalty. ambition: a few more poles, a few more books. ananias. see dr. cook and roosevelt. anderson, mary, actress; one of the wisest women who ever lived. in the height of a brilliant stage career she fell in love, and decided that a quiet home with a husband and children was more to be desired than the empty plaudits of the crowd, and the attentions of stage-door johnnies. angelo, mike, painter and sculptor of no mean ability. born in italy, but named after irish relatives. at school he showed his talents by making cartoons of the teachers. these were unappreciated. moved to florence, where he bought some chisels, brushes, and saw his first model. a. remained a bachelor. later he moved to rome, and began a brilliant church-decorating career. secured permission of the pope to give an exhibition in the vatican. this was finally made permanent. also made a fortune erecting tomb-stones for the medici family, leading politicians of his time. it is difficult to leave italy without seeing much of his work. a. never favored the cubists or post-impressionists. recreations: painting, sculpture. address: rome. anthony, saint, of pauda. an italian who visited paris, and could not forget what he saw. antoinette, marie, wife of louis no. 15, who assisted her husband to spend the french taxes. was also a practical joker, her humor terminating at versailles when she advised a mob to eat cake during a bread famine. her wit was unappreciated. ambition: anything but october 16, 1791. recreation: versailles; looking through a grated window. address: versailles. later: consiergerie, paris. apollo, a handsome ancient who fell in love, posed for his statues, patronized music and poetry, and, finally, had a table water named in his honor. career: see longer and less respectable biographies. a. was the first person to sing to the accompaniment of a musical instrument, but he was a good singer. ambition: paris. recreation: music, travel, archery. address: greece. clubs: athletic, musical. arc, joan of, celebrated french suffragette. spent girlhood milking cows and embroidering. when the english ministry began operations in france j. dropped her embroidery in the milk bucket and began suffragetting. she did not break windows or blow up anything. gathered a host of males about her and captured towns. english exited. j. went back to the cow, but again had to take to the armor. she was finally jailed, and burnt up by the radical ministry. she burned an old maid. recreation: barn dances, churning. clubs: orleans suffragette. aristotle. introduced brains into greece. armour, a chicago family who keep the world supplied with meat, and themselves out of the government jails. arnold, benedict, a man who sent his name down through history with a bad odor attached to it. arthur, king, a very dead english sovereign who manufactured the round table, and did all the things a good english king should do. little is known of his prince of waleshood. was crowned in westminster abbey, but without the american contingent. became proficient as a knight. stayed away from the palace so much his queen began flirting. al's sword was a wonder. press agent: lord tennyson. recreation: grailing. address: windsor, buckingham. asquith, herbert henry, an englishman who helped run things in his country before 1908, and who ran things after 1908. was also a favorite rallying point for suffragettes. led a successful wing-dipping expedition against some of his countrymen who held titles to names and property. also juggled dynamite in parliament (see lloyd-george). ambition: women without ambitions. recreation: dodging, golf. address: constantly in danger of a change. clubs: favored radical. atkins, thomas, celebrated red-coat-wearing dandy who flirts with nurses and cooks, spends his time boasting about south africa and the u. s. a., posing for motion pictures, and exhibiting royalty. authorities differ as to his marksmanship, although it is now conceded he can often hit a man-sized target at the distance of 4 feet 3 inches. weather, however, must be clear. is an authority on creases, backbone, accent, and tea. beverage: everything. recreation: jacks, collecting stamps, kipling, blindman's-buff, parlor tricks, may-pole festivities. ambition: tortoise-shell monocles, camp manacurists, pocket bath-tubs, and restoration of the tea canteen. epitaph: see emperor william. atlas, a man who held up the heavens and was not even a preacher. edited a huge book which bears his name. aurelius, marcus, one of the few romans who is not remembered for crossing a river, for being murdered, for murdering somebody, for making speeches, or building triumphant arches or ruins. b baby, t. h. e., an unscrupulous tyrant, s. father and mother. his first appearance caused heaven at home, and an idiotic father. education: at home. career: a series of adventures. was frequently ill, a poor sleeper, toy demolisher, throat exerciser, nurse distractor, and a general nuisance. despite his shortcomings he ruled home with an iron hand--a tear caused a doctor--a smile meant a gold mine. diet: principally liquid. ambition: the moon. recreation: coaching, hair pulling, a proud father. address: see mother. bacchus, patron saint of most men, benefactor, a jolly good fellow, and the founder of the "morning after" feeling. studied vine raising when a young man. discovered that grapes were not intended for a food. invented the greatest pleasure and pain giver the world has ever seen. became a traveler. introduced ale and stout in england, whiskey in scotland, everything in ireland, cocktails and patent medicines in the united states, beer in germany, champagne in france, absinthe in france, and vodka in russia. career: magnificent. recreation: paris. address: greece. clubs: all, except w. c. t. u. epitaph: he will live in the throats of his countrymen. bacon, francis, either wrote or did not write shakespeare. baedeker, karl, one of the most versatile men who ever lived. childhood and old age unknown. formed an ambition to travel when quite young. first visited switzerland, where he climbed every peak, walked every path, hired every guide, and did everything a tourist should so. his field of travel widened until every country in europe was visited, as well as the united states, canada, alaska, and mexico. in these lands he slept in every hotel, ate every dish in every restaurant, drank every wine, rode on every boat, tramway, subway, and train; visited every ruin, museum, art gallery, church, store; mastered every language, science, art, literature, custom, history, and drew maps and plans of everything. publications: baedekers. recreation: staying at home. ambition: tourists. residence: germany. balfour, arthur james, of england, one time leader of the talking forces of the house of commons. ambition: opposition seats on both sides of the house, and an epitaph over the home rule bill. recreation: st. andrew's golf and writing deep books. balzac, h., a frenchman who wrote a few parisian stories which may be discussed in respectable company. barbarossa, kaiser, the only emperor of germany who ever went to sleep. barkis. fame rested only upon his complete willingness. barleycorn, john, an eminent citizen of the world. spent early days in the fields, breweries, and distilleries. later resided in cellars. john had a red nose. was a great friend of bacchus. he was a "wasser," he is an "iser," and he will be a "will be-er." ambition: the end of temperance societies. barnum, phineas t., fathered the introduction of the peanut, the clown, and the beautiful bareback riders. as a side show he taught that some americans were progressives part of the time; that other americans were republicans all the time, but that all americans were not democrats all the time. barry, madame du, writers' model, former queen of france. was a great friend of louis xv. and helped make the dances at versailles a success. she always preferred marcel waves to pompadours. ambition: to have and to hold. address: see louis. clubs: anti-suffragette. bartholomew, an unfortunate saint who was skinned alive. patron of gold mine investors and american tourists in europe. beard, blue, inventor of an original method to dispose of wives, before reno was discovered. beatrice, a florentine girl who gained fame by refusing the suit of a love-sick poet. later she conducted him through heaven, and made arrangements for his travels in the other place. b. died a famous old maid. ambition: a lover with money. epitaph: she might have been mrs. dante had she wanted to. beecham, a celebrated pill roller. bell, alexander graham, inventor of a well-known necessity and nuisance. started the saying, "number, please." belshazzar, an old king whose handwriting on the wall proved to be correct. benedict, saint, the man who introduced benedictine and monks into europe. also gave his name to benedicts. berlitz, the man who will teach you how to say it in everything. bernhardt, sarah, an ancient french actress. sarah was born before birth records were inaugurated, and no historian has been able to determine her age. career: on the stage at four months. during her young-woman and goodlooking days-hood b. is said to have made a hit with european nobility. in her declining years she made a few other fortunes in the united states. b.'s fame culminated in having several cigars, perfumes, perspiration powders, and a theatre named after her. ambition: the fountain of youth. recreation: statuary, acting. address: private cars and 56 blvd. pereire, paris. she also has a telephone. bill, buffalo, alias w. f. cody, the delight of the american boy. he began his career shooting buffaloes and indians on the plains of the west, and ended it shooting glass balls for a fortune in a tent. installed the i-want-to-be-a-cow-boy ambition in the hearts of young america. he also made a goatee and a big hat famous. played the show market a little too long. billiken, a funny little fellow who did not wear many clothes, and made people laugh. bismarck, a german who was a greater politician than any ireland has ever produced. he built an empire, crowned an emperor, changed the frenchmen in alsace-lorraine into dutchmen, and made the paris mint work overtime for his country. quite unpopular in france. ambition: made in germany. blackstone, a rock upon which many a legal ship has foundered. bleriot, benefactor of humanity, idol of the tourist, and enemy of navigation. b. discovered a method of crossing the english channel without being seasick. blucher, a dutchman who was on the job at waterloo. he also was not the only german general who ever fought france. bonaparte, joe, just nap.'s brother (see him). bonheur, rosa, a lady french artist who wore men's clothes. being an old maid, she painted animals, but never mastered the parrot or the cat. her endeavors were confined to horses, and one of her paintings is considered fair. booth, general william, founder of a vast army which never fought a battle, made a retreat, or surrendered. conducted campaigns in great britain and the united states, with brass bands and collection devises. the army later became a suffragette institution when women were admitted as recruits, and placed as sentries to guard the christmas-easter collection forts. publication: war cry. recreation: reviewing troopers and troopesses. boswell, dr. johnson's press agent (see the doctor). bradstreet, author. wrote a book in which he described your bank account and told how you paid your bills. his complimentary comments are highly valued. brieux, eugene, a seller of damaged goods who got away with it without being fined or driven out of business. brown, john, an american who helped start the civil war by espousing the cause of the negro. this resulted in his body moulding in the grave. brown, thomas, an englishman who reversed the usual procedure of life by springing into print when young, and keeping out of it when old. browning, robert, a cryptogram writer whose poems are deciphered by the bostonese and cultured english people. it has been estimated that b. could say more with fewer words and conceal his meaning better than any writer since the adaptation of the alphabet as a means of expression. browning, mrs., bob's wife. she also wrote poems. they were easily understood, and consequently seldom read. brummell, beau, a man whose thoughts were more for the crease in his pantaloons than for his head. brutus, et tu, a roman murderer. bryan, william jennings, a famous chatauqua lecturer who ran a newspaper and the state department on the side. archaeologists claim b. formed a passion to rule the nation when a child. he only got as far as the democratic party and platforms. became a golden orator with a silver speech and offered himself as a rectifier of all things not bryan. for ages his name was placed on the presidential ballot and later removed. made a fortune by telling people why they did not elect him. also toured the world, but shot no game in africa or monte carlo. was the father of bryanism, an odious word meaning things bryan. later secured one wilson to attend to washington detail work. motto: all things come to him with bait. ambition: short ballot with one name. publications: the commoner, a newspaper devoted to bryan advertisements. address: mail forwarded from washington. epitaph: he will rise again. buchanan, j. c., manufacturer of the scotchman's delight and weakness. he showed the world the excellence of two colors, and caused many a man to lose the keyhole. buddha, a prince of india who tired of good times and turned reformer. advised his congregations to adopt the recall and referendum. nailed several anti-saloon and burlesque planks in his platform. after b.'s death his friends filled the orient with his bronzes. he was fat and wore a fascinating wart on his forehead. bull, john, a fine, fat, american-beef fed individual who inhabits a suffragette-infested island somewhere in the north atlantic. born several hundred years ago and is beginning to show his age. is fond of the sea and is said to have a fine fleet. this has had off years, notably 1812. b. has had trouble with a son who wishes to leave the paternal protection. is fearless except when faced by a hunger strike, the pankhurst family, and thoughts of germany. patronizes a costly social organization known as the royal family, or a reception committee for american heiresstocracy, which also dedicates buildings, poses for stamps, post-cards, motion pictures and raises princesses of wales for magazine articles and crowning purposes. b. is a monitor of english style; wears a monocle, spats, 'i 'at, cane, pipe, awful accent, and never makes his appearance without a cawld bawth. he detests the word "egotism." is a celebrated humorist, seeing through all jokes but himself. ambition: 'ome sweet 'ome. recreation: tea, week ends. address: hingland. clubs: policemen's, golf, jockey, and suffrage. epitaph: see emperor william again. burns, robert, surnamed "bobby," a scotch bard who wrote love poems about his sweetheart. he thus performed two remarkable feats--making poetry in the scotch language, and finding a girl in scotland who was as beautiful as his lines declare. butterfly, madame, a little japanese lady whose child has remained the same size and age for the past eight years. byron, lord, an englishman who swam rivers, was wise enough to get away from the london weather, helped kindle greek fire, and wrote poems. c caesar, julius, school book writer, river crosser, and a great politician who was not born in ireland. entered roman politics as the leader of the gang. was active in military affairs. became a fair general despite his poor service training. desired to write a book. began by taking an army and capturing europe and england. he did not waste his time with scotland or ireland. c. made a river famous by crossing it, and finally included rome in his history of victories. became popular with the voters, but had trouble with the senate. wrote books and paid his debts. was finally attacked by a few vested-interest senators, and stabbed by a chum. the murderer was caught, but escaped the gallows. c. was honored with one of the finest funeral orations over delivered over a corpse. he was also awarded a few triumphant arches. publications: omnes gallia est divisa in tres parses. ambition: rome: address: capitol, rome. clubs: gladiators, vestal. was also a member of the society for the protection of roman ruins. epitaph: veni, vidi. cain, one of our ancestors of whom we do not brag. cannon, honorable joseph g., late of the speaker's chair, house of representatives, washington, u. s. a. for centuries c. occupied the chair, and tenderly protected poor railroads and trusts from the unkind remarks of congressmen who knew things and him. was finally retired from the chair by the democrats, and from congress by his constituents. grave: 1912 election. heir: champ clark. ambition: those good old trusty days once more. address: the far back woods. epitaph: r. i. p. canute, a king of england who proved the theory that the ocean could wave at him. carlos, don, a man who does not believe a head is uneasy which wears a crown. ambition: royal palace, madrid. address: northern spain. carmen, celebrated spanish flirt. she worked in the government tobacco factory at seville until a clever writer and a musician rescued her. went on the stage. has appeared in most of the cities throughout the world, made love to several singers, and then been killed by a bull fighter after singing her way through five acts. carnegie, andrew, or "andy," or the laird of skibo. a fine old american who went about giving away libraries, advice, peace buildings, and advertising armor plate. when a young scotchman he scotched his three dollars a week and purchased the steel trust. later retired. ambition: universal peace with all dreadnaughts steel trust armored. also a library in every town. recreation: telling young men how to scorn the root of all fortunes. also receiving university degrees. address: university commencement platforms, new york city and scotland. carter, a doctor who wants everybody to have liver trouble. caruso, enrico, millionaire opera singer, who appeared in the victor talking machine and new york city. always had a cold or a sore throat, a condition which assisted materially in filling the house. like all his contemporaries, c. has been sued for divorce and breach of promise, has lost his jewelry, visited zoological gardens, sung for charity, given farewell concerts, and done other things to help his newspaper and box-office reputation. castelline, count boni di, a french gold prospector who was successful for a time in the u. s. castor, one of leda's twins. also invented an oil (see pollux). castro, cipriano, of venezuela. first man to introduce american-irish politics into south america. acquired a fortune, which was greatly increased by a personal friendship with the american asphalt trust. was revolutioned a few times, and finally escaped with the mint and his life. career: dangerous. ambition: subjects without guns? and a new york police force in his country. recreation: taxes. address: ? chamberlain, joe a., of england. a former lloyd-george of the treasury, who had different ideas of taxation. charon, ferryman. never had a childhood. devoted life to his business. has navigated more people than all the atlantic liners combined. ambition: a launch. recreation: none. address: the styx. chaucer (first name unknown), an early experimenter in the english language. notorious as a bad speller. his best-known work is used as a student puzzle in leading universities and colleges. ambition: a typewriter and a dictionary. chinaman, john, a well-known character in the u. s. who washed clothes, and made chop suey until he had enough money to return to his native land, purchase a few wives, and live in opium. churchill, winston, wrote books for a living. churchill, winston, did not write books for a living. cincinnatus, of rome, who left his plow to make his share in politics. later inaugurated the back-to-the-farm movement. cinderella, the only scullion maid who had a small foot and two sisters in society. historians have questioned her claims to fame, but they may easily be substantiated by millions of children. claus, santa, poor father. cleopatra, of egypt. a queen who presented england with a threadless needle, fell in love with some foreigners, was unsuccessful in her love and naval affairs, and finally became a mummy through the auspices of an adder. ambition: an egyptian st. patrick. also royal lovers. recreation: barging with anthony. epitaph: pyramid. climbers, t. h. e., an american man and woman who had money and ambition. spent the early portion of their lives gathering cash, and the later in spending it. were welcomed by many people, but never quite reached the top. both died trying to get there. ambition: an english nobleman in the family. recreation: paris, london, and switzerland. address: see recreation. clubs: all, with the exception of the ones they wanted. cole, king, a merry old monarch of the kingdom of childhood. great smoker, and was fond of the bowl. recreation: fiddlers. coleman, a man whose invention has caused tears and throat burnings. columbus, christopher, map enlarger, skipper. said to have been born in genoa. something made him believe the world was round. he endeavored to secure money to prove his theory, but nobody cared whether he was correct or not. realizing there was no capital or prophet in his own country, he took passage to spain. there he inveigled isabella into equipping an expedition for him to discover america. she did and he did. ambition: to keep new york city in the family. recreation: deck shuffle-boards, dreaming. address: san salvatore. clubs: palos yacht. company, t. h. e., a man and woman who invariably called when we were taking a nap or dressing. charming conversationalists. recreation: tea. ambition: an invitation to dinner. confucius, a chinese preacher of note. lived some 500 years b. c. and taught the chinks the art of joss making, and how to do things backward. he also was the founder of ancestor worship. this still is practiced in england, but never in the united states or australia. recreation: fireworks. ambition: a chinese laundry in every city. epitaph: more majorum. conqueror, will the, of normandy. wrote "hastings" and "1066" in all history books. cook, t. h. e., lord of the household. entered the kitchen at a tender age. soon acquired considerable weight in person, and in the management of the house. when she departed there was weeping, and wailing, and waiting. diet: usually large and everything of the best. ambition: an american policeman, or thomas atkins. recreations: days off. address: the whole house. cook, captain, a real explorer who discovered the sandwich islands and who took the first cook's tour around the world. cook, doctor frederick a., an explorer who said he discovered the north pole, but nobody believed him. (see peary.) cook, tom, celebrated ticket seller, author of captivating travel literature, and a tour arranger who guarantees to save you money. owns and operates the nile and mount vesuvius. publications: the come on books. ambition: those americans who want to see everything. also "first timers." address: any foreign city equipped with tourists. cook (first name not known), son of the above, who helps his father save money for the tourist. he is called "fils" in paris. copperfield, dave, one of dickens' friends who assisted him in building a reputation. corbett, james j., known as "gentleman jim," one-time champion fighter of the world, and a "has been" for whom everybody has a good word. many persons wish he might be the corbett he used to be. ambition: a white champion. corelli,(2) marie, an old-maid authoress who wrote delightful love scenes. she is said to have written some books which brought her fame and royalty. c. does not approve of society except her own. she remains secluded with her typewriter at mason croft, stratford-on-avon, only being seen by her publishers and the editor. publications: see book stores and railway stations. recreation: flowers. clubs: all anti-suffragette. (2) ed. note: the editor hopes to remove this name before the next edition. its insertion is entirely due to the machinations of book reviewers, who claim miss corelli's books have fallen into the "was" class. the editor never contradicts a book reviewer. coxey, general, leader of the only non-militant army in the world which did not take up collections or give away christmas dinners. critic, dramatic, a notorious prevaricator who tells the world to see all the shows, and thus preserves the advertising column for his employers. croesus, an ancient john d. rockefeller, who became wealthy without trusts, the supreme court, or the stock market. croker, dick, ex-king of new york city. born in ireland of irish parents. from childhood he practiced the art of politics, which resulted in his gaining the friendship of the new york police force. c. was elected. c. was very poor. later retired to his native land with two atlantic liners filled with salary. ambition: an irish president. recreation: english derbys. address: ireland. clubs: 1,100,000 new york democratic. cromwell, oliver, a militant presbyterian who entered politics, and went about england tearing down churches. he also assisted in putting king charles i. out of his pleasure. ran things in england on a reform-cromwell basis, and after his death was honored by having his round head placed as a decoration over westminster hall. crusoe, robinson, f. r. g. s., traveller and autobiographer. visited a sparsely-settled island in the pacific ocean; talked to parrots; found some footprints; rescued friday, and returned to england to become an author. cupid, daniel, a cute little fat fellow who called on every one at least once. born shortly after adam, and is still up to mischievous tricks. it was he who made kings fall in love with poor country girls; chauffeurs with their ladies, and beggars with princesses. c. held all men and women equal provided they were good, and he made the happiest people on earth when they listened to his voice. he witnessed several international engagements, but did not like them, as the contestants gave him a black eye. he also was responsible for mothers-in-law. some roads he made very rough, but c. always was a good guide. at times he caused pain, but he said it never was his fault. when c. stayed in a house the sun was always shining. you should be at home when he calls. ambition: that sigh. recreation: archery. address: perhaps you know. clubs: none. he prefers the fireside and moonlight nights. curie, madame, one of the few women who got her name in print without being a suffragette or an actress. czar. see russia. d daniel, ancient lion tamer. also performed the difficult feat of remaining in a fiery furnace without his family applying for the insurance. dante, of italy, architect of the under world, journalist, lover, and poor politician. wrote articles for magazines, but used too much slang. later fell in love. the girl (see her) knew what journalists were, and refused to spoon. exasperated, he began a bombardment of poetry. that settled it. d. then entered politics. soon learned they did not mix with love and his business. both he and his manuscripts were banished. traveled in italy in the interests of safety. posed for his bust while suffering with a bad attack of dyspepsia. publications: poems, tragedies, and comedies (?). ambition: to be beatrice's romeo. recreation: travel. address: ii via dante, florence. seldom at home. danton, the man who wound up france before the revolution. darling, grace, a light-house keeper's daughter who showed the world that a woman may fear a mouse, but not a tempest. one of the truly brave who did not receive a carnegie advertisement. darwin, charlie, a well-known enemy of preachers. he discovered that many men looked like their progenitors, and proved his theories with the exception of one link. the clergymen claimed that a chain with one link missing was no chain, and that d. was a nature faker. publications: origin of species, a valuable book, even if it does fail to explain the currency bill. daughter, pharaoh's, an egyptian princess, who took a bath, and rescued little moses from the bull rushes. (see mose.) david, king, or "dave," shepherd, writer, musician, champion sling shot, and politician. son of poor parents. entered army as a volunteer, and was awarded medals for his attack upon goliath. appointed musician to the royal household. became friendly with the prince of wales and succeeded in doing him out of the coronation. later was elected king. fell in love with mrs. (name not mentioned by newspapers). gave her husband a conspicuous position in the army. married her. heir: sol. publications: psalms. recreation: slinging. address: jerusalem. death, a hideous man who called at least once during a lifetime, usually toward the close. patron of insurance companies. nothing is known of his childhood. historians claim he never had any. possessed an ugly face; wore a sheet over his head, and always carried a scythe in his hands. never brought happiness, although his visits frequently gave money to some one. never could be bribed to pass a house he wished to enter. many doctors and scientists have endeavored to kill him, but he continues to be a safe bet at 100 to 1. heir: none. ambition: a happy home and prosperous graveyards. recreation: sharpening scythes. address: always hung out a black cloth wherever he resided. delilah, friend of samson, and quite a dip. she also accompanied samson on a number of european and american opera expeditions. delmonico, founder of a fifth avenue new york city cafe, where the cost of living has ever been high. he introduced the french menu into the u. s. and with it considerable indigestion. demosthenes, an old greek talker. denis, saint, a saint with an irish name who made good in france. depew, chauncey m., an ancient railroad-wealthy u. s. senator from the state of new york. he made after-dinner speeches, dedicated monuments; married a young wife, and was relegated to obscurity by the american voters. desdemona, of venice. a lady whose handkerchiefs cost more than her clothes. deslys, g., a french dancer who had sufficient charm to attract a royal press agent, who could draw crowds and a big salary. devil, see old nic. dewar, john, inventor of a popular scotch beverage without which no cold day is complete. dewey, george e., a former american hero who totally destroyed a spanish armada in manila bay. he received the homage of a nation; had cigars named after him; appeared in who's who; was paraded through the streets; married a widow; moved to washington; got in bad with the inhabitants, and got out of the newspapers. diana, an ancient sportswoman who loved fox hunting, hounds, and the chase without the conventionalities of a society hunt. address: ephesus. diaz, porfiro, former king and political leader of mexico, who departed from the social functions of a king to assist the government. legends prevail to the effect that he patterned his actions on a napoleon-roosevelt policy. he also was requested to move. ambition: a revolution with himself on top. recreation: the fandango. address: fifty years in the white house of mexico. epitaph: wilson never bothered me. dice, see thomas and harry. dice, diamond, american ten-cent adventurer; friend of the messenger boys and embryo criminals. his biography formed an important part in the lives of the boys who never visited the carnegie libraries. dickens, charles, an english writer who wrote. din, gunga, a limpin' lump of brick dust, water carrier. employed in h. r. h. service in india. wore few clothes. fought in many battles. frequently gave bad water to soldiers. rescued thomas atkins, but was shot while in the act. saved the government the price of a medal. his pathetic story was widely published. later it fell into disfavor in the u. s. and great britain, it now being considered a crime to recite the story. ambition: to come back like sherlock holmes. recreation: sleep. address: care of biographer. diogenes, the most foolish man who ever lived. he endeavored to find something with a lantern which could not even be located with a searchlight. ambition: a brighter lantern. recreation: cleaning globes. address: tub. epitaph: here lies a man who attempted the impossible. disraeli, a hebrew who gave up the trades of his ancestors to run england. doe, john, an honest man who was defrauded out of millions by persons who forged his name. doodle, yankee, american horseman who made people take off their hats, shout, and whistle when he rode into town. dorcas, a modiste who founded the church gossip societies. dowie, alias elijah ii, a celebrated chicago divine who showed the world how easily some people were deprived of their money and religion. drake, francis, an english admiral who did not have a public square named after him. d. also introduced the spud into ireland. dreamer, t. h. e., castle builder. lived long ago, and intended doing something to-day. spent much time thinking about the best girl in the world. a great friend of procrastinator. went through life waiting for to-morrow. several men, however, with the same name, have awakened and given their dreams to the world (see columbus, etc., and lady macbeth). drew, john, prehistoric american actor. dreyfus, captain, founder of the dreyfus case. got out of jail by being one of the few innocent men who got into print. duff, mac, a scotchman who gained fame because he was a good layer on. dumpty, h., celebrated accident victim. fell from a wall at an early age and never recovered, despite the services of specialists. dun, another man whose word of commendation will enable you to open a charge account. e eastman, george, inventor of the brownie camera and the most expensive sport on earth. ambition: the kodak fiend, tourists. address: rochester and london. clubs: camera. eddy, mrs., of boston, mass., u. s. a., a lady who made millions by telling the world there was no such thing as the toothache, sea-sickness, or hitting your thumb with a hammer. edison, thomas, an american who invented everything with the exception of the sun dial, pear's soap, and the gillette razor. eifel, a frenchman who built the second tower of babel, but who was wise enough to stop before he got too high. eighth, henry the, suitor, blue beard, and church builder. when a young man he became a benedict, a condition in which he remained until well along in years. as fast as a queen appeared at the breakfast table with her hair down her back, she was dispatched to the block. a couple of queens got ahead of him. was nearly as successful in obtaining divorces as napoleon, of france, and american millionaires. in his later years he competed against the pope in england. ambition: a harem. recreation: spooning. dreams: bad. address: windsor. elgin, lord, the man who rolled the elgin marbles from greece to the british museum. also had something to do with the interior of watches. elijah, a prophet of old who was fond of ravens (not red). later he went somewhat out of his line, but succeeded as a chariot driver. elizabeth, queen, called "bess" by raleigh and the rest of the boys. e. reigned when people did things. she was wooed and lost by an armada (see philip ii). she finally walked over raleigh's coat, and later wiped her feet on him. e. had a sister by the name of mary, who was better looking, and less fortunate. e. was queen when the pipe was introduced into england. other and less important events of her reign were: shakespeare, spenser, and virginia. died an old maid. heir: she did not have any. elliot, george, a lady who wore a man's name and wrote books. emanuel ii, victor, the original of the statues in every town of italy; a king with ambitions, who was wise enough to entrust his affairs to a brainier man, and was thus made famous (see girabaldi). emerson, ralph waldo, american writer who inspired his readers to conquer the world. several have failed. also advised the practical theory of hitching your wagon to the stars. lived before the time of the taxi. epicurus, an ancient who believed that pain was unpleasant and that pleasure was good. his descendants live in expensive hotels and eat only in high-class restaurants. many suffer with the gout. a popular cat foot was named in his honor. esau, an ancient who sold his birthright for a mess of breakfast food. esther, queen, a beautiful lady who triumphed over the villain of the book, married the hero, and lived happily ever afterward. euclid, an old greek who made poor students read his book as far back as 300 b. c. he discovered the phenomenon that the shortest distance between two points is a crow's flight, and that two parallel lines always compete. eve, see mrs. adam. eyre, jane, an old maid school teacher, who married a rich husband after the fashion of books. f fagan, the hebrew benefactor of oliver twist, whose name did not fit his religion. fahrenheit, inventor of an instrument which enables a person to ascertain whether the weather is warm or cold. failure, t. h. e., a failure. supposed to have idled away his younger days. believed to have dissipated. said not to have applied himself to school or business. found fault with life and everybody, but was never wrong himself. unpopular. a great blamer. a lover of revolvers, rivers, and the poor house. frequently seen in the under world. ambition: the other fellow. recreation: too much. address: all large cities. clubs: none. epitaph: here lies a man who never really tried. fallieres, armand, occupied a prominent position in the french government for seven years. one of the most distinguished of the vast collection of ex-presidents now scattered over the world. falstaff, a celebrated drunk. fashion, dame, heart breaker, bank account ruiner, and patron saint of french shop-keepers. she went about the large stores changing the cut of ladies' clothes and the shape of their hats. created some awful looking things. f. made the poor men work very hard to keep up to her. publications: editor of all ladies' magazines. address: paris, london, and new york city. epitaph: (would that she had one.) faust, chemist, traveler. a gay old man who fell in love during his second young manhood, traveled in a warm country, and sang his way to fame. fawkes, guy, a man who attempted to make an impression in parliament without introducing home rule or suffrage bills. finn, huck, a bosom friend of thomas sawyer (see tom). fitzimmons, robert, an obsolete fighter who wishes he could rub the black spot from the ring. fletcher, the inventor of chewing. floradora, an american chorus girl, who was some popular with the men. she appeared in all large cities with the best looking chorus that ever wore tights. f. created such a sensation that every living actress of note is willing to be classified as a former member of her company. had a miserable cigar named after her. ambition: revival. grave: new york city. epitaph: there were not many like flora. fogg, p., the man jules verne sent around the world in sixty days for a big sale. fool, a., a spendthrift lover. fell in love with an unintelligent woman and one who never could understand. followed his natural bents, even as you and i. wasted several years. wept profusely. end unknown. recreation: vampires. epitaph: he was not the only one. franklin, benjamin, one of the few americans endowed with brains. he discovered that lightning was composed of electricity, that politics paid better than printing, and that the french court was more lively than the continental congress. freres, pathe, patron of the motion picture fanatics. friend, a., the scarcest thing on earth. a rare visitor, but he came around a few times in a lifetime. f. was glad to know of your success, pitied you in your failures, and shook you by the hand when you were down and out. never borrowed money, but he frequently lent it. was a wise counsellor. very popular. his name was frequently given the baby (see mischief). ambition: the other fellow's welfare. recreation: at the other fellow's house. address: the other fellow's house or his own. clubs: all. fritchie, barbara, a southern target. sprang into poetry as the only woman in the history of mankind who admitted her old age. fulton, robert, inventor. another brainy american who made a fortune for the cunard and white star lines. g gabriel, a., trumpeter. entered history at an early date as the agent for the garden of eden. compelled the adam family to move. historians claim he will again be in who's who when st. peter (see him) makes the inventory. ambition: larger lungs. recreation: aviation. gainsborough, t. r. a., a versatile english hat and portrait manufacturer. galileo, inventor, star gazer. proved himself an imbecile by declaring the world revolved when everybody knew it was stationary. manufactured the first spy-glass, an instrument which has since been used in theatres and for various other purposes. also discovered that clocks were equipped with pendulums. gangster, t. h. e., a politician known as a "progressive" when out of office. garden,(3) mary, a clever actress who succeeded on the opera stage. legend has it that mary possessed a fine voice as a child. this was expensively cultivated in europe, was later exposed before english and american congregations, and her sapho-salome-thais-carmen costumes packed the houses. ambition: less wealth and more throat. she also wants a husband with a soul. recreation: being presented with opera houses and suppers. residence: principally atlantic liners. (3) ed. note: this is not an advertisement. garibaldi, g., the george washington of italy without the tea party. he espoused the cause of victor emmanuel (see victor), and successfully bismarcked the italian states. slept in every town in his country, ran second to v. e. in the number of statues erected to his appearance, and for three years held the championship for eating spaghetti. garrick, an old english matinee idol. gatling, r. j., he was considered a big gun. gaul, dying, a brave soldier who posed for his statue when mortally wounded. george i, king of england, 1660-1727. permitted the whigs in general, and one walpole in particular, to run england. george ii, king of england, 1683-1760. held a few wars. george iii, king of england, 1736-1820. lived during the reign of william pitt, and believed in taxing tea. george iv, husband of queen mary (see front pages of our contemporary who's who). george-lloyd, dave, a well-known cigar, english politician. entered politics via a newspaper, clever speeches, and votes. was a modest member of the house of commons, seldom speaking more than four times on any bill. kept climbing until he became under secretary of something, order keeper of the board of trade, and finally occupied a prominent position in the exchequer. assisted the primer to grasp the irish home rule millstone, and hung on without a gurgle. ambition: a dynamite-proof house, a tax on air. recreation: (see asquith). address: front row house of commons. clubs: anti-conservative. gibson, charles dana, american artist who pleased the old inhabitants before the market was so wet. gillette, manufacturer of a well-known christmas present which cuts barbers out of their tips, and is deucedly annoying to clean. girl, the chorus, um! gladiator, dying, another brave artists' model. gladstone, w. e., a grand old man who twice premiered england, chopped trees, and failed to make accurate measurements with the irish home rule. glynn, e., an old maid authoress who knew things. wrote a book which everybody tells the rector they have not read, and then re-reads it when the doors are locked. in the united states a law has been passed compelling booksellers to include a bottle of disinfectant whenever a g. book is sold. ambition: a publisher who is not afraid of the police. recreation: reading her own books. address: probably paris. clubs: always blackballed. goat, t. h. e., the one who purchased this book. godiva, lady, horsewoman whose costume rivalled many exhibited at the paris horseshow. many said her habit was out of sight. goethe, a dutchman who succeeded in making a few german words rhyme. goliath, ancient heavyweight champion, who was knocked out in one round by a lightweight. defeat attributed to overconfidence. friends said nothing like that had ever entered his head. goodwin, nathaniel, an american who was opposed to mormonism, but who adopted it on a progressive and newspaper scale. goose, mother, a fine old lady who was loved by all, but who told some awful untruths to the innocent. gordon, i. l., editor of who was who. probably the greatest writer who ever lived. spent early childhood in infancy. at the age of fourteen began shaving and wearing long trousers. at twenty-one g. was considered of age. began writing while a child. penmanship so poor he took to the typewriter. wrote who was who with hope someone would purchase it. some one did. ambition: (he considers this personal and will not be quoted.) recreation: looking for publishers. address: paris when financially able. other times in one of those confounded newspaper offices. gorky, m., a resident of russia who became unpopular with the government and moved. he endeavored to make a lecture tour of the united states accompanied by another man's wife. learned that this was not the usual custom in america. his managers and hotel proprietors requested him to continue his travels. ambition: a czarless russia; less fussy people. publications: much unpatriotic literature. gray, the man who wrote a clever cemetery poem, the first line of which is remembered by everybody. great, peter the, shipbuilder, and the only ruler of russia who never was bombarded. was also unique in the fact that he worked. historians claim this was due to his poor salary. groat, john, proprietor of a celebrated house located some distance from land's end. guillotin, doctor, a french inventor of a popular method of decapitation, who had such confidence in his invention that he was the first to give it a practical demonstration. gulliver, a munchausen-doctor cook-peary traveler who never submitted his proofs, but who found a credulous publisher and a gullible public. never lectured. h hafid, mulai, a sultan of morocco, who succeeded in abdicating before he was abdicated. hagar, miss, abraham's wife's maid who nearly broke up a happy family. hahnemann, doctor, of leipsig, discovered the sugar pill and called it homeopathy. ham, second officer and engineer of the ark. hamed, abdul, a retired professor of diplomacy, champion promiser, and a sick man. when a youth he began instructing the monarchs of europe in the use of a government. one of his favorite pastimes was reading ultimatums. fearless until a warship entered the harbor, and even then usually got rid of it with promises. employed massacres to break the monotony of reigning. acquired as fine a harem as ever sat on silk cushions. some of h.'s younger subjects though he should be ostlerized (see dr. ostler). they gave him his harem and salary, and locked him up in a palace. then the wise ones lost tripoli and about everything but sleeping room in europe. motto: i told you so. ambition: to be back on the job. recreations: private entertainments. address: harem. epitaph: everybody worked but father. hamlet, a dane who had difficulty with an auxiliary verb. also founded the foolish questions. hammerstein, oscar, an opera broker who inflicted himself, high prices, and buildings upon certain communities. handel, placed "handel's largo" on the music stands. also wrote a few other airs. harry. (see thomas and richard.) harvard, john, an englishman who founded a great american university near the cultured town of boston, mass., u. s. a., where football players and the sons of american millionaires eke out an education. harvey, doctor w., a physician who learned in 1619 that his patients had blood which circulated. the discovery has since been of some profit to his successors. heinz, of pittsburg, pa. a man who never tried to conceal his name. sold american baked beans, catsup, and fifty-five other varieties to the world. helena, saint, constantine's mother. she built a few churches (also see napoleon). hemans, mrs., poetess who gave to the world that rich, soulful, and exquisite poesy, "the boy stood on the burning deck." it is said the poem has been parodized. henry, pat., an irish-american politician who demanded liberty or death. from all that can be ascertained he secured the latter. hercules, the sandow of the ancients, promoter of the olympic games and laborer. h. claimed to have done some things which are even questioned by the partisans of doctor cook. killed about everybody, erected two pillars, stole some apples, and, in short, did everything but enter politics or invent a breakfast food. ambition: the thirteenth labor. recreation: muscle development, travel. address: the pillars. clubs: athletic. epitaph: now is a mighty man fallen. hiawatha, american indian who permitted his wife to starve to death simply for the want of proper nourishment. many claim a great american poet used bad taste in writing the biography of such a man. hichens,(4) robert, planter of the garden of allah. experimented with belle donna. h. is still in who's who, and multitudes of readers hope he will remain there for some time to come. ambition: sales. recreation: filling his fountain pen or cleaning typewriter. address: care of the publisher. home: sicily. (4) ed. note: the editor hopes to meet mr. hichens some day, and is compelled to make the biography flattering. hill, samuel, a man who did things in a hurry. also a celebrated rain storm. hobson, american-spanish war hero who lowered his ideals and went to congress. later he became a temperance lecturer. was heard by great crowds. produced statistics to show how few saloons failed after a lecture. holmes, sherlock, detective. when a child he devoured inexpensive literature and theatres. this fired his mind to eliminate scotland yard as a crime-detecting agency. entered the profession of a detective, but was unknown until doctor watson pulled him into print. his fortune was then made. all the society scandals were placed in his hands, and if he only told what he knew about society--! h. solved the most complicated mysteries with a stroke of his hypodermic needle, and was only baffled in locating the murderer of cock robin. his name struck terror into the hearts of criminals and competing publishers. after all the criminals in england had been jailed or hung he was killed by an author, but the great h. solved the mystery of the grave and came back to life in time to see his murderer knighted. now at work on the suffragette case. ambition: another dr. watson. recreation: fond of doyle's works and the violin. address: 31 baker street. clubs: london prison society. epitaph: au revoir, but. homer, travel writer, mythology expert, and journalist. began career as a reporter on the athens "times." was discharged for incompetence, and took up honest writing. found a publisher who thought his writings would sell to posterity. later h. took charge of the ulysses tours. was war correspondent for the greek associated press at the siege of troy. ambition: fewer classics and more money. publication: see libraries and school rooms. address: care athens. clubs: literary, fourth estate. hood, red riding, a brave little girl who escaped alive from a wolf which had previously partaken of a relative. hood, robin, a fine robber of merry england who took from the rich and gave to the poor, and made crackerjack material for stories. hood, sarsaparilla, the manufacturer of another remedy for harvey's discovery. hope, the most beautiful woman who ever lived. she was a near relation of ambition. discovered the words "wish" and "if" and gave her name to the world. she was the first woman to manufacture ideals, and has been made the patron saint of the suffragettes (see suffragette). h. went about making life worth while. she was loved by all those millions of lovers and all those millions of men and women who endeavored to do things. ambition: the discouraged. recreation: success. address: perhaps she has resided in your home. horace, quintus horatius flaccus, a rhymester of greece who sang and drank of the falernian wine. horatius, roman bridge tender who saved the city, and swam the tiber without getting stuck in the mud. hour, the man of the, most popular and versatile man who ever lived. attracted tremendous attention. newspapers printed his picture and ran long articles about his life, family, eccentricities, etc. won fame in war, science, pulpit, aviation, stage, art, music, politics, literature, finance, by saving a life and in exploring. his accomplishments were infinite. h. was lionized by royalty, society, and beautiful women. made addresses, gave interviews, received honors. he was the man everyone wanted to shake by the hand so they could tell other people they had done it. ambition: another hour. recreation: basking. address: all countries. clubs: all open. huerta, victoriano, a mexican who made it necessary to employ extra telegraphers and throat lotions at the white house. he also was responsible for the phrase, "the mexican situation." hur, benjamin, chariot racer, actor. appeared in all large cities, showed his noble figure, raced his horses, downed the villain, packed up, and moved to the next town. hurst, william randolph, father of the american unwhitened newspapers. democrat. started life in a humble manner, only controlling a few newspapers. he soon purchased others. his magical touch changed their color. employed the greatest staff of imaginary geniuses ever gathered together. these men had the ability to write unhampered by mere details or facts. h. also employed many good lawyers and used them frequently. fortified by his constituents, to wit: the aforesaid geniuses and newspapers, h. entered politics as a candidate for anything. was always bryaned and roosevelted. ambition: same as bryan. recreation: reading yellow journals. address: all large american cities. epitaph: the vote is mightier than the pen. hyde, mr. (see dr. jekyll.) i ibycus, a grecian poet who improved poetry by permitting words to rhyme at the ends of the lines. icarus, father of aviation. record holder for the first tumble. selected water as the spot for his fall, and was not picked up with the debris. ambition: a wright machine. recreation: tuning up. address: greece. clubs: aero. iekaterinogradsk, of russia. little is known of his life except that he built a celebrated fort to protect the poor cossacks from the molestations of the populace. was probably blown up or died in prison. ingersoll, first man to bring the price of turnips to within the reach of authors and artists. historians claim he would have made another fortune had he lived when the sun-dial trust had its own way. ingersoll, robt. g., one of those contented souls who did not believe in anything, and made a fortune by telling people what he believed. innocent, thirteen popes. address: rome. irving, washington, a pleasing american writer who visited westminster abbey, made rip van winkle wake up, and wrote a few biographies. isaac (last name unknown), s. abraham and sarah.(5) spent his childhood like all little isaacs and later married rebecca, claimed by historians to have been a jewess. had two famous sons, esau and jake (see both, but especially the latter). died at the tender age of 180 years. (5) ed. note: the editor apologizes for a seeming familiarity he did his best to ascertain the lady's last name, but failed. isabella, a spanish queen who vowed she would not change her clothes until the moors were driven from the country. her husband, the king, raised an army and accomplished the feat. i.'s name is sometimes connected with the discovery of america. this, however, is an error, as columbus took a more active part. isaiah, a prophet who wore second-hand clothing. ishmael, son of abraham, whose appearance complicated his father's estate. traveled extensively in the desert with his mother. j jack, the man who kept company with jill. occupation: water carrier. killed while at work. ambition: an artesian well in the valley. (see jill.) jacob, birthright speculator, traveler, s. isaac, and brother of esau. was mother's pet. became proficient as a character impersonator, but never went on the stage. left home suddenly. slept on a stone and had hard dreams. later married, and was responsible for joseph and his brethren. (see joe.) jaeger, doctor gustav, claimed his underwear kept him warm. james, jesse, an american westerner who murdered, stole, and appeared in paper novels for the benefit of the messenger boy, the author, and the publisher. james, king, a scotchman who was considered good enough to be elected king of england. janos, h., manufacturer of a popular beverage. japheth, third officer of the ark. jefferson, joe, a fine old memory. jeffreys, james j., formerly a prize fighter, who carried his gloves and bluff once too often to the ring. (see johnson.) jekyll, doctor, a physician who took a dose of his own medicine. jew, wandering, an ancient hebrew who has been going over the face of the earth for centuries, only stopping at the call of such men as eugene sue and lew wallace. jill, jack's girl. she was assisting her fiance when the accident occurred. job, prehistoric millionaire who had his ups and downs. like all rich men, he had a good young manhood, saved his money, and entered the market. formed the camel trust and cornered the real estate market. the market tumbled and so did j. family troubles also distressed him. his camels died of the colic or were stolen. j. went broke. even in hard luck he patronized the temple, and believed while there was money it could be had. started in business again with a small capital, remarried, and ended his days ahead of the game. ambition: a chance at the new york stock market; death to his comforters. recreation: sackcloth and ashes. johnson, john, called "jack," one-time black champion prize-fighter of the world, who learned that too much chicken, automobile, and champagne made even a colored gentleman a "waser." johnson, samuel, no relation of the above. employed the greatest press agent the world has ever seen, and was thus made famous. also wrote. jonah, traveler, whaler, and lucky dog. became renowned for taking a rough trip to sea. was thrown overboard because he was the jonah. swam until he was tired, and finally made a morsel for a fish. tradition has it that j. was tough and indigestible. he remained three days and three nights in the interior of the whale, causing the animal considerable annoyance when he exercised. was later mal de mared, swam ashore, and thanked his lucky stars for his indigestibility and the illness of his rescuer. his story was published. still causes some comment. tradition also says that j. never could look a fish in the face after the harrowing incident. ambition: dry land. recreation: mountain climbing. address: sodom. clubs: alpine. jonathan, a man who loved king david more than a successor. jones, john, made a fortune for europe by inventing the picture post-card. jones, john paul, an american admiral who scared england, and was only prevented from capturing london by the unimportance of the place. joseph, a hebrew-egyptian politician. born in judea. when a young man he became his father's favorite, while his brethren had to do the heavy work. wore a loud coat. this aroused the ire of his brethren, resulting in joe being sold as a slave, and in the coat being sent to the cleaners. j. journeyed to egypt, where he refused to elope with the pharaohess. her husband, the pharaoh, out of gratitude, put j. in prison, and afterward made him the royal butler. years passed. a famine occurred in judea. joe's brethren came down to egypt to lay in provisions. there they were confronted by the coatless joe, who thanked them for the good luck they had thrust upon him. josephine, only one of that great multitude of women who carried a heart which was broken by the ambitions of a man. judas, suicide. judy, mrs. punch, but usually unconventionally called by her first name. she suffered considerable annoyance at the hands of her husband, although she frequently hen-pecked him. went on the puppet stage for a few hundred years, displaying her domestic infelicity. juliet, a celebrated sweetheart who permitted her lover to make love on a balcony. her history was written by one shakespeare, and had a splendid sale. (see romeo.) jupiter, boss of the ancient gods, father of most of them, and a regular frenchman. ambition: to run everything. recreation: killing giants, disguising himself as a swan, etc. address: olympia. justice, only a mythological character whose statue has been frequently erected. she had eye trouble. in the united states j. carried scales with a small statue of politics in one pan, and money in the other. her statues in other countries are said to be different, although occasionally the little statues are found in the pans. k kaiser, t. h. e., alias emperor william, "bill" to his friends; a german of some prominence, who caused heartfailure in europe, considerable comment in england, and much applause in his own country. was also a naval constructor. born of royal parents. inherited his father's position. at a tender age he formed a passion for an army. like all royal children, he had his own way. his plaything has grown steadily, is in fine condition, but is only used for parading and scaring purposes. his later years were spent in making additions to the fleet, but for what purpose even the wisest sages could not guess. k. was also honored by a visit from t. roosevelt (see the wonder) on his exhibition through europe. it is said he could not learn anything from his adviser. heir: the crown prince. ambition: his army applied to the socialists. recreation: army. address: army. clubs: army. keeley, doctor, water-wagon manufacturer. claimed fame solely on account of the invention which prevented men from going home to a scolding without the assistance of lamp posts. declared his cure was as good as gold. was strongly opposed by john barleycorn and his friends. never cared for new york, london, or paris. k.'s end never has been made public. historians are endeavoring to ascertain whether he practiced what he preached. ambition: large breweries. recreation: getting away from business. address: all large cities. clubs: w. c. t. u. khayyam, omar, a fine old persian who wrote a beautiful and heartfelt commentary on headache producers. ambition: more grapes. recreation: a flask, books, and a persian "thou." epitaph: he certainly practised what he preached. kidd, captain, the man who spent his life burying the treasure which several people have been sure they could locate. was said to have been one of the finest men who ever scuttled a ship. killer, jack the giant, a man who combined his name and accomplishments. kipling, rudyard, an english writer who has not been knighted. knox, john, of edinburgh. he was the man who introduced the kirk into scotland, but failed to launch the collection plate. kruger, oom paul, an old dutch cleanser who certainly made england scrub up. kubelik, jan, the only violinist who never gave a farewell concert. l lachaise, pere, confessor of louis xiv for thirty-four years. he was such an attentive listener and heard so much that the leading cemetery in paris was named in his honor. lamb, charles, one of those immortals who forgot his life of tears to place smiles on paper. langtry, mrs., the sarah bernhardt of england less considerable talent. ambition: those old time lovers. laocoon, a trojan priest who suffered with delirium tremens. together with his sons he posed for his statue while encumbered with a bad attack. address: vatican, rome. laurie, annie, of maxwelton. the only woman in history who had a brow like a snowdrift. also the only good-looking lassie in scotland to whom burns did not write a few poems. l. was engaged to be married; no record of the ceremony can be found. law, andres bonar, a scotchman who gave up the iron business to become a mere member of parliament. is said to have spoken on irish questions. ambition: (?). recreation: travel, except in the south of ireland. address: parliament. this will probably hold good for several editions of who was who. clubs: conservative, of course. law,(6) mother-in-, no relation of the above. a much-abused ancient whose life and story has been written by malicious biographers. in reality l. was a kind soul who invited us to dinner, permitted the gas to be turned down, and always knocked before she came into the room. later she wiped the dishes, took care of her grandchild (see baby), helped pay the bills, and told the neighbors what a fine son-in-law she had. ambition: daughter. recreation: our house. address: our house most of the time. clubs: suffrage. (6) ed. note: the editor will not be held responsible for the accuracy of the above. lawson, thomas w., just a squeeler. leda, see mythology books, paintings, and statuary. also jupiter, castor, and pollux. lee and perkins, discoverers of worcestershire sauce and royal saucerers to the king. lehar, frank, the man who assisted the merry widow to make her debut. also was the press agent for mr. maxim, of paris. ambition: to find another widow. leonore, became famous because she had a lover who left her with a good song. leopold, king, of the congo and belgium. has not been dead long enough for historians to make him famous. ambition: song, women, and wine. recreation: wine, women, and song. address: several in brussels. epitaph: quantum mutatus ab illo. liberty, a huge lady who guards new york harbor, and welcomes italy and poland to the united states. limburger, of germany. manufacturer of a self-advertising cheese. lipton, sir thomas, a knighted irishman who advertised tea with shamrocks, and one of the men of his race who did not enter politics or the police force. ambition: that cup. liszt, frank, a piano player who wore long hair, wrote music, and played the piano. lloyd, the man who will insure anything except the prospects for the sale of this book. lorelei, said to be a beautiful german lady who always hides herself when the tourist goes down the rhine. lot, mrs. lot's husband. lot, mrs., the only woman who had an inquisitiveness which became practical. she also was considered one of the salt of the earth. louis i, 778-840, called the debonnaire. introduced cafe's into france. put the "is" in paris. louis ii, 846-879. introduced chorus girls into france. patron of cafe's. louis iii, 882-936. introduced champagne into france. continued the works of his predecessors. louis iv, 936-954. introduced high heels. continued the work of his predecessors. louis v, 966-987. introduced absinthe. louis vi, 1106-1137. enlarged the works of his ancestors. started pre-tango dancing. louis vii, 1137-1180. fought germany. inaugurated the french menu. louis viii, 1187-1196. introduced the words "a la" and dressmakers into paris. louis ix, called the saint, 1215-1263. was a good louis. fought the turks and was taken prisoner. his subjects thought 7,000,000 francs worth of him. was awarded his halo for work in the crusades. not a patron of his ancestors. very unpopular in paris. louis x, 1289-1316. reopened cafe's. introduced the taxicab. very popular. louis xi, 1423-1483. fought england, and died too soon to hear of the discovery of the united states. louis xii, 1462-1515. was king when the united states were discovered. louis xiii, 1601-1643. permitted cardinal richelieu to king for him. was a patron of cafe's, champagne, and paris in general. louis xiv, called the grand, 1638-1715. furniture builder, salon decorator, wig maker, and constructor. also assisted paris in acquiring her reputation. built versailles, the louvre, and napoleon's tomb. he was the man who captured alsace-lorraine from germany. (see napoleon iii.) motto: i am the state. ambition: strauss waltzes at versailles. recreation: dancing and attending to affairs of state. address: versailles. louis xv, 1710-1774, called a bird. he lived during the reigns of queens pompadour and du-barry. louis xvi, 1754-1793. a louis who continued the traditions of his ancestors, but--. married marie antoinette. introduced the turkey trot and the salome dance at versailles. while his subjects were starving he ate pate de foies gras. they objected and carried his white wigginess to paris, where he ended his reign. ambition: to have been any one of his ancestors, even no. 9. recreation: short walks in the jail yard. address: not permitted to receive letters. epitaph: easy falls the head which wore a crown. louis xvii, 1785-1795. the only louis who did not live long enough to have the good times of his ancestors, and the only louis for whom the world has a word of sympathy. louis xviii, 1775-1824, called the last. he was the louis who got back on the job after the dizziness of the revolution and napoleon had subsided. lover, t. h. e., conqueror of worlds, architect of castles, lunatic, and saint. spent early days only in living. in young manhood he met her. from that moment all other hers he had known became lemons. l. was an expert prevaricator. polished shoes, dressed neatly, shaved every day, and never ate onions. spent evenings at her house. detested gas or electric lights. was fond of the fireplace and hands. quarreled occasionally. spent salary for theatre tickets, candy, and flowers. walked on air. had a terrible time keeping away from his friends who wanted him to have a good time. one night her looked wonderfully beautiful. l. said some things. he could not keep quiet. her blushed, permitted him to sit closer, and then told l. he was the dearest, sweetest, finest, biggest, noblest, bravest lovey in the wide, wide world. later l. secured an embarrassing interview and visited a jewelry store. diet: poor. ambition: a mother-in-law. address: her home. clubs: none. epitaph: for men may come and men may go. luther, martin, a german who started competition. m mcginty, a celebrated irish diver. mcgraw, john j., manager of the new york baseball organization, frequently used by the philadelphia athletics to gain the world's championship. macbeth, lady, a royal somnambulist. mackintosh, discoverer of a method of keeping dry outside on a rainy day. magellan, the man who got into straits and straights. man, sand, an old fellow who visits houses blessed with a child. only calls after supper. tells the little one he has played enough for the day, and sprinkles some sand in his eyes. when m. departs the little bundle is asleep in the nursery or all cuddled up in mother's lap. ambition: sand for the older folks. manuel, king, of england, and late of portugal. introduced parisian life into lisbon. was a very sweet and very wise young man. overlooked the fact that a king may rule a nation, but frequently is a poor press agent. became incensed at his army and subjects. moved in haste. ambition: lisbon and a dancing queen. recreation: watch bill-boards. address: watch bill-boards. clubs: down and out. epitaph: a manuel and his kingdom are soon parted. marat, one of the fathers of the french revolution, who could rule a city, but not a woman. marcel, madame, of france. discovered a good excuse for women to gaze in mirrors. also caused heartfailure on a rainy day. marconi, guglielmo, the man who made the inventors of telegraph poles and wires look foolish. his inventions have made it possible for new york stock brokers to continue their business while journeying to paris. mariner, a., traveler, albatross raiser. gathered fame by making a voyage with some dead ones. his feat has frequently been duplicated on liners out of the regular tourist season. mark, saint, of venice. guarded the pigeons of his square and the tourist who dwelt within his canals. martini, manufacturer of an american before-dinner drink which tastes too good. mary, a young girl who was presented with a famous lamb. seldom was seen without the animal. conveyed it to school with her one day, thus causing considerable mirth among the pupils. was severely reprimanded by the teacher, as it was against the regulations of the institution to permit animals, other than the children, in the class-rooms. m. returned the lamb to the stable. her biography has been extensively published. materlinck, a belgian who believed the best way to get "copy" about himself into the newspapers was to try to keep it out. recreation: bluebird raising. maxim, patron saint of the american-english tourist in paris, who introduced new york prices into a naughty cafe. when a young man he discovered that the tourists were not paying enough money to see the sights. with the assistance of some handsomely gowned women he opened a cafe on the rue royal where they could. for years it was patronized by his countrymen until they were ruined. later only royalty and tourists were permitted to enter and form a mistaken idea of the real french cafe, pay double prices for everything, see a few chorus girls, hear champagne bottles, and talk to english-speaking waiters. ambition: americans. recreation: staying at home. press agent: the merry widow and the girl from maxims. epitaph: honi soit qui mal y pense. maxim, no relation of the above, as he only manufactured things to kill people, and not to financially ruin them. medici, katie, an italian french woman whose past was uncovered by those historians. was fond of poison, but did not care for methodists or presbyterians. medusa, a celebrated ancient who had the delirium tremens in an acute stage. mellin, he was the man who tried to cheat the baby out of the bottle. mendelssohn, wrote a tune which is usually played when a man goes to his fate. mennen, the manufacturer of a baby and good complexion perquisite. nothing like it for your face after shaving. his picture has been widely distributed, but never admired. mercury, errand boy for the gods. wore a pair of winged feet and feathers in his hat. was also an artist's model. ambition: a telegraph. recreation: same as the gods. address: general delivery. methuselah, an ancient who was not like one in a thousand. michel, saint, he kicked the devil out of paradise, and was instantly made the patron saint of france. mike, pat's partner (see pat). milton, john, wrote a dante book, the title of which is known by everybody and the contents by few. moet and chandon, two competitors of mr. mumm who did much to bring the price of champagne to within the reach of millionaires. mohammed, inventor of the harem, and the man who introduced mormonism into arabia. (see b. young.) also manufactured crescents, religion, and made mecca the mecca for everything. early life spent in business. this did not pay. he then married a widow and retired. took up religion as a hobby. became a professional. found the sword was mightier than his kin. his salvation army was successful. his prisoners were given the alternative of a finely tempered, beauti-fully inlaid damascus blade or islam. they always became fervently religious. later m. embarked on a marrying campaign with equal success. publications: the koran, a treatise on everything. ambition: the crescent on every flag. recreation: walking toward mountains; stroking his beard. address: 23 blvd. allah, mecca, arabia. epitaph: a man's works take after him. moliere, jean b. p., a french author who wrote a few plays we do not have to see alone. monroe, james, the founder of a doctrine, the practicability of which nations desire to learn, and yet do not wish to make the test. morse, samuel g., an inventor who might have used his talents in other lines had marconi lived before his time. moses, whose whereabouts in the dark has puzzled all generations. born in the bullrushes of egypt. entered politics as the son of pharaoh's daughter and the leader of the ghetto. when m. waxed astute, after the manner of his people, he discovered there were not sufficient shekels for himself and countrymen in the land of egypt. he pleaded and plagued the king for permission to close the pawn shops and clothing stores. now in those days the children of egypt were wont to patronize the bazaars of the children of the chosen, and pharaoh was wroth within himself and refused the passports. the brave rabbi closed the kosher meat stores and took ship's leave. adopting an original compass, he made forced marches to the red sea. here the synagogue was overtaken by pharaoh and his army. m. spilled the sea on them and marched on. from this time the journey to the promised land was slow. whether this was due to good business or sore feet history does not relate. m. later climbed a mountain and received the ten commandments. after breaking them he returned to camp. he died before the journey was complete. publications: histories. ambition: a railroad from cairo to jerusalem. recreation: tennis and camel racing. also enjoyed tent life. address: care of jewish legation. moses, holy, no relation of the above. he was the fellow who came around when you hit your finger with the hammer. muller, maud, one of the few country girls who never went to new york city. mumm,(7) the man who made the most expensive drink on earth. the products of his cellars are frequently purchased by persons who cannot afford them. they form one of the principal ingredients of a good time (see paris). (7) ed. note: the editor is personally responsible for the above stated facts. munchausen, baron, traveler, explorer. while many of his books, lectures, and newspaper interviews have been questioned by scientific men, he is held in high regard due to his failure to claim the discovery of the north pole. munyon, doctor, an american herb doctor and optimist. held the theory that while there was life there was a chance to sell some of his medicine. murphy, charles j. see what's who of new york city. n napoleon, a little frenchman who wore a big hat, a little curl on his forehead, and whose ambitions were larger than his good luck. started life by placing corsica on the map. like all great men, he was the dunce at school. later he used his masters and prize-winning chums as first-row soldiers. entered the army. never succeeded as a sentry. frequently amused himself by taking a couple of soldiers and capturing a city or an army between meals. the politicians in paris saw the young man was not without talents. they gave him a few more soldiers. then he went after countries. captured egypt, but had trouble with one nelson of england. n. became unpopular with his neighbors. they all attacked him. he attacked them all. that settled it. he ate wars. after the powers were powerless n. scampered about europe adding countries to france. he devoured germany. went after russia, but they made it too hot and too cold for him. had more trouble with that man nelson. became rich and divorced. introduced roosevelt publicity tactics into france and carried a third term. started things. began quarreling again. at last he was cooped up in paris, and flew the white flag. visited elba. revisited france. started things again. took some veterans to belgium. there he was met by another englishman by the name of wellington who introduced him to waterloo. for his kindness in leaving europe england presented n. with a whole island, a complementary guard, and paid all his living expenses for six years. later n. became responsible for one of the sights of paris. always carried his right hand in the front of his coat. ambition: a french nelson, england, and progeny. recreation: walking along the shore. address: fontainbleau, europe, and at sea. epitaph: i desire that my ashes shall rest on the banks of the seine among the few french people i did not take to war. napoleon ii. absent. napoleon iii. he was the man who did not devour germany. ambition: rough on rats for the kaiser and bismarck. recreation: travel. address: paris when the dutchmen would permit him. epitaph: here lies a napoleon, but no bonaparte. narcissus, a lover who forgot there were other girls, and pined away into a flower and a tiresome song. nation, carrie, a window-smashing american liquor suffragette who believed the ridiculous doctrine that all men should be sober all the time. nebuchadnezzar, king, an old king whose name is blamed hard to spell. neptune, boss of the seas. has charge of the atlantic liners, wireless, and the seasick. ambition: a bridge from london to new york. recreation: storms. address: atlantic. clubs: yacht. nero (first name forgotten). a roman emperor who thought nothing burned like a good tarred christian. also made fire departments a necessity in the eternal city. ambition: a good show in the colosseum. recreation: fiddling. clubs: chorus girls. epitaph: for he was a jolly good fellow. nero, mrs., nero's wife, who had considerable trouble with her husband. newton, isaac, a man who was knighted for propounding the theory that it is easier to wait under a tree for an apple to fall than to climb after it. nic, old, a friend of everybody, no matter who turns them down. will stick to you clear to the end. one of those good souls who never fails to give encouragement and grasp you by the hand when you want to do something you know you should not do. was driven from home when a young man. set up competition and succeeded wonderfully. organized the largest community in existence. this is steadily growing despite considerable opposition. n. numbers among his friends most of the great people who ever lived. he is counting on others. caused much worry to mothers and wives, but seldom troubled the men. publications: french literature; some fine books and pictures. occupation: looking for idle hands. ambition: you. recreation: theatres, cabarets, music halls, cafe's, champagne, mone carlo, etc. fond of chorus girls. address: paris. n. also travels extensively. epitaph: ad infinitum. nimrod, the first grouse, pheasant, and deer hunter who succeeded without the advantages of a gun, a game preserve, or a license. noah, ship-builder, animal tamer. a fine old ancestor who had considerable to do in preserving the race for we posterity. when a young man he shunned the ways of young men, and never sat in the seat of the scornful. studied shipbuilding on the clyde and designed the largest floating stable on record. made quite a reputation as an animal collector. took to the sea when well advanced in years. n. was the first man to descend mt. ararat without first making the ascension. publications: the log of the ark. ambition: no more floods, or a larger crew. recreation: bridge. address: care of the editor. clubs: yacht. epitaph: de profundis. noble, a., of norway, the inventor of the black hand and labor union weapon. his invention also made possible the premature discharge of dynamite and the awarding of the noble prizes. o o'connell, dan, said to have been an irishman. probably born in dublin, raised in dublin. raised cain in dublin. repealed in dublin. dublined in dublin. died in dublin. tradition connects his name with the early stages of the home rule bill. ambition: ireland south of ulster. recreation: oratory. address: dublin. clubs: dublin. favorite color: green. o'grady, sweet rosie, also of ireland, long dead, but still bragged about. orange, william of, also of ireland. he was the man who made it a crime to wear the color named after him on the seventeenth of march. (see st. patrick.) orpheus, lutist. when a young man he was given a lute. practised in obscurity, and later appeared before large audiences. made several successful concert tours. married eurydice. spent a happy honeymoon. the bride did not wear shoes. she was bitten by a serpent. she died. o. descended to the abode of old nic, and charmed him with some grecian ragtime. nic promised to return the lady if o. would promise to get out of the place without looking around to see what other respectable people were there. o. started for the door. he heard familiar voices and rubbered. that ended the contract, and for all the editor has been able to ascertain eurydice is there to this day. ostler, william, a doctor who was knighted for proposing that all fossils should be ostlerized. ambition: to murder the men who got that story into print. recreation: medicine. address: oxford. epitaph: he practised, but not what he preached. othello, of venice. born in morocco. went to venice and fell in love with one desdemona, an italian girl. they were married. mrs. othello lost one of her favorite handkerchiefs and was killed by her enraged husband. shakespeare, of england, a writer, heard of the incident and made some money out of it. p paderewski, ignace jan, another farewell-concert giver, who wore long red hair, a soulful expression, insured his fingers, and broke pianos. pallas, a grecian goddess who was metamorphosed into a raven perch by poe. pan, monstrosity, musical instrument maker, friend of poets. born half a man and half a goat. took after the latter. studied music under the old masters and outfluted apollo. was also a sheep fancier. fathered fife and drum corps. ambition: a pair of shoes or a goat's appetite. recreation: hunting and falling in love. address: greece. clubs: musical. pan, peter, a little fellow who was a delightful actress, believed in fairies, and crowded houses in england and the united states. pankhurst, mrs., a celebrated english woman who terrorized a government, starved herself, smashed windows, blew up things, and made speeches for a living. girlhood spent in developing muscle, pluck, and theories. she appeared before the public and declared that the liquor traffic would be terminated when women voted. spent years of her life wondering why the men would not give them the privilege. never cared for the ministry, although she was a very good woman. ambition: a woman king. "votes for women" in the union jack. recreation: planning the "next." publications: from the cradle to the ballot. windows i have smashed. address: london. care scotland yard. pankhurst, sylvia, a little pankhurst who helps mamma break things. panza, sancho, don quixote's interlocutor and stable boss. paris, son of the king of tyre, who ran away with another man's wife named helen. a city in france has been named to do him honor. parnell, c. s., father of the downfall of english ministries and ulster. born of irish parents. first man to successfully explode dynamite in parliament without being executed. ambition: an ulsterless ireland, a conservativeless england. address: close to the english ministry. epitaph: the bills men introduced live after them. parsifal, the longest-winded singer who ever stepped on an opera stage. pasteur, doctor, discoverer. experimented with mad dogs until he came to the conclusion they should be shot or chained. a subway station in paris has been named after him. patrick, saint, a scotchman who drove all the snakes out of ireland with the exception of those in bottles. also introduced the brogue and the shamrock into the emerald isle. pat, also of ireland. at an early age he emigrated to the united states. there he took up the hod-carrying business. went on the stage and set the world laughing. he also entered politics, captured the american police force, and, together with his brothers in parliament, rules great britain and the united states. patti, adelina, a singer who said au revoir but not good bye. epitaph: cum grano salis. pear,(8) the man who names most of the london busses, and keeps the people of england clean for a penny a week. his business is international with the exception of glasgow and italy. (8) ed. note: this is not an advertisement. the editor does not use soap. peary, captain robert e., explorer who said he reached the north pole and convinced a few people. was also forced to write a book and lecture. publications: how dr. cook almost got ahead of me. ambition: that a certain man had not made him get all the way there the last time. grave: the cook incident. penn, william, a man whose picture appears on all quaker oats boxes. an englishman who left his country, bought pennsylvania, built the slow, old town of philadelphia, and hung up the american liberty bell. pericles, of athens. political boss, philosopher, and general. secured his reputation through brains, a voice, and a well-oiled political machine. started the golden age of greece with a loud blast of the horn of plenty. peter, no relation to the following. he introduced the art of chocolate making into switzerland, and the art of eating it into america. ambition: more children and people with sweet teeth. peter, saint, a fine old bearded saint who is an excellent bookkeeper, and a detester of roosters. a church in rome has taken his name. ambition: a new key. recreation: oiling hinges. address: golden gates. pharaoh, of egypt. benefactor of moses and joseph. was also the father of pharaoh's daughter. built a few pyramids, cigarette factories, and made a handsome mummy. philip ii, a king of spain who, with an armada to press his suit, endeavored to marry a queen of england. both the suit and the armada were left in the bay of biscay, and the queen an old maid. ambition: to the inquisition with all englishmen. motto: faint heart never won fair lady. address: spain. pinaud, edward, discoverer of the only thing which would have saved your hair. pinkham, lydia, of vegetable compound fame. made a fortune out of advertisements, little boxes of pills, and women who believed what they read. piper, peter, famous picker of pickled peppers. also held accounts against many people. caused considerable worry to his creditors. pitman, isaac, discovered a method of making political speakers more careful of what they said. his invention has secured wealthy husbands for many a pretty and poor stenographer. plutarch, the only man who had more lives than a cat. pluto, boss of the underworld until old nic got on the job. also the manufacturer of a morning beverage. pluvius, e., was the fellow who always made it rain when you wanted to wear your new hat or go to a ball game. poe, ed. a., an american poet who specialized in ravens and cold chills. poincaire, raymond, a frenchman who has a splendid opportunity to get out of this book. pollux, leda's other twin. (see mother and brother.) polo, marco, f. r. g. s., traveler, discoverer, and lecturer. began expeditions from venice. discovered china, japan, and the orient. returned to venice and doctor cooked his neighbors. he is supposed, however, to have visited the countries, as he produced a pair of chop sticks, a chinese laundry, and some japanese lanterns. these were accepted as proofs by the university of venice. ambition: the north pole. pompadour, madame, coiffeur, queen of france. said to have been a peach. was a great friend of louis xv, and helped make the dances at versailles a success. ambition: plenty of hair. recreation: versailles. address: see louis. clubs: anti. powell-baden, robert s., a warrior who retired from service and invented soldiers to be shot when the next big war comes along. procrastinator, t. h. e., an extinct man who believed in the doctrine of to-morrow. he was a thief, but was never convicted. ancient records state he invariably had an excuse for present inactivity, but would promise results the following day. was a close friend of failure. put off everything except death, and even did his best to keep him away as long as possible. motto: no time like the future. ambition: to accomplish to-morrow what the other fellow is doing to-day. recreation: always before business. address: nobody knows. clubs: many. progress, pilgrim, an englishman who made an extensive journey encumbered with a large pack. he visited paris, had some hairbreadth escapes, was stuck in the mud, but finally returned and became respectable like all other englishmen. puccini, giacomo, maker of tunes and curtain calls. a musician who did not starve, and who gave the classical name "la faniculla del west" to the plain "girl of the golden west." pullman, an american who invented an expensive means of travel. p. also is responsible for the vast fortunes acquired by porters. punch, husband of judy, and a great favorite with the children, even if he did beat his old wife. led a hen-pecked life. traveled in several european countries and spoke all the best-selling languages. his name has been given to a serious london publication. pythagoras, a greek who said some people would be pigs after they were dead. q(9) (9) ed. note: the editor apologizes for the few q's who have been famous. quietus, fluvius, of rome. always put his name to everything when he came around. quixote, don, famous knight-errant of spain. made some desperate conquests for his lady-love, and was defeated by a windmill. in all his defeats, however, he showed to the world that a laugh cuts deeper than a sword, and that satire would kill where a lance could not penetrate. the word quixotic is used to his commemoration. r(10) (10) ed. note: the editor apologizes for the character of the r's who have been famous. raleigh, walt., one of the men who was permitted to hold hands with queen elizabeth. his other feats were the introduction of the pipe into england and the plug into ireland. rameses ii, an egyptian king who went about building burial mountains, statues to himself, and permitting cigarettes to be named after him. raphael, a decorator who took paint in its raw state and made it worth money. filled walls, principally in italy, with some expensive paintings, and, like angelo, used the vatican as his studio. ambition: churches with larger walls. recreation: painting, art, and canvas weaving. address: all galleries. recamier, madame, of paris. supplied the society column to the newspapers. to be invited to her salon meant that you would get plenty to eat, that you were somebody, that you would see somebody, and that you would have to wear your sunday clothes. her r. s. v. p.'s were always accepted. r. finally lost her money, and with it her friends. ambition: the man of the hour. epitaph: when she had it she spent it. rembrandt, dutch painter who specialized in portraits of old ladies and rembrandt. also brought considerable fame down upon himself by filling a museum in amsterdam with tourist-drawing paintings. remington, the man who invented a typewriter at which many pretty stenographers(11) sit. (11) ed. note: advertisement for the stenographers, not the machine. reviewer, the book, he is the fellow who said a chef-d'oeuvre like who was who should be used for ballast. rhodes, cecil, a poor boy who saved his money and purchased south africa. rhodes, colossus of, a giant of antiquity who was not killed by a stone. he rusted to death. richelieu, cardinal, the man who held down the throne for louis xiii, and disagreed with the duke of buckingham. ritz, innkeeper who made hotels in which we all would like to stop, but cannot. ambition: americans and english nobility. recreation: visiting his hotels. address: ritz and carlton. clubs: does not need any. robespierre, a french politician who had the opportunity of doing to his enemies what most politicians would like to do to theirs. was finally voted out and down. robinson, jack, brother of sam hill. he claimed distinction simply because some people were sufficiently clever to do things before his name could be pronounced. rockefeller, john d., an american who endeavored to drive his camel through the eye of a needle by giving advice, building churches and colleges, and squeezing competitors. like all millionaires, he was born penniless. r. worked hard, helped the missions out of his $3 a week, married, and purchased some oil fields. he struck oil. he made it in a trust. then he began purchasing colleges to keep young men out of business. as his wealth increased his stomach and hair wore out. could make seven people dizzy thinking of his money. spent the latter portion of his life dodging subpoenae servers, and doubling his fortune by the dissolution of his business. ambition: more churches, colleges, and less competition. also another supreme court decision. recreation: golf, the coiffeurs, and telling young men of the futility of competition. address: courts and church. clubs: y. m. c. a., when he can spare the time from his legal and congressional investigations. rockefeller, john d., jr., the little rockefeller who will have the fun of spending it. he was a good boy, and told other young men how fortunate they were in being born poor and all about the fungus which grows on the root of all evil. never knew what a good time he could have with his dad's coin in paris. ambition: to be like father. recreation: sunday school. occupation: forming new trusts and enlarging the old ones. clubs: y. m. c.a. rodin, august, a frenchman who did his utmost to fill european and american galleries with statues at a price which would have made mike angelo a billionaire. rojesvensky, admiral, a great russian admiral and sea fighter who gloriously defeated the fishing squadron in the english channel. later hit a snag in the orient. romeo, juliet's best fellow, who learned that his road to true love ended in a cemetery. romulus, remus' twin. collaborated with his brother in home life and in building rome. roosevelt, theodore, nom de plume, t. r., teddy, press agent, the outlook, "i," traveler, teddy bear manufacturer, lecturer, interview giver, museum collector, "me," guildhall orator, dee-lighted, "myself," mooser, hunter, band-wagon driver, band-wagon, panama canal, rough rider, circus leader, circus, down-with-rafter, and a former retired and retiring president of the united states. when a young man he spent his father's money by going to college, shooting lions, and raising a large family. during the spanish-american war he employed a troop of rough riders, stormed san juan hill, and got into the newspapers. made up his mind he would stay there. r. became governor of new york state with ambitions. being a wealthy man, and capable of contributing to the cause of the republican party, he was elected vice-president of the united states. a hand other than his own made him president. here his newspaper career really began. r. first opened a three-ring circus in the white house, wore a rough rider hat, and told the country what a great president he was. the voters believed him, and did not object to four years more. during this administration r. successfully advertised himself, the family, started the panama canal, and appointed one william howard taft (see poor bill) his successor. r. then traveled through africa with a magnificent body guard of photographers and newspaper men. after shooting a museum-full of specimens, he toured europe and told the king how to king and the emperors how to emp. returning to the united states he placed his hand in state politics. fingers were badly burned. when it came time to elect another president, r. was tired of scene shifting and yearned for the bouquets of the audience. he girded up his loins with the robes of sanctity, placed an international harvester trust halo over his head, and proclaimed himself a second moses who was destined to lead the children of america out of the land of the frying pan into that of the fire. with a mighty army of politicians, who also wanted to get back, r. started his campaign with such a huge band he could not hear any others. the fight was based on telling the voters how easily they had been deceived four years earlier in what he had told them concerning that "molycoddle taft." r. was elected by the greatest majority in history until the ballots were hatched. later he joined the ranks of william jennings bryan. publications: the "i" books. ambition: to get back into who's who and washington. address: the outlook. oyster bay for newspapermen. clubs: founder of the ananias. epitaph: same as bryan's. rothschilds, the morgan-rockefellers of europe without quite as much money. roy, robert, a very wicked scotchman whom we all hope will always escape the police. rubens, p. p., an artist who realized styles frequently changed, and therefore painted fat people without their clothes. russe, charlotte, a pleasant creature, but one who sometimes caused pain after a visit. russia, t. h. e., czar of, an anti-bomb loving monarch with modern subjects and a tenth-century brain. his childhood was spent in a steel-lined cage, guarded by the army and the fleet. he was crowned in a bomb-proof church by a thoroughly searched clergyman, only the crown, the crowner, and the crowned being present to witness the ceremony. seldom goes about the country, as he fears the heartfelt expressions of his subjects. in 1908 he became mixed up with japan. is now economizing. ambition: only life. recreation: dissolving doumas. signing death warrants. address: large packages are always opened by the servants. send letters care st. petersburg police department. clubs: army. epitaph: it is a wonder he did not have this long ago. s salome, a celebrated dancer who could fill the largest opera houses in the world with bald heads, opera glasses, and jealous women. she is still in who's who, and probably will remain there until arrested. sam, uncle, a tall, lean, good-natured rich man who sets paces and spends his money. born july 4, 1776, s. great britain. godfathered by france. was an impetuous baby. education: school of experience at washington. s. was assisted in early life by a number of men who took an interest in him. when thirty-six years of age he chastised his mother, but later became on excellent terms. went in for land and colonization business. succeeded. at the age of eighty-four s. suffered from a severe attack of internal indiscretion. recuperated slowly. later entered the trust-raising business, and devoted considerable time to politics. in 1897 he spanked a european power, but had to take care of the children after the incident. s. is either republican or democratic. favors the former, although once in awhile he desires change. wore a goatee, long hair, high hat, a suit made out of the flag, smoked cigarettes, had bad manners, and used much slang. publications: bank notes. ambition: another republican president. address: washington, d. c., u. s. a. epitaph: (if he ever gets one he deserves it.) samson, exponent of hair restorer and an iconoclast. when a young man he rehearsed his muscles until he could break a chain and lift a fat lady. entered the army. was successful until he became bald. committed suicide by pushing a temple on himself. sandow, a pupil of the above, vaudeville star and coin collector. one of those individuals whom nature has endowed with a magnificent body, and sufficient brains to make money with it. santos-dumont, a pre-zeppelin-wright air investigator who had enough money and sense to quit before people remarked how natural he looked. savonarola, a reformer of florence, italy, who succeeded in closing the cafe's, theatres, and dance halls. he was popular with the masses until election day. when the opposition returned they made it hot for him. sawyer, thomas, a plain american boy who was rescued from obscurity by mark twain, and became a good salesman. schlitz, press agent of milwaukee, u. s. a., who was successful in advertising himself and his town. in england he is schwepps. schopenhauer, father of race suicide. lionized by the french republic and t. r. ambition: empty cribs. recreation: trips with his wife and children. clubs: mother's. scots, mary queen of, a scotch lady who is said to have been beautiful, who fell in love, and was one of the few women whose less attractive sister got the better of her. scott, walter, a scotchman who secured fame without adopting the national characteristics. his critics claim this was the reason he failed in business. wrote some books which are read by students and persons possessing much time. sebastian, saint, the italian who was shot with arrows and ran second to the apostles in the number of his portraits exhibited in european galleries. seidlitz, powder manufacturer. seville, barber of, a celebrated tonsorial artist who introduced the marcel wave and the gillette razor into spain. shackleton, ernest, another pole explorer. he was saved the ignominy of reaching the desired point by the shortness of rations, but he was near enough to become a profitable author and lecturer. shakespeare, william, the man who was born at stratford-on-avon. when a young man he amused himself by poaching, visiting the hathaway cottage, and being the village pest. married the inmate of the cottage and went to london, a city in england. s. became an apprentice actor, and was said to have been nearly as bad an actor as his contemporaries. his fame later arose due to his growing popularity. he died. s.'s birthplace is now one of the tourist sights of the world. more post-cards are sent from this town than from any of its size in europe. the church where he lies buried has an immense floating congregation. s. also shared honors with one bacon for writing a few plays. ambition: present-day prices in elizabethan theatres. recreation: rehearsals. address: the world. epitaph: (has been obliterated.) shampoo, a barber of shoo poo, china, who introduced the art of clean heads into the celestial empire. this has since fallen into disrepute in that country, but is sometimes practiced in other lands. shaw, g. bernard, grouch, truth teller. an english writer who made money by being honest enough to tell people what they knew. s.'s enemies claim he would have to work should his theories be put into practice. believes in socialism and wants everything. author of considerable sarcasm, wit, and divided opinion as to his talents. ambition: an americanless england. also, sales. address: watch bill-boards. sheba, queen of, an ancient mere woman who matched her brains against the brainiest man who ever lived. she lost. shem, noah's heir. was first officer of the ark. sherman, general, secured his fame by marching to the sea and giving a terse definition of war. sherry, proprietor of a new york restaurant where a person feels wealthy while at the table and poor afterward. shoe, old woman of the, one of those anti-race-suicide mothers whose family caused considerable worry. ambition: a better job for her husband. address: shoe. clubs: she did not have time for any, and thus could not be a suffragette. shuster, morgan, an american child who attempted to play the diplomatic game in persia with grown ups. was spanked and sent home. occupation: crying. ambition: ambassador to a country without diplomats. address: home. shylock. see new york city business directory. simon, simple, epicurean. passed an uneventful life with the exception of an encounter with a confectioner near the fair grounds. the man operated his business on a cash basis. simon was broke and no sale was consummated. sinbad, an old tar whose yarns are still on the distaff. sisters, seven sutherland, a noted family who held out salvation for the bald and envy to women. smith, john, the bravest man who ever lived. smith ate the first lobster. smith, john, secured his renown for living in every city in the world. socrates. he helped introduce brains into greece. committed suicide. solomon, king, author, musician, builder, benedict. an old mormon who established a record for wearing wedding clothes. when a child he developed a boston brain. this grew as the years advanced. at a tender age he began acquiring mothers-in-law. this caused his subjects to doubt his acumen. s. thoroughly vindicated himself, and set about building a city and a big church to hold his family. wrote a number of popular songs. his proverbs also had a big sale. ambition: just one more wife and an end to those quarrels in the harem. recreations: picnics with the family. also was fond of the phonograph. address: care the mrss. solomon. epitaph: here lies the original man who knew it all. son, prodigal, tourist, oat sower, and herdsman. son of wealthy parents. became tired of home and desired to travel. visited foreign lands and had a jolly good time. his letter of credit expired. friends were never at home after the event. s. had to work. later he took a bath and walked home. father was delighted and gave a banquet in his honor. unpopular with his brother. career: wild. satisfaction: saw something of life. address: home. sousa, john p., american bandmaster who wrote books and shot pigeons between march compositions. spencer, herbert, a scientist who believed the human race degenerated from monkeys, and established the theory that only the survivors are the fittest. suffragette, t. h. e., a woman who lived years ago in great britain and the united states, who believed that noble man was incompetent, incomplete, incompatible, incongruent, inconsistent, and an incubus in his incurious incumbency. she was the daughter of too much time and too much money. early days spent at home. she married and began her career. s.'s first weakness was a club. then she fell to the level of a speech maker and a flag carrier. the fanatical desire to see her name in print led to the adoption of strenuous press-agent tactics. she died fighting. ambition: to offset her husband's vote on election day. recreation: parading, windows, bombs, letter boxes, english ministries, and a string of etcs. epitaph: requiescat in pace. (also see mrs. pankhurst and hope.) suffragette, t. h. e. anti-, still lives, but is dying fast. belongs to the moss-back half of femininity. has serious objection to use of her head, except for decorative purposes. was not averse to press notices and looked with envy on the achievements of the suffragettes in this direction. being denied high office in their ranks because of lack of adequate cerebration, she set up a rival organization where brains were not requisite. entertains the utterly absurd idea that all women, except herself, belong at home with their husbands and children. where they belong in the absence of these, deponent sayeth not. ambition: continued parasitic existence. recreation: manufacturing evidence and tagging on behind. address: wherever there are suffrage meetings. epitaph: alas! the world does move and she was "agin it." sulzer, william, the kettle who called murphy black. also the governor of new york who enjoyed the unprecedented honor of retiring from office in order that he might be considered a progressive. motto: be sure your sins will get you out. ambition: to be a martyr to the claws. diet: tigers. epitaph: you may air, you may perfume your clothes as you will, but the smell of impeachment will cling to you still. t taft, william howard, a former fat, and last republican, president of the united states who worshipped the trusts, the constitution, the supreme court, and theodore roosevelt. the love he bore the latter resulted in his election. the two brothers quarreled because bill would not step aside and let teddy run things all over again. the two brothers fought and another ran away with the election. principal events during t.'s administration: roosevelt's trip, the outlook, oyster bay, standard oil, that election. ambition: 1916. recreation: golf, messages to congress. address: cincinnati, o. epitaph: how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless predecessor. tanglefoot, he was the man who first stuck flies on flypaper. tanguway, eva, an actress who did not care even if those on the front row did. tennyson, lord, an english poet who turned a perpetual light on a charging brigade. terry, ellen, a dear old lady whom the world wishes the footlights might always shine upon and upon whom the curtain would never descend. thaw, harry k., famous lawyer endower. entered life as the rich son of a wealthy father. became interested in the stage at an early age, but only got as far as the chorus. later performed on a new york roof garden. alienists say he was the sanest crazy man and the craziest sane man who ever lived. also obtained some publicity by expensive exploring in canada and new hampshire. ambition: wreaths for jerome. recreation: straightening jackets. address: see this morning's paper. themistocles, a greek warrior who fought, but did not run a marathon. third, richard the, a king of england who showed how much he thought of the country by offering to exchange it for any kind of a horse. thumb, thomas, a white pygmy who enriched himself through his misfortunes and the curiosity of the world. tiberius, just a roman emperor who fitted the job. tiffany,(12) of new york city, london, and paris. introduced high prices into the jewelry business. greatly admired by fiance's and millionaires. has gained considerable fame, as his products will pawn on a good margin. ambition: a man in love. (12) ed. note: this is not an advertisement, as the editor is not an actress. time, father, a very old man who has been introduced to everybody. very unpopular with the ladies. a great wound and sorrow healer, but unkind to the old. he went about the world changing babies into men and women, and placing gray hair and wrinkles where they were never wanted. author: of tears. recreation: reaping. address: your home. epitaph: ad finem. tintoretto, a venetian painting manufacturer. together with p. p. rubens he held the record for covering canvas and wearing out brushes. recreation: he never had any. titian, another painter of venice. his works have always been popular with the men. they are exhibited in all european galleries, and cause consternation among clergymen and school teachers. t. certainly could paint. ambition: models. recreation: models. tolstoy, a voice out of the dark. tom. (see richard and harry.) tom, uncle, an old negro actor who appeared in every city, town, village, and hamlet in the united states north of the confederate states. his history was written by mrs. h. b. stowe, and was the match which kindled the civil war. the northerners have since learned that all negroes are not uncle toms, and are wondering whether any mistakes were made back in 1861. tourists, t. h. e., a man and woman who carried a camera, bought post-cards, read baedekers, visited cook's office, rode in carriages, and then told their friends all about the trip. ambition: just one look at everything. address: principally europe. epitaph: they came, they saw, they vanished. troy, helen of, a peach of a girl who eloped with a man and caused the longest siege in history to make her elope back again. turner, j. m. w., an english painter whose paint exploded on canvas. twain, mark, an american who wore long white hair, made after-dinner speeches, received university degrees, and made people laugh. twins, siamese, two men who were closer than brothers. twist, oliver, one of those unfortunates whose history had to be divulged for the financial gain of a great writer and many theatrical mangers. u uffizi, an italian who prevented scores of the old masters from starving to death by filling his house in florence with their canvases. since the morgan art raid the market price has advanced and u.'s investment has become profitable. ulysses, warrior, inventor, and traveler. sprang into fame at the siege of troy, where he invented the horse which recaptured helen. escaped from polyphemus, a one-eyed giant, by sticking a burning telegraph pole in his eye. later performed his greatest feat by evading the sirens. stayed away from home so much his wife forgot what he looked like. his dog, however, recalled the scent and prevented u. from sleeping in the barn. press agent: homer. recreation: travel, wars. address: ithaca. underwood, oscar, known as underwood bill. a gentleman from alabama who walked in a presidential, but ran in a senatorial, race. he had something to do with the high cost of tariffing. unknown, the man who painted thousands of pictures in art galleries. v valesquez, spanish canvas coverer. in the absence of the camera, he was appointed the court oil photographer. exposed a portrait of philip iv in every gallery in the world. art textbooks think a great deal of v. vanderbilt, an american family of means who possess a few railroads, much of new york city, some splendid divorces, and a weakness for newport and newspapers. van dyke, beard inventor and artist. a dutchman who invaded england with portraits and his tonsorial achievement. van houten. he was the man who put cocoa in tin boxes. venus, a dream of a girl who lived long ago, posed for her statue, and had to die after everybody fell in love with her. was born and painted at sea. married at an early age. was a regular heart breaker. v. had an affair with one adonis, and later with vulcan. not much is known of her old-ladyhood, as she refused to pose for statues when advanced in years. ambition: parisian gowns, the love of the gods. recreation: love. address: the louvre, paris. the uffizi gallery, florence. clubs: she was too good looking to be a suffragette. versonnese, paul, decorator of the doges palace, venice, and contributor to most galleries. his work was nearly as prolific as reubens, and two or three of his paintings compare favorably with the naughty titian. vespasian, the man who built the colosseum in rome for the tourists. vespucci, a., an enterprising journalist who arrived on the scene after the discovery had been made. v. wrote the story in such a clever manner he succeeded in cheating the discoverer out of naming the place. (see columbus.) victor, he was the man who put the fox terrier in front of the talking machine. vinci, leonardo da, painted mona lisa for the louvre, paris. his reputation has soared in proportion to the duration of her absence. ambition: to be the morgan family painter. recreation: looking for purchasers. epitaph: he has finished his last supper. virgil, an old text-book writer. had something to do with the aeneid. virgin, vestal, an old maid of rome who was locked up in the forum for protection. she attended the gladiatorial contests and played with her thumbs. vitus, saint, dancing master whose repertoire did not include the turkey trot. voltaire, a frenchman who went around with a bad taste in his mouth. vulcan, fireman and tinsmith. made a number of celebrated forgings. had a career like the ancients and fell in love with venus. w wagner, dick, a dutchman who wrote a few sheets of music, went into the opera business, but died before the good singers or hammerstein prices appeared. walker, johnnie, 1820. spent most of his life at your favorite bar until you appeared. walton, isaac, he was the fellow who started those awful fish stories. washington, george, child model, father, etc. spent early days chopping trees, holding conversations with his father, killing indians, and being brave. later he drove those tea-selling englishmen from the united states, said farewell to his troops, and became a politician. w. decided he was not good enough for a third term and retired. his picture has been widely distributed. ambition: to be the happy father of a big uncle sam. recreation: powdering his wig. address: washington. clubs: anti-ananias. washington, booker t., only a distant relation of the above. a big black man who went about the country raising money to put brains into ivory. he also told his audience how unfortunate they were in not being coons. (see uncle tom.) watson, doctor. he boswelled sherlock holmes. webster, dan., an american statesman and a member of congress before the invention of investigating committees. he died famous. webster, noah, speller, writer, reference-book maker, and language itemizer. w. was the man to whom mark twain paid a glowing tribute by saying he was a great writer, but his stories were too short. wellington, duke of, an englishman who taught a great french general to say "tout est perdu." he later taught england that many a good soldier makes a poor politician. whitehead, of fiume, austria. mission in life was to reduce the size of dreadnaughts. whittington, richard, proprietor of a celebrated back-fence walker. widow, merry, a dream who hung around mr. maxim's restaurant in paris, made love to nobility, toured the world, and finally died. death was caused by overexertion. before the war she was engaged to a balkan prince. w. visited new york, london, and paris. everybody fell in love with her and whistled her praises. past: (?) press agent: frank lehar. ambition: millionaires. recreation: after 11.45 p. m. epitaph: when will there be another like her? wiggs, mrs., a woman who successfully advertised cabbages. williams. he was the man who ruined the shaving-mug business. wilson, puddin' head, a young lawyer who was fathered by mark twain. no relation to the following. wilson, woodrow, one time president of an american football, educational institution, who outgrew his job. he moved up to be governor, made a few cure-all speeches, introduced roosevelt to bryan, changed his address to washington. took out a watchful, waiting policy. is now in who's who, but whether he will remain in that publication or this one cannot be determined at the time of going to press. ambition: to keep roosevelt and bryan running. recreation: teaching, browning, other brain exercises, thinking, congress. address: washington, care joseph tumulty. clubs: pedagogue, mexican. winslow, mrs., known over the world as the lady who soothes the baby's little tummie. wonderland, alice of, traveless discoveress. made a lady of the royal geographical society. she was a great favorite of the children and many grown ups. she always will remain a who's whoess. woolsey, cardinal, a churchman who combined politics with his profession, became wealthy, unfortunate, and was finally written up by shakespeare. wright, orville, one of the inventors of the aeroplane who knows the inside of the business, and believes one life on the ground is worth two in the air. x(13) (13) ed. note: the editor is again compelled to apologize for the x's. xenophon, a greek who endeavored to introduce morals into his country. he died young. xylophones, inventor of the xylophone. y yale, eli, founder of the enemy of harvard and princeton. football, pipe, and bulldog fancier. yorick, an acquaintance of hamlet who was recognized even in an emaciated condition. young, brigham, the man who introduced mohammedanism into the united states and placed utah on the flag. when a young man he became a strong anti-monogamist. moved west with his wives. utah increased in population and was admitted as a state. after building a great temple, dedicated to hymen, he died, leaving a considerable family and a few widows. heirs: see utah census. ambition: london and new york in utah. address: utah. clubs: race suicide. epitaph: like father, like son. z zangwell, israel, a child of the ghetto who believed the pen was more profitable than the pack. ambition: the promised utopia. recreation: zangwell plays. address: the ghetto. clubs: a. o. h. zany, a., the book reviewer who said who was who was the greatest book ever written. zeppelin, ferdinand, manufacturer of wrecked dirigibles, and an aeronaut who knew how to land. insurance still in vogue. ambition: the elevation of the german army. recreation: aeronautics with the kaiser. address: air. clubs: aero. zoroaster. he was the man who introduced fires into warm countries. he also thanks the readers in the name of the editor for their kind attention. mr. punch's dramatic sequels. by st. john hankin. _with fourteen original illustrations by_ e. j. wheeler. london: bradbury, agnew, & co. ld. contents. page alcestis 1 hamlet 21 much ado about nothing 37 the critic 57 the school for scandal 73 she stoops to conquer 91 the lady of lyons 107 caste 125 patience, or bunthorne's bride 141 the second mrs. tanqueray 159 the lady from the sea 177 cæsar and cleopatra 197 the notorious mrs. ebbsmith 215 a dramatized version of omar khayyám 231 list of illustrations. page "his father, aged though he was, scouted the proposition as absurd" 7 "and hamlet stalking in the corridors" 27 "my dear lord, never marry a witty wife!" 45 "but they're very severe on the play" 61 "ah, joseph, you're a sad dog!" 83 "but i've always been shy" 95 "let me give my claude's wife a kiss" 117 mr. eccles makes his hundred and fifty-sixth appearance at the police court 131 "i want to live my life" 147 "she announced her intention of leaving the house for ever" 171 "not brooding, i trust, dear?" 185 "i'd give my genius for your digestion any day" 211 "friday, you know, is the meeting of the agamists' league" 223 "myshticism, difficult word to say, mysticishm" 239 prefatory. _plays end too soon. they never show the whole of what i want to know._ _the curtain falls and i'm perplexed with doubts about what happened next._ _did hamlet's father haunt no more the battlements of elsinore?_ _does lady teazle never call at lady sneerwell's now at all?_ _was benedick's a happy marriage? and will the melnottes keep a carriage?_ _will aubrey take to wife one day another mrs. tanqueray?_ _do eccles and his stepson wrangle? has anything been heard of dangle? what has become of mrs. wangel?_ _i've asked again and yet again these questions--hitherto in vain!_ _i sought the answers near and far. at length they came, and here they are:--_ alcestis. _how admetus was saved from the disagreeable necessity of dying by his wife alcestis, who was permitted to die in his stead, and how heracles, in gratitude for admetus' hospitality, wrestled with death for her and restored her to her husband, has been narrated by euripides. what euripides did not do was to give us any hint of the subsequent history of the reunited couple. did they live happily ever afterwards, or----? but the sequel must show. it is written in the woman-hating vein so often seen in euripides, and its title has been latinized for the benefit of those who have forgotten their greek._ hercules victus. scene.--_before admetus' palace. that worthy enters hurriedly through the royal doors, which he bangs behind him with a slight want of dignity. he soliloquises._ admetus. ye gods, how long must i endure all this, the ceaseless clamour of a woman's tongue? was it for this ye granted me the boon that she might give her life in place of mine, only that heracles might bring her back, torn from the arms of death to plague me thus? this was your boon, in sooth no boon to me. how blind is man, not knowing when he is blest! fool that i was, i mourned alcestis' death almost as much as i should mourn my own. indeed i thought, so great my grief appeared, i would almost have laid my own life down --almost i say--to bring her back to earth. yet, now she lives once more she makes me weep more bitter tears than i did ever shed when i believed her gone beyond recall. [_weeps bitterly._ chorus. first semichorus. oh, what a doubtful blessing is a wife who saves your life and then doth make it doubly hard to live! alas, she doth but give a gift we cannot prize but count it in our eyes as nothing worth--a thing to spurn, to cast away, to form the theme of this depreciatory lay! second semichorus. alcestis, what a shame it is to find this kingly mind so much disturbed, this kingly heart so wrung, by thy too active tongue thou gav'st thy life for his but oh, how wrong it is to make that life which thou so nobly didst restore a thing he values not at all, in fact a bore! first semichorus. o wretched race of men, when shall we see again the peace that once ye had ere woman bad, or mad, did cross your happy path in wrath, and doom you to a tedious life of fear and fret, of unavailing tears and unconcealed regret! second semichorus. o heracles, what shame shall cloud thy previous fame who brought this lady back along the black steep track, where death and she did fare, a pair (at least, as far as we can ascertain) content to those tartarean halls which hear no argument! [_enter alcestis. she is in a bad temper, and is weeping as only euripides' characters can._ alcestis. ah! woe is me! why was i ever born? and why, once dead, did i return again to this distressful earth? oh, heracles, why did you bear me back to this sad place, this palace where admetus sits enthroned? oh, what a disagreeable fate it is to live with such a husband--hear his voice raised ever in complaint, and have no word of gratitude for all i did for him! was there another creature in the world who willingly would die for such a man? not one! his father, aged though he was, scouted the proposition as absurd. his mother, when approached, declined in terms which i should hesitate to reproduce, so frank and so unflattering they were. but i, i gave my life instead of his, and what is my reward? a few cold words of thanks, a complimentary phrase or two, and then he drops the subject, thinks no more about the matter and is quite annoyed when, as may happen once or twice a day, i accidentally allude to it! [illustration: e. j. wheeler. "his father, aged though he was, scouted the proposition as absurd."] admetus. [_bursting into indignant stichomuthia._] not once or twice but fifty times a day. alcestis. nay, you can have too much of a good thing. admetus. i don't agree. speech is a good to men.... alcestis. your drift, as yet, i do not well perceive. admetus. ... yet too much speech is an undoubted ill. alcestis. ah, you rail ever at a woman's tongue. admetus. where the cap fits, why, let it there be worn. alcestis. you spoke not thus when i redeemed your life. admetus. no, for i thought you gone ne'er to return. alcestis. 'twas not of mine own will that i came back. admetus. i'm very certain that 'twas not of mine! alcestis. tell that to heracles who rescued me. admetus. i will, next time he comes to stay with us. alcestis. you say that, knowing that he cannot come. admetus. why should he not? what keeps him then away? alcestis. cleansing augean stables: a good work! admetus. idiot! he never will let well alone. alcestis. [_tired of only getting in one line at a time._] iou! iou! what thankless things are men! and, most of all, how thankless husbands are! we cook their dinners, sew their buttons on, and even on occasion darn their socks, and they repay us thus! but see where comes great heracles himself. 'tis ever thus with heroes. mention them, and they appear. [_enter heracles in the opportune manner customary in greek tragedy._ heracles. [_preparing to salute the gods at great length._] great zeus, and thou, apollo, and thou too---admetus. [_interrupting hurriedly._] oh, heracles, you come in fitting time to this afflicted and much suffering house. heracles. wherefore afflicted? anybody dead? admetus. not dead, but living. that the grievance is. heracles. a plague on riddles! make your meaning clear. admetus. six months, six little months, six drops of time! heracles. you still remain unwontedly obscure. admetus. six months ago you tore my wife from death. heracles. well, what of that? what's all the fuss about? admetus. i know you did it, meaning to be kind, but, oh, it was a terrible mistake. indeed, i think it positively wrong that you should interfere with nature's laws in this extremely inconsiderate way. depend upon it when a lady dies it's most unwise to call her back again. you should have left alcestis to the shades and me to live a happy widower. heracles. ungrateful man, what words are these you speak? were you not glad when i did bring her back? admetus. i _was_. but that was several months ago. and in the interval i have found cause, a dozen times a day, to change my mind. heracles. what cause so strong that you should wish her dead? admetus. well, if you must be told, she's sadly changed; dying has not at all agreed with her. before death took her she was kind and mild, as good a wife as any man could wish, how altered is her disposition now! she scolds the servants, sends away the cook, --a man i've had in my employ for years- and actually criticises me! heracles. i'm really very much distressed to hear this mournful news. but what am i to do? admetus. make death receive her back: an easy task. heracles. but will alcestis see it, do you think? alcestis. please, don't distress yourself on _her_ account; she'd leave her husband upon _any_ terms. is there a woman in the whole wide world that would not rather die a dozen times rather than live her life out with this man, this puling, miserable, craven thing, who lets his wife lay down her life for him and, when by miracle she is restored to earth again and claims his gratitude, has the bad taste to grumble at the fact? admetus. i told you, heracles, she had a tongue. heracles. indeed, she's well equipped in that respect. alcestis. to such a man the stones themselves would speak. heracles. well, lady, are you then content to die? alcestis. i'm positively anxious to be off. heracles. then will i go and make death take you hence. alcestis. i'm sure i shall be very much obliged. admetus. but, oh! not half so much obliged as i. heracles. so be it, then. death won't be far away. and when i've found him and have punched his head, i'll make him come and take you off at once. [_exit heracles._ _the chorus, who appear to have borrowed their metre from "atalanta in calydon," sing as follows:--_ chorus. is this really to put an end to our cares, to the toils where our foot was caught unawares? will heracles really put straight this unfortunate state of affairs? will he overthrow death for the second time here? will he do as he saith and in due time appear with the news which will lay fair alcestis a second time out on her bier? she will die, she proclaims, with the utmost good-will, and she calls us all names in a voice that is shrill while she vows that the sight of admetus, her husband, is making her ill! it hardly seems wise to spurn and reject your husband with cries- to which all men object, but admetus is scarcely the husband to inspire any wife with respect. lo, heracles comes, a hero confessed! but he twiddles his thumbs and looks somewhat depressed. can it be that at last he's been conquered? well, all i can say is, i'm blest! [_the chorus sit down in dejection._ _enter heracles._ heracles. first i salute the gods, great zeus in chief.... admetus. [_interrupting._] oh, skip all that. tell us about the fight. heracles. iou! iou! admetus. don't yap like that. speak up. what is your news? heracles. my friends, i saw death slinking down the drive. i stopped him, told him that this lady here was anxious for his escort to the shades, reminded him that i had once before rescued her from his grasp, and pointed out how generous i was thus to restore what then i took. in fact, i put the best complexion on the matter that i could. alcestis. well? did he say that he would take me back? heracles. by no means. he declined emphatically. he will not take you upon any terms. death is no fool; he knows what he's about! admetus. but did you not compel him to consent? heracles. i did my best. we had a bout or two of wrestling, but he threw me every time. finally, out of breath, and sadly mauled, i ran away--and here i am, in fact. alcestis. you stupid, clumsy, fat, degenerate lout, i positively hate the sight of you! out of my way, or i shall scratch your face! if dejanira feels at all like me, she'll borrow nessus' shirt and make you smart! [_exit angrily._ heracles. oh, what a vixen! can you wonder death, when i approached him, would not take her back? admetus. i can't pretend i'm very much surprised although, if you will pardon the remark, i think you might have made a better fight. better not stay to dine. it's hardly safe. alcestis isn't to be trifled with, and if she murdered you _i_ should be blamed! [_exit sorrowfully._ chorus. [_rising fussily._] how ill-natured of death! what a horrible thing! it quite takes my breath and i pant as i sing. if alcestis is really immortal, what a terrible blow for the king! _curtain._ hamlet. _among the plays which seem specially to require a sequel, "hamlet" must certainly be reckoned. the end of act v. left the distracted kingdom of denmark bereft alike of king, queen, and heir-presumptive. there were thus all the materials for an acute political crisis. it might have been imagined that the crown would fall inevitably to the norwegian prince fortinbras who, being on the spot with an army behind him, certainly seems to have neglected his chances. it is clear, however, from the sequel that fortinbras failed to rise to the occasion, and that horatio, being more an antique roman than a dane, seized his opportunity and by a_ coup d'état _got possession of the vacant throne. nor would fortinbras appear to have resented this, as we find him subsequently visiting horatio at elsinore. there is, however, a nemesis which waits upon usurpers, as the sequel shows. the sequel, by the way, should have been called "ghosts," but that title has been already appropriated by a lesser dramatist._ the new wing at elsinore. scene i.--_the platform before the old part of the castle as in act i. horatio and fortinbras come out of the house swathed in overcoats, the former looking nervously over his shoulder. it is a dark winter's evening after dinner._ fortinbras. [_shivering slightly._] 'tis bitter cold---horatio. [_impatiently._] and you are sick at heart. _i_ know. fortinbras. [_apologetically._] the fact is, when i get a cold i often can't get rid of it for weeks. i really think we may as well stay in. horatio. [_doggedly._] i'm sorry, but i can't agree with you. i shall sit here. [_sits down resolutely with his back to the castle._ fortinbras. [_turning up his coat collar resignedly._] it's perfect rot, you know, to let yourself be frightened by a ghost! horatio. [_angrily._] a ghost! you're always so inaccurate! nobody minds a spectre at the feast less than horatio, but a dozen spectres, all sitting round your hospitable board and clamouring for dinner, are a sight no one can bear with equanimity. of course, i know it's different for you. _you_ don't believe in ghosts!... ugh, what was that? fortinbras. nothing. horatio. i'm sure i saw a figure moving there. fortinbras. absurd! it's far too dark to _see_ at all. [_argumentatively._] after all, what _are_ ghosts? in the most high and palmy state of rome a little ere the mightiest julius fell, people saw _hoards_ of them! just ring for lights, and let us make ourselves as comfortable as this inclement atmosphere permits. horatio. [_despondently._] i'd ring with pleasure, if i thought the bell had any prospect of being answered. but as there's not a servant in the house---fortinbras. [_annoyed._] _no_ servants? horatio. [_bitterly._] as my genial friend, macbeth, would probably have put it, "not a maid is left this vault to brag of." in other words, they left _en masse_ this morning. fortinbras. dash it all! something is rotten in the state of denmark when you, its reigning monarch, cannot keep your servants for a week. horatio. [_sadly._] ah, fortinbras, if you inhabited a haunted castle you'd find _your_ servants would give warning too. it's not as if we only had _one_ ghost. they simply _swarm_! [_ticking them off on his fingers._] there's hamlet's father. he walks the battlements from ten to five. you'll see him here in half an hour or so. claudius, the late king, haunts the state apartments, the queen the keep, ophelia the moat, and rosencrantz and guildenstern the hall. polonius you will usually find behind the arras murmuring platitudes, and hamlet stalking in the corridors. alas, poor ghost! his fatal indecision pursues him still. he can't make up his mind which rooms to _take_--you're never safe from _him_! fortinbras. but why object to meeting hamlet's ghost? i've heard he was a most accomplished prince, a trifle fat and scant of breath, perhaps; but then a disembodied hamlet would doubtless show a gratifying change in that respect. horatio. [_irritably._] i tell you, fortinbras, it's not at all a theme for joking. however, when the new wing's finished i shall move in, and all the ghosts in limbo may settle here as far as i'm concerned. [illustration: e. j. wheeler. "and hamlet stalking in the corridors."] fortinbras. when will that be? horatio. the architect declares he'll have the roof on by the end of march. fortinbras. [_rising briskly._] it is a nipping and an eager air. suppose we stroll and see it? horatio. [_rising also._] with all my heart. indeed, i think we'd better go at once. [_looks at watch._ the ghost of hamlet's father's almost due. his morbid love of punctuality makes him arrive upon the stroke of ten, and as the castle clock is always fast he's rather apt to be before his time. [_the clock begins to strike as they exeunt hastily. on the last stroke, ghost enters._ ghost. i am hamlet's father's spirit, doomed for a certain term to walk the night, and for the day.... [_stops, seeing no one there._ what! nobody about? why, this is positively disrespectful. i'll wait until horatio returns and, when i've got him quietly alone, i will a tale unfold will make him jump! [_sits down resolutely to wait for horatio._ scene ii.--_before the new wing of the castle. the two clowns, formerly grave-diggers but now employed with equal appropriateness as builders, are working on the structure in the extremely leisurely fashion to be expected of artizans who are not members of a trades union._ 1st clown. [_in his best elizabethan manner._] nay, but hear you, goodman builder---2nd clown. [_in homely vernacular._] look here, bill, you can drop that jargon. there's no one here but ourselves, and i ain't amused by it. it's all very well to try it on when there's gentlefolk about, but when we're alone you take a rest. 1st clown. [_puzzled._] ay, marry! 2nd clown. [_throwing down tools._] stow it, i say, or i'll have to make you. marry, indeed! if you mean "yes," say "yes." if you mean "no," say "no." 1st clown. all right, mate. 2nd clown. [_grumbling._] it's bad enough staying up all night building more rooms on to this confounded castle--i should have thought it was big enough and ugly enough without _our_ additions--but if i'm to listen to _your_ gab, s'help me----! 1st clown. hush! here comes some one. [_they make a valiant pretence of work as horatio and fortinbras enter._ horatio. [_ecstatically, completely deceived by this simple ruse._] _my_ master-builders! fortinbras. idle dogs! 1st clown. [_elizabethan again._] argal, goodman builder, will he nill he, he that builds not ill builds well, and he that builds not well builds ill. therefore, perpend! horatio. [_appreciatively._] how absolute the knave is! fortinbras. he seems to me to be an absolute fool. horatio. not at all. a most intelligent working man. i'll draw him out. [_to 1st clown._] when will the house be finished, sirrah? 1st clown. when it is done, sir. horatio. ay, fool, and when will that be? 1st clown. when it is finished, o' course. horatio. [_to fortinbras._] there! what do you call _that_? witty, eh? fortinbras. i call it perfectly idiotic, if you ask me. horatio. well, well; we'll try again. [_to 1st clown._] and whose is the house, fellow? 1st clown. [_fatuously._] marry, his that owns it. ask another. horatio. [_to fortinbras._] ha! ha! good again. by the lord, fortinbras, as hamlet used to say, the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, it galls his kibe. fortinbras. [_savagely._] the toe of the courtier is getting so perilously near the person of the peasant that you'd better get rid of the latter as soon as possible. horatio. [_doubtfully._] perhaps you're right. and yet i was always taught to consider that kind of thing awfully entertaining. but, there. fashions change in humour as in other things. send them away. fortinbras. [_giving them money._] away with you, fellows. go and get drunk. [_exeunt clowns._ horatio. [_relapses into blank verse on their departure._] what think you of the new wing, fortinbras? the whole effect is cheerful, is it not? good large sash windows, lots of light and air; no mediæval nonsense. fortinbras. [_who does not admire the building._] so i see! horatio. no ghosts _here_, eh, to stalk about the rooms and fade against the crowing of the cock? fortinbras. probably not--and, yet--look there, horatio; there's something in the shadow over there, moving towards the house. it's going in. stop it, horatio. horatio. [_furious._] here, i can't stand this. i'll cross it though it blast me. stay, illusion! [_the figure stops._ are you aware, sir, that you're trespassing? this is a private house. ghost. [_in a sepulchral voice._] my private house! horatio. oh, come, you know, you can't mean that! _your_ house? considering that i'm building it myself- of course, assisted by an architect- i think you must admit there's some mistake. ghost. [_turning and advancing towards them._] pooh! what do _i_ care for your architect? it's _mine_, i say, _my_ house, _my_ plot, _my_ play. _i_ made them all! horatio. oh, my prophetic soul! shakspeare! ghost. the same. horatio. i say, confound it all, do _you_ propose to haunt the castle too? ghost. yes, the new wing. horatio. it's really much too bad. you've filled the old part of the house with spectres; i think you might have left the new to me. fortinbras. that seems a reasonable compromise. ghost. i shall stay _here_; make up your mind to that, but if you like to share the wing with me i've no objection. horatio. [_stiffly._] thanks, i'd rather not. i shall consult with my solicitor, and if he can't eject you from the place i'll sell it, ghosts and all! come, fortinbras. [_exit with dignity._ _curtain._ much ado about nothing. _the end of "much ado about nothing" must always leave the sympathetic playgoer in tears. the future looks black for everybody concerned. claudio's jealous disposition will make him a most uncomfortable husband for the resuscitated hero, while benedick and beatrice are likely to find that a common taste in badinage is not the most satisfactory basis for matrimony. when it is added that don john's genius for plotting is sure in the end to get him into trouble one feels that nothing can be gloomier than the prospects of the entire cast._ more ado about nothing. scene.--_the garden of benedick's house at padua. benedick is sitting on a garden seat, sunning himself indolently. beatrice is beside him, keeping up her reputation for conversational brilliancy by a series of sprightly witticisms._ beatrice. very likely i do talk twice as much as i should. but then, if i talk too much you certainly listen far too little, so we are quits. do you hear? benedick. [_opening his eyes slowly._] eh? beatrice. i believe you were asleep! but there--'tis a great compliment to my wit. like orpheus, i can put even the savage beasts to sleep with it. [_benedick's eyes close again, and he appears to sink into a profound doze._] but if the beasts go to sleep there's no use in being witty. i suppose orpheus never thought of that. come, wake up, good signior beast. [_prods him coquettishly with her finger._] have you forgotten that the duke is coming? benedick. [_drowsily._] when will he be here? beatrice. ere you have done gaping. benedick. [_terribly bored by this badinage._] my dear, if only you would occasionally answer a plain question. when do you expect him? beatrice. [_skittish to the last._] plain questions should only be answered by plain people. benedick. [_yawning heartily._] a pretty question then. beatrice. pretty questions should only be asked by pretty people. there! what do you think of _that_ for wit! benedick. really, my dear, i can hardly trust myself to characterise it in--er--fitting terms. [_rings bell. enter page._] when is the duke expected? page. in half-an-hour, sir. benedick. thank you. [_exit page._ beatrice. [_pouting._] you needn't have rung. i could have told you that. benedick. i am sure you could, my dear. but as you wouldn't---beatrice. i was going to, if you had given me time. benedick. experience has taught me, my dear beatrice, that it is usually much quicker to ring! [_closes his eyes again._] beatrice. how rude you are! benedick. [_half opening them._] eh? beatrice. i said it was very rude of you to go to sleep when i am talking. benedick. [_closing his eyes afresh._] it's perfectly absurd of you to talk when i am going to sleep. beatrice. [_girding herself for fresh witticisms._] why absurd? benedick. because i don't hear what you say, of course, my love. beatrice. [_whose repartees have been scattered for the moment by this adroit compliment._] well, well, sleep your fill, bear. i'll go and bandy epigrams with ursula. [_exit beatrice. benedick looks cautiously round to see if she is really gone, and then heaves a sigh of relief._ benedick. poor beatrice! if only she were not so incorrigibly sprightly. she positively drives one to subterfuge. [_produces a book from his pocket, which he reads with every appearance of being entirely awake._ _enter don pedro, as from a journey._ _benedick does not see him._ don pedro. signior benedick! benedick. [_starting up on hearing his name._] ah, my dear lord. welcome to padua. don pedro. [_looks him up and down._] but how's this? you look but poorly, my good benedick. benedick. i am passing well, my lord. don pedro. and your wife, the fair beatrice? as witty as ever? benedick. [_grimly._] quite! don pedro. [_rubbing his hands._] i felt sure of it! _i_ made the match, remember! _i_ said to old leonato "she were an excellent match for benedick" as soon as i saw her. benedick. [_sighing._] so you did, so you did. don pedro. [_puzzled._] i'm bound to say you don't seem particularly happy. benedick. [_evasively._] oh, we get on well enough. don pedro. well enough! why, what's the matter, man? come, be frank with me. benedick. [_impressively._] my dear lord, never marry a witty wife! if you do, you'll repent it. but it's a painful subject. let's talk of something else. how's claudio? i thought we should see him--and hero--with you. don pedro. [_looking slightly uncomfortable._] claudio is--er--fairly well. benedick. why, what's the matter with him? _his_ wife isn't developing into a wit, is she? don pedro. no. she's certainly not doing _that_! benedick. happy claudio! but why aren't they here then? [illustration: e. j. wheeler. "my dear lord, never marry a witty wife!"] don pedro. [_coughing nervously._] well, the truth is, claudio's marriage hasn't been exactly one of my successes. you remember i made _that_ match too? benedick. i remember. don't they hit it off? don pedro. [_querulously._] it was all claudio's suspicious temper. he never would disabuse his mind of the idea that hero was making love to somebody else. you remember he began that even before he was married. first it was _me_ he suspected. then it was the mysterious man under her balcony. benedick. you suspected him too. don pedro. that's true. but that was all my brother john's fault. anyhow, i thought when they were once married things would settle down comfortably. benedick. you were curiously sanguine. i should have thought anyone would have seen that after that scene in the church they would never be happy together. don pedro. perhaps so. anyhow, they weren't. of course, everything was against them. what with my brother john's absolute genius for hatching plots, and my utter inability to detect them, not to speak of claudio's unfortunate propensity for overhearing conversations and misunderstanding them, the intervals of harmony between them were extremely few, and, at last, hero lost patience and divorced him. benedick. so bad as that? how did it happen? don pedro. oh, in the old way. my brother pretended that hero was unfaithful, and as he could produce no evidence of the fact whatever, of course claudio believed him. so, with his old passion for making scenes, he selected the moment when i and half-a-dozen others were staying at the house and denounced her before us all after dinner. benedick. the church scene over again? don pedro. no. it took place in the drawing-room. hero behaved with her usual dignity, declined to discuss claudio's accusations altogether, put the matter in the hands of her solicitor, and the decree was made absolute last week. benedick. she was perfectly innocent, of course? don pedro. completely. it was merely another _ruse_ on the part of my amiable brother. really, john's behaviour was inexcusable. benedick. was claudio greatly distressed when he found how he had been deceived? don pedro. he was distracted. but hero declined to have anything more to do with him. she said she could forgive a man for making a fool of himself once, but twice was too much of a good thing. benedick. [_frowning._] that sounds rather more epigrammatic than a really _nice_ wife's remarks should be. don pedro. she had great provocation. benedick. that's true. and one can see her point of view. it was the publicity of the thing that galled her, no doubt. but poor claudio had no reticence whatever. that scene in the church was in the worst possible taste. but i forgot. _you_ had a share in that. don pedro. [_stiffly._] i don't think we need go into that question. benedick. and now to select the hour, after a dinner party, for taxing his wife with infidelity! how like claudio! really, he must be an absolute fool. don pedro. oh, well, _your_ marriage doesn't seem to have been a conspicuous success, if you come to that. benedick. [_savagely._] that's no great credit to you, is it? _you_ made the match. you said as much a moment ago. don pedro. i know, i know. but seriously, my dear benedick, what is wrong? benedick. [_snappishly._] beatrice, of course. you don't suppose _i'm_ wrong, do you? don pedro. come, that's better. a spark of the old benedick. let me call your wife to you, and we'll have one of your old encounters of wit. benedick. [_seriously alarmed._] for heaven's sake, no. ah, my dear lord, if you only knew how weary i am of wit, especially beatrice's wit. don pedro. you surprise me. i remember i thought her a most amusing young lady. benedick. [_tersely._] you weren't married to her. don pedro. but what is it you complain of? benedick. beatrice _bores me_. it is all very well to listen to sparkling sallies for ten minutes or so, but beatrice sparkles for hours together. she is utterly incapable of answering the simplest question without a blaze of epigram. when i ask her what time it is, she becomes so insufferably facetious that all the clocks stop in disgust. and once when i was thoughtless enough to enquire what there was for dinner, she made so many jokes on the subject that i had to go down without her. and even then the soup was cold! don pedro. [_quoting._] "here you may see benedick, the married man!" benedick. don't _you_ try to be funny too! one joker in a household is quite enough, i can tell you. and poor beatrice's jokes aren't always in the best of taste either. the other day, when the vicar came to lunch he was so shocked at her that he left before the meal was half over and his wife has never called since. don pedro. my poor benedick, i wish i could advise you. but i really don't know what to suggest. my brother could have helped you, i'm sure. he was always so good at intrigue. but unfortunately i had him executed after his last exploit with claudio. it's most unlucky. but that's the worst of making away with a villain. you never know when you may need him. poor john could always be depended upon in an emergency of this kind. benedick. [_gloomily._] he is certainly a great loss. don pedro. don't you think you could arrange so that beatrice should overhear you making love to someone else? we've tried that sort of thing more than once in this play. benedick. [_acidly._] as the result has invariably been disastrous, i think we may dismiss that expedient from our minds. no, there's nothing for it but to put up with the infliction, and by practising a habit of mental abstraction, reduce the evil to within bearable limits. don pedro. i don't think i quite follow you. benedick. in plain english, my dear lord, i find the only way to go on living with beatrice is never to listen to her. as soon as she begins to be witty i fall into a kind of swoon, and in that comatose condition i can live through perfect coruscations of brilliancy without inconvenience. don pedro. does she like that? benedick. candidly, i don't think she does. don pedro. hold! i have an idea. benedick. [_nervously._] i hope not. your ideas have been singularly unfortunate hitherto in my affairs. don pedro. ah, but you'll approve of this. benedick. what is it? don pedro. leave your wife, and come away with me. benedick. [_doubtfully._] she'd come after us. don pedro. yes, but we should have the start. benedick. that's true. by jove, i'll do it! let's go at once. [_rises hastily._ don pedro. i think you ought to leave some kind of message for her--just to say good-bye; you know. it seems more polite. benedick. perhaps so. [_tears leaf out of pocket-book._] what shall it be, prose or verse? i remember claudio burst into poetry when he was taking leave of hero. such bad poetry too! don pedro. i think you might make it verse--as you're leaving her for ever. it seems more in keeping with the solemnity of the occasion. benedick. so it does. [_writes._] bored to death by beatrice' tongue was the hero that lived here---don pedro. hush! isn't that your wife over there in the arbour? benedick. [_losing his temper._] dash it all! there's nothing but eaves-dropping in this play. don pedro. perhaps she doesn't see us. let's steal off, anyhow, on the chance. [_they creep off on tip-toe (r) as beatrice enters with similar caution (l)._ beatrice. [_watching them go._] bother! i thought i should overhear what they were saying. i believe benedick is really running away. it's just as well. if he hadn't, _i_ should. he had really grown too dull for anything. [_sees note which benedick has left._] ah, so he's left a message. "farewell for ever," i suppose. [_reads it. stamps her foot._] monster! if i ever see him again i'll scratch him! _curtain._ the critic. _everybody who has seen "the critic" must have been filled with curiosity to read the press notices on mr. puff's tragedy "the spanish armada." the following sequel to sheridan's comedy embodies some of these._ the other critics. scene.--_dangle's house. mr. and mrs. dangle, sneer and sir fretful plagiary discovered discussing the first performance of puff's play, which has taken place a week previously. a table is littered with press cuttings dealing with the event, supplied by the indispensable romeike._ sir fretful plagiary. i give you my word, the duel scene was taken wholly from my comedy _the lovers abandoned_--pilfered, egad! dangle. bless my soul! you don't say so? sir fretful plagiary. and _tilburina's_ speech about the "finches of the grove." 'twas _i_ first thought of finches, in my tragedy of _antoninus_! dangle. but i can't believe my friend puff can have borrowed deliberately from _you_, sir fretful. sneer. no one could possibly believe _that_! sir fretful plagiary. eh? mrs. dangle. it must have been a coincidence. sir fretful plagiary. coincidence! egad, madam, 'twas sheer theft. and that use of the white handkerchief! stolen bodily, on my conscience. coincidence! dangle. [_judicially._] it may be so--though he _is_ my friend. sir fretful plagiary. _may_ be so! it _is_ so! zounds, dangle, i take it very ill that you should have any doubt at all about the matter! dangle. [_hedging._] the resemblances are certainly very marked--though he _is_ my friend. but will you hear what the critics say about it? [_turning nervously to pile of press cuttings._ [illustration: e. j. wheeler. "but they're very severe on the play."] sir fretful plagiary. do they say anything about his indebtedness to _me_? sneer. not a word, i dare be sworn. sir fretful plagiary. then i don't want to hear them. none of the rogues know their business. dangle. but they're very severe on the play. sir fretful plagiary. are they? there's something in the fellows, after all. pray read us some of the notices. dangle. shall i begin with _the times_? 'tis very satirical, and as full of quotations as a pudding is of plums. sneer. i know the style--a vocabulary recruited from all the dead and living languages. 'tis the very babel of dramatic criticism. begin, dangle. dangle. [_reading._] "the philosopher who found in thought the proof of existence, crystallised his theory in the phrase '_cogito ergo sum_,' 'i think, therefore, i exist.' in this he found the explanation of what hugo called the _néant géant_. the theory of the author of _the spanish armada_, on the contrary, seems to be '_sum, ergo non cogitabo_,' 'i exist, therefore i need not think'----" sir fretful plagiary. ha! ha! very good, i' faith. dangle. [_continuing._] "'_lasciate ogni speranza_' the audience murmurs with dante, as three mortal hours pass and mr. puff is still prosing. nor has he any dramatic novelty to offer us. the _scène à faire_ is on conventional lines. the boards are hoar with the _neiges d'antan_. there is the _anagnorisis_ desiderated by aristotle, and the unhappy ending required by the elizabethans. the inevitable _peripeteia_----" mrs. dangle. you know, mr. dangle, i don't understand a single word you're reading. sneer. nor i, upon my soul. sir fretful plagiary. it is certainly somewhat difficult. dangle. shall i omit a few sentences, and go on again, where the allusions are less obscure? [_reads half aloud to himself, knitting his brows in the effort to understand what it is all about._] "no trace of heine's _weltschmerz_ ... _capo e espada_ ... nietschze's _uebermensch_ ... _ne coram pueros_ ... petrarch's immortal _io t'amo_ ... _le canif du jardinier et celui de mon père_----" mrs. dangle. really, mr. dangle, if you can find nothing more intelligible to read than that farrago of jargon, i shall go away. pray read us something in _english_, for a change. dangle. [_much relieved, selecting another cutting._] here's the _daily telegraph_--a whole column. sneer. not much _english_ there, i'll warrant. dangle. [_reading._] "time was when the london playhouses had not been invaded by the coarse suggestiveness or the veiled indelicacy of the norwegian stage, when _paterfamilias_ could still take his daughters to the theatre without a blush. those days are past. the master--as his followers call him--like a deadly upas tree, has spread his blighting influence over our stage. morality, shocked at the fare that is nightly set before her, shuns the playhouse, and vice usurps the scene once occupied by the manly and the true----" sneer. [_who has been beating time._] hear! hear! dangle. "in the good old days, when macready----" sir fretful plagiary. zounds, mr. dangle, don't you think we might leave macready out of the question? i notice that when the _daily telegraph_ mentions macready the reference never occupies less than a quarter of a column. you might omit that part, and take up the thread further on. dangle. very well. [_continuing._] "it is impossible not to be astonished that a writer of mr. puff's talents should break away from the noble traditions of shakspeare to follow in the footsteps of the scandinavian----" mrs. dangle. surely, mr. dangle, we've had that before. dangle. [_testily._] no; not in the same words. mrs. dangle. but the sense---dangle. egad, why will you interrupt! you can't expect a writer for the penny press to have something new to say in every sentence! how the plague is a dramatic critic who has nothing to say to fill a column, if he is never to be allowed to repeat himself? sneer. how, indeed! sir fretful plagiary. ah, i remember when my play _the indulgent husband_ was produced---sneer. [_yawning._] i think, dangle, you might leave the _telegraph_ and try one of the weekly papers. what does _the world_ say? dangle. as you will. [_selecting a new cutting._] "in his new play _the spanish armada_ mr. puff has set himself to deal with one of those problems of feminine psychology with which ibsen, hauptmann, and sudermann, and all the newer school of continental dramatists have made us familiar. the problem is briefly this. when filial duty beckons a woman one way and passion another, which call should she obey? should she set herself to 'live her life,' in the modern phrase, to realise her individuality and stand forth glad and free as gregers werle says? or should she deny her _ego_, bow to the old conventions, accept the old shibboleths and surrender her love? like _nora_, like _hedda_, _tilburina_ is a personality at war with its environment...." sir fretful plagiary. [_interrupting._] pray, mr. dangle, did you not tell me the critics were all unfavourable to mr. puff's play? dangle. nearly all of them. but if the other critics abuse a play, you will always find the critic of _the world_ will praise it. 'tis the nature of the man. sir fretful plagiary. but how does he know what the other fellows will say? dangle. easily. you see, he writes only for a weekly paper, and always reads what the others have said first. _then_ he takes the opposite view. sneer. no wonder he's so often right! dangle. [_continuing._] "in whiskerandos we have the man of primary emotions only. like solnes, he climbs no steeples; like lövborg, he may now and then be seen with the vine leaves in his hair...." mrs. dangle. stop, stop, mr. dangle! surely there must be some mistake. i don't remember that whiskerandos had anything in his hair. he wore a helmet all the time! dangle. [_irritably._] metaphor, madam, metaphor! [_continuing._] "in lord burleigh we hear something of the epic silence which is so tremendous in borkman...." sir fretful plagiary. egad, mr. dangle, doesn't the fellow abuse the play at all? dangle. [_looking through the article._] i don't think he does. sir fretful plagiary. then i'll hear no more of him. what possible pleasure can there be in hearing criticisms of other people's plays if they are favourable? sneer. none whatever! [_enter servant._ servant. [_announcing._] mr. puff! dangle. [_advancing to meet him with a smile of the warmest affability._] ah, my dear friend, we were reading the notice of your tragedy in _the world_. 'tis extremely friendly. and as sir fretful remarked a moment since, "what pleasure can there be in reading criticisms of people's plays if they aren't favourable?" puff. sir fretful is most obliging. sir fretful plagiary. the _telegraph_ was somewhat severe, though, eh, mr. puff? puff. 'tis very like. dangle. you have not seen it? let me read it to you. [_searches eagerly in pile of cuttings._ puff. [_indifferently._] i never look at unfavourable criticisms. sneer. a wise precaution, truly! puff. very. it saves valuable time. for if a notice is unfavourable, i am always sure to have it read aloud to me by one d----d good-natured friend or another! _curtain._ the school for scandal. _"the school for scandal" ends, it will be remembered, with the reconciliation of sir peter and lady teazle, the complete exposure of joseph surface and the rehabilitation of charles. but how long did the teazle reconciliation last? and if sir oliver surface left all his fortune to his nephew charles, how long did that young gentleman take to run through it?_ the relapse of lady teazle. scene.--_room in sir peter teazle's house. sir peter and lady teazle discovered wrangling as in act ii._ sir peter. lady teazle, lady teazle, i'll not bear it. lady teazle. sir peter, sir peter, you've told me that a hundred times. this habit of repeating yourself is most distressing. 'tis a sure sign of old age. sir peter. [_in a passion._] oons, madam, will you never be tired of flinging my age in my face? lady teazle. lud, sir peter, 'tis you that fling it in mine. how often have you said to me [_beating time_] "when an old bachelor marries a _young_ wife----" sir peter. and if i have, lady teazle, you needn't repeat it after me. but you live only to plague me. and yet 'twas but six months ago you vowed never to cross me again. yes, madam, six months ago, when i found you concealed behind a screen in mr. surface's library, you promised that if i would forgive you your future conduct should prove the sincerity of your repentance. i forgave you, madam, and this is my reward! lady teazle. and am _i_ to blame, sir peter, for your ill-humours? must i always be making concessions? to please you, i have given up all routs and assemblies, attend no balls nor quadrilles, talk no scandal, never ogle nor flirt. i go no more to my lady sneerwell's, though i vow hers was a most delightful house to visit. such fashion and elegance. such wit! such delicate malice! sir peter. [_fretfully._] just so, madam; that is what i complain of. all the while you are longing to return to these follies. you are not happy when you are alone with me. lady teazle. great heavens, sir peter: you must not ask for miracles. what woman of fashion is ever happy alone with her husband? sir peter. there it is, lady teazle. you think only of fashion. and yet, when i married you---lady teazle. [_yawning._] lud, sir peter, why will you be always returning to that painful subject? sir peter. vastly painful, no doubt, madam, since it prevents you from marrying mr. surface, behind whose screen i found you. lady teazle. [_yawning more heartily._] mr. surface? but 'twas charles you used to suspect. sir peter. [_angrily._] and now 'tis joseph. zounds, madam, is a man never to be allowed to change his mind? [_raising his voice in fury._] i say 'tis joseph! joseph!! joseph!!! [_enter joseph surface. sir peter and lady teazle are obviously disconcerted at this inopportune arrival, and say nothing. joseph has greatly changed in appearance in the six months which have elapsed between the play and the sequel. he has lost his sleekness and his air of conscious virtue, and looks like a careless, good-humoured man-about-town._ joseph. [_obviously enjoying their discomfort._] sir peter, your servant. lady teazle, your most obedient [_bows profoundly_]. sir peter. [_stiffly._] to what, mr. surface, do we owe the _honour_ of this visit? joseph. [_blandly, correcting him._] _pleasure_, sir peter. sir peter. [_testily._] i said "honour," sir. joseph. [_easily._] i came at the invitation of sir oliver, who is staying in your house. he desired to see me. lady teazle. [_viciously, to sir peter._] if this gentleman's business is with sir oliver, perhaps he will explain why he has intruded in _this_ room. joseph. [_amused._] with pleasure. my attention was arrested by the sound of voices raised in dispute. i heard my name mentioned loudly more than once, and, recognizing one of the voices as that of lady teazle [_with a low bow_], i thought it better to interpose to defend my character at once. lady teazle. [_stamping her foot._] insolent! sir peter. [_chuckling._] ha, ha! very good. i' faith, mr. surface, i could almost find it in my heart to forgive you for your injuries towards me when you talk like that. joseph. injuries, sir peter? i never did you an injury. that affair of the screen was the merest misunderstanding. i had no desire at all to capture the affections of lady teazle. on the contrary, 'twould have been highly inconvenient for me. 'twas your ward maria that i wished to win. lady teazle. monster! joseph. [_continuing._] unhappily, lady teazle mistook the nature of my attentions and i, knowing her temper [_bowing to lady teazle_], feared to undeceive her lest she should use her influence to prejudice me in the eyes of your ward. that, sir peter, is the true explanation of the situation in which you found lady teazle on that unlucky morning. lady teazle. [_with suppressed fury._] pray sir peter, do you propose to continue to permit this gentleman to speak of me in this way? sir peter. certainly, madam. everything that mr. surface has said seems to me to bear the stamp of truth. lady teazle. ah! joseph. so, you see, sir peter, you never had any real cause of jealousy towards me. my conduct was foolish, i admit, but it was never criminal. sir peter. joseph, i believe you. give me your hand. six months ago i thought you guilty of the basest treachery towards me. but a year of marriage with lady teazle has convinced me that, in her relations with you as in her relations with me, it is always lady teazle who is in the wrong. [_they shake hands warmly._ lady teazle. i will not stay here to be insulted in this manner. i will go straight to lady sneerwell's, and tear both your characters to tatters. [_exit in a violent passion._ sir peter. oons, what a fury! but when an old bachelor marries a young wife---joseph. come, come, sir peter, no sentiments! sir peter. what, _you_ say that! my dear joseph, this is indeed a reformation. had it been charles now, i should not have been surprised. joseph. egad, sir peter, in the matter of sentiments charles, for a long time, had a most unfair advantage of me. for, having no character to lose, he had no need of sentiments to support it. but now i have as little character as he, and we start fair. now i am a free man; i say what i think, do what i please. scandal has done its worst with me, and i no longer fear it. whereas, when i had a character for morality to maintain, all my time was wasted in trying to live up to it. i had to conceal every trifling flirtation, and had finally wrapped myself in such a web of falsehood that when your hand tore away the veil, i give you my word, i was almost grateful. depend upon it, sir peter, there's no possession in the world so troublesome as a good reputation. sir peter. [_digging him in the ribs._] ah, joseph, you're a sad dog. but here comes your uncle, sir oliver. i'll leave you with him. [_exit._ _enter sir oliver, reading a sheaf of legal documents._ sir oliver. [_reading._] eighty, one hundred and twenty, two hundred and twenty, three hundred pounds! gad, the dog will ruin me. joseph. sir oliver, your servant. [illustration: e. j. wheeler. "ah, joseph, you're a sad dog!"] sir oliver. [_looking up._] eh? is that you, nephew. yes, i remember. i sent for you. joseph. you are busy this morning, uncle. i'll wait upon you another day. sir oliver. no, no, joseph. stay, and hear what i have to tell you. i sent for you to say that i had decided to pardon your past misconduct and restore you to favour. six months of charles's society have convinced me of the folly of adopting a reprobate. joseph. i thought they would, uncle. sir oliver. your brother's extravagances pass all bounds. here are four writs which were served upon him but yesterday. and the fellow has the assurance to send them on to me. [_joseph laughs heartily._] zounds, nephew, don't stand chuckling there. and his character has not reformed one whit, in spite of his promises. his flirtations with my lady sneerwell and others are so excessive that maria has quite thrown him over, and the engagement is broken off. add to this that i have paid his debts three times, only to find him contracting fresh liabilities, and you may judge that my patience is exhausted. joseph. but these are old stories, uncle. you knew that charles was vicious and extravagant when you made him your heir. he has done nothing fresh to offend you. sir oliver. on the contrary. he has done something which has hurt me deeply. joseph. how absurd of him, uncle, when he knows that he is dependent wholly on your bounty! sir oliver. wait till you have heard the whole story. a week ago your brother came to me for money to meet some gambling debt. i refused him. whereupon, he returned to his house, had in an auctioneer and sold everything that it contained. joseph. [_much amused._] and did you play little premium a second time, uncle? sir oliver. [_testily._] certainly not, sir. on this occasion i left the rogue to settle matters for himself. joseph. but i see no great harm in this. why should not charles sell his furniture? sir oliver. [_angrily._] deuce take his furniture. he sold my picture! joseph. what, "the ill-looking little fellow over the settee"? sir oliver. yes. joseph. ha! ha! ha! delicious! sold his uncle's portrait! gad, i like his spirit. sir oliver. you seem vastly entertained, nephew! joseph. i confess the humour of the situation appeals to me. sir oliver. happily for you i am less easily amused. no, no; charles is a heartless scoundrel, and i'll disown him. joseph. no, no, uncle. he's no worse than other young men. sir oliver. but he sold my picture! joseph. he was pressed for money. sir oliver. [_exasperated._] but he sold my picture!! joseph. he meant no harm, i'll be bound. sir oliver. [_still more enraged._] but he sold my picture!!! [_enter sir peter hurriedly, looking pale and disordered._ joseph. my dear sir peter, you are ill! you have had bad news? sir oliver. sir peter, old friend, what is it? sir peter. [_gasping._] lady teazle--- [_stops, choked with passion._ sir oliver. not dead? sir peter. dead! hell and furies! if it were only that! no; run away with your profligate nephew charles! joseph. impossible! sir oliver. is this certain? sir peter. ay. rowley saw them driving together in a post-chaise towards richmond, not ten minutes ago. sir oliver. then i disown him. joseph, you are my heir. but see that you behave yourself, or i'll disinherit you, too, and leave my money to a missionary society. _curtain._ she stoops to conquer. _many people must have wondered whether happiness resulted from the marriage between charles marlow, whose shyness with ladies, it will be remembered, prevented his ever having a word to say to any woman above the rank of a barmaid, and the vivacious kate hardcastle. the following sequel reveals the painful truth._ still stooping. scene i.--_the parlour of charles marlow's house. he and kate are sitting on opposite sides of the fire. silence reigns, and charles fidgets nervously._ kate. [_anticipating a remark subsequently made by paula tanqueray._] six minutes! charles. [_finding his tongue with an effort._] er--eh? kate. exactly six minutes, dear, since you made your last remark. charles. [_laughing uneasily and blushing._] um--ah!--ha! ha. kate. well? what are you going to say next? it's really time you made an observation of some kind, you know. charles. [_helplessly._] um--er--i've nothing to say. kate. [_rallying him._] come, make an effort. charles. [_in desperation._] it's--er--a fine day. kate. [_genially._] considering that it's raining steadily, dear, and has been for the past half-hour, i hardly think that can be considered a fortunate opening. charles. [_covered with confusion._] confound it! so it is. forgive me--er--my dear, i didn't know what i was saying. kate. you very seldom do, dear--to me. charles. what a fool you must think me! kate. [_touched by his evident sincerity._] never mind. it's a shame to laugh at you. but you _are_ rather absurd, you know. [_she goes over and kisses him. he accepts the caress with gratitude, but blushes painfully._] [illustration: e. j. wheeler. "but i've always been shy."] charles. i know, my love. but i've always been shy like that. it's an idiosyncrasy. kate. not idiosyncrasy, dear. idiocy. the words are so much alike. charles. [_hurt._] ah, now you're laughing at me! kate. of course i am, goose. [_argumentatively._] you see, dear, as long as you were a bachelor it was all very well to be bashful. but now that we are married, i really think you ought to fight against it! charles. fight against it! i fight against it every hour of the day. every morning i say to myself, "i really must get over this ridiculous shyness. i must try and show kate how much i--er--love her." kate. you are curiously unsuccessful, dear. charles. [_miserably._] i feel that. but it's not for lack of trying. [_desperately._] do you suppose, kate, that anything but the strongest effort of will keeps me sitting in this chair at this moment? do i ever, save under compulsion, remain in the same room with _any_ lady for more than five minutes? why, my dear girl, if i didn't love you to distraction, i shouldn't remain here an instant! kate. you certainly have a curious method of displaying an ardent attachment. charles. yes. it's most unfortunate. but i warned you, dear, didn't i? i told you all about my absurd bashfulness before we became engaged. you knew that the presence of ladies invariably reduced me to speechlessness before you accepted me. kate. [_sweetly._] not _invariably_, my love. what about your prowess with mrs. mantrap and lady betty blackleg that you told me about? [_charles blushes crimson._] didn't they call you "their agreeable rattle" at the ladies' club in town? charles. i--er--get on well enough with--um--er disreputable ladies. but you--er--aren't disreputable. kate. you are too modest, dear. some of your conquests are _quite_ respectable. didn't i come upon you in the act of kissing anne, the housemaid, yesterday? and no one can pretend that _my_ housemaids are disreputable! charles. [_sighing._] yes. i'm not shy with housemaids. kate. so i noticed. i sent anne away this morning. charles. [_with real concern._] not anne! kate. yes. and sarah too. i thought i detected in you a lurking _penchant_ for sarah. charles. [_simply._] yes, i liked sarah. kate. so now we haven't a single maid in the house. it's really very inconvenient. charles. you must get others. kate. for you to make eyes at? certainly not. by the way, is there _any_ type of female domestic servant whom you do not find irresistibly attractive? dark ones? fair ones? young ones? old ones? tall ones? short ones? [_he shakes his head at each question._] not one? charles. i'm afraid not. kate. [_with decision._] then i must do the house-work myself. charles. [_delighted._] charming! my dear kate, how delightful! put on a cap and apron and take a broom in your hand, and my bashfulness will vanish at once. i know it will. kate. it seems the only course open to us, especially as there's no one else to sweep the rooms. but i wish you were not so unfortunately constituted. charles. [_heartily._] so do i. but, after all, we must accept facts and make the best of them. you stooped to conquer, you know. you must go on stooping. go and put on an apron at once. scene ii.--_charles's special sitting-room, where he is wont to hide his shyness from visitors. time, a week later. kate, in a print dress, cap and apron, is on her knees before the fire-place cleaning up the hearth._ charles. [_entering the room unperceived, stealing up behind her and giving her a sounding kiss._] still stooping, kate! kate. charles! [_rising._] charles. [_kissing her again._] ah, kate, kate, what a charming little creature you are, and how much i love you! kate. but how long will you go on loving me? charles. always, dearest--in a cap and apron. [_embraces her._] kate. it's rather hard that i should have to remain a housemaid permanently in order to retain my husband's affection. charles. [_seriously._] it is, dear. i see that. kate. however, there's nothing to be done, so i may as well accustom myself to the idea as soon as possible. [_takes a broom and begins to sweep the floor._] you don't think your absurd shyness is likely to diminish with time? charles. it may, dear. but i think it would be unwise to count upon it. no, as far as i can see, the only thing to be done is for you to continue in your present occupation--you sweep charmingly--for the rest of your natural life. kate. [_sweeping industriously._] what would my father say if he saw me! charles. [_easily._] he won't see you. he hasn't been over since we were married. [_a ring is heard._ kate. [_starting._] who's that? charles. what does it matter? no one will be shown in here. jenkins has orders never to bring visitors into my room. kate. that's true. [_returns to her sweeping._] [_suddenly the door opens and mr. hardcastle enters, with elaborate heartiness, thrusting aside jenkins, who vainly tries to keep him out._ hardcastle. zounds, man, out of the way! don't talk to me about the parlour. can't i come and see my son-in-law in any room i choose? [_charles mutters an oath; kate stands, clutching her broom convulsively, facing her father._ hardcastle. [_boisterously._] how d'ye do, son-in-law? kate, my dear, give me a kiss. heavens, child, don't stand there clinging to a broomstick as though you were going to fly away with it. come and kiss your old father. [_kate drops the broom nervously and kisses him obediently._ charles. [_endeavouring by the warmth of his welcome to divert attention from his wife._] how d'ye do, sir--how d'ye do? [_wringing his hand._] hardcastle. [_noticing a small heap of dust on the carpet, which has been collected by kate's exertions._] eh, what's this? why, i believe you were actually sweeping the room, kate! kate. [_shamefacedly._] i am sorry, father, that you should have found me so unsuitably employed. hardcastle. unsuitably? on the contrary, nothing could be more suitable. kate. [_annoyed._] come, papa, don't _you_ begin to be eccentric too! hardcastle. [_stiffly._] i am not aware that there is anything eccentric about me. charles. [_intervening nervously._] no, no, sir. of course not. hardcastle. but when i find my daughter laying aside her finery and looking after her house, i cannot conceal my satisfaction. ah, charles, you have improved her greatly. when she lived at home, you remember, i had hard enough work to persuade her to lay aside fine clothes and wear her housewife's dress in the evenings. as for sweeping, i never even ventured to suggest it. kate. [_indignantly._] i should think not! hardcastle. and yet, kate, if you knew how charming you look in a print frock, a cap and apron---kate. [_laughing in spite of herself._] you, too! really, papa, i'm ashamed of you. however, you seem both of you determined that i should pass the remainder of my days as a housemaid, so i suppose you must have your way. this is what comes of "stooping to conquer." now go away, both of you, and leave me to finish sweeping. [_takes up broom again resolutely._ hardcastle. we will, kate. come, charles. [_exit._ charles. coming, sir [_darting across to his wife and kissing her._] darling! kate. goose! [_he goes out hurriedly after hardcastle._ _curtain._ the lady of lyons. _when lord lytton provided the conventional "happy ending" for "the lady of lyons" by reuniting pauline, née deschappelles, to the devoted claude melnotte, promoting the latter to the rank of colonel in the french army, he seems not to have troubled his head as to the divergent social ideas of the happy pair, nor as to how the vulgar and purse-proud family of deschappelles and the humbler melnottes would get on together. the sequel throws a lurid light on these points. in writing it, great pains have been taken to make the blank verse, wherever possible, as bad as lord lytton's._ in the lyons den. scene.--_the drawing-room of claude melnotte's house. pauline is sitting by the fire, claude leaning with his back against the mantelpiece. james, a man-servant in livery, enters with a card on a salver._ pauline. [_reading card._] mrs. smith! not at home, james. claude. [_who can never quite get out of his habit of speaking in blank verse._] why are you not at home to mrs. smith? pauline. my dear claude, that woman! mr. smith kept a greengrocer's shop. 'tis true he made a great deal of money by his contracts to supply the armies of the republic with vegetables, but they are not gentlepeople! claude. [_in his most byronic manner._] what is it makes a gentleman, pauline? is it to have a cousin in the peerage---pauline. partly that, dear. claude. [_refusing to be interrupted._] or is it to be honest, simple, kind---pauline. but i have no reason for believing mr. smith to have been more honest than the general run of army contractors. claude. [_continuing._] gentle in speech and action as in name? oh, it is this that makes a gentleman! and mr. smith, although he kept a shop, may very properly be so described. pauline. yes, i know, dear. everybody calls himself a gentleman nowadays, even the boy who cleans the boots. but i am not going to give in to these unhealthy modern ideas, and i am not going to visit mrs. smith. she is not in society. claude. [_off again on his high horse._] what is society? all noble men---pauline. [_objecting._] but mr. smith isn't a _nobleman_, claude. claude. ... and women, in whatever station born, these, only these, make up "society." pauline. [_patiently._] but that's such a dreadful misuse of words, dear. when one talks of "society," one does not mean good people, or unselfish people, or high-minded people, but people who keep a carriage and give dinner parties. those are the only things which really matter socially. claude. pauline, pauline, what dreadful sentiments! they show a worldly and perverted mind. i grieve to think my wife should utter them! pauline. [_very sweetly._] i wish, claude, you'd try and give up talking in blank verse. it's very bad form. and it's very bad verse, too. try and break yourself of it. claude. [_off again._] all noble thoughts, pauline---pauline. no, no, no, claude. i really can't have this ranting. byronics are quite out of fashion. claude. [_relapsing gloomily into prose._] you may laugh at me, pauline, but you know i'm right. pauline. of course you're right, dear. much too right for this wicked world. that's why i never can take your advice on any subject. you're so unpractical. claude. [_breaking out again._] the world, the world, oh, how i hate this world! pauline. now that's silly of you, dear. there's nothing like making the best of a bad thing. by the way, claude, didn't you say mrs. melnotte was coming to call this afternoon? claude. yes. dear mother, how nice it will be to see her again! pauline. it will be charming, of course.... i do hope no one else will call at the same time. perhaps i'd better tell james we are not at home to anyone except mrs. melnotte. claude. oh, no, don't do that. my mother will enjoy meeting our friends. pauline. no doubt, dear. but will our friends enjoy meeting your mother? [_seeing him about to burst forth again._] oh, yes, claude, i know what you are going to say. but, after all, lyons is a very purse-proud, vulgar place. you know, how _my_ mother can behave on occasions! and if mrs. melnotte happens to be here when any other people call it may be very unpleasant. i really think i had better say we are not at home to anyone else. [_rises to ring the bell._ claude. pauline, i forbid you! sit down at once. if my family are not good enough for your friends, let them drop us and be hanged to them. pauline. claude, don't storm. it's so vulgar. and there's not the least occasion for it either. i only thought it would be pleasanter for all our visitors--your dear mother among the number--if we avoided all chance of disagreeable scenes. but there, dear, you've no _savoir faire_, and i'm afraid we shall never get into society. it's very sad. claude. [_touched by her patience._] i am sorry, my dear. i ought to have kept my temper. but i wish you weren't so set upon getting into society. isn't it a little snobbish? pauline. [_wilfully misunderstanding him._] it's dreadfully snobbish, dear; the most snobbish sort of society i know. all provincial towns are like that. but it's the only society there is here, you know, and we must make the best of it. claude. my poor pauline. [_kissing her._ pauline. [_gently._] but you know, claude, social distinctions do exist. why not recognize them? and the late mr. melnotte _was_ a gardener! claude. he was--an excellent gardener. pauline. one of the lower classes. claude. in a republic there are no lower classes. pauline. [_correcting him._] in a republic there are no higher classes. and class distinctions are more sharply drawn than ever in consequence. claude. so much the worse for the republic. pauline. [_shocked._] claude, i begin to think you are an anarchist. claude. i? [_proudly._] i am a colonel in the french army. pauline. but not a _real_ colonel, claude. only a republican colonel. claude. [_sternly._] i rose from the ranks in two years by merit. pauline. i know, dear. real colonels only rise by interest. [_claude gasps._ james. [_opening the door and showing in a wizened old lady in rusty black garments and a bonnet slightly awry._] mrs. melnotte. [_pauline goes forward to greet her._ mrs. melnotte. [_not seeing her._] ah, my dear son [_runs across the room to claude before the eyes of the deeply scandalised james, and kisses him repeatedly_], how glad i am to see you again! and your grand house! and your fine servants! in livery, too! [_pauline shudders, and so does james. the latter goes out._ claude. my dearest mother! [_kisses her._ mrs. melnotte. [_beaming on pauline._] how do you do, my dear? let me give my claude's wife a kiss. [_does so in resounding fashion._ [illustration: e. j. wheeler. "let me give my claude's wife a kiss."] pauline. [_as soon as she has recovered from the warmth of this embrace._] how do you do, mrs. melnotte? won't you sit down? mrs. melnotte. thank you kindly, my dear. i don't mind if i do. [_a ring is heard outside, followed by the sound of someone being admitted. pauline looks anxiously towards the door._ pauline. [_to herself._] a visitor! how unlucky! i wonder who it is? james. [_throwing open the door._] mrs. deschappelles. pauline. great heavens, my mother! [_falls back, overwhelmed, into her chair._ mrs. deschappelles. [_in her most elaborate manner._] my dear child, you are unwell. my coming has been a shock to you. but there, a daughter's affection, claude--[_shaking hands with him_]--how wonderful it is! pauline. dear mother, we are delighted to see you. mrs. deschappelles. of course i ought to have called before. i have been meaning to come ever since you returned from your honeymoon. but i have so many visits to pay; and you have only been back ten weeks! pauline. i quite understand, mother dear. mrs. deschappelles. and, as i always say to your poor father, "when one is a leader of society, one has so many engagements." i am sure _you_ find that. pauline. i have hardly begun to receive visits yet. mrs. deschappelles. no, dear? but then it's different with _you_. when you married colonel melnotte, of course you gave up all _social_ ambitions. mrs. melnotte. i am sure no one could wish for a better, braver husband than my claude. mrs. deschappelles. [_turning sharply round and observing mrs. melnotte for the first time._] i beg your pardon? [_icily._ mrs. melnotte. [_bravely._] i said no one could have a better husband than claude. mrs. deschappelles. [_dumbfounded, appealing to pauline._] who--who is this _person_? pauline. [_nervously._] i think you have met before, mother. this is mrs. melnotte. mrs. deschappelles. [_insolently._] oh! the gardener's wife. claude. [_melodramatic at once._] yes. the gardener's wife and my mother! mrs. deschappelles. [_impatiently._] of course, i know the unfortunate relationship between you, claude. you need not thrust it down my throat. you know how unpleasant it is to me. pauline. [_shocked at this bad taste._] mother! mrs. deschappelles. oh, yes, it is. as i was saying to your poor father only yesterday. "of course, claude is all right. he is an officer now, and all officers are supposed to be gentlemen. but his relatives are impossible, quite impossible!" claude. [_furiously._] this insolence is intolerable. madame deschappelles.... mrs. melnotte. [_intervening._] claude, claude, don't be angry! remember who she is. claude. [_savagely._] i remember well enough. she is madame deschappelles, and her husband is a successful tradesman. he was an english shop-boy, and his proper name was chapel. he came over to france, grew rich, put a "de" before his name, and now gives himself airs like the other _parvenus_. mrs. deschappelles. monster! pauline. my dear claude, how wonderfully interesting! mrs. melnotte. [_rising._] my son, you must not forget your manners. mrs. deschappelles is pauline's mother. i will go away now, and leave you to make your apologies to her. [_claude tries to prevent her going._] no, no, i will go, really. good-bye, my son; good-bye, dear pauline. [_kisses her and goes out._ mrs. deschappelles. if that woman imagines that i am going to stay here after being insulted by you as i have been, she is much mistaken. please ring for my carriage. [_claude rings._] as for you, pauline, i always told you what would happen if you insisted on marrying beneath you, and now you see i'm right. pauline. [_quietly._] you seem to forget, mamma, that papa was practically a bankrupt when i married, and that claude paid his debts. mrs. deschappelles. i forget nothing. and i do not see that it makes the smallest difference. i am not blaming your poor father for having his debts paid by colonel melnotte; i am blaming you for marrying him. good-bye. [_she sweeps out in a towering passion._ pauline. sit down, claude, and don't glower at me like that. it's not my fault if mamma does not know how to behave. claude. [_struggling with his rage._] that's true, that's true. pauline. poor mamma, her want of breeding is terrible! i have always noticed it. but that story about mr. chapel explains it all. why didn't you tell it to me before? claude. i thought it would pain you. pauline. pain me? i am delighted with it! why, it explains everything. it explains _me_. it explains _you_, even. a miss chapel might marry _anyone_. don't frown, claude; laugh. we shall never get into society in lyons, but, at least, we shall never have another visit from mamma. the worst has happened. we can now live happily ever afterwards. _curtain._ caste. _most people, in their day, have wept tears of relief at the ending of t. w. robertson's comedy "caste," when the hon. george d'alroy--not dead, poor chap!--falls into the arms of his wife, esther, while his father-in-law, eccles, bestows a drunken benediction upon him before starting for jersey, and his sister-in-law, polly, and her adored plumber, gerridge, embrace sympathetically in the background. in these circumstances it seems hardly kind to add a further act to this harrowing drama. but the writer of sequels, like nemesis, is inexorable. if the perusal of the following scene prevents any young subaltern from emulating d'alroy and marrying a ballet-dancer with a drunken father, it will not have been written in vain._ the vengeance of caste. scene.--_the dining-room of the d'alroys' house in the suburbs. dinner is just over, and george d'alroy, in a seedy coat and carpet slippers, is sitting by the fire smoking a pipe. on the other side of the fire sits esther, his wife, darning a sock._ esther. tired, george? george. yes. esther. had a bad day in the city? george. beastly! i believe i'm the unluckiest beggar in the world. every stock i touch goes down. esther. why don't you give up speculating if you're so unlucky? george. [_hurt._] i don't speculate, dear. i invest. esther. why don't you give up investing then? it makes a dreadful hole in our income. george. one must do _something_ for one's living. esther. [_sighing._] what a pity it is you left the army! george. i had to. the regiment wouldn't stand your father. he was always coming to the mess-room when he was drunk, and asking for me. so the colonel said i'd better send in my papers. esther. [_gently._] not _drunk_, george. george. the colonel said so. and he was rather a judge. esther. [_unable to improve upon her old phrase._] father is a very eccentric man, but a very good man, when you know him. george. [_grimly._] if you mean by "eccentric" a man who is always drunk and won't die, he is--most eccentric! esther. hush, dear! after all, he's my father. george. that's my objection to him. esther. i'm afraid you must have lost a _great_ deal of money to-day! george. pretty well. but i've noticed that retired military men who go into the city invariably do lose money. esther. why do they go into the city, then? george. [_gloomily._] why, indeed? [_there is a short pause. george stares moodily at the fire._ esther. i had a visit from your mother to-day. george. how was she? esther. not very well. she has aged sadly in the last few years. her hair is quite white now. george. [_half to himself._] poor mother, poor mother! esther. she was very kind. she asked particularly after you, and she saw little george. [_gently._] i think she is getting more reconciled to our marriage. george. do you really, dear? [_looks at her curiously._] esther. yes; and i think it's such a good thing. how strange it is that people should attach such importance to class distinctions! george. forgive me, dear, but if you think it strange that the marquise de st. maur does not consider mr. eccles and the gerridges wholly desirable connections, i am afraid i cannot agree with you. [illustration: e. j. wheeler. mr. eccles makes his hundred and fifty-sixth appearance at the police court.] esther. of course, papa is a very eccentric man---george. my dear esther, mr. eccles made his hundred and fifty-sixth appearance in the police-court last week. the fact was made the subject of jocular comment in the cheaper evening papers. the sentence was five shillings or seven days. esther. poor papa felt his position acutely. george. not half so acutely as i did. i paid the five shillings. if he had only consented to remain in jersey! esther. but you know jersey didn't suit him. he was never well there. george. he was never sober there. that was the only thing that was the matter with him. no, my love, let us look facts in the face. you are a dear little woman, but your father is detestable, and there is not the smallest ground for hope that my mother will ever be "reconciled" to our marriage as long as she retains her reason. esther. i suppose father _is_ rather a difficulty. george. yes. he and the gerridges, between them, have made us impossible socially. esther. what's the matter with the gerridges? george. nothing, except that you always ask them to all our dinner parties. and as gentlepeople have a curious prejudice against sitting down to dinner with a plumber and glazier, it somewhat narrows our circle of acquaintance. esther. but sam isn't a working plumber now. he has a shop of his own--quite a large shop. and their house is just as good as ours. the furniture is better. sam bought polly a new carpet for the drawing-room only last week. it cost fourteen pounds. and _our_ drawing-room carpet is dreadfully shabby. george. i'm glad they're getting on so well. [_with a flicker of hope._] do you think there's any chance, as they grow more prosperous, of their "dropping" us? esther. [_indignantly._] how can you think of such a thing! george. [_sighing._] i was afraid not. esther. [_enthusiastically._] why, sam is as kind as can be, and so is polly. and you know how fond they are of little george. george. poor child, yes. he has played with their children ever since he could toddle. and what is the result? a cockney accent that is indescribable. esther. what does it matter about his accent so long as he is a good boy, and grows up to be a good man? george. ethically, my dear, not at all. but practically, it matters a great deal. it causes me intense physical discomfort. and i think it is killing my mother. esther. george! george. moreover, when the time comes for him to go to a public school he will probably be very unhappy in consequence. esther. why? george. merely irrational prejudice. public school boys dislike all deviations from the normal. and to them--happily--a pronounced cockney accent represents the height of abnormality. esther. [_sadly._] in spite of our marriage, i'm afraid you're still a worshipper of caste. i thought you turned your back on all that when you married me. george. so i did, dear, so i did. but i don't want to commit my son to the same hazardous experiment. esther. ah, george, you don't really love me, or you wouldn't talk like that. george. my dear, i love you to distraction. that's exactly the difficulty. i am torn between my devotion to you and my abhorrence of your relations. when your father returned from jersey, and took a lodging close by us, nothing but the warmth of my affection prevented me from leaving you for ever. he is still here, and so am i. what greater proof could you have of the strength of my attachment? esther. poor father! he could not bear to be away from us. and he has grown so fond of little george! [_george shudders._] father has a good heart. george. i wish he had a stronger head. [_this remark is prompted by the sound of mr. eccles entering the front door, and having a tipsy altercation with the maid._ maid. [_announcing._] mr. eccles. eccles. [_joyously._] evening--hic--me children. bless you, bless you! esther. good evening, father. eccles. won't you--hic--speak to yer old father-in-law, georgie? [_george says nothing._] ah, pride, pride, cruel pride! you come before a fall, _you_ do! [_lurches heavily against the table, and subsides into a chair._] funny, that! almost--hic--seemed as if the proverb was a-coming true that time! george. [_sternly._] how often have i told you, mr. eccles, not to come to this house except when you're sober! eccles. [_raising his voice in indignant protest._] shober--hic--perfectly shober! shober as a--hic--judge! george. i'm afraid i can't argue with you as to the precise stage of intoxication in which you find yourself. you had better go home at once. eccles. do you hear that esh--ter? do you hear that--hic--me child? esther. yes, father. i think you had better go home. you're not very well to-night. eccles. [_rising unsteadily from his chair._] allri--esh--ter. i'm goin'. good ni--georgie. george. [_with the greatest politeness._] good night, mr. eccles. if you could possibly manage to fall down and damage yourself seriously on the way home, i should be infinitely obliged. eccles. [_beginning to weep._] there's words to address to a loving--hic--farrer-in-law. there's words----[_lurches out_]. esther. i think, george, you had better see him home. it's not safe for him to be alone in that state. george. [_savagely._] safe! i don't want him to be safe. nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to hear he had broken his neck. esther. [_gently._] but he might meet a policeman, george. george. ah! that's another matter. perhaps i'd better see the beast into a cab. esther. [_sighing._] ah, you never understood poor father! [_a crash is heard from the hall as eccles lurches heavily and upsets the hat-stand. george throws up his hands in despair at the wreck of the hall furniture--or, perhaps, at the obtuseness of his wife's last remark--and goes out to call a cab._ _curtain._ patience, or bunthorne's bride. _at the end of "patience," it will be remembered, the twenty love-sick maidens gave up æstheticism and decided to marry officers of dragoons. but a taste for intellectual gimcrackery is not so easily eradicated, and it is probable that the poor ladies neither liked nor were liked at aldershot. that is certainly the impression conveyed by the following sequel._ out of patience; or, bunthorne avenged. scene.--_drawing-room of colonel calverley's house at aldershot. his wife, saphir, is entertaining angela, ella, and the rest of the love-sick maidens--now married to stalwart officers of dragoons--at afternoon tea. each lady dandles a baby, which squalls intermittently._ chorus. twenty heart-sick ladies we, living down at aldershot, every morning fervently wishing, wishing we were not. twenty married ladies we, and our fate we may not alter; if we dare to mutiny they will send us to gibraltar! [_the babies, appalled at this prospect, howl unanimously._ saphir. [_as soon as she can make herself heard._] our mornings go in stilling baby's squalls. all. ah, miserie! saphir. our afternoons in paying tiresome calls, all. and drinking tea! saphir. and then those long, long, regimental balls! all. ennuie, ennuie! saphir. after a time that sort of pleasure palls, all. as you may see. [_all yawn, including the babies._ chorus. twenty heart-sick ladies we, etc. angela. [_sighs._] it's a dreadful thing that we should _all_ have married officers in the army. saphir. and _all_ have to live at aldershot. ella. all except lady jane. saphir. but she married a duke. ella. i don't see why that should make any difference. angela. you wouldn't expect a duchess to live in the provinces. she couldn't be spared. ella. what do you mean? angela. no duchess is allowed to be out of london during the season. there are hardly enough of them to go round as it is. saphir. i never imagined that when we were married we should find ourselves so completely "out of it." all. [_indignantly._] out of it! saphir. yes, out of it. out of the world, the fashion, what you please. æstheticism is out of vogue now, of course, but there have been lots of fascinating "movements" since then. there's been ibsen and the revolt of the daughters, and aubrey beardsley and the decadence, and maeterlinck. the world has been through all these wonderfully thrilling phases since 1880, and where are we? angela. [_remonstrating._] we read about them in the ladies' papers. saphir. _read_ about them! what's the good of _reading_ about them? i want to be _in_ them. i want to live my life. [_shakes her baby fiercely. it raises a howl._ ella. [_rushing to the rescue._] take care, take care! poor darling! it'll have a fit. saphir. take it, then. [_throws it to ella._] i'm tired of it. what's the good of buying a complete set of back numbers of the _yellow book_, and _reading_ them, too--[_general astonishment at this feat_]--if you can't even shake your baby without making it squall? i'd never have married colonel calverley if i had thought of that! [illustration: e. j. wheeler. "i want to live my life."] angela. nor i major murgatroyd. [_sings._] when first i consented to wed, i said, "i shall never come down to passing my life as an officer's wife, in a second-rate garrison town." i said, "i shall live in mayfair, with plenty of money to spare, have admirers in flocks, wear adorable frocks, and diamonds everywhere." yes, that's what i certainly said when first i consented to wed. i thought, on the day i was wed, i could reckon with perfect propriety on filling a place with conspicuous grace in the smartest of london society. i said, "it is easy to see i shall be at the top of the tree, and none of the millions of vulgar civilians will venture to patronise me!" yes, that's what i foolishly said when first i consented to wed. [_as the song ends, enter colonel calverley, major murgatroyd, and the other officers in uniform as from parade. the ladies groan. so do the babies._ colonel. hullo! groans! what's all this about? saphir. if you only knew how it pains us to see you in those preposterous clothes! officers. preposterous! angela. perfectly preposterous. you know they are. major. if by preposterous you mean not conspicuously well adapted for active service, we cannot deny it. angela. of course you can't. your uniforms are useless and pretentious. to the educated eye they are not even beautiful. officers. [_horrified._] not beautiful! saphir. certainly not. if they were, you would not be so unwilling to be seen about in them. colonel. [_haughtily._] it is not etiquette in the british army for an officer _ever_ to be seen in his uniform. it isn't done! saphir. and why not? because he is ashamed of it. he wants to be dressed like a soldier, not like a mountebank. how can anyone respect a uniform that's only meant for show? major. that's true. but the ladies? if it wasn't for our gorgeous frippery they wouldn't fall in love with us. angela. [_crossly._] nonsense! women like soldiers because they are brave, not because they wear red coats. any tommy could tell you that. colonel. [_sarcastically._] indeed? angela. yes. saphir, tell colonel calverley the story of william stokes. saphir. [_sings._]once william stokes went forth to woo, a corporal, he, of the horse guards (blue), he thought all housemaid hearts to storm with his truly magnificent uniform. but the housemaids all cried "no, no, no, your uniform's only meant for show, your gorgeous trappings are wicked waste, and your whole get-up's in the worst of taste." all. the worst of taste? saphir. the worst of taste! these quite unfeeling, very plain-dealing ladies cried in haste- "your uniform, billy, is simply silly and quite in the worst of taste!" poor william took these cries amiss, being quite unaccustomed to snubs like this. at last he explained, by way of excuse, his gorgeous clothes weren't made for use. his elaborate tunic was much too tight to eat his dinner in, far less fight; it was only meant to attract the eye of the less intelligent passer-by. all. the passer-by? saphir. the passer-by! and so poor billy, feeling quite silly, threw up the horse guards (blue), and now in the park he appears in khaki, and greatly prefers it too! colonel. that's all very well, and i daresay you're right in what you say, but you'll never get the war office to see it. major. they're too stupid. saphir. was it the war office who sent us to aldershot? major. yes. saphir. you're quite right. they _are_ stupid! colonel. what's the matter with aldershot? angela. it's dull, it's philistine, it's conventional. and to think that we were once æsthetic! officers. [_mockingly._] oh, south kensington! angela. [_angrily._] _not_ south kensington! chelsea. if you knew anything at all, you'd know that south kensington is quite over now. people of culture have all moved to chelsea. saphir. why on earth don't you all get promoted to snug berths at the horse guards? then we could live in london. colonel. [_sadly._] do you know how promotion is got in the british army? saphir. no. colonel. listen, and i will tell you- [_sings._] when you once have your commission, if you want a high position in the army of the king, you must tout for the affections of the influential sections of the inner social ring. if you're anxious for promotion, you must early get a notion of the qualities commanders prize; you must learn to play at polo, strum a banjo, sing a solo, and you're simply bound to rise! for every one will say, in the usual fatuous way: "if this young fellow's such a popular figure in high society, why, what a very competent commander of a troop this fine young man must be!" you must buy expensive suits, wear the shiniest of boots, and a glossy hat and tall, for if you're really clever you need practically never wear your uniform at all. you probably will then see as little of your men as you decently can do, and you'll launch a thousand sneers at those foolish volunteers, who are not a bit like you! and those volunteers will say, when you go on in that way: "if this young man's such an unconcealed contempt for the likes of such as we, what a genius at strategy and tactics too this fine young man must be!" when, your blunders never noted, you are rapidly promoted to the snuggest berth you know, till we see you at pall mall with the army gone to--well, where the army should not go- when your country goes to war your abilities will awe all the foemen that beset her, and if you make a mess of it, of course we're told the less of it the country hears the better! and you'll hear civilians say, in their usual humble way: "if this old buffer is a general of division, and also a g.c.b., why, what a past master of the art of war this fine old boy must be!" saphir. do you mean that you'll never get berths at the horse guards, any of you? colonel. [_sadly._] it's most unlikely. saphir. then my patience is exhausted. i shall apply for a judicial separation. angela. so shall i. ladies. we shall all apply for judicial separations. officers. impossible! angela. oh, yes, we shall; we cannot consent to remain at aldershot any longer. at any moment a new movement in the world of art or letters may begin in london, and we shall not be in it. the thought is unendurable. we must go and pack at once. [_exeunt._ _curtain._ the second mrs. tanqueray. _after the second mrs. tanqueray killed herself at the end of the play which bears her name, it might be supposed that her husband would be content with his two successive failures in matrimony, and not tempt a third. but aubrey, as his second marriage shows, was nothing if not courageous in matrimonial affairs, and we have therefore every reason to believe that he did marry again, while we have small ground for hoping that he chose his third wife with any greater wisdom than he chose the other two. that is the impression conveyed by the following pathetic scene._ the third mrs. tanqueray. scene.--_the dining-room of aubrey tanqueray's country house, highercombe, in surrey. a lean butler is standing at the sideboard. aubrey and cayley drummle enter and go up to warm themselves at the fire, which burns feebly. the time is an evening in march, five years after the events of mr. pinero's play, and cayley looks quite five years stouter. aubrey does not._ cayley. it's quite shocking, aubrey, that you should have been married nearly a year, and that i should not yet have had the pleasure of making mrs. tanqueray's acquaintance. i am dying to know her. aubrey. my fault, my dear cayley. cayley. entirely. your weddings are always so furtive. [_pokes the fire resolutely, in the hope of producing something approaching a cheerful blaze._ aubrey. well, you'll see her to-night. i hoped she would be able to dine at home, but she had promised to address a temperance meeting in the village. [_cayley looks dubious._] however, she'll be back at ten. meanwhile, you'll have to be contented with a bachelor dinner. [_they go to the table and sit down._ cayley. [_unfolding serviette._] experience has taught me, my dear aubrey, that bachelor dinners are apt to be particularly well worth eating. no doubt it is to make up for the absence of more charming society. aubrey. [_doubtfully._] i hope it will prove so in this case. cayley. i feel sure of it. i remember your cook of old. aubrey. i'm afraid it won't be _that_ cook. cayley. [_in horror._] you haven't parted with him? aubrey. yes. he left soon after my marriage. there was some small error in his accounts, which mrs. tanqueray discovered. so, of course, we had to dismiss him. cayley. [_eagerly._] do you happen to have his address? aubrey. i dare say mrs. tanqueray has, if you wish to know it. [_footman hands soup._ cayley. i shall be eternally indebted to her. aubrey. why? cayley. i shall engage him at once. [_begins to eat his soup, frowns, and then puts down his spoon._] but i'm afraid you'll want him back yourself. aubrey. no. my wife is most particular about the character of her servants. cayley. ah! i'm more particular about the character of my soup. [_his hand goes out instinctively towards his sherry-glass. as he is about to raise it he sees that it is empty, and refrains._ aubrey. cayley, you ought to marry. then you'd realise that there are more important things in the world than soup. cayley. of course there are, my dear fellow. there's the fish and the joint. [_fish of an unattractive kind is handed to him. he takes some._ aubrey. sybarite! [_cayley looks at his fish dubiously, then leaves it untasted._ cayley. you are quite wrong. a simple cut of beef or mutton, well-cooked, is quite enough for me. butler. [_to cayley._] lemonade, sir? cayley. eh, what? no, thank you. aubrey. ah, cayley. what will you drink? [_cayley's face brightens visibly._] i'm afraid i can't offer you any wine. [_it falls again._] my wife never allows alcohol at her table. but there are various sorts of mineral waters. you don't mind? cayley. [_grimly._] not at all, my dear fellow, not at all. which brand of mineral water do you consider most--ah--stimulating? aubrey. [_laughing mirthlessly._] i'm afraid, cayley, you're not a convert to temperance principles yet. that shows you have never heard my wife speak. cayley. [_emphatically._] never! temperance meetings are not in my line. [_footman removes his plate._ aubrey. perhaps some of the other movements in which she is interested would appeal to you more. [_with a touch of happy pride._] as you may know, my wife is a vice-president of the anti-vaccination society, and of the woman's home rule union. indeed, she is in great request on all public platforms. cayley. [_with simulated enthusiasm._] i feel sure of that, my dear aubrey. [_footman hands cayley some rice-pudding. cayley puts up his eye-glass, and eyes it curiously._] what is this? footman. rice-pudding, sir. [_cayley drops spoon hastily._ aubrey. [_politely._] you're eating nothing, cayley. cayley. [_with some concern._] aubrey, have i _slept_ through the joint? i have no recollection of eating it. if, in a moment of abstraction, i refused it, may i change my mind? aubrey. [_sternly._] my wife never has _meat_ at her table on fridays. cayley. [_peevishly._] my dear fellow, i wish you'd thought of mentioning it before i came down. then i might have had a more substantial luncheon. where's that rice-pudding? [_helps himself. there is a rather constrained silence._ aubrey. it's really very good of you to have come down to see us, cayley. cayley. [_pulling himself together._] very good of you to say so, my dear chap. [_tackles his rice-pudding manfully._ aubrey. my wife and i can so seldom get any man to drop in to dinner nowadays. cayley. [_giving up his struggle with rice-pudding in despair._] i suppose so. aubrey. in fact, we see very little society now. cayley. [_sententiously._] society only likes people who feed it, my dear aubrey. you ought to have kept that cook. aubrey. [_meditatively._] so my daughter said. cayley. ellean? is she with you now? aubrey. no. she is in ireland. after making that remark she went back to her convent. cayley. [_heartily._] sensible girl! i like ellean. aubrey. she and my wife did not get on, somehow. it was very unfortunate, as it was mainly on ellean's account that i thought it right to marry again. cayley. [_with polite incredulity._] indeed? aubrey. yes. you see, it is so difficult for a girl of ellean's retiring disposition to meet people and make friends when she has no mother to chaperon her. and if she meets no one, how is she to get married? dessert, cayley? cayley. [_after surveying a rather unattractive assortment of apples and walnuts._] no, thanks. as you were saying----? aubrey. so i thought if i could meet with a really suitable person, someone with whom she would be in sympathy, someone she would look upon as a sort of second mother---cayley. [_correcting him._] third, aubrey. aubrey. [_ignoring the interruption_] ----it would make home more comfortable for her. cayley. [_laughing._] i like your idea of _comfort_, aubrey! but i should have thought you could have adopted some less extreme measure for providing ellean with a chaperon? you have neighbours. mrs. cortelyon, for instance? aubrey. [_stiffly._] mrs. cortelyon's chaperonage was not very successful on the last occasion. cayley. no, no; to be sure. young ardale. i was forgetting. aubrey. unhappily the whole scheme was a failure. ellean conceived a violent aversion for mrs. tanqueray almost directly we came home, and a week later--i remember it was directly after dinner--she announced her intention of leaving the house for ever. cayley. [_the thought of his dinner still rankling._] poor girl! no doubt she's happier in her convent. [_butler enters with coffee. cayley takes some._ aubrey. i am sorry i can't ask you to smoke, cayley, but my wife has a particular objection to tobacco. she is a member of the anti-tobacco league, and often speaks at its meetings. cayley. [_annoyed._] really, my dear fellow, if i may neither eat, drink, nor smoke, i don't quite see why you asked me down. aubrey. [_penitently._] i suppose i ought to have thought of that. the fact is, i have got so used to these little deprivations that now i hardly notice them. of course, it's different with you. cayley. i should think it was! [illustration: e. j. wheeler. "she announced her intention of leaving the house for ever."] aubrey. [_relenting._] if you _very_ much want to smoke, i dare say it might be managed. if we have this window wide open, and you sit by it, a cigarette might not be noticed. cayley. [_shortly._] thanks. [_takes out cigarette, and lights it, as soon as aubrey has made the elaborate arrangements indicated above._ aubrey. [_politely._] i hope you won't find it cold. cayley. [_grimly._] england in march is always cold. [_sneezes violently._] but, perhaps, if you ring for my overcoat, i may manage to survive the evening. aubrey. certainly. what is it like? cayley. i've no idea. it's an ordinary sort of coat. your man will know it if you ring for him. aubrey. [_hesitating._] i'd rather fetch it for you myself, if you don't mind. i should not like parkes to see that you were smoking. it would set such a bad example. cayley. [_throwing his cigarette on to the lawn in a rage, and closing the window with a shiver._] don't trouble. i'll smoke in the train. by-the-way, what time _is_ my train? aubrey. your train? cayley. yes. i must get back to town, my dear fellow. aubrey. nonsense! you said you'd stay a week. cayley. did i? then i didn't know what i was saying. i must get back to-night. aubrey. but you brought a bag. cayley. only to dress, aubrey. by the way, will you tell your man to pack it? aubrey. you can't go to-night. the last train leaves at 9.30. it's 9.15 now. cayley. [_jumping up._] then i must start at once. send my bag after me. aubrey. you've not a chance of catching it. cayley. [_solemnly._] my dear old friend, i shall return to town to-night if i have to walk! aubrey. [_detaining him._] but my wife? you haven't even made her acquaintance yet. she'll think it so strange. cayley. not half so strange as i have thought her dinner. [_shaking himself free._] no, aubrey, this is really good-bye. i like you very much, and it cuts me to the heart to have to drop your acquaintance; but nothing in the world would induce me to face another dinner such as i have had to-night! aubrey. cayley! cayley. [_making for the door._] and nothing in the world would induce me to be introduced to the third mrs. tanqueray. [_exit hurriedly._ _curtain._ the lady from the sea. _when ibsen ended "the lady from the sea" by making mrs. wangel give up her idea of eloping with "the stranger" and decide to remain with her husband and her step-children, many people must have felt that there was a want of finality about the arrangement. having discussed so exhaustively with dr. wangel the advisability of leaving him, she could hardly be expected to give up the project permanently. the play is therefore one which emphatically calls for a sequel._ the lady on the sea. scene i.--_beside the pond in the wangels' garden. it is a malarious evening in september. hilda and boletta, mrs. wangel's step-daughters, are, as usual, failing to catch the carp which are said to haunt the pond._ boletta. do you think _she_ [_nodding towards mrs. wangel, who prowls to and fro on the damp lawn with a shawl over her head_] is any better? hilda. no, worse. boletta. [_cheerfully._] oh, she can't be worse. hilda. that's all very well for you. you're going to be married. it doesn't matter to you _how_ mad she is! you'll be out of it before long. boletta. [_jubilantly._] yes, i shall be out of it. hilda. but i shan't. [_darkly._] however, perhaps she'll go away soon. boletta. papa still thinks of moving to the sea-side then? hilda. [_crossly._] oh, papa--papa never thinks! boletta. hush, hilda. what dreadful things you say! hilda. [_grimly._] not half so dreadful as the things i should like to do. boletta. hilda! hilda. oh, yes, i should. and i _will_ when i grow up. i'll make master-builder solnes tumble off one of his own steeples. think of that now! boletta. what a horrid child you are! and just when i thought you were beginning to get on better with _her_ too! [_nodding toward mrs. wangel._] it's most provoking. hilda. i call it perfectly thrilling, myself. but here she comes. [_mrs. wangel approaches._] go away. i want to talk to her. [_exit boletta doubtfully._] how are you to-day, mother? mrs. wangel. [_absently._] eh? hilda. [_controlling her impatience._] i asked how you were. mrs. wangel. but you called me mother. i'm not your mother. i'm only your step-mother. hilda. but i can't address you as step-mother. "people don't do those things," as dear hedda gabler always says. mrs. wangel. [_whose attention is clearly wandering._] i suppose they don't. hilda. mother, have you seen _him_? mrs. wangel. i believe wangel is in the surgery. hilda. i don't mean papa. what does it matter where papa is! i mean the stranger. the english steamer is at the pier. it arrived last night. [_looks at mrs. wangel meaningly._] mrs. wangel. [_vaguely._] is it, dear? you astonish me. hilda. you will go and see him, won't you? mrs. wangel. oh, of course, of course. hilda. i think it must be so perfectly thrilling to go down all by one's self to a steamer to see a strange man who is not one's husband. mrs. wangel. [_recalling with difficulty her old phrase._] oh, yes--yes. it allures me wonderfully. hilda. i should go at once, if i were you, before papa comes out. mrs. wangel. don't you think i ought to tell wangel? i have always been accustomed to consult him before eloping with anyone else. hilda. i think not. you must go of your own free will. you see, papa might _urge_ you to go. and then it would not be altogether your own will that sent you, would it? it would be partly his. mrs. wangel. so it would. hilda. isn't it splendid to think of your going away with him to-night, quite, quite away, across the sea? mrs. wangel. [_doubtfully._] yes. hilda. you know you always like the sea. you talk so much about it. it _allures_ you, you know. mrs. wangel. yes, the idea of it is wonderfully alluring. [_with misgiving._] but i've never been _on_ the sea. hilda. [_enthusiastically._] that's what makes the idea so thrilling. it will be quite a new sensation! the sea is so fresh and buoyant, you know! so _rough_! not like these vapid fiords where it's always calm. quite different altogether. mrs. wangel. ah, there's wangel. [_enter dr. wangel._ hilda. bother! [_she returns to her fishing for the carp, which are never caught._ dr. wangel. ah, ellida, is that you? mrs. wangel. yes, wangel. dr. wangel. not brooding, i trust, dear? not letting your mind dwell on the stranger, eh? mrs. wangel. [_always ready to adopt an idea from any quarter._] of course, wangel, i never can quite get the idea of the stranger out of my mind. [illustration: e. j. wheeler. "not brooding, i trust, dear?"] dr. wangel. [_shaking his head._] silly girl, silly girl. and the sea, too? still full of the sea? mrs. wangel. [_taking up the cue at once._] ah, the sea, the wonderful, changeful sea! so fresh and buoyant, you know! so rough! not like these vapid fiords. i had a child whose eyes were like the sea. dr. wangel. [_testily._] i assure you, ellida, you are wrong. the child's eyes were just like other children's eyes. all children's eyes are. [_hilda suppresses a slight giggle. wangel notices her for the first time._] fishing, hilda? hilda. [_darkly._] yes, papa. trying to hook a silly old carp. i think i shall catch her in the end. dr. wangel. [_with interest._] what bait do you use? hilda. oh, i have been very careful about the _bait_. my fish rose to it at once. dr. wangel. well, well, i must go back to the surgery. good-bye, ellida; and, mind, no brooding about the sea! [_exit._ mrs. wangel. [_ecstatically._] oh, the sea, the sea! hilda. yes, you'll be on it soon. won't it be thrilling? i really think you ought to start at once. mrs. wangel. [_helplessly._] i suppose i ought to pack a few things first? hilda. i wouldn't mind about that if i were you. i'd go down to the ship just as i was, slip on board without being noticed, and hide until i was well outside the fiord and began to feel the _real_ sea heaving under me! mrs. wangel. [_nervously._] shall i like that? hilda. of course you will. it's your native element, you know. you always said so. before you've been on it half an hour you'll wish you were overboard, you'll like the sea so! mrs. wangel. [_fired by this vicarious enthusiasm._] i shall, i know i shall. _he_ will be there too! and he's so frightfully alluring. i must go at once. [_exit hurriedly by the garden gate._ hilda. [_giggling joyously._] caught, by jove! my fish caught! she'll go off with her second mate on the english steamer, and never come back any more. what a triumph for my bait! [_picks up fishing tackle, and exit into the house in high good humour._ scene ii.--_the deck of the english steamer. the vessel has got outside the shelter of the fiord, and is beginning to pitch a little in the long sea rollers. mrs. wangel is discovered groping her way cautiously up the companion in the darkness._ mrs. wangel. this motion is very disagreeable--[_the vessel gives a very heavy lurch_]--_most_ disagreeable! i wonder if i could speak to the stranger now? hilda said i ought to wait till we were out at sea. oh! [_the vessel gives another lurch._] a steward. [_passing._] did you call? mrs. wangel. no--er--that is, yes. will you send mr. johnston to me. steward. there's no one of that name among the passengers, madam. mrs. wangel. [_fretfully._] mr. johnston isn't a passenger. mr. johnston is the second mate. [_the vessel lurches again._] oh, oh! steward. [_looking suspiciously at her._] but the second mate's name is brown. mrs. wangel. [_under her breath._] another _alias_! [_aloud._] it's the same person. will you ask him to come to me? steward. very well, madam. [_to himself._] queer, that! wants to see the second mate, and don't remember his name. but, there, what can you expect on these excursion steamers! [_exit._ mrs. wangel. [_as the boat gets further out to sea and begins to roll heavily._] this is horrible. i begin to think i don't like the sea at all. i feel positively ill. and i always thought the motion would be so exhilarating. it doesn't exhilarate _me_ in the least. i wish johnston would come--or brown, i mean brown. perhaps he could find somewhere for me to lie down. [_brown--or johnston--accompanied by the steward, comes up the hatchway. he is the same disreputable looking seaman whose acquaintance the reader of "the lady from the sea" has already made._ steward. this is the lady. [_indicating mrs. wangel._] brown. [_in his most nautical manner._] i know that you swob. haven't i eyes? get out. [_exit steward._] well, woman, what do you want? mrs. wangel. [_faintly, too much overcome by the rolling of the vessel to resent his roughness._] i--i have come to you. brown. so i see. mrs. wangel don't you want me, alfred? brown. my name isn't alfred. it's john. mrs. wangel. [_plaintively._] it _used_ to be alfred. brown. well, now it's john. mrs. wangel. are you--glad to see me? brown. [_briskly._] not a bit. never was so sorry to see a woman in my life. mrs. wangel. [_in horror._] but you came for me. you said you wanted me. brown. i know i did. thought old quangle-wangle would buy me off if i put the screw on. he didn't see it. stingy old cuss! mrs. wangel. [_appalled at this way of speaking of her husband._] but you never asked dr. wangel for anything? brown. no fear. too old a hand for that. he'd have put me in prison for trying to extort money. mrs. wangel. how could you expect him to give you money if you didn't ask for it? brown. i didn't suppose he was an absolute fool. when a man has a crazy wife he can't be such a born natural as to suppose that another man really wants her to go away with him. he wants the price of a drink. that's what _he_ wants. but old quangle-wangle was too clever for me. he wouldn't part. mrs. wangel. wouldn't part husband and wife, you mean? brown. no, i don't, and you know i don't. wouldn't part with the dibs; that's what _i_ mean. mrs. wangel. [_as the vessel gives a big roll._] oh, i'm going to be very ill indeed. why did i think i should like the sea? brown. why, indeed? _i_ don't know. dash me if i do. mad, i suppose. mrs. wangel. what am i to do now? brown. go back to old quangle, if he'll take you. he's fool enough, i dare say. mrs. wangel. but i can't. we're out at sea. i can't get back now. i think i'm going to die. [_she sinks upon a seat._ brown. die? you won't die. no such luck. you're going to be sea-sick, you are. where's your cabin? mrs. wangel. [_feebly._] i don't know. brown. where's your luggage? hand me over your keys. mrs. wangel. i haven't any luggage. brown. bilked again, s'help me! and not so much as a half a sovereign on you, i suppose? mrs. wangel. [_feeling limply in her pocket._] no. i must have left my purse at home. brown. well, i'm----! [_he looks sourly at her._ mrs. wangel. [_growing frightened._] what are you going to do with me? brown. do with you? send you back to quangle by the first steamer, of course. you'll have to work your passage back as stewardess. heaven help the passengers! [_he stalks to the hatchway and disappears. mrs. wangel, with a groan, resigns herself to sea-sickness._ _curtain._ cæsar and cleopatra. _it might have been thought that shakespeare's "antony and cleopatra" rather than mr. bernard shaw's "cæsar and cleopatra" demanded a dramatic sequel, but as mr. shaw has pointed out repeatedly that he is the greater dramatist of the two, his play has been chosen in preference to shakespeare's. a prefatory essay proving--at great length--that the dialogue of this sequel is true to life, and is in fact substantially a reproduction of what was spoken in the year b.c. 31, has been omitted for lack of space._ octavian and cleopatra. scene.--_an extravagantly furnished apartment in the palace at alexandria. cleopatra is discovered seated upon her throne. she is dressed with mournful splendour, as befits a queen who has been defeated at actium and has suffered a recent bereavement. her face is as attractive as a liberal use of cosmetics can make it, and her whole appearance is that of a middle-aged and rather dissipated member of the corps de ballet who has gone into half-mourning because the manager has reduced her salary. charmian, a pretty, shrewish-looking damsel, is in attendance on her._ cleopatra. [_nervously._] am i looking my best, charmian? charmian. [_sulkily._] your majesty is looking as well as _i_ can make you. if you are not satisfied you had better get another maid. cleopatra. [_looking at herself in hand mirror._] silly child! of course i am satisfied. i think you are wonderful. charmian. [_mollified._] yes. i think i've not done so badly. cleopatra. of course, with antony not even buried yet, it would hardly have done for me to be _too_ magnificent. charmian. [_decidedly_]. most unsuitable. cleopatra. as it is, i think we've arrived at a rather successful blend of splendour and sorrow, suggesting at once the afflicted widow and the queen who is open to consolation. charmian. that is certainly the impression we intended to convey. by the way, when does cæsar arrive? cleopatra. octavian? almost at once. charmian. his first visit, isn't it? cleopatra. yes. so much depends on a first impression. [_looks at mirror again._] i think we shall captivate him. charmian. [_dubiously._] he's not very impressionable, i hear. cleopatra. no. but i shall manage it. think how completely i fascinated julius. charmian. his uncle? i'm afraid that's hardly a reason why you should prove equally attractive to the nephew. cleopatra. my dear child, why not? charmian. well--the lapse of time, you know. that was seventeen years ago. cleopatra. so long? i am really very well preserved. charmian considering the wear and tear. cleopatra. my good charmian, how crudely you put things. i declare i've a good mind to have you executed. charmian. [_tranquilly._] your majesty will hardly do that. i am the only person in egypt who really understands the secret of your majesty's complexion. cleopatra. that's true. but you ought to be more tactful. charmian. [_tossing her head._] you can't expect me to display tact when my wages haven't been paid since the battle of actium. cleopatra. poor child! never mind, when octavian is at my feet you shall be paid [_meaningly_] in full! will that satisfy you? charmian. i'd much rather have something on account. cleopatra. i wish you wouldn't vex me in this way just when it's so important that i should look my best. you know how unbecoming temper is to a woman when she is ... well, over thirty [_beginning to cry_]. charmian. there, there! i'm sorry i said anything to hurt you. don't cry, for heaven's sake, or that rouge will run. then i shall have to go all over you again. dry your eyes, there's a good creature. [_cleopatra does so obediently._] i declare you're all in streaks. come here, and let me put you straight. [_cleopatra goes to charmian, who produces powder-puff etc., and repairs the ravages of emotion._ cleopatra. quick, quick! they're coming. i hear them. i'm glad he's so early. only a quarter of an hour after his time. [_proudly_] that shows how eager he is to see me! i feel that this is going to be another of my triumphs. [_charmian puts the finishing touch to the queen just as cæsar enters. she then hastily conceals powder-puff, etc., behind her. cleopatra has no time to return to the throne, and stands rather awkwardly with charmian to receive her visitors. these prove to be octavian, a pale, dyspeptic-looking young man of about thirty; agrippa, a bluff, thickset, red-faced warrior past middle age, and a guard of roman soldiers._ octavian. [_looking round the gorgeous apartment with much disgust, and speaking in a soft, weary voice._] ugh! bad taste, very bad taste all this. agrippa. you know what these barbarians are. [_to the two women._] kindly inform the queen cæsar is here. cleopatra. [_advancing._] _i_ am the queen. how do you do? agrippa. you! nonsense! cleopatra. [_archly._] oh, yes, i am. octavian. [_with gentle melancholy._] dear, dear, another illusion gone! cleopatra. illusion? octavian. your beauty, you know; your grace, your charm. i had heard so much of them. so had agrippa. let me introduce you, by the way. agrippa--cleopatra. [_wearily._] as i was saying, it is _most_ disappointing. agrippa. [_gruffly._] not what _i_ expected at all! [_charmian giggles furtively._ cleopatra. [_puzzled._] you--don't admire me? octavian. [_gently._] admire you? my dear lady! cleopatra. [_bridling._] antony was of a different opinion. agrippa. [_bluntly._] antony was a fool. octavian. hush, my dear agrippa! you hurt her feelings. [_agrippa shrugs his shoulders and crosses to charmian, with whom he begins a vigorous flirtation._ cleopatra. [_angrily._] never mind my feelings. octavian. frankly then, dear lady, we are not impressed. we came here prepared for a beautiful temptress, a dazzling siren whom i must resist or perish, something seductive, enticing. and what do we find? cleopatra. [_furious._] well, what _do_ you find. octavian. [_in his gentlest voice._] dear lady, don't let us pursue this painful subject. probably we had not allowed for the flight of time. suffice it that our poor hopes are unrealised. [_looking round_] but i don't see cæsarion. cleopatra. [_sullenly._] my son is not here. octavian. another disappointment. cleopatra. you wished to speak to him? octavian. yes. they talk of him as a son of julius, don't they? cleopatra. he _is_ a son of julius. octavian. a sort of relation of mine, then? i must really make his acquaintance. can you give me his address? cleopatra. [_sulkily._] no. if you want him, you will have to find him for yourself. octavian. [_blandly._] i shall find him, dearest queen. you need be under no apprehensions about that. cleopatra. brute! octavian. eh? cleopatra. nothing. i was only thinking. octavian. never think _aloud_, dear lady. it's a dangerous habit. cleopatra. [_impatiently._] is there anything further you want with me? octavian. [_affably._] nothing, thank you, nothing. at least, nothing just now. cleopatra. you would like to see me later? octavian. [_gentler than a sucking dove._] in a few weeks, perhaps. the triumph, you know. the sovereign people throwing up their caps and hallooing. the procession up the sacred way, with the headsman at the end of it all. [_yawning slightly._] the usual thing. cleopatra. [_losing her temper._] oh, you're not a man at all! you're a block, a stone! you have no blood in your veins. you're not like antony. octavian. no, dear lady, i'm not like antony. if i were, i shouldn't have beaten him at actium. cleopatra. i won't stay to be baited in this way. i won't! i won't! [_goes towards door._ octavian. [_gallantly._] farewell, then. we shall meet again. agrippa, the queen is going. agrippa. [_breaking off in the midst of his flirtation._] eh? oh, good-bye. cleopatra. [_stamping her foot._] charmian! [_exit._ [_charmian jumps up, kisses her hand to agrippa and follows her mistress out._ agrippa. [_looking after her._] that's a pretty little minx. octavian. [_who has seated himself wearily on the throne._] is she? i didn't notice ... cæsarion's fled. agrippa. so i supposed. octavian. it's a great nuisance. we must find him. will you see about it? agrippa. if you wish it. what shall i do with him? octavian. [_in his tired voice._] better put him to death. it will save a lot of trouble in the end. agrippa. but the boy's your own cousin. octavian. yes. i have always disliked my relations. agrippa. [_admiringly._] i begin to think you _are_ a genius, cæsar, after all. octavian. i _am_. much good it does me! i'd give my genius for your digestion any day. [_leans back on throne and closes his eyes._ [_enter charmian hurriedly, looking pale and dishevelled._ charmian. help! help! the queen is dying! octavian. [_irritably, opening his eyes._] stop that noise, girl! you make my head ache. charmian. she is dying, i tell you! she has taken poison! [_exit, squealing._ agrippa. poison, by jove! confound it, she mustn't do that, must she? [_is about to follow charmian._ [illustration: e. j. wheeler. "i'd give my genius for your digestion any day."] octavian. why not? it seems to me an excellent arrangement. very thoughtful of her. very thoughtful and considerate. agrippa. but we want her for that triumph of yours. octavian. never mind. after all, what _is_ a triumph? disagreeable for her. a bore for us. let her die now, by all means, if she prefers it. agrippa. [_impatiently._] don't _you_ try and be magnanimous too. leave that to your uncle. he did it better. octavian. [_wearily._] my dear agrippa, how stupid you are! what possible use can a quite plain and middle-aged lady be in a triumphal procession? if cleopatra were still attractive i should say, "save her, by all means." as she isn't, [_yawning_] i think we may let her die her own way without being charged with excessive magnanimity. agrippa. [_regretfully._] still i _should_ have liked to have seen her brought to rome. octavian. ah! i shall be quite contented to see her comfortably in her coffin in egypt. we'll let her be buried beside antony. it will gratify the egyptians, and it won't hurt us. see to it, there's a good fellow. [_exit agrippa. octavian leans back, and falls asleep on the throne._ _curtain._ the notorious mrs. ebbsmith. _a dramatic prologue._ _those persons who have seen mrs. patrick campbell's magnificent performance in "the notorious mrs. ebbsmith" will have probably gone away with a quite false impression of the gentleman with whom agnes ebbsmith spent her eight years of married life. "for the first twelve months," she declares bitterly in the first act, "he treated me like a woman in a harem, for the rest of the time like a beast of burden." this is not quite just to poor ebbsmith, who was a good sort of fellow in his commonplace way, and it is manifestly unfair that the audience should have no opportunity of hearing his side of the question. an attempt is made to remedy this injustice in the following prologue, which all fair-minded persons are entreated to read before seeing mr. pinero's very clever play._ the unfortunate mr. ebbsmith. scene.--_the dining-room of the ebbsmiths' house in west kensington. agnes and her husband are at breakfast. they have been married seven years. she looks much as we see her in the early acts of the play--gaunt, pale, badly dressed. he is a careworn man with hair slightly grey at the temples, an anxious forehead and sad eyes. he is glancing through the "standard" in the intervals of eating his bacon. she is absorbed in the "morning screamer," one of the more violent socialist-radical organs of that day. presently ebbsmith looks up._ ebbsmith. you won't forget, agnes, that we are expecting people to dinner to-night? agnes. [_putting down her paper with an air of patient endurance._] eh? ebbsmith. [_mildly._] i was saying, dear, if you will give me your attention for a moment, that i hoped you would not forget that sir myles jawkins and his wife and the spencers and the thorntons were dining here to-night. agnes. [_contemptuously._] you seem very anxious that i should remember that _lady_ jawkins is honouring us with her company! ebbsmith. i only meant that i hoped you had told jane about dinner. last time the jawkinses came you may recollect that you had omitted to order anything for them to eat, and when they arrived there was nothing in the house but some soup, a little cold mutton and a rice-pudding. agnes. very well [_returns to her paper._] ebbsmith. thank you. and, agnes, if you could manage to be dressed in time to receive them i should be very much obliged. agnes. i? ebbsmith. of course. i suppose you will be here to entertain our guests? agnes. _your_ guests, you mean. ebbsmith. my dear agnes, surely my guests are your guests also. agnes. [_breaking out._] as long as the present unjust and oppressive marriage laws remain in force---ebbsmith. [_interrupting._] i don't think we need go into the question of the alteration of the marriage laws. agnes. ah, yes. you always refuse to listen to my arguments on that subject. you know they are unanswerable. ebbsmith. [_patiently._] i only meant that there would hardly be time to discuss the matter at breakfast. agnes. [_vehemently._] a paltry evasion! ebbsmith. still, i assume that you will be here to receive our guests--my guests if you prefer it--to-night? agnes. do you make a point of always being at home to receive _my_ guests? ebbsmith. those anarchist people whom you are constantly asking to tea? certainly not. agnes. [_with triumphant logic._] then may i ask why i should be at home to receive the jawkinses? ebbsmith. my dear, you surely realise that the cases are hardly parallel. the only time i was present at one of your revolutionary tea-parties the guests consisted of a hyde park orator who dropped his h's, a cobbler who had turned socialist by way of increasing his importance in the eyes of the community, three ladies who were either living apart from their husbands or living with the husbands of other ladies, and a polish refugee who had been convicted, quite justly, of murder. you cannot pretend to compare the jawkinses with such people. agnes. indeed, i can. [_rhetorically._] in a properly organized society---ebbsmith. [_testily._] i really can't stop to re-organize society now. i am due at my chambers in half-an-hour. agnes. [_sullenly._] as you decline to listen to what i have to say, i may as well tell you at once that i shall _not_ be at home to dinner to-night. ebbsmith. [_controlling his temper with an effort._] may i ask your reason? agnes. because i have to be at the meeting of the anti-marriage association. ebbsmith. can't you send an excuse? agnes. send an excuse! throw up a meeting called to discuss an important public question because _you_ have asked a few barristers and their wives to dine! you must be mad. ebbsmith. well, i must put them off, i suppose. what night next week will suit you to meet them? thursday? agnes. on thursday i am addressing a meeting of the society for the encouragement of divorce. ebbsmith. friday? agnes. [_coldly._] friday, as you know, is the weekly meeting of the agamists' league. ebbsmith. saturday? agnes. on saturday i am speaking on free union for the people at battersea. ebbsmith. can you suggest an evening? agnes. [_firmly._] no. i think the time has come to make a stand against the convention which demands that a wife should preside at her husband's dinner-parties. it is an absurdity. away with it! ebbsmith. [_alarmed._] but, agnes! think what you are doing. you don't want to offend these people. spencer and thornton are useful men to know, and jawkins puts a lot of work in my way. [illustration: e. j. wheeler. "friday, you know, is the meeting of the agamists' league."] agnes. [_with magnificent scorn._] how like a man! and so _i_ am to be civil to this jawkins person because he "puts a lot of work in your way!" ebbsmith. [_meekly._] well, you know, my dear, i have to make an income somehow. agnes. i would sooner starve than resort to such truckling! ebbsmith. [_gloomily._] we are likely to do that, sooner or later, in any case. agnes. what do you mean? ebbsmith. [_diffidently._] your--ahem!--somewhat subversive tenets, my love, are not precisely calculated to improve my professional prospects. agnes. what have _i_ to do with _your_ prospects? ebbsmith. the accounts of your meetings which appear in the newspapers are not likely to encourage respectable solicitors to send me briefs. agnes. [_indifferently._] indeed! ebbsmith. here's a report in to-day's _standard_ of a meeting addressed by you last night which would certainly not have that effect. shall i read it to you? agnes. if you wish it. ebbsmith. [_reads._] "the meeting which was held in st. luke's parish last night under the auspices of the polyandrous club proved to be of an unusually exciting description. the lecturer was mrs. john ebbsmith, wife of the well-known barrister of that name." [_breaking off._] really, agnes, i think _my_ name need not have been dragged into the business. agnes. go on. ebbsmith. "as soon as the doors were opened the place of meeting--the iron hall, carter street--was filled with a compact body of roughs assembled from the neighbouring streets, and there seemed every prospect of disorderly scenes. the appearance of mrs. ebbsmith on the platform was greeted with cheers and cries of 'mad agnes!'" surely, my dear, you must recognise that my professional reputation is endangered when my wife is reported in the newspapers as addressing meetings in discreditable parts of london, where her appearance is greeted with shouts of 'mad agnes!' agnes. nonsense! who is likely to read an obscure paragraph like that? ebbsmith. obscure paragraph! my dear agnes, the _standard_ has a leading article on it. listen to this:--"mrs. ebbsmith's crusade against the institution of marriage is again attracting unfavourable attention. last night in st. luke's she once more attempted to ventilate her preposterous schemes ... crack-brained crusade ... bellowing revolutionary nonsense on obscure platforms.... this absurd visionary, whom her audiences not inappropriately nickname 'mad agnes'.... ultimately the meeting had to be broken up by the police.... we cannot understand how a man in mr. ebbsmith's position can allow himself to be made ridiculous." [_almost weeping._] i do think they might leave _my_ name out of it. in a leading article too! agnes. is there any more of the stuff? ebbsmith. another half column. do, my dear, to oblige me, find some less ostentatious method of making known your views on the subject of marriage. agnes. [_anticipating a remark subsequently made by the duke of st. olpherts._] unostentatious immodesty is not part of my programme. ebbsmith. [_humbly._] could you not, for my sake, consent to take a less _prominent_ part in the movement? agnes. [_enthusiastically._] but i want to be among the leaders--the leaders! that will be my hour. ebbsmith. [_puzzled._] your hour? i don't think i quite understand you. agnes. there's only one hour in a woman's life--when she's defying her husband, wrecking his happiness and blasting his prospects. that is her hour! let her make the most of every second of it! ebbsmith. [_wearily._] well, my dear, when it's over, you'll have the satisfaction of counting the departing footsteps of a ruined man. agnes. departing? ebbsmith. certainly. you and your crusade between them will have killed me. but i must go now. i ought to be at my chambers in ten minutes, and i must go round and make my excuses to jawkins some time this morning. tell jane not to bother about dinner to-night. i shall dine at the club. [_exit._ _curtain._ the rubáiyát of omar khayyám. _a dramatized version._ _when it was announced recently in an english daily paper that a drama founded upon fitzgerald's version of the rubáiyát of omar khayyám had been compounded in the united states, and would shortly be seen on the stage, many people may have wondered how it was done. it was done as follows_:-omar and oh my. scene.--_courtyard of the deserted palace of jamshyd, canopied by that inverted bowl commonly called the sky. to right, a tavern--not deserted. to left, a potter's house. at back, the grave of bahrám, whence a sound of snoring proceeds. a wild ass stamps fitfully upon it. it is four o'clock in the morning, and the "false dawn" shows in the sky. in the centre of the stage stand a lion and a lizard, eyeing each other mistrustfully._ lion. look here, do _you_ keep these courts, or do i? lizard. [_resentfully._] i don't know. i believe we both keep them. lion. [_sarcastically._] _do_ you? then i venture to differ from you. lizard. perhaps you'd rather we took turns? lion. oh, no, i wouldn't. i mean to have this job to myself. [_he and the lizard close in mortal combat. after a gallant struggle the latter is killed, and the lion proceeds to eat him. suddenly a shadowy form issues from the grave at back of stage._ lion. bahrám, by jove! confound that jackass! [_bolts remains of lizard and then bolts himself, pursued by shadowy form._ wild ass. they said i couldn't wake him. but i knew better! hee-haw! [_exit in triumph._] [_a sound in revelry becomes noticeable from the tavern. a crowd gathers outside. the voice of omar, rather tipsy, is heard._ omar. when all the temple--hic!--is prepared within, why nods the lousy worshipper outside? [_a cock crows, and the sun rises._ crowd. [_shouting in unison._] open then the door. you know how little while we have to stay. and, once departed, goodness only knows when we shall get back again! omar. [_opening the door and appearing unsteadily on the threshold._] you can't come in. it's--hic--full. [_closes door again._ crowd. i say, what rot! [_exeunt, depressed._ nightingale. [_jubilantly from tree._] wine! wine! red wine! rose. [_from neighbouring bush, much shocked._] my dear, you don't know how your passion for alcohol shocks me. nightingale. oh yes i do. but every morning brings a thousand roses. after all, you're cheap. jamshyd and i like our liquor, and plenty of it. rose. [_shaking her head in disapproval._] i've heard he drank deep. nightingale. of course he did. you should have seen him when hátim called to supper! he simply went for it! rose. [_blushing crimson._] how dreadful! nightingale. [_contemptuously._] i dare say. but you wouldn't be so red yourself if some buried cæsar didn't fertilize your roots. why, even the hyacinth's past isn't altogether creditable, and as for the grass--why, i could tell you things about the grass that would scare the soul out of a vegetable! rose. [_annoyed._] i'm not a vegetable. nightingale. well, well, i can't stay to argue with you. i've but a little time to flutter myself. [_exit on the wing._ [_enter omar from tavern. he is by this time magnificently intoxicated and is leaning on the arm of a fascinating sáki. he has a jug of wine in his hand._ omar. [_trying to kiss her._] ah, my beloved, fill the cup that clears to-day of past regrets and future fears. to-morrow! why to-morrow i may be---sáki. [_interrupting._] i know what you're going to say. to-morrow you'll be sober. but you won't. _i_ know you. go home! omar. home!--hic. what do i want with home? a book of verses underneath the bough, a jug of wine, a loaf of bread--no, no bread, two jugs of wine--and thou [_puts arm round her waist_] beside me singing like a bulbul. [_sings uproariously._ for to-night we'll merry be! for to-night---sáki. fie! an old man like you! omar. old! thank goodness i _am_ old. when i was young i went to school and heard the sages. didn't learn much _there_! they said i came like water and went like wind. horrid chilly band-of-hope sort of doctrine. i know better now. [_drinks from the jug in his hand._ sáki. [_watching him anxiously._] take care. you'll spill it. omar. never mind. it won't be wasted. all goes to quench some poor beggar's thirst down there [_points below_]. dare say he needs it--hic. sáki. [_shocked._] how can you talk so! omar. [_growing argumentative in his cups._] i must abjure the balm of life, _i_ must! i must give up wine for fear of--hic--what is it i'm to fear? gout, i suppose. not i! [_takes another drink._ sáki. [_trying to take jug from him._] there, there, you've had enough. omar. [_fast losing coherence in his extreme intoxication._] i want to talk to you about thee and me. that's what i want to talk about. [_counting on his fingers._] you see there's the thee in me and there's the me in thee. that's myshticism, that is. difficult word to say, mysticishm. must light lamp and see if i can't find it. must be somewhere about. [illustration: e. j. wheeler. "myshticism, difficult word to say, mysticishm."] sáki. you're drunk, that's what you are. disgracefully drunk. omar. of course i'm drunk. i am to-day what i was yesterday, and to-morrow i shall not be less. kiss me. sáki. [_boxing his ears._] i won't have it, i tell you. i'm a respectable sáki; and you're not to take liberties, or i'll leave you to find your way home alone. omar. [_becoming maudlin._] don't leave me, my rose, my bullfinch--i mean bulbul. you know how my road is beset with pitfall--hic!--and with gin. sáki. [_disgusted._] plenty of gin, _i_ know. you never can pass a public-house. omar. [_struck with the splendour of the idea._] i say--hic!--let's fling the dust aside, and naked on the air of heaven ride. it's shame not to do it! [_flings off hat, and stamps on it by way of preliminary._ sáki. [_scandalised._] if you take anything else off i shall call the police. [_exit hurriedly._ omar. [_terrified._] here, sáki, come back. how am i to find my way without you? [_a pause._] what's come to the girl? i only spoke--hic--meta--phorically. difficult word to say, meta--phorically! [_longer pause._] how am i to get home? can't go 'lone. must wait for someone to come along. [_peers tipsily about him._] strange, isn't it, that though lots of people go along here every day, not one returns to tell me of the road! very strange. s'pose must sleep here.... s'pose--- [_rolls into ditch and falls asleep._ [_the curtain falls for a moment. when it rises again, day is departing and it is growing dark. omar is still in his ditch. the door of the potter's house, to the left of the stage, is open, the potter having betaken himself to the tavern opposite, and the pots within are arguing fiercely._ first pot. don't tell me i was only made to be broken. i know better. second pot. even a peevish boy wouldn't break _me_! the potter would whack him if he did! third pot. [_of a more ungainly make._] depends on what he drank out of you. second pot. what's that you say, you lopsided object? third pot. that's right. sneer at me! 'tisn't my fault if the potter's hand shook when he made me. he was not sober. fourth pot. [_i think a súfi pipkin._] it's all very well to talk about pot and potter. what _i_ want to know is, what did the pot call the kettle? third pot. [_grumbling._] i believe my clay's too dry. that's what's the matter with _me_! [_the moon rises. a step is heard without._ several pots. hark, there's the potter! can't you hear his boots creaking? _enter potter from tavern._ potter. [_crossly._] shut up in there, or i'll break some of you. [_the pots tremble and are silent._ potter. [_seeing omar._] hullo. come out of that. you're in _my_ ditch. [_lifts him into sitting posture by the collar._] omar. [_rubbing his eyes._] eh! what's that? oh, my head! my head! [_clasps it between his hands._] potter. get up! you've been drinking. omar. [_dazed at his penetration._] i wonder how you guessed that! potter. it's plain enough. you've been providing your fading life with liquor. i can see that with half an eye. omar. i have, i have. i've drowned my glory in a shallow cup, and my head's very bad. potter. you should take the pledge. omar. oh! i've sworn to give up drink lots of times. [_doubtfully._] but was i sober when i swore? tell me that. potter. [_scratching his head._] dunnow. omar. [_staggering to his feet._] would but the desert of the fountain yield one glimpse! in more prosaic language, could you get me something to drink? i'm rather star-scattered myself and the grass is wet. [_potter goes to house and takes up third pot at random._ third pot. [_delighted._] now he's going to fill me with the old familiar juice! [_potter fills him with water and returns to omar._ third pot. [_disgusted._] water! well, i'm dashed! omar. many thanks, o sáki. here's to you. [_drains beaker._] ugh! don't think much of your liquor. i wish the moon wouldn't look at me like that. she's a beastly colour. why doesn't she look the other way? potter. [_sarcastically._] wants to see _you_, i suppose. omar. [_darkly._] well, some day she won't. that's all. farewell, o sáki. yours is a joyous errand. but i wish you had put something stronger in the glass. [_handing it back to him._] turn it down, there's a good fellow. [_exit._ _curtain._ the end. bradbury, agnew, & co. ld., printers, london and tonbridge. proofreading team. a christmas garland _woven by_ max beerbohm london mcmxxi william heinemann first printed, october, 1912. new impressions, october, 1912; december, 1912; december, 1912; july, 1918; september, 1918; march, 1931. copyright, 1912. by the same author the works of max beerbohm more yet again a christmas garland the happy hypocrite zulieka dobson seven men and even now caricatures of twenty-five gentlemen the poets' corner the second childhood of john bull a book of caricatures fifty caricatures note _stevenson, in one of his essays, tells us how he "played the sedulous ape" to hazlitt, sir thomas browne, montaigne, and other writers of the past. and the compositors of all our higher-toned newspapers keep the foregoing sentence set up in type always, so constantly does it come tripping off the pens of all higher-toned reviewers. nor ever do i read it without a fresh thrill of respect for the young stevenson. i, in my own very inferior boyhood, found it hard to revel in so much as a single page of any writer earlier than thackeray. this disability i did not shake off, alas, after i left school. there seemed to be so many live authors worth reading. i gave precedence to them, and, not being much of a reader, never had time to grapple with the old masters. meanwhile, i was already writing a little on my own account. i had had some sort of aptitude for latin prose and latin verse. i wondered often whether those two things, essential though they were (and are) to the making of a decent style in english prose, sufficed for the making of a style more than decent. i felt that i must have other models. and thus i acquired the habit of aping, now and again, quite sedulously, this or that live writer--sometimes, it must be admitted, in the hope of learning rather what to avoid. i acquired, too, the habit of publishing these patient little efforts. some of them appeared in "the saturday review" many years ago; others appeared there more recently. i have selected, by kind permission of the editor, one from the earlier lot, and seven from the later. the other nine in this book are printed for the first time. the book itself may be taken as a sign that i think my own style is, at length, more or less formed._ _m.b._ _rapallo_, 1912. contents the mote in the middle distance, h*nry j*m*s p.c., x, 36, r*d**rd k*pl*ng out of harm's way, a.c. b*ns*n perkins and mankind, h.g. w*lls some damnable errors about christmas, g.k. ch*st*rt*n a sequelula to "the dynasts", th*m*s h*rdy shakespeare and christmas, fr*nk h*rr*s scruts, arn*ld b*nn*tt endeavour, j*hn g*lsw*rthy christmas, g.s. str**t the feast, j*s*ph c*nr*d a recollection, edm*nd g*sse of christmas, h*l**re b*ll*c a straight talk, g**rg* b*rn*rd sh*w fond hearts askew, m**r*ce h*wl*tt dickens, g**rge m**re euphemia clashthought, g**rge m*r*d*th the mote in the middle distance _by_ h*nry j*m*s it was with the sense of a, for him, very memorable something that he peered now into the immediate future, and tried, not without compunction, to take that period up where he had, prospectively, left it. but just where the deuce _had_ he left it? the consciousness of dubiety was, for our friend, not, this morning, quite yet clean-cut enough to outline the figures on what she had called his "horizon," between which and himself the twilight was indeed of a quality somewhat intimidating. he had run up, in the course of time, against a good number of "teasers;" and the function of teasing them back--of, as it were, giving them, every now and then, "what for"--was in him so much a habit that he would have been at a loss had there been, on the face of it, nothing to lose. oh, he always had offered rewards, of course--had ever so liberally pasted the windows of his soul with staring appeals, minute descriptions, promises that knew no bounds. but the actual recovery of the article--the business of drawing and crossing the cheque, blotched though this were with tears of joy--had blankly appeared to him rather in the light of a sacrilege, casting, he sometimes felt, a palpable chill on the fervour of the next quest. it was just this fervour that was threatened as, raising himself on his elbow, he stared at the foot of his bed. that his eyes refused to rest there for more than the fraction of an instant, may be taken--_was_, even then, taken by keith tantalus--as a hint of his recollection that after all the phenomenon wasn't to be singular. thus the exact repetition, at the foot of eva's bed, of the shape pendulous at the foot of _his_ was hardly enough to account for the fixity with which he envisaged it, and for which he was to find, some years later, a motive in the (as it turned out) hardly generous fear that eva had already made the great investigation "on her own." her very regular breathing presently reassured him that, if she _had_ peeped into "her" stocking, she must have done so in sleep. whether he should wake her now, or wait for their nurse to wake them both in due course, was a problem presently solved by a new development. it was plain that his sister was now watching him between her eyelashes. he had half expected that. she really was--he had often told her that she really was--magnificent; and her magnificence was never more obvious than in the pause that elapsed before she all of a sudden remarked "they so very indubitably _are_, you know!" it occurred to him as befitting eva's remoteness, which was a part of eva's magnificence, that her voice emerged somewhat muffled by the bedclothes. she was ever, indeed, the most telephonic of her sex. in talking to eva you always had, as it were, your lips to the receiver. if you didn't try to meet her fine eyes, it was that you simply couldn't hope to: there were too many dark, too many buzzing and bewildering and all frankly not negotiable leagues in between. snatches of other voices seemed often to intertrude themselves in the parley; and your loyal effort not to overhear these was complicated by your fear of missing what eva might be twittering. "oh, you certainly haven't, my dear, the trick of propinquity!" was a thrust she had once parried by saying that, in that case, _he_ hadn't--to which his unspoken rejoinder that she had caught her tone from the peevish young women at the central seemed to him (if not perhaps in the last, certainly in the last but one, analysis) to lack finality. with eva, he had found, it was always safest to "ring off." it was with a certain sense of his rashness in the matter, therefore, that he now, with an air of feverishly "holding the line," said "oh, as to that!" had _she_, he presently asked himself, "rung off"? it was characteristic of our friend--was indeed "him all over"--that his fear of what she was going to say was as nothing to his fear of what she might be going to leave unsaid. he had, in his converse with her, been never so conscious as now of the intervening leagues; they had never so insistently beaten the drum of his ear; and he caught himself in the act of awfully computing, with a certain statistical passion, the distance between rome and boston. he has never been able to decide which of these points he was psychically the nearer to at the moment when eva, replying "well, one does, anyhow, leave a margin for the pretext, you know!" made him, for the first time in his life, wonder whether she were not more magnificent than even he had ever given her credit for being. perhaps it was to test this theory, or perhaps merely to gain time, that he now raised himself to his knees, and, leaning with outstretched arm towards the foot of his bed, made as though to touch the stocking which santa claus had, overnight, left dangling there. his posture, as he stared obliquely at eva, with a sort of beaming defiance, recalled to him something seen in an "illustration." this reminiscence, however--if such it was, save in the scarred, the poor dear old woebegone and so very beguilingly _not_ refractive mirror of the moment--took a peculiar twist from eva's behaviour. she had, with startling suddenness, sat bolt upright, and looked to him as if she were overhearing some tragedy at the other end of the wire, where, in the nature of things, she was unable to arrest it. the gaze she fixed on her extravagant kinsman was of a kind to make him wonder how he contrived to remain, as he beautifully did, rigid. his prop was possibly the reflection that flashed on him that, if _she_ abounded in attenuations, well, hang it all, so did _he_! it was simply a difference of plane. readjust the "values," as painters say, and there you were! he was to feel that he was only too crudely "there" when, leaning further forward, he laid a chubby forefinger on the stocking, causing that receptacle to rock ponderously to and fro. this effect was more expected than the tears which started to eva's eyes, and the intensity with which "don't you," she exclaimed, "see?" "the mote in the middle distance?" he asked. "did you ever, my dear, know me to see anything else? i tell you it blocks out everything. it's a cathedral, it's a herd of elephants, it's the whole habitable globe. oh, it's, believe me, of an obsessiveness!" but his sense of the one thing it _didn't_ block out from his purview enabled him to launch at eva a speculation as to just how far santa claus had, for the particular occasion, gone. the gauge, for both of them, of this seasonable distance seemed almost blatantly suspended in the silhouettes of the two stockings. over and above the basis of (presumably) sweetmeats in the toes and heels, certain extrusions stood for a very plenary fulfilment of desire. and, since eva had set her heart on a doll of ample proportions and practicable eyelids--had asked that most admirable of her sex, their mother, for it with not less directness than he himself had put into his demand for a sword and helmet--her coyness now struck keith as lying near to, at indeed a hardly measurable distance from, the border-line of his patience. if she didn't want the doll, why the deuce had she made such a point of getting it? he was perhaps on the verge of putting this question to her, when, waving her hand to include both stockings, she said "of course, my dear, you _do_ see. there they are, and you know i know you know we wouldn't, either of us, dip a finger into them." with a vibrancy of tone that seemed to bring her voice quite close to him, "one doesn't," she added, "violate the shrine--pick the pearl from the shell!" even had the answering question "doesn't one just?" which for an instant hovered on the tip of his tongue, been uttered, it could not have obscured for keith the change which her magnificence had wrought in him. something, perhaps, of the bigotry of the convert was already discernible in the way that, averting his eyes, he said "one doesn't even peer." as to whether, in the years that have elapsed since he said this either of our friends (now adult) has, in fact, "peered," is a question which, whenever i call at the house, i am tempted to put to one or other of them. but any regret i may feel in my invariable failure to "come up to the scratch" of yielding to this temptation is balanced, for me, by my impression--my sometimes all but throned and anointed certainty--that the answer, if vouchsafed, would be in the negative. p.c., x, 36 _by_ r*d**rd k*pl*ng then it's collar 'im tight, in the name o' the lawd! 'ustle 'im, shake 'im till 'e's sick! wot, 'e _would_, would 'e? well, then yer've got ter give 'im 'ell, an' it's trunch, trunch, truncheon does the trick police station ditties. i had spent christmas eve at the club, listening to a grand pow-wow between certain of the choicer sons of adam. then slushby had cut in. slushby is one who writes to newspapers and is theirs obediently "humanitarian." when slushby cuts in, men remember they have to be up early next morning. sharp round a corner on the way home, i collided with something firmer than the regulation pillar-box. i righted myself after the recoil and saw some stars that were very pretty indeed. then i perceived the nature of the obstruction. "evening, judlip," i said sweetly, when i had collected my hat from the gutter. "have i broken the law, judlip? if so, i'll go quiet." "time yer was in bed," grunted x, 36. "yer ma'll be lookin' out for yer." this from the friend of my bosom! it hurt. many were the night-beats i had been privileged to walk with judlip, imbibing curious lore that made glad the civilian heart of me. seven whole 8x5 inch note-books had i pitmanised to the brim with judlip. and now to be repulsed as one of the uninitiated! it hurt horrid. there is a thing called dignity. small boys sometimes stand on it. then they have to be kicked. then they get down, weeping. i don't stand on dignity. "what's wrong, judlip?" i asked, more sweetly than ever. "drawn a blank to-night?" "yuss. drawn a blank blank blank. 'avent 'ad so much as a kick at a lorst dorg. christmas eve ain't wot it was." i felt for my note-book. "lawd! i remembers the time when the drunks and disorderlies down this street was as thick as flies on a fly-paper. one just picked 'em orf with one's finger and thumb. a bloomin' battew, that's wot it wos." "the night's yet young, judlip," i insinuated, with a jerk of my thumb at the flaring windows of the "rat and blood hound." at that moment the saloon-door swung open, emitting a man and woman who walked with linked arms and exceeding great care. judlip eyed them longingly as they tacked up the street. then he sighed. now, when judlip sighs the sound is like unto that which issues from the vent of a crosby boiler when the cog-gauges are at 260° f. "come, judlip!" i said. "possess your soul in patience. you'll soon find someone to make an example of. meanwhile"--i threw back my head and smacked my lips--"the usual, judlip?" in another minute i emerged through the swing-door, bearing a furtive glass of that same "usual," and nipped down the mews where my friend was wont to await these little tokens of esteem. "to the majesty of the law, judlip!" when he had honoured the toast, i scooted back with the glass, leaving him wiping the beads off his beard-bristles. he was in his philosophic mood when i rejoined him at the corner. "wot am i?" he said, as we paced along. "a bloomin' cypher. wot's the sarjint? 'e's got the inspector over 'im. over above the inspector there's the sooprintendent. over above 'im's the old red-tape-masticatin' yard. over above that there's the 'ome sec. wot's 'e? a cypher, like me. why?" judlip looked up at the stars. "over above 'im's we dunno wot. somethin' wot issues its horders an' regulations an' divisional injunctions, inscrootable like, but p'remptory; an' we 'as ter see as 'ow they're carried out, not arskin' no questions, but each man goin' about 'is dooty.' "''is dooty,'" said i, looking up from my note-book. "yes, i've got that." "life ain't a bean-feast. it's a 'arsh reality. an' them as makes it a bean-feast 'as got to be 'arshly dealt with accordin'. that's wot the force is put 'ere for from above. not as 'ow we ain't fallible. we makes our mistakes. an' when we makes 'em we sticks to 'em. for the honour o' the force. which same is the jool britannia wears on 'er bosom as a charm against hanarchy. that's wot the brarsted old beaks don't understand. yer remember smithers of our div?" i remembered smithers--well. as fine, upstanding, square-toed, bullet-headed, clean-living a son of a gun as ever perjured himself in the box. there was nothing of the softy about smithers. i took off my billicock to smithers' memory. "sacrificed to public opinion? yuss," said judlip, pausing at a front door and flashing his 45 c.p. down the slot of a two-grade yale. "sacrificed to a parcel of screamin' old women wot ort ter 'ave gorn down on their knees an' thanked gawd for such a protector. 'e'll be out in another 'alf year. wot'll 'e do then, pore devil? go a bust on 'is conduc' money an' throw in 'is lot with them same hexperts wot 'ad a 'oly terror of 'im." then judlip swore gently. "what should you do, o great one, if ever it were your duty to apprehend him?" "do? why, yer blessed innocent, yer don't think i'd shirk a fair clean cop? same time, i don't say as 'ow i wouldn't 'andle 'im tender like, for sake o' wot 'e wos. likewise cos 'e'd be a stiff customer to tackle. likewise 'cos--" he had broken off, and was peering fixedly upwards at an angle of 85° across the moonlit street. "ullo!" he said in a hoarse whisper. striking an average between the direction of his eyes--for judlip, when on the job, has a soul-stirring squint--i perceived someone in the act of emerging from a chimney-pot. judlip's voice clove the silence. "wot are yer doin' hup there?" the person addressed came to the edge of the parapet. i saw then that he had a hoary white beard, a red ulster with the hood up, and what looked like a sack over his shoulder. he said something or other in a voice like a concertina that has been left out in the rain. "i dessay," answered my friend. "just you come down, an' we'll see about that." the old man nodded and smiled. then--as i hope to be saved--he came floating gently down through the moonlight, with the sack over his shoulder and a young fir-tree clasped to his chest. he alighted in a friendly manner on the curb beside us. judlip was the first to recover himself. out went his right arm, and the airman was slung round by the scruff of the neck, spilling his sack in the road. i made a bee-line for his shoulder-blades. burglar or no burglar, he was the best airman out, and i was muchly desirous to know the precise nature of the apparatus under his ulster. a back-hander from judlip's left caused me to hop quickly aside. the prisoner was squealing and whimpering. he didn't like the feel of judlip's knuckles at his cervical vertebræ. "wot wos yer doin' hup there?" asked judlip, tightening the grip. "i'm s-santa claus, sir. p-please, sir, let me g-go" "hold him," i shouted. "he's a german." "it's my dooty ter caution yer that wotever yer say now may be used in hevidence against yer, yer old sinner. pick up that there sack, an' come along o' me." the captive snivelled something about peace on earth, good will toward men. "yuss," said judlip. "that's in the noo testament, ain't it? the noo testament contains some uncommon nice readin' for old gents an' young ladies. but it ain't included in the librery o' the force. we confine ourselves to the old testament--o.t., 'ot. an' 'ot you'll get it. hup with that sack, an' quick march!" i have seen worse attempts at a neck-wrench, but it was just not slippery enough for judlip. and the kick that judlip then let fly was a thing of beauty and a joy for ever. "frog's-march him!" i shrieked, dancing. "for the love of heaven, frog's-march him!" trotting by judlip's side to the station, i reckoned it out that if slushby had not been at the club i should not have been here to see. which shows that even slushbys are put into this world for a purpose. out of harm's way _by_ a.c. b*ns*n chapter xlii.--christmas more and more, as the tranquil years went by, percy found himself able to draw a quiet satisfaction from the regularity, the even sureness, with which, in every year, one season succeeded to another. in boyhood he had felt always a little sad at the approach of autumn. the yellowing leaves of the lime trees, the creeper that flushed to so deep a crimson against the old grey walls, the chrysanthemums that shed so prodigally their petals on the smooth green lawn--all these things, beautiful and wonderful though they were, were somehow a little melancholy also, as being signs of the year's decay. once, when he was fourteen or fifteen years old, he had overheard a friend of the family say to his father "how the days are drawing in!"--a remark which set him thinking deeply, with an almost morbid abandonment to gloom, for quite a long time. he had not then grasped the truth that in exactly the proportion in which the days draw in they will, in the fullness of time, draw out. this was a lesson that he mastered in later years. and, though the waning of summer never failed to touch him with the sense of an almost personal loss, yet it seemed to him a right thing, a wise ordination, that there should be these recurring changes. those men and women of whom the poet tells us that they lived in "a land where it was always afternoon"--could they, percy often wondered, have felt quite that thankfulness which on a fine afternoon is felt by us dwellers in ordinary climes? ah, no! surely it is because we are made acquainted with the grey sadness of twilight, the solemn majesty of the night-time, the faint chill of the dawn, that we set so high a value on the more meridional hours. if there were no autumn, no winter, then spring and summer would lose, not all indeed, yet an appreciable part of their sweet savour for us. thus, as his mind matured, percy came to be very glad of the gradual changes of the year. he found in them a rhythm, as he once described it in his diary; and this he liked very much indeed. he was aware that in his own character, with its tendency to waywardness, to caprice, to disorder, there was an almost grievous lack of this _rhythmic_ quality. in the sure and seemly progression of the months, was there not for him a desirable exemplar, a needed corrective? he was so liable to moods in which he rebelled against the performance of some quite simple duty, some appointed task--moods in which he said to himself "h-ng it! i will not do this," or "oh, b-th-r! i shall not do that!" but it was clear that nature herself never spoke thus. even as a passenger in a frail barque on the troublous ocean will keep his eyes directed towards some upstanding rock on the far horizon, finding thus inwardly for himself, or hoping to find, a more stable equilibrium, a deeper tranquillity, than is his, so did percy daily devote a certain portion of his time to quiet communion with the almanac. there were times when he was sorely tempted to regret a little that some of the feasts of the church were "moveable." true, they moved only within strictly prescribed limits, and in accordance with certain unalterable, wholly justifiable rules. yet, in the very fact that they did move, there seemed--to use an expressive slang phrase of the day--"something not quite nice." it was therefore the fixed feasts that pleased percy best, and on christmas day, especially, he experienced a temperate glow which would have perhaps surprised those who knew him only slightly. by reason of the athletic exercises of his earlier years, percy had retained in middle life a certain lightness and firmness of tread; and this on christmas morning, between his rooms and the cathedral, was always so peculiarly elastic that he might almost have seemed to be rather running than walking. the ancient fane, with its soarings of grey columns to the dimness of its embowed roof, the delicate traceries of the organ screen, the swelling notes of the organ, the mellow shafts of light filtered through the stained-glass windows whose hues were as those of emeralds and rubies and amethysts, the stainless purity of the surplices of clergy and choir, the sober richness of sunday bonnets in the transept, the faint yet heavy fragrance exhaled from the hot-water pipes--all these familiar things, appealing, as he sometimes felt, almost too strongly to that sensuous side of his nature which made him so susceptible to the paintings of mr. leader, of sir luke fildes, were on christmas morning more than usually affecting by reason of that note of quiet joyousness, of peace and good will, that pervaded the lessons of the day, the collect, the hymns, the sermon. it was this spiritual aspect of christmas that percy felt to be hardly sufficiently regarded, or at least dwelt on, nowadays, and he sometimes wondered whether the modern christmas had not been in some degree inspired and informed by charles dickens. he had for that writer a very sincere admiration, though he was inclined to think that his true excellence lay not so much in faithful portrayal of the life of his times, or in gift of sustained narration, or in those scenes of pathos which have moved so many hearts in so many quiet homes, as in the power of inventing highly fantastic figures, such as mr. micawber or mr. pickwick. this view percy knew to be somewhat heretical, and, constitutionally averse from the danger of being suspected of "talking for effect," he kept it to himself; but, had anyone challenged him to give his opinion, it was thus that he would have expressed himself. in regard to christmas, he could not help wishing that charles dickens had laid more stress on its spiritual element. it was right that the feast should be an occasion for good cheer, for the savoury meats, the steaming bowl, the blazing log, the traditional games. but was not the modern world, with its almost avowed bias towards materialism, too little apt to think of christmas as also a time for meditation, for taking stock, as it were, of the things of the soul? percy had heard that in london nowadays there was a class of people who sate down to their christmas dinners in public hotels. he did not condemn this practice. he never condemned a thing, but wondered, rather, whether it were right, and could not help feeling that somehow it was not. in the course of his rare visits to london he had more than once been inside of one of the large new hotels that had sprung up--these "great caravanseries," as he described them in a letter to an old school-fellow who had been engaged for many years in chinese mission work. and it seemed to him that the true spirit of christmas could hardly be acclimatised in such places, but found its proper resting-place in quiet, detached homes, where were gathered together only those connected with one another by ties of kinship, or of long and tested friendship. he sometimes blamed himself for having tended more and more, as the quiet, peaceful, tranquil years went by, to absent himself from even those small domestic gatherings. and yet, might it not be that his instinct for solitude at this season was a right instinct, at least for him, and that to run counter to it would be in some degree unacceptable to the power that fashioned us? thus he allowed himself to go, as it were, his own way. after morning service, he sate down to his christmas fare alone, and then, when the simple meal was over, would sit and think in his accustomed chair, falling perhaps into one of those quiet dozes from which, because they seemed to be so natural a result, so seemly a consummation, of his thoughts, he did not regularly abstain. later, he sallied forth, with a sense of refreshment, for a brisk walk among the fens, the sedges, the hedgerows, the reed-fringed pools, the pollard willows that would in due course be putting forth their tender shoots of palest green. and then, once more in his rooms, with the curtains drawn and the candles lit, he would turn to his book-shelves and choose from among them some old book that he knew and loved, or maybe some quite new book by that writer whose works were most dear to him because in them he seemed always to know so precisely what the author would say next, and because he found in their fine-spun repetitions a singular repose, a sense of security, an earnest of calm and continuity, as though he were reading over again one of those wise copy-books that he had so loved in boyhood, or were listening to the sounds made on a piano by some modest, very conscientious young girl with a pale red pig-tail, practising her scales, very gently, hour after hour, next door. perkins and mankind _by_ h.g. w*lls chapter xx §1. it was the christmas party at heighton that was one of the turning-points in perkins' life. the duchess had sent him a three-page wire in the hyperbolical style of her class, conveying a vague impression that she and the duke had arranged to commit suicide together if perkins didn't "chuck" any previous engagement he had made. and perkins had felt in a slipshod sort of way--for at this period he was incapable of ordered thought--he might as well be at heighton as anywhere.... the enormous house was almost full. there must have been upwards of fifty people sitting down to every meal. many of these were members of the family. perkins was able to recognise them by their unconvoluted ears--the well-known grifford ear, transmitted from one generation to another. for the rest there were the usual lot from the front benches and the embassies. evesham was there, clutching at the lapels of his coat; and the prescotts--he with his massive mask of a face, and she with her quick, hawk-like ways, talking about two things at a time; old tommy strickland, with his monocle and his dropped g's, telling you what he had once said to mr. disraeli; boubou seaforth and his american wife; john pirram, ardent and elegant, spouting old french lyrics; and a score of others. perkins had got used to them by now. he no longer wondered what they were "up to," for he knew they were up to nothing whatever. he reflected, while he was dressing for dinner on christmas night, how odd it was he had ever thought of using them. he might as well have hoped to use the dresden shepherds and shepherdesses that grinned out in the last stages of refinement at him from the glazed cabinets in the drawing-rooms.... or the labour members themselves.... true there was evesham. he had shown an exquisitely open mind about the whole thing. he had at once grasped the underlying principles, thrown out some amazingly luminous suggestions. oh yes, evesham was a statesman, right enough. but had even he ever really _believed_ in the idea of a provisional government of england by the female foundlings? to perkins the whole thing had seemed so simple, so imminent--a thing that needed only a little general good-will to bring it about. and now.... suppose his bill _had_ passed its second reading, suppose it had become law, would this poor old england be by way of functioning decently--after all? foundlings were sometimes naughty.... what was the matter with the whole human race? he remembered again those words of scragson's that had had such a depressing effect on him at the cambridge union--"look here, you know! it's all a huge nasty mess, and we're trying to swab it up with a pocket handkerchief." well, he'd given up trying to do that.... §2. during dinner his eyes wandered furtively up and down the endless ornate table, and he felt he had been, in a sort of way, right in thinking these people were the handiest instrument to prise open the national conscience with. the shining red faces of the men, the shining white necks and arms of the women, the fearless eyes, the general free-and-easiness and spaciousness, the look of late hours counteracted by fresh air and exercise and the best things to eat and drink--what mightn't be made of these people, if they'd only submit? perkins looked behind them, at the solemn young footmen passing and repassing, noiselessly, in blue and white liveries. _they_ had submitted. and it was just because they had been able to that they were no good. "damn!" said perkins, under his breath. §3. one of the big conifers from the park had been erected in the hall, and this, after dinner, was found to be all lighted up with electric bulbs and hung with packages in tissue paper. the duchess stood, a bright, feral figure, distributing these packages to the guests. perkins' name was called out in due course and the package addressed to him was slipped into his hand. he retired with it into a corner. inside the tissue-paper was a small morocco leather case. inside that was a set of diamond and sapphire sleeve-links--large ones. he stood looking at them, blinking a little. he supposed he must put them on. but something in him, some intractably tough bit of his old self, rose up protesting--frantically. if he couldn't use these people, at least they weren't going to use _him_! "no, damn it!" he said under his breath, and, thrusting the case into his pocket, slipped away unobserved. §4. he flung himself into a chair in his bedroom and puffed a blast of air from his lungs.... yes, it had been a narrow escape. he knew that if he had put those beastly blue and white things on he would have been a lost soul.... "you've got to pull yourself together, d'you hear?" he said to himself. "you've got to do a lot of clear, steady, merciless thinking--now, to-night. you've got to persuade yourself somehow that, foundlings or no foundlings, this regeneration of mankind business may still be set going--and by _you_." he paced up and down the room, fuming. how recapture the generous certitudes that had one by one been slipping away from him? he found himself staring vacantly at the row of books on the little shelf by his bed. one of them seemed suddenly to detach itself--he could almost have sworn afterwards that he didn't reach out for it, but that it hopped down into his hand.... "sitting up for the dawn"! it was one of that sociological series by which h.g. w*lls had first touched his soul to finer issues when he was at the 'varsity. he opened it with tremulous fingers. could it re-exert its old sway over him now? the page he had opened it at was headed "general cessation day," and he began to read.... "the re-casting of the calendar on a decimal basis seems a simple enough matter at first sight. but even here there are details that will have to be thrashed out.... "mr. edgar dibbs, in his able pamphlet 'ten to the rescue,'[1] advocates a twenty-hour day, and has drawn up an ingenious scheme for accelerating the motion of this planet by four in every twenty-four hours, so that the alternations of light and darkness shall be re-adjusted to the new reckoning. i think such re-adjustment would be indispensable (though i know there is a formidable body of opinion against me). but i am far from being convinced of the feasibility of mr. dibbs' scheme. i believe the twenty-four hour day has come to stay--anomalous though it certainly will seem in the ten-day week, the fifty-day month, and the thousand-day year. i should like to have incorporated mr. dibbs' scheme in my vision of the dawn. but, as i have said, the scope of this vision is purely practical.... [footnote 1: published by the young self-helpers' press, ipswich.] "mr. albert baker, in a paper[2] read before the south brixton hebdomadals, pleads that the first seven days of the decimal week should retain their old names, the other three to be called provisionally huxleyday, marxday, and tolstoiday. but, for reasons which i have set forth elsewhere,[3] i believe that the nomenclature which i had originally suggested[4]--aday, bday, and so on to jday--would be really the simplest way out of the difficulty. any fanciful way of naming the days would be bad, as too sharply differentiating one day from another. what we must strive for in the dawn is that every day shall be as nearly as possible like every other day. we must help the human units--these little pink slobbering creatures of the future whose cradle we are rocking--to progress not in harsh jerks, but with a beautiful unconscious rhythm.... [footnote 2: "are we going too fast?"] [footnote 3: "a midwife for the millennium." h.g. w*lls.] [footnote 4: "how to be happy though yet unborn." h.g. w*lls.] "there must be nothing corresponding to our sunday. sunday is a canker that must be cut ruthlessly out of the social organism. at present the whole community gets 'slack' on saturday because of the paralysis that is about to fall on it. and then 'black monday'!--that day when the human brain tries to readjust itself--tries to realise that the shutters are down, and the streets are swept, and the stove-pipe hats are back in their band-boxes.... "yet of course there must be holidays. we can no more do without holidays than without sleep. for every man there must be certain stated intervals of repose--of recreation in the original sense of the word. my views on the worthlessness of classical education are perhaps pretty well known to you, but i don't underrate the great service that my friend professor ezra k. higgins has rendered by his discovery[5] that the word recreation originally signified a re-creating--i.e.,[6] a time for the nerve-tissues to renew themselves in. the problem before us is how to secure for the human units in the dawn--these giants of whom we are but the foetuses--the holidays necessary for their full capacity for usefulness to the state, without at the same time disorganising the whole community--and them. [footnote 5: "words about words." by ezra k. higgins, professor of etymology, abraham z. stubbins university, padua, pa., u.s.a. (2 vols.).] [footnote 6: "_id est_"--"that is."] "the solution is really very simple. the community will be divided into ten sections--section a, section b, and so on to section j. and to every section one day of the decimal week will be assigned as a 'cessation day.' thus, those people who fall under section a will rest on aday, those who fall under section b will rest on bday, and so on. on every day of the year one-tenth of the population will be resting, but the other nine-tenths will be at work. the joyous hum and clang of labour will never cease in the municipal workshops.... "you figure the smokeless blue sky above london dotted all over with airships in which the holiday-making tenth are re-creating themselves for the labour of next week--looking down a little wistfully, perhaps, at the workshops from which they are temporarily banished. and here i scent a difficulty. so attractive a thing will labour be in the dawn that a man will be tempted not to knock off work when his cessation day comes round, and will prefer to work for no wage rather than not at all. so that perhaps there will have to be a law making cessation day compulsory, and the overseers will be empowered to punish infringement of this law by forbidding the culprit to work for ten days after the first offence, twenty after the second, and so on. but i don't suppose there will often be need to put this law in motion. the children of the dawn, remember, will not be the puny self-ridden creatures that we are. they will not say, 'is this what i want to do?' but 'shall i, by doing this, be (a) harming or (b) benefiting--no matter in how infinitesimal a degree--the future of the race?' "sunday must go. and, as i have hinted, the progress of mankind will be steady proportionately to its own automatism. yet i think there would be no harm in having one--just one--day in the year set aside as a day of universal rest--a day for the searching of hearts. heaven--i mean the future--forbid that i should be hide-bound by dry-as-dust logic, in dealing with problems of flesh and blood. the sociologists of the past thought the grey matter of their own brains all-sufficing. they forgot that flesh is pink and blood is red. that is why they could not convert people.... "the five-hundredth and last day of each year shall be a general cessation day. it will correspond somewhat to our present christmas day. but with what a difference! it will not be, as with us, a mere opportunity for relatives to make up the quarrels they have picked with each other during the past year, and to eat and drink things that will make them ill well into next year. holly and mistletoe there will be in the municipal eating rooms, but the men and women who sit down there to general cessation high-tea will be glowing not with a facile affection for their kith and kin, but with communal anxiety for the welfare of the great-great-grand-children of people they have never met and are never likely to meet. "the great event of the day will be the performance of the ceremony of 'making way.' "in the dawn, death will not be the haphazard affair that it is under the present anarchic conditions. men will not be stumbling out of the world at odd moments and for reasons over which they have no control. there will always, of course, be a percentage of deaths by misadventure. but there will be no deaths by disease. nor, on the other hand, will people die of old age. every child will start life knowing that (barring misadventure) he has a certain fixed period of life before him--so much and no more, but not a moment less. "it is impossible to foretell to what average age the children of the dawn will retain the use of all their faculties--be fully vigorous mentally and physically. we only know they will be 'going strong' at ages when we have long ceased to be any use to the state. let us, for sake of argument, say that on the average their facilities will have begun to decay at the age of ninety--a trifle over thirty-two, by the new reckoning. that, then, will be the period of life fixed for all citizens. every man on fulfilling that period will avail himself of the municipal lethal chamber. he will 'make way'.... "i thought at one time that it would be best for every man to 'make way' on the actual day when he reaches the age-limit. but i see now that this would savour of private enterprise. moreover, it would rule out that element of sentiment which, in relation to such a thing as death, we must do nothing to mar. the children and friends of a man on the brink of death would instinctively wish to gather round him. how could they accompany him to the lethal chamber, if it were an ordinary working-day, with every moment of the time mapped out for them? "on general cessation day, therefore, the gates of the lethal chambers will stand open for all those who shall in the course of the past year have reached the age-limit. you figure the wide streets filled all day long with little solemn processions--solemn and yet not in the least unhappy.... you figure the old man walking with a firm step in the midst of his progeny, looking around him with a clear eye at this dear world which is about to lose him. he will not be thinking of himself. he will not be wishing the way to the lethal chamber was longer. he will be filled with joy at the thought that he is about to die for the good of the race--to 'make way' for the beautiful young breed of men and women who, in simple, artistic, antiseptic garments, are disporting themselves so gladly on this day of days. they pause to salute him as he passes. and presently he sees, radiant in the sunlight, the pleasant white-tiled dome of the lethal chamber. you figure him at the gate, shaking hands all round, and speaking perhaps a few well-chosen words about the future...." §5. it was enough. the old broom hadn't lost its snap. it had swept clean the chambers of perkins' soul--swished away the whole accumulation of nasty little cobwebs and malignant germs. gone were the mean doubts that had formed in him, the lethargy, the cheap cynicism. perkins was himself again. he saw now how very stupid it was of him to have despaired just because his own particular panacea wasn't given a chance. that provisional government plan of his had been good, but it was only one of an infinite number of possible paths to the dawn. he would try others--scores of others.... he must get right away out of here--to-night. he must have his car brought round from the garage--now--to a side door.... but first he sat down to the writing-table, and wrote quickly: _dear duchess,_ _i regret i am called away on urgent political business...._ _yours faithfully_ _j. perkins...._ he took the morocco leather case out of his pocket and enclosed it, with the note, in a large envelope. then he pressed the electric button by his bedside, almost feeling that this was a signal for the dawn to rise without more ado.... some damnable errors about christmas _by_ g.k. ch*st*rt*n that it is human to err is admitted by even the most positive of our thinkers. here we have the great difference between latter-day thought and the thought of the past. if euclid were alive to-day (and i dare say he is) he would not say, "the angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are equal to one another." he would say, "to me (a very frail and fallible being, remember) it does somehow seem that these two angles have a mysterious and awful equality to one another." the dislike of schoolboys for euclid is unreasonable in many ways; but fundamentally it is entirely reasonable. fundamentally it is the revolt from a man who was either fallible and therefore (in pretending to infallibility) an impostor, or infallible and therefore not human. now, since it is human to err, it is always in reference to those things which arouse in us the most human of all our emotions--i mean the emotion of love--that we conceive the deepest of our errors. suppose we met euclid on westminster bridge, and he took us aside and confessed to us that whilst he regarded parallelograms and rhomboids with an indifference bordering on contempt, for isosceles triangles he cherished a wild romantic devotion. suppose he asked us to accompany him to the nearest music-shop, and there purchased a guitar in order that he might worthily sing to us the radiant beauty and the radiant goodness of isosceles triangles. as men we should, i hope, respect his enthusiasm, and encourage his enthusiasm, and catch his enthusiasm. but as seekers after truth we should be compelled to regard with a dark suspicion, and to check with the most anxious care, every fact that he told us about isosceles triangles. for adoration involves a glorious obliquity of vision. it involves more than that. we do not say of love that he is short-sighted. we do not say of love that he is myopic. we do not say of love that he is astigmatic. we say quite simply, love is blind. we might go further and say, love is deaf. that would be a profound and obvious truth. we might go further still and say, love is dumb. but that would be a profound and obvious lie. for love is always an extraordinarily fluent talker. love is a wind-bag, filled with a gusty wind from heaven. it is always about the thing that we love most that we talk most. about this thing, therefore, our errors are something more than our deepest errors: they are our most frequent errors. that is why for nearly two thousand years mankind has been more glaringly wrong on the subject of christmas than on any other subject. if mankind had hated christmas, he would have understood it from the first. what would have happened then, it is impossible to say. for that which is hated, and therefore is persecuted, and therefore grows brave, lives on for ever, whilst that which is understood dies in the moment of our understanding of it--dies, as it were, in our awful grasp. between the horns of this eternal dilemma shivers all the mystery of the jolly visible world, and of that still jollier world which is invisible. and it is because mr. shaw and the writers of his school cannot, with all their splendid sincerity and, acumen, perceive that he and they and all of us are impaled on those horns as certainly as the sausages i ate for breakfast this morning had been impaled on the cook's toasting-fork--it is for this reason, i say, that mr. shaw and his friends seem to me to miss the basic principle that lies at the root of all things human and divine. by the way, not all things that are divine are human. but all things that are human are divine. but to return to christmas. i select at random two of the more obvious fallacies that obtain. one is that christmas should be observed as a time of jubilation. this is (i admit) quite a recent idea. it never entered into the tousled heads of the shepherds by night, when the light of the angel of the lord shone about them and they arose and went to do homage to the child. it never entered into the heads of the three wise men. they did not bring their gifts as a joke, but as an awful oblation. it never entered into the heads of the saints and scholars, the poets and painters, of the middle ages. looking back across the years, they saw in that dark and ungarnished manger only a shrinking woman, a brooding man, and a child born to sorrow. the philomaths of the eighteenth century, looking back, saw nothing at all. it is not the least of the glories of the victorian era that it rediscovered christmas. it is not the least of the mistakes of the victorian era that it supposed christmas to be a feast. the splendour of the saying, "i have piped unto you, and you have not danced; i have wept with you, and you have not mourned" lies in the fact that it might have been uttered with equal truth by any man who had ever piped or wept. there is in the human race some dark spirit of recalcitrance, always pulling us in the direction contrary to that in which we are reasonably expected to go. at a funeral, the slightest thing, not in the least ridiculous at any other time, will convulse us with internal laughter. at a wedding, we hover mysteriously on the brink of tears. so it is with the modern christmas. i find myself in agreement with the cynics in so far that i admit that christmas, as now observed, tends to create melancholy. but the reason for this lies solely in our own misconception. christmas is essentially a _dies iræ_. if the cynics will only make up their minds to treat it as such, even the saddest and most atrabilious of them will acknowledge that he has had a rollicking day. this brings me to the second fallacy. i refer to the belief that "christmas comes but once a year." perhaps it does, according to the calendar--a quaint and interesting compilation, but of little or no practical value to anybody. it is not the calendar, but the spirit of man that regulates the recurrence of feasts and fasts. spiritually, christmas day recurs exactly seven times a week. when we have frankly acknowledged this, and acted on this, we shall begin to realise the day's mystical and terrific beauty. for it is only every-day things that reveal themselves to us in all their wonder and their splendour. a man who happens one day to be knocked down by a motor-bus merely utters a curse and instructs his solicitor, but a man who has been knocked down by a motor-bus every day of the year will have begun to feel that he is taking part in an august and soul-cleansing ritual. he will await the diurnal stroke of fate with the same lowly and pious joy as animated the hindoos awaiting juggernaut. his bruises will be decorations, worn with the modest pride of the veteran. he will cry aloud, in the words of the late w.e. henley, "my head is bloody but unbowed." he will add, "my ribs are broken but unbent." i look for the time when we shall wish one another a merry christmas every morning; when roast turkey and plum-pudding shall be the staple of our daily dinner, and the holly shall never be taken down from the walls, and everyone will always be kissing everyone else under the mistletoe. and what is right as regards christmas is right as regards all other so-called anniversaries. the time will come when we shall dance round the maypole every morning before breakfast--a meal at which hot-cross buns will be a standing dish--and shall make april fools of one another every day before noon. the profound significance of all fool's day--the glorious lesson that we are all fools--is too apt at present to be lost. nor is justice done to the sublime symbolism of shrove tuesday--the day on which all sins are shriven. every day pancakes shall be eaten, either before or after the plum-pudding. they shall be eaten slowly and sacramentally. they shall be fried over fires tended and kept for ever bright by vestals. they shall be tossed to the stars. i shall return to the subject of christmas next week. a sequelula to "the dynasts"[7] _by_ th*m*s h*rdy [footnote 7: _this has been composed from a scenario thrust on me by some one else. my philosophy of life saves me from sense of responsibility for any of my writings; but i venture to hold myself specially irresponsible for this one._--th*m*s h*rdy.] the void is disclosed. our own solar system is visible, distant by some two million miles. enter the ancient spirit and chorus of the years, the spirit and chorus of the pities, the spirit ironic, the spirit sinister, rumours, spirit-messengers, and the recording angel. spirit of the pities. _yonder, that swarm of things insectual_ _wheeling nowhither in particular--_ _what is it?_ spirit of the years. _that? oh that is merely one_ _of those innumerous congeries_ _of parasites by which, since time began,_ _space has been interfested._ spirit sinister. _what a pity_ _we have no means of stamping out these pests!_ spirit ironic. _nay, but i like to watch them buzzing round,_ _poor little trumpery ephaeonals!_ chorus of the pieties (aerial music). _yes, yes!_ _what matter a few more or less?_ _here and nowhere plus_ _whence and why makes thus._ _let these things be._ _there's room in the world for them and us._ _nothing is,_ _out in the vast immensities_ _where these things flit,_ _irrequisite_ _in a minor key_ _to the tune of the sempiternal it._ spirit ironic. _the curious thing about them is that some_ _have lesser parasites adherent to them--_ _bipedular and quadrupedular_ _infinitesimals. on close survey_ _you see these movesome. do you not recall,_ _we once went in a party and beheld_ _all manner of absurd things happening_ _on one of those same--planets, don't you call them?_ spirit of the years (screwing up his eyes at the solar system). _one of that very swarm it was, if i mistake not._ _it had a parasite that called itself_ _napoléon. and lately, i believe,_ _another parasite has had the impudence_ _to publish an elaborate account_ _of our (for so we deemed it) private visit._ spirit sinister. _his name?_ recording angel. _one moment._ (turns over leaves.) _hardy, mr. thomas,_ _novelist. author of "the woodlanders,"_ _"far from the madding crowd," "the trumpet major,"_ _"tess of the d'urbervilles," etcetera,_ _etcetera. in 1895_ _"jude the obscure" was published, and a few_ _hasty reviewers, having to supply_ _a column for the day of publication,_ _filled out their space by saying that there were_ _several passages that might have been_ _omitted with advantage. mr. hardy_ _saw that if that was so, well then, of course,_ _obviously the only thing to do_ _was to write no more novels, and forthwith_ _applied himself to drama, and to us._ spirit ironic. _let us hear what he said about us._ the other spirits. _let's._ recording angel (raising receiver of aerial telephone). _3 oh 4 oh oh 3 5, space.... hulloa._ _is that the superstellar library?_ _i'm the recording angel. kindly send me_ _by spirit-messenger a copy of_ _"the dynasts" by t. hardy. thank you._ a pause. enter spirit-messenger, with copy of "the dynasts." _thanks._ exit spirit-messenger. the recording angel reads "the dynasts" aloud. just as the reading draws to a close, enter the spirit of mr. clement shorter and chorus of subtershorters. they are visible as small grey transparencies swiftly interpenetrating the brains of the spatial spirits. spirit of the pities. _it is a book which, once you take it up,_ _you cannot readily lay down._ spirit sinister. _there is_ _not a dull page in it._ spirit of the years. _a bold conception_ _outcarried with that artistry for which_ _the author's name is guarantee. we have_ _no hesitation in commending to our readers_ _a volume which--_ the spirit of mr. clement shorter and chorus of subtershorters are detected and expelled. _--we hasten to denounce_ _as giving an entirely false account_ _of our impressions._ spirit ironic. hear, _hear_! spirit sinister. hear, _hear_! spirit of the pities. _hear_! spirit of the years. _intensive vision has this mr. hardy,_ _with a dark skill in weaving word-patterns_ _of subtle ideographies that mark him_ _a man of genius. so am not i,_ _but a plain spirit, simple and forthright,_ _with no damned philosophical fal-lals_ _about me. when i visited that planet_ _and watched the animalculae thereon,_ _i never said they were "automata"_ _and "jackaclocks," nor dared describe their deeds_ _as "life's impulsion by incognizance."_ _it may be that those mites have no free will,_ _but how should i know? nay, how mr. hardy?_ _we cannot glimpse the origin of things,_ _cannot conceive a causeless cause, albeit_ _such a cause must have been, and must be greater_ _than we whose little wits cannot conceive it._ _"incognizance"! why deem incognizant_ _an infinitely higher than ourselves?_ _how dare define its way with us? how know_ _whether it leaves us free or holds us bond?_ spirit of the pities. _allow me to associate myself_ _with every word that's fallen from your lips._ _the author of "the dynasts" has indeed_ _misused his undeniably great gifts_ _in striving to belittle things that are_ _little enough already. i don't say_ _that the phrenetical behaviour_ _of those aforesaid animalculae_ _did, while we watched them, seem to indicate_ _possession of free-will. but, bear in mind,_ _we saw them in peculiar circumstances--_ _at war, blinded with blood and lust and fear._ _is it not likely that at other times_ _they are quite decent midgets, capable_ _of thinking for themselves, and also acting_ _discreetly on their own initiative,_ _not drilled and herded, yet gregarious--_ _a wise yet frolicsome community?_ spirit ironic. _what are these "other times" though? i had thought_ _those midgets whiled away the vacuous hours_ _after one war in training for the next._ _and let me add that my contempt for them_ _is not done justice to by mr. hardy._ spirit sinister. _nor mine. and i have reason to believe_ _those midgets shone above their average_ _when we inspected them._ a rumour (tactfully intervening). _yet have i heard_ _(though not on very good authority)_ _that once a year they hold a festival_ _and thereat all with one accord unite_ _in brotherly affection and good will._ spirit of the years (to recording angel). _can you authenticate this rumour?_ recording angel. _such festival they have, and call it "christmas."_ spirit of the pities. _then let us go and reconsider them_ _next "christmas."_ spirit of the years (to recording angel). _when is that?_ recording angel (consults terrene calendar). _this day three weeks._ spirit of the years. _on that day we will re-traject ourselves._ _meanwhile, 'twere well we should be posted up_ _in details of this feast._ spirit of the pities (to recording angel). _aye, tell us more._ recording angel. _i fancy you could best find what you need_ _in the complete works of the late charles dickens._ _i have them here._ spirit of the years. _read them aloud to us._ the recording angel reads aloud the complete works of charles dickens. recording angel (closing "edwin drood"). _'tis christmas morning._ spirit of the years. _then must we away._ semichorus i. of years (aerial music). _'tis time we press on to revisit_ _that dear little planet,_ _to-day of all days to be seen at_ _its brightest and best._ _now holly and mistletoe girdle_ _its halls and its homesteads,_ _and every biped is beaming_ _with peace and good will._ semichorus ii. _with good will and why not with free will?_ _if clearly the former_ _may nest in those bosoms, then why not_ _the latter as well?_ _let's lay down no laws to trip up on,_ _our way is in darkness,_ _and not but by groping unhampered_ _we win to the light._ the spirit and chorus of the years traject themselves, closely followed by the spirit and chorus of the pities, the spirits and choruses sinister and ironic, rumours, spirit messengers, and the recording angel. there is the sound of a rushing wind. the solar system is seen for a few instants growing larger and larger--a whorl of dark, vastening orbs careering round the sun. all but one of these is lost to sight. the convex seas and continents of our planet spring into prominence. the spirit of mr. hardy is visible as a grey transparency swiftly interpenetrating the brain of the spirit of the years, and urging him in a particular direction, to a particular point. the aerial visitants now hover in mid-air on the outskirts of casterbridge, wessex, immediately above the county gaol. spirit of the years. _first let us watch the revelries within_ _this well-kept castle whose great walls connote_ _a home of the pre-eminently blest._ the roof of the gaol becomes transparent, and the whole interior is revealed, like that of a beehive under glass. warders are marching mechanically round the corridors of white stone, unlocking and clanging open the iron doors of the cells. out from every door steps a convict, who stands at attention, his face to the wall. at a word of command the convicts fall into gangs of twelve, and march down the stone stairs, out into the yard, where they line up against the walls. another word of command, and they file mechanically, but not more mechanically than their warders, into the chapel. spirit of the pities. _enough!_ spirits sinister and ironic. _'tis more than even we can bear._ spirit of the pities. _would we had never come!_ spirit of the years. _brother, 'tis well_ _to have faced a truth however hideous,_ _however humbling. gladly i discipline_ _my pride by taking back those pettish doubts_ _cast on the soundness of the central thought_ _in mr. hardy's drama. he was right._ _automata these animalculae_ _are--puppets, pitiable jackaclocks._ _be't as it may elsewhere, upon this planet_ _there's no free will, only obedience_ _to some blind, deaf, unthinking despotry_ _that justifies the horridest pessimism._ _frankly acknowledging all this, i beat_ _a quick but not disorderly retreat._ he re-trajects himself into space, followed closely by his chorus, and by the spirit and chorus of the pities, the spirits sinister and ironic with their choruses, rumours, spirit messengers, and the recording angel. shakespeare and christmas _by_ fr*nk h*rr*s that shakespeare hated christmas--hated it with a venom utterly alien to the gentle heart in him--i take to be a proposition that establishes itself automatically. if there is one thing lucid-obvious in the plays and sonnets, it is shakespeare's unconquerable loathing of christmas. the professors deny it, however, or deny that it is proven. with these gentlemen i will deal faithfully. i will meet them on their own parched ground, making them fertilise it by shedding there the last drop of the water that flows through their veins. if you find, in the works of a poet whose instinct is to write about everything under the sun, one obvious theme untouched, or touched hardly at all, then it is at least presumable that there was some good reason for that abstinence. such a poet was shakespeare. it was one of the divine frailties of his genius that he must be ever flying off at a tangent from his main theme to unpack his heart in words about some frivolous-small irrelevance that had come into his head. if it could be shown that he never mentioned christmas, we should have proof presumptive that he consciously avoided doing so. but if the fact is that he did mention it now and again, but in grudging fashion, without one spark of illumination--he, the arch-illuminator of all things--then we have proof positive that he detested it. i see dryasdust thumbing his concordance. let my memory save him the trouble. i will reel him off the one passage in which shakespeare spoke of christmas in words that rise to the level of mediocrity. some say that ever 'gainst that season comes wherein our saviour's birth is celebrated, the bird of dawning singeth all night long: and then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad; the nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, no fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, so hallowed and so gracious is the time. so says marcellus at elsinore. this is the best our shakespeare can vamp up for the birthday of the man with whom he of all men had the most in common. and dryasdust, eternally unable to distinguish chalk from cheese, throws up his hands in admiration of the marvellous poetry. if dryasdust had written it, it would more than pass muster. but as coming from shakespeare, how feeble-cold--aye, and sulky-sinister! the greatest praiser the world will ever know!--and all he can find in his heart to sing of christmas is a stringing-together of old women's superstitions! again and again he has painted winter for us as it never has been painted since--never by goethe even, though goethe in more than one of the _winter-lieder_ touched the hem of his garment. there was every external reason why he should sing, as only he could have sung, of christmas. the queen set great store by it. she and her courtiers celebrated it year by year with lusty-pious unction. and thus the ineradicable snob in shakespeare had the most potent of all inducements to honour the feast with the full power that was in him. but he did not, because he would not. what is the key to the enigma? for many years i hunted it vainly. the second time that i met carlyle i tried to enlist his sympathy and aid. he sat pensive for a while and then said that it seemed to him "a goose-quest." i replied, "you have always a phrase for everything, tom, but always the wrong one." he covered his face, and presently, peering at me through his gnarled fingers, said "mon, ye're recht." i discussed the problem with renan, with emerson, with disraeli, also with cetewayo--poor cetewayo, best and bravest of men, but intellectually a professor, like the rest of them. it was borne in on me that if i were to win to the heart of the mystery i must win alone. the solution, when suddenly it dawned on me, was so simple-stark that i was ashamed of the ingenious-clever ways i had been following. (i learned then--and perhaps it is the one lesson worth the learning of any man--that truth may be approached only through the logic of the heart. for the heart is eye and ear, and all excellent understanding abides there.) on christmas day, assuredly, anne hathaway was born. in what year she was born i do not know nor care. i take it she was not less than thirty-eight when she married shakespeare. this, however, is sheer conjecture, and in no way important-apt to our inquiry. it is not the year, but the day of the year, that matters. all we need bear in mind is that on christmas day that woman was born into the world. if there be any doubting thomas among my readers, let him not be afraid to utter himself. i am (with the possible exception of shakespeare) the gentlest man that ever breathed, and i do but bid him study the plays in the light i have given him. the first thing that will strike him is that shakespeare's thoughts turned constantly to the birthdays of all his fitton-heroines, as a lover's thoughts always do turn to the moment at which the loved one first saw the light. "there was a star danced, and under that" was born beatrice. juliet was born "on lammas eve." marina tells us she derived her name from the chance of her having been "born at sea." and so on, throughout the whole gamut of women in whom mary fitton was bodied forth to us. but mark how carefully shakespeare says never a word about the birthdays of the various shrews and sluts in whom, again and again, he gave us his wife. when and were was born queen constance, the scold? and bianca? and doll tearsheet, and "greasy jane" in the song, and all the rest of them? it is of the last importance that we should know. yet never a hint is vouchsafed us in the text. it is clear that shakespeare cannot bring himself to write about anne hathaway's birthday--will not stain his imagination by thinking of it. that is entirely human-natural. but why should he loathe christmas day itself with precisely the same loathing? there is but one answer--and that inevitable-final. the two days were one. some soul-secrets are so terrible that the most hardened realist of us may well shrink from laying them bare. such a soul-secret was this of shakespeare's. think of it! the gentlest spirit that ever breathed, raging and fuming endlessly in impotent-bitter spleen against the prettiest of festivals! here is a spectacle so tragic-piteous that, try as we will, we shall not put it from us. and it is well that we should not, for in our plenary compassion we shall but learn to love the man the more. [mr. fr*nk h*rr*s is very much a man of genius, and i should be sorry if this adumbration of his manner made any one suppose that i do not rate his writings about shakespeare higher than those of all "the professors" together.--m.b.] scruts _by_ arn*ld b*nn*tt i. emily wrackgarth stirred the christmas pudding till her right arm began to ache. but she did not cease for that. she stirred on till her right arm grew so numb that it might have been the right arm of some girl at the other end of bursley. and yet something deep down in her whispered "it is _your_ right arm! and you can do what you like with it!" she did what she liked with it. relentlessly she kept it moving till it reasserted itself as the arm of emily wrackgarth, prickling and tingling as with red-hot needles in every tendon from wrist to elbow. and still emily wrackgarth hardened her heart. presently she saw the spoon no longer revolving, but wavering aimlessly in the midst of the basin. ridiculous! this must be seen to! in the down of dark hairs that connected her eyebrows there was a marked deepening of that vertical cleft which, visible at all times, warned you that here was a young woman not to be trifled with. her brain despatched to her hand a peremptory message--which miscarried. the spoon wabbled as though held by a baby. emily knew that she herself as a baby had been carried into this very kitchen to stir the christmas pudding. year after year, as she grew up, she had been allowed to stir it "for luck." and those, she reflected, were the only cookery lessons she ever got. how like mother! mrs. wrackgarth had died in the past year, of a complication of ailments.[8] emily still wore on her left shoulder that small tag of crape which is as far as the five towns go in the way of mourning. her father had died in the year previous to that, of a still more curious and enthralling complication of ailments.[9] jos, his son, carried on the wrackgarth works, and emily kept house for jos. she with her own hand had made this pudding. but for her this pudding would not have been. fantastic! utterly incredible! and yet so it was. she was grown-up. she was mistress of the house. she could make or unmake puddings at will. and yet she was emily wrackgarth. which was absurd. [footnote 8: see "the history of sarah wrackgarth," pp. 345-482.] [footnote 9: see "the history of sarah wrackgarth," pp. 231-344.] she would not try to explain, to reconcile. she abandoned herself to the exquisite mysteries of existence. and yet in her abandonment she kept a sharp look-out on herself, trying fiercely to make head or tail of her nature. she thought herself a fool. but the fact that she thought so was for her a proof of adult sapience. odd! she gave herself up. and yet it was just by giving herself up that she seemed to glimpse sometimes her own inwardness. and these bleak revelations saddened her. but she savoured her sadness. it was the wine of life to her. and for her sadness she scorned herself, and in her conscious scorn she recovered her self-respect. it is doubtful whether the people of southern england have even yet realised how much introspection there is going on all the time in the five towns. visible from the window of the wrackgarths' parlour was that colossal statue of commerce which rears itself aloft at the point where oodge lane is intersected by blackstead street. commerce, executed in glossy doultonware by some sculptor or sculptors unknown, stands pointing her thumb over her shoulder towards the chimneys of far hanbridge. when i tell you that the circumference of that thumb is six inches, and the rest to scale, you will understand that the statue is one of the prime glories of bursley. there were times when emily wrackgarth seemed to herself as vast and as lustrously impressive as it. there were other times when she seemed to herself as trivial and slavish as one of those performing fleas she had seen at the annual ladies' evening fête organised by the bursley mutual burial club. extremist! she was now stirring the pudding with her left hand. the ingredients had already been mingled indistinguishably in that rich, undulating mass of tawniness which proclaims perfection. but emily was determined to give her left hand, not less than her right, what she called "a doing." emily was like that. at mid-day, when her brother came home from the works, she was still at it. "brought those scruts with you?" she asked, without looking up. "that's a fact," he said, dipping his hand into the sagging pocket of his coat. it is perhaps necessary to explain what scruts are. in the daily output of every potbank there are a certain proportion of flawed vessels. these are cast aside by the foreman, with a lordly gesture, and in due course are hammered into fragments. these fragments, which are put to various uses, are called scruts; and one of the uses they are put to is a sentimental one. the dainty and luxurious southerner looks to find in his christmas pudding a wedding-ring, a gold thimble, a threepenny-bit, or the like. to such fal-lals the five towns would say fie. a christmas pudding in the five towns contains nothing but suet, flour, lemon-peel, cinnamon, brandy, almonds, raisins--and two or three scruts. there is a world of poetry, beauty, romance, in scruts--though you have to have been brought up on them to appreciate it. scruts have passed into the proverbial philosophy of the district. "him's a pudden with more scruts than raisins to 'm" is a criticism not infrequently heard. it implies respect, even admiration. of emily wrackgarth herself people often said, in reference to her likeness to her father, "her's a scrut o' th' owd basin." jos had emptied out from his pocket on to the table a good three dozen of scruts. emily laid aside her spoon, rubbed the palms of her hands on the bib of her apron, and proceeded to finger these scruts with the air of a connoisseur, rejecting one after another. the pudding was a small one, designed merely for herself and jos, with remainder to "the girl"; so that it could hardly accommodate more than two or three scruts. emily knew well that one scrut is as good as another. yet she did not want her brother to feel that anything selected by him would necessarily pass muster with her. for his benefit she ostentatiously wrinkled her nose. "by the by," said jos, "you remember albert grapp? i've asked him to step over from hanbridge and help eat our snack on christmas day." emily gave jos one of her looks. "you've asked that mr. grapp?" "no objection, i hope? he's not a bad sort. and he's considered a bit of a ladies' man, you know." she gathered up all the scruts and let them fall in a rattling shower on the exiguous pudding. two or three fell wide of the basin. these she added. "steady on!" cried jos. "what's that for?" "that's for your guest," replied his sister. "and if you think you're going to palm me off on to him, or on to any other young fellow, you're a fool, jos wrackgarth." the young man protested weakly, but she cut him short. "don't think," she said, "i don't know what you've been after, just of late. cracking up one young sawny and then another on the chance of me marrying him! i never heard of such goings on. but here i am, and here i'll stay, as sure as my name's emily wrackgarth, jos wrackgarth!" she was the incarnation of the adorably feminine. she was exquisitely vital. she exuded at every pore the pathos of her young undirected force. it is difficult to write calmly about her. for her, in another age, ships would have been launched and cities besieged. but brothers are a race apart, and blind. it is a fact that jos would have been glad to see his sister "settled"--preferably in one of the other four towns. she took up the spoon and stirred vigorously. the scruts grated and squeaked together around the basin, while the pudding feebly wormed its way up among them. ii. albert grapp, ladies' man though he was, was humble of heart. nobody knew this but himself. not one of his fellow clerks in clither's bank knew it. the general theory in hanbridge was "him's got a stiff opinion o' hisself." but this arose from what was really a sign of humility in him. he made the most of himself. he had, for instance, a way of his own in the matter of dressing. he always wore a voluminous frock-coat, with a pair of neatly-striped vicuna trousers, which he placed every night under his mattress, thus preserving in perfection the crease down the centre of each. his collar was of the highest, secured in front with an aluminium stud, to which was attached by a patent loop a natty bow of dove-coloured sateen. he had two caps, one of blue serge, the other of shepherd's plaid. these he wore on alternate days. he wore them in a way of his own--well back from his forehead, so as not to hide his hair, and with the peak behind. the peak made a sort of half-moon over the back of his collar. through a fault of his tailor, there was a yawning gap between the back of his collar and the collar of his coat. whenever he shook his head, the peak of his cap had the look of a live thing trying to investigate this abyss. dimly aware of the effect, albert grapp shook his head as seldom as possible. on wet days he wore a mackintosh. this, as he did not yet possess a great-coat, he wore also, but with less glory, on cold days. he had hoped there might be rain on christmas morning. but there was no rain. "like my luck," he said as he came out of his lodgings and turned his steps to that corner of jubilee avenue from which the hanbridge-bursley trams start every half-hour. since jos wrackgarth had introduced him to his sister at the hanbridge oddfellows' biennial hop, when he danced two quadrilles with her, he had seen her but once. he had nodded to her, five towns fashion, and she had nodded back at him, but with a look that seemed to say "you needn't nod next time you see me. i can get along well enough without your nods." a frightening girl! and yet her brother had since told him she seemed "a bit gone, like" on him. impossible! he, albert grapp, make an impression on the brilliant miss wrackgarth! yet she had sent him a verbal invite to spend christmas in her own home. and the time had come. he was on his way. incredible that he should arrive! the tram must surely overturn, or be struck by lightning. and yet no! he arrived safely. the small servant who opened the door gave him another verbal message from miss wrackgarth. it was that he must wipe his feet "well" on the mat. in obeying this order he experienced a thrill of satisfaction he could not account for. he must have stood shuffling his boots vigorously for a full minute. this, he told himself, was life. he, albert grapp, was alive. and the world was full of other men, all alive; and yet, because they were not doing miss wrackgarth's bidding, none of them really lived. he was filled with a vague melancholy. but his melancholy pleased him. in the parlour he found jos awaiting him. the table was laid for three. "so you're here, are you?" said the host, using the five towns formula. "emily's in the kitchen," he added. "happen she'll be here directly." "i hope she's tol-lol-ish?" asked albert. "she is," said jos. "but don't you go saying that to her. she doesn't care about society airs and graces. you'll make no headway if you aren't blunt." "oh, right you are," said albert, with the air of a man who knew his way about. a moment later emily joined them, still wearing her kitchen apron. "so you're here, are you?" she said, but did not shake hands. the servant had followed her in with the tray, and the next few seconds were occupied in the disposal of the beef and trimmings. the meal began, emily carving. the main thought of a man less infatuated than albert grapp would have been "this girl can't cook. and she'll never learn to." the beef, instead of being red and brown, was pink and white. uneatable beef! and yet he relished it more than anything he had ever tasted. this beef was her own handiwork. thus it was because she had made it so.... he warily refrained from complimenting her, but the idea of a second helping obsessed him. "happen i could do with a bit more, like," he said. emily hacked off the bit more and jerked it on to the plate he had held out to her. "thanks," he said; and then, as emily's lip curled, and jos gave him a warning kick under the table, he tried to look as if he had said nothing. only when the second course came on did he suspect that the meal was a calculated protest against his presence. this a christmas pudding? the litter of fractured earthenware was hardly held together by the suet and raisins. all his pride of manhood--and there was plenty of pride mixed up with albert grapp's humility--dictated a refusal to touch that pudding. yet he soon found himself touching it, though gingerly, with his spoon and fork. in the matter of dealing with scruts there are two schools--the old and the new. the old school pushes its head well over its plate and drops the scrut straight from its mouth. the new school emits the scrut into the fingers of its left hand and therewith deposits it on the rim of the plate. albert noticed that emily was of the new school. but might she not despise as affectation in him what came natural to herself? on the other hand, if he showed himself as a prop of the old school, might she not set her face the more stringently against him? the chances were that whichever course he took would be the wrong one. it was then that he had an inspiration--an idea of the sort that comes to a man once in his life and finds him, likely as not, unable to put it into practice. albert was not sure he could consummate this idea of his. he had indisputably fine teeth--"a proper mouthful of grinders" in local phrase. but would they stand the strain he was going to impose on them? he could but try them. without a sign of nervousness he raised his spoon, with one scrut in it, to his mouth. this scrut he put between two of his left-side molars, bit hard on it, and--eternity of that moment!--felt it and heard it snap in two. emily also heard it. he was conscious that at sound of the percussion she started forward and stared at him. but he did not look at her. calmly, systematically, with gradually diminishing crackles, he reduced that scrut to powder, and washed the powder down with a sip of beer. while he dealt with the second scrut he talked to jos about the borough council's proposal to erect an electric power-station on the site of the old gas-works down hillport way. he was aware of a slight abrasion inside his left cheek. no matter. he must be more careful. there were six scruts still to be negotiated. he knew that what he was doing was a thing grandiose, unique, epical; a history-making thing; a thing that would outlive marble and the gilded monuments of princes. yet he kept his head. he did not hurry, nor did he dawdle. scrut by scrut, he ground slowly but he ground exceeding small. and while he did so he talked wisely and well. he passed from the power-station to a first edition of leconte de lisle's "parnasse contemporain" that he had picked up for sixpence in liverpool, and thence to the midland's proposal to drive a tunnel under the knype canal so as to link up the main-line with the critchworth and suddleford loop-line. jos was too amazed to put in a word. jos sat merely gaping--a gape that merged by imperceptible degrees into a grin. presently he ceased to watch his guest. he sat watching his sister. not once did albert himself glance in her direction. she was just a dim silhouette on the outskirts of his vision. but there she was, unmoving, and he could feel the fixture of her unseen eyes. the time was at hand when he would have to meet those eyes. would he flinch? was he master of himself? the last scrut was powder. no temporising! he jerked his glass to his mouth. a moment later, holding out his plate to her, he looked emily full in the eyes. they were emily's eyes, but not hers alone. they were collective eyes--that was it! they were the eyes of stark, staring womanhood. her face had been dead white, but now suddenly up from her throat, over her cheeks, through the down between her eyebrows, went a rush of colour, up over her temples, through the very parting of her hair. "happen," he said without a quaver in his voice, "i'll have a bit more, like." she flung her arms forward on the table and buried her face in them. it was a gesture wild and meek. it was the gesture foreseen and yet incredible. it was recondite, inexplicable, and yet obvious. it was the only thing to be done--and yet, by gum, she had done it. her brother had risen from his seat and was now at the door. "think i'll step round to the works," he said, "and see if they banked up that furnace aright." note.--_the author has in preparation a series of volumes dealing with the life of albert and emily grapp._ endeavour _by_ j*hn g*lsw*rthy the dawn of christmas day found london laid out in a shroud of snow. like a body wasted by diseases that had triumphed over it at last, london lay stark and still now, beneath a sky that was as the closed leaden shell of a coffin. it was what is called an old-fashioned christmas. nothing seemed to be moving except the thames, whose embanked waters flowed on sullenly in their eternal act of escape to the sea. all along the wan stretch of cheyne walk the thin trees stood exanimate, with not a breath of wind to stir the snow that pied their soot-blackened branches. here and there on the muffled ground lay a sparrow that had been frozen in the night, its little claws sticking up heavenward. but here and there also those tinier adventurers of the london air, smuts, floated vaguely and came to rest on the snow--signs that in the seeming death of civilisation some housemaids at least survived, and some fires had been lit. one of these fires, crackling in the grate of one of those dining-rooms which look fondly out on the river and tolerantly across to battersea, was being watched by the critical eye of an aged canary. the cage in which this bird sat was hung in the middle of the bow-window. it contained three perches, and also a pendent hoop. the tray that was its floor had just been cleaned and sanded. in the embrasure to the right was a fresh supply of hemp-seed; in the embrasure to the left the bath-tub had just been refilled with clear water. stuck between the bars was a large sprig of groundsel. yet, though all was thus in order, the bird did not eat nor drink, nor did he bathe. with his back to battersea, and his head sunk deep between his little sloping shoulders, he watched the fire. the windows had for a while been opened, as usual, to air the room for him; and the fire had not yet mitigated the chill. it was not his custom to bathe at so inclement an hour; and his appetite for food and drink, less keen than it had once been, required to be whetted by example--he never broke his fast before his master and mistress broke theirs. time had been when, for sheer joy in life, he fluttered from perch to perch, though there were none to watch him, and even sang roulades, though there were none to hear. he would not do these things nowadays save at the fond instigation of mr. and mrs. adrian berridge. the housemaid who ministered to his cage, the parlourmaid who laid the berridges' breakfast table, sometimes tried to incite him to perform for their own pleasure. but the sense of caste, strong in his protuberant little bosom, steeled him against these advances. while the breakfast-table was being laid, he heard a faint tap against the window-pane. turning round, he perceived on the sill a creature like to himself, but very different--a creature who, despite the pretensions of a red waistcoat in the worst possible taste, belonged evidently to the ranks of the outcast and the disinherited. in previous winters the sill had been strewn every morning with bread-crumbs. this winter, no bread-crumbs had been vouchsafed; and the canary, though he did not exactly understand why this was so, was glad that so it was. he had felt that his poor relations took advantage of the berridges' kindness. two or three of them, as pensioners, might not have been amiss. but they came in swarms, and they gobbled their food in a disgusting fashion, not trifling coquettishly with it as birds should. the reason for this, the canary knew, was that they were hungry; and of that he was sorry. he hated to think how much destitution there was in the world; and he could not help thinking about it when samples of it were thrust under his notice. that was the principal reason why he was glad that the window-sill was strewn no more and seldom visited. he would much rather not have seen this solitary applicant. the two eyes fixed on his made him feel very uncomfortable. and yet, for fear of seeming to be outfaced, he did not like to look away. the subdued clangour of the gong, sounded for breakfast, gave him an excuse for turning suddenly round and watching the door of the room. a few moments later there came to him a faint odour of harris tweed, followed immediately by the short, somewhat stout figure of his master--a man whose mild, fresh, pink, round face seemed to find salvation, as it were, at the last moment, in a neatly-pointed auburn beard. adrian berridge paused on the threshold, as was his wont, with closed eyes and dilated nostrils, enjoying the aroma of complex freshness which the dining-room had at this hour. pathetically a creature of habit, he liked to savour the various scents, sweet or acrid, that went to symbolise for him the time and the place. here were the immediate scents of dry toast, of china tea of napery fresh from the wash, together with that vague, super-subtle scent which boiled eggs give out through their unbroken shells. and as a permanent base to these there was the scent of much-polished chippendale, and of bees'-waxed parquet, and of persian rugs. to-day, moreover, crowning the composition, there was the delicate pungency of the holly that topped the queen anne mirror and the mantegna prints. coming forward into the room, mr. berridge greeted the canary. "well, amber, old fellow," he said, "a happy christmas to you!" affectionately he pushed the tip of a plump white finger between the bars. "tweet!" he added. "tweet!" answered the bird, hopping to and fro along his perch. "quite an old-fashioned christmas, amber!" said mr. berridge, turning to scan the weather. at sight of the robin, a little spasm of pain contracted his face. a shine of tears came to his prominent pale eyes, and he turned quickly away. just at that moment, heralded by a slight fragrance of old lace and of that peculiar, almost unseizable odour that uncut turquoises have, mrs. berridge appeared. "what is the matter, adrian?" she asked quickly. she glanced sideways into the queen anne mirror, her hand fluttering, like a pale moth, to her hair, which she always wore braided in a fashion she had derived from pollaiuolo's st. ursula. "nothing, jacynth--nothing," he answered with a lightness that carried no conviction; and he made behind his back a gesture to frighten away the robin. "amber isn't unwell, is he?" she came quickly to the cage. amber executed for her a roulade of great sweetness. his voice had not perhaps the fullness for which it had been noted in earlier years; but the art with which he managed it was as exquisite as ever. it was clear to his audience that the veteran artist was hale and hearty. but jacynth, relieved on one point, had a misgiving on another. "this groundsel doesn't look very fresh, does it?" she murmured, withdrawing the sprig from the bars. she rang the bell, and when the servant came in answer to it said, "oh jenny, will you please bring up another piece of groundsel for master amber? i don't think this one is quite fresh." this formal way of naming the canary to the servants always jarred on her principles and on those of her husband. they tried to regard their servants as essentially equals of themselves, and lately had given jenny strict orders to leave off calling them "sir" and "ma'am," and to call them simply "adrian" and "jacynth." but jenny, after one or two efforts that ended in faint giggles, had reverted to the crude old nomenclature--as much to the relief as to the mortification of the berridges. they did, it is true, discuss the possibility of redressing the balance by calling the parlourmaid "miss." but, when it came to the point, their lips refused this office. and conversely their lips persisted in the social prefix to the bird's name. somehow that anomaly seemed to them symbolic of their lives. both of them yearned so wistfully to live always in accordance to the nature of things. and this, they felt, ought surely to be the line of least resistance. in the immense difficulties it presented, and in their constant failures to surmount these difficulties, they often wondered whether the nature of things might not be, after all, something other than what they thought it. again and again it seemed to be in as direct conflict with duty as with inclination; so that they were driven to wonder also whether what they conceived to be duty were not also a mirage--a marsh-light leading them on to disaster. the fresh groundsel was brought in while jacynth was pouring out the tea. she rose and took it to the cage; and it was then that she too saw the robin, still fluttering on the sill. with a quick instinct she knew that adrian had seen it--knew what had brought that look to his face. she went and, bending over him, laid a hand on his shoulder. the disturbance of her touch caused the tweed to give out a tremendous volume of scent, making her feel a little dizzy. "adrian," she faltered, "mightn't we for once--it is christmas day--mightn't we, just to-day, sprinkle some bread-crumbs?" he rose from the table, and leaned against the mantelpiece, looking down at the fire. she watched him tensely. at length, "oh jacynth," he groaned, "don't--don't tempt me." "but surely, dear, surely--" "jacynth, don't you remember that long talk we had last winter, after the annual meeting of the feathered friends' league, and how we agreed that those sporadic doles could do no real good--must even degrade the birds who received them--and that we had no right to meddle in what ought to be done by collective action of the state?" "yes, and--oh my dear, i do still agree, with all my heart. but if the state will do nothing--nothing--" "it won't, it daren't, go on doing nothing, unless we encourage it to do so. don't you see, jacynth, it is just because so many people take it on themselves to feed a few birds here and there that the state feels it can afford to shirk the responsibility?" "all that is fearfully true. but just now--adrian, the look in that robin's eyes--" berridge covered his own eyes, as though to blot out from his mind the memory of that look. but jacynth was not silenced. she felt herself dragged on by her sense of duty to savour, and to make her husband savour, the full bitterness that the situation could yield for them both. "adrian," she said, "a fearful thought came to me. suppose--suppose it had been amber!" even before he shuddered at the thought, he raised his finger to his lips, glancing round at the cage. it was clear that amber had not overheard jacynth's remark, for he threw back his head and uttered one of his blithest trills. adrian, thus relieved, was free to shudder at the thought just suggested. "sometimes," murmured jacynth, "i wonder if we, holding the views we hold, are justified in keeping amber." "ah, dear, we took him in our individualistic days. we cannot repudiate him now. it wouldn't be fair. besides, you see, he isn't here on a basis of mere charity. he's not a parasite, but an artist. he gives us of his art." "yes, dear, i know. but you remember our doubts about the position of artists in the community--whether the state ought to sanction them at all." "true. but we cannot visit those doubts on our old friend yonder, can we, dear? at the same time, i admit that when--when--jacynth, if ever anything happens to amber, we shall perhaps not be justified in keeping another bird." "don't, please don't talk of such things." she moved to the window. snow, a delicate white powder, was falling on the coverlet of snow. outside, on the sill, the importunate robin lay supine, his little heart beating no more behind the shabby finery of his breast, but his glazing eyes half-open as though even in death he were still questioning. above him and all around him brooded the genius of infinity, dispassionate, inscrutable, grey. jacynth turned and mutely beckoned her husband to the window. they stood there, these two, gazing silently down. presently jacynth said: "adrian, are you sure that we, you and i, for all our theories, and all our efforts, aren't futile?" "no, dear. sometimes i am not sure. but--there's a certain comfort in not being sure. to die for what one knows to be true, as many saints have done--that is well. but to live, as many of us do nowadays, in service of what may, for aught we know, be only a half-truth or not true at all--this seems to me nobler still." "because it takes more out of us?" "because it takes more out of us." standing between the live bird and the dead, they gazed across the river, over the snow-covered wharves, over the dim, slender chimneys from which no smoke came, into the grey-black veil of the distance. and it seemed to them that the genius of infinity did not know--perhaps did not even care--whether they were futile or not, nor how much and to what purpose, if to any purpose, they must go on striving. christmas _by_ g.s. str**t one likes it or not. this said, there is plaguey little else to say of christmas, and i (though i doubt my sentiments touch you not at all) would rather leave that little unsaid. did i confess a distaste for christmas, i should incur your enmity. but if i find it, as i protest i do, rather agreeable than otherwise, why should i spoil my pleasure by stringing vain words about it? swift and the broomstick--yes. but that essay was done at the behest of a clever woman, and to annoy the admirers of robert boyle. besides, it was hardly--or do you think it was?--worth the trouble of doing it. there was no trouble involved? possibly. but i am not the dean. and anyhow the fact that he never did anything of the kind again may be taken to imply that he would not be bothered. so would not i, if i had a deanery. that is an hypothesis i am tempted to pursue. i should like to fill my allotted space before reaching the tiresome theme i have set myself ... a deanery, the cawing of rooks, their effect on the nervous system, trollope's delineations of deans, the advantages of the mid-victorian novel ... but your discursive essayist is a nuisance. best come to the point. the bore is in finding a point to come to. besides, the chances are that any such point will have long ago been worn blunt by a score of more active seekers. alas! since i wrote the foregoing words, i have been out for a long walk, in search of inspiration, through the streets of what is called the west end. snobbishly so called. why draw these crude distinctions? we all know that mayfair happens to lie a few miles further west than whitechapel. it argues a lack of breeding to go on calling attention to the fact. if the people of whitechapel were less beautiful or less well-mannered or more ignorant than we, there might be some excuse. but they are not so. true, themselves talk about the east end, but this only makes the matter worse. to a sensitive ear their phrase has a ring of ironic humility that jars not less than our own coarse boastfulness. heaven knows they have a right to be ironic, and who shall blame them for exercising it? all the same, this sort of thing worries me horribly. i said that i found christmas rather agreeable than otherwise. but i was speaking as one accustomed to live mostly in the past. the walk i have just taken, refreshing in itself, has painfully reminded me that i cannot hit it off with the present. my life is in the later days of the eighteenth and the earlier days of the nineteenth century. this twentieth affair is as a vision, dimly foreseen at odd moments, and put from me with a slight shudder. my actual christmases are spent (say) in holland house, which has but recently been built. little charles fox is allowed by his father to join us for the earlier stages of dessert. i am conscious of patting him on the head and predicting for him a distinguished future. a very bright little fellow, with his father's eyes! or again, i am down at newstead. byron is in his wildest spirits, a shade too uproarious. i am glad to escape into the park and stroll a quiet hour on the arm of mr. hughes ball. years pass. the approach of christmas finds one loth to leave one's usual haunts. one is on one's way to one's club to dine with postumus and dear old "wigsby" pendennis, quietly at one's consecrated table near the fireplace. as one is crossing st. james's street an ear-piercing grunt causes one to reel back just in time to be not run over by a motor-car. inside is a woman who scowls down at one through the window--"serve you right if we'd gone over you." yes, i often have these awakenings to fact--or rather these provisions of what life might be if i survived into the twentieth century. alas! i have mentioned that woman in the motor-car because she is germane to my theme. she typifies the vices of the modern christmas. for her, by the absurd accident of her wealth, there is no distinction between people who have not motor-cars and people who might as well be run over. but i wrong her. if we others were all run over, there would be no one before whom she could flaunt her loathsome air of superiority. and what would she do then, poor thing? i doubt she would die of boredom--painfully, one hopes. in the same way, if the shop-keepers in bond street knew there was no one who could not afford to buy the things in their windows, there would be an end to the display that makes those windows intolerable (to you and me) during the month of december. i had often suspected that the things there were not meant to be bought by people who could buy them, but merely to irritate the rest. this afternoon i was sure of it. not in one window anything a sane person would give to any one not an idiot, but everywhere a general glossy grin out at people who are not plutocrats. this sort of thing lashes me to ungovernable fury. the lion is roused, and i recognise in myself a born leader of men. be so good as to smash those windows for me. one does not like to think that christmas has been snapped up, docked of its old-world kindliness, and pressed into the service of an odious ostentation. but so it has. alas! the thought of father christmas trudging through the snow to the homes of gentle and simple alike (forgive that stupid, snobbish phrase) was agreeable. but father christmas in red plush breeches, lounging on the doorstep of sir gorgius midas--one averts one's eyes. i have--now i come to think of it--another objection to the modern christmas. it would be affectation to pretend not to know that there are many jews living in england, and in london especially. i have always had a deep respect for that race, their distinction in intellect and in character. being not one of them, i may in their behalf put a point which themselves would be the last to suggest. i hope they will acquit me of impertinence in doing this. you, in your turn, must acquit me of sentimentalism. the jews are a minority, and as such must take their chances. but may not a majority refrain from pressing its rights to the utmost? it is well that we should celebrate christmas heartily, and all that. but we could do so without an emphasis that seems to me, in the circumstances, 'tother side good taste. "good taste" is a hateful phrase. but it escaped me in the heat of the moment. alas! the feast _by_ j*s*ph c*nr*d the hut in which slept the white man was on a clearing between the forest and the river. silence, the silence murmurous and unquiet of a tropical night, brooded over the hut that, baked through by the sun, sweated a vapour beneath the cynical light of the stars. mahamo lay rigid and watchful at the hut's mouth. in his upturned eyes, and along the polished surface of his lean body black and immobile, the stars were reflected, creating an illusion of themselves who are illusions. the roofs of the congested trees, writhing in some kind of agony private and eternal, made tenebrous and shifty silhouettes against the sky, like shapes cut out of black paper by a maniac who pushes them with his thumb this way and that, irritably, on a concave surface of blue steel. resin oozed unseen from the upper branches to the trunks swathed in creepers that clutched and interlocked with tendrils venomous, frantic and faint. down below, by force of habit, the lush herbage went through the farce of growth--that farce old and screaming, whose trite end is decomposition. within the hut the form of the white man, corpulent and pale, was covered with a mosquito-net that was itself illusory like everything else, only more so. flying squadrons of mosquitoes inside its meshes flickered and darted over him, working hard, but keeping silence so as not to excite him from sleep. cohorts of yellow ants disputed him against cohorts of purple ants, the two kinds slaying one another in thousands. the battle was undecided when suddenly, with no such warning as it gives in some parts of the world, the sun blazed up over the horizon, turning night into day, and the insects vanished back into their camps. the white man ground his knuckles into the corners of his eyes, emitting that snore final and querulous of a middle-aged man awakened rudely. with a gesture brusque but flaccid he plucked aside the net and peered around. the bales of cotton cloth, the beads, the brass wire, the bottles of rum, had not been spirited away in the night. so far so good. the faithful servant of his employers was now at liberty to care for his own interests. he regarded himself, passing his hands over his skin. "hi! mahamo!" he shouted. "i've been eaten up." the islander, with one sinuous motion, sprang from the ground, through the mouth of the hut. then, after a glance, he threw high his hands in thanks to such good and evil spirits as had charge of his concerns. in a tone half of reproach, half of apology, he murmured-"you white men sometimes say strange things that deceive the heart." "reach me that ammonia bottle, d'you hear?" answered the white man. "this is a pretty place you've brought me to!" he took a draught. "christmas day, too! of all the ---but i suppose it seems all right to you, you funny blackamoor, to be here on christmas day?" "we are here on the day appointed, mr. williams. it is a feast-day of your people?" mr. williams had lain back, with closed eyes, on his mat. nostalgia was doing duty to him for imagination. he was wafted to a bedroom in marylebone, where in honour of the day he lay late dozing, with great contentment; outside, a slush of snow in the street, the sound of church-bells; from below a savour of especial cookery. "yes," he said, "it's a feast-day of my people." "of mine also," said the islander humbly. "is it though? but they'll do business first?" "they must first do that." "and they'll bring their ivory with them?" "every man will bring ivory," answered the islander, with a smile gleaming and wide. "how soon'll they be here?" "has not the sun risen? they are on their way." "well, i hope they'll hurry. the sooner we're off this cursed island of yours the better. take all those things out," mr. williams added, pointing to the merchandise, "and arrange them--neatly, mind you!" in certain circumstances it is right that a man be humoured in trifles. mahamo, having borne out the merchandise, arranged it very neatly. while mr. williams made his toilet, the sun and the forest, careless of the doings of white and black men alike, waged their warfare implacable and daily. the forest from its inmost depths sent forth perpetually its legions of shadows that fell dead in the instant of exposure to the enemy whose rays heroic and absurd its outposts annihilated. there came from those inilluminable depths the equable rumour of myriads of winged things and crawling things newly roused to the task of killing and being killed. thence detached itself, little by little, an insidious sound of a drum beaten. this sound drew more near. mr. williams, issuing from the hut, heard it, and stood gaping towards it. "is that them?" he asked. "that is they," the islander murmured, moving away towards the edge of the forest. sounds of chanting were a now audible accompaniment to the drum. "what's that they're singing?" asked mr. williams. "they sing of their business," said mahamo. "oh!" mr. williams was slightly shocked. "i'd have thought they'd be singing of their feast." "it is of their feast they sing." it has been stated that mr. williams was not imaginative. but a few years of life in climates alien and intemperate had disordered his nerves. there was that in the rhythms of the hymn which made bristle his flesh. suddenly, when they were very near, the voices ceased, leaving a legacy of silence more sinister than themselves. and now the black spaces between the trees were relieved by bits of white that were the eyeballs and teeth of mahamo's brethren. "it was of their feast, it was of you, they sang," said mahamo. "look here," cried mr. williams in his voice of a man not to be trifled with. "look here, if you've--" he was silenced by sight of what seemed to be a young sapling sprung up from the ground within a yard of him--a young sapling tremulous, with a root of steel. then a thread-like shadow skimmed the air, and another spear came impinging the ground within an inch of his feet. as he turned in his flight he saw the goods so neatly arranged at his orders, and there flashed through him, even in the thick of the spears, the thought that he would be a grave loss to his employers. this--for mr. williams was, not less than the goods, of a kind easily replaced--was an illusion. it was the last of mr. williams illusions. a recollection _by_ edm*nd g*sse "and let us strew twain wreaths of holly and of yew." waller. one out of many christmas days abides with peculiar vividness in my memory. in setting down, however clumsily, some slight record of it, i feel that i shall be discharging a duty not only to the two disparately illustrious men who made it so very memorable, but also to all young students of english and scandinavian literature. my use of the first person singular, delightful though that pronoun is in the works of the truly gifted, jars unspeakably on me; but reasons of space baulk my sober desire to call myself merely the present writer, or the infatuated go-between, or the cowed and imponderable young person who was in attendance. in the third week of december, 1878, taking the opportunity of a brief and undeserved vacation, i went to venice. on the morning after my arrival, in answer to a most kind and cordial summons, i presented myself at the palazzo rezzonico. intense as was the impression he always made even in london, i think that those of us who met robert browning only in the stress and roar of that metropolis can hardly have gauged the fullness of his potentialities for impressing. venice, "so weak, so quiet," as mr. ruskin had called her, was indeed the ideal setting for one to whom neither of those epithets could by any possibility have been deemed applicable. the steamboats that now wake the echoes of the canals had not yet been imported; but the vitality of the imported poet was in some measure a preparation for them. it did not, however, find me quite prepared for itself, and i am afraid that some minutes must have elapsed before i could, as it were, find my feet in the torrent of his geniality and high spirits, and give him news of his friends in london. he was at that time engaged in revising the proof-sheets of "dramatic idylls," and after luncheon, to which he very kindly bade me remain, he read aloud certain selected passages. the yellow haze of a wintry venetian sunshine poured in through the vast windows of his _salone_, making an aureole around his silvered head. i would give much to live that hour over again. but it was vouchsafed in days before the browning society came and made everything so simple for us all. i am afraid that after a few minutes i sat enraptured by the sound rather than by the sense of the lines. i find, in the notes i made of the occasion, that i figured myself as plunging through some enchanted thicket on the back of an inspired bull. that evening, as i was strolling in piazza san marco, my thoughts of browning were all of a sudden scattered by the vision of a small, thick-set man seated at one of the tables in the café florian. this was--and my heart leapt like a young trout when i saw that it could be none other than--henrik ibsen. whether joy or fear was the predominant emotion in me, i should be hard put to it to say. it had been my privilege to correspond extensively with the great scandinavian, and to be frequently received by him, some years earlier than the date of which i write, in rome. in that city haunted by the shades of so many emperors and popes i had felt comparatively at ease even in ibsen's presence. but seated here in the homelier decay of venice, closely buttoned in his black surcoat and crowned with his uncompromising top-hat, with the lights of the piazza flashing back wanly from his gold-rimmed spectacles, and his lips tight-shut like some steel trap into which our poor humanity had just fallen, he seemed to constitute a menace under which the boldest might well quail. nevertheless, i took my courage in both hands, and laid it as a kind of votive offering on the little table before him. my reward was in the surprising amiability that he then and afterwards displayed. my travelling had indeed been doubly blessed, for, whilst my subsequent afternoons were spent in browning's presence, my evenings fell with regularity into the charge of ibsen. one of these evenings is for me "prouder, more laurel'd than the rest" as having been the occasion when he read to me the ms. of a play which he had just completed. he was staying at the hôtel danieli, an edifice famous for having been, rather more than forty years previously, the socket in which the flame of an historic _grande passion_ had finally sunk and guttered out with no inconsiderable accompaniment of smoke and odour. it was there, in an upper room, that i now made acquaintance with a couple very different from george sand and alfred de musset, though destined to become hardly less famous than they. i refer to torvald and nora helmer. my host read to me with the utmost vivacity, standing in the middle of the apartment; and i remember that in the scene where nora helmer dances the tarantella her creator instinctively executed a few illustrative steps. during those days i felt very much as might a minnow swimming to and fro between leviathan on the one hand and behemoth on the other--a minnow tremulously pleased, but ever wistful for some means of bringing his two enormous acquaintances together. on the afternoon of december 24th i confided to browning my aspiration. he had never heard of this brother poet and dramatist, whose fame indeed was at that time still mainly boreal; but he cried out with the greatest heartiness, "capital! bring him round with you at one o'clock to-morrow for turkey and plum-pudding!" i betook myself straight to the hôtel danieli, hoping against hope that ibsen's sole answer would not be a comminatory grunt and an instant rupture of all future relations with myself. at first he was indeed resolute not to go. he had never heard of this herr browning. (it was one of the strengths of his strange, crustacean genius that he never had heard of anybody.) i took it on myself to say that herr browning would send his private gondola, propelled by his two gondoliers, to conduct herr ibsen to the scene of the festivity. i think it was this prospect that made him gradually unbend, for he had already acquired that taste for pomp and circumstance which was so notable a characteristic of his later years. i hastened back to the palazzo rezzonico before he could change his mind. i need hardly say that browning instantly consented to send the gondola. so large and lovable was his nature that, had he owned a thousand of those conveyances, he would not have hesitated to send out the whole fleet in honour of any friend of any friend of his. next day, as i followed ibsen down the danielian water-steps into the expectant gondola, my emotion was such that i was tempted to snatch from him his neatly-furled umbrella and spread it out over his head, like the umbrella beneath which the doges of days gone by had made their appearances in public. it was perhaps a pity that i repressed this impulse. ibsen seemed to be already regretting that he had unbent. i could not help thinking, as we floated along the riva schiavoni, that he looked like some particularly ruthless member of the council of ten. i did, however, try faintly to attune him in some sort to the spirit of our host and of the day of the year. i adumbrated browning's outlook on life, translating into norwegian, i well remember, the words "god's in his heaven, all's right with the world." in fact i cannot charge myself with not having done what i could. i can only lament that it was not enough. when we marched into the _salone_, browning was seated at the piano, playing (i think) a toccata of galuppi's. on seeing us, he brought his hands down with a great crash on the keyboard, seemed to reach us in one astonishing bound across the marble floor, and clapped ibsen loudly on either shoulder, wishing him "the merriest of merry christmases." ibsen, under this sudden impact, stood firm as a rock, and it flitted through my brain that here at last was solved the old problem of what would happen if an irresistible force met an immoveable mass. but it was obvious that the rock was not rejoicing in the moment of victory. i was tartly asked whether i had not explained to herr browning that his guest did not understand english. i hastily rectified my omission, and thenceforth our host spoke in italian. ibsen, though he understood that language fairly well, was averse to speaking it. such remarks as he made in the course of the meal to which we presently sat down were made in norwegian and translated by myself. browning, while he was carving the turkey, asked ibsen whether he had visited any of the venetian theatres. ibsen's reply was that he never visited theatres. browning laughed his great laugh, and cried "that's right! we poets who write plays must give the theatres as wide a berth as possible. we aren't wanted there!" "how so?" asked ibsen. browning looked a little puzzled, and i had to explain that in northern europe herr ibsen's plays were frequently performed. at this i seemed to see on browning's face a slight shadow--so swift and transient a shadow as might be cast by a swallow flying across a sunlit garden. an instant, and it was gone. i was glad, however, to be able to soften my statement by adding that herr ibsen had in his recent plays abandoned the use of verse. the trouble was that in browning's company he seemed practically to have abandoned the use of prose too. when, moreover, he did speak, it was always in a sense contrary to that of our host. the risorgimento was a theme always very near to the great heart of browning, and on this occasion he hymned it with more than his usual animation and resource (if indeed that were possible). he descanted especially on the vast increase that had accrued to the sum of human happiness in italy since the success of that remarkable movement. when ibsen rapped out the conviction that what italy needed was to be invaded and conquered once and for all by austria, i feared that an explosion was inevitable. but hardly had my translation of the inauspicious sentiment been uttered when the plum-pudding was borne into the room, flaming on its dish. i clapped my hands wildly at sight of it, in the english fashion, and was intensely relieved when the yet more resonant applause of robert browning followed mine. disaster had been averted by a crowning mercy. but i am afraid that ibsen thought us both quite mad. the next topic that was started, harmless though it seemed at first, was fraught with yet graver peril. the world of scholarship was at that time agitated by the recent discovery of what might or might not prove to be a fragment of sappho. browning proclaimed his unshakeable belief in the authenticity of these verses. to my surprise, ibsen, whom i had been unprepared to regard as a classical scholar, said positively that they had not been written by sappho. browning challenged him to give a reason. a literal translation of the reply would have been "because no woman ever was capable of writing a fragment of good poetry." imagination reels at the effect this would have had on the recipient of "sonnets from the portuguese." the agonised interpreter, throwing honour to the winds, babbled some wholly fallacious version of the words. again the situation had been saved; but it was of the kind that does not even in furthest retrospect lose its power to freeze the heart and constrict the diaphragm. i was fain to thank heaven when, immediately after the termination of the meal, ibsen rose, bowed to his host, and bade me express his thanks for the entertainment. out on the grand canal, in the gondola which had again been placed at our disposal, his passion for "documents" that might bear on his work was quickly manifested. he asked me whether herr browning had ever married. receiving an emphatically affirmative reply, he inquired whether fru browning had been happy. loth though i was to cast a blight on his interest in the matter, i conveyed to him with all possible directness the impression that elizabeth barrett had assuredly been one of those wives who do not dance tarantellas nor slam front-doors. he did not, to the best of my recollection, make further mention of browning, either then or afterwards. browning himself, however, thanked me warmly, next day, for having introduced my friend to him. "a capital fellow!" he exclaimed, and then, for a moment, seemed as though he were about to qualify this estimate, but ended by merely repeating "a capital fellow!" ibsen remained in venice some weeks after my return to london. he was, it may be conjectured, bent on a specially close study of the bride of the adriatic because her marriage had been not altogether a happy one. but there appears to be no evidence whatsoever that he went again, either of his own accord or by invitation, to the palazzo rezzonico. of christmas _by_ h*l**re b*ll*c there was a man came to an inn by night, and after he had called three times they should open him the door--though why three times, and not three times three, nor thirty times thirty, which is the number of the little stone devils that make mows at st. aloesius of ledera over against the marshes gué-la-nuce to this day, nor three hundred times three hundred (which is a bestial number), nor three thousand times three-and-thirty, upon my soul i know not, and nor do you--when, then, this jolly fellow had three times cried out, shouted, yelled, holloa'd, loudly besought, caterwauled, brayed, sung out, and roared, he did by the same token set himself to beat, hammer, bang, pummel, and knock at the door. now the door was oak. it had been grown in the forest of boulevoise, hewn in barre-le-neuf, seasoned in south hoxton, hinged nowhere in particular, and panelled--and that most abominably well--in arque, where the peasants sell their souls for skill in such handicraft. but our man knew nothing of all this, which, had he known it, would have mattered little enough to him, for a reason which i propose to tell in the next sentence. the door was opened. as to the reasons why it was not opened sooner, these are most tediously set forth in professor sir t.k. slibby's "half-hours with historic doors," as also in a fragment at one time attributed to oleaginus silo but now proven a forgery by miss evans. enough for our purpose, merry reader of mine, that the door was opened. the man, as men will, went in. and there, for god's sake and by the grace of mary mother, let us leave him; for the truth of it is that his strength was all in his lungs, and himself a poor, weak, clout-faced, wizen-bellied, pin-shanked bloke anyway, who at trinity hall had spent the most of his time in reading hume (that was satan's lackey) and after taking his degree did a little in the way of imperial finance. of him it was that lord abraham hart, that far-seeing statesman, said, "this young man has the root of the matter in him." i quote the epigram rather for its perfect form than for its truth. for once, lord abraham was deceived. but it must be remembered that he was at this time being plagued almost out of his wits by the vile (though cleverly engineered) agitation for the compulsory winding-up of the rondoosdop development company. afterwards, in wormwood scrubbs, his lordship admitted that his estimate of his young friend had perhaps been pitched too high. in dartmoor he has since revoked it altogether, with that manliness for which the empire so loved him when he was at large. now the young man's name was dimby--"trot" dimby--and his mother had been a clupton, so that--but had i not already dismissed him? indeed i only mentioned him because it seemed that his going to that inn might put me on track of that one great ultimate and final true thing i am purposed to say about christmas. don't ask me yet what that thing is. truth dwells in no man, but is a shy beast you must hunt as you may in the forests that are round about the walls of heaven. and i do hereby curse, gibbet, and denounce in _execrationem perpetuam atque aeternam_ the man who hunts in a crafty or calculating way--as, lying low, nosing for scents, squinting for trails, crawling noiselessly till he shall come near to his quarry and then taking careful aim. here's to him who hunts truth in the honest fashion of men, which is, going blindly at it, following his first scent (if such there be) or (if none) none, scrambling over boulders, fording torrents, winding his horn, plunging into thickets, skipping, firing off his gun in the air continually, and then ramming in some more ammunition anyhow, with a laugh and a curse if the charge explode in his own jolly face. the chances are he will bring home in his bag nothing but a field-mouse he trod on by accident. not the less his is the true sport and the essential stuff of holiness. as touching christmas--but there is nothing like verse to clear the mind, heat the blood, and make very humble the heart. rouse thee, muse! one christmas night in pontgibaud (_pom-pom, rub-a-dub-dub_) a man with a drum went to and fro (_two merry eyes, two cheeks chub_) nor not a citril within, without, but heard the racket and heard the rout and marvelled what it was all about (_and who shall shrive beelzebub?_) he whacked so hard the drum was split (_pom-pom, rub-a-dub-dum_) out lept saint gabriel from it (_praeclarissimus omnium_) who spread his wings and up he went nor ever paused in his ascent till he had reached the firmament (_benedicamus dominum_). that's what i shall sing (please god) at dawn to-morrow, standing on the high, green barrow at storrington, where the bones of athelstan's men are. yea, at dawn to-morrow on storrington barrow i'll beg or borrow a bow and arrow and shoot sleek sorrow through the marrow. the floods are out and the ford is narrow, the stars hang dead and my limbs are lead, but ale is gold and there's good foot-hold on the cuckfield side of storrington barrow. this too i shall sing, and other songs that are yet to write. in pagham i shall sing them again, and again in little dewstead. in hornside i shall rewrite them, and at the scythe and turtle in liphook (if i have patience) annotate them. at selsey they will be very damnably in the way, and i don't at all know what i shall do with them at selsey. such then, as i see it, is the whole pith, mystery, outer form, common acceptation, purpose, usage usual, meaning and inner meaning, beauty intrinsic and extrinsic, and right character of christmas feast. _habent urbs atque orbis revelationem._ pray for my soul. a straight talk _by_ g**rge b*rn*rd sh*w (_preface to "snt george. a christmas play"_) when a public man lays his hand on his heart and declares that his conduct needs no apology, the audience hastens to put up its umbrellas against the particularly severe downpour of apologies in store for it. i wont give the customary warning. my conduct shrieks aloud for apology, and you are in for a thorough drenching. flatly, i stole this play. the one valid excuse for the theft would be mental starvation. that excuse i shant plead. i could have made a dozen better plays than this out of my own head. you don't suppose shakespeare was so vacant in the upper storey that there was nothing for it but to rummage through cinquecento romances, townley mysteries, and suchlike insanitary rubbishheaps, in order that he might fish out enough scraps for his artistic fangs to fasten on. depend on it, there were plenty of decent original notions seething behind yon marble brow. why didn't our william use them? he was too lazy. and so am i. it is easier to give a new twist to somebody else's story that you take readymade than to perform that highly-specialised form of skilled labor which consists in giving artistic coherence to a story that you have conceived roughly for yourself. a literary gentleman once hoisted a theory that there are only thirty-six possible stories in the world. this--i say it with no deference at all--is bosh. there are as many possible stories in the world as there are microbes in the well-lined shelves of a literary gentleman's "den." on the other hand, it is perfectly true that only a baker's dozen of these have got themselves told. the reason lies in that bland, unalterable resolve to shirk honest work, by which you recognise the artist as surely as you recognise the leopard by his spots. in so far as i am an artist, i am a loafer. and if you expect me, in that line, to do anything but loaf, you will get the shock your romantic folly deserves. the only difference between me and my rivals past and present is that i have the decency to be ashamed of myself. so that if you are not too bemused and bedevilled by my "brilliancy" to kick me downstairs, you may rely on me to cheerfully lend a foot in the operation. but, while i have my share of judicial vindictiveness against crime, im not going to talk the common judicial cant about brutality making a better man of the criminal. i havent the slightest doubt that i would thieve again at the earliest opportunity. meanwhile be so good as to listen to the evidence on the present charge. in the december after i was first cast ashore at holyhead, i had to go down to dorsetshire. in those days the more enterprising farm-laborers used still to annually dress themselves up in order to tickle the gentry into disbursing the money needed to supplement a local-minimum wage. they called themselves the christmas mummers, and performed a play entitled snt george. as my education had been of the typical irish kind, and the ideas on which i had been nourished were precisely the ideas that once in tara's hall were regarded as dangerous novelties, snt george staggered me with the sense of being suddenly bumped up against a thing which lay centuries ahead of the time i had been born into. (being, in point of fact, only a matter of five hundred years old, it would have the same effect to-day on the average london playgoer if it was produced in a west end theatre.) the plot was simple. it is set forth in thomas hardy's "return of the native"; but, as the people who read my books have no energy left over to cope with other authors, i must supply an outline of it myself. entered, first of all, the english knight, announcing his determination to fight and vanquish the turkish knight, a vastly superior swordsman, who promptly made mincemeat of him. after the saracen had celebrated his victory in verse, and proclaimed himself the world's champion, entered snt george, who, after some preliminary patriotic flourishes, promptly made mincemeat of the saracen--to the blank amazement of an audience which included several retired army officers. snt george, however, saved his face by the usual expedient of the victorious british general, attributing to providence a result which by no polite stretch of casuistry could have been traced to the operations of his own brain. but here the dramatist was confronted by another difficulty: there being no curtain to ring down, how were the two corpses to be got gracefully rid of? entered therefore the physician, and brought them both to life. (any one objecting to this scene on the score of romantic improbability is hereby referred to the royal college of physicians, or to the directors of any accredited medical journal, who will hail with delight this opportunity of proving once and for all that re-vitalisation is the child's-play of the faculty.) such then is the play that i have stolen. for all the many pleasing esthetic qualities you will find in it--dramatic inventiveness, humor and pathos, eloquence, elfin glamor and the like--you must bless the original author: of these things i have only the usufruct. to me the play owes nothing but the stiffening of civistic conscience that has been crammed in. modest? not a bit of it. it is my civistic conscience that makes a man of me and (incidentally) makes this play a masterpiece. nothing could have been easier for me (if i were some one else) than to perform my task in that god-rest-you-merry-gentlemen-may-nothing-you-dismay spirit which so grossly flatters the sensibilities of the average citizen by its assumption that he is sharp enough to be dismayed by what stares him in the face. charles dickens had lucid intervals in which he was vaguely conscious of the abuses around him; but his spasmodic efforts to expose these brought him into contact with realities so agonising to his highstrung literary nerves that he invariably sank back into debauches of unsocial optimism. even the swan of avon had his glimpses of the havoc of displacement wrought by elizabethan romanticism in the social machine which had been working with tolerable smoothness under the prosaic guidance of henry 8. the time was out of joint; and the swan, recognising that he was the last person to ever set it right, consoled himself by offering the world a soothing doctrine of despair. not for me, thank you, that swansdown pillow. i refuse as flatly to fuddle myself in the shop of "w. shakespeare, druggist," as to stimulate myself with the juicy joints of "c. dickens, family butcher." of these and suchlike pernicious establishments my patronage consists in weaving round the shop-door a barbed-wire entanglement of dialectic and then training my moral machine-guns on the customers. in this devilish function i have, as you know, acquired by practice a tremendous technical skill; and but for the more or less innocent pride i take in showing off my accomplishment to all and sundry, i doubt whether even my iron nerves would be proof against the horrors that have impelled me to thus perfect myself. in my nonage i believed humanity could be reformed if only it were intelligently preached at for a sufficiently long period. this first fine careless rapture i could no more recapture, at my age, than i could recapture hoopingcough or nettlerash. one by one, i have flung all political nostra overboard, till there remain only dynamite and scientific breeding. my touching faith in these saves me from pessimism: i believe in the future; but this only makes the present--which i foresee as going strong for a couple of million of years or so--all the more excruciating by contrast. for casting into dramatic form a compendium of my indictments of the present from a purely political standpoint, the old play of snt george occurred to me as having exactly the framework i needed. in the person of the turkish knight i could embody that howling chaos which does duty among us for a body-politic. the english knight would accordingly be the liberal party, whose efforts (whenever it is in favor with the electorate) to reduce chaos to order by emulating in foreign politics the blackguardism of a metternich or bismarck, and in home politics the spirited attitudinisings of a garibaldi or cavor, are foredoomed to the failure which its inherent oldmaidishness must always win for the liberal party in all undertakings whatsoever. snt george is, of course, myself. but here my very aptitude in controversy tripped me up as playwright. owing to my nack of going straight to the root of the matter in hand and substituting, before you can say jack robinson, a truth for every fallacy and a natural law for every convention, the scene of snt george (bernard shaw)'s victory over the turkish knight came out too short for theatrical purposes. i calculated that the play as it stood would not occupy more than five hours in performance. i therefore departed from the original scheme so far as to provide the turkish knight with three attendant monsters, severally named the good, the beyootiful, and the ter-rew, and representing in themselves the current forms of religion, art, and science. these three snt george successively challenges, tackles, and flattens out--the first as lunacy, the second as harlotry, the third as witchcraft. but even so the play would not be long enough had i not padded a good deal of buffoonery into the scene where the five corpses are brought back to life. the restorative physician symbolises that irresistible force of human stupidity by which the rottenest and basest institutions are enabled to thrive in the teeth of the logic that has demolished them. thus, for the author, the close of the play is essentially tragic. but what is death to him is fun to you, and my buffooneries wont offend any of you. bah! fond hearts askew _by_ m**r*ce h*wl*tt to william robertson nicoll sage and reverend and a true knight this romaunt of days edvardian prologue. _too strong a wine, belike, for some stomachs, for there's honey in it, and a dibbet of gore, with other condiments. yet mistress clio (with whom, some say, mistress thalia, that sweet hoyden) brewed it: she, not i, who do but hand the cup round by her warrant and good favour. her guests, not mine, you shall take it or leave it--spill it untasted or quaff a bellyful. of a hospitable temper, she whose page i am; but a great lady, over self-sure to be dudgeoned by wry faces in the refectory. as for the little sister (if she did have finger in the concoction)--no fear of offence there! i dare vow, who know somewhat the fashion of her, she will but trill a pretty titter or so at your qualms._ benedictus benedicat. i cry you mercy for a lacuna at the outset. i know not what had knitted and blackened the brows of certain two speeding eastward through london, enhansomed, on the night of the feast of st. box: _alter_, geoffrey dizzard, called "the honourable," _lieu-tenant_ in the guards of edward the peace getter; _altera_, the lady angelica plantagenet, to him affianced. devil take the cause of the bicker: enough that they were at sulks. here's for a sight of the girl! johannes sargent, that swift giant from the new world, had already flung her on canvas, with a brace of sisters. she outstands there, a virgin poplar-tall; hair like ravelled flax and coiffed in the fashion of the period; neck like a giraffe's; lips shaped for kissing rather than smiling; eyes like a giraffe's again; breasts like a boy's, and something of a dressed-up boy in the total aspect of her. she has arms a trifle long even for such height as hers; fingers very long, too, with red-pink nails trimmed to a point. she looks out slantwise, conscious of her beauty, and perhaps of certain other things. fire under that ice, i conjecture--red corpuscles rampant behind that meek white mask of hers. "_forsitan in hoc anno pulcherrima debutantium_" is the verdict of a contemporary journal. for "_forsitan_" read "_certe_." no slur, that, on the rest of the bevy. very much as johannes had seen her did she appear now to the cits, as the cabriolet swung past them. paramount there, she was still more paramount here. yet this geoffrey was not ill-looking. in the secret journal of mary jane, serving-wench in the palace of geoffrey's father (who gat his barony by beer) note is made of his "lovely blue eyes; complexion like a blush rose; hands like a girl's; lips like a girl's again; yellow curls close cropped; and for moustachio (so young is he yet) such a shadow as amber might cast on water." here, had i my will, i would limn you mary jane herself, that parched nymph. time urges, though. the cabrioleteer thrashes his horse (me with it) to a canter, and plunges into soho. some wagon athwart the path gives pause. angelica, looking about her, bites lip. for this is the street of wardour, wherein (say all the chronicles most absolutely) she and geoffrey had first met and plit their troth. "methinks," cries she, loud and clear to the wagoner, and pointing finger at geoffrey, "the devil must be between your shafts, to make a mock of me in this conjunction, the which is truly of his own doing." "sweet madam," says geoffrey (who was also called "the ready"), "shall i help harness you at his side? though, for my part, i doubt 'twere supererogant, in that he buckled you to his service or ever the priest dipped you." a bitter jest, this; and the thought of it still tingled on the girl's cheek and clawed her heart when geoffrey handed her down at the portico of drury lane theatre. a new pantomime was afoot. geoffrey's father (that bluff red baron) had chartered a box, was already there with his lady and others. lily among peonies, angelica sat brooding, her eyes fastened on the stage, geoffrey behind her chair, brooding by the same token. presto, he saw a flood of pink rush up her shoulders to her ears. the "principal boy" had just skipped on to the stage. no boy at all (god be witness), but one mistress tina vandeleur, very apt in masquerado, and seeming true boy enough to the guileless. stout of leg, light-footed, with a tricksy plume to his cap, and the swagger of one who would beard the saints for a wager, this aladdin was just such a galliard as angelica had often fondled in her dreams. he lept straight into the closet of her heart, and "deus!" she cried, "maugre my maidenhood, i will follow those pretty heels round the earth!" cried geoffrey "yea! and will not i presently string his ham to save your panting?" "_tacete!_" cried the groundlings. a moment after, geoffrey forgot his spleen. cupid had noosed him--bound him tight to the widow twankey. this was a woman most unlike to angelica: poplar-tall, i grant you; but elm-wide into the bargain; deep-voiced, robustious, and puffed bravely out with hot vital essences. seemed so to geoffrey, at least, who had no smattering of theatres and knew not his cynosure to be none other than master willie joffers, prime buffo of the day. like angelica, he had had fond visions; and lo here, the very lady of them! says he to angelica, "i am heartset on this widow." "by so much the better!" she laughs. "i to my peacock, you to your peahen, with a godspeed from each to other." how to snare the birds? a pretty problem: the fowling was like to be delicate. so hale a strutter as aladdin could not lack for bonamies. "will he deign me?" wondered meek angelica. "this widow," thought geoffrey, "is belike no widow at all, but a modest wife with a yea for no man but her lord." head to head they took counsel, cudgelled their wits for some proper vantage. of a sudden, geoffrey clapped hand to thigh. student of boccaccio, heveletius, and other sages, he had the clue in his palm. a whisper from him, a nod from angelica, and the twain withdrew from the box into the corridor without. there, back to back, they disrobed swiftly, each tossing to other every garment as it was doffed. then a flurried toilet, and a difficult, for the man especially; but hotness of desire breeds dexterity. when they turned and faced each other, angelica was such a boy as aladdin would not spurn as page, geoffrey such a girl as the widow might well covet as body-maid. out they hied under the stars, and sought way to the postern whereby the mummers would come when their work were done. thereat they stationed themselves in shadow. a bitter night, with a lather of snow on the cobbles; but they were heedless of that: love and their dancing hearts warmed them. they waited long. strings of muffled figures began to file out, but never an one like to aladdin or the widow. midnight tolled. had these two had wind of the ambuscado and crept out by another door? nay, patience! at last! a figure showed in the doorway--a figure cloaked womanly, but topped with face of aladdin. trousered angelica, with a cry, darted forth from the shadow. to mistress vandeleur's eyes she was as truly man as was mistress vandeleur to hers. thus confronted, mistress vandeleur shrank back, blushing hot. "nay!" laughs angelica, clipping her by the wrists. "cold boy, you shall not so easily slip me. a pretty girl you make, aladdin; but love pierces such disguise as a rapier might pierce lard." "madman! unhandle me!" screams the actress. "no madman i, as well you know," answers angelica, "but a maid whom spurned love may yet madden. kiss me on the lips!" while they struggle, another figure fills the postern, and in an instant angelica is torn aside by master willie joffers (well versed, for all his mumming, in matters of chivalry). "kisses for such coward lips?" cries he. "nay, but a swinge to silence them!" and would have struck trousered angelica full on the mouth. but décolleté geoffrey dizzard, crying at him "sweet termagant, think not to baffle me by these airs of manhood!" had sprung in the way and on his own nose received the blow. he staggered and, spurting blood, fell. up go the buffo's hands, and "now may the saints whip me," cries he, "for a tapster of girl's blood!" and fled into the night, howling like a dog. mistress vandeleur had fled already. down on her knees goes angelica, to stanch geoffrey's flux. thus far, straight history. apocrypha, all the rest: you shall pick your own sequel. as for instance, some say geoffrey bled to the death, whereby stepped master joffers to the scaffold, and angelica (the vandeleur too, like as not) to a nunnery. others have it he lived, thanks to nurse angelica, who, thereon wed, suckled him twin dizzards in due season. joffers, they say, had wife already, else would have wed the vandeleur, for sake of symmetry. dickens _by_ g**rge m**re i had often wondered why when people talked to me of tintoretto i always found myself thinking of turgéneff. it seemed to me strange that i should think of turgéneff instead of thinking of tintoretto; for at first sight nothing can be more far apart than the slav mind and the flemish. but one morning, some years ago, while i was musing by my fireplace in victoria street, dolmetsch came to see me. he had a soiled roll of music under his left arm. i said, "how are you?" he said, "i am well. and you?" i said, "i, too, am well. what is that, my dear dolmetsch, that you carry under your left arm?" he answered, "it is a mass by palestrina." "will you read me the score?" i asked. i was afraid he would say no. but dolmetsch is not one of those men who say no, and he read me the score. he did not read very well, but i had never heard it before, so when he finished i begged of him he would read it to me again. he said, "very well, m**re, i will read it to you again." i remember his exact words, because they seemed to me at the time to be the sort of thing that only dolmetsch could have said. it was a foggy morning in victoria street, and while dolmetsch read again the first few bars, i thought how renoir would have loved to paint in such an atmosphere the tops of the plane trees that flaccidly show above the wall of buckingham palace.... why had i never been invited to buckingham palace? i did not want to go there, but it would have been nice to have been asked.... how _brave gaillard_ was renoir, and how well he painted from that subfusc palette!... my roving thoughts were caught back to the divine score which arnold dolmetsch was reading to me. how well placed they were, those semibreves! could anyone but palestrina have placed them so nicely? i wondered what girl palestrina was courting when he conceived them. she must have been blonde, surely, and with narrow flanks.... there are moments when one does not think of girls, are there not, dear reader? and i swear to you that such a moment came to me while dolmetsch mumbled the last two bars of that mass. the notes were "do, la, sol, do, fa, do, sol, la," and as he mumbled them i sat upright and stared into space, for it had become suddenly plain to me why when people talked of tintoretto i always found myself thinking of turgéneff. i do not say that this story that i have told to you is a very good story, and i am afraid that i have not well told it. some day, when i have time, i should like to re-write it. but meantime i let it stand, because without it you could not receive what is upmost in my thoughts, and which i wish you to share with me. without it, what i am yearning to say might seem to you a hard saying; but now you will understand me. there never was a writer except dickens. perhaps you have never heard say of him? no matter, till a few days past he was only a name to me. i remember that when i was a young man in paris, i read a praise of him in some journal; but in those days i was kneeling at other altars, i was scrubbing other doorsteps.... so has it been ever since; always a false god, always the wrong doorstep. i am sick of the smell of the incense i have swung to this and that false god--zola, yeats, _et tous ces autres_. i am angry to have got housemaid's knee, because i got it on doorsteps that led to nowhere. there is but one doorstep worth scrubbing. the doorstep of charles dickens.... did he write many books? i know not, it does not greatly matter, he wrote the "pickwick papers"; that suffices. i have read as yet but one chapter, describing a christmas party in a country house. strange that anyone should have essayed to write about anything but that! christmas--i see it now--is the only moment in which men and women are really alive, are really worth writing about. at other seasons they do not exist for the purpose of art. i spit on all seasons except christmas.... is he not in all fiction the greatest figure, this mr. wardell, this old "squire" rosy-cheeked, who entertains this christmas party at his house? he is more truthful, he is more significant, than any figure in balzac. he is better than all balzac's figures rolled into one.... i used to kneel on that doorstep. balzac wrote many books. but now it behoves me to ask myself whether he ever wrote a good book. one knows that he used to write for fifteen hours at a stretch, gulping down coffee all the while. but it does not follow that the coffee was good, nor does it follow that what he wrote was good. the comédie humaine is all chicory.... i had wished for some years to say this, i am glad _d'avoir débarrassé ma poitrine de ça_. to have described divinely a christmas party is something, but it is not everything. the disengaging of the erotic motive is everything, is the only touchstone. if while that is being done we are soothed into a trance, a nebulous delirium of the nerves, then we know the novelist to be a supreme novelist. if we retain consciousness, he is not supreme, and to be less than supreme in art is to not exist.... dickens disengages the erotic motive through two figures, mr. winkle, a sportman, and miss arabella, "a young lady with fur-topped boots." they go skating, he helps her over a stile. can one not well see her? she steps over the stile and her shin defines itself through her balbriggan stocking. she is a knock-kneed girl, and she looks at mr. winkle with that sensual regard that sometimes comes when the wind is north-west. yes, it is a north-west wind that is blowing over this landscape that hals or winchoven might have painted--no, winchoven would have fumbled it with rose-madder, but hals would have done it well. hals would have approved--would he not?--the pollard aspens, these pollard aspens deciduous and wistful, which the rime makes glistening. that field, how well ploughed it is, and are they not like petticoats, those clouds low-hanging? yes, hals would have stated them well, but only manet could have stated the slope of the thighs of the girl--how does she call herself?--arabella--it is a so hard name to remember--as she steps across the stile. manet would have found pleasure in her cheeks also. they are a little chapped with the north-west wind that makes the pollard aspens to quiver. how adorable a thing it is, a girl's nose that the north-west wind renders red! we may tire of it sometimes, because we sometimes tire of all things, but winkle does not know this. is arabella his mistress? if she is not, she has been, or at any rate she will be. how full she is of temperament, is she not? her shoulder-blades seem a little carelessly modelled, but how good they are in intention! how well placed that smut on her left cheek! strange thoughts of her surge up vaguely in me as i watch her--thoughts that i cannot express in english.... elle est plus vieille que les roches entre lesquelles elle s'est assise; comme le vampire elle a été fréquemment morte, et a appris les secrets du tombeau; et s'est plongée dans des mers profondes, et conserve autour d'elle leur jour ruiné; et, comme lède, était mère d'hélène de troie, et, comme sainte-anne, mère de maria; et tout cela n'a été pour elle que.... i desist, for not through french can be expressed the thoughts that surge in me. french is a stale language. so are all the european languages, one can say in them nothing fresh.... the stalest of them all is erse.... deep down in my heart a sudden voice whispers me that there is only one land wherein art may reveal herself once more. of what avail to await her anywhere else than in mexico? only there can the apocalypse happen. i will take a ticket for mexico, i will buy a mexican grammar, i will be a mexican.... on a hillside, or beside some grey pool, gazing out across those plains poor and arid, i will await the first pale showings of the new dawn.... euphemia clashthought[10] an imitation of meredith [footnote 10: it were not, as a general rule, well to republish after a man's death the skit you made of his work while he lived. meredith, however, was so transcendent that such skits must ever be harmless, and so lasting will his fame be that they can never lose what freshness they may have had at first. so i have put this thing in with the others, making improvements that were needed.--m.b.] in the heart of insular cosmos, remote by some scores of leagues of hodge-trod arable or pastoral, not more than a snuff-pinch for gaping tourist nostrils accustomed to inhalation of prairie winds, but enough for perspective, from those marginal sands, trident-scraped, we are to fancy, by a helmeted dame abstract familiarly profiled on discs of current bronze--price of a loaf for humbler maws disdainful of gallic side-dishes for the titillation of choicer palates--stands clashthought park, a house of some pretension, mentioned at runnymede, with the spreading exception of wings given to it in later times by daedalean masters not to be baulked of billiards or traps for terpsichore, and owned for unbroken generations by a healthy line of procreant clashthoughts, to the undoing of collateral branches eager for the birth of a female. passengers through cushioned space, flying top-speed or dallying with obscure stations not alighted at apparently, have had it pointed out to them as beheld dimly for a privileged instant before they sink back behind crackling barrier of instructive paper with a "thank you, sir," or "madam," as the case may be. guide-books praise it. i conceive they shall be studied for a cock-shy of rainbow epithets slashed in at the target of landed gentry, premonitorily. the tintinnabulation's enough. periodical footings of clashthoughts into mayfair or the tyrol, signalled by the slide from its mast of a crested index of aeolian caprice, blazon of their presence, give the curious a right to spin through the halls and galleries under a cackle of housekeeper guideship--scramble for a chuck of the dainties, dog fashion. there is something to be said for the rope's twist. wisdom skips. it is recorded that the goblins of this same lady wisdom were all agog one christmas morning between the doors of the house and the village church, which crouches on the outskirt of the park, with something of a lodge in its look, you might say, more than of celestial twinkles, even with christmas hoar-frost bleaching the grey of it in sunlight, as one sees imaged on seasonable missives for amity in the trays marked "sixpence and upwards," here and there, on the counters of barter. be sure these goblins made obeisance to sir peter clashthought, as he passed by, starched beacon of squirearchy, wife on arm, sons to heel. after him, certain members of the household--rose-chapped males and females, bearing books of worship. the pack of goblins glance up the drive with nudging elbows and whisperings of "where is daughter euphemia? where sir rebus, her affianced?" off they scamper for a peep through the windows of the house. they throng the sill of the library, ears acock and eyelids twittering admiration of a prospect. euphemia was in view of them--essence of her. sir rebus was at her side. nothing slips the goblins. "nymph in the heavy dragoons" was mrs. cryptic-sparkler's famous definition of her. the county took it for final--an uncut gem with a fleck in the heart of it. euphemia condoned the imagery. she had breadth. heels that spread ample curves over the ground she stood on, and hands that might floor you with a clench of them, were hers. grey eyes looked out lucid and fearless under swelling temples that were lost in a ruffling copse of hair. her nose was virginal, with hints of the iron duke at most angles. square chin, cleft centrally, gave her throat the look of a tower with a gun protrudent at top. she was dressed for church evidently, but seemed no slave to time. her bonnet was pushed well back from her head, and she was fingering the ribbons. one saw she was a woman. she inspired deference. "forefinger for shepherd's crook" was what mrs. cryptic-sparkler had said of sir rebus. it shall stand at that. "you have prayer book?" he queried. she nodded. juno catches the connubial trick. "hymns?" "ancient and modern." "i may share with you?" "i know by heart. parrots sing." "philomel carols," he bent to her. "complaints spoil a festival." he waved hand to the door. "lady, your father has started." "he knows the adage. copy-books instil it." "inexorable truth in it." "we may dodge the scythe." "to be choked with the sands?" she flashed a smile. "i would not," he said, "that my euphemia were late for the absolution." she cast eyes to the carpet. he caught them at the rebound. "it snows," she murmured, swimming to the window. "a flake, no more. the season claims it." "i have thin boots." "another pair?" "my maid buttons. she is at church." "my fingers?" "ten on each." "five," he corrected. "buttons." "i beg your pardon." she saw opportunity. she swam to the bell-rope and grasped it for a tinkle. the action spread feminine curves to her lover's eyes. he was a man. obsequiousness loomed in the doorway. its mistress flashed an order for port--two glasses. sir rebus sprang a pair of eyebrows on her. suspicion slid down the banisters of his mind, trailing a blue ribbon. inebriates were one of his hobbies. for an instant she was sunset. "medicinal," she murmured. "forgive me, madam. a glass, certainly. 'twill warm us for worshipping." the wine appeared, seemed to blink owlishly through the facets of its decanter, like some hoary captive dragged forth into light after years of subterraneous darkness--something querulous in the sudden liberation of it. or say that it gleamed benignant from its tray, steady-borne by the hands of reverence, as one has seen infallibility pass with uplifting of jewelled fingers through genuflexions to the balcony. port has this in it: that it compels obeisance, master of us; as opposed to brother and sister wines wooing us with a coy flush in the gold of them to a cursory tope or harlequin leap shimmering up the veins with a sly wink at us through eyelets. hussy vintages swim to a cosset. we go to port, mark you! sir rebus sipped with an affectionate twirl of thumb at the glass's stem. he said "one scents the cobwebs." "catches in them," euphemia flung at him. "i take you. bacchus laughs in the web." "unspun but for pallas." "a lady's jealousy." "forethought, rather." "brewed in the paternal pate. grant it!" "for a spring in accoutrements." sir rebus inclined gravely. port precludes prolongment of the riposte. she replenished glasses. deprecation yielded. "a step," she said, "and we are in time for the first lesson." "this," he agreed, "is a wine." "there are blasphemies in posture. one should sit to it." "perhaps." he sank to commodious throne of leather indicated by her finger. again she filled for him. "this time, no heel-taps," she was imperative. "the litany demands basis." "true." he drained, not repelling the decanter placed at his elbow. "it is a wine," he presently repeated with a rolling tongue over it. "laid down by my great-grandfather. cloistral." "strange," he said, examining the stopper, "no date. antediluvian. sound, though." he drew out his note-book. "_the senses_" he wrote, "_are internecine. they shall have learned esprit de corps before they enslave us._" this was one of his happiest flings to general from particular. "_visual distraction cries havoc to ultimate delicacy of palate_" would but have pinned us a butterfly best a-hover; nor even so should we have had truth of why the aphorist, closing note-book and nestling back of head against that of chair, closed eyes also. as by some such law as lurks in meteorological toy for our guidance in climes close-knit with irony for bewilderment, making egress of old woman synchronise inevitably with old man's ingress, or the other way about, the force that closed the aphorist's eye-lids parted his lips in degree according. thus had euphemia, erect on hearth-rug, a cavern to gaze down into. outworks of fortifying ivory cast but denser shadows into the inexplorable. the solitudes here grew murmurous. to and fro through secret passages in the recesses leading up deviously to lesser twin caverns of nose above, the gnomes morphean went about their business, whispering at first, but presently bold to wind horns in unison--roland-wise, not less. euphemia had an ear for it; whim also to construe lord and master relaxed but reboant and soaring above the verbal to harmonic truths of abstract or transcendental, to be hummed subsequently by privileged female audience of one bent on a hook-or-crook plucking out of pith for salvation. she caught tablets pendent at her girdle. "_how long_," queried her stilus, "_has our sex had humour? jael hammered._" she might have hitched speculation further. but mother earth, white-mantled, called to her. casting eye of caution at recumbence, she paddled across the carpet and anon swam out over the snow. pagan young womanhood, six foot of it, spanned eight miles before luncheon. * * * * * printed in great britain by richard clay & sons, limited, bungay, suffolk. new burlesques by bret harte contents rupert the resembler [after rupert of hentzau and prisoner of zenda] the stolen cigar case by a. co--n d--le golly and the christian, or the minx and the manxman by h-ll c--ne the adventures of john longbowe, yeoman being a modern-antique realistic romance (compiled from several eminent sources) dan'l borem by e. n---s w--t---t stories three by r-dy--d k-pl--g "zut-ski" the problem of a wicked feme sole by m-r-e c-r-lli rupert the resembler by a--th--y h-pe chapter i rudolph of trulyruralania when i state that i was own brother to lord burleydon, had an income of two thousand a year, could speak all the polite languages fluently, was a powerful swordsman, a good shot, and could ride anything from an elephant to a clotheshorse, i really think i have said enough to satisfy any feminine novel-reader of bayswater or south kensington that i was a hero. my brother's wife, however, did not seem to incline to this belief. "a more conceited, self-satisfied little cad i never met than you," she said. "why don't you try to do something instead of sneering at others who do? you never take anything seriously--except yourself, which isn't worth it. you are proud of your red hair and peaked nose just because you fondly believe that you got them from the prince of trulyruralania, and are willing to think evil of your ancestress to satisfy your snobbish little soul. let me tell you, sir, that there was no more truth about that than there was in that silly talk of her partiality for her husband's red-haired gamekeeper in scotland. ah! that makes you start--don't it? but i have always observed that a mule is apt to remember only the horse side of his ancestry!" whenever my pretty sister-in-law talks in this way i always try to forget that she came of a family far inferior to our own, the razorbills. indeed, her people--of the nonconformist stock--really had nothing but wealth and rectitude, and i think my brother bob, in his genuine love for her, was willing to overlook the latter for the sake of the former. my pretty sister-in-law's interest in my affairs always made me believe that she secretly worshiped me--although it was a fact, as will be seen in the progress of this story, that most women blushed on my addressing them. i used to say it "was the reflection of my red hair on a transparent complexion," which was rather neat--wasn't it? and subtle? but then, i was always saying such subtle things. "my dear rose," i said, laying down my egg spoon (the egg spoon really had nothing to do with this speech, but it imparted such a delightfully realistic flavor to the scene), "i'm not to blame if i resemble the s'helpburgs." "it's your being so beastly proud of it that i object to!" she replied. "and for heaven's sake, try to be something, and not merely resemble things! the fact is you resemble too much--you're always resembling. you resemble a man of fashion, and you're not; a wit, and you're not; a soldier, a sportsman, a hero--and you're none of 'em. altogether, you're not in the least convincing. now, listen! there's a good chance for you to go as our attache with lord mumblepeg, the new ambassador to cochin china. in all the novels, you know, attaches are always the confidants of grand duchesses, and know more state secrets than their chiefs; in real life, i believe they are something like a city clerk with a leaning to private theatricals. say you'll go! do!" "i'll take a few months' holiday first," i replied, "and then," i added in my gay, dashing way, "if the place is open--hang it if i don't go!" "good old bounder!" she said, "and don't think too much of that precious prince rupert. he was a bad lot." she blushed again at me--as her husband entered. "take rose's advice, rupert, my boy," he said, "and go!" and that is how i came to go to trulyruralania. for i secretly resolved to take my holiday in traveling in that country and trying, as dear lady burleydon put it, really to be somebody, instead of resembling anybody in particular. a precious lot she knew about it! chapter ii in which my hair causes a lot of things you go to trulyruralania from charing cross. in passing through paris we picked up mlle. beljambe, who was going to kohlslau, the capital of trulyruralania, to marry the grand duke michael, who, however, as i was informed, was in love with the princess flirtia. she blushed on seeing me--but, i was told afterwards, declined being introduced to me on any account. however, i thought nothing of this, and went on to bock, the next station to kohlslau. at the little inn in the forest i was informed i was just in time to see the coronation of the new king the next day. the landlady and her daughter were very communicative, and, after the fashion of the simple, guileless stage peasant, instantly informed me what everybody was doing, and at once explained the situation. she told me that the grand duke michael--or black michael as he was called--himself aspired to the throne, as well as to the hand of the princess flirtia, but was hated by the populace, who preferred the young heir, prince rupert; because he had the hair and features of the dynasty of the s'helpburgs, "which," she added, "are singularly like your own." "but is red hair so very peculiar here?" i asked. "among the jews--yes, sire! i mean yes, sir," she corrected herself. "you seldom see a red-headed jew." "the jews!" i repeated in astonishment. "of course you know the s'helpburgs are descended directly from solomon--and have indeed some of his matrimonial peculiarities," she said, blushing. i was amazed--but recalled myself. "but why do they call the duke of kohlslau black michael?" i asked carelessly. "because he is nearly black, sir. you see, when the great prince rupert went abroad in the old time he visited england, scotland, and africa. they say he married an african lady there--and that the duke is really more in the direct line of succession than prince rupert." but here the daughter showed me to my room. she blushed, of course, and apologized for not bringing a candle, as she thought my hair was sufficiently illuminating. "but," she added with another blush, "i do so like it." i replied by giving her something of no value,--a belgian nickel which wouldn't pass in bock, as i had found to my cost. but my hair had evidently attracted attention from others, for on my return to the guest-room a stranger approached me, and in the purest and most precise german--the court or 'olland hof speech--addressed me: "have you the red hair of the fair king or the hair of your father?" luckily i was able to reply with the same purity and precision: "i have both the hair of the fair king and my own. but i have not the hair of my father nor of black michael, nor of the innkeeper nor the innkeeper's wife. the red heir of the fair king would be a son." possibly this delicate mot on the approaching marriage of the king was lost in the translation, for the stranger strode abruptly away. i learned, however, that the king was actually then in bock, at the castle a few miles distant, in the woods. i resolved to stroll thither. it was a fine old mediaeval structure. but as the singular incidents i am about to relate combine the romantic and adventurous atmosphere of the middle ages with all the appliances of modern times, i may briefly state that the castle was lit by electricity, bad fire-escapes on each of the turrets, four lifts, and was fitted up by one of the best west end establishments. the sanitary arrangements were excellent, and the drainage of the most perfect order, as i had reason to know personally later. i was so affected by the peaceful solitude that i lay down under a tree and presently fell asleep. i was awakened by the sound of voices, and, looking up, beheld two men bending over me. one was a grizzled veteran, and the other a younger dandyfied man; both were dressed in shooting suits. "never saw such a resemblance before in all my life," said the elder man. "'pon my soul! if the king hadn't got shaved yesterday because the princess flirtia said his beard tickled her, i'd swear it was he!" i could not help thinking how lucky it was--for this narrative--that the king had shaved, otherwise my story would have degenerated into a mere comedy of errors. opening my eyes, i said boldly: "now that you are satisfied who i resemble, gentlemen, perhaps you will tell me who you are?" "certainly," said the elder curtly. "i am spitz--a simple colonel of his majesty's, yet, nevertheless, the one man who runs this whole dynasty--and this young gentleman is fritz, my lieutenant. and you are--?" "my name is razorbill--brother to lord burleydon," i replied calmly. "good heavens! another of the lot!" he muttered. then, correcting himself, he said brusquely: "any relation to that englishwoman who was so sweet on the old rupert centuries ago?" here, again, i suppose my sister-in-law would have had me knock down the foreign insulter of my english ancestress--but i colored to the roots of my hair, and even farther--with pleasure at this proof of my royal descent! and then a cheery voice was heard calling "spitz!" and "fritz!" through the woods. "the king!" said spitz to fritz quickly. "he must not see him." "too late," said fritz, as a young man bounded lightly out of the bushes. i was thunderstruck! it was as if i had suddenly been confronted with a mirror--and beheld myself! of course he was not quite so good-looking, or so tall, but he was still a colorable imitation! i was delighted. nevertheless, for a moment he did not seem to reciprocate my feeling. he stared at me, staggered back and passed his hand across his forehead. "can it be," he muttered thickly, "that i've got 'em agin? yet i only had--shingle glash!" but fritz quickly interposed. "your majesty is all right--though," he added in a lower voice, "let this be a warning to you for to-morrow! this gentleman is mr. razorbill--you know the old story of the razorbills?--ha! ha!" but the king did not laugh; he extended his hand and said gently, "you are welcome--my cousin!" indeed, my sister-in-law would have probably said that--dissipated though he was--he was the only gentleman there. "i have come to see the coronation, your majesty," i said. "and you shall," said the king heartily, "and shall go with us! the show can't begin without us--eh, spitz?" he added playfully, poking the veteran in the ribs, "whatever michael may do!" then he linked his arms in spitz's and mine. "let's go to the hut--and have some supper and fizz," he said gayly. we went to the hut. we had supper. we ate and drank heavily. we danced madly around the table. nevertheless i thought that spitz and fritz were worried by the king's potations, and spitz at last went so far as to remind his majesty that they were to start early in the morning for kohlslau. i noticed also that as the king drank his speech grew thicker and spitz and fritz exchanged glances. at last spitz said with stern significance: "your majesty has not forgotten the test invariably submitted to the king at his coronation?" "shertenly not," replied the king, with his reckless laugh. "the king mush be able to pronounsh--name of his country--intel-lillil-gibly: mush shay (hic!): 'i'm king of--king of--tootoo-tooral-looral-anyer.'" he staggered, laughed, and fell under the table. "he cannot say it!" gasped fritz and spitz in one voice. "he is lost!" "unless," said fritz suddenly, pointing at me with a flash of intelligence, "he can personate him, and say it. can you?" he turned to me brusquely. it was an awful moment. i had been drinking heavily too, but i resolved to succeed. "i'm king of trooly-rooly--" i murmured; but i could not master it--i staggered and followed the king under the table. "is there no one here," roared spitz, "who can shave thish dynasty, and shay 'tooral--'? no! ---it! i mean 'trularlooral--'" but he, too, lurched hopelessly forward. "no one can say 'tooral-looral--'" muttered fritz; and, grasping spitz in despair, they both rolled under the table. how long we lay there, heaven knows! i was awakened by spitz playing the garden hose on me. he was booted and spurred, with fritz by his side. the king was lying on a bench, saying feebly: "blesh you, my chillen." "by politely acceding to black michael's request to 'try our one-and-six sherry,' he has been brought to this condition," said spitz bitterly. "it's a trick to keep him from being crowned. in this country if the king is crowned while drunk, the kingdom instantly reverts to a villain--no matter who. but in this case the villain is black michael. ha! what say you, lad? shall we frustrate the rascal, by having you personate the king?" i was--well!--intoxicated at the thought! but what would my sister-in-law say? would she--in her nonconformist conscience--consider it strictly honorable? but i swept all scruples aside. a king was to be saved! "i will go," i said. "let us on to kohlslau--riding like the wind!" we rode like the wind, furiously, madly. mounted on a wild, dashing bay--known familiarly as the "bay of biscay" from its rough turbulence--i easily kept the lead. but our horses began to fail. suddenly spitz halted, clapped his hand to his head, and threw himself from his horse. "fools!" he said, "we should have taken the train! it will get there an hour before we will!" he pointed to a wayside station where the 7.15 excursion train for kohlslau was waiting. "but how dreadfully unmediaeval!--what will the public say?" i began. "bother the public!" he said gruffly. "who's running this dynasty--you or i? come!" with the assistance of fritz he tied up my face with a handkerchief to simulate toothache, and then, with a shout of defiance, we three rushed madly into a closely packed third-class carriage. never shall i forget the perils, the fatigue, the hopes and fears of that mad journey. panting, perspiring, packed together with cheap trippers, but exalted with the one hope of saving the king, we at last staggered out on the kohlslau platform utterly exhausted. as we did so we heard a distant roar from the city. fritz turned an ashen gray, spitz a livid blue. "are we too late?" he gasped, as we madly fought our way into the street, where shouts of "the king! the king!" were rending the air. "can it be black michael?" but here the crowd parted, and a procession, preceded by outriders, flashed into the square. and there, seated in a carriage beside the most beautiful red-haired girl i had ever seen, was the king,--the king whom we had left two hours ago, dead drunk in the hut in the forest! chapters iii to xxii (inclusive) in which things get mixed we reeled against each other aghast! spitz recovered himself first. "we must fly!" he said hoarsely. "if the king has discovered our trick--we are lost!" "but where shall we go?" i asked. "back to the hut." we caught the next train to bock. an hour later we stood panting within the hut. its walls and ceiling were splashed with sinister red stains. "blood!" i exclaimed joyfully. "at last we have a real mediaeval adventure!" "it's burgundy, you fool," growled spitz; "good burgundy wasted!" at this moment fritz appeared dragging in the hut-keeper. "where is the king?" demanded spitz fiercely of the trembling peasant. "he was carried away an hour ago by black michael and taken to the castle." "and when did he leave the castle?" roared spitz. "he never left the castle, sir, and, alas! i fear never will, alive!" replied the man, shuddering. we stared at each other! spitz bit his grizzled mustache. "so," he said bitterly, "black michael has simply anticipated us with the same game! we have been tricked. i knew it could not be the king whom they crowned! no!" he added quickly, "i see it all--it was rupert of glasgow!" "who is rupert of glasgow?" i cried. "oh, i really can't go over all that family rot again," grunted spitz. "tell him, fritz." then, taking me aside, fritz delicately informed me that rupert of glasgow--a young scotchman--claimed equally with myself descent from the old rupert, and that equally with myself he resembled the king. that michael had got possession of him on his arrival in the country, kept him closely guarded in the castle, and had hid his resemblance in a black wig and false mustache; that the young scotchman, however, seemed apparently devoted to michael and his plots; and there was undoubtedly some secret understanding between them. that it was evidently michael's trick to have the pretender crowned, and then, by exposing the fraud and the condition of the real king, excite the indignation of the duped people, and seat himself on the throne! "but," i burst out, "shall this base-born pretender remain at kohlslau beside the beautiful princess flirtia? let us to kohlslau at once and hurl him from the throne!" "one pretender is as good as another," said spitz dryly. "but leave him to me. 'tis the king we must protect and succor! as for that scotch springald, before midnight i shall have him kidnaped, brought back to his master in a close carriage, and you--you shall take his place at kohlslau." "i will," i said enthusiastically, drawing my sword; "but i have done nothing yet. please let me kill something!" "aye, lad!" said spitz, with a grim smile at my enthusiasm. "there's a sheep in your path. go out and cleave it to the saddle. and bring the saddle home!" my sister-in-law might have thought me cruel--but i did it. chap xxiii and some other chaps i know not how it was compassed, but that night rupert of glasgow was left bound and gagged against the door of the castle, and the night-bell pulled. and that night i was seated on the throne of the s'helpburgs. as i gazed at the princess flirtia, glowing in the characteristic beauty of the s'helpburgs, and admired her striking profile, i murmured softly and half audibly: "her nose is as a tower that looketh toward damascus." she looked puzzled, and knitted her pretty brows. "is that poetry?" she asked. "no" i said promptly. "it's only part of a song of our great ancestor." as she blushed slightly, i playfully flung around her fair neck the jeweled collar of the order of the s'helpburgs--three golden spheres pendant, quartered from the arms of lombardy---with the ancient syric motto, el ess dee. she toyed with it a moment, and then said softly: "you have changed, rupert. do ye no ken hoo?" i looked at her--as surprised at her dialect as at the imputation. "you don't talk that way, as you did. and you don't say, 'it will be twelve o'clock,' when you mean, 'it is twelve o'clock,' nor 'i will be going out,' when you mean 'i am.' and you didn't say, 'eh, sirs!' or 'eh, mon,' to any of the court--nor 'hoot awa!' nor any of those things. and," she added with a divine little pout, "you haven't told me i was 'sonsie' or 'bonnie' once." i could with difficulty restrain myself. rage, indignation, and jealousy filled my heart almost to bursting. i understood it all; that rascally scotchman had made the most of his time, and dared to get ahead of me! i did not mind being taken for the king, but to be confounded with this infernal descendant of a gamekeeper--was too much! yet with a superhuman effort i remained calm--and even smiled. "you are not well?" said the princess earnestly. "i thought you were taking too much of the strasbourg pie at supper! and you are not going, surely--so soon?" she added, as i rose. "i must go at once," i said. "i have forgotten some important business at bock." "not boar hunting again?" she said poutingly. "no, i'm hunting a red dear," i said with that playful subtlety which would make her take it as a personal compliment, though i was only thinking of that impostor, and longing to get at him, as i bowed and withdrew. in another hour i was before black michael's castle at bock. these are lightning changes, i know--and the sovereignty of trulyruralania was somewhat itinerant--but when a kingdom and a beautiful princess are at stake, what are you to do? fritz had begged me to take him along, but i arranged that he should come later, and go up unostentatiously in the lift. i was going by way of the moat. i was to succor the king, but i fear my real object was to get at rupert of glasgow. i had noticed the day before that a large outside drain pipe, decreed by the bock county council, ran from the moat to the third floor of the donjon keep. i surmised that the king was imprisoned on that floor. examining the pipe closely, i saw that it was really a pneumatic dispatch tube, for secretly conveying letters and dispatches from the castle through the moat beyond the castle walls. its extraordinary size, however, gave me the horrible conviction that it was to be used to convey the dead body of the king to the moat. i grew cold with horror--but i was determined. i crept up the pipe. as i expected, it opened funnel-wise into a room where the poor king was playing poker with black michael. it took me but a moment to dash through the window into the room, push the king aside, gag and bind black michael, and lower him by a stout rope into the pipe he had destined for another. having him in my power, i lowered him until i heard his body splash in the water in the lower part of the pipe. then i proceeded to draw him up again, intending to question him in regard to rupert of glasgow. but this was difficult, as his saturated clothing made him fit the smooth pipe closely. at last i had him partly up, when i was amazed at a rush of water from the pipe which flooded the room. i dropped him and pulled him up again with the same result. then in a flash i saw it all. his body, acting like a piston in the pipe, had converted it into a powerful pump. mad with joy, i rapidly lowered and pulled him up again and again, until the castle was flooded--and the moat completely drained! i had created the diversion i wished; the tenants of the castle were disorganized and bewildered in trying to escape from the deluge, and the moat was accessible to my friends. placing the poor king on a table to be out of the water, and tying up his head in my handkerchief to disguise him from michael's guards, i drew my sword and plunged downstairs with the cataract in search of the miscreant rupert. i reached the drawbridge, when i heard the sounds of tumult and was twice fired at,--once, as i have since learned, by my friends, under the impression that i was the escaping rupert of glasgow, and once by black michael's myrmidons, under the belief that i was the king. i was struck by the fact that these resemblances were confusing and unfortunate! at this moment, however, i caught sight of a kilted figure leaping from a lower window into the moat. some instinct impelled me to follow it. it rapidly crossed the moat and plunged into the forest, with me in pursuit. i gained upon it; suddenly it turned, and i found myself again confronted with myself--and apparently the king! but that very resemblance made me recognize the scotch pretender, rupert of glasgow. yet he would have been called a "braw laddie," and his handsome face showed a laughing good humor, even while he opposed me, claymore in hand. "bide a wee, maister rupert razorbill," he said lightly, lowering his sword, "before we slit ane anither's weasands. i'm no claimin' any descent frae kings, and i'm no acceptin' any auld wife's clavers against my women forbears, as ye are! i'm just paid gude honest siller by black michael for the using of ma face and figure--sic time as his majesty is tae worse frae trink! and i'm commeesioned frae michael to ask ye what price ye would take to join me in performing these duties--turn and turn aboot. eh, laddie--but he would pay ye mair than that daft beggar, spitz." rage and disgust overpowered me. "and this is my answer," i said, rushing upon him. i have said earlier in these pages that i was a "strong" swordsman. in point of fact, i had carefully studied in the transpontine theatres that form of melodramatic mediaeval sword-play known as "two up and two down." to my disgust, however, this wretched scotchman did not seem to understand it, but in a twinkling sent my sword flying over my head. before i could recover it, he had mounted a horse ready saddled in the wood, and, shouting to me that he would take my "compleements" to the princess, galloped away. even then i would have pursued him afoot, but, hearing shouts behind me, i turned as spitz and fritz rode up. "has the king escaped to kohlslau?" asked fritz, staring at me. "no," i said, "but rupert of glasgow"-"--rupert of glasgow," growled spitz. "we've settled him! he's gagged and bound and is now on his way to the frontier in a close carriage." "rupert--on his way to the frontier?" i gasped. "yes. two of my men found him, disguised with a handkerchief over his face, trying to escape from the castle. and while we were looking for the king, whom we supposed was with you, they have sent the rascally scotchman home." "fool!" i gasped. "rupert of glasgow has just left me! you have deported your own king." and overcome by my superhuman exertions, i sank unconscious to the ground. when i came to, i found myself in a wagon lit, speeding beyond the trulyruralania frontier. on my berth was lying a missive with the seal of the s'helpburgs. tearing it open i recognized the handwriting of the princess flirtia. my dear rupert,--owing to the confusion that arises from there being so many of you, i have concluded to accept the hand of the duke michael. i may not become a queen, but i shall bring rest to my country, and michael assures me in his playful manner that "three of a kind," "even of the same color," do not always win at poker. it will tranquilize you somewhat to know that the lord chancellor assures me that on examining the records of the dynasty he finds that my ancestor rupert never left his kingdom during his entire reign, and that consequently your ancestress has been grossly maligned. i am sending typewritten copies of this to rupert of glasgow and the king. farewell. flirtia. once a year, at christmastide, i receive a simple foreign hamper via charing cross, marked "return empty." i take it in silence to my own room, and there, opening it, i find--unseen by any other eyes but my own--a modest pate de foie gras, of the kind i ate with the princess flirtia. i take out the pate, replace the label, and have the hamper reconveyed to charing cross. the stolen cigar case by a. co--n d--le i found hemlock jones in the old brook street lodgings, musing before the fire. with the freedom of an old friend i at once threw myself in my usual familiar attitude at his feet, and gently caressed his boot. i was induced to do this for two reasons: one, that it enabled me to get a good look at his bent, concentrated face, and the other, that it seemed to indicate my reverence for his superhuman insight. so absorbed was he even then, in tracking some mysterious clue, that he did not seem to notice me. but therein i was wrong--as i always was in my attempt to understand that powerful intellect. "it is raining," he said, without lifting his head. "you have been out, then?" i said quickly. "no. but i see that your umbrella is wet, and that your overcoat has drops of water on it." i sat aghast at his penetration. after a pause he said carelessly, as if dismissing the subject: "besides, i hear the rain on the window. listen." i listened. i could scarcely credit my ears, but there was the soft pattering of drops on the panes. it was evident there was no deceiving this man! "have you been busy lately?" i asked, changing the subject. "what new problem--given up by scotland yard as inscrutable--has occupied that gigantic intellect?" he drew back his foot slightly, and seemed to hesitate ere he returned it to its original position. then he answered wearily: "mere trifles--nothing to speak of. the prince kupoli has been here to get my advice regarding the disappearance of certain rubies from the kremlin; the rajah of pootibad, after vainly beheading his entire bodyguard, has been obliged to seek my assistance to recover a jeweled sword. the grand duchess of pretzel-brauntswig is desirous of discovering where her husband was on the night of february 14; and last night"--he lowered his voice slightly--"a lodger in this very house, meeting me on the stairs, wanted to know why they didn't answer his bell." i could not help smiling--until i saw a frown gathering on his inscrutable forehead. "pray remember," he said coldly, "that it was through such an apparently trivial question that i found out why paul ferroll killed his wife, and what happened to jones!" i became dumb at once. he paused for a moment, and then suddenly changing back to his usual pitiless, analytical style, he said: "when i say these are trifles, they are so in comparison to an affair that is now before me. a crime has been committed,--and, singularly enough, against myself. you start," he said. "you wonder who would have dared to attempt it. so did i; nevertheless, it has been done. i have been robbed!" "you robbed! you, hemlock jones, the terror of peculators!" i gasped in amazement, arising and gripping the table as i faced him. "yes! listen. i would confess it to no other. but you who have followed my career, who know my methods; you, for whom i have partly lifted the veil that conceals my plans from ordinary humanity,--you, who have for years rapturously accepted my confidences, passionately admired my inductions and inferences, placed yourself at my beck and call, become my slave, groveled at my feet, given up your practice except those few unremunerative and rapidly decreasing patients to whom, in moments of abstraction over my problems, you have administered strychnine for quinine and arsenic for epsom salts; you, who have sacrificed anything and everybody to me,--you i make my confidant!" i arose and embraced him warmly, yet he was already so engrossed in thought that at the same moment he mechanically placed his hand upon his watch chain as if to consult the time. "sit down," he said. "have a cigar?" "i have given up cigar smoking," i said. "why?" he asked. i hesitated, and perhaps colored. i had really given it up because, with my diminished practice, it was too expensive. i could afford only a pipe. "i prefer a pipe," i said laughingly. "but tell me of this robbery. what have you lost?" he arose, and planting himself before the fire with his hands under his coattails, looked down upon me reflectively for a moment. "do you remember the cigar case presented to me by the turkish ambassador for discovering the missing favorite of the grand vizier in the fifth chorus girl at the hilarity theatre? it was that one. i mean the cigar case. it was incrusted with diamonds." "and the largest one had been supplanted by paste," i said. "ah," he said, with a reflective smile, "you know that?" "you told me yourself. i remember considering it a proof of your extraordinary perception. but, by jove, you don't mean to say you have lost it?" he was silent for a moment. "no; it has been stolen, it is true, but i shall still find it. and by myself alone! in your profession, my dear fellow, when a member is seriously ill, he does not prescribe for himself, but calls in a brother doctor. therein we differ. i shall take this matter in my own hands." "and where could you find better?" i said enthusiastically. "i should say the cigar case is as good as recovered already." "i shall remind you of that again," he said lightly. "and now, to show you my confidence in your judgment, in spite of my determination to pursue this alone, i am willing to listen to any suggestions from you." he drew a memorandum book from his pocket and, with a grave smile, took up his pencil. i could scarcely believe my senses. he, the great hemlock jones, accepting suggestions from a humble individual like myself! i kissed his hand reverently, and began in a joyous tone: "first, i should advertise, offering a reward; i should give the same intimation in hand-bills, distributed at the 'pubs' and the pastry-cooks'. i should next visit the different pawnbrokers; i should give notice at the police station. i should examine the servants. i should thoroughly search the house and my own pockets. i speak relatively," i added, with a laugh. "of course i mean your own." he gravely made an entry of these details. "perhaps," i added, "you have already done this?" "perhaps," he returned enigmatically. "now, my dear friend," he continued, putting the note-book in his pocket and rising, "would you excuse me for a few moments? make yourself perfectly at home until i return; there may be some things," he added with a sweep of his hand toward his heterogeneously filled shelves, "that may interest you and while away the time. there are pipes and tobacco in that corner." then nodding to me with the same inscrutable face he left the room. i was too well accustomed to his methods to think much of his unceremonious withdrawal, and made no doubt he was off to investigate some clue which had suddenly occurred to his active intelligence. left to myself i cast a cursory glance over his shelves. there were a number of small glass jars containing earthy substances, labeled "pavement and road sweepings," from the principal thoroughfares and suburbs of london, with the sub-directions "for identifying foot-tracks." there were several other jars, labeled "fluff from omnibus and road car seats," "cocoanut fibre and rope strands from mattings in public places," "cigarette stumps and match ends from floor of palace theatre, row a, 1 to 50." everywhere were evidences of this wonderful man's system and perspicacity. i was thus engaged when i heard the slight creaking of a door, and i looked up as a stranger entered. he was a rough-looking man, with a shabby overcoat and a still more disreputable muffler around his throat and the lower part of his face. considerably annoyed at his intrusion, i turned upon him rather sharply, when, with a mumbled, growling apology for mistaking the room, he shuffled out again and closed the door. i followed him quickly to the landing and saw that he disappeared down the stairs. with my mind full of the robbery, the incident made a singular impression upon me. i knew my friend's habit of hasty absences from his room in his moments of deep inspiration; it was only too probable that, with his powerful intellect and magnificent perceptive genius concentrated on one subject, he should be careless of his own belongings, and no doubt even forget to take the ordinary precaution of locking up his drawers. i tried one or two and found that i was right, although for some reason i was unable to open one to its fullest extent. the handles were sticky, as if some one had opened them with dirty fingers. knowing hemlock's fastidious cleanliness, i resolved to inform him of this circumstance, but i forgot it, alas! until--but i am anticipating my story. his absence was strangely prolonged. i at last seated myself by the fire, and lulled by warmth and the patter of the rain on the window, i fell asleep. i may have dreamt, for during my sleep i had a vague semi-consciousness as of hands being softly pressed on my pockets--no doubt induced by the story of the robbery. when i came fully to my senses, i found hemlock jones sitting on the other side of the hearth, his deeply concentrated gaze fixed on the fire. "i found you so comfortably asleep that i could not bear to awaken you," he said, with a smile. i rubbed my eyes. "and what news?" i asked. "how have you succeeded?" "better than i expected," he said, "and i think," he added, tapping his note-book, "i owe much to you." deeply gratified, i awaited more. but in vain. i ought to have remembered that in his moods hemlock jones was reticence itself. i told him simply of the strange intrusion, but he only laughed. later, when i arose to go, he looked at me playfully. "if you were a married man," he said, "i would advise you not to go home until you had brushed your sleeve. there are a few short brown sealskin hairs on the inner side of your forearm, just where they would have adhered if your arm had encircled a seal-skin coat with some pressure!" "for once you are at fault," i said triumphantly; "the hair is my own, as you will perceive; i have just had it cut at the hairdresser's, and no doubt this arm projected beyond the apron." he frowned slightly, yet, nevertheless, on my turning to go he embraced me warmly--a rare exhibition in that man of ice. he even helped me on with my overcoat and pulled out and smoothed down the flaps of my pockets. he was particular, too, in fitting my arm in my overcoat sleeve, shaking the sleeve down from the armhole to the cuff with his deft fingers. "come again soon!" he said, clapping me on the back. "at any and all times," i said enthusiastically; "i only ask ten minutes twice a day to eat a crust at my office, and four hours' sleep at night, and the rest of my time is devoted to you always, as you know." "it is indeed," he said, with his impenetrable smile. nevertheless, i did not find him at home when i next called. one afternoon, when nearing my own home, i met him in one of his favorite disguises,--a long blue swallow-tailed coat, striped cotton trousers, large turn-over collar, blacked face, and white hat, carrying a tambourine. of course to others the disguise was perfect, although it was known to myself, and i passed him--according to an old understanding between us--without the slightest recognition, trusting to a later explanation. at another time, as i was making a professional visit to the wife of a publican at the east end, i saw him, in the disguise of a broken-down artisan, looking into the window of an adjacent pawnshop. i was delighted to see that he was evidently following my suggestions, and in my joy i ventured to tip him a wink; it was abstractedly returned. two days later i received a note appointing a meeting at his lodgings that night. that meeting, alas! was the one memorable occurrence of my life, and the last meeting i ever had with hemlock jones! i will try to set it down calmly, though my pulses still throb with the recollection of it. i found him standing before the fire, with that look upon his face which i had seen only once or twice in our acquaintance--a look which i may call an absolute concatenation of inductive and deductive ratiocination--from which all that was human, tender, or sympathetic was absolutely discharged. he was simply an icy algebraic symbol! indeed, his whole being was concentrated to that extent that his clothes fitted loosely, and his head was absolutely so much reduced in size by his mental compression that his hat tipped back from his forehead and literally hung on his massive ears. after i had entered he locked the doors, fastened the windows, and even placed a chair before the chimney. as i watched these significant precautions with absorbing interest, he suddenly drew a revolver and, presenting it to my temple, said in low, icy tones: "hand over that cigar case!" even in my bewilderment my reply was truthful, spontaneous, and involuntary. "i haven't got it," i said. he smiled bitterly, and threw down his revolver. "i expected that reply! then let me now confront you with something more awful, more deadly, more relentless and convincing than that mere lethal weapon,--the damning inductive and deductive proofs of your guilt!" he drew from his pocket a roll of paper and a note-book. "but surely," i gasped, "you are joking! you could not for a moment believe"-"silence! sit down!" i obeyed. "you have condemned yourself," he went on pitilessly. "condemned yourself on my processes,--processes familiar to you, applauded by you, accepted by you for years! we will go back to the time when you first saw the cigar case. your expressions," he said in cold, deliberate tones, consulting his paper, "were, 'how beautiful! i wish it were mine.' this was your first step in crime--and my first indication. from 'i wish it were mine' to 'i will have it mine,' and the mere detail, 'how can i make it mine?' the advance was obvious. silence! but as in my methods it was necessary that there should be an overwhelming inducement to the crime, that unholy admiration of yours for the mere trinket itself was not enough. you are a smoker of cigars." "but," i burst out passionately, "i told you i had given up smoking cigars." "fool!" he said coldly, "that is the second time you have committed yourself. of course you told me! what more natural than for you to blazon forth that prepared and unsolicited statement to prevent accusation. yet, as i said before, even that wretched attempt to cover up your tracks was not enough. i still had to find that overwhelming, impelling motive necessary to affect a man like you. that motive i found in the strongest of all impulses--love, i suppose you would call it," he added bitterly, "that night you called! you had brought the most conclusive proofs of it on your sleeve." "but--" i almost screamed. "silence!" he thundered. "i know what you would say. you would say that even if you had embraced some young person in a sealskin coat, what had that to do with the robbery? let me tell you, then, that that sealskin coat represented the quality and character of your fatal entanglement! you bartered your honor for it--that stolen cigar case was the purchaser of the sealskin coat! "silence! having thoroughly established your motive, i now proceed to the commission of the crime itself. ordinary people would have begun with that--with an attempt to discover the whereabouts of the missing object. these are not my methods." so overpowering was his penetration that, although i knew myself innocent, i licked my lips with avidity to hear the further details of this lucid exposition of my crime. "you committed that theft the night i showed you the cigar case, and after i had carelessly thrown it in that drawer. you were sitting in that chair, and i had arisen to take something from that shelf. in that instant you secured your booty without rising. silence! do you remember when i helped you on with your overcoat the other night? i was particular about fitting your arm in. while doing so i measured your arm with a spring tape measure, from the shoulder to the cuff. a later visit to your tailor confirmed that measurement. it proved to be the exact distance between your chair and that drawer!" i sat stunned. "the rest are mere corroborative details! you were again tampering with the drawer when i discovered you doing so! do not start! the stranger that blundered into the room with a muffler on--was myself! more, i had placed a little soap on the drawer handles when i purposely left you alone. the soap was on your hand when i shook it at parting. i softly felt your pockets, when you were asleep, for further developments. i embraced you when you left--that i might feel if you had the cigar case or any other articles hidden on your body. this confirmed me in the belief that you had already disposed of it in the manner and for the purpose i have shown you. as i still believed you capable of remorse and confession, i twice allowed you to see i was on your track: once in the garb of an itinerant negro minstrel, and the second time as a workman looking in the window of the pawnshop where you pledged your booty." "but," i burst out, "if you had asked the pawnbroker, you would have seen how unjust"-"fool!" he hissed, "that was one of your suggestions--to search the pawnshops! do you suppose i followed any of your suggestions, the suggestions of the thief? on the contrary, they told me what to avoid." "and i suppose," i said bitterly, "you have not even searched your drawer?" "no," he said calmly. i was for the first time really vexed. i went to the nearest drawer and pulled it out sharply. it stuck as it had before, leaving a part of the drawer unopened. by working it, however, i discovered that it was impeded by some obstacle that had slipped to the upper part of the drawer, and held it firmly fast. inserting my hand, i pulled out the impeding object. it was the missing cigar case! i turned to him with a cry of joy. but i was appalled at his expression. a look of contempt was now added to his acute, penetrating gaze. "i have been mistaken," he said slowly; "i had not allowed for your weakness and cowardice! i thought too highly of you even in your guilt! but i see now why you tampered with that drawer the other night. by some inexplicable means--possibly another theft--you took the cigar case out of pawn and, like a whipped hound, restored it to me in this feeble, clumsy fashion. you thought to deceive me, hemlock jones! more, you thought to destroy my infallibility. go! i give you your liberty. i shall not summon the three policemen who wait in the adjoining room--but out of my sight forever!" as i stood once more dazed and petrified, he took me firmly by the ear and led me into the hall, closing the door behind him. this reopened presently, wide enough to permit him to thrust out my hat, overcoat, umbrella, and overshoes, and then closed against me forever! i never saw him again. i am bound to say, however, that thereafter my business increased, i recovered much of my old practice, and a few of my patients recovered also. i became rich. i had a brougham and a house in the west end. but i often wondered, pondering on that wonderful man's penetration and insight, if, in some lapse of consciousness, i had not really stolen his cigar case! golly and the christian, or the minx and the manxman by h-ll c--ne book i golly coyle was the only granddaughter of a vague and somewhat simple clergyman who existed, with an aunt, solely for golly's epistolary purposes. there was, of course, intermediate ancestry,--notably a dead mother who was french, and therefore responsible for any later naughtiness in golly,--but they have no purpose here. they lived in the isle of man. golly knew a good deal of man, for even at the age of twelve she was in love with john gale--only son of lord gale, who was connected with the tempests. gales, however, were frequent and remarkable along the coast, so that it was not singular that one day she found john "coming on" on a headland where she was sitting. his dog had "pointed" her. "it's exceedingly impolite to point to anything you want," said golly. touched by this, and overcome by a strange emotion, john gale turned away and went to canada. slight as the incident was, it showed that inborn chivalry to women, that desire for the perfect life, that intense eagerness to incarnate christianity in modern society, which afterward distinguished him. golly loved him! for all that, she still remained a "tomboy" as she was,--robbing orchards, mimicking tramps and policemen, buttering the stairs and the steps of houses, tying kettles to dogs' tails, and marching in a white jersey, with the curate's hat on, through the streets of the village. "gol dern my skin!" said the dear old clergyman, as he tried to emerge from a surplice which golly had stitched together; "what spirits the child do have!" yet everybody loved her! and when john gale returned from canada, and looked into her big blue eyes one day at church, small wonder that he immediately went off again to paris, and an extended continental sojourn, with a serious leaning to theology! golly bore his absence meekly but characteristically; got a boat, disported like a duck in the water, attempted to elope with a boy appropriately named drake, but encountered a half gale at sea and a whole gale in john on a yacht, who rescued them both. convinced now that there was but one way to escape from his fate--golly!--john gale took holy orders and at once started for london. as he stood on the deck of the steamer he heard an imbecile chuckle in his ear. it was the simple old clergyman: "you are going to london to join the church, john; golly is going there, too, as hospital nurse. there's a pair of you! he! he! look after her, john, and protect her manx simplicity." before john could recover himself, golly was at his side executing the final steps of a "cellar-door flap jig" to the light-hearted refrain:- "we are a simple family--we are--we are--we are!" and even as her pure young voice arose above the screams of the departure whistle, she threw a double back-somersault on the quarterdeck, cleverly alighting on the spikes of the wheel before the delighted captain. "jingle my electric bells," he said, looking at the bright young thing, "but you're a regular minx--" "i beg your pardon," interrupted john gale, with a quick flush. "i mean a regular manx," said the captain hurriedly. a singular paleness crossed the deeply religious face of john. as the vessel rose on the waves, he passed his hand hurriedly first across his brows and then over his high-buttoned clerical waistcoat, that visible sign of a devoted ascetic life! then murmuring in his low, deep voice, "brandy, steward," he disappeared below. book ii glorious as were golly's spirits, exquisitely simple her worldly ignorance, and irresistible her powers of mimicry, strangely enough they were considered out of place in st. barabbas' hospital. a light-hearted disposition to mistake a blister for a poultice; that rare manx conscientiousness which made her give double doses to the patients as a compensation when she had omitted to give them a single one, and the faculty of bursting into song at the bedside of a dying patient, produced some liveliness not unmixed with perplexity among the hospital staff. it is true, however, that her performance of clog-dancing during the night-watches drew a larger and more persistent attendance of students and young surgeons than ever was seen before. yet everybody loved her! even her patients! "if it amooses you, miss, to make me tyke the pills wot's meant for the lydy in the next ward, i ain't complyning," said an east end newsboy. "when ye tyke off the style of the doctor wot wisits me, miss, and imitates his wyes, lawd! it does me as much good as his mixtures," said a consumptive charwoman. even thus, old and young basked in the radiant youth of golly. she found time to write to her family:-dear old pals! i'm here. j'y suis! bet your boots! while you're wondering what has become of the bright young thing, the b. y. t. is lookin' out of the winder of st. barabbas' hospital--just taking in all of dear, roaring, dirty london in one gulp! such a place--lordy! i've been waiting three hours to see the crowd go by, and they haven't gone yet! such crowds, such busses,--all green and blue, only a penny fare, and you can ride on top if you want to! think of that, you dear old manx people! but there--"the bell goes a-ringing for sarah!"--they're calling for nurse! that's the worst of this job: they're always a-dyin' just as you're getting interested in something else! ta-ta! golly! then her dear old grandfather wrote: i'm wondering where my diddleums, golly, is! we all miss you so much, deary, though we don't miss so many little things as when you were here. my dear, conscientious, unselfish little girl! you don't say where john gale is. is he still protecting you--he-he!--you giddy, naughty thing! people wonder on the island why i let you go alone to london--they forget your dear mother was a frenchwoman! if you see anything your dear old grandfather would like--send it on. granfer. later, her aunt wrote:-have you seen the queen yet, and does she wear her crown at breakfast? you might get over the area railing at buckingham palace--it would be nothing for a girl like you to do--and see if you can find out. to these letters golly answered, in her own light-hearted way:-dear grankins,--i haven't seen john much--but i think he's like the private secretary at the play--he "don't like london." lordy! there--i've let it out! i've been to a theayter. nurse jinny jones and me scrouged into the pit one night without paying, "pertendin'," as we were in uniform, we had come to take out a "lydy" that had fainted. such larks! and such a glorious theayter! i'll tell you another time. tell aunty the queen's always out when i call. but that's nothing, everybody else is so affable and polite in london. gentlemen--"real toffs," they call 'em--whom you don't know from adam--think nothing of speaking to you in the street. why, nurse jinny says--but there another patient's going off who by rights oughter have died only to-morrow. "to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow," as that barn-stormer actor said. but they're always calling for that giddy young thing. your golly. meantime, john gale, having abruptly left golly at the door of st. barabbas' hospital, tactfully avoiding an unseemly altercation with the cab-driver regarding her exact fare, pursued his way thoughtfully to the residence of his uncle, the first lord of the admiralty. he found his lordship in his bath-room. he was leaning over the bath-tub, which was half full of water, contemplating with some anxiety the model of a line-of-battle ship which was floating on it, bottom upward. "i don't think it can be quite right--do you?" he said, nervously grasping his nephew's hand as he pointed to the capsized vessel; "yet they always do it. tell me!" he went on appealingly, "tell me, as a professing christian and a perfect man--is it quite right?" "i should think, sir," responded john gale, with uncompromising truthfulness, "that the average vessel of commerce is not built in that way." "yet," said the first lord of the admiralty, with a far-off look, "they all do it! and they don't steer! the larger they are and the more recent the model, the less they steer. dear me--you ought to see 'em go round and round in that tub." then, apparently recalling the probable purpose of john's visit, he led the way into his dressing-room. "so you are in london, dear boy. is there any little thing you want? i have," he continued, absently fumbling in the drawers of his dressing-table, "a few curacies and a bishopric somewhere, but with these blessed models--i can't think where they are. or what would you say to a nice chaplaincy in the navy, with a becoming uniform, on one of those thingummies?" he pointed to the bath-room. "stay," he continued, as he passed his hand over his perplexed brows, "now i think of it--you're quite unorthodox! dear me! that wouldn't do. you see, drake,"--he paused, as john gale started,--"i mean sir francis drake, once suspended his chaplain for unorthodoxy, according to froude's book. these admirals are dreadfully strict churchmen. no matter! come again some other time," he added, gently pushing his nephew downstairs and into the street, "and we'll see about it." with a sinking heart, john turned his steps toward westminster. he would go and see golly; perhaps he had not looked after her as he ought. suddenly a remembered voice, in mimicking accents, fell upon his ear with the quotation, "do you know?" then, in a hansom passing swiftly by him, golly, in hospital dress with flying ribbons, appeared, sitting between lord brownstone ewer and francis horatio nelson drake, completely grown up. and from behind floated the inexpressibly sad refrain, "hi tiddli hi!" this is how it happened. one morning, jinny jones, another hospital nurse, had said to her, "have you any objection, dear, to seeing a friend of another gent, a friend of mine?" "none in the least, dear," said golly. "i want to see all that can be seen, and do all that can be done in london, and know the glory thereof. i only require that i shall be allowed to love john gale whenever he permits it, which isn't often, and that i may be permitted to write simple letters to my doting relations at the rate of twelve pages a day, giving an account--my own account--of my doings. there! go on now! bring on your bears." they had visited the chambers which lord brownstone and drake occupied together, and in girlish innocence had put on the gentlemen's clothes and danced before them. then they all went to the theatre, where golly's delightful simplicity and childish ignorance of the world had charmed them. everything to her was new, strange, and thrilling. she even leaned from the carriage windows to see the "wheels go round." she was surprised at the number of people in the theatre, and insisted on knowing if it was church, because they all sat there in their best clothes so quietly. she believed that the play was real, and frequently, from a stage box, interrupted the acting with explanations. she informed the heroine of the design of the villain waiting at the wings. and when the aged mother of the heroine was dying of starvation in a hovel, and she threw a bag of bonbons on the stage, with the vociferous declaration that "lord brownstone had just given them to her--but--lordy!--she didn't want them," they were obliged to lead her away, closely followed by an usher and a policeman. "to think," she wrote to john gale, "that the audience only laughed and shouted, and never offered to help! and yet look at the churches in london, where they dare to preach the gospel!" fired by this simple letter, and alarmed by golly's simplicity, john gale went to his clerical chief, archdeacon luxury, and demanded permission to preach next sunday. "certainly," said the archdeacon; "you shall take my curate's place. i shall inform the congregation that you are the son of lord gale. they are very particular churchmen--all society people--and of course will be satisfied with the work of the lord, especially," he added, with a polite smile, "when that work happens to be--the lord gale's son." accordingly, the next sunday, john gale occupied the pulpit of st. swithin. but an unexpected event happened. his pent-up eagerness to denounce the present methods of christianity, his fullness of utterance, defeated his purpose. he was overcome with a kind of pulpit fright. his ideas of time and place fled him. after beginning, "mr. chairman, in rising to propose the toast of our worthy archdeacon--fellow manxmen--the present moment--er--er--the proudest in my--er--life--dearly beloved golly--unaccustomed as i am to public speaking," he abruptly delivered the benediction and sat down. the incident, however, provoked little attention. the congregation, accustomed to sleep through the sermon, awoke at the usual time and went home. only a single scotchwoman said to him in passing: "verra weel for a beginning, laddie. but give it hotter to 'em next time." discomfited and bewildered, he communed with himself gloomily. "i can't marry golly. i can't talk. i hate society. what's to be done? i have it! i'll go into a monastery." he went into a monastery in bishopsgate street, reached by a threepenny 'bus. he gave out vaguely that he had got into "something good, in the city." society was satisfied. only golly suspected the truth. she wrote to her grandfather:-"i saw john gale the other day with a crowd following him in the strand. he had on only a kind of brown serge dressing-gown, tied around his waist by a rope, and a hood on his head. i think his poor 'toe-toes' were in sandals, and i dare say his legs were cold, poor dear. however, if he calls that protection of golly--i don't! i might be run off at any moment--for all he'd help. no matter! if this court understands herself, and she thinks she do, golly can take care of herself--you bet." nevertheless, golly lost her place at the hospital through her heroic defense of her friend jinny jones, who had been deceived by lord brownstone ewer. "you would drive that poor girl into the street," she said furiously to the chairman of the board, throwing her cap and apron in their faces. "you're a lot of rotten old hypocrites, and i'm glad to get shut of you." not content with that, she went to drake and demanded that he should make his friend lord brownstone marry jinny. "sorry--awfully sorry--my dear golly, but he's engaged to a rich american girl who is to pay his debts; but i'll see that he does something handsome for jinny. and you, my child, what are you going to do without a situation?" he added, with touching sympathy. "you see, i've some vague idea of marrying you myself," he concluded meditatively. "thank you for nothing," interrupted golly gayly, "but i can take care of myself and follow out my mission like john gale." "there's a pair of you, certainly," said drake, with a tinge of jealous bitterness. "you bet it's 'a pair' that will take your 'two knaves,' you and your lord brownstone," returned golly, dropping a mock courtesy. "ta-ta; i'm going on the stage." book iii she went first into a tobacconist's--and sold cigarettes. sometimes she suffered from actual want, and ate fried fish. "do you know how nice fried fish tastes in london,--you on 'the oilan'?" she wrote gayly. "i'm getting on splendidly; so's john gale, i suppose, though he's looking cadaverous from starving himself all round. tell aunty i haven't seen the queen yet, though after all i really believe she has not seen me." then, after a severe struggle, she succeeded in getting on the stage as a song and dance girl. she sang melodiously and danced divinely, so remarkably that the ignorant public, knowing her to be a manx girl, and vaguely associating her with the symbol of the isle of man, supposed she had three legs. she was the success of the season; her cup of ambition was filled. it was slightly embittered by the news that her friend jinny jones had killed herself in the church at the wedding of her recreant lover and the american heiress. but the affair was scarcely alluded to by the society papers--who were naturally shocked at the bad taste of the deceased. and even golly forgot it all--on the stage. book iv meanwhile john gale, or brother boreas, as he was known in the monastery, was submitting--among other rigors--to an exceptionally severe winter in bishopsgate street, which seemed to have an arctic climate of its own,--possibly induced by the "freezing-out" process of certain stock companies in its vicinity. "you are miserable, and eager to get out in the wicked world again, my son," said the delightful old superior, as he sat by the only fire, sipping a glass of mulled port, when john came in from shoveling snow outside. "i, therefore, merely to try you, shall make you gatekeeper. the keys of the monastery front door are under the door-mat in my cell, but i am a sound sleeper." he smiled seraphically, and winked casually as he sipped his port. "we will call it, if you please--a penance." john threw himself in an agony of remorse and shame at the feet of the superior. "it isn't of myself i'm thinking," he confessed wildly, "but of that poor young man, brother bones, in the next cell to mine. he is a living skeleton, has got only one lung and an atrophied brain. a night out might do him good." the father superior frowned. "do you know who he is?" "no." "his real name is jones. why do you start? you have heard it before?" john had started, thinking of jinny jones, golly's deserted and self-immolated friend. "it is an uncommon name," he stammered--"for a monastery, i mean." "he is or was an uncommon man!" said the superior gravely. "but," he added resignedly, "we cannot pick and choose our company here. most of us have done something and have our own reasons for this retreat. brother polygamus escaped here from the persecutions of his sixth wife. even i," continued the superior with a gentle smile, putting his feet comfortably on the mantelpiece, "have had my little fling, and the dear boys used to say--ahem!--but this is mere worldly vanity. you alone, my dear son," he went on with slight severity, "seem to be wanting in some criminality, or--shall i say?--some appropriate besetting sin to qualify you for this holy retreat. an absolutely gratuitous and blameless idiocy appears to be your only peculiarity, and for this you must do penance. from this day henceforth, i make you doorkeeper! go on with your shoveling at present, and shut the door behind you; there's a terrible draught in these corridors." for three days john gale underwent an agony of doubt and determination, and it still snowed in bishopsgate street. on the fourth evening he went to brother bones. "would you like to have an evening out?" "i would," said brother bones. "what would you do?" "i would go to see my remaining sister." his left eyelid trembled slowly in his cadaverous face. "but if you should hear she was ruined like the other? what would you do?" a shudder passed over the man. "i have not got my little knife," he said vacantly. true, he had not! the brotherhood had no pockets,--or rather only a corporate one, which belonged to the superior. john gale lifted his eyes in sublime exaltation. "you shall go out," he said with decision. "muffle up until you are well out of bishopsgate street, where it still snows." "but how did you get the keys?" said brother bones. "from under the father superior's door-mat." "but that was wrong, brother." "the mat bore the inscription, 'salve,' which you know in latin means 'welcome,'" returned john gale. "it was logically a permission." the two men gazed at each other silently. a shudder passed over the two left eyelids of their wan spiritual faces. "but i have no money," said brother bones. "nor have i. but here is a 'bus ticket and a free pass to the gaiety. you will probably find golly somewhere about. tell her," he said in a hollow voice, "that i'm getting on." "i will," said brother bones, with a deep cough. the gate opened and he disappeared in the falling snow. the bloodhound kept by the monastery--one of the real bishopsgate breed--bayed twice, and licked its huge jaws in ghastly anticipation. "i wonder," said john gale as he resumed his shoveling, "if i have done exactly right. candor compels me to admit that it is an open question." book v early the next morning, brother bones was brought home by policeman x, his hat crushed, his face haggard, his voice husky and unintelligible. he only said vaguely, "washertime?" "it is," said john gale timidly, in explanation to policeman x, "a case of spiritual exhaustion following a vigil." "that warn't her name," said policeman x sternly. "but don't let this 'ere appen again." john gale turned to brother bones. "then you saw her--golly?" "no," said brother bones. "why? what on earth have you been doing?" "dunno! found myself in stashun--zis morning! thashall!" then john gale sought the superior in an agony of remorse, and confessed all. "i am unfit to remain doorkeeper. remove me," he groaned bitterly. the old man smiled gently. "on the contrary, i should have given you the keys myself. hereafter you can keep them. the ways of our brotherhood are mysterious,--indeed, you may think idiotic,--but we are not responsible for them. it's all brother caine's doing--it's 'all caine!" book vi nevertheless, john gale left the monastery. "the bishopsgate street winter does not suit me," he briefly explained to the superior. "i must go south or southwest." but he did neither. he saw golly, who was living west. he upbraided her for going on the stage. she retorted: "whose life is the more artificial, yours or mine? it is true that we are both imperfectly clothed," she added, glancing at a photograph of herself in a short skirt, "and not always in our right mind--but you've caught nothing but a cold! nevertheless, i love you and you love me." then he begged her to go with him to the south seas and take the place of father damien among the colony of lepers. "it is a beautiful place, and inexpensive, for we shall live only a few weeks. what do you say, dearest? you know," he added, with a faint, sad smile, glancing at another photograph of her,--executing the high kick,--"you're quite a leaper yourself." but that night she received an offer of a new engagement. she wrote to john gale: "the south seas is rather an expensive trip to take simply to die. couldn't we do it as cheaply at home? or couldn't you prevail on your father superior to set up his monastery there? i'm afraid i'm not up to it. why don't you try the old 'oilan,' nearer home? there's lots of measles and diphtheria about there lately." when the heartbroken john gale received this epistle, he also received a letter from his uncle, the first lord of the admiralty. "i don't fancy this damien whim of yours. if you're really in earnest about killing yourself, why not take a brief trial trip in one of our latest ironclads? it's just as risky, although--as we are obliged to keep these things quiet in the office--you will not of course get that publicity your noble soul craves." abandoned by all in his noble purposes, john gale took the first steamer to the isle of man. book vii but he did not remain there long. once back in that epistolary island, he wrote interminable letters to golly. when they began to bore each other, he returned to london and entered the salvation army. crowds flocked to hear him preach. he inveighed against society and wickedness as represented in his mind by golly and her friends, and praised a perfect christianity represented by himself and his friends. a panic of the same remarkable character as the bishopsgate street winter took possession of london. old moore's, zadkiel's, and mother shipton's prophecies were to be fulfilled at an early and fixed date, with no postponement on account of weather. suddenly society, john drake, and antichrist generally combined by ousting him from his church, and turning it into a music-hall for golly! then john gale took his last and sublime resolve. his duty as a perfect christian was to kill golly! his logic was at once inscrutable, perfect, and--john galish! with this sublime and lofty purpose, he called upon golly. the heroic girl saw his purpose in his eye--an eye at once black, murderous, and christian-like. for an instant she thought it was better to succumb at once and thus end this remarkable attachment. suddenly through this chaos of spiritual, religious, ecstatic, super-egotistic whirl of confused thought, darted a gleam of common, ordinary horse sense! john gale saw it illumine her blue eyes, and trembled. god in mercy! if it came to that! "sit down, john," she said calmly. then, in her sweet, clear voice, she said: "did it ever occur to you, dearest, that a more ridiculous, unconvincing, purposeless, insane, god-forsaken idiot than you never existed? that you eclipse the wildest dreams of insanity? that you are a mental and moral 'what-is-it?'" "it has occurred to me," he replied simply. "i began life with vast asinine possibilities which fall to the lot of few men; yet i cannot say that i have carried even them to a logical conclusion! but you, love! you, darling! conceived in extravagance, born to impossibility, a challenge to credulity, a problem to the intellect, a 'missing word' for all ages,--are you aware of any one as utterly unsympathetic, unreal, and untrue to nature as you are, existing on the face of the earth, or in the waters under the earth?" "you are right, dearest; there are none," she returned with the same calm, level voice. "it is true that i have at times tried to do something real and womanly, and not, you know, merely to complicate a--a"--her voice faltered--"theatrical situation--but i couldn't! something impelled me otherwise. now you know why i became an actress! but even there i fail! they are allowed reasoning power off the stage--i have none at any time! i laugh in the wrong place--i do the unnecessary, extravagant thing. endowed by some strange power with extraordinary attributes, i am supposed to make everybody love me, but i don't--i satisfy nobody; i convince none! i have no idea what will happen to me next. i am doomed to--i know not what." "and i," he groaned bitterly, "i, in some rare and lucid moments, have had a glimpse of this too. we are in the hands of some inscrutable but awful power. tell me, golly, tell me, darling, who is it?" again that gleam of common or ordinary horse sense came in her eye. "i have found out who," she whispered. "i have found out who has created us, and made us as puppets in his hands." "is it the almighty?" he asked. "no; it is"--she said, with a burst of real laughter--"it is--the 'all caine!" "what! our countryman the manxman? the only great novelist? the beloved of gladstone?" he gasped. "yes--and he intends to kill you--and we're only to be married at your deathbed!" john gale arose with a look of stern determination. "i have suffered much and idiotically--but i draw a line at this. i shall kick!" golly clapped her hands joyfully. "we will!" "and we'll chuck him." "we will." they were choking with laughter. "and go and get married in a natural, simple way like anybody else--and try--to do our duty--to god--to each other--and to our fellow-beings--and quit this--damned--nonsense--and in-fer-nal idiocy forever!" "amen!" publisher's note.--"in that supreme work of my life, 'the christian,'" said the gifted novelist to a reporter in speaking of his methods, "i had endowed the characters of golly and john gale with such superhuman vitality and absolute reality that--as is well known in the experience of great writers--they became thinking beings, and actually criticised my work, and even interfered and rebelled to the point of altering my climax and the end!" the present edition gives that ending, which of course is the only real one. the adventures of john longbowe, yeoman being a modern-antique realistic romance (compiled from several eminent sources) it seemeth but fair that i, john longbowe, should set down this account of such hap and adventure as hath befallen me, without flourish, vaporing, or cozening of speech, but as becometh one who, not being a ready writer, goeth straight to the matter in hand in few words. so, though i offend some, i shall yet convince all, the which lieth closer to my purpose. thus, it was in the year 1560, or 1650, or mayhap 1710--for my memory is not what it hath been and i ever cared little for monkish calendars or such dry-as-dust matter, being active as becometh one who hath to make his way in the world--yet i wot well it was after the great plague, which i have great cause to remember, lying at my cozen's in wardour street, london, in that lamentable year, eating of gilly flowers, sulphur, hartes tongue and many stynking herbes; touching neither man nor mayd, save with a great tongs steept in pitch; wearing a fine maske of silk with a mouth piece of aromatic stuff--by reason of which acts of hardihood and courage i was miraculously preserved. this much i shall say as to the time of these happenings, and no more. i am a plain, blunt man--mayhap rude of speech should occasion warrant---so let them who require the exactness of a scrivener or a pedagogue go elsewhere for their entertainment and be hanged to them! howbeit, though no scholar, i am not one of those who misuse the english speech, and, being foolishly led by the hasty custom of scriveners and printers to write the letters "t" and "h" joined together, which resembleth a "y," do incontinently jump to the conclusion the the is pronounced "ye,"--the like of which i never heard in all england. and though this be little toward those great enterprises and happenings i shall presently shew, i set it down for the behoof of such malapert wights as must needs gird at a man of spirit and action--and yet, in sooth, know not their own letters. so to my tale. there was a great frost when my lord bade me follow him to the water gate near our lodgings in the strand. when we reached it we were amazed to see that the thames was frozen over and many citizens disporting themselves on the ice--the like of which no man had seen before. there were fires built thereon, and many ships and barges were stuck hard and fast, and my lord thought it vastly pretty that the people were walking under their bows and cabbin windows and climbing of their sides like mermen, but i, being a plain, blunt man, had no joy in such idlenesse, deeming it better that in these times of pith and enterprise they should be more seemly employed. my lord, because of one or two misadventures by reason of the slipperiness of the ice, was fain to go by london bridge, which we did; my lord as suited his humor ruffling the staid citizens as he passed or peering under the hoods of their wives and daughters--as became a young gallant of the time. i, being a plain, blunt man, assisted in no such folly, but contented myself, when they complayned to me, with damning their souls for greasy interfering varlets. for i shall now make no scruple in declaring that my lord was the most noble earl of southampton, being withheld from so saying before through very plainness and bluntness, desiring as a simple yeoman to make no boast of serving a man of so high quality. we fared on over bankside to the globe playhouse, where my lord bade me dismount and deliver a secret message to the chief player--which message was, "had he diligently perused and examined that he wot of, and what said he thereof?" which i did. thereupon he that was called the chief player did incontinently proceed to load mine arms and wallet with many and divers rolls of manuscripts in my lord's own hand, and bade me say unto him that there was a great frost over london, but that if he were to perform those plays and masques publickly, there would be a greater frost there--to wit, in the globe playhouse. this i did deliver with the manuscripts to my lord, who changed countenance mightily at the sight of them, but could make nought of the message. at which the lad who held the horses before the playhouse--one will shakespeare--split with laughter. whereat my lord cursed him for a deer-stealing, coney-catching warwickshire lout, and cuffed him soundly. i wot there will be those who remember that this will shakespeare afterwards became a player and did write plays--which were acceptable even to the queen's majesty's self--and i set this down not from vanity to shew i have held converse with such, nor to give a seemingness and colour to my story, but to shew what ill-judged, misinformed knaves were they who did afterwards attribute friendship between my lord and this will shakespeare, even to the saying that he made sonnets to my lord. howbeit, my lord was exceeding wroth, and i, to beguile him, did propose that we should leave our horses and cargoes of manuscript behind and cross on the ice afoot, which conceit pleased him mightily. in sooth it chanced well with what followed, for hardly were we on the river when we saw a great crowd coming from westminster, before a caravan of strange animals and savages in masks, capering and capricolling, dragging after them divers sledges quaintly fashioned like swannes, in which were ladies attired as fairies and goddesses and such like heathen and wanton trumpery, which i, as a plain, blunt man, would have fallen to cursing, had not my lord himself damned me under his breath to hold my peace, for that he had recognized my lord of leicester's colours and that he made no doubt they were of the court. as forsooth this did presently appear; also that one of the ladies was her gracious majesty's self--masked to the general eye, the better to enjoy these miscalled festivities. i say miscalled, for, though a loyal subject of her majesty, and one who hath borne arms at tilbury fort in defence of her majesty, it inflamed my choler, as a plain and blunt man, that her mightiness should so degrade her dignity. howbeit, as a man who hath his way to make in the world, i kept mine eyes well upon the anticks of the great, while my lord joined the group of maskers and their follies. i recognized her majesty's presence by her discourse in three languages to as many ambassadors that were present--though i marked well that she had not forgotten her own tongue, calling one of her ladies "a sluttish wench," nor her english spirit in cuffing my lord of essex's ears for some indecorum--which, as a plain man myself, curt in speech and action, did rejoice me greatly. but i must relate one feat, the like of which i never saw in england before or since. there was a dance of the maskers, and in the midst of it her majesty asked the ambassador from spayne if he had seen the latest french dance. he replied that he had not. whereupon her most excellent majesty skipt back a pace and forward a pace, and lifting her hoop, delivered a kick at his excellency's hat which sent it flying the space of a good english ell above his head! howbeit so great was the acclamation that her majesty was graciously moved to repeat it to my lord of leicester, but, tripping back, her high heels caught in her farthingale, and she would have fallen on the ice, but for that my lord, with exceeding swiftness and dexterity, whisked his cloak from his shoulder, spreading it under her, and so received her body in its folds on the ice, without himself touching her majesty's person. her majesty was greatly pleased at this, and bade my lord buy another cloak at her cost, though it swallowed an estate; but my lord replyed, after the lying fashion of the time, that it was honour enough for him to be permitted to keep it after "it had received her royal person." i know that this hap hath been partly related of another person--the shipman raleigh--but i tell such as deny me that they lie in their teeth, for i, john longbowe, have cause--miserable cause enough, i warrant--to remember it, and my lord can bear me out! for, spite of his fair speeches, when he was quit of the royal presence, he threw me his wet and bedraggled cloak and bade me change it with him for mine own, which was dry and warm. and it was this simple act which wrought the lamentable and cruel deed of which i was the victim, for, as i followed my lord, thus apparelled, across the ice, i was suddenly set upon and seized, a choke-pear clapt into my mouth so that i could not cry aloud, mine eyes bandaged, mine elbows pinioned at my side in that fatall cloak like to a trussed fowl, and so i was carried to where the ice was broken, and thrust into a boat. thence i was conveyed in the same rude sort to a ship, dragged up her smooth, wet side, and clapt under hatches. here i lay helpless as in a swoon. when i came to, it was with a great trampling on the decks above and the washing of waves below, and i made that the ship was moving--but where i knew not. after a little space the hatch was lifted from where i lay, the choke-pear taken from my mouth; but not the bandage from mine eyes, so i could see nought around me. but i heard a strange voice say: "what coil is this? this is my lord's cloak in sooth, but not my lord that lieth in it! who is this fellow?" at which i did naturally discover the great misprise of those varlets who had taken me for my dear lord, whom i now damned in my heart for changing of the cloaks! howbeit, when i had fetched my breath with difficulty, being well nigh spent by reason of the gag, i replyed that i was john longbowe, my lord's true yeoman, as good a man as any, as they should presently discover when they set me ashore. that i knew- "softly, friend," said the voice, "thou knowest too much for the good of england and too little for thine own needs. thou shalt be sent where thou mayest forget the one and improve thy knowledge of the other." then as if turning to those about him, for i could not see by reason of the blindfold, he next said: "take him on your voyage, and see that he escape not till ye are quit of england." and with that they clapt to the hatch again, and i heard him cast off from the ship's side. there was i, john longbowe, an english yeoman,--i, who but that day had held converse with will shakespeare and been cognizant of the revels of her most christian majesty even to the spying of her garter!--i was kidnapped at the age of forty-five or thereabout--for i will not be certain of the year--and forced to sea for that my lord of southampton had provoked the jealousie and envy of divers other great nobles. chapters i to xx i am forced to sea and to become a pirate! i suffer lamentably from sickness by reason of the bignesse of the waves. i commit many cruelties and bloodshed. but by the divine intercession i eventually throw the wicked captain overboard and am elected in his stead. i discover an island of treasure, obtain possession thereof by a tricke, and put the natives to the sword. i marvel much at those who deem it necessary in the setting down of their adventures to gloze over the whiles between with much matter of the country, the peoples, and even their own foolish reflections thereon, hoping in this way to cozen the reader with a belief in their own truthfulness, and encrease the extravagance of their deeds. i, being a plain, blunt man, shall simply say for myself that for many days after being taken from the bilboes and made free of the deck, i was grievously distempered by reason of the waves, and so collapsed in the bowels that i could neither eat, stand, nor lie. being thus in great fear of death, from which i was miraculously preserved, i, out of sheer gratitude to my maker, did incontinently make oath and sign articles to be one of the crew--which were buccaneers. i did this the more readily as we were to attack the ships of spayne only, and through there being no state of warre at that time between england and that country, it was wisely conceived that this conduct would provoke it, and we should thus be forearmed, as became a juste man in his quarrel. for this we had the precious example of many great captains. we did therefore heave to and burn many ships--the quality of those engagements i do not set forth, not having a seaman's use of ship speech, and despising, as a plain, blunt man, those who misuse it, having it not. but this i do know, that, having some conceit of a shipman's ways and of pirates, i did conceive at this time a pretty song for my comradoes, whereof the words ran thus:- yo ho! when the dog watch bayeth loud in the light of a mid-sea moon! and the dead eyes glare in the stiffening shroud, for that is the pirate's noon! when the night mayres sit on the dead man's chest where no manne's breath may come- then hey for a bottle of rum! rum! rum! and a passage to kingdom come! i take no credit to myself for the same, except so far as it may shew a touch of my lord of southampton's manner--we being intimate--but this i know, that it was much acclaimed by the crew. indeed they, observing that the captain was of a cruel nature, would fain kill him and put me in his stead, but i, objecting to the shedding of precious blood in such behoof, did prevent such a lamentable and inhuman action by stealthily throwing him by night from his cabbin window into the sea--where, owing to the inconceivable distance of the ship from shore, he was presently drowned. which untoward fate had a great effect upon my fortunes, since, burthening myself with his goods and effects, i found in his chest a printed proclamation from an aged and infirm clergyman in the west of england covenanting that, for the sum of two crowns, he would send to whoso offered, the chart of an island of great treasure in the spanish main, whereof he had had confession from the lips of a dying parishioner, and the amount gained thereby he would use for the restoration of his parish church. now i, reading this, was struck by a great remorse and admiration for our late captain, for that it would seem that he was, like myself, a staunch upholder of the protestant faith and the church thereof, as did appear by his possession of the chart, for which he had no doubt paid the two good crowns. as an act of penance i resolved upon finding the same island by the aid of the chart, and to that purpose sailed east many days, and south, and north, and west as many other days--the manner whereof and the latitude and longitude of which i shall not burden the reader with, holding it, as a plain, blunt man, mere padding and impertinence to fill out my narrative, which helpeth not the general reader. so, i say, when we sighted the island, which seemed to be swarming with savages, i ordered the masts to be stripped, save but for a single sail which hung sadly and distractedly, and otherwise put the ship into the likeness of a forlorn wreck, clapping the men, save one or two, under hatches. this i did to prevent the shedding of precious blood, knowing full well that the ignorant savages, believing the ship in sore distress, would swim off to her with provisions and fruit, bearing no arms. which they did, while we, as fast as they clomb the sides, despatched them at leisure, without unseemly outcry or alarms. having thus disposed of the most adventurous, we landed and took possession of the island, finding thereon many kegs of carbuncles and rubies and pieces of eight--the treasure store of those lawless pirates who infest the seas, having no colour of war or teaching of civilisation to atone for their horrid deeds. i discovered also, by an omission in the chart, that this was not the island wot of by the good and aged devonshire divine--and so we eased our consciences of accounting for the treasure to him. we then sailed away, arriving after many years' absence at the port of bristol in merrie england, where i took leave of the "jolly roger," that being the name of my ship; it was a strange conceit of seamen in after years ever to call the device of my flag--to wit, a skull and bones made in the sign of a cross--by the name my ship bore, and if i have only corrected the misuse of history by lying knaves, i shall be content with this writing. but alas! such are the uncertainties of time; i found my good lord of southampton dead and most of his friends beheaded, and the blessed king james of scotland--if i mistake not, for these also be the uncertainties of time--on the throne. in due time i married mistress marian straitways. i might have told more of trifling, and how she fared, poor wench! in mine absence, even to the following of me in another ship, in a shipboy's disguise, and how i rescued her from a scheming pagan villain; but, as a plain, blunt man, i am no hand at the weaving of puling love tales and such trifling diversions for lovesick mayds and their puny gallants--having only consideration for men and their deeds, which i have here set down bluntly and even at mine advanced years am ready to maintain with the hand that set it down. dan'l borem by e. n---s w--t---t i dan'l borem poured half of his second cup of tea abstractedly into his lap. "guess you've got suthin' on yer mind, dan'l," said his sister. "mor'n likely i've got suthin' on my pants," returned dan'l with that exquisitely dry, though somewhat protracted humor which at once thrilled and bored his acquaintances. "but--speakin' o' that hoss trade"-"for goodness' sake, don't!" interrupted his sister wearily; "yer allus doin' it. jest tell me about that young man--the new clerk ye think o' gettin'." "well, i telegraphed him to come over, arter i got this letter from him," he returned, handing her a letter. "read it out loud." but his sister, having an experienced horror of prolixity, glanced over it. "far as i kin see he takes mor'n two hundred words to say you've got to take him on trust, and sez it suthin' in a style betwixt a business circular and them polite letter writers. i thought you allowed he was a tony feller." "ef he does not brag much, ye see, i kin offer him small wages," said dan'l, with a wink. "it's kinder takin' him at his own figger." "and that mightn't pay! but ye don't think o' bringin' him here in this house? 'cept you're thinkin' o' tellin' him that yarn o' yours about the hoss trade to beguile the winter evenings. i told ye ye'd hev to pay yet to get folks to listen to it." "wrong agin--ez you'll see! wot ef i get a hundred thousand folks to pay me for tellin' it? but, speakin' o' this young feller, i calkilated to send him to the turkey buzzard hotel;" and he looked at his sister with a shrewd yet humorous smile. "what!" said his sister in alarm. "the turkey buzzard! why, he'll be starved or pizoned! he won't stay there a week." "ef he's pizoned to death he won't be able to demand any wages; ef he leaves because he can't stand it--it's proof positive he couldn't stand me. ef he's only starved and made weak and miserable he'll be easy to make terms with. it may seem hard what i'm sayin', but what seems hard on the other feller always comes mighty easy to you. the thing is not to be the 'other feller.' ye ain't listenin'. yet these remarks is shrewd and humorous, and hez bin thought so by literary fellers." "h'm!" said his sister. "what's that ye was jest sayin' about folks bein' willin' to pay ye for tellin' that hoss trade yarn o' yours?" "thet's only what one o' them smart new york publishers allowed it was worth arter hearin' me tell it," said dan'l dryly. "go way! you or him must be crazy. why, it ain't ez good as that story 'bout a man who had a balky hoss that could be made to go only by buildin' a fire under him, and arter the man sells that hoss and the secret, and the man wot bought him tries it on, the blamed hoss lies down over the fire, and puts it out." "i've allus allowed that the story ye hev to tell yourself is a blamed sight funnier than the one ye're listenin' to," said dan'l. "put that down among my sayin's, will ye?" "but your story was never anythin' more than one o' them snippy things ye see in the papers, drored out to no end by you. it's only one o' them funny paragraphs ye kin read in a minit in the papers that takes you an hour to tell." to her surprise dan'l only looked at his sister with complacency. "that," he said, "is jest what the new york publisher sez. 'the 'merrikan people,' sez he, 'is ashamed o' bein' short and peart and funny; it lacks dignity,' sez he; 'it looks funny,' sez he, 'but it ain't deep-seated nash'nul literature,' sez he. 'them snips o' funny stories and short dialogues in the comic papers--they make ye laff,' sez he, 'but laffin' isn't no sign o' deep morril purpose,' sez he, 'and it ain't genteel and refined. abraham linkin with his pat anecdotes ruined our standin' with dignified nashuns,' sez he. 'we cultivated publishers is sick o' hearin' furrin' nashuns roarin' over funny 'merrikan stories; we're goin' to show 'em that, even ef we haven't classes and titles and sich, we kin be dull. we're workin' the historical racket for all that it's worth,--ef we can't go back mor'n a hundred years or so, we kin rake in a lord and a lady when we do, and we're gettin' in some ole-fashioned spellin' and "methinkses" and "peradventures." we're doin' the religious bizness ez slick ez robert elsmere, and we find lots o' soul in folks--and heaps o quaint morril characters,' sez he." "sakes alive, dan'l!" broke in his sister; "what's all that got to do with your yarn 'bout the hoss trade?" "everythin'," returned dan'l. "'for,' sez he, 'mr. borem,' sez he, 'you're a quaint morril character. you've got protracted humor,' sez he. 'you've bin an hour tellin' that yarn o' yours! ef ye could spin it out to fill two chapters of a book--yer fortune's made! for you'll show that a successful hoss trade involves the highest nash'nul characteristics. that what common folk calls "selfishness," "revenge," "mean lyin'," and "low-down money-grubbin' ambishun" is really "quaintness," and will go in double harness with the bizness of a christian banker,' sez he." "created goodness, dan'l! you're designin' ter"-dan'l borem rose, coughed, expectorated carefully at the usual spot in the fender, his general custom of indicating the conclusion of a subject or an interview, and said dryly: "i'm thar!" ii to return to the writer of the letter, whose career was momentarily cut off by the episode of the horse trade (who, if he had previously received a letter written by somebody else would have been an entirely different person and not in this novel at all): john lummox--known to his family as "the perfect lummox"--had been two years in college, but thought it rather fine of himself--a habit of thought in which he frequently indulged--to become a clerk, but finally got tired of it, and to his father's relief went to europe for a couple of years, returning with some knowledge of french and german, and the cutting end of a german student's blunted dueling sword. having, as he felt, thus equipped himself for the hero of an american "good society" novel, he went on board a "liner," where there would naturally be susceptible young ladies. one he thought he recognized as a girl with whom he used to play "forfeits" in the vulgar past of his boyhood. she sat at his table, accompanied by another lady whose husband seemed to be a confirmed dyspeptic. his remarks struck lummox as peculiar. "shall i begin dinner with pudding and cheese or take the ordinary soup first? i quite forget which i did last night," he said anxiously to his wife. but mrs. starling hesitated. "tell me, mary," he said, appealing to miss bike, the young lady. "i should begin with the pudding," said miss bike decisively, "and between that and the arrival of the cheese you can make up your mind, and then, if you think better, go back to the soup." "thank you so much. now, as to drink? shall i take the friedrichshalle first or the benedictine? you know the doctor insists upon the friedrichshalle, but i don't think i did well to mix them as i did yesterday. or shall i take simply milk and beer?" "i should say simplicity was best. besides, you can always fill up with champagne later." how splendidly this clear-headed, clear-eyed girl dominated the man! lummox felt that really he might renew her acquaintance! he did so. "i remembered you," she said. "you've not changed a bit since you were eight years old." john, wishing to change the subject, said that he thought mr. starling seemed an uncertain man. "very! he's even now in his stateroom sitting in his pyjamas with a rubber shoe on one foot and a pump on the other, wondering whether he ought to put on golf knickerbockers with a dressing-gown and straw hat before he comes on deck. he has already put on and taken off about twenty suits." "he certainly is very trying," returned lummox. he paused and colored deeply. "i beg," he stammered, "i hope--you don't think me guilty of a pun! when i said 'trying' i referred entirely to the effect on your sensitiveness of these tentative attempts toward clothing himself." "i should never accuse you of levity, mr. lummox," said the young lady, gazing thoughtfully upon his calm but somewhat heavy features,--"never." yet he would have liked to reclaim himself by a show of lightness. he was leaning on the rail looking at the sea. the scene was beautiful. "i suppose," he said, rolling with the sea and his early studies of doctor johnson, "that one would in the more superior manner show his appreciation of all this by refraining from the obvious comment which must needs be recognized as comparatively commonplace and vulgar; but really this is so superb that i must express some of my emotion, even at the risk of lowering your opinion of my good taste, provided, of course, that you have any opinion on the one hand or any good taste on the other." "without that undue depreciation of one's self which must ever be a sign of self-conscious demerit," said the young girl lightly, "i may say that i am not generally good at johnsonese; but it may relieve your mind to know that had you kept silence one instant longer, i should have taken the risk of lowering your opinion of my taste, provided, of course, that you have one to lower and are capable of that exertion--if such indeed it may be termed--by remarking that this is perfectly magnificent." "do you think," he said gloomily, still leaning on the rail, "that we can keep this kind of thing up--perhaps i should say down--much longer? for myself, i am feeling far from well; it may have been the lobster--or that last sentence--but"-they were both silent. "yet," she said, after a pause, "you can at least take mr. starling and his dyspepsia off my hands. you might be equal to that exertion." "i suppose that by this time i ought to be doing something for somebody," he said thoughtfully. "yes, i will." that evening after dinner he took mr. starling into the smoking-room and card-room. they had something hot. at 4 a. m., with the assistance of the steward, he projected mr. starling into mrs. starling's stateroom, delicately withdrawing to evade the lady's thanks. at breakfast he saw miss bike. "thank you so much," she said; "mrs. starling found starling greatly improved. he himself admitted he was 'never berrer' and, far from worrying about what night-clothes he should wear, went to bed as he was--even to his hat. mrs. starling calls you 'her preserver,' and mr. starling distinctly stated that you were a 'jolly-good-fler.'" "and you?" asked john lummox. "in your present condition of abnormal self-consciousness and apperceptive egotism, i really shouldn't like to say." when the voyage was ended mr. lummox went to see mary bike at her house, and his father--whom he had not seen for ten years--at his house. with a refined absence of natural affection he contented himself with inquiring of the servants as to his father's habits, and if he still wore dress clothes at dinner. the information thus elicited forced him to the conclusion that the old gentleman's circumstances were reduced, and that it was possible that he, john lummox, might be actually compelled to earn his own living. he communicated that suspicion to his father at dinner, and over the last bottle of "mouton," a circumstance which also had determined him in his resolution. "you might," said his father thoughtfully, "offer yourself to some rising american novelist as a study for the new hero,--one absolutely without ambition, capacity, or energy; willing, however, to be whatever the novelist chooses to make him, so long as he hasn't to choose for himself. if your inordinate self-consciousness is still in your way, i could give him a few points about you, myself." "i had thought," said john, hesitatingly, "of going into your office and becoming your partner in the business. you could always look after me, you know." a shudder passed over the old man. then he tremblingly muttered to himself: "thank heaven! there is one way it may still be averted!" retiring to his room he calmly committed suicide, thoughtfully leaving the empty poison bottle in the fender. and this is how john lummox came to offer himself as a clerk to dan'l borem. the ways of providence are indeed strange, yet those of the novelist are only occasionally novel. iii john k. lummox lived for a week at the turkey buzzard hotel exclusively on doughnuts and innuendoes. he was informed by mr. borem's clerk--whose place he was to fill--that he wouldn't be able to stand it, and thus received the character of his employer from his last employee. "i suppose," said dan'l borem, chuckling, "that he said i was a old skinflint, good only at a hoss trade, uneddicated, ignorant, and unable to keep accounts, and an oppressor o' the widder and orphan. allowed that my cute sayin's was a kind o' ten-cent parody o' them proverbs in poor richard's almanack!" "omitting a few expletives, he certainly did," returned lummox with great delicacy. "he allowed to me," said dan'l thoughtfully, "that you was a poor critter that hadn't a single reason to show for livin': that the fool-killer had bin shadderin' you from your birth, and that you hadn't paid a cent profit on your father's original investment in ye, nor on the assessments he'd paid on ye ever since. he seems to be a cute feller arter all, and i'm rather sorry he's leavin'." "i am quite willing to abandon my position in his favor, now," said lummox with alacrity. "no," said dan'l, rubbing his chin argumentatively; "the only way for us to do is to circumvent him like in a hoss trade--with suthin' unexpected. when he thinks you're goin' to sleep in the shafts you'll run away; and when he think's i'm vicious i'll let a woman or a child drive me." iv "well, dan'l, how's that new clerk o' yours gettin' on?" said mrs. bigby a week later. "purty fine! he's good at accounts and hez got to know the bank's customers by this time. but i allus reckoned he'd get stuck with some o' them counterfeit notes--and he hez! ye see he ain't accustomed to look at a five or a ten dollar note as sharp as some men, and he's already taken in two tens and a five counterfeits." "gracious!" said mrs. bigsby. "what did the poor feller do?" "oh, he ups and tells me, all right, after he discovered it. and sez he: 'i've charged my account with 'em,' sez he, 'so the bank won't lose it.'" "why, dan'l," said mrs. bigsby, "ye didn't let that poor feller"-"you hol' on!" said her brother; "business is business; but i sez to him: 'ye oughter put it down to profit and loss account. or perhaps we'll have a chance o' gettin' rid o' them,--not in noo york, where folks is sharp, but here in the country, and then ye kin credit yourself with the amount arter you've got rid o' them.'" "laws! i'm sorry ye did that, dan'l," said mrs. bigsby. "with that he riz up," continued dan'l, ignoring his sister, "and, takin' them counterfeit notes from my hand, sez he: 'them notes belong to me now,' sez he, 'and i'm goin' to destroy 'em.' and with that he walks over to the fire as stiff as a poker, and held them notes in it until they were burnt clean up." "well, but that was honest and straightforward in him!" said mrs. bigsby. "um! but it wasn't business--and ye see"- dan'l paused and rubbed his chin. "well, go on!" said mrs. bigsby impatiently. "well, ye see, neither him nor me was very smart in detectin' counterfeits, or even knowin' 'em, and"-"well! for goodness' sake, dan'l, speak out!" "well--the dum fool burnt up three good bills, and we neither of us knew it!" v the "unexpected" which dan'l borem had hinted might characterize his future conduct was first intimated by his treatment of the "widow cully," an aged and impoverished woman whose property was heavily mortgaged to him. he had curtly summoned her to come to his office on christmas day and settle up. frightened, hopeless, and in the face of a snowstorm, the old woman attended, but was surprised by receiving a "satisfaction piece" in full from the banker, and a gorgeous christmas dinner. "all the same," said mrs. bigsby to lummox, "dan'l might hev done all this without frightenin' the poor old critter into a nervous fever, chillin' her through by makin' her walk two miles through the snow, and keepin' her on the ragged edge o' despair for two mortal hours! but it's his humorous way." "did he give any reason for being so lenient to the widow?" asked lummox. "he said that her son had given him a core of his apple when they were boys together. dan'l ez mighty thoughtful o' folks that was kind to him in them days." "is that all?" said lummox, astonished. "well--i've kinder thought suthin' else," said mrs. bigsby hesitatingly. "what?" "that its bein' christmas day--and as i've heard tell that's no day in law, but just like sunday--dan'l mebbe thought that he might crawl outer that satisfaction piece, ef he ever wanted ter! dan'l is mighty cute." vi mr. john lummox was not behind his employer in developing unexpected traits of character. hitherto holding aloof from his neighbors in old folksville, he suddenly went to a social gathering, and distinguished himself as the principal and popular guest of the evening. as dan'l borem afterward told his sister: "he was one o' them combination minstrels and variety shows in one. he sang through a whole opery, made the pianner jest howl, gave some recitations, casabianker and betsy and i are out; imitated all them tragedians; did tricks with cards and fetched rabbits outer hats, besides liftin' the pianner with two men sittin' on it, jest by his teeth. created snakes!" said borem, concluding his account, which here is necessarily abbreviated, "ef he learnt all that in his two years in europe i ain't sayin' anythin' more agin' eddication and furrin' travel after this! why, the next day there was quite a run on the bank jest to see him. he is makin' the bizness pop'lar." "then ye think ye'll get along together?" "i reckon we'll hitch hosses," said dan'l, with a smile. a few weeks later, one evening, dan'l borem sat with his sister alone. john lummox, who was now residing with them, was attending a social engagement. mrs. bigsby knew that dan'l had something to communicate, but knew that he would do so in his own way. "speakin' o' hoss trades," he began. "we wasn't and we ain't goin' to," said mrs. bigsby with great promptness. "i've heard enough of 'em." "but this here one hez suthin' to do with your fr'en', john lummox," said dan'l, with a chuckle. mrs. bigsby stared. "go on, then," she said, "but, for goodness' sake, cut it short." dan'l threw away his quid and replenished it from his silver tobacco box. mrs. bigsby shuddered slightly as she recognized the usual preliminary to prolixity, but determined, as far as possible, to make her brother brief. "it mout be two weeks ago," began dan'l, "that i see john lummox over at palmyra, where he'd bin visitin'. he was drivin' a hoss, the beautifulest critter--for color--i ever saw. it was yaller, with mane and tail a kinder golden, like the hair o' them british blondes that was here in the variety show." "dan'l!" exclaimed mrs. bigsby, horrified. "and you allowed you never went thar!" "saw 'em on the posters--and mebbe the color was a little brighter thar," said dan'l carelessly--"but who's interruptin' now?" "go on," said mrs. bigsby. "'got a fine hoss thar,' sez i; 'reckon i never see such a purty color,' sez i. 'he is purty,' sez he, 'per'aps too purty for me to be a-drivin', but he isn't fast.' 'i ain't speakin' o' that,' sez i; 'it's his looks that i'm talkin' of; whar might ye hev got him?' 'he was offered to me by a fr'en' o' me boyhood,' sez he; 'he's a pinto mustang,' sez he, 'from californy, whar they breed 'em.' 'what's a pinto hoss?' sez i. 'the same ez a calico hoss,' sez he; 'what they have in cirkises, but ye never see 'em that color.' en he was right, for when i looked him over i never did see such a soft and silky coat, and his mane and tail jest glistened. 'it is a little too showy for ye,' sez i, 'but i might take him at a fair price. what's your fr'en' askin'?' 'he won't sell him to anybody but me,' sez lummox; 'he's a horror o' hoss traders, anyway, and his price is more like a gift to a fr'en'.' 'what might that price be, ef it's a fair question?' sez i, for the more i looked at the hoss the more i liked him. 'a hundred and fifty dollars,' sez he; 'but my fr'en' would ask you double that.' 'couldn't you and me make a trade?' sez i; 'i'll exchange ye that roan mare, that's worth two hundred, for this hoss and fifty dollars.' with that he drew himself up, and sez he: 'mr. borem,' sez he, 'i share my fr'en's opinion about hoss tradin', and i promised my mother i'd never swap hosses. you ought to know me by this time.'" "that's so!" said mrs. bigsby; "i'm wonderin' ye dared to ax him." dan'l passed his hand over his mouth, and continued: "'i dunno but you're right, lummox,' sez i; 'per'aps it's jest as well as thar wasn't two in the bank in that bizness.' but the more i looked at the hoss the more i hankered arter him. 'look here,' sez i, 'i tell ye what i'll do! i'll lend you my hoss and you'll lend me yourn. i'll draw up a paper to that effect, and provide that in case o' accidents, ef i don't return you your hoss, i'll agree to pay you a hundred and fifty dollars. you'll give me the same kind o' paper about my hoss--with the proviso that you pay me two hundred for him!' 'excuse me, mr. borem,' sez he, 'but that difference of fifty makes a hoss trade accordin' to my mind. it's agin' my principles to make such an agreement.'" "an' he was right, dan'l," said mrs. bigsby approvingly. but dan'l wiped his mouth again, leaving, however, a singular smile on it. "well, ez i wanted that hoss, i jest thought and thought! i knew i could get two hundred and fifty for him easy, and that lummox didn't know anythin' of his valoo, and i finally agreed to make the swap even. 'what do you call him?' sez i. 'pegasus,' sez he,--'the poet's hoss, on account o' his golden mane,' sez he. that made me laff, for i never knew a poet ez could afford to hev a hoss,--much less one like that! but i said: 'i'll borry pegasus o' you on those terms.' the next day i took the hoss to jonesville; lummox was right: he wasn't fast, but, jest as i expected, he made a sensation! folks crowded round him whenever i stopped; wimmin followed him and children cried for him. i could hev sold him for three hundred without leavin' town! 'so ye call him pegasus,' sez doc smith, grinnin'; 'i didn't known ye was subject to the divine afflatus, dan'l.' 'i don' offen hev it,' sez i, 'but when i do i find a little straight gin does me good.' 'so did byron,' sez he, chucklin'. but even if i had called him 'beelzebub' the hull town would hev bin jest as crazy over him. well, as it was comin' on to rain i started jest after sundown for home. but it came ter blow, an' ter pour cats and dogs, an' i was nigh washed out o' the buggy, besides losin' my way and gettin' inter ditches and puddles, and i hed to stop at staples' half-way house and put up for the night. in the mornin' i riz up early and goes into the stable yard, and the first thing i sees was the 'ostler. 'i hope ye giv' my hoss a good scrub down,' i sez, 'as i told ye, for his color is that delicate the smallest spot shows. it's a very rare color for a hoss.' 'i was hopin' it might be,' sez he. i was a little huffed at that, and i sez: 'it's considered a very beautiful color.' 'mebbe it is,' sez he, 'but i never cared much for fireworks.' 'what yer mean?' sez i. 'look here, squire!' sez he; 'i don't mind scourin' and rubbin' down a hoss that will stay the same color twice, but when he gets to playin' a kaladeoskope on me, i kick!' 'trot him out,' sez i, beginnin' to feel queer. with that he fetched out the hoss! for a minit i hed to ketch on to the fence to keep myself from fallin'. i swonny! ef he didn't look like a case of measles on top o' yaller fever--'cept where the harness had touched him, and that was kinder stenciled out all over him. thar was places whar the 'ostler had washed down to the foundation color, a kind o' chewed licorice! then i knew that somebody had bin sold terrible, and i reckoned it might be me! but i said nothin' to the 'ostler, and waited until dark, when i drove him over here, and put him in the stables, lettin' no one see him. in the mornin' lummox comes to me, and sez he: 'i'm glad to see you back,' sez he, 'for my conscience is troublin' me about that hoss agreement; it looks too much like a hoss trade,' sez he, 'and i'm goin' to send the hoss back.' 'mebbe your conscience,' sez i, 'may trouble you a little more ef you'll step this way;' and with that i takes his arm and leads him round to the stable and brings out the hoss. "well, lummox never changes ez much as a hair, ez he puts up his eyeglasses. 'i'm not good at what's called "pop'lar art,"' sez he. 'is it a chromo, or your own work?' sez he, critical like. "'it's your hoss,' sez i. "he looks at me a minit and then drors a paper from his pocket. 'this paper,' sez he in his quiet way, 'was drored up by you and is a covenant to return to me a yaller hoss with golden mane and tail--or a hundred and fifty dollars. ez i don't see the hoss anywhere--mebbe you've got the hundred and fifty dollars handy?' sez he. 'suppose i hadn't the money?' sez i. 'i should be obliged,' sez he in a kind o' pained christian-martyr way, 'ter sell your hoss for two hundred, and send the money to my fr'en'.' we looked at each other steddy for a minit and then i counts him out a hundred and fifty. he took the money sad-like and then sez: 'mr. borem,' sez he, 'this is a great morril lesson to us,' and went back to the office. in the arternoon i called in an old hoss dealer that i knew and shows him pegasus. "'he wants renewin',' sez he. "'wot's that?' sez i. "'a few more bottles o' that british blonde hair dye to set him up ag'in. that's wot they allus do in the cirkis, whar he kem from.' "then i went back to the office and i took down my sign. 'what's that you re doin'?' sez lummox, with a sickly kind o' smile. 'are you goin' out o' the bizness?' "'no, i'm only goin' to change that sign from "dan'l borem" to "borem and lummox,"' sez i. 'i've concluded it's cheaper for me to take you inter partnership now than to continue in this way, which would only end in your hevin' to take me in later. i preferred to do it fust.'" vii a rich man, and settled in business, john lummox concluded that he would marry mary bike. with that far-sighted logic which had always characterized him he reasoned that, having first met her on a liner, he would find her again on one if he took passage to europe. he did--but she was down on the passenger list as mrs. edwin wraggles. the result of their interview was given to mrs. bigsby by dan'l borem in his own dialect. "ez far as i kin see, it was like the deacon's sunday hoss trade, bein' all 'ef it wassent.' 'ef ye wasn't mrs. wraggles,' sez lummox, sez he, 'i'd be tellin' ye how i've loved ye ever sence i first seed ye. ef ye wasn't mrs. wraggles, i'd be squeezin' yer hand,' sez he; 'ef ye wasn't mrs. wraggles, i'd be askin' ye to marry me.' then the gal ups and sez, sez she: 'but i ain't mrs. wraggles,' sez she; 'mrs. wraggles is my sister, and couldn't come, so i'm travelin' on her ticket, and that's how my name is wraggles on the passenger list.' 'but why didn't ye tell me so at once?' sez lummox. 'this is an episoode o' protracted humor,' sez she, 'and i'm bound to have a show in it somehow!'" "well!" said mrs. bigsby breathlessly; "then he did marry her?" "darned ef i know. he never said so straight out--but that's like lummox." stories three by r-dy--d k-pl--g i for simla reasons some people say that improbable things don't necessarily happen in india--but these people never find improbabilities anywhere. this sounds clever, but you will at once perceive that it really means the opposite of what i intended to say. so we'll drop it. what i am trying to tell you is that after sparkley had that affair with miss millikens a singular change came over him. he grew abstracted and solitary,--holding dark seances with himself,--which was odd, as everybody knew he never cared a rap for the millikens girl. it was even said that he was off his head--which is rhyme. but his reason was undoubtedly affected, for he had been heard to mutter incoherently at the club, and, strangest of all, to answer questions that were never asked! this was so awkward in that branch of the civil department of which he was a high official--where the rule was exactly the reverse--that he was presently invalided on full pay! then he disappeared. clever people said it was because the department was afraid he had still much to answer for; stupid people simply envied him. mrs. awksby, whom everybody knew had been the cause of breaking off the match, was now wild to know the reason of sparkley's retirement. she attacked heaven and earth, and even went a step higher--to the viceroy. at the vice-regal ball i saw, behind the curtains of a window, her rolling violet-blue eyes with a singular glitter in them. it was the reflection of the viceroy's star, although the rest of his excellency was hidden in the curtain. i heard him saying, "come now! really, now, you are--you know you are!" in reply to her cooing questioning. then she made a dash at me and captured me. "what did you hear?" "nothing i should not have heard." "don't be like all the other men--you silly boy!" she answered. "i was only trying to find out something about sparkley. and i will find it out too," she said, clinching her thin little hand. "and what's more," she added, turning on me suddenly, "you shall help me!" "i?" i said in surprise. "don't pretend!" she said poutingly. "you're too clever to believe he's cut up over the millikens. no--it's something awful or--another woman! now, if i knew as much of india as you do--and wasn't a woman, and could go where i liked--i'd go to bungloore and find him." "oh! you have his address?" i said. "certainly! what did you expect i was behind the curtain with the viceroy for?" she said, opening her violet eyes innocently. "it's bungloore--first turning to the right--at the end of the passage." bungloore--near ghouli pass--in the jungle! i knew the place, a spot of dank pestilence and mystery. "you never could have gone there," i said. "you do not know what i could do for a friend," she said sweetly, veiling her eyes in demure significance. "oh, come off the roof!" i said bluntly. she could be obedient when it was necessary. she came off. not without her revenge. "try to remember you are not at school with the stalkies," she said, and turned away. i went to bungloore,--not on her account, but my own. if you don't know india, you won't know bungloore. it's all that and more. an egg dropped by a vulture, sat upon and addled by the department. but i knew the house and walked boldly in. a lion walked out of one door as i came in at another. we did this two or three times--and found it amusing. a large cobra in the hall rose up, bowed as i passed, and respectfully removed his hood. i found the poor old boy at the end of the passage. it might have been the passage between calais and dover,--he looked so green, so limp and dejected. i affected not to notice it, and threw myself in a chair. he gazed at me for a moment and then said, "did you hear what the chair was saying?" it was an ordinary bamboo armchair, and had creaked after the usual fashion of bamboo chairs. i said so. he cast his eyes to the ceiling. "he calls it 'creaking,'" he murmured. "no matter," he continued aloud, "its remark was not of a complimentary nature. it's very difficult to get really polite furniture." the man was evidently stark, staring mad. i still affected not to observe it, and asked him if that was why he left simla. "there were simla reasons, certainly," he replied. "but you think i came here for solitude! solitude!" he repeated, with a laugh. "why, i hold daily conversations with any blessed thing in this house, from the veranda to the chimney-stack, with any stick of furniture, from the footstool to the towel-horse. i get more out of it than the gabble at the club. you look surprised. listen! i took this thing up in my leisure hours in the department. i had read much about the conversation of animals. i argued that if animals conversed, why shouldn't inanimate things communicate with each other? you cannot prove that animals don't converse--neither can you prove that inanimate objects do not. see?" i was thunderstruck with the force of his logic. "of course," he continued, "there are degrees of intelligence, and that makes it difficult. for instance, a mahogany table would not talk like a rush-bottomed kitchen chair." he stopped suddenly, listened, and replied, "i really couldn't say." "i didn't speak," i said. "i know you didn't. but your chair asked me 'how long that fool was going to stay.' i replied as you heard. pray don't move--i intend to change that chair for one more accustomed to polite society. to continue: i perfected myself in the language, and it was awfully jolly at first. whenever i went by train, i heard not only all the engines said, but what every blessed carriage thought, that joined in the conversation. if you chaps only knew what rot those whistles can get off! and as for the brakes, they can beat any mule driver in cursing. then, after a time, it got rather monotonous, and i took a short sea trip for my health. but, by jove, every blessed inch of the whole ship--from the screw to the bowsprit--had something to say, and the bad language used by the garboard strake when the ship rolled was something too awful! you don't happen to know what the garboard strake is, do you?" "no," i replied. "no more do i. that's the dreadful thing about it. you've got to listen to chaps that you don't know. why, coming home on my bicycle the other day there was an awful row between some infernal 'sprocket' and the 'ball bearings' of the machine, and i never knew before there were such things in the whole concern." i thought i had got at his secret, and said carelessly: "then i suppose this was the reason why you broke off your engagement with miss millikens?" "not at all," he said coolly. "nothing to do with it. that is quite another affair. it's a very queer story; would you like to hear it?" "by all means." i took out my notebook. "you remember that night of the amateur theatricals, got up by the white hussars, when the lights suddenly went out all over the house?" "yes," i replied, "i heard about it." "well, i had gone down there that evening with the determination of proposing to mary millikens the first chance that offered. she sat just in front of me, her sister jane next, and her mother, smart widow millikens,--who was a bit larky on her own account, you remember,--the next on the bench. when the lights went out and the panic and tittering began, i saw my chance! i leaned forward, and in a voice that would just reach mary's ear i said, 'i have long wished to tell you how my life is bound up with you, dear, and i never, never can be happy without you'--when just then there was a mighty big shove down my bench from the fellows beyond me, who were trying to get out. but i held on like grim death, and struggled back again into position, and went on: 'you'll forgive my taking a chance like this, but i felt i could no longer conceal my love for you,' when i'm blest if there wasn't another shove, and though i'd got hold of her little hand and had a kind of squeeze in return, i was drifted away again and had to fight my way back. but i managed to finish, and said, 'if the devotion of a lifetime will atone for this hurried avowal of my love for you, let me hope for a response,' and just then the infernal lights were turned on, and there i was holding the widow's hand and she nestling on my shoulder, and the two girls in hysterics on the other side. you see, i never knew that they were shoved down on their bench every time, just as i was, and of course when i got back to where i was i'd just skipped one of them each time! yes, sir! i had made that proposal in three sections--a part to each girl, winding up with the mother! no explanation was possible, and i left simla next day. naturally, it wasn't a thing they could talk about, either!" "then you think mrs. awksby had nothing to do with it?" i said. "nothing--absolutely nothing. by the way, if you see that lady, you might tell her that i have possession of that brocade easy-chair which used to stand in the corner of her boudoir. you remember it,--faded white and yellow, with one of the casters off and a little frayed at the back, but rather soft-spoken and amiable? but of course you don't understand that. i bought it after she moved into her new bungalow." "but why should i tell her that?" i asked in wonder. "nothing--except that i find it very amusing with its reminiscences of the company she used to entertain, and her confidences generally. good-by--take care of the lion in the hall. he always couches on the left for a spring. ta-ta!" i hurried away. when i returned to simla i told mrs. awksby of my discoveries, and spoke of the armchair. i fancied she colored slightly, but quickly recovered. "dear old sparkley," she said sweetly; "he was a champion liar!" ii. a private's honor i had not seen mulledwiney for several days. knowing the man--this looked bad. so i dropped in on the colonel. i found him in deep thought. this looked bad, too, for old cockey wax--as he was known to everybody in the hill districts but himself--wasn't given to thinking. i guessed the cause and told him so. "yes," he said wearily, "you are right! it's the old story. mulledwiney, bleareyed, and otherwise are at it again,--drink followed by clink. even now two corporals and a private are sitting on mulledwiney's head to keep him quiet, and bleareyed is chained to an elephant." "perhaps," i suggested, "you are unnecessarily severe." "do you really think so? thank you so much! i am always glad to have a civilian's opinion on military matters--and vice versa--it broadens one so! and yet--am i severe? i am willing, for instance, to overlook their raid upon a native village, and the ransom they demanded for a native inspector! i have overlooked their taking the horses out of my carriage for their own use. i am content also to believe that my fowls meekly succumb to jungle fever and cholera. but there are some things i cannot ignore. the carrying off of the great god vishnu from the sacred shrine at ducidbad by the three for the sake of the priceless opals in its eyes"-"but i never heard of that," i interrupted eagerly. "tell me." "ah!" said the colonel playfully, "that--as you so often and so amusingly say--is 'another story'! yet i would have overlooked the theft of the opals if they had not substituted two of the queen's regimental buttons for the eyes of the god. this, while it did not deceive the ignorant priests, had a deep political and racial significance. you are aware, of course, that the great mutiny was occasioned by the issue of cartridges to the native troops greased with hog's fat--forbidden by their religion." "but these three men could themselves alone quell a mutiny," i replied. the colonel grasped my hand warmly. "thank you. so they could. i never thought of that." he looked relieved. for all that, he presently passed his hand over his forehead and nervously chewed his cheroot. "there is something else," i said. "you are right. there is. it is a secret. promise me it shall go no further--than the press? nay, swear that you will keep it for the press!" "i promise." "thank you so much. it is a matter of my own and mulledwiney's. the fact is, we have had a personal difficulty." he paused, glanced around him, and continued in a low, agitated voice: "yesterday i came upon him as he was sitting leaning against the barrack wall. in a spirit of playfulness--mere playfulness, i assure you, sir--i poked him lightly in the shoulder with my stick, saying 'boo!' he turned--and i shall never forget the look he gave me." "good heavens!" i gasped, "you touched--absolutely touched--mulledwiney?" "yes," he said hurriedly, "i knew what you would say; it was against the queen's regulations--and--there was his sensitive nature which shrinks from even a harsh word; but i did it, and of course he has me in his power." "and you have touched him?" i repeated,--"touched his private honor!" "yes! but i shall atone for it! i have already arranged with him that we shall have it out between ourselves alone, in the jungle, stripped to the buff, with our fists--queensberry rules! i haven't fought since i stood up against spinks major--you remember old spinks, now of the bombay offensibles?--at eton." and the old boy pluckily bared his skinny arm. "it may be serious," i said. "i have thought of that. i have a wife, several children, and an aged parent in england. if i fall, they must never know. you must invent a story for them. i have thought of cholera, but that is played out; you know we have already tried it on the boy who was thrown away. invent something quiet, peaceable and respectable--as far removed from fighting as possible. what do you say to measles?" "not half bad," i returned. "measles let it be, then! say i caught it from wee willie winkie. you do not think it too incredible?" he added timidly. "not more than your story," i said. he grasped my hand, struggling violently with his emotion. then he struggled with me--and i left hurriedly. poor old boy! the funeral was well attended, however, and no one knew the truth, not even myself. iii jungle folk it was high noon of a warm summer's day when moo kow came down to the watering-place. miaow, otherwise known as "puskat"--the warmth-loving one--was crouching on a limb that overhung the pool, sunning herself. brer rabbit--but that is another story by another person. three or four gee gees, already at the pool, moved away on the approach of moo kow. "why do ye stand aside?" said the moo kow. "why do you say 'ye'?" said the gee gees together. "because it's more impressive than 'you.' don't you know that all animals talk that way in english?" said the moo kow. "and they also say 'thou,' and don't you forget it!" interrupted miaow from the tree. "i learnt that from a man cub." the animals were silent. they did not like miaow's slang, and were jealous of her occasionally sitting on a man cub's lap. once dunkee, a poor relation of the gee gees, had tried it on, disastrously--but that is also another and a more aged story. "we are ridden by the english--please to observe the capital letters," said pi bol, the leader of the gee gees, proudly. "they are a mighty race who ride anything and everybody. d'ye mind that--i mean, look ye well to it!" "what should they know of england who only england know?" said miaow. "is that a conundrum?" asked the moo kow. "no; it's poetry," said the miaow. "i know england," said pi bol prancingly. "i used to go from the bank to islington three times a day--i mean," he added hurriedly, "before i became a screw--i should say, a screw-gun horse." "and i," said the moo kow, "am terrible. when the young women and children in the village see me approach they fly shriekingly. my presence alone has scattered their sacred festival--the sundes kool piknik. i strike terror to their inmost souls, and am more feared by them than even kreep-mows, the insidious! and yet, behold! i have taken the place of the mothers of men, and i have nourished the mighty ones of the earth! but that," said the moo kow, turning her head aside bashfully, "that is anudder story." a dead silence fell on the pool. "and i," said miaow, lifting up her voice, "i am the horror and haunter of the night season. when i pass like the night wind over the roofs of the houses men shudder in their beds and tremble. when they hear my voice as i creep stealthily along their balconies they cry to their gods for succor. they arise, and from their windows they offer me their priceless household treasures--the sacred vessels dedicated to their great god shiv--which they call 'shivin mugs'--the kloes brosh, the boo-jak, urging me to fly them! and yet," said miaow mournfully, "it is but my love-song! think ye what they would do if i were on the war-path." another dead silence fell on the pool. then arose that strange, mysterious, indefinable thing, known as "the scent." the animals sniffed. "it heralds the approach of the stalkies--the most famous of british skool boaz," said the moo kow. "they have just placed a decaying guinea-pig, two white mice in an advanced state of decomposition, and a single slice of limburger cheese in the bed of their tutor. they had previously skillfully diverted the drains so that they emptied into the drawing-room of the head-master. they have just burned down his house in an access of noble zeal, and are fighting among themselves for the spoil. hark! do ye hear them?" a wild medley of shrieks and howls had arisen, and an irregular mob of strange creatures swept out of the distance toward the pool. some were like pygmies, some had bloody noses. their talk consisted of feverish, breathless ejaculations,--a gibberish in which the words "rot," "oach," and "giddy" were preeminent. some were exciting themselves by chewing a kind of "bhang" made from the plant called pappahmint; others had their faces streaked with djam. "but who is this they are ducking in the pool?" asked pi bol. "it is one who has foolishly and wantonly conceived that his parents have sent him here to study," said the moo kow; "but that is against the rules of the stalkies, who accept study only as a punishment." "then these be surely the 'bander log'--the monkey folk--of whom the good rhuddyidd has told us," said a gee gee--"the ones who have no purpose--and forget everything." "fool!" said the moo kow. "know ye not that the great rhuddyidd has said that the stalkies become major-generals, v. c.'s, and c. b's of the english? truly, they are great. look now; ye shall see one of the greatest traits of the english stalky." one of the pygmy stalkies was offering a bun to a larger one, who hesitated, but took it coldly. "behold! it is one of the greatest traits of this mighty race not to show any emotion. he would take the bun--he has taken it! he is pleased--but he may not show it. observe him eat." the taller stalky, after eating the bun, quietly kicked the giver, knocked off his hat, and turned away with a calm, immovable face. "good!" said the moo kow. "ye would not dream that he was absolutely choking with grateful emotion?" "we would not," said the animals. "but why are they all running back the way they came?" asked pi bol. "they are going back to punishment. great is its power. have ye not heard the gospel of rhuddyidd the mighty? 'force is everything! gentleness won't wash, courtesy is deceitful. politeness is foreign. be ye beaten that ye may beat. pass the kick on.'" but here he was interrupted by the appearance of three soldiers who were approaching the watering-place. "ye are now," said the moo kow, "with the main guard. the first is bleareyed, who carries a raven in a cage, which he has stolen from the wife of a deputy commissioner. he will paint the bird snow white and sell it as a dove to the same lady. the second is otherwise, who is dragging a small garden engine, of which he has despoiled a native gardener, whom he has felled with a single blow. the third is mulledwiney, swinging a cut-glass decanter of sherry which he has just snatched from the table of his colonel. mulledwiney and otherwise will play the engine upon bleareyed, who is suffering from heat apoplexy and djim-djams." the three soldiers seated themselves in the pool. "they are going to tell awful war stories now," said the moo kow, "stories that are large and strong! some people are shocked--others like 'em." then he that was called mulledwiney told a story. in the middle of it miaow got up from the limb of the tree, coughed slightly, and put her paw delicately over her mouth. "you must excuse me," she said faintly. "i am taken this way sometimes--and i have left my salts at home. thanks! i can get down myself!" the next moment she had disappeared, but was heard coughing in the distance. mulledwiney winked at his companions and continued his story:-"wid that we wor in the thick av the foight. whin i say 'thick' i mane it, sorr! we wor that jammed together, divil a bit cud we shoot or cut! at fur-rest, i had lashed two mushkits together wid the baynits out so, like a hay fork, and getting the haymaker's lift on thim, i just lifted two paythians out--one an aych baynit--and passed 'em, aisy-like, over me head to the rear rank for them to finish. but what wid the blud gettin' into me ois, i was blinded, and the pressure kept incraysin' until me arrums was thrussed like a fowl to me sides, and sorra a bit cud i move but me jaws!" "and bloomin' well you knew how to use them," said otherwise. "thrue for you--though ye don't mane it!" said mulledwiney, playfully tapping otherwise on the head with a decanter till the cut glass slowly shivered. "so, begorra! there wor nothing left for me to do but to ate thim! wirra! but it was the crooel worruk." "excuse me, my lord," interrupted the gasping voice of pi bol as he began to back from the pool, "i am but a horse, i know, and being built in that way--naturally have the stomach of one--yet, really, my lord, this--er"- and his voice was gone. the next moment he had disappeared. mulledwiney looked around with affected concern. "save us! but we've cleaned out the jungle! sure, there's not a baste left but ourselves!" it was true. the watering-place was empty. moo kow, miaow, and the gee gees had disappeared. presently there was a booming crash and a long, deep rumbling among the distant hills. then they knew they were near the old moulmein pagoda, and the dawn had come up like thunder out of china 'cross the bay. it always came up that way there. the strain was too great, and day was actually breaking. "zut-ski" the problem of a wicked feme sole by m-r-e c-r-lli i the great pyramid towered up from the desert with its apex toward the moon which hung in the sky. for centuries it had stood thus, disdaining the aid of gods or man, being, as the sphinx herself observed, able to stand up for itself. and this was no small praise from that sublime yet mysterious female who had seen the ages come and go, empires rise and fall, novelist succeed novelist, and who, for eons and cycles the cynosure and centre of admiration and men's idolatrous worship, had yet--wonderful for a woman--through it all kept her head, which now alone remained to survey calmly the present. indeed, at that moment that magnificent and peaceful face seemed to have lost--with a few unimportant features--its usual expression of speculative wisdom and intense disdain; its mouth smiled, its left eyelid seemed to droop. as the opal tints of dawn deepened upon it, the eyelid seemed to droop lower, closed, and quickly recovered itself twice. you would have thought the sphinx had winked. then arose a voice like a wind on the desert,--but really from the direction of the nile, where a hired dahabiyeh lay moored to the bank,--"'arry axes! 'arry axes!" with it came also a flapping, trailing vision from the water--the sacred ibis itself--and with wings aslant drifted mournfully away to its own creaking echo: "k'raksis! k'raksis!" again arose the weird voice: "'arry axes! wotcher doin' of?" and again the ibis croaked its wild refrain: "k'raksis! k'raksis!" moonlight and the hour wove their own mystery (for which the author is not responsible), and the voice was heard no more. but when the full day sprang in glory over the desert, it illuminated the few remaining but sufficiently large features of the sphinx with a burning saffron radiance! the sphinx had indeed blushed! ii it was the full season at cairo. the wealth and fashion of bayswater, south kensington, and even the bosky wood of the evangelist had sent their latest luxury and style to flout the tombs of the past with the ghastly flippancy of to-day. the cheap tripper was there--the latest example of the darwinian theory--apelike, flea and curio hunting! shamelessly inquisitive and always hungry, what did he know of the sphinx or the pyramids or the voice--and, for the matter of that, what did they know of him? and yet he was not half bad in comparison with the "swagger people,"--these people who pretend to have lungs and what not, and instead of galloping on merry hunters through the frost and snow of piccadilly and park, instead of enjoying the roaring fires of piled logs in the evening, at the first approach of winter steal away to the land of the sun, and decline to die, like honest britons, on british soil. and then they know nothing of the egyptians and are horrified at "bakshish," which they really ought to pay for the privilege of shocking the straight-limbed, naked-footed arab in his single rough garment with their baggy elephant-legged trousers! and they know nothing of the mystic land of the old gods, filled with profound enigmas of the supernatural, dark secrets yet unexplored except in this book. well might the great memnon murmur after this lapse of these thousand years, "they're making me tired!" such was the blissful, self-satisfied ignorance of sir midas pyle, or as lord fitz-fulke, with his delightful imitation of the east london accent, called him, sir "myde his pyle," as he leaned back on his divan in the grand cairo hotel. he was the vulgar editor and proprietor of a vulgar london newspaper, and had brought his wife with him, who was vainly trying to marry off his faded daughters. there was to be a fancy-dress ball at the hotel that night, and lady pyle hoped that her girls, if properly disguised, might have a better chance. here, too, was lady fitz-fulke, whose mother was immortalized by byron--sixty if a day, yet still dressing youthfully--who had sought the land of the sphinx in the faint hope that in the contiguity of that lady she might pass for being young. alaster mcfeckless, a splendid young scotchman,--already dressed as a florentine sailor of the fifteenth century, which enabled him to show his magnificent calves quite as well as in his native highland dress, and who had added with characteristic noble pride a sporran to his costume, was lolling on another divan. "oh, those exquisite, those magnificent eyes of hers! eh, sirs!" he murmured suddenly, as waking from a dream. "oh, damn her eyes!" said lord fitz-fulke languidly. "tell you what, old man, you're just gone on that girl!" "ha!" roared mcfeckless, springing to his feet, "ye will be using such language of the bonniest"-"you will excuse me, gentlemen," said sir midas,--who hated scenes unless he had a trusted reporter with him,--"but i think it is time for me to go upstairs and put on my windsor uniform, which i find exceedingly convenient for these mixed assemblies." he withdrew, caressing his protuberant paunch with some dignity, as the two men glanced fiercely at each other. in another moment they might have sprung at each other's throats. but luckily at this instant a curtain was pushed aside as if by some waiting listener, and a thin man entered, dressed in cap and gown,--which would have been simply academic but for his carrying in one hand behind him a bundle of birch twigs. it was dr. haustus pilgrim, a noted london practitioner and specialist, dressed as "ye olde-fashioned pedagogue." he was presumably spending his holiday on the nile in a large dahabiyeh with a number of friends, among whom he counted the two momentary antagonists he had just interrupted; but those who knew the doctor's far-reaching knowledge and cryptic researches believed he had his own scientific motives. the two men turned quickly as he entered; the angry light faded from their eyes, and an awed and respectful submission to the intruder took its place. he walked quietly toward them, put a lozenge in the mouth of one and felt the pulse of the other, gazing critically at both. "we will be all right in a moment," he said with professional confidence. "i say!" said fitz-fulke, gazing at the doctor's costume, "you look dooced smart in those togs, don'tcherknow." "they suit me," said the doctor, with a playful swish of his birch twigs, at which the two grave men shuddered. "but you were speaking of somebody's beautiful eyes." "the princess zut-ski's," returned mcfeckless eagerly; "and this daft callant said"-"he didn't like them," put in fitz-fulke promptly. "ha!" said the doctor sharply, "and why not, sir?" as fitz-fulke hesitated, he added brusquely: "there! run away and play! i've business with this young man," pointing to mcfeckless. as fitz-fulke escaped gladly from the room, the doctor turned to mcfeckless. "it won't do, my boy. the princess is not for you--you'll only break your heart and ruin your family over her! that's my advice. chuck her!" "but i cannot," said mcfeckless humbly. "think of her weirdly beautiful eyes." "i see," said the doctor meditatively; "sort of makes you feel creepy? kind of all-overishness, eh? that's like her. but whom have we here?" he was staring at a striking figure that had just entered, closely followed by a crowd of admiring spectators. and, indeed, he seemed worthy of the homage. his magnificent form was closely attired in a velveteen jacket and trousers, with a singular display of pearl buttons along the seams, that were absolutely lavish in their quantity; a hat adorned with feathers and roses completed his singularly picturesque equipment. "chevalier!" burst out mcfeckless in breathless greeting. "ah, mon ami! what good chance?" returned the newcomer, rushing to him and kissing him on both cheeks, to the british horror of sir midas, who had followed. "ah, but you are perfect!" he added, kissing his fingers in admiration of mcfeckless's florentine dress. "but you?--what is this ravishing costume?" asked mcfeckless, with a pang of jealousy. "you are god-like." "it is the dress of what you call the koster, a transplanted phenician tribe," answered the other. "they who knocked 'em in the road of old kent--know you not the legend?" as he spoke, he lifted his superb form to a warrior's height and gesture. "but is this quite correct?" asked fitz-fulke of the doctor. "perfectly," said the doctor oracularly. "the renowned ''arry axes'--i beg his pardon," he interrupted himself hastily, "i mean the chevalier--is perfect in his archaeology and ethnology. the koster is originally a gypsy, which is but a corruption of the word 'egyptian,' and, if i mistake not, that gentleman is a lineal descendant." "but he is called 'chevalier,' and he speaks like a frenchman," said fluffy. "and, being a frenchman, of course knows nothing outside of paris," said sir midas. "we are in the land of mystery," said the doctor gravely in a low voice. "you have heard of the egyptian hall and the temple of mystery?" a shudder passed through many that were there; but the majority were following with wild adulation the superb koster, who, with elbows slightly outward and hands turned inward, was passing toward the ballroom. mcfeckless accompanied him with conflicting emotions. would he see the incomparable princess, who was lovelier and even still more a mystery than the chevalier? would she--terrible thought!--succumb to his perfections? iii the princess was already there, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, equal if not superior to those who were following the superb chevalier. indeed, they met almost as rivals! their eyes sought each other in splendid competition. the chevalier turned away, dazzled and incoherent. "she is adorable, magnificent!" he gasped to mcfeckless. "i love her on the instant! behold, i am transported, ravished! present me." indeed, as she stood there in a strange gauzy garment of exquisite colors, apparently shapeless, yet now and then revealing her perfect figure like a bather seen through undulating billows, she was lovely. two wands were held in her taper fingers, whose mystery only added to the general curiosity, but whose weird and cabalistic uses were to be seen later. her magnificent face--strange in its beauty--was stranger still, since, with perfect archaeological egyptian correctness, she presented it only in profile, at whatever angle the spectator stood. but such a profile! the words of the great poet-king rose to mcfeckless's lips: "her nose is as a tower that looketh toward damascus." he hesitated a moment, torn with love and jealousy, and then presented his friend. "you will fall in love with her--and then--you will fall also by my hand," he hissed in his rival's ear, and fled tumultuously. "voulez-vous danser, mademoiselle?" whispered the chevalier in the perfect accent of the boulevardier. "merci, beaucoup," she replied in the diplomatic courtesies of the ambassadeurs. they danced together, not once, but many times, to the admiration, the wonder and envy of all; to the scandalized reprobation of a proper few. who was she? who was he? it was easy to answer the last question: the world rang with the reputation of "chevalier the artist." but she was still a mystery. perhaps they were not so to each other! he was gazing deliriously into her eyes. she was looking at him in disdainful curiosity. "i've seen you before somewhere, haven't i?" she said at last, with a crushing significance. he shuddered, he knew not why, and passed his hand over his high forehead. "yes, i go there very often," he replied vacantly. "but you, mademoiselle--you--i have met before?" "oh, ages, ages ago!" there was something weird in her emphasis. "ha!" said a voice near them, "i thought so!" it was the doctor, peering at them curiously. "and you both feel rather dazed and creepy?" he suddenly felt their pulses, lingering, however, as the chevalier fancied, somewhat longer than necessary over the lady's wrist and beautiful arm. he then put a small round box in the chevalier's hand, saying, "one before each meal," and turning to the lady with caressing professional accents said, "we must wrap ourselves closely and endeavor to induce perspiration," and hurried away, dragging the chevalier with him. when they reached a secluded corner, he said, "you had just now a kind of feeling, don't you know, as if you'd sort of been there before, didn't you?" "yes, what you call a--preexistence," said the chevalier wonderingly. "yes; i have often observed that those who doubt a future state of existence have no hesitation in accepting a previous one," said the doctor dryly. "but come, i see from the way the crowd are hurrying that your divinity's number is up--i mean," he corrected himself hastily, "that she is probably dancing again." "aha! with him, the imbecile mcfeckless?" gasped the chevalier. "no, alone." she was indeed alone, in the centre of the ballroom--with outstretched arms revolving in an occult, weird, dreamy, mystic, druidical, cabalistic circle. they now for the first time perceived the meaning of those strange wands which appeared to be attached to the many folds of her diaphanous skirts and involved her in a fleecy, whirling cloud. yet in the wild convolutions of her garments and the mad gyrations of her figure, her face was upturned with the seraphic intensity of a devotee, and her lips parted as with the impassioned appeal for "light! more light!" and the appeal was answered. a flood of blue, crimson, yellow, and green radiance was alternately poured upon her from the black box of a mysterious nubian slave in the gallery. the effect was marvelous; at one moment she appeared as a martyr in a sheet of flame, at another as an angel wrapped in white and muffled purity, and again as a nymph of the cerulean sea, and then suddenly a cloud of darkness seemed to descend upon her, through which for an instant her figure, as immaculate and perfect as a marble statue, showed distinctly--then the light went out and she vanished! the whole assembly burst into a rapturous cry. even the common arab attendants who were peeping in at the doors raised their melodious native cry, "alloe, fullah! aloe, fullah!" again and again. a shocked silence followed. then the voice of sir midas pyle was heard addressing dr. haustus pilgrim: "may we not presume, sir, that what we have just seen is not unlike that remarkable exhibition when i was pained to meet you one evening at the alhambra?" the doctor coughed slightly. "the alhambra--ah, yes!--you--er--refer, i presume, to granada and the land of the moor, where we last met. the music and dance are both distinctly moorish--which, after all, is akin to the egyptian. i am gratified indeed that your memory should be so retentive and your archaeological comparison so accurate. but see! the ladies are retiring. let us follow." iv the intoxication produced by the performance of the princess naturally had its reaction. the british moral soul, startled out of its hypocrisy the night before, demanded the bitter beer of self-consciousness and remorse the next morning. the ladies were now openly shocked at what they had secretly envied. lady pyle was, however, propitiated by the doctor's assurance that the princess was a friend of lady fitz-fulke, who had promised to lend her youthful age and aristocratic prestige to the return ball which the princess had determined to give at her own home. "still, i think the princess open to criticism," said sir midas oracularly. "damn all criticism and critics!" burst out mcfeckless, with the noble frankness of a passionate and yet unfettered soul. sir midas, who employed critics in his business, as he did other base and ignoble slaves, drew up himself and his paunch and walked away. the chevalier cast a superb look at mcfeckless. "voila! regard me well! i shall seek out this princess when she is with herself! alone, comprenez? i shall seek her at her hotel in the egyptian hall! ha! ha! i shall seek zut-ski! zut!" and he made that rapid yet graceful motion of his palm against his thigh known only to the true parisian. "it's a rum hole where she lives, and nobody gets a sight of her," said flossy. "it's like a beastly family vault, don't you know, outside, and there's a kind of nigger doorkeeper that vises you and chucks you out if you haven't the straight tip. i'll show you the way, if you like." "allons, en avant!" said the chevalier gayly. "i precipitate myself there on the instant." "remember!" hissed mcfeckless, grasping his arm, "you shall account to me!" "bien!" said the chevalier, shaking him off lightly. "all a-r-r-right." then, in that incomparable baritone, which had so often enthralled thousands, he moved away, trolling the first verse of the princess's own faint, sweet, sad song of the "lotus lily," that thrilled mcfeckless even through the chevalier's marked french accent:- "oh, a hard zing to get is ze lotus lillee! she lif in ze swamp--in ze watair chillee; she make your foot wet--and you look so sillee, but you buy her for sixpence in piccadillee!" in half an hour the two men reached the remote suburb where the princess lived, a gloomy, windowless building. pausing under a low archway over which in egyptian characters appeared the faded legend, "sta ged oor," they found a nubian slave blocking the dim entrance. "i leave you here," said flossy hurriedly, "as even i left once before--only then i was lightly assisted by his sandaled foot," he added, rubbing himself thoughtfully. "but better luck to you." as his companion retreated swiftly, the chevalier turned to the slave and would have passed in, but the man stopped him. "got a pass, boss?" "no," said the chevalier. the man looked at him keenly. "oh, i see! one of de profesh." the chevalier nodded haughtily. the man preceded him by devious, narrow ways and dark staircases, coming abruptly upon a small apartment where the princess sat on a low divan. a single lamp inclosed in an ominous wire cage flared above her. strange things lay about the floor and shelves, and from another door he could see hideous masks, frightful heads, and disproportionate faces. he shuddered slightly, but recovered himself and fell on his knees before her. "i lofe you," he said madly. "i have always lofed you!" "for how long?" she asked, with a strange smile. he covertly consulted his shirt cuff. "for tree tousand fife hundred and sixty-two years," he said rapidly. she looked at him disdainfully. "the doctor has been putting you up to that! it won't wash! i don't refer to your shirt cuff," she added with deep satire. "adorable one!" he broke out passionately, attempting to embrace her, "i have come to take you." without moving, she touched a knob in the wall. a trap-door beyond him sank, and out of the bowels of the earth leaped three indescribable demons. then, rising, she took a cake of chalk from the table and, drawing a mystic half circle on the floor, returned to the divan, lit a cigarette, and leaning comfortably back, said in a low, monotonous voice, "advance one foot within that magic line, and on that head, although it wore a crown, i launch the curse of rome." "i--only wanted to take you--with a kodak," he said, with a light laugh to conceal his confusion, as he produced the instrument from his coat-tail pocket. "not with that cheap box," she said, rising with magnificent disdain. "come again with a decent instrument--and perhaps"-then, lightly humming in a pure contralto, "i've been photographed like this--i've been photographed like that," she summoned the slave to conduct him back, and vanished through a canvas screen, which nevertheless seemed to the dazed chevalier to be the stony front of the pyramids. v "and you saw her?" said the doctor in french. "yes; but the three-thousand-year gag did not work! she spotted you, cher ami, on the instant. and she wouldn't let me take her with my kodak." the doctor looked grave. "i see," he mused thoughtfully. "you must have my camera, a larger one and more bulky perhaps to carry; but she will not object to that,--she who has stood for full lengths. i will give you some private instructions." "but, cher doctor, this previous-existence idea--at what do you arrive?" "there is much to say for it," said the doctor oracularly. "it has survived in the belief of all ages. who can tell? that some men in a previous existence may have been goats or apes," continued the doctor, looking at him curiously, "does not seem improbable! from the time of pythagoras we have known that; but that the individual as an individual ego has been remanded or projected, has harked back or anticipated himself, is, we may say, with our powers of apperception,--that is, the perception that we are perceiving,--is"-but the chevalier had fled. "no matter," said the doctor, "i will see mcfeckless." he did. he found him gloomy, distraught, baleful. he felt his pulse. "the mixture as before," he said briefly, "and a little innocent diversion. there is an aunt sally on the esplanade--two throws for a penny. it will do you good. think no more of this woman! listen,--i wish you well; your family have always been good patients of mine. marry some good scotch girl; i know one with fifty thousand pounds. let the princess go!" "to him--never! i will marry her! yet," he murmured softly to himself, "feefty thousand pun' is nae small sum. aye! not that i care for siller--but feefty thousand pun'! eh, sirs!" vi dr. haustus knew that the chevalier had again visited the princess, although he had kept the visit a secret,--and indeed was himself invisible for a day or two afterwards. at last the doctor's curiosity induced him to visit the chevalier's apartment. entering, he was surprised--even in that land of mystery--to find the room profoundly dark, smelling of eastern drugs, and the chevalier sitting before a large plate of glass which he was examining by the aid of a lurid ruby lamp,--the only light in the weird gloom. his face was pale and distraught, his locks were disheveled. "voila!" he said. "mon dieu! it is my third attempt. always the same--hideous, monstrous, unearthly! it is she, and yet it is not she!" the doctor, professional man as he was and inured to such spectacles, was startled! the plate before him showed the princess's face in all its beautiful contour, but only dimly veiling a ghastly death's-head below. there was the whole bony structure of the head and the eyeless sockets; even the graceful, swan-like neck showed the articulated vertebral column that supported it in all its hideous reality. the beautiful shoulders were there, dimly as in a dream--but beneath was the empty clavicle, the knotty joint, the hollow sternum, and the ribs of a skeleton half length! the doctor's voice broke the silence. "my friend," he said dryly, "you see only the truth! you see what she really is, this peerless princess of yours. you see her as she is to-day, and you see her kinship to the bones that have lain for centuries in yonder pyramid. yet they were once as fair as this, and this was as fair as they--in effect the same! you that have madly, impiously adored her superficial beauty, the mere dust of tomorrow, let this be a warning to you! you that have no soul to speak of, let that suffice you! take her and be happy. adieu!" yet, as he passed out of the fitting tomblike gloom of the apartment and descended the stairs, he murmured to himself: "odd that i should have lent him my camera with the rontgen-ray attachment still on. no matter! it is not the first time that the princess has appeared in two parts the same evening." vii in spite of envy, jealousy, and malice, a certain curiosity greater than all these drew everybody to the princess zut-ski's ball. lady fitz-fulke was there in virgin white, looking more youthful than ever, in spite of her sixty-five years and the card labeled "fresh paint" which somebody had playfully placed upon her enameled shoulder. the mcfecklesses, the pyles, flossy, the doctor, and the chevalier--looking still anxious--were in attendance. the mysterious nubian doorkeeper admitted the guests through the same narrow passages, much to the disgust of lady pyle and the discomfiture of her paunchy husband; but on reaching a large circular interior hall, a greater surprise was in store for them. it was found that the only entrance to the body of the hall was along a narrow ledge against the bare wall some distance from the floor, which obliged the guests to walk slowly, in single file, along this precarious strip, giving them the attitudes of an egyptian frieze, which was suggested in the original plaster above them. it is needless to say that, while the effect was ingenious and striking from the centre of the room, where the princess stood with a few personal friends, it was exceedingly uncomfortable to the figures themselves, in their enforced march along the ledge,--especially a figure of sir midas pyle's proportions. suddenly an exclamation broke from the doctor. "do you see," he said to the princess, pointing to the figure of the chevalier, who was filing along with his sinewy hands slightly turned inward, "how surprisingly like he is to the first attendant on the king in the real frieze above? and that," added the doctor, "was none other than 'arry axes, the egyptian you are always thinking of." and he peered curiously at her. "goodness me!" murmured the princess, in an arabic much more soft and fluent than the original gum. "so he does--look like him." "and do you know you look like him, too? would you mind taking a walk around together?" they did, amid the acclamations of the crowd. the likeness was perfect. the princess, however, was quite white as she eagerly rejoined the doctor. "and this means--?" she hissed in a low whisper. "that he is the real 'arry axes! hush, not a word now! we join the dahabiyeh to-night. at daybreak you will meet him at the fourth angle of the pyramid, first turning from the nile!" viii the crescent moon hung again over the apex of the great pyramid, like a silver cutting from the rosy nail of a houri. the sphinx--mighty guesser of riddles, reader of rebuses and universal solver of missing words--looked over the unfathomable desert and these few pages, with the worried, hopeless expression of one who is obliged at last to give it up. and then the wailing voice of a woman, toiling up the steep steps of the pyramid, was heard above the creaking of the ibis: "'arry axes! where are you? wait for me." "j'y suis," said a voice from the very summit of the stupendous granite bulk, "yet i cannot reach it." and in that faint light the figure of a man was seen, lifting his arms wildly toward the moon. "'arry axes," persisted the voice, drifting higher, "wait for me; we are pursued." and indeed it was true. a band of nubians, headed by the doctor, was already swarming like ants up the pyramid, and the unhappy pair were secured. and when the sun rose, it was upon the white sails of the dahabiyeh, the vacant pyramid, and the slumbering sphinx. there was great excitement at the cairo hotel the next morning. the princess and the chevalier had disappeared, and with them alaster mcfeckless, lady fitz-fulke, the doctor, and even his dahabiyeh! a thousand rumors had been in circulation. sir midas pyle looked up from the "times" with his usual i-told-you-so expression. "it is the most extraordinary thing, don'tcherknow," said fitz-fulke. "it seems that dr. haustus pilgrim was here professionally--as a nerve specialist--in the treatment of hallucinations produced by neurotic conditions, you know." "a mad doctor, here!" gasped sir midas. "yes. the princess, the chevalier, mcfeckless, and even my mother were all patients of his on the dahabiyeh. he believed, don'tcherknow, in humoring them and letting them follow out their cranks, under his management. the princess was a music-hall artist who imagined she was a dead and gone egyptian princess; and the queerest of all, 'arry axes was also a music-hall singer who imagined himself chevalier--you know, the great koster artist--and that's how we took him for a frenchman. mcfeckless and my poor old mother were the only ones with any real rank and position--but you know what a beastly bounder mac was, and the poor mater did overdo the youthful! we never called the doctor in until the day she wanted to go to a swell ball in london as little red riding-hood. but the doctor writes me that the experiment was a success, and they'll be all right when they get back to london." "then, it seems, sir, that you and i were the only sane ones here," said sir midas furiously. "really it's as much as i can do to be certain about myself, old chappie," said fitz-fulke, turning away. by the internet archive [illustration: 004] the book of ballads by various edited by bon gaultier illustrated by doyle, leech, cromquill eleventh edition 1870 [illustration: 005] [illustration: 011] [illustration: 012] [illustration: 015] the broken pitcher it {003}was a moorish maiden was sitting by a well, and what the maiden thought of, i cannot, cannot tell, when by there rode a valiant knight from the town of oviedo- alphonzo guzman was he hight, the count of tololedo. "oh, maiden, moorish maiden, why sitt'st thou by the spring? say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing? why dost thou look upon me, with eyes so dark and wide, and wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?" "i {004}do not seek a lover, thou christian knight so gay, because an article like that hath never come my way; and why i gaze upon you, i cannot, cannot tell, except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell. "my pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,- a shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss; i would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word i spoke, but scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke. "my uncle, the alcaydè, he waits for me at home, and will not take his tumbler until zorayda come: i cannot bring him water--the pitcher is in pieces- and so i'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces." "oh, maiden, moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me! so wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three; and i'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady, to carry home the water to thy uncle, the alcaydè." he lighted down from off his steed--he tied him to a tree- he bent him to the maiden, and he took his kisses three; "to wrong thee, sweet zorayda, i swear would be a sin!" and he knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in. up {005}rose the moorish maiden--behind the knight she steals, and caught alphonzo guzman in a twinkling by the heels: she tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bub bling water,- "now, take thou that for venturing to kiss al hamet's daughter!" a christian maid is weeping in the town of oviedo; she waits the coming of her love, the count of tololedo. i pray you all in charity, that you will never tell, how he met the moorish maiden beside the lonely well. [illustration: 017] [illustration: 018] don fernando gomersalez from the spanish of astley's. don {006}fernando gomersalez! basely have they borne thee down; paces ten behind thy charger is thy glorious body thrown; fetters have they bound upon thee--iron fetters, fast and sure; don fernando gomersalez, thou art cap tive to the moor! long {007}within a dingy dungeon pined that brave and noble knight, for the saracenic warriors well they knew and feared his might; long he lay and long he languished on his dripping bed of stone, till the cankered iron fetters ate their way into his bone. on the twentieth day of august--'twas the feast of false mahound- came the moorish population from the neighbouring cities round; there to hold their foul carousal, there to dance and there to sing, and to pay their yearly homage to al-widdicomb, the king! first they wheeled their supple coursers, wheeled them at their utmost speed, then they galloped by in squadrons, tossing far the light jereed; then around the circus racing, faster than the swallow flies, did they spurn the yellow sawdust in the rapt spectators' eyes. [illustration: 020] proudly {008}did the moorish monarch every passing warrior greet, as he sate enthroned above them, with the lamps beneath his feet; "tell me, thou black-bearded cadi! are there any in the land, that against my janissaries dare one hour in combat stand?" then the bearded cadi answered--"be not wroth, my lord the king, if thy faithful slave shall venture to observe one little thing; valiant, {009}doubtless, are thy warriors, and their beards are long and hairy, and a thunderbolt in battle is each bristly janissary: "but i cannot, o my sovereign, quite forget that fearful day, "when i saw the christian army in its terrible array; when they charged across the footlights like a torrent down its bed, with the red cross floating o'er them, and fernando at their head! "don fernando gomersalez! matchless chieftain he in war, mightier than don sticknejo, braver than the cid bivar! not a cheek within grenada, o my king, but wan and pale is, when they hear the dreaded name of don fernando gomersalez!" "thou shalt see thy champion, cadi! hither quick the captive bring!" thus in wrath and deadly anger spoke al-widdicomb, the king: "paler than a maiden's forehead is the christian's hue, i ween, since a year within the dungeons of grenada he hath been!" then {010}they brought the gomersalez, and they led the warrior in; weak and wasted seemed his body, and his face was pale and thin; but the ancient fire was burning, unallayed, within his eye, and his step was proud and stately, and his look was stern and high. scarcely from tumultuous cheering could the galleried crowd refrain, for they knew don gomersalez and his prowess in the plain; but they feared the grizzly despot and his myrmidons in steel, so their sympathy descended in the fruitage of seville. "wherefore, monarch, hast thou brought me from the dungeon dark and drear, where these limbs of mine have wasted in confinement for a year? dost thou lead me forth to torture?--rack and pincers i defy! is it that thy base grotesquos may behold a hero die?" "hold thy peace, thou christian caitiff, and attend to what i say! thou art called the starkest rider of the spanish cur's array: if {011}thy courage be undaunted, as they say it was of yore, thou mayst yet achieve thy freedom,--yet regain thy native shore. "courses three within this circus 'gainst my warriors shalt thou run, ere yon weltering pasteboard ocean shall receive yon muslin sun; victor--thou shalt have thy freedom; but if stretched upon the plain, to thy dark and dreary dungeon they shall hale thee back again." "give me but the armour, monarch, i have worn in many a field, give me but my trusty helmet, give me but my dinted shield; and my old steed, bavieca, swiftest courser in the ring, and i rather should imagine that i'll do the business, king!" then they carried down the armour from the garret where it lay, o! but it was red and rusty, and the plumes were shorn away: and they led out bavieca from a foul and filthy van, for the conqueror had sold him to a moorish dogs'-meat man. when {012}the steed beheld his master, then he whinnied loud and free, and, in token of subjection, knelt upon each broken knee; and a tear of walnut largeness to the warrior's eyelids rose, as he fondly picked a bean-straw from his coughing courser's nose. "many a time, o bavieca, hast thou borne me through the fray! bear me but again as deftly through the listed ring this day; or if thou art worn and feeble, as may well have come to pass, time it is, my trusty charger, both of us were sent to grass!" then he seized his lance, and vaulting in the saddle sate upright; marble seemed the noble courser, iron seemed the mailèd knight; and a cry of admiration burst from every moorish lady. "five to four on don fernando!" cried the sable-bearded cadi. warriors three from alcantara burst into the listed space, warriors three, all bred in battle, of the proud alhambra race: trumpets {013}sounded, coursers bounded, and the foremost straight went down, tumbling, like a sack of turnips, just before the jeering clown. in the second chieftain galloped, and he bowed him to the king, and his saddle-girths were tightened by the master of the ring; through three blazing hoops he bounded ere the desperate fight began- don fernando! bear thee bravely!--'tis the moor abdor rhoman! like a double streak of lightning, clashing in the sulphurous sky, met the pair of hostile heroes, and they made the sawdust and the moslem spear so stiffly smote on don fernando's mail, that he reeled, as if in liquor, back to bavieca's tail: but he caught the mace beside him, and he griped it hard and fast, and he swung it starkly upwards as the foeman bounded past; and {014}the deadly stroke descended through, the skull and through the brain, as ye may have seen a poker cleave a cocoa-nut in twain. sore astonished was the monarch, and the moorish warriors all, save the third bold chief, who tarried and beheld his brethren fall; and the clown, in haste arising from the footstool where he sat, notified the first appearance of the famous acrobat; never on a single charger rides that stout and stalwart moor,- five beneath his stride so stately bear him o'er the trembling floor; five arabians, black as midnight--on their necks the rein he throws, and the outer and the inner feel the pressure of his toes. never wore that chieftain armour; in a knot himself he ties, with his grizzly head appearing in the centre of his thighs, till the petrified spectator asks, in paralysed alarm, where may be the warrior's body,--which is leg, and which is arm? [illustration: 027] "sound [015]the charge!" the coursers started; with a yell and furious vault, high in air the moorish champion cut a wondrous somer sault; o'er the head of don fernando like a tennis-ball he sprung, caught him tightly by the girdle, and behind the crupper hung. then his dagger don fernando plucked from out its jewelled sheath, and he struck the moor so fiercely, as he grappled him beneath, that {016}the good damascus weapon sank within the folds of fat, and as dead as julius cæsar dropped the gordian acrobat. meanwhile fast the sun was sinking--it had sunk beneath the sea, ere fernando gomersalez smote the latter of the three; and al-widdicomb, the monarch, pointed, with a bitter smile, to the deeply-darkening canvass;--blacker grew it all the while. "thou hast slain my warriors, spaniard! but thou hast not kept thy time; only two had sunk before thee ere i heard the curfew chime; back thou goest to thy dungeon, and thou mayst be wondrous glad that thy head is on thy shoulders for thy work to-day, my lad! "therefore all thy boasted valour, christian dog, of no avail is!" dark as midnight grew the brow of don fernando gomer salez;- stiffly {017}sate he in his saddle, grimly looked around the ring, laid his lance within the rest, and shook his gauntlet at the king. "o, thou foul and faithless traitor! wouldst thou play me false again? welcome death and welcome torture, rather than the captive's chain! but i give thee warning, caitiff! look thou sharply to thine eye- unavenged, at least in harness, gomersalez shall not die!" thus he spoke, and bavieca like an arrow forward flew, right and left the moorish squadron wheeled to let the hero through; brightly gleamed the lance of vengeance--fiercely sped the fatal thrust- from his throne the moorish monarch tumbled lifeless in the dust. speed thee, speed thee, bavieca! speed thee faster than the wind! life and freedom are before thee, deadly foes give chase behind! [illustration: 030] speed {018}thee up the sloping spring-board; o'er the bridge that spans the seas; yonder gauzy moon will light thee through the grove of canvas trees. close {019}before thee, pampeluna spreads her painted paste board gate! speed thee onward, gallant courser, speed thee with thy knightly freight! victory! the town receives them!--gentle ladies, this the tale is, which i learned in astley's circus, of fernando gomer salez. [illustration: 031] [illustration: 032] the courtship of our cid what {020}a pang of sweet emotion thrilled the master of the ring, when he first beheld the lady through the stabled portal spring! midway in his wild grimacing stopped the piebald-visaged clown and the thunders of the audience nearly brought the gallery down. donna {021}inez woolfordinez! saw ye ever such a maid, with the feathers swaling o'er her, and her spangled rich brocade? in her fairy hand a horsewhip, on her foot a buskin small, so she stepped, the stately damsel, through the scarlet grooms and all. and she beckoned for her courser, and they brought a milk-white mare; proud, i ween, was that arabian such a gentle freight to bear: and the master moved to greet her, with a proud and stately walk; and, in reverential homage, rubbed her soles with virgin chalk. round she flew, as flora flying spans the circle of the year; and the youth of london, sighing, half forgot the ginger-beer- quite forgot the maids beside them; as they surely well might do, when she raised two roman candles, shooting fireballs red and blue! swifter {022}than the tartar's arrow, lighter than the lark in flight, on the left foot now she bounded, now she stood upon the right. like a beautiful bacchante, here she soars, and there she kneels, while amid her floating tresses flash two whirling catherine wheels! hark! the blare of yonder trumpet! see, the gates are opened wide! room, there, room for gomersalez,- gomersalez in his pride! rose the shouts of exultation, rose the cat's triumphant call, as he bounded, man and courser, over master, clown, and all! donna inez woolfordinez! why those blushes on thy cheek? doth thy trembling bosom tell thee, he hath come thy love to seek? fleet thy arab, but behind thee he is rushing like a gale; one foot on his coal-black's shoulders, and the other on his tail! onward, {023}onward, panting maiden! he is faint, and fails, for now by the feet he hangs suspended from his glistening saddle-bow. down are gone both cap and feather, lance and gonfalon are down! trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet, he has flung them to the clown, faint and failing! up he vaulteth, fresh as when he first began; all in coat of bright vermilion, 'quipped as shaw, the lifeguardsman; eight and left his whizzing broadsword, like a sturdy flail, he throws; cutting out a path unto thee through imaginary foes. woolfordinez! speed thee onward! he is hard upon thy track,- paralysed is widdicombez, nor his whip can longer crack; he has flung away his broadsword, 'tis to clasp thee to his breast. onward!--see, he bares his bosom, tears away his scarlet vest; leaps {024}from out his nether garments, and his leathern stock unties- as the flower of london's dustmen, now in swift pursuit he flies. nimbly now he cuts and shuffles, o'er the buckle, heel and toe! flaps his hands in his tail-pockets, winks to all the throng below! onward, onward rush the coursers; woolfordinez, peerless girl, o'er the garters lightly bounding from her steed with airy whirl! gomersalez, wild with passion, danger--all but her--forgets; wheresoe'er she flies, pursues her, casting clouds of somersets! onward, onward rush the coursers; bright is gomersalez' eye; saints protect thee, woolfordinez, for his triumph sure is nigh: now his courser's flanks he lashes, o'er his shoulder flings the rein, and his feet aloft he tosses, holding stoutly by the mane! then, {025}his feet once more regaining, doffs his jacket, doffs his smalls, and in graceful folds around him a bespangled tunic falls. pinions from his heels are bursting, his bright locks have pinions o'er them; and the public see with rapture maia's nimble son before them. speed thee, speed thee, woolfordinez! for a panting god pursues; and the chalk is very nearly rubbed from thy white satin shoes; every bosom throbs with terror, you might hear a pin to drop; all is hushed, save where a starting cork gives out a casual pop. one smart lash across his courser, one tremendous bound and stride, and our noble cid was standing by his woolfordinez' side! with a god's embrace he clasped her, raised her in his manly arms; and the stables' closing barriers hid his valour, and her charms! [illustration: 041] american ballads the fight with the snapping turtle fytte first have {029}you heard of philip slingsby, slingsby of the manly chest; how he slew the snapping turtle in the regions of the 'west? every day the huge cawana lifted up its monstrous jaws; and it swallowed langton bennett, and digested rufus dawes. riled, {030}i ween, was philip slingsby, their untimely deaths to hear; for one author owed him money, and the other loved him dear. "listen now, sagacious tyler, whom the loafers all obey; what reward will congress give me, if i take this pest away?" then sagacious tyler answered, "you're the ring-tailed squealer! less than a hundred heavy dollars won't be offered you, i guess! "and a lot of wooden nutmegs in the bargain, too, we'll throw- only you just fix the critter. won't you liquor ere you go?" straightway leaped the valiant slingsby into armour of seville, with a strong arkansas toothpick screwed in every joint of steel. "come thou with me, cullen bryant, come with me, as squire, i pray; be the homer of the battle which i go to wage to-day." so {031}they went along careering with a loud and martial tramp, till they neared the snapping turtle in the dreary swindle swamp. but when slingsby saw the water, somewhat pale, i ween, was he. "if i come not back, dear bryant, tell the tale to melanie! "tell her that i died devoted, victim to a noble task! han't you got a drop of brandy in the bottom of your flask?" as he spoke, an alligator swam across the sullen creek; and the two columbians started, when they heard the monster shriek; for a snout of huge dimensions rose above the waters high, and took down the alligator, as a trout takes down a fly. "'tarnal death! the snapping turtle!" thus the squire in terror cried; but the noble slingsby straightway drew the toothpick from his side. "fare {032}thee well!" he cried, and dashing through the waters, strongly swam: meanwhile, cullen bryant, watching, breathed a prayer and sucked a dram. sudden from the slimy bottom was the snout again upreared, with a snap as loud as thunder,- and the slingsby disappeared. like a mighty steam-ship foundering, down the monstrous vision sank; and the ripple, slowly rolling, plashed and played upon the bank. still and stiller grew the water, hushed the canes within the brake; there was but a kind of coughing at the bottom of the lake. bryant wept as loud and deeply as a father for a son- "he's a finished 'coon, is slingsby, and the brandy's nearly done!" fytte second. in a {033}trance of sickening anguish, cold and stiff, and sore and damp, for two days did bryant linger by the dreary swindle swamp; always peering at the water, always waiting for the hour when those monstrous jaws should open as he saw them ope before.. still in vain;--the alligators scrambled through the marshy brake, and the vampire leeches gaily sucked the garfish in the lake. but the snapping turtle never rose for food or rose for rest, since he lodged the steel deposit in the bottom of his chest. only always from the bottom sounds of frequent coughing rolled, just as if the huge cawana had a most confounded cold. on {034}the bank lay cullen bryant, as the second moon arose, gouging on the sloping greensward some imaginary foes; when the swamp began to tremble, and the canes to rustle fast, as though some stupendous body through their roots were crushing past. and the waters boiled and bubbled, and, in groups of twos and threes, several alligators bounded, smart as squirrels, up the trees. then a hideous head was lifted, with such huge distended jaws, that they might have held goliath quite as well as rufus dawes. paws of elephantine thickness dragged its body from the bay, and it glared at cullen bryant in a most unpleasant way. then it writhed as if in torture, and it staggered to and fro; and its very shell was shaken in the anguish of its throe: and {035}its cough grew loud and louder, and its sob more husky thick! for, indeed, it was apparent that the beast was very sick. [illustration: 047] till, {036}at last, a spasmy vomit shook its carcass through and through, and as if from out a cannon, all in armour slingsby flew. bent and bloody was the bowie which he held within his grasp; and he seemed so much exhausted that he scarce had strength to gasp- "gouge him, bryant! darn ye, gouge him! gouge him while he's on the shore!" bryant's thumbs were straightway buried where no thumbs had pierced before. right from out their bony sockets did he scoop the monstrous balls; and, with one convulsive shudder, dead the snapping turtle falls! **** "post the tin, sagacious tyler!" but the old experienced file, leering first at clay and webster, answered, with a quiet smile- "since {037}you dragged the 'tarnal crittur from the bottom of the ponds, here's the hundred dollars due you, _all in pennsylvanian bonds!_" [illustration: 049] the lay of mr colt. [the {038}story of mr colt, of which our lay contains merely the sequel, is this: a new york printer, of the name of adams, had the effrontery to call upon him one day for payment of an account, which the independent colt settled by cutting his creditor's head to fragments with an axe. he then packed his body in a box, sprinkling it with salt, and despatched it to a packet bound for new orleans. suspicions having been excited, he was seized and tried before judge kent. the trial is, perhaps, the most disgraceful upon the records of any country. the ruffian's mistress was produced in court, and examined, in disgusting detail, as to her connection with colt, and his movements during the days and nights succeeding the murder. the head of the murdered man was bandied to and fro in the court, handed up to the jury, and commented on by witnesses and counsel; and to crown the horrors of the whole proceeding, the wretch's own counsel, a mr emmet, commencing the defence with a cool admission that his client took the life of adams, and following it up by a de-tail of the whole circumstances of this most brutal-murder in the first person, as though he himself had been the murderer, ended by telling the jury, that his client was "_entitled to the sympathy_ of a jury of his country," as "a young man just entering into life, _whose prospects, probably, have been permanently blasted_." colt was found guilty; but a variety of exceptions were taken to the charge by the judge, and after a long series of appeals, which _occupied more than a year from the date of conviction_, the sentence of death was ratified by governor seward. the rest of colt's story is told in our ballad.] streak the first. and now the sacred rite was done, and the marriage-knot was tied, and colt withdrew his blushing wife a little way aside; "let's go," he said, "into my cell; let's go alone, my dear; i fain would shelter that sweet face from the sheriff's odious leer. the {039}jailer and the hangmen, they are waiting both for me,- i cannot bear to see them wink so knowingly at thee! oh, how i loved thee, dearest! they say that i am wild, that a mother dares not trust me with the weasand of her child; they say my bowie-knife is keen to sliver into halves the carcass of my enemy, as butchers slay their calves. they say that i am stern of mood, because, like salted beef, i packed my quartered foeman up, and marked him 'prime tariff;' because i thought to palm him on the simple-souled john bull, and clear a small percentage on the sale at liverpool; it may be so, i do not know--these things, perhaps, may be; but surely i have always been a gentleman to thee! then come, my love, into my cell, short bridal space is ours,- nay, sheriff, never look thy watch--i guess there's good two hours. we'll shut the prison doors and keep the gaping world at bay, for love is long as 'tarnity, though i must die to-day!" streak the second. the {040}clock is ticking onward, it nears the hour of doom, and no one yet hath entered into that ghastly room. the jailer and the sheriff, they are walking to and fro: and the hangman sits upon the steps, and smokes his pipe below. in grisly expectation the prison all is bound, and, save expectoration, you cannot hear a sound. the turnkey stands and ponders,--, his hand upon the bolt,- "in twenty minutes more, i guess, 'twill all be up with colt!" but see, the door is opened! forth comes the weeping bride; the courteous sheriff lifts his hat, and saunters to her side,- "i beg your pardon, mrs c., but is your husband ready?" "i {041}guess you'd better ask himself," replied the woeful lady. the clock is ticking onward, the minutes almost run, the hangman's pipe is nearly out, 'tis on the stroke of one. at every grated window, unshaven faces glare; there's puke, the judge of tennessee, and lynch, of delaware; and batter, with the long black beard, whom hartford's maids know well; and winkinson, from fish kill reach, the pride of new rochelle; elkanah nutts, from tarry town, the gallant gouging boy; and 'coon-faced bushwhack, from the hills that frown o'er modern troy; young julep, whom our willis loves, because, 'tis said, that he one morning from a bookstall filched the tale of "melanie;" and skunk, who fought his country's fight beneath the stripes and stars,- all thronging at the windows stood, and gazed between the bars. the {042}little hoys that stood behind (young thievish imps were they!) displayed considerable _nous_ on that eventful day; for bits of broken looking-glass they held aslant on high, and there a mirrored gallows-tree met their delighted eye. * * a fact. the clock is ticking onward; hark! hark! it striketh one! each felon draws a whistling breath, "time's up with colt! he's done the sheriff looks his watch again, then puts it in his fob, and turns him to the hangman,- "get ready for the job." the jailer knocketh loudly, the turnkey draws the bolt, and pleasantly the sheriff says, "we're waiting, mister colt!" no answer! no! no answer! all's still as death within; the sheriff eyes the jailer, the jailer strokes his chin. "i {043}shouldn't wonder, nahum, if it were as you suppose." the hangman looked unhappy, and the turnkey blew his nose. they entered. on his pallet the noble convict lay,- the bridegroom on his marriage-bed, but not in trim array. his red right hand a razor held, fresh sharpened from the hone, and his ivory neck was severed, and gashed into the bone. **** and when the lamp is lighted in the long november days, and lads and lasses mingle at the shucking of the maize; when pies of smoking pumpkin upon the table stand, and bowls of black molasses go round from hand to hand; when slap-jacks, maple-sugared, are hissing in the pan, and cider, with a dash of gin, foams in the social can; when {044}the goodman wets his whistle, and the goodwife scolds the child; and the girls exclaim convulsively, "have done, or i'll be riled!" when the loafer sitting next them attempts a sly caress, and whispers, "o! you 'possum, you've fixed my heart, i guess!" with laughter and with weeping, then shall they tell the tale, how colt his foeman quartered, and died within the jail. [illustration: 056] the death of jabez dollar [before {045}the following poem, which originally appeared in 'fraser's magazine,' could have reached america, intelligence was received in this country of an affray in congress, very nearly the counterpart of that which the author has here imagined in jest. it was very clear, to any one who observed the state of public manners in america, that such occurrences _must_ happen, sooner or later. the americans apparently felt the force of the satire, as the poem was widely reprinted throughout the states. it subsequently returned to this country, embodied in an american work on american manners, where it characteristically appeared as the writer's _own_ production; and it afterwards went the round of british newspapers, as an amusing satire, by an american, of his countrymen's foibles!] the congress met, the day was wet, van buren took the chair; on either side, the statesman pride of far kentuck was there. with moody frown, there sat calhoun, and slowly in his cheek his quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as webster rose to speak. upon that day, near gifted clay, a youthful member sat, and like a free american upon the floor he spat; then turning round to clay, he said, and wiped his manly chin, "what kind of locofoco's that, as wears the painter's skin?" "young {046}man," quoth clay, "avoid the way of slick of tennessee; of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gouger he; he chews and spits, as there he sits, and whittles at the chairs, and in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he bears. "avoid that knife. in frequent strife its blade, so long and thin, has found itself a resting-place his rivals' ribs within." but coward fear came never near young jabez dollar's heart,- "were he an alligator, i would rile him pretty smart!" then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward the chair; he saw the stately stripes and stars,--our country's flag was there! his heart beat high, with eldritch cry upon the floor he sprang, then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his first harangue. "who {047}sold the nutmegs made of wood--the clocks that wouldn't figure? who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark--the everlasting nigger? for twenty cents, ye congress gents, through 'tarnity i'll kick that man, i guess, though nothing less than 'coon-faced colonel slick!" the {047}colonel smiled--with frenzy wild,--his very beard waxed blue,- his shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew; he foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat below- he sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe,- "oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!" he cried, with ire elate; "darn my old mother, but i will in wild cats whip my weight! oh! 'tarnal death, i'll spoil your breath, young dollar, and your chaffing,- look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them without laughing!" his {048}knife he raised--with, fury crazed, he sprang across the hall; he cut a caper in the air--he stood before them all: he never stopped to look or think if he the deed should do, but spinning sent the president, and on young dollar flew. they met--they closed--they sank--they rose,--in vain young dollar strove- for, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate colonel drove his bowie-blade deep in his side, and to the ground they rolled, and, drenched in gore, wheeled o'er and o'er, locked in each other's hold. with fury dumb--with nail and thumb--they struggled and they thrust,- the blood ran red from dollar's side, like rain, upon the dust; he nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sank and died, reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning by his side. thus {049}did he fall within the hall of congress, that brave youth; the bowie-knife has quenched his life of valour and of truth; and still among the statesmen throng at washington they tell how nobly dollar gouged his man--how gallantly he fell. [illustration: 061] [illustration: 062] the alabama duel "young {050}chaps, give ear, the case is clear. you, silas fixings, you pay mister nehemiali dodge them dollars as you're due. you are a bloody cheat,--you are. but spite of all your tricks, it is not in you judge lynch to do. no! nohow you can fix it!" thus {051}spake judge lynch, as there he sat in alabama's forum, around he gazed, with legs upraised upon the bench before him; and, as he gave this sentence stern to him who stood beneath, still with his gleaming bowie-knife he slowly picked his teeth. it was high noon, the month was june, and sultry was the air, a cool gin-sling stood by his hand, his coat hung o'er his chair; all naked were his manly arms, and shaded by his hat, like an old senator of rome that simple archon sat. "a bloody cheat?--oh, legs and feet!" in wrath young silas cried; and springing high into the air, he jerked his quid aside. "no man shall put my dander up, or with my feelings trifle, as long as silas fixings wears a bowie-knife and rifle." "if your shoes pinch," replied judge lynch, "you'll very, soon have ease; i'll give you satisfaction, squire, in any way you please; what are your weapons?--knife or gun?--at both i'm pretty spry!" "oh! 'tarnal death, you're spry, you are?" quoth silas; "so am i!" hard by the town a forest stands, dark with the shades of time, and they have sought that forest dark at morning's early prime; lynch, backed by nehemiah dodge, and silas with a friend, and half the town in glee came down to see that contest's end. they led their men two miles apart, they measured out the ground; a belt of that, vast wood it was, they notched the trees around; into the tangled brake they turned them off, and neither knew where he should seek his wagered foe, how get him into view. [illustration: 065] with {053}stealthy tread, and stooping head, from tree to tree they passed, they crept beneath the crackling furze, they held their rifles fast: hour passed on hour, the noonday sun smote fiercely down, but yet no sound to the expectant crowd proclaimed that they had met. and now the sun was going down, when, hark! a rifle's crack! hush--hush! another strikes the air,--and all their breath draw back,- then crashing on through bush and briar, the crowd from either side rush in to see whose rifle sure with blood the moss has dyed. weary {054}with watching up and down, brave lynch con ceived a plan, an artful dodge whereby to take at unawares his man; he hung his hat upon a bush, and hid himself hard by; young silas thought he had him fast, and at the hat let fly. it fell; up sprang young silas,--he hurled his gun away; lynch fixed him with his rifle, from the ambush where he lay. the bullet pierced his manly breast--yet, valiant to the last, young fixings drew his bowie-knife, and up his foxtail * cast. * the yankee substitute for the _chapeau de soie_. with tottering step and glazing eye he cleared the space between, and stabbed the air as stabs in grim macbeth the younger kean: brave lynch received him with a bang that stretched him on the ground, then sat himself serenely down till all the crowd drew round. they {055}hailed him with triumphant cheers--in him each loafer saw the bearing bold that could uphold the majesty of law; and, raising him aloft, they bore him homewards at his ease,- that noble judge, whose daring hand enforced his own decrees. they buried silas fixings in the hollow where he fell, and gum-trees wave above his grave--that tree he loved so well; and the 'coons sit chattering o'er him when the nights are long and damp; but he sleeps well in that lonely dell, the dreary 'possum swamp. the american's apostrophe to boz [rapidly {056}as oblivion does its work nowadays, the burst of amiable indignation with which enlightened america received the issue of boz's _notes_ can scarcely yet be forgotten. not content with waging a universal rivalry in the piracy of the work, columbia showered upon its author the riches of its own choice vocabulary of abuse; while some of her more fiery spirits threw out playful hints as to the propriety of gouging the "stranger," and furnishing him with a permanent suit of tar and feathers, in the very improbable event of his paying them a second visit. the perusal of these animated expressions of free opinion suggested the following lines, which those who remember boz's book, and the festivities with which he was all but hunted to death, will at once understand. we hope we have done justice to the bitterness and "immortal hate" of these thin-skinned sons of freedom. when will americans cease to justify the ridicule of europe, by bearing rebuke, or even misrepresentation, calmly as a great nation should?] sneak across the wide atlantic, worthless london's puling child, better that its waves should bear thee, than the land thou hast reviled; better in the stifling cabin, on the sofa thou shouldst lie, sickening as the fetid nigger bears the greens and bacon by; better, when the midnight horrors haunt the strained and creaking ship, thou shouldst yell in vain for brandy with a fever-sodden lip; when amid the deepening darkness and the lamp's ex piring shade, from {057}the bagman's berth above thee comes the bountiful cascade, better than upon the broadway thou shouldst be at noon day seen, smirking like a tracy tupman with a mantalini mien, with a rivulet of satin falling o'er thy puny chest, worse than even p. willis for an evening party drest! we received thee warmly--kindly--though we knew thou wert a quiz, partly for thyself it may be, chiefly for the sake of phiz! much we bore, and much we suffered, listening to remorse less spells of that smike's unceasing drivellings, and these everlast ing nells. when you talked of babes and sunshine, fields, and all that sort of thing, each columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his sling; and though all our sleeves were bursting, from the many hundreds near not one single scornful titter rose on thy complacent ear. then to show thee to the ladies, with our usual want of sense we engaged the place in park street at a ruinous expense; even our own three-volumed cooper waived his old pre scriptive right, and deluded dickens figured first on that eventful night. clusters {058}of uncoated yorkers, vainly striving to be cool, saw thee desperately plunging through, the perils of la poule: and their muttered exclamation drowned the tenor of the tune,- "don't he beat all natur hollow? don't he foot it like a 'coon?" did we spare our brandy-cocktails, stint thee of our whisky grogs? half the juleps that we gave thee would have floored a newman noggs; and thou took'st them in so kindly, little was there then to blame, to thy parched and panting palate sweet as mother's milk they came. did the hams of old virginny find no favour in thine eyes? came no soft compunction o'er thee at the thought of pumpkin pies? could not all our chicken fixings into silence fix thy scorn? did not all our cakes rebuke thee, johnny, waffle, dander, corn? could not all our care and coddling teach, thee how to draw it mild? well, no matter, we deserve it. serves us right! we spoilt the child! you, {059}forsooth, must come crusading, boring us with broad est hints of your own peculiar losses by american reprints. such an impudent remonstrance never in our face was flung; lever stands it, so does ainsworth; _you_, i guess, may hold your tongue. downpour throats you'd cram your projects, thick and hard as pickled salmon, that, i s'pose, you call free trading,--i pronounce it utter gammon. no, my lad, a 'cuter vision than your own might soon have seen that a true columbian ogle carries little that is green; that we never will surrender useful privateering rights, stoutly won at glorious bunker's hill, and other famous fights; that we keep our native dollars for our native scribbling gents, and on british manufacture only waste our straggling cents; quite enough we pay, i reckon, when we stump of these a few for the voyages and travels of a freshman such as you. i have been at niagara, i have stood beneath the falls, i have marked the water twisting over its rampagious walls; but "a holy calm sensation," one, in fact, of perfect peace, was as much my first idea as the thought of christmas geese. as for {060}"old familiar faces," looking through the misty air, surely you were strongly liquored when you saw your chuckster there. one familiar face, however, you will very likely see, if you'll only treat the natives to a call in tennessee, of a certain individual, true columbian every inch, in a high judicial station, called by 'mancipators, lynch. half an hour of conversation with his worship in a wood, would, i strongly notion, do you an infernal deal of good. then you'd understand more clearly than you ever did before, why an independent patriot freely spits upon the floor, why he gouges when he pleases, why he whittles at the chairs, why for swift and deadly combat still the bowie-knife he bears,- why he sneers at the old country with republican disdain, and, unheedful of the negro's cry, still tighter draws his chain. all these things the judge shall teach thee of the land thou hast reviled; get thee o'er the wide atlantic, worthless london's puling child! miscellaneous ballads [illustration: 075] the student of jena once--'twas {063}when i lived at jena- at a wirthshous' door i sat; and in pensive contemplation ate the sausage thick and fat' ate the kraut that never sourer tasted to my lips than here; smoked my pipe of strong canaster, sipped my fifteenth jug of beer; gazed upon the glancing river, gazed upon the tranquil pool, whence {064}the silver-voiced undine, when the nights were calm and cool, as the baron fouqué tells us, rose from out her shelly grot, casting glamour o'er the waters, witching that enchanted spot. from the shadow which the coppice flings across the rippling stream, did i hear a sound of music- was it thought or was it dream? there, beside a pile of linen, stretched along the daisied sward, stood a young and blooming maiden- 'twas her thrush-like song i heard. evermore within the eddy did she plunge the white chemise; and her robes were losely gathered rather far above her knees; then my breath at once forsook me, for too surely did i deem that i saw the fair undine standing in the glancing stream- and i felt the charm of knighthood; and from that remembered day, every evening to the wirthshaus took i my enchanted way. shortly {065}to relate my story, many a week of summer long came i there, when beer-o'ertaken, with my lute and with my song; sang in mellow-toned soprano all my love and all my woe, till the river-maiden answered, lilting in the stream below:- "fair undine! sweet undine! dost thou love as i love thee?" "love is free as running water," was the answer made to me. thus, in interchange seraphic, did i woo my phantom fay, till the nights grew long and chilly, short and shorter grew the day; till at last--'twas dark and gloomy, dull and starless was the sky, and my steps were all unsteady, for a little flushed was i,- to the well-accustomed signal no response the maiden gave; but i heard the waters washing, and the moaning of the wave. vanished {066}was my own undine, all her linen, too, was gone; and i walked about lamenting on the river bank alone. idiot that i was, for never had i asked the maiden's name. was it lieschen--was it gretchen? had she tin, or whence she came? so i took my trusty meerschaum, and i took my lute likewise; wandered forth in minstrel fashion, underneath the louring skies; sang before each comely wirthshaus, sang beside each purling stream, that same ditty which i chanted when undine was my theme, singing, as i sang at jena, when the shifts were hung to dry, "fair undine! young undine! dost thou love as well as i?" but, alas! in field or village, or beside the pebbly shore, did i see those glancing ankles, and the white robe never more; and {067}no answer came to greet me, no sweet voice to mine replied; but i heard the waters rippling, and the moaning of the tide. [illustration: 079] [illustration: 080] the lay of the jebite there {068}is a sound that's dear to me, it haunts me in my sleep; i wake, and, if i hear it not, i cannot choose but weep. above the roaring of the wind, above the river's flow, methinks i hear the mystic cry of "clo!--old clo!" the exile's song, it thrills among the dwellings of the free, its {69}sound is strange to english ears, but 'tis not strange to me; for it hath shook the tented field in ages long ago, and hosts have quailed before the cry of "clo!--old clo!" oh, lose it not! forsake it not! and let no time efface the memory of that solemn sound, the watchword of our race; for not by dark and eagle eye the hebrew shall you know, so well as by the plaintive cry of "clo!--old clo!" even now, perchance, by jordan's banks, or sidon's sunny walls, where, dial-like, to portion time, the palm-tree's shadow falls, the pilgrims, wending on their way, will linger as they go, and listen to the distant cry of "clo!--old clo!" [illustration: 082] bursch groggneburg [after the manner of schiller.] "bursch! {070}if foaming beer content ye, come and drink your fill; in our cellars there is plenty; himmel! how you swill! that the liquor hath allurance, well i understand; but 'tis really past endurance, when you squeeze my hand!" and he heard her as if dreaming, heard her half in awe; and {071}the meerschaum's smoke came streaming from his open jaw: and his pulse heat somewhat quicker than it did before, and he finished off his liquor, staggered through the door; bolted off direct to munich, and within the year underneath his german tunic stowed whole butts of beer. and he drank like fifty fishes, drank till all was blue; for he felt extremely vicious- somewhat thirsty too. but at length this dire deboshing drew towards an end; few of all his silver groschen had he left to spend. and he knew it was not prudent longer to remain; so, with weary feet, the student wended home again. at the tavern's well-known portal knocks he as before, and a {072}waiter, rather mortal, hiccups through the door- "master's sleeping in the kitchen you'll alarm the house; yesterday the jungfrau fritchen married baker kraus!" like a fiery comet bristling, rose the young man's hair, and, poor soul! he fell a-whistling out of sheer despair. down the gloomy street in silence, savage-calm he goes; but he did no deed of vi'lence- only blew his nose. then he hired an airy garret near her dwelling-place; grew a beard of fiercest carrot, never washed his face; sate all day beside the casement, sate a dreary man; found in smoking such an easement as the wretched can; stared for hours and hours together. stared yet more and more; till {073}in fine and sunny weather. at the baker's door, stood, in apron white and mealy, that beloved dame, counting out the loaves so freely, selling of the same. then like a volcano puffing, smoked he out his pipe; sighed and supped on ducks and stuffing, ham and kraut and tripe; went to bed, and, in the morning, waited as before, still his eyes in anguish turning to the baker's door; till, with apron white and mealy, came the lovely dame, counting out the loaves so freely, selling of the same. so one day--the fact's amazing!- on his post he died! and they found the body gazing at the baker's bride. night and morning [not by sir e. bulwer lytton.] "thy {074}coffee, tom, 's untasted, and thy egg is very cold; thy cheeks are wan and wasted, not rosy as of old. my boy, what has come o'er ye? you surely are not well! try some of that ham before ye, and then, tom, ring the bell!" "i cannot eat, my mother, my tongue is parched and bound, and my head, somehow or other, is swimming round and round. in my eyes there is a fulness, and my pulse is beating quick; on my brain is a weight of dulness: oh, mother, i am sick!" "these {075}long, long nights of watching are killing you outright; the evening dews are catching, and you're out every night. why does that horrid grumbler, old inkpen, work you so?" "my head! oh, that tenth tumbler! 'twas that which wrought my woe!" the bitter bit the {076}sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, and the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; the river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, and happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me! they are going to the church, mother,--i hear the mar riage-bell; it booms along the upland,--oh! it haunts me like a knell; he leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, and closely to his side she clings,--she does, the demirep! they are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, the stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; and the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere. he will pass {077}beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, by the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed; and down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; but he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted jane! he said that i was proud, mother,--that i looked for rank and gold; he said i did not love him,--he said my words were cold; he said i kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game- and it may be that i did, mother; but who hasn't done the same? i did not know my heart, mother,--i know it now too late; i thought that i without a pang could wed some nobler mate; but no nobler suitor sought me,--and he has taken wing, and my heart is gone, and i am left a lone and blighted thing. you {078}may lay me in my "bed, mother,--my head is throb bing sore; and, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; and, if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding child, draw me a pot of beer, mother--and, mother, draw it mild! [illustration: 090] the meeting once {079}i lay beside a fountain, lulled me with its gentle song, and my thoughts o'er dale and mountain with the clouds were borne along. there i saw old castles flinging shadowy gleams on moveless seas, saw gigantic forests swinging to and fro without a breeze; and in dusky alleys straying, many a giant shape of power, troops of nymphs in sunshine playing, singing, dancing, hour on hour. i, too, trod these plains elysian, heard their ringing tones of mirth, but a brighter, fairer vision called me back again to earth. from the forest shade advancing, see, where comes a lovely may; the dew, like gems, before her glancing, as she brushes it away! straight {080}i rose, and ran to meet her, seized her hand--the heavenly blue of her eyes smiled brighter, sweeter, as she asked me--"who are you?" to that question came another- what its aim i still must doubt- and she asked me, "how's your mother? does she know that you are out?" "no! my mother does not know it, beauteous, heaven-descended muse!" "then be off, my handsome poet, and say i sent you with the news!" [illustration: 093] the convict and the australian lady thy {081}skin is dark as jet, ladye, thy cheek is sharp and high, and there's a cruel leer, love, within thy rolling eye: these tangled ebon tresses no comb hath e'er gone through; and thy forehead, it is furrowed by the elegant tattoo! i love {082}thee,--oh, i love thee, thou strangely-feeding maid! nay, lift not thus thy boomerang, i meant not to upbraid! come, let me taste those yellow lips that ne'er were tasted yet, save when the shipwrecked mariner passed through them for a whet. nay, squeeze me not so tightly! for i am gaunt and thin; there's little flesh to tempt thee beneath a convict's skin. i came not to be eaten; i sought thee, love, to woo; besides, bethink thee, dearest, thou'st dined on cockatoo. thy father is a chieftain! why, that's the very thing! within my native country i too have been a king. behold this branded letter, which nothing can efface! it is the royal emblem, the token of my race! but {083}rebels rose against me, and dared my power disown- you've heard, love, of the judges? they drove me from my throne. and i have wandered hither, across the stormy sea, in search of glorious freedom,- in search, my sweet, of thee! the bush is now my empire, the knife my sceptre keen; come with me to the desert wild, and be my dusky queen. i cannot give thee jewels, i have nor sheep nor cow, yet there are kangaroos, love, and colonists enow. we'll meet the unwary settler, as whistling home he goes, and i'll take tribute from him, his money and his clothes. then on his bleeding carcass thou'lt lay thy pretty paw, and lunch upon him roasted, or, if you like it, raw! then {084}come with me, my princess, my own australian dear, within this grove of gum-trees we'll hold our bridal cheer! thy heart with love is heating, i feel it through my side:- hurrah, then, for the noble pair, the convict and his bride! doleful lay of the honorable j. o. uwins come and listen, lords and ladies, to a woeful lay of mine; he whose tailor's bill unpaid is, let him now his ear incline! let him hearken to my story, how the noblest of the land pined in piteous purgatory, 'neath a sponging bailiffs hand. i. o. uwins! i. o. uwins! baron's son although thou be, thou must pay for thy misdoings in the country of the free! none of all thy sire's retainers to thy rescue now may come; and there lie some score detainers with abednego, the bum. little recked he of his prison whilst the sun was in the sky: only when the moon was risen did you hear the captive's cry. for till then, cigars and claret lulled him in oblivion sweet; and {086}he much, preferred a garret, for his drinking, to the street. but the moonlight, pale and broken, pained at soul the baron's son; for he knew, by that soft token, that the larking had begun;- that the stout and valiant marquis then was leading forth his swells, milling some policeman's carcass, or purloining private bells. so he sat in grief and sorrow, rather drunk than otherwise, till the golden gush of morrow dawned once more upon his eyes: till the sponging bailiff's daughter, lightly tapping at the door, brought his draught of soda-water, brandy-bottomed as before. "sweet rebecca! has your father, think you, made a deal of brass?" and she answered--"sir, i rather should imagine that he has." uwins then, his whiskers scratching, leered upon the maiden's face, and, {087}her hand with ardour catching, folded her in close embrace. "la, sir! let alone--you fright me!" said the daughter of the jew: "dearest, how those eyes delight me! let me love thee, darling, do!" "vat is dish?" the bailiff muttered, rushing in with fury wild; "ish your muffins so veil buttered, dat you darsh insult ma shild?" "honourable my intentions, good abednego, i swear! and i have some small pretensions, for i am a baron's heir. if you'll only clear my credit, and advance a _thou_ * or so, she's a peeress--i have said it: don't you twig, abednego?" * the fashionable abbreviation for a thousand pounds. "datsh a very different matter," said the bailiff, with a leer; "but you musht not cut it fatter than ta slish will shtand, ma tear! if you seeksh ma approbation, you musht quite give up your rigsh, alsho {088}you musht join our nashun, and renounsli ta flesh of pigsh. fast as one of fagin's pupils, i. o. uwins did agree! little plagued with holy scruples from the starting-post was he. but at times a baleful vision rose before his shuddering view, for he knew that circumcision was expected from a jew. at a meeting of the rabbis, held about the whitsuntide, was this thorough-paced barabbas wedded to his hebrew bride: all his previous debts compounded, from the sponging-house he came, and his father's feelings wounded with reflections on the same. but the sire his son accosted- "split my wig! if any more such a double-dyed apostate shall presume to cross my door! not a penny-piece to save ye from the kennel or the spout;- dinner, {089}john! the pig and gravy!- kick this dirty scoundrel out!" forth rushed i. o. uwins, faster than all winking--much afraid that the orders of the master would be punctually obeyed: sought his club, and then the sentence of expulsion first he saw; no one dared to own acquaintance with a bailiff's son-in-law. uselessly, down bond street strutting, did he greet his friends of yore: such a universal cutting never man received before: till at last his pride revolted- pale, and lean, and stern he grew; and his wife rebecca bolted with a missionary jew. ye who read this doleful ditty, ask ye where is uwins now? wend your way through london city, climb to holborn's lofty brow; near the sign-post of the "nigger," near the baked-potato shed, you {090}may see a ghastly figure with three hats upon his head. when the evening shades are dusky, then the phantom form draws near, and, with accents low and husky, pours effluvium in your ear; craving an immediate barter of your trousers or surtout; and you know the hebrew martyr, once the peerless i. o. u [illustration: 102] [illustration: 103] the knyghte and the taylzeour's daughter did {091}you ever hear the story- old the legend is, and true- how a knyghte of fame and glory all aside his armour threw; spouted spear and pawned habergeon, pledged his sword and surcoat gay, sate down cross-legged on the shop-board, sate and stitched the livelong day? "taylzeour! {092}not one single shilling does my breeches-pocket hold: i to pay am really willing, if i only had the gold. farmers none can i encounter, graziers there are none to kill; therefore, prithee, gentle taylzeour, bother not about thy bill." "good sir knyghte, just once too often have you tried that slippery trick; hearts like mine you cannot soften, vainly do you ask for tick. christmas and its bills are coming, soon will they be showering in; therefore, once for all, my rum un, i expect you'll post the tin. "mark, sir knyghte, that gloomy bayliffe in the palmer's amice brown; he shall lead you unto jail, if instantly you stump not down." deeply swore the young crusader, but the taylzeour would not hear; and the gloomy, bearded bayliffe evermore kept sneaking near. "neither groat nor maravedi have i got my soul to bless; and {093}i'd feel extremely seedy, languishing in vile duresse. therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour, take my steed and armour free, pawn them at thy hebrew uncle's, and i'll work the rest for thee." lightly leaped he on the shop-board, lightly crooked his manly limb, lightly drove the glancing needle through the growing doublet's rim. gaberdines in countless number did the taylzeour knyghte repair, and entirely on cucumber and on cabbage lived he there. once his weary task beguiling with a low and plaintive song, that good knyghte o'er miles of broadcloth drove the hissing goose along; from her lofty latticed window looked the taylzeour's daughter down, and she instantly discovered that her heart was not her own. "canst thou love me, gentle stranger?" picking at a pink she stood- and the knyghte at once admitted that he rather thought he could. "he {094}who weds me shall have riches, gold, and lands, and houses free." "for a single pair of--_small-clothes_, i would roam the world with thee!" then she flung him down the tickets- well the knyghte their import knew- "take this gold, and win thy armour from the unbelieving jew. though in garments mean and lowly, thou wouldst roam the world with me, only {095}as a belted warrior, stranger, will i wed with, thee!" [illustration: 106] at the feast of good saint stitchem, in the middle of the spring, there was some superior jousting, by the order of the king. "valiant knyghtes!" proclaimed the monarch, "you will please to understand, he who bears himself most bravely shall obtain my daughter's hand." well and bravely did they bear them, bravely battled, one and all; but the bravest in the tourney was a warrior stout and tall. none could tell his name or lineage, none could meet him in the field, and a goose regardant proper hissed along his azure shield. "warrior, thou hast won my daughter!" but the champion bowed his knee, "royal blood may not be wasted on a simple knight like me. she i love is meek and lowly; but her heart is kind and free; also, there is tin forthcoming, though she is of low degree." slowly {096}rose that nameless warrior, slowly turned his steps aside, passed the lattice where the princess sate in beauty, sate in pride. passed the row of noble ladies, hied him to an humbler seat, and in silence laid the chaplet at the taylzeour's daughter's feet. [illustration: 108] [illustration: 109] the midnight visit it was the lord of castlereagh, he sat within his room, his arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was marked with gloom; they said that st helena's isle had rendered up its charge, that france was bristling high in arms--the emperor at large. 'twas {098}midnight! all the lamps were dim, and dull as death the street, it might be that the watchman slept that night upon his beat, when lo! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the stair, the door revolved upon its hinge--great heaven!--what enters there? a little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn stride; his hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened wide; and on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a star,- saint george! protect us! 'tis the man--the thunder bolt of war! is that the famous hat that waved along marengo's ridge? are these the spurs of austerlitz--the boots of lodi's bridge? leads he the conscript swarm again from france's hornet hive? what seeks the fell usurper here, in britain, and alive? pale {099}grew the lord of castlereagh, his tongue was parched and dry, as in his brain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye; what wonder if he shrunk in fear, for who could meet the glance of him who reared, 'mid russian snows, the gonfalon of france? from the side-pocket of his vest a pinch the despot took, yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look: "thou thoughtst the lion was afar, but he hath burst the chain- the watchword for to-night is france--the answer st heléne. "and didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves, could bind the master of the universe--the monarch of mankind? i tell thee, fool! the world itself is all too small for me; i laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars--i burst them, and am free. "thou thinkst that england hates me! mark!--this very night my name was thundered in its capital with tumult and acclaim! they {100}saw me, knew me, owned my power--proud lord! i say, beware! there be men within the surrey side, who know to do and dare! "to-morrow in thy very teeth my standard will i rear- ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and shrink with fear! to-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly flames; and as i crossed the borodin, so shall i cross the thames! "thou'lt seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? weak lordling, do thy worst! these hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters they have burst. yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place? behold, 'tis written there! and let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they dare!" another pinch, another stride--he passes through the door- "was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor? and could that be the emperor that moved before my eyes? ah, yes! too sure it was himself, for here the paper lies!" with, {101}trembling hands lord castlereagh undid the mystic scroll, with glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his soul- "what's here?--'at astley's, every night, the play of moscow's fall! napoleon, for the thousandth time, by mr gomersal!'" [illustration: 113] [illustration: 114] the lay of the lovelorn. comrades, {102}you may pass the rosy. with permission of the chair, i shall leave you for a little, for i'd like to take the air. whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger beer, or these strong cheroots, i know not, but i feel a little queer. let me go. nay, chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad! when you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where i'm to be had. whew! {103}this is a great relief now! let me but undo my stock; resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock. in my ears i hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes- bless my heart, how very odd! why, surely there's a brace of moons! see! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare, like my faithless cousin amy when she drove me to despair. oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! oh, my amy! no, con found it! i must wear the mournful willow,--all around my hat i've bound it. falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love! is it well to wish thee happy? having known me, could you ever stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver? happy! damme! thou shalt lower to his level day by day, changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay. as the husband is, the wife is,--he is stomach-plagued and old; and his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold. when his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then something lower than his hookah,--something less than his cayenne. what is this? his eyes are pinky. was't the claret? oh, no, no,- bless your soul! it was the salmon,--salmon always makes him so. take him to thy dainty chamber--sooth him with thy lightest fancies; he will understand thee, won't he?--pay thee with a lover's glances? louder {105}than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide, nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride. sweet response, delightful music! gaze upon thy noble charge, till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek laffarge. better thou wert dead before me,--better, better that i stood, looking on thy murdered body, like the injured daniel good! better thou and i were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead, with a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed! cursed be the bank of england's notes, that tempt the soul to sin! cursed be the want of acres,--doubly cursed the want of tin! cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed! cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed! cursed {106}be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn! cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole concern! oh, 'tis well that i should bluster,--much i'm like to make of that; better comfort have i found in singing "all around my hat." but that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my british ears. 'twill not do to pine for ever,--i am getting up in years. can't i turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, and in writing sunday libels drown my private wretched ness? oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn i knew, when my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two! when i {107}smoked my independent pipe along the quadrant wide, with the many larks of london flaring up on every side; when i went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come; coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb; felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens! brandy at the cider cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at evans'! or in the adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears, saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years! saw jack sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again, snapping newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain. might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in awe, were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of laurie, spite of law. in such {108}scenes as these i triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted, and my cousin's cold refusal left me very much dis gusted! since, my heart is sere and withered, and i do not care a curse, whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse. hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum; they would mock me in derision, should i thus appear before 'em. womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayed. in the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade. i'll to afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at spital fields. or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, i shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride; feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root, lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit. never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main sounds the oath of british commerce, or the accents of cockaigne. there, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents; sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, o rot the three per cents! there the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin! i will wed some savage woman--nay, i'll wed at least a dozen. there i'll rear my young mulattoes, as no bond street brats are reared: they shall dive for alligators, catch the mid goats by the beard- whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, worship mighty mumbo jumbo in the mountains of the moon. i myself, in {110}far timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe. fiercely shall i shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses, startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhino ceroses. fool! again the dream, the fancy! but i know my words are mad, for i hold the grey barbarian lower than the christian cad. i the swell--the city dandy! i to seek such horrid places,- i to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey faces! i to wed with coromantees! i, who managed--very near- to secure theheart and fortune of the widow shilli beer! stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away; maids ere now, i know, have loved me, and another maiden may. 'morning {111}post' ('the times' won't trust me) help me, as i know you can; i will pen an advertisement,--that's a never failing plan. [illustration: 123] "wanted--by a bard, in wedlock, some young interesting woman: looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming! "hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken fetters; please address to a. t., chelsea. n.b.--you must pay the letters." that's the sort of thing to do it. now i'll go and taste the balmy,- rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin amy! [illustration: 124] my wife's cousin decked {112}with shoes of blackest polish, and with shirt as white as snow, after matutinal breakfast to my daily desk i go; first a fond salute bestowing on my mary's ruby lips, which, perchance, may be rewarded with a pair of playful nips. all day long across the ledger still my patient pen i drive, thinking what a feast awaits me in my happy home at five; in my small one-storeyed eden, where my wife awaits my coming, and our solitary handmaid mutton-chops with care is crumbing. when {113}the clock proclaims my freedom, then my hat i seize and vanish; every trouble from my bosom, every anxious care i banish. swiftly brushing o'er the pavement, at a furious pace i go, till i reach my darling dwelling in the wilds of pimlico. "mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?" thus i cry, while yet afar; ah! what scent invades my nostrils?- 'tis the smoke of a cigar! instantly into the parlour like a maniac i haste, and i find a young life-guardsman, with his arm round mary's waist. and his other hand is playing most familiarly with hers; and i think my brussels carpet somewhat damaged by his spurs. "fire and furies! what the blazes?" thus in frenzied wrath i call; when my spouse her arms upraises, with a most astounding squall. "was there ever such a monster, ever such a wretched wife? ah! how {114}long must i endure it, how protract this hateful life? all day long, quite unprotected, does he leave his wife at home; and she cannot see her cousins, even when they kindly come!" then the young life-guardsman, rising, scarce vouchsafes a single word, but, with look of deadly menace, claps his hand upon his sword; and in fear i faintly falter- "this your cousin, then he's mine! very glad, indeed, to see you, won't you stop with us, and dine?" won't a ferret suck a rabbit?- as a thing of course he stops; and with most voracious swallow walks into my mutton-chops. in the twinkling of a bed-post is each savoury platter clear, and he shows uncommon science in his estimate of beer. half-and-half goes down before him, gurgling from the pewter pot; and he {115}moves a counter motion for a glass of something hot. neither chops nor beer i grudge him, nor a moderate share of goes; but i know not why he's always treading upon mary's toes. evermore, when, home returning, from the counting-house i come, do i find the young life-guardsman smoking pipes and drinking rum. evermore he stays to dinner, evermore devours my meal; for i have a wholesome horror both of powder and of steel. yet i know he's mary's cousin, for my only son and heir much resembles that young guardsman, "with the self-same curly hair; but i wish he would not always spoil my carpet with his spurs; and i'd rather see his fingers in the fire, than touching hers. [illustration: 128] the queen in france an ancient scottish ballad. part i. it {116}fell upon the august month, when landsmen bide at hame, that our gude queen went out to sail upon the saut-sea faem. and she has ta'en the silk and gowd, the like was never seen; and she {117}has ta'en the prince albert, and the bauld lord abërdeen. "ye'se bide at hame, lord wellington: ye daurna gang wi' me: for ye hae been ance in the land o' france, and that's enench for ye. "ye'se bide at hame, sir robert peel, to gather the red and the white monie; and see that my men dinna eat me up at windsor wi' their gluttonie." they hadna sailed a league, a league,- a league, but barely twa, when the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan, and the wind began to blaw. "o weel weel may the waters rise, in welcome o' their queen; what gars ye look sae white, albert? what makes your ee sae green?" "my heart is sick, my heid is sair: "gie me a glass o' the gude brandie: to set my foot on the braid green sward, i'd gie the half o' my yearly fee. "it's {118}sweet to hunt the sprightly hare on the bonny slopes o' windsor lea, but o, it's ill to bear the thud and pitching o' the saut saut sea!" and aye they sailed, and aye they sailed, till england sank behind, and over to the coast of france they drave before the wind. then up and spak the king o' france, was birling at the wine; "o wha may be the gay ladye, that owns that ship sae fine? "and wha may be that bonny lad, that looks sae pale and wan? i'll wad my lands o' picardie, that he's nae englishman." then up and spak an auld french lord, was sitting beneath his knee, "it is the queen o' braid england that's come across the sea." "and o an it be england's queen, she's welcome here the day; i'd rather hae her for a friend than for a deadly fae. "gae, {119}kill the eerock in the yard, the auld sow in the sty, and bake for her the brockit calf, but and the puddock-pie!" and he has gane until the ship, as soon as it drew near, and he has ta'en her by the hand- "ye're kindly welcome here!" and syne he kissed her on ae cheek, and syne upon the ither; and he ca'd her his sister dear, and she ca'd him her brither. "light doun, light doun now, ladye mine, light doun upon the shore; nae english king has trodden here this thousand years and more." "and gin i lighted on your land, as light fu' weel i may, o am i free to feast wi' you, and free to come and gae?" and he has sworn by the haly rood, and the black stane o' dumblane, that she is free to come and gae till twenty days are gane. "i've {120}lippened to a frenchman's aith," said gude lord aberdeen; "but i'll never lippen to it again sae lang's the grass is green. "yet gae your ways, my sovereign liege, sin' better mayna be; the wee bit bairns are safe at hame, by the blessing o' marie!" then doun she lighted frae the ship, she lighted safe and sound; and glad was our good prince albert to step upon the ground. "is that your queen, my lord," she said, "that auld and buirdly dame? i see the crown upon her head; but i dinna ken her name." and she has kissed the frenchman's queen, and eke her daughters three, and gien her hand to the young princess, that louted upon the knee. and she has gane to the proud castle, that's biggit beside the sea: but aye, when she thought o' the bairns at hame, the tear was in her ee. she {121}gied the king the cheshire cheese, but and the porter fine; and he gied her the puddock-pies, but and the blude-red wine. then up and spak the dourest prince, an admiral was he; "let's keep the queen o' england here, sin' better mayna be! "o mony is the dainty king that we hae trappit here; and mony is the english yerl that's in our dungeons drear!" "you lee, you lee, ye graceless loon, sae loud's i hear ye lee! there never yet was englishman that came to skaith by me. "gae oot, gae oot, ye fause traitour! gae oot until the street; it's shame that kings and queens should sit wi' sic a knave at meat!" then up and raise the young french lord, in wrath and hie disdain- "o ye may sit, and ye may eat your puddock-pies alane! "but {122}were i in my ain gude ship, and sailing wi' the wind, and did i meet wi' auld napier, i'd tell him o' my mind." o then the queen leuch loud and lang, and her colour went and came; "gin ye meet wi' charlie on the sea, ye'd wish yersel at hame!" and aye they birlit at the wine, and drank richt merrilie, till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yard, and the abbey bell struck three. the queen she gaed until her bed, and prince albert likewise; and the last word that gay ladye said was--"o thae puddock-pies!" part ii. the sun was high within the lift afore the french king raise; and syne he louped intil his sark, and warslit on his claes. "gae {123}up, gae up, my little foot-page, gae up until the toun; and gin ye meet wi' the auld harper, be sure ye bring him doun." and he has met wi' the auld harper; o but his een were reid; and the bizzing o' a swarm o' bees was singing in his heid. "alack! alack!" the harper said, "that this should e'er hae been! i daurna gang before my liege, for i was fou yestreen." "it's ye maun come, ye auld harper: ye dauma tarry lang; the king is just dementit-like for wanting o' a sang." and when he came to the king's chamber, he loutit on his knee, "o what may be your gracious will wi' an auld frail man like me?" "i want a sang, harper," he said, "i want a sang richt speedilie; and gin ye dinna make a sang, i'll hang ye up on the gallows tree." "i canna {124}do't, my liege," he said, "hae mercy on my auld grey hair! but gin that i had got the words, i think that i might mak the air." "and wha's to mak the words, fause loon, when minstrels we have barely twa; and lamartine is in paris toun, and victor hugo far awa?" "the diel may gang for lamartine, and flee away wi' auld hugo, for a better minstrel than them baith within this very toun i know. "o kens my liege the gude walter, at hame they ca' him bon gaultier? he'll rhyme ony day wi' true thomas, and he is in the castle here." the french king first he lauchit loud, and syne did he begin to sing; "my een are auld, and my heart is cauld, or i suld hae known the minstrels' king. "gae take to him this ring o' gowd, and this mantle o' the silk sae fine, and bid him mak a maister sang for his sovereign ladye's sake and mine." "i winna {125}take the gowden ring, nor yet the mantle fine: but i'll mak the sang for my ladye's sake, and for a cup of wine." the queen was sitting at the cards, the king ahint her back; and aye she dealed the red honours, and aye she dealed the black; and syne unto the dourest prince she spak richt courteouslie;- "now will ye play, lord admiral, now will ye play wi' me?" the dourest prince he bit his lip, and his brow was black as glaur; "the only game that e'er i play is the bluidy game o' war!" "and gin ye play at that, young man, it weel may cost ye sair; ye'd better stick to the game at cards, for you'll win nae honours there!" the king he leuch, and the queen she leuch, till the tears ran blithely doon; but the admiral he raved and swore, till they kicked him frae the room. the {126}harper came, and the harper sang, and o but they were fain; for when he had sung the gude sang twice, they called for it again. it was the sang o' the field o' gowd, in the days of anld langsyne; when bauld king henry crossed the seas, wi' his brither king to dine. and aye he harped, and aye he carped, till up the queen she sprang- "i'll wad a county palatine, gude walter made that sang." three days had come, three days had gane, the fourth began to fa', when our gude queen to the frenchman said, "it's time i was awa! "o, bonny are the fields o' france, and saftly draps the rain; but my barnies are in windsor tower, and greeting a' their lane. "now ye maun come to me, sir king, as i have come to ye; and a benison upon your heid for a' your courtesie! "ye maun {127}come, and bring your ladye fere; ye sail na say me no; and ye'se mind, we have aye a bed to spare for that gawsy chield guizot." now he has ta'en her lily-white hand, and put it to his lip, and he has ta'en her to the strand, and left her in her ship. "will ye come back, sweet bird," he cried, "will ye come kindly here, when the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing, in the spring-time o' the year?" "it's i would blithely come, my lord, to see ye in the spring; it's i would blithely venture back, but for ae little thing. "it isna that the winds are rude, or that the waters rise, but i loe the roasted beef at hame, and no thae puddock-pies!" [illustration: 140] the massacre of macpherson [from the gaelic.] i. fhairshon {128}swore a feud against the elan m'tavish; marched into their land to murder and to rafish; for he did resolve to extirpate the vipers, with four-and-twenty men and five-and-thirty pipers. ii. but {129}when he had gone half-way down strath canaan, of his fighting tail just three were remainin'. they were all he had, to back him in ta battle; all the rest had gone olf, to drive ta cattle. iii. "fery coot!" cried fhairshon, "so my clan disgraced is; lads, we'll need to fight, pefore we touch the peasties. here's mhic-mac-methusaleh coming wi' his fassals, gillies seventy-three, and sixty dhuiné wassails!" iv. "coot tay to you, sir; are you not ta fhairshon? was you coming here to fisit any person? you {130}are a plackguard, sir! it is now six hundred coot long years, and more, since my glen was plundered." v. "fat is tat you say? dare you cock your peaver? i will teach you, sir, fat is coot pehaviour! you shall not exist for another day more; i will shoot you, sir, or stap you with my claymore!" vi. "i am fery glad to learn what you mention, since i can prevent any such intention." so mhic-mac-methusaleh gave some warlike howls, trew his skhian-dhu, an' stuck it in his powels. vii. in {131}this fery way tied ta faliant fhairshon, who was always thought a superior person. fhairshon had a son, who married noah's daughter, and nearly spoiled ta flood, by trinking up ta water: viii. which he would have done, i at least believe it, had ta mixture peen only half glenlivet. this is all my tale: sirs, i hope 'tis new t'ye! here's your fery good healths, and tamn ta whusky duty! [illustration: 144] the young stockbroker's bride "o swiftly {132}speed the gallant bark!- i say, you mind my luggage, porter! i do not heed yon storm-cloud dark, i go to wed old jenkin's daughter. i go to claim my own mariar, the fairest flower that blooms in harwich; my panting bosom is on fire, and all is ready for the marriage." thus {133}spoke young mivins, as he stepped on hoard the "firefly," harwich packet; the bell rang out, the paddles swept plish-plashing round with noisy racket. the louring clouds young mivins saw, but fear, he felt, was only folly; and so he smoked a fresh cigar, then fell to whistling "nix my dolly!" the wind it roared; the packet's hulk rocked with a most unpleasant motion; young mivins leant him o'er a bulk, and poured his sorrows to the ocean. tints--blue and yellow--signs of woe- flushed, rainbow like, his noble face in, as suddenly he rushed below, crying, "steward, steward, bring a basin!" on sped the bark: the howling storm the funnel's tapering smoke did blow far; unmoved, young mivins' lifeless form was stretched upon a haircloth sofar. all night he moaned, the steamer groaned, and he was hourly getting fainter; when it came bump against the pier, and there was fastened by the painter. young mivins {134}rose, arranged his clothes, caught wildly at his small portmanteau; he was unfit to lie or sit, and found it difficult to stand, too. he sought the deck, he sought the shore, he sought the lady's house like winking, and asked, low tapping at the door, "is this the house of mr jenkin?" a short man came--he told his name- mivins was short--he cut him shorter, for in a fury he exclaimed, "are you the man as vants my darter? yot kim'd on you, last night, young sqvire?" "it was the steamer, rot and scuttle her!" "mayhap it vos, but our mariar yalked off last night with bill the butler." "and so you've kim'd a post too late." "it was the packet, sir, miscarried!" "vy, does you think a gal can vait as sets 'er 'art on being married? last night she vowed she'd be a bride, and 'ave a spouse for vuss or better: so bill struck in; the knot vos tied, and now i vishes you may get her!" young {135}mivins turned him from the spot, bewildered with the dreadful stroke, her perfidy came like a shot- he was a thunder-struck stockbroker. "a curse on steam and steamers too! by their delays i have been undone!" he cried, as, looking very blue, he rode a bachelor to london. the laureates' tourney by the hon. tb----m'a-. [this {136}and the five following poems were among those forwarded to the home secretary, by "the unsuccessful competitors for the laureateship, on its becoming vacant by the death of southey. how they came into our possession is a matter between sir james graham and ourselves. the result of the contest could never have been doubtful, least of all to the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. his own sonnet on the subject is full of the serene consciousness of superiority, which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat. bays! which in former days have graced the brow of some, who lived and loved, and sang and died; leaves that were gathered on the pleasant side of old parnassus from apollo's bough; with palpitating hand i take ye now, since worthier minstrel there is none beside, and with a thrill of song half deified, i bind them proudly on my locks of snow. there shall they bide, till he who follows next, of whom i cannot even guess the name, shall by court favour, or some vain pretext of fancied merit, desecrate the same,- and think, perchance, he wears them quite as well as the sole bard who sang of peter bell!] fytte the first. "what news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news from southern land? how fare the bold conservatives, how is it with ferrand? how does the little prince of wales--how looks our lady queen? and tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at windsor seen?" "i bring {137}no tidings from the court, nor from st stephen's hall; i've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trum pet's battle-call; and these old eyes have seen a fight, which england ne'er hath seen, since fell king richard sobbed his soul through blood on bosworth green. 'he's dead, he's dead, the laureate's dead!' 'twas thus the cry began, and straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man; from grub street, and from houndsditch, and from far ringdon within, the poets all towards whitehall poured on with eldritch din. loud yelled they for sir james the graham: but sore afraid was he; a hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie. 'now by st giles of netherby, my patron saint, i swear, i'd rather by a thousand crowns lord palmerston were here!- 'what is't {138}ye seek, ye rebel knaves--what make you there beneath?' 'the bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath! we seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons of song; choose thou among us all, sir knight--we may not tarry long!' loud laughed the good sir james in scorn--'rare jest it were, i think, but one poor butt of xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink! an' if it flowed with wine or beer, 'tis easy to be seen, that dry within the hour would be the well of hippo crene. 'tell me, if on parnassus' heights there grow a thousand sheaves: or has apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves? or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain the ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train? 'no! get {139}ye "back into your dens, take counsel for the night, and choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight; to-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in spital fields, and he who wins shall have the hays, and he shall die who yields!' down went the window with a crash,--in silence and in fear each raggèd bard looked anxiously upon his neighbour near; then up and spake young tennyson--'who's here that fears for death? 'twere better one of us should die, than england lose the wreath! 'let's cast the lots among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;- for armour bright we'll club our mite, and horses we can borrow; 'twere shame that bards of france should sneer, and german _dichters_ too, if none of british song might dare a deed of _derring-do!_' 'the lists {140}of love are mine,' said moore, 'and not the lists of mars said hunt, 'i seek the jars of wine, but shun the com bat's jars!' 'i'm old,' quoth samuel rogers.--'faith, says camp bell, 'so am i!' 'and i'm in holy orders, sir!' quoth tom of ingoldsby. 'now out upon ye, craven loons!' cried moxon, good at need,- 'bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed. i second alfred's motion, boys,--let's try the chance of lot; and monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.' eight hundred minstrels slunk away--two hundred stayed to draw,- now heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw! 'tis done! 'tis done! and who hath won? keep silence one and all,- the first is william wordsworth hight, the second ned fitzball! fytte the second. 'oh, {141}bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly spitalfields,- how flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields! on either side the chivalry of england throng the green, and in the middle balcony appears our gracious queen. with iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights ap pear, the marquis hal of waterford, and stout sir aubrey vere. 'what ho! there, herald, blow the trump! let's see who comes to claim the butt of golden xeres, and the laureate's honoured name!' that instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel, on courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel; then said our queen--'was ever seen so stout a knight and tall? his name--his race?'--'an't please your grace, it is the brave fitzball. 'oft in {142}the melodrama line his prowess hath been shown, and well throughout the surrey side his thirst for blood is known. but see, the other champion comes!'--then rang the startled air with shouts of 'wordsworth, wordsworth, ho! the bard of kydal's there.' and lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course, appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed man and horse. then shook their ears the sapient peers,--'that joust will soon be done: my lord of brougham, i'll back fitzball, and give you two to one!' 'done,' quoth the brougham,--'and done with you!' 'now, minstrels, are you ready?' exclaimed the lord of waterford,--'you'd better both sit steady. blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to' the fight!' 'amen!' said good sir aubrey vere; 'saint schism defend the right!' as {143}sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall, so started at the trumpet's sound the terrible fitzball; his lance he bore his breast before,--saint george protect the just! or wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shame ful dust! 'who threw that calthrop? seize the knave!' alas! the deed is done; down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright apollo's son. 'undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!' 'it ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!' above him stood the rydal bard--his face was full of woe, 'now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe: a braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall, ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible fitz ball!' they led {144}our wordsworth to the queen--she crowned him with the bays, and wished him many happy years, and many quarter days; and if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine, you've but to call at rydal mount, and taste the laureate's wine!" [illustration: 157] the royal banquet by the hon. gss- the {145}queen she kept high festival in winclsor's lordly hall, and round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined nobles all; there drank the valiant wellington, there fed the wary peel, and at the bottom of the board prince albert carved the veal. "what, {146}pantler, ho! remove the cloth! ho! cellarer, the wine, and bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of brunswick's line!" then rose with one tumultuous shout the band of british peers, "god bless her sacred majesty! let's see the little dears!" now by saint george, our patron saint, 'twas a touching sight to see that iron warrior gently place the princess on his knee; to hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to gape with rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the grape! they passed the wine, the sparkling wine--they filled the goblets up; even brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on the cup; and lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could appease, proposed the immortal memory of king william on his knees. "what {147}want we here, my gracious liege," cried gay lord aberdeen, "save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups between? i ask not now for goulburn's voice or knatchbull's warbling lay, but where's the poet laureate to grace our board to day?" loud laughed the knight of netherby, and scornfully he cried, "or art thou mad with wine, lord earl, or art thyself beside? eight hundred bedlam bards have claimed the laureate's vacant crown, and now like frantic bacchanals run wild through london town!" "now glory to our gracious queen!" a voice was heard to cry, and dark macaulay stood before them all with frenzied eye; "now glory to our gracious queen, and all her glorious race, a boon, a boon, my sovran liege! give me the laureate's place! "'twas i {148}that sang the might of rome, the glories of navarre; and who could swell the fame so well of britain's isles afar? the hero of a hundred fights------" then wellington up sprung, "ho, silence in the ranks, i say! sit down and hold your tongue! "by heaven, thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling lay, or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of assaye! 'tis hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot dine. nurse, take her royal highness, here! sir robert, pass the wine!" "no laureate need we at our board!" then spoke the lord of vaux; "here's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel song, i know. even i {149}myself------" then rose the cry--"a song, a song from brougham!" he sang,--and straightway found himself alone within the room. [illustration: 161] the bard of erin's lament by tm-ee, esq. oh, {150}weep for the hours, when the little blind boy wove round me the spells of his paphian bower; when i dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy, and soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour! from beauty to beauty i passed, like the wind; now fondled the lily, now toyed with the rose; and the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind, was forsook for another ere evening's close. i sighed not for honour, i cared not for fame, while pleasure sat by me, and love was my guest; they twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came, and the bosom of beauty still pillowed my rest: and the harp of my country--neglected it slept- in hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs; from love's sybarite dreams i aroused me, and swept its chords to the tale of her glories and wrongs, but weep{151} for the hour!--life's summer is past, and the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow; and my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast, cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now. no, its ashes are dead--and, alas! love or song no charm to life's lengthening shadows can lend, like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong, and a seat by the fire _tête-à-tête_ with a friend. [illustration: 164] the laureate by at-. who {152}would not be the laureate bold, with his butt of sherry to keep him merry, and nothing to do but to pocket his gold? 'tis i {153}would be the laureate bold! when the days are hot, and the sun is strong, i'd lounge in the gateway all the day long, with her majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. i'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord; but i'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward with a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, and the cool wind blowing upon my breast, and i'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, and watch the clouds as listless as i, lazily, lazily! and i'd pick the moss and daisies white, and chew their stalks with a nibbling bite; and i'd let my fancies roam abroad in search of a hint for a birthday ode, crazily, crazily! oh, that would be the life for me, with plenty to get and nothing to do, but to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, and whistle all day to the queen's cockatoo, trance-somely, trance-somely! then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms, would come to the windows and rest on their brooms, with their saucy caps and their crisped hair, and they'd toss their heads in the fragrant air, and say {154}to each other--"just look down there, at the nice young man, so tidy and small, who is paid for writing on nothing at all, handsomely, handsomely!" they would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles, and crumpled-up halls of the royal hills, giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun, as they'd see me start, with a leap and a run, from the broad of my back to the points of my toes, when a pellet of paper hit my nose, teasingly, sneezingly. then i'd fling them bunches of garden flowers, and hyacinths plucked from the castle bowers; and i'd challenge them all to come down to me, and i'd kiss them all till they kissèd me, laughingly, laughingly. oh, would not that be a merry life, apart from care and apart from strife, with the laureate's wine, and the laureate's pay, and no deductions at quarter-day? oh, that would be the post for me! with {155}plenty to get and nothing to do, but to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, and whistle a tune to the queen's cockatoo, and scribble of verses remarkably few, and at evening empty a bottle or two, quaffingly, quaffingly! 'tis i would be the laureate bold, with my butt of sherry to keep me merry, and nothing to do but to pocket my gold! a midnight meditaion by sir ebl-. fill me {156}once more the foaming pewter up! another hoard of oysters, ladye mine! to-night lucullus with himself shall sup. these mute inglorious miltons are divine! and as i here in slippered ease recline, quaffing of perkins's entire my fill, i sigh not for the lymph of aganippe's rill. a nobler inspiration fires my brain, caught from old england's fine time-hallowed drink; i snatch the pot again and yet again, and as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, fill me once more, i say, up to the brink! this makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm- this nerves the might that sleeps in britain's brawny arm! but these remarks are neither here nor there. where was i? oh, i see--old southey's dead! they'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, and drain the annual butt--and oh, what head more fit with laurel to be garlanded than {157}this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, breathes of castalia's streams, and best macassar oil? i know a grace is seated on my brow, like young apollo's with his golden beams- there should apollo's bays be budding now:- and in my flashing eyes the radiance beams that marks the poet in his waking dreams, when, as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, he feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor. they throng around me now, those things of air, that from my fancy took their being's stamp: there pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, there clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; there pale zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, roams through the starry wilderness of thought, where all is everything, and everything is nought. yes, i am he who sang how aram won the gentle ear of pensive madeline! how love and murder hand in hand may run, cemented by philosophy serene, and kisses bless the spot where gore has been! who {158}breathed the melting sentiment of crime, and for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime! yes, i am he, who on the novel shed obscure philosophy's enchanting light! until the public, 'wildered as they read, believed they saw that which was not in sight- of course 'twas not for me to set them right; for in my nether heart convinced i am, philosophy's as good as any other bam. novels three-volumed i shall write no more- somehow or other now they will not sell; and to invent new passions is a bore- i find the magazines pay quite as well. translating's simple, too, as i can tell, who've hawked at schiller on his lyric throne, and given the astonished bard a meaning all my own. moore, campbell, wordsworth, their best days are grassed: battered and broken are their early lyres, rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, warmed his young hands at smithfield's martyr fires, and, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires. but these are tilings would suit me to the letter, for though the stout is good, old sherry's greatly better. a fico {159}for your small poetic ravers, your hunts, your tennysons, your milnes, and these! shall they compete with him who wrote 'maltravers,' prologue to 'alice or the mysteries'? no! even now my glance prophetic sees my own high brow girt with the bays about. what ho! within there, ho! another pint of stout! [illustration: 171] montgomery, a poem. like {162}one who, waking from a troublous dream, pursues with force his meditative theme; calm as the ocean in its halcyon still, calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill; calm as at ephesus great paul was seen to rend his robes in agonies serene; calm as the love that radiant luther bore to all that lived behind him and before; calm as meek calvin, when, with holy smile, he sang the mass around servetus' pile,- so once again i snatch this harp of mine, to breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine. not now to whisper to the ambient air the sounds of satan's universal prayer; not now to sing, in sweet domestic strife that woman reigns the angel of our life; but to proclaim the wish, with pious art, which thrills through britain's universal heart,- that on this brow, with native honours graced, the laureate's chaplet should at length be placed. fear {161}not, ye maids, who love to hear me speak; let no desponding tears bedim your cheek! no gust of envy, no malicious scorn, hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn. there are who move so far above the great, their very look disarms the glance of hate; their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold, enwrap them like the prophet's mantle's fold. fear not for me, nor think that this our age, blind though it be, hath yet no archimage. i, who have bathed in bright castalia's tide, by classic isis and more classic clyde; i, who have handled, in my lofty strain, all things divine, and many things profane; i, who have trod where seraphs fear to tread; i, who on mount-no, "honey-dew" have fed; i, who undaunted broke the mystic seal, and left no page for prophets to reveal; i, who in shade portentous dante threw; i, who have done what milton dared not do,- i fear no rival for the vacant throne; no mortal thunder shall eclipse my own! let dark macaulay chant his roman lays, let monckton milnes go maunder for the bays, let simmons call on great napoleon's shade, let lytton bulwer seek his aram's aid, let {162}wordsworth, ask for help from peter bell, let campbell carol copenhagen's knell, let delta warble through his delphic groves, let elliott shout for pork and penny loaves,- i care not, i! resolved to stand or fall; one down, another on, i'll smash them all! back, ye profane! this hand alone hath power to pluck the laurel from its sacred bower; this brow alone is privileged to wear the ancient wreath o'er hyacinthine hair; these lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine, and make its mortal juice once more divine. back, ye profane! and thou, fair queen, rejoice: a nation's praise shall consecrate thy choice. thus, then, i kneel where spenser knelt before, on the same spot, perchance, of windsor's floor; and take, while awe-struck millions round me stand, the hallowed wreath from great victoria's hand. the death of space [why {163}has satan's own laureate never given to the world his marvellous threnody on the "death of space"? who knows where the bays might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript to the home office? if un-wonted modesty withholds it from the public eye, the public will pardon the boldness that tears from blushing obscurity the following fragments of this unique poem.] eternity shall raise her funeral-pile in the vast dungeon of the extinguished sky, and, clothed in dim barbaric splendour, smile, and murmur shouts of elegiac joy. while those that dwell beyond the realms of space, and those that people all that dreary void, when old time's endless heir hath run his race, shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoyed. and 'mid the agony of unsullied bliss, her demogorgon's doom shall sin bewail, the undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss, and lash the empyrean with his tail. and {164}hell, inflated with supernal wrath, shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws, and shout into the dull cold ear of death, that he must pay his debt to nature's laws. and when the king of terrors breathes his last, infinity shall creep into her shell, cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast, and end their strife with suicidal yell: while from their ashes, burnt with pomp of kings, 'mid incense floating to the evanished skies, nonentity, on circumambient wings, an everlasting phoenix shall arise. [illustration: 177] little john and the red friar, a lay of sherwood. fytte the first. the {165}deer may leap within the glade; the fawns may follow free- for robin is dead, and his bones are laid beneath the greenwood tree. and {166}broken are his merry, merry men, that goodly companie: there's some have ta'en the northern road with jem of netherbee. the best and bravest of the band with derby ned are gone; but earlie gray and charlie wood, they stayed with little john. now little john was an outlaw proud, a prouder ye never saw; through nottingham and leicester shires he thought his word, was law, and he strutted through the greenwood wide, like a pestilent jackdaw. he swore that none, but with leave of him, should set foot on the turf so free: and he thought to spread his cutter's rule, all over the south countrie. "there's never a knave in the land," he said, "but shall pay his toll to me!" and charlie wood was a taxman good as ever stepped the ground, he levied mail, like a sturdy thief, from all the yeomen round. "nay, stand!" quoth he, "thou shalt pay to me seven pence from every pound!" now word has come to little john, as he lay upon the grass, that a friar red was in merry sherwood without his leave to pass. "come hither, come hither, my little foot-page! ben hawes, come tell to me, what manner of man is this burly frere who walks the woods so free?" "my master good!" the little page said, "his name i wot not well, but he wears on his head a hat so red, with a monstrous scallop-shell. "he says he is prior of copmanshurst, and bishop of london town, and he comes with a rope from our father the pope, to put the outlaws down. "i saw {168}him ride but yester-tide, with his jolly chaplains three; and he swears that he has an open pass from jem of netherbee!" little john has ta'en an arrow so broad, and broken it o'er his knee; "now may i never strike doe again, but this wrong avenged shall be! "and has he dared, this greasy frere, to trespass in my bound, nor asked for leave from little john to range with hawk and hound? "and has he dared to take a pass from jem of netherbee, forgetting that the sherwood shaws pertain of right to me? "o were he but a simple man, and not a slip-shod frere! i'd hang him up by his own waist-rope above yon tangled brere. "o did {169}he come alone from jem, and not from our father the pope, i'd bring him in to copmanshurst, with the noose of a hempen rope! "but since he has come from our father the pope, and sailed across the sea, and since he has power to bind and loose, his life is safe for me; but a heavy penance he shall do beneath the greenwood tree!" "o tarry yet!" quoth charlie wood. "o tarry, master mine! it's ill to shear a yearling hog, or twist the wool of swine! "it's ill to make a bonny silk purse from the ear of a bristly boar; it's ill to provoke a shaveling's curse, when the way lies him before. "i've walked the forest for twenty years, in wet weather and dry, and {170}never stopped a good fellowe, "who had no coin to buy. "what boots it to search a beggarman's bags, when no silver groat he has? so, master mine, i rede you well, e'en let the friar pass!" "now cease thy prate," quoth little john, "thou japest but in vain; an he have not a groat within his pouch, we may find a silver chain. "but were he as bare as a new-flayed buck, as truly he may be, he shall not tread the sherwood shaws without the leave of me!" little john has taken his arrows and bow, his sword and buckler strong, and lifted up his quarter-staff, was full three cloth yards long. and he has left his merry men at the trysting-tree behind, and {171}gone into the gay greenwood, this burly frere to find. o'er holt and hill, through brake and brere, he took his way alone- now, lordlings, list and you shall hear this geste of little john. fytte the second 'tis merry, 'tis merry in gay greenwood, when the little birds are singing, when the buck is belling in the fern, and the hare from the thicket springing! 'tis merry to hear the waters clear, as they splash in the pebbly fall; and the ouzel whistling to his mate, as he lights on the stones so small. but small pleasaunce took little john in all he heard and saw; till he reached the cave of a hermit old who wonned within the shaw. "_ora pro nobis!_" quoth {172}little john- his latin was somewhat rude- "now, holy father, hast thou seen a frere within the wood? "by his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nose, i guess you may know him well; and he wears on his head a hat so red, and a monstrous scallop-shell." "i have served saint pancras," the hermit said, "in this cell for thirty year, yet never saw i, in the forest bounds, the face of such a frere! "an' if ye find him, master mine, e'en take an old man's advice, an' raddle him well, till he roar again, lest ye fail to meet him twice!" "trust me for that!" quoth little john- "trust me for that!" quoth he, with a laugh; "there never was man of woman born, that asked twice for the taste of my quarter staff!" then {173}little john, he strutted on, till he came to an open bound, and he was aware of a red friar, was sitting upon the ground. his shoulders they were broad and strong, and large was he of limb; few yeomen in the north countrie would care to mell with him. he heard the rustling of the boughs, as little john drew near; but never a single word he spoke, of welcome or of cheer: less stir he made than a pedlar would for a small gnat in his ear! i like not his looks! thought little john, nor his staff of the oaken tree. now may our lady be my help, else beaten i well may be! "what dost thou here, thou strong friar, in sherwood's merry round, without the leave of little john, to range with hawk and hound?" "small {174}thought have i," quoth the red friar, "of any leave, i trow; that little john is an outlawed thief, and so, i ween, art thou! "know, i am prior of copmanshurst, and bishop of london town, and i bring a rope from our father the pope, to put the outlaws down." then out spoke little john in wrath, "i tell thee, burly frere, the pope may do as he likes at home, but he sends no bishops here! "up, and away, red friar!" he said, "up, and away, right speedilie; an it were not for that cowl of thine, avenged on thy body i would be!" "nay, heed not that," said the red friar, "and let my cowl no hindrance be; i warrant that i can give as good as ever i think to take from thee!" little {175}john he raised his quarter-staff, and so did the burly priest, and they fought beneath the greenwood tree a stricken hour at least. but little john was weak of fence, and his strength began to fail; whilst the friar's blows came thundering down, like the strokes of a threshing-flail. "now hold thy hand, thou stalwart friar, now rest beneath the thorn, until i gather breath enow, for a blast at my bugle-horn!" "i'll hold my hand," the friar said, "since that is your propine, but, an you sound your bugle-horn, i'll even blow on mine!" little john he wound a blast so shrill 'that it rang o'er rock and linn, and charlie wood, and his merry men all, came lightly bounding in. the friar {176}he wound a blast so strong that it shook both bush and tree, and to his side came witless will, and jem of netherbee; with all the worst of robin's band, and many a rapparee! little john he wist not what to do, when he saw the others come; so he twisted his quarter-staff between his fingers and his thumb. "there's some mistake, good friar!" he said, "there's some mistake 'twixt thee and me i know thou art prior of copmanshurst, but not beneath the greenwood tree. "and if you will take some other name, you shall have ample leave to bide; with pasture also for your bulls, and power to range the forest wide." "there's no mistake!" the friar said; "i'll call myself just what i please. my doctrine is that chalk is chalk, and cheese is nothing else than cheese." "so be it, {177}then!" quoth little john; "but surely you will not object, if i and all my merry men should treat you with reserved respect? [illustration: 189] "we {178}can't call you prior of copmanshurst, nor bishop of london town, nor on the grass, as you chance to pass, can we very well kneel down. "but you'll send the pope my compliments, and say, as a further hint, that, within the sherwood bounds, you saw little john, who is the son-in-law of his friend, old mat-o'-the-mint!" so ends this geste of little john- god save our noble queen! but, lordlings, say--is sherwood now what sherwood once hath been? [illustration: 191] the rhyme of sir launcelot bogle. a legend of glasgow. there's {179}a pleasant place of rest, near a city of the west, where its bravest and its best find their grave. below {180}the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep in the waters still and deep, not a wave! and the old cathedral wall, so scathed and grey and tall. like a priest surveying all, stands beyond; and the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well, makes a kind of tidal swell on the pond! and there it was i lay, on a beauteous summer's day, with the odour of the hay floating by; and i heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely ring, chime by chime, ting by ting, droppingly. then my thoughts went wandering back, on a very beaten track, to the confine deep and black of the tomb; and i wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the grass, where the dandelion has such a bloom. then i {181}straightway did espy, with my slantly-sloping eye, a carvèd stone hard by, somewhat worn; and i read in letters cold ==> see page scan here the letters failed outright, but i knew that a stout crusading lord, who had crossed the jordan's ford, lay there beneath the sward, wet with dew. time and tide they passed away, on that pleasant summer's day, and around me, as i lay, all grew old: sank the chimneys from the town, and the clouds of vapour brown no longer, like a crown, o'er it rolled. sank the great saint rollox stalk, like a pile of dingy chalk; disappeared the cypress walk, and the flowers; and a donjon-keep arose, that might baffle any foes, with its men-at-arms in rows, on the towers. and the {182}flag that flaunted there showed the grim and grizzly bear, which the bogles always wear for their crest. and i heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall, "wake ye up! my comrades all, from your rest! "for, by the blessed rood, there's a glimpse of armour good in the deep cowcaddens wood, o'er the stream; and i hear the stifled hum of a multitude that come, though they have not beat the drum, it would seem! "go tell it to my lord, lest he wish to man the ford with partisan and sword, just beneath; ho, gilkison and nares! ho, provan of cowlairs! we'll back the bonny bears to the death!" to the tower above the moat, like one who heedeth not, came the bold sir launcelot, half undressed; on the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood, with his arms across him glued on his breast. and {183}he muttered, "foe accurst! hast thou dared to seek me first? george of gorbals, do thy worst--for i swear, o'er thy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my bride, from my undissevered side thou shalt tear! "ho, herald mine, brownlee! ride forth, i pray, and see, who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend! sir roderick dalgleish, and my foster-brother neish, with his bloodhounds in the leash, shall attend." forth went the herald stout, o'er the drawbridge and without, then a wild and savage shout rose amain, six arrows sped their force, and, a pale and bleeding corse, he sank from off his horse on the plain! back drew the bold dalgleish, back started stalwart neish, with his bloodhounds in the leash, from brownlee. "now shame be to the sword that made thee knight and lord, thou caitiff thrice abhorred, shame on thee! "ho, {184}bowmen, bend your bows! discharge upon the foes forthwith no end of those heavy bolts. three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave, and a gallows for the slave who revolts!" ten days the combat lasted; but the bold defenders fasted, while the foemen, better pastied, fed their host; you might hear the savage cheers of the hungry gorbaliers, as at night they dressed the steers for the roast. and sir launcelot grew thin, and provan's double chin showed sundry folds of skin down beneath; in silence and in grief found gilkison relief, nor did neish the spell-word, beef, dare to breathe. to the ramparts edith came, that fair and youthful dame, with the rosy evening flame on her face. she sighed, and looked around on the soldiers on the ground, who but little penance found, saying grace! and {185}she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his sword, "one short and little word may i speak? i cannot bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue, or mark the sallow hue of thy cheek! "i know the rage and wrath that my furious brother hath is less against us both than at me. then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe an arrow from the bow, like brownlee!" "i would soil my father's name, i would lose my treasured fame, ladye mine, should such a shame on me light: while i wear a belted brand, together still we stand, heart to heart, hand in hand!" said the knight. "all our chances are not lost, as your brother and his host shall discover to their cost rather hard! ho, provan! take this key--hoist up the malvoisie, and heap it, d'ye see, in the yard. "of {186}usquebaugh and rum, you will find, i reckon, some, besides the beer and mum, extra stout; go straightway to your tasks, and roll me all the casks, as also range the flasks, just without. "if i know the gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their ears in the very inmost tiers of the drink. let them win the outer court, and hold it for their sport, since their time is rather short, i should think!" with a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell, rushed the gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as druids; mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened and they swore, till they stumbled on the floor, o'er the fluids. down their weapons then they threw, and each savage soldier drew from his belt an iron screw, in his fist; george of gorbals found it vain their excitement to re strain, and indeed was rather fain to assist. with a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand, and silence did command, all below- "ho! launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold, in the centre of thy hold, pledge me now! "art surly, brother mine? in this cup of rosy wine, i drink to the decline of thy race! thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run, never more shall setting sun gild thy face! "the pilgrim, in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze, ere the pallid morning rays flicker up; and perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging high! what, brother! art thou dry? fill my cup!" dumb as death stood launcelot, as though he heard him not, but his bosom provan smote, and he swore: and sir roderick dalgleish remarked aside to neish, "never sure did thirsty fish swallow more! "thirty {188}casks are nearly done, yet the revel's scarce begun; it were knightly sport and fun to strike in!" "nay, tarry till they come," quoth neish, "unto the rum- they are working at the mum, and the gin!" then straight there did appear to each gallant gorbalier twenty castles dancing near, all around; the solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them quake, and sinuous as a snake moved the ground. why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to some, but all agreed the rum was divine. and they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly born, who preferred to fill his horn up with wine! then said launcelot the tall, "bring the chargers from their stall; lead them straight unto the hall, down below: draw {189}your weapons from your side, fling the gates asunder wide, and together we shall ride on the foe!" then provan knew full well, as he leaped into his selle, that few would 'scape to tell how they fared; and gilkison and nares, both mounted on their mares, looked terrible as bears, all prepared. with his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinewed neish, and the falchion of dalgleish glittered bright- "now, wake the trumpet's blast; and, comrades, follow fast; smite them down unto the last!" cried the knight. in the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and yell, and shout, as the warriors wheeled about, all in mail. on the miserable kerne fell the death-strokes stiff and stern, as the deer treads down the fern, in the vale! saint {190}mungo be my guide! it was goodly in that tide to see the bogle ride in his haste; he accompanied each blow with a cry of "ha!" or "ho!" and always cleft the foe to the waist. "george of gorbals--craven lord! thou didst threat me with the cord; come forth and brave my sword, if you dare!" but he met with no reply, and never could descry the glitter of his eye anywhere. ere the dawn of morning shone, all the gorbaliers were down, like a field of barley mown in the ear: it had done a soldier good to see how provan stood, with neish all bathed in blood, panting near. "now ply ye to your tasks--go carry down those casks, and place the empty flasks on the floor; george of gorbals scarce will come, with trumpet and with drum, to taste our beer and rum any more!" so {191}they plied them to their tasks, and they carried down the casks, and replaced the empty flasks on the floor; but pallid for a week was the cellar-master's cheek,. for he swore he heard a shriek through the door. when the merry christmas came, and the yule-log lent its flame to the face of squire and dame in the hall, the cellarer went down to tap october brown, which was rather of renown 'mongst them all. he placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow, but his liquor would not flow through the pin. "sure, 'tis sweet as honeysuckles!" so he rapped it with his knuckles, but a sound, as if of buckles, clashed within. "bring a hatchet, varlets, here!" and they cleft the cask of beer: what a spectacle of fear met their sight! there george of gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and grey, in the arms he bore the day of the fight! i have {192}sung this ancient tale, not, i trust, without avail, though the moral ye may fail to perceive; sir launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust, and now, i think, i must take my leave! [illustration: 204] [illustration: 205] the lay of the lover's friend [air--"the days we went a-gypsying."] i {193}would all womankind were dead, or banished o'er the sea; for they have been a bitter plague these last six weeks to me: it is not that i'm touched myself, for that i do not fear; no {194}female face has shown me grace for many a bygone year. but 'tis the most infernal bore, of all the bores i know, to have a friend who's lost his heart a short time ago. whene'er we steam it to black wall, or down to greenwich run, to quaff the pleasant cider-cup, and feed on fish and fun; or climb the slopes of richmond hill, to catch a breath of air: then, for my sins, he straight begins to rave about his fair. oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore, of all the bores i know, to have a friend who's lost his heart a short time ago. in vain you pour into his ear your own confiding grief; in vain you claim his sympathy, in vain you ask relief; in vain you try to rouse him by joke, repartee, or quiz; his {195}sole reply's a burning sigh, and "what a mind it is!" o lord! it is the greatest bore, of all the bores i know, to have a friend who's lost his heart a short time ago. i've heard her thoroughly described a hundred times, i'm sure; and all the while i've tried to smile, and patiently endure; he waxes strong upon his pangs, and potters o'er his grog; and still i say, in a playful way- "why, you're a lucky dog!" but oh! it is the heaviest bore, of all the bores i know, to have a friend who's lost his heart a short time ago. i really wish he'd do like me, when i was young and strong; i formed a passion every week, but never kept it long. but he has not the sportive mood that always rescued me, and {196}so i would all women could be banished o'er the sea. for 'tis the most egregious bore, of all the bores i know, to have a friend who's lost his heart a short time ago. [illustration: 209] francesca da rimini to bon gaultier. [argument.--an {197}impassioned pupil of leigh hunt, having met bon gaultier at a fancy ball, declares the destructive consequences thus.] didst thou not praise me, gaultier, at the hall, ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, with clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness? dost thou remember, when, with stately prance, our heads went crosswise in the country-dance; how {198}soft, warm fingers, tipped like "buds of balm, trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; and how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise at the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes? ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing, who, like a dove, with its scarce feathered wing, fluttered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering! there's wont to be, at conscious times like these, an affectation of a bright-eyed ease,- a crispy cheekiness, if so i dare describe the swaling of a jaunty air; and thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, you craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, that smiling voice, although it made me start, boiled in the meek o'erlifting of my heart;. and, picking at my flowers, i said, with free and usual tone, "o yes, sir, certainly!" like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, i heard the music burning in my ear, and felt i cared not, so thou wert with me, if gurth or wamba were our vis-à-vis. so, when a tall knight templar ringing came, and took his place amongst us with his dame, i neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk from the stern survey of the soldier-monk, though, {199}rather more than three full quarters drunk; but, threading through the figure, first in rule, i paused to see thee plunge into la poule. ah, what a sight was that! not prurient mars, pointing his toe through ten celestial bars- not young apollo, beamily arrayed in tripsome guise for juno's masquerade- not smartest hermes, with his pinion girth, jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, looked half so bold, so beautiful, and strong, as thou, when pranking through the glittering throng! how the calmed ladies looked with eyes of love on thy trim velvet doublet laced above; the hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver! so bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black, so lightsomely dropped in thy lordly back, so crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, so glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, that my weak soul took instant flight to thee, lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery! but when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm (the full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm) we passed into the great refreshment-hall, where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits small lay, {200}like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn around the margin of the negus urn; when my poor quivering hand you fingered twice, and, with inquiring accents, whispered "ice, water, or cream?" i could no more dissemble, but dropped upon the couch all in a tremble. a swimming faintness misted o'er my brain, the corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne, the custards fell untouched upon the floor, thine eyes met mine. that night we danced no more! [illustration: 212] [illustration: 213] the cadi's daughter, a legend of the bosphorus. how {201}beauteous is the star of night within the eastern skies, like the twinkling glance of the toorkman's lance, or the antelope's azure eyes! a lamp of love in the heaven above, that star is fondly streaming; and the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque in the golden horn are gleaming. young {202}leila sits in her jasmine bower, and she hears the bulbul sing,' as it thrills its throat to the first full note, that anthems the flowery spring. she gazes still, as a maiden will, on that beauteous eastern star: you might see the throb of her bosom's sob beneath the white cymar! she thinks of him who is far away,- her own brave galiongee,- where the billows foam and the breezes roam, on the wild carpathian sea. she thinks of the oath that bound them both beside the stormy water; and the words of love, that in athens' grove he spake to the cadi's daughter. "my selim!" thus the maiden said, "though severed thus we be, by the raging deep and the mountain steep, my soul still yearns to thee. thy form so dear is mirrored here in my heart's pellucid well, as the rose looks up to phingari's orb, or the moth to the gay gazelle. "i think {203}of the time when the kaftan's crime our love's young joys o'ertook, and thy name still floats in the plaintive notes of my silver-toned chibouque. thy hand is red with the blood it has shed, thy soul it is heavy laden; yet come, my giaour, to thy leila's bower; oh, come to thy turkish maiden!" a light step trod on the dewy sod, and a voice was in her ear, and an arm embraced young leila's waist- "beloved! i am here!" like the phantom form that rules the storm, appeared the pirate lover, and his fiery eye was like zatanai, as he fondly bent above her. "speak, leila, speak; for my light caïque rides proudly in yonder bay; i have come from my rest to her i love best, to carry thee, love, away. the breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover my own jemscheed from harm; think'st thou i fear the dark vizier, or the mufti's vengeful arm? "then droop not, love, nor turn away from this rude hand of mine! and leila looked in her lover's eyes, and murmured--"i am thine!" but a gloomy man with a yataghan stole through the acacia-blossoms, and the thrust he made with his gleaming blade hath pierced through both their bosoms. "there! there! thou cursed caitiff giaour! there, there, thou false one, lie!" remorseless hassan stands above, and he smiles to see them die. they sleep beneath the fresh green turf. the lover and the lady- and the maidens wail to hear the tale of the daughter of the cadi! [illustration: 216] the dirge of the drinker brothers, {205}spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down; he has dropped--that star of honour--on the field of his renown! raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees, if you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please. sons of pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurrahing sink, be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink! lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor; see, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door! widely o'er the earth i've wandered; where the drink most freely flowed, i have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode. deep in shady cider cellars i have dreamed o'er heavy wet, by the fountains of damascus i have quaffed the rich sherbet, regal {206}montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, on johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccuped o'er my hock; i have bathed in butts of xeres deeper than did e'er monsoon, sangaree'd with bearded tartars in the mountains of the moon; in beer-swilling copenhagen i have drunk your danesman blind, i have kept my feet in jena, when each bursch to earth declined; glass for glass, in fierce jamaica, i have shared the plant er's rum, drunk with highland dhuiné-wassails, till each gibbering gael grew dumb; but a stouter, bolder drinker--one that loved his liquor more- never yet did i encounter than our friend upon the floor! yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, he has fallen who rarely staggered--let the rest of us beware! we shall leave him as we found him,--lying where his manhood fell, 'mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well. better 'twere we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare, pulled his {207}hobies off, and turned his toes to taste the breezy air. throw the sofa-cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas, calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass, we shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy, large supplies of soda-water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy, so, when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his,- clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is! the death of dubal by wh-a-th, esq. ["methinks {208}i see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely than the nosegay in his hand! i hear the crowd extolling his resolution and intrepidity! what volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of holbom, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace! i see him at the tree! the whole circle are in tears! even butchers weep!"-beggars' opera.] a living sea of eager human faces, a thousand bosoms throbbing all as one, walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places, holding their crowds of gazers to the sun: through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run; and on the air, with slow reluctant swell, comes the dull funeral-boom of old sepulchre's bell. oh, joy in london now! in festal measure be spent the evening of this festive day! for thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure; now, even now, in yonder press-yard they strike from his limbs the fetters loose away! a little while, and he, the brave duval, will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all. "why comes he not? say, wherefore doth he tarry?" starts the inquiry loud from every tongue. "surely," they cry, "that tedious ordinary his tedious psalms must long ere this have sung,- tedious to him that's waiting to be hung!" but hark! old newgate's doors fly wide apart. "he comes, he comes!" a thrill shoots through each gazer's heart. joined in the stunning cry ten thousand voices, all smithfield answered to the loud acclaim. "he comes, he comes!" and every breast rejoices, as down snow hill the shout tumultuous came, bearing to holborn's crowd the welcome fame. "he comes, he comes!" and each holds back his breath- some ribs are broke, and some few scores are crushed to death. with step majestic to the cart advances the dauntless claude, and springs into his seat. he feels that on him now are fixed the glances of many a briton bold and maiden sweet, whose hearts responsive to his glories beat. in him the honour of "the road" is centred, and all the hero's fire into his bosom entered. his {210}was the transport--his the exultation of rome's great generals, when from afar, up to the capitol in the ovation, they bore with them, in the triumphal car, rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war. _io triumphe!_ they forgot their clay. e'en so duval, who rode in glory on his way, his laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow, the many-tinted nosegay in his hand, his large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow, like the old vintages of spanish land, locks clustering o'er a brow of high command, subdue all hearts; and, as up holborn's steep toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep. he saw it, but he heeded not. his story, he knew, was graven on the page of time. tyburn to him was as a field of glory, where he must stoop to death his head sublime, hymned in full many an elegiac rhyme. he left his deeds behind him, and his name- for he, like cæsar, had lived long enough for fame. he quailed not, save when, as he raised the chalice,- st giles's bowl,--filled with the mildest ale, to pledge {211}the crowd, on her--his beauteous alice- his eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale. she, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale, she, whom he fondly deemed his own dear girl, stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of purl. he bit his lip--it quivered but a moment- then passed his hand across his flushing brows: he could have spared so forcible a comment upon the constancy of woman's vows. one short sharp pang his hero-soul allows; but in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain, and on his pilgrim course went calmly forth again. a princely group of england's noble daughters stood in a balcony suffused with grief, diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters, and waving many a snowy handkerchief; then glowed the prince of highwayman and thief! his soul was touched with a seraphic gleam- that woman could be false was but a mocking dream. and now, his bright career of triumph ended, his chariot stood beneath the triple tree. the law's {212}grim finisher to its boughs ascended, and fixed the hempen bandages, while he bowed to the throng, then bade the car go free. the car rolled on, and left him dangling there, like famed mohammed's tomb, uphung midway in air. as droops the cup of the surchargèd lily beneath the buffets of the surly storm, or the soft petals of the daffodilly, when sirius is uncomfortably warm, so drooped his head upon his manly form, while floated in the breeze his tresses brown. he hung the stated time, and then they cut him down. with soft and tender care the trainbands bore him, just as they found him, nightcap, robe, and all, and placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him, among the atomies in surgeons' hall: "_these are the bones of the renowned duval!_" there still they tell us, from their glassy case, he was the last, the best of all that noble race! [illustration: 225] eastern serenade the minarets {213}wave on the plain of stamboul, and the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool; the voice of the musnud is heard from the west, and kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest. the notes of the kislar re-echo no more, and the waves of al sirat fall light on the shore. 'where art thou, my beauty; where art thou, my bride? oh, come and repose by thy dragoman's side! i wait {214}for thee still by the flowery tophaik- i have broken my eblis for zuleima's sake. but the heart that adores thee is faithful and true, though it beats 'neath the folds of a greek allah-hu! oh, wake thee, my dearest! the muftis are still, and the tschocadars sleep on the franguestan hill; no sullen aleikoum--no derveesh is here, and the mosques are all watching by lonely kashmere! oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full, i have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul! i see thee--i hear thee--thy antelope foot treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot; the jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare, and the folds of thy palampore wave in the air. come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well, my dove! my phingari! my gentle gazelle! nay, tremble not, dearest! i feel thy heart throb, 'neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub; lo, there shines muezzin, the beautiful star! thy lover is with thee, and danger afar: say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier, or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear? oh, swift {215}fly the hours in the garden of bliss! and sweeter than balm of gehenna thy kiss! wherever i wander--wherever i roam, my spirit flies back to its beautiful home; it dwells by the lake of the limpid stamboul, with thee, my adored one! my own attar-gul! [illustration: 227] dame fredegonde when {216}folks, with headstrong passion blind, to play the fool make up their mind, they're sure to come with phrases nice, and modest air, for your advice. but as a truth unfailing make it, they ask, but never mean to take it. 'tis not advice they want, in fact, but confirmation in their act. now mark what did, in such a case, a worthy priest who knew the race. a dame more buxom, blithe, and free, than fredegonde you scarce would see. so smart her dress, so trim her shape, n e'er hostess offered juice of grape, could {217}for her trade wish better sign; her looks gave flavour to her wine, and each guest feels it, as he sips, smack of the ruby of her lips. a smile for all, a welcome glad,- a jovial coaxing way she had; and,--what was more her fate than blame,- a nine months' widow was our dame. but toil was hard, for trade was good, and gallants sometimes will be rude. "and what can a lone woman do? the nights are long and eerie too. now, guillot there's a likely man, none better draws or taps a can; he's just the man, i think, to suit, if i could bring my courage to't." with thoughts like these her mind is crossed: the dame, they say, who doubts, is lost. "but then the risk? i'll beg a slice of father raulin's good advice." prankt in her best, with looks demure, she seeks the priest; and, to be sure, asks if he thinks she ought to wed: "with such a business on my head, i'm {218}worried off my legs with care, and need some help to keep things square. i've thought of guillot, truth to tell! he's steady, knows his business well. what do you think?" when thus he met her: "oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!" "but then the danger, my good pastor, if of the man i make the master. there is no trusting to these men." "well, well, my dear, don't have him, then!" "but help i must have; there's the curse. i may go farther and fare worse." "why, take him, then!" "but if he should turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good- in drink and riot waste my all, and rout me out of house and hall?" "don't have him, then! but i've a plan to clear your doubts, if any can. the bells a peal are ringing,--hark! go straight, and what they tell you mark. if they say 'yes!' wed, and be blest- if 'no,' why--do as you think best." the bells rang out a triple bob: oh, how our widow's heart did throb, as {219}thus she heard their burden go, "marry, mar-marry, mar-guillot!" bells were not then left to hang idle: a week,--and they rang for her bridal. but, woe the while, they might as well have rung the poor dame's parting knell. the rosy dimples left her cheek, she lost her beauties plump and sleek; for guillot oftener kicked than kissed, and backed his orders with his fist, proving by deeds as well as words that servants make the worst of lords. she seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, and speaks as angry women speak, with tiger looks and bosom swelling, cursing the hour she took his telling. to all, his calm reply was this,- "i fear you've read the bells amiss: if they have led you wrong in aught, your wish, not they, inspired the thought. just go, and mark well what they say." off trudged the dame upon her way, and sure enough their chime went so,- "don't have that knave, that knave guillot!" "too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt what could my ears have been about?" she had forgot, that, as fools think, the bell is ever sure to clink. [illustration: 232] the death of ishmael. [this and {221}the six following poems are examples of that new achievement of modern song--which, blending the _utile_ with the _dulce_, symbolises at once the practical and spiritual characteristics of the age,--and is called familiarly "the puff poetical."] died the jew? "the hebrew died. on the pavement cold he lay, around him closed the living tide; the butcher's cad set down his tray; the pot-boy from the dragon green no longer for his pewter calls; the nereid rushes in between, nor more her 'fine live mackerel!' bawls." died the jew? "the hebrew died. they raised him gently from the stone, they flung his coat and neckcloth wide- but linen had that hebrew none. they raised the pile of hats that pressed his noble head, his locks of snow; but, ah, that head, upon his breast, sank down with an expiring 'clo!'" died {222}the jew? "the hebrew died, struck with overwhelming qualms from the flavour spreading wide of some fine virginia hams. would you know the fatal spot, fatal to that child of sin? these fine-flavoured hams are bought _at 50 bishopsgate within!_" [illustration: 234] parr's life pills twas {223}in the town of lubeck, a hundred years ago, an old man walked into the church, with beard as white as snow; yet were his cheeks not wrinkled, nor dim his eagle eye: there's many a knight that steps the street, might wonder, should he chance to meet that man erect and high! when silenced was the organ, and hushed the vespers loud, the sacristan approached the sire, and drew him from the crowd- "there's something in thy visage, on which i dare not look; and when i rang the passing bell, a tremor that i may not tell, my very vitals shook. "who art thou, awful stranger? our ancient annals say, that twice two hundred years ago another passed this way like {224}thee in face and feature; and, if the tale be true, 'tis writ, that in this very year again the stranger shall appear. art thou the wandering jew?" "the wandering jew, thou dotard!" the wondrous phantom cried- "'tis several centuries ago since that poor stripling died. he would not use my nostrums- see, shaveling, here they are! _these_ put to flight all human ills, these conquer death--unfailing pills, and i'm the inventor, parr!" [illustration: 236] tarquin and the augur gingerly {225}is good king tarquin shaving, gently glides the razor o'er his chin, near him stands a grim haruspex raving, and with nasal whine he pitches in church extension hints, till the monarch squints, snicks his chin, and swears--a deadly sin! "jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor from my dressing-table get thee gone! dost thou think my flesh is double glo'ster? there again! that cut was to the bone! get ye from my sight; i'll believe you're right when my razor cuts the sharpening hone!" thus spoke tarquin with a deal of dryness; but the augur, eager for his fees, answered--"try it, your imperial highness; press a little harder, if you please. there! the {126}deed is done!" through the solid stone went the steel as glibly as through cheese. so the augur touched the tin of tarquin, who suspected some celestial aid: but he wronged the blameless gods; for hearken! ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid, with his searching eye did the priest espy rodgers' name engraved upon the blade. la mort d'arthur not by alfred tennyson. slowly, {227}as one who bears a mortal hurt, through which the fountain of his life runs dry, crept good king arthur down unto the lake. a roughening wind was bringing in the waves with cold dull plash and plunging to the shore, and a great bank of clouds came sailing up athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon, leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank, with a short stagger, senseless on the stones. no man yet knows how long he lay in swound but long enough it was to let the rust lick half the surface of his polished shield; for it was made by far inferior hands, than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves, whereon no canker lighted, for they bore the magic stamp of mechi's silver steel. [illustration: 240] jupiter and the indian ale "take {228}away this clammy nectar!" said the king of gods and men; "never at olympus' table let that trash be served again. ho, lyæus, thou, the beery! quick--invent some other drink; or, in a brace of shakes, thou standest on cocytus' sulphury brink!" terror shook the limbs of bacchus, paly grew his pimpled nose, and {229}already in his rearward felt he jove's tremendous toes; when a bright idea struck him- "dash my thyrsus! i'll be bail- for you never were in india- that you know not hodgson's ale!" "bring it!" quoth the cloud-compeller; and the wine-god brought the beer- "port and claret are like water to the noble stuff that's here!" and saturnius drank and nodded, winking with his lightning eyes, and amidst the constellations did the star of hodgson rise! [illustration: 241] the lay of the dondney brothers coats at {230}five-and-forty shillings! trousers ten-and-six a pair! summer waistcoats, three a sov'reign, light and comfort able wear! taglionis, black or coloured, chesterfield and velveteen! the old english shooting-jacket--doeskins, such as ne'er were seen! army cloaks and riding-habits, alberts at a trifling cost! do you want an annual contract? write to doudneys' by the post. doudney brothers! doudney brothers! not the men that drive the van, plastered o'er with advertisements, heralding some paltry plan, how, by base mechanic stinting, and by pinching of their backs, slim attorneys' clerks may manage to retrieve their income-tax: but the old established business--where the best of clothes are given at the very lowest prices--fleet street, number ninety seven. wouldst {231}thou know the works of doudney? hie thee to the thronged arcade, to the park upon a sunday, to the terrible parade. there, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of the steel, when the household troops in squadrons round the bold field-marshals wheel, shouldst thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morning frock, peering at the proud battalions o'er the margin of his stock,- should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the veteran worn and grey curbed the course of bonaparte, rolled the thunders of assaye- let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb he wears started into shape and being from the doudney brothers' shears! seek thou next the rooms of willis--mark, where d'orsay's count is bending, see the trouser's undulation from his graceful hip descending; hath the earth another trouser so compact and love compelling? thou canst find it, stranger, only, if thou seek'st the doudneys' dwelling! hark, {232}from windsor's royal palace, what sweet voice enchants the ear? "goodness, what a lovely waistcoat! oh, who made it, albert dear? 'tis the very prettiest pattern! you must get a dozen others!" and the prince, in rapture, answers--"'tis the work of doudney brothers!" paris and helen as {233}the youthful paris presses helen to his ivory breast, sporting with her golden tresses, close and ever closer pressed, "let me," said he, "quaff the nectar, "which thy lips of ruby yield; glory i can leave to hector, gathered in the tented field. "let me ever gaze upon thee, look into thine eyes so deep; with a daring hand i won thee, with a faithful heart i'll keep. "oh, my helen, thou bright wonder, who was ever like to thee? jove would lay aside his thunder, so he might be blest like me. "how {234}mine eyes so fondly linger on thy soft and pearly skin; scan each round and rosy finger, drinking draughts of beauty in! "tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest? whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom? whence the rosy hue thou wearest, breathing round thee rich perfume?" thus he spoke, with heart that panted, clasped her fondly to his side, gazed on her with look enchanted, while his helen thus replied: "be no discord, love, between us, if i not the secret tell! 'twas a gift i had of venus,- venus, who hath loved me well. "and she told me as she gave it, 'let not e'er the charm be known; o'er thy person freely lave it, only when thou art alone.' "'tis enclosed in yonder casket- here behold its golden key; but its name--love, do not ask it, tell't i may not, even to thee!" long {235}with vow and kiss he plied her; still the secret did she keep, till at length he sank beside her, seemed as he had dropped to sleep. soon was helen laid in slumber, when her paris, rising slow, did his fair neck disencumber from her rounded arms of snow. then, her heedless fingers oping, takes the key and steals away, to the ebon table groping, where the wondrous casket lay; eagerly the lid uncloses, sees within it, laid aslope, pear's liquid bloom of roses, cakes of his transparent soap! song of the ennuye i'm {236}weary, and sick, and disgusted with britain's mechanical din; where i'm much too well known to be trusted, and plaguily pestered for tin; where love has two eyes for your hanker, and one chilly glance for yourself; where souls can afford to be franker, but when they're well garnished with pelf. i'm sick of the whole race of poets, emasculate, misty, and fine; they brew their small-heer, and don't know its distinction from full-bodied wine. i'm sick of the prosers, that house up at drowsy st stephen's,--ain't you? i want some strong spirits to rouse up a good revolution or two! i'm {237}sick of a land, where each morrow repeats the dull tale of to-day, where you can't even find a new sorrow to chase your stale pleasures away. i'm sick of blue stockings horrific, steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols: so i'll off where the golden pacific round islands of paradise rolls. there the passions shall revel unfettered, and the heart never speak but in truth, and the intellect, wholly unlettered, be bright with the freedom of youth! there the earth can rejoice in her blossoms, unsullied by vapour or soot, and there chimpanzees and opossums shall playfully pelt me with fruit. there i'll sit with my dark orianas, in groves by the murmuring sea, and they'll give, as i suck the bananas, their kisses, nor ask them from me. they'll never torment me for sonnets, nor bore me to death with their own; they'll ask not for shawls nor for bonnets, for milliners there are unknown. there {238}my couch shall be earth's freshest flowers, my curtains the night and the stars, and my spirit shall gather new powers, uncramped by conventional bars. love for love, truth for truth ever giving, my days shall be manfully sped; i shall know that i'm loved while i'm living, and be wept by fond eyes when i'm dead! caroline lightsome, {239}brightsome, cousin mine, easy, breezy caroline! with, thy locks all raven-shaded, from thy merry brow up-braided, and thine eyes of laughter full, brightsome cousin mine! thou in chains of love hast bound me- wherefore dost thou flit around me, laughter-loving caroline! when i fain would go to sleep in my easy-chair, wherefore on my slumbers creep- wherefore start me from repose, tickling of my hookèd nose, pulling of my hair? wherefore, then, if thou dost love me, so to words of anger move me, corking of this face of mine, tricksy cousin caroline? when a {240}sudden sound i hear, much my nervous system suffers, shaking through and through. cousin caroline, i fear, 'twas no other, now, but you, put gunpowder in the snuffers, springing such a mine! yes, it was your tricksy self, wicked-trickèd little elf, naughty cousin caroline! pins she sticks into my shoulder, places needles in my chair, and, when i begin to scold her, tosses back her combed hair, with so saucy-vexed an air, that the pitying beholder cannot brook that i should scold her: then again she comes, and bolder, blacks anew this face of mine, artful cousin caroline! would she only say she'd love me, winsome, tinsome caroline, unto such excess 'twould move me, teazing, pleasing, cousin mine! that {241}she might the live-long day undermine the snuffer-tray, tickle still my hooked nose, startle me from calm repose with her pretty persecution; throw the tongs against my shins, run me through and through with pins, like a pierced cushion; would she only say she'd love me, darning-needles should not move me; but, reclining back, i'd say, "dearest! there's the snuffer-tray; pinch, o pinch those legs of mine! cork me, cousin caroline!" to a forget-me-not found in my emporium of love-tokens. sweet {242}flower, that with thy soft blue eye didst once look up in shady spot, to whisper to the passer-by those tender words--forget-me-not! though withered now, thou art to me the minister of gentle thought,- and i could weep to gaze on thee,. love's faded pledge--forget-me-not! thou speak'st of hours when i was young, and happiness arose unsought; when she, the whispering woods among, gave me thy bloom--forget-me-not! that rapturous hour with that dear maid from memory's page no time shall blot, when, yielding to my kiss, she said, "oh, theodore--forget me not!" alas {243}for love! alas for truth! alas for man's uncertain lot! alas for all the hopes of youth that fade like thee--forget-me-not! alas for that one image fair, with all my brightest dreams inwrought! that walks beside me everywhere, still whispering--forget me not! oh, memory! thou art but a sigh for friendships dead and loves forgot, and many a cold and altered eye that once did say--forget me not! and i must bow me to thy laws, for--odd although it may be thought- i can't tell who the deuce it was that gave me this forget-me-not! the mishap "why {244}art thou weeping, sister? why is thy cheek so pale? look up, dear jane, and tell me what is it thou dost ail? "i know thy will is froward, thy feelings warm and keen, and that _that_ augustus howard for weeks has not been seen. "i know {245}how much you loved him; but i know thou dost not weep for him;--for though his passion be, his purse is noways deep. "then tell me why those tear-drops? what means this woeful mood? say, has the tax-collector been calling, and been rude? "or has that hateful grocer, the slave! been here to-day? of course he had, by morrow's noon, a heavy bill to pay! "come, on thy brother's bosom unburden all thy woes; look up, look up, sweet sister; nay, sob not through thy nose." "oh, john, 'tis not the grocer for his account, although how ever he is to be paid, i really do not know. "'tis {246}not the tax-collector; though by his fell command they've seized our old paternal clock, and new umbrella-stand! "nor that augustus howard, whom i despise almost,- but the soot's come down the chimney, john, and fairly spoiled the roast!" comfort in affliction "wherefore {247}starts my bosom's lord? why this anguish in thine eye? oh, it seems as thy heart's chord had broken with that sigh! "rest thee, my dear lord, i pray, rest thee on my bosom now! and let me wipe the dews away, are gathering on thy brow. "there, again! that fevered start! what, love! husband! is thy pain? there is a sorrow on thy heart, a weight upon thy brain! "nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er deceive affection's searching eye; 'tis a wife's duty, love, to share her husband's agony. "since {248}the dawn began to peep, have i lain with stifled breath; heard thee moaning in thy sleep, as thou wert at grips with death. "oh, what joy it was to see my gentle lord once more awake! tell me, what is amiss with thee? speak, or my heart will break!" "mary, thou angel of my life, thou ever good and kind; 'tis not, believe me, my dear wife, the anguish of the mind! "it is not in my bosom, dear, no, nor my brain, in sooth; but mary, oh, i feel it here, here in my wisdom tooth! "then give,--oh, first best antidote,- sweet partner of my bed! give me thy flannel petticoat to wrap around my head!" the invocation "brother, {249}thou art very weary, and thine eye is sunk and dim, and thy neckcloth's tie is crumpled, and thy collar out of trim; there is dust upon thy visage,- think not, charles, i would hurt ye, when i say, that altogether you appear extremely dirty. "frown not, brother, now, but hie thee to thy chamber's distant room; drown the odours of the ledger with the lavender's perfume. brush the mud from off thy trousers, o'er the china basin kneel, lave thy brows in water softened with the soap of old castile. "smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead 'now in loose disorder stray; pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers cut those ragged points away; let no more thy calculations thy bewildered brain beset; life has other hopes than cocker's, other joys than tare and tret. "haste thee, for i ordered dinner, waiting to the very last, twenty minutes after seven, and 'tis now the quarter past. 'tis a dinner which lucullus would have wept with joy to see, one, might wake the soul of curtis from death's drowsy atrophy. "there is soup of real turtle, turbot, and the dainty sole; and the mottled row of lobsters blushes through the butter-bowl. there the lordly haunch of mutton, tender as the mountain grass, waits to mix its ruddy juices with the girdling caper-sauce. "there a stag, whose branching forehead spoke him monarch of the herds, he whose flight was o'er the heather swift as through the air the bird's, yields for thee a dish of cutlets; and the haunch that wont to dash o'er the roaring mountain-torrent, smokes in most delicious hash. "there, besides, are amber jellies. floating like a golden dream; ginger from the far bermudas, dishes of italian pream; and a princely apple-dumpling, which my own fair fingers wrought, shall unfold its nectared treasures to thy lips all smoking hot. "ha! i see thy brow is clearing, lustre flashes from thine eyes; to thy lips i see the moisture of anticipation rise. hark! the dinner-bell is sounding!" "only wait one moment, jane: i'll be dressed, and down, before you can get up the iced champagne!" the husband's petition come {252}hither, my heart's darling, come, sit upon my knee, and listen, while i whisper a boon i ask of thee. you need not pull my whiskers so amorously, my dove; 'tis something quite apart from the gentle cares of love. i feel a bitter craving- a dark and deep desire, that glows beneath my bosom like coals of kindled fire. the passion of the nightingale, when singing to the rose, is {253}feebler than the agony that murders my repose! nay, dearest! do not doubt me, though madly thus i speak- i feel thy arms about me, thy tresses on my cheek: i know the sweet devotion that links thy heart with mine,- i know my soul's emotion is doubly felt by thine: and deem not that a shadow hath fallen across my love: no, sweet, my love is shadowless, as yonder heaven above. these little taper fingers- ah, jane! how white they be!- can well supply the cruel want that almost maddens me. thou wilt not sure deny me my first and fond request; i pray thee, by the memory of all we cherish best- by all the dear remembrance of those delicious days, when, hand in hand, we wandered along the summer braes; by {254}all we felt, unspoken, when 'neath the early moon, we sat beside the rivulet, in the leafy month of june; and by the broken whisper that fell upon my ear, more sweet than angel music, when first i wooed thee, dear! by thy great vow which bound thee for ever to my side, and by the ring that made thee my darling and my bride! thou wilt not fail nor falter, but bend thee to the task- _a boiled sheep's-head on sunday_ is all the boon i ask! [illustration: 266] [illustration: 267] sonnet to britain. halt! {255}shoulder arms! recover as you were! right wheel! eyes left! attention! stand at ease! o britain! o my country! words like these have made thy name a terror and a fear to all the nations. witness ebro's banks, assaÿe, toulouse, nivelle, and waterloo, where the grim despot muttered--_sauve qui peut!_ and ney fled darkling.--silence in the ranks! inspired {256}by these, amidst the iron crash of armies, in the centre of his troop the soldier stands--unmovable, not rash- until the forces of the foeman droop; then knocks the frenchman to eternal smash, pounding them into mummy. shoulder, hoop! the end. version by al haines. condensed novels by bret harte contents: handsome is as handsome does lothaw, or the adventures of a young gentleman in search of a religion muck-a-muck, a modern indian novel, after james fenimore cooper terence denville selina sedilia the ninety-nine guardsmen [after the three musketeers, by dumas] the haunted man miss mix [after charlotte bronte] guy heavystone; or, "entire." mr. midshipman breezy john jenkins; or, the smoker reformed no title [after wilkie collins] contains: mary jones's narrative the slim young man's story no. 27 limehouse road count moscow's narrative dr. diggs's statement being a novel in the french paragraphic style fantine la femme mary mcgillup, a southern novel, after belle boyd handsome is as handsome does. by ch--s r--de. chapter i. the dodds were dead. for twenty year they had slept under the green graves of kittery churchyard. the townfolk still spoke of them kindly. the keeper of the alehouse, where david had smoked his pipe, regretted him regularly, and mistress kitty, mrs. dodd's maid, whose trim figure always looked well in her mistress's gowns, was inconsolable. the hardins were in america. raby was aristocratically gouty; mrs. raby, religious. briefly, then, we have disposed of-1. mr. and mrs. dodd (dead). 2. mr. and mrs. hardin (translated). 3. raby, baron et femme. (yet i don't know about the former; he came of a long-lived family, and the gout is an uncertain disease.) we have active at the present writing (place aux dames)-1. lady caroline coventry, niece of sir frederick. 2. faraday huxley little, son of henry and grace little, deceased. sequitur to the above, a hero and heroine. chapter ii. on the death of his parents, faraday little was taken to raby hall. in accepting his guardianship, mr. raby struggled stoutly against two prejudices: faraday was plain-looking and sceptical. "handsome is as handsome does, sweetheart," pleaded jael, interceding for the orphan with arms that were still beautiful. "dear knows, it is not his fault if he does not look like--his father," she added with a great gulp. jael was a woman, and vindicated her womanhood by never entirely forgiving a former rival. "it's not that alone, madam," screamed raby, "but, d--m it, the little rascal's a scientist,--an atheist, a radical, a scoffer! disbelieves in the bible, ma'am; is full of this darwinian stuff about natural selection and descent. descent, forsooth! in my day, madam, gentlemen were content to trace their ancestors back to gentlemen, and not to--monkeys!" "dear heart, the boy is clever," urged jael. "clever!" roared raby; "what does a gentleman want with cleverness?" chapter iii. young little was clever. at seven he had constructed a telescope; at nine, a flying-machine. at ten he saved a valuable life. norwood park was the adjacent estate,--a lordly domain dotted with red deer and black trunks, but scrupulously kept with gravelled roads as hard and blue as steel. there little was strolling one summer morning, meditating on a new top with concealed springs. at a little distance before him he saw the flutter of lace and ribbons. a young lady, a very young lady,--say of seven summers,--tricked out in the crying abominations of the present fashion, stood beside a low bush. her nursery-maid was not present, possibly owing to the fact that john the footman was also absent. suddenly little came towards her. "excuse me, but do you know what those berries are?" he was pointing to the low bush filled with dark clusters of shining--suspiciously shining--fruit. "certainly; they are blueberries." "pardon me; you are mistaken. they belong to quite another family." miss impudence drew herself up to her full height (exactly three feet nine and a half inches), and, curling an eight of an inch of scarlet lip, said, scornfully. "your family, perhaps." faraday little smiled in the superiority of boyhood over girlhood. "i allude to the classification. that plant is the belladonna, or deadly nightshade. its alkaloid is a narcotic poison." sauciness turned pale. "i--have--just--eaten--some!" and began to whimper. "o dear, what shall i do?" then did it, i. e. wrung her small fingers and cried. "pardon me one moment." little passed his arm around her neck, and with his thumb opened widely the patrician-veined lids of her sweet blue eyes. "thank heaven, there is yet no dilation of the pupil; it is not too late!" he cast a rapid glance around. the nozzle and about three feet of garden hose lay near him. "open your mouth, quick!" it was a pretty, kissable mouth. but young little meant business. he put the nozzle down her pink throat as far as it would go. "now, don't move." he wrapped his handkerchief around a hoopstick. then he inserted both in the other end of the stiff hose. it fitted snugly. he shoved it in and then drew it back. nature abhors a vacuum. the young patrician was as amenable to this law as the child of the lowest peasant. she succumbed. it was all over in a minute. then she burst into a small fury. "you nasty, bad--ugly boy." young little winced, but smiled. "stimulants," he whispered to the frightened nursery-maid who approached; "good evening." he was gone. chapter iv. the breach between young little and mr. raby was slowly widening. little found objectionable features in the hall. "this black oak ceiling and wainscoating is not as healthful as plaster; besides, it absorbs the light. the bedroom ceiling is too low; the elizabethan architects knew nothing of ventilation. the color of that oak panelling which you admire is due to an excess of carbon and the exuvia from the pores of your skin--" "leave the house," bellowed raby, "before the roof falls on your sacrilegious head!" as little left the house, lady caroline and a handsome boy of about little's age entered. lady caroline recoiled, and then--blushed. little glared; he instinctively felt the presence of a rival. chapter v. little worked hard. he studied night and day. in five years he became a lecturer, then a professor. he soared as high as the clouds, he dipped as low as the cellars of the london poor. he analyzed the london fog, and found it two parts smoke, one disease, one unmentionable abominations. he published a pamphlet, which was violently attacked. then he knew he had done something. but he had not forgotten caroline. he was walking one day in the zoological gardens and he came upon a pretty picture,--flesh and blood too. lady caroline feeding buns to the bears! an exquisite thrill passed through his veins. she turned her sweet face and their eyes met. they recollected their first meeting seven years before, but it was his turn to be shy and timid. wonderful power of age and sex! she met him with perfect self-possession. "well meant, but indigestible i fear" (he alluded to the buns). "a clever person like yourself can easily correct that" (she, the slyboots, was thinking of something else). in a few moments they were chatting gayly. little eagerly descanted upon the different animals; she listened with delicious interest. an hour glided delightfully away. after this sunshine, clouds. to them suddenly entered mr. raby and a handsome young man. the gentlemen bowed stiffly and looked vicious,--as they felt. the lady of this quartette smiled amiably, as she did not feel. "looking at your ancestors, i suppose," said mr. raby, pointing to the monkeys; "we will not disturb you. come." and he led caroline away. little was heart-sick. he dared not follow them. but an hour later he saw something which filled his heart with bliss unspeakable. lady caroline, with a divine smile on her face, feeding the monkeys! chapter vi. encouraged by love, little worked hard upon his new flying-machine. his labors were lightened by talking of the beloved one with her french maid therese, whom he had discreetly bribed. mademoiselle therese was venal, like all her class, but in this instance i fear she was not bribed by british gold. strange as it may seem to the british mind, it was british genius, british eloquence, british thought, that brought her to the feet of this young savan. "i believe," said lady caroline, one day, interrupting her maid in a glowing eulogium upon the skill of "m. leetell,"--"i believe you are in love with this professor." a quick flush crossed the olive cheek of therese, which lady caroline afterward remembered. the eventful day of trial came. the public were gathered, impatient and scornful as the pigheaded public are apt to be. in the open area a long cylindrical balloon, in shape like a bologna sausage, swayed above the machine, from which, like some enormous bird caught in a net, it tried to free itself. a heavy rope held it fast to the ground. little was waiting for the ballast, when his eye caught lady caroline's among the spectators. the glance was appealing. in a moment he was at her side. "i should like so much to get into the machine," said the arch-hypocrite, demurely. "are you engaged to marry young raby," said little, bluntly. "as you please," she said with a courtesy; "do i take this as a refusal?" little was a gentleman. he lifted her and her lapdog into the car. "how nice! it won't go off?" "no, the rope is strong, and the ballast is not yet in." a report like a pistol, a cry from the spectators, a thousand hands stretched to grasp the parted rope, and the balloon darted upward. only one hand of that thousand caught the rope,--little's! but in the same instant the horror-stricken spectators saw him whirled from his feet and borne upward, still clinging to the rope, into space. chapter vii.* * the right of dramatization of this and succeeding chapters is reserved by the writer. lady caroline fainted. the cold watery nose of her dog on her cheek brought her to herself. she dared not look over the edge of the car; she dared not look up to the bellying monster above her, bearing her to death. she threw herself on the bottom of the car, and embraced the only living thing spared her,--the poodle. then she cried. then a clear voice came apparently out of the circumambient air:-"may i trouble you to look at the barometer?" she put her head over the car. little was hanging at the end of a long rope. she put her head back again. in another moment he saw her perplexed, blushing face over the edge,--blissful sight. "o, please don't think of coming up! stay there, do!" little stayed. of course she could make nothing out of the barometer, and said so. little smiled. "will you kindly send it down to me?" but she had no string or cord. finally she said, "wait a moment." little waited. this time her face did not appear. the barometer came slowly down at the end of--a stay-lace. the barometer showed a frightful elevation. little looked up at the valve and said nothing. presently he heard a sigh. then a sob. then, rather sharply,-"why don't you do something?" chapter viii. little came up the rope hand over hand. lady caroline crouched in the farther side of the car. fido, the poodle, whined. "poor thing," said lady caroline, "it's hungry." "do you wish to save the dog?" said little. "yes." "give me your parasol." she handed little a good-sized affair of lace and silk and whalebone. (none of your "sunshades.") little examined its ribs carefully. "give me the dog." lady caroline hurriedly slipped a note under the dog's collar, and passed over her pet. little tied the dog to the handle of the parasol and launched them both into space. the next moment they were slowly, but tranquilly, sailing to the earth. "a parasol and a parachute are distinct, but not different. be not alarmed, he will get his dinner at some farm-house." "where are we now?" "that opaque spot you see is london fog. those twin clouds are north and south america. jerusalem and madagascar are those specks to the right." lady caroline moved nearer; she was becoming interested. then she recalled herself and said freezingly, "how are we going to descend?" "by opening the valve." "why don't you open it then?" "because the valve-string is broken!" chapter ix. lady caroline fainted. when she revived it was dark. they were apparently cleaving their way through a solid block of black marble. she moaned and shuddered. "i wish we had a light." "i have no lucifers," said little. "i observe, however, that you wear a necklace of amber. amber under certain conditions becomes highly electrical. permit me." he took the amber necklace and rubbed it briskly. then he asked her to present her knuckle to the gem. a bright spark was the result. this was repeated for some hours. the light was not brilliant, but it was enough for the purposes of propriety, and satisfied the delicately minded girl. suddenly there was a tearing, hissing noise and a smell of gas. little looked up and turned pale. the balloon, at what i shall call the pointed end of the bologna sausage, was evidently bursting from increased pressure. the gas was escaping, and already they were beginning to descend. little was resigned but firm. "if the silk gives way, then we are lost. unfortunately i have no rope nor material for binding it." the woman's instinct had arrived at the same conclusion sooner than the man's reason. but she was hesitating over a detail. "will you go down the rope for a moment?" she said, with a sweet smile. little went down. presently she called to him. she held something in her hand,--a wonderful invention of the seventeenth century, improved and perfected in this: a pyramid of sixteen circular hoops of light yet strong steel, attached to each other by cloth bands. with a cry of joy little seized them, climbed to the balloon, and fitted the elastic hoops over its conical end. then he returned to the car. "we are saved." lady caroline, blushing, gathered her slim but antique drapery against the other end of the car. chapter x. they were slowly descending. presently lady caroline distinguished the outlines of raby hall. "i think i will get out here," she said. little anchored the balloon and prepared to follow her. "not so, my friend," she said, with an arch smile. "we must not be seen together. people might talk. farewell." little sprang again into the balloon and sped away to america. he came down in california, oddly enough in front of hardin's door, at dutch flat. hardin was just examining a specimen of ore. "you are a scientist; can you tell me if that is worth anything?" he said, handing it to little. little held it to the light. "it contains ninety per cent of silver." hardin embraced him. "can i do anything for you, and why are you here?" little told his story. hardin asked to see the rope. then he examined it carefully. "ah, this was cut, not broken!" "with a knife?" asked little. "no. observe both sides are equally indented. it was done with a scissors!" "just heaven!" gasped little. "therese!" chapter xi. little returned to london. passing through london one day he met a dog-fancier. "buy a nice poodle, sir?" something in the animal attracted his attention. "fido!" he gasped. the dog yelped. little bought him. on taking off his collar a piece of paper rustled to the floor. he knew the handwriting and kissed it. it ran:-"to the hon. augustus raby--i cannot marry you. if i marry any one" (sly puss) "it will be the man who has twice saved my life,--professor little. "caroline coventry." and she did. lothaw; or, the adventures of a young gentleman in search of a religion. by mr. benjamins. chapter i. "i remember him a little boy," said the duchess. "his mother was a dear friend of mine; you know she was one of my bridesmaids." "and you have never seen him since, mamma?" asked the oldest married daughter, who did not look a day older than her mother. "never; he was an orphan shortly after. i have often reproached myself, but it is so difficult to see boys." this simple yet first-class conversation existed in the morning-room of plusham, where the mistress of the palatial mansion sat involved in the sacred privacy of a circle of her married daughters. one dexterously applied golden knitting-needles to the fabrication of a purse of floss silk of the rarest texture, which none who knew the almost fabulous wealth of the duke would believe was ever destined to hold in its silken meshes a less sum than l1,000,000; another adorned a slipper exclusively with seed pearls; a third emblazoned a page with rare pigments and the finest quality of gold leaf. beautiful forms leaned over frames glowing with embroidery, and beautiful frames leaned over forms inlaid with mother-of-pearl. others, more remote, occasionally burst into melody as they tried the passages of a new and exclusive air given to them in ms. by some titled and devoted friend, for the private use of the aristocracy alone, and absolutely prohibited for publication. the duchess, herself the superlative of beauty, wealth, and position, was married to the highest noble in the three kingdoms. those who talked about such matters said that their progeny were exactly like their parents,--a peculiarity of the aristocratic and wealthy. they all looked like brothers and sisters, except their parents, who, such was their purity of blood, the perfection of their manners, and the opulence of their condition, might have been taken for their own children's elder son and daughter. the daughters, with one exception, were all married to the highest nobles in the land. that exception was the lady coriander, who, there being no vacancy above a marquis and a rental of l1,000,000, waited. gathered around the refined and sacred circle of their breakfast-table, with their glittering coronets, which, in filial respect to their father's tory instincts and their mother's ritualistic tastes, they always wore on their regal brows, the effect was dazzling as it was refined. it was this peculiarity and their strong family resemblance which led their brother-in-law, the good-humored st. addlegourd, to say that, "'pon my soul, you know, the whole precious mob looked like a ghastly pack of court cards, you know." st. addlegourd was a radical. having a rent-roll of l15,000,000, and belonging to one of the oldest families in britain, he could afford to be. "mamma, i've just dropped a pearl," said the lady coriander, bending over the persian hearthrug. "from your lips, sweet friend," said lothaw, who came of age and entered the room at the same moment. "no, from my work. it was a very valuable pearl, mamma; papa gave isaacs and sons l50,000 for the two." "ah, indeed," said the duchess, languidly rising; "let us go to luncheon." "but your grace," interposed lothaw, who was still quite young, and had dropped on all-fours on the carpet in search of the missing gem, "consider the value--" "dear friend," interposed the duchess, with infinite tact, gently lifting him by the tails of his dress-coat, "i am waiting for your arm." chapter ii. lothaw was immensely rich. the possessor of seventeen castles, fifteen villas, nine shooting-boxes, and seven town houses, he had other estates of which he had not even heard. everybody at plusham played croquet, and none badly. next to their purity of blood and great wealth, the family were famous for this accomplishment. yet lothaw soon tired of the game, and after seriously damaging his aristocratically large foot in an attempt to "tight croquet" the lady aniseed's ball, he limped away to join the duchess. "i'm going to the hennery," she said. "let me go with you, i dearly love fowls--broiled," he added, thoughtfully. "the duke gave lady montairy some large cochins the other day," continued the duchess, changing the subject with delicate tact. "lady montairy, quite contrairy, how do your cochins grow?" sang lothaw gayly. the duchess looked shocked. after a prolonged silence, lothaw abruptly and gravely said:-"if you please, ma'am, when i come into my property i should like to build some improved dwellings for the poor, and marry lady coriander." "you amaze me, dear friend, and yet both your aspirations are noble and eminently proper," said the duchess; "coriander is but a child,--and yet," she added, looking graciously upon her companion, "for the matter of that, so are you." chapter iii. mr. putney giles's was lothaw's first grand dinner-party. yet, by carefully watching the others, he managed to acquit himself creditably, and avoided drinking out of the finger-bowl by first secretly testing its contents with a spoon. the conversation was peculiar and singularly interesting. "then you think that monogamy is simply a question of the thermometer?" said mrs. putney giles to her companion. "i certainly think that polygamy should be limited by isothermal lines," replied lothaw. "i should say it was a matter of latitude," observed a loud talkative man opposite. he was an oxford professor with a taste for satire, and had made himself very obnoxious to the company, during dinner, by speaking disparagingly of a former well-known chancellor of the exchequer,--a great statesman and brilliant novelist,--whom he feared and hated. suddenly there was a sensation in the room; among the females it absolutely amounted to a nervous thrill. his eminence, the cardinal, was announced. he entered with great suavity of manner, and, after shaking hands with everybody, asking after their relatives, and chucking the more delicate females under the chin with a high-bred grace peculiar to his profession, he sat down, saying, "and how do we all find ourselves this evening, my dears?" in several different languages, which he spoke fluently. lothaw's heart was touched. his deeply religious convictions were impressed. he instantly went up to this gifted being, confessed, and received absolution. "to-morrow," he said to himself, "i will partake of the communion, and endow the church with my vast estates. for the present i'll let the improved cottages go." chapter iv. as lothaw turned to leave the cardinal, he was struck by a beautiful face. it was that of a matron, slim but shapely as an ionic column. her face was grecian, with corinthian temples; hellenic eyes that looked from jutting eyebrows, like dormer-windows in an attic forehead, completed her perfect athenian outline. she wore a black frock-coat tightly buttoned over her bloomer trousers, and a standing collar. "your lordship is struck by that face," said a social parasite. "i am; who is she?" "her name is mary ann. she is married to an american, and has lately invented a new religion." "ah!" said lothaw eagerly, with difficulty restraining himself from rushing toward her. "yes; shall i introduce you?" lothaw thought of lady coriander's high church proclivities, of the cardinal, and hesitated: "no, i thank you, not now." chapter v. lothaw was maturing. he had attended two woman's rights conventions, three fenian meetings, had dined at white's, and had danced vis-a-vis to a prince of the blood, and eaten off of gold plates at crecy house. his stables were near oxford, and occupied more ground than the university. he was driving over there one day, when he perceived some rustics and menials endeavoring to stop a pair of runaway horses attached to a carriage in which a lady and gentleman were seated. calmly awaiting the termination of the accident, with high-bred courtesy lothaw forbore to interfere until the carriage was overturned, the occupants thrown out, and the runaways secured by the servants, when he advanced and offered the lady the exclusive use of his oxford stables. turning upon him a face whose perfect hellenic details he remembered, she slowly dragged a gentleman from under the wheels into the light and presented him with ladylike dignity as her husband, major-general camperdown, an american. "ah," said lothaw, carelessly, "i believe i have some land there. if i mistake not, my agent, mr. putney giles, lately purchased the state of--illinois--i think you call it." "exactly. as a former resident of the city of chicago, let me introduce myself as your tenant." lothaw bowed graciously to the gentleman, who, except that he seemed better dressed than most englishmen, showed no other signs of inferiority and plebeian extraction. "we have met before," said lothaw to the lady as she leaned on his arm, while they visited his stables, the university, and other places of interest in oxford. "pray tell me, what is this new religion of yours?" "it is woman suffrage, free love, mutual affinity, and communism. embrace it and me." lothaw did not know exactly what to do. she however soothed and sustained his agitated frame and sealed with an embrace his speechless form. the general approached and coughed slightly with gentlemanly tact. "my husband will be too happy to talk with you further on this subject," she said with quiet dignity, as she regained the general's side. "come with us to oneida. brook farm is a thing of the past." chapter vi. as lothaw drove toward his country-seat, "the mural enclosure," he observed a crowd, apparently of the working class, gathered around a singular-looking man in the picturesque garb of an ethiopian serenader. "what does he say?" inquired lothaw of his driver. the man touched his hat respectfully and said, "my mary ann." "'my mary ann!'" lothaw's heart beat rapidly. who was this mysterious foreigner? he had heard from lady coriander of a certain popish plot; but could he connect mr. camperdown with it? the spectacle of two hundred men at arms who advanced to meet him at the gates of the mural enclosure drove all else from the still youthful and impressible mind of lothaw. immediately behind them, on the steps of the baronial halls, were ranged his retainers, led by the chief cook and bottle-washer, and head crumb-remover. on either side were two companies of laundry-maids, preceded by the chief crimper and fluter, supporting a long ancestral line, on which depended the family linen, and under which the youthful lord of the manor passed into the halls of his fathers. twenty-four scullions carried the massive gold and silver plate of the family on their shoulders, and deposited it at the feet of their master. the spoons were then solemnly counted by the steward, and the perfect ceremony ended. lothaw sighed. he sought out the gorgeously gilded "taj," or sacred mausoleum erected to his grandfather in the second story front room, and wept over the man he did not know. he wandered alone in his magnificent park, and then, throwing himself on a grassy bank, pondered on the great first cause, and the necessity of religion. "i will send mary ann a handsome present," said lothaw, thoughtfully. chapter vii. "each of these pearls, my lord, is worth fifty thousand guineas," said mr. amethyst, the fashionable jeweler, as he lightly lifted a large shovelful from a convenient bin behind his counter. "indeed," said lothaw, carelessly, "i should prefer to see some expensive ones. "some number sixes, i suppose," said mr. amethyst, taking a couple from the apex of a small pyramid that lay piled on the shelf. "these are about the size of the duchess of billingsgate's, but they are in finer condition. the fact is, her grace permits her two children, the marquis of smithfield and the duke of st. giles,--two sweet pretty boys, my lord,--to use them as marbles in their games. pearls require some attention, and i go down there regularly twice a week to clean them. perhaps your lordship would like some ropes of pearls?" "about half a cable's length," said lothaw, shortly, "and send them to my lodgings." mr. amethyst became thoughtful. "i am afraid i have not the exact number--that is--excuse me one moment. i will run over to the tower and borrow a few from the crown jewels." and before lothaw could prevent him, he seized his hat and left lothaw alone. his position certainly was embarrassing. he could not move without stepping on costly gems which had rolled from the counter; the rarest diamonds lay scattered on the shelves; untold fortunes in priceless emeralds lay within his grasp. although such was the aristocratic purity of his blood and the strength of his religious convictions that he probably would not have pocketed a single diamond, still he could not help thinking that he might be accused of taking some. "you can search me, if you like," he said when mr. amethyst returned; "but i assure you, upon the honor of a gentleman, that i have taken nothing." "enough, my lord," said mr. amethyst, with a low bow; "we never search the aristocracy." chapter viii. as lothaw left mr. amethyst's, he ran against general camperdown. "how is mary ann?" he asked hurriedly. "i regret to state that she is dying," said the general, with a grave voice, as he removed his cigar from his lips, and lifted his hat to lothaw. "dying!" said lothaw, incredulously. "alas, too true!" replied the general. "the engagements of a long lecturing season, exposure in travelling by railway during the winter, and the imperfect nourishment afforded by the refreshments along the road, have told on her delicate frame. but she wants to see you before she dies. here is the key of my lodging. i will finish my cigar out here." lothaw hardly recognized those wasted hellenic outlines as he entered the dimly lighted room of the dying woman. she was already a classic ruin,--as wrecked and yet as perfect as the parthenon. he grasped her hand silently. "open-air speaking twice a week, and saleratus bread in the rural districts, have brought me to this," she said feebly; "but it is well. the cause progresses. the tyrant man succumbs." lothaw could only press her hand. "promise me one thing. don't--whatever you do--become a catholic." "why?" "the church does not recognize divorce. and now embrace me. i would prefer at this supreme moment to introduce myself to the next world through the medium of the best society in this. good by. when i am dead, be good enough to inform my husband of the fact." chapter ix. lothaw spent the next six months on an aryan island, in an aryan climate, and with an aryan race. "this is an aryan landscape," said his host, "and that is a mary ann statue." it was, in fact, a full-length figure in marble of mrs. general camperdown! "if you please, i should like to become a pagan," said lothaw, one day, after listening to an impassioned discourse on greek art from the lips of his host. but that night, on consulting a well-known spiritual medium, lothaw received a message from the late mrs. general camperdown, advising him to return to england. two days later he presented himself at plusham. "the young ladies are in the garden," said the duchess. "don't you want to go and pick a rose?" she added with a gracious smile, and the nearest approach to a wink that was consistent with her patrician bearing and aquiline nose. lothaw went and presently returned with the blushing coriander upon his arm. "bless you, my children," said the duchess. then, turning to lothaw, she said: "you have simply fulfilled and accepted your inevitable destiny. it was morally impossible for you to marry out of this family. for the present, the church of england is safe." muck-a-muck. a modern indian novel. after cooper. chapter i. it was toward the close of a bright october day. the last rays of the setting sun were reflected from one of those sylvan lakes peculiar to the sierras of california. on the right the curling smoke of an indian village rose between the columns of the lofty pines, while to the left the log cottage of judge tompkins, embowered in buckeyes, completed the enchanting picture. although the exterior of the cottage was humble and unpretentious, and in keeping with the wildness of the landscape, its interior gave evidence of the cultivation and refinement of its inmates. an aquarium, containing goldfishes, stood on a marble centre-table at one end of the apartment, while a magnificent grand piano occupied the other. the floor was covered with a yielding tapestry carpet, and the walls were adorned with paintings from the pencils of van dyke, rubens, tintoretto, michael angelo, and the productions of the more modern turner, kensett, church, and bierstadt. although judge tompkins had chosen the frontiers of civilization as his home, it was impossible for him to entirely forego the habits and tastes of his former life. he was seated in a luxurious arm-chair, writing at a mahogany ecritoire, while his daughter, a lovely young girl of seventeen summers, plied her crochet-needle on an ottoman beside him. a bright fire of pine logs flickered and flamed on the ample hearth. genevra octavia tompkins was judge tompkins's only child. her mother had long since died on the plains. reared in affluence, no pains had been spared with the daughter's education. she was a graduate of one of the principal seminaries, and spoke french with a perfect benicia accent. peerlessly beautiful, she was dressed in a white moire antique robe trimmed with tulle. that simple rosebud with which most heroines exclusively decorate their hair, was all she wore in her raven locks. the judge was the first to break the silence. "genevra, the logs which compose yonder fire seem to have been incautiously chosen. the sibilation produced by the sap, which exudes copiously therefrom, is not conducive to composition." "true, father, but i thought it would be preferable to the constant crepitation which is apt to attend the combustion of more seasoned ligneous fragments." the judge looked admiringly at the intellectual features of the graceful girl, and half forgot the slight annoyances of the green wood in the musical accents of his daughter. he was smoothing her hair tenderly, when the shadow of a tall figure, which suddenly darkened the doorway, caused him to look up. chapter ii. it needed but a glance at the new-comer to detect at once the form and features of the haughty aborigine,--the untaught and untrammelled son of the forest. over one shoulder a blanket, negligently but gracefully thrown, disclosed a bare and powerful breast, decorated with a quantity of three-cent postage-stamps which he had despoiled from an overland mail stage a few weeks previous. a cast-off beaver of judge tompkins's, adorned by a simple feather, covered his erect head, from beneath which his straight locks descended. his right hand hung lightly by his side, while his left was engaged in holding on a pair of pantaloons, which the lawless grace and freedom of his lower limbs evidently could not brook. "why," said the indian, in a low sweet tone,--"why does the pale face still follow the track of the red man? why does he pursue him, even as o-kee-chow, the wild-cat, chases ka-ka, the skunk? why are the feet of sorrel-top, the white chief, among the acorns of muck-a-muck, the mountain forest? why," he repeated, quietly but firmly abstracting a silver spoon from the table,--"why do you seek to drive him from the wigwams of his fathers? his brothers are already gone to the happy hunting-grounds. will the pale face seek him there?" and, averting his face from the judge, he hastily slipped a silver cake-basket beneath his blanket, to conceal his emotion. "muck-a-muck has spoken," said genevra, softly. "let him now listen. are the acorns of the mountain sweeter than the esculent and nutritious bean of the pale face miner? does my brother prize the edible qualities of the snail above that of the crisp and oleaginous bacon? delicious are the grasshoppers that sport on the hillside,--are they better than the dried apples of the pale faces? pleasant is the gurgle of the torrent, kish-kish, but is it better than the cluck-cluck of old bourbon from the old stone bottle?" "ugh!" said the indian,--"ugh! good. the white rabbit is wise. her words fall as the snow on tootoonolo, and the rocky heart of muck-a-muck is hidden. what says my brother the gray gopher of dutch flat?" "she has spoken, muck-a-muck," said the judge, gazing fondly on his daughter. "it is well. our treaty is concluded. no, thank you,--you need not dance the dance of snow shoes, or the moccasin dance, the dance of green corn, or the treaty dance. i would be alone. a strange sadness overpowers me." "i go," said the indian. "tell your great chief in washington, the sachem andy, that the red man is retiring before the footsteps of the adventurous pioneer. inform him, if you please, that westward the star of empire takes its way, that the chiefs of the pi-ute nation are for reconstruction to a man, and that klamath will poll a heavy republican vote in the fall." and folding his blanket more tightly around him, muck-a-muck withdrew. chapter iii. genevra tompkins stood at the door of the log-cabin, looking after the retreating overland mail stage which conveyed her father to virginia city. "he may never return again," sighed the young girl as she glanced at the frightfully rolling vehicle and wildly careering horses,--"at least, with unbroken bones. should he meet with an accident! i mind me now a fearful legend, familiar to my childhood. can it be that the drivers on this line are privately instructed to despatch all passengers maimed by accident, to prevent tedious litigation? no, no. but why this weight upon my heart?" she seated herself at the piano and lightly passed her hand over the keys. then, in a clear mezzo-soprano voice, she sang the first verse of one of the most popular irish ballads:- "o arrah, ma dheelish, the distant dudheen lies soft in the moonlight, ma bouchal vourneen: the springing gossoons on the heather are still, and the caubeens and colleens are heard on the hills." but as the ravishing notes of her sweet voice died upon the air, her hands sank listlessly to her side. music could not chase away the mysterious shadow from her heart. again she rose. putting on a white crape bonnet, and carefully drawing a pair of lemon-colored gloves over her taper fingers, she seized her parasol and plunged into the depths of the pine forest. chapter iv. genevra had not proceeded many miles before a weariness seized upon her fragile limbs, and she would fain seat herself upon the trunk of a prostrate pine, which she previously dusted with her handkerchief. the sun was just sinking below the horizon, and the scene was one of gorgeous and sylvan beauty. "how beautiful is nature!" murmured the innocent girl, as, reclining gracefully against the root of the tree, she gathered up her skirts and tied a handkerchief around her throat. but a low growl interrupted her meditation. starting to her feet, her eyes met a sight which froze her blood with terror. the only outlet to the forest was the narrow path, barely wide enough for a single person, hemmed in by trees and rocks, which she had just traversed. down this path, in indian file, came a monstrous grizzly, closely followed by a california lion, a wild-cat, and a buffalo, the rear being brought up by a wild spanish bull. the mouths of the three first animals were distended with frightful significance; the horns of the last were lowered as ominously. as genevra was preparing to faint, she heard a low voice behind her. "eternally dog-gone my skin ef this ain't the puttiest chance yet." at the same moment, a long, shining barrel dropped lightly from behind her, and rested over her shoulder. genevra shuddered. "dern ye--don't move!" genevra became motionless. the crack of a rifle rang through the woods. three frightful yells were heard, and two sullen roars. five animals bounded into the air and five lifeless bodies lay upon the plain. the well-aimed bullet had done its work. entering the open throat of the grizzly, it had traversed his body only to enter the throat of the california lion, and in like manner the catamount, until it passed through into the respective foreheads of the bull and the buffalo, and finally fell flattened from the rocky hillside. genevra turned quickly. "my preserver!" she shrieked, and fell into the arms of natty bumpo, the celebrated pike ranger of donner lake. chapter v. the moon rose cheerfully above donner lake. on its placid bosom a dug-out canoe glided rapidly, containing natty bumpo and genevra tompkins. both were silent. the same thought possessed each, and perhaps there was sweet companionship even in the unbroken quiet. genevra bit the handle of her parasol and blushed. natty bumpo took a fresh chew of tobacco. at length genevra said, as if in half-spoken revery:-"the soft shining of the moon and the peaceful ripple of the waves seem to say to us various things of an instructive and moral tendency." "you may bet yer pile on that, miss," said her companion, gravely. "it's all the preachin' and psalm-singin' i've heern since i was a boy." "noble being!" said miss tompkins to herself, glancing at the stately pike as he bent over his paddle to conceal his emotion. "reared in this wild seclusion, yet he has become penetrated with visible consciousness of a great first cause." then, collecting herself, she said aloud: "methinks 'twere pleasant to glide ever thus down the stream of life, hand in hand with the one being whom the soul claims as its affinity. but what am i saying?"--and the delicate-minded girl hid her face in her hands. a long silence ensued, which was at length broken by her companion. "ef you mean you're on the marry," he said, thoughtfully, "i ain't in no wise partikler!" "my husband," faltered the blushing girl; and she fell into his arms. in ten minutes more the loving couple had landed at judge tompkins's. chapter vi. a year has passed away. natty bumpo was returning from gold hill, where he had been to purchase provisions. on his way to donner lake, rumors of an indian uprising met his ears. "dern their pesky skins, ef they dare to touch my jenny," he muttered between his clenched teeth. it was dark when he reached the borders of the lake. around a glittering fire he dimly discerned dusky figures dancing. they were in war paint. conspicuous among them was the renowned muck-a-muck. but why did the fingers of natty bumpo tighten convulsively around his rifle? the chief held in his hand long tufts of raven hair. the heart of the pioneer sickened as he recognized the clustering curls of genevra. in a moment his rifle was at his shoulder, and with a sharp "ping," muck-a-muck leaped into the air a corpse. to knock out the brains of the remaining savages, tear the tresses from the stiffening hand of muck-a-muck, and dash rapidly forward to the cottage of judge tompkins, was the work of a moment. he burst open the door. why did he stand transfixed with open mouth and distended eyeballs? was the sight too horrible to be borne? on the contrary, before him, in her peerless beauty, stood genevra tompkins, leaning on her father's arm. "ye'r not scalped, then!" gasped her lover. "no. i have no hesitation in saying that i am not; but why this abruptness?" responded genevra. bumpo could not speak, but frantically produced the silken tresses. genevra turned her face aside. "why, that's her waterfall!" said the judge. bumpo sank fainting to the floor. the famous pike chieftain never recovered from the deceit, and refused to marry genevra, who died, twenty years afterwards, of a broken heart. judge tompkins lost his fortune in wild cat. the stage passes twice a week the deserted cottage at donner lake. thus was the death of muck-a-muck avenged. terence denville. by ch--l--s l--v--r. chapter i. my home. the little village of pilwiddle is one of the smallest and obscurest hamlets on the western coast of ireland. on a lofty crag, overlooking the hoarse atlantic, stands "denville's shot tower"--a corruption by the peasantry of d'enville's chateau, so called from my great-grandfather, phelim st. kemy d'enville, who assumed the name and title of a french heiress with whom he ran away. to this fact my familiar knowledge and excellent pronunciation of the french language may be attributed, as well as many of the events which covered my after life. the denvilles were always passionately fond of field sports. at the age of four, i was already the boldest rider and the best shot in the country. when only eight, i won the st. remy cup at the pilwiddle races,--riding my favorite bloodmare hellfire. as i approached the stand amidst the plaudits of the assembled multitude, and cries of, "thrue for ye, masther terence," and "o, but it's a dinville!" there was a slight stir among the gentry, who surrounded the lord lieutenant, and other titled personages whom the race had attracted thither. "how young he is,--a mere child; and yet how noble-looking," said a sweet low voice, which thrilled my soul. i looked up and met the full liquid orbs of the hon. blanche fitzroy sackville, youngest daughter of the lord lieutenant. she blushed deeply. i turned pale and almost fainted. but the cold, sneering tones of a masculine voice sent the blood back again into my youthful cheek. "very likely the ragged scion of one of these banditti irish gentry, who has taken naturally to 'the road.' he should be at school--though i warrant me his knowledge of terence will not extend beyond his own name," said lord henry somerset, aid-de-camp to the lord lieutenant. a moment and i was perfectly calm, though cold as ice. dismounting, and stepping to the side of the speaker, i said in a low, firm voice:-"had your lordship read terence more carefully, you would have learned that banditti are sometimes proficient in other arts beside horsemanship," and i touched his holster significantly with my hand. i had not read terence myself, but with the skilful audacity of my race i calculated that a vague allusion, coupled with a threat, would embarrass him. it did. "ah--what mean you?" he said, white with rage. "enough, we are observed," i replied; "father tom will wait on you this evening; and to-morrow morning, my lord, in the glen below pilwiddle we will meet again." "father tom--glen!" ejaculated the englishman, with genuine surprise. "what? do priests carry challenges and act as seconds in your infernal country?" "yes!" i answered, scornfully, "why should they not? their services are more often necessary than those of a surgeon," i added significantly, turning away. the party slowly rode off, with the exception of the hon. blanche sackville, who lingered for a moment behind. in an instant i was at her side. bending her blushing face over the neck of her white filly, she said hurriedly:-"words have passed between lord somerset and yourself. you are about to fight. don't deny it--but hear me. you will meet him--i know your skill of weapons. he will be at your mercy. i entreat you to spare his life!" i hesitated. "never!" i cried passionately; "he has insulted a denville!" "terence," she whispered, "terence--for my sake?" the blood rushed to my cheeks, and her eyes sought the ground in bashful confusion. "you love him then?" i cried, bitterly. "no, no," she said, agitatedly, "no, you do me wrong. i--i--cannot explain myself. my father!--the lady dowager sackville--the estate of sackville--the borough--my uncle, fitzroy somerset. ah! what am i saying? forgive me. o terence," she said, as her beautiful head sank on my shoulder, "you know not what i suffer!" i seized her hand and covered it with passionate kisses. but the high-bred english girl, recovering something of her former hauteur, said hastily, "leave me, leave me, but promise!" "i promise," i replied, enthusiastically; "i will spare his life!" "thanks, terence,--thanks!" and disengaging her hand from my lips she rode rapidly away. the next morning, the hon. captain henry somerset and myself exchanged nineteen shots in the glen, and at each fire i shot away a button from his uniform. as my last bullet shot off the last button from his sleeve, i remarked quietly, "you seem now, my lord, to be almost as ragged as the gentry you sneered at," and rode haughtily away. chapter ii. the fighting fifty-sixth. when i was nineteen years old my father sold the chateau d'enville and purchased my commission in the "fifty-sixth" with the proceeds. "i say, denville," said young mcspadden, a boy-faced ensign, who had just joined, "you'll represent the estate in the army, if you won't in the house." poor fellow, he paid for his meaningless joke with his life, for i shot him through the heart the next morning. "you're a good fellow, denville," said the poor boy faintly, as i knelt beside him: "good by!" for the first time since my grandfather's death i wept. i could not help thinking that i would have been a better man if blanche--but why proceed? was she not now in florence--the belle of the english embassy? but napoleon had returned from elba. europe was in a blaze of excitement. the allies were preparing to resist the man of destiny. we were ordered from gibraltar home, and were soon again en route for brussels. i did not regret that i was to be placed in active service. i was ambitious, and longed for an opportunity to distinguish myself. my garrison life in gibraltar had been monotonous and dull. i had killed five men in duel, and had an affair with the colonel of my regiment, who handsomely apologized before the matter assumed a serious aspect. i had been twice in love. yet these were but boyish freaks and follies. i wished to be a man. the time soon came,--the morning of waterloo. but why describe that momentous battle, on which the fate of the entire world was hanging? twice were the fifty-sixth surrounded by french cuirassiers, and twice did we mow them down by our fire. i had seven horses shot under me, and was mounting the eighth, when an orderly rode up hastily, touched his cap, and, handing me a despatch, galloped rapidly away. i opened it hurriedly and read:-"let picton advance immediately on the right." i saw it all at a glance. i had been mistaken for a general officer. but what was to be done? picton's division was two miles away, only accessible through a heavy cross fire of artillery and musketry. but my mind was made up. in an instant i was engaged with an entire squadron of cavalry, who endeavored to surround me. cutting my way through them, i advanced boldly upon a battery and sabred the gunners before they could bring their pieces to bear. looking around, i saw that i had in fact penetrated the french centre. before i was well aware of the locality, i was hailed by a sharp voice in french,-"come here, sir!" i obeyed, and advanced to the side of a little man in a cocked hat. "has grouchy come?" "not yet, sire," i replied,--for it was the emperor. "ha!" he said suddenly, bending his piercing eyes on my uniform; "a prisoner?" "no, sire," i said, proudly. "a spy?" i placed my hand upon my sword, but a gesture from the emperor bade me forbear. "you are a brave man," he said. i took my snuff-box from my pocket, and, taking a pinch, replied by handing it, with a bow, to the emperor. his quick eye caught the cipher on the lid. "what! a d'enville? ha! this accounts for the purity of your accent. any relation to roderick d'enville?" "my father, sire." "he was my school-fellow at the ecole polytechnique. embrace me!" and the emperor fell upon my neck in the presence of his entire staff. then, recovering himself, he gently placed in my hand his own magnificent snuff-box, in exchange for mine, and hanging upon my breast the cross of the legion of honor which he took from his own, he bade one of his marshals conduct me back to my regiment. i was so intoxicated with the honor of which i had been the recipient, that on reaching our lines i uttered a shout of joy and put spurs to my horse. the intelligent animal seemed to sympathize with my feelings, and fairly flew over the ground. on a rising eminence a few yards before me stood a gray-haired officer, surrounded by his staff. i don't know what possessed me, but putting spurs to my horse, i rode at him boldly, and with one bound cleared him, horse and all. a shout of indignation arose from the assembled staff. i wheeled suddenly, with the intention of apologizing, but my mare misunderstood me, and, again dashing forward, once more vaulted over the head of the officer, this time unfortunately uncovering him by a vicious kick of her hoof. "seize him!" roared the entire army. i was seized. as the soldiers led me away, i asked the name of the gray-haired officer. "that--why, that's the duke of wellington!" i fainted. * * * * * for six months i had brain-fever. during my illness ten grapeshot were extracted from my body which i had unconsciously received during the battle. when i opened my eyes i met the sweet glance of a sister of charity. "blanche!" i stammered feebly. "the same," she replied. "you here?" "yes, dear; but hush! it's a long story. you see, dear terence, your grandfather married my great-aunt's sister, and your father again married my grandmother's niece, who, dying without a will, was, according to the french law--" "but i do not comprehend," i said. "of course not," said blanche, with her old sweet smile; "you've had brain-fever; so go to sleep." i understood, however, that blanche loved me; and i am now, dear reader, sir terence sackville, k. c. b., and lady blanche is lady sackville. selina sedilia. by miss m. e. b--dd--n and mrs. h--n--y w--d. chapter i. the sun was setting over sloperton grange, and reddened the window of the lonely chamber in the western tower, supposed to be haunted by sir edward sedilia, the founder of the grange. in the dreamy distance arose the gilded mausoleum of lady felicia sedilia, who haunted that portion of sedilia manor, known as "stiff-uns acre." a little to the left of the grange might have been seen a mouldering ruin, known as "guy's keep," haunted by the spirit of sir guy sedilia, who was found, one morning, crushed by one of the fallen battlements. yet, as the setting sun gilded these objects, a beautiful and almost holy calm seemed diffused about the grange. the lady selina sat by an oriel window, overlooking the park. the sun sank gently in the bosom of the german ocean, and yet the lady did not lift her beautiful head from the finely curved arm and diminutive hand which supported it. when darkness finally shrouded the landscape she started, for the sound of horse-hoofs clattered over the stones of the avenue. she had scarcely risen before an aristocratic young man fell on his knees before her. "my selina!" "edgardo! you here?" "yes, dearest." "and--you--you--have--seen nothing?" said the lady in an agitated voice and nervous manner, turning her face aside to conceal her emotion. "nothing--that is nothing of any account," said edgardo. "i passed the ghost of your aunt in the park, noticed the spectre of your uncle in the ruined keep, and observed the familiar features of the spirit of your great-grandfather at his usual post. but nothing beyond these trifles, my selina. nothing more, love, absolutely nothing." the young man turned his dark liquid orbs fondly upon the ingenuous face of his betrothed. "my own edgardo!--and you still love me? you still would marry me in spite of this dark mystery which surrounds me? in spite of the fatal history of my race? in spite of the ominous predictions of my aged nurse?" "i would, selina"; and the young man passed his arm around her yielding waist. the two lovers gazed at each other's faces in unspeakable bliss. suddenly selina started. "leave me, edgardo! leave me! a mysterious something--a fatal misgiving--a dark ambiguity--an equivocal mistrust oppresses me. i would be alone!" the young man arose, and cast a loving glance on the lady. "then we will be married on the seventeenth." "the seventeenth," repeated selina, with a mysterious shudder. they embraced and parted. as the clatter of hoofs in the court-yard died away, the lady selina sank into the chair she had just quitted. "the seventeenth," she repeated slowly, with the same fateful shudder. "ah!--what if he should know that i have another husband living? dare i reveal to him that i have two legitimate and three natural children? dare i repeat to him the history of my youth? dare i confess that at the age of seven i poisoned my sister, by putting verdigris in her cream-tarts,--that i threw my cousin from a swing at the age of twelve? that the lady's-maid who incurred the displeasure of my girlhood now lies at the bottom of the horse-pond? no! no! he is too pure,--too good,--too innocent, to hear such improper conversation!" and her whole body writhed as she rocked to and fro in a paroxysm of grief. but she was soon calm. rising to her feet, she opened a secret panel in the wall, and revealed a slow-match ready for lighting. "this match," said the lady selina, "is connected with a mine beneath the western tower, where my three children are confined; another branch of it lies under the parish church, where the record of my first marriage is kept. i have only to light this match and the whole of my past life is swept away!" she approached the match with a lighted candle. but a hand was laid upon her arm, and with a shriek the lady selina fell on her knees before the spectre of sir guy. chapter ii. "forbear, selina," said the phantom in a hollow voice. "why should i forbear?" responded selina haughtily, as she recovered her courage. "you know the secret of our race?" "i do. understand me,--i do not object to the eccentricities of your youth. i know the fearful destiny which, pursuing you, led you to poison your sister and drown your lady's-maid. i know the awful doom which i have brought upon this house! but if you make way with these children--" "well," said the lady selina, hastily. "they will haunt you!" "well, i fear them not," said selina, drawing her superb figure to its full height. "yes, but, my dear child, what place are they to haunt? the ruin is sacred to your uncle's spirit. your aunt monopolizes the park, and, i must be allowed to state, not unfrequently trespasses upon the grounds of others. the horse-pond is frequented by the spirit of your maid, and your murdered sister walks these corridors. to be plain, there is no room at sloperton grange for another ghost. i cannot have them in my room,--for you know i don't like children. think of this, rash girl, and forbear! would you, selina," said the phantom, mournfully,--"would you force your great-grandfather's spirit to take lodgings elsewhere?" lady selina's hand trembled; the lighted candle fell from her nerveless fingers. "no," she cried passionately; "never!" and fell fainting to the floor. chapter iii edgardo galloped rapidly towards sloperton. when the outline of the grange had faded away in the darkness, he reined his magnificent steed beside the ruins of guy's keep. "it wants but a few minutes of the hour," he said, consulting his watch by the light of the moon. "he dare not break his word. he will come." he paused, and peered anxiously into the darkness. "but come what may, she is mine," he continued, as his thoughts reverted fondly to the fair lady he had quitted. "yet if she knew all. if she knew that i were a disgraced and ruined man,--a felon and an outcast. if she knew that at the age of fourteen i murdered my latin tutor and forged my uncle's will. if she knew that i had three wives already, and that the fourth victim of misplaced confidence and my unfortunate peculiarity is expected to be at sloperton by to-night's train with her baby. but no; she must not know it. constance must not arrive. burke the slogger must attend to that. "ha! here he is! well?" these words were addressed to a ruffian in a slouched hat, who suddenly appeared from guy's keep. "i be's here, measter," said the villain, with a disgracefully low accent and complete disregard of grammatical rules. "it is well. listen: i'm in possession of facts that will send you to the gallows. i know of the murder of bill smithers, the robbery of the tollgate-keeper, and the making away of the youngest daughter of sir reginald de walton. a word from me, and the officers of justice are on your track." burke the slogger trembled. "hark ye! serve my purpose, and i may yet save you. the 5.30 train from clapham will be due at sloperton at 9.25. it must not arrive!" the villain's eyes sparkled as he nodded at edgardo. "enough,--you understand; leave me!" chapter iv. about half a mile from sloperton station the south clapham and medway line crossed a bridge over sloperton-on-trent. as the shades of evening were closing, a man in a slouched hat might have been seen carrying a saw and axe under his arm, hanging about the bridge. from time to time he disappeared in the shadow of its abutments, but the sound of a saw and axe still betrayed his vicinity. at exactly nine o'clock he reappeared, and, crossing to the sloperton side, rested his shoulder against the abutment and gave a shove. the bridge swayed a moment, and then fell with a splash into the water, leaving a space of one hundred feet between the two banks. this done, burke the slogger,--for it was he,--with a fiendish chuckle seated himself on the divided railway track and awaited the coming of the train. a shriek from the woods announced its approach. for an instant burke the slogger saw the glaring of a red lamp. the ground trembled. the train was going with fearful rapidity. another second and it had reached the bank. burke the slogger uttered a fiendish laugh. but the next moment the train leaped across the chasm, striking the rails exactly even, and, dashing out the life of burke the slogger, sped away to sloperton. the first object that greeted edgardo, as he rode up to the station on the arrival of the train, was the body of burke the slogger hanging on the cow-catcher; the second was the face of his deserted wife looking from the windows of a second-class carriage. chapter v. a nameless terror seemed to have taken possession of clarissa, lady selina's maid, as she rushed into the presence of her mistress. "o my lady, such news!" "explain yourself," said her mistress, rising. "an accident has happened on the railway, and a man has been killed." "what--not edgardo!" almost screamed selina. "no, burke the slogger!" your ladyship. "my first husband!" said lady selina, sinking on her knees. "just heaven, i thank thee!" chapter vi. the morning of the seventeenth dawned brightly over sloperton. "a fine day for the wedding," said the sexton to swipes, the butler of sloperton grange. the aged retainer shook his head sadly. "alas! there's no trusting in signs!" he continued. "seventy-five years ago, on a day like this, my young mistress--" but he was cut short by the appearance of a stranger. "i would see sir edgardo," said the new-comer, impatiently. the bridegroom, who, with the rest of the wedding-train, was about stepping into the carriage to proceed to the parish church, drew the stranger aside. "it's done!" said the stranger, in a hoarse whisper. "ah! and you buried her?" "with the others!" "enough. no more at present. meet me after the ceremony, and you shall have your reward." the stranger shuffled away, and edgardo returned to his bride. "a trifling matter of business i had forgotten, my dear selina; let us proceed." and the young man pressed the timid hand of his blushing bride as he handed her into the carriage. the cavalcade rode out of the court-yard. at the same moment, the deep bell on guy's keep tolled ominously. chapter vii. scarcely had the wedding-train left the grange, than alice sedilia, youngest daughter of lady selina, made her escape from the western tower, owing to a lack of watchfulness on the part of clarissa. the innocent child, freed from restraint, rambled through the lonely corridors, and finally, opening a door, found herself in her mother's boudoir. for some time she amused herself by examining the various ornaments and elegant trifles with which it was filled. then, in pursuance of a childish freak, she dressed herself in her mother's laces and ribbons. in this occupation she chanced to touch a peg which proved to be a spring that opened a secret panel in the wall. alice uttered a cry of delight as she noticed what, to her childish fancy, appeared to be the slow-match of a fire-work. taking a lucifer match in her hand she approached the fuse. she hesitated a moment. what would her mother and her nurse say? suddenly the ringing of the chimes of sloperton parish church met her ear. alice knew that the sound signified that the marriage party had entered the church, and that she was secure from interruption. with a childish smile upon her lips, alice sedilia touched off the slow-match. chapter viii. at exactly two o'clock on the seventeenth, rupert sedilia, who had just returned from india, was thoughtfully descending the hill toward sloperton manor. "if i can prove that my aunt lady selina was married before my father died, i can establish my claim to sloperton grange," he uttered, half aloud. he paused, for a sudden trembling of the earth beneath his feet, and a terrific explosion, as of a park of artillery, arrested his progress. at the same moment he beheld a dense cloud of smoke envelop the churchyard of sloperton, and the western tower of the grange seemed to be lifted bodily from its foundation. the air seemed filled with falling fragments, and two dark objects struck the earth close at his feet. rupert picked them up. one seemed to be a heavy volume bound in brass. a cry burst from his lips. "the parish records." he opened the volume hastily. it contained the marriage of lady selina to "burke the slogger." the second object proved to be a piece of parchment. he tore it open with trembling fingers. it was the missing will of sir james sedilia! chapter ix. when the bells again rang on the new parish church of sloperton it was for the marriage of sir rupert sedilia and his cousin, the only remaining members of the family. five more ghosts were added to the supernatural population of sloperton grange. perhaps this was the reason why sir rupert sold the property shortly afterward, and that for many years a dark shadow seemed to hang over the ruins of sloperton grange. the ninety-nine guardsmen. by al--x--d--r d--m--s chapter i. showing the quality of the customers of the innkeeper of provins. twenty years after, the gigantic innkeeper of provins stood looking at a cloud of dust on the highway. this cloud of dust betokened the approach of a traveller. travellers had been rare that season on the highway between paris and provins. the heart of the innkeeper rejoiced. turning to dame perigord, his wife, he said, stroking his white apron:-"st. denis! make haste and spread the cloth. add a bottle of charlevoix to the table. this traveller, who rides so fast, by his pace must be a monseigneur." truly the traveller, clad in the uniform of a musketeer, as he drew up to the door of the hostelry, did not seem to have spared his horse. throwing his reins to the landlord, he leaped lightly to the ground. he was a young man of four-and-twenty, and spoke with a slight gascon accent. "i am hungry, morbleu! i wish to dine!" the gigantic innkeeper bowed and led the way to a neat apartment, where a table stood covered with tempting viands. the musketeer at once set to work. fowls, fish, and pates disappeared before him. perigord sighed as he witnessed the devastations. only once the stranger paused. "wine!" perigord brought wine. the stranger drank a dozen bottles. finally he rose to depart. turning to the expectant landlord, he said:-"charge it." "to whom, your highness?" said perigord, anxiously. "to his eminence!" "mazarin!" ejaculated the innkeeper. "the same. bring me my horse," and the musketeer, remounting his favorite animal, rode away. the innkeeper slowly turned back into the inn. scarcely had he reached the courtyard before the clatter of hoofs again called him to the doorway. a young musketeer of a light and graceful figure rode up. "parbleu, my dear perigord, i am famishing. what have you got for dinner?" "venison, capons, larks, and pigeons, your excellency," replied the obsequious landlord, bowing to the ground. "enough!" the young musketeer dismounted and entered the inn. seating himself at the table replenished by the careful perigord, he speedily swept it as clean as the first comer. "some wine, my brave perigord," said the graceful young musketeer, as soon as he could find utterance. perigord brought three dozen of charlevoix. the young man emptied them almost at a draught. "by-by, perigord," he said lightly, waving his hand, as, preceding the astonished landlord, he slowly withdrew. "but, your highness,--the bill," said the astounded perigord. "ah, the bill. charge it!" "to whom?" "the queen!" "what, madame?" "the same. adieu, my good perigord." and the graceful stranger rode away. an interval of quiet succeeded, in which the innkeeper gazed wofully at his wife. suddenly he was startled by a clatter of hoofs, and an aristocratic figure stood in the doorway. "ah," said the courtier good-naturedly. "what, do my eyes deceive me? no, it is the festive and luxurious perigord. perigord, listen. i famish. i languish. i would dine." the innkeeper again covered the table with viands. again it was swept clean as the fields of egypt before the miraculous swarm of locusts. the stranger looked up. "bring me another fowl, my perigord." "impossible, your excellency; the larder is stripped clean." "another flitch of bacon, then." "impossible, your highness; there is no more." "well, then, wine!" the landlord brought one hundred and forty-four bottles. the courtier drank them all. "one may drink if one cannot eat," said the aristocratic stranger, good-humoredly. the innkeeper shuddered. the guest rose to depart. the innkeeper came slowly forward with his bill, to which he had covertly added the losses which he had suffered from the previous strangers. "ah, the bill. charge it." "charge it! to whom?" "to the king," said the guest. "what! his majesty?" "certainly. farewell, perigord." the innkeeper groaned. then he went out and took down his sign. then remarked to his wife:-"i am a plain man, and don't understand politics. it seems, however, that the country is in a troubled state. between his eminence the cardinal, his majesty the king, and her majesty the queen, i am a ruined man." "stay," said dame perigord, "i have an idea." "and that is--" "become yourself a musketeer." chapter ii. the combat. on leaving provins the first musketeer proceeded to nangis, where he was reinforced by thirty-three followers. the second musketeer, arriving at nangis at the same moment, placed himself at the head of thirty-three more. the third guest of the landlord of provins arrived at nangis in time to assemble together thirty-three other musketeers. the first stranger led the troops of his eminence. the second led the troops of the queen. the third led the troops of the king. the fight commenced. it raged terribly for seven hours. the first musketeer killed thirty of the queen's troops. the second musketeer killed thirty of the king's troops. the third musketeer killed thirty of his eminence's troops. by this time it will be perceived the number of musketeers had been narrowed down to four on each side. naturally the three principal warriors approached each other. they simultaneously uttered a cry. "aramis!" "athos!" "d'artagnan!" they fell into each other's arms. "and it seems that we are fighting against each other, my children," said the count de la fere, mournfully. "how singular!" exclaimed aramis and d'artagnan. "let us stop this fratricidal warfare," said athos. "we will!" they exclaimed together. "but how to disband our followers?" queried d'artagnan. aramis winked. they understood each other. "let us cut 'em down!" they cut 'em down. aramis killed three. d'artagnan three. athos three. the friends again embraced. "how like old times," said aramis. "how touching!" exclaimed the serious and philosophic count de la fere. the galloping of hoofs caused them to withdraw from each other's embraces. a gigantic figure rapidly approached. "the innkeeper of provins!" they cried, drawing their swords. "perigord, down with him!" shouted d'artagnan. "stay," said athos. the gigantic figure was beside them. he uttered a cry. "athos, aramis, d'artagnan!" "porthos!" exclaimed the astonished trio. "the same." they all fell in each other's arms. the count de la fere slowly raised his hands to heaven. "bless you! bless us, my children! however different our opinion may be in regard to politics, we have but one opinion in regard to our own merits. where can you find a better man than aramus?" "than porthos?" said aramis. "than d'artagnan?" said porthos. "than athos?" said d'artagnan. chapter iii. showing how the king of france went up a ladder. the king descended into the garden. proceeding cautiously along the terraced walk, he came to the wall immediately below the windows of madame. to the left were two windows, concealed by vines. they opened into the apartments of la valliere. the king sighed. "it is about nineteen feet to that window," said the king. "if i had a ladder about nineteen feet long, it would reach to that window. this is logic." suddenly the king stumbled over something. "st. denis!" he exclaimed, looking down. it was a ladder, just nineteen feet long. the king placed it against the wall. in so doing, he fixed the lower end upon the abdomen of a man who lay concealed by the wall the man did not utter a cry or wince. the king suspected nothing. he ascended the ladder. the ladder was too short. louis the grand was not a tall man. he was still two feet below the window. "dear me!" said the king. suddenly the ladder was lifted two feet from below. this enabled the king to leap in the window. at the farther end of the apartment stood a young girl, with red hair and a lame leg. she was trembling with emotion. "louise!" "the king!" "ah, my god, mademoiselle." "ah, my god, sire." but a low knock at the door interrupted the lovers. the king uttered a cry of rage; louise one of despair. the door opened and d'artagnan entered. "good evening, sire," said the musketeer. the king touched a bell. porthos appeared in the doorway. "good evening, sire." "arrest m. d'artagnan." porthos looked at d'artagnan, and did not move. the king almost turned purple with rage. he again touched the bell. athos entered. "count, arrest porthos and d'artagnan." the count de la fere glanced at porthos and d'artagnan, and smiled sweetly. "sacre! where is aramis?" said the king, violently. "here, sire," and aramis entered. "arrest athos, porthos, and d'artagnan." aramis bowed and folded his arms. "arrest yourself!" aramis did not move. the king shuddered and turned pale. "am i not king of france?" "assuredly, sire, but we are also severally, porthos, aramis, d'artagnan, and athos." "ah!" said the king. "yes, sire." "what does this mean?" "it means, your majesty," said aramis, stepping forward, "that your conduct as a married man is highly improper. i am an abbe, and i object to these improprieties. my friends here, d'artagnan, athos, and porthos, pure-minded young men, are also terribly shocked. observe, sire, how they blush!" athos, porthos, and d'artagnan blushed. "ah," said the king, thoughtfully. "you teach me a lesson. you are devoted and noble young gentlemen, but your only weakness is your excessive modesty. from this moment i make you all marshals and dukes, with the exception of aramis." "and me, sire?" said aramis. "you shall be an archbishop!" the four friends looked up and then rushed into each other's arms. the king embraced louise de la valliere, by way of keeping them company. a pause ensued. at last athos spoke:-"swear, my children, that, next to yourselves, you will respect the king of france; and remember that 'forty years after' we will meet again." the dweller of the threshold. by sir ed--d l--tt--n b--lw--r. book i. the promptings of the ideal. it was noon. sir edward had stepped from his brougham and was proceeding on foot down the strand. he was dressed with his usual faultless taste, but in alighting from his vehicle his foot had slipped, and a small round disk of conglomerated soil, which instantly appeared on his high arched instep, marred the harmonious glitter of his boots. sir edward was fastidious. casting his eyes around, at a little distance he perceived the stand of a youthful bootblack. thither he sauntered, and carelessly placing his foot on the low stool, he waited the application of the polisher's art. "'tis true," said sir edward to himself, yet half aloud, "the contact of the foul and the disgusting mars the general effect of the shiny and the beautiful--and, yet, why am i here? i repeat it, calmly and deliberately--why am i here? ha! boy!" the boy looked up--his dark italian eyes glanced intelligently at the philosopher, and as with one hand he tossed back his glossy curls, from his marble brow, and with the other he spread the equally glossy day & martin over the baronet's boot, he answered in deep rich tones: "the ideal is subjective to the real. the exercise of apperception gives a distinctiveness to idiocracy, which is, however, subject to the limits of me. you are an admirer of the beautiful, sir. you wish your boots blacked. the beautiful is attainable by means of the coin." "ah," said sir edward thoughtfully, gazing upon the almost supernal beauty of the child before him; "you speak well. you have read kant." the boy blushed deeply. he drew a copy of kant from his blouse, but in his confusion several other volumes dropped from his bosom on the ground. the baronet picked them up. "ah!" said the philosopher, "what's this? cicero's de senectute, at your age, too? martial's epigrams, caesar's commentaries. what! a classical scholar?" "e pluribus unum. nux vomica. nil desperandum. nihil fit!" said the boy, enthusiastically. the philosopher gazed at the child. a strange presence seemed to transfuse and possess him. over the brow of the boy glittered the pale nimbus of the student. "ah, and schiller's robbers, too?" queried the philosopher. "das ist ausgespielt," said the boy, modestly. "then you have read my translation of schiller's ballads?" continued the baronet, with some show of interest. "i have, and infinitely prefer them to the original," said the boy, with intellectual warmth. "you have shown how in actual life we strive for a goal we cannot reach; how in the ideal the goal is attainable, and there effort is victory. you have given us the antithesis which is a key to the remainder, and constantly balances before us the conditions of the actual and the privileges of the ideal." "my very words," said the baronet; "wonderful, wonderful!" and he gazed fondly at the italian boy, who again resumed his menial employment. alas! the wings of the ideal were folded. the student had been absorbed in the boy. but sir edward's boots were blacked, and he turned to depart. placing his hand upon the clustering tendrils that surrounded the classic nob of the infant italian, he said softly, like a strain of distant music:-"boy, you have done well. love the good. protect the innocent. provide for the indigent. respect the philosopher. . . . stay! can you tell we what is the true, the beautiful, the innocent, the virtuous?" "they are things that commence with a capital letter," said the boy, promptly. "enough! respect everything that commences with a capital letter! respect me!" and dropping a half-penny in the hand of the boy, he departed. the boy gazed fixedly at the coin. a frightful and instantaneous change overspread his features. his noble brow was corrugated with baser lines of calculation. his black eye, serpent-like, glittered with suppressed passion. dropping upon his hands and feet, he crawled to the curbstone and hissed after the retreating form of the baronet, the single word:-"bilk!" book ii. in the world. "eleven years ago," said sir edward to himself, as his brougham slowly rolled him toward the committee room; "just eleven years ago my natural son disappeared mysteriously. i have no doubt in the world but that this little bootblack is he. his mother died in italy. he resembles his mother very much. perhaps i ought to provide for him. shall i disclose myself? no! no! better he should taste the sweets of labor. penury ennobles the mind and kindles the love of the beautiful. i will act to him, not like a father, not like a guardian, not like a friend--but like a philosopher!" with these words, sir edward entered the committee room. his secretary approached him. "sir edward, there are fears of a division in the house, and the prime minister has sent for you." "i will be there," said sir edward, as he placed his hand on his chest and uttered a hollow cough! no one who heard the baronet that night, in his sarcastic and withering speech on the drainage and sewerage bill, would have recognized the lover of the ideal and the philosopher of the beautiful. no one who listened to his eloquence would have dreamed of the spartan resolution this iron man had taken in regard to the lost boy--his own beloved lionel. none! "a fine speech from sir edward to-night," said lord billingsgate, as, arm-and-arm with the premier, he entered his carriage. "yes! but how dreadfully he coughs!" "exactly. dr. bolus says his lungs are entirely gone; he breathes entirely by an effort of will, and altogether independent of pulmonary assistance." "how strange!" and the carriage rolled away. book iii. the dweller of the threshold. "adon ai, appear! appear!" and as the seer spoke, the awful presence glided out of nothingness, and sat, sphinx-like, at the feet of the alchemist. "i am come!" said the thing. "you should say, 'i have come,'--it's better grammar," said the boy-neophyte, thoughtfully accenting the substituted expression. "hush, rash boy," said the seer, sternly. "would you oppose your feeble knowledge to the infinite intelligence of the unmistakable? a word, and you are lost forever." the boy breathed a silent prayer, and, handing a sealed package to the seer, begged him to hand it to his father in case of his premature decease. "you have sent for me," hissed the presence. "behold me, apokatharticon,--the unpronounceable. in me all things exist that are not already coexistent. i am the unattainable, the intangible, the cause, and the effect. in me observe the brahma of mr. emerson; not only brahma himself, but also the sacred musical composition rehearsed by the faithful hindoo. i am the real gyges. none others are genuine." and the veiled son of the starbeam laid himself loosely about the room, and permeated space generally. "unfathomable mystery," said the rosicrucian in a low, sweet voice. "brave child with the vitreous optic! thou who pervadest all things and rubbest against us without abrasion of the cuticle. i command thee, speak!" and the misty, intangible, indefinite presence spoke. book iv. myself. after the events related in the last chapter, the reader will perceive that nothing was easier than to reconcile sir edward to his son lionel, nor to resuscitate the beautiful italian girl, who, it appears, was not dead, and to cause sir edward to marry his first and boyish love, whom he had deserted. they were married in st. george's, hanover square. as the bridal party stood before the altar, sir edward, with a sweet sad smile, said, in quite his old manner:-"the sublime and beautiful are the real; the only ideal is the ridiculous and homely. let us always remember this. let us through life endeavor to personify the virtues, and always begin 'em with a capital letter. let us, whenever we can find an opportunity, deliver our sentiments in the form of round-hand copies. respect the aged. eschew vulgarity. admire ourselves. regard the novelist." the haunted man. a christmas story. by ch--r--s d--ck--ns. part i. the first phantom. don't tell me that it wasn't a knocker. i had seen it often enough, and i ought to know. so ought the three-o'clock beer, in dirty high-lows, swinging himself over the railing, or executing a demoniacal jig upon the doorstep; so ought the butcher, although butchers as a general thing are scornful of such trifles; so ought the postman, to whom knockers of the most extravagant description were merely human weaknesses, that were to be pitied and used. and so ought, for the matter of that, etc., etc., etc. but then it was such a knocker. a wild, extravagant, and utterly incomprehensible knocker. a knocker so mysterious and suspicious that policeman x 37, first coming upon it, felt inclined to take it instantly in custody, but compromised with his professional instincts by sharply and sternly noting it with an eye that admitted of no nonsense, but confidently expected to detect its secret yet. an ugly knocker; a knocker with a hard, human face, that was a type of the harder human face within. a human face that held between its teeth a brazen rod. so hereafter, in the mysterious future should be held, etc., etc. but if the knocker had a fierce human aspect in the glare of day, you should have seen it at night, when it peered out of the gathering shadows and suggested an ambushed figure; when the light of the street lamps fell upon it, and wrought a play of sinister expression in its hard outlines; when it seemed to wink meaningly at a shrouded figure who, as the night fell darkly, crept up the steps and passed into the mysterious house; when the swinging door disclosed a black passage into which the figure seemed to lose itself and become a part of the mysterious gloom; when the night grew boisterous and the fierce wind made furious charges at the knocker, as if to wrench it off and carry it away in triumph. such a night as this. it was a wild and pitiless wind. a wind that had commenced life as a gentle country zephyr, but wandering through manufacturing towns had become demoralized, and reaching the city had plunged into extravagant dissipation and wild excesses. a roistering wind that indulged in bacchanalian shouts on the street corners, that knocked off the hats from the heads of helpless passengers, and then fulfilled its duties by speeding away, like all young prodigals,--to sea. he sat alone in a gloomy library listening to the wind that roared in the chimney. around him novels and story-books were strewn thickly; in his lap he held one with its pages freshly cut, and turned the leaves wearily until his eyes rested upon a portrait in its frontispiece. and as the wind howled the more fiercely, and the darkness without fell blacker, a strange and fateful likeness to that portrait appeared above his chair and leaned upon his shoulder. the haunted man gazed at the portrait and sighed. the figure gazed at the portrait and sighed too. "here again?" said the haunted man. "here again," it repeated in a low voice. "another novel?" "another novel." "the old story?" "the old story." "i see a child," said the haunted man, gazing from the pages of the book into the fire,--"a most unnatural child, a model infant. it is prematurely old and philosophic. it dies in poverty to slow music. it dies surrounded by luxury to slow music. it dies with an accompaniment of golden water and rattling carts to slow music. previous to its decease it makes a will; it repeats the lord's prayer, it kisses the 'boofer lady.' that child--" "is mine," said the phantom. "i see a good woman, undersized. i see several charming women, but they are all undersized. they are more or less imbecile and idiotic, but always fascinating and undersized. they wear coquettish caps and aprons. i observe that feminine virtue is invariably below the medium height, and that it is always simple and infantine. these women--" "are mine." "i see a haughty, proud, and wicked lady. she is tall and queenly. i remark that all proud and wicked women are tall and queenly. that woman--" "is mine," said the phantom, wringing his hands. "i see several things continually impending. i observe that whenever an accident, a murder, or death is about to happen, there is something in the furniture, in the locality, in the atmosphere, that foreshadows and suggests it years in advance. i cannot say that in real life i have noticed it,--the perception of this surprising fact belongs--" "to me!" said the phantom. the haunted man continued, in a despairing tone:-"i see the influence of this in the magazines and daily papers; i see weak imitators rise up and enfeeble the world with senseless formula. i am getting tired of it. it won't do, charles! it won't do!" and the haunted man buried his head in his hands and groaned. the figure looked down upon him sternly: the portrait in the frontispiece frowned as he gazed. "wretched man," said the phantom, "and how have these things affected you?" "once i laughed and cried, but then i was younger. now, i would forget them if i could." "have then your wish. and take this with you, man whom i renounce. from this day henceforth you shall live with those whom i displace. without forgetting me, 't will be your lot to walk through life as if we had not met. but first you shall survey these scenes that henceforth must be yours. at one to-night, prepare to meet the phantom i have raised. farewell!" the sound of its voice seemed to fade away with the dying wind, and the haunted man was alone. but the firelight flickered gayly, and the light danced on the walls, making grotesque figures of the furniture. "ha, ha!" said the haunted man, rubbing his hands gleefully; "now for a whiskey punch and a cigar." book ii. the second phantom. one! the stroke of the far-off bell had hardly died before the front door closed with a reverberating clang. steps were heard along the passage; the library door swung open of itself, and the knocker--yes, the knocker--slowly strode into the room. the haunted man rubbed his eyes,--no! there could be no mistake about it,--it was the knocker's face, mounted on a misty, almost imperceptible body. the brazen rod was transferred from its mouth to its right hand, where it was held like a ghostly truncheon. "it's a cold evening," said the haunted man. "it is," said the goblin, in a hard, metallic voice. "it must be pretty cold out there," said the haunted man, with vague politeness. "do you ever--will you--take some hot water and brandy?" "no," said the goblin. "perhaps you'd like it cold, by way of change?" continued the haunted man, correcting himself, as he remembered the peculiar temperature with which the goblin was probably familiar. "time flies," said the goblin coldly. "we have no leisure for idle talk. come!" he moved his ghostly truncheon toward the window, and laid his hand upon the other's arm. at his touch the body of the haunted man seemed to become as thin and incorporeal as that of the goblin himself, and together they glided out of the window into the black and blowy night. in the rapidity of their flight the senses of the haunted man seemed to leave him. at length they stopped suddenly. "what do you see?" asked the goblin. "i see a battlemented mediaeval castle. gallant men in mail ride over the drawbridge, and kiss their gauntleted fingers to fair ladies, who wave their lily hands in return. i see fight and fray and tournament. i hear roaring heralds bawling the charms of delicate women, and shamelessly proclaiming their lovers. stay. i see a jewess about to leap from a battlement. i see knightly deeds, violence, rapine, and a good deal of blood. i've seen pretty much the same at astley's." "look again." "i see purple moors, glens, masculine women, bare-legged men, priggish book-worms, more violence, physical excellence, and blood. always blood,--and the superiority of physical attainments." "and how do you feel now?" said the goblin. the haunted man shrugged his shoulders. "none the better for being carried back and asked to sympathize with a barbarous age." the goblin smiled and clutched his arm; they again sped rapidly through the black night and again halted. "what do you see?" said the goblin. "i see a barrack room, with a mess table, and a group of intoxicated celtic officers telling funny stories, and giving challenges to duel. i see a young irish gentleman capable of performing prodigies of valor. i learn incidentally that the acme of all heroism is the cornetcy of a dragoon regiment. i hear a good deal of french! no, thank you," said the haunted man hurriedly, as he stayed the waving hand of the goblin; "i would rather not go to the peninsula, and don't care to have a private interview with napoleon." again the goblin flew away with the unfortunate man, and from a strange roaring below them he judged they were above the ocean. a ship hove in sight, and the goblin stayed its flight. "look," he said, squeezing his companion's arm. the haunted man yawned. "don't you think, charles, you're rather running this thing into the ground? of course it's very moral and instructive, and all that. but ain't there a little too much pantomime about it? come now!" "look!" repeated the goblin, pinching his arm malevolently. the haunted man groaned. "o, of course, i see her majesty's ship arethusa. of course i am familiar with her stern first lieutenant, her eccentric captain, her one fascinating and several mischievous midshipmen. of course i know it's a splendid thing to see all this, and not to be seasick. o, there the young gentlemen are going to play a trick on the purser. for god's sake, let us go," and the unhappy man absolutely dragged the goblin away with him. when they next halted, it was at the edge of a broad and boundless prairie, in the middle of an oak opening. "i see," said the haunted man, without waiting for his cue, but mechanically, and as if he were repeating a lesson which the goblin had taught him,--"i see the noble savage. he is very fine to look at! but i observe under his war-paint, feathers, and picturesque blanket, dirt, disease, and an unsymmetrical contour. i observe beneath his inflated rhetoric deceit and hypocrisy; beneath his physical hardihood, cruelty, malice, and revenge. the noble savage is a humbug. i remarked the same to mr. catlin." "come," said the phantom. the haunted man sighed, and took out his watch. "couldn't we do the rest of this another time?" "my hour is almost spent, irreverent being, but there is yet a chance for your reformation. come!" again they sped through the night, and again halted. the sound of delicious but melancholy music fell upon their ears. "i see," said the haunted man, with something of interest in his manner,--"i see an old moss-covered manse beside a sluggish, flowing river. i see weird shapes: witches, puritans, clergymen, little children, judges, mesmerized maidens, moving to the sound of melody that thrills me with its sweetness and purity. but, although carried along its calm and evenly flowing current, the shapes are strange and frightful: an eating lichen gnaws at the heart of each. not only the clergymen, but witch, maiden, judge, and puritan, all wear scarlet letters of some kind burned upon their hearts. i am fascinated and thrilled, but i feel a morbid sensitiveness creeping over me. i--i beg your pardon." the goblin was yawning frightfully. "well, perhaps we had better go." "one more, and the last," said the goblin. they were moving home. streaks of red were beginning to appear in the eastern sky. along the banks of the blackly flowing river by moorland and stagnant fens, by low houses, clustering close to the water's edge, like strange mollusks, crawled upon the beach to dry; by misty black barges, the more misty and indistinct seen through its mysterious veil, the river fog was slowly rising. so rolled away and rose from the heart of the haunted man, etc., etc. they stopped before a quaint mansion of red brick. the goblin waved his hand without speaking. "i see," said the haunted man, "a gay drawing-room. i see my old friends of the club, of the college, of society, even as they lived and moved. i see the gallant and unselfish men, whom i have loved, and the snobs whom i have hated. i see strangely mingling with them, and now and then blending with their forms, our old friends dick steele, addison, and congreve. i observe, though, that these gentlemen have a habit of getting too much in the way. the royal standard of queen anne, not in itself a beautiful ornament, is rather too prominent in the picture. the long galleries of black oak, the formal furniture, the old portraits, are picturesque, but depressing. the house is damp. i enjoy myself better here on the lawn, where they are getting up a vanity fair. see, the bell rings, the curtain is rising, the puppets are brought out for a new play. let me see." the haunted man was pressing forward in his eagerness, but the hand of the goblin stayed him, and pointing to his feet he saw, between him and the rising curtain, a new-made grave. and bending above the grave in passionate grief, the haunted man beheld the phantom of the previous night. * * * * * the haunted man started, and--woke. the bright sunshine streamed into the room. the air was sparkling with frost. he ran joyously to the window and opened it. a small boy saluted him with "merry christmas." the haunted man instantly gave him a bank of england note. "how much like tiny tim, tom, and bobby that boy looked,--bless my soul, what a genius this dickens has!" a knock at the door, and boots entered. "consider your salary doubled instantly. have you read david copperfield?" "yezzur." "your salary is quadrupled. what do you think of the old curiosity shop?" the man instantly burst into a torrent of tears, and then into a roar of laughter. "enough! here are five thousand pounds. open a porter-house, and call it, 'our mutual friend.' huzza! i feel so happy!" and the haunted man danced about the room. and so, bathed in the light of that blessed sun, and yet glowing with the warmth of a good action, the haunted man, haunted no longer, save by those shapes which make the dreams of children beautiful, reseated himself in his chair, and finished our mutual friend. miss mix. by ch--l--tte br--nte. chapter i. my earliest impressions are of a huge, misshapen rock, against which the hoarse waves beat unceasingly. on this rock three pelicans are standing in a defiant attitude. a dark sky lowers in the background, while two sea-gulls and a gigantic cormorant eye with extreme disfavor the floating corpse of a drowned woman in the foreground. a few bracelets, coral necklaces, and other articles of jewelry, scattered around loosely, complete this remarkable picture. it is one which, in some vague, unconscious way, symbolizes, to my fancy, the character of a man. i have never been able to explain exactly why. i think i must have seen the picture in some illustrated volume, when a baby, or my mother may have dreamed it before i was born. as a child i was not handsome. when i consulted the triangular bit of looking-glass which i always carried with me, it showed a pale, sandy, and freckled face, shaded by locks like the color of seaweed when the sun strikes it in deep water. my eyes were said to be indistinctive; they were a faint, ashen gray; but above them rose--my only beauty--a high, massive, domelike forehead, with polished temples, like door-knobs of the purest porcelain. our family was a family of governesses. my mother had been one, and my sisters had the same occupation. consequently, when, at the age of thirteen, my eldest sister handed me the advertisement of mr. rawjester, clipped from that day's "times," i accepted it as my destiny. nevertheless, a mysterious presentiment of an indefinite future haunted me in my dreams that night, as i lay upon my little snow-white bed. the next morning, with two bandboxes tied up in silk handkerchiefs, and a hair trunk, i turned my back upon minerva cottage forever. chapter ii. blunderbore hall, the seat of james rawjester, esq., was encompassed by dark pines and funereal hemlocks on all sides. the wind sang weirdly in the turrets and moaned through the long-drawn avenues of the park. as i approached the house i saw several mysterious figures flit before the windows, and a yell of demoniac laughter answered my summons at the bell. while i strove to repress my gloomy forebodings, the housekeeper, a timid, scared-looking old woman, showed me into the library. i entered, overcome with conflicting emotions. i was dressed in a narrow gown of dark serge, trimmed with black bugles. a thick green shawl was pinned across my breast. my hands were encased with black half-mittens worked with steel beads; on my feet were large pattens, originally the property of my deceased grandmother. i carried a blue cotton umbrella. as i passed before a mirror, i could not help glancing at it, nor could i disguise from myself the fact that i was not handsome. drawing a chair into a recess, i sat down with folded hands, calmly awaiting the arrival of my master. once or twice a fearful yell rang through the house, or the rattling of chains, and curses uttered in a deep, manly voice, broke upon the oppressive stillness. i began to feel my soul rising with the emergency of the moment. "you look alarmed, miss. you don't hear anything, my dear, do you?" asked the housekeeper nervously. "nothing whatever," i remarked calmly, as a terrific scream, followed by the dragging of chairs and tables in the room above, drowned for a moment my reply. "it is the silence, on the contrary, which has made me foolishly nervous." the housekeeper looked at me approvingly, and instantly made some tea for me. i drank seven cups; as i was beginning the eighth, i heard a crash, and the next moment a man leaped into the room through the broken window. chapter iii. the crash startled me from my self-control. the housekeeper bent toward me and whispered:-"don't be excited. it's mr. rawjester,--he prefers to come in sometimes in this way. it's his playfulness, ha! ha! ha!" "i perceive," i said calmly. "it's the unfettered impulse of a lofty soul breaking the tyrannizing bonds of custom." and i turned toward him. he had never once looked at me. he stood with his back to the fire, which set off the herculean breadth of his shoulders. his face was dark and expressive; his under jaw squarely formed, and remarkably heavy. i was struck with his remarkable likeness to a gorilla. as he absently tied the poker into hard knots with his nervous fingers, i watched him with some interest. suddenly he turned toward me:-"do you think i'm handsome, young woman?" "not classically beautiful," i returned calmly; "but you have, if i may so express myself, an abstract manliness,--a sincere and wholesome barbarity which, involving as it does the naturalness--" but i stopped, for he yawned at that moment,--an action which singularly developed the immense breadth of his lower jaw,--and i saw he had forgotten me. presently he turned to the housekeeper:-"leave us." the old woman withdrew with a courtesy. mr. rawjester deliberately turned his back upon me and remained silent for twenty minutes. i drew my shawl the more closely around my shoulders and closed my eyes. "you are the governess?" at length he said. "i am, sir." "a creature who teaches geography, arithmetic, and the use of the globes--ha!--a wretched remnant of femininity,--a skimp pattern of girlhood with a premature flavor of tea-leaves and morality. ugh!" i bowed my head silently. "listen to me, girl!" he said sternly; "this child you have come to teach--my ward--is not legitimate. she is the offspring of my mistress,--a common harlot. ah! miss mix, what do you think of me now?" "i admire," i replied calmly, "your sincerity. a mawkish regard for delicacy might have kept this disclosure to yourself. i only recognize in your frankness that perfect community of thought and sentiment which should exist between original natures." i looked up; he had already forgotten my presence, and was engaged in pulling off his boots and coat. this done, he sank down in an arm-chair before the fire, and ran the poker wearily through his hair. i could not help pitying him. the wind howled dismally without, and the rain beat furiously against the windows. i crept toward him and seated myself on a low stool beside his chair. presently he turned, without seeing me, and placed his foot absently in my lap. i affected not to notice it. but he started and looked down. "you here yet--carrothead? ah, i forgot. do you speak french?" "oui, monsieur." "taisez-vous!" he said sharply, with singular purity of accent. i complied. the wind moaned fearfully in the chimney, and the light burned dimly. i shuddered in spite of myself. "ah, you tremble, girl!" "it is a fearful night." "fearful! call you this fearful, ha! ha! ha! look! you wretched little atom, look!" and he dashed forward, and, leaping out of the window, stood like a statue in the pelting storm, with folded arms. he did not stay long, but in a few minutes returned by way of the hall chimney. i saw from the way that he wiped his feet on my dress that he had again forgotten my presence. "you are a governess. what can you teach?" he asked, suddenly and fiercely thrusting his face in mine. "manners!" i replied, calmly. "ha! teach me!" "you mistake yourself," i said, adjusting my mittens. "your manners require not the artificial restraint of society. you are radically polite; this impetuosity and ferociousness is simply the sincerity which is the basis of a proper deportment. your instincts are moral; your better nature, i see, is religious. as st. paul justly remarks--see chap. 6, 8, 9, and 10--" he seized a heavy candlestick, and threw it at me. i dodged it submissively but firmly. "excuse me," he remarked, as his under jaw slowly relaxed. "excuse me, miss mix--but i can't stand st. paul! enough--you are engaged." chapter iv. i followed the housekeeper as she led the way timidly to my room. as we passed into a dark hall in the wing, i noticed that it was closed by an iron gate with a grating. three of the doors on the corridor were likewise grated. a strange noise, as of shuffling feet and the howling of infuriated animals, rang through the hall. bidding the housekeeper good night, and taking the candle, i entered my bedchamber. i took off my dress, and, putting on a yellow flannel nightgown, which i could not help feeling did not agree with my complexion, i composed myself to rest by reading blair's rhetoric and paley's moral philosophy. i had just put out the light, when i heard voices in the corridor. i listened attentively. i recognized mr. rawjester's stern tones. "have you fed no. 1?" he asked. "yes, sir," said a gruff voice, apparently belonging to a domestic. "how's no. 2?" "she's a little off her feed, just now, but will pick up in a day or two!" "and no. 3?" "perfectly furious, sir. her tantrums are ungovernable." "hush!" the voices died away, and i sank into a fitful slumber. i dreamed that i was wandering through a tropical forest. suddenly i saw the figure of a gorilla approaching me. as it neared me, i recognized the features of mr. rawjester. he held his hand to his side as if in pain. i saw that he had been wounded. he recognized me and called me by name, but at the same moment the vision changed to an ashantee village, where, around the fire, a group of negroes were dancing and participating in some wild obi festival. i awoke with the strain still ringing in my ears. "hokee-pokee wokee fum!" good heavens! could i be dreaming? i heard the voice distinctly on the floor below, and smelt something burning. i arose, with an indistinct presentiment of evil, and hastily putting some cotton in my ears and tying a towel about my head, i wrapped myself in a shawl and rushed down stairs. the door of mr. rawjester's room was open. i entered. mr. rawjester lay apparently in a deep slumber, from which even the clouds of smoke that came from the burning curtains of his bed could not rouse him. around the room a large and powerful negress, scantily attired, with her head adorned with feathers, was dancing wildly, accompanying herself with bone castanets. it looked like some terrible fetich. i did not lose my calmness. after firmly emptying the pitcher, basin, and slop-jar on the burning bed, i proceeded cautiously to the garden, and, returning with the garden-engine, i directed a small stream at mr. rawjester. at my entrance the gigantic negress fled. mr. rawjester yawned and woke. i explained to him, as he rose dripping from the bed, the reason of my presence. he did not seem to be excited, alarmed, or discomposed. he gazed at me curiously. "so you risked your life to save mine, eh? you canary-colored teacher of infants." i blushed modestly, and drew my shawl tightly over my yellow flannel nightgown. "you love me, mary jane,--don't deny it! this trembling shows it!" he drew me closely toward him, and said, with his deep voice tenderly modulated:-"how's her pooty tootens,--did she get her 'ittle tootens wet,--bess her?" i understood his allusion to my feet. i glanced down and saw that in my hurry i had put on a pair of his old india-rubbers. my feet were not small or pretty, and the addition did not add to their beauty. "let me go, sir," i remarked quietly. "this is entirely improper; it sets a bad example for your child." and i firmly but gently extricated myself from his grasp. i approached the door. he seemed for a moment buried in deep thought. "you say this was a negress?" "yes, sir." "humph, no. 1, i suppose?" "who is number one, sir?" "my first," he remarked, with a significant and sarcastic smile. then, relapsing into his old manner, he threw his boots at my head, and bade me begone. i withdrew calmly. chapter v. my pupil was a bright little girl, who spoke french with a perfect accent. her mother had been a french ballet-dancer, which probably accounted for it. although she was only six years old, it was easy to perceive that she had been several times in love. she once said to me:-"miss mix, did you ever have the grande passion? did you ever feel a fluttering here?" and she placed her hand upon her small chest, and sighed quaintly, "a kind of distaste for bonbons and caromels, when the world seemed as tasteless and hollow as a broken cordial drop." "then you have felt it, nina?" i said quietly. "o dear, yes. there was buttons,--that was our page, you know,--i loved him dearly, but papa sent him away. then there was dick, the groom, but he laughed at me, and i suffered misery!" and she struck a tragic french attitude. "there is to be company here to-morrow," she added, rattling on with childish naivete, "and papa's sweetheart--blanche marabout--is to be here. you know they say she is to be my mamma." what thrill was this shot through me? but i rose calmly, and, administering a slight correction to the child, left the apartment. blunderbore house, for the next week, was the scene of gayety and merriment. that portion of the mansion closed with a grating was walled up, and the midnight shrieks no longer troubled me. but i felt more keenly the degradation of my situation. i was obliged to help lady blanche at her toilet and help her to look beautiful. for what? to captivate him? o--no, no,--but why this sudden thrill and faintness? did he really love her? i had seen him pinch and swear at her. but i reflected that he had thrown a candlestick at my head, and my foolish heart was reassured. it was a night of festivity, when a sudden message obliged mr. rawjester to leave his guests for a few hours. "make yourselves merry, idiots," he added, under his breath, as he passed me. the door closed and he was gone. an half-hour passed. in the midst of the dancing a shriek was heard, and out of the swaying crowd of fainting women and excited men a wild figure strode into the room. one glance showed it to be a highwayman, heavily armed, holding a pistol in each hand. "let no one pass out of this room!" he said, in a voice of thunder. "the house is surrounded and you cannot escape. the first one who crosses yonder threshold will be shot like a dog. gentlemen, i'll trouble you to approach in single file, and hand me your purses and watches." finding resistance useless, the order was ungraciously obeyed. "now, ladies, please to pass up your jewelry and trinkets." this order was still more ungraciously complied with. as blanche handed to the bandit captain her bracelet, she endeavored to conceal a diamond necklace, the gift of mr. rawjester, in her bosom. but, with a demoniac grin, the powerful brute tore it from its concealment, and, administering a hearty box on the ear of the young girl, flung her aside. it was now my turn. with a beating heart i made my way to the robber chieftain, and sank at his feet. "o sir, i am nothing but a poor governess, pray let me go." "o ho! a governess? give me your last month's wages, then. give me what you have stolen from your master!" and he laughed fiendishly. i gazed at him quietly, and said, in a low voice: "i have stolen nothing from you, mr. rawjester!" "ah, discovered! hush! listen, girl!" he hissed, in a fiercer whisper, "utter a syllable to frustrate my plans and you die; aid me, and--" but he was gone. in a few moments the party, with the exception of myself, were gagged and locked in the cellar. the next moment torches were applied to the rich hangings, and the house was in flames. i felt a strong hand seize me, and bear me out in the open air and place me upon the hillside, where i could overlook the burning mansion. it was mr. rawjester. "burn!" he said, as he shook his fist at the flames. then sinking on his knees before me, he said hurriedly:-"mary jane, i love you; the obstacles to our union are or will be soon removed. in yonder mansion were confined my three crazy wives. one of them, as you know, attempted to kill me! ha! this is vengeance! but will you be mine?" i fell, without a word, upon his neck. guy heavystone; or, "entire." a muscular novel. by the author or "sword and gun." chapter i. "nerei repandirostrum incurvicervicum pecus." a dingy, swashy, splashy afternoon in october; a school-yard filled with a mob of riotous boys. a lot of us standing outside. suddenly came a dull, crashing sound from the school-room. at the ominous interruption i shuddered involuntarily, and called to smithsye:-"what's up, smithums?" "guy's cleaning out the fourth form," he replied. at the same moment george de coverly passed me, holding his nose, from whence the bright norman blood streamed redly. to him the plebeian smithsye laughingly:-"cully! how's his nibs?" i pushed the door of the school-room open. there are some spectacles which a man never forgets. the burning of troy probably seemed a large-sized conflagration to the pious aeneas, and made an impression on him which he carried away with the feeble anchises. in the centre of the room, lightly brandishing the piston-rod of a steam-engine, stood guy heavystone alone. i say alone, for the pile of small boys on the floor in the corner could hardly be called company. i will try and sketch him for the reader. guy heavystone was then only fifteen. his broad, deep chest, his sinewy and quivering flank, his straight pastern, showed him to be a thoroughbred. perhaps he was a trifle heavy in the fetlock, but he held his head haughtily erect. his eyes were glittering but pitiless. there was a sternness about the lower part of his face,--the old heavystone look,--a sternness, heightened, perhaps, by the snaffle-bit which, in one of his strange freaks, he wore in his mouth to curb his occasional ferocity. his dress was well adapted to his square-set and herculean frame. a striped knit undershirt, close-fitting striped tights, and a few spangles set off his figure; a neat glengarry cap adorned his head. on it was displayed the heavystone crest, a cock regardant on a dunghill or, and the motto, "devil a better!" i thought of horatius on the bridge, of hector before the walls. i always make it a point to think of something classical at such times. he saw me, and his sternness partly relaxed. something like a smile struggled through his grim lineaments. it was like looking on the jungfrau after having seen mont blanc,--a trifle, only a trifle less sublime and awful. resting his hand lightly on the shoulder of the head-master, who shuddered and collapsed under his touch, he strode toward me. his walk was peculiar. you could not call it a stride. it was like the "crest-tossing bellerophon,"--a kind of prancing gait. guy heavystone pranced toward me. chapter ii. "lord lovel he stood at the garden gate, a-combing his milk-white steed." it was the winter of 186when i next met guy heavystone. he had left the university and had entered the 76th "heavies." "i have exchanged the gown for the sword, you see," he said, grasping my hand, and fracturing the bones of my little finger, as he shook it. i gazed at him with unmixed admiration. he was squarer, sterner, and in every way smarter and more remarkable than ever. i began to feel toward this man as phalaster felt towards phyrgino, as somebody must have felt toward archididasculus, as boswell felt toward johnson. "come into my den," he said, and lifting me gently by the seat of my pantaloons he carried me up stairs and deposited me, before i could apologize, on the sofa. i looked around the room. it was a bachelor's apartment, characteristically furnished in the taste of the proprietor. a few claymores and battle-axes were ranged against the wall, and a culverin, captured by sir ralph heavystone, occupied the corner, the other end of the room being taken up by a light battery. foils, boxing-gloves, saddles, and fishing-poles lay around carelessly. a small pile of billets-doux lay upon a silver salver. the man was not an anchorite, nor yet a sir galahad. i never could tell what guy thought of women. "poor little beasts," he would often say when the conversation turned on any of his fresh conquests. then, passing his hand over his marble brow, the old look of stern fixedness of purpose and unflinching severity would straighten the lines of his mouth, and he would mutter, half to himself, "s'death!" "come with me to heavystone grange. the exmoor hounds throw off to-morrow. i'll give you a mount," he said, as he amused himself by rolling up a silver candlestick between his fingers. "you shall have cleopatra. but stay," he added, thoughtfully; "now i remember, i ordered cleopatra to be shot this morning." "and why?" i queried. "she threw her rider yesterday and fell on him--" "and killed him?" "no. that's the reason why i have ordered her to be shot. i keep no animals that are not dangerous--i should add--deadly!" he hissed the last sentence between his teeth, and a gloomy frown descended over his calm brow. i affected to turn over the tradesman's bills that lay on the table, for, like all of the heavystone race, guy seldom paid cash, and said:-"you remind me of the time when leonidas--" "o, bother leonidas and your classical allusions. come!" we descended to dinner. chapter iii. "he carries weight, he rides a race, 'tis for a thousand pound." "there is flora billingsgate, the greatest coquette and hardest rider in the country," said my companion, ralph mortmain, as we stood upon dingleby common before the meet. i looked up and beheld guy heavystone bending haughtily over the saddle, as he addressed a beautiful brunette. she was indeed a splendidly groomed and high-spirited woman. we were near enough to overhear the following conversation, which any high-toned reader will recognize as the common and natural expression of the higher classes. "when diana takes the field the chase is not wholly confined to objects ferae naturae," said guy, darting a significant glance at his companion. flora did not shrink either from the glance or the meaning implied in the sarcasm. "if i were looking for an endymion, now--" she said archly, as she playfully cantered over a few hounds and leaped a five-barred gate. guy whispered a few words, inaudible to the rest of the party, and, curvetting slightly, cleverly cleared two of the huntsmen in a flying leap, galloped up the front steps of the mansion, and dashing at full speed through the hall leaped through the drawing-room window and rejoined me, languidly, on the lawn. "be careful of flora billingsgate," he said to me, in low stern tones, while his pitiless eye shot a baleful fire. "gardez vous!" "gnothi seauton," i replied calmly, not wishing to appear to be behind him in perception or verbal felicity. guy started off in high spirits. he was well carried. he and the first whip, a ten-stone man, were head and head at the last fence, while the hounds were rolling over their fox a hundred yards farther in the open. but an unexpected circumstance occurred. coming back, his chestnut mare refused a ten-foot wall. she reared and fell backward. again he led her up to it lightly; again she refused, falling heavily from the coping. guy started to his feet. the old pitiless fire shone in his eyes; the old stern look settled around his mouth. seizing the mare by the tail and mane he threw her over the wall. she landed twenty feet on the other side, erect and trembling. lightly leaping the same obstacle himself, he remounted her. she did not refuse the wall the next time. chapter iv. "he holds him by his glittering eye." guy was in the north of ireland, cock-shooting. so ralph mortmain told me, and also that the match between mary brandagee and guy had been broken off by flora billingsgate. "i don't like those billingsgates," said ralph, "they're a bad stock. her father, smithfield de billingsgate, had an unpleasant way of turning up the knave from the bottom of the pack. but nous verrons; let us go and see guy." the next morning we started for fin-ma-coul's crossing. when i reached the shooting-box, where guy was entertaining a select company of friends, flora billingsgate greeted me with a saucy smile. guy was even squarer and sterner than ever. his gusts of passion were more frequent, and it was with difficulty that he could keep an able-bodied servant in his family. his present retainers were more or less maimed from exposure to the fury of their master. there was a strange cynicism, a cutting sarcasm in his address, piercing through his polished manner. i thought of timon, etc., etc. one evening, we were sitting over our chambertin, after a hard day's work, and guy was listlessly turning over some letters, when suddenly he uttered a cry. did you ever hear the trumpeting of a wounded elephant? it was like that. i looked at him with consternation. he was glancing at a letter which he held at arm's length, and snorting, as it were, at it as he gazed. the lower part of his face was stern, but not as rigid as usual. he was slowly grinding between his teeth the fragments of the glass he had just been drinking from. suddenly he seized one of his servants, and, forcing the wretch upon his knees, exclaimed, with the roar of a tiger:-"dog! why was this kept from me?" "why, please, sir, miss flora said as how it was a reconciliation from miss brandagee, and it was to be kept from you where you would not be likely to see it,--and--and--" "speak, dog! and you--" "i put it among your bills, sir!" with a groan, like distant thunder, guy fell swooning to the floor. he soon recovered, for the next moment a servant came rushing into the room with the information that a number of the ingenuous peasantry of the neighborhood were about to indulge that evening in the national pastime of burning a farm-house and shooting a landlord. guy smiled a fearful smile, without, however, altering his stern and pitiless expression. "let them come," he said calmly; "i feel like entertaining company." we barricaded the doors and windows, and then chose our arms from the armory. guy's choice was a singular one: it was a landing net with a long handle, and a sharp cavalry sabre. we were not destined to remain long in ignorance of its use. a howl was heard from without, and a party of fifty or sixty armed men precipitated themselves against the door. suddenly the window opened. with the rapidity of lightning, guy heavystone cast the net over the head of the ringleader, ejaculated "habet!" and with a back stroke of his cavalry sabre severed the member from its trunk, and, drawing the net back again, cast the gory head upon the floor, saying quietly:-"one." again the net was cast, the steel flashed, the net was withdrawn, and an ominous "two!" accompanied the head as it rolled on the floor. "do you remember what pliny says of the gladiator?" said guy, calmly wiping his sabre. "how graphic is that passage commencing 'inter nos, etc.'" the sport continued until the heads of twenty desperadoes had been gathered in. the rest seemed inclined to disperse. guy incautiously showed himself at the door; a ringing shot was heard, and he staggered back, pierced through the heart. grasping the door-post in the last unconscious throes of his mighty frame, the whole side of the house yielded to that earthquake tremor, and we had barely time to escape before the whole building fell in ruins. i thought of samson, the giant judge, etc., etc.; but all was over. guy heavystone had died as he had lived,--hard. mr. midshipman breezy. a naval officer. by captain m--rry--t, r. n. chapter i. my father was a north-country surgeon. he had retired, a widower, from her majesty's navy many years before, and had a small practice in his native village. when i was seven years old he employed me to carry medicines to his patients. being of a lively disposition, i sometimes amused myself; during my daily rounds, by mixing the contents of the different phials. although i had no reason to doubt that the general result of this practice was beneficial, yet, as the death of a consumptive curate followed the addition of a strong mercurial lotion to his expectorant, my father concluded to withdraw me from the profession and send me to school. grubbins, the schoolmaster, was a tyrant, and it was not long before my impetuous and self-willed nature rebelled against his authority. i soon began to form plans of revenge. in this i was assisted by tom snaffle,--a schoolfellow. one day tom suggested:-"suppose we blow him up. i've got two pounds of powder!" "no, that's too noisy," i replied. tom was silent for a minute, and again spoke:-"you remember how you flattened out the curate, pills! couldn't you give grubbins something--something to make him leathery sick--eh?" a flash of inspiration crossed my mind. i went to the shop of the village apothecary. he knew me; i had often purchased vitriol, which i poured into grubbins's inkstand to corrode his pens and burn up his coat-tail, on which he was in the habit of wiping them. i boldly asked for an ounce of chloroform. the young apothecary winked and handed me the bottle. it was grubbins's custom to throw his handkerchief over his head, recline in his chair and take a short nap during recess. watching my opportunity, as he dozed, i managed to slip his handkerchief from his face and substitute my own, moistened with chloroform. in a few minutes he was insensible. tom and i then quickly shaved his head, beard, and eyebrows, blackened his face with a mixture of vitriol and burnt cork, and fled. there was a row and scandal the next day. my father always excused me by asserting that grubbins had got drunk,--but somehow found it convenient to procure me an appointment in her majesty's navy at an early day. chapter ii. an official letter, with the admiralty seal, informed me that i was expected to join h. m. ship belcher, captain boltrope, at portsmouth, without delay. in a few days i presented myself to a tall, stern-visaged man, who was slowly pacing the leeward side of the quarter-deck. as i touched my hat he eyed me sternly:-"so ho! another young suckling. the service is going to the devil. nothing but babes in the cockpit and grannies in the board. boatswain's mate, pass the word for mr. cheek!" mr. cheek, the steward, appeared and touched his hat. "introduce mr. breezy to the young gentlemen. stop! where's mr. swizzle?" "at the masthead, sir." "where's mr. lankey?" "at the masthead, sir." "mr. briggs?" "masthead, too, sir." "and the rest of the young gentlemen?" roared the enraged officer. "all masthead, sir." "ah!" said captain boltrope, as he smiled grimly, "under the circumstances, mr. breezy, you had better go to the masthead too." chapter iii. at the masthead i made the acquaintance of two youngsters of about my own age, one of whom informed me that he had been there three hundred and thirty-two days out of the year. "in rough weather, when the old cock is out of sorts, you know, we never come down," added a young gentleman of nine years, with a dirk nearly as long as himself, who had been introduced to me as mr. briggs. "by the way, pills," he continued, "how did you come to omit giving the captain a naval salute?" "why, i touched my hat," i said, innocently. "yes, but that isn't enough, you know. that will do very well at other times. he expects the naval salute when you first come on board--greeny!" i began to feel alarmed, and begged him to explain. "why, you see, after touching your hat, you should have touched him lightly with your forefinger in his waistcoat, so, and asked, 'how's his nibs?'--you see?" "how's his nibs?" i repeated. "exactly. he would have drawn back a little, and then you should have repeated the salute remarking, 'how's his royal nibs?' asking cautiously after his wife and family, and requesting to be introduced to the gunner's daughter." "the gunner's daughter?" "the same; you know she takes care of us young gentlemen; now don't forget, pillsy!" when we were called down to the deck i thought it a good chance to profit by this instruction. i approached captain boltrope and repeated the salute without conscientiously omitting a single detail. he remained for a moment, livid and speechless. at length he gasped out:-"boatswain's mate?" "if you please, sir," i asked, tremulously, "i should like to be introduced to the gunner's daughter!" "o, very good, sir!" screamed captain boltrope, rubbing his hands and absolutely capering about the deck with rage. "o d--n you! of course you shall! o ho! the gunner's daughter! o, h--ll! this is too much! boatswain's mate!" before i well knew where i was, i was seized, borne to an eight-pounder, tied upon it and flogged! chapter iv. as we sat together in the cockpit, picking the weevils out of our biscuit, briggs consoled me for my late mishap, adding that the "naval salute," as a custom, seemed just then to be honored more in the breach than the observance. i joined in the hilarity occasioned by the witticism, and in a few moments we were all friends. presently swizzle turned to me:-"we have been just planning how to confiscate a keg of claret, which nips, the purser, keeps under his bunk. the old nipcheese lies there drunk half the day, and there's no getting at it." "let's get beneath the state-room and bore through the deck, and so tap it," said lankey. the proposition was received with a shout of applause. a long half-inch auger and bit was procured from chips, the carpenter's mate, and swizzle, after a careful examination of the timbers beneath the ward-room, commenced operations. the auger at last disappeared, when suddenly there was a slight disturbance on the deck above. swizzle withdrew the auger hurriedly; from its point a few bright red drops trickled. "huzza! send her up again!" cried lankey. the auger was again applied. this time a shriek was heard from the purser's cabin. instantly the light was doused, and the party retreated hurriedly to the cockpit. a sound of snoring was heard as the sentry stuck his head into the door. "all right, sir," he replied in answer to the voice of the officer of the deck. the next morning we heard that nips was in the surgeon's hands, with a bad wound in the fleshy part of his leg, and that the auger had not struck claret. chapter v. "now, pills, you'll have a chance to smell powder," said briggs as he entered the cockpit and buckled around his waist an enormous cutlass. "we have just sighted a french ship." we went on deck. captain boltrope grinned as we touched our hats. he hated the purser. "come, young gentlemen, if you're boring for french claret, yonder's a good quality. mind your con, sir," he added, turning to the quartermaster, who was grinning. the ship was already cleared for action. the men, in their eagerness, had started the coffee from the tubs and filled them with shot. presently the frenchman yawed, and a shot from a long thirty-two came skipping over the water. it killed the quartermaster and took off both of lankey's legs. "tell the purser our account is squared," said the dying boy, with a feeble smile. the fight raged fiercely for two hours. i remember killing the french admiral, as we boarded, but on looking around for briggs, after the smoke had cleared away, i was intensely amused at witnessing the following novel sight:-briggs had pinned the french captain against the mast with his cutlass, and was now engaged, with all the hilarity of youth, in pulling the captain's coat-tails between his legs, in imitation of a dancing-jack. as the frenchman lifted his legs and arms, at each jerk of briggs's, i could not help participating in the general mirth. "you young devil, what are you doing?" said a stifled voice behind me. i looked up and beheld captain boltrope, endeavoring to calm his stern features, but the twitching around his mouth betrayed his intense enjoyment of the scene. "go to the masthead--up with you, sir!" he repeated sternly to briggs. "very good, sir," said the boy, coolly preparing to mount the shrouds. "good by, johnny crapaud. humph!" he added, in a tone intended for my ear, "a pretty way to treat a hero. the service is going to the devil!" i thought so too. chapter vi. we were ordered to the west indies. although captain boltrope's manner toward me was still severe, and even harsh, i understood that my name had been favorably mentioned in the despatches. reader, were you ever at jamaica? if so, you remember the negresses, the oranges, port royal tom--the yellow fever. after being two weeks at the station, i was taken sick of the fever. in a month i was delirious. during my paroxysms, i had a wild distempered dream of a stern face bending anxiously over my pillow, a rough hand smoothing my hair, and a kind voice saying:-"bess his 'ittle heart! did he have the naughty fever?" this face seemed again changed to the well-known stern features of captain boltrope. when i was convalescent, a packet edged in black was put in my hand. it contained the news of my father's death, and a sealed letter which he had requested to be given to me on his decease. i opened it tremblingly. it read thus:-"my dear boy:--i regret to inform you that in all probability you are not my son. your mother, i am grieved to say, was a highly improper person. who your father may be, i really cannot say, but perhaps the honorable henry boltrope, captain r. n., may be able to inform you. circumstances over which i have no control have deferred this important disclosure. "your stricken parent." and so captain boltrope was my father. heavens! was it a dream? i recalled his stern manner, his observant eye, his ill-concealed uneasiness when in my presence. i longed to embrace him. staggering to my feet, i rushed in my scanty apparel to the deck, where captain boltrope was just then engaged in receiving the governor's wife and daughter. the ladies shrieked; the youngest, a beautiful girl, blushed deeply. heeding them not, i sank at his feet, and, embracing them, cried:-"my father!" "chuck him overboard!" roared captain boltrope. "stay," pleaded the soft voice of clara maitland, the governor's daughter. "shave his head! he's a wretched lunatic!" continued captain boltrope, while his voice trembled with excitement. "no, let me nurse and take care of him," said the lovely girl, blushing as she spoke. "mamma, can't we take him home?" the daughter's pleading was not without effect. in the mean time i had fainted. when i recovered my senses i found myself in governor maitland's mansion. chapter vii. the reader will guess what followed. i fell deeply in love with clara maitland, to whom i confided the secret of my birth. the generous girl asserted that she had detected the superiority of my manner at once. we plighted our troth, and resolved to wait upon events. briggs called to see me a few days afterward. he said that the purser had insulted the whole cockpit, and all the midshipmen had called him out. but he added thoughtfully: "i don't see how we can arrange the duel. you see there are six of us to fight him." "very easily," i replied. "let your fellows all stand in a row, and take his fire; that, you see, gives him six chances to one, and he must be a bad shot if he can't hit one of you; while, on the other hand, you see, he gets a volley from you six, and one of you'll be certain to fetch him." "exactly"; and away briggs went, but soon returned to say that the purser had declined,--"like a d--d coward," he added. but the news of the sudden and serious illness of captain boltrope put off the duel. i hastened to his bedside, but too late,--an hour previous he had given up the ghost. i resolved to return to england. i made known the secret of my birth, and exhibited my adopted father's letter to lady maitland, who at once suggested my marriage with her daughter, before i returned to claim the property. we were married, and took our departure next day. i made no delay in posting at once, in company with my wife and my friend briggs, to my native village. judge of my horror and surprise when my late adopted father came out of his shop to welcome me. "then you are not dead!" i gasped. "no, my dear boy." "and this letter?" my father--as i must still call him--glanced on the paper, and pronounced it a forgery. briggs roared with laughter. i turned to him and demanded an explanation. "why, don't you see, greeny, it's all a joke,--a midshipman's joke!" "but--" i asked. "don't be a fool. you've got a good wife,--be satisfied." i turned to clara, and was satisfied. although mrs. maitland never forgave me, the jolly old governor laughed heartily over the joke, and so well used his influence that i soon became, dear reader, admiral breezy, k. c. b. john jenkins; or, the smoker reformed. by t. s. a--th--r. chapter i. "one cigar a day!" said judge boompointer. "one cigar a day!" repeated john jenkins, as with trepidation he dropped his half-consumed cigar under his work-bench. "one cigar a day is three cents a day," remarked judge boompointer, gravely; "and do you know, sir, what one cigar a day, or three cents a day, amounts to in the course of four years?" john jenkins, in his boyhood, had attended the village school, and possessed considerable arithmetical ability. taking up a shingle which lay upon his work-bench, and producing a piece of chalk, with a feeling of conscious pride he made an exhaustive calculation. "exactly forty-three dollars and eighty cents," he replied, wiping the perspiration from his heated brow, while his face flushed with honest enthusiasm. "well, sir, if you saved three cents a day, instead of wasting it, you would now be the possessor of a new suit of clothes, an illustrated family bible, a pew in the church, a complete set of patent office reports, a hymn-book, and a paid subscription to arthur's home magazine, which could be purchased for exactly forty-three dollars and eighty cents; and," added the judge, with increasing sternness, "if you calculate leap-year, which you seem to have strangely omitted, you have three cents more, sir; three cents more! what would that buy you, sir?" "a cigar," suggested john jenkins; but, coloring again deeply, he hid his face. "no, sir," said the judge, with a sweet smile of benevolence stealing over his stern features; "properly invested, it would buy you that which passeth all price. dropped into the missionary-box, who can tell what heathen, now idly and joyously wantoning in nakedness and sin, might be brought to a sense of his miserable condition, and made, through that three cents, to feel the torments of the wicked?" with these words the judge retired, leaving john jenkins buried in profound thought. "three cents a day," he muttered. "in forty years i might be worth four hundred and thirty-eight dollars and ten cents,--and then i might marry mary. ah, mary!" the young carpenter sighed, and, drawing a twenty-five cent daguerreotype from his vest-pocket, gazed long and fervidly upon the features of a young girl in book muslin and a coral necklace. then, with a resolute expression, he carefully locked the door of his workshop and departed. alas! his good resolutions were too late. we trifle with the tide of fortune which too often nips us in the bud and casts the dark shadow of misfortune over the bright lexicon of youth! that night the half-consumed fragment of john jenkins's cigar set fire to his workshop and burned it up, together with all his tools and materials. there was no insurance. chapter ii. the downward path. "then you still persist in marrying john jenkins?" queried judge boompointer, as he playfully, with paternal familiarity, lifted the golden curls of the village belle, mary jones. "i do," replied the fair young girl, in a low voice, that resembled rock candy in its saccharine firmness,--"i do. he has promised to reform. since he lost all his property by fire--" "the result of his pernicious habit, though he illogically persists in charging it to me," interrupted the judge. "since then," continued the young girl, "he has endeavored to break himself of the habit. he tells me that he has substituted the stalks of the indian ratan, the outer part of a leguminous plant called the smoking-bean, and the fragmentary and unconsumed remainder of cigars which occur at rare and uncertain intervals along the road, which, as he informs me, though deficient in quality and strength, are comparatively inexpensive." and, blushing at her own eloquence, the young girl hid her curls on the judge's arm. "poor thing!" muttered judge boompointer. "dare i tell her all? yet i must." "i shall cling to him," continued the young girl, rising with her theme, "as the young vine clings to some hoary ruin. nay, nay, chide me not, judge boompointer. i will marry john jenkins!" the judge was evidently affected. seating himself at the table, he wrote a few lines hurriedly upon a piece of paper, which he folded and placed in the fingers of the destined bride of john jenkins. "mary jones," said the judge, with impressive earnestness, "take this trifle as a wedding gift from one who respects your fidelity and truthfulness. at the altar let it be a reminder of me." and covering his face hastily with a handkerchief, the stern and iron-willed man left the room. as the door closed, mary unfolded the paper. it was an order on the corner grocery for three yards of flannel, a paper of needles, four pounds of soap, one pound of starch, and two boxes of matches! "noble and thoughtful man!" was all mary jones could exclaim, as she hid her face in her hands and burst into a flood of tears. * * * * * the bells of cloverdale are ringing merrily. it is a wedding. "how beautiful they look!" is the exclamation that passes from lip to lip, as mary jones, leaning timidly on the arm of john jenkins, enters the church. but the bride is agitated, and the bridegroom betrays a feverish nervousness. as they stand in the vestibule, john jenkins fumbles earnestly in his vest-pocket. can it be the ring he is anxious about? no. he draws a small brown substance from his pocket, and biting off a piece, hastily replaces the fragment and gazes furtively around. surely no one saw him? alas! the eyes of two of that wedding party saw the fatal act. judge boompointer shook his head sternly. mary jones sighed and breathed a silent prayer. her husband chewed! chapter iii. and last. "what! more bread?" said john jenkins, gruffly. "you're always asking for money for bread. d--nation! do you want to ruin me by your extravagance?" and as he uttered these words he drew from his pocket a bottle of whiskey, a pipe, and a paper of tobacco. emptying the first at a draught, he threw the empty bottle at the head of his eldest boy, a youth of twelve summers. the missile struck the child full in the temple, and stretched him a lifeless corpse. mrs. jenkins, whom the reader will hardly recognize as the once gay and beautiful mary jones, raised the dead body of her son in her arms, and carefully placing the unfortunate youth beside the pump in the back yard, returned with saddened step to the house. at another time, and in brighter days, she might have wept at the occurrence. she was past tears now. "father, your conduct is reprehensible!" said little harrison jenkins, the youngest boy. "where do you expect to go when you die?" "ah!" said john jenkins, fiercely; "this comes of giving children a liberal education; this is the result of sabbath schools. down, viper!" a tumbler thrown from the same parental fist laid out the youthful harrison cold. the four other children had, in the mean time, gathered around the table with anxious expectancy. with a chuckle, the now changed and brutal john jenkins produced four pipes, and, filling them with tobacco, handed one to each of his offspring and bade them smoke. "it's better than bread!" laughed the wretch hoarsely. mary jenkins, though of a patient nature, felt it her duty now to speak. "i have borne much, john jenkins," she said. "but i prefer that the children should not smoke. it is an unclean habit, and soils their clothes. i ask this as a special favor!" john jenkins hesitated,--the pangs of remorse began to seize him. "promise me this, john!" urged mary upon her knees. "i promise!" reluctantly answered john. "and you will put the money in a savings-bank?" "i will," repeated her husband; "and i'll give up smoking, too." "'tis well, john jenkins!" said judge boompointer, appearing suddenly from behind the door, where he had been concealed during this interview. "nobly said! my man. cheer up! i will see that the children are decently buried." the husband and wife fell into each other's arms. and judge boompointer, gazing upon the affecting spectacle, burst into tears. from that day john jenkins was an altered man. no title. by w--lk--e c--ll--ns. prologue. the following advertisement appeared in the "times" of the 17th of june, 1845:-wanted.--a few young men for a light genteel employment. address j. w., p. o. in the same paper, of same date, in another column:-to let.--that commodious and elegant family mansion, no. 27 limehouse road, pultneyville, will be rented low to a respectable tenant if applied for immediately, the family being about to remove to the continent. under the local intelligence, in another column:-missing.--an unknown elderly gentleman a week ago left his lodgings in the kent road, since which nothing has been heard of him. he left no trace of his identity except a portmanteau containing a couple of shirts marked "209, ward." to find the connection between the mysterious disappearance of the elderly gentleman and the anonymous communication, the relevancy of both these incidents to the letting of a commodious family mansion, and the dead secret involved in the three occurrences, is the task of the writer of this history. a slim young man with spectacles, a large hat, drab gaiters, and a note-book, sat late that night with a copy of the "times" before him, and a pencil which he rattled nervously between his teeth in the coffee-room of the "blue dragon." chapter i. mary jones's narrative. i am upper housemaid to the family that live at no. 27 limehouse road, pultneyville. i have been requested by mr. wilkey collings, which i takes the liberty of here stating is a gentleman born and bred, and has some consideration for the feelings of servants, and is not above rewarding them for their trouble, which is more than you can say for some who ask questions and gets short answers enough, gracious knows, to tell what i know about them. i have been requested to tell my story in my own langwidge, though, being no schollard, mind cannot conceive. i think my master is a brute. do not know that he has ever attempted to poison my missus,--which is too good for him, and how she ever came to marry him, heart only can tell,--but believe him to be capable of any such hatrosity. have heard him swear dreadful because of not having his shaving-water at nine o'clock precisely. do not know whether he ever forged a will or tried to get my missus' property, although, not having confidence in the man, should not be surprised if he had done so. believe that there was always something mysterious in his conduct. remember distinctly how the family left home to go abroad. was putting up my back hair, last saturday morning, when i heard a ring. says cook, "that's missus' bell, and mind you hurry or the master 'ill know why." says i, "humbly thanking you, mem, but taking advice of them as is competent to give it, i'll take my time." found missus dressing herself and master growling as usual. says missus, quite calm and easy like, "mary, we begin to pack to-day." "what for, mem?" says i, taken aback. "what's that hussy asking?" says master from the bedclothes quite savage like. "for the continent--italy," says missus--"can you go mary?" her voice was quite gentle and saintlike, but i knew the struggle it cost, and says i, "with you mem, to india's torrid clime, if required, but with african gorillas," says i, looking toward the bed, "never." "leave the room," says master, starting up and catching of his bootjack. "why charles!" says missus, "how you talk!" affecting surprise. "do go mary," says she, slipping a half-crown into my hand. i left the room scorning to take notice of the odious wretch's conduct. cannot say whether my master and missus were ever legally married. what with the dreadful state of morals nowadays and them stories in the circulating libraries, innocent girls don't know into what society they might be obliged to take situations. never saw missus' marriage certificate, though i have quite accidental-like looked in her desk when open, and would have seen it. do not know of any lovers missus might have had. believe she had a liking for john thomas, footman, for she was always spiteful-like--poor lady--when we were together--though there was nothing between us, as cook well knows, and dare not deny, and missus needn't have been jealous. have never seen arsenic or prussian acid in any of the private drawers--but have seen paregoric and camphor. one of my master's friends was a count moscow, a russian papist--which i detested. chapter ii. the slim young man's story. i am by profession a reporter, and writer for the press. i live at pultneyville. i have always had a passion for the marvellous, and have been distinguished for my facility in tracing out mysteries, and solving enigmatical occurrences. on the night of the 17th june, 1845, i left my office and walked homeward. the night was bright and starlight. i was revolving in my mind the words of a singular item i had just read in the "times." i had reached the darkest portion of the road, and found my self mechanically repeating: "an elderly gentleman a week ago left his lodgings on the kent road," when suddenly i heard a step behind me. i turned quickly, with an expression of horror in my face, and by the light of the newly risen moon beheld an elderly gentleman, with green cotton umbrella, approaching me. his hair, which was snow white, was parted over a broad, open forehead. the expression of his face, which was slightly flushed, was that of amiability verging almost upon imbecility. there was a strange, inquiring look about the widely opened mild blue eye,--a look that might have been intensified to insanity, or modified to idiocy. as he passed me, he paused and partly turned his face, with a gesture of inquiry. i see him still, his white locks blowing in the evening breeze, his hat a little on the back of his head, and his figure painted in relief against the dark blue sky. suddenly he turned his mild eye full upon me. a weak smile played about his thin lips. in a voice which had something of the tremulousness of age and the self-satisfied chuckle of imbecility in it, he asked, pointing to the rising moon, "why?--hush!" he had dodged behind me, and appeared to be looking anxiously down the road. i could feel his aged frame shaking with terror as he laid his thin hands upon my shoulders and faced me in the direction of the supposed danger. "hush! did you not hear them coming?" i listened; there was no sound but the soughing of the roadside trees in the evening wind. i endeavored to reassure him, with such success that in a few moments the old weak smile appeared on his benevolent face. "why?--" but the look of interrogation was succeeded by a hopeless blankness. "why!" i repeated with assuring accents. "why," he said, a gleam of intelligence flickering over his face, "is yonder moon, as she sails in the blue empyrean, casting a flood of light o'er hill and dale, like- why," he repeated, with a feeble smile, "is yonder moon, as she sails in the blue empyrean--" he hesitated,--stammered,--and gazed at me hopelessly, with the tears dripping from his moist and widely opened eyes. i took his hand kindly in my own. "casting a shadow o'er hill and dale," i repeated quietly, leading him up the subject, "like- come, now." "ah!" he said, pressing my hand tremulously, "you know it?" "i do. why is it like--the--eh--the commodious mansion on the limehouse road?" a blank stare only followed. he shook his head sadly. "like the young men wanted for a light, genteel employment?" he wagged his feeble old head cunningly. "or, mr. ward," i said, with bold confidence, "like the mysterious disappearance from the kent road?" the moment was full of suspense. he did not seem to hear me. suddenly he turned. "ha!" i darted forward. but he had vanished in the darkness. chapter iii. no. 27 limehouse road. it was a hot midsummer evening. limehouse road was deserted save by dust and a few rattling butchers' carts, and the bell of the muffin and crumpet man. a commodious mansion, which stood on the right of the road as you enter pultneyville, surrounded by stately poplars and a high fence surmounted by a chevaux de frise of broken glass, looked to the passing and footsore pedestrian like the genius of seclusion and solitude. a bill announcing in the usual terms that the house was to let, hung from the bell at the servants' entrance. as the shades of evening closed, and the long shadows of the poplars stretched across the road, a man carrying a small kettle stopped and gazed, first at the bill and then at the house. when he had reached the corner of the fence, he again stopped and looked cautiously up and down the road. apparently satisfied with the result of his scrutiny, he deliberately sat himself down in the dark shadow of the fence, and at once busied himself in some employment, so well concealed as to be invisible to the gaze of passers-by. at the end of an hour he retired cautiously. but not altogether unseen. a slim young man, with spectacles and note-book, stepped from behind a tree as the retreating figure of the intruder was lost in the twilight, and transferred from the fence to his note-book the freshly stencilled inscription, "s--t--1860--x." chapter iv. count moscow's narrative. i am a foreigner. observe! to be a foreigner in england is to be mysterious, suspicious, intriguing. m. collins has requested the history of my complicity with certain occurrences. it is nothing, bah! absolutely nothing. i write with ease and fluency. why should i not write? tra la la? i am what you english call corpulent. ha, ha! i am a pupil of macchiavelli. i find it much better to disbelieve everything, and to approach my subject and wishes circuitously, than in a direct manner. you have observed that playful animal, the cat. call it, and it does not come to you directly, but rubs itself against all the furniture in the room, and reaches you finally--and scratches. ah, ha, scratches! i am of the feline species. people call me a villain--bah! i know the family, living no. 27 limehouse road. i respect the gentleman,--a fine, burly specimen of your englishman,--and madame, charming, ravishing, delightful. when it became known to me that they designed to let their delightful residence, and visit foreign shores, i at once called upon them. i kissed the hand of madame. i embraced the great englishman. madame blushed slightly. the great englishman shook my hand like a mastiff. i began in that dexterous, insinuating manner, of which i am truly proud. i thought madame was ill. ah, no. a change, then, was all that was required. i sat down at the piano and sang. in a few minutes madame retired. i was alone with my friend. seizing his hand, i began with every demonstration of courteous sympathy. i do not repeat my words, for my intention was conveyed more in accent, emphasis, and manner, than speech. i hinted to him that he had another wife living. i suggested that this was balanced--ha!--by his wife's lover. that, possibly, he wished to fly; hence the letting of his delightful mansion. that he regularly and systematically beat his wife in the english manner, and that she repeatedly deceived me. i talked of hope, of consolation, of remedy. i carelessly produced a bottle of strychnine and a small vial of stramonium from my pocket, and enlarged on the efficiency of drugs. his face, which had gradually become convulsed, suddenly became fixed with a frightful expression. he started to his feet, and roared: "you d--d frenchman!" i instantly changed my tactics, and endeavored to embrace him. he kicked me twice, violently. i begged permission to kiss madame's hand. he replied by throwing me down stairs. i am in bed with my head bound up, and beef-steaks upon my eyes, but still confident and buoyant. i have not lost faith in macchiavelli. tra la la! as they sing in the opera. i kiss everybody's hands. chapter v. dr. diggs's statement. my name is david diggs. i am a surgeon, living at no. 9 tottenham court. on the 15th of june, 1854, i was called to see an elderly gentleman lodging on the kent road. found him highly excited, with strong febrile symptoms, pulse 120, increasing. repeated incoherently what i judged to be the popular form of a conundrum. on closer examination found acute hydrocephalus and both lobes of the brain rapidly filling with water. in consultation with an eminent phrenologist, it was further discovered that all the organs were more or less obliterated, except that of comparison. hence the patient was enabled to only distinguish the most common points of resemblance between objects, without drawing upon other faculties, such as ideality or language, for assistance. later in the day found him sinking,--being evidently unable to carry the most ordinary conundrum to a successful issue. exhibited tinct. val., ext. opii, and camphor, and prescribed quiet and emollients. on the 17th the patient was missing. chapter last. statement of the publisher. on the 18th of june, mr. wilkie collins left a roll of manuscript with us for publication, without title or direction, since which time he has not been heard from. in spite of the care of the proof-readers, and valuable literary assistance, it is feared that the continuity of the story has been destroyed by some accidental misplacing of chapters during its progress. how and what chapters are so misplaced, the publisher leaves to an indulgent public to discover. n n. being a novel in the french paragraphic style. --mademoiselle, i swear to you that i love you. --you who read these pages. you who turn your burning eyes upon these words--words that i trace- ah, heaven! the thought maddens me. --i will be calm. i will imitate the reserve of the festive englishman, who wears a spotted handkerchief which he calls a belchio, who eats biftek, and caresses a bulldog. i will subdue myself like him. --ha! poto-beer! all right--goddam! --or, i will conduct myself as the free-born american--the gay brother jonathan! i will whittle me a stick. i will whistle to myself "yankee doodle," and forget my passion in excessive expectoration. --hoho!--wake snakes and walk chalks. the world is divided into two great divisions,--paris and the provinces. there is but one paris. there are several provinces, among which may be numbered england, america, russia, and italy. n n. was a parisian. but n n. did not live in paris. drop a parisian in the provinces, and you drop a part of paris with him. drop him in senegambia, and in three days he will give you an omelette soufflee, or a pate de foie gras, served by the neatest of senegambian filles, whom he will call mademoiselle. in three weeks he will give you an opera. n n. was not dropped in senegambia, but in san francisco,--quite as awkward. they find gold in san francisco, but they don't understand gilding. n n. existed three years in this place. he became bald on the top of his head, as all parisians do. look down from your box at the opera comique, mademoiselle, and count the bald crowns of the fast young men in the pit. ah--you tremble! they show where the arrows of love have struck and glanced off. n n. was also near-sighted, as all parisians finally become. this is a gallant provision of nature to spare them the mortification of observing that their lady friends grow old. after a certain age every woman is handsome to a parisian. one day, n n. was walking down washington street. suddenly he stopped. he was standing before the door of a mantuamaker. beside the counter, at the farther extremity of the shop, stood a young and elegantly formed woman. her face was turned from n n. he entered. with a plausible excuse, and seeming indifference, he gracefully opened conversation with the mantuamaker as only a parisian can. but he had to deal with a parisian. his attempts to view the features of the fair stranger by the counter were deftly combated by the shop-woman. he was obliged to retire. n n. went home and lost his appetite. he was haunted by the elegant basque and graceful shoulders of the fair unknown, during the whole night. the next day he sauntered by the mantuamaker. ah! heavens! a thrill ran through his frame, and his fingers tingled with a delicious electricity. the fair inconnue was there! he raised his hat gracefully. he was not certain, but he thought that a slight motion of her faultless bonnet betrayed recognition. he would have wildly darted into the shop, but just then the figure of the mantuamaker appeared in the doorway. --did monsieur wish anything? misfortune! desperation. n n. purchased a bottle of prussic acid, a sack of charcoal, and a quire of pink note-paper, and returned home. he wrote a letter of farewell to the closely fitting basque, and opened the bottle of prussic acid. some one knocked at his door. it was a chinaman, with his weekly linen. these chinese are docile, but not intelligent. they are ingenious, but not creative. they are cunning in expedients, but deficient in tact. in love they are simply barbarous. they purchase their wives openly, and not constructively by attorney. by offering small sums for their sweethearts, they degrade the value of the sex. nevertheless, n n. felt he was saved. he explained all to the faithful mongolian, and exhibited the letter he had written. he implored him to deliver it. the mongolian assented. the race are not cleanly or sweet-savored, but n n. fell upon his neck. he embraced him with one hand, and closed his nostrils with the other. through him, he felt he clasped the close-fitting basque. the next day was one of agony and suspense. evening came, but no mercy. n n. lit the charcoal. but, to compose his nerves, he closed his door and first walked mildly up and down montgomery street. when he returned, he found the faithful mongolian on the steps. --all lity! these chinese are not accurate in their pronunciation. they avoid the r, like the english nobleman. n n. gasped for breath. he leaned heavily against the chinaman. --then you have seen her, ching long? --yes. all lity. she cum. top side of house. the docile barbarian pointed up the stairs, and chuckled. --she here--impossible! ah, heaven! do i dream? --yes. all lity,--top side of house. good by, john. this is the familiar parting epithet of the mongolian. it is equivalent to our au revoir. n n. gazed with a stupefied air on the departing servant. he placed his hand on his throbbing heart. she here,--alone beneath this roof. o heavens, what happiness! but how? torn from her home. ruthlessly dragged, perhaps, from her evening devotions, by the hands of a relentless barbarian. could she forgive him? he dashed frantically up the stairs. he opened the door. she was standing beside his couch with averted face. a strange giddiness overtook him. he sank upon his knees at the threshold. --pardon, pardon. my angel, can you forgive me? a terrible nausea now seemed added to the fearful giddiness. his utterance grew thick and sluggish. --speak, speak, enchantress. forgiveness is all i ask. my love, my life! she did not answer. he staggered to his feet. as he rose, his eyes fell on the pan of burning charcoal. a terrible suspicion flashed across his mind. this giddiness,--this nausea. the ignorance of the barbarian. this silence. o merciful heavens! she was dying! he crawled toward her. he touched her. she fell forward with a lifeless sound upon the floor. he uttered a piercing shriek, and threw himself beside her. * * * * * a file of gendarmes, accompanied by the chef burke, found him the next morning lying lifeless upon the floor. they laughed brutally,--these cruel minions of the law,--and disengaged his arm from the waist of the wooden dummy which they had come to reclaim for the mantuamaker. emptying a few bucketfuls of water over his form, they finally succeeded in robbing him, not only of his mistress, but of that death he had coveted without her. ah! we live in a strange world, messieurs. fantine. after the french of victor hugo. prologue. as long as there shall exist three paradoxes, a moral frenchman, a religious atheist, and a believing sceptic; so long, in fact, as booksellers shall wait--say twenty-five years--for a new gospel; so long as paper shall remain cheap and ink three sous a bottle, i have no hesitation in saying that such books as these are not utterly profitless. victor hugo. i. to be good is to be queer. what is a good man? bishop myriel. my friend, you will possibly object to this. you will say you know what a good man is. perhaps you will say your clergyman is a good man, for instance. bah! you are mistaken; you are an englishman, and an englishman is a beast. englishmen think they are moral when they are only serious. these englishmen also wear ill-shaped hats, and dress horribly! bah! they are canaille. still, bishop myriel was a good man,--quite as good as you. better than you, in fact. one day m. myriel was in paris. this angel used to walk about the streets like any other man. he was not proud, though fine-looking. well, three gamins de paris called him bad names. says one:-"ah, mon dieu! there goes a priest; look out for your eggs and chickens!" what did this good man do? he called to them kindly. "my children," said he, "this is clearly not your fault. i recognize in this insult and irreverence only the fault of your immediate progenitors. let us pray for your immediate progenitors." they knelt down and prayed for their immediate progenitors. the effect was touching. the bishop looked calmly around. "on reflection," said he, gravely, "i was mistaken; this is clearly the fault of society. let us pray for society." they knelt down and prayed for society. the effect was sublimer yet. what do you think of that? you, i mean. everybody remembers the story of the bishop and mother nez retrousse. old mother nez retrouse sold asparagus. she was poor; there's a great deal of meaning in that word, my friend. some people say "poor but honest." i say, bah! bishop myriel bought six bunches of asparagus. this good man had one charming failing; he was fond of asparagus. he gave her a franc and received three sous change. the sous were bad,--counterfeit. what did this good bishop do? he said: "i should not have taken change from a poor woman." then afterwards, to his housekeeper: "never take change from a poor woman." then he added to himself: "for the sous will probably be bad." ii. when a man commits a crime, society claps him in prison. a prison is one of the worst hotels imaginable. the people there are low and vulgar. the butter is bad, the coffee is green. ah, it is horrible! in prison, as in a bad hotel, a man soon loses, not only his morals, but what is much worse to a frenchman, his sense of refinement and delicacy. jean valjean came from prison with confused notions of society. he forgot the modern peculiarities of hospitality. so he walked off with the bishop's candlesticks. let us consider: candlesticks were stolen; that was evident. society put jean valjean in prison; that was evident, too. in prison, society took away his refinement; that is evident, likewise. who is society? you and i are society. my friend, you and i stole those candlesticks! iii. the bishop thought so, too. he meditated profoundly for six days. on the morning of the seventh he went to the prefecture of police. he said: "monsieur, have me arrested. i have stolen candlesticks." the official was governed by the law of society, and refused. what did this bishop do? he had a charming ball and chain made, affixed to his leg, and wore it the rest of his life. this is a fact! iv. love is a mystery. a little friend of mine down in the country, at auvergne, said to me one day: "victor, love is the world,--it contains everything." she was only sixteen, this sharp-witted little girl, and a beautiful blonde. she thought everything of me. fantine was one of those women who do wrong in the most virtuous and touching manner. this is a peculiarity of french grisettes. you are an englishman, and you don't understand. learn, my friend, learn. come to paris and improve your morals. fantine was the soul of modesty. she always wore high-neck dresses. high-neck dresses are a sign of modesty. fantine loved tholmoyes. why? my god! what are you to do? it was the fault of her parents, and she hadn't any. how shall you teach her? you must teach the parent if you wish to educate the child. how would you become virtuous? teach your grandmother! v. when tholmoyes ran away from fantine,--which was done in a charming, gentlemanly manner,--fantine became convinced that a rigid sense of propriety might look upon her conduct as immoral. she was a creature of sensitiveness,--and her eyes were opened. she was virtuous still, and resolved to break off the liaison at once. so she put up her wardrobe and baby in a bundle. child as she was, she loved them both. then left paris. vi. fantine's native place had changed. m. madeline--an angel, and inventor of jet work--had been teaching the villagers how to make spurious jet. this is a progressive age. those americans,--children of the west,--they make nutmegs out of wood. i, myself, have seen hams made of pine, in the wigwams of those children of the forest. but civilization has acquired deception too. society is made up of deception. even the best french society. still there was one sincere episode. eh? the french revolution! vii. m. madeline was, if anything, better than myriel. m. myriel was a saint. m. madeline a good man. m. myriel was dead. m. madeline was living. that made all the difference. m. madeline made virtue profitable. i have seen it written:-"be virtuous and you will be happy." where did i see this written? in the modern bible? no. in the koran? no. in rousseau? no. diderot? no. where then? in a copy-book. viii. m. madeline was m. le maire. this is how it came about. for a long time he refused the honor. one day an old woman, standing on the steps, said:-"bah, a good mayor is a good thing. "you are a good thing. "be a good mayor." this woman was a rhetorician. she understood inductive ratiocination. ix. when this good m. madeline, whom the reader will perceive must have been a former convict, and a very bad man, gave himself up to justice as the real jean valjean, about this same time, fantine was turned away from the manufactory, and met with a number of losses from society. society attacked her, and this is what she lost:-first her lover. then her child. then her place. then her hair. then her teeth. then her liberty. then her life. what do you think of society after that? i tell you the present social system is a humbug. x. this is necessarily the end of fantine. there are other things that will be stated in other volumes to follow. don't be alarmed; there are plenty of miserable people left. au revoir--my friend. "la femme." after the french of m. michelet. i. women as an institution. "if it were not for women, few of us would at present be in existence." this is the remark of a cautious and discreet writer. he was also sagacious and intelligent. woman! look upon her and admire her. gaze upon her and love her. if she wishes to embrace you, permit her. remember she is weak and you are strong. but don't treat her unkindly. don't make love to another woman before her face, even if she be your wife. don't do it. always be polite, even should she fancy somebody better than you. if your mother, my dear amadis, had not fancied your father better than somebody, you might have been that somebody's son. consider this. always be a philosopher, even about women. few men understand women. frenchmen, perhaps, better than any one else. i am a frenchman. ii. the infant. she is a child--a little thing--an infant. she has a mother and father. let us suppose, for example, they are married. let us be moral if we cannot be happy and free--they are married--perhaps--they love one another--who knows? but she knows nothing of this; she is an infant--a small thing--a trifle! she is not lovely at first. it is cruel, perhaps, but she is red, and positively ugly. she feels this keenly and cries. she weeps. ah, my god, how she weeps! her cries and lamentations now are really distressing. tears stream from her in floods. she feels deeply and copiously like m. alphonse de lamartine in his confessions. if you are her mother, madame, you will fancy worms; you will examine her linen for pins, and what not. ah, hypocrite! you, even you, misunderstand her. yet she has charming natural impulses. see how she tosses her dimpled arms. she looks longingly at her mother. she has a language of her own. she says, "goo goo," and "ga ga." she demands something--this infant! she is faint, poor thing. she famishes. she wishes to be restored. restore her, mother! it is the first duty of a mother to restore her child! iii. the doll. she is hardly able to walk; she already totters under the weight of a doll. it is a charming and elegant affair. it has pink cheeks and purple-black hair. she prefers brunettes, for she has already, with the quick knowledge of a french infant, perceived she is a blonde, and that her doll cannot rival her. mon dieu, how touching! happy child! she spends hours in preparing its toilet. she begins to show her taste in the exquisite details of its dress. she loves it madly, devotedly. she will prefer it to bonbons. she already anticipates the wealth of love she will hereafter pour out on her lover, her mother, her father, and finally, perhaps, her husband. this is the time the anxious parent will guide these first outpourings. she will read her extracts from michelet's l'amour, rousseau's heloise, and the revue des deux mondes. iv. the mud pie. she was in tears to-day. she had stolen away from her bonne and was with some rustic infants. they had noses in the air, and large, coarse hands and feet. they had seated themselves around a pool in the road, and were fashioning fantastic shapes in the clayey soil with their hands. her throat swelled and her eyes sparkled with delight as, for the first time, her soft palms touched the plastic mud. she made a graceful and lovely pie. she stuffed it with stones for almonds and plums. she forgot everything. it was being baked in the solar rays, when madame came and took her away. she weeps. it is night, and she is weeping still. v. her first love. she no longer doubts her beauty. she is loved. she saw him secretly. he is vivacious and sprightly. he is famous. he has already had an affair with finfin, the fille de chambre, and poor finfin is desolate. he is noble. she knows he is the son of madame la baronne couturiere. she adores him. she affects not to notice him. poor little thing! hippolyte is distracted--annihilated--inconsolable and charming. she admires his boots, his cravat, his little gloves his exquisite pantaloons--his coat, and cane. she offers to run away with him. he is transported, but magnanimous. he is wearied, perhaps. she sees him the next day offering flowers to the daughter of madame la comtesse blanchisseuse. she is again in tears. she reads paul et virginie. she is secretly transported. when she reads how the exemplary young woman laid down her life rather than appear en deshabille to her lover, she weeps again. tasteful and virtuous bernardine de st. pierre!--the daughters of france admire you! all this time her doll is headless in the cabinet. the mud pie is broken on the road. vi. the wife. she is tired of loving and she marries. her mother thinks it, on the whole, the best thing. as the day approaches, she is found frequently in tears. her mother will not permit the affianced one to see her, and he makes several attempts to commit suicide. but something happens. perhaps it is winter, and the water is cold. perhaps there are not enough people present to witness his heroism. in this way her future husband is spared to her. the ways of providence are indeed mysterious. at this time her mother will talk with her. she will offer philosophy. she will tell her she was married herself. but what is this new and ravishing light that breaks upon her? the toilet and wedding clothes! she is in a new sphere. she makes out her list in her own charming writing. here it is. let every mother heed it.* * * * * * * * * * * she is married. on the day after, she meets her old lover, hippolyte. he is again transported. * the delicate reader will appreciate the omission of certain articles for which english synonymes are forbidden. vii. her old age. a frenchwoman never grows old. mary mcgillup. a southern novel. after belle boyd. with an introduction by g. a. s--la. introduction. "will you write me up?" the scene was near temple bar. the speaker was the famous rebel mary mcgillup,--a young girl of fragile frame, and long, lustrous black hair. i must confess that the question was a peculiar one, and, under the circumstances, somewhat puzzling. it was true i had been kindly treated by the northerners, and, though prejudiced against them, was to some extent under obligations to them. it was true that i knew little or nothing of american politics, history, or geography. but when did an english writer ever weigh such trifles? turning to the speaker, i inquired with some caution the amount of pecuniary compensation offered for the work. "sir!" she said, drawing her fragile form to its full height, "you insult me,--you insult the south." "but look ye here, d'ye see--the tin--the blunt--the ready--the stiff; you know. don't ye see, we can't do without that, you know!" "it shall be contingent on the success of the story," she answered haughtily. "in the mean time take this precious gem." and drawing a diamond ring from her finger, she placed it with a roll of mss. in my hands and vanished. although unable to procure more than l1 2s. 6 d. from an intelligent pawnbroker to whom i stated the circumstances and with whom i pledged the ring, my sympathies with the cause of a downtrodden and chivalrous people were at once enlisted. i could not help wondering that in rich england, the home of the oppressed and the free, a young and lovely woman like the fair author of those pages should be obliged to thus pawn her jewels--her marriage gift--for the means to procure her bread! with the exception of the english aristocracy,--who much resemble them,--i do not know of a class of people that i so much admire as the southern planters. may i become better acquainted with both! since writing the above, the news of mr. lincoln's assassination has reached me. it is enough for me to say that i am dissatisfied with the result. i do not attempt to excuse the assassin. yet there will be men who will charge this act upon the chivalrous south. this leads me to repeat a remark once before made by me in this connection which has become justly celebrated. it is this:-"it is usual, in cases of murder, to look for the criminal among those who expect to be benefited by the crime. in the death of lincoln, his immediate successor in office alone receives the benefit of his dying." if her majesty queen victoria were assassinated, which heaven forbid, the one most benefited by her decease would, of course, be his royal highness the prince of wales, her immediate successor. it would be unnecessary to state that suspicion would at once point to the real culprit, which would of course be his royal highness. this is logic. but i have done. after having thus stated my opinion in favor of the south, i would merely remark that there is one who judgeth all things,--who weigheth the cause between brother and brother,--and awardeth the perfect retribution; and whose ultimate decision i, as a british subject, have only anticipated. g. a. s. chapter i. every reader of belle boyd's narrative will remember an allusion to a "lovely, fragile-looking girl of nineteen," who rivalled belle boyd in devotion to the southern cause, and who, like her, earned the enviable distinction of being a "rebel spy." i am that "fragile" young creature. although on friendly terms with the late miss boyd, now mrs. hardinge, candor compels me to state that nothing but our common politics prevents me from exposing the ungenerous spirit she has displayed in this allusion. to be dismissed in a single paragraph after years of- but i anticipate. to put up with this feeble and forced acknowledgment of services rendered would be a confession of a craven spirit, which, thank god, though "fragile" and only "nineteen," i do not possess. i may not have the "blood of a howard" in my veins, as some people, whom i shall not disgrace myself by naming, claim to have, but i have yet to learn that the race of mcgillup ever yet brooked slight or insult. i shall not say that attention in certain quarters seems to have turned some people's heads; nor that it would have been more delicate if certain folks had kept quiet on the subject of their courtship, and the rejection of certain offers, when it is known that their forward conduct was all that procured them a husband! thank heaven, the south has some daughters who are above such base considerations! while nothing shall tempt me to reveal the promises to share equally the fame of certain enterprises, which were made by one who shall now be nameless, i have deemed it only just to myself to put my own adventures upon record. if they are not equal to those of another individual, it is because, though "fragile," my education has taught me to have some consideration for the truth. i am done. chapter ii. i was born in missouri. my dislike for the northern scum was inherent. this was shown, at an early age, in the extreme distaste i exhibited for webster's spelling-book,--the work of a well-known eastern abolitionist. i cannot be too grateful for the consideration shown by my chivalrous father,--a gentleman of the old school,--who resisted to the last an attempt to introduce mitchell's astronomy and geography into the public school of our district. when i state that this same mitchell became afterward a hireling helot in the yankee army, every intelligent reader will appreciate the prophetic discrimination of this true son of the south. i was eight years old when i struck the first blow for southern freedom against the northern tyrant. it is hardly necessary to state that in this instance the oppressor was a pale, overworked new england "schoolmarm." the principle for which i was contending, i felt, however, to be the same. resenting an affront put upon me, i one day heaved a rock* at the head of the vandal schoolmistress. i was seized and overpowered. my pen falters as i reach the climax. english readers will not give credit to this sickening story,--the civilized world will avert its head,--but i, mary mcgillup, was publicly spanked! * note, by g. a. s.--in the southwest, any stone larger than a pea is termed "a rock." chapter iii. but the chaotic vortex of civil war approached, and fell destruction, often procrastinated, brooded in storm.* as the english people may like to know what was really the origin of the rebellion, i have no hesitation in giving them the true and only cause. slavery had nothing to do with it, although the violation of the declaration of independence, in the disregard by the north of the fugitive slave law,** might have provoked a less fiery people than the southrons. at the inception of the struggle a large amount of southern indebtedness was held by the people of the north. to force payment from the generous but insolvent debtor--to obtain liquidation from the southern planter--was really the soulless and mercenary object of the craven northerners. let the common people of england look to this. let the improvident literary hack; the starved impecunious grub street debtor; the newspaper frequenter of sponging-houses, remember this in their criticisms of the vile and slavish yankee. * i make no pretension to fine writing, but perhaps mrs. hardinge can lay over that. o, of course! m. mcg. ** the declaration of independence grants to each subject "the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness." a fugitive slave may be said to personify "life, liberty, and happiness." hence his pursuit is really legal. this is logic. g. a. s. chapter iv. the roasting of an abolitionist, by a greatly infuriated community, was my first taste of the horrors of civil war. heavens! why will the north persist in this fratricidal warfare? the expulsion of several union refugees, which soon followed, now fairly plunged my beloved state in the seething vortex. i was sitting at the piano one afternoon, singing that stirring refrain, so justly celebrated, but which a craven spirit, unworthy of england, has excluded from some of her principal restaurants, and was dwelling with some enthusiasm on the following line:- "huzza! she spurns the northern scum!" when a fragment of that scum, clothed in that detestable blue uniform which is the symbol of oppression, entered the apartment. "i have the honor of addressing the celebrated rebel spy, miss mcgillup," said the vandal officer. in a moment i was perfectly calm. with the exception of slightly expectorating twice in the face of the minion, i did not betray my agitation. haughtily, yet firmly, i replied:-"i am." "you looked as if you might be," the brute replied, as he turned on his heel to leave the apartment. in an instant i threw myself before him. "you shall not leave here thus," i shrieked, grappling him with an energy which no one, seeing my frail figure, would have believed. "i know the reputation of your hireling crew. i read your dreadful purpose in your eye. tell me not that your designs are not sinister. you came here to insult me,--to kiss me, perhaps. you sha'n't,--you naughty man. go away!" the blush of conscious degradation rose to the cheek of the lincoln hireling as he turned his face away from mine. in an instant i drew my pistol from my belt, which, in anticipation of some such outrage, i always carried, and shot him. chapter v. "thy forte was less to act than speak, maryland! thy politics were changed each week, maryland! with northern vandals thou wast meek, with sympathizers thou wouldst shriek, i know thee--o, 'twas like thy cheek! maryland! my maryland!" after committing the act described in the preceding chapter, which every english reader will pardon, i went up stairs, put on a clean pair of stockings, and, placing a rose in my lustrous black hair, proceeded at once to the camp of generals price and mosby to put them in possession of information which would lead to the destruction of a portion of the federal army. during a great part of my flight i was exposed to a running fire from the federal pickets of such coarse expressions as, "go it, sally reb," "dust it, my confederate beauty," but i succeeded in reaching the glorious southern camp uninjured. in a week afterwards i was arrested, by a lettre de cachet of mr. stanton, and placed in the bastile. british readers of my story will express surprise at these terms, but i assure them that not only these articles but tumbrils, guillotines, and conciergeries were in active use among the federals. if substantiation be required, i refer to the charleston mercury, the only reliable organ, next to the new york daily news, published in the country. at the bastile i made the acquaintance of the accomplished and elegant author of guy livingstone,* to whom i presented a curiously carved thigh-bone of a union officer, and from whom i received the following beautiful acknowledgment:-"demoiselle:--should i ever win hame to my ain countrie, i make mine avow to enshrine in my reliquaire this elegant bijouterie and offering of la belle rebelle. nay, methinks this fraction of man's anatomy were some compensation for the rib lost by the 'grand old gardener,' adam." * the recent conduct of mr. livingstone renders him unworthy of my notice. his disgusting praise of belle boyd, and complete ignoring of my claims, show the artfulness of some females and puppyism of some men. m. mcg. chapter vi. released at last from durance vile and placed on board of an erie canal-boat, on my way to canada, i for a moment breathed the sweets of liberty. perhaps the interval gave me opportunity to indulge in certain reveries which i had hitherto sternly dismissed. henry breckinridge folair, a consistent copperhead, captain of the canal-boat, again and again pressed that suit i had so often rejected. it was a lovely moonlight night. we sat on the deck of the gliding craft. the moonbeam and the lash of the driver fell softly on the flanks of the off horse, and only the surging of the tow-rope broke the silence. folair's arm clasped my waist. i suffered it to remain. placing in my lap a small but not ungrateful roll of checkerberry lozenges, he took the occasion to repeat softly in my ear the words of a motto he had just unwrapped--with its graceful covering of the tissue paper--from a sugar almond. the heart of the wicked little rebel, mary mcgillup, was won! the story of mary mcgillup is done. i might have added the journal of my husband, henry breckinridge folair, but as it refers chiefly to his freights, and a schedule of his passengers, i have been obliged, reluctantly, to suppress it. it is due to my friends to say that i have been requested not to write this book. expressions have reached my ears, the reverse of complimentary. i have been told that its publication will probably insure my banishment for life. be it so. if the cause for which i labored have been subserved, i am content. london, may, 1865. winsome winnie and other new nonsense novels _by the same author_ the hohenzollerns in america and other impossibilities literary lapses nonsense novels sunshine sketches of a little town. with a frontispiece by cyrus cuneo behind the beyond and other contributions to human knowledge. with 17 illustrations by "fish" arcadian adventures with the idle rich moonbeams from the larger lunacy essays and literary studies further foolishness: sketches and satires on the follies of the day. with coloured frontispiece by "fish" and 5 other plates by m. blood. frenzied fiction the unsolved riddle of social justice. the bodley head _winsome winnie and other new nonsense novels_ _by stephen leacock_ _london: john lane, the bodley head new york: john lane company mcmxxi_ _printed in great britain by r. clay & sons, ltd., london and bungay_ _contents_ chap. i. winsome winnie; or, trial and temptation i. thrown on the world ii. a rencounter iii. friends in distress iv. a gambling party in st. james's close v. the abduction vi. the unknown vii. the proposal viii. wedded at last ii. john and i; or, how i nearly lost my husband iii. the split in the cabinet; or, the fate of england iv. who do you think did it? or, the mixed-up murder mystery i. he dined with me last night ii. i must save her life iii. i must buy a book on billiards iv. that is not billiard chalk v. has anybody here seen kelly? vi. show me the man who wore those boots vii. oh, mr. kent, save me! viii. you are peter kelly ix. let me tell you the story of my life x. so do i v. broken barriers; or, red love on a blue island vi. the kidnapped plumber: a tale of the new time vii. the blue and the grey: a pre-war war story viii. buggam grange: a good old ghost story i winsome winnie or, trial and temptation (_narrated after the best models of 1875_) _i.--winsome winnie; or, trial and temptation._ chapter i thrown on the world "miss winnifred," said the old lawyer, looking keenly over and through his shaggy eyebrows at the fair young creature seated before him, "you are this morning twenty-one." winnifred clair raised her deep mourning veil, lowered her eyes and folded her hands. "this morning," continued mr. bonehead, "my guardianship is at an end." there was a tone of something like emotion in the voice of the stern old lawyer, while for a moment his eye glistened with something like a tear which he hastened to remove with something like a handkerchief. "i have therefore sent for you," he went on, "to render you an account of my trust." he heaved a sigh at her, and then, reaching out his hand, he pulled the woollen bell-rope up and down several times. an aged clerk appeared. "did the bell ring?" he asked. "i think it did," said the lawyer. "be good enough, atkinson, to fetch me the papers of the estate of the late major clair defunct." "i have them here," said the clerk, and he laid upon the table a bundle of faded blue papers, and withdrew. "miss winnifred," resumed the old lawyer, "i will now proceed to give you an account of the disposition that has been made of your property. this first document refers to the sum of two thousand pounds left to you by your great uncle. it is lost." winnifred bowed. "pray give me your best attention and i will endeavour to explain to you how i lost it." "oh, sir," cried winnifred, "i am only a poor girl unskilled in the ways of the world, and knowing nothing but music and french; i fear that the details of business are beyond my grasp. but if it is lost, i gather that it is gone." "it is," said mr. bonehead. "i lost it in a marginal option in an undeveloped oil company. i suppose that means nothing to you." "alas," sighed winnifred, "nothing." "very good," resumed the lawyer. "here next we have a statement in regard to the thousand pounds left you under the will of your maternal grandmother. i lost it at monte carlo. but i need not fatigue you with the details." "pray spare them," cried the girl. "this final item relates to the sum of fifteen hundred pounds placed in trust for you by your uncle. i lost it on a horse race. that horse," added the old lawyer with rising excitement, "ought to have won. he was coming down the stretch like blue--but there, there, my dear, you must forgive me if the recollection of it still stirs me to anger. suffice it to say the horse fell. i have kept for your inspection the score card of the race, and the betting tickets. you will find everything in order." "sir," said winnifred, as mr. bonehead proceeded to fold up his papers, "i am but a poor inadequate girl, a mere child in business, but tell me, i pray, what is left to me of the money that you have managed?" "nothing," said the lawyer. "everything is gone. and i regret to say, miss clair, that it is my painful duty to convey to you a further disclosure of a distressing nature. it concerns your birth." "just heaven!" cried winnifred, with a woman's quick intuition. "does it concern my father?" "it does, miss clair. your father was not your father." "oh, sir," exclaimed winnifred. "my poor mother! how she must have suffered!" "your mother was not your mother," said the old lawyer gravely. "nay, nay, do not question me. there is a dark secret about your birth." "alas," said winnifred, wringing her hands, "i am, then, alone in the world and penniless." "you are," said mr. bonehead, deeply moved. "you are, unfortunately, thrown upon the world. but, if you ever find yourself in a position where you need help and advice, do not scruple to come to me. especially," he added, "for advice. and meantime let me ask you in what way do you propose to earn your livelihood?" "i have my needle," said winnifred. "let me see it," said the lawyer. winnifred showed it to him. "i fear," said mr. bonehead, shaking his head, "you will not do much with that." then he rang the bell again. "atkinson," he said, "take miss clair out and throw her on the world." chapter ii a rencounter as winnifred clair passed down the stairway leading from the lawyer's office, a figure appeared before her in the corridor, blocking the way. it was that of a tall, aristocratic-looking man, whose features wore that peculiarly saturnine appearance seen only in the english nobility. the face, while entirely gentlemanly in its general aspect, was stamped with all the worst passions of mankind. had the innocent girl but known it, the face was that of lord wynchgate, one of the most contemptible of the greater nobility of britain, and the figure was his too. "ha!" exclaimed the dissolute aristocrat, "whom have we here? stay, pretty one, and let me see the fair countenance that i divine behind your veil." "sir," said winnifred, drawing herself up proudly, "let me pass, i pray." "not so," cried wynchgate, reaching out and seizing his intended victim by the wrist, "not till i have at least seen the colour of those eyes and imprinted a kiss upon those fair lips." with a brutal laugh, he drew the struggling girl towards him. in another moment the aristocratic villain would have succeeded in lifting the veil of the unhappy girl, when suddenly a ringing voice cried, "hold! stop! desist! begone! lay to! cut it out!" with these words a tall, athletic young man, attracted doubtless by the girl's cries, leapt into the corridor from the street without. his figure was that, more or less, of a greek god, while his face, although at the moment inflamed with anger, was of an entirely moral and permissible configuration. "save me! save me!" cried winnifred. "i will," cried the stranger, rushing towards lord wynchgate with uplifted cane. but the cowardly aristocrat did not await the onslaught of the unknown. "you shall yet be mine!" he hissed in winnifred's ear, and, releasing his grasp, he rushed with a bound past the rescuer into the street. "oh, sir," said winnifred, clasping her hands and falling on her knees in gratitude. "i am only a poor inadequate girl, but if the prayers of one who can offer naught but her prayers to her benefactor can avail to the advantage of one who appears to have every conceivable advantage already, let him know that they are his." "nay," said the stranger, as he aided the blushing girl to rise, "kneel not to me, i beseech. if i have done aught to deserve the gratitude of one who, whoever she is, will remain for ever present as a bright memory in the breast of one in whose breast such memories are all too few, he is all too richly repaid. if she does that, he is blessed indeed." "she does. he is!" cried winnifred, deeply moved. "here on her knees she blesses him. and now," she added, "we must part. seek not to follow me. one who has aided a poor girl in the hour of need will respect her wish when she tells him that, alone and buffeted by the world, her one prayer is that he will leave her." "he will!" cried the unknown. "he will. he does." "leave me, yes, leave me," exclaimed winnifred. "i will," said the unknown. "do, do," sobbed the distraught girl. "yet stay, one moment more. let she, who has received so much from her benefactor, at least know his name." "he cannot! he must not!" exclaimed the indistinguishable. "his birth is such--but enough!" he tore his hand from the girl's detaining clasp and rushed forth from the place. winnifred clair was alone. chapter iii friends in distress winnifred was now in the humblest lodgings in the humblest part of london. a simple bedroom and sitting-room sufficed for her wants. here she sat on her trunk, bravely planning for the future. "miss clair," said the landlady, knocking at the door, "do try to eat something. you must keep up your health. see, i've brought you a kippered herring." winnifred ate the herring, her heart filled with gratitude. with renewed strength she sallied forth on the street to resume her vain search for employment. for two weeks now winnifred clair had sought employment even of the humblest character. at various dress-making establishments she had offered, to no purpose, the services of her needle. they had looked at it and refused it. in vain she had offered to various editors and publishers the use of her pen. they had examined it coldly and refused it. she had tried fruitlessly to obtain a position of trust. the various banks and trust companies to which she had applied declined her services. in vain she had advertised in the newspapers offering to take sole charge of a little girl. no one would give her one. her slender stock of money which she had in her purse on leaving mr. bonehead's office was almost consumed. each night the unhappy girl returned to her lodging exhausted with disappointment and fatigue. yet even in her adversity she was not altogether friendless. each evening, on her return home, a soft tap was heard at the door. "miss clair," said the voice of the landlady, "i have brought you a fried egg. eat it. you must keep up your strength." then one morning a terrible temptation had risen before her. "miss clair," said the manager of an agency to which she had applied, "i am glad to be able at last to make you a definite offer of employment. are you prepared to go upon the stage?" the stage! a flush of shame and indignation swept over the girl. had it come to this? little versed in the world as winnifred was, she knew but too well the horror, the iniquity, the depth of degradation implied in the word. "yes," continued the agent, "i have a letter here asking me to recommend a young lady of suitable refinement to play the part of eliza in _uncle tom's cabin._ will you accept?" "sir," said winnifred proudly, "answer me first this question fairly. if i go upon the stage, can i, as eliza, remain as innocent, as simple as i am now?" "you can not," said the manager. "then, sir," said winnifred, rising from her chair, "let me say this. your offer is doubtless intended to be kind. coming from the class you do, and inspired by the ideas you are, you no doubt mean well. but let a poor girl, friendless and alone, tell you that rather than accept such a degradation she will die." "very good," said the manager. "i go forth," cried winnifred, "to perish." "all right," said the manager. the door closed behind her. winnifred clair, once more upon the street, sank down upon the steps of the building in a swoon. but at this very juncture providence, which always watches over the innocent and defenceless, was keeping its eye direct upon winnifred. at that very moment when our heroine sank fainting upon the doorstep, a handsome equipage, drawn by two superb black steeds, happened to pass along the street. its appearance and character proclaimed it at once to be one of those vehicles in which only the superior classes of the exclusive aristocracy are privileged to ride. its sides were emblazoned with escutcheons, insignia and other paraphernalia. the large gilt coronet that appeared up its panelling, surmounted by a bunch of huckleberries, quartered in a field of potatoes, indicated that its possessor was, at least, of the rank of marquis. a coachman and two grooms rode in front, while two footmen, seated in the boot, or box at the rear, contrived, by the immobility of their attitude and the melancholy of their faces, to inspire the scene with an exclusive and aristocratic grandeur. the occupants of the equipage--for we refuse to count the menials as being such--were two in number, a lady and gentleman, both of advanced years. their snow-white hair and benign countenances indicated that they belonged to that rare class of beings to whom rank and wealth are but an incentive to nobler things. a gentle philanthropy played all over their faces, and their eyes sought eagerly in the passing scene of the humble street for new objects of benefaction. those acquainted with the countenances of the aristocracy would have recognized at once in the occupants of the equipage the marquis of muddlenut and his spouse, the marchioness. it was the eye of the marchioness which first detected the form of winnifred clair upon the doorstep. "hold! pause! stop!" she cried, in lively agitation. the horses were at once pulled in, the brakes applied to the wheels, and with the aid of a powerful lever, operated by three of the menials, the carriage was brought to a standstill. "see! look!" cried the marchioness. "she has fainted. quick, william, your flask. let us hasten to her aid." in another moment the noble lady was bending over the prostrate form of winnifred clair, and pouring brandy between her lips. winnifred opened her eyes. "where am i?" she asked feebly. "she speaks!" cried the marchioness. "give her another flaskful." after the second flask the girl sat up. "tell me," she cried, clasping her hands, "what has happened? where am i?" "with friends!" answered the marchioness. "but do not essay to speak. drink this. you must husband your strength. meantime, let us drive you to your home." winnifred was lifted tenderly by the menservants into the aristocratic equipage. the brake was unset, the lever reversed, and the carriage thrown again into motion. on the way winnifred, at the solicitation of the marchioness, related her story. "my poor child!" exclaimed the lady, "how you must have suffered. thank heaven it is over now. to-morrow we shall call for you and bring you away with us to muddlenut chase." alas, could she but have known it, before the morrow should dawn, worse dangers still were in store for our heroine. but what these dangers were, we must reserve for another chapter. chapter iv a gambling party in st. james's close we must now ask our readers to shift the scene--if they don't mind doing this for us--to the apartments of the earl of wynchgate in st. james's close. the hour is nine o'clock in the evening, and the picture before us is one of revelry and dissipation so characteristic of the nobility of england. the atmosphere of the room is thick with blue havana smoke such as is used by the nobility, while on the green baize table a litter of counters and cards, in which aces, kings, and even two spots are heaped in confusion, proclaim the reckless nature of the play. seated about the table are six men, dressed in the height of fashion, each with collar and white necktie and broad white shirt, their faces stamped with all, or nearly all, of the baser passions of mankind. lord wynchgate--for he it was who sat at the head of the table--rose with an oath, and flung his cards upon the table. all turned and looked at him, with an oath. "curse it, dogwood," he exclaimed, with another oath, to the man who sat beside him. "take the money. i play no more to-night. my luck is out." "ha! ha!" laughed lord dogwood, with a third oath, "your mind is not on the cards. who is the latest young beauty, pray, who so absorbs you? i hear a whisper in town of a certain misadventure of yours----" "dogwood," said wynchgate, clenching his fist, "have a care, man, or you shall measure the length of my sword." both noblemen faced each other, their hands upon their swords. "my lords, my lords!" pleaded a distinguished-looking man of more advanced years, who sat at one side of the table, and in whose features the habituã©s of diplomatic circles would have recognized the handsome lineaments of the marquis of frogwater, british ambassador to siam, "let us have no quarrelling. come, wynchgate, come, dogwood," he continued, with a mild oath, "put up your swords. it were a shame to waste time in private quarrelling. they may be needed all too soon in cochin china, or, for the matter of that," he added sadly, "in cambodia or in dutch guinea." "frogwater," said young lord dogwood, with a generous flush, "i was wrong. wynchgate, your hand." the two noblemen shook hands. "my friends," said lord wynchgate, "in asking you to abandon our game, i had an end in view. i ask your help in an affair of the heart." "ha! excellent!" exclaimed the five noblemen. "we are with you heart and soul." "i propose this night," continued wynchgate, "with your help, to carry off a young girl, a female!" "an abduction!" exclaimed the ambassador somewhat sternly. "wynchgate, i cannot countenance this." "mistake me not," said the earl, "i intend to abduct her. but i propose nothing dishonourable. it is my firm resolve to offer her marriage." "then," said lord frogwater, "i am with you." "gentlemen," concluded wynchgate, "all is ready. the coach is below. i have provided masks, pistols, and black cloaks. follow me." a few moments later, a coach, with the blinds drawn, in which were six noblemen armed to the teeth, might have been seen, were it not for the darkness, approaching the humble lodging in which winnifred clair was sheltered. but what it did when it got there, we must leave to another chapter. chapter v the abduction the hour was twenty minutes to ten on the evening described in our last chapter. winnifred clair was seated, still fully dressed, at the window of the bedroom, looking out over the great city. a light tap came at the door. "if it's a fried egg," called winnifred softly, "i do not need it. i ate yesterday." "no," said the voice of the landlady. "you are wanted below." "i!" exclaimed winnifred, "below!" "you," said the landlady, "below. a party of gentlemen have called for you." "gentlemen," exclaimed winnifred, putting her hand to her brow in perplexity, "for me! at this late hour! here! this evening! in this house?" "yes," repeated the landlady, "six gentlemen. they arrived in a closed coach. they are all closely masked and heavily armed. they beg you will descend at once." "just heaven!" cried the unhappy girl. "is it possible that they mean to abduct me?" "they do," said the landlady. "they said so!" "alas!" cried winnifred, "i am powerless. tell them"--she hesitated--"tell them i will be down immediately. let them not come up. keep them below on any pretext. show them an album. let them look at the goldfish. anything, but not here! i shall be ready in a moment." feverishly she made herself ready. as hastily as possible she removed all traces of tears from her face. she threw about her shoulders an opera cloak, and with a light venetian scarf half concealed the beauty of her hair and features. "abducted!" she murmured, "and by six of them! i think she said six. oh, the horror of it!" a touch of powder to her cheeks and a slight blackening of her eyebrows, and the courageous girl was ready. lord wynchgate and his companions--for they it was, that is to say, they were it--sat below in the sitting-room looking at the albums. "woman," said lord wynchgate to the landlady, with an oath, "let her hurry up. we have seen enough of these. we can wait no longer." "i am here," cried a clear voice upon the threshold, and winnifred stood before them. "my lords, for i divine who you are and wherefore you have come, take me, do your worst with me, but spare, oh, spare this humble companion of my sorrow." "right-oh!" said lord dogwood, with a brutal laugh. "enough," exclaimed wynchgate, and seizing winnifred by the waist, he dragged her forth out of the house and out upon the street. but something in the brutal violence of his behaviour seemed to kindle for the moment a spark of manly feeling, if such there were, in the breasts of his companions. "wynchgate," cried young lord dogwood, "my mind misgives me. i doubt if this is a gentlemanly thing to do. i'll have no further hand in it." a chorus of approval from his companions endorsed his utterance. for a moment they hesitated. "nay," cried winnifred, turning to confront the masked faces that stood about her, "go forward with your fell design. i am here. i am helpless. let no prayers stay your hand. go to it." "have done with this!" cried wynchgate, with a brutal oath. "shove her in the coach." but at the very moment the sound of hurrying footsteps was heard, and a clear, ringing, manly, well-toned, vibrating voice cried, "hold! stop! desist! have a care, titled villain, or i will strike you to the earth." a tall aristocratic form bounded out of the darkness. "gentlemen," cried wynchgate, releasing his hold upon the frightened girl, "we are betrayed. save yourselves. to the coach." in another instant the six noblemen had leaped into the coach and disappeared down the street. winnifred, still half inanimate with fright, turned to her rescuer, and saw before her the form and lineaments of the unknown stranger, who had thus twice stood between her and disaster. half fainting, she fell swooning into his arms. "dear lady," he exclaimed, "rouse yourself. you are safe. let me restore you to your home!" "that voice!" cried winnifred, resuming consciousness. "it is my benefactor." she would have swooned again, but the unknown lifted her bodily up the steps of her home and leant her against the door. "farewell," he said, in a voice resonant with gloom. "oh, sir!" cried the unhappy girl, "let one who owes so much to one who has saved her in her hour of need at least know his name." but the stranger, with a mournful gesture of farewell, had disappeared as rapidly as he had come. but, as to why he had disappeared, we must ask our reader's patience for another chapter. chapter vi the unknown the scene is now shifted, sideways and forwards, so as to put it at muddlenut chase, and to make it a fortnight later than the events related in the last chapter. winnifred is now at the chase as the guest of the marquis and marchioness. there her bruised soul finds peace. the chase itself was one of those typical country homes which are, or were till yesterday, the glory of england. the approach to the chase lay through twenty miles of glorious forest, filled with fallow deer and wild bulls. the house itself, dating from the time of the plantagenets, was surrounded by a moat covered with broad lilies and floating green scum. magnificent peacocks sunned themselves on the terraces, while from the surrounding shrubberies there rose the soft murmur of doves, pigeons, bats, owls and partridges. here sat winnifred clair day after day upon the terrace recovering her strength, under the tender solicitude of the marchioness. each day the girl urged upon her noble hostess the necessity of her departure. "nay," said the marchioness, with gentle insistence, "stay where you are. your soul is bruised. you must rest." "alas," cried winnifred, "who am i that i should rest? alone, despised, buffeted by fate, what right have i to your kindness?" "miss clair," replied the noble lady, "wait till you are stronger. there is something that i wish to say to you." then at last, one morning when winnifred's temperature had fallen to ninety-eight point three, the marchioness spoke. "miss clair," she said, in a voice which throbbed with emotion, "winnifred, if i may so call you, lord muddlenut and i have formed a plan for your future. it is our dearest wish that you should marry our son." "alas," cried winnifred, while tears rose in her eyes, "it cannot be!" "say not so," cried the marchioness. "our son, lord mordaunt muddlenut, is young, handsome, all that a girl could desire. after months of wandering he returns to us this morning. it is our dearest wish to see him married and established. we offer you his hand." "indeed," replied winnifred, while her tears fell even more freely, "i seem to requite but ill the kindness that you show. alas, my heart is no longer in my keeping." "where is it?" cried the marchioness. "it is another's. one whose very name i do not know holds it in his keeping." but at this moment a blithe, gladsome step was heard upon the flagstones of the terrace. a manly, ringing voice, which sent a thrill to winnifred's heart, cried "mother!" and in another instant lord mordaunt muddlenut, for he it was, had folded the marchioness to his heart. winnifred rose, her heart beating wildly. one glance was enough. the newcomer, lord mordaunt, was none other than the unknown, the unaccountable, to whose protection she had twice owed her life. with a wild cry winnifred clair leaped across the flagstones of the terrace and fled into the park. chapter vii the proposal they stood beneath the great trees of the ancestral park, into which lord mordaunt had followed winnifred at a single bound. all about them was the radiance of early june. lord mordaunt knelt on one knee on the greensward, and with a touch in which respect and reverence were mingled with the deepest and manliest emotion, he took between his finger and thumb the tip of the girl's gloved hand. "miss clair," he uttered, in a voice suffused with the deepest yearning, yet vibrating with the most profound respect, "miss clair--winnifred--hear me, i implore!" "alas," cried winnifred, struggling in vain to disengage the tip of her glove from the impetuous clasp of the young nobleman, "alas, whither can i fly? i do not know my way through the wood, and there are bulls in all directions. i am not used to them! lord mordaunt, i implore you, let the tears of one but little skilled in the art of dissimulation----" "nay, winnifred," said the young earl, "fly not. hear me out!" "let me fly," begged the unhappy girl. "you must not fly," pleaded mordaunt. "let me first, here upon bended knee, convey to you the expression of a devotion, a love, as ardent and as deep as ever burned in a human heart. winnifred, be my bride!" "oh, sir," sobbed winnifred, "if the knowledge of a gratitude, a thankfulness from one whose heart will ever treasure as its proudest memory the recollection of one who did for one all that one could have wanted done for one--if this be some poor guerdon, let it suffice. but, alas, my birth, the dark secret of my birth forbids----" "nay," cried mordaunt, leaping now to his feet, "your birth is all right. i have looked into it myself. it is as good--or nearly as good--as my own. till i knew this, my lips were sealed by duty. while i supposed that you had a lower birth and i an upper, i was bound to silence. but come with me to the house. there is one arrived with me who will explain all." hand in hand the lovers, for such they now were, returned to the chase. there in the great hall the marquis and the marchioness were standing ready to greet them. "my child!" exclaimed the noble lady, as she folded winnifred to her heart. then she turned to her son. "let her know all!" she cried. lord mordaunt stepped across the room to a curtain. he drew it aside, and there stepped forth mr. bonehead, the old lawyer who had cast winnifred upon the world. "miss clair," said the lawyer, advancing and taking the girl's hand for a moment in a kindly clasp, "the time has come for me to explain all. you are not, you never were, the penniless girl that you suppose. under the terms of your father's will, i was called upon to act a part and to throw you upon the world. it was my client's wish, and i followed it. i told you, quite truthfully, that i had put part of your money into options in an oil-well. miss clair, that well is now producing a million gallons of gasolene a month!' "a million gallons!" cried winnifred. "i can never use it." "wait till you own a motor-car, miss winnifred," said the lawyer. "then i am rich!" exclaimed the bewildered girl. "rich beyond your dreams," answered the lawyer. "miss clair, you own in your own right about half of the state of texas--i think it is in texas, at any rate either texas or rhode island, or one of those big states in america. more than this, i have invested your property since your father's death so wisely that even after paying the income tax and the property tax, the inheritance tax, the dog tax and the tax on amusements, you will still have one half of one per cent to spend." winnifred clasped her hands. "i knew it all the time," said lord mordaunt, drawing the girl to his embrace, "i found it out through this good man." "we knew it too," said the marchioness. "can you forgive us, darling, our little plot for your welfare? had we not done this mordaunt might have had to follow you over to america and chase you all around newport and narragansett at a fearful expense." "how can i thank you enough?" cried winnifred. then she added eagerly, "and my birth, my descent?" "it is all right," interjected the old lawyer. "it is a 1. your father, who died before you were born, quite a little time before, belonged to the very highest peerage of wales. you are descended directly from claer-ap-claer, who murdered owen glendower. your mother we are still tracing up. but we have already connected her with floyd-ap-floyd, who murdered prince llewellyn." "oh, sir," cried the grateful girl. "i only hope i may prove worthy of them!" "one thing more," said lord mordaunt, and stepping over to another curtain he drew it aside and there emerged lord wynchgate. he stood before winnifred, a manly contrition struggling upon features which, but for the evil courses of he who wore them, might have been almost presentable. "miss clair," he said, "i ask your pardon. i tried to carry you off. i never will again. but before we part let me say that my acquaintance with you has made me a better man, broader, bigger and, i hope, deeper." with a profound bow, lord wynchgate took his leave. chapter viii wedded at last lord mordaunt and his bride were married forthwith in the parish church of muddlenut chase. with winnifred's money they have drained the moat, rebuilt the chase, and chased the bulls out of the park. they have six children, so far, and are respected, honoured and revered in the countryside far and wide, over a radius of twenty miles in circumference. ii john and i or, how i nearly lost my husband (_narrated after the approved fashion of the best heart and home magazines_) _ii.--john and i; or, how i nearly lost my husband._ it was after we had been married about two years that i began to feel that i needed more air. every time i looked at john across the breakfast-table, i felt as if i must have more air, more space. i seemed to feel as if i had no room to expand. i had begun to ask myself whether i had been wise in marrying john, whether john was really sufficient for my development. i felt cramped and shut in. in spite of myself the question would arise in my mind whether john really understood my nature. he had a way of reading the newspaper, propped up against the sugar-bowl, at breakfast, that somehow made me feel as if things had gone all wrong. it was bitter to realize that the time had come when john could prefer the newspaper to his wife's society. but perhaps i had better go back and tell the whole miserable story from the beginning. i shall never forget--i suppose no woman ever does--the evening when john first spoke out his love for me. i had felt for some time past that it was there. again and again, he seemed about to speak. but somehow his words seemed to fail him. twice i took him into the very heart of the little wood beside mother's house, but it was only a small wood, and somehow he slipped out on the other side. "oh, john," i had said, "how lonely and still it seems in the wood with no one here but ourselves! do you think," i said, "that the birds have souls?" "i don't know," john answered, "let's get out of this." i was sure that his emotion was too strong for him. "i never feel a bit lonesome where you are, john," i said, as we made our way among the underbrush. "i think we can get out down that little gully," he answered. then one evening in june after tea i led john down a path beside the house to a little corner behind the garden where there was a stone wall on one side and a high fence right in front of us, and thorn bushes on the other side. there was a little bench in the angle of the wall and the fence, and we sat down on it. "minnie," john said, "there's something i meant to say----" "oh, john," i cried, and i flung my arms round his neck. it all came with such a flood of surprise. "all i meant, minn----" john went on, but i checked him. "oh, don't, john, don't say anything more," i said. "it's just too perfect." then i rose and seized him by the wrist. "come," i said, "come to mother," and i rushed him along the path. as soon as mother saw us come in hand in hand in this way, she guessed everything. she threw both her arms round john's neck and fairly pinned him against the wall. john tried to speak, but mother wouldn't let him. "i saw it all along, john," she said. "don't speak. don't say a word. i guessed your love for minn from the very start. i don't know what i shall do without her, john, but she's yours now; take her." then mother began to cry and i couldn't help crying too. "take him to father," mother said, and we each took one of john's wrists and took him to father on the back verandah. as soon as john saw father he tried to speak again--"i think i ought to say," he began, but mother stopped him. "father," she said, "he wants to take our little girl away. he loves her very dearly, alfred," she said, "and i think it our duty to let her go, no matter how hard it is, and oh, please heaven, alfred, he'll treat her well and not misuse her, or beat her," and she began to sob again. father got up and took john by the hand and shook it warmly. "take her, boy," he said. "she's all yours now, take her." so john and i were engaged, and in due time our wedding day came and we were married. i remember that for days and days before the wedding day john seemed very nervous and depressed; i think he was worrying, poor boy, as to whether he could really make me happy and whether he could fill my life as it should be filled. but i told him that he was not to worry, because i _meant_ to be happy, and was determined just to make the best of everything. father stayed with john a good deal before the wedding day, and on the wedding morning he went and fetched him to the church in a closed carriage and had him there all ready when we came. it was a beautiful day in september, and the church looked just lovely. i had a beautiful gown of white organdie with _tulle_ at the throat, and i carried a great bunch of white roses, and father led john up the aisle after me. i remember that mother cried a good deal at the wedding, and told john that he had stolen her darling and that he must never misuse me or beat me. and i remember that the clergyman spoke very severely to john, and told him he hoped he realized the responsibility he was taking and that it was his duty to make me happy. a lot of our old friends were there, and they all spoke quite sharply to john, and all the women kissed me and said they hoped i would never regret what i had done, and i just kept up my spirits by sheer determination, and told them that i had made up my mind to be happy and that i was going to be so. so presently it was all over and we were driven to the station and got the afternoon train for new york, and when we sat down in the compartment among all our bandboxes and flowers, john said, "well, thank god, that's over." and i said, "oh, john, an oath! on our wedding day, an oath!" john said, "i'm sorry, minn, i didn't mean----" but i said, "don't, john, don't make it worse. swear at me if you must, but don't make it harder to bear." * * * * * we spent our honeymoon in new york. at first i had thought of going somewhere to the great lonely woods, where i could have walked under the great trees and felt the silence of nature, and where john should have been my viking and captured me with his spear, and where i should be his and his alone and no other man should share me; and john had said all right. or else i had planned to go away somewhere to the seashore, where i could have watched the great waves dashing themselves against the rocks. i had told john that he should be my cave man, and should seize me in his arms and carry me whither he would. i felt somehow that for my development i wanted to get as close to nature as ever i could--that my mind seemed to be reaching out for a great emptiness. but i looked over all the hotel and steamship folders i could find and it seemed impossible to get good accommodation, so we came to new york. i had a great deal of shopping to do for our new house, so i could not be much with john, but i felt it was not right to neglect him, so i drove him somewhere in a taxi each morning and called for him again in the evening. one day i took him to the metropolitan museum, and another day i left him at the zoo, and another day at the aquarium. john seemed very happy and quiet among the fishes. so presently we came back home, and i spent many busy days in fixing and arranging our new house. i had the drawing-room done in blue, and the dining-room all in dark panelled wood, and a boudoir upstairs done in pink and white enamel to match my bedroom and dressing-room. there was a very nice little room in the basement next to the coal cellar that i turned into a "den" for john, so that when he wanted to smoke he could go down there and do it. john seemed to appreciate his den at once, and often would stay down there so long that i had to call to him to come up. when i look back on those days they seem very bright and happy. but it was not very long before a change came. i began to realize that john was neglecting me. i noticed it at first in small things. i don't know just how long it was after our marriage that john began to read the newspaper at breakfast. at first he would only pick it up and read it in little bits, and only on the front page. i tried not to be hurt at it, and would go on talking just as brightly as i could, without seeming to notice anything. but presently he went on to reading the inside part of the paper, and then one day he opened up the financial page and folded the paper right back and leant it against the sugar-bowl. i could not but wonder whether john's love for me was what it had been. was it cooling? i asked myself. and what was cooling it? it hardly seemed possible, when i looked back to the wild passion with which he had proposed to me on the garden bench, that john's love was waning. but i kept noticing different little things. one day in the spring-time i saw john getting out a lot of fishing tackle from a box and fitting it together. i asked him what he was going to do, and he said that he was going to fish. i went to my room and had a good cry. it seemed dreadful that he could neglect his wife for a few worthless fish. so i decided to put john to the test. it had been my habit every morning after he put his coat on to go to the office to let john have one kiss, just one weeny kiss, to keep him happy all day. so this day when he was getting ready i bent my head over a big bowl of flowers and pretended not to notice. i think john must have been hurt, as i heard him steal out on tiptoe. well, i realized that things had come to a dreadful state, and so i sent over to mother, and mother came, and we had a good cry together. i made up my mind to force myself to face things and just to be as bright as ever i could. mother and i both thought that things would be better if i tried all i could to make something out of john. i have always felt that every woman should make all that she can out of her husband. so i did my best first of all to straighten up john's appearance. i shifted the style of collar he was wearing to a tighter kind that i liked better, and i brushed his hair straight backward instead of forward, which gave him a much more alert look. mother said that john needed waking up, and so we did all we could to wake him up. mother came over to stay with me a good deal, and in the evenings we generally had a little music or a game of cards. about this time another difficulty began to come into my married life, which i suppose i ought to have foreseen--i mean the attentions of other gentlemen. i have always called forth a great deal of admiration in gentlemen, but i have always done my best to act like a lady and to discourage it in every possible way. i had been innocent enough to suppose that this would end with married life, and it gave me a dreadful shock to realize that such was not the case. the first one i noticed was a young man who came to the house, at an hour when john was out, for the purpose, so he said at least, of reading the gas meter. he looked at me in just the boldest way and asked me to show him the way to the cellar. i don't know whether it was a pretext or not, but i just summoned all the courage i had and showed him to the head of the cellar stairs. i had determined that if he tried to carry me down with him i would scream for the servants, but i suppose something in my manner made him desist, and he went alone. when he came up he professed to have read the meter and he left the house quite quietly. but i thought it wiser to say nothing to john of what had happened. there were others too. there was a young man with large brown eyes who came and said he had been sent to tune the piano. he came on three separate days, and he bent his ear over the keys in such a mournful way that i knew he must have fallen in love with me. on the last day he offered to tune my harp for a dollar extra, but i refused, and when i asked him instead to tune mother's mandoline he said he didn't know how. of course i told john nothing of all this. then there was mr. mcqueen, who came to the house several times to play cribbage with john. he had been desperately in love with me years before--at least i remember his taking me home from a hockey match once, and what a struggle it was for him not to come into the parlour and see mother for a few minutes when i asked him; and, though he was married now and with three children, i felt sure when he came to play cribbage with john that it _meant_ something. he was very discreet and honourable, and never betrayed himself for a moment, and i acted my part as if there was nothing at all behind. but one night, when he came over to play and john had had to go out, he refused to stay even for an instant. he had got his overshoes off before i told him that john was out, and asked him if he wouldn't come into the parlour and hear mother play the mandoline, but he just made one dive for his overshoes and was gone. i knew that he didn't dare to trust himself. then presently a new trouble came. i began to suspect that john was drinking. i don't mean for a moment that he was drunk, or that he was openly cruel to me. but at times he seemed to act so queerly, and i noticed that one night when by accident i left a bottle of raspberry vinegar on the sideboard overnight, it was all gone in the morning. two or three times when mcqueen and john were to play cribbage, john would fetch home two or three bottles of bevo with him and they would sit sipping all evening. i think he was drinking bevo by himself, too, though i could never be sure of it. at any rate he often seemed queer and restless in the evenings, and instead of staying in his den he would wander all over the house. once we heard him--i mean mother and i and two lady friends who were with us that evening--quite late (after ten o'clock) apparently moving about in the pantry. "john," i called, "is that you?" "yes, minn," he answered, quietly enough, i admit. "what are you doing there?" i asked. "looking for something to eat," he said. "john," i said, "you are forgetting what is due to me as your wife. you were fed at six. go back." he went. but yet i felt more and more that his love must be dwindling to make him act as he did. i thought it all over wearily enough and asked myself whether i had done everything i should to hold my husband's love. i had kept him in at nights. i had cut down his smoking. i had stopped his playing cards. what more was there that i could do? * * * * * so at last the conviction came to me that i must go away. i felt that i must get away somewhere and think things out. at first i thought of palm beach, but the season had not opened and i felt somehow that i couldn't wait. i wanted to get away somewhere by myself and just face things as they were. so one morning i said to john, "john, i think i'd like to go off somewhere for a little time, just to be by myself, dear, and i don't want you to ask to come with me or to follow me, but just let me go." john said, "all right, minn. when are you going to start?" the cold brutality of it cut me to the heart, and i went upstairs and had a good cry and looked over steamship and railroad folders. i thought of havana for a while, because the pictures of the harbour and the castle and the queer spanish streets looked so attractive, but then i was afraid that at havana a woman alone by herself might be simply persecuted by attentions from gentlemen. they say the spanish temperament is something fearful. so i decided on bermuda instead. i felt that in a beautiful, quiet place like bermuda i could think everything all over and face things, and it said on the folder that there were always at least two english regiments in garrison there, and the english officers, whatever their faults, always treat a woman with the deepest respect. so i said nothing more to john, but in the next few days i got all my arrangements made and my things packed. and when the last afternoon came i sat down and wrote john a long letter, to leave on my boudoir table, telling him that i had gone to bermuda. i told him that i wanted to be alone: i said that i couldn't tell when i would be back--that it might be months, or it might be years, and i hoped that he would try to be as happy as he could and forget me entirely, and to send me money on the first of every month. * * * * * well, it was just at that moment that one of those strange coincidences happen, little things in themselves, but which seem to alter the whole course of a person's life. i had nearly finished the letter to john that i was to leave on the writing-desk, when just then the maid came up to my room with a telegram. it was for john, but i thought it my duty to open it and read it for him before i left. and i nearly fainted when i saw that it was from a lawyer in bermuda--of all places--and it said that a legacy of two hundred thousand dollars had been left to john by an uncle of his who had died there, and asking for instructions about the disposition of it. a great wave seemed to sweep over me, and all the wicked thoughts that had been in my mind--for i saw now that they _were_ wicked--were driven clean away. i thought how completely lost poor old john would feel if all this money came to him and he didn't have to work any more and had no one at his side to help and guide him in using it. i tore up the wicked letter i had written, and i hurried as fast as i could to pack up a valise with john's things (my own were packed already, as i said). then presently john came in, and i broke the news to him as gently and as tenderly as i could about his uncle having left him the money and having died. i told him that i had found out all about the trains and the bermuda steamer, and had everything all packed and ready for us to leave at once. john seemed a little dazed about it all, and kept saying that his uncle had taught him to play tennis when he was a little boy, and he was very grateful and thankful to me for having everything arranged, and thought it wonderful. i had time to telephone to a few of my women friends, and they just managed to rush round for a few minutes to say good-bye. i couldn't help crying a little when i told them about john's uncle dying so far away with none of us near him, and i told them about the legacy, and they cried a little to hear of it all; and when i told them that john and i might not come back direct from bermuda, but might take a run over to europe first, they all cried some more. we left for new york that evening, and after we had been to bermuda and arranged about a suitable monument for john's uncle and collected the money, we sailed for europe. all through the happy time that has followed, i like to think that through all our trials and difficulties affliction brought us safely together at last. iii the split in the cabinet or, the fate of england (_a political novel of the days that were_) _iii.--the split in the cabinet; or, the fate of england._ chapter i "the fate of england hangs upon it," murmured sir john elphinspoon, as he sank wearily into an armchair. for a moment, as he said "england," the baronet's eye glistened and his ears lifted as if in defiance, but as soon as he stopped saying it his eye lost its brilliance and his ears dropped wearily at the sides of his head. lady elphinspoon looked at her husband anxiously. she could not conceal from herself that his face, as he sank into his chair, seemed somehow ten years older than it had been ten years ago. "you are home early, john?" she queried. "the house rose early, my dear," said the baronet. "for the all england ping-pong match?" "no, for the dog show. the prime minister felt that the cabinet ought to attend. he said that their presence there would help to bind the colonies to us. i understand also that he has a pup in the show himself. he took the cabinet with him." "and why not you?" asked lady elphinspoon. "you forget, my dear," said the baronet, "as foreign secretary my presence at a dog show might be offensive to the shah of persia. had it been a cat show----" the baronet paused and shook his head in deep gloom. "john," said his wife, "i feel that there is something more. did anything happen at the house?" sir john nodded. "a bad business," he said. "the wazuchistan boundary bill was read this afternoon for the third time." no woman in england, so it was generally said, had a keener political insight than lady elphinspoon. "the third time," she repeated thoughtfully, "and how many more will it have to go?" sir john turned his head aside and groaned. "you are faint," exclaimed lady elphinspoon, "let me ring for tea." the baronet shook his head. "an egg, john--let me beat you up an egg." "yes, yes," murmured sir john, still abstracted, "beat it, yes, do beat it." lady elphinspoon, in spite of her elevated position as the wife of the foreign secretary of great britain, held it not beneath her to perform for her husband the plainest household service. she rang for an egg. the butler broke it for her into a tall goblet filled with old sherry, and the noble lady, with her own hands, beat the stuff out of it. for the veteran politician, whose official duties rarely allowed him to eat, an egg was a sovereign remedy. taken either in a goblet of sherry or in a mug of rum, or in half a pint of whisky, it never failed to revive his energies. the effect of the egg was at once visible in the brightening of his eye and the lengthening of his ears. "and now explain to me," said his wife, "what has happened. what _is_ this boundary bill?" "we never meant it to pass," said sir john. "it was introduced only as a sop to public opinion. it delimits our frontier in such a way as to extend our suzerainty over the entire desert of el skrub. the wazoos have claimed that this is their desert. the hill tribes are restless. if we attempt to advance the wazoos will rise. if we retire it deals a blow at our prestige." lady elphinspoon shuddered. her long political training had taught her that nothing was so fatal to england as to be hit in the prestige. "and on the other hand," continued sir john, "if we move sideways, the ohulã®s, the mortal enemies of the wazoos, will strike us in our rear." "in our rear!" exclaimed lady elphinspoon in a tone of pain. "oh, john, we must go forward. take another egg." "we cannot," groaned the foreign secretary. "there are reasons which i cannot explain even to you, caroline, reasons of state, which absolutely prevent us from advancing into wazuchistan. our hands are tied. meantime if the wazoos rise, it is all over with us. it will split the cabinet." "split the cabinet!" repeated lady elphinspoon in alarm. she well knew that next to a blow in the prestige the splitting of the cabinet was about the worst thing that could happen to great britain. "oh, john, they _must_ be held together at all costs. can nothing be done?" "everything is being done that can be. the prime minister has them at the dog show at this moment. to-night the chancellor is taking them to moving pictures. and to-morrow--it is a state secret, my dear, but it will be very generally known in the morning--we have seats for them all at the circus. if we can hold them together all is well, but if they split we are undone. meantime our difficulties increase. at the very passage of the bill itself a question was asked by one of the new labour members, a miner, my dear, a quite uneducated man----" "yes?" queried lady elphinspoon. "he asked the colonial secretary"--sir john shuddered--"to tell him where wazuchistan is. worse than that, my dear," added sir john, "he defied him to tell him where it is." "what did you do? surely he has no right to information of that sort?" "it was a close shave. luckily the whips saved us. they got the secretary out of the house and rushed him to the british museum. when he got back he said that he would answer the question a month from friday. we got a great burst of cheers, but it was a close thing. but stop, i must speak at once with powers. my despatch box, yes, here it is. now where is young powers? there is work for him to do at once." "mr. powers is in the conservatory with angela," said lady elphinspoon. "with angela!" exclaimed sir john, while a slight shade of displeasure appeared upon his brow. "with angela again! do you think it quite proper, my dear, that powers should be so constantly with angela?" "john," said his wife, "you forget, i think, who mr. powers is. i am sure that angela knows too well what is due to her rank, and to herself, to consider mr. powers anything more than an instructive companion. and i notice that, since mr. powers has been your secretary, angela's mind is much keener. already the girl has a wonderful grasp on foreign policy. only yesterday i heard her asking the prime minister at luncheon whether we intend to extend our senegambian protectorate over the fusees. he was delighted." "oh, very well, very well," said sir john. then he rang a bell for a manservant. "ask mr. powers," he said, "to be good enough to attend me in the library." chapter ii angela elphinspoon stood with perriton powers among the begonias of the conservatory. the same news which had so agitated sir john lay heavy on both their hearts. "will the wazoo rise?" asked angela, clasping her hands before her, while her great eyes sought the young man's face and found it. "oh, mr. powers! tell me, will they rise? it seems too dreadful to contemplate. do you think the wazoo will rise?" "it is only too likely," said powers. they stood looking into one another's eyes, their thoughts all on the wazoo. angelina elphinspoon, as she stood there against the background of the begonias, made a picture that a painter, or even a plumber, would have loved. tall and typically english in her fair beauty, her features, in repose, had something of the hauteur and distinction of her mother, and when in motion they recalled her father. perriton powers was even taller than angela. the splendid frame and stern features of sir john's secretary made him a striking figure. yet he was, quite frankly, sprung from the people, and made no secret of it. his father had been simply a well-to-do london surgeon, who had been knighted for some mere discoveries in science. his grandfather, so it was whispered, had been nothing more than a successful banker who had amassed a fortune simply by successful banking. yet at oxford young powers had carried all before him. he had occupied a seat, a front seat, in one of the boats, had got his blue and his pink, and had taken a double final in sanscrit and arithmetic. he had already travelled widely in the east, spoke urdu and hoodoo with facility, while as secretary to sir john elphinspoon, with a seat in the house in prospect, he had his foot upon the ladder of success. "yes," repeated powers thoughtfully, "they may rise. our confidential despatches tell us that for some time they have been secretly passing round packets of yeast. the whole tribe is in a ferment." "but our sphere of influence is at stake," exclaimed angela. "it is," said powers. "as a matter of fact, for over a year we have been living on a mere _modus vivendi_." "oh, mr. powers," cried angela, "what a way to live." "we have tried everything," said the secretary. "we offered the wazoo a condominium over the desert of el skrub. they refused it." "but it's our desert," said angela proudly. "it is. but what can we do? the best we can hope is that el boob will acquiesce in the _status quo_." at that moment a manservant appeared in the doorway of the conservatory. "mr. powers, sir," he said, "sir john desires your attendance, sir, in the library, sir." powers turned to angela, a new seriousness upon his face. "miss elphinspoon," he said, "i think i know what is coming. will you wait for me here? i shall be back in half an hour." "i will wait," said the girl. she sat down and waited among the begonias, her mind still on the wazoo, her whole intense nature strung to the highest pitch. "can the _modus vivendi_ hold?" she murmured. in half an hour powers returned. he was wearing now his hat and light overcoat, and carried on a strap round his neck a tin box with a white painted label, "_british foreign office. confidential despatches. this side up with care._" "miss elphinspoon," he said, and there was a new note in his voice, "angela, i leave england to-night----" "to-night!" gasped angela. "on a confidential mission." "to wazuchistan!" exclaimed the girl. powers paused a moment. "to wazuchistan," he said, "yes. but it must not be known. i shall return in a month--or never. if i fail"--he spoke with an assumed lightness--"it is only one more grave among the hills. if i succeed, the cabinet is saved, and with it the destiny of england." "oh, mr. powers," cried angela, rising and advancing towards him, "how splendid! how noble! no reward will be too great for you." "my reward," said powers, and as he spoke he reached out and clasped both of the girl's hands in his own, "yes, my reward. may i come and claim it here?" for a moment he looked straight into her eyes. in the next he was gone, and angela was alone. "his reward!" she murmured. "what could he have meant? his reward that he is to claim. what can it be?" but she could not divine it. she admitted to herself that she had not the faintest idea. chapter iii in the days that followed all england was thrilled to its base as the news spread that the wazoo might rise at any moment. "will the wazoos rise?" was the question upon every lip. in london men went to their offices with a sense of gloom. at lunch they could hardly eat. a feeling of impending disaster pervaded all ranks. sir john as he passed to and fro to the house was freely accosted in the streets. "will the wazoos rise, sir?" asked an honest labourer. "lord help us all, sir, if they do." sir john, deeply touched, dropped a shilling in the honest fellow's hat, by accident. at no. 10 downing street, women of the working class, with children in their arms, stood waiting for news. on the exchange all was excitement. consols fell two points in twenty-four hours. even raising the bank rate and shutting the door brought only a temporary relief. lord glump, the greatest financial expert in london, was reported as saying that if the wazoos rose england would be bankrupt in forty-eight hours. meanwhile, to the consternation of the whole nation, the government did nothing. the cabinet seemed to be paralysed. on the other hand the press became all the more clamorous. the london _times_ urged that an expedition should be sent at once. twenty-five thousand household troops, it argued, should be sent up the euphrates or up the ganges or up something without delay. if they were taken in flat boats, carried over the mountains on mules, and lifted across the rivers in slings, they could then be carried over the desert on jackasses. they could reach wazuchistan in two years. other papers counselled moderation. the _manchester guardian_ recalled the fact that the wazoos were a christian people. their leader, el boob, so it was said, had accepted christianity with childlike simplicity and had asked if there was any more of it. the _spectator_ claimed that the wazoos, or more properly the wazi, were probably the descendants of an iranic or perhaps urgumic stock. it suggested the award of a rhodes scholarship. it looked forward to the days when there would be wazoos at oxford. even the presence of a single wazoo, or, more accurately, a single wooz, would help. with each day the news became more ominous. it was reported in the press that a wazoo, inflamed apparently with _ghee_, or perhaps with _bhong_, had rushed up to the hills and refused to come down. it was said that the shriek-el-foozlum, the religious head of the tribe, had torn off his suspenders and sent them to mecca. that same day the _illustrated london news_ published a drawing "wazoo warriors crossing a river and shouting, ho!" and the general consternation reached its height. meantime, for sir john and his colleagues, the question of the hour became, "could the cabinet be held together?" every effort was made. the news that the cabinet had all been seen together at the circus, for a moment reassured the nation. but the rumour spread that the first lord of the admiralty had said that the clowns were a bum lot. the radical press claimed that if he thought so he ought to resign. on the fatal friday the question already referred to was scheduled for its answer. the friends of the government counted on the answer to restore confidence. to the consternation of all, the expected answer was not forthcoming. the colonial secretary rose in his place, visibly nervous. ministers, he said, had been asked where wazuchistan was. they were not prepared, at the present delicate stage of negotiations, to say. more hung upon the answer than ministers were entitled to divulge. they could only appeal to the patriotism of the nation. he could only say this, that _wherever_ it was, and he used the word _wherever_ with all the emphasis of which he was capable, the government would accept the full responsibility for its being where it was. the house adjourned in something like confusion. among those seated behind the grating of the ladies' gallery was lady elphinspoon. her quick instinct told her the truth. driving home, she found her husband seated, crushed, in his library. "john," she said, falling on her knees and taking her husband's hands in hers, "is this true? is this the dreadful truth?" "i see you have divined it, caroline," said the statesman sadly. "it is the truth. we don't know where wazuchistan is." for a moment there was silence. "but, john, how could it have happened?" "we thought the colonial office knew. we were confident that they knew. the colonial secretary had stated that he had been there. later on it turned out that he meant saskatchewan. of course they thought _we_ knew. and we both thought that the exchequer must know. we understood that they had collected a hut tax for ten years." "and hadn't they?" "not a penny. the wazoos live in tents." "but, surely," pleaded lady elphinspoon, "you could find out. had you no maps?" sir john shook his head. "we thought of that at once, my dear. we've looked all through the british museum. once we thought we had succeeded. but it turned out to be wisconsin." "but the map in the _times_? everybody saw it." again the baronet shook his head. "lord southcliff had it made in the office," he said. "it appears that he always does. otherwise the physical features might not suit him." "but could you not send some one to see?" "we did. we sent perriton powers to find out where it was. we had a month to the good. it was barely time, just time. powers has failed and we are lost. to-morrow all england will guess the truth and the government falls." chapter iv the crowd outside of no. 10 downing street that evening was so dense that all traffic was at a standstill. but within the historic room where the cabinet were seated about the long table all was calm. few could have guessed from the quiet demeanour of the group of statesmen that the fate of an empire hung by a thread. seated at the head of the table, the prime minister was quietly looking over a book of butterflies, while waiting for the conference to begin. beside him the secretary for ireland was fixing trout flies, while the chancellor of the exchequer kept his serene face bent over upon his needlework. at the prime minister's right, sir john elphinspoon, no longer agitated, but sustained and dignified by the responsibility of his office, was playing spillikins. the little clock on the mantel chimed eight. the premier closed his book of butterflies. "well, gentlemen," he said, "i fear our meeting will not be a protracted one. it seems we are hopelessly at variance. you, sir charles," he continued, turning to the first sea lord, who was in attendance, "are still in favour of a naval expedition?" "send it up at once," said sir charles. "up where?" asked the premier. "up anything," answered the old sea dog, "it will get there." voices of dissent were raised in undertones around the table. "i strongly deprecate any expedition," said the chancellor of the exchequer, "i favour a convention with the shriek. let the shriek sign a convention recognizing the existence of a supreme being and receiving from us a million sterling in acknowledgment." "and where will you _find_ the shriek?" said the prime minister. "come, come, gentlemen, i fear that we can play this comedy no longer. the truth is," he added with characteristic nonchalance, "we don't know where the bally place is. we can't meet the house to-morrow. we are hopelessly split. our existence as a government is at an end." but, at that very moment, a great noise of shouting and clamour rose from the street without. the prime minister lifted his hand for silence. "listen," he said. one of the ministers went to a window and opened it, and the cries outside became audible. "a king's messenger! make way for the king's messenger!" the premier turned quietly to sir john. "perriton powers," he said. in another moment perriton powers stood before the ministers. bronzed by the tropic sun, his face was recognizable only by the assured glance of his eye. an afghan _bernous_ was thrown back from his head and shoulders, while his commanding figure was draped in a long _chibuok_. a pair of pistols and a curved _yasmak_ were in his belt. "so you got to wazuchistan all right," said the premier quietly. "i went in by way of the barooda," said powers. "for many days i was unable to cross it. the waters of the river were wild and swollen with rains. to cross it seemed certain death----" "but at last you got over," said the premier, "and then----" "i struck out over the fahuri desert. for days and days, blinded by the sun, and almost buried in sand, i despaired." "but you got through it all right. and after that?" "my first care was to disguise myself. staining myself from head to foot with betel nut----" "to look like a beetle," said the premier. "exactly. and so you got to wazuchistan. where is it and what is it?" "my lord," said powers, drawing himself up and speaking with emphasis, "i got to where it was thought to be. there is no such place!" the whole cabinet gave a start of astonishment. "no such place!" they repeated. "what about el boob?" asked the chancellor. "there is no such person." "and the shriek-el-foozlum?" powers shook his head. "but do you mean to say," said the premier in astonishment, "that there are no wazoos? there you _must_ be wrong. true we don't just know where they are. but our despatches have shown too many signs of active trouble traced directly to the wazoos to disbelieve in them. there are wazoos somewhere, there--there _must_ be." "the wazoos," said powers, "are there. but they are irish. so are the ohulã®s. they are both irish." "but how the devil did they get out there?" questioned the premier. "and why did they make the trouble?" "the irish, my lord," interrupted the chief secretary for ireland, "are everywhere, and it is their business to make trouble." "some years ago," continued powers, "a few irish families settled out there. the ohulã®s should be properly called the o'hooleys. the word wazoo is simply the urdu for mcginnis. el boob is the urdu for the arabic el papa, the pope. it was my knowledge of urdu, itself an agglutinative language----" "precisely," said the premier. then he turned to his cabinet. "well, gentlemen, our task is now simplified. if they are irish, i think we know exactly what to do. i suppose," he continued, turning to powers, "that they want some kind of home rule." "they do," said powers. "separating, of course, the ohulã® counties from the wazoo?" "yes," said powers. "precisely; the thing is simplicity itself. and what contribution will they make to the imperial exchequer?" "none." "and will they pay their own expenses?" "they refuse to." "exactly. all this is plain sailing. of course they must have a constabulary. lord edward," continued the premier, turning now to the secretary of war, "how long will it take to send in a couple of hundred constabulary? i think they'll expect it, you know. it's their right." "let me see," said lord edward, calculating quickly, with military precision, "sending them over the barooda in buckets and then over the mountains in baskets--i think in about two weeks." "good," said the premier. "gentlemen, we shall meet the house to-morrow. sir john, will you meantime draft us an annexation bill? and you, young man, what you have done is really not half bad. his majesty will see you to-morrow. i am glad that you are safe." "on my way home," said powers, with quiet modesty, "i was attacked by a lion----" "but you beat it off," said the premier. "exactly. good night." chapter v it was on the following afternoon that sir john elphinspoon presented the wazoo annexation bill to a crowded and breathless house. those who know the house of commons know that it has its moods. at times it is grave, earnest, thoughtful. at other times it is swept with emotion which comes at it in waves. or at times, again, it just seems to sit there as if it were stuffed. but all agreed that they had never seen the house so hushed as when sir john elphinspoon presented his bill for the annexation of wazuchistan. and when at the close of a splendid peroration he turned to pay a graceful compliment to the man who had saved the nation, and thundered forth to the delighted ears of his listeners- _arma virumque cano wazoo qui primus ab oris_, and then, with the words "england, england," still on his lips, fell over backwards and was carried out on a stretcher, the house broke into wild and unrestrained applause. chapter vi the next day sir perriton powers--for the king had knighted him after breakfast--stood again in the conservatory of the house in carlton terrace. "i have come for my reward," he said. "do i get it?" "you do," said angela. sir perriton clasped her in his arms. "on my way home," he said, "i was attacked by a lion. i tried to beat it----" "hush, dearest," she whispered, "let me take you to father." iv who do you think did it? or, the mixed-up murder mystery (_done after the very latest fashion in this sort of thing_) _iv.--who do you think did it? or, the mixed-up murder mystery._ _note.--any reader who guesses correctly who did it is entitled (in all fairness) to a beautiful gold watch and chain._ chapter i he dined with me last night the afternoon edition of the _metropolitan planet_ was going to press. five thousand copies a minute were reeling off its giant cylinders. a square acre of paper was passing through its presses every hour. in the huge _planet_ building, which dominated broadway, employã©s, compositors, reporters, advertisers, surged to and fro. placed in a single line (only, of course, they wouldn't be likely to consent to it) they would have reached across manhattan island. placed in two lines, they would probably have reached twice as far. arranged in a procession they would have taken an hour in passing a saloon: easily that. in the whole vast building all was uproar. telephones, megaphones and gramophones were ringing throughout the building. elevators flew up and down, stopping nowhere. only in one place was quiet--namely, in the room where sat the big man on whose capacious intellect the whole organization depended. masterman throgton, the general manager of the _planet_, was a man in middle life. there was something in his massive frame which suggested massiveness, and a certain quality in the poise of his great head which indicated a balanced intellect. his face was impenetrable and his expression imponderable. the big chief was sitting in his swivel chair with ink all round him. through this man's great brain passed all the threads and filaments that held the news of a continent. snap one, and the whole continent would stop. at the moment when our story opens (there was no sense in opening it sooner), a written message had just been handed in. the chief read it. he seemed to grasp its contents in a flash. "good god!" he exclaimed. it was the strongest expression that this solid, self-contained, semi-detached man ever allowed himself. anything stronger would have seemed too near to profanity. "good god!" he repeated, "kivas kelly murdered! in his own home! why, he dined with me last night! i drove him home!" for a brief moment the big man remained plunged in thought. but with throgton the moment of musing was short. his instinct was to act. "you may go," he said to the messenger. then he seized the telephone that stood beside him (this man could telephone almost without stopping thinking) and spoke into it in quiet, measured tones, without wasting a word. "hullo, operator! put me through to two, two, two, two, two. is that two, two, two, two, two? hullo, two, two, two, two, two; i want transome kent. kent speaking? kent, this is throgton speaking. kent, a murder has been committed at the kelly residence, riverside drive. i want you to go and cover it. get it all. don't spare expense. the _planet_ is behind you. have you got car-fare? right." in another moment the big chief had turned round in his swivel chair (at least forty degrees) and was reading telegraphic despatches from jerusalem. that was the way he did things. chapter ii i must save her life within a few minutes transome kent had leapt into a car (a surface car) and was speeding north towards riverside drive with the full power of the car. as he passed uptown a newsboy was already calling, "club man murdered! another club man murdered!" carelessly throwing a cent to the boy, kent purchased a paper and read the brief notice of the tragedy. kivas kelly, a well-known club man and _bon vivant_, had been found dead in his residence on riverside drive, with every indication--or, at least, with a whole lot of indications--of murder. the unhappy club man had been found, fully dressed in his evening clothes, lying on his back on the floor of the billiard-room, with his feet stuck up on the edge of the table. a narrow black scarf, presumably his evening tie, was twisted tightly about his neck by means of a billiard cue inserted in it. there was a quiet smile upon his face. he had apparently died from strangulation. a couple of bullet-holes passed through his body, one on each side, but they went out again. his suspenders were burst at the back. his hands were folded across his chest. one of them still held a white billiard ball. there was no sign of a struggle or of any disturbance in the room. a square piece of cloth was missing from the victim's dinner jacket. in its editorial columns the same paper discussed the more general aspects of the murder. this, it said, was the third club man murdered in the last fortnight. while not taking an alarmist view, the paper felt that the killing of club men had got to stop. there was a limit, a reasonable limit, to everything. why should a club man be killed? it might be asked, why should a club man live? but this was hardly to the point. they do live. after all, to be fair, what does a club man ask of society? not much. merely wine, women and singing. why not let him have them? is it fair to kill him? does the gain to literature outweigh the social wrong? the writer estimated that at the rate of killing now going on the club men would be all destroyed in another generation. something should be done to conserve them. transome kent was not a detective. he was a reporter. after sweeping everything at harvard in front of him, and then behind him, he had joined the staff of the _planet_ two months before. his rise had been phenomenal. in his first week of work he had unravelled a mystery, in his second he had unearthed a packing scandal which had poisoned the food of the entire nation for ten years, and in his third he had pitilessly exposed some of the best and most respectable people in the metropolis. kent's work on the _planet_ consisted now almost exclusively of unravelling and unearthing, and it was natural that the manager should turn to him. the mansion was a handsome sandstone residence, standing in its own grounds. on kent's arrival he found that the police had already drawn a cordon around it with cords. groups of morbid curiosity-seekers hung about it in twos and threes, some of them in fours and fives. policemen were leaning against the fence in all directions. they wore that baffled look so common to the detective force of the metropolis. "it seems to me," remarked one of them to the man beside him, "that there is an inexorable chain of logic about this that i am unable to follow." "so do i," said the other. the chief inspector of the detective department, a large, heavy-looking man, was standing beside a gate-post. he nodded gloomily to transome kent. "are you baffled, edwards?" asked kent. "baffled again, mr. kent," said the inspector, with a sob in his voice. "i thought i could have solved this one, but i can't." he passed a handkerchief across his eyes. "have a cigar, chief," said kent, "and let me hear what the trouble is." the inspector brightened. like all policemen, he was simply crazy over cigars. "all right, mr. kent," he said, "wait till i chase away the morbid curiosity-seekers." he threw a stick at them. "now, then," continued kent, "what about tracks, footmarks? had you thought of them?" "yes, first thing. the whole lawn is covered with them, all stamped down. look at these, for instance. these are the tracks of a man with a wooden leg"--kent nodded--"in all probability a sailor, newly landed from java, carrying a singapore walking-stick, and with a tin-whistle tied round his belt." "yes, i see that," said kent thoughtfully. "the weight of the whistle weighs him down a little on the right side." "do you think, mr. kent, a sailor from java with a wooden leg would commit a murder like this?" asked the inspector eagerly. "would he do it?" "he would," said the investigator. "they generally do--as soon as they land." the inspector nodded. "and look at these marks here, mr. kent. you recognize them, surely--those are the footsteps of a bar-keeper out of employment, waiting for the eighteenth amendment to pass away. see how deeply they sink in----" "yes," said kent, "he'd commit murder." "there are lots more," continued the inspector, "but they're no good. the morbid curiosity-seekers were walking all over this place while we were drawing the cordon round it." "stop a bit," said kent, pausing to think a moment. "what about thumb-prints?" "thumb-prints," said the inspector. "don't mention them. the house is full of them." "any thumb-prints of italians with that peculiar incurvature of the ball of the thumb that denotes a sicilian brigand?" "there were three of those," said inspector edwards gloomily. "no, mr. kent, the thumb stuff is no good." kent thought again. "inspector," he said, "what about mysterious women? have you seen any around?" "four went by this morning," said the inspector, "one at eleven-thirty, one at twelve-thirty, and two together at one-thirty. at least," he added sadly, "i think they were mysterious. all women look mysterious to me." "i must try in another direction," said kent. "let me reconstruct the whole thing. i must weave a chain of analysis. kivas kelly was a bachelor, was he not?" "he was. he lived alone here." "very good, i suppose he had in his employ a butler who had been with him for twenty years----" edwards nodded. "i suppose you've arrested him?" "at once," said the inspector. "we always arrest the butler, mr. kent. they expect it. in fact, this man, williams, gave himself up at once." "and let me see," continued the investigator. "i presume there was a housekeeper who lived on the top floor, and who had been stone deaf for ten years?" "precisely." "she had heard nothing during the murder?" "not a thing. but this may have been on account of her deafness." "true, true," murmured kent. "and i suppose there was a coachman, a thoroughly reliable man, who lived with his wife at the back of the house----" "but who had taken his wife over to see a relation on the night of the murder, and who did not return until an advanced hour. mr. kent, we've been all over that. there's nothing in it." "were there any other persons belonging to the establishment?" "there was mr. kelly's stenographer, alice delary, but she only came in the mornings." "have you seen her?" asked kent eagerly. "what is she like?" "i have seen her," said the inspector. "she's a looloo." "ha," said kent, "a looloo!" the two men looked into one another's eyes. "yes," repeated edwards thoughtfully, "a peach." a sudden swift flash of intuition, an inspiration, leapt into the young reporter's brain. this girl, this peach, at all hazards he must save her life. chapter iii i must buy a book on billiards kent turned to the inspector. "take me into the house," he said. edwards led the way. the interior of the handsome mansion seemed undisturbed. "i see no sign of a struggle here," said kent. "no," answered the inspector gloomily. "we can find no sign of a struggle anywhere. but, then, we never do." he opened for the moment the door of the stately drawing-room. "no sign of a struggle there," he said. the closed blinds, the draped furniture, the covered piano, the muffled chandelier, showed absolutely no sign of a struggle. "come upstairs to the billiard-room," said edwards. "the body has been removed for the inquest, but nothing else is disturbed." they went upstairs. on the second floor was the billiard-room, with a great english table in the centre of it. but kent had at once dashed across to the window, an exclamation on his lips. "ha! ha!" he said, "what have we here?" the inspector shook his head quietly. "the window," he said in a monotonous, almost sing-song tone, "has apparently been opened from the outside, the sash being lifted with some kind of a sharp instrument. the dust on the sill outside has been disturbed as if by a man of extraordinary agility lying on his stomach----don't bother about that, mr. kent. it's _always_ there." "true," said kent. then he cast his eyes upward, and again an involuntary exclamation broke from him. "did you see that trap-door?" he asked. "we did," said edwards. "the dust around the rim has been disturbed. the trap opens into the hollow of the roof. a man of extraordinary dexterity might open the trap with a billiard cue, throw up a fine manila rope, climb up the rope and lie there on his stomach. "no use," continued the inspector. "for the matter of that, look at this huge old-fashioned fireplace. a man of extraordinary precocity could climb up the chimney. or this dumb-waiter on a pulley, for serving drinks, leading down into the maids' quarters. a man of extreme indelicacy might ride up and down in it." "stop a minute," said kent. "what is the meaning of that hat?" a light gossamer hat, gay with flowers, hung on a peg at the side of the room. "we thought of that," said edwards, "and we have left it there. whoever comes for that hat has had a hand in the mystery. we think----" but transome kent was no longer listening. he had seized the edge of the billiard table. "look, look!" he cried eagerly. "the clue to the mystery! the positions of the billiard balls! the white ball in the very centre of the table, and the red just standing on the verge of the end pocket! what does it mean, edwards, what does it mean?" he had grasped edwards by the arm and was peering into his face. "i don't know," said the inspector. "i don't play billiards." "neither do i," said kent, "but i can find out. quick! the nearest book-store. i must buy a book on billiards." with a wave of the arm, kent vanished. the inspector stood for a moment in thought. "gone!" he murmured to himself (it was his habit to murmur all really important speeches aloud to himself). "now, why did throgton telephone to me to put a watch on kent? ten dollars a day to shadow him! why?" chapter iv that is not billiard chalk meantime at the _planet_ office masterman throgton was putting on his coat to go home. "excuse me, sir," said an employã©, "there's a lot of green billiard chalk on your sleeve." throgton turned and looked the man full in the eye. "that is not billiard chalk," he said, "it is face powder." saying which this big, imperturbable, self-contained man stepped into the elevator and went to the ground floor in one drop. chapter v has anybody here seen kelly? the inquest upon the body of kivas kelly was held upon the following day. far from offering any solution of what had now become an unfathomable mystery, it only made it deeper still. the medical testimony, though given by the most distinguished consulting expert of the city, was entirely inconclusive. the body, the expert testified, showed evident marks of violence. there was a distinct lesion of the oesophagus and a decided excoriation of the fibula. the mesodenum was gibbous. there was a certain quantity of flab in the binomium and the proscenium was wide open. one striking fact, however, was decided from the testimony of the expert, namely, that the stomach of the deceased was found to contain half a pint of arsenic. on this point the questioning of the district attorney was close and technical. was it unusual, he asked, to find arsenic in the stomach? in the stomach of a club man, no. was not half a pint a large quantity? he would not say that. was it a small quantity? he should not care to say that it was. would half a pint of arsenic cause death? of a club man, no, not necessarily. that was all. the other testimony submitted to the inquest jury brought out various facts of a substantive character, but calculated rather to complicate than to unravel the mystery. the butler swore that on the very day of the murder he had served his master a half-pint of arsenic at lunch. but he claimed that this was quite a usual happening with his master. on cross-examination it appeared that he meant apollinaris. he was certain, however, that it was half a pint. the butler, it was shown, had been in kivas kelly's employ for twenty years. the coachman, an irishman, was closely questioned. he had been in mr. kelly's employ for three years--ever since his arrival from the old country. was it true that he had had, on the day of the murder, a violent quarrel with his master? it was. had he threatened to kill him? no. he had threatened to knock his block off, but not to kill him. the coroner looked at his notes. "call alice delary," he commanded. there was a deep sensation in the court as miss delary quietly stepped forward to her place in the witness-box. tall, graceful and willowy, alice delary was in her first burst of womanhood. those who looked at the beautiful girl realized that if her first burst was like this, what would the second, or the third be like? the girl was trembling, and evidently distressed, but she gave her evidence in a clear, sweet, low voice. she had been in mr. kelly's employ three years. she was his stenographer. but she came only in the mornings and always left at lunch-time. the question immediately asked by the jury--"where did she generally have lunch?"--was disallowed by the coroner. asked by a member of the jury what system of shorthand she used, she answered, "pitman's." asked by another juryman whether she ever cared to go to moving pictures, she said that she went occasionally. this created a favourable impression. "miss delary," said the district attorney, "i want to ask if it is your hat that was found hanging in the billiard-room after the crime?" "don't you dare ask that girl that," interrupted the magistrate. "miss delary, you may step down." but the principal sensation of the day arose out of the evidence offered by masterman throgton, general manager of the _planet_. kivas kelly, he testified, had dined with him at his club on the fateful evening. he had afterwards driven him to his home. "when you went into the house with the deceased," asked the district attorney, "how long did you remain there with him?" "that," said throgton quietly, "i must refuse to answer." "would it incriminate you?" asked the coroner, leaning forward. "it might," said throgton. "then you're perfectly right not to answer it," said the coroner. "don't ask him that any more. ask something else." "then did you," questioned the attorney, turning to throgton again, "play a game of billiards with the deceased?" "stop, stop," said the coroner, "that question i can't allow. it's too direct, too brutal; there's something about that question, something mean, dirty. ask another." "very good," said the attorney. "then tell me, mr. throgton, if you ever saw this blue envelope before?" he held up in his hand a long blue envelope. "never in my life," said throgton. "of course he didn't," said the coroner. "let's have a look at it. what is it?" "this envelope, your honour, was found sticking out of the waistcoat pocket of the deceased." "you don't say," said the coroner. "and what's in it?" amid breathless silence, the attorney drew forth a sheet of blue paper, bearing a stamp, and read: "this is the last will and testament of me, kivas kelly of new york. i leave everything of which i die possessed to my nephew, peter kelly." the entire room gasped. no one spoke. the coroner looked all around. "has anybody here seen kelly?" he asked. there was no answer. the coroner repeated the question. no one moved. "mr. coroner," said the attorney, "it is my opinion that if peter kelly is found the mystery is fathomed." ten minutes later the jury returned a verdict of murder against a person or persons unknown, adding that they would bet a dollar that kelly did it. the coroner ordered the butler to be released, and directed the issue of a warrant for the arrest of peter kelly. chapter vi show me the man who wore those boots the remains of the unhappy club man were buried on the following day as reverently as those of a club man can be. none followed him to the grave except a few morbid curiosity-seekers, who rode on top of the hearse. the great city turned again to its usual avocations. the unfathomable mystery was dismissed from the public mind. meantime transome kent was on the trail. sleepless, almost foodless, and absolutely drinkless, he was everywhere. he was looking for peter kelly. wherever crowds were gathered, the investigator was there, searching for kelly. in the great concourse of the grand central station, kent moved to and fro, peering into everybody's face. an official touched him on the shoulder. "stop peering into the people's faces," he said. "i am unravelling a mystery," kent answered. "i beg your pardon, sir," said the man, "i didn't know." kent was here, and everywhere, moving ceaselessly, pro and con, watching for kelly. for hours he stood beside the soda-water fountains examining every drinker as he drank. for three days he sat on the steps of masterman throgton's home, disguised as a plumber waiting for a wrench. but still no trace of peter kelly. young kelly, it appeared, had lived with his uncle until a little less than three years ago. then suddenly he had disappeared. he had vanished, as a brilliant writer for the new york press framed it, as if the earth had swallowed him up. transome kent, however, was not a man to be baffled by initial defeat. a week later, the investigator called in at the office of inspector edwards. "inspector," he said, "i must have some more clues. take me again to the kelly residence. i must re-analyse my first diã¦resis." together the two friends went to the house. "it is inevitable," said kent, as they entered again the fateful billiard-room, "that we have overlooked something." "we always do," said edwards gloomily. "now tell me," said kent, as they stood beside the billiard table, "what is your own theory, the police theory, of this murder? give me your first theory first, and then go on with the others." "our first theory, mr. kent, was that the murder was committed by a sailor with a wooden leg, newly landed from java." "quite so, quite proper," nodded kent. "we knew that he was a sailor," the inspector went on, dropping again into his sing-song monotone, "by the extraordinary agility needed to climb up the thirty feet of bare brick wall to the window--a landsman could not have climbed more than twenty; the fact that he was from the east indies we knew from the peculiar knot about his victim's neck. we knew that he had a wooden leg----" the inspector paused and looked troubled. "we knew it." he paused again. "i'm afraid i can't remember that one." "tut, tut," said kent gently, "you knew it, edwards, because when he leaned against the billiard table the impress of his hand on the mahogany was deeper on one side than the other. the man was obviously top heavy. but you abandoned this first theory." "certainly, mr. kent, we always do. our second theory was----" but kent had ceased to listen. he had suddenly stooped down and picked up something off the floor. "ha ha!" he exclaimed. "what do you make of this?" he held up a square fragment of black cloth. "we never saw it," said edwards. "cloth," muttered kent, "the missing piece of kivas kelly's dinner jacket." he whipped out a magnifying glass. "look," he said, "it's been stamped upon--by a man wearing hob-nailed boots--made in ireland--a man of five feet nine and a half inches high----" "one minute, mr. kent," interrupted the inspector, greatly excited, "i don't quite get it." "the depth of the dint proves the lift of his foot," said kent impatiently, "and the lift of the foot indicates at once the man's height. edwards, find me the man who wore these boots and the mystery is solved!" at that very moment a heavy step, unmistakably to the trained ear that of a man in hob-nailed boots, was heard upon the stair. the door opened and a man stood hesitating in the doorway. both kent and edwards gave a start, two starts, of surprise. the man was exactly five feet nine and a half inches high. he was dressed in coachman's dress. his face was saturnine and evil. it was dennis, the coachman of the murdered man. "if you're mr. kent," he said, "there's a lady here asking for you." chapter vii oh, mr. kent, save me! in another moment an absolutely noiseless step was heard upon the stair. a young girl entered, a girl, tall, willowy and beautiful, in the first burst, or just about the first burst, of womanhood. it was alice delary. she was dressed with extreme taste, but kent's quick eye noted at once that she wore no hat. "mr. kent," she cried, "you are mr. kent, are you not? they told me that you were here. oh, mr. kent, help me, save me!" she seemed to shudder into herself a moment. her breath came and went quickly. she reached out her two hands. "calm yourself, my dear young lady," said kent, taking them. "don't let your breath come and go so much. trust me. tell me all." "mr. kent," said delary, regaining her control, but still trembling, "i want my hat." kent let go the beautiful girl's hands. "sit down," he said. then he went across the room and fetched the hat, the light gossamer hat, with flowers in it, that still hung on a peg. "oh, i am so glad to get it back," cried the girl. "i can never thank you enough. i was afraid to come for it." "it is all right," said the inspector. "the police theory was that it was the housekeeper's hat. you are welcome to it." kent had been looking closely at the girl before him. "you have more to say than that," he said. "tell me all." "oh, i will, i will, mr. kent. that dreadful night! i was here. i saw, at least i heard it all." she shuddered. "oh, mr. kent, it was dreadful! i had come back that evening to the library to finish some work. i knew that mr. kelly was to dine out and that i would be alone. i had been working quietly for some time when i became aware of voices in the billiard-room. i tried not to listen, but they seemed to be quarrelling, and i couldn't help hearing. oh, mr. kent, was i wrong?" "no," said kent, taking her hand a moment, "you were not." "i heard one say, 'get your foot off the table, you've no right to put your foot on the table.' then the other said, 'well, you keep your stomach off the cushion then.'" the girl shivered. "then presently one said, quite fiercely, 'get back into balk there, get back fifteen inches,' and the other voice said, 'by god! i'll shoot from here.' then there was a dead stillness, and then a voice almost screamed, 'you've potted me. you've potted me. that ends it.' and then i heard the other say in a low tone, 'forgive me, i didn't mean it. i never meant it to end that way.' "i was so frightened, mr. kent, i couldn't stay any longer. i rushed downstairs and ran all the way home. then next day i read what had happened, and i knew that i had left my hat there, and was afraid. oh, mr. kent, save me!" "miss delary," said the investigator, taking again the girl's hands and looking into her eyes, "you are safe. tell me only one thing. the man who played against kivas kelly--did you see him?" "only for one moment"--the girl paused--"through the keyhole." "what was he like?" asked kent. "had he an impenetrable face?" "he had." "was there anything massive about his face?" "oh, yes, yes, it was all massive." "miss delary," said kent, "this mystery is now on the brink of solution. when i have joined the last links of the chain, may i come and tell you all?" she looked full in his face. "at any hour of the day or night," she said, "you may come." then she was gone. chapter viii you are peter kelly within a few moments kent was at the phone. "i want four, four, four, four. is that four, four, four, four? mr. throgton's house? i want mr. throgton. mr. throgton speaking? mr. throgton, kent speaking. the riverside mystery is solved." kent waited in silence a moment. then he heard throgton's voice--not a note in it disturbed: "has anybody found kelly?" "mr. throgton," said kent, and he spoke with a strange meaning in his tone, "the story is a long one. suppose i relate it to you"--he paused, and laid a peculiar emphasis on what followed--"_over a game of billiards_." "what the devil do you mean?" answered throgton. "let me come round to your house and tell the story. there are points in it that i can best illustrate over a billiard table. suppose i challenge you to a fifty point game before i tell my story." it required no little hardihood to challenge masterman throgton at billiards. his reputation at his club as a cool, determined player was surpassed by few. throgton had been known to run nine, ten, and even twelve at a break. it was not unusual for him to drive his ball clear off the table. his keen eye told him infallibly where each of the three balls was; instinctively he knew which to shoot with. in kent, however, he had no mean adversary. the young reporter, though he had never played before, had studied his book to some purpose. his strategy was admirable. keeping his ball well under the shelter of the cushion, he eluded every stroke of his adversary, and in his turn caused his ball to leap or dart across the table with such speed as to bury itself in the pocket at the side. the score advanced rapidly, both players standing precisely equal. at the end of the first half-hour it stood at ten all. throgton, a grim look upon his face, had settled down to work, playing with one knee on the table. kent, calm but alive with excitement, leaned well forward to his stroke, his eye held within an inch of the ball. at fifteen they were still even. throgton with a sudden effort forced a break of three; but kent rallied and in another twenty minutes they were even again at nineteen all. but it was soon clear that transome kent had something else in mind than to win the game. presently his opportunity came. with a masterly stroke, such as few trained players could use, he had potted his adversary's ball. the red ball was left over the very jaws of the pocket. the white was in the centre. kent looked into throgton's face. the balls were standing in the very same position on the table as on the night of the murder. "i did that on purpose," said kent quietly. "what do you mean?" asked throgton. "the position of those balls," said kent. "mr. throgton, come into the library. i have something to say to you. you know already what it is." they went into the library. throgton, his hand unsteady, lighted a cigar. "well," he said, "what is it?" "mr. throgton," said kent, "two weeks ago you gave me a mystery to solve. to-night i can give you the solution. do you want it?" throgton's face never moved. "well," he said. "a man's life," kent went on, "may be played out on a billiard table. a man's soul, throgton, may be pocketed." "what devil's foolery is this?" said throgton. "what do you mean?" "i mean that your crime is known--plotter, schemer that you are, you are found out--hypocrite, traitor; yes, masterman throgton, or rather--let me give you your true name-_peter kelly_, murderer, i denounce you!" throgton never flinched. he walked across to where kent stood, and with his open palm he slapped him over the mouth. "transome kent," he said, "you're a liar." then he walked back to his chair and sat down. "kent," he continued, "from the first moment of your mock investigation, i knew who you were. your every step was shadowed, your every movement dogged. transome kent--by your true name, _peter kelly_, murderer, i denounce you." kent walked quietly across to throgton and dealt him a fearful blow behind the ear. "you're a liar," he said, "i am not peter kelly." they sat looking at one another. at that moment throgton's servant appeared at the door. "a gentleman to see you, sir." "who?" said throgton. "i don't know, sir, he gave his card." masterman throgton took the card. on it was printed: _peter kelly_ chapter ix let me tell you the story of my life for a moment throgton and kent sat looking at one another. "show the man up," said throgton. a minute later the door opened and a man entered. kent's keen eye analysed him as he stood. his blue clothes, his tanned face, and the extraordinary dexterity of his fingers left no doubt of his calling. he was a sailor. "sit down," said throgton. "thank you," said the sailor, "it rests my wooden leg." the two men looked again. one of the sailor's legs was made of wood. with a start kent noticed that it was made of east indian sandalwood. "i've just come from java," said kelly quietly, as he sat down. kent nodded. "i see it all now," he said. "throgton, i wronged you. we should have known it was a sailor with a wooden leg from java. there is no other way." "gentlemen," said peter kelly, "i've come to make my confession. it is the usual and right thing to do, gentlemen, and i want to go through with it while i can." "one moment," said kent, "do you mind interrupting yourself with a hacking cough?" "thank you, sir," said kelly, "i'll get to that a little later. let me begin by telling you the story of my life." "no, no," urged throgton and kent, "don't do that!" kelly frowned. "i think i have a right to," he said. "you've got to hear it. as a boy i had a wild, impulsive nature. had it been curbed----" "but it wasn't," said throgton. "what next?" "i was the sole relative of my uncle, and heir to great wealth. pampered with every luxury, i was on a footing of----" "one minute," interrupted kent, rapidly analysing as he listened. "how many legs had you then?" "two--on a footing of ease and indolence. i soon lost----" "your leg," said throgton. "mr. kelly, pray come to the essential things." "i will," said the sailor. "gentlemen, bad as i was, i was not altogether bad." "of course not," said kent and throgton soothingly. "probably not more than ninety per cent." "even into my life, gentlemen, love entered. if you had seen her you would have known that she is as innocent as the driven snow. three years ago she came to my uncle's house. i loved her. one day, hardly knowing what i was doing, i took her----" he paused. "yes, yes," said throgton and kent, "you took her?" "to the aquarium. my uncle heard of it. there was a violent quarrel. he disinherited me and drove me from the house. i had a liking for the sea from a boy." "excuse me," said kent, "from what boy?" kelly went right on. "i ran away as a sailor before the mast." "pardon me," interrupted kent, "i am not used to sea terms. why didn't you run _behind_ the mast?" "hear me out," said kelly, "i am nearly done. we sailed for the east indies--for java. there a malay pirate bit off my leg. i returned home, bitter, disillusioned, the mere wreck that you see. i had but one thought. i meant to kill my uncle." for a moment a hacking cough interrupted kelly. kent and throgton nodded quietly to one another. "i came to his house at night. with the aid of my wooden leg i scaled the wall, lifted the window and entered the billiard-room. there was murder in my heart. thank god i was spared from that. at the very moment when i got in, a light was turned on in the room and i saw before me--but no, i will not name her--my better angel. 'peter!' she cried, then with a woman's intuition she exclaimed, 'you have come to murder your uncle. don't do it.' my whole mood changed. i broke down and cried like a--like a----" kelly paused a moment. "like a boob," said kent softly. "go on." "when i had done crying, we heard voices. 'quick,' she exclaimed, 'flee, hide, he must not see you.' she rushed into the adjoining room, closing the door. my eye had noticed already the trap above. i climbed up to it. shall i explain how?" "don't," said kent, "i can analyse it afterwards." "there i saw what passed. i saw mr. throgton and kivas kelly come in. i watched their game. they were greatly excited and quarrelled over it. throgton lost." the big man nodded with a scowl. "by his potting the white," he said. "precisely," said kelly, "he missed the red. your analysis was wrong, mr. kent. the game ended. you started your reasoning from a false diã¦resis. in billiards people never mark the last point. the board still showed ninety-nine all. throgton left and my uncle, as often happens, kept trying over the last shot--a half-ball shot, sir, with the red over the pocket. he tried again and again. he couldn't make it. he tried various ways. his rest was too unsteady. finally he made his tie into a long loop round his neck and put his cue through it. 'now, by gad!' he said, 'i can do it.'" "ha!" said kent. "fool that i was." "exactly," continued kelly. "in the excitement of watching my uncle i forgot where i was, i leaned too far over and fell out of the trap. i landed on uncle, just as he was sitting on the table to shoot. he fell." "i see it all!" said kent. "he hit his head, the loop tightened, the cue spun round and he was dead." "that's it," said kelly. "i saw that he was dead, and i did not dare to remain. i straightened the knot in his tie, laid his hands reverently across his chest, and departed as i had come." "mr. kelly," said throgton thoughtfully, "the logic of your story is wonderful. it exceeds anything in its line that i have seen published for months. but there is just one point that i fail to grasp. the two bullet holes?" "they were old ones," answered the sailor quietly. "my uncle in his youth had led a wild life in the west; he was full of them." there was silence for a moment. then kelly spoke again: "my time, gentlemen, is short." (a hacking cough interrupted him.) "i feel that i am withering. it rests with you, gentlemen, whether or not i walk out of this room a free man." transome kent rose and walked over to the sailor. "mr. kelly," he said, "here is my hand." chapter x so do i a few days after the events last narrated, transome kent called at the boarding-house of miss alice delary. the young investigator wore a light grey tweed suit, with a salmon-coloured geranium in his buttonhole. there was something exultant yet at the same time grave in his expression, as of one who has taken a momentous decision, affecting his future life. "i wonder," he murmured, "whether i am acting for my happiness." he sat down for a moment on the stone steps and analysed himself. then he rose. "i am," he said, and rang the bell. "miss delary?" said a maid, "she left here two days ago. if you are mr. kent, the note on the mantelpiece is for you." without a word (kent never wasted them) the investigator opened the note and read: "dear mr. kent, "peter and i were married yesterday morning, and have taken an apartment in java, new jersey. you will be glad to hear that peter's cough is ever so much better. the lawyers have given peter his money without the least demur. "we both feel that your analysis was simply wonderful. peter says he doesn't know where he would be without it. "very sincerely, "alice kelly. "p.s.--i forgot to mention to you that i saw peter in the billiard-room. but your analysis was marvellous just the same." that evening kent sat with throgton talking over the details of the tragedy. "throgton," he said, "it has occurred to me that there were points about that solution that we didn't get exactly straight somehow." "so do i," said throgton. v broken barriers or, red love on a blue island (_the kind of thing that has replaced the good old sea story_) _v.--broken barriers; or, red love on a blue island._ it was on a bright august afternoon that i stepped on board the steamer _patagonia_ at southampton outward bound for the west indies and the port of new orleans. i had at the time no presentiment of disaster. i remember remarking to the ship's purser, as my things were being carried to my state-room, that i had never in all my travels entered upon any voyage with so little premonition of accident. "very good, mr. borus," he answered. "you will find your state-room in the starboard aisle on the right." i distinctly recall remarking to the captain that i had never, in any of my numerous seafarings, seen the sea of a more limpid blue. he agreed with me so entirely, as i recollect it, that he did not even trouble to answer. had anyone told me on that bright summer afternoon that our ship would within a week be wrecked among the dry tortugas, i should have laughed. had anyone informed me that i should find myself alone on a raft in the caribbean sea, i should have gone into hysterics. we had hardly entered the waters of the caribbean when a storm of unprecedented violence broke upon us. even the captain had never, so he said, seen anything to compare with it. for two days and nights we encountered and endured the full fury of the sea. our soup plates were secured with racks and covered with lids. in the smoking-room our glasses had to be set in brackets, and as our steward came and went, we were from moment to moment in imminent danger of seeing him washed overboard. on the third morning just after daybreak the ship collided with something, probably either a floating rock or one of the dry tortugas. she blew out her four funnels, the bowsprit dropped out of its place, and the propeller came right off. the captain, after a brief consultation, decided to abandon her. the boats were lowered, and, the sea being now quite calm, the passengers were emptied into them. by what accident i was left behind i cannot tell. i had been talking to the second mate and telling him of a rather similar experience of mine in the china sea, and holding him by the coat as i did so, when quite suddenly he took me by the shoulders, and rushing me into the deserted smoking-room said, "sit there, mr. borus, till i come back for you." the fellow spoke in such a menacing way that i thought it wiser to comply. when i came out they were all gone. by good fortune i found one of the ship's rafts still lying on the deck. i gathered together such articles as might be of use and contrived, though how i do not know, to launch it into the sea. on my second morning on my raft i was sitting quietly polishing my boots and talking to myself when i became aware of an object floating in the sea close beside the raft. judge of my feelings when i realized it to be the inanimate body of a girl. hastily finishing my boots and stopping talking to myself, i made shift as best i could to draw the unhappy girl towards me with a hook. after several ineffectual attempts i at last managed to obtain a hold of the girl's clothing and drew her on to the raft. she was still unconscious. the heavy lifebelt round her person must (so i divined) have kept her afloat after the wreck. her clothes were sodden, so i reasoned, with the sea-water. on a handkerchief which was still sticking into the belt of her dress, i could see letters embroidered. realizing that this was no time for hesitation, and that the girl's life might depend on my reading her name, i plucked it forth. it was edith croyden. as vigorously as i could i now set to work to rub her hands. my idea was (partly) to restore her circulation. i next removed her boots, which were now rendered useless, as i argued, by the sea-water, and began to rub her feet. i was just considering what to remove next, when the girl opened her eyes. "stop rubbing my feet," she said. "miss croyden," i said, "you mistake me." i rose, with a sense of pique which i did not trouble to conceal, and walked to the other end of the raft. i turned my back upon the girl and stood looking out upon the leaden waters of the caribbean sea. the ocean was now calm. there was nothing in sight. i was still searching the horizon when i heard a soft footstep on the raft behind me, and a light hand was laid upon my shoulder. "forgive me," said the girl's voice. i turned about. miss croyden was standing behind me. she had, so i argued, removed her stockings and was standing in her bare feet. there is something, i am free to confess, about a woman in her bare feet which hits me where i live. with instinctive feminine taste the girl had twined a piece of seaweed in her hair. seaweed, as a rule, gets me every time. but i checked myself. "miss croyden," i said, "there is nothing to forgive." at the mention of her name the girl blushed for a moment and seemed about to say something, but stopped. "where are we?" she queried presently. "i don't know," i answered, as cheerily as i could, "but i am going to find out." "how brave you are!" miss croyden exclaimed. "not at all," i said, putting as much heartiness into my voice as i was able to. the girl watched my preparations with interest. with the aid of a bent pin hoisted on a long pole i had no difficulty in ascertaining our latitude. "miss croydon," i said, "i am now about to ascertain our longitude. to do this i must lower myself down into the sea. pray do not be alarmed or anxious. i shall soon be back." with the help of a long line i lowered myself deep down into the sea until i was enabled to ascertain, approximately at any rate, our longitude. a fierce thrill went through me at the thought that this longitude was our longitude, hers and mine. on the way up, hand over hand, i observed a long shark looking at me. realizing that the fellow if voracious might prove dangerous, i lost but little time--indeed, i may say i lost absolutely no time--in coming up the rope. the girl was waiting for me. "oh, i am so glad you have come back," she exclaimed, clasping her hands. "it was nothing," i said, wiping the water from my ears, and speaking as melodiously as i could. "have you found our whereabouts?" she asked. "yes," i answered. "our latitude is normal, but our longitude is, i fear, at least three degrees out of the plumb. i am afraid, miss croyden," i added, speaking as mournfully as i knew how, "that you must reconcile your mind to spending a few days with me on this raft." "is it as bad as that?" she murmured, her eyes upon the sea. in the long day that followed, i busied myself as much as i could with my work upon the raft, so as to leave the girl as far as possible to herself. it was, so i argued, absolutely necessary to let her feel that she was safe in my keeping. otherwise she might jump off the raft and i should lose her. i sorted out my various cans and tins, tested the oil in my chronometer, arranged in neat order my various ropes and apparatus, and got my frying-pan into readiness for any emergency. of food we had for the present no lack. with the approach of night i realized that it was necessary to make arrangements for the girl's comfort. with the aid of a couple of upright poles i stretched a grey blanket across the raft so as to make a complete partition. "miss croyden," i said, "this end of the raft is yours. here you may sleep in peace." "how kind you are," the girl murmured. "you will be quite safe from interference," i added. "i give you my word that i will not obtrude upon you in any way." "how chivalrous you are," she said. "not at all," i answered, as musically as i could. "understand me, i am now putting my head over this partition for the last time. if there is anything you want, say so now." "nothing," she answered. "there is a candle and matches beside you. if there is anything that you want in the night, call me instantly. remember, at any hour i shall be here. i promise it." "good night," she murmured. in a few minutes her soft regular breathing told me that she was asleep. i went forward and seated myself in a tar-bucket, with my head against the mast, to get what sleep i could. but for some time--why, i do not know--sleep would not come. the image of edith croyden filled my mind. in vain i told myself that she was a stranger to me: that--beyond her longitude--i knew nothing of her. in some strange way this girl had seized hold of me and dominated my senses. the night was very calm and still, with great stars in a velvet sky. in the darkness i could hear the water lapping the edge of the raft. i remained thus in deep thought, sinking further and further into the tar-bucket. by the time i reached the bottom of it i realized that i was in love with edith croyden. then the thought of my wife occurred to me and perplexed me. our unhappy marriage had taken place three years before. we brought to one another youth, wealth and position. yet our marriage was a failure. my wife--for what reason i cannot guess--seemed to find my society irksome. in vain i tried to interest her with narratives of my travels. they seemed--in some way that i could not divine--to fatigue her. "leave me for a little, harold," she would say (i forgot to mention that my name is harold borus), "i have a pain in my neck." at her own suggestion i had taken a trip around the world. on my return she urged me to go round again. i was going round for the third time when the wrecking of the steamer had interrupted my trip. on my own part, too, i am free to confess that my wife's attitude had aroused in me a sense of pique, not to say injustice. i am not in any way a vain man. yet her attitude wounded me. i would no sooner begin, "when i was in the himalayas hunting the humpo or humped buffalo," than she would interrupt and say, "oh, harold, would you mind going down to the billiard-room and seeing if i left my cigarettes under the billiard-table?" when i returned, she was gone. by agreement we had arranged for a divorce. on my completion of my third voyage we were to meet in new orleans. clara was to go there on a separate ship, giving me the choice of oceans. had i met edith croyden three months later i should have been a man free to woo and win her. as it was i was bound. i must put a clasp of iron on my feelings. i must wear a mask. cheerful, helpful, and full of narrative, i must yet let fall no word of love to this defenceless girl. after a great struggle i rose at last from the tar-bucket, feeling, if not a brighter, at least a cleaner man. dawn was already breaking. i looked about me. as the sudden beams of the tropic sun illumined the placid sea, i saw immediately before me, only a hundred yards away, an island. a sandy beach sloped back to a rocky eminence, broken with scrub and jungle. i could see a little stream leaping among the rocks. with eager haste i paddled the raft close to the shore till it ground in about ten inches of water. i leaped into the water. with the aid of a stout line, i soon made the raft fast to a rock. then as i turned i saw that miss croyden was standing upon the raft, fully dressed, and gazing at me. the morning sunlight played in her hair, and her deep blue eyes were as soft as the caribbean sea itself. "don't attempt to wade ashore, miss croyden," i cried in agitation. "pray do nothing rash. the waters are simply infested with bacilli." "but how can i get ashore?" she asked, with a smile which showed all, or nearly all, of her pearl-like teeth. "miss croyden," i said, "there is only one way. i must carry you." in another moment i had walked back to the raft and lifted her as tenderly and reverently as if she had been my sister--indeed more so--in my arms. her weight seemed nothing. when i get a girl like that in my arms i simply don't feel it. just for one moment as i clasped her thus in my arms, a fierce thrill ran through me. but i let it run. when i had carried her well up the sand close to the little stream, i set her down. to my surprise, she sank down in a limp heap. the girl had fainted. i knew that it was no time for hesitation. running to the stream, i filled my hat with water and dashed it in her face. then i took up a handful of mud and threw it at her with all my force. after that i beat her with my hat. at length she opened her eyes and sat up. "i must have fainted," she said, with a little shiver. "i am cold. oh, if we could only have a fire." "i will do my best to make one, miss croyden," i replied, speaking as gymnastically as i could. "i will see what i can do with two dry sticks." "with dry sticks?" queried the girl. "can you light a fire with that? how wonderful you are!" "i have often seen it done," i replied thoughtfully; "when i was hunting the humpo, or humped buffalo, in the himalayas, it was our usual method." "have you really hunted the humpo?" she asked, her eyes large with interest. "i have indeed," i said, "but you must rest; later on i will tell you about it." "i wish you could tell me now," she said with a little moan. meantime i had managed to select from the driftwood on the beach two sticks that seemed absolutely dry. placing them carefully together, in indian fashion, i then struck a match and found no difficulty in setting them on fire. in a few moments the girl was warming herself beside a generous fire. together we breakfasted upon the beach beside the fire, discussing our plans like comrades. our meal over, i rose. "i will leave you here a little," i said, "while i explore." with no great difficulty i made my way through the scrub and climbed the eminence of tumbled rocks that shut in the view. on my return miss croyden was still seated by the fire, her head in her hands. "miss croyden," i said, "we are on an island." "is it inhabited?" she asked. "once, perhaps, but not now. it is one of the many keys of the west indies. here, in old buccaneering days, the pirates landed and careened their ships." "how did they do that?" she asked, fascinated. "i am not sure," i answered. "i think with white-wash. at any rate, they gave them a good careening. but since then these solitudes are only the home of the sea-gull, the sea-mew, and the albatross." the girl shuddered. "how lonely!" she said. "lonely or not," i said with a laugh (luckily i can speak with a laugh when i want to), "i must get to work." i set myself to work to haul up and arrange our effects. with a few stones i made a rude table and seats. i took care to laugh and sing as much as possible while at my work. the close of the day found me still busy with my labours. "miss croyden," i said, "i must now arrange a place for you to sleep." with the aid of four stakes driven deeply into the ground and with blankets strung upon them, i managed to fashion a sort of rude tent, roofless, but otherwise quite sheltered. "miss croyden," i said when all was done, "go in there." then, with little straps which i had fastened to the blankets, i buckled her in reverently. "good night, miss croyden," i said. "but you," she exclaimed, "where will you sleep?" "oh, i?" i answered, speaking as exuberantly as i could, "i shall do very well on the ground. but be sure to call me at the slightest sound." then i went out and lay down in a patch of cactus plants. i need not dwell in detail upon the busy and arduous days that followed our landing upon the island. i had much to do. each morning i took our latitude and longitude. by this i then set my watch, cooked porridge, and picked flowers till miss croyden appeared. with every day the girl came forth from her habitation as a new surprise in her radiant beauty. one morning she had bound a cluster of wild arbutus about her brow. another day she had twisted a band of convolvulus around her waist. on a third she had wound herself up in a mat of bulrushes. with her bare feet and wild bulrushes all around her, she looked as a cave woman might have looked, her eyes radiant with the caribbean dawn. my whole frame thrilled at the sight of her. at times it was all i could do not to tear the bulrushes off her and beat her with the heads of them. but i schooled myself to restraint, and handed her a rock to sit upon, and passed her her porridge on the end of a shovel with the calm politeness of a friend. our breakfast over, my more serious labours of the day began. i busied myself with hauling rocks or boulders along the sand to build us a house against the rainy season. with some tackle from the raft i had made myself a set of harness, by means of which i hitched myself to a boulder. by getting miss croyden to beat me over the back with a stick, i found that i made fair progress. but even as i worked thus for our common comfort, my mind was fiercely filled with the thought of edith croyden. i knew that if once the barriers broke everything would be swept away. heaven alone knows the effort that it cost me. at times nothing but the sternest resolution could hold my fierce impulses in check. once i came upon the girl writing in the sand with a stick. i looked to see what she had written. i read my own name "harold." with a wild cry i leapt into the sea and dived to the bottom of it. when i came up i was calmer. edith came towards me; all dripping as i was, she placed her hands upon my shoulders. "how grand you are!" she said. "i am," i answered; then i added, "miss croyden, for heaven's sake don't touch me on the ear. i can't stand it." i turned from her and looked out over the sea. presently i heard something like a groan behind me. the girl had thrown herself on the sand and was coiled up in a hoop. "miss croyden," i said, "for god's sake don't coil up in a hoop." i rushed to the beach and rubbed gravel on my face. with such activities, alternated with wild bursts of restraint, our life on the island passed as rapidly as in a dream. had i not taken care to notch the days upon a stick and then cover the stick with tar, i could not have known the passage of the time. the wearing out of our clothing had threatened a serious difficulty. but by good fortune i had seen a large black and white goat wandering among the rocks and had chased it to a standstill. from its skin, leaving the fur still on, edith had fashioned us clothes. our boots we had replaced with alligator hide. i had, by a lucky chance, found an alligator upon the beach, and attaching a string to the fellow's neck i had led him to our camp. i had then poisoned the fellow with tinned salmon and removed his hide. our costume was now brought into harmony with our surroundings. for myself, garbed in goatskin with the hair outside, with alligator sandals on my feet and with whiskers at least six inches long, i have no doubt that i resembled the beau ideal of a cave man. with the open-air life a new agility seemed to have come into my limbs. with a single leap in my alligator sandals i was enabled to spring into a coco-nut tree. as for edith croyden, i can only say that as she stood beside me on the beach in her suit of black goatskin (she had chosen the black spots) there were times when i felt like seizing her in the frenzy of my passion and hurling her into the sea. fur always acts on me just like that. it was at the opening of the fifth week of our life upon the island that a new and more surprising turn was given to our adventure. it arose out of a certain curiosity, harmless enough, on edith croyden's part. "mr. borus," she said one morning, "i should like so much to see the rest of our island. can we?" "alas, miss croyden," i said, "i fear that there is but little to see. our island, so far as i can judge, is merely one of the uninhabited keys of the west indies. it is nothing but rock and sand and scrub. there is no life upon it. i fear," i added, speaking as jauntily as i could, "that unless we are taken off it we are destined to stay on it." "still i should like to see it," she persisted. "come on, then," i answered, "if you are good for a climb we can take a look over the ridge of rocks where i went up on the first day." we made our way across the sand of the beach, among the rocks and through the close matted scrub, beyond which an eminence of rugged boulders shut out the further view. making our way to the top of this we obtained a wide look over the sea. the island stretched away to a considerable distance to the eastward, widening as it went, the complete view of it being shut off by similar and higher ridges of rock. but it was the nearer view, the foreground, that at once arrested our attention. edith seized my arm. "look, oh, look!" she said. down just below us on the right hand was a similar beach to the one that we had left. a rude hut had been erected on it and various articles lay strewn about. seated on a rock with their backs towards us were a man and a woman. the man was dressed in goatskins, and his whiskers, so i inferred from what i could see of them from the side, were at least as exuberant as mine. the woman was in white fur with a fillet of seaweed round her head. they were sitting close together as if in earnest colloquy. "cave people," whispered edith, "aborigines of the island." but i answered nothing. something in the tall outline of the seated woman held my eye. a cruel presentiment stabbed me to the heart. in my agitation my foot overset a stone, which rolled noisily down the rocks. the noise attracted the attention of the two seated below us. they turned and looked searchingly towards the place where we were concealed. their faces were in plain sight. as i looked at that of the woman i felt my heart cease beating and the colour leave my face. i looked into edith's face. it was as pale as mine. "what does it mean?" she whispered. "miss croyden," i answered, "edith--it means this. i have never found the courage to tell you. i am a married man. the woman seated there is my wife. and i love you." edith put out her arms with a low cry and clasped me about the neck. "harold," she murmured, "my harold." "have i done wrong?" i whispered. "only what i have done too," she answered. "i, too, am married, harold, and the man sitting there below, john croyden, is my husband." with a wild cry such as a cave man might have uttered, i had leapt to my feet. "your husband!" i shouted. "then, by the living god, he or i shall never leave this place alive." he saw me coming as i bounded down the rocks. in an instant he had sprung to his feet. he gave no cry. he asked no question. he stood erect as a cave man would, waiting for his enemy. and there upon the sands beside the sea we fought, barehanded and weaponless. we fought as cave men fight. for a while we circled round one another, growling. we circled four times, each watching for an opportunity. then i picked up a great handful of sand and threw it flap into his face. he grabbed a coco-nut and hit me with it in the stomach. then i seized a twisted strand of wet seaweed and landed him with it behind the ear. for a moment he staggered. before he could recover i jumped forward, seized him by the hair, slapped his face twice and then leaped behind a rock. looking from the side i could see that croyden, though half dazed, was feeling round for something to throw. to my horror i saw a great stone lying ready to his hand. beside me was nothing. i gave myself up for lost, when at that very moment i heard edith's voice behind me saying, "the shovel, quick, the shovel!" the noble girl had rushed back to our encampment and had fetched me the shovel. "swat him with that," she cried. i seized the shovel, and with the roar of a wounded bull--or as near as i could make it--i rushed out from the rock, the shovel swung over my head. but the fight was all out of croyden. "don't strike," he said, "i'm all in. i couldn't stand a crack with that kind of thing." he sat down upon the sand, limp. seen thus, he somehow seemed to be quite a small man, not a cave man at all. his goatskin suit shrunk in on him. i could hear his pants as he sat. "i surrender," he said. "take both the women. they are yours." i stood over him leaning upon the shovel. the two women had closed in near to us. "i suppose you are _her_ husband, are you?" croyden went on. i nodded. "i thought you were. take her." meantime clara had drawn nearer to me. she looked somehow very beautiful with her golden hair in the sunlight, and the white furs draped about her. "harold!" she exclaimed. "harold, is it you? how strange and masterful you look. i didn't know you were so strong." i turned sternly towards her. "when i was alone," i said, "on the himalayas hunting the humpo or humped buffalo----" clara clasped her hands, looking into my face. "yes," she said, "tell me about it." meantime i could see that edith had gone over to john croyden. "john," she said, "you shouldn't sit on the wet sand like that. you will get a chill. let me help you to get up." i looked at clara and at croyden. "how has this happened?" i asked. "tell me." "we were on the same ship," croyden said. "there came a great storm. even the captain had never seen----" "i know," i interrupted, "so had ours." "the ship struck a rock, and blew out her four funnels----" "ours did too," i nodded. "the bowsprit was broken, and the steward's pantry was carried away. the captain gave orders to leave the ship----" "it is enough, croyden," i said, "i see it all now. you were left behind when the boats cleared, by what accident you don't know----" "i don't," said croyden. "as best you could, you constructed a raft, and with such haste as you might you placed on it such few things----" "exactly," he said, "a chronometer, a sextant----" "i know," i continued, "two quadrants, a bucket of water, and a lightning rod. i presume you picked up clara floating in the sea." "i did," croyden said; "she was unconscious when i got her, but by rubbing----" "croyden," i said, raising the shovel again, "cut that out." "i'm sorry," he said. "it's all right. but you needn't go on. i see all the rest of your adventures plainly enough." "well, i'm done with it all anyway," said croyden gloomily. "you can do what you like. as for me, i've got a decent suit back there at our camp, and i've got it dried and pressed and i'm going to put it on." he rose wearily, edith standing beside him. "what's more, borus," he said, "i'll tell you something. this island is not uninhabited at all." "not uninhabited!" exclaimed clara and edith together. i saw each of them give a rapid look at her goatskin suit. "nonsense, croyden," i said, "this island is one of the west indian keys. on such a key as this the pirates used to land. here they careened their ships----" "did what to them?" asked croyden. "careened them all over from one end to the other," i said. "here they got water and buried treasure; but beyond that the island was, and remained, only the home of the wild gull and the sea-mews----" "all right," said croyden, "only it doesn't happen to be that kind of key. it's a west indian island all right, but there's a summer hotel on the other end of it not two miles away." "a summer hotel!" we exclaimed. "yes, a hotel. i suspected it all along. i picked up a tennis racket on the beach the first day; and after that i walked over the ridge and through the jungle and i could see the roof of the hotel. only," he added rather shamefacedly, "i didn't like to tell her." "oh, you coward!" cried clara. "i could slap you." "don't you dare," said edith. "i'm sure you knew it as well as he did. and anyway, i was certain of it myself. i picked up a copy of last week's paper in a lunch-basket on the beach, and hid it from mr. borus. i didn't want to hurt his feelings." at that moment croyden pointed with a cry towards the sea. "look," he said, "for heaven's sake, look!" he turned. less than a quarter of a mile away we could see a large white motor launch coming round the corner. the deck was gay with awnings and bright dresses and parasols. "great heavens!" said croyden. "i know that launch. it's the appin-joneses'." "the appin-joneses'!" cried clara. "why, we know them too. don't you remember, harold, the sunday we spent with them on the hudson?" instinctively we had all jumped for cover, behind the rocks. "whatever shall we do?" i exclaimed. "we must get our things," said edith croyden. "jack, if your suit is ready run and get it and stop the launch. mrs. borus and mr. borus and i can get our things straightened up while you keep them talking. my suit is nearly ready anyway; i thought some one might come. mr. borus, would you mind running and fetching me my things, they're all in a parcel together? and perhaps if you have a looking-glass and some pins, mrs. borus, i could come over and dress with you." that same evening we found ourselves all comfortably gathered on the piazza of the hotel christopher columbus. appin-jones insisted on making himself our host, and the story of our adventures was related again and again to an admiring audience, with the accompaniment of cigars and iced champagne. only one detail was suppressed, by common instinct. both clara and i felt that it would only raise needless comment to explain that mr. and mrs. croyden had occupied separate encampments. nor is it necessary to relate our safe and easy return to new york. both clara and i found mr. and mrs. croyden delightful travelling companions, though perhaps we were not sorry when the moment came to say good-bye. "the word 'good-bye,'" i remarked to clara, as we drove away, "is always a painful one. oddly enough when i was hunting the humpo, or humped buffalo, of the himalayas----" "do tell me about it, darling," whispered clara, as she nestled beside me in the cab. vi the kidnapped plumber a tale of the new time (_being one chapter--and quite enough---from the reminiscences of an operating plumber_) _vi.--the kidnapped plumber: a tale of the new time._ "personally," said thornton, speaking for the first time, "i never care to take a case that involves cellar work." we were sitting--a little group of us--round about the fire in a comfortable corner of the steam and air club. our talk had turned, as always happens with a group of professional men, into more or less technical channels. i will not say that we were talking shop; the word has an offensive sound and might be misunderstood. but we were talking as only a group of practising plumbers--including some of the biggest men in the profession--would talk. with the exception of everett, who had a national reputation as a consulting barber, and thomas, who was a vacuum cleaner expert, i think we all belonged to the same profession. we had been holding a convention, and fortescue, who had one of the biggest furnace practices in the country, had read us a paper that afternoon--a most revolutionary thing--on external diagnosis of defective feed pipes, and naturally the thing had bred discussion. fortescue, who is one of the most brilliant men in the profession, had stoutly maintained his thesis that the only method of diagnosis for trouble in a furnace is to sit down in front of it and look at it for three days; others held out for unscrewing it and carrying it home for consideration; others of us, again, claimed that by tapping the affected spot with a wrench the pipe might be fractured in such a way as to prove that it was breakable. it was at this point that thornton interrupted with his remark about never being willing to accept a cellar case. naturally all the men turned to look at the speaker. henry thornton, at the time of which i relate, was at the height of his reputation. beginning, quite literally, at the bottom of the ladder, he had in twenty years of practice as an operating plumber raised himself to the top of his profession. there was much in his appearance to suggest the underlying reasons of his success. his face, as is usual with men of our calling, had something of the dreamer in it, but the bold set of the jaw indicated determination of an uncommon kind. three times president of the plumbers' association, henry thornton had enjoyed the highest honours of his chosen profession. his book on _nut coal_ was recognized as the last word on the subject, and had been crowned by the french academy of nuts. i suppose that one of the principal reasons for his success was his singular coolness and resource. i have seen thornton enter a kitchen, with that quiet reassuring step of his, and lay out his instruments on the table, while a kitchen tap with a broken washer was sprizzling within a few feet of him, as calmly and as quietly as if he were in his lecture-room of the plumbers' college. "you never go into a cellar?" asked fortescue. "but hang it, man, i don't see how one can avoid it!" "well, i do avoid it," answered thornton, "at least as far as i possibly can. i send down my solderist, of course, but personally, unless it is absolutely necessary, i never go down." "that's all very well, my dear fellow," fortescue cut in, "but you know as well as i do that you get case after case where the cellar diagnosis is simply vital. i had a case last week, a most interesting thing--" he turned to the group of us as he spoke--"a double lesion of a gas-pipe under a cement floor--half a dozen of my colleagues had been absolutely baffled. they had made an entirely false diagnosis, operated on the dining-room floor, which they removed and carried home, and when i was called in they had just obtained permission from the stone mason's protective association to knock down one side of the house." "excuse me interrupting just a minute," interjected a member of the group who hailed from a distant city, "have you much trouble about that? i mean about knocking the sides out of houses?" "no trouble now," said fortescue. "we did have. but the public is getting educated up to it. our law now allows us to knock the side out of a house when we feel that we would really like to see what is in it. we are not allowed, of course, to build it up again." "no, of course not," said the other speaker. "but i suppose you can throw the bricks out on the lawn." "yes," said fortescue, "and sit on them to eat lunch. we had a big fight in the legislature over that, but we got it through." "thank you, but i feel i am interrupting." "well, i was only saying that, as soon as i had made up my mind that the trouble was in the cellar, the whole case was simple. i took my colleagues down at once, and we sat on the floor of the cellar and held a consultation till the overpowering smell of gas convinced me that there was nothing for it but an operation on the floor. the whole thing was most successful. i was very glad, as it happened that the proprietor of the house was a very decent fellow, employed, i think, as a manager of a bank, or something of the sort. he was most grateful. it was he who gave me the engraved monkey wrench that some of you were admiring before dinner. after we had finished the whole operation--i forgot to say that we had thrown the coal out on the lawn to avoid any complication--he quite broke down. he offered us to take his whole house and keep it." "you don't do that, do you?" asked the outsider. "oh no, never," said fortescue. "we've made a very strict professional rule against it. we found that some of the younger men were apt to take a house when they were given it, and we had to frown down on it. but, gentlemen, i feel that when mr. thornton says that he never goes down into a cellar there must be a story behind it. i think we should invite him to relate it to us." a murmur of assent greeted the speaker's suggestion. for myself i was particularly pleased, inasmuch as i have long felt that thornton as a _raconteur_ was almost as interesting as in the rã´le of an operating plumber. i have often told him that, if he had not happened to meet success in his chosen profession, he could have earned a living as a day writer: a suggestion which he has always taken in good part and without offence. those of my readers who have looked through the little volume of reminiscences which i have put together, will recall the narrative of _the missing nut_ and the little tale entitled _the blue blow torch_ as instances in point. "not much of a story, perhaps," said thornton, "but such as it is you are welcome to it. so, if you will just fill up your glasses with raspberry vinegar, you may have the tale for what it is worth." we gladly complied with the suggestion and thornton continued: "it happened a good many years ago at a time when i was only a young fellow fresh from college, very proud of my plumb. b., and inclined to think that i knew it all. i had done a little monograph on _choked feed in the blow torch_, which had attracted attention, and i suppose that altogether i was about as conceited a young puppy as one would find in the profession. i should mention that at this time i was not married, but had set up a modest apartment of my own with a consulting-room and a single manservant. naturally i could not afford the services of a solderist or a gassist and did everything for myself, though simmons, my man, could at a pinch be utilized to tear down plaster and break furniture." thornton paused to take a sip of raspberry vinegar and went on: "well, then. i had come home to dinner particularly tired after a long day. i had sat in an attic the greater part of the afternoon (a case of top story valvular trouble) and had had to sit in a cramped position which practically forbade sleep. i was feeling, therefore, none too well pleased, when a little while after dinner the bell rang and simmons brought word to the library that there was a client in the consulting-room. i reminded the fellow that i could not possibly consider a case at such an advanced hour unless i were paid emergency overtime wages with time and a half during the day of recovery." "one moment," interrupted the outside member. "you don't mention compensation for mental shock. do you not draw that here?" "we do _now_" explained thornton, "but the time of which i speak is some years ago and we still got nothing for mental shock, nor disturbance of equilibrium. nowadays, of course, one would insist on a substantial retainer in advance. "well, to continue. simmons, to my surprise, told me that he had already informed the client of this fact, and that the answer had only been a plea that the case was too urgent to admit of delay. he also supplied the further information that the client was a young lady. i am afraid," added thornton, looking round his audience with a sympathetic smile, "that simmons (i had got him from harvard and he had not yet quite learned his place) even said something about her being strikingly handsome." a general laugh greeted thornton's announcement. "after all," said fortescue, "i never could see why an ice man should be supposed to have a monopoly on gallantry." "oh, i don't know," said thornton. "for my part--i say it without affectation--the moment i am called in professionally, women, as women, cease to exist for me. i can stand beside them in the kitchen and explain to them the feed tap of a kitchen range without feeling them to be anything other than simply clients. and for the most part, i think, they reciprocate that attention. there are women, of course, who will call a man in with motives--but that's another story. i must get back to what i was saying. "on entering the consulting-room i saw at once that simmons had exaggerated nothing in describing my young client as beautiful. i have seldom, even among our own class, seen a more strikingly handsome girl. she was dressed in a very plain and simple fashion which showed me at once that she belonged merely to the capitalist class. i am, as i think you know, something of an observer, and my eye at once noted the absence of heavy gold ear-rings and wrist-bangles. the blue feathers at the side of her hat were none of them more than six inches long, and the buttons on her jacket were so inconspicuous that one would hardly notice them. in short, while her dress was no doubt good and serviceable, there was an absence of _chic_, a lack of noise about it, that told at once the tale of narrow circumstances. "she was evidently in great distress. "'oh, mr. thornton,' she exclaimed, advancing towards me, 'do come to our house at once. i simply don't know what to do.' "she spoke with great emotion, and seemed almost on the point of breaking into tears. "'pray, calm yourself, my dear young lady,' i said, 'and try to tell me what is the trouble.' "'oh, don't lose any time,' she said, 'do, do come at once.' "'we will lose no time' i said reassuringly, as i looked at my watch. 'it is now seven-thirty. we will reckon the time from now, with overtime at time and a half. but if i am to do anything for you i must have some idea of what has happened.' "'the cellar boiler,' she moaned, clasping her hands together, 'the cellar boiler won't work!' "'ah!' i said soothingly. 'the cellar boiler won't work. now tell me, is the feed choked, miss?' "'i don't know,' she exclaimed. "'have you tried letting off the exhaust?' "she shook her head with a doleful look. "'i don't know what it is,' she said. "but already i was hastily gathering together a few instruments, questioning her rapidly as i did so. "'how's your pressure gauge?' i asked. 'how's your water? do you draw from the mains or are you on the high level reservoir?' "it had occurred to me at once that it might be merely a case of stoppage of her main feed, complicated, perhaps, with a valvular trouble in her exhaust. on the other hand it was clear enough that, if her feed was full and her gauges working, her trouble was more likely a leak somewhere in her piping. "but all attempts to draw from the girl any clear idea of the symptoms were unavailing. all she could tell me was that the cellar boiler wouldn't work. beyond that her answers were mere confusion. i gathered enough, however, to feel sure that her main feed was still working, and that her top story check valve was probably in order. with that i had to be content. "as a young practitioner, i had as yet no motor car. simmons, however, summoned me a taxi, into which i hurriedly placed the girl and my basket of instruments, and was soon speeding in the direction she indicated. it was a dark, lowering night, with flecks of rain against the windows of the cab, and there was something in the lateness of the hour (it was now after half-past eight) and the nature of my mission which gave me a stimulating sense of adventure. the girl directed me, as i felt sure she would, towards the capitalist quarter of the town. we had soon sped away from the brightly lighted streets and tall apartment buildings among which my usual practice lay, and entered the gloomy and dilapidated section of the city where the unhappy capitalist class reside. i need not remind those of you who know it that it is scarcely a cheerful place to find oneself in after nightfall. the thick growth of trees, the silent gloom of the ill-lighted houses, and the rank undergrowth of shrubs give it an air of desolation, not to say danger. it is certainly not the place that a professional man would choose to be abroad in after dark. the inhabitants, living, so it is said, on their scanty dividends and on such parts of their income as our taxation is still unable to reach, are not people that one would care to fall in with after nightfall. "since the time of which i speak we have done much to introduce a better state of things. the opening of day schools of carpentry, plumbing and calcimining for the children of the capitalist is already producing results. strange though it may seem, one of the most brilliant of our boiler fitters of to-day was brought up haphazard in this very quarter of the town and educated only by a french governess and a university tutor. but at the time practically nothing had been done. the place was infested with consumers, and there were still, so it was said, servants living in some of the older houses. a butler had been caught one night in a thick shrubbery beside one of the gloomy streets. "we alighted at one of the most sombre of the houses, and our taxi-driver, with evident relief, made off in the darkness. "the girl admitted us into a dark hall, where she turned on an electric light. 'we have light,' she said, with that peculiar touch of pride that one sees so often in her class, 'we have four bulbs.' "then she called down a flight of stairs that apparently led to the cellar: "'father, the plumber has come. do come up now, dear, and rest.' "a step sounded on the stairs, and there appeared beside us one of the most forbidding-looking men that i have ever beheld. i don't know whether any of you have ever seen an anglican bishop. probably not. outside of the bush, they are now never seen. but at the time of which i speak there were a few still here and there in the purlieus of the city. the man before us was tall and ferocious, and his native ferocity was further enhanced by the heavy black beard which he wore in open defiance of the compulsory shaving laws. his black shovel-shaped hat and his black clothes lent him a singularly sinister appearance, while his legs were bound in tight gaiters, as if ready for an instant spring. he carried in his hand an enormous monkey wrench, on which his fingers were clasped in a restless grip. "'can you fix the accursed thing?' he asked. "i was not accustomed to being spoken to in this way, but i was willing for the girl's sake to strain professional courtesy to the limit. "'i don't know,' i answered, 'but if you will have the goodness first to fetch me a little light supper, i shall be glad to see what i can do afterwards.' "my firm manner had its effect. with obvious reluctance the fellow served me some biscuits and some not bad champagne in the dining-room. "the girl had meantime disappeared upstairs. "'if you're ready now,' said the bishop, 'come on down.' "we went down to the cellar. it was a huge, gloomy place, with a cement floor, lighted by a dim electric bulb. i could see in the corner the outline of a large furnace (in those days the poorer classes had still no central heat) and near it a tall boiler. in front of this a man was kneeling, evidently trying to unscrew a nut, but twisting it the wrong way. he was an elderly man with a grey moustache, and was dressed, in open defiance of the law, in a military costume or uniform. "he turned round towards us and rose from his knees. "'i'm dashed if i can make the rotten thing go round,' he said. "'it's all right, general,' said the bishop. 'i have brought a plumber.' "for the next few minutes my professional interest absorbed all my faculties. i laid out my instruments upon a board, tapped the boiler with a small hammer, tested the feed-tube, and in a few moments had made what i was convinced was a correct diagnosis of the trouble. "but here i encountered the greatest professional dilemma in which i have ever been placed. there was nothing wrong with the boiler at all. it connected, as i ascertained at once by a thermo-dynamic valvular test, with the furnace (in fact, i could see it did), and the furnace quite evidently had been allowed to go out. "what was i to do? if i told them this, i broke every professional rule of our union. if the thing became known i should probably be disbarred and lose my overalls for it. it was my plain professional duty to take a large hammer and knock holes in the boiler with it, smash up the furnace pipes, start a leak of gas, and then call in three or more of my colleagues. "but somehow i couldn't find it in my heart to do it. the thought of the girl's appealing face arose before me. "'how long has this trouble been going on?' i asked sternly. "'quite a time,' answered the bishop. 'it began, did it not, general, the same day that the confounded furnace went out? the general here and admiral hay and i have been working at it for three days.' "'well, gentlemen,' i said, 'i don't want to read you a lesson on your own ineptitude, and i don't suppose you would understand it if i did. but don't you see that the whole trouble is _because_ you let the furnace out? the boiler itself is all right, but you see, gents, it feeds off the furnace.' "'ah,' said the bishop in a deep melodious tone, 'it feeds off the furnace. now that is most interesting. let me repeat that; i must try to remember it; it feeds _off_ the furnace. just so.' "the upshot was that in twenty minutes we had the whole thing put to rights. i set the general breaking up boxes and had the bishop rake out the clinkers, and very soon we had the furnace going and the boiler in operation. "'but now tell me,' said the bishop, 'suppose one wanted to let the furnace out--suppose, i mean to say, that it was summer-time, and suppose one rather felt that one didn't care about a furnace and yet one wanted one's boiler going for one's hot water, and that sort of thing, what would one do?' "'in that case,' i said, 'you couldn't run your heating off your furnace: you'd have to connect in your tubing with a gas generator.' "'ah, there you get me rather beyond my depth,' said the bishop. "the general shook his head. 'bishop,' he said, 'just step upstairs a minute; i have an idea.' "they went up together, leaving me below. to my surprise and consternation, as they reached the top of the cellar stairs, i saw the general swing the door shut and heard a key turn in the lock. i rushed to the top of the stairs and tried in vain to open the door. i was trapped. in a moment i realized my folly in trusting myself in the hands of these people. "i could hear their voices in the hall, apparently in eager discussion. "'but the fellow is priceless,' the general was saying. 'we could take him round to all the different houses and make him fix them all. hang it, bishop, i haven't had a decent tap running for two years, and admiral hay's pantry has been flooded since last march.' "'but one couldn't compel him?' "'certainly, why not? i'd compel him bally quick with this.' "i couldn't see what the general referred to, but had no doubt that it was the huge wrench that he still carried in his hand. "'we could gag the fellow,' he went on, 'take him from house to house and make him put everything right.' "'ah, but afterwards?' said the bishop. "'afterwards,' answered the general, 'why kill him! knock him on the head and bury him under the cement in the cellar. hay and i could easily bury him, or for that matter i imagine one could easily use the furnace itself to dispose of him.' "i must confess that my blood ran cold as i listened. "'but do you think it right?' objected the bishop. 'you will say, of course, that it is only killing a plumber; but yet one asks oneself whether it wouldn't be just a _leetle_ bit unjustifiable.' "'nonsense,' said the general. 'you remember that last year, when hay strangled the income tax collector, you yourself were very keen on it.' "'ah, that was different,' said the bishop, 'one felt there that there was an end to serve, but here----' "'nonsense,' repeated the general, 'come along and get hay. he'll make short work of him.' "i heard their retreating footsteps and then all was still. "the horror which filled my mind as i sat in the half darkness waiting for their return i cannot describe. my fate appeared sealed and i gave myself up for lost, when presently i heard a light step in the hall and the key turned in the lock. "the girl stood in front of me. she was trembling with emotion. "'quick, quick, mr. thornton,' she said. 'i heard all that they said. oh, i think it's dreadful of them, simply dreadful. mr. thornton, i'm really ashamed that father should act that way.' "i came out into the hall still half dazed. "'they've gone over to admiral hay's house, there among the trees. that's their lantern. please, please, don't lose a minute. do you mind not having a cab? i think really you'd prefer not to wait. and look, won't you please take this?'--she handed me a little packet as she spoke--'this is a piece of pie: you always get that, don't you? and there's a bit of cheese with it, but please run.' "in another moment i had bounded from the door into the darkness. a wild rush through the darkened streets, and in twenty minutes i was safe back again in my own consulting-room." thornton paused in his narrative, and at that moment one of the stewards of the club came and whispered something in his ear. he rose. "i'm sorry," he said, with a grave face. "i'm called away; a very old client of mine. valvular trouble of the worst kind. i doubt if i can do anything, but i must at least go. please don't let me break up your evening, however." with a courtly bow he left us. "and do you know the sequel to thornton's story?" asked fortescue with a smile. we looked expectantly at him. "why, he married the girl," explained fortescue. "you see, he had to go back to her house for his wrench. one always does." "of course," we exclaimed. "in fact he went three times; and the last time he asked the girl to marry him and she said 'yes.' he took her out of her surroundings, had her educated at a cooking school, and had her given lessons on the parlour organ. she's mrs. thornton now." "and the bishop?" asked some one. "oh, thornton looked after him. he got him a position heating furnaces in the synagogues. he worked at it till he died a few years ago. they say that once he got the trick of it he took the greatest delight in it. well, i must go too. good night." vii the blue and the grey a pre-war war story (_the title is selected for its originality. a set of seventy-five maps will be supplied to any reader free for seventy-five cents. this offer is only open till it is closed_) _vii.--the blue and the grey: a pre-war war story._ chapter i the scene was a striking one. it was night. never had the mississippi presented a more remarkable appearance. broad bayous, swollen beyond our powers of description, swirled to and fro in the darkness under trees garlanded with spanish moss. all moss other than spanish had been swept away by the angry flood of the river. eggleston lee carey randolph, a young virginian, captain of the ----th company of the ----th regiment of ----'s brigade--even this is more than we ought to say, and is hard to pronounce--attached to the army of the tennessee, struggled in vain with the swollen waters. at times he sank. at other times he went up. in the intervals he wondered whether it would ever be possible for him to rejoin the particular platoon of the particular regiment to which he belonged, and of which's whereabouts (not having the volume of the army record at hand) he was in ignorance. in the intervals, also, he reflected on his past life to a sufficient extent to give the reader a more or less workable idea as to who and to what he was. his father, the old grey-haired virginian aristocrat, he could see him still. "take this sword, eggleston," he had said, "use it for the state; never for anything else: don't cut string with it or open tin cans. never sheathe it till the soil of virginia is free. keep it bright, my boy: oil it every now and then, and you'll find it an a 1 sword." did eggleston think, too, in his dire peril of another--younger than his father and fairer? necessarily, he did. "go, eggleston!" she had exclaimed, as they said farewell under the portico of his father's house where she was visiting, "it is your duty. but mine lies elsewhere. i cannot forget that i am a northern girl. i must return at once to my people in pennsylvania. oh, egg, when will this cruel war end?" so had the lovers parted. meanwhile--while eggleston is going up and down for the third time, which is of course the last--suppose we leave him, and turn to consider the general position of the confederacy. all right: suppose we do. chapter ii at this date the confederate army of the tennessee was extended in a line with its right resting on the tennessee and its left resting on the mississippi. its rear rested on the rugged stone hills of the chickasaba range, while its front rested on the marshes and bayous of the yazoo. having thus--as far as we understand military matters--both its flanks covered and its rear protected, its position was one which we ourselves consider very comfortable. it was thus in an admirable situation for holding a review or for discussing the constitution of the united states in reference to the right of secession. the following generals rode up and down in front of the army, namely, mr. a. p. hill, mr. longstreet, and mr. joseph johnston. all these three celebrated men are thus presented to our readers at one and the same time without extra charge. but who is this tall, commanding figure who rides beside them, his head bent as if listening to what they are saying (he really isn't) while his eye alternately flashes with animation or softens to its natural melancholy? (in fact, we can only compare it to an electric light bulb with the power gone wrong.) who is it? it is jefferson c. davis, president, as our readers will be gratified to learn, of the confederate states. it being a fine day and altogether suitable for the purpose, general longstreet reined in his prancing black charger (during this distressed period all the horses in both armies were charged: there was no other way to pay for them), and in a few terse words, about three pages, gave his views on the constitution of the united states. jefferson davis, standing up in his stirrups, delivered a stirring harangue, about six columns, on the powers of the supreme court, admirably calculated to rouse the soldiers to frenzy. after which general a. p. hill offered a short address, soldier-like and to the point, on the fundamental principles of international law, which inflamed the army to the highest pitch. at this moment an officer approached the president, saluted and stood rigidly at attention. davis, with that nice punctilio which marked the southern army, returned the salute. "do you speak first?" he said, "or did i?" "let me," said the officer. "your excellency," he continued, "a young virginian officer has just been fished out of the mississippi." davis's eye flashed. "good!" he said. "look and see if there are many more," and then he added with a touch of melancholy, "the south needs them: fish them all out. bring this one here." eggleston lee carey randolph, still dripping from the waters of the bayou, was led by the faithful negroes who had rescued him before the generals. davis, who kept every thread of the vast panorama of the war in his intricate brain, eyed him keenly and directed a few searching questions to him, such as: "who are you? where are you? what day of the week is it? how much is nine times twelve?" and so forth. satisfied with eggleston's answers, davis sat in thought a moment, and then continued: "i am anxious to send some one through the entire line of the confederate armies in such a way that he will be present at all the great battles and end up at the battle of gettysburg. can you do it?" randolph looked at his chief with a flush of pride. "i can." "good!" resumed davis. "to accomplish this task you must carry despatches. what they will be about i have not yet decided. but it is customary in such cases to write them so that they are calculated, if lost, to endanger the entire confederate cause. the main thing is, can you carry them?" "sir," said eggleston, raising his hand in a military salute, "i am a randolph." davis with soldierly dignity removed his hat. "i am proud to hear it, captain randolph," he said. "and a carey," continued our hero. davis, with a graciousness all his own, took off his gloves. "i trust you, _major_ randolph," he said. "and i am a lee," added eggleston quickly. davis with a courtly bow unbuttoned his jacket. "it is enough," he said. "i trust you. you shall carry the despatches. you are to carry them on your person and, as of course you understand, you are to keep on losing them. you are to drop them into rivers, hide them in old trees, bury them under moss, talk about them in your sleep. in fact, sir," said davis, with a slight gesture of impatience--it was his _one_ fault--"you must act towards them as any bearer of confederate despatches is expected to act. the point is, can you do it, or can't you?" "sir," said randolph, saluting again with simple dignity, "i come from virginia." "pardon me," said the president, saluting with both hands, "i had forgotten it." chapter iii randolph set out that night, mounted upon the fastest horse, in fact the fleetest, that the confederate army could supply. he was attended only by a dozen faithful negroes, all devoted to his person. riding over the tennessee mountains by paths known absolutely to no one and never advertised, he crossed the tombigbee, the tahoochie and the tallahassee, all frightfully swollen, and arrived at the headquarters of general braxton bragg. at this moment bragg was extended over some seven miles of bush and dense swamp. his front rested on the marshes of the tahoochie river, while his rear was doubled sharply back and rested on a dense growth of cactus plants. our readers can thus form a fairly accurate idea of bragg's position. over against him, not more than fifty miles to the north, his indomitable opponent, grant, lay in a frog-swamp. the space between them was filled with union and confederate pickets, fraternizing, joking, roasting corn, and firing an occasional shot at one another. one glance at randolph's despatches was enough. "take them at once to general hood," said bragg. "where is he?" asked eggleston, with military precision. bragg waved his sword towards the east. it was characteristic of the man that even on active service he carried a short sword, while a pistol, probably loaded, protruded from his belt. but such was bragg. anyway, he waved his sword. "over there beyond the tahoochicaba range," he said. "do you know it?" "no," said randolph, "but i can find it." "do," said bragg, and added, "one thing more. on your present mission let nothing stop you. go forward at all costs. if you come to a river, swim it. if you come to a tree, cut it down. if you strike a fence, climb over it. but don't stop! if you are killed, never mind. do you understand?" "almost," said eggleston. two days later eggleston reached the headquarters of general hood, and flung himself, rather than dismounted, from his jaded horse. "take me to the general!" he gasped. they pointed to the log cabin in which general hood was quartered. eggleston flung himself, rather than stepped, through the door. hood looked up from the table. "who was that flung himself in?" he asked. randolph reached out his hand. "despatches!" he gasped. "food, whisky!" "poor lad," said the general, "you are exhausted. when did you last have food?" "yesterday morning," gasped eggleston. "you're lucky," said hood bitterly. "and when did you last have a drink?" "two weeks ago," answered randolph. "great heaven!" said hood, starting up. "is it possible? here, quick, drink it!" he reached out a bottle of whisky. randolph drained it to the last drop. "now, general," he said, "i am at your service." meanwhile hood had cast his eye over the despatches. "major randolph," he said, "you have seen general bragg?" "i have." "and generals johnston and smith?" "yes." "you have been through mississippi and tennessee and seen all the battles there?" "i have," said randolph. "then," said hood, "there is nothing left except to send you at once to the army in virginia under general lee. remount your horse at once and ride to gettysburg. lose no time." chapter iv it was at gettysburg in pennsylvania that randolph found general lee. the famous field is too well known to need description. the armies of the north and the south lay in and around the peaceful village of gettysburg. about it the yellow cornfields basked in the summer sun. the voices of the teachers and the laughter of merry children rose in the harvest-fields. but already the shadow of war was falling over the landscape. as soon as the armies arrived, the shrewder of the farmers suspected that there would be trouble. general lee was seated gravely on his horse, looking gravely over the ground before him. "major randolph," said the confederate chieftain gravely, "you are just in time. we are about to go into action. i need your advice." randolph bowed. "ask me anything you like," he said. "do you like the way i have the army placed?" asked lee. our hero directed a searching look over the field. "frankly, i don't," he said. "what's the matter with it?" questioned lee eagerly. "i felt there was something wrong myself. what is it?" "your left," said randolph, "is too far advanced. it sticks out." "by heaven!" said lee, turning to general longstreet, "the boy is right! is there anything else?" "yes," said randolph, "your right is crooked. it is all sideways." "it is. it is!" said lee, striking his forehead. "i never noticed it. i'll have it straightened at once. major randolph, if the confederate cause is saved, you, and you alone, have saved it." "one thing more," said randolph. "is your artillery loaded?" "major randolph," said lee, speaking very gravely, "you have saved us again. i never thought of it." at this moment a bullet sang past eggleston's ear. he smiled. "the battle has begun," he murmured. another bullet buzzed past his other ear. he laughed softly to himself. a shell burst close to his feet. he broke into uncontrolled laughter. this kind of thing always amused him. then, turning grave in a moment, "put general lee under cover," he said to those about him, "spread something over him." in a few moments the battle was raging in all directions. the confederate army was nominally controlled by general lee, but in reality by our hero. eggleston was everywhere. horses were shot under him. mules were shot around him and behind him. shells exploded all over him; but with undaunted courage he continued to wave his sword in all directions, riding wherever the fight was hottest. the battle raged for three days. on the third day of the conflict, randolph, his coat shot to rags, his hat pierced, his trousers practically useless, still stood at lee's side, urging and encouraging him. mounted on his charger, he flew to and fro in all parts of the field, moving the artillery, leading the cavalry, animating and directing the infantry. in fact, he was the whole battle. but his efforts were in vain. he turned sadly to general lee. "it is bootless," he said. "what is?" asked lee. "the army," said randolph. "we must withdraw it." "major randolph," said the confederate chief, "i yield to your superior knowledge. we must retreat." a few hours later the confederate forces, checked but not beaten, were retiring southward towards virginia. eggleston, his head sunk in thought, rode in the rear. as he thus slowly neared a farmhouse, a woman--a girl--flew from it towards him with outstretched arms. "eggleston!" she cried. randolph flung himself from his horse. "leonora!" he gasped. "you here! in all this danger! how comes it? what brings you here?" "we live here," she said. "this is pa's house. this is our farm. gettysburg is our home. oh, egg, it has been dreadful, the noise of the battle! we couldn't sleep for it. pa's all upset about it. but come in. do come in. dinner's nearly ready." eggleston gazed a moment at the retreating army. duty and affection struggled in his heart. "i will," he said. chapter v conclusion the strife is done. the conflict has ceased. the wounds are healed. north and south are one. east and west are even less. the civil war is over. lee is dead. grant is buried in new york. the union pacific runs from omaha to san francisco. there is total prohibition in the united states. the output of dressed beef last year broke all records. and eggleston lee carey randolph survives, hale and hearty, bright and cheery, free and easy--and so forth. there is grey hair upon his temples (some, not much), and his step has lost something of its elasticity (not a great deal), and his form is somewhat bowed (though not really crooked). but he still lives there in the farmstead at gettysburg, and leonora, now, like himself, an old woman, is still at his side. you may see him any day. in fact, he is the old man who shows you over the battlefield for fifty cents and explains how he himself fought and won the great battle. viii buggam grange a good old ghost story _viii.--buggam grange: a good old ghost story._ the evening was already falling as the vehicle in which i was contained entered upon the long and gloomy avenue that leads to buggam grange. a resounding shriek echoed through the wood as i entered the avenue. i paid no attention to it at the moment, judging it to be merely one of those resounding shrieks which one might expect to hear in such a place at such a time. as my drive continued, however i found myself wondering in spite of myself why such a shriek should have been uttered at the very moment of my approach. i am not by temperament in any degree a nervous man, and yet there was much in my surroundings to justify a certain feeling of apprehension. the grange is situated in the loneliest part of england, the marsh country of the fens to which civilization has still hardly penetrated. the inhabitants, of whom there are only one and a half to the square mile, live here and there among the fens and eke out a miserable existence by frog-fishing and catching flies. they speak a dialect so broken as to be practically unintelligible, while the perpetual rain which falls upon them renders speech itself almost superfluous. here and there where the ground rises slightly above the level of the fens there are dense woods tangled with parasitic creepers and filled with owls. bats fly from wood to wood. the air on the lower ground is charged with the poisonous gases which exude from the marsh, while in the woods it is heavy with the dank odours of deadly nightshade and poison ivy. it had been raining in the afternoon, and as i drove up the avenue the mournful dripping of the rain from the dark trees accentuated the cheerlessness of the gloom. the vehicle in which i rode was a fly on three wheels, the fourth having apparently been broken and taken off, causing the fly to sag on one side and drag on its axle over the muddy ground, the fly thus moving only at a foot's pace in a way calculated to enhance the dreariness of the occasion. the driver on the box in front of me was so thickly muffled up as to be indistinguishable, while the horse which drew us was so thickly coated with mist as to be practically invisible. seldom, i may say, have i had a drive of so mournful a character. the avenue presently opened out upon a lawn with overgrown shrubberies, and in the half darkness i could see the outline of the grange itself, a rambling, dilapidated building. a dim light struggled through the casement of a window in a tower room. save for the melancholy cry of a row of owls sitting on the roof, and croaking of the frogs in the moat which ran around the grounds, the place was soundless. my driver halted his horse at the hither side of the moat. i tried in vain to urge him, by signs, to go further. i could see by the fellow's face that he was in a paroxysm of fear, and indeed nothing but the extra sixpence which i had added to his fare would have made him undertake the drive up the avenue. i had no sooner alighted than he wheeled his cab about and made off. laughing heartily at the fellow's trepidation (i have a way of laughing heartily in the dark), i made my way to the door and pulled the bell-handle. i could hear the muffled reverberations of the bell far within the building. then all was silent. i bent my ear to listen, but could hear nothing except, perhaps, the sound of a low moaning as of a person in pain or in great mental distress. convinced, however, from what my friend sir jeremy buggam had told me, that the grange was not empty, i raised the ponderous knocker and beat with it loudly against the door. but perhaps at this point i may do well to explain to my readers (before they are too frightened to listen to me) how i came to be beating on the door of buggam grange at nightfall on a gloomy november evening. a year before i had been sitting with sir jeremy buggam, the present baronet, on the verandah of his ranch in california. "so you don't believe in the supernatural?" he was saying. "not in the slightest," i answered, lighting a cigar as i spoke. when i want to speak very positively, i generally light a cigar as i speak. "well, at any rate, digby," said sir jeremy, "buggam grange is haunted. if you want to be assured of it go down there any time and spend the night and you'll see for yourself." "my dear fellow," i replied, "nothing will give me greater pleasure. i shall be back in england in six weeks, and i shall be delighted to put your ideas to the test. now tell me," i added somewhat cynically, "is there any particular season or day when your grange is supposed to be specially terrible?" sir jeremy looked at me strangely. "why do you ask that?" he said. "have you heard the story of the grange?" "never heard of the place in my life," i answered cheerily. "till you mentioned it to-night, my dear fellow, i hadn't the remotest idea that you still owned property in england." "the grange is shut up," said sir jeremy, "and has been for twenty years. but i keep a man there--horrod--he was butler in my father's time and before. if you care to go, i'll write him that you're coming. and, since you are taking your own fate in your hands, the fifteenth of november is the day." at that moment lady buggam and clara and the other girls came trooping out on the verandah, and the whole thing passed clean out of my mind. nor did i think of it again until i was back in london. then, by one of those strange coincidences or premonitions--call it what you will--it suddenly occurred to me one morning that it was the fifteenth of november. whether sir jeremy had written to horrod or not, i did not know. but none the less nightfall found me, as i have described, knocking at the door of buggam grange. the sound of the knocker had scarcely ceased to echo when i heard the shuffling of feet within, and the sound of chains and bolts being withdrawn. the door opened. a man stood before me holding a lighted candle which he shaded with his hand. his faded black clothes, once apparently a butler's dress, his white hair and advanced age left me in no doubt that he was horrod of whom sir jeremy had spoken. without a word he motioned me to come in, and, still without speech, he helped me to remove my wet outer garments, and then beckoned me into a great room, evidently the dining-room of the grange. i am not in any degree a nervous man by temperament, as i think i remarked before, and yet there was something in the vastness of the wainscoted room, lighted only by a single candle, and in the silence of the empty house, and still more in the appearance of my speechless attendant, which gave me a feeling of distinct uneasiness. as horrod moved to and fro i took occasion to scrutinize his face more narrowly. i have seldom seen features more calculated to inspire a nervous dread. the pallor of his face and the whiteness of his hair (the man was at least seventy), and still more the peculiar furtiveness of his eyes, seemed to mark him as one who lived under a great terror. he moved with a noiseless step and at times he turned his head to glance in the dark corners of the room. "sir jeremy told me," i said, speaking as loudly and as heartily as i could, "that he would apprise you of my coming." i was looking into his face as i spoke. in answer horrod laid his finger across his lips and i knew that he was deaf and dumb. i am not nervous (i think i said that), but the realization that my sole companion in the empty house was a deaf mute struck a cold chill to my heart. horrod laid in front of me a cold meat pie, a cold goose, a cheese, and a tall flagon of cider. but my appetite was gone. i ate the goose, but found that after i had finished the pie i had but little zest for the cheese, which i finished without enjoyment. the cider had a sour taste, and after having permitted horrod to refill the flagon twice i found that it induced a sense of melancholy and decided to drink no more. my meal finished, the butler picked up the candle and beckoned me to follow him. we passed through the empty corridors of the house, a long line of pictured buggams looking upon us as we passed, their portraits in the flickering light of the taper assuming a strange and life-like appearance, as if leaning forward from their frames to gaze upon the intruder. horrod led me upstairs and i realized that he was taking me to the tower in the east wing, in which i had observed a light. the rooms to which the butler conducted me consisted of a sitting-room with an adjoining bedroom, both of them fitted with antique wainscoting against which a faded tapestry fluttered. there was a candle burning on the table in the sitting-room, but its insufficient light only rendered the surroundings the more dismal. horrod bent down in front of the fireplace and endeavoured to light a fire there. but the wood was evidently damp and the fire flickered feebly on the hearth. the butler left me, and in the stillness of the house i could hear his shuffling step echo down the corridor. it may have been fancy, but it seemed to me that his departure was the signal for a low moan that came from somewhere behind the wainscot. there was a narrow cupboard door at one side of the room, and for the moment i wondered whether the moaning came from within. i am not as a rule lacking in courage (i am sure my reader will be decent enough to believe this), yet i found myself entirely unwilling to open the cupboard door and look within. in place of doing so i seated myself in a great chair in front of the feeble fire. i must have been seated there for some time when i happened to lift my eyes to the mantel above and saw, standing upon it, a letter addressed to myself. i knew the handwriting at once to be that of sir jeremy buggam. i opened it, and spreading it out within reach of the feeble candlelight, i read as follows: "my dear digby, "in our talk that you will remember, i had no time to finish telling you about the mystery of buggam grange. i take for granted, however, that you will go there and that horrod will put you in the tower rooms, which are the only ones that make any pretence of being habitable. i have, therefore, sent him this letter to deliver at the grange itself. "the story is this: "on the night of the fifteenth of november, fifty years ago, my grandfather was murdered in the room in which you are sitting, by his cousin, sir duggam buggam. he was stabbed from behind while seated at the little table at which you are probably reading this letter. the two had been playing cards at the table and my grandfather's body was found lying in a litter of cards and gold sovereigns on the floor. sir duggam buggam, insensible from drink, lay beside him, the fatal knife at his hand, his fingers smeared with blood. my grandfather, though of the younger branch, possessed a part of the estates which were to revert to sir duggam on his death. sir duggam buggam was tried at the assizes and was hanged. on the day of his execution he was permitted by the authorities, out of respect for his rank, to wear a mask to the scaffold. the clothes in which he was executed are hanging at full length in the little cupboard to your right, and the mask is above them. it is said that on every fifteenth of november at midnight the cupboard door opens and sir duggam buggam walks out into the room. it has been found impossible to get servants to remain at the grange, and the place--except for the presence of horrod--has been unoccupied for a generation. at the time of the murder horrod was a young man of twenty-two, newly entered into the service of the family. it was he who entered the room and discovered the crime. on the day of the execution he was stricken with paralysis and has never spoken since. from that time to this he has never consented to leave the grange, where he lives in isolation. "wishing you a pleasant night after your tiring journey, "i remain, "very faithfully, "jeremy buggam." i leave my reader to imagine my state of mind when i completed the perusal of the letter. i have as little belief in the supernatural as anyone, yet i must confess that there was something in the surroundings in which i now found myself which rendered me at least uncomfortable. my reader may smile if he will, but i assure him that it was with a very distinct feeling of uneasiness that i at length managed to rise to my feet, and, grasping my candle in my hand, to move backward into the bedroom. as i backed into it something so like a moan seemed to proceed from the closed cupboard that i accelerated my backward movement to a considerable degree. i hastily blew out the candle, threw myself upon the bed and drew the bedclothes over my head, keeping, however, one eye and one ear still out and available. how long i lay thus listening to every sound, i cannot tell. the stillness had become absolute. from time to time i could dimly hear the distant cry of an owl, and once far away in the building below a sound as of some one dragging a chain along a floor. more than once i was certain that i heard the sound of moaning behind the wainscot. meantime i realized that the hour must now be drawing close upon the fatal moment of midnight. my watch i could not see in the darkness, but by reckoning the time that must have elapsed i knew that midnight could not be far away. then presently my ear, alert to every sound, could just distinguish far away across the fens the striking of a church bell, in the clock tower of buggam village church, no doubt, tolling the hour of twelve. on the last stroke of twelve, the cupboard door in the next room opened. there is no need to ask me how i knew it. i couldn't, of course, see it, but i could hear, or sense in some way, the sound of it. i could feel my hair, all of it, rising upon my head. i was aware that there was a _presence_ in the adjoining room, i will not say a person, a living soul, but a _presence_. anyone who has been in the next room to a presence will know just how i felt. i could hear a sound as of some one groping on the floor and the faint rattle as of coins. my hair was now perpendicular. my reader can blame it or not, but it was. then at this very moment from somewhere below in the building there came the sound of a prolonged and piercing cry, a cry as of a soul passing in agony. my reader may censure me or not, but right at this moment i decided to beat it. whether i should have remained to see what was happening is a question that i will not discuss. my one idea was to get out, and to get out quickly. the window of the tower room was some twenty-five feet above the ground. i sprang out through the casement in one leap and landed on the grass below. i jumped over the shrubbery in one bound and cleared the moat in one jump. i went down the avenue in about six strides and ran five miles along the road through the fens in three minutes. this at least is an accurate transcription of my sensations. it may have taken longer. i never stopped till i found myself on the threshold of the _buggam arms_ in little buggam, beating on the door for the landlord. i returned to buggam grange on the next day in the bright sunlight of a frosty november morning, in a seven-cylinder motor car with six local constables and a physician. it makes all the difference. we carried revolvers, spades, pickaxes, shotguns and an ouija board. what we found cleared up for ever the mystery of the grange. we discovered horrod the butler lying on the dining-room floor quite dead. the physician said that he had died from heart failure. there was evidence from the marks of his shoes in the dust that he had come in the night to the tower room. on the table he had placed a paper which contained a full confession of his having murdered jeremy buggam fifty years before. the circumstances of the murder had rendered it easy for him to fasten the crime upon sir duggam, already insensible from drink. a few minutes with the ouija board enabled us to get a full corroboration from sir duggam. he promised, moreover, now that his name was cleared, to go away from the premises for ever. my friend, the present sir jeremy, has rehabilitated buggam grange. the place is rebuilt. the moat is drained. the whole house is lit with electricity. there are beautiful motor drives in all directions in the woods. he has had the bats shot and the owls stuffed. his daughter, clara buggam, became my wife. she is looking over my shoulder as i write. what more do you want? the end * * * * * by the same author literary lapses _twelfth edition. crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _spectator._--"this little book is a happy example of the way in which the double life can be lived blamelessly and to the great advantage of the community. the book fairly entitles mr. leacock to be considered not only a humorist but a benefactor. the contents should appeal to english readers with the double virtue that attaches to work which is at once new and richly humorous." _globe._--"one specimen of mr. leacock's humour, 'boarding-house geometry,' has long been treasured on this side." _the guardian._--"much to be welcomed is professor stephen leacock's 'literary lapses,'--this charming and humorous work. all the sketches have a freshness and a new personal touch. mr. leacock is, as the politicians say, 'a national asset,' and mr. leacock is a canadian to be proud of. one has the comfortable feeling as one reads that one is in the company of a cultured person capable of attractive varieties of foolishness." _pall mall gazette._--"the appearance of 'literary lapses' is practically the english dã©but of a young canadian writer who is turning from medicine to literature with every success. dr. stephen leacock is at least the equal of many who are likely to be long remembered for their short comic sketches and essays; he has already shown that he has the high spirits of 'max adeler' and the fine sense of quick fun. there are many sketches in 'literary lapses' that are worthy of comparison with the best american humour." _morning post._--"the close connection between imagination, humour, and the mathematical faculty has never been so delightfully demonstrated." _outlook._--"mr. john lane must be credited with the desire of associating the bodley head with the discovery of new humorists. mr. leacock sets out to make people laugh. he succeeds and makes them laugh at the right thing. he has a wide range of new subjects; the world will gain in cheerfulness if mr. leacock continues to produce so many excellent jests to the book as there are in the one under notice." _truth._--"by the publication of mr. stephen leacock's 'literary lapses' mr. john lane has introduced to the british public a new american humorist for whom a widespread popularity can be confidently predicted." * * * * * by the same author nonsense novels _thirteenth edition_ _crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _spectator._--"we can assure our readers who delight in mere joyous desipience that they will find a rich harvest of laughter in the purely irresponsible outpourings of professor leacock's fancy." _pall mall gazette._--"it is all not only healthy satire, but healthy humour as well, and shows that the author of 'literary lapses' is capable of producing a steady flow of high spirits put into a form which is equal to the best traditions of contemporary humour. mr. leacock certainly bids fair to rival the immortal 'lewis carroll' in combining the irreconcilable--exact science with perfect humour--and making the amusement better the instruction." _daily mail._--"in his 'literary lapses' mr. stephen leacock gave the laughter-loving world assurance of a new humorist of irresistible high spirits and rare spontaneity and freshness. by this rollicking collection of 'nonsense novels,' in tabloid form, he not only confirms the excellent impression of his earlier work, but establishes his reputation as a master of the art of literary burlesque. the whole collection is a sheer delight, and places its author in the front rank as a literary humorist." mr. james douglas in _the star_.--"we have all laughed over mr. stephen leacock's 'literary lapses.' it is one of those books one would die rather than lend, for to lend it is to lose it for ever. mr. leacock's new book, 'nonsense novels,' is more humorous than 'literary lapses.' that is to say, it is the most humorous book we have had since mr. dooley swum into our ken. its humour is so rich that it places mr. leacock beside mark twain." _morning leader._--"mr. leacock possesses infinite verbal dexterity.... mr. leacock must be added as a recognized humorist." _daily express._--"mr. stephen leacock's 'nonsense novels' is the best collection of parodies i have read for many a day. the whole book is a scream, witty, ingenious, irresistible." _public opinion._--"a most entertaining book." * * * * * by the same author sunshine sketches of a little town with a frontispiece by cyrus cuneo _ninth edition. crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _the times._--"his real hard work, for which no emolument would be a fitting reward, is distilling sunshine. this new book is full of it--the sunshine of humour, the thin keen sunshine of irony, the mellow evening sunshine of sentiment." _spectator._--"this is not the first but the third volume in which he has contributed to the gaiety of the old as well as the new world.... a most welcome freedom from the pessimism of old-world fiction." _academy._--"one of the best and most enjoyable series of sketches that we have read for some time ... they are all bright and sparkling, and bristle with wit and humour." _pall mall gazette._--"like all real humorists mr. leacock steps at once into his proper position.... his touch of humour will make the anglo-saxon world his reader.... we cannot recall a more laughable book." _globe._--"professor leacock never fails to provide a feast of enjoyment.... no one who wishes to dispose intellectually of a few hours should neglect professor leacock's admirable contribution to english literature. it is warranted to bring sunshine into every home." _country life._--"informed by a droll humour, quite unforced, mr. leacock reviews his little community for the sport of the thing, and the result is a natural and delightful piece of work." _daily telegraph._--"his sketches are so fresh and delightful in the manner of their presentation.... allowing for differences of theme, and of the human materials for study, mr. leacock strikes us as a sort of americanised mr. w. w. jacobs. like the english humorist, the canadian one has a delightfully fresh and amusing way of putting things, of suggesting more than he says, of narrating more or less ordinary happenings in an irresistibly comical fashion.... mr. leacock should be popular with readers who can appreciate fun shot with kindly satire." * * * * * by the same author behind the beyond and other contributions to human knowledge. with 16 illustrations by a. h. fish. _fifth edition. crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _punch._--"in his latest book, 'behind the beyond,' he is in brilliant scoring form. i can see 'behind the beyond' breaking up many homes; for no family will be able to stand the sudden sharp yelps of laughter which must infallibly punctuate the decent after-dinner silence when one of its members gets hold of this book. it is mr. leacock's peculiar gift that he makes you laugh out loud. when mr. leacock's literal translation of homer, on p. 193, met my eye, a howl of mirth broke from me. i also forgot myself over the interview with the photographer. as for the sketch which gives its title, to the book, it is the last word in polished satire. the present volume is mr. leacock at his best." _spectator._--"beneficent contributions to the gaiety of nations. the longest and best thing in the book is the delightful burlesque of a modern problem play. miss fish's illustrations are decidedly clever." _observer._--"there are delicious touches in it." _queen._--"all through the book the author furnishes a continual feast of enjoyment." _dundee advertiser._--"'behind the beyond' is a brilliant parody, and the other sketches are all of mr. leacock's very best, 'homer and humbug' being as fine a piece of raillery as mr. leacock has written. mr. leacock is a humorist of the first rank, unique in his own sphere, and this volume will add yet more to his reputation." _aberdeen free press._--"exquisite quality ... amazingly funny." _yorkshire daily post._--"in the skit on the problem play which gives the book its title the author reaches his high-water mark." _glasgow herald._--"another welcome addition to the gaiety of the nations. the title-piece is an inimitably clever skit. it is both genial and realistic, and there is a genuine laugh in every line of it. humour and artistry are finely blended in the drawings." _daily express._--"the pictures have genuine and rare distinction." * * * * * by the same author arcadian adventures with the idle rich _fourth edition_ _crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _spectator._--"a blend of delicious fooling and excellent satire. once more the author of 'literary lapses' has proved himself a benefactor of his kind." _morning post._--"all the 'adventures' are full of the fuel of the laughter which is an intellectual thing." _pall mall gazette._--"professor leacock shows no falling off either in his fund of social observation or his power of turning it to sarcasm and humour. the book is full to the brim with honest laughter and clever ideas." _bystander._--"it is necessary to laugh, now even more necessary than at ordinary times. fortunately, professor leacock produces a new book at the right moment. it will cause many chuckles. he is simply irresistible." _westminster gazette._--"marks a distinct advance in mr. leacock's artistic development." _daily chronicle._--"this altogether delightful and brilliant comedy of life.... mr. leacock's humour comes from the very depths of a strong personality, and in the midst of a thousand whimsicalities, a thousand searchlights on the puerilities of human nature he never loses touch with the essential bite of life." _saturday review._--"professor leacock is a delightful writer of irresponsible nonsense with a fresh and original touch. these 'arcadian adventures' are things of sheer delight." _tatler._--"i have not felt so full of eagerness and life since the war began as after i had read this delightfully humorous and clever book." _evening standard._--"in this book the satire is brilliantly conspicuous." * * * * * by the same author moonbeams from the larger lunacy _fourth edition_ _crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _times._--"such a perfect piece of social observation and joyful castigation as the description of the last man in europe ... the portrait of so-and-so is not likely to be forgotten ... it is so funny and so true." _morning post._--"excellent fooling ... wisdom made laughable." _daily chronicle._--"here is wit, fun, frolic, nonsense, verse, satire, comedy, criticism--a perfect gold mine for those who love laughter." _sunday times._--"very pungent and telling satire. buy the book--it will give you a happy hour." _standard._--"under the beams of the moon of his delight, the author never fails to be amusing." _pall mall gazette._--"mr. leacock's humour is a credit to canada, for it has a depth and a polish such as are both rare in the literature of a young nation." _land and water._--"unlike a number of so-called humorists, mr. leacock is really funny, as these sketches prove." _field._--"indeed a very pleasant hour can be spent with this author, who is full of humour, wit, and cleverness, and by his work adds much to the gaiety of life." _spectator._--"mr. leacock has added to our indebtedness by his new budget of refreshing absurdities.... in shooting folly as it flies, he launches darts that find their billet on both sides of the atlantic." * * * * * by the same author essays and literary studies _fifth edition. crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _truth._--"full of practical wisdom, as sober as it is sound." _morning post._--"he is the subtlest of all transatlantic humorists, and, as we have pointed out before, might almost be defined as the discoverer of a method combining english and american humour. but he never takes either his subject or himself too seriously, and the result is a book which is as readable as any of its mirthful predecessors." _world._--"those readers who fail to find pleasure in this new volume of essays will be difficult to please. here are discourses in the author's happiest vein." _daily news._--"all are delightful." _bystander._--"no sane person will object to professor leacock professing, so long as he periodically issues such good entertainment as 'essays and literary studies.'" _daily telegraph._--"the engaging talent of this canadian author has hitherto been exercised in the lighter realm of wit and fancy. in his latest volume there is the same irresistible humour, the same delicate satire, the same joyous freshness; but the wisdom he distils is concerned more with realities of our changing age." _outlook._--"mr. leacock's humour is his own, whimsical with the ease of a self-confident personality, far-sighted, quick-witted, and invariably humane." _times._--"professor leacock's paper on american humour is quite the best that we know upon the subject." _spectator._--"those of us who are grateful to mr. leacock as an intrepid purveyor of wholesome food for laughter have not failed to recognize that he mingles shrewdness with levity--that he is, in short, wise as well as merry." * * * * * by the same author further foolishness sketches and satires on the follies of the day with coloured frontispiece by "fish," and five other plates by m. blood _fourth edition. crown 8vo. 5s. net_ _morning post._--"an excellent antidote to war worry." _evening standard._--"you will acknowledge, if you have not done so before, the satirical keenness of mr. leacock." _daily graphic._--"the book is a joy all through, laughter on every page." _times._--"further examples of the diverting humour of professor leacock." _bystander._--"'further foolishness,' in a word, is the most admirable tonic which i can prescribe to-day ... the jolliest possible medley." _daily chronicle._--"mr. leacock's fun is fine and delicate, full of quaint surprises; guaranteed to provoke cheerfulness in the dullest. he is a master-humorist, and this book is one of the cleverest examples of honest humour and witty satire ever produced." _spectator._--"in this new budget of absurdities we are more than ever reminded of mr. leacock's essential affinity with artemus ward, in whose wildest extravagances there was nearly always a core of wholesome sanity, who was always on the side of the angels, and who was a true patriot as well as a great humorist." _pall mall gazette._--"a humorist of high excellence." _daily express._--"really clever and admirably good fun." _star._--"some day there will be a leacock club. its members will all possess a sense of humour." * * * * * by the same author frenzied fiction _fourth edition_ _crown 8vo. 5s. net_ "everything in 'frenzied fiction' is exhilarating. full of good things."--_morning post._ "more delightful samples of leacock humour. these delightful chapters show mr. leacock at his best." _daily graphic._ "stephen leacock has firmly established himself in public favour as one of our greatest humorists. his readers will be more than pleased with 'frenzied fiction.'"--_evening standard._ "it is enough to say that mr. leacock retains an unimpaired command of his happy gift of disguising sanity in the garb of the ludicrous. there is always an ultimate core of shrewd common-sense in his burlesques."--_spectator._ "full of mellow humour."--_daily mail._ "from beginning to end the book is one long gurgle of delight."--_world._ "if it is your first venture into the leacockian world read that delicious parody 'my revelations as a spy,' and we will be sworn that before you've turned half a dozen pages you will have become a life-member of the leacock lodge."--_town topics._ "when humour is such as you get in 'frenzied fiction' it is a very good thing indeed."--_sketch._ "there is always sufficient sense under stephen leacock's nonsense to enable one to read him at least twice."--_land and water._ * * * * * by the same author the hohenzollerns in america and other impossibilities _crown 8vo. 5s. net_ "equal in gay humour and deft satire to any of its predecessors, and no holiday will be so gay but this volume will make it gayer.... it is a book of rollicking good humour that will keep you chuckling long past summer-time."--_daily chronicle._ "at his best, full of whims and oddities ... the most cheerful of humorists and the wisest of wayside philosophers."--_daily telegraph._ "he has never provided finer food for quiet enjoyment ... his precious quality of rabelaisian humanism has matured and broadened in its sympathy."--_globe._ "in the author's merriest mood. all of it is distilled wit and wisdom of the best brand, full of honest laughter, fun and frolic, comedy and criticism."--_daily graphic._ "the book is inspired by that spirit of broad farce which runs glorious riot through nearly all that stephen leacock has written."--_bookman._ "he has all the energy and exuberance of the born humorist.... all admirers will recognize it as typical of mr. leacock's best work."--_manchester guardian._ "an entertaining volume."--_scotsman._ * * * * * by the same author the unsolved riddle of social justice _crown 8vo. 5s. net_ a discussion of the new social unrest, the transformation of society which it portends and the social catastrophe which it might precipitate. the point of view taken by the author leads towards the conclusion that the safety of the future lies in a progressive movement of social control alleviating at least the misery it cannot obliterate, and based upon the broad general principle of equality of opportunity, and a fair start. the chief immediate opportunities for social betterment, as the writer sees them, lie in the attempt to give every human being in childhood, education and opportunity. "his book is short, lucid, always to the point, and sometimes witty."--_times._ "a book for the times, suggestive, critical and highly stimulating. mr. leacock surveys the troubled hour and discusses the popular palliatives with a keen, unbiassed intelligence and splendid sympathy. i hope it will have as large a circulation as any of his humorous books, for it has much wisdom in it."--_daily chronicle._ "the charm of mr. leacock's book is ... that it deals tersely and clearly with the problem of social justice without technical jargon or any abuse of generalities."--_morning post._ * * * * * the humorous novels of harry leon wilson bunker bean ma pettengill somewhere in red gap ruggles of red gap _crown 8vo. 7s. net_ harry leon wilson is one of the first of american humorists, and in popularity he is a close rival of o. henry. his "ruggles of red gap," published at the beginning of the war, achieved a distinct success in england, while the raciness and vivacity of "ma pettengill" have furthered the author's reputation as an inimitable delineator of western comedy. an english edition of this author's works is in course of preparation, of which the above are the first volumes. "the author has the rare and precious gift of original humour."--_daily graphic._ "thackeray would have enjoyed mr. wilson's merry tale of 'ruggles of red gap.' a very triumph of farce."--_sunday times._ "mr. wilson is an american humorist of the first water. we have not for a long time seen anything so clever in its way and so outrageously funny."--_literary world._ london: john lane, the bodley head this ebook transcribed by les bowler the book of ballads edited by bon gaultier _with an introduction and notes_ illustrated by doyle, leech, and crowquill new edition william blackwood and sons edinburgh and london mcmiv _all rights reserved_ preface. a further edition of this book--the sixteenth--having been called for, i have been asked by the publishers to furnish a preface to it. for prefaces i have no love. books should speak for themselves. prefaces can scarcely be otherwise than egotistic, and one would not willingly add to the too numerous illustrations of this tendency with which the literature of the day abounds. i would much rather leave the volume with the simple "envoy" which i wrote for it when the bon gaultier ballads were first gathered into a volume. there the products of the dual authorship of aytoun and myself were ascribed to the bon gaultier under whose editorial auspices they had for the most part seen the light. but my publishers tell me that people want to know why, and how, and by which of us these poems were written,--curiosity, complimentary, no doubt, but which it is by no means easy for the surviving bard to satisfy. it is sixty years since most of these verses were written with the light heart and fluent pen of youth, and with no thought of their surviving beyond the natural life of ephemeral magazine pieces of humour. after a long and very crowded life, of which literature has occupied the smallest part, it is difficult for me to live back into the circumstances and conditions under which they were written, or to mark, except to a very limited extent, how far to aytoun, and how far to myself, separately, the contents of the volume are to be assigned. i found this difficult when i wrote aytoun's life in 1867, and it is necessarily a matter of greater difficulty now in 1903. i can but endeavour to show how aytoun and i came together, and how for two or three years we worked together in literature. aytoun (born 21st june 1813) was three years older than myself, and he was known already as a writer in 'blackwood's magazine' when i made his acquaintance in 1841. for some years i had been writing in tait's and fraser's magazines, and elsewhere, articles and verses, chiefly humorous, both in prose and verse, under the _nom de guerre_ of bon gaultier. this name, which seemed a good one for the author of playful and occasionally satirical papers, had caught my fancy in rabelais, {vii} where he says of himself, "a moy n'est que honneur et gloire d'estre diet et repute bon gaultier et bon compaignon; en ce nom, suis bien venue en toutes bonnes compaignees de pantagruelistes." it was to one of these papers that i owed my introduction to aytoun. what its nature was may be inferred from its title--"flowers of hemp; or, the newgate garland. by one of the family." like most of the papers on which we subsequently worked together, the object was not merely to amuse, but also to strike at some prevailing literary craze or vitiation of taste. i have lived to see many such crazes since. every decade seems to produce one. but the particular craze against which this paper was directed was the popularity of novels and songs, of which the ruffians of the newgate calendar were the accepted heroes. if my memory does not deceive me, it began with harrison ainsworth's 'rookwood,' in which the gallantries of dick turpin, and the brilliant description of his famous ride to york, caught the public fancy. encouraged by the success of this book, ainsworth next wooed the sympathies of the public for jack sheppard and his associates in his novel of that name. the novel was turned into a melodrama, in which mrs keeley's clever embodiment of that "marvellous boy" made for months and months the fortunes of the adelphi theatre; while the sonorous musical voice of paul bedford as blueskin in the same play brought into vogue a song with the refrain, "nix my dolly, pals, fake away!" which travelled everywhere, and made the patter of thieves and burglars "familiar in our mouths as household words." it deafened us in the streets, where it was as popular with the organ-grinders and german bands as sullivan's brightest melodies ever were in a later day. it clanged at midday from the steeple of st giles, the edinburgh cathedral; {ix} it was whistled by every dirty "gutter-snipe," and chanted in drawing-rooms by fair lips, that, little knowing the meaning of the words they sang, proclaimed to their admiring friends- "in a box of the stone jug i was born, of a hempen widow the kid forlorn; my noble father, as i've heard say, was a famous marchant of capers gay;" ending with the inevitable and insufferable chorus, "nix my dolly, pals, fake away!" soon after the newgate calendar was appealed to for a hero by the author of 'pelham,' who had already won no small distinction, and who in his 'paul clifford' did his best to throw a halo of romance around the highwayman's career. not satisfied with this, bulwer next claimed the sympathies of his readers for eugene aram, and exalted a very common type of murderer into a nobly minded and highly sentimental scholar. crime and criminals became the favourite theme of a multitude of novelists of a lower class. they even formed the central interest of the 'oliver twist' of charles dickens, whose fagin and his pupil "the artful dodger," bill sykes and nancy, were simultaneously presented to us in their habits as they lived by the genius of george cruikshank, with a power that gave a double interest to dickens's masterly delineation of these worthies. the time seemed--in 1841--to have come to open people's eyes to the dangerous and degrading taste of the hour, and it struck me that this might be done by pushing to still further extravagance the praises which had been lavishly bestowed upon the gentlemen whose career generally terminated in newgate or on the tyburn tree, and by giving "the accomplishment of verse" to the sentiments and the language which formed the staple of the popular thieves' literature of the circulating libraries. the medium chosen was the review of a manuscript, supposed to be sent to the writer by a man who had lived so fully up to his own convictions as to the noble vocation of those who set law at defiance, and lived by picking pockets, burglary, and highway robbery, diversified by an occasional murder, that, with the finisher of the law's assistance, he had ended his exploits in what the slang of his class called "a breakfast of hartichoke with caper sauce." how hateful the phrase! but it was one of many such popularly current in those days. the author of my "thieves' anthology" was described in my paper as a well-born man of good education, who, having ruined himself by his bad habits, had fallen into the criminal ranks, but had not forgotten the _literae humaniores_ which he had learned at the heidelberg university. of the purpose with which he had written he spoke thus in what i described as the fragments of a preface to his miscellany:- "to rescue from oblivion the martyrs of independence, to throw around the mighty names that flash upon us from the squalor of the chronicles of newgate the radiance of a storied imagination, to clothe the gibbet and the hulks 'in golden exhalations of the dawn,' and secure for the boozing-ken and the gin-palace that hold upon the general sympathies which has too long been monopolised by the cottage and the drawing-room, has been the aim and the achievement of many recent authors of distinction. how they have succeeded, let the populous state of the public jails attest. the office of 'dubsman' [hangman] has ceased to be a sinecure, and the public and mr joseph hume have the satisfaction of knowing that these useful functionaries have now got something to do for their salaries. the number of their pupils has increased, is increasing, and is not likely to be diminished. but much remains to be done. many an untenanted cell still echoes only to the sighs of its own loneliness. new jails are rising around us, which require to be filled. the penitentiary presently erecting at perth is of the most commodious description. "in this state of things i have bethought myself of throwing, in the words of goethe, 'my corn into the great seed-field of time,' in the hope that it may blossom to purposes of great public utility. the aid of poetry has hitherto been but partially employed in the spread of a taste for conveyancing, especially in its higher branches. or where the muse has shown herself, it has been but in the evanescent glimpses of a song. she has plumed her wings for no sustained flight. . . . "the power of poetry over the heart and impulses of man has been recognised by all writers from aristotle down to serjeant talfourd. in dexterous hands it has been known to subvert a severe chastity by the insinuations of a holy flame, to clothe impurity in vestments 'bright with something of an angel light,' to exalt spleen into elevation of soul, and selfishness into a noble scorn of the world, and, with the ringing cadences of an enthusiastic style, to ennoble the vulgar and to sanctify the low. how much may be done, with an engine of such power, in increasing the numbers of 'the family' may be conceived. the muse of faking, fair daughter of the herald mercury, claims her place among 'the mystic nine.' her language, erewhile slumbering in the pages of the flash dictionary, now lives upon the lips of all, even in the most fashionable circles. ladies accost crossing-sweepers as 'dubsmen'; whist-players are generally spoken of in gambling families as '_dummy_-hunters'; children in their nursery sports are accustomed to 'nix their dolls'; and the all but universal summons to exertion of every description is 'fake away!' "'words are things,' says apollonius of tyana. we cannot be long familiar with a symbol without becoming intimate with that which it expresses. let the public mind, then, be in the habit of associating these and similar expressions with passages of poetical power, let the ideas they import be imbedded in their hearts and glorified in their imaginations, and the fairest results may with confidence be anticipated." in song and sonnet and ballad these views were illustrated and enforced. they served the purpose of the ridicule which it was hoped might operate to cure people of the prevailing toleration for the romance of the slums and the thieves' kitchen. naturally parody was freely used. wordsworth did not escape. his "milton, thou shouldst be living at this hour," found its echo in "turpin, thou shouldst be living at this hour, england hath need of thee," &c. and his "great men have been among us," &c., was perverted into "great men have been among us,--names that lend a lustre to our calling; better none; maclaine, duval, dick turpin, barrington, blueskin and others, who called sheppard friend. . . . . . . . now, 'tis strange, we never see such souls as we had then; perpetual larcenies and such small change! no single cracksman paramount, no code, no master spirit, that will take the road, but equal dearth of pluck and highwaymen!" nor did even shelley's magnificent sonnet "ozymandias" escape the profane hand of the burglar poet. he wrote,- "i met a cracksman coming down the strand, who said, 'a huge cathedral, piled of stone, stands in a churchyard, near st martin's le grand, where keeps saint paul his sacerdotal throne. a street runs by it to the northward. there for cab and bus is writ 'no thoroughfare,' the mayor and councilmen do so command. and in that street a shop, with many a box, upon whose sign these fateful words i scanned: 'my name is chubb, who makes the patent locks; look on my works, ye burglars, and despair!' here made he pause, like one that sees a blight mar all his hopes, and sighed with drooping air, 'our game is up, my covies, blow me tight!'" the versatile genius of the poet was equally at home in the simpler lyric region of the haynes bayley school. taking for his model the favourite drawing-room ballad of the period, "she wore a wreath of roses the night that first we met," he made a parody of its rhythmical cadence the medium for presenting some leading incidents in the career of a circe of "the boozing ken," as thus,- "she wore a rouge like roses the night that first we met; her lovely mug was smiling o'er mugs of heavy wet; her red lips had the fulness, her voice the husky tone, that told her drink was of a kind where water was unknown." then after a few more glimpses of this charming creature in her downward progress, the bard wound up with this characteristic close to her public life,- "i saw her but a moment, but methinks i see her now, as she dropped the judge a curtsey, and he made her a bow." but it would be out of place to dwell longer upon those reckless imitations. the only poem which ultimately found a place in the bon gaultier volume was "the death of duval." the paper was a success. aytoun was taken by it, and sought an introduction to me by our common friend edward forbes the eminent naturalist, then a leading spirit among the students of the edinburgh university, beloved and honoured by all who knew him. aytoun's name was familiar to me from his contributions to 'blackwood's magazine,' and i was well pleased to make his acquaintance, which rapidly grew into intimate friendship, as it could not fail to do with a man of a nature so manly and genial, and so full of spontaneous humour, as well as of marked literary ability. his fancy had been caught by some of the things i had written in this and other papers under the name of bon gaultier, and when i proposed to go on with articles in a similar vein, he fell readily into the plan and agreed to assist in it. thus a kind of beaumont and fletcher partnership was formed, which commenced in a series of humorous papers that were published in tait's and fraser's magazines during the years 1842, 1843, and 1844. in these papers appeared, with a few exceptions, the verses which form the present volume. they were only a portion, but no doubt the best portion, of a great number of poems and parodies which made the chief attraction of papers under such headings as "puffs and poetry," "my wife's album," "the poets of the day," and "cracknels for christmas." in the last of these the parody appeared under the name of "the jilted gent, by theodore smifzer," which, as "the lay of the lovelorn," has become perhaps the most popular of the series. i remember well aytoun bringing to me some ten or a dozen lines of admirable parody of "locksley hall." that poem had been published about two years before, and was at the time by no means widely known, but was enthusiastically admired by both aytoun and myself. what these lines were i cannot now be sure, but certainly they were some of the best in the poem. they were too good to appear as a fragment in the paper i was engaged upon, and i set to work to mould them into the form of a complete poem, in which it is now known. it was introduced in the paper thus:- "there is a peculiar atrocity in the circumstances which gave rise to the following poem, that stirs even the dead sea of our sensibilities. the lady appears to have carried on a furious flirtation with the bard--a cousin of her own--which she, naturally perhaps, but certainly cruelly, terminated by marrying an old east indian nabob, with a complexion like curry powder, innumerable lacs of rupees, and a woful lack of liver. a refusal by one's cousin is a domestic treason of the most ruthless kind; and, assuming the author's statement to be substantially correct, we must say that the lady's conduct was disgraceful. what her sensations must be on reading the following passionate appeal we cannot of course divine; but if one spark of feeling lingers in her bosom, she must, for four-and-twenty hours at least, have little appetite for mulligatawny." the reviewer then quotes the poem down to the general commination, ending with "cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole concern!" he then resumes his commentary:- "this sweeping system of anathema may be consonant to what the philosophers call a high and imaginative mood of passion, but it is surely as unjust as any fulminations that ever emanated from the papal chair. no doubt cousin amy behaved shockingly; but why, on that account, should the bank of england, incorporated by royal charter, or the most respectable practitioner who prepared the settlements, along with his innocent clerk, be handed over to the uncovenanted mercies of the foul fiend? no, no, smifzer, this will never do! in a more manly strain is what follows." the remainder of the poem is then given, ending with, "rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin amy!" and the critic resumes:- "bravo, smifzer! this is the right sort of thing--no wishy-washy snivelling about a wounded heart and all that kind of stuff, but savage sarcasm, the lava of a volcanic spirit. in a fine prophetic strain is that vision of amy's feelings as the inebriated nawab stumbles hazily into the drawing-room, steaming fulsomely of chilma! and that picture of the african jungle, with smifzer _in puris_ mounted on a high-trotting giraffe, with his twelve dusky brides around him,--cruikshank alone could do it justice. but the triumph of the poem is in the high-toned sentiment of civilisation and moral duty, which, esteeming 'the grey barbarian' lower than the 'christian cad,'--and that is low enough in all conscience,--tears the captivating delusions of freedom and polygamy from the poet's eyes, even when his pulse is throbbing at the wildest, and sends him from the shades of the palm and the orange tree to the advertising columns of the 'morning post.' this is indeed a great poem, and we need only add that the reader will find something like it in mr alfred tennyson's 'locksley hall.' there has been pilfering somewhere; but messieurs smifzer and tennyson must settle it between them." how little did i dream, when writing this, that i should hear the parody quoted through the years up till now almost as often as the original poem! smifzer was wiser than tennyson, for he never spoiled the effect of his poem by admitting, like tennyson in his "locksley hall, sixty years after," that it was a good thing that "spider-hearted" amy threw him over as she did. luckily for us, not a few poets were then living whose style and manner of thought were sufficiently marked to make imitation easy, and sufficiently popular for a parody of their characteristics to be readily recognised. lockhart's "spanish ballads" were as familiar in the drawing-room as in the study. macaulay's "lays of ancient rome," and his two other fine ballads, were still in the freshness of their fame. tennyson and mrs browning were opening up new veins. these, with moore, leigh hunt, uhland, and others of minor note, lay ready to our hands, as scott, byron, crabbe, coleridge, moore, wordsworth, and southey had done to james and horace smith in 1812, when writing the "rejected addresses." never, probably, were verses thrown off with a keener sense of enjoyment, and assuredly the poets parodied had no warmer admirers than ourselves. very pleasant were the hours when we met, and now aytoun and now myself would suggest the subjects for each successive article, and the verses with which they were to be illustrated. most commonly this was done in our rambles to favourite spots in the suburbs of "our own romantic town," on arthur seat, or by the shores of the forth, and at other times as we sat together of an evening, when the duties of the day were over, and joined in putting line after line together until the poem was completed. in writing thus for our own amusement we never dreamed that these "nugae literariae" would live beyond the hour. it was, therefore, a pleasant surprise when we found to what an extent they became popular, not only in england, but also in america, which had come in for no small share of severe though well-meant ridicule. in those days who could say what fate might have awaited us had we visited the states, and aytoun been known to be the author of "the lay of mr colt" and "the fight with the snapping turtle," or myself as the chronicler of "the death of jabez dollar" and "the alabama duel"? as it was, our transatlantic friends took a liberal revenge by instantly pirating the volume, and selling it by thousands with a contemptuous disregard of author's copyright. for aytoun the extravagances of melodrama and the feats and eccentricities of the arena at astley's amphitheatre had always a peculiar charm. "the terrible fitzball," the english dumas, in quantity, not quality, of melodrama, gomersal, one of the chief equestrians, and widdicomb, the master of the ring at astley's, were three of his favourite heroes. ducrow, manager of astley's, the most daring and graceful of equestrians, and the fair miss woolford, the star of his troupe, had charms irresistible for all lovers of the circus. in aytoun's enthusiasm i fully shared. mine found expression in "the courtship of our cid," aytoun's in "don fernando gomersalez," in which i recognise many of my own lines, but of which the conception and the best part of the verses were his. years afterwards his delight in the glories of the ring broke out in the following passage in a too-good-to-be-forgotten article in 'blackwood,' which, to those who may never hope to see in any circus anything so inspiring, so full of an imaginative glamour, may give some idea of the nightly scenes in the halcyon days of astley's:- "we delight to see, at never-failing astley's, the revived glories of british prowess--wellington in the midst of his staff, smiling benignantly on the facetious pleasantries of a fitzroy somerset--sergeant m'craw of the forty-second delighting the _elite_ of brussels by the performance of the reel of tullochgorum at the duchess of richmond's ball--the charge of the scots greys--the single-handed combat of marshal ney and the infuriated life-guardsman shaw--and the final retreat of napoleon amidst a volley of roman candles and the flames of an arsenicated hougomont. nor is our gratification less to discern, after the subsiding of the showers of sawdust so gracefully scattered by that groom in the doeskin integuments, the stately form of widdicomb, cased in martial apparel, advancing towards the centre of the ring, and commanding--with imperious gesture, and some slight flagellation in return for dubious compliment--the double-jointed clown to assist the signora cavalcanti to her seat upon the celebrated arabian. how lovely looks the lady, as she vaults to her feet upon the breadth of the yielding saddle! with what inimitable grace does she whirl these tiny banners around her head, as winningly as a titania performing the sword exercise! how coyly does she dispose her garments and floating drapery to hide the too-maddening symmetry of her limbs! gods! she is transformed all at once into an amazon--the fawn-like timidity of her first demeanour is gone. bold and beautiful flushes her cheek with animated crimson--her full voluptuous lip is more compressed and firm--the deep passion of the huntress flashing in her lustrous eyes! widdicomb becomes excited--he moves with quicker step around the periphery of his central circle--incessant is the smacking of his whip--not this time directed against mr merriman, who at his ease is enjoying a swim upon the sawdust--and lo! the grooms rush in, six bars are elevated in a trice, and over them all bounds the volatile signora like a panther, nor pauses until with airy somersets she has passed twice through the purgatory of the blazing hoop, and then, drooping and exhausted, sinks like a sabine into the arms of the herculean master, who--a second romulus--bears away his lovely burden to the stables, amid such a whirlwind of applause as kemble might have been proud to earn." astley's has long been levelled with the dust; it is many years since widdicomb, gomersal, ducrow, and the woolford passed into the silent land. may their memory be preserved for yet a few years to come in the mirthful strains of two of their most ardent and grateful admirers! of the longer poems in this volume the following were exclusively aytoun's: "the broken pitcher," "the massacre of the macpherson," "the rhyme of sir launcelot bogle," "little john and the red friar," "a midnight meditation," and that admirable imitation of the scottish ballad, "the queen in france." some of the shorter poems were also his--"the lay of the levite," "tarquin and the augur," "la mort d'arthur," "the husband's petition," and the "sonnet to britain." the rest were either wholly mine or produced by us jointly. after 1844 the bon gaultier co-operation ceased. my profession and removal from edinburgh to london left no leisure or opportunity for work of that kind, and aytoun became busy with the professorship of belles lettres in the university and with his work at the bar and on 'blackwood's magazine.' we had also during the bon gaultier period worked together in a series of translations of goethe's poems and ballads for 'blackwood's magazine,' which, like the bon gaultier ballads, were collected, added to, and published in a volume a year or two afterwards. in 1845 i left edinburgh for london, and only met aytoun at intervals there or at homburg in the future years; but our friendship was kept alive by active correspondence. literature was naturally his vocation, and he wrote much and well, with exemplary industry, enlivening his papers in 'blackwood,' till his death in august 1865, with the same manly sense, the same playfulness of fancy and flow of spontaneous humour, which made his society and his letters always delightful to his friends. "multis ille bonis flebilis occidit, nulli flebilior quam mihi!" the first edition of this book, now very rare, appeared in 1845. it was illustrated by alfred henry forrester (alfred crowquill). in the subsequent editions drawings by richard doyle and john leech, in a kindred spirit of fanciful extravagance, were added, and helped materially towards the attractions of the volume. its popularity surpassed the utmost expectations of the authors. to them not the least pleasant feature of its success was that it was widely read both in the navy and the army, and was nowhere more in demand than in the trenches before sebastopol in 1854. theodore martin. 31 onslow square, _october_ 1903. list of editions of the bon gaultier ballads. edition. 1 1845 16mo illustrated by alfred crowquill. 2 1849 sm. 4to illustrated by alfred crowquill and richard doyle. with portrait of "bon gaultier," illuminated title-page, and ornamental borders. 3 [1849] " illustrated by alfred crowquill, richard doyle, and john leech. first edition with corner cartoons. 4 [1855] " illustrated by the same. second edition with corner cartoons. 5 1857 " the editions 5 to 17 were illustrated by doyle, leech, and crowquill. 6 1859 " 7 1861 " 8 1864 " 9 1866 " the 16th and 17th editions being the third and fourth with corner cartoons. 10 1868 " 11 1870 " 12 1874 " 13 1877 " 14 1884 crown 8vo 15 1889 " 16 1903 sm. 4to 17 1904 " contents. page preface, v l'envoy, xxxiii _spanish ballads_ the broken pitcher, 3 don fernando gomersalez: from the spanish of astley's, 7 the courtship of our cid, 24 _american ballads_ the fight with the snapping turtle; or, the american st george:- fytte first, 35 fytte second, 39 the lay of mr colt: streak the first, 45 streak the second, 47 the death of jabez dollar, 53 the alabama duel, 59 the american's apostrophe to "boz", 66 _miscellaneous ballads_ the student of jena, 75 the lay of the levite, 80 bursch groggenburg, 82 night and morning, 87 the biter bit, 89 the convict and the australian lady, 92 the doleful lay of the honourable i. o. uwins, 96 the knyghte and the taylzeour's daughter, 103 the midnight visit, 110 the lay of the lovelorn, 116 my wife's cousin, 130 the queen in france: an ancient scottish ballad: part i., 135 part ii., 143 the massacre of the macpherson: from the gaelic, 150 the laureates' tourney:- fytte the first, 156 fytte the second, 161 the royal banquet, 166 the bard of erin's lament, 171 the laureate, 173 a midnight meditation, 177 montgomery: a poem, 182 little john and the red friar: a lay of sherwood:- fytte the first, 186 fytte the second, 192 the rhyme of sir launcelot bogle : a legend of glasgow, 201 _illustrations of the puff poetical_ the death of ishmael, 221 parr's life pills, 223 tarquin and the augur, 226 la mort d'arthur, 228 jupiter and the indian ale, 229 the lay of the doudney brothers, 232 paris and helen, 235 a warning, 238 to persons about to marry, 239 want places, 241 _miscellaneous poems_ the lay of the lover's friend, 245 francesca da rimini, 249 the cadi's daughter: a legend of the bosphorus, 253 the dirge of the drinker, 258 the death of duval, 261 eastern serenade, 267 dame fredegonde, 271 song of the ennuye, 276 the death of space, 279 caroline, 281 to a forget-me-not, 284 the meeting, 286 the mishap, 288 comfort in affliction, 291 the invocation, 293 the husband's petition, 297 sonnet to britain, 301 l'envoy. come, buy my lays, and read them if you list; my pensive public, if you list not, buy. come, for you know me. i am he who sang of mister colt, and i am he who framed of widdicomb the wild and wondrous song. come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear how wordsworth, battling for the laureate's wreath, bore to the dust the terrible fitzball; how n. p. willis for his country's good, in complete steel, all bowie-knived at point, took lodgings in the snapping turtle's womb. come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear the mingled music of all modern bards floating aloft in such peculiar strains, as strike themselves with envy and amaze; for you "bright-harped" tennyson shall sing; macaulay chant a more than roman lay; and bulwer lytton, lytton bulwer erst, unseen amidst a metaphysic fog, howl melancholy homage to the moon; for you once more montgomery shall rave in all his rapt rabidity of rhyme; nankeened cockaigne shall pipe his puny note, and our young england's penny trumpet blow. spanish ballads the broken pitcher. it was a moorish maiden was sitting by a well, and what the maiden thought of, i cannot, cannot tell, when by there rode a valiant knight from the town of oviedo-alphonzo guzman was he hight, the count of tololedo. "oh, maiden, moorish maiden, why sit'st thou by the spring? say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing? why dost thou look upon me, with eyes so dark and wide, and wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?" "i do not seek a lover, thou christian knight so gay, because an article like that hath never come my way; and why i gaze upon you, i cannot, cannot tell, except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell. "my pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,-a shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss; i would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word i spoke, but scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke. "my uncle, the alcayde, he waits for me at home, and will not take his tumbler until zorayda come: i cannot bring him water--the pitcher is in pieces-and so i'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all his nieces." "oh, maiden, moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled by me? then wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three; and i'll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady, to carry home the water to thy uncle, the alcayde." he lighted down from off his steed--he tied him to a tree-he bent him to the maiden, and he took his kisses three; "to wrong thee, sweet zorayda, i swear would be a sin!" and he knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in. up rose the moorish maiden--behind the knight she steals, and caught alphonzo guzman in a twinkling by the heels: she tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bubbling water,-"now, take thou that for venturing to kiss al hamet's daughter!" a christian maid is weeping in the town of oviedo; she waits the coming of her love, the count of tololedo. i pray you all in charity, that you will never tell, how he met the moorish maiden beside the lonely well. don fernando gomersalez. _from the spanish of astley's_. don fernando gomersalez! {7} basely have they borne thee down; paces ten behind thy charger is thy glorious body thrown; fetters have they bound upon thee--iron fetters, fast and sure; don fernando gomersalez, thou art captive to the moor! long within a dingy dungeon pined that brave and noble knight, for the saracenic warriors well they knew and feared his might; long he lay and long he languished on his dripping bed of stone, till the cankered iron fetters ate their way into his bone. on the twentieth day of august--'twas the feast of false mahound-came the moorish population from the neighbouring cities round; there to hold their foul carousal, there to dance and there to sing, and to pay their yearly homage to al-widdicomb, {8} the king! first they wheeled their supple coursers, wheeled them at their utmost speed, then they galloped by in squadrons, tossing far the light jereed; then around the circus racing, faster than the swallow flies, did they spurn the yellow sawdust in the rapt spectators' eyes. proudly did the moorish monarch every passing warrior greet, as he sate enthroned above them, with the lamps beneath his feet; "tell me, thou black-bearded cadi! are there any in the land, that against my janissaries dare one hour in combat stand?" then the bearded cadi answered--"be not wroth, my lord the king, if thy faithful slave shall venture to observe one little thing; valiant, doubtless, are thy warriors, and their beards are long and hairy, and a thunderbolt in battle is each bristly janissary: "but i cannot, o my sovereign, quite forget that fearful day, when i saw the christian army in its terrible array; when they charged across the footlights like a torrent down its bed, with the red cross floating o'er them, and fernando at their head! "don fernando gomersalez! matchless chieftain he in war, mightier than don sticknejo, {11} braver than the cid bivar! not a cheek within grenada, o my king, but wan and pale is, when they hear the dreaded name of don fernando gomersalez!" "thou shalt see thy champion, cadi! hither quick the captive bring!" thus in wrath and deadly anger spoke al-widdicomb, the king: "paler than a maiden's forehead is the christian's hue, i ween, since a year within the dungeons of grenada he hath been!" then they brought the gomersalez, and they led the warrior in; weak and wasted seemed his body, and his face was pale and thin; but the ancient fire was burning, unsubdued, within his eye, and his step was proud and stately, and his look was stern and high. scarcely from tumultuous cheering could the galleried crowd refrain, for they knew don gomersalez and his prowess in the plain; but they feared the grizzly despot and his myrmidons in steel, so their sympathy descended in the fruitage of seville. {12} "wherefore, monarch, hast thou brought me from the dungeon dark and drear, where these limbs of mine have wasted in confinement for a year? dost thou lead me forth to torture?--rack and pincers i defy! is it that thy base grotesquos may behold a hero die?" "hold thy peace, thou christian caitiff, and attend to what i say! thou art called the starkest rider of the spanish cur's array if thy courage be undaunted, as they say it was of yore, thou mayst yet achieve thy freedom,--yet regain thy native shore. "courses three within this circus 'gainst my warriors shalt thou run, ere yon weltering pasteboard ocean shall receive yon muslin sun; victor--thou shalt have thy freedom; but if stretched upon the plain, to thy dark and dreary dungeon they shall hale thee back again." "give me but the armour, monarch, i have worn in many a field, give me but my trusty helmet, give me but my dinted shield; and my old steed, bavieca, swiftest courser in the ring, and i rather should imagine that i'll do the business, king!" then they carried down the armour from the garret where it lay, oh! but it was red and rusty, and the plumes were shorn away: and they led out bavieca from a foul and filthy van, for the conqueror had sold him to a moorish dog's-meat man. when the steed beheld his master, loud he whinnied loud and free, and, in token of subjection, knelt upon each broken knee; and a tear of walnut largeness to the warrior's eyelids rose, as he fondly picked a bean-straw from his coughing courser's nose. "many a time, o bavieca, hast thou borne me through the fray! bear me but again as deftly through the listed ring this day; or if thou art worn and feeble, as may well have come to pass, time it is, my trusty charger, both of us were sent to grass!" then he seized his lance, and, vaulting, in the saddle sate upright; marble seemed the noble courser, iron seemed the mailed knight; and a cry of admiration burst from every moorish lady. "five to four on don fernando!" cried the sable-bearded cadi. warriors three from alcantara burst into the listed space, warriors three, all bred in battle, of the proud alhambra race: trumpets sounded, coursers bounded, and the foremost straight went down, tumbling, like a sack of turnips, right before the jeering clown. in the second chieftain galloped, and he bowed him to the king, and his saddle-girths were tightened by the master of the ring; through three blazing hoops he bounded ere the desperate fight began-don fernando! bear thee bravely!--'tis the moor abdorrhaman! like a double streak of lightning, clashing in the sulphurous sky, met the pair of hostile heroes, and they made the sawdust fly; and the moslem spear so stiffly smote on don fernando's mail, that he reeled, as if in liquor, back to bavieca's tail: but he caught the mace beside him, and he gripped it hard and fast, and he swung it starkly upwards as the foeman bounded past; and the deadly stroke descended through the skull and through the brain, as ye may have seen a poker cleave a cocoa-nut in twain. sore astonished was the monarch, and the moorish warriors all, save the third bold chief, who tarried and beheld his brethren fall; and the clown, in haste arising from the footstool where he sat, notified the first appearance of the famous acrobat; never on a single charger rides that stout and stalwart moor,-five beneath his stride so stately bear him o'er the trembling floor; five arabians, black as midnight--on their necks the rein he throws, and the outer and the inner feel the pressure of his toes. {18} never wore that chieftain armour; in a knot himself he ties, with his grizzly head appearing in the centre of his thighs, till the petrified spectator asks, in paralysed alarm, where may be the warrior's body,--which is leg, and which is arm? "sound the charge!" the coursers started; with a yell and furious vault, high in air the moorish champion cut a wondrous somersault; o'er the head of don fernando like a tennis-ball he sprung, caught him tightly by the girdle, and behind the crupper hung. then his dagger don fernando plucked from out its jewelled sheath, and he struck the moor so fiercely, as he grappled him beneath, that the good damascus weapon sank within the folds of fat, and as dead as julius caesar dropped the gordian acrobat. meanwhile fast the sun was sinking--it had sunk beneath the sea, ere fernando gomersalez smote the latter of the three; and al-widdicomb, the monarch, pointed, with a bitter smile, to the deeply-darkening canvas;--blacker grew it all the while. "thou hast slain my warriors, spaniard! but thou hast not kept thy time; only two had sunk before thee ere i heard the curfew chime; back thou goest to thy dungeon, and thou may'st be wondrous glad, that thy head is on thy shoulders for thy work to-day, my lad! "therefore all thy boasted valour, christian dog, of no avail is!" dark as midnight grew the brow of don fernando gomersalez:-stiffly sate he in his saddle, grimly looked around the ring, laid his lance within the rest, and shook his gauntlet at the king. "oh, thou foul and faithless traitor! wouldst thou play me false again? welcome death and welcome torture, rather than the captive's chain! but i give thee warning, caitiff! look thou sharply to thine eye-unavenged, at least in harness, gomersalez shall not die!" thus he spoke, and bavieca like an arrow forward flew, right and left the moorish squadron wheeled to let the hero through; brightly gleamed the lance of vengeance--fiercely sped the fatal thrust-from his throne the moorish monarch tumbled lifeless in the dust. speed thee, speed thee, bavieca! speed thee faster than the wind! life and freedom are before thee, deadly foes give chase behind! speed thee up the sloping spring-board; o'er the bridge that spans the seas; yonder gauzy moon will light thee through the grove of canvas trees. close before thee pampeluna spreads her painted pasteboard gate! speed thee onward, gallant courser, speed thee with thy knightly freight! victory! the town receives them!--gentle ladies, this the tale is, which i learned in astley's circus, of fernando gomersalez. the courtship of our cid. what a pang of sweet emotion thrilled the master of the ring, when he first beheld the lady through the stable portal spring! midway in his wild grimacing stopped the piebald-visaged clown; and the thunders of the audience nearly brought the gallery down. donna inez woolfordinez! saw ye ever such a maid, with the feathers swaling o'er her, and her spangled rich brocade? in her fairy hand a horsewhip, on her foot a buskin small, so she stepped, the stately damsel, through the scarlet grooms and all. and she beckoned for her courser, and they brought a milk-white mare; proud, i ween, was that arabian such a gentle freight to bear: and the master moved to greet her, with a proud and stately walk; and, in reverential homage, rubbed her soles with virgin chalk. round she flew, as flora flying spans the circle of the year; and the youth of london, sighing, half forgot the ginger-beer-quite forgot the maids beside them; as they surely well might do, when she raised two roman candles, shooting fireballs red and blue! swifter than the tartar's arrow, lighter than the lark in flight, on the left foot now she bounded, now she stood upon the right. like a beautiful bacchante, here she soars, and there she kneels, while amid her floating tresses flash two whirling catherine wheels! hark! the blare of yonder trumpet! see, the gates are opened wide! room, there, room for gomersalez,- gomersalez in his pride! rose the shouts of exultation, rose the cat's triumphant call, as he bounded, man and courser, over master, clown, and all! donna inez woolfordinez! why those blushes on thy cheek? doth thy trembling bosom tell thee, he hath come thy love to seek! fleet thy arab, but behind thee he is rushing like a gale; one foot on his coal-black's shoulders, and the other on his tail! onward, onward, panting maiden! he is faint, and fails, for now by the feet he hangs suspended from his glistening saddle-bow. down are gone both cap and feather, lance and gonfalon are down! trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet, he has flung them to the clown. faint and failing! up he vaulteth, fresh as when he first began; all in coat of bright vermilion, 'quipped as shaw, the lifeguardsman; right and left his whizzing broadsword, like a sturdy flail, he throws; cutting out a path unto thee through imaginary foes. woolfordinez! speed thee onward! he is hard upon thy track,-paralysed is widdicombez, nor his whip can longer crack; he has flung away his broadsword, 'tis to clasp thee to his breast. onward!--see, he bares his bosom, tears away his scarlet vest; leaps from out his nether garments, and his leathern stock unties-as the flower of london's dustmen, now in swift pursuit he flies. nimbly now he cuts and shuffles, o'er the buckle, heel and toe! flaps his hands in his side-pockets, winks to all the throng below! onward, onward rush the coursers; woolfordinez, peerless girl, o'er the garters lightly bounding from her steed with airy whirl! gomersalez, wild with passion, danger--all but her--forgets; wheresoe'er she flies, pursues her, casting clouds of somersets! onward, onward rush the coursers; bright is gomersalez' eye; saints protect thee, woolfordinez, for his triumph sure is nigh! now his courser's flanks he lashes, o'er his shoulder flings the rein, and his feet aloft he tosses, holding stoutly by the mane! then, his feet once more regaining, doffs his jacket, doffs his smalls, and in graceful folds around him a bespangled tunic falls. pinions from his heels are bursting, his bright locks have pinions o'er them; and the public see with rapture maia's nimble son before them. speed thee, speed thee, woolfordinez! for a panting god pursues; and the chalk is very nearly rubbed from thy white satin shoes; every bosom throbs with terror, you might hear a pin to drop; all is hushed, save where a starting cork gives out a casual pop. one smart lash across his courser, one tremendous bound and stride, and our noble cid was standing by his woolfordinez' side! with a god's embrace he clasps her, raised her in his manly arms; and the stables' closing barriers hid his valour, and her charms! american ballads the fight with the snapping turtle; _or_, _the american st george_. fytte first. have you heard of philip slingsby, slingsby of the manly chest; how he slew the snapping turtle in the regions of the west? every day the huge cawana lifted up its monstrous jaws; and it swallowed langton bennett, and digested rufus dawes. riled, i ween, was philip slingsby, their untimely deaths to hear; for one author owed him money, and the other loved him dear. "listen now, sagacious tyler, whom the loafers all obey; what reward will congress give me, if i take this pest away?" then sagacious tyler answered, "you're the ring-tailed squealer! less than a hundred heavy dollars won't be offered you, i guess! "and a lot of wooden nutmegs in the bargain, too, we'll throw-only you just fix the critter. won't you liquor ere you go?" straightway leaped the valiant slingsby into armour of seville, with a strong arkansas toothpick screwed in every joint of steel. "come thou with me, cullen bryant, come with me, as squire, i pray; be the homer of the battle which i go to wage to-day." so they went along careering with a loud and martial tramp, till they neared the snapping turtle in the dreary swindle swamp. but when slingsby saw the water, somewhat pale, i ween, was he. "if i come not back, dear bryant, tell the tale to melanie! "tell her that i died devoted, victim to a noble task! han't you got a drop of brandy in the bottom of your flask?" as he spoke, an alligator swam across the sullen creek; and the two columbians started, when they heard the monster shriek; for a snout of huge dimensions rose above the waters high, and took down the alligator, as a trout takes down a fly. "'tarnal death! the snapping turtle!" thus the squire in terror cried; but the noble slingsby straightway drew the toothpick from his side. "fare thee well!" he cried, and dashing through the waters, strongly swam: meanwhile, cullen bryant, watching, breathed a prayer and sucked a dram. sudden from the slimy bottom was the snout again upreared, with a snap as loud as thunder,- and the slingsby disappeared. like a mighty steam-ship foundering, down the monstrous vision sank; and the ripple, slowly rolling, plashed and played upon the bank. still and stiller grew the water, hushed the canes within the brake; there was but a kind of coughing at the bottom of the lake. bryant wept as loud and deeply as a father for a son-"he's a finished 'coon, is slingsby, and the brandy's nearly done!" fytte second. in a trance of sickening anguish, cold and stiff, and sore and damp, for two days did bryant linger by the dreary swindle swamp; always peering at the water, always waiting for the hour when those monstrous jaws should open as he saw them ope before. still in vain;--the alligators scrambled through the marshy brake, and the vampire leeches gaily sucked the garfish in the lake. but the snapping turtle never rose for food or rose for rest, since he lodged the steel deposit in the bottom of his chest. only always from the bottom sounds of frequent coughing rolled, just as if the huge cawana had a most confounded cold. on the banks lay cullen bryant, as the second moon arose, gouging on the sloping greensward some imaginary foes; when the swamp began to tremble, and the canes to rustle fast, as though some stupendous body through their roots were crushing past. and the waters boiled and bubbled, and, in groups of twos and threes, several alligators bounded, smart as squirrels, up the trees. then a hideous head was lifted, with such huge distended jaws, that they might have held goliath quite as well as rufus dawes. paws of elephantine thickness dragged its body from the bay, and it glared at cullen bryant in a most unpleasant way. then it writhed as if in torture, and it staggered to and fro; and its very shell was shaken in the anguish of its throe: and its cough grew loud and louder, and its sob more husky thick! for, indeed, it was apparent that the beast was very sick. till, at last, a spasmy vomit shook its carcass through and through, and as if from out a cannon, all in armour slingsby flew. bent and bloody was the bowie which he held within his grasp; and he seemed so much exhausted that he scarce had strength to gasp-"gouge him, bryant! darn ye, gouge him! gouge him while he's on the shore!" bryant's thumbs were straightway buried where no thumbs had pierced before. right from out their bony sockets did he scoop the monstrous balls; and, with one convulsive shudder, dead the snapping turtle falls! * * * * * "post the tin, sagacious tyler!" but the old experienced file, leering first at clay and webster, answered, with a quiet smile-"since you dragged the 'tarnal crittur from the bottom of the ponds, here's the hundred dollars due you, _all in pennsylvanian bonds_!" {44} the lay of mr colt. [the story of mr colt, of which our lay contains merely the sequel, is this: a new york printer, of the name of adams, had the effrontery to call upon him one day for payment of an account, which the independent colt settled by cutting his creditor's head to fragments with an axe. he then packed his body in a box, and sprinkling it with salt, despatched it to a packet bound for new orleans. suspicions having been excited, he was seized and tried before judge kent. the trial is, perhaps, the most disgraceful upon the records of any country. the ruffian's mistress was produced in court, and examined, in disgusting detail, as to her connection with colt, and his movements during the days and nights succeeding the murder. the head of the murdered man was bandied to and fro in the court, handed up to the jury, and commented on by witnesses and counsel; and to crown the horrors of the whole proceeding, the wretch's own counsel, a mr emmet, commencing the defence with a cool admission that his client took the life of adams, and following it up by a detail of the whole circumstances of this most brutal murder in the first person, as though he himself had been the murderer, ended by telling the jury, that his client was "_entitled to the sympathy_ of a jury of his country," as "a young man just entering into life, _whose prospects, probably, have been permanently blasted_." colt was found guilty; but a variety of exceptions were taken to the charge by the judge, and after a long series of appeals, which _occupied more than a year from the date of conviction_, the sentence of death was ratified by governor seward. the rest of colt's story is told in our ballad.] streak the first. * * * * and now the sacred rite was done, and the marriage-knot was tied, and colt withdrew his blushing wife a little way aside; "let's go," he said, "into my cell; let's go alone, my dear; i fain would shelter that sweet face from the sheriff's odious leer. the jailer and the hangman, they are waiting both for me,-i cannot bear to see them wink so knowingly at thee! oh, how i loved thee, dearest! they say that i am wild, that a mother dares not trust me with the weasand of her child; they say my bowie-knife is keen to sliver into halves the carcass of my enemy, as butchers slay their calves. they say that i am stern of mood, because, like salted beef, i packed my quartered foeman up, and marked him 'prime tariff;' because i thought to palm him on the simple-souled john bull, and clear a small percentage on the sale at liverpool; it may be so, i do not know--these things, perhaps, may be; but surely i have always been a gentleman to thee! then come, my love, into my cell, short bridal space is ours,-nay, sheriff, never con thy watch--i guess there's good two hours. we'll shut the prison doors and keep the gaping world at bay, for love is long as 'tarnity, though i must die to-day!" streak the second. the clock is ticking onward, it nears the hour of doom, and no one yet hath entered into that ghastly room. the jailer and the sheriff, they are walking to and fro: and the hangman sits upon the steps, and smokes his pipe below. in grisly expectation the prison all is bound, and, save expectoration, you cannot hear a sound. the turnkey stands and ponders;- his hand upon the bolt,-"in twenty minutes more, i guess, 'twill all be up with colt!" but see, the door is opened! forth comes the weeping bride; the courteous sheriff lifts his hat, and saunters to her side,-"i beg your pardon, mrs c., but is your husband ready?" "i guess you'd better ask himself," replied the woeful lady. the clock is ticking onward, the minutes almost run, the hangman's pipe is nearly out, 'tis on the stroke of one. at every grated window, unshaven faces glare; there's puke, the judge of tennessee, and lynch, of delaware; and batter, with the long black beard, whom hartford's maids know well; and winkinson, from fish kill reach, the pride of new rochelle; elkanah nutts, from tarry town, the gallant gouging boy; and 'coon-faced bushwhack, from the hills that frown o'er modern troy; young julep, whom our willis loves, because, 'tis said, that he one morning from a bookstall filched the tale of "melanie;" and skunk, who fought his country's fight beneath the stripes and stars,-all thronging at the windows stood, and gazed between the bars. the little boys that stood behind (young thievish imps were they!) displayed considerable _nous_ on that eventful day; for bits of broken looking-glass they held aslant on high, and there a mirrored gallows-tree met their delighted eye. {49} the clock is ticking onward; hark! hark! it striketh one! each felon draws a whistling breath, "time's up with colt! he's done!" the sheriff cons his watch again, then puts it in his fob, and turning to the hangman, says- "get ready for the job." the jailer knocketh loudly, the turnkey draws the bolt, and pleasantly the sheriff says, "we're waiting, mister colt!" no answer! no! no answer! all's still as death within; the sheriff eyes the jailer, the jailer strokes his chin. "i shouldn't wonder, nahum, if it were as you suppose." the hangman looked unhappy, and the turnkey blew his nose. they entered. on his pallet the noble convict lay,-the bridegroom on his marriage-bed but not in trim array. his red right hand a razor held, fresh sharpened from the hone, and his ivory neck was severed, and gashed into the bone. * * * * and when the lamp is lighted in the long november days, and lads and lasses mingle at the shucking of the maize; when pies of smoking pumpkin upon the table stand, and bowls of black molasses go round from hand to hand; when slap-jacks, maple-sugared, are hissing in the pan, and cider, with a dash of gin, foams in the social can; when the goodman wets his whistle, and the goodwife scolds the child; and the girls exclaim convulsively, "have done, or i'll be riled!" when the loafer sitting next them attempts a sly caress, and whispers, "oh, you 'possum, you've fixed my heart, i guess!" with laughter and with weeping, then shall they tell the tale, how colt his foeman quartered, and died within the jail. the death of jabez dollar. [before the following poem, which originally appeared in 'fraser's magazine,' could have reached america, intelligence was received in this country of an affray in congress, very nearly the counterpart of that which the author has here imagined in jest. it was very clear, to any one who observed the then state of public planners in america, that such occurrences must happen, sooner or later. the americans apparently felt the force of the satire, as the poem was widely reprinted throughout the states. it subsequently returned to this country, embodied in an american work on american manners, where it characteristically appeared as the writer's own production; and it afterwards went the round of british newspapers, as an amusing satire, by an american, of his countrymen's foibles!] the congress met, the day was wet, van buren took the chair; on either side, the statesman pride of far kentuck was there. with moody frown, there sat calhoun, and slowly in his cheek his quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as webster rose to speak. upon that day, near gifted clay, a youthful member sat, and like a free american upon the floor he spat; then turning round to clay, he said, and wiped his manly chin, "what kind of locofoco's that, as wears the painter's skin?" "young man," quoth clay, "avoid the way of slick of tennessee; of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest gouger he; he chews and spits, as there he sits, and whittles at the chairs, and in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he bears. "avoid that knife. in frequent strife its blade, so long and thin, has found itself a resting-place his rivals' ribs within." but coward fear came never near young jabez dollar's heart,-"were he an alligator, i would rile him pretty smart!" then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward the chair; he saw the stately stripes and stars,--our country's flag was there! his heart beat high, with eldritch cry upon the floor he sprang, then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his first harangue. "who sold the nutmegs made of wood--the clocks that wouldn't figure? who grinned the bark off gum-trees dark--the everlasting nigger? for twenty cents, ye congress gents, through 'tarnity i'll kick that man, i guess, though nothing less than 'coonfaced colonel slick!" the colonel smiled--with frenzy wild,--his very beard waxed blue,-his shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he grew; he foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat below-he sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe. "oh! waken snakes, and walk your chalks!" he cried, with ire elate; "darn my old mother, but i will in wild cats whip my weight! oh! 'tarnal death, i'll spoil your breath, young dollar, and your chaffing,-look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them without laughing!" his knife he raised--with fury crazed, he sprang across the hall; he cut a caper in the air--he stood before them all: he never stopped to look or think if he the deed should do, but spinning sent the president, and on young dollar flew. they met--they closed--they sank--they rose,--in vain young dollar strove-for, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate colonel drove his bowie-blade deep in his side, and to the ground they rolled, and, drenched in gore, wheeled o'er and o'er, locked in each other's hold. with fury dumb--with nail and thumb--they struggled and they thrust, the blood ran red from dollar's side, like rain, upon the dust; he nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sank and died, reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning by his side. thus did he fall within the hall of congress, that brave youth; the bowie-knife has quenched his life of valour and of truth; and still among the statesmen throng at washington they tell how nobly dollar gouged his man--how gallantly he fell. the alabama duel. "young chaps, give ear, the case is clear. you, silas fixings, you pay mister nehemiah dodge them dollars as you're due. you are a bloody cheat,--you are. but spite of all your tricks, it is not in you judge lynch to do. no! nohow you can fix it!" thus spake judge lynch, as there he sat in alabama's forum, around he gazed, with legs upraised upon the bench before him; and, as he gave this sentence stern to him who stood beneath, still with his gleaming bowie-knife he slowly picked his teeth. it was high noon, the month was june, and sultry was the air, a cool gin-sling stood by his hand, his coat hung o'er his chair; all naked were his manly arms, and shaded by his hat, like an old senator of rome that simple archon sat. "a bloody cheat?--oh, legs and feet!" in wrath young silas cried; and springing high into the air, he jerked his quid aside. "no man shall put my dander up, or with my feelings trifle, as long as silas fixings wears a bowie-knife and rifle." "if your shoes pinch," replied judge lynch, "you'll very soon have ease; i'll give you satisfaction, squire, in any way you please; what are your weapons?--knife or gun?--at both i'm pretty spry!"; "oh! 'tarnal death, you're spry, you are?" quoth silas; "so am i!" hard by the town a forest stands, dark with the shades of time, and they have sought that forest dark at morning's early prime; lynch, backed by nehemiah dodge, and silas with a friend, and half the town in glee came down to see that contest's end. they led their men two miles apart, they measured out the ground; a belt of that vast wood it was, they notched the trees around; into the tangled brake they turned them off, and neither knew where he should seek his wagered foe, how get him into view. with stealthy tread, and stooping head, from tree to tree they passed, they crept beneath the crackling furze, they held their rifles fast: hour passed on hour, the noonday sun smote fiercely down, but yet no sound to the expectant crowd proclaimed that they had met. and now the sun was going down, when, hark! a rifle's crack! hush--hush! another strikes the air, and all their breath draw back,-then crashing on through bush and briar, the crowd from either side rush in to see whose rifle sure with blood the moss has dyed. weary with watching up and down, brave lynch conceived a plan, an artful dodge whereby to take at unawares his man; he hung his hat upon a bush, and hid himself hard by; young silas thought he had him fast, and at the hat let fly. it fell; up sprang young silas,--he hurled his gun away; lynch fixed him with his rifle, from the ambush where he lay. the bullet pierced his manly breast--yet, valiant to the last, young fixings drew his bowie-knife, and up his foxtail {64} cast. with tottering step and glazing eye he cleared the space between, and stabbed the air as stabs in grim macbeth the younger kean: brave lynch received him with a bang that stretched him on the ground, then sat himself serenely down till all the crowd drew round. they hailed him with triumphant cheers--in him each loafer saw the bearing bold that could uphold the majesty of law; and, raising him aloft, they bore him homewards at his ease,-that noble judge, whose daring hand enforced his own decrees. they buried silas fixings in the hollow where he fell, and gum-trees wave above his grave--that tree he loved so well; and the 'coons sit chattering o'er him when the nights are long and damp; but he sleeps well in that lonely dell, the dreary 'possum swamp. the american's apostrophe to boz. [so rapidly does oblivion do its work nowadays that the burst of amiable indignation with which america received the issue of his _american notes_ and _martin chuzzlewit_ is now almost wholly forgotten. not content with waging a universal rivalry in the piracy of the notes, columbia showered upon its author the riches of its own choice vocabulary of abuse; while some of her more fiery spirits threw out playful hints as to the propriety of gouging the "stranger," and furnishing him with a permanent suit of tar and feathers, in the then very improbable event of his paying them a second visit. the perusal of these animated expressions of free opinion suggested the following lines, which those who remember boz's book, and the festivities with which he was all but hunted to death, will at once understand. the object aimed at was to do justice to the bitterness and "immortal hate" of these thin-skinned sons of freedom. happily the storm passed over: dickens paid, in 1867-68, a second visit to the states, was well received, made a not inconsiderable fortune by his readings there, and confessed that he had judged his american hosts harshly on his former visit.] sneak across the wide atlantic, worthless london's puling child, better that its waves should bear thee, than the land thou hast reviled; better in the stifling cabin, on the sofa thou shouldst lie, sickening as the fetid nigger bears the greens and bacon by; better, when the midnight horrors haunt the strained and creaking ship, thou shouldst yell in vain for brandy with a fever-sodden lip; when amid the deepening darkness and the lamp's expiring shade, from the bagman's berth above thee comes the bountiful cascade, better than upon the broadway thou shouldst be at noonday seen, smirking like a tracy tupman with a mantalini mien, with a rivulet of satin falling o'er thy puny chest, worse than even n. p. willis for an evening party drest! we received thee warmly--kindly--though we knew thou wert a quiz, partly for thyself it may be, chiefly for the sake of phiz! much we bore, and much we suffered, listening to remorseless spells of that smike's unceasing drivellings, and these everlasting nells. when you talked of babes and sunshine, fields, and all that sort of thing, each columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his sling; and though all our sleeves were bursting, from the many hundreds near not one single scornful titter rose on thy complacent ear. then to show thee to the ladies, with our usual want of sense we engaged the place in park street at a ruinous expense; even our own three-volumed cooper waived his old prescriptive right, and deluded dickens figured first on that eventful night. clusters of uncoated yorkers, vainly striving to be cool, saw thee desperately plunging through the perils of la poule: and their muttered exclamation drowned the tenor of the tune,-"don't he beat all natur hollow? don't he foot it like a 'coon?" did we spare our brandy-cocktails, stint thee of our whisky-grogs? half the juleps that we gave thee would have floored a newman noggs; and thou took'st them in so kindly, little was there then to blame, to thy parched and panting palate sweet as mother's milk they came. did the hams of old virginny find no favour in thine eyes? came no soft compunction o'er thee at the thought of pumpkin pies? could not all our chicken fixings into silence fix thy scorn? did not all our cakes rebuke thee,--johnny, waffle, dander, corn? could not all our care and coddling teach thee how to draw it mild? well, no matter, we deserve it. serves us right! we spoilt the child! you, forsooth, must come crusading, boring us with broadest hints of your own peculiar losses by american reprints. such an impudent remonstrance never in our face was flung; lever stands it, so does ainsworth; _you_, i guess, may hold your tongue. down our throats you'd cram your projects, thick and hard as pickled salmon, that, i s'pose, you call free trading,--i pronounce it utter gammon. no, my lad, a 'cuter vision than your own might soon have seen, that a true columbian ogle carries little that is green; that we never will surrender useful privateering rights, stoutly won at glorious bunker's hill, and other famous fights; that we keep our native dollars for our native scribbling gents, and on british manufacture only waste our straggling cents; quite enough we pay, i reckon, when we stump of these a few for the voyages and travels of a freshman such as you. i have been at niagara, i have stood beneath the falls, i have marked the water twisting over its rampagious walls; but "a holy calm sensation," one, in fact, of perfect peace, was as much my first idea as the thought of christmas geese. as for "old familiar faces," looking through the misty air, surely you were strongly liquored when you saw your chuckster there. one familiar face, however, you will very likely see, if you'll only treat the natives to a call in tennessee, of a certain individual, true columbian every inch, in a high judicial station, called by 'mancipators lynch. half an hour of conversation with his worship in a wood, would, i strongly notion, do you an infernal deal of good. then you'd understand more clearly than you ever did before, why an independent patriot freely spits upon the floor, why he gouges when he pleases, why he whittles at the chairs, why for swift and deadly combat still the bowie-knife he bears,-why he sneers at the old country with republican disdain, and, unheedful of the negro's cry, still tighter draws his chain. all these things the judge shall teach thee of the land thou hast reviled; get thee o'er the wide atlantic, worthless london's puling child! miscellaneous ballads the student of jena. once--'twas when i lived at jena- at a wirthshaus' door i sat; and in pensive contemplation ate the sausage thick and fat; ate the kraut that never sourer tasted to my lips than here; smoked my pipe of strong canaster, sipped my fifteenth jug of beer; gazed upon the glancing river, gazed upon the tranquil pool, whence the silver-voiced undine, when the nights were calm and cool, as the baron fouque tells us, rose from out her shelly grot, casting glamour o'er the waters, witching that enchanted spot. from the shadow which the coppice flings across the rippling stream, did i hear a sound of music- was it thought or was it dream? there, beside a pile of linen, stretched along the daisied sward, stood a young and blooming maiden- 'twas her thrush-like song i heard. evermore within the eddy did she plunge the white chemise; and her robes were loosely gathered rather far above her knees; then my breath at once forsook me, for too surely did i deem that i saw the fair undine standing in the glancing stream-and i felt the charm of knighthood; and from that remembered day, every evening to the wirthshaus took i my enchanted way. shortly to relate my story, many a week of summer long came i there, when beer-o'ertaken, with my lute and with my song; sang in mellow-toned soprano all my love and all my woe, till the river-maiden answered, lilting in the stream below:-"fair undine! sweet undine! dost thou love as i love thee?" "love is free as running water," was the answer made to me. thus, in interchange seraphic, did i woo my phantom fay, till the nights grew long and chilly, short and shorter grew the day; till at last--'twas dark and gloomy, dull and starless was the sky, and my steps were all unsteady for a little flushed was i,-to the well-accustomed signal no response the maiden gave; but i heard the waters washing and the moaning of the wave. vanished was my own undine, all her linen, too, was gone; and i walked about lamenting on the river bank alone. idiot that i was, for never had i asked the maiden's name. was it lieschen--was it gretchen? had she tin, or whence she came? so i took my trusty meerschaum, and i took my lute likewise; wandered forth in minstrel fashion, underneath the louring skies: sang before each comely wirthshaus, sang beside each purling stream, that same ditty which i chanted when undine was my theme, singing, as i sang at jena, when the shifts were hung to dry, "fair undine! young undine! dost thou love as well as i?" but, alas! in field or village, or beside the pebbly shore, did i see those glancing ankles, and the white robe never more; and no answer came to greet me, no sweet voice to mine replied; but i heard the waters rippling, and the moaning of the tide. the lay of the levite. there is a sound that's dear to me, it haunts me in my sleep; i wake, and, if i hear it not, i cannot choose but weep. above the roaring of the wind, above the river's flow, methinks i hear the mystic cry of "clo!--old clo!" the exile's song, it thrills among the dwellings of the free, its sound is strange to english ears, but 'tis not strange to me; for it hath shook the tented field in ages long ago, and hosts have quailed before the cry of "clo!--old clo!" oh, lose it not! forsake it not! and let no time efface the memory of that solemn sound, the watchword of our race; for not by dark and eagle eye the hebrew shall you know, so well as by the plaintive cry of "clo!--old clo!" even now, perchance, by jordan's banks, or sidon's sunny walls, where, dial-like, to portion time, the palm-tree's shadow falls, the pilgrims, wending on their way, will linger as they go, and listen to the distant cry of "clo!--old clo!" bursch groggenburg. [after the manner of schiller.] "bursch! if foaming beer content ye, come and drink your fill; in our cellars there is plenty; himmel! how you swill! that the liquor hath allurance, well i understand: but 'tis really past endurance, when you squeeze my hand!" and he heard her as if dreaming, heard her half in awe; and the meerschaum's smoke came streaming from his open jaw: and his pulse beat somewhat quicker than it did before, and he finished off his liquor, staggered through the door; bolted off direct to munich, and within the year underneath his german tunic stowed whole butts of beer. and he drank like fifty fishes, drank till all was blue; for he felt extremely vicious- somewhat thirsty too. but at length this dire deboshing drew towards an end; few of all his silver groschen had he left to spend. and he knew it was not prudent longer to remain; so, with weary feet, the student wended home again. at the tavern's well-known portal knocks he as before, and a waiter, rather mortal, hiccups through the door-"master's sleeping in the kitchen; you'll alarm the house; yesterday the jungfrau fritchen married baker kraus!" like a fiery comet bristling, rose the young man's hair, and, poor soul! he fell a-whistling out of sheer despair. down the gloomy street in silence, savage-calm he goes; but he did no deed of vi'lence- only blew his nose. then he hired an airy garret near her dwelling-place; grew a beard of fiercest carrot, never washed his face; sate all day beside the casement, sate a dreary man; found in smoking such an easement as the wretched can; stared for hours and hours together, stared yet more and more; till in fine and sunny weather, at the baker's door, stood, in apron white and mealy, that beloved dame, counting out the loaves so freely, selling of the same. then like a volcano puffing, smoked he out his pipe; sighed and supped on ducks and stuffing, ham and kraut and tripe; went to bed, and, in the morning, waited as before, still his eyes in anguish turning to the baker's door; till, with apron white and mealy, came the lovely dame, counting out the loaves so freely, selling of the same. so one day--the fact's amazing!- on his post he died! and they found the body gazing at the baker's bride. night and morning. [not by sir e. bulwer lytton.] "thy coffee, tom, 's untasted, and thy egg is very cold; thy cheeks are wan and wasted, not rosy as of old. my boy, what has come o'er ye? you surely are not well! try some of that ham before ye, and then, tom, ring the bell!" "i cannot eat, my mother, my tongue is parched and bound, and my head, somehow or other, is swimming round and round. in my eyes there is a fulness, and my pulse is beating quick; on my brain is a weight of dulness: oh, mother, i am sick!" "these long, long nights of watching are killing you outright; the evening dews are catching, and you're out every night. why does that horrid grumbler, old inkpen, work you so?" (tom--_lene susurrans_) "my head! oh, that tenth tumbler! 'twas that which wrought my woe!" the biter bit. the sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, and the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; the river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, and happiness is everywhere, oh mother, but with me! they are going to the church, mother,--i hear the marriage-bell; it booms along the upland,--oh! it haunts me like a knell; he leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, and closely to his side she clings,--she does, the demirep! they are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, the stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; and the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, wave their silver blossoms o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere. he will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, by the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed; and down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; but he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted jane! he said that i was proud, mother,--that i looked for rank and gold; he said i did not love him,--he said my words were cold; he said i kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game,-and it may be that i did, mother; but who hasn't done the same? i did not know my heart, mother,--i know it now too late; i thought that i without a pang could wed some nobler mate; but no nobler suitor sought me,--and he has taken wing, and my heart is gone, and i am left a lone and blighted thing. you may lay me in my bed, mother,--my head is throbbing sore; and, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; and, if you'd do a kindness to your poor desponding child, draw me a pot of beer, mother--and, mother, draw it mild! the convict and the australian lady. thy skin is dark as jet, ladye, thy cheek is sharp and high, and there's a cruel leer, love, within thy rolling eye: these tangled ebon tresses no comb hath e'er gone through; and thy forehead, it is furrowed by the elegant tattoo! i love thee,--oh, i love thee, thou strangely-feeding maid! nay, lift not thus thy boomerang, i meant not to upbraid! come, let me taste those yellow lips that ne'er were tasted yet, save when the shipwrecked mariner passed through them for a whet. nay, squeeze me not so tightly! for i am gaunt and thin; there's little flesh to tempt thee beneath a convict's skin. i came not to be eaten; i sought thee, love, to woo; besides, bethink thee, dearest, thou'st dined on cockatoo. thy father is a chieftain! why, that's the very thing! within my native country i too have been a king. behold this branded letter, which nothing can efface! it is the royal emblem, the token of my race! but rebels rose against me, and dared my power disown-you've heard, love, of the judges? they drove me from my throne. and i have wandered hither, across the stormy sea, in search of glorious freedom,- in search, my sweet, of thee! the bush is now my empire, the knife my sceptre keen; come with me to the desert wild, and be my dusky queen. i cannot give thee jewels, i have nor sheep nor cow, yet there are kangaroos, love, and colonists enow. we'll meet the unwary settler, as whistling home he goes, and i'll take tribute from him, his money and his clothes. then on his bleeding carcass thou'lt lay thy pretty paw, and lunch upon him roasted, or, if you like it, raw! then come with me, my princess, my own australian dear, within this grove of gum-trees we'll hold our bridal cheer! thy heart with love is beating, i feel it through my side:-hurrah, then, for the noble pair, the convict and his bride! the doleful lay of the honourable i. o. uwins. come and listen, lords and ladies, to a woeful lay of mine; he whose tailor's bill unpaid is, let him now his ear incline! let him hearken to my story, how the noblest of the land pined in piteous purgatory, 'neath a sponging bailiff's hand. i. o. uwins! i. o. uwins! baron's son although thou be, thou must pay for thy misdoings in the country of the free! none of all thy sire's retainers to thy rescue now may come; and there lie some score detainers with abednego, the bum. little recked he of his prison whilst the sun was in the sky: only when the moon was risen did you hear the captive's cry. for till then, cigars and claret lulled him in oblivion sweet; and he much preferred a garret, for his drinking, to the street. but the moonlight, pale and broken, pained at soul the baron's son; for he knew, by that soft token, that the larking had begun;-that the stout and valiant marquis {97} then was leading forth his swells, milling some policeman's carcass, or purloining private bells. so he sat in grief and sorrow, rather drunk than otherwise, till the golden gush of morrow dawned once more upon his eyes: till the sponging bailiff's daughter, lightly tapping at the door, brought his draught of soda-water, brandy-bottomed as before. "sweet rebecca! has your father, think you, made a deal of brass?" and she answered--"sir, i rather should imagine that he has." uwins then, his whiskers scratching, leered upon the maiden's face, and, her hand with ardour catching, folded her in close embrace. "la, sir! let alone--you fright me!" said the daughter of the jew: "dearest, how those eyes delight me! let me love thee, darling, do!" "vat is dish?" the bailiff muttered, rushing in with fury wild; "ish your muffins so vell buttered, dat you darsh insult ma shild?" "honourable my intentions, good abednego, i swear! and i have some small pretensions, for i am a baron's heir. if you'll only clear my credit, and advance a _thou_ {99} or so, she's a peeress--i have said it: don't you twig, abednego?" "datsh a very different matter," said the bailiff, with a leer; "but you musht not cut it fatter than ta slish will shtand, ma tear! if you seeksh ma approbation, you musht quite give up your rigsh, alsho you musht join our nashun, and renounsh ta flesh of pigsh." fast as one of fagin's pupils, i. o. uwins did agree! little plagued with holy scruples from the starting-post was he. but at times a baleful vision rose before his shuddering view, for he knew that circumcision was expected from a jew. at a meeting of the rabbis, held about the whitsuntide, was this thorough-paced barabbas wedded to his hebrew bride: all his previous debts compounded, from the sponging-house he came, and his father's feelings wounded with reflections on the same. but the sire his son accosted- "split my wig! if any more such a double-dyed apostate shall presume to cross my door! not a penny-piece to save ye from the kennel or the spout;-dinner, john! the pig and gravy!- kick this dirty scoundrel out!" forth rushed i. o. uwins, faster than all winking--much afraid that the orders of the master would be punctually obeyed: sought his club, and then the sentence of expulsion first he saw; no one dared to own acquaintance with a bailiff's son-in-law. uselessly, down bond street strutting, did he greet his friends of yore: such a universal cutting never man received before: till at last his pride revolted- pale, and lean, and stern he grew; and his wife rebecca bolted with a missionary jew. ye who read this doleful ditty, ask ye where is uwins now? wend your way through london city, climb to holborn's lofty brow; near the sign-post of the "nigger," near the baked-potato shed, you may see a ghastly figure with three hats upon his head. when the evening shades are dusky, then the phantom form draws near, and, with accents low and husky, pours effluvium in your ear; craving an immediate barter of your trousers or surtout; and you know the hebrew martyr, once the peerless i. o. u. the knyghte and the taylzeour's daughter. did you ever hear the story- old the legend is, and true-how a knyghte of fame and glory all aside his armour threw; spouted spear and pawned habergeon, pledged his sword and surcoat gay, sate down cross-legged on the shop-board, sate and stitched the livelong day? "taylzeour! not one single shilling does my breeches-pocket hold: i to pay am really willing, if i only had the gold. farmers none can i encounter, graziers there are none to kill; therefore, prithee, gentle taylzeour, bother not about thy bill." "good sir knyghte, just once too often have you tried that slippery trick; hearts like mine you cannot soften, vainly do you ask for tick. christmas and its bills are coming, soon will they be showering in; therefore, once for all, my rum un, i expect you'll post the tin. "mark, sir knyghte, that gloomy bayliffe in the palmer's amice brown; he shall lead you unto jail, if instantly you stump not down." deeply swore the young crusader, but the taylzeour would not hear; and the gloomy, bearded bayliffe evermore kept sneaking near. "neither groat nor maravedi have i got my soul to bless; and i'd feel extremely seedy, languishing in vile duresse. therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour, take my steed and armour free, pawn them at thy hebrew uncle's, and i'll work the rest for thee." lightly leaped he on the shop-board, lightly crooked his manly limb, lightly drove the glancing needle through the growing doublet's rim gaberdines in countless number did the taylzeour knyghte repair, and entirely on cucumber and on cabbage lived he there. once his weary task beguiling with a low and plaintive song, that good knyghte o'er miles of broadcloth drove the hissing goose along; from her lofty latticed window looked the taylzeour's daughter down, and she instantly discovered that her heart was not her own. "canst thou love me, gentle stranger?" picking at a pink she stood-and the knyghte at once admitted that he rather thought he could. "he who weds me shall have riches, gold, and lands, and houses free." "for a single pair of--_small-clothes_, i would roam the world with thee!" then she flung him down the tickets well the knyghte their import knew-"take this gold, and win thy armour from the unbelieving jew. though in garments mean and lowly thou wouldst roam the world with me, only as a belted warrior, stranger, will i wed with thee!" at the feast of good saint stitchem, in the middle of the spring, there was some superior jousting, by the order of the king. "valiant knyghtes!" proclaimed the monarch, "you will please to understand, he who bears himself most bravely shall obtain my daughter's hand." well and bravely did they bear them, bravely battled, one and all; but the bravest in the tourney was a warrior stout and tall. none could tell his name or lineage, none could meet him in the field, and a goose regardant proper hissed along his azure shield. "warrior, thou hast won my daughter!" but the champion bowed his knee, "royal blood may not be wasted on a simple knyghte like me. she i love is meek and lowly; but her heart is kind and free; also, there is tin forthcoming, though she is of low degree." slowly rose that nameless warrior, slowly turned his steps aside, passed the lattice where the princess sate in beauty, sate in pride. passed the row of noble ladies, hied him to an humbler seat, and in silence laid the chaplet at the taylzeour's daughter's feet. the midnight visit. it was the lord of castlereagh, he sat within his room, his arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was marked with gloom; they said that st helena's isle had rendered up its charge, that france was bristling high in arms--the emperor at large. 'twas midnight! all the lamps were dim, and dull as death the street, it might be that the watchman slept that night upon his beat, when lo! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the stair, the door revolved upon its hinge--great heaven!--what enters there? a little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn stride; his hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened wide; and on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a star,-saint george! protect us! 'tis the man,--the thunder-bolt of war! is that the famous hat that waved along marengo's ridge? are these the spurs of austerlitz--the boots of lodi's bridge? leads he the conscript swarm again from france's hornet hive? what seeks the fell usurper here, in britain, and alive? pale grew the lord of castlereagh, his tongue was parched and dry, as in his brain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye; what wonder if he shrank in fear, for who could meet the glance of him who rear'd, 'mid russian snows, the gonfalon of france? from the side-pocket of his vest a pinch the despot took, yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look: "thou thoughtst the lion was afar, but he hath burst the chain-the watchword for to-night is france--the answer st helene. "and didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves, could bind the master of the universe--the monarch of mankind? i tell thee, fool! the world itself is all too small for me; i laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars--i burst them, and am free. "thou thinkst that england hates me! mark!--this very night my name was thundered in its capital with tumult and acclaim! they saw me, knew me, owned my power--proud lord! i say, beware! there be men within the surrey side, who know to do and dare! "to-morrow in thy very teeth my standard will i rear-ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and shrink with fear! to-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly flames; and as i crossed the borodin, so shall i cross the thames! "thou'lt seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? weak lordling, do thy worst! these hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters they have burst. yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place? behold, 'tis written there! and let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they dare!" another pinch, another stride--he passes through the door-"was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor? and could that be the emperor that moved before my eyes? ah, yes! too sure it was himself, for here the paper lies!" with trembling hands lord castlereagh undid the mystic scroll, with glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his soul-"what's here?--'at astley's, every night, the play of moscow's fall! napoleon, for the thousandth time, by mr gomersal!'" the lay of the lovelorn. comrades, you may pass the rosy. with permission of the chair, i shall leave you for a little, for i'd like to take the air. whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer, or these strong cheroots, i know not, but i feel a little queer. let me go. nay, chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad! when you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where i'm to be had. whew! this is a great relief now! let me but undo my stock; resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock. in my ears i hear the singing of a lot of favourite tunes-bless my heart, how very odd! why, surely there's a brace of moons! see! the stars! how bright they twinkle, winking with a frosty glare, like my faithless cousin amy when she drove me to despair. oh, my cousin, spider-hearted! oh, my amy! no, confound it! i must wear the mournful willow,--all around my heart i've bound it. {117} falser than the bank of fancy, frailer than a shilling glove, puppet to a father's anger, minion to a nabob's love! is it well to wish thee happy? having known me, could you ever stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a liver? happy! damme! thou shalt lower to his level day by day, changing from the best of china to the commonest of clay. as the husband is, the wife is,--he is stomach-plagued and old; and his curry soups will make thy cheek the colour of his gold. when his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely then something lower than his hookah,--something less than his cayenne. what is this? his eyes are pinky. was't the claret? oh, no, no,-bless your soul! it was the salmon,--salmon always makes him so. take him to thy dainty chamber--soothe him with thy lightest fancies; he will understand thee, won't he?--pay thee with a lover's glances? louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest ophicleide, nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride. sweet response, delightful music! gaze upon thy noble charge, till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek laffarge. {119a} better thou wert dead before me,--better, better that i stood, looking on thy murdered body, like the injured daniel good! {119b} better thou and i were lying, cold and timber-stiff and dead, with a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial bed! cursed be the bank of england's notes, that tempt the soul to sin! cursed be the want of acres,--doubly cursed the want of tin! cursed be the marriage-contract, that enslaved thy soul to greed! cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew the deed! cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees did earn! cursed be the clerk and parson,--cursed be the whole concern! * * * * oh, 'tis well that i should bluster,--much i'm like to make of that; better comfort have i found in singing "all around my hat." but that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my british ears. 'twill not do to pine for ever,--i am getting up in years. can't i turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, and in writing sunday libels drown my private wretchedness! {121} oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn i knew, when my days were all before me, and my years were twenty-two! when i smoked my independent pipe along the quadrant wide, {122a} with the many larks of london flaring up on every side; when i went the pace so wildly, caring little what might come; coffee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted thumb; {122b} felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh heavens! brandies at the cider cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at evans'! {122c} or in the adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears, saw the glorious melodrama conjure up the shades of years! saw jack sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous feats again, snapping newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy chain. might was right, and all the terrors, which had held the world in awe, were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of laurie, {123} spite of law. in such scenes as these i triumphed, ere my passion's edge was rusted, and my cousin's cold refusal left me very much disgusted! since, my heart is sere and withered, and i do not care a curse, whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the worse. hark! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another jorum; they would mock me in derision, should i thus appear before 'em. womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayed in the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade. i'll to afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at spital fields. or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self aside, i shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval pride; feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root, lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden fruit. never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple main sounds the oath of british commerce, or the accent of cockaigne. there, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious rule prevents; sink the steamboats! cuss the railways! rot, o rot the three per cents! there the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin! i will wed some savage woman--nay, i'll wed at least a dozen. there i'll rear my young mulattoes, as no bond street brats are reared: they shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard-whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon, worship mighty mumbo jumbo in the mountains of the moon. i myself, in far timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily quaff, ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe. fiercely shall i shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses, startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses. fool! again the dream, the fancy! but i know my words are mad, for i hold the grey barbarian lower than the christian cad. i the swell--the city dandy! i to seek such horrid places,-i to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces! i to wed with coromantees! i, who managed--very near-to secure the heart and fortune of the widow shillibeer! stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away; maids ere now, i know, have loved me, and another maiden may. 'morning post' ('the times' won't trust me) help me, as i know you can; i will pen an advertisement,--that's a never-failing plan. "wanted--by a bard, in wedlock, some young interesting woman: looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forthcoming! "hymen's chains the advertiser vows shall be but silken fetters; please address to a. t., chelsea. n.b.--you must pay the letters." that's the sort of thing to do it. now i'll go and taste the balmy,-rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin amy! my wife's cousin. decked with shoes of blackest polish, and with shirt as white as snow, after early morning breakfast to my daily desk i go; first a fond salute bestowing on my mary's ruby lips, which, perchance, may be rewarded with a pair of playful nips. all day long across the ledger still my patient pen i drive, thinking what a feast awaits me in my happy home at five; in my small one-storeyed eden, where my wife awaits my coming, and our solitary handmaid mutton-chops with care is crumbing. when the clock proclaims my freedom, then my hat i seize and vanish; every trouble from my bosom, every anxious care i banish. swiftly brushing o'er the pavement, at a furious pace i go, till i reach my darling dwelling in the wilds of pimlico. "mary, wife, where art thou, dearest?" thus i cry, while yet afar; ah! what scent invades my nostrils?- 'tis the smoke of a cigar! instantly into the parlour like a maniac, i haste, and i find a young life-guardsman, with his arm round mary's waist. and his other hand is playing most familiarly with hers; and i think my brussels carpet somewhat damaged by his spurs. "fire and furies! what the blazes?" thus in frenzied wrath i call; when my spouse her arms upraises, with a most astounding squall. "was there ever such a monster, ever such a wretched wife? ah! how long must i endure it, how protract this hateful life? all day long, quite unprotected, does he leave his wife at home; and she cannot see her cousins, even when they kindly come!" then the young life-guardsman, rising, scarce vouchsafes a single word, but, with look of deadly menace, claps his hand upon his sword; and in fear i faintly falter- "this your cousin, then he's mine! very glad, indeed, to see you,- won't you stop with us, and dine?" won't a ferret suck a rabbit?- as a thing of course he stops; and with most voracious swallow walks into my mutton-chops. in the twinkling of a bed-post is each savoury platter clear, and he shows uncommon science in his estimate of beer. half-and-half goes down before him, gurgling from the pewter pot; and he moves a counter motion for a glass of something hot. neither chops nor beer i grudge him, nor a moderate share of goes; but i know not why he's always treading upon mary's toes. evermore, when, home returning, from the counting-house i come, do i find the young life-guardsman smoking pipes and drinking rum. evermore he stays to dinner, evermore devours my meal; for i have a wholesome horror both of powder and of steel. yet i know he's mary's cousin, for my only son and heir much resembles that young guardsman, with the self-same curly hair; but i wish he would not always spoil my carpet with his spurs; and i'd rather see his fingers in the fire, than touching hers. the queen in france. an ancient scottish ballad. part i. it fell upon the august month, when landsmen bide at hame, that our gude queen went out to sail upon the saut-sea faem. and she has ta'en the silk and gowd, the like was never seen; and she has ta'en the prince albert, and the bauld lord aberdeen. "ye'se bide at hame, lord wellington: ye daurna gang wi' me: for ye hae been ance in the land o' france, and that's eneuch for ye. "ye'se bide at hame, sir robert peel, to gather the red and the white monie; and see that my men dinna eat me up at windsor wi' their gluttonie." they hadna sailed a league, a league,- a league, but barely twa, when the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan, and the wind began to blaw. "o weel weel may the waters rise, in welcome o' their queen; what gars ye look sae white, albert? what makes yer ee sae green?" "my heart is sick, my heid is sair: gie me a glass o' the gude brandie: to set my foot on the braid green sward, i'd gie the half o' my yearly fee. "it's sweet to hunt the sprightly hare on the bonny slopes o' windsor lea, but oh, it's ill to bear the thud and pitching o' the saut saut sea!" and aye they sailed, and aye they sailed, till england sank behind, and over to the coast of france they drave before the wind. then up and spak the king o' france, was birling at the wine; "o wha may be the gay ladye, that owns that ship sae fine? "and wha may be that bonny lad, that looks sae pale and wan i'll wad my lands o' picardie, that he's nae englishman." then up and spak an auld french lord, was sitting beneath his knee, "it is the queen o' braid england that's come across the sea." "and oh an it be england's queen, she's welcome here the day; i'd rather hae her for a friend than for a deadly fae. "gae, kill the eerock in the yard, the auld sow in the sty, and bake for her the brockit calf, but and the puddock-pie!" and he has gane until the ship, as soon as it drew near, and he has ta'en her by the hand- "ye're kindly welcome here!" and syne he kissed her on ae cheek, and syne upon the ither; and he ca'd her his sister dear, and she ca'd him her brither. "light doun, light doun now, ladye mine, light doun upon the shore; nae english king has trodden here this thousand years and more." "and gin i lighted on your land, as light fu' weel i may, o am i free to feast wi' you, and free to come and gae?" and he has sworn by the haly rood, and the black stane o' dumblane, that she is free to come and gae till twenty days are gane. "i've lippened to a frenchman's aith," said gude lord aberdeen; "but i'll never lippen to it again, sae lang's the grass is green. "yet gae your ways, my sovereign liege, sin' better mayna be; the wee bit bairns are safe at hame, by the blessing o' marie!" then doun she lighted frae the ship, she lighted safe and sound; and glad was our good prince albert to step upon the ground. "is that your queen, my lord," she said, "that auld and buirdly dame? i see the crown upon her head; but i dinna ken her name." and she has kissed the frenchman's queen, and eke her daughters three, and gien her hand to the young princess, that louted upon the knee. and she has gane to the proud castel, that's biggit beside the sea: but aye, when she thought o' the bairns at hame, the tear was in her ee. she gied the king the cheshire cheese, but and the porter fine; and he gied her the puddock-pies, but and the blude-red wine. then up and spak the dourest prince, an admiral was he; "let's keep the queen o' england here, sin' better mayna be! "o mony is the dainty king that we hae trappit here; and mony is the english yerl that's in our dungeons drear!" "you lee, you lee, ye graceless loon, sae loud's i hear ye lee! there never yet was englishman that came to skaith by me. "gae oot, gae oot, ye fause traitour! gae oot until the street; it's shame that kings and queens should sit wi' sic a knave at meat!" then up and raise the young french lord, in wrath and hie disdain-"o ye may sit, and ye may eat your puddock-pies alane! "but were i in my ain gude ship, and sailing wi' the wind, and did i meet wi' auld napier, i'd tell him o' my mind." o then the queen leuch loud and lang, and her colour went and came; "gin ye meet wi' charlie on the sea, ye'll wish yersel at hame!" and aye they birlit at the wine, and drank richt merrilie, till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yard, and the abbey bell struck three. the queen she gaed until her bed, and prince albert likewise; and the last word that gay ladye said was--"o thae puddock-pies!" part ii. the sun was high within the lift afore the french king raise; and syne he louped intil his sark, and warslit on his claes. "gae up, gae up, my little foot-page, gae up until the toun; and gin ye meet wi' the auld harper, be sure ye bring him doun." and he has met wi' the auld harper; o but his een were reid; and the bizzing o' a swarm o' bees was singing in his heid. "alack! alack!" the harper said, "that this should e'er hae been! i daurna gang before my liege, for i was fou yestreen." "it's ye maun come, ye auld harper: ye daurna tarry lang; the king is just dementit-like for wanting o' a sang." and when he came to the king's chamber, he loutit on his knee, "o what may be your gracious will wi' an auld frail man like me?" "i want a sang, harper," he said, "i want a sang richt speedilie; and gin ye dinna make a sang, i'll hang ye up on the gallows tree." "i canna do't, my liege," he said, "hae mercy on my auld grey hair! but gin that i had got the words, i think that i might mak the air." "and wha's to mak the words, fause loon, when minstrels we have barely twa; and lamartine is in paris toun, and victor hugo far awa?" "the diel may gang for lamartine, and flee away wi' auld hugo, for a better minstrel than them baith within this very toun i know. "o kens my liege the gude walter, at hame they ca' him bon gaultier? he'll rhyme ony day wi' true thomas, and he is in the castle here." the french king first he lauchit loud, and syne did he begin to sing; "my een are auld, and my heart is cauld, or i suld hae known the minstrels' king. "gae take to him this ring o' gowd, and this mantle o' the silk sae fine, and bid him mak a maister sang for his sovereign ladye's sake and mine." "i winna take the gowden ring, nor yet the mantle fine: but i'll mak the sang for my ladye's sake, and for a cup of wine." the queen was sitting at the cards, the king ahint her back; and aye she dealed the red honours, and aye she dealed the black; and syne unto the dourest prince she spak richt courteouslie;-"now will ye play, lord admiral, now will ye play wi' me?" the dourest prince he bit his lip, and his brow was black as glaur; "the only game that e'er i play is the bluidy game o' war!" "and gin ye play at that, young man, it weel may cost ye sair; ye'd better stick to the game at cards, for you'll win nae honours there!" the king he leuch, and the queen she leuch, till the tears ran blithely doon; but the admiral he raved and swore, till they kicked him frae the room. the harper came, and the harper sang, and oh but they were fain; for when he had sung the gude sang twice, they called for it again. it was the sang o' the field o' gowd, in the days of auld langsyne; when bauld king henry crossed the seas, wi' his brither king to dine. and aye he harped, and aye he carped, till up the queen she sprang-"i'll wad a county palatine, gude walter made that sang." three days had come, three days had gane, the fourth began to fa', when our gude queen to the frenchman said, "it's time i was awa! "o, bonny are the fields o' france, and saftly draps the rain; but my bairnies are in windsor tower, and greeting a' their lane. "now ye maun come to me, sir king, as i have come to ye; and a benison upon your heid for a' your courtesie! "ye maun come, and bring your ladye fere; ye sall na say me no; and ye'se mind, we have aye a bed to spare for that gawsy chield guizot." now he has ta'en her lily-white hand, and put it to his lip, and he has ta'en her to the strand, and left her in her ship. "will ye come back, sweet bird?" he cried, "will ye come kindly here, when the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing, in the spring-time o' the year?" "it's i would blithely come, my lord, to see ye in the spring; it's i would blithely venture back but for ae little thing. "it isna that the winds are rude, or that the waters rise, but i loe the roasted beef at hame, and no thae puddock-pies!" the massacre of the macpherson. [from the gaelic.] i. fhairshon swore a feud against the clan m'tavish; marched into their land to murder and to rafish; for he did resolve to extirpate the vipers, with four-and-twenty men and five-and-thirty pipers. ii. but when he had gone half-way down strath canaan, of his fighting tail just three were remainin'. they were all he had, to back him in ta battle; all the rest had gone off, to drive ta cattle. iii. "fery coot!" cried fhairshon, "so my clan disgraced is; lads, we'll need to fight, pefore we touch the peasties. here's mhic-mac-methusaleh coming wi' his fassals, gillies seventy-three, and sixty dhuinewassails!" iv. "coot tay to you, sir; are you not ta fhairshon? was you coming here to fisit any person? you are a plackguard, sir! it is now six hundred coot long years, and more, since my glen was plundered." v. "fat is tat you say? dare you cock your peaver? i will teach you, sir, fat is coot pehaviour! you shall not exist for another day more; i will shoot you, sir, or stap you with my claymore!" vi. "i am fery glad, to learn what you mention, since i can prevent any such intention." so mhic-mac-methusaleh gave some warlike howls, trew his skhian-dhu, an' stuck it in his powels. vii. in this fery way tied ta faliant fhairshon, who was always thought a superior person. fhairshon had a son, who married noah's daughter, and nearly spoiled ta flood, by trinking up ta water: viii. which he would have done, i at least pelieve it, had ta mixture peen only half glenlivet. this is all my tale: sirs, i hope 'tis new t'ye! here's your fery good healths, and tamn ta whusky duty! [the six following poems were among those forwarded to the home secretary, by the unsuccessful competitors for the laureateship, on its becoming vacant by the death of southey. how they came into our possession is a matter between sir james graham and ourselves. the result of the contest could never have been doubtful, least of all to the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. his own sonnet on the subject is full of the serene consciousness of superiority, which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat. bays! which in former days have graced the brow of some, who lived and loved, and sang and died; leaves that were gathered on the pleasant side of old parnassus from apollo's bough; with palpitating hand i take thee now, since worthier minstrel there is none beside, and with a thrill of song half deified, i bind them proudly on my locks of snow. there shall they bide, till he who follows next, of whom i cannot even guess the name, shall by court favour, or some vain pretext of fancied merit, desecrate the same,- and think, perchance, he wears them quite as well as the sole bard who sang of peter bell!] the above note, which appeared in the first and subsequent editions of this volume, is characteristic of the audacious spirit of fun in which bon gaultier revelled. the sonnet here ascribed to wordsworth must have been believed by some matter-of-fact people to be really by him. on his death in 1857, in an article on the subject of the vacant laureate-ship, it was quoted in a leading journal as proof of wordsworth's complacent estimate of his own supremacy over all contemporary poets. in writing the sonnet i was well aware that there was some foundation for his not unjust high appreciation of his own prowess, as the phrase "sole bard" pretty clearly indicates, but i never dreamt that any one would fail to see the joke. the laureates' tourney. by the hon. t--b--m---. fytte the first. "what news, what news, thou pilgrim grey, what news from southern land? how fare the bold conservatives, how is it with ferrand? how does the little prince of wales--how looks our lady queen? and tell me, is the monthly nurse once more at windsor seen?" "i bring no tidings from the court, nor from st stephen's hall; i've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the trumpet's battle-call; and these old eyes have seen a fight, which england ne'er hath seen, since fell king richard sobbed his soul through blood on bosworth green. 'he's dead, he's dead, the laureate's dead!' 'twas thus the cry began, and straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man; from grub street, and from houndsditch, and from farringdon within, the poets all towards whitehall poured on with eldritch din. loud yelled they for sir james the graham: {157} but sore afraid was he; a hardy knight were he that might face such a minstrelsie. 'now by st giles of netherby, my patron saint, i swear, i'd rather by a thousand crowns lord palmerston were here!-'what is't ye seek, ye rebel knaves--what make you there beneath?' 'the bays, the bays! we want the bays! we seek the laureate wreath! we seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons of song; choose thou among us all, sir knight--we may not tarry long!' loud laughed the good sir james in scorn--'rare jest it were, i think, but one poor butt of xeres, and a thousand rogues to drink! an' if it flowed with wine or beer, 'tis easy to be seen, that dry within the hour would be the well of hippocrene. 'tell me, if on parnassus' heights there grow a thousand sheaves: or has apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred leaves? or if so many leaves were there, how long would they sustain the ravage and the glutton bite of such a locust train? 'no! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the night, and choose me out two champions to meet in deadly fight; to-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in spitalfields, and he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die who yields!' down went the window with a crash,--in silence and in fear each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbour near; then up and spake young tennyson--'who's here that fears for death? 'twere better one of us should die, than england lose the wreath! 'let's cast the lot among us now, which two shall fight to-morrow;-for armour bright we'll club our mite, and horses we can borrow; 'twere shame that bards of france should sneer, and german _dichters_ too, if none of british song might dare a deed of _derring-do_!' 'the lists of love are mine,' said moore, 'and not the lists of mars;' said hunt, 'i seek the jars of wine, but shun the combat's jars!' 'i'm old,' quoth samuel rogers.--'faith,' says campbell, 'so am i!' 'and i'm in holy orders, sir!' quoth tom of ingoldsby. 'now out upon ye, craven loons!' cried moxon, {160} good at need,-'bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others bleed. i second alfred's motion, boys,--let's try the chance of lot; and monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that goes to pot.' eight hundred minstrels slunk away--two hundred stayed to draw,-now heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the longest straw! 'tis done! 'tis done! and who hath won? keep silence one and all,-the first is william wordsworth hight, the second ned fitzball! fytte the second. oh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly spitalfields,-how flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished helms and shields! on either side the chivalry of england throng the green, and in the middle balcony appears our gracious queen. with iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights appear, the marquis hal of waterford, and stout sir aubrey vere. 'what ho! there, herald, blow the trump! let's see who comes to claim the butt of golden xeres, and the laureate's honoured name!' that instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head to heel, on courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed in steel; then said our queen--'was ever seen so stout a knight and tall? his name--his race?'--'an't please your grace, it is the brave fitzball. {162} 'oft in the melodrama line his prowess hath been shown, and well throughout the surrey side his thirst for blood is known. but see, the other champion comes!'--then rang the startled air with shouts of 'wordsworth, wordsworth, ho! the bard of rydal's there.' and lo! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a course, appeared the honoured veteran; but weak seemed man and horse. then shook their ears the sapient peers,--'that joust will soon be done: my lord of brougham, i'll back fitzball, and give you two to one!' 'done,' quoth the brougham,--'and done with you!' 'now, minstrels, are you ready?' exclaimed the lord of waterford,--'you'd better both sit steady. blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge! and forward to the fight!' 'amen!' said good sir aubrey vere; 'saint schism defend the right!' as sweeps the blast against the mast when blows the furious squall, so started at the trumpet's sound the terrible fitzball; his lance he bore his breast before,--saint george protect the just! or wordsworth's hoary head must roll along the shameful dust! 'who threw that calthrop? seize the knave!' alas! the deed is done; down went the steed, and o'er his head flew bright apollo's son. 'undo his helmet! cut the lace! pour water on his head!' 'it ain't no use at all, my lord; 'cos vy? the covey's dead!' above him stood the rydal bard--his face was full of woe. 'now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared a foe: a braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in hall, ne'er brought the upper gallery down than terrible fitzball!' they led our wordsworth to the queen--she crowned him with the bays, and wished him many happy years, and many quarter-days; and if you'd have the story told by abler lips than mine, you've but to call at rydal mount, and taste the laureate's wine!" the royal banquet. by the hon. g--b--s---. the queen she kept high festival in windsor's lordly hall, and round her sat the gartered knights, and ermined nobles all; there drank the valiant wellington, there fed the wary peel, and at the bottom of the board prince albert carved the veal. "what, pantler, ho! remove the cloth! ho! cellarer, the wine, and bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of brunswick's line!" then rose with one tumultuous shout the band of british peers, "god bless her sacred majesty! let's see the little dears!" now by saint george, our patron saint, 'twas a touching sight to see that iron warrior gently place the princess on his knee; to hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to gape with rosy mouth expectant for the raisin and the grape! they passed the wine, the sparkling wine--they filled the goblets up; even brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on the cup; and lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could appease, proposed the immortal memory of king william on his knees. "what want we here, my gracious liege," cried gay lord aberdeen, "save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups between? i ask not now for goulburn's voice or knatchbull's warbling lay, {168} but where's the poet laureate to grace our board to-day?" loud laughed the knight of netherby, and scornfully he cried, "or art thou mad with wine, lord earl, or art thyself beside? eight hundred bedlam bards have claimed the laureate's vacant crown, and now like frantic bacchanals run wild through london town!" "now glory to our gracious queen!" a voice was heard to cry, and dark macaulay stood before them all with frenzied eye; "now glory to our gracious queen, and all her glorious race, a boon, a boon, my sovran liege! give me the laureate's place! "'twas i that sang the might of rome, the glories of navarre; and who could swell the fame so well of britain's isles afar? the hero of a hundred fights--" then wellington up sprung, "ho, silence in the ranks, i say! sit down and hold your tongue! "by heaven, thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling lay, or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of assaye! 'tis hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot dine. nurse, take her royal highness, here! sir robert, pass the wine!" "no laureate need we at our board!" then spoke the lord of vaux; "here's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel song, i know. even i myself--" then rose the cry--"a song, a song from brougham!" he sang,--and straightway found himself alone within the room. the bard of erin's lament. by t--m---re, esq. oh, weep for the hours, when the little blind boy wove round me the spells of his paphian bower; when i dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy, and soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour! from beauty to beauty i passed, like the wind; now fondled the lily, now toyed with the rose; and the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind, was forsook for another ere evening's close. i sighed not for honour, i cared not for fame, while pleasure sat by me, and love was my guest; they twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came, and the bosom of beauty still pillowed my rest: and the harp of my country--neglected it slept- in hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs; from love's sybarite dreams i aroused me, and swept its chords to the tale of her glories and wrongs. but weep for the hour!--life's summer is past, and the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow; and my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast, cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now. no, its ashes are dead--and, alas! love or song no charm to life's lengthening shadows can lend, like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong, and a seat by the fire _tete-a-tete_ with a friend. the laureate. by a--t---. who would not be the laureate bold, with his butt of sherry to keep him merry, and nothing to do but to pocket his gold? 'tis i would be the laureate bold! when the days are hot, and the sun is strong, i'd lounge in the gateway all the day long, with her majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. i'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord; but i'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward with a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, and the cool wind blowing upon my breast, and i'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, and watch the clouds that are listless as i, lazily, lazily! and i'd pick the moss and the daisies white, and chew their stalks with a nibbling bite; and i'd let my fancies roam abroad in search of a hint for a birthday ode, crazily, crazily! oh, that would be the life for me, with plenty to get and nothing to do, but to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, and whistle all day to the queen's cockatoo, trance-somely, trance-somely! then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms, would come to the windows and rest on their brooms, with their saucy caps and their crisped hair, and they'd toss their heads in the fragrant air, and say to each other--"just look down there, at the nice young man, so tidy and small, who is paid for writing on nothing at all, handsomely, handsomely!" they would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles, and crumpled-up balls of the royal bills, giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun, as they'd see me start, with a leap and a run, from the broad of my back to the points of my toes, when a pellet of paper hit my nose, teasingly, sneezingly. then i'd fling them bunches of garden flowers, and hyacinths plucked from the castle bowers; and i'd challenge them all to come down to me, and i'd kiss them all till they kissed me, laughingly, laughingly. oh, would not that be a merry life, apart from care and apart from strife, with the laureate's wine, and the laureate's pay, and no deductions at quarter-day? oh, that would be the post for me! with plenty to get and nothing to do, but to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, and whistle a tune to the queen's cockatoo, and scribble of verses remarkably few, and empty at evening a bottle or two, quaffingly, quaffingly! 'tis i would be the laureate bold, with my butt of sherry to keep me merry, and nothing to do but to pocket my gold! a midnight meditation. by sir e--b--l---. fill me once more the foaming pewter up! another board of oysters, ladye mine! to-night lucullus with himself shall sup. these mute inglorious miltons {177} are divine and as i here in slippered ease recline, quaffing of perkin's entire my fill, i sigh not for the lymph of aganippe's rill. a nobler inspiration fires my brain, caught from old england's fine time-hallowed drink; i snatch the pot again and yet again, and as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, fill me once more, i say, up to the brink! this makes strong hearts--strong heads attest its charm-this nerves the might that sleeps in britain's brawny arm! but these remarks are neither here nor there. where was i? oh, i see--old southey's dead! they'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair, and drain the annual butt--and oh, what head more fit with laurel to be garlanded than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, breathes of castalia's streams, and best macassar oil? i know a grace is seated on my brow, like young apollo's with his golden beams-there should apollo's bays be budding now:- and in my flashing eyes the radiance beams, that marks the poet in his waking dreams, when, as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, he feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor. they throng around me now, those things of air that from my fancy took their being's stamp: there pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, there clifford leads his pals upon the tramp; there pale zanoni, bending o'er his lamp, roams through the starry wilderness of thought, where all is everything, and everything is nought. yes, i am he who sang how aram won the gentle ear of pensive madeline! how love and murder hand in hand may run, cemented by philosophy serene, and kisses bless the spot where gore has been! who breathed the melting sentiment of crime, and for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime! yes, i am he, who on the novel shed obscure philosophy's enchanting light! until the public, 'wildered as they read, believed they saw that which was not in sight- of course 'twas not for me to set them right; for in my nether heart convinced i am, philosophy's as good as any other flam. novels three-volumed i shall write no more- somehow or other now they will not sell; and to invent new passions is a bore- i find the magazines pay quite as well. translating's simple, too, as i can tell, who've hawked at schiller on his lyric throne, and given the astonished bard a meaning all my own. moore, campbell, wordsworth, their best days are grassed: battered and broken are their early lyres, rogers, a pleasant memory of the past, warmed his young hands at smithfield's martyr fires, and, worth a plum, nor bays nor butt desires. but these are things would suit me to the letter, for though this stout is good, old sherry's greatly better. a fico for your small poetic ravers, your hunts, your tennysons, your milnes, and these! shall they compete with him who wrote 'maltravers,' prologue to 'alice or the mysteries'? no! even now my glance prophetic sees my own high brow girt with the bays about. what ho! within there, ho! another pint of stout! montgomery. a poem. like one who, waking from a troublous dream, pursues with force his meditative theme; calm as the ocean in its halcyon still, calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill; calm as at ephesus great paul was seen to rend his robes in agonies serene; calm as the love that radiant luther bore to all that lived behind him and before; calm as meek calvin, when, with holy smile, he sang the mass around servetus' pile,-so once again i snatch this harp of mine, to breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine. not now to whisper to the ambient air the sounds of satan's universal prayer; not now to sing, in sweet domestic strife that woman reigns the angel of our life; but to proclaim the wish, with pious art, which thrills through britain's universal heart,-that on this brow, with native honours graced, the laureate's chaplet should at length be placed! fear not, ye maids, who love to hear me speak; let no desponding tears bedim your cheek! no gust of envy, no malicious scorn, hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn. there are who move so far above the great, their very look disarms the glance of hate; their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold, enwrap them like the prophet's mantle's fold. fear not for me, nor think that this our age, blind though it be, hath yet no archimage. i, who have bathed, in bright castalia's tide by classic isis and more classic clyde; i, who have handled, in my lofty strain, all things divine, and many things profane; i, who have trod where seraphs fear to tread; i, who on mount--no, "honey-dew" have fed; i, who undaunted broke the mystic seal, and left no page for prophets to reveal; i, who in shade portentous dante threw; i, who have done what milton dared not do,-i fear no rival for the vacant throne; no mortal thunder shall eclipse my own! let dark macaulay chant his roman lays, let monckton milnes go maunder for the bays, let simmons call on great napoleon's shade, let lytton bulwer seek his aram's aid, let wordsworth ask for help from peter bell, let campbell carol copenhagen's knell, let delta warble through his delphic groves, let elliott shout for pork and penny loaves,-i care not, i! resolved to stand or fall; one down, another on, i'll smash them all! back, ye profane! this hand alone hath power to pluck the laurel from its sacred bower; this brow alone is privileged to wear the ancient wreath o'er hyacinthine hair; these lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine, and make its mortal juice once more divine. back, ye profane! and thou, fair queen, rejoice: a nation's praise shall consecrate thy choice. thus, then, i kneel where spenser knelt before, on the same spot, perchance, of windsor's floor; and take, while awe-struck millions round me stand, the hallowed wreath from great victoria's hand. little john and the red friar. a lay of sherwood. fytte the first. the deer may leap within the glade; the fawns may follow free-for robin is dead, and his bones are laid beneath the greenwood tree. and broken are his merry, merry men, that goodly companie: there's some have ta'en the northern road with jem of netherbee. the best and bravest of the band with derby ned are gone; but earlie grey and charlie wood, they stayed with little john. now little john was an outlaw proud, a prouder ye never saw; through nottingham and leicester shires he thought his word was law, and he strutted through the greenwood wide, like a pestilent jackdaw. he swore that none, but with leave of him, should set foot on the turf so free: and he thought to spread his cutter's rule, all over the south countrie. "there's never a knave in the land," he said, "but shall pay his toll to me!" and charlie wood was a taxman good as ever stepped the ground, he levied mail, like a sturdy thief, from all the yeomen round. "nay, stand!" quoth he, "thou shalt pay to me seven pence from every pound!" now word has come to little john, as he lay upon the grass, that a friar red was in merry sherwood without his leave to pass. "come hither, come hither, my little foot-page! ben hawes, come tell to me, what manner of man is this burly frere who walks the wood so free?" "my master good!" the little page said, "his name i wot not well, but he wears on his head a hat so red, with a monstrous scallop-shell. "he says he is prior of copmanshurst, and bishop of london town, and he comes with a rope from our father the pope, to put the outlaws down. "i saw him ride but yester-tide, with his jolly chaplains three; and he swears that he has an open pass from jem of netherbee!" little john has ta'en an arrow so broad, and broken it o'er his knee; "now may i never strike doe again, but this wrong avenged shall be! "and has he dared, this greasy frere, to trespass in my bound, nor asked for leave from little john to range with hawk and hound? "and has he dared to take a pass from jem of netherbee, forgetting that the sherwood shaws pertain of right to me? "o were he but a simple man, and not a slip-shod frere! i'd hang him up by his own waist-rope above yon tangled brere. "o did he come alone from jem, and not from our father the pope, i'd bring him into copmanshurst, with the noose of a hempen rope! "but since he has come from our father the pope, and sailed across the sea, and since he has power to bind and lose, his life is safe for me; but a heavy penance he shall do beneath the greenwood tree!" "o tarry yet!" quoth charlie wood, "o tarry, master mine! it's ill to shear a yearling hog, or twist the wool of swine! "it's ill to make a bonny silk purse from the ear of a bristly boar; it's ill to provoke a shaveling's curse, when the way lies him before. "i've walked the forest for twenty years, in wet weather and dry, and never stopped a good fellowe, who had no coin to buy. "what boots it to search a beggarman's bags, when no silver groat he has? so, master mine, i rede you well, e'en let the friar pass!" "now cease thy prate," quoth little john, "thou japest but in vain; an he have not a groat within his pouch, we may find a silver chain. "but were he as bare as a new-flayed buck, as truly he may be, he shall not tread the sherwood shaws without the leave of me!" little john has taken his arrows and bow, his sword and buckler strong, and lifted up his quarter-staff, was full three cloth yards long. and he has left his merry men at the trysting-tree behind, and gone into the gay greenwood, this burly frere to find. o'er holt and hill, through brake and brere, he took his way alone-now, lordlings, list and you shall hear this geste of little john. fytte the second. 'tis merry, 'tis merry in gay greenwood, when the little birds are singing, when the buck is belling in the fern, and the hare from the thicket springing! 'tis merry to hear the waters clear, as they splash in the pebbly fall; and the ouzel whistling to his mate, as he lights on the stones so small. but small pleasaunce took little john in all he heard and saw; till he reached the cave of a hermit old who wonned within the shaw. "_ora pro nobis_!" quoth little john- his latin was somewhat rude-"now, holy father, hast thou seen a frere within the wood? "by his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nose, i guess you may know him well; and he wears on his head a hat so red, and a monstrous scallop-shell." "i have served saint pancras," the hermit said, "in this cell for thirty year, yet never saw i, in the forest bounds, the face of such a frere! "an' if ye find him, master mine, e'en take an old man's advice, an' raddle him well, till he roar again, lest ye fail to meet him twice!" "trust me for that!" quoth little john- "trust me for that!" quoth he, with a laugh; "there never was man of woman born, that asked twice for the taste of my quarter-staff!" then little john, he strutted on, till he came to an open bound, and he was aware of a red friar, was sitting upon the ground. his shoulders they were broad and strong, and large was he of limb; few yeomen in the north countrie would care to mell with him. he heard the rustling of the boughs, as little john drew near; but never a single word he spoke, of welcome or of cheer: less stir he made than a pedlar would for a small gnat in his ear! i like not his looks! thought little john, nor his staff of the oaken tree. now may our lady be my help, else beaten i well may be! "what dost thou here, thou strong friar, in sherwood's merry round, without the leave of little john, to range with hawk and hound?" "small thought have i," quoth the red friar, "of any leave, i trow; that little john is an outlawed thief, and so, i ween, art thou! "know, i am prior of copmanshurst, and bishop of london town, and i bring a rope from our father the pope, to put the outlaws down." then out spoke little john in wrath, "i tell thee, burly frere, the pope may do as he likes at home, but he sends no bishops here! "up, and away, red friar!" he said, "up, and away, right speedilie; an it were not for that cowl of thine, avenged on thy body i would be!" "nay, heed not that," said the red friar, "and let my cowl no hindrance be; i warrant that i can give as good as ever i think to take from thee!" little john he raised his quarter-staff, and so did the burly priest, and they fought beneath the greenwood tree a stricken hour at least. but little john was weak of fence, and his strength began to fail; whilst the friar's blows came thundering down, like the strokes of a threshing-flail. "now hold thy hand, thou stalwart friar, now rest beneath the thorn, until i gather breath enow, for a blast at my bugle-horn!" "i'll hold my hand," the friar said, "since that is your propine, but, an you sound your bugle-horn, i'll even blow on mine!" little john he wound a blast so shrill, that it rang o'er rock and linn, and charlie wood, and his merry men all, came lightly bounding in. the friar he wound a blast so strong that it shook both bush and tree, and to his side came witless will, and jem of netherbee; with all the worst of robin's band, and many a rapparee! little john he wist not what to do, when he saw the others come; so he twisted his quarter-staff between his fingers and his thumb. "there's some mistake, good friar!" he said, "there's some mistake 'twixt thee and me; i know thou art prior of copmanshurst, but not beneath the greenwood tree. "and if you will take some other name, you shall have ample leave to bide; with pasture also for your bulls, and power to range the forest wide." "there's no mistake!" the friar said; "i'll call myself just what i please. my doctrine is that chalk is chalk, and cheese is nothing else than cheese." "so be it, then!" quoth little john; "but surely you will not object, if i and all my merry men should treat you with reserved respect? "we can't call you prior of copmanshurst, nor bishop of london town, nor on the grass, as you chance to pass, can we very well kneel down. "but you'll send the pope my compliments, and say, as a further hint, that, within the sherwood bounds, you saw little john, who is the son-in-law of his friend, old mat-o'-the-mint!" so ends this geste of little john- god save our noble queen! but, lordlings, say--is sherwood now what sherwood once hath been? {200} the rhyme of sir launcelot bogle. a legend of glasgow. by mrs e--b--b---. there's a pleasant place of rest, near a city of the west, where its bravest and its best find their grave. below the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep in the waters still and deep, not a wave! and the old cathedral wall, so scathed and grey and tall, like a priest surveying all, stands beyond; and the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well, makes a kind of tidal swell on the pond! and there it was i lay, on a beauteous summer's day, with the odour of the hay floating by; and i heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demurely ring, chime by chime, ting by ting, droppingly. then my thoughts went wandering back, on a very beaten track, to the confine deep and black of the tomb; and i wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the grass, where the dandelion has such a bloom. then i straightway did espy, with my slantly-sloping eye, a carved stone hard by, somewhat worn; and i read in letters cold--here.lyes.launcelot.ye.bolde, off.ye.race.off.bogile.old, glasgow.borne. he.wals.ane.valyaunt.knychte.maist.terrible.in.fychte. here the letters failed outright, but i knew that a stout crusading lord, who had crossed the jordan's ford, lay there beneath the sward, wet with dew. time and tide they passed away, on that pleasant summer's day, and around me, as i lay, all grew old: sank the chimneys from the town, and the clouds of vapour brown no longer, like a crown, o'er it rolled. sank the great saint rollox stalk, like a pile of dingy chalk; disappeared the cypress walk, and the flowers; and a donjon-keep arose, that might baffle any foes, with its men-at-arms in rows, on the towers. and the flag that flaunted there showed the grim and grizzly bear, which the bogles always wear for their crest. and i heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall, "wake ye up! my comrades all, from your rest! "for, by the blessed rood, there's a glimpse of armour good in the deep cowcaddens wood, o'er the stream; and i hear the stifled hum of a multitude that come, though they have not beat the drum, it would seem! "go tell it to my lord, lest he wish to man the ford with partisan and sword, just beneath; ho, gilkison and nares! ho, provan of cowlairs! we'll back the bonny bears to the death!" to the tower above the moat, like one who heedeth not, came the bold sir launcelot, half undressed; on the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood, with his arms across him glued on his breast. and he muttered, "foe accurst! hast thou dared to seek me first? george of gorbals, do thy worst--for i swear, o'er thy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my bride, from my undissevered side thou shalt tear! "ho, herald mine, brownlee! ride forth, i pray, and see, who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend! sir roderick dalgleish, and my foster-brother neish, with his bloodhounds in the leash, shall attend." forth went the herald stout, o'er the drawbridge and without, then a wild and savage shout rose amain, six arrows sped their force, and, a pale and bleeding corse, he sank from off his horse on the plain! back drew the bold dalgleish, back started stalwart neish, with his bloodhounds in the leash, from brownlee. "now shame be to the sword that made thee knight and lord, thou caitiff thrice abhorred, shame on thee! "ho, bowmen, bend your bows! discharge upon the foes forthwith no end of those heavy bolts. three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave, and a gallows for the slave who revolts!" ten days the combat lasted; but the bold defenders fasted, while the foemen, better pastied, fed their host; you might hear the savage cheers of the hungry gorbaliers, as at night they dressed the steers for the roast. and sir launcelot grew thin, and provan's double chin showed sundry folds of skin down beneath; in silence and in grief found gilkison relief, nor did neish the spell-word, beef, dare to breathe. to the ramparts edith came, that fair and youthful dame, with the rosy evening flame on her face. she sighed, and looked around on the soldiers on the ground, who but little penance found, saying grace! and she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his sword, "one short and little word may i speak? i cannot bear to view those eyes so ghastly blue, or mark the sallow hue of thy cheek! "i know the rage and wrath that my furious brother hath is less against us both than at me. then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe an arrow from the bow, like brownlee!" "i would soil my father's name, i would lose my treasured fame, ladye mine, should such a shame on me light: while i wear a belted brand, together still we stand, heart to heart, hand in hand!" said the knight. "all our chances are not lost, as your brother and his host shall discover to their cost rather hard! ho, provan! take this key--hoist up the malvoisie, and heap it, d'ye see, in the yard. "of usquebaugh and rum, you will find, i reckon, some, besides the beer and mum, extra stout; go straightway to your tasks, and roll me all the casks, as also range the flasks, just without. "if i know the gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their ears in the very inmost tiers of the drink. let them win the outer court, and hold it for their sport, since their time is rather short, i should think!" with a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge fell, rushed the gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as druids; mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened and they swore, till they stumbled on the floor, o'er the fluids. down their weapons then they threw, and each savage soldier drew from his belt an iron screw, in his fist; george of gorbals found it vain their excitement to restrain, and indeed was rather fain to assist. with a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his stand, and silence did command, all below-"ho! launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold, in the centre of thy hold, pledge me now! "art surly, brother mine? in this cup of rosy wine, i drink to the decline of thy race! thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run, never more shall setting sun gild thy face! "the pilgrim, in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze, ere the pallid morning rays flicker up; and perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging high! what, brother! art thou dry? fill my cup!" dumb as death stood launcelot, as though he heard him not, but his bosom provan smote, and he swore; and sir roderick dalgleish remarked aside to neish, "never sure did thirsty fish swallow more! "thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel's scarce begun; it were knightly sport and fun to strike in!" "nay, tarry till they come," quoth neish, "unto the rum- they are working at the mum, and the gin!" then straight there did appear to each gallant gorbalier twenty castles dancing near, all around; the solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them quake, and sinuous as a snake moved the ground. why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to some, but all agreed the rum was divine. and they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly born, who preferred to fill his horn up with wine! then said launcelot the tall, "bring the chargers from their stall; lead them straight unto the hall, down below: draw your weapons from your side, fling the gates asunder wide, and together we shall ride on the foe!" then provan knew full well, as he leaped into his selle, that few would 'scape to tell how they fared; and gilkison and nares, both mounted on their mares, looked terrible as bears, all prepared. with his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinewed neish, and the falchion of dalgleish glittered bright-"now, wake the trumpet's blast; and, comrades, follow fast; smite them down unto the last!" cried the knight. in the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and yell, and shout, as the warriors wheeled about, all in mail. on the miserable kerne fell the death-strokes stiff and stern, as the deer treads down the fern, in the vale! saint mungo be my guide! it was goodly in that tide to see the bogle ride in his haste; he accompanied each blow with a cry of "ha!" or "ho!" and always cleft the foe to the waist. "george of gorbals--craven lord! thou didst threat me with the cord; come forth and brave my sword, if you dare!" but he met with no reply, and never could descry the glitter of his eye anywhere. ere the dawn of morning shone, all the gorbaliers were down, like a field of barley mown in the ear: it had done a soldier good to see how provan stood, with neish all bathed in blood, panting near. "now bend ye to your tasks--go trundle down those casks, and place the empty flasks on the floor; george of gorbals scarce will come, with trumpet and with drum, to taste our beer and rum any more!" so they bent them to their tasks, and they trundled down the casks, and replaced the empty flasks on the floor; but pallid for a week was the cellar-master's cheek, for he swore he heard a shriek through the door. when the merry christmas came, and the yule-log lent its flame to the face of squire and dame in the hall, the cellarer went down to tap october brown, which was rather of renown 'mongst them all. he placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow, but his liquor would not flow through the pin. "sure, 'tis sweet as honeysuckles!" so he rapped it with his knuckles, but a sound, as if of buckles, clashed within. "bring a hatchet, varlets, here!" and they cleft the cask of beer: what a spectacle of fear met their sight! there george of gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched and grey, in the arms he bore the day of the fight! i have sung this ancient tale, not, i trust, without avail, though the moral ye may fail to perceive; sir launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust, and now, i think, i must take my leave! illustrations of the puff poetical [the following eleven pieces of verse appeared originally with many others in an article called "puffs and poetry," from which the following passage is taken:-"some people are fond of excursions into the realms of old romance, with their lancelots and gueneveres, their enchanted castles, their bearded wizards, 'and such odd branches of learning.' there needs a winged griffin, at the very least, to carry them out of the everyday six-and-eightpenny world, or the whizz of an excalibur to startle their drowsy imaginations into life. the beauties and the wonders of the universe died for them some centuries ago; they went out with friar bacon and the invention of gunpowder. praised be apollo! this is not our case. there is a snatch of poetry, to our apprehension, in almost everything. we have detected it pushing its petals forth from the curls of a barrister's wig, and scented its fragrance even in the columns of the 'london gazette.' "'the deep poetic voice that hourly speaks within us' is never silent. like signor benedick, it 'will still be talking.' we can scarcely let our eyes dwell upon an object--nay, not even upon a gridiron or a toothpick--but it seems to be transmuted as by the touch of midas into gold. our facts accordingly adopt upon occasions a very singular shape. we are not nice to a shade. a trifle here or there never stands in our way. we regard a free play of fancy as the privilege of every genuine briton, and exclaim with pistol, 'a fico for all yea and nay rogues.' "we have often thought of entering the lists against robins [famous for his imaginative advertisements of properties for sale]. it may be vanity, but we think we could trump him. robins amplifies well, but we think we could trump him. there is an obvious effort in his best works. the result is a want of unity of effect. hesiod and tennyson, the caverns of ellora, and the magic caves of the regent's park colosseum, are jumbled confusedly one upon another. he never achieves the triumph of art--repose. besides, he wants variety. a country box, consisting of twenty feet square of tottering brickwork, a plateau of dirt, with a few diseased shrubs and an open drain, is as elaborately be-metaphored as an island of the hebrides, with a wilderness of red-deer, celts, ptarmigan, and other wild animals upon it. now, this is out of all rule. an elephant's trunk can raise a pin as well as uproot an oak, but it would be ridiculous to employ the same effort for one as for the other. robins--with reverence to so great a name, be it spoken--does not attend to this. he has yet to acquire the light and graceful touch of the finished artist." thereupon bon gaultier proceeds to illustrate his views by the following, and many other rhyming advertisements.] the death of ishmael. died the jew? "the hebrew died. on the pavement cold he lay, around him closed the living tide; the butcher's cad set down his tray; the pot-boy from the dragon green no longer for his pewter calls; the nereid rushes in between, nor more her 'fine live mackerel!' bawls." died the jew? "the hebrew died. they raised him gently from the stone, they flung his coat and neckcloth wide- but linen had that hebrew none. they raised the pile of hats that pressed his noble head, his locks of snow; but, ah, that head, upon his breast, sank down with an expiring 'clo!'" died the jew? "the hebrew died, struck with overwhelming qualms from the flavour spreading wide of some fine virginia hams. would you know the fatal spot, fatal to that child of sin? these fine-flavoured hams are bought at 50 bishopsgate within!" parr's life pills. 'twas in the town of lubeck, a hundred years ago, an old man walked into the church, with beard as white as snow; yet were his cheeks not wrinkled, nor dim his eagle eye: there's many a knight that steps the street, might wonder, should he chance to meet that man erect and high! when silenced was the organ, and hushed the vespers loud, the sacristan approached the sire, and drew him from the crowd-"there's something in thy visage, on which i dare not look; and when i rang the passing bell, a tremor that i may not tell, my very vitals shook. "who art thou, awful stranger? our ancient annals say, that twice two hundred years ago another passed this way, like thee in face and feature; and, if the tale be true, 'tis writ, that in this very year again the stranger shall appear. art thou the wandering jew?" "the wandering jew, thou dotard!" the wondrous phantom cried-"'tis several centuries ago since that poor stripling died. he would not use my nostrums- see, shaveling, here they are! _these_ put to flight all human ills, these conquer death--unfailing pills, and i'm the inventor, parr!" tarquin and the augur. gingerly is good king tarquin shaving. gently glides the razor o'er his chin, near him stands a grim haruspex raving, and with nasal whine he pitches in church extension hints, till the monarch squints, snicks his chin, and swears--a deadly sin! "jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor! from my dressing-table get thee gone! dost thou think my flesh is double glo'ster? there again! that cut was to the bone! get ye from my sight; i'll believe you're right, when my razor cuts the sharpening hone!" thus spoke tarquin with a deal of dryness; but the augur, eager for his fees, answered--"try it, your imperial highness; press a little harder, if you please. there! the deed is done!" through the solid stone went the steel as glibly as through cheese. so the augur touched the tin of tarquin, who suspected some celestial aid; but he wronged the blameless gods; for hearken! ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid, with his searching eye did the priest espy rogers' name engraved upon the blade. la mort d'arthur, not by alfred tennyson. slowly, as one who bears a mortal hurt, through which the fountain of his life runs dry, crept good king arthur down unto the lake. a roughening wind was bringing in the waves with cold dull plash and plunging to the shore, and a great bank of clouds came sailing up athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon, leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank, with a short stagger, senseless on the stones. no man yet knows how long he lay in swound; but long enough it was to let the rust lick half the surface of his polished shield; for it was made by far inferior hands, than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves, whereon no canker lighted, for they bore the magic stamp of mechi's silver steel. jupiter and the indian ale. "take away this clammy nectar!" said the king of gods and men; "never at olympus' table let that trash be served again. ho, lyaeus, thou the beery! quick--invent some other drink; or, in a brace of shakes, thou standest on cocytus' sulphury brink!" terror shook the limbs of bacchus, paly grew his pimpled nose, and already in his rearward felt he jove's tremendous toes; when a bright idea struck him- "dash my thyrsus! i'll be bail-for you never were in india- that you know not hodgson's ale!" "bring it!" quoth the cloud-compeller; and the wine-god brought the beer-"port and claret are like water to the noble stuff that's here!" and saturnius drank and nodded, winking with his lightning eyes, and amidst the constellations did the star of hodgson rise! the lay of the doudney brothers. coats at five-and-forty shillings! trousers ten-and-six a pair! summer waistcoats, three a sov'reign, light and comfortable wear! taglionis, black or coloured, chesterfield and velveteen! the old english shooting-jacket--doeskins such as ne'er were seen! army cloaks and riding-habits, alberts at a trifling cost! do you want an annual contract? write to doudneys' by the post. doudney brothers! doudney brothers! not the men that drive the van, plastered o'er with advertisements, heralding some paltry plan, how, by base mechanic stinting, and by pinching of their backs, lean attorneys' clerks may manage to retrieve their income-tax: but the old established business--where the best of clothes are given at the very lowest prices--fleet street, number ninety-seven. wouldst thou know the works of doudney? hie thee to the thronged arcade, to the park upon a sunday, to the terrible parade. there, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of the steel, when the household troops in squadrons round the bold field-marshals wheel, shouldst thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morning frock, peering at the proud battalions o'er the margin of his stock,-should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the veteran worn and grey curbed the course of bonaparte, rolled the thunders of assaye-let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb he wears started into shape and being from the doudney brothers' shears! seek thou next the rooms of willis--mark, where d'orsay's count is bending, see the trouser's undulation from his graceful hip descending; hath the earth another trouser so compact and love-compelling? thou canst find it, stranger, only, if thou seek'st the doudneys' dwelling! hark, from windsor's royal palace, what sweet voice enchants the ear? "goodness, what a lovely waistcoat! oh, who made it, albert dear? 'tis the very prettiest pattern! you must get a dozen others!" and the prince, in rapture, answers--"'tis the work of doudney brothers!" paris and helen. as the youthful paris presses helen to his ivory breast. sporting with her golden tresses, close and ever closer pressed, "let me," said he, "quaff the nectar, which thy lips of ruby yield; glory i can leave to hector, gathered in the tented field. "let me ever gaze upon thee, look into thine eyes so deep; with a daring hand i won thee, with a faithful heart i'll keep. "oh, my helen, thou bright wonder, who was ever like to thee? jove would lay aside his thunder, so he might be blest like me. "how mine eyes so fondly linger on thy smooth and pearly skin; scan each round and rosy finger, drinking draughts of beauty in! "tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest? whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom? whence the rosy hue thou wearest; breathing round thee rich perfume?" thus he spoke, with heart that panted, clasped her fondly to his side, gazed on her with look enchanted, while his helen thus replied: "be no discord, love, between us, if i not the secret tell! 'twas a gift i had of venus,- venus, who hath loved me well; "and she told me as she gave it, 'let not e'er the charm be known; o'er thy person freely lave it, only when thou art alone.' "'tis enclosed in yonder casket- here behold its golden key; but its name--love, do not ask it, tell't i may not, even to thee!" long with vow and kiss he plied her; still the secret did she keep, till at length he sank beside her, seemed as he had dropped to sleep. soon was helen laid in slumber, when her paris, rising slow, did his fair neck disencumber from her rounded arms of snow. then, her heedless fingers oping, takes the key and steals away, to the ebon table groping, where the wondrous casket lay; eagerly the lid uncloses, sees within it, laid aslope, pears' liquid bloom of roses, cakes of his transparent soap! a warning. lose thou no time! a grave and solemn warning, yet seldom ta'en, to man's eternal cost. night wanes, day lessens, evening, noon, and morning flit by unseen, and yet much time is lost. and why? are moments useless as the vapour that rises from the lamp's extinguish'd flame! why do we, like the moth around the taper, sport with the fire that must consume our frame? be wise in time! arouse thee, oh thou sleeper, account thy moments dearer than thy gold; while time thou hast, appoint a good time-keeper to treasure up thine hours till thou art old. lose but this chance, and thou art lost for ever,- seek him who keeps a watch for sinking souls-ask for cox savory's horizontal lever, with double case, and jewell'd in four holes! to persons about to marry. gentle pair, ere hymen binds you in his fetters, soft but sure, pray, bethink you, have you ever had substantial furniture? love's a fickle god, they tell us, giddy-pated, lightly led, therefore it were well you found him in a comfortable bed. olive branches soon will blossom round your table, two or three; and that table should be made of good and strong mahogany. if the cares of life should gather, and we all must look for cares,-sorrow falls extremely lightly in the midst of rosewood chairs. few that walk can 'scape a stumble, thus hath said the prophet-king; but your fall will be a light one on axminster carpeting. we can keep your little children from collision with the grate-we have wardrobes, we have presses at a reasonable rate; mirrors for the queen of beauty basins of the purest stone, ottomans which cleopatra might have envied on her throne. seek us ere you taste with rapture love's sweet draught of filter'd honey, and you'll find the safest plan is, no discount, and ready money! want places. wants a place a lad, who's seen pious life at brother teazle's, used to cleaning boots, and been touch'd with grace, and had the measles. * * * * * wants a place as housemaid, or companion to a bachelor, up in years, and who'd prefer a person with no character, a female, who in this respect, would leave him nothing to object. miscellaneous poems the lay of the lover's friend. [air--"_the days we went a-gypsying_."] i would all womankind were dead, or banished o'er the sea; for they have been a bitter plague these last six weeks to me: it is not that i'm touched myself, for that i do not fear; no female face has shown me grace for many a bygone year. but 'tis the most infernal bore, of all the bores i know, to have a friend who's lost his heart a short time ago. whene'er we steam it to blackwall, or down to greenwich run, to quaff the pleasant cider-cup, and feed on fish and fun; or climb the slopes of richmond hill, to catch a breath of air: then, for my sins, he straight begins to rave about his fair. oh, 'tis the most tremendous bore, of all the bores i know, to have a friend who's lost his heart a short time ago. in vain you pour into his ear your own confiding grief; in vain you claim his sympathy, in vain you ask relief; in vain you try to rouse him by joke, repartee, or quiz; his sole reply's a burning sigh, and "what a mind it is!" o lord! it is the greatest bore, of all the bores i know, to have a friend who's lost his heart a short time ago. i've heard her thoroughly described a hundred times, i'm sure; and all the while i've tried to smile, and patiently endure; he waxes strong upon his pangs, and potters o'er his grog; and still i say, in a playful way- "why, you're a lucky dog!" but oh! it is the heaviest bore, of all the bores i know, to have a friend who's lost his heart a short time ago. i really wish he'd do like me, when i was young and strong; i formed a passion every week, but never kept it long. but he has not the sportive mood that always rescued me, and so i would all women could be banished o'er the sea. for 'tis the most egregious bore, of all the bores i know, to have a friend who's lost his heart a short time ago. francesca da rimini. to bon gaultier. [argument.--an impassioned pupil of leigh hunt, having met bon gaultier at a fancy ball, declares the destructive consequences thus.] didst thou not praise me, gaultier, at the ball, ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, with clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less, beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness? dost thou remember, when, with stately prance, our heads went crosswise in the country-dance; how soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm, trembled within the squeezing of thy palm; and how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise at the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes? ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing, who, like a dove, with its scarce feathered wing, fluttered at the approach of thy quaint swaggering! there's wont to be, at conscious times like these, an affectation of a bright-eyed ease,-a crispy cheekiness, if so i dare describe the swaling of a jaunty air; and thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, you craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, that smiling voice, although it made me start, boiled in the meek o'erlifting of my heart; and, picking at my flowers, i said, with free and usual tone, "o yes, sir, certainly!" like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, i heard the music burning in my ear, and felt i cared not, so thou wert with me, if gurth or wamba were our vis-a-vis. so, when a tall knight templar ringing came, and took his place amongst us with his dame, i neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk from the stern survey of the soldier-monk, though rather more than three full quarters drunk; but, threading through the figure, first in rule, i paused to see thee plunge into la poule. ah, what a sight was that! not prurient mars, pointing his toe through ten celestial bars-not young apollo, beamily arrayed in tripsome guise for juno's masquerade-not smartest hermes, with his pinion girth, jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, looked half so bold, so beautiful, and strong, as thou, when pranking through the glittering throng! how the calmed ladies looked with eyes of love on thy trim velvet doublet laced above; the hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver! so bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black, so lightsomely dropped in thy lordly back, so crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, so glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it, that my weak soul took instant flight to thee, lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery! but when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm (the full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm) we passed into the great refreshment-hall, where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits small lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn around the margin of the negus urn; when my poor quivering hand you fingered twice, and, with inquiring accents, whispered "ice, water, or cream?" i could no more dissemble, but dropped upon the couch all in a tremble. a swimming faintness misted o'er my brain, the corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne, the custards fell untouched upon the floor, thine eyes met mine. that night we danced no more! the cadi's daughter. a legend of the bosphorus. [from any of the annuals.] how beauteous is the star of night within the eastern skies, like the twinkling glance of the toorkman's lance, or the antelope's azure eyes! a lamp of love in the heaven above, that star is fondly streaming; and the gay kiosk and the shadowy mosque in the golden horn are gleaming. young leila sits in her jasmine bower, and she hears the bulbul sing, as it thrills its throat to the first full note, that anthems the flowery spring. she gazes still, as a maiden will, on that beauteous eastern star: you might see the throb of her bosom's sob beneath the white cymar! she thinks of him who is far away,- her own brave galiongee,-where the billows foam and the breezes roam, on the wild carpathian sea. she thinks of the oath that bound them both beside the stormy water; and the words of love, that in athens' grove he spake to the cadi's daughter. "my selim!" thus the maiden said, "though severed thus we be by the raging deep and the mountain steep, my soul still yearns to thee. thy form so dear is mirrored here in my heart's pellucid well, as the rose looks up to phingari's orb, or the moth to the gay gazelle. "i think of the time when the kaftan's crime our love's young joys o'ertook, and thy name still floats in the plaintive notes of my silver-toned chibouque. thy hand is red with the blood it has shed, thy soul it is heavy laden; yet come, my giaour, to thy leila's bower; oh, come to thy turkish maiden!" a light step trod on the dewy sod, and a voice was in her ear, and an arm embraced young leila's waist- "beloved! i am here!" like the phantom form that rules the storm, appeared the pirate lover, and his fiery eye was like zatanai, as he fondly bent above her. "speak, leila, speak; for my light caique rides proudly in yonder bay; i have come from my rest to her i love best, to carry thee, love, away. the breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover my own jemscheed from harm; think'st thou i fear the dark vizier, or the mufti's vengeful arm? "then droop not, love, nor turn away from this rude hand of mine!" and leila looked in her lover's eyes, and murmured--"i am thine!" but a gloomy man with a yataghan. stole through the acacia-blossoms, and the thrust he made with his gleaming blade hath pierced through both their bosoms. "there! there! thou cursed caitiff giaour! there, there, thou false one, lie!" remorseless hassan stands above, and he smiles to see them die. they sleep beneath the fresh green turf, the lover and the lady-and the maidens wail to hear the tale of the daughter of the cadi! the dirge of the drinker. brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down; he has dropped--that star of honour--on the field of his renown! raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees, if you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please. sons of pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurrahing sink, be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink! lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor; see, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door! widely o'er the earth i've wandered; where the drink most freely flowed, i have ever reeled the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode. deep in shady cider cellars i have dreamed o'er heavy wet, by the fountains of damascus i have quaffed the rich sherbet, regal montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, on johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccuped o'er my hock; i have bathed in butts of xeres deeper than did e'er monsoon, sangaree'd with bearded tartars in the mountains of the moon; in beer-swilling copenhagen i have drunk your danesman blind, i have kept my feet in jena, when each bursch to earth declined; glass for glass, in fierce jamaica, i have shared the planter's rum. drunk with highland dhuine-wassails, till each gibbering gael grew dumb; but a stouter, bolder drinker--one that loved his liquor more-never yet did i encounter than our friend upon the floor! yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, he has fallen who rarely staggered--let the rest of us beware! we shall leave him as we found him,--lying where his manhood fell, 'mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well. better 'twere we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare, pulled his hobies off, and turned his toes to taste the breezy air. throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas, calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass, we shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy, large supplies of soda-water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy, so, when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of his,-clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is! the death of duval. by w--h--a---th, esq. ["methinks i see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely than the nosegay in his hand! i hear the crowd extolling his resolution and intrepidity! what volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace! i see him at the tree! the whole circle are in tears! even butchers weep!"--beggars opera.] a living sea of eager human faces, a thousand bosoms throbbing all as one, walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places, holding their crowds of gazers to the sun: through the hushed groups low-buzzing murmurs run; and on the air, with slow reluctant swell, comes the dull funeral-boom of old sepulchre's bell. oh, joy in london now! in festal measure be spent the evening of this festive day! for thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure; now, even now, in yonder press-yard they strike from his limbs the fetters loose away! a little while, and he, the brave duval, will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all. "why comes he not? say, wherefore doth he tarry?" starts the inquiry loud from every tongue. "surely," they cry, "that tedious ordinary his tedious psalms must long ere this have sung,- tedious to him that's waiting to be hung!" but hark! old newgate's doors fly wide apart. "he comes, he comes!" a thrill shoots through each gazer's heart. joined in the stunning cry ten thousand voices, all smithfield answered to the loud acclaim. "he comes, he comes!" and every breast rejoices, as down snow hill the shout tumultuous came, bearing to holborn's crowd the welcome fame. "he comes, he comes!" and each holds back his breath-some ribs are broke, and some few scores are crushed to death. with step majestic to the cart advances the dauntless claude, and springs into his seat. he feels that on him now are fixed the glances of many a briton bold and maiden sweet, whose hearts responsive to his glories beat. in him the honour of "the road" is centred, and all the hero's fire into his bosom entered. his was the transport--his the exultation of rome's great generals, when from afar, up to the capitol, in the ovation, they bore with them, in the triumphal car, rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war. _io triumphe_! they forgot their clay. e'en so duval, who rode in glory on his way. his laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow, the many-tinted nosegay in his hand, his large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow, like the old vintages of spanish land, locks clustering o'er a brow of high command, subdue all hearts; and, as up holborn's steep toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep. he saw it, but he heeded not. his story, he knew, was graven on the page of time. tyburn to him was as a field of glory, where he must stoop to death his head sublime, hymned in full many an elegiac rhyme. he left his deeds behind him, and his name-for he, like caesar, had lived long enough for fame. he quailed not, save when, as he raised the chalice,- st giles's bowl,--filled with the mildest ale, to pledge the crowd, on her--his beauteous alice- his eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale. she, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale, she, whom he fondly deemed his own dear girl, stood with a tall dragoon, drinking long draughts of purl. he bit his lip--it quivered but a moment- then passed his hand across his flushing brows: he could have spared so forcible a comment upon the constancy of woman's vows. one short sharp pang his hero-soul allows; but in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain, and on his pilgrim course went calmly forth again. a princely group of england's noble daughters stood in a balcony suffused with grief, diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters, and waving many a snowy handkerchief; then glowed the prince of highwayman and thief! his soul was touched with a seraphic gleam-that woman could be false was but a mocking dream. and now, his bright career of triumph ended, his chariot stood beneath the triple tree. the law's grim finisher to its boughs ascended, and fixed the hempen bandages, while he bowed to the throng, then bade the cart go free. the car rolled on, and left him dangling there, like famed mohammed's tomb, uphung midway in air. as droops the cup of the surcharged lily beneath the buffets of the surly storm, or the soft petals of the daffodilly, when sirius is uncomfortably warm, so drooped his head upon his manly form, while floated in the breeze his tresses brown. he hung the stated time, and then they cut him down. with soft and tender care the trainbands bore him, just as they found him, nightcap, robe, and all, and placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him, among the atomies in surgeons' hall: "these are the bones of the renowned duval!" there still they tell us, from their glassy case, he was the last, the best of all that noble race! eastern serenade. by the honourable sinjin muff. the minarets wave on the plain of stamboul, and the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool; the voice of the musnud is heard from the west, and kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest. the notes of the kislar re-echo no more, and the waves of al sirat fall light on the shore. where art thou, my beauty; where art thou, my bride? oh, come and repose by thy dragoman's side! i wait for thee still by the flowery tophaik-i have broken my eblis for zuleima's sake. but the heart that adores thee is faithful and true, though it beats 'neath the folds of a greek allah-hu! oh, wake thee, my dearest! the muftis are still, and the tschocadars sleep on the franguestan hill; no sullen aleikoum--no derveesh is here, and the mosques are all watching by lonely kashmere! oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full, i have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul! i see thee--i hear thee--thy antelope foot treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot; the jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare, and the folds of thy palampore wave in the air. come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well, my dove! my phingari! my gentle gazelle! nay, tremble not, dearest! i feel thy heart throb, 'neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub; lo, there shines muezzin, the beautiful star! thy lover is with thee, and danger afar: say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier, or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear? oh, swift fly the hours in the garden of bliss! and sweeter than balm of gehenna thy kiss! wherever i wander--wherever i roam, my spirit flies back to its beautiful home; it dwells by the lake of the limpid stamboul, with thee, my adored one! my own attar-gul! {269} dame fredegonde. when folks, with headstrong passion blind, to play the fool make up their mind, they're sure to come with phrases nice and modest air, for your advice. but as a truth unfailing make it, they ask, but never mean to take it. 'tis not advice they want, in fact, but confirmation in their act. now mark what did, in such a case, a worthy priest who knew the race. a dame more buxom, blithe, and free, than fredegonde you scarce would see. so smart her dress, so trim her shape, ne'er hostess offered juice of grape, could for her trade wish better sign; her looks gave flavour to her wine, and each guest feels it, as he sips, smack of the ruby of her lips. a smile for all, a welcome glad,-a jovial coaxing way she had; and,--what was more her fate than blame,-a nine months' widow was our dame. but toil was hard, for trade was good, and gallants sometimes will be rude. "and what can a lone woman do? the nights are long and eerie too. now, guillot there's a likely man, none better draws or taps a can; he's just the man, i think, to suit, if i could bring my courage to't." with thoughts like these her mind is crossed: the dame, they say, who doubts, is lost. "but then the risk? i'll beg a slice of father haulin's good advice." prankt in her best, with looks demure, she seeks the priest; and, to be sure, asks if he thinks she ought to wed: "with such a business on my head, i'm worried off my legs with care, and need some help to keep things square. i've thought of guillot, truth to tell! he's steady, knows his business well. what do you think?" when thus he met her: "oh, take him, dear, you can't do better!" "but then the danger, my good pastor, if of the man i make the master. there is no trusting to these men." "well, well, my dear, don't have him, then!" "but help i must have; there's the curse. i may go farther and fare worse." "why, take him, then!" "but if he should turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good-in drink and riot waste my all, and rout me out of house and hall?" "don't have him, then! but i've a plan to clear your doubts, if any can. the bells a peal are ringing,--hark! go straight, and what they tell you mark. if they say 'yes!' wed, and be blest-if 'no,' why--do as you think best." the bells rang out a triple bob: oh, how our widow's heart did throb, as thus she heard their burden go, "marry, mar-marry, mar-guillot!" bells were not then left to hang idle: a week,--and they rang for her bridal. but, woe the while, they might as well have rung the poor dame's parting knell. the rosy dimples left her cheek, she lost her beauties plump and sleek; for guillot oftener kicked than kissed, and backed his orders with his fist, proving by deeds as well as words that servants make the worst of lords. she seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, and speaks as angry women speak, with tiger looks and bosom swelling, cursing the hour she took his telling. to all, his calm reply was this,-"i fear you've read the bells amiss: if they have lead you wrong in aught, your wish, not they, inspired the thought. just go, and mark well what they say." off trudged the dame upon her way, and sure enough their chime went so,-"don't have that knave, that knave guillot!" "too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt: what could my ears have been about?" she had forgot, that, as fools think, the bell is ever sure to clink. song of the ennuye. i'm weary, and sick, and disgusted with britain's mechanical din; where i'm much too well known to be trusted, and plaguily pestered for tin; where love has two eyes for your banker, and one chilly glance for yourself; where souls can afford to be franker, but when they're well garnished with pelf. i'm sick of the whole race of poets, emasculate, misty, and fine; they brew their small-beer, and don't know its distinction from full-bodied wine. i'm sick of the prosers, that house up at drowsy st stephen's,--ain't you? i want some strong spirits to rouse up a good revolution or two! i'm sick of a land, where each morrow repeats the dull tale of to-day, where you can't even find a new sorrow to chase your stale pleasures away. i'm sick of blue-stockings horrific, steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols; so i'll off where the golden pacific round islands of paradise rolls. there the passions shall revel unfettered, and the heart never speak but in truth, and the intellect, wholly unlettered, be bright with the freedom of youth! there the earth can rejoice in her blossoms, unsullied by vapour or soot, and there chimpanzees and opossums shall playfully pelt me with fruit. there i'll sit with my dark orianas, in groves by the murmuring sea, and they'll give, as i suck the bananas, their kisses, nor ask them from me. they'll never torment me for sonnets, nor bore me to death with their own; they'll ask not for shawls nor for bonnets, for milliners there are unknown. there my couch shall be earth's freshest flowers, my curtains the night and the stars, and my spirit shall gather new powers, uncramped by conventional bars. love for love, truth for truth ever giving, my days shall be manfully sped; i shall know that i'm loved while i'm living, and be wept by fond eyes when i'm dead! the death of space. [why has satan's own laureate never given to the world his marvellous threnody on the "death of space"? who knows where the bays might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript to the home office? if unwonted modesty withholds it from the public eye, the public will pardon the boldness that tears from blushing obscurity the following fragments of this unique poem.] eternity shall raise her funeral-pile in the vast dungeon of the extinguished sky, and, clothed in dim barbaric splendour, smile, and murmur shouts of elegiac joy. while those that dwell beyond the realms of space, and those that people all that dreary void, when old time's endless heir hath run his race, shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoyed. and 'mid the agony of unsullied bliss, her demogorgon's doom shall sin bewail, the undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss, and lash the empyrean with his tail. and hell, inflated with supernal wrath, shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws, and shout into the dull cold ear of death, that he must pay his debt to nature's laws. and when the king of terrors breathes his last, infinity shall creep into her shell, cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast, and end their strife with suicidal yell: while from their ashes, burnt with pomp of kings, 'mid incense floating to the evanished skies, nonenity, on circumambient wings, an everlasting phoenix shall arise. caroline. lightsome, brightsome, cousin mine, easy, breezy caroline! with thy locks all raven-shaded, from thy merry brow up-braided, and thine eyes of laughter full, brightsome cousin mine! thou in chains of love hast bound me-wherefore dost thou flit around me, laughter-loving caroline? when i fain would go to sleep in my easy-chair, wherefore on my slumbers creep-wherefore start me from repose, tickling of my hooked nose, pulling of my hair? wherefore, then, if thou dost love me, so to words of anger move me, corking of this face of mine, tricksy cousin caroline? when a sudden sound i hear, much my nervous system suffers, shaking through and through. cousin caroline, i fear, 'twas no other, now, but you, put gunpowder in the snuffers, springing such a mine! yes, it was your tricksy self, wicked-tricked little elf, naughty caroline! pins she sticks into my shoulder, places needles in my chair, and, when i begin to scold her, tosses back her combed hair, with so saucy-vexed an air, that the pitying beholder cannot brook that i should scold her: then again she comes, and bolder, blacks anew this face of mine, artful cousin caroline! would she only say she'd love me, winsome, tinsome caroline, unto such excess 'twould move me, teazing, pleasing, cousin mine! that she might the live-long day undermine the snuffer-tray, tickle still my hooked nose, startle me from calm repose with her pretty persecution; throw the tongs against my shins, run me through and through with pins, like a pierced cushion; would she only say she'd love me, darning-needles should not move me; but, reclining back, i'd say, "dearest! there's the snuffer-tray; pinch, o pinch those legs of mine! cork me, cousin caroline!" to a forget-me-not, found in my emporium of love-tokens. sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye didst once look up in shady spot, to whisper to the passer-by those tender words--forget-me-not! though withered now, thou art to me the minister of gentle thought,-and i could weep to gaze on thee, love's faded pledge--forget-me-not! thou speak'st of hours when i was young, and happiness arose unsought; when she, the whispering woods among, gave me thy bloom--forget-me-not! that rapturous hour with that dear maid from memory's page no time shall blot, when, yielding to my kiss, she said, "oh, theodore--forget me not!" alas for love! alas for truth! alas for man's uncertain lot! alas for all the hopes of youth that fade like thee--forget-me-not! alas for that one image fair, with all my brightest dreams inwrought! that walks beside me everywhere, still whispering--forget-me-not! oh, memory! thou art but a sigh for friendships dead and loves forgot, and many a cold and altered eye that once did say--forget-me-not! and i must bow me to thy laws, for--odd although it may be thought-i can't tell who the deuce it was that gave me this forget-me-not! the meeting. once i lay beside a fountain, lulled me with its gentle song, and my thoughts o'er dale and mountain with the clouds were borne along. there i saw old castles flinging shadowy gleams on moveless seas, saw gigantic forests swinging to and fro without a breeze; and in dusky alleys straying, many a giant shape of power, troops of nymphs in sunshine playing, singing, dancing, hour on hour. i, too, trod these plains elysian, heard their ringing tones of mirth, but a brighter, fairer vision called me back again to earth. from the forest shade advancing, see, where comes a lovely may; the dew, like gems, before her glancing, as she brushes it away! straight i rose, and ran to meet her, seized her hand--the heavenly blue of her eyes smiled brighter, sweeter, as she asked me--"who are you?" to that question came another- what its aim i still must doubt-and she asked me, "how's your mother? does she know that you are out?" "no! my mother does not know it, beauteous, heaven-descended muse!" "then be off, my handsome poet, and say i sent you with the news!" the mishap. "why art thou weeping, sister? why is thy cheek so pale? look up, dear jane, and tell me what is it thou dost ail? "i know thy will is froward, thy feelings warm and keen, and that _that_ augustus howard for weeks has not been seen. "i know how much you loved him; but i know thou dost not weep for him;--for though his passion be, his purse is noways deep. "then tell me why those tear-drops? what means this woeful mood say, has the tax-collector been calling, and been rude? "or has that hateful grocer, the slave! been here to-day? of course he had, by morrow's noon, a heavy bill to pay! "come, on thy brother's bosom unburden all thy woes; look up, look up, sweet sister; nay, sob not through thy nose." "oh, john, 'tis not the grocer or his account, although how ever he is to be paid i really do not know. "'tis not the tax-collector; though by his fell command they've seized our old paternal clock, and new umbrella-stand! "nor that augustus howard, whom i despise almost,-but the soot's come down the chimney, john, and fairly spoilt the roast!" comfort in affliction. "wherefore starts my bosom's lord? why this anguish in thine eye? oh, it seems as thy heart's chord had broken with that sigh! "rest thee, my dear lord, i pray, rest thee on my bosom now! and let me wipe the dews away, are gathering on thy brow. "there, again! that fevered start! what, love! husband! is thy pain? there is a sorrow on thy heart, a weight upon thy brain! "nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er deceive affection's searching eye; 'tis a wife's duty, love, to share her husband's agony. "since the dawn began to peep, have i lain with stifled breath; heard thee moaning in thy sleep, as thou wert at grips with death. "oh, what joy it was to see my gentle lord once more awake! tell me, what is amiss with thee? speak, or my heart will break!" "mary, thou angel of my life, thou ever good and kind; 'tis not, believe me, my dear wife, the anguish of the mind! "it is not in my bosom, dear, no, nor my brain, in sooth; but mary, oh, i feel it here, here in my wisdom tooth! "then give,--oh, first best antidote,- sweet partner of my bed! give me thy flannel petticoat to wrap around my head!" the invocation. "brother, thou art very weary, and thine eye is sunk and dim, and thy neckcloth's tie is crumpled, and thy collar out of trim; there is dust upon thy visage,- think not, charles, i would hurt ye, when i say, that altogether you appear extremely dirty. "frown not, brother, now, but hie thee to thy chamber's distant room; drown the odours of the ledger with the lavender's perfume. brush the mud from off thy trousers, o'er the china basin kneel, lave thy brows in water softened with the soap of old castile. "smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead now in loose disorder stray; pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers cut those ragged points away; let no more thy calculations thy bewildered brain beset; life has other hopes than cocker's, other joys than tare and tret. "haste thee, for i ordered dinner, waiting to the very last, twenty minutes after seven, and 'tis now the quarter past. 'tis a dinner which lucullus would have wept with joy to see, one, might wake the soul of curtis from death's drowsy atrophy. "there is soup of real turtle, turbot, and the dainty sole; and the mottled roe of lobsters blushes through the butter-bowl. there the lordly haunch of mutton, tender as the mountain grass, waits to mix its ruddy juices with the girdling caper-sauce. "there a stag, whose branching forehead spoke him monarch of the herds, he whose flight was o'er the heather swift as through the air the bird's, yields for thee a dish of cutlets; and the haunch that wont to dash o'er the roaring mountain-torrent, smokes in most delicious hash. "there, besides, are amber jellies floating like a golden dream; ginger from the far bermudas, dishes of italian cream; and a princely apple-dumpling, which my own fair fingers wrought, shall unfold its nectared treasures to thy lips all smoking hot. "ha! i see thy brow is clearing, lustre flashes from thine eyes; to thy lips i see the moisture of anticipation rise. hark! the dinner-bell is sounding!" "only wait one moment, jane: i'll be dressed, and down, before you can get up the iced champagne!" the husband's petition. come hither, my heart's darling, come, sit upon my knee, and listen, while i whisper a boon i ask of thee. you need not pull my whiskers so amorously, my dove; 'tis something quite apart from the gentle cares of love. i feel a bitter craving- a dark and deep desire, that glows beneath my bosom like coals of kindled fire. the passion of the nightingale, when singing to the rose, is feebler than the agony that murders my repose! nay, dearest! do not doubt me, though madly thus i speak-i feel thy arms about me, thy tresses on my cheek: i know the sweet devotion that links thy heart with mine,-i know my soul's emotion is doubly felt by thine: and deem not that a shadow hath fallen across my love: no, sweet, my love is shadowless, as yonder heaven above: these little taper fingers- ah, jane! how white they be!-can well supply the cruel want that almost maddens me. thou wilt not sure deny me my first and fond request; i pray thee, by the memory of all we cherish best-by all the dear remembrance of those delicious days, when, hand in hand, we wandered along the summer braes; by all we felt, unspoken, when 'neath the early moon, we sat beside the rivulet, in the leafy month of june; and by the broken whisper that fell upon my ear, more sweet than angel music, when first i wooed thee, dear! by thy great vow which bound thee for ever to my side, and by the ring that made thee my darling and my bride! thou wilt not fail nor falter, but bend thee to the task-a boiled sheep's-head on sunday is all the boon i ask! sonnet to britain. by the d--of w--halt! shoulder arms! recover! as you were! right wheel! eyes left! attention! stand at ease! o britain! o my country! words like these have made thy name a terror and a fear to all the nations. witness ebro's banks, assaye, toulouse, nivelle, and waterloo, where the grim despot muttered--_sauve qui peut_! and ney fled darkling.--silence in the ranks! inspired by these, amidst the iron crash of armies, in the centre of his troop the soldier stands--unmoveable, not rash- until the forces of the foeman droop; then knocks the frenchmen to eternal smash, pounding them into mummy. shoulder, hoop! the end. printed by william blackwood and sons. notes. {vii} prologue de premiere livre. {ix} a fact. that such a subject for cathedral chimes, and in scotland, too, could ever have been chosen, will scarcely be believed. but my astonished ears often heard it. {7} w. gomersal, for many years a leading actor and rider at astley's amphitheatre. {8} john esdaile widdicomb, from 1819 to 1852 riding-master and conductor of the ring at astley's amphitheatre. {11} stickney, a very dashing and graceful rider at astley's. {12} a not uncommon tribute from the gallery at astley's to the dash and daring of the heroes of the ring was half-eaten oranges or fragments of orange-peel. either oranges are less in vogue, or manners are better in the galleries of theatres and circuses in the present day. {18} the allusion here is to one of ducrow's remarkable feats. entering the ring with the reins in his hands of five horses abreast, and standing on the back of the centre horse, he worked them round the ring at high speed, changing now and then with marvellous dexterity their relative positions, and with his feet always on more than one of them, ending with a foot on each of the extreme two, so that, as described, "the outer and the inner felt the pressure of his toes." {44} the value of these bonds at the time this poem was written was precisely nil. {49} a fact. {64} the yankee substitute for the _chapeau de soie_. {97} the marquis of waterford, {99} the fashionable abbreviation for a thousand pounds. {117} the reference here and in a subsequent verse is to a song very popular at the time:- "all round my hat i vears a green villow, all round my hat for a twelvemonth and a day, and if any van should arsk you the reason vy i vears it, say, all for my true love that's far, far away. 'twas agoin of my rounds on the streets i first did meet her, 'twas agoin of my rounds that first she met my heye, and i never heard a voice more louder nor more sweeter, as she cried, 'who'll buy my cabbages, my cabbages who'll buy?'" there were several more verses, and being set to a very taking air, it was a reigning favourite with the "social chucksters" of the day. even scholars thought it worth turning into latin verse. i remember reading in some short-lived journal a very clever version of it, the first verse of which ran thus- "omne circa petusum sertum gero viridem per annum circa petasum et unum diem plus. si quis te rogaret, cur tale sertum gererem, dic, 'omne propter corculum qui est inpartibus.'" allusions to the willow, as an emblem of grief, are of a very old date. "sing all, a green willow must be my garland," is the refrain of the song which haunted desdemona on the eve of her death (othello, act iv. sc. 3). that exquisite scene, and the beautiful air to which some contemporary of shakespeare wedded it, will make "the willow song" immortal. {119a} {119b} madame laffarge and daniel good were the two most talked about criminals of the time when these lines were written. madame laffarge was convicted of poisoning her husband under extenuating circumstances, and was imprisoned for life, but many believed in her protestations of innocence--this, of course, she being a woman and unhappily married. daniel good died on the scaffold on the 23rd of may 1842, protesting his innocence to the last, and asserting that his victim, jane sparks, had killed herself, an assertion which a judge and jury naturally could not reconcile with the fact that her head, arms, and legs had been cut off and hidden with her body in a stable. he, too, found people to maintain that his sentence was unjust. {121} the two papers here glanced at were 'the age' and 'the satirist,' long since dead. {122a} the colonnaded portion of regent street, immediately above the regent circus, was then called the quadrant. being sheltered from the weather, it was a favourite promenade, but became so favourite a resort of the "larking" population--male and female--that the colonnade was removed in the interests of social order and decorum. {122b} the expression of contemptuous defiance, signified by the application of the thumb of one hand to the nose, spreading out the fingers, and attaching to the little finger the stretched-out fingers of the other hand, and working them in a circle. among the graffiti in pompeii are examples of the same subtle symbolism. {122c} well known to readers of thackeray's 'newcomes' as "the cave of harmony." {123} sir peter laurie, lord mayor; afterwards alderman, and notable for his sagacity and severity as a magistrate in dealing with evil-doers. {157} sir james graham was then, and had been for some years, secretary of state under sir robert peel. {160} moxon was tennyson's publisher. {162} edward fitzball, besides being the prolific author of the most sulphurous and sanguinary melodramas, flirted also with the muses. his triumph in this line was the ballad, "my jane, my jane, my pretty jane," who was for many long years implored in the delightful tenor notes of sims reeves "never to look so shy, and to meet him, meet him in the evening when the bloom was on the rye." fitzball, i have heard, was the meekest and least bellicose of men, and this was probably the reason why he was dubbed by bon gaultier "the terrible fitzball." {168} two less poetically-disposed men than goulburn and knatchbull could not well be imagined. {177} the most highly reputed oysters of the day. {200} lord john russell's vehement letter on papal aggression in november 1850 to the bishop of durham, provoked by the papal bull creating catholic bishops in england, and the angry controversy to which it led, were followed by the passing of the ecclesiastic titles bill in 1857. aytoun was not alone in thinking that cardinal wiseman, the first to act upon the mandate from rome, was more than a match for lord john, and that the bill would become a dead letter, as it did. the controversy was at its hottest when aytoun expressed his view of the probable result of the conflict in the preceding ballad. {269} this poem appeared in a review by bon gaultier of an imaginary volume, 'the poets of the day,' and was in ridicule of the numerous verses of the time, to which the use of turkish words was supposed to impart a poetical flavour. his reviewer's comment upon it was as follows:- "had byron been alive, or moore not ceased to write, we should have bidden them look to their laurels. 'nonsense,' says dryden, 'shall be eloquent in love,' and here we find the axiom aptly illustrated, for in this eastern serenade are comprised nonsense and eloquence in perfection. but, apart from its erotic and poetical merits, it is a great curiosity, as exhibiting in a very marked manner the singular changes which the stride of civilisation and the bow-string of the sultan mahmoud have made in the turkish language and customs within a very few years. thus we learn from the writer that a 'musnud,' which in byron's day was a sofa, now signifies a nightingale. a 'tophaik,' which once fired away in moore's octosyllabics as a musket, is metamorphosed into a bank of flowers. 'zemzem,' the sacred well, now makes shift as a chemise; while the rallying-cry of 'allah-hu' closes in a stanza as a military cloak. even 'gehenna,' the place of torment, is mitigated into a valley, rich in unctuous spices. but the most singular of all these transmutations of the turkish vocabulary is that of the word 'effendi,' which used to be a respectful epithet applied to a christian gentleman, but is now the denomination of a dog. most of these changes are certainly highly poetical, and, while we admire their ingenuity, we do not impugn their correctness. but with all respect for the author, the honourable sinjin muff, we think that, in one or two instances, he has sacrificed propriety at the shrine of imagination. we do not allude to such little incongruities as the waving of a minaret, or the watching of a mosque. these may be accounted for; but who--who, we ask with some earnestness, ever heard of cheroots growing ready-made among the grass, or of a young lady keeping an appointment in a scarf trimmed with mutton cutlets? we say nothing to the bold idea of a dragoman, who snaps eblis in twain, as a gardener might snap a frosted carrot; but we will not give up our own interpretation of 'kiebaubs,' seeing that we dined upon them not two months ago at the best chop-house in constantinople." 