365 HEROIC LIVES HARVARD COLLEGE LIBRARY (84) The MDCCCLVIII- YMCMXIX THEODORE ROOSEVELT COLLECTION PRESENTED BY THE ROOSEVELT MEMORIAL ASSOCIATION 1943 +40 1.00 pp. 69-76. - Maxwell. Anecdotal portrait et Col. Roosevelt 130 T76 Copyright, 1899, by Frances Benjamin Johnston. ADMIRAL GEORGE DEWEY [See page 9.] --- ----- I TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES STI-HO AN W ALATAM LIN, OLN MAX ZO GOMEZ GEOR DEWFY VYJE ZOLA LEODORE ROC IFO TO OY SLLIAM OD GARRI-! N AN, OLD FOR THE M Bak AND POTOM OF YEN **L F TS CLS AND ANTONIO MACHÒ BOOKEK T. WASHINGTON JOSEPH DAMIEN ELT CARL SCHURZ ANY OTHERS 7 FLORENCE NIGHTING- GALE GARNET J. WOLSELEY JOSEPH E WHEELER PERSONAL ACQUAIN- 1 NESPES ENKA WACNALES COMPANY" NEW YORK AND LONDON 1890 *5* ** * * ય TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES STIRRING TALES OF COURAGE AND DEVOTION OF MEN AND WOMEN OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY ABRAHAM LINCOLN MAXIMO GOMEZ GEORGE DEWEY LEO TOLSTOY WILLIAM LLOYD GARRI- SON EMILE ZOLA THEODORE ROOSEVELT ANTONIO MACEO BOOKER T. WASHINGTON JOSEPH DAMIEN FLORENCE NIGHTING- GALE GARNET J. WOLSELEY JOSEPH E. WHEELER CARL SCHURZ AND MANY OTHERS TOLD FOR THE MOST PART BY PERSONAL ACQUAIN- TANCES AND EYE WITNESSES FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY NEW YORK AND LONDON 1899 COPYRIGHT, 1899, By FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY Registered at Stationers' Hall London [Printed in the United States] HARVARD COLLEGE LIBHANY (1811) 10/9/22 Langue State Ri Chop $100 C TABLE OF CONTENTS. 1. THE GENESIS OF ADMIRAL DEWEY, By William E. Johnson, 2. A DOUBLE RESCUE, By Julian Hawthorne. 3. "THE BRAVEST MAN IN THE ENGLISH ARMY," By Edward Page Gaston. 5. AUNT JUDIE, By L. P. Bowen. 4. AN INTIMATE VIEW OF WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, . 51 By William Lloyd Garrison, Jr. 6. "BIG JAMES," By David K. Miller. PAGE . 9 7. AN ANECDOTAL PORTRAIT OF COLONEL ROOSEVELT, By Perriton Maxwell. • 8. A WOMAN OF WONDERFUL NERVE, By Rev. H. D. Fisher. • 9. PROSPECTING FOR DAYLIGHT ON THE YUKON, By Joaquin Miller. 30 47 63 66 69 77 81 3 TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE 10. DID HE SAVE THE AMERICAN REPUBLIC? 88 By Richard J. Hinton. 11. THE BRAVE CHILDREN OF CUBA LIBRE, 91 By Mary C. Francis. 12. AGROUND ON THE GREAT RIP, By Rev. W. C. Martin. 13. THE STORY OF A HEROIC FAMILY (GEN. JOSEPH E. WHEELER AND HIS CHIL- DREN), · By Mary C. Francis. HOOD, 14. A HERO OF THE PLAGUE, By Edward Page Gaston. 15. LEO TOLSTOY, THE APOSTLE OF BROTHER- By Ernest H. Crosby. • · 17. HOW HE WON THE MINERS' VOTES, By Richard J. Hinton. 16. TOLSTOY AS SEEN BY A RUSSIAN PEAS- ANT, . By J. Montgomery M'Govern. · 97 . 117 19. GENERAL PORTER'S RECOLLECTIONS OF GRANT AND LINCOLN, By Edward Page Gaston. 20. A CHARACTER SKETCH OF GEN. MAXIMO GOMEZ, By George Reno. 99 114 127 18. HOW A GREAT ARTIST FOUND HIMSELF, 141 By Julian Hawthorne. 137 156 165 4 TABLE OF CONTENTS 21. OLD FATHER WALSH, By Henry Irving Dodge. 22. ONE OF CUBA'S HEROIC WOMEN, By Mary C. Francis. APOSTLE 23. THE HAWAII, 26. A • ΤΟ THE LEPERS OF · By Dr. G. W. Woods, U. S. N. 25. THE CAREER OF ANTONIO MACEO, . By Major Miguel A. Varona. 24. THE MAN WHO COULD NOT BE BOUGHT, 202 By L. Grace Ferguson. CHARACTER SKETCH OF MACEO, By George Reno. 27. A BATTLE WITH AN EAGLE, By Rev. George T. Lemmon. 28. THE STORY OF A NOBLE WOMAN, By Julian Hawthorne. 29. FACING DEATH AT RORKE'S DRIFT, By Arthur Vizetelly. 30. ZOLA AND THE DREYFUS DRAMA, . By Ernest Alfred Vizetelly. 31. "ALL HANDS BURY THE DEAD!" By Rev. George T. Lemmon. . 185 33. THE MAN WHO BORE THE STIGMA, By L. Grace Ferguson. · PAGE 182 • 192 . 215 · 205 220 224 . 238 244 252 32. SLAVE BOY AND LEADER OF HIS RACE, 255 By Gilson Willets. 263 5 TABLE OF CONTENTS 34. CARL SCHURZ AS A REVOLUTIONIST, By William E. Johnson. 35. ONE OF THE BUSIEST WOMEN OF NEW YORK, By Carrie D. McComber. 36. WINNING BACK THE SUDAN, By Edward Page Gaston. 37. THE HERMIT OF MOUNT ALTO, By J. Montgomery M'Govern. 38. THE LADY OF THE LAMP, . By Richard J. Hinton. 39. JOSE MARTI, "THE MASTER," By George Reno. PAGE 268 · 279 284 . 299 303 . 311 6 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Admiral George Dewey, Frontispiece George Dewey-—a group of early portraits, Facing page 16 66 66 William Lloyd Garrison, . 52 Roosevelt, the Rough Rider, 70 100 Maj.-Gen. Joseph E. Wheeler, . Miss Annie Early Wheeler, 108 Count Leo Tolstoy, 118 President Lincoln's Visit to General Mc- · • Clernand at Antietam, Gen. U. S. Grant and Staff in Camp, Gen. Maximo Gomez, Father Damien-two portraits, Saving the Patients, . Medal in Honor of Émile Zola, Booker T. Washington and His Family, . Carl Schurz the Civilian,. Florence Nightingale, "( 66 66 19 66 66 66 (( "( 66 66 (6 ،، "6 66 66 19 པ 66 35 35 66 66 པ 66 11 156 160 168 192 238 244 256 268 304 ну TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES: The Genesis of Admiral Dewey. BY WILLIAM E. JOHNSON. BUT UT three times in the history of this nation has the title "admiral" been conferred by the government. The office is the creation of Con- gress, and expires with the death of the one for whom it has been created. David G. Farragut opened Mobile bay, and Congress made him an admiral. David D. Porter reduced Fort Fisher, and the title was conferred upon him. George Dewey destroyed the Spanish fleet in Manila bay, and Congress has elevated him to the head of the naval profession in this country. While the whole nation stands uncovered before the exhibition of mingled daring, skill, and sagacity of this Vermonter, in Montpelier is found the storm- center of enthusiasm for the popular hero. It was in Montpelier that he first saw the light. It was there he spent the seventeen years of his boy- hood. There stands the old schoolhouse, there live 9 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES his two brothers and his only sister, and there rest the ashes of his father and mother. Half a cen- tury ago it was "Dod" Dewey in schoolboy lingo. Afterward it became "George," and so it will al- ways be in Montpelier. Genealogists dispute concerning the origin of the Deweys. Some trace their pedigree back through two kings of Italy to Charlemagne, while most of them agree that the family came over to England with William of Normandy. The coat of arms now recognized by the family is that given to Simeon Dewey, baron of Stow Hill, in 1629. But as Thomas Dewey, the founder of the American house, came to Massachusetts in 1630, they have been here long enough to become acclimated, naturalized, and Americanized. From the beginning, the Deweys have been a fighting brood. Josiah, a son of Thomas, was a sergeant of the famous "train bands" of Northampton, a sort of king's militia to look after hostile Indians. William Dewey, the admiral's great-grandfather, was a corporal in the Continental army, and fought at the battle of Lexington. William was a grand- son of Capt. George Dennison, who fought under Oliver Cromwell and later came to America to fight Indians. Rev. Jedediah Dewey, another of the strain, was the famous fighting parson of Ben- nington, Vt., associated with Col. Ethan Allen, and was indicted along with Allen during the tem- 10 THE GENESIS OF ADMIRAL DEWEY pestuous times at the outbreak of the Revolution. His son, Capt. Elijah Dewey, raised a company of Green Mountain Boys, and fought under General Stark at the battle of Bennington, while his wife served in the commissary department, she cooked dinner for the soldiers. Edward Dewey, uncle of the admiral, was a captain in the civil war. Ed- ward's son, Theodore G. Dewey, is now a lieuten- ant of the navy in service on the battle-ship Massa- chusetts. The admiral's father, Dr. Julius Y. Dewey, was a distant relative of Admiral David D. Porter. The admiral's nephew, William T. Dewey, is an officer in the Vermont milita. The admiral's sister Mary married Dr. George P. Gree- ley, who served as surgeon in a New Hampshire regiment during the rebellion. The admiral's wife was a daughter of Ichabod Goodwin, the famous "war governor" of New Hampshire. These are samples of the ten thousand Deweys recorded in the family genealogy recently published by A. M. Dewey in New York, all of whom are descendants of the original Thomas who landed in Boston in 1630. The Rev. Jedediah Dewey, the "fighting par- son" of Bennington, and Col. Ethan Allen were the backbone of the rugged Green Mountain spirit in those wild days. Both lived in Bennington. Their homes were but a stone's throw apart, and between the two buildings was the parson's church. 11 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES Parson Dewey was a rugged New England char- acter. When his salary was not forthcoming he resorted to his trade of carpentering to keep the wolf from the door. When Aaron L. Hubbell had his "raising bee," the parson was present to super- intend the job. Joe Rudd and his betrothed, Sarah Wichwire, were also present at the function. "Joe, if you will lead Sarah over here I will marry you for nothing," remarked the parson as the men sat on the timbers at lunch. "It's a bargain," said Joe, and forthwith he went after the blushing girl. Some planks were arranged for a platform, under the parson's direc- tion, and the ceremony was performed. It was during the famous New Hampshire grant troubles that the friendship of Dewey and Ethan Allen first developed, and this friendship is really a part of the history of the Dewey family. The Bennington district was claimed by both New Hampshire and New York; in fact, the place was owned by both, because the royal grants over- lapped. In the conflict of authority that followed, the Green Mountain Boys were driven to take care of themselves, and to defy the powers of both New York and New Hampshire, being squatters by right of conquest and possession. The interest in those stormy times was divided between the old Cata- mount tavern near by, kept by Dave Fay, and Dewey's church. The committees of safety would 12 THE GENESIS OF ADMIRAL DEWEY meet at the tavern, headed by Allen and Dewey; and on Sundays the parson's war sermons would fling defiance to the authorities at Albany under Governor Tryon. In January, 1770, the grand jury at Albany re- turned indictments against both Allen and Parson Dewey. Allen went to Albany to contest the case; but he was in the enemy's country, and had no success. The attorney-general advised him to "go home and be good," declaring that "might often prevails against right." "The gods of the valleys are not the gods of the hills," retorted Allen. The official asked what he meant by this. "If you will come back to Bennington with me you will find out what it means," was the response. Soon the angry governor issued a reward of £20 each for the capture of Allen, Dewey, and seven others. Later he increased the reward to £100 for the apprehension of Allen, and £50 for each of five others, including Seth Warner, Remember Baker, and Parson Dewey. Allen retorted by offering a reward of £5 for the capture of the at- torney-general. 66 The New York assembly thereupon outlawed Allen, Baker, Warner, and others, and another reward was offered for their lives. The out- laws" promptly issued a counter-proclamation, in which they declared: "Printed sentences of death will not kill us; and if the executioners 13 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES approach us, they will as likely fall victims to death as we. "" 66 In spite of this hostile feeling, these same out- laws” were among the first to seize their muskets for the common defense when the echo of the Bun- ker Hill cannon reached their ears. While Sam Fay was running his Catamount tavern, Elijah Dewey, the parson's son, had opened the old Dewey Inn just across the street. Inspired by another" war sermon " of Parson Dewey's, the fa- mous expedition against Ticonderoga was planned there. Allen led the expedition, and the parson's son, Elijah, went along as right-hand man. These "outlaws" captured the place "in the name of the great Jehovah and the Continental Congress." The parson held a thanksgiving service in honor of the triumph, and opened the proceedings with a prayer of great length, in which he recounted the exploits of the boys, among whom was his son Eli- jah. It began to look as tho Allen was not going to be mentioned by name; so he arose in his seat. "Parson Dewey! Parson Dewey!! Par- son Dewey!!!" he shouted. As the good man slightly opened his eyes, Allen exclaimed: "Please mention to the Lord that I was there, won't you? The parson continued his prayer without noticing the interruption. In the mean time the State of Vermont had been organized, and the land-grant troubles had been 14 THE GENESIS OF ADMIRAL DEWEY forgotten. The first general assembly met at Ben- nington, and on one of its first sessions, June 5, 1778, the journal contains this entry: "Voted, that the Rev. Mr. Dewey be presented with the compliments of this House, to desire him to pray with the. assembly at their opening in the morning for this session." The members of this legislature mostly stopped at the tavern kept by Mrs. Dewey while her hus- band was away in the war. They were so delighted with the table that they voted the captain a "gore of land" in recognition of his wife's cookery. Ma- tron Dewey was famed far and wide for her neat- ness. She prided herself on this fact, and had no mercy for untidy people. The war had left General Allen's financial affairs in an inextricable tangle. The rugged honesty of the man is reflected in one of his various lawsuits. Silas Goodrich sued the general on a £60 note, and Allen employed a lawyer to secure a continuance, with the idea of being able to pay it before it should come up for trial. The lawyer began his plea by denying the validity of the note. Allen, who was in the rear of the room at the time, strode haught- ily through the crowd at hearing this, and angrily upbraided his attorney in open court. "I did not hire you to come here and lie," he declared. "That note is a true note; I signed it; I'll swear to it; and I'll pay it. I want no shuffling, but I 15 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES want time. What I employed you for was to get this business put over into the next court, and not come here and lie and juggle about it.” Allen got his continuance, but he was never able to pay the note. Judgment was taken, and given to David Robinson to collect. In order to arrange for a "turn," Allen gave Robinson a note indorsed by Dave Fay, which was deposited with Cap- tain Dewey, as the full document explains: "I Promise for Value Recd. to pay David Robinson Sixty pounds L. M. with interest. Witness my hand this 17th day of February, 1786. "DAVID FAY. ETHAN ALLEN." "The above note is left with Capt. Dewey to be delivered back to General Allen in case that S1 Silas Goodrich shall make a turn of an Exesution David Robinson has to Col- lect of the General in favor of that Silas with his Brother William Goodrich on that Robinson has to save-otherwise the note is to be given back to that David Robinson or if that David Robinson is harmed in the affair, he is to be saved harmless by that note." This ancient note was returned to Robinson by Dewey, according to the agreement, and is still treasured by the Robinson family at Bennington. The hero of Manila, as a boy, was "a regular game-cock," so his brother Charles tells me. He was too small to be a bully, if so inclined. While not quarrelsome, he rather enjoyed a fight. He has the record of having thrashed every other boy 16 COMMANDER DEWEY OF THE "PENSACOLA" 1885 THE BRIDEGROOM 1867 LIEUTENANT DEWEY 1861 THE GENESIS OF ADMIRAL DEWEY in town. (6 The solar plexus had not been discov- ered in those days, so young George-or " Dod," as he was called-struck straight for the nose. Every boy in town dreaded George's famous nose blow." It was not safe to fight him without a baseball mask. Charles remembers seeing him bristle up to a lad twice his size, and hearing this conversation : "I want you to understand that I can lick you." "I know it, George, but don't do it." George's favorite pastime was pounding some big bully who "picked on" a small boy. This fighting trait followed him into the naval academy at Annapolis, where a member of his class (1854), a Southerner, called him a "dough face," and got thrashed for it. At another time a cadet in a rage threw an ink- stand at his head. George whipped him till his teeth chattered, which so mortified the cadet that he challenged his antagonist to a duel with pistols. The future admiral accepted cheerfully. The seconds were chosen and the ground marked off, when some of the cadets, fearing the outcome, noti- fied the instructors, and the affair was summarily stopped. In the early Montpelier days it was the custom of the schoolboys to throw the master out in the snow-bank. If the attempt failed, there was no more trouble during the term of school. If it suc- 66 ceeded, it was accepted as a vote of lack of confi- 2 17 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES dence" on the part of all concerned, and was fol- lowed by the teacher's resignation. Young Dewey was usually the leader of the "opposition" in these cases, and the assault on the dominie was generally successful. One winter when old George Reed was the "school committeeman," three different teach- ers were thrown out into the snow-pile, and no more teachers were to be found to attempt the job. Finally Reed himself, who was something of an athlete, opened the school in person. His opening address was short, but pointed. He said: "Boys, you have thrown out three of my teachers this win- ter, and now I am going to see if you will throw me out. Whenever you get ready, just come along and we will have it out." The "opposition" was a little dismayed at first, but in a few days under George's leadership it rallied for the assault. Reed straightway proceeded to "slam the boys around" in the most approved fashion. After the defeated lads had retreated to their seats, Reed seized a few of the leaders by the coat-collar, jerked them out on the floor, and "snapped their heels in the air just to keep his hand in," he said. The boys hung to their desks, but the teacher would tear desk and all from its fastenings. Reed was not much on "book larnin'," but he finished that term of school with the profound respect of the boys. Z. K. Pangborn, for thirty years editor of the Jersey City Journal, was another teacher of the 18 THE GENESIS OF ADMIRAL DEWEY Montpelier school who was not thrown out in the snow. At that time George Dewey was but eleven years old, and his father was school com- mitteeman. After the first day's experience, Pang- born went to the doctor and reported that his son was already getting obstreperous. "If you can't manage that eleven-year-old boy, you had better resign your position," replied the doctor grimly. Pangborn provided himself with a rawhide and awaited developments, resolved to give a good ac- count of himself. The second day the first skir- mish was fought. Next door to the schoolhouse was an old church where the boys were wont to ring the bell at unseemly hours. After school, "Dod," as captain, formed the boys into two brigades. One he ranged in ambush behind a fence. The other, which he led in person, was hidden in the church belfry. All the "troops" were armed with well-frozen snowballs. As the teacher came out the battery in the belfry opened the engagement with a volley. At a signal from young Dewey the reserves from behind the fence opened up, surrounded the enemy, and the engage- ment became general. The battle was close and sharp. At one time "Dod" was astraddle the teacher's neck. Some of the boys were roughly handled, but the schoolmaster was soon forced to beat a hasty retreat. Pangborn was mortified at his defeat, and determined to make one more at- 19 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES tempt. Instead of leaving town, he appeared at the school the next day. It was not long before trouble was renewed. The insurgent leader, Dewey, stood up and made this address to the teacher: "We now propose to give you the best licking that you ever had in your life." With these words Dewey led the attack, stri- king out with his fist. The teacher replied with his rawhide, which staggered the leader a bit. The reserves, consisting of the big boys, then came up, and were confronted with the teacher's rapid-fire battery, with hickory cordwood as ammunition. One boy was knocked insensible; others were cut and bruised; while Dewey was so savagely pounded that he had to be helped home with one hand in a sling. The wounded leader, assisted by the boys, went down the street flinging defiance at Pang- born, who walked down the other side to present his case. Dr. Dewey heard both sides, tied up his wounded son's bruises, and thanked the teacher for the job. There was no more trouble at that term of school. Skating the rag" was another favorite pastime of the Montpelier boys. This sport consisted in making a big hole in the ice on the Onion river, which ran in the rear of the Dewey homestead. The boy who skated nearest the hole was "it." George Dewey was generally "it." Oftentimes he 66 20 THE GENESIS OF ADMIRAL DEWEY plunged into the hole and came home soaking wet. Colds and fever which followed caused the old doc- tor much trouble. 66 "Old One day the old man brought home a big pair of coarse high boots reaching above his knees, so that " George would not get his feet wet." As a boy George was proud, and wearing those big coarse boots was a dire punishment. "I don't want to wear those boots, pa," pleaded George, almost in tears; but he had to put them on, where- upon the town boys began to call him Boots." This made the lad's distress unbearable. L. B. Cross, a playmate of Dewey's, who was an eye- witness to the affair, tells me how the future hero of Manila disposed of the obnoxious boots. man Appleton used to have a potash factory on the river-bank. There we boys used to go to warm our feet by the hot brick cone in the middle of the One night while we were warming our feet, and incidentally tormenting George about his boots, he coolly took them off and tossed them into the middle of the cone. 'I smell something burning!' exclaimed the old potash-maker, rushing up; but he was too late. The boots were wholly destroyed, and George went home through the snow in his stocking feet." room. The affection of old Dr. Dewey for his wild boy is among the legends of Montpelier. The doctor founded the Episcopal church there, and the first 21 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES christening that took place in this church was that of young George. The first funeral was that of the lad's mother. "Pa, sing me that 'Poor Little Child of a Tar,'" George would say as he clambered on his father's knee; and the old man would sing over and over again the old song his boy loved so well. The first two verses ran: "In a little blue garment, all ragged and torn, With scarce any shoes to his feet; His head all uncovered, a look quite forlorn, And a cold stony step for his seat, "A boy cheerless sat, and as travelers passed, With a look that might avarice bar, 'Have pity,' he cried,' let your bounty be cast On a poor little child of a tar.'" Tears would run down young George's face while the song recited the boy's troubles; but he would brighten up as the verses told how the father "tar came home and how the child's woes ceased. 99 Young Dewey's first naval exploit was on Dog creek, near the town. Accompanied by Will Red- field and other boys, he went out with a horse and wagon after some of his father's cattle. Dog creek ford was swollen by the spring freshet, and none of the boys would venture across except the two lads mentioned. They were successful in crossing, but on the return trip the current upset the wagon, and the boys saved themselves by holding to the horse's tail while the animal swam ashore. • 22 THE GENESIS OF ADMIRAL DEWEY George went home and straight to bed without his supper. His father came into the room and began to upbraid the boy for his recklessness. "What does this mean?" said the father, trying to look angry. "Pa, you ought to be thankful that I wasn't drowned," sobbed the urchin from under the bedclothes; and the doctor could say no more. The river-bend at the head of Main street was used by the town boys as a swimming-pool. On one occasion George saved one of his swimming companions from drowning. At another time the boys were diving into the water, and trying to see who could remain under the longest. One of the boys made a good record, and George determined to break it. He remained under so long that the lads raised a cry-"George is drowned!" Sev- eral men rushed to the pool and fished him out. His face was purple. The first thing that he said after getting his breath was, "Did I beat the other fellow?" Doctor Dewey's office was in the old building op- posite the state house. Almost adjoining this was the old schoolhouse, which still stands, tho used as a private dwelling. The state-house grounds were the playgounds for the whole town. Some one gave George a book telling about Hannibal's cross- ing the Alps, and the boy was so taken up with the narrative that he organized companies of boy 23 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES troops to scale the mountain back of the state house in imitation of that famous general. An- other of young Dewey's freaks was to run blind- folded at breakneck speed down the long stone steps in front of the capitol building. The steps are steep and about one hundred feet long, and no other boy would attempt the feat. As the doctor's office faced these grounds, his hair would stand on end at these performances of his son. The affection between George and his only sister Mary is touching. They are about the same age-only some eighteen months apart-and were constant playmates during their whole child- hood. When George got up a "show" in his father's barn, with a buffalo-robe for a drop-cur- tain, Mary was the leading lady, whose duty it was to fall on her knees and weep when George shot off the pistol. It was Mary who gloried when George was victor in a fist fight. It was Mary who went along to bait the hook when George went fishing in Onion river or Dog creek. This same sister, now Mrs. Greeley, a cultured widow, is living in Montpelier at the "Ver- mont," a quiet family boarding-house. She has not until recently known much of newspaper mon, and is not yet reconciled to some of their ways. "They will actually go away and print the things that I tell them," she said," and also some things that I don't say," she added. She expressed deep 24 THE GENESIS OF ADMIRAL DEWEY satisfaction at the praise bestowed on her brother, and declared that her ambition for him was fully satisfied, and that she knew of nothing that could add to it. "Let me show you a sweet picture-one that very few people ever see," she said softly, as she drew from its hiding-place a small photograph. It was a copy of another picture, and a bit dim, but it revealed a madonna face of peculiar loveliness. “That,” she said, her eyes swimming with tears, -"that is Susie, George's wife. There are some things that are sacred, you know. This is one of them." I had not the heart to press her with questions about the matter. I knew the story of the picture already. The family seldom mention it outside the home circle. Thirty-two years ago, Lieutenant Dewey was stationed at Portsmouth, and there met Susie Goodwin, daughter of New Hampshire's "war governor "-a Democrat who fitted out troops for the war at his own expense. Lieutenant Dewey and Commander Rhind, of the Narragansett, for a time alternated in their calls at the Goodwin home, but the commander sailed away, leaving the coast clear for the young lieutenant. The wedding took place in the old mansion on Oc- tober 24, 1867. Shortly afterward, George was ordered away for a two-years' cruise in European waters, leaving his young bride at Portsmouth, but carrying in his bosom her daguerreotype. At 25 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES Rome a celebrated Italian artist made from this like- ness two miniatures on ivory. One of these was afterward lost at sea. Later events made the other too precious to carry on any voyage. It is among the Goodwin family treasures at the Portsmouth home. The faded photograph which Mrs. Greeley showed me is one of the two or three copies of this ivory miniature now in existence. It is the last portrait made of the admiral's wife. Dewey came back from Europe a commander, and was sta- tioned at Newport in command of the Narragan- sett, relieving his old rival, Commander Rhind. There his bride joined him; but less than three more years of wedded life ended the union. In 1872 a child was born-George Goodwin, they called him. But within a week the young mother's spirit had departed. This son and this picture re- main to remind Admiral Dewey of his life's sweet- est dream that ended in such sorrow-his first and only love. In 1897 George Goodwin Dewey grad- uated at Princeton. After his own graduation in 1864, Admiral Dewey was stationed at Key West for a time, and then went on his first cruise. It was on the Wabash, commanded by Captain Barron-who afterward espoused the Confederate cause. The first ship to salute the flag of the Wabash on this trip was a Spanish war-ship. And young Dewey, who was keeping the ship's log, made a note of the occur- 26 THE GENESIS OF ADMIRAL DEWEY rence. This log is now in the possession of William T. Dewey, of Montpelier, the admiral's nephew. While the Deweys are proud, none of them are haughty. They are well-to-do Vermonters and belong to the aristocracy of manhood. One family characteristic is a remarkable memory. On his visits to Montpelier, Admiral Dewey never forgets an old friend or an old playmate, no matter how lowly his station. T. C. Phinney, for forty years sergeant-at-arms of the Vermont legislature, tells me a story of this family trait. For some years, at its beginning, the National Life Insurance Com- pany of Vermont was carried around in one or two of the officers' pockets. Finally Dr. Dewey was made its president and breathed into its nostrils the breath of life—a little Dewey energy. He was its president until his death, and then his oldest son Charles succeeded to his position in the now great institution, and still holds it. Mr. Phinney tells me that when he was married he thought a little life insurance would be a good thing, and called on the doctor to talk the matter over. In making out the application, Dr. Dewey asked his age. was not exactly certain how old I was," Phinney told me, "but I got it into my head that I was born in 1828, and said so." "I "No, you were not," retorted the doctor. were born in 1820. there." "You I know it because I was 27 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES A curious romance enters into the Dewey family history. The doctor was married three times. The first wife, who died young, was the mother of all his children. The second wife was a widow lady with one daughter, and Charles, the doctor's eldest son, married the daughter. The third wife was also a widow lady with one daughter, and Ed- ward, the next son, married this daughter. One of the closest friends of the Dewey family for half a century was the late Senator Morrill. It was through the latter's influence that the ad- miral secured his appointment to Annapolis. The gallantry of Admiral Dewey extends to all conditions in life. Stories of his friendship and consideration for the man before the mast would fill a book; but none illustrates his character better than an incident that took place when Farragut's fleet forced its way past Fort Hudson on the Mis- sissippi river, during the civil war. The Missis- sippi was commanded by Melanchthon Smith, with Lieutenant Dewey as first officer. The river was narrow at the point where the forts were lo- cated, and the land batteries flashed in the very faces of the ship's crew. In the hurricane of shell and flame the Mississippi caught fire and was sink- ing with three hundred and eighty men. Cap- tain Smith gave the order, "Every man save him- self," and Dewey added the command to spike the guns, after which the three hundred and eighty 28 THE GENESIS OF ADMIRAL DEWEY men plunged into the river, where they were picked off from every direction by Confederate sharp- shooters who lined both banks of the stream. One common seaman had been hit in the shoulder and was struggling to keep his face above the water. Dewey saw him. Disregarding his own safety, disregarding the low rank of the man, the first officer of the sinking ship plunged to the rescue, helped the wounded tar to a broken plank and towed him to safety through a hail of flying bullets. 29 A Double Rescue. BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE. HE white cliffs of the South of England coasts nel, by the chalk precipices of Normandy. The latter keep an average height of about three hun- dred feet, and are quite vertical, in some places even overhanging their base. The beach below is of flint shingle, lying at a rather steep incline, and narrow. The waves break upon it with great power, raking the loose stones back and forth with a rasping noise. In some places the shingle is di- versified by low ledges of rock, on which grows a species of seaweed which is valued by the Norman farmers as a fertilizer. An obvious hindrance in the way of using this weed is the difficulty of getting it to the land. The breaks in the cliffs are few, and at wide inter- vals. To make the journey down to the beach, gather the weed, and return to the field above, would take up the better part of a day. But the peasants have invented a simple and effective device for overcoming this trouble. 30 A DOUBLE RESCUE distances of a mile or so along the summit of the cliffs they had fixed wooden cylinders or drums, on which a rope was bent; one end hung down to the beach, the other was made fast to a donkey or horse. To the loose end was attached a large bas- ket. Two peasants worked this primitive machine, one filling the basket with seaweed, the other, by leading the horse inland at right angles to the line of the cliffs, hauling the basket, when filled, to the summit. The signal for hauling up was a shake of the rope by the operator below; for the man above seldom troubled himself to look over the edge, but passed the time, while the basket was filling, lying on his back and smoking his pipe. He gen- erally lay with his head on the rope, so that its vibration might apprise him that all was ready. These seemingly trivial particulars are dwelt upon at such length because they are in fact of the last importance in the extraordinary circumstance which I am going to describe. Of course, when the horse was started on his course inland, the basket rose steadily from the beach to the lip of the cliff three hundred feet aloft, and was dragged over it. It was then emptied of its load, and lowered down again for more. In this manner perhaps as many as twenty-five bas- ketfuls could be taken up in a day. I had often watched the process with a sort of lazy fascination, and speculated as to how it would feel to get into 31 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES the basket and take a ride up that awful precipice. I need hardly say that I never got beyond the spec- ulation. One other feature, essential to an understanding of what is to be told, I must mention. The coast at this point had at some past time-probably dur- ing the Napoleonic wars-been a resort of smug- glers. Many legends of them were current among the people; but the only visible trace of their presence that remained was a remarkable staircase in the face of the cliff. Whether it were natural or artificial, I do not know; probably it was partly both. It was a sort of rude spiral stairway tun- neled within the chalk itself, mounting upward in irregular windings from the beach to the summit. It was lighted at intervals by windows or doors— openings of unsymmetrical form and of different size, cut through the front of the precipice. I had made the ascent once or twice; but it was arduous climbing in the warm summer weather, and I was always glad to pause at the openings and sit down, sometimes with my legs hanging over the steep, enjoying the outlook over the blue channel, and marking the smoke-trail of steamers passing in the distance, or the sails of fishing-smacks. Now it happened that one of the windlasses I have spoken of was fixed directly over this stair- way, and the rope, consequently, hung down in front of it. As the brow of the cliff impended 32 A DOUBLE RESCUE somewhat at this point, the drop of the rope was at a distance from the openings of (as I estimated) some ten feet. Now to my story. I was spending the summer at the little water- ing-place of Fecamp, a small Norman village, in- habited by fishermen and farmers, and visited in the season by a few folks from Paris or England. It was by no means fashionable, but the bathing was good, the scenery fine, and, if one wanted so- ciety, one could get abundance of it by repairing to Etretat, a few miles to the west, down the coast. Like most of the other summer boarders, my ob- jects were rest and seclusion, and I got plenty of both. Nevertheless, I made two acquaintances during my sojourn. One was a marvelously pretty child, about three years of age, the daughter of a fisher- man who cultivated a patch of land above when not engaged in his normal business. The little thing was a brunette, with fine Nor- man features, black hair, and superb black eyes, brilliant and soft. Her ways were as pretty as herself; she was animated, spirited, merry, and sweet-tempered, and of an intelligence rare among the Norman peasantry of any age. I fell in love with her at first sight. Our meeting was on the beach; her mother was engaged filling the basket with seaweed for her 3 33 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES husband with the horse above, and Nannette was scrambling over the flat rocks, sticking her little fingers into the mouths of sea-anemones, making free with the small crabs which harbored in the clefts, and adorning herself with strips of red and green weed which had been tossed up by the surf. She was dressed in a shirt of blue linen coming down to her knees; her brown feet and legs and her curly head were bare. She received my advances with the affability of a little mermaid. I presented her with some small silver coins, which she handed over to her smiling and toothless mother-most of these Norman peas- ant women lose their teeth before they are thirty- and round her soft black hair I bound a blue silk handkerchief which by good chance was in my pocket. We became comrades thenceforth, and my strolls along the beach, from that day forward, were chiefly motived by a craving for Nannette. She was really a beautiful child-too beautiful for her condition. For to what an existence was she born! I used to fancy what she would be fif- teen years hence, and lamented that she could not always remain three years old, and never know the burdens of poverty and the perils of beauty. Life is a riddle! My other friend at Fecamp was of a very differ- ent ilk. He was a Rugby boy of sixteen, a fine, manly looking chap, of good English type, blue- 34 A DOUBLE RESCUE eyed and fair-haired. He was lovable in nature, also frank as daylight, modest, and well bred. But his history was tragic, and somewhat singular. His father and mother were both dead; his mother had been a dipsomaniac. He had inherited plenty of money, but also the fatal hereditary tendency to drink. This frailty or vice had suddenly and unexpectedly discovered itself to him about two years before. An acquaintance, older than him- self, meeting him at a cricket match, had half in jest offered him a drink from his whisky-flask; the boy seized it and emptied it. From that time his existence was a horror to himself and a grief to his friends. It is not necessary to go into details; the afflic- tion is not an uncommon one. At periodical inter- vals the boy was overcome by the insane longing, and nothing short of actual incarceration could keep him from gratifying it. His guardians tried all the remedies known, but with little avail. He had come to Fecamp under the care of his paternal aunt, a charming woman of fifty, of strong and tranquil character, who had great influence over him. It was hoped that the pure air and the un- familiar surroundings might help him. In his nor- mal state he was earnest in cooperating with all efforts toward his cure; but when the dark hour came, he seemed another creature. I had won his confidence, and I felt a hearty 35 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES affection for him. We were much together, and I tried, by cheerful and stimulating suggestions, to build up in him the power of resistance. I had even succeeded in bringing him safely through one of his bad periods; but we both knew that the evil demon was only checked, not put to flight. The boy had religious instincts, and I know he used to pray to be preserved from temptation; but the truth is, the poor lad was terrorized by his own craving, and could not be got to believe that there was any hope of his overcoming it by his personal determi- nation. "I believe in God, you know," he would say to me, in his pathetic, boyish way; "but when I need. Him most, He doesn't seem to be there. I can't think of the things that help when the time comes. I get to slipping down and down, and there's nothing to stop me." "You must try harder," I said. "Tell yourself that you will sooner die than give up. Conquer for the sake of the friends that love you." "I fancy it would be better for my friends if I were to drop," said he, with a grim little laugh. "Nonsense!" I replied. "You can make this trouble of yours the means of not only making your friends happy, but of doing good to thousands of people you never knew or heard of. For if you overcome this devil, all those who are in the same plight as you, hearing of your victory, will know 36 A DOUBLE RESCUE that they can overcome too. Isn't that worth liv- ing for?" "Ah! that's a good idea," said he, evidently im- pressed. "What I need is to do something for some other chap. Thinking and wishing and pray- ing don't seem to be much use: but to do some- thing! If, when the time comes, I could pitch in to help other fellows, and forget myself, I might pull through. But what can a chap like me do?" "When there's the will, the opportunity comes," I returned. 99 A few days after this talk, he and I were stroll- ing down the beach, on the way to an interview with Nannette, whose society he liked as much as I did. Presently I noticed that he was becoming taciturn, and wore a gloomy look. He was preoc- cupied, and now and then would glance furtively over his shoulder. I recognized these symptoms: the dark fit was coming on. We were over a mile from the village, and I knew that I had physical mastery over him; I could keep him from indul- gence by main force. But I wanted to awaken in him that in ward resolve which alone is of real value. God helps those who help themselves. I began to tell him anecdotes of acts of heroism and self-sacrifice: of men who had lost conscious- ness of themselves in their devotion to others. He made an evident effort to pay attention, but ever and anon I perceived that his mind was slip- 37 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES ping away into some dark abyss. Sometimes he lifted his head like a swimmer breasting the waves; at other times he would give me a glance full of fear and despair. We were approaching Nannette and her mother. The former paused in her occupation of filling the dangling basket to give us a grin of welcome; the latter trotted stumblingly up to us, and put her little hand in my companion's. He stooped down, and kissed the child's face repeatedly. But sud- denly he straightened up again. "I'm not fit to touch her," he said. 66 Don't be an ass!" returned I sharply. "Look here," I added, an idea coming into my mind. like an inspiration, "did you ever try how quick you could go up the smuggler's staircase? I'll wager you can't get to the top in ten minutes. Come-let's see what you can do for the honor of Rugby! Off you go, now! I'll hold the watch on you. One minute to three: you have a minute to reach the foot of the steps, and start on the even hour. Lively!" Anything to make him forget himself; and vio- lent physical exertion is sometimes as good a means to that end as anything else. He probably under- stood my motive; at all events, after only an in- stant's hesitation, he fetched a long breath, braced himself, and set off for the cliff. Good!" said I to myself. "By the time he's at the top of that 66 38 A DOUBLE RESCUE cliff, there won't be enough of him left to think of whisky. He's safe for this time." I sat down, leaned my back against a ledge of rock, and pre- pared to observe his ascent. He would come into view as often as he passed one of the openings. It was Christian racing against Apollyon. My prayers went with him. Nannette, upon his abrupt departure, gazed after him in surprise until he disappeared within the beetling cliff, and then turned philosophically away and resumed her avocation of "helping mother." She would pick up a minute scrap of seaweed be- tween her tiny thumb and forefinger, carry it to the basket as it lay upon the beach at the end of its long rope, and drop it in. The basket was about two-thirds full. The mother was now at some distance, collecting a big armful of the brown, glistening stuff which had been rolled up by the surf. The sea was blue and calm, yet a heavy surf broke along the shore, making a softly thun- derous sound in the ears. The afternoon sun shone from an almost clear sky against the white face of the mighty cliff. In the heart of that cliff was a young soul, toiling upward for freedom. God bless him and give him deliverance! I saw him pass the first opening, about sixty feet from the base; he did not turn to look at me, but passed immediately onward. was over a hundred feet above. The next one Sitting with my 39 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES watch open in my hand, I fell into a fit of abstrac- tion. Life was a riddle, indeed! Why should this boy suffer for the evil of others? Can it be that a burden is ever laid upon us greater than we can bear? I was aroused by a loud scream. So piercing and agonizing was it, that it brought me to my feet. What I saw froze me with horror. The mother of Nannette had given the scream, and she was running frantically toward the basket. The basket was no longer on the beach; it had be- gun its journey upward, and was already ten feet from the ground. And Nannette was in it! I comprehended at once what had happened. The child had managed, while unobserved, to clamber into the basket; in doing so she had shaken the rope in such a way that her father, above, had taken it for the customary signal, and had started up his horse. He did not, of course, know that his daughter was in the basket; he would not know it until too late. She would prob- ably fall out before reaching the top; if not, it was practically certain that she would do so when it tipped to pass over the lip of the precipice. There was no means of getting at her, or of arresting the basket's ascent. It was impossible to notify her father of what was happening. There was nothing to be done except to stand there helpless and await the issue. 40 A DOUBLE RESCUE As I ran up, I stripped off my coat, and made the distracted mother understand that she and I must hold it below, in order, if possible, to catch the child in it when she fell, and perhaps save her life. But it was a forlorn chance. The basket swung to and fro as it went steadily up, in an ir- regular orbit. It was a hundred to one that we would not be able to intercept poor Nannette's fall, when she fell; and it was still greater odds against our being able to save her life, even if we caught her. My coat was of thin summer material, and the impact even of her little body would doubtless tear it asunder, or wrench it out of our hands. But it was the only thing we could do. Meanwhile I looked upward, and could see Nan- nette's face appear and disappear over the edge of the basket. I hesitated whether or not to motion to her to jump; it would be a terrible responsibil- ity to take, but, on the other hand, every addi- tional yard that she ascended made the likelihood of her coming down alive, when she did come, smaller. If she waited until, at the summit of the cliff, she was pitched out by the turning over of the basket, she would be lost to a certainty. Three hundred feet was too awful a fall to admit of any hope of her surviving it. While I hesitated, an unexpected thing happened. The immediate deadly peril of Nannette had driven all thought of my boy friend out of my 41 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES mind. His race against his evil angel was quite forgotten for the time being. His case might wait; but Nannette's was trembling in the balance. He nevertheless had been toiling upward at the best speed that his legs and lungs would allow; and he had now reached the second opening, which, as I said, was upward of a hundred feet aloft. It was one of the larger openings, and a tall man could stand erect in it. And as I looked up, I saw, with a thrill I shall never forget, the boy standing there. He was without his cap, and his flaxen hair flut- tered about his forehead in the light breeze blow- ing in from the sea. His chest was heaving from the exertions he had made; but I saw him steady himself on his feet as he stood, and measure with his eyes the approach of the basket. It was then about a dozen feet below him. Its average distance from the face of the cliff was, as I mentioned, some ten feet; occasionally it swung in a foot or two nearer, and again it would swing outward. The basket was two and a half feet in diameter, and strongly made; the rope by which it was suspended divided some three feet above it, and the two ends were made fast through the rim. The boy stood measuring the distance, with his right foot a little advanced, and his hands braced against the sides of the opening. He meant to jump for it-that was plain. But 42 A DOUBLE RESCUE there were several things which he had to take into consideration. He must not jump directly into the basket, for that would be apt to tip it, and throw Nannette out: there was scarcely room for him and her in the thing at best. He must aim to catch the rope a little above the point where it divided, and let himself down. But he must wait, before jumping, until the basket was nearly on a level with him; that would lengthen the distance horizontally through which his body must pass; but it would diminish the sudden shock of his weight, which might have disastrous effects. But could he leap ten feet horizontally, from a standing take-off, and catch that rope-under such appalling circumstances? And just after having tried his strength and wind to the utmost in racing up those steps, too! These reflections, and probably a thousand oth- ers, less apposite to the matter in hand, went through my mind during the short interval while the basket was ascending through those few feet. It seemed long enough to me; and it was long enough for the boy to have made himself ready. He never flinched; there was no instant of a di- vided mind in him. His heart did not falter. To me, the suspense of that last moment seemed to shrivel me up; the blood sang in my ears, and dark blots seemed to float before my eyes. The basket swung upward in its slow spiral. 43 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES Then, as the boy's body left the awful threshold on which it stood, and was launched forward into the empty air, my breathing choked in my throat. He leaped lightly and boldly, with his arms out- stretched. It seemed to me that he was for a long while hanging in space, tho the deed was done in the fraction of a second. He caught the rope; and then, hand under hand, lowered himself gently into the basket, and got his arm round Nannette's waist. At the same moment I was almost thrown from my feet by the unlooked-for behavior of Nannette's mother. With a wild cry of joy she flung herself upon my neck, and covered my face with kisses. I knew, of course, that I was serving her merely as a chopping-block, so to speak, for Nannette and the boy, who were as yet out of her reach; but I believe I returned her embraces with an enthusiasm almost equal to her own. It was a thing I should certainly not have thought of doing under normal circumstances; but we both needed some outlet for our emotions after that ghastly suspense, and we instinctively wreaked ourselves upon what first came to hand. The basket, meanwhile, had ceased to ascend; doubtless the sudden accession of the boy's weight had conveyed a jerk to the contrivance above which had admonished Nannette's father that something unusual must have taken place. In fact, after a 44 A DOUBLE RESCUE few moments, his head and shoulders appeared over the brink of the abyss. What he thought of the sight that met his gaze, or how he explained it to himself, I know not; he vanished, and soon afterward the basket, with its precious contents, began slowly to descend. In a few minutes more, Nannette was in her mother's arms; and the boy and I, in the true Anglo-Saxon style, were shaking hands. He was very quiet, but he looked very happy. The moody and sinister shadow which had hung about him a few minutes before had entirely departed. I have thought over this affair for many years, and it has lost none of its merit under examination. It showed presence of mind and courage of the finest sort. As for the boy, he always regarded it simply as a piece of extraordinary good fortune for himself. It happened, he remarked, just in the nick of time for him. He had been under the ter- ror and despair of his dark hour, with all his thoughts and emotions centered upon himself. The sudden presentation of the opportunity to haz- ard his life for the sake of another had proceeded, he felt convinced, straight from Heaven. He was enabled to forget himself precisely at the moment when the demon of selfhood had its strongest hold upon him. Breaking loose from it at that moment, he freed himself from its tyranny forever. When 45 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES he leaped from the threshold of that doorway in the great precipice, he left the demon behind him, and angels of grace bore him up in their arms. Such was his belief, then and afterward; and it is not for me to question it. Perhaps all evil habits, even what we call hereditary ones, are but forms of selfishness, more or less subtle and potent. Their dominion can best be overthrown by a mighty effort of self-sacrifice. If this be a truth, it is one well worth remembering, and the knowledge of it may be of benefit to many. The boy had his struggles, after that; but he was never again in any real peril of succumbing to them. He had become master of his fate. He entered the army, and is now, I believe, an officer of distinction in India. He has done several heroic deeds in his official capacity; but aside from this he is loved by his men to a degree seldom known. He cares for their souls as well as for their bodies; and he leads them upward with the same energy and pure resolve with which, in battle, he leads them onward. 46 44 The Bravest Man in the English Army." BY EDWARD PAGE GASTON. TWO WO men were racing up a footpath just wide enough for two, while a savage fire snarled out at them from the Burmese fort they were lead- ing their troops to take. The chief, Myatt-Loon, was in his impregnable stronghold, and his natives howled with delight when the two brave lads went down. Lieutenant Taylor was killed, but Ensign Wolseley pressed his fingers upon his spurting ar- teries, while he lay upon his back, and waved his sword with his free hand, and cheered his men on until the fort had been taken. This was the baptism of fire of one afterward called "the bravest man in the English army," and whose clean life and moral heroism have always been as notable as his unfearing patriotism; so that to-day Lord Wolseley as commander-in-chief of the British army is a continual inspiration to temperance and purity among all the soldiers of her Majesty's widely flung forces. After recovering from his Burma wounds, he was made a lieutenant, and went to the Crimean 47 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES war, where for ten months his work was of the most trying character, twelve out of fourteen engi- neers being killed at Wolseley's post. He seemed to bear a charmed life, for his coat was pierced by a Russian ball; a round shot struck an embrasure at which he was working, the splinters tearing his clothes; a cannon-ball knocked off his cap; twice he was slightly wounded; but nothing could daunt him, for when he heard the shriek of an approach- ing shell he calmly turned to face it. So tremen- dously did he work that at one time, overcome by exhaustion, he flung himself to sleep among the dead and dying, where he was found so covered with blood and dirt as to be hardly recognizable. Yet next morning he was refreshed, and at work again, to have his closest call for death by battle. Leading his men as usual, they were making an advanced "flying sap" under cover of the early morning darkness, when the Russians discovered the sortie, and in their defense they terribly wounded Captain Wolseley. His face and head were so shockingly mutilated that they had lost all human semblance. His eyes were closed by wounds, one leg was badly torn, and his body cov- ered with gashes. The surgeon at the hospital tent gave but one look at the horribly mutilated form, and then turned away to his other cases, saying, "He's a dead un." But the doctor was surprised to hear the blood-smothered figure defi- 48 "BRAVEST MAN IN ENGLISH ARMY" "' antly mutter, "You're wrong-I'm worth a good many dead men yet!" Then he was attended to. In the Indian mutiny in 1857, Captain Wolse- ley was so insanely brave that he was roundly re- buked by his superior officer-and then promoted. One of his acts was to dash out into a road swept with musketry and canister, to rescue his body- servant, who was lying wounded within six yards. of the enemy, and who recovered to give his mas- ter many years of faithful service. When the United States and England were on the verge of war over the Trent affair, during the civil war, Colonel Wolseley was sent to Canada to command the projected invasion of the United States from the northern frontier; but, after the incident was amicably settled, he remained to sup- press the half-breed Indian Riel and his followers in the Northwest. Like the late Sudan campaign of Lord Kitchener, the avenger of Gordon, this was a campaign won on tea instead of whisky. Colonel Wolseley was the same practical advocate of total abstinence then that Commander-in-Chief Wolseley is now, and on the entire journey of two thousand four hundred miles through the hard wilderness he would allow his soldiers no liquor except under strict medical orders. This principle has ruled throughout his entire personal adminis- tration, and thousands of the British soldiery are to-day members of the Army Temperance Associa- 4 49 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES tion, fostered by Lord Wolseley and other leading military men. From Canada, Assistant Adjutant-General Wolse- ley went to Ashantee, and entered King Coffee's capital on the very day he said he would, after putting the savage hordes to rout. Being sent, as the ablest general in the army, to suppress the Egyptian army revolt under Arabi Pasha, he dis- played the most brilliant strategy. Arriving on the scene fever-stricken and almost blind, he car- ried out his plans, struck the rebellious forces where he had planned to, and followed up his con- sequent victory with a rapidity that astonished the world. The starlight march of the army on Tel- el-Kebir and the brilliant victory of the dawn will never be forgotten in English military annals. General Wolseley's only military failure was in reaching Khartum too late to save Gordon from his cruel death by the Arabs; but the terrific odds against him made this well-nigh impossible. Now he is Lord Wolseley, full of honors, and great in the hearts of his countrymen. 50 An Intimate View of William Lloyd Garrison. BY WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, JR. IT T is a delicate and difficult task for one whose affection and natural sympathies are involved to discourse of a parent with that impartial per- spective desirable. Yet only those intimately re- lated can appreciate the reverse side of a public character. What the world sees most clearly and what most impresses it often conveys an erroneous idea of the individual and his true nature. A moral reformer who is convinced that princi- ples are all-important, unvarying, and inflexible, is obliged to deal in plain and faithful language concerning persons and actions. As reforms inva- riably disturb existing conditions, interfering with personal interests and convenience, reformers must incur unpopularity. As Herbert Spencer has pointed out, "There are people who hate anything in the way of exact conclusions. According to such, the right is never in either extreme, but al- ways half way between the extremes." When the reformer declares that "ethical truth is as exact and peremptory as physical truth," he is conse- quently derided and maligned. 51 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES As William Lloyd Garrison resolved to be "as harsh as truth and as uncompromising as justice," the abettors of slavery-and they were then in an enormous majority-were forced to resort to vio- lent measures to suppress such dangerous utter- ances. Not only were his sentiments fiercely com- bated, but it was generally inferred that a man who could use such scathing language toward an institution legalized and protected by the Consti- tution, and toward the highly respectable slave- holders and their apologists, must be a depraved and dangerous character. As such he was de- nounced. He used to describe how cautiously peo- ple peered into the halls where he was advertised to speak, evidently expecting to see a creature with hoofs and horns, and behaving as if they were doing a disreputable act in being present. To find instead of a monster a mild and gentle person, a face beaming with benevolence and sen- sibility, a tender and sweet voice, an utter forget- fulness of self, and a thought only for the down- cast and suffering slave, was to experience a sudden revulsion. When the prejudice had subsided, the ears were opened for the reception of truth. If it was harsh and uncompromising, it never was able to match in harshness the wrong to which it applied. To be born, as was my fortune, into the family of such a misunderstood man, was to conceive an 52 WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON estimate of him that made it incomprehensible how any one else could help loving him and believing everything he said. Imagine a comfortable home, a mother whose features her children would repeat in their madonnas if they were artists, a father whose atmosphere was cheerfulness and love, a circle of friends, unlike conventional acquaintances, united with ties of unselfish sympathy in a noble cause, and you have a faint idea of the joy which the children of this "fanatic" experienced. In those days "abolitionist" and "fanatic" were con- vertible terms. Phrenologically speaking, benevolence and firm- ness were my father's most conspicuous "bumps," "his bump of firmness rising up like a rye tea-cake from its cup," to quote Lowell in his rimed letter to Miller McKim. Without that undeviating per- sistence how impossible it would have been to lead the great anti-slavery struggle! Equally, without benevolence his heart and soul would never have been enlisted in the great work. Both his firmness and benevolence were dominated by a conscience sensitive to all injustice. Mirthfulness was given him in large measure, never failing in times of discouragement and depression. The ulimate tri- umph of his principles he never questioned. How- ever few his adherents, however gloomy the out- look, his serenity was undisturbed and his faith unbroken. His temperament was singularly well 53 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES balanced, his self-control absolute, his temper sunny and unspoiled. His affections were warm, and his love of children especially marked. If a baby were in the room, it must find its way to his arms. He loved to sing, and his happy voice echoed through the house. Whatever the family hardships or disappointments, they were all forgot- ten with the cheering entrance of the husband and father. His instincts were domestic, his helpful- ness about the house exceptional, and whether reading or writing he was always on the alert to serve the general need, interrupting any task to save his helpmeet's steps or comfort a child. He could cook or nurse or serve a guest in a manner to make one forget the paucity of help in the household, but he could not grumble or envy or regret or lose his temper, however criss-cross or perplexing things went. "It will be all the same a thousand years hence," was his cheery consola- tion, a thousand times repeated. This was the side the family of this reformer saw daily. In public, on the platform, gravity, earnestness, and severity marked his impressive utterance. His clients were the oppressed and hunted slaves, with no voice of their own to tell their woes, only here and there a sympathizer who advocated their cause at the cost of personal peril and certain unpopu- larity. My father, remembering them in bonds as bound with them, spoke always as if his own com- 54 WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON plexion was dark, his wife and children suffering under the lash and sold upon the auction-block. Naturally his language was strong and his arraign- ment of the wrongdoers made with apostolic fer- vor. He held with the poet, "Passion is reason, transport temper here." Hearers whose hearts were touched with the same pity for the negro felt the magnetism of the speaker; but those whose interest and prejudices dominated were angered at the arguments and appeals it was impossible for them to answer. Bitterness resulted. The press was hostile, and delighted to misrepresent the abolitionists and mis- report their speeches. It also helped to fan the mob spirit, and to excite persecution of the offend- ers, especially of the abolition leader. As heroism is generally rated, perhaps calmness in the face of a mob would be considered the su- preme test, ac in the case of the famous riot in Boston, October 21, 1835. With every reason to believe that the respectable rioters intended to compass his destruction, the young editor of The Liberator, assaulted and disheveled, was the least excited of the multitude. From the beginning of his anti-slavery career he had counted the cost, and was ready for the sacrifice if it was to be. Bodily fear never disturbed him, and the martyr spirit shone serenely in his face. He was a non- resistant, believing with Jesus that violence could 55 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES never overcome evil, and assured that any injury done to him personally must redound to the benefit of the slave. Admirable as is physical bravery nobly exerted, I am inclined to think that my father showed a higher order of courage in his willingness to face a frowning world. Many a man goes to death in bodily conflict who dares not stand alone against family, friends, and all the allurements that the world rates most important. As a boy I felt keenly the neighborhood feeling reflected in my playmates. While it was impos- sible for those parents who could not avoid meet- ing their unpopular neighbor to resist the gentle- ness of his presence or not to increase their respect for his character, the current disapproval of the agitator was manifest to his children. Society, in the ordinary sense, meaning the exchange of social civilities in the circle where the circumstances of living were on a parity, was not for my father or his family. How much that common recognition might have been missed by one with worldly am- bitions it is easy to imagine, but to a reformer whose aims were quite different the loss was tri- fling. Besides, he attracted a new and widely contrasted friendship which was nourishment to the soul compared with the conventional acquaint- ance denied him. All the same, the sweet wife and mother, striving on narrow means to keep her 56 WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON increasing flock in garments which comported with those of their associates, had her cross to bear in the consciousness of a social contrast ever present. The way of the world has not changed, and most of my readers would have felt the same repug- nance to an abolitionist injected into their environ- ment had they lived in those days. I am often impressed with the conviction that many people who are anxious to hear all about William Lloyd Garrison and revere him as a benefactor, would have been among his opponents had they been con- temporaries. The touchstone is their attitude to- ward present reforms and reformers. The men who mobbed the abolitionists professed a devout rever- ence for Washington and the other heroes of the American Revolution. I remember how well my father discerned their true spirit, and would say that had they lived in "the days that tried men's souls" they must by their very nature have sided with the Tories. It is so easy to stone the proph- ets, and garnish the sepulchers of the prophets stoned in the previous generation! The Liberator was the ever-present household work, the editor's lecturing being incidental. But every Friday the paper must appear, the exchanges must be read and clipped, the editorials written, and the proof read. Except on Wednesdays and Saturdays, when the forms were made up at the office, my father was at home a great deal; and, 57 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES when not occupied in family service, could be seen reading his exchanges, clipping copiously, and throwing the finished papers on the floor, later to be gathered by the armful and carried down cellar to the paper-barrel. It was a happy time for the children, who loved to stretch upon the floor and pick out the story papers, or browse upon other attractive matter, or cut out pictures for amuse- ment. Then, it was always pleasant to listen to my father, who read aloud whatever he thought would interest us, especially jokes or other humor- ous things, though often stories of cruelty to the slaves, appealing to our moral sense and stimula- ting our benevolence and pity. These were hours of joy, full of cheerfulness and affection, and it was happiness enough to dwell in such an atmos- phere. 66 Come, boys, who wants to get The Liberator in advance of the mail?" was the oft-repeated call for volunteers to help read the proof. Sometimes it seemed like a task, especially when there were long-winded and dry communications; but so much else was stirring and interesting that we rarely shirked. When it was not the baby in his lap, my father was wont to have a kitten, for he dearly loved the feline race—and his regard was recipro- cated. The creatures were drawn to him as to a magnet. As we grew older, and, gaining some literary sense, would criticize the contributed 58 WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON poetry as we read the proof, the paternal response would be, apologetically, "Well, I know it isn't very good poetry; but the sentiment is good, and it will please the writer." Humanity atoned for much bad verse, to the regret of the scholarly abolitionists, who in self-defense gave their liter- ary love to the anti-slavery Standard, which, under Edmund Quincy, Lydia Maria Child, or Sidney Howard Gay, was not allowed to fall below the level of approved writing. As that was an organ of the society, it could be controlled; but The Liberator was a personal expression, and its editor supreme. Yet he was a born editor, and the bound volumes of thirty-five years, in spite of poetry that will not scan and correspondence of wearisome length, are a matchless history of the long struggle and a record of masterly editorship. The anti-slavery conventions were seasons of great enjoyment to the younger members of the family. The house was open to all comers, the table long, and the conversation lively in the ex- treme. United upon the question of slavery, the abolitionists were most independent and individual thinkers. On extraneous subjects they often dif- fered widely, and the discussion raged in the social gatherings, albeit with a spirit void of offense, and with a frankness that only a spirit of truth-seeking could abide. My father was so calm and judicial that he usually smoothed the troubled waters, 59 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES pointing out the true relations of things, and re- storing the conversational equilibrium. In such discussions personality was sunk, and the subject absorbed the debaters. Sometimes, when a ques- tion of moral gravity was under consideration, the exaltation of the utterances was impressive in the extreme to our young minds, and we shared the general intellectual and ethical elevation. "I hope my children will grow up to be reform- ers," was a frequently expressed wish of my father. He felt that a life lived except to make the world better was wasted. He was particular to impress upon us the necessity of doing our own thinking and not resting on inherited opinions, saying that there was no reason his children should believe as he did unless thought and conscience made such belief their own. "If I give my children no other precept," he wrote, "if I leave them no other ex- ample, it shall be a fearless, impartial, thorough investigation of every subject to which their atten- tion may be called, and a hearty adoption of the principles which to them may seem true, whether those principles agree or conflict with my own, or with those of any other person. "I never yet "" took counsel with flesh and blood as to what I should think," he once remarked to me concerning certain principles on which friends differed from him. His conviction was that unless one followed implicitly the inward light, he would be sure to C ܟ ܣܩܩܪܐ ܡܝ 60 WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON weaken his moral perception and lose his true guide. He never would have gone West to find out what the majority of the people thought about giving up the Ten Commandments and the Decla- ration of Independence. On matters of expedi- ency, however, where no principle was involved, he was eager to get the views of others and ready to surrender his own plan for a better. But prin- ciple and expediency were never to be confused. His leadership sprang naturally from this position, his moral vision never allowing itself to be de- flected; and his willingness to accept the best methods proposed, regardless of the proposer, in- duced confidence in his clear-sightedness and abso- lute unselfishness. My father had no respect for law because it was upon the statute-book. It was only worthy of re- spect provided it was in accordaance with right and justice, that "higher law" to which he always appealed. I should have mentioned that with firmness and benevolence, reverence competed, but it was reverence for divine laws and irreverence for human enactments when the two conflicted. Neither unions, nor governments, nor churches, nor Scriptures had any claim upon his obedience unless they squared with the Golden Rule and the Sermon on the Mount. A very unfashionable doc- trine in our day, as in the day he lived; yet devo- tion to it in time turns infidels into prophets. It 61 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES has been given to few reformers to witness their own apotheosis, but that fortunate fate was re- served to my father. "And then he heard the hisses change to cheers, The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood." 1 62 Aunt Judie. By L. B. BOWEN. A CONFEDERATE captain passed within the Union lines and was visiting his mother at night on the home farm in Western Missouri. He had made himself very obnoxious to the Fed- eral forces, and if captured was liable to be shot down at once or to be executed as a spy. His presence became suspected, and in the morning the house was suddenly surrounded by United States soldiers. Upstairs a plank was movable, affording a cramped hiding-place between the ceiling of the porch and its roof. The plank replaced, no one would ever suspect the secret. Into this contracted space the captain crawled and effectually concealed himself. Nobody knew except the mother and Aunt Judie, the cook. The house was thoroughly searched and no clew was found. Still the soldiers felt sure that the captain had come home and was near. They knew that it would be vain to threaten the mother or try to secure information from her. They decided to move upon Aunt Judie. They took her apart and questioned her shrewdly, endeavoring to entrap her to reveal his hiding- 63 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES place, but in vain. They offered her bribes- greenbacks, a gold watch, freedom-but she never wavered. Then they assumed a different rôle. They led her out into the yard in apparent anger, placed her in a chair, and declared that they would take her life if she did not tell. Pistols and rifles were put against her head, turbaned in its blue handker- chief, and they loudly threatened her. These in- timidations continued in various forms for an hour. She was within twenty steps of the concealed "Mas Jim," and he saw and heard it all. The captain said to me afterward: "I never read any- thing equal to it. And I have been in hot places on the battle-field, but never have I seen Aunt Ju- die's peer. Of course I knew they would not kill her or I would have come out of there. But she fully expected to die for me. I knew they would not hurt her, for they were admiring her too." She shuddered all through that hour of intimi- dation, and refused to give one hint. "Honey," she said afterward, "I was skairt almost to death. Dey pushed dem devilish guns right up agin my wool. I could feel de top of my hade tearin' off and de brains flyin' clear out yonder to de barn. I was sayin' my prayers and a-lyin'—all mixed up. Dem horrid guns might go off any minute, you see— skairt was no name for it. But hadn't I carried dat boy in my arms when a baby? Hadn't I 64 MATYTA VÉLILARI BILJLmtha meus Bu i kad AUNT JUDIE nussed him through de measles? Hadn't I kissed him when we thought he was dyin' wid de scarlet fever? Wouldn't he spread out his little hands to come to me from his own mammie? And when he got big, did he ever speak one hard word to Aunt Judie? When he'd come from town, who was it dat always brought me somethin' good from de store? No, no, honey-I wasn't goin' to see Mas Jimmie kilt. No, no; dat boy loved his Aunt Judie. Niggers are mighty little account, but dey ain't dat sort! Seemed to me I could feel my- self tumblin' off dat chair, blowed all to pieces- and dare's no fun in dat!--but I jest got a clinch on my old mouf, took de lockjaw, honey, and trimbled it out. I knowed Mas Jim was right up dare and a-lovin' of me. When I got through all dat dyin'-time and de soldiers quit, one of 'em said: 'Boys, dare's enough grit in dat ole darky to build a turnpike.' No grit about it, honey. Ju- die didn't git over her cowardly shakin' for a month. Dem ole Yanks never onderstood niggers nohow! "" 5 65 "Big James." BY DAVID K. MILLER. JA AMES PATTERSON is the name that stands upon his tombstone, but he was better known in life as "Big James." He was a Scottish fisher- man, a magnificent Titan of a man, with the gigan- tic bulk, the waving hair and streaming beard of the old vikings, an old man, and one of the grand- est Christians I ever knew. He sailed in the fishing-boat Pilgrim Fathers. Among the crew was the very antithesis of Big James a young man of thirty years of age, and one of the most blasphemous daredevils in the whole fleet-"Black Jock." And it was known all along the coast how for many years Big James had been seeking "to save the soul" of "Black Jock." On the evening of the 16th of April, 1889, the old fishing-boat Pilgrim Fathers struck a reef on the Scottish coast and immediately went down. But the crew of seven men climbed out upon a neighboring rock. Their position was one of the utmost peril. The rock was only thirty yards from the shore, but a deep, impassable channel lay 66 "BIG JAMES" between. It was impossible from the situation for any boat to approach to their rescue. Darkness was falling, and a wild gale was rapidly rising. In addition to all this, although at the time of the accident the tide was at the ebb and the rock was exposed for several feet above water, the tide was now rising, and unless they were rescued within the hour every man would be swept to a watery grave. A great crowd of people had gathered on the beach at the first news of the accident. But the gale defeated for a while all attempts at rescue. The life-boat was launched, but it was useless. Strong arms heaved life-lines, but the wind hurled them back in the men's faces. At last a rocket was fired with a line attached to it, and, amid loud cheering, the line fell across the rock, and one man was hauled through the surf. Another rocket was fired and another man was rescued, and this was repeated until of the whole crew only two remained. Those two were 66 Black Jock" and "Big James." But time had been lost. The waves were wash- ing across the surface of the rock. The men were on their faces, clutching the sharp edges with bleeding fingers. It was at this moment that the crowd saw the rope shoot into the air behind the screaming rocket once again and fall straight into the hands of the old man "Big James." What a cheer went aloft! But it died away in dismay, for a large wave had smothered both the prostrate, 67 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES (6 clinging figures in a mass of foam. In a few sec- onds it had passed again. Then the grand old Christian rose; holding the rope with one hand, he raised his companion to his feet with the other, and Tak' the rope," said the old man, “and meet me up yonder-guid-by!" So saying, he thrust the rope into his companion's hands; and in an- other moment "Black Jock," a pale, changed man, was safe on shore. "Big James" watched him until he landed. Several waves struck him; but by a miracle he recovered himself—until his companion was safe. Then he turned to face the wide sea. He clasped his hands above his head. A wave struck him. He staggered. "Come quickly, Lord Jesus!" he cried in a loud voice. There was a rush of white water, and "Big James" had gone to his Savior! + 68 An Anecdotal Portrait of Colonel Roosevelt. BY PERRITON MAXWELL. GGRESSIVE fighting for the right is the greatest sport the world knows." That is the formula after which Theodore Roose- velt has patterned every important act of his re- markable career. He is a born fighter; and whether the battle is in politics, literature, or on the actual field of conflict, he knows no yielding until the last shot is fired. His personal courage is equaled only by his tenacity in pursuing an enemy. 66 A Theodore Roosevelt's popular nickname of "Teddy" was first applied to him while a student at Harvard. He had been in college less than a year when he did a thing which won for him the admiration and respect of juniors and seniors alike. This was the administering of a thorough and sci- entific drubbing to a fellow student, larger and more muscular than himself, but contemned as a bully of the worst type. The big fellow had sin- gled out Roosevelt as the special object of his dis- pleasure, and finally one day was challenged openly 69 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES to fistic combat in the big gymnasium at Cam- bridge. The challenge was accepted, and the two youths met on the day fixed for the bout. Teddy's opponent was so anxious to beat his rival that while the two were in the act of shaking hands he sought to gain the advantage by landing a sharp blow on one of Roosevelt's ears with his free left hand. The blow was so obviously a foul one that the students who gathered en masse to witness the affair greeted the assault with cries of "Shame!” Teddy, however, merely stood still and smiled. He made no move to strike, and did not speak a word for fully a minute. Then, to the astonish- ment and discomfiture of his opponent, young Roosevelt bowed politely and extended his hand. The big fellow hesitated, but finally decided to grasp the extended hand in the true preliminary form. The bystanders greeted his action with such jeers as only college boys can voice. This time the bully took no advantage of his opponent and the boxing-match began in proper style. It ended in just as proper style, too, for the thrash- ing the larger man received was severe enough to keep him a-bed for a week afterward. "The highest type of success in life is the result of strife," once remarked Governor Roosevelt; and that he is a good fighter and a fair one he has demonstrated throughout his career. Another and even more exciting fistic affair befell him while t 70 U.S.V ROOSEVELT, THE ROUGH RIDER wwur PORTRAIT OF COLONEL ROOSEVELT "roughing it" in the West. It was out in Mon- tana, and during a big round-up of cattle. The "bad man "who is always present on such occa- sions was a local character known as "Long Ike." This man had the reputation of being quick with his "shooting-irons" and able to whip his weight in catamounts. He was tall, broad-chested, and extravagantly muscular. He had imposed upon people for so long a time that he gradually came to believe in his own courage, tho he was a miser- able coward. At this particular round-up Roose- velt chanced to be one of a party in the only place of shelter on the prairie--the saloon. Long Ike sized up his man with a furtive glance, and made his usual effort to impose upon the stranger. So sure was he that Roosevelt would submit that he did not take the precaution to make his usual "bluff" with his revolver. But Long Ike had reckoned without his host. Roosevelt was on him like a wildcat. He gave the insulting giant a "half Nelson," and showed his practical knowledge of wrestling gained at college by throwing the big fellow heavily to the floor. Then he turned him over like a cat playing with a mouse, stood him up, and ran him out of doors, taking the bully's revolver away in the brief trip from the bar to the doorway. Long Ike returned to the fray, glowing white with rage. Roosevelt tackled him again, and threw him out with more 71 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES vigor than before. The man did not rise from the ground for five minutes, and when he did he was too dazed to continue the fight. Roosevelt's style of attack was so entirely novel and so beautifully convincing that Ike made no attempt to resent it in the "bad-man "" way. He sneaked away from camp, never to return. The cowboys of that sec- tion referred to Roosevelt from that day forward as "that holy terror with the eye-glasses." As every one knows, Governor Roosevelt did not write his breezy books about big-game hunting in the far West from material furnished at second hand. He was as fearless in the pursuit of the grizzly bear as he was at a more recent date in the pursuit of law-breakers in New York, or still more recently of the Spanish enemy on San Juan Hill. His greatest achievement in the wild chase for dangerous quarry was in 1884, when he brought to earth a mountain bear that weighed twelve hundred pounds. This happened in the Dakota wilderness, and the story of the killing is of interest. At the time of the episode Roosevelt was established in Dakota as a rancher, but, being a millionaire, he was not looked upon by his cow- boy neighbors as a sportsman of any considerable skill or prowess. His killing of the biggest bear in the state, however, made him at once an object of pride and envy in the community. With a trusted cowboy companion, Roosevelt 72 PORTRAIT OF COLONEL ROOSEVELT • sallied forth one morning in quest of game. It came sooner than the two lone huntsmen had ex- pected. They were riding a narrow trail when the cowboy called Roosevelt's attention to a curious formation of rocks directly ahead of them. They drew rein, and were gazing at the natural wonder when a ferocious growl came from behind it. A moment later a bear, black as crime, thrust his ugly snout over the shoulder of the rock. The rifles of both men were leveled at the monster in the same instant, but just as the cowboy was about to fire Roosevelt yelled at him: "Here, don't shoot that bear! That's my bear. I'll shoot you if you shoot him!" The cowboy employee stood between Roosevelt and the advancing bear. While he had never be- fore seen anything in the manner of his employer that had led him to believe Roosevelt would kill a human being, the look in the latter's eyes and the tone of his voice made the cowboy lower his gun; the fact, too, that Roosevelt's rifle wa aimed di- rectly at his head had something to do with his decision not to fire at the bear. Meanwhile Bruin had approached, and was dangerously near the pair. The animal was in a killing rage, his eyes dilated and his teeth gleaming wickedly. Fortu- nately for both men, Roosevelt's aim was accurate, and an hour later the bear's hide was stretched in the sun. The cowboy then explained to his em- 73 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES ployer that he had been in haste to shoot simply because he feared the bear would kill both of them; that his thought was for Roosevelt's safety rather than the desire to deprive him of the fame of bag- ging big game. This explanation made Roosevelt. feel penitent for his harshness, and to make amends he presented the cowboy with a silver-mounted Winchester and a pair of the finest corduroy breeches ever seen in Dakota. Long before the blowing up of the Maine in Ha- vana harbor Mr. Roosevelt made the prediction that " "we shall be compelled to fight Spain within a year." No one knew better than himself the chances of success in a war between this country and the Dons. As Assistant Secretary of the Navy he had done everything in his power to keep Uncle Sam's protectors afloat in a state of pre- paredness for war. His foresight was not always appreciated by those in higher official positions. Soon after he was appointed to his post in the Navy Department at Washington, in 1897, he asked for an appropriation of $800,000 for ammu nition for the use of the navy. This appropriation was made, and a few months later he made another application for funds. He was asked what had been done with the first $800,000 worth of powder and shot. Looking through his spectacles with flashing eyes, Roosevelt blandly replied: "Every cent of it has been spent in sharpening the tools 74 PORTRAIT OF COLONEL ROOSEVELT of our sailors, and every bit of the powder and shot has been fired in practise." He was then asked what he was going to do with the half-million dollars he had recently requested, and he said with the same vigor of expression: "Going to use every ounce of that, too, within the next thirty days in practise shooting." To what extent the superb marksmanship in the war with Spain was due to this costly but necessary prac- tise it is impossible to say precisely; but that it had much to do with the smashing of Cervera's fleet and the defeat of Montojo no one can gainsay. Senator Cushman K. Davis is on record as saying: “If it had not been for Roosevelt, we should not have been able to strike the blow that we did at Manila, and Admiral Dewey's victory would not have gone into history as one of the most splendid achievements of modern warfare.” Theodore Roosevelt's philosophy of life is brief but sound. "There are two things everybody should cultivate," he says. "First, the determi- nation that you are going to have a good time as long as you live-I have no use for a sour-faced man; and next, make up your mind that you are going to do something worth while, that you will work hard and do the things you set out to do." It is characteristic of Roosevelt that he never preaches what he does not himself practise. He is neither an aristocrat nor an ana narchist, but a 75 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES plain, wide-awake American who understands hu- man nature and has a genuine sympathy with every sort and condition of mankind. He does not think that the governor of the state of New York or of any state, should be addressed with the title "Your Excellency." A state ruler, in Governor Roosevelt's opinion, is not entitled to any such high-sounding form of address. "Gover- nor" is his official designation, and expresses all there is to the office. He believes that the same rule applies to the President of the United States. And yet Theodore Roosevelt is not an iconoclast. A stranger once asked him, "Are you a Repub- lican or a Democrat?" "My friend," he replied, "I am a Jeffersonian Republican and a non-partizan Democrat, and I am not averse to new ideas in politics." 76 A Woman of Wonderful Nerve. BY REV. H. D. FISHER. ON N the beautiful morning of August 21, 1863, the long-delayed storm of pro-slavery hatred broke in fire and vengeance upon Lawrence, Kans., leaving the city in ashes, with nearly two hundred citizens murdered-with eighty widows and two hundred and fifty orphans. I was living in Law- rence, was a Methodist preacher and an intimate friend of General Lane's, and having helped hun- dreds of slaves to freedom, Quantrell's guerrillas had determined to kill me. They knew I was at home, and that the town was unprotected. Just as twilight streaked the horizon, Mrs. Fisher had risen, and, looking eastward, saw the murder- ous band, three hundred strong, stealing like death into town, with Quantrell's black flag in the lead. She called: "Pa, there is a company of soldiers coming; I believe it is Quantrell's murderous band." I opened the door in time to see them kill Rev. Snider. I left the house with our two older boys, leaving Joseph and the baby with their mother. After running a little way, I returned to hide on a 7777 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES 66 bank of earth in the cellar. My wife, hearing me, came and said: "I fear they will find you and kill you; but pray, and I'll try to save you." Return- ing to the room, she was met by a posse led by the afterward notorious bank and train robber Jesse James, who asked: "Madam, is your husband about the house?" She answered calmly: "He left with the boys when you came into town." He swore that he knew I was in the cellar. Wife replied: "It is not genteel to doubt a lady's word; go look for yourselves." He ordered a light. She gave him a lamp; but he failed to light it, and ordered another. She gave the babe to one to hold while she lighted another lamp. The leader ordered the others to follow him and to kill at sight. Entering the cellar ready to shoot, they had to stoop, while the leader held the lamp down and close to the bank on which I lay. The shadow of the bank covered me, so they did not see me. They looted the house, searching every closet for me, and then fired it in five places, and left it burn- ing furiously. My wife extinguished the fire and came to me, saying: "I fear others will find and kill you. Are you prepared?" I replied: "Yes." She encouraged me to pray and to trust God for deliv- erance. Another posse, drunk and more desperate, came and demanded: "Madam, are you a widow?" 78 A WOMAN OF WONDERFUL NERVE She replied: "Not unless your men have found my husband outside. A party of your men were here and hunted everywhere, but did not find him." They swore the house should burn, and fired it in a dozen places. She prepared again to fight the fire. The woodwork, burning, fell into the cellar and burned above and close to me. The kitchen roof caught fire, and if it were not extinguished my escape would be impossible. Placing a table by the wall, and a stand upon it, she climbed to the roof and extinguished the fire, thus preserving a way for my escape. Single-handed and alone, her struggle became desperate. Fire in front, above, and around her and creeping toward me, with murderers laughing her to scorn, the little woman fought the fire with a desperation born of hope to save her husband. Finally she came and said: "Pa, come out; but I fear they will see and kill you after all, for they are watching for you. You crawl under this car- pet, I'll drag it to a bush; you hide under that, and I'll cover it." Just then Mrs. Sugaran, a neighbor, came, and the women dragged me and the carpet to the bush. I crawled under it, and they threw the carpet over it, and threw chairs, saved from the house on top of the carpet, while the murderers stood near, gun in hand, watching for the hated chaplain. This unparalleled contest with noted guerrillas 79 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES and fire, with a babe in arms and a husband to save, lasting five dreadful hours, exhibits self-pos- session and moral heroism equal in sublimity to anything recorded of revolutionary or savage en- counter. The home and its contents were burned, but Quantrell's noted guerrillas were foiled, and the husband of the heroine of the Lawrence massacre was saved. 80 Prospecting for Daylight on the Yukon. BY JOAQUIN MILLER. THE HE scenery of the Yukon river is one of sus- tained and stately splendor from its source, under the Chilkoot pass, to its conflux with the Bering sea. In this respect it surpasses all rivers of the globe. The Yukon is nearly three thousand miles long. It throws a volume of water nearly equal to that of the Mississippi. It is made up of lakes-extinct craters-linked together by gorges, cañons, cataracts, that are impassable most of the time, that are perilous always. The death record of the Yukon is terrible. The very name Yukon means trouble-the river of trouble. But you search maps of the world in vain for any mention of the name prior to 1856. This is a new world; as new as it is magnificent. As you descend the river you see on either side, for thousands of miles, a seam of white, only a few inches under the earth's surface, similar to that to be seen in the rim of railroad cuts as you approach Naples. So that we know that however cold this 6 81 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES vast region of ice may be to-day, it was once a sea of cinders and ashes. In places, as you dash on and on down and through this world of wonders, you see bones, tusks, molars of mighty antediluvian and tropical monsters half hidden in the icy alluvial banks, such as have been found along the Lena and are now to be seen at St. Petersburg. The changes have been fearful along this new and mighty river of the remote North. The ice-locked soil is of the richest. What tropical forests of old! The In- dians of the Yukon-not numerous-are as new and strange as are all other things in this strange new land. You must dissociate them entirely from all other primitive peoples of the continent. They are much like the Japanese in skill, gentle- ness, general appearance, and sweet simplicity. They are a sad, silent people, very industrious. They are good miners, having been the first dis- coverers of all the great gold-mines in North Alaska as well as the Klondike. Last year, midwinter, when the last bit of day- light was blown out in the arctic circle as you might blow out a candle, a Yukon Indian volun- teered to guide two men out of the arctic darkness to daylight. It was not all for money, but mainly for love, pity, duty. Two or three of the hun- dreds caught in this ice-trap in the arctic circle, at Fort Yukon, while trying to escape down the great river to the Bering sea, had killed themselves in 82 PROSPECTING FOR DAYLIGHT their desire. Some lay down to die, and died. Some became insane. But these two men who ap- pealed to this Indian did not despair. They be- lieved they could turn back, up the river, the way they had come. It was nearly two thousand miles down the river of ice and snow to the Bering sea. It was about one thousand miles back up the river to the Chilkoot pass. Another way was to the south; that way, if any way, they could hope to see the sun, if they could only go far enough to find it. One of these men had despatches, also hundreds of letters, of the utmost importance. The other was the head of a great company that waited, waited, and waited to hear. Others might go into winter quarters, make the best of a bad situation, and wait for spring. These two men were so fret- ted and wrought up by their responsibilities that they felt they should go mad there; better die on the trail! This Yukon, Indian, placid, silent, saw and understood all. They had to go far up the Porcupine river, still deeper into the arctic circle, for dogs. The dogs are very small, woolly, puny little things, weighing about sixty pounds. They are hitched to a tobog- gan, tandem, and will work as long as a man can keep on his feet. They are fed once a day, when camp is pitched. They are more afraid of water than a cat, and their drink is snow. If by chance 83 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES there is an air-hole or an overflow on the ice, either they must be carried over, or you must go around, up on the mountain-side. This continuous midnight is not so dark, but to a sensitive native it is worse than darkness. The moon looms up fuller all the time, mightily magni- fied. The stars are at times like flaming camp- fires. This is when the Northern Lights flash up through fissures in the ice, and sweep all about, and feed and glorify the stars till the fire-horns flame upward and flash with blinding beauty. Then sud- denly the lights leap into heaven with a rustling, hissing sound, and there is only a ghostly, grave- yard light-a light on the snow that is unearthly, black, green, hideous! The soul becomes terrified. You can hear the silence. The Indian kept on before without a word; breaking the snow with his snow-shoes, chopping the upheaved broken blocks of ice so that the dogs at his heels and the toboggan could come on after. One of the white men pulled on the toboggan be- fore, one pushed behind. It was hard work. The load would turn over every few rods in the snow, on the sloping, broken blocks of ice. When the party could wallow along no farther, the Indian would dig a hole for the sled. Then while he un- harnessed and fed the four little dogs, the white men would put brush on everything but the robes, to make sure nothing could get at the food. Then 84 PROSPECTING FOR DAYLIGHT they would light a few handfuls of birch-bark in the little tin box-stove, boil tea, fry three slices of bacon and three handfuls of frozen beans prepared before starting. Then the three men would get in the robes spread on the brush over the sled, and eat and sleep; while the great Lights flashed and seethed and hissed; blew out, then came again. brighter than before, till you had to hide your eyes from the glittering cathedral stars-cathedrals of gold that gleamed on the beetling rim of the pali- sades. No horizon, no softening of the cobalt blue of the burnished sky; burnished and made hard and steely by that sweeping, seething Northern Light. Your prayer is that you might not go mad. Then up, and on, and on. Two weeks! Three! By this time there was little to eat. And the best dog had cut his feet on the ice and laid down to die. It was hoped he would follow when rested. But only his cry, wild and lone and piteous, as if he had lost his way and followed the dying, silent men for help-that was all. Then, as they turned a sudden point in the palisades, the wind struck them hard. The ice had been blown lower here. They held on by hanging bush and points of ice for a time, but then the wind caught them all of a heap and blew them like a heap of feathers. There was an air-hole back of them. The Indian got in between with his ax, and cut a hold for his feet; but he fell. 85 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES They got out of this; but all along now were little blotches of blood as they kept on and on. The Indian was bleeding from the lungs, but he said never a word. Soon now a great mountain-peak arising to the south was seen. It was so sublime it seemed to be a part of another world; to prop the very porch of heaven and to companion with the stars. They kept their faces lifted to that gleaming peak-their cloud, their pillar of fire. Suddenly the Indian threw a hand high in the air. There was a tint of light-a tint, a halo. They sat down on the sled, silent. And the three little dogs sat down and lifted high their little black noses and pushed them all about. Then as if God's finger reached down to that mountain-peak, a crimson flame was planted there. Then His angel, God's first-born, swept down, sword in hand, and up and down, right and left, hip and thigh he smote the darkness that had so long encompassed them, till the whole world round about blazed with the glory of battle between light and darkness, and it was at last morning on the Yukon. They had found daylight at last! But that was the end of one giant soul's aching search for light. The day was short; scarce a span long was this little first day. But the Indian did not survive it. When he tried to rise from the sled, he fell. The blood flowed from his mouth, and he ever spoke. But that hand of his went 86 PROSPECTING FOR DAYLIGHT high in the air once more- -as if he again saw light. They made a grave in the ice with his ax; but they had not much strength left; and the dogs could scarcely move any more. One after another they were turned loose: The toboggan was left in The men took their sales-papers, and You do not speak of such times. You its tracks. pushed on. are dull, stupid, almost witless. One of the two survivors was a rather old man. He should have died first. That Indian had chosen to die first. And now the younger assumed to be very strong and carried all the load. He carried it to the last day. The old man was on ahead-en- tered town first. When they went back the young man lay dead on the snow. Oh, the hearts, the great, warm hearts, on the icy Yukon! 87 Did He Save the American Republic? BY RICHARD J. HINTON. E ARLY in the year 1899 there passed to his long rest the eminent Englishman, Thomas Bayley Potter. The papers duly chronicled many of the events of his life-his service in the House of Commons, his work in founding the Cobden Club, his activity in support of the Corn-Law League. But Americans have special reasons for gratitude to Mr. Potter that have for the most part escaped recent notice. The London Trades Union Council started in 1862 a weekly paper under the title of The Beehive. It soon fell into pecuniary arrears, and Barker, an agent of the South, appeared with an offer of Southern money to lift a mortgage. The London artisan feelings about American con- ditions were not as clearly expressed as were those of the North of England. It became evident that The Beehive management was disposed to fall in with Barker's offer. Members of its directorate, however, heard of the private negotiations. George Ogden, Mr. Creamer (since known in 88 DID HE SAVE THE REPUBLIC? America as the secretary of the Arbitration League), and others went to Thomas Bayley Pot- ter at Westminster. Before The Beehive board again met, Ogden was the virtual owner of the mortgage; and when Macdonald, the business man- ager, developed the plan to borrow from the South- ern agents, he quietly produced the documents and took possession. This action of Mr. Potter's cost him $30,000; but it created a center for union agi- tation in London which shortly after culminated in the arrival in England of Henry Ward Beecher, and in the holding of the famous St. James's Hall meet- ing on the night before the Laird resolution for English intervention was defeated in the House of Commons. The salvation of the American repub- lic may be said, with some show of reason, to have rested at that time upon the helpful courage of Mr. Potter and the self-sacrificing devotion of a half- dozen London workmen, who pawned their watches and spent their small savings to pay the expenses of the meeting at St. James's Hall. At this time also, Thomas Bayley Potter put the whole of his fortune and great credit at the absolute disposal of the United States government. In the Mersey, ships to be used as Confederate cruisers were lying, all ready to start for sea. The British government It was hostile in spirit, yet demands of Charles Francis If the Atlantic cable had would take no risks. could not ignore the Adams, our minister. 89 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES then been working, his demand for the stoppage of the reputed cruisers on grounds of neutral obliga- tions would have been at once sustained by the tel- egraphic transfer from Washington to London of the credit necessary to secure what the British for- eign office and treasury demanded, the deposit of the reported value of the suspected ships, $6,000,- 000 in gold. The American treasury was straining every effort to get ready and ship bonds to the amount of $10,000,000 by the next steamer. But that would take ten days, and there were only forty-eight hours left for protective action. Charles Francis Adams knew only one man in Great Britain to rely upon in such a crisis, and that was Thomas Bayley Potter. Nor did the Rockdale man fail him. Mr. Adams, as American minister, gave the Englishman a note for the $6,- 000,000 in gold that was needed. The great sum was obtained and deposited by Mr. Potter in the Bank of England. The ships were libeled, and vast complications cleared away. Within twelve days the American funds arrived, Mr. Potter was protected, and soon after the Laird Confederate vessels which had been seized were condemned. · 90 The Brave Children of Cuba Libre. BY MARY C. FRANCIS. N all Cuba one can find nothing more interesting study by themselves, and in contemplating them and considering that the future of Cuba belongs to them even more than to the present generation they become important as well as pathetic. Many hun- dreds of these children I saw in those hopeless, starving, deathlike processions which I met going about the country in search of food, slowly crawl- ing into the cities and then out again, sometimes asking alms in words, more often merely standing aside in the road to let our horses pass while their great, hollow eyes stared wonderingly at us. The youngest soldier I heard of in the Cuban army was Varonita. It was in June of 1895 when one fine day a boy rode into the camp of President Cisneros and without delay asked to be conducted to the chief executive. The marquis, always ac- cessible to any one, had the lad sent to him imme- diately. As he entered and saluted it could be seen that he was a bright-eyed, manly little fellow, and in response to the request of the marquis to 91 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES know what he could do for him he said: "Señor Marquis, the Spaniards have killed my father and all my family. There is no one left but me to fight. If you will give me a gun I will help to free Cuba." The marquis looked at him carefully. "How old are you?" "Twelve, Señor Marquis." "Twelve years old, and talk of fighting the Spaniards! You do not know what you are say- ing. You are only a boy. Go home." "I have no home, Señor Marquis. You might as well let me fight." And he did. The spirit of the boy captured the heart of the marquis, and he ordered a light rifle from the United States especially for him and per- mitted him to accompany the escort, with orders to his men to carefully protect him. The boy was a fine young fellow, and the marquis not long after sent him to New York to be educated. In all the island the traveler will not hear a more thrilling tale of heroism than that of the girl of twelve who rode twelve miles through rain and storm to take to Col. Braulio Peña the word from General Gomez that he was needed at once to assist in the battle of Saratoga. It was in 1896, and Castellanos with some twenty-five hundred men was on his way to Cascorro. General Gomez with a small escort was en route to meet General Garcia 92 BRAVE CHILDREN OF CUBA LIBRE in Eastern Cuba, and he wished to get enough men together to stop Castellanos. A young lieutenant was ordered to ride at once to Colonel Peña about seventy miles away and tell him to come without delay, bringing the four hundred men under his command, and join Gomez, the old general believ- ing that with one thousand men he could stop the Spaniards. The lad—for he was only a boy in his teens-rode all day as hard and as fast as his horse would carry him, and just at dusk it was his for- tune to run into a company of Spaniards putting their horses out to grass. They fired on him and wounded him severely, but he managed to escape and rode nine miles to his home. Arrived there, altho faint from fatigue and cov- ered with blood, he insisted that he would stop for but a few moments for some refreshment, and while his mother and elder sister bound up his wounds and stanched the flow of blood, he ordered another horse to be saddled, saying: "I must go on at General Gomez needs Colonel Peña. Get my horse, quick!” once. "You must not go," said the distracted mother. "I will," replied the boy. "There is no one else to go. Hurry; there is no time to be lost." A half-witted negro boy, a servant, ran out for the horse, and returned in a moment, saying: "The horse is gone." "My God, what shall I do!" cried the boy. 93 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES At that very instant the sound of a horse's hoofs carefully stepping over the low fence-rails was heard, and as he cleared the last one he suddenly flashed by them like a shot and away into the gloom of the Cuban twilight. As horse and rider van- ished in the gathering darkness they recognized Conchita, the younger sister. The child had hov- ered around her brother from the moment he had entered the house and had gathered the import of the message, and then, without saying a word to any one, she had quietly slipped out and saddled the horse and started for Colonel Peña's camp, twelve miles distant. A storm was rising, and the mother and sister called frantically to her to stop, but the girl gave no reply. She dashed out and was off before any one even dreamed of her inten- tion. It was impossible to send any one to bring her back, and the mother said, "It is for Cuba, and turned her attention again to her wounded son. On like the wind sped the child through the dark- She knew the road, and the animal was fresh. She put the spurs to him and rode as tho riding for life or death. In a few moments the tropical storm that had been gathering broke, and in the terrific downpour she was drenched, beaten down in her saddle by the rain and gusts of wind, blinded by the sheets of water that dashed into her face. Her hair hung in soaked masses about her shoulders, rivulets of water trickled from every ness. " 94 BRAVE CHILDREN OF CUBA LIBRE point; but not for one instant did she falter or think of turning back. Fortunately the horse she rode was a fine animal, and he covered the distance in record-breaking time. She reached the camp; and just as Peña was about to turn in for the night a slender little figure, soaked, drenched, panting, slipped from her horse almost into his hammock, and said: "Please, Colonel Peña, General Gomez wants you and and your men at Saratoga." After the startled colonel had assured himself that this apparition was a real live girl and not a wraith born of the storm, he ordered out his men. Unfortunately all but an escort of thirty had been sent into the Holguin district; but Peña took this small number and started immediately for the scene of action. The courage of this young heroine had won his heart, and, taking the half-drowned little figure in his arms, he gathered up his blanket out of his hammock, wrapped her closely in it, and set- ting her before him on his own saddle, carried her thus all the way back to her home. The storm had ended and the stars were shining brightly in an unclouded sky when the colonel rode up about midnight to the humble palm hut, ten- derly supporting the child in his strong arms. With simple and unconscious eloquence she had told her unvarnished tale, and then, warm and dry and safe, she had fallen quietly asleep and was deep in the land of dreams before the clatter of 95 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES hoofs on the midnight air aroused the family. The gallant colonel's eyes were wet as he lifted her down. 66 Señora," he said, "both your son and your daughter are worthy of Cuba." Then saluting he rode away to battle, altho he had but thirty men instead of four hundred; and it was at the ensuing battle of Saratoga that he won from Gomez the title of "The Fighting Colonel of Camaguey." This tale I heard under the velvety stars of a tropic night in Cuba told by one who was himself in the battle. 96 Aground on the Great Rip. BY REV. W. C. MARTIN. NE morning in May, 1879, Capt. Wallace ONE Brown, of Noank, Conn., was cruising in the Osprey in a gale near "the shoals," about thirteen miles out from Nantucket island. There had been fog and rain and high wind all night, but in the morning the fog had lifted, tho the wind had in- creased. Toward noon a schooner was sighted aground on the Great Rip "Rose and Crown," which proved later to be the City of Gloucester from Gloucester, Mass. Her colors were down, she was full of water, and her crew were all gesticulating wildly for help. The Osprey approached as near as possible, but could not come within a mile of the wreck, which it was seen must soon go to pieces. The mate, Robert Machette, of Noank, and another brave man started in a thirteen-foot dory to rescue the im- periled crew, but soon returned, convinced that their boat could not live in the choppy sea of the Rip, where the water was dashing frequently half- mast high. The men on the City of Gloucester had made by this time a death-trap of a raft of some "fish-pens" 17 97 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES they had aboard, and, seeing the dory return, had committed themselves to that. Machette again undertook to reach them, but, brave man and ex- perienced seaman tho he was, he returned and de- clared that no boat could possibly live in that ter- rible sea. Captain Brown himself then called for a volun- teer to go with him, and young Joseph Machette, one of the crew, immediately stepped forward, and these two clambered into the dory and started. They never expected to return to the Osprey, but declared it was more than they could do to remain safely aboard and see those sailors go down right before their eyes. Braver or more skilful battling with the ele- ments was never done, but their courage and skill won the day, and after an exhausting struggle they reached the miserable raft, which had already bro- ken a leg of one of the men on it, took the whole crew of eight into their thirteen-foot dory, and started back. In a minute the little vessel had nearly filled with water, but the rescued men worked furiously bailing out. Again and again the waves broke over them and filled the struggling craft, but thanks to the calmness and intrepid courage of Captain Brown the overladen dory was engineered through the gigantic, seething caldron to the lee of the Osprey, and eight men were saved from a grave in the deep. 98 The Story of a Heroic family. (GEN. JOSEPH E. WHEELER AND HIS CHILDREN.) BY MARY C. FRANCIS. "FIGH IGHTING JOE" WHEELER needs no in- troduction to the public. Neither does his daughter, Miss Annie Wheeler, who accompanied the army to Cuba as a nurse and saw service in the hospitals there during the fever-stricken days that followed the fall of Santiago. Yet the reading public does not perhaps fully realize that, out of this family, four served their country during the late One son, Joseph Early Wheeler, Jr., second lieutenant Fourth Artillery, was reported for bravery at the battle of San Juan. Lieutenant Wheeler is now instructor in mathematics at West Point, and is a universal favorite with his brother officers. Another son, Thomas Harrison, saw service in Puerto Rico. war. During the Washington season the general and his family may be found at the Arlington, but with the close of the social round they seek more quiet and secluded quarters on Capitol hill, and here it was that recently I spent a delightful evening with them. The unassuming hero of two wars I found even 99 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES more shy and reticent than he had been repre- sented; in fact, he is painfully so to the ambitious interviewer. Absolutely nothing can be drawn out of him about himself. The instant he scents the personal note he retreats to impenetrable jungles of silence, and there he stays until the conversational wind blows to general quarters again. "You are a peaceful-looking warrior," I ven- tured. "How do you manage to stand the strain and excitement of campaigns and battles?" "Easily enough. I can stand anything if I get enough sleep. That is the chief thing for me. If I can go to bed at ten o'clock I can endure anything the next day may bring forth. I got enough sleep even in Cuba; not that I always went to bed at ten o'clock then, but if I didn't I generally managed to snatch a nap the next day that would even things up. Then I would be all right again. My experi- ence has taught me that nothing can so well fit a man for active duty as temperate habits, abstinence from intoxicating liquors, and plenty of sleep. With these to fortify a man he can stand great hardships, arduous duty, and extremes of climate without suffering greatly." "You must be a perfect reservoir of stories and anecdotes about brave acts, deeds of heroism, by the men of both the civil war and the Spanish- American war," I said. "Tell me some of them, will you not?" 100 MAJ.-GEN. JOSEPH E. WHEELER THE STORY OF A HEROIC FAMILY "I am sure that somewhere in my mind I must have a good many memories," replied the general, smiling, "but I am not good at remembering stories. To attempt to give any individual account of bravery and personal courage would be to go into a minute. detail of the conduct of almost every man engaged in battle, for I consider the general personnel of the men who were in the Cuban campaign deserv- ing of the highest and most unqualified praise. "In the first place, the men who went to Cuba had much to fear from the climate and the diseases endemic there. Yellow-fever experts at Tampa had lectured to the officers and had said that ninety per cent. of the men might expect to have yellow fever. The men under me in the Las Guasimas fight were dismounted cavalrymen, and therefore not used to walking, yet after we landed the first thing they had to do was to march fourteen miles to Siboney and cook and eat their supper in a drenching rain. This was on the 23d of June. On the next morning these men, nine hundred and sixty-four in number, marched three miles to meet the enemy and then defeated more than two thou- sand men under General Linares. There was a splendid, chivalric courage displayed by the men in this Las Guasimas fight, and the dash and im- petuous energy exhibited by the men were so great that the Spaniards fully believed that an immense force was arrayed against them. The official re- 101 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES port of the Spanish commander stated that they were attacked by five full regiments of infantry and sixteen dismounted squadrons of cavalry, or more than ten times the actual number which de- feated them. "After Las Guasimas I reconnoitered San Juan and El Caney, and reported to General Shafter the forces and defenses of the enemy and the topogra- phy of the country. On the first of July the great victory of San Juan hill was won by less than seven thousand men, and in the charge on the for- midable entrenchments of San Juan every man who went up the hill proved himself a hero, for it looked like certain death to advance in the face of that fire. In passing from El Pozo to the river it was impossible to see the enemy, as they had the cor- rect range of the road, and the men suffered severely there. Out of the cavalry division eighteen per cent., or about one man in five, were either killed or wounded. "The significance of these figures is only fully understood when compared with the records of some other battles. Waterloo is regarded as one of the bloodiest battles in history, but Welling- ton's casualties did not reach twelve per cent.; at Hohenlinden General Moreau lost but four per cent.; the troops of Henry of Navarre were said to be 'cut to pieces' at Contras, and yet his loss was less than ten per cent.; at Valmy Frederick Wil- 102 THE STORY OF A HEROIC FAMILY liam lost three per cent.; Napoleon at Marengo and Austerlitz lost fourteen and one-half per cent. In the civil war the losses were very heavy; at Perryville, Murfreesboro, Chickamauga, Gettys- burg, Mission Ridge, the battles of the Wilderness and Spottsylvania, the losses frequently reached or even exceeded forty per cent., and the average of killed or wounded on one side or the other was over thirty per cent. I recall that of the young men who were in West Point while I was there fifty-six have been killed in battle, and from 1492 to 1861 the killed and wounded upon American soil in all our wars, as shown by official reports, were not many more in the aggregate than fell in any one of the great battles of the civil war. I men- tion this because I think that such figures are far more impressive than anything that I could say in token of the courage of the men in battle-the men in the rank and file who go in solid battalions into the face of death. It is only when the men of a nation have invincible and unquestioned courage, moral as well as physical courage, that such casu- alties are possible. It means that the country which can lead the world in times of peace can in war meet any foe and display a heroism which can successfully challenge the world's history for finer examples. The story of the courage of the private soldier must forever remain an untold story -untold in detail; for were that attempted the li- 103 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES braries of the world could not contain the books that would record the unvarnished tales of heroism." At this point Miss Wheeler, who was tumbling over a lot of letters looking for some memoranda, smiled and passed one to me, saying, “Isn't that the funniest nickname you ever heard of?" I looked at the letter; "Dear Point," it began, and I repeated it vaguely. "That was papa's old nickname at West Point. They called him that because he has neither length, breadth, nor thickness. His chums and old-time friends call him that to this day." Just then Lucy Wheeler, who had gone to look for some other photographs, came back and said that she could not find a certain one. "I'm sure I know where it is," said the general, vanishing out of the doorway-and he never came back! I'm afraid he didn't find it right away. "Little Boy Blue never does stay up late," said Annie Wheeler in explanation. "Yes, we always call him that." This gallant old hero of two wars is "Little Boy Blue" in the family circle. Annie Wheeler's Story. No literary art could add anything to the inter- est of Annie Wheeler's naïve, simple story of how she came to go to Cuba and give her serv- ices to our sick and wounded men. As she sat 1 104 THE STORY OF A HEROIC FAMILY there in the dusk, luminous-eyed and serene, and with unconscious eloquence told her narrative, the fires of patriotism and enthusiasm burned their way through the unaffected recital. Hers was no spurious devotion. She was inspired by a genuine and lasting motive. She would gladly do it again. All the horrors of the fever hospitals in the gruesome days that accompanied the fall of Santiago did not dim her ardor nor change her at- titude, and when she said, her voice vibrating with sincerity, "The happiest moments of my life were spent there," there was a mist before my eyes. A little later something in the conversation sug- gested the lack of food that prevailed part of the time, and I asked: "What did you have to eat?" "I'm sure I don't know," she replied, with a characteristic little upward movement of the head. "I don't remember eating anything. All I remem- ber about those days is that I was so happy to be there and to see the almost doglike gratitude in the eyes of our men for the smallest favor. I never saw one, even the roughest, most unkempt, with- out knowing that somewhere some woman loved him, and for her sake I loved him too." Miss Wheeler found many obstacles in the way of going, and nothing but her own undaunted spirit succeeded in overcoming them and accomplishing her purpose. "There was papa down at Tampa," she said, 105 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES "and the boys too, and here I was shut up at home and fairly pining to go. "I talked to my friends and in fact to everybody I knew about going to Cuba as a nurse. For my pains I got laughed at, discouraged, advised, and warned. Not a soul would take my point of view. Every one immediately told me what folly it was for a girl who was not trained for nursing, who had always been delicate, to think of such a thing. Also they told me that no matter how much I wanted to go I would never find a way, for the government did not look kindly on the proffered services of un- trained volunteers, and that no woman would be allowed to go on a transport. I made application to the War Department. They paid no attention to it. I went to all the Washington officials whom I knew to be papa's friends, and tried to get them to interest themselves in assisting me to go; but they talked to me in a paternal sort of way, and said that as friends of my father they felt the greatest service they could render me was not to help me. Then they told me about the climate and what ter- rible sights I would see, and said it would be no place for women to be, anyhow. "I tried every avenue, but I was refused until I got used to it. There was a while when I should not have been surprised to have the door of any house where I had visited shut in my face. I never knew before how much like enemies people whom I 106 THE STORY OF A HEROIC FAMILY " had thought friends could be. One of the greatest objections urged against me was that I had no train- ing for a nurse. The work is very hard,' they said, and you are not strong. Then the require- ments of the life are such that experience or espe- cial qualifications are necessary, and you have neither. Then the climate alone will kill you, and you will have nothing but hardtack to eat. Do you not see what folly it is?'" "No, I don't,' I replied. Very likely I'm not as delicate as you seem to imagine, and even if I am not trained for a nurse, I know that the chief duty of one is to obey orders, and I have sense enough to do that. I don't believe the climate will kill me any more than it will kill papa, and nobody thinks it will murder him; and as for the hardtack, I can eat what anybody else can.' "If you had only seen them look at me when I talked that way! I'm sure some of them thought I was crazy. 6 "Time went on and there seemed to be no chance for me to go, so I packed my trunk, and after it was packed I telegraphed papa at Tampa asking him if I might come down and see him, and then I took the next train, because I was afraid he would send me word not to come. You see, I knew he would know that I really meant to go to Cuba. When I got to Tampa I talked to papa about it, and he didn't actually forbid me to go, but he said 107 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES he didn't see how I could. Then he and my broth- ers sailed and I was left there, and there was no way for me to go until I got off on the Lampasas, which was carrying a lot of Red Cross nurses. forgot to tell you that before that, in Washington, I had gone to Clara Barton and had told her I wanted to go to Cuba, and she looked at me and said, 'What for? To be nursed?' But afterward, on the island, she was very kind and considerate to me. "I got to Cuba just after the fall of Santiago, and was immediately put to work in the improvised hospital in the Nautical Club." 6 The girl paused, as tho filled with a flood of memories, and then said with a rapt expression on her face: "The happiest moments of my life were spent there. Never can I forget what that experi- ence was like. We had not many wounded, for of course the worst cases were sent to the surgical hospital; but still many who were brought in were covered with blood and had what the doctors called an ugly scratch.' Most of our cases were the fever patients, and as they raved and tossed in their de- lirium it was a pleasure to do what could be done for them. With their returning convalescence they were, if possible, still more pathetic. Many of them had a horror of possibly dying in a strange country, and for numbers of them I wrote home to loved ones what were the most tragic epistles that could be penned. They were heart-breaking in I 108 AAAAA AAAAA- ΑΛΛΑ ΑΜΥΛΑ «Ο ΛΑΛΛΑ A MISS ANNIE EARLY WHEELER THE STORY OF A HEROIC FAMILY their simplicity. The only request most of them made was that if they died in Cuba they might be brought home to be buried. "They were most pitiful sights as they were brought in, gaunt, dusty, blood-stained, exhausted, fainting, yet every one who was conscious was gen- erous and uncomplaining, and many of them would ask the doctor or surgeon to attend to some one else first who was worse injured. It was the nobility of true men at death's door. Their gratitude was the most touching thing I ever saw. They seemed to be surprised to see women there ministering to them, and many a poor fellow as I bent over him said the first thing, 'How nice it is to see a woman here;' and then perhaps would faint away. "When they began to recover, the doglike grati- tude in their eyes was most appealing. They were thankful for the merest trifle-to have a pillow smoothed, to be given a drink of water, to be told the time of day, to be asked how they were. I would feel their eyes follow me as I moved down the tent, and those toward whom I was walking seemed to be gladly awaiting my coming. Oh, how happy it made me to do anything for them! I could never do anything in the world which would give me more real pleasure." I felt uncomfortably selfish and useless. Had I not admired her so much I should have envied her. "And what do you suppose was the first compli- 109 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES ment-the first real compliment, I mean-that I got?" she continued. "Why, one day one of the doctors turned to me and said, 'I'm glad to find a trained nurse here.' Think of it! When all of my friends had said that I would be of no account because I was not trained, here I was actually taken for a regularly educated nurse! My head was up in the air and I walked on clouds after that, and went around telling it to everybody I could find to listen to me. No, I don't know any reason for it. I suppose it was just because I always did exactly what I was told, and that I learned something every day by experience. Before I left the island I had the pleasure of hearing all the doctors say that my work in the hospitals was as good as that of any trained nurse. "I came back on the Olivette. On board I helped nurse a good many. One case I had was that of a man who had his neck cut very badly all around the throat, nearly from ear to ear, and I held it while the doctors dressed it. I remember that I was afraid it would break off before they could get it fixed, and the man kept looking at me as much as to say: 'Please hold it on.' "Nobody can say I haven't experience now, and as for my health it was never so good in my life. I am much stronger than before went to Cuba. It has been the great episode of my life. I would gladly live it over." 110 THE STORY OF A HEROIC FAMILY Naval Cadet Thomas Harrison Wheeler. Probably not another incident of the entire war combines more of fate and pathos than the story of the tragic end of General Wheeler's youngest son, Naval Cadet Thomas Harrison Wheeler, who was drowned at Montauk Point on September 7, 1898. Of him it is true that he gave his life for his friend, for he perished in the attempt to rescue his drowning companion. It was not until after our first conversation that Miss Annie Wheeler told me the pathetic story. "Tom" Wheeler was the youngest of the family, their pride and pet. He was especially noted for his chivalry to his sisters. "He never either met or parted from one of his sisters," said Miss Wheeler, "without kissing her, no matter if the separation was for but a few hours. His attentions to every member of the family were always thoughtful and unremitting. No attraction could draw him away from the home circle, and so accustomed were we to his constant presence that no one of us could be missed as much as he. After he came back from Puerto Rico he went to Mon- tauk, and altho not on papa's staff he made him- self invaluable about the camp by attending to the thousand and one small matters always coming up 111 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES which no one felt especially called upon to care for. In him we realized all our hopes, and papa so idolized him that when writing or busy in his tent he would stop for an instant and smile with atis- faction if he heard Tom's voice outside. Two of my sisters came down to the camp, and we were all so happy together. "It was too good to last. Tom was drowned on Wednesday. On Monday my sister Carrie felt that something would happen to him, and said to me, 'Tom is too perfect; he will be taken away from us soon. I feel it.' On that fatal afternoon Tom wanted to go in bathing with his friend, and coaxed papa to go along. They started together, and just as papa was leaving his tent the same thing hap- pened which has happened all our lives-somebody wanted to see papa, and he turned to Tom and said, 'Go on. I'll join you very soon.' Oh, if it only hadn't been for that! . . ." She composed herself bravely and went on: "After a while papa went down, but didn't see anything of the boys, and he noticed that the un- dertow was very strong; but he thought they must have gone in at some other point and was not anx- ious. When dinner-time came and Tom was not on hand we all felt vaguely troubled, yet it seemed foolish in a camp like that, where everybody might be more or less uncertain, only it wasn't like Tom. We tried to eat, and then papa said, 'Well, I'm 112 THE STORY OF A HEROIC FAMILY going to wait for Tom,' and of course when he spoke that way none of us could think of eating. "It was not long after that when somebody found Tom's clothes lying on the beach. Half a dozen men refused to come to tell papa, knowing the awful blow it would be. Finally two officers came together and told him the awful news. He would not believe it until he went down and saw for himself--then he gave up all hope at once; but the rest of us couldn't. It was too terrible to be believed. Of course the search was on at once. It was now night and a terrible storm came up. shall never forget those hours of agony; the ele- ments themselves added to our agony. Still we clung to a vain hope for our dear Tom. About two o'clock that morning both bodies were washed ashore on the rocks. There was not one mark on his friend's body, but on Tom's shoulders and arms were black and blue bruises where the drowning man in his fear had clutched him." I After we had been silent for a little while she added: "The only thing that makes me feel hard is that when I was so glad to do for others I could do nothing for my own. Our dearest one had to be taken away in that awful way." Thomas Harrison Wheeler was not yet eighteen. He died at the very threshold of what promised to be a glorious career, and it was heroic, tho brief. • 8 113 A Hero of the Plague. BY EDWARD PAGE GASTON. THE `HE plague had laid its scourge across the land, and South India lay prostrate under the curse. There was panic among the whites who were flee- ing by swift trains to the hills, and among the na- tives a hopeless indifference. Some pale-faced sahibs, cunning in the mixing of the white man's medicine, braved it all and wandered among the wilting multitudes as tho they had the measles only, instead of the deadliest contagion on earth. In Paris the other day I met one of these heroes of the plague—a young Austrian, with quiet eyes and a firm-looking mouth, whom I tempted to tell me about his exploits for the cause of medical sci- ence. Dr. Rudolf Pöch would not of himself hint to you that he has at home the medal of the Order of Franz Joseph, as conferred by the emperor of Austria, and he talked in a very matter-of-fact way about his dangerous missions. "There is not much to tell," he said. "Several of us medical men went to India for the Austrian and German governments in 1897 to study the bu- bonic plague then sweeping away the people by the 114 A HERO OF THE PLAGUE thousands. In the ten weeks we were there we examined and treated two hundred of the plague- infected patients to observe the workings of the disease, and continued the study by fifty post-mor- tem cases. What did we do to keep from being infected? Nothing at all; and we were so busy and interested in our work that I remember we did not even change the sun-clothes we wore. "As a result of our investigations we secured much new data on the little-known nature of the plague, and brought back with us some of the bacilli. In our laboratories at Vienna we began a series of experiments by inoculating rats and rab- bits with the disease germs, and carried on these studies with success for more than a year. Then occurred the event last October which excited all countries in the spread of the plague among our staff. The servant who had the animals in charge was a good man, but given to drink sometimes. I warned him against the danger, but he got to drink- ing more and more, and his carelessness resulted in his death from the disease. Dr. Müller went down to death in turn, and the nurse who attended him. I served these patients until their death, and I believe the emperor did give me a decoration for it. So that is all the story." But that is not all the story; for the interest of the civilized world hung about the young physician at Forrest Hospital, who fought night and day to 115 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES keep the dread disease from breaking its bonds to go ramping up and down Vienna, and perhaps to leap the seas to carry death to many nations. When one looks into the quiet face of Dr. Pöch, he can read a bit of the dogged determination secn there last fall. For ten days and nights he fought the foe in des- perate parryings, as he saw one after another of the three go out from life. His heroism saved the people; and, worn out by the terrific fight, but triumphant, he was at last able to announce that there was no more danger of the plague's spreading. The young hero was ac- claimed on all sides, and the king called him to take his own order as a mark of the approval of the Austrian nation, with such assurances of esteem as few Viennese have ever received. For fear of further dangers the government has declined to permit continued experiments of the plague treatment in Vienna; but Dr. Pöch intends to continue elsewhere his investigations. He is assured that he is on the right track for finding the cure by inoculation with serum, which he secures from the Pasteur Institute in Paris, but which needs to be made of greater strength. On this he is now working, and there is every promise that Herr Pöch will add to his present large fame by bequeathing to humanity a permanent cure for the historic scourge which has taken millions of lives. 116 Leo Tolstoy, the Apostle of Brother- hood. BY ERNEST H. CROSBY. OUNT LEO TOLSTOY was born on Septem- ber 9, 1828, at Yasnaia Poliana, the estate of his family, situated about one hundred and twenty miles south of Moscow. In his story called "Boyhood, Adolescence, Youth," he gives an ac- count of his own early years under the character of the little Nicholas. He passed his childhood in the country amid the strange, old-fashioned cus- toms and manners of the Russian landed aristoc- racy. The life must have resembled in many re- spects that of our rich Southern planters before the war. There was the same profusion, the same easy- going shiftlessness, the same mingling of patriarchal habits with democratic familiarity, resulting prob- ably from slavery and serfdom. The boy was brought up in the orthodox Russian Church with his brothers and sisters under the care of a Ger- man tutor, but he learned most from the simple peasantry and from direct contact with nature in forest and field. He was a bright, lively, sympa- 117 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES thetic lad, but by no means good-looking, and one fine morning he made the discovery in his looking- glass that he looked for all the world like a typical Russian peasant, and indeed throughout his life he has preserved this resemblance. When the time came for his older brothers to go to school, the family removed to Moscow. There, when Leo was only eleven years old, one of their playmates in- formed them of the latest discovery at school, namely, that there is no God, and that all that they were taught on the subject was pure inven- tion. "I remember well," Tolstoy says, "how inter- ested my older brothers were in the news; I was admitted to their deliberations, and we all eagerly accepted the theory as something particularly at- tractive and possibly quite true." It was scarcely to be expected that under such influences the boy would long retain his religious beliefs, and, as a matter of fact, when he left the University of Kazan at eighteen years of age, he was practically without religion of any kind. He soon found him- self at home in the gay world of Moscow, and en- tered upon the dissipated life of drinking, card- playing, and dueling which was considered the proper career for a young nobleman. He succeeded after a time in securing a commis- sion in the Russian army, and saw active service in the Caucasus and in the Crimean war, taking 118 COUNT LEO TOLSTOY LEO TOLSTOY part in the defense of Sebastopol. He had now begun to write stories and short novels, and was rapidly gaining a reputation as an author of prom- ise. At the end of the war he made his home at St. Petersburg, and was received in the literary circles of the capital as one of its ornaments. He traveled abroad, and made the acquaintance of many of the leading thinkers of England and the continent, and in common with many of them he tried to content himself with a general belief in the progress of the world and in civilization in- stead of religion. Still, with all his worldly advantages his mind was not completely at rest. At times he saw that "progress " and "civilization " were poor substi- tutes for a more substantial faith. "Thus," he writes, "during my stay in Paris, the sight of a public execution revealed to me the weakness of my superstitious belief in progress. When I saw the head divided from the body and heard the sound with which they fell separately into the box, I understood, not with my reason, but with my whole being, that no theory of the wisdom of all established things, nor of progress, could justify such an act; and that if all the men in the world from the day of creation, by whatever theory, had found this thing necessary, it was not so; it was a bad thing, and that therefore I must judge of what was right and necessary, not by what men said and 119 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES did, not by progress, but by what I felt to be true in my heart." Returning to his country home in Russia at about the time of the emancipation of the serfs, he applied himself to the education of the newly freed peasants, taught in the village school, and edited an educational journal. But he did not succeed in stifling the desire of his soul for some more spir- itual nourishment, and he actually fell ill from his mental unrest. It was at this period that he met his future wife, and his marriage, at the age of thirty-five, the increasing cares of a large family, the necessity of working at his great novels to pro- vide for them,—all these things kept him so busied for fifteen years that he had no time to spend upon the deeper needs of his nature. He lived quietly in the country, devoting his spare moments to the pursuit of agriculture. But at last it was impossible for Tolstoy to quiet his doubts any longer. What was the meaning of life? What difference did it make if he became as famous as Shakespeare, if death ends all? He could find no answers to these questions, and, al- tho he was rich, honored, celebrated, and sur- rounded by a loving family, yet he grew so de- spondent that he was at times tempted by sugges- tions of suicide, and stopped going shooting for fear he might be led to point his gun at his own head, and hid a piece of rope which offered itself 120 LEO TOLSTOY too readily to his hand, so that he might not see it. It is out of the question in the space at my dis- posal to follow out the mental process by which Count Tolstoy was enabled to rise triumphant above these perplexities. It called for a tremen- dous struggle on his part—a struggle which lasted for five years. Like so many great leaders of men, he was led into the wilderness before he found peace. He turned successively to the phi- losophers and the men of the world of his own class, but they could give him no help. He then had recourse to the peasants, and in them he thought he saw the germs of a solution of the prob- lem. They at least lived a natural life, and ac- cepted severe toil, illness, and death without a murmur. For a time he attended the village church again, the church of his childhood,—but its superstitions demanded too much from him, and when, in 1878, prayers were offered for the success of the Russian arms in Turkey, his heart revolted. A church which in the name of the Prince of Peace gave its blessing to the slaughter of our fellow men could not, he was convinced, be the true church. He must separate for himself the true from the false, and discover the kernel of truth in the sim- ple faith of the peasants. He now began an ex- haustive examination of the gospels, again study- ing the Greek language for that purpose. - 121 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES To make a long story short, he came to the con- clusion, after reading the records of the evangel- ists many times, that the Sermon on the Mount contained the secret of the Gospel, and that love for God and neighbor, showing itself in turning the other cheek and in loving even one's enemies, is the essential part of true religion. Little did he think at that time that in accepting the plain and literal meaning of the words of Jesus, he was making necessary a complete change in his own manner of living. He tried to interest him- self in ordinary charitable work among the poor of Moscow, but it did not satisfy him. How could he, in his fine carriage and dressed in the height of the fashion, pretend that he loved as himself these ragged, miserable neighbors? How could he feast on the fat of the land while they went hun- gry? The whole thing seemed arrant hypocrisy, and he was unable to take part in it. He began to loathe the elegant style of life in which he had been living, and he determined to come as close as he could to the life of the great, hard-working, im- poverished mass of the nation, whose labor had supported him in luxury all these years. "I am sitting on the back of a man whom I am crushing," he said. "I insist on his carrying me, and with- out setting him free, I tell him that I pity him a great deal, and that I have only one desire-that of improving his condition by all possible means. And 122 LEO TOLSTOY yet I never get off his back. If I wish to help the poor I must not be the cause of their poverty." With unusual consistency Tolstoy has acted in conformity to these convictions. He has retired. to his country home, he has stripped it of every orrnament and luxury, he has clad himself in the rough clothes of the peasants, he has given up all animal food, tea, sugar, and delicacies of all kinds, and of course all alcoholic drinks and tobacco. He works in the fields when his health permits, and has also learned how to make boots. He continues to write, but only such books and articles as he believes will help the world onward in the direc- tion of a real Christianity. He was living thus when I visited him in 1894. I saw him, just as he has been so often pictured, in his blouse and leather belt, indistinguishable from the poorest laborer in the land; but a more kindly, more straightforward, frank, sincere, and hospitable, nay, a saner and more serious and reasonable man, I have never seen in any circle of society. He spends all that portion of the year in which farm labor is possible, from April to December, at his country home. I spent two days there, and I did not see a rug or carpet on the bare floors, nor any ornament whatever. His ideal (in accordance with which he lived there until his increasing age made it impossible) was to devote four hours a day to farm labor, four to some handicraft (in his 123 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES own case, bootmaking), and four hours to literary work. Only a very strong man could have con- ceived of such a strenuous plan of life, and it is not likely that he lived up to it very long; but the minimum which he exacts from himself is to be worth his "keep" as far as manual labor is con- cerned, and to allow others to work for him as lit- tle as possible. His own study and workroom is absolutely plain and austere, and he will not allow any domestic to enter it or his bedroom. He does all the sweeping, cleaning, making of fires, and emptying of slops himself. He always does such farm work as he can, and he told me that he pre- ferred plowing to any other rural exercise. In winter he finds that he can be of more service at Moscow, as in the country the cold and snow and excessively short days make work out of doors al- most out of the question. At Moscow he keeps up his literary work and exerts his influence quietly, seeing those of his sympathizers who call. At one time he was in the habit of sawing wood with the regular wood-sawyers in one of the suburbs, but I do not know that he has kept this up. His ad- vanced age and a chronic trouble in his digestive organs have doubtless curtailed his activity of late. In assuming a peasant's garb he has to a great extent cut himself off from the social pleasures of his class. He no longer frequents clubs, theaters, entertainments, and so forth, as was his habit dur- 124 LEO TOLSTOY ing the earlier part of his life. His abstemious diet has shut him out from the artificial joys of the table; his consideration for animals prevents him from shooting, of which sport he was very fond; his antipathy to stimulants deprives him of his tea, the very elixir of life to all Russians (their samovar, or tea-urn, is their hearthstone, and the center of family life). His work, namely, the dis- semination of his ideas and such manual labor as he can do, his correspondence, and such social in- tercourse as he has with his family and those of his friends who agree with him, these are the joys of a life singularly lacking in the external marks of ease and comfort, but well supplied with all that tends to spiritual happiness. Recently his wife wished to give him a bicycle, but he refused to accept it, thinking the money could be better spent, and that it would separate him too much from the peasants who do not ride wheels. But he is very fond of riding his son's wheel. What Tolstoy has done he has done because the love of God and man has overpoweringly con- strained him to do it. He has given up rank, wealth, ease, and the approval and esteem of his class. He has been now for years quite ready to go to Siberia, if necessary, or even to yield up his life for the cause which he has espoused-the cause of suffering humanity. But what is it to die, after all? It is not so hard to die. Men have often - 125 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES died for bad motives as well as good,- for a whim, from vanity, from bravado. But to live on from day to day in accordance with the dictates of con- science and of love, in the face of all the obstacles which a selfish and self-satisfied society can throw in your way, to be considered a fool and a luna- tic, a heretic and a traitor, to act thus, as Count Tolstoy has now done for twenty years, -is there on earth greater heroism than this? He has in- deed sacrificed all that most people find of value in life; but, as Christ with His wonderful insight into the mysteries of existence foretold, in losing his life he has found it. In giving up his riches. he has attained a wealth of gratitude and affection from those whom he has helped and guided in all parts of the world, which no gold and silver could buy; and while he has absolutely foresworn all physical force, and would not for any cause lift his arm against his fellow, yet he has greater in- fluence in the world to-day than those who direct the armies and navies of the Russian Empire. It is this kind of meekness,—the meekness that is the mark of the highest courage,—which is one day to inherit the earth. We may even now note the faint signs of the coming of such a time, and predict that when the names of the generals and millionaires of the present time are almost, if not quite, forgotten, that of Tolstoy, the apostle of brotherhood, will still be cherished. - 126 Tolstoy as seen by a Russian Peasant. BY J. MONTGOMERY M'GOVERN. MUCH UCH has been written in regard to Tolstoy from the standpoint of every class except the one whose cause he espouses: the peasant him- self alone has been silent. In Russia the muzhik knows too well the punishment that would be meted out to him were he openly to express admi- ration for the man whose life has been devoted to the effort of making the condition of the lower classes in that country a little more endurable. Probably no other living writer has been repre- sented in more widely varying and contradictory lights-both by the press of his own country and by that of every other country-than Tolstoy has been. But however the novelist may be regarded by the foreign literary world and even by the up- per and middle classes in Russia, by the peasants he is secretly idolized. "He is a god-the great Tolstoy-a god to us peasants, and more than that. It is wicked to say so, maybe, but can you blame us if we love this man, who has done so much for us, more than we love the God our priests tell us about, who has 127 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES done nothing for us except to send the plague and to let our crops fail, so that we die of hunger and cold; and who does not keep from our door the cruel tax-collector, who robs us of the last penny we have to buy bread for our starving children?" So spoke Brum Nelsonelka (as nearly as her name can be spelled in English), a peasant woman who has recently come to America from Tolstoy's estate, Yasnaia Poliana, on the lower Volga. It was her "master"-as she affectionately terms. Tolstoy-who, recognizing the woman's intellec- tual superiority to that of the average muzhik, en- couraged her in her plans to emigrate to America, and furnished the funds-as a loan-which enabled her to set up her little establishment as newspaper and magazine dealer at the foot of one of the ele- vated stations in New York. The eyes of Brum Nelsonelka filled with tears and her usually shy, reticent manner became unwontedly enthusiastic as she spoke to me of Tolstoy. It is impossible to transcribe exactly the wom- an's quaint, broken English, intermingled here and there with Russian words and phrases, but her general phraseology has been retained as nearly as possible. In reply to my question as to why the great novelist is held in such esteem by the peas- antry of his own country she replied: "Ah, you can not understand-no American' can understand what the name of Tolstoy means to a ————————— 128 TOLSTOY AS SEEN BY A PEASANT muzhik, because you have no idea of the social conditions in Russia. Here everybody is good. In Russia there is greater difference between the nobleman and the peasant on his estate than there is between the American and his dog. If a peas- ant on any estate in Russia, except Tolstoy's, com- plains to his master that he is starivng or that his children are freezing from lack of fuel because the nobleman has cut down the trees of his estate that he may have better hunting-grounds, the peasant is laughed at for his pains or cursed for his imper- tinence. 'What matters it one muzhik more or less?' says the lord. "Tolstoy alone remembers that we are human and knows that a muzhik suffers pain and cold and hunger as any one else would. He alone is willing to help us. More than that, he has made himself one of us, and is like a father to us all to the peasants on his own estates and to those on the neighboring estates as far as the lords of those estates will let him be. "Tolstoy recognizes no distinction between noble and peasant. The shoemaker in the little village of Tula on his estate is a chosen comrade of his. Often this great man goes to the little shop and sits there talking with the shoemaker by the hour; frequently he takes up one of the shoes that the man is making and finishes it with his own hands. Fancy that a Russian nobleman making shoes for ―――――――― 9 129 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES a peasant. To you it does not seem so wonderful as it does to a Russian. Tolstoy talks to the shoe- maker and to the other peasants who are intelli- gent enough to understand him about the-how do do you say it?' universal brotherhood of man;’ about the time that is coming when there will be neither noble nor peasant-when all will be equal and everybody will have a like share of land and money-when there will be no rich and no poor. "As yet these things seem a long way off-in Russia especially; but Tolstoy bids us not to de- spair. He knows how unjustly the muzhiks are taxed for the advantage of the nobles, and knows. that it is impossible for them during the few months each year that they are able to work the land to cultivate it so that it will yield any more than enough to pay their taxes-sometimes not that much. He knows how the peasants are flogged and their bare little sticks of furniture are broken up by the tax-collector-who, it is said among the muzhiks, is selected by the government for his heartlessness-if they do not yield up to him the last kopeck the government demands of them, whether they own that amount or not. Tol- stoy intercedes for the muzhik; he will not allow his peasants to be beaten, and when their crops have failed he himself frequently pays their taxes. "But do not think that Tolstoy is an idle trou- ble-maker, like some of the nihilists who come se- 130 TOLSTOY AS SEEN BY A PEASANT cretly among us. He tells us that we must be pa- tient, we must wait that the time is not yet ripe for us to assert ourselves; that we must first learn to leave vodka [a cheap, intoxicating Russian bev- erage] alone and to educate ourselves. Tolstoy does more than merely talk to us of education and of better things for our minds and bodies; he has sacrificed his life for the peasants of his country. He has given up every luxury, and lives and dresses as simply as a peasant himself, that he may devote his money not only to giving the muzhiks food and clothing, but that he may help them socially as well. He founded a school and a library for them where-for the first time in the history of Russia-the muzhik might have a chance to learn something besides the amount of physical labor he could accomplish in a day. "No one except those who have been in Russia can appreciate the ignorance of the Russian peas- ants. Tho their intellects are naturally strong, they have never been roused to ambition or study, and but few of them can either read or write. myself know but little compared with even a school-child in this country, but compared with most muzhiks I know much-oh, very much! I "If it had not been for Tolstoy's school I would have never known even my letters. Tolstoy's daughter, Countess Marie, taught in this school, and next to her great father Countess Marie was, 131 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES and still is, the idol of every muzhik. She is thoroughly in sympathy with her father in all his plans and his efforts for the betterment of the peasants' condition. She it is who had charge of the library which Tolstoy built some time ago in the little village of Tula on his estate. Here were many of the best books-good stories, essays, and histories written by men in all different parts of the world. All the foreign books were Russian translations, of course. Some of them Tolstoy himself translated into the Russian that is spoken by the peasants on his estate that we might better understand them. L "It is impossible for any one who has never been in Russia to understand the amount of good that this library and this school did the peasants. But just as they were beginning to thoroughly ap- preciate and take advantage of their opportunities the government stepped in and forbade any further circulation of books from the library, and also closed the reading-room which Tolstoy had estab- lished in connection with the library, and where he kept us supplied with the best Russian maga- zines and newspapers. Shortly afterward-just before I left Russia-the peasants' school, which had done even more good than the library, was also closed by the police. "Progress and education for the peasants are op- posed by the government, and those few fair-minded 132 TOLSTOY AS SEEN BY A PEASANT aristocrats who try to do anything to better the condition of the muzhik-physically or socially- are usually forced to leave the country, or else are imprisoned or sometimes sent to Siberia. This is what happened to Tolstoy's brother, who is now a slave in the mines of Siberia because he too loved the peasants. Our Tolstoy-Lyoff Tolstoy—knows that at any day this fate may be his also, but his devotion to us does not grow less, and he still con- tinues, as far as the government will allow him, in his efforts to help us. He has established soup- kitchens at different points all over his own estate and on a few of the neighboring estates. Here every peasant may go and get at least one full comfortable meal a day-which is something that otherwise he would not have for months at a time. "The Countess Tolstoy, our master's wife, some- times serves us at these soup-kitchens, but she does not love the peasants as her husband does nor as her daughter, the Countess Marie, loves us. Countess Tolstoy thinks her husband foolish to have given up his wealth and his social position and to have sacrificed his life for the peasants. His wealthy friends-all those of the upper classes, even those who most admire the books he has written think so too. They laugh at him. and call him 'crank.' Ah, these people do not know him for the man he is! We peasants are too ignorant to judge his books, but we know Tol- 133 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES stoy the man, and we could not help ourselves loving and appreciating him. "Kind as Tolstoy is to us always, it is when the plague the horrible black cholera of Russia— strikes the peasants of his estates that we realize the full extent of our master's goodness. When cholera attacks the peasants on other estates, the lords of these estates flee to Petersburg or Moscow -or out of Russia altogether-lest they too be taken with it, leaving the peasants to die like sheep; for what doctor in Russia would attend a plague-stricken muzhik who had no money to pay him? But when Tolstoy hears that one of his peasants has the plague, he goes to the muzhik and takes him medicine, which he gives him with his own hand, and sees that he has proper food and is cared for as he should be, and that his hut is kept clean and that the other peasants are not exposed to it. "I can see him now-my dear master-just as he used to enter a plague-stricken muzhik's hut: his fur cap drawn down over his eyes, a case of medicine in one hand, and in the other a roll of clean linen for the patient. Then how gently he tended the sick one-this great bearded man!— more gently than many women could have done; with one hand feeling the patient's pulse, the other hand holding medicine to his lips; at the same time alternately cheering the patient and giving 134 TOLSTOY AS SEEN BY A PEASANT directions to the members of the sick man's fam- ily-or scolding them if the things were not done as he ordered. His very presence and the knowl- edge of his love used to help the sick ones even more than his medicines. The peasants-in times of plague particularly-used to kneel as he passed and try to kiss the hem of his long fur coat, but this he would never allow, saying that a peasant was as good as he—as if that could be possible. "Tolstoy is kind to every one, but it is to women he is especially kind. He is as polite to the plain- est old peasant woman on his estate as he would be to the greatest lady in Petersburg. "The last time I saw Tolstoy he looked more like a man of fifty than an old man of nearly sev- enty, as he was in reality. In appearance he is striking, and tho he dresses like a peasant, one could see at a glance that he was no muzhik. He has piercing, sparkling blue eyes-eyes that seem to look you through and know all about you at the first glance. His features are large, and his face would be rather stern-looking if it were not for his tender, indulgent-looking mouth, partly concealed by his gray mustache and beard. "His religion? Ah, Tolstoy does not talk relig- ion to us! He is good to all alike-Jew and Gen- tile-those that belong to the Russian Church [that is, of course, the Greek Church] and those that do 'Be peaceful,' he says, ' do not fight or get not. 135 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES drunk, follow the example of the Christ-man, and the rest will take care of itself.' "Ah," Brum Nelsonelka concluded, "if there were only more men to-day like Tolstoy this would be a better world-and," she added with a shrug characteristically Russian, "there would be no Russia." 136 How He Won the Miners' Votes. BY RICHARD J. HINTON. IT was an election day in Nevada, back in the the reelection or defeat of John P. Jones, then and now United States Senator from that state. A witty Irishman was asked why he, a Democrat, should be so fast a friend of a rigid Republican such as the Senator then was. "Sure," said the miner in reply, "why shouldn't I work for the man who saved my life? There's never a mining man in Nevada old enough to re- member but what votes for John P. just as long as he wants a vote. It's not politics, sir, it's pure love of the man. How was it? Well, he came here first as superintendent of the Crown Point and Kaintuck [Kentucky] mines. He was liked from the first. It was him that originated eight-hour shifts three tricks for the men in each twenty- four. But that's not what did it. One day the alarm was raised of fire in the Kaintuck, on the ten-hundred-foot level. You know, sir, how cuts, drifts, and levels are shored-up. There's wood 137 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES enough down in the Comstock to build another place like 'Frisco. Now, a fire is a serious thing, especially if it gets into the metals-the ore-veins, I mean. The flame decomposes them very rapidly, and the galleries fill with poisonous gases. It was soon seen that this fire meant business. "The first man to enter the cage was Superin- tendent Jones. Other men went down with him. The cage works by hydraulic pressure, and there was the danger, soon seen, that the flames might reach the pipes and prevent its working. The Senator is a big, broad-shouldered, and deep- chested man. He has the clear head sure, and no better miner is there alive than he. There was a lot of men down below when the alarm came, but they soon got up-all but nineteen; and I was one of them, foreman of the gang furdest away from the shaft, nearest to the fire. It got hold of the timbers, and in the dryest of the levels. We fought our way to air. With several others, I was soon overcome. Then the timbers behind us began to fall in, and the roof caved, increasing the gas. The last I remember distinctly was Jones's cheery voice shouting to keep up our courage. "It was a long day and a night. The cage was fortunately able to run. Man after man among the rescuers became affected by the fumes, but the su- perintendent remained active and untiring. He helped to drag out and send up the men who were 138 HOW HE WON THE MINERS' VOTES overcome and the men also that were rescued. Timbers were cut away, Jones at the front always— every man swears to that. Air was pumped in; water used to flood, and, step by step, the rescue party got eighteen out of the most dangerous places. I was one of the last. "It came about that the fire took fresh hold. There was only one man left, and it was declared that life would be sacrificed in any effort to rescue him. Jones stepped on the cage. The man who run it had keeled over with the gas, work. A volunteer was called for. men responded. At last a boy of sixteen (Jim Hudson was his name, I think) got in. The Sena- tor hesitated; but as there was no one else, down they went. At the mouth of the shaft there was agony; but at last the bell was heard, and up shot the cage, the gas fumes behind it, and smell of fire close to the works. It came swiftly; and when eager hands clutched at the door the boy lay hud- dled up; and the superintendent, scorched by the flame and gasping for breath, holding the limp figure of a man by one arm as he worked the ele- vator cable by the other hand, stumbled out and fell prone on the shaft-house floor. The boy was pulled out quickly, and only just in time, for the cage fell quite a distance. A few moments later all three would have died. "The man recovered, and the boy was soon and could not None of the 139 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES about. But the Senator long after felt the effects. Don't you think we are all right in being willing to give him a Senatorship, if we have the chance, for every one of them nineteen lives he saved?" Thus it comes about that John P. Jones has sat in the United States Senate for over twenty-six years, and will be there for thirty if he lives to fill his term. 140 How a Great Artist found Himself. BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE. ΝΕ EITHER courage nor success is rare in our days-the courage that risks life or persists against difficulties, the success that means money and popular applause. But there is and has al- ways been a rarer and finer kind of courage, and a nobler sort of success, which we meet occasion- ally only; and it is of an example of these that I am now to write. Edward Kemeys was born about five-and-fifty years ago, a shy and silent boy, with his own thoughts; but sweet-tempered, generous, and affec- tionate, and with a mind of an original and pro- found cast. His nature was reverential, and he was religious from the first in his own simple and in- communicable way. He loved an outdoor life, was exquisitely observant of all natural things, and of men and animals-noting their traits and charac- ters with a sympathy and humor which were a revelation to his few intimates. In the fields, in the woods, along the shore, it was his delight to be; he was familiar with the ways and voices of the 141 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES wind; he knew things about rain and sunshine that others had not discovered; and the silent drama of moon and stars filled him with a strange pleasure. But animals, with their naturalness, their inevitable sincerity, attracted him most of all. He understood them, and they him; there were secrets between him and them. He entered into their life, their thoughts and desires, until his imagination became almost incarnate in them. Their forms and movements lived in his memory, and he knew the how and the why of all they did and were. Before the boy was twenty the civil war broke out; he enlisted as a private, and after serving through the conflict with invariable courage and ability he left the service with the well-earned rank of captain. But of that epoch of his life we shall have nothing further to say in this place. Thousands did as good service as he. With the education and instincts of a gentle- man, with the simplicity of a child, and with the unsettled habits of a soldier, he found himself facing the world. He had strength and health, but little or no money; he was offered opportuni- ties to "go into business," but found in himself no aptitude for such pursuits. He was conscious of powers and endowments, but did not know how to bring them to effect. He was modest, and quite destitute of the cheerful brass that asserts merit 142 HOW A GREAT ARTIST FOUND HIMSELF and overbears resistance. His soul was full of im- aginings, of aspirations and secret workings, which he could not interpret, and which of course no one else could interpret for him. Here was a force certainly—perhaps a great force; but how to apply it! He must wait and find out. But why not, in the mean while, turn to and make a living in one way or another? No; for he vaguely felt that this Something in him was something sacred, which must not be tampered with or set aside. He owed it to something higher and holier than himself to hold himself in reserve until his true vocation should be revealed to him. Nothing in Kemeys was more remarkable than this spiritual self-re- spect coexisting with entire humility. Less vanity or self-consciousness I never saw in a man; but along with it was the sturdiest resolve never to be- little or slight what was best and purest in him; for this he felt to be not himself, but something entrusted to his keeping, of which he was bound in honor to render a strict accourt. He was The consequence was that he became apparently an idler; he was non-productive. The world went on about its business, and left him out. like a giant under enchantment; all his strength was useless. He was keenly conscious of this, and it made him unhappy. Oh, if the revelation would but be vouchsafed! In his lonely musings, in his prayers, he sought for light, for guidance; but 143 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES they were still delayed. Year succeeded year, with no visible change. The temptation would whisper in his heart, "Are you not a fool? You wait for what will never come. But deeper yet in his heart was the faith that overcame tempta- tion. God had bade him be patient, and he obeyed the command as best he might. No one save God and himself knows what he suffered in the long waiting. 99 Partly by accident, partly by inclination, he wandered toward the West, and lived with the Indians and the wild animals; he was a hunter and a naturalist; he made his home in the moun- tains and on the prairies; his soul expanded in the vast solitudes. He listened to the coyotes howl- ing by night beside the drinking-pool; he saw the triangular head of the grizzly bear define itself gradually amidst the dense foliage of a ravine in the hills; gripping the lean sides of his mustang with his knees, he swept across the thundering plain after the flying buffalo; by his camp-fire at night he heard the childlike whimpering of the panther, and saw the green fire of its terrible eyes glare out of the darkness; climbing among the naked sides of the higher mountains, he beheld at last the mountain-sheep poised airily far above him, with the mighty curving of its horns gleam- ing against the sky. He sat in the wigwams of the Indians, and marked the laconic effectiveness— 144 HOW A GREAT ARTIST FOUND HIMSELF the stern economy-of their speech and action; the wild contours of their features sank into his mind; the mystery of their origin and meaning fascinated his imagination. No seed that fell upon the rich soil of his youth's perception was lost; those voice- less years in the Western wilderness brought forth harvest in his soul a hundred- and a thousandfold. And yet he did not know wherefore he came into the world, or what should be his function there. Was he to be a Perception, a Love, and nothing more? It is of the essence of love to create; could he create nothing? Oh, if he might but create something which would enlighten and purify the world! If he might but make some visible return to God for the gifts which He had bestowed upon him! It would be hard to have lived and died and have made no sign. In the midst of this imaginative melancholy a stinging mishap befell him. After riding across the prairie all one day he camped toward evening beside a stream; and as usual his first care was for his horse. While rubbing the animal down his hand passed over its hind leg, and at the same in- stant he received a kick in the face which knocked him senseless. Upon recovering, he found that there was a raw spot on the leg which he had un- wittingly touched, and the ordinarily gentle ani- mal had struck out, with terrible results to his own face. He first finished rubbing down the 10 145 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES horse, and then bound up his wound as best he might; but it was many days before he could get surgical help, and for years his features were dis- figured. Here was another burden for a man so finely sensitive to comeliness of form to bear. But we must make an end of these preliminary experiences. One day he found himself in a town, and he fell in there with a queer Frenchman, who invited him to his shop. He was a modeler in wax, and among his work were many groups and figures of animals, spiritedly and deftly done. These Kemeys studied with inexhaustible interest. The artist was pleased, and remarked that no liv- ing man could produce their match. Kemeys said that he would like to attempt a portrait in wax of his dog, which had been for years the companion of his journeyings. The artist, with a supercili- ous grimace, handed him a lump of wax and bade him fall to work. Kemeys returned to his lodg- ings with the wax and the dog, and fell to work heartily, experiencing in the labor a new and quite extraordinary pleasure. He had no tools but his fingers and his jackknife, and knew no more of the science of modeling than he did of the alphabet of the ancient Akkadians; but "love will find out a way," and the next morning he took his French- man a finished portrait of the dog. The French- man regarded it with seriousness and evident sur- prise, and finally proposed that Kemeys should 146 HOW A GREAT ARTIST FOUND HIMSELF enter his employ. He would give instruction, and would accept as recompense therefor whatever models his apprentice might produce that were usable. But Kemeys thanked him, and declined. He had made the greatest of discoveries he had discovered himself! God had revealed to him during that night what he was born to do; and with all the mighty reserve force accumulated through those long years of waiting he was ready to begin. Now at last he understood himself; he saw the purpose of that boyhood spent among the woods and fields, of that young manhood lost in the tre- mendous spaces of the West, and of the intense, loving interest with which he had everywhere and at all times studied the life and forms of animals. He recognized the hand of God throughout; for had his vocation been earlier revealed to him, he would have lacked an experience of nature and her creatures which he now saw to be unique and in- valuable; he would have shut himself up in a studio and become a mere academic, conventional trifler, or echoer of other men. But he had seen and studied his subject as had no other man; he had surprised secrets and attained insights unsus- pected by any save himself; he knew animals as the Indians know them, as they know themselves -knew them body, bones, and spirit, knew them from their minds to their hides, and from their 147 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES Until now, hides back to their minds. all this curious knowledge had seemed barren and object- less; but now its end was manifest. He had the power to re-create all these dumb friends and com- panions of his in enduring forms of art; he could show them as they could not show themselves; he could concentrate their characters in a pose, could disclose the drama of their existence in a group. Here was a whole unknown world to be revealed to mankind, for there is no subject of which man- kind civilized knows so little as of wild animals. But here was a hunter and a naturalist who had discovered that he was also and above all a sculp- tor and an artist. He could tell what had never before been told. He could make a genuine and precious addition to human knowledge; and instead of conveying the information by labored descrip- tions or lifeless diagrams, he could set it forth in the living harmony and beauty that are Art, and so endow them with Art's immortality. No won- der that there was joy in Kemeys's heart as this vision passed before him. His place and his work were found; he had a right to live in the world, and his fellow men would not be sorry that he had lived. He thanked God that his intuition against "going into business" had prevailed, that his pa- tience had not given out. He was overflowing with thankfulness and rejoicing; for a chaste and temperate life had left his youthful sanctities un- 148 HOW A GREAT ARTIST FOUND HIMSELF polluted, and beneath an exterior of Indian stoi- cism, acquired in the great solitudes of the wilder- ness and of the soul, he had kept the naive freshness and spontaneity of boyhood. And should he tie. his chariot of the skies to the door-post of the lit- tle French modeler in wax? Assuredly not! He would gladly have given some splendid largess to the self-complacent old artisan who had unawares taught him the open sesame to his own treasure- house of art. But he had nothing to bestow, and the Frenchman expected nothing, and there was nothing for it but to say farewell and part. They never met again, and whether his instructor of a day ever saw any of his pupil's later work can not be known. And so from that time forward Kemeys won fame and fortune, and that is the end of the story? By no means! The story is but in its beginning; it can not be told here save in the lightest outline. A worthy biography of this great artist would be one of the most captivating and enduring books of the age. It will be written one day, but not now; happily, the man himself is still living, in the prime of his power. But for twenty years he worked almost without recognition. Almost from the first his figures and groups showed marvelous faculty, knowledge, and truth, and the purest feel- ing for art. Sculpture, with those who have native genius for it, does not require the same sort of ap- 149 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES prenticeship that painting does. A perception and feeling for form, and the high nervous organiza- tion which enables the hand to perform what the mind directs, these, and the nameless gift which sets the born artist apart from other men, are al- most sufficient. All these Kemeys had, and withal a scientific anatomical familiarity with the struc- ture and dynamics of animals which enabled him to reproduce the very spirit and poignancy of their life. Looking at one of his productions, you seem to feel the supple play of the joints, the smooth sliding of the muscles, underneath the skin. They are not lumps of clay molded into the forms of ani- mals, but they are animals all through, and with the animal's spirit animating them. Never, for the sake of sensational effect, or to display the knowledge of their maker, do Kemeys's figures or groups transcend the modesty of their nature; he never shows them doing anything which is not strictly within the compass of their habits. Never, either, do they present the forlorn sugges- tion that they are sitting for their portraits. No, they are wholly unconscious of an observer; thus do they behave in the depths of their forests, in the clear expanse of their prairies, with only the sun or the stars and one another to behold them. They are sufficient unto themselves; they need no adventitious support or enhancement. There has been one famous animal sculptor before Kemeys; 150 HOW A GREAT ARTIST FOUND HIMSELF but he, with all his surprising knowledge of ani- mal anatomy and perception of animal character, was lacking in this reverence which Kemeys al- ways displays for the severe and simple truth of animal manifestation. The "Walking Lion" of Barye to take one of the best-known examples of his genius-shows every muscle of the body standing out tense and strung. But when the real lion walks, no muscles are seen; they are smooth and relaxed; his surface is sleek as a kitten's. As Kemeys himself has said, animals never make a needless effort; and every effort they make is ex- actly adequate to its object-not a hair's breadth more or less. I have dwelt upon this point (in a paper which attempts no critical estimate of Kemeys's work) because of its pertinence to the essential theme which I aim to develop. This theme is the heroism with which he resisted every inducement to degrade the character of his work, or to be false to what he knew to be the truth of animal nature, in order to achieve a pecu- niary and popular success. "Make a monkey ri- ding on a bear; make a dog and a cat waltzing to- gether; make a panther or a wolf serenading a sheep on a guitar; make anything that will cause people to laugh and exclaim, 'How cunning!' or 6 How clever!' That is the way to make a selling success. Never mind if animals don't do those things in real life; nobody cares what they do in C 151 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES real life; what people do care about, and what you must represent if you mean to succeed, is animals pretending to be men and women. Don't talk to us about art, and sincerity! You will never be heard of unless you make a noise; and the only way to make a noise with animals is to make them cut up pranks; and the less resemblance those pranks bear to their natural behavior, the greater will be the hit you will make. That is the busi- ness side of your profession; after you have made your fortune, you can amuse yourself and the hand- ful of your friends who are of your way of think- ing by modeling animals as they are. But until you can afford it, avoid amusing yourself in that foolish way." That is what practical men and dealers said to Kemeys, and they showed him the most substan- tial reasons for accepting their suggestions. He was poor-it is needless to tell how poor he was. He longed for appreciation as only an artist can long for it. He had a keen sense of fun, and, with his knowledge to boot, nothing would have been easier than for him to make such figures and groups as were recommended, without violating a single anatomical possibility. But he declined every offer of the kind, and he went hungry, and wore clothes that were more than threadbare, for twenty years, rather than accept them. It was not enough for him to make groups that were an- 152 HOW A GREAT ARTIST FOUND HIMSELF atomically possible; that must also be true to ani- mal nature and habit; and from this nothing would move him. Such true groups and figures did he continue to produce all those years; and every once in a while he would contrive to sell one for some nominal price, just enough to keep him from starving. He made a colossal "Crouching Panther" (or "Still-Hunt"), and offered it to the Central Park of New York for the bare cost of material which it had put him to; and the Park Board were many months in deign- ing to accept this magnificent work on those terms, because they could find no political "pull" or profit in the transaction; and as to the statue it- self, whether it had value as art or not, they nei- ther knew nor cared. Fortunately, it was "ad- mitted" at last, and many a horse has shied at the sight of that grim presence peering from the brink of its shrub-grown rock above the drive. But of the hundreds of thousands of human beings who have seen it there, hardly one has known who made it, and consequently it brought Kemeys nei- ther fame nor fortune. A cat and a puppy waltz- ing would have enabled him to build a house and keep a stable. But he made no complaint. He smiled his shy, stoical smile, and created a group of a "Fighting Deer and Panther" which is be- yond comparison the most superb work of animal sculpture ever modeled. Some day that group 153 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES will occupy the most conspicuous position in the pleasure-ground of the greatest American city; but at present it remains in its plaster dress, except, I believe, for one miniature copy in bronze, such as one could carry in his arms. The truth is, Kemeys was not only a great ar- tist, but a great innovator; and he had to wait while a public capable of understanding and loving what he was doing was growing up. While he was awaiting this consummation, he modeled every wild animal of this country, as well as many oth- ers; and these figures, regarded simply as records, are invaluable, and will yearly become more so. But as works of the purest art they are a ktema es ai-a possession and a treasure forever. The ani- mals themselves will vanish ere long, with the march of what we are pleased to consider civiliza- tion; but in these sculptures they will enjoy a safe immortality. And all because Edward Kemeys had an inviolate conscience, and the courage to hold out twenty years against the most plausible and respectable of base temptations. For twenty years! Ah, that is a very long time to keep one's courage screwed to the sticking-place. But the turning-point came at last, and with the advent of the Chicago Exposition, Kemeys began to come into his own. There his work was seen by people who could comprehend something of what it meant; and from that time he had work 154 HOW A GREAT ARTIST FOUND HIMSELF enough, and work that brought some reasonable measure of compensation. Yet Kemeys's full fame is still far off; it can not be looked for till long after he has gone to the world where we are known as we are. It is enough for us to know that he is busy, happy, and at ease; and that what little he possesses he has earned and deserved a thousand times over. 155 General Porter's Recollections of Grant and Lincoln. BY EDWARD PAGE GASTON. A LMOST under the shadow of the mighty Arc de Triomphe, which stands as a sentinel to the Champs Elysées, is the " Ambassade des Etats- Unis." A line of famous men have represented the United States at the Tuileries from the days of Benjamin Franklin down to those of Horace Porter, but rarely has our government sent to Paris an ambassador whose distinguished services in the past have better fitted him for that post than have those of General Porter. As chief of staff he knew General Grant as perhaps no one else did through the civil war, and his recollections of Pres- ident Lincoln and the leaders of the Union cause are fresh and full of new views of their every-day heroics. General Porter has much to say on the quiet grandeur he found in the life of his admired chief as they moved through the racking trials of the great rebellion, and he gave me many incidents from the every-day life of Grant showing his stedfast pur- 156 PRESIDENT LINCOLN MAJOR "ALLAN" PINKERTON GEN. JOHN A. M'CLERNAND PRESIDENT LINCOLN'S VISIT TO GENERAL M'CLERNAND AT ANTIETAM, SEPTEMBER 20, 1862 [From a photograph loaned by James E. Taylor] PORTER ON GRANT AND LINCOLN poses. These General Porter put into writing as they occurred day by day, so that his notes have added largely to the intimate knowledge of those times. "The idea of keeping a full journal of each day's doings occurred to me one night when I was lying awake in camp during the Wilderness cam- paign," he said. "I had been reading of Napo- leon's campaigns, and was struck by the lack of personality in the narratives of those great events. I thought the future might like to know just what General Grant and his associates did in their every-day lives, and so from that time on I wrote copious notes on the day's doings, and sent them to my mother for the double purpose of preserving them and of keeping the information they contained from falling into the enemy's hands. At the close of the war my mother had a chestful of these let- ters, and they have supplied the most of the ma- terial for my recollections. I am often gratified at the letters I receive from old soldiers who saw the events I have described, saying that they are related exactly as they occurred. I remember that an officer once wrote to me regarding one of my descriptions of General Grant's personal appear- ance at the time of the Lee surrender. exact, he said, except that I had failed to mention a piece of mud on the general's left boot! It was 66 General Grant's life was great because at every 157 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES view-point it satisfied, and in my telling these hap- penings from camp and field there is nothing to conceal. His life is an open book, which can be freely given to the world in its entirety. While Grant was negligent of his personal appearance on a campaign, he was scrupulously careful about the cleanliness of his linen and person. He usually bathed in a barrel sawed in half, but he afterward secured a portable bath to replace this primitive system of 'tubbing.' While he was always ready to 'rough it' in any way needed, he was particu- larly modest in performing his toilet, and carefully guarded his privacy when washing or making a change of clothing. "Grant was always good company in camp, and among his many stories there were none that had better point than those he directed against the evil of lying and the inclination of many people to ex- aggeration. It was often said that the general hated only two persons, the coward and the liar, and some of his officers used to say that Grant was 'tediously truthful.' When he became President an usher brought him a card one day when he was in a private room writing a message to Congress. 'Shall I tell the gentleman you are not in?' asked the usher. No,' answered the President, you will say nothing of the kind. I don't lie myself, and I won't have any one lie for me.' "General Grant rarely spoke of his religious 158 PORTER ON GRANT AND LINCOLN convictions, but had a deep regard for the Chris- tian religion and its institutions. He was a regu- lar attendant upon the Methodist Episcopal Church at home, and a liberal supporter of the enterprises of all denominations. He expressed regret that so many of the decisive passages in the war must be fought out on Sunday, and tried to avoid this. Nothing was more offensive to him than an attempt to make light of serious matters or to show a dis- respect for sacred things. “In all of his military history Grant is known to have lost his temper but twice. Hearing that a straggler of his army had assaulted a woman, he clubbed a musket and knocked the brute down. The general had a peculiar horror of such crimes. They were rare in the war, but when brought to his attention he had no mercy on the culprit. He could not bear to see animals mistreated, and often expressed his disgust at a bull-fight he once wit- nessed as a young man in the city of Mexico. In the Richmond campaign he came upon teamster who was beating his horses in the face with the butt of his whip, and cursing loudly. All the ire in the general's nature was aroused by this brutal- ity, and spurring his horse' Egypt' forward he dashed up, and raising his clenched fist called out: What does this mean, you scoundrel? Stop beat- ing those horses!' The teamster looked at him insolently, not recognizing the commander, and " 159 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES said coolly, as he laid on another blow: Well, who's drivin' this team anyhow!-you or me?' 'I'll show you-you infernal villain!' cried the general, now thoroughly angered, as he shook his fist in the driver's face. Then calling an offi- cer of his escort, he said: 'Take this man in charge and tie him up to a tree for six hours.' At the dinner-table that evening he referred to the sub- ject, saying: 'If people knew how much more they could get out of a horse by gentleness than by harshness, they would save a great deal of trouble, both to the horse and the man. A horse is a par- ticularly intelligent animal; he can be made to do almost anything if his master has intelligence enough to let him know what is required.' " “Three tiny kittens whose mother had died were crawling about the floor of the telegrapher's tent and mewing piteously during Mr. Lincoln's last visit to Grant's camp at City Point. It was the most critical period in all the war, when the opera- tions were being pushed day and night for the fall of Richmond, yet Mr. Lincoln's tender heart was touched by the helpless state of the little felines. He took them upon his lap, stroked their fur, and murmured: 'Poor little creatures! Don't cry, you'll be taken good care of.' Then he said to one of the officers: Colonel, I hope you will give these poor little motherless waifs plenty of milk, and treat them kindly.' Several times during his 160 Standing: Col. Fred Dent, Lieut.-Col. W. F. Duff, Lieut.-Gen. U. S. Grant, Col. T. S. Bowers, Capt. P. T. Hudson, Col. Eli Parker, Lieut. Willy Dunn, Muenther. Seated Brig-Gen. John A. Rawlings, Maj. Adam Badeau, Cap. Cyrus Comstock, Gen. John G. Barnard, Col. Orville Babcock. GEN. U. S. GRANT AND STAFF IN CAMP. GROUP TAKEN IN JULY, 1864 PORTER ON GRANT AND LINCOLN stay Mr. Lincoln was found fondling these kittens and wiping out their eyes with his pocket-handker- chief, as he listened to them purring out their gratitude to the man who had said 'treat them kindly' when his pen had written human slavery away in the same simple spirit of his grand nature. "After the Federal forces had hammered their way on to the Petersburg front, General Grant and President Lincoln took a ride among the troops, and those visited included the colored soldiers of the Eighteenth Corps. Always impressionable, the enthusiasm of the blacks knew no bounds when they beheld the emancipator of their race, and General Porter says the scene defied description. They cheered, laughed, cried, sang hymns of praise, and shouted: 'God bress Massa Linkum!' 'De Lawd sabe Fader Abraham!' 'De day ob jubilee am come, suah! "They crowded about the President and fondled even his horse; some of them pressed up to kiss his sacred hands, while others ran away crying in triumph to their comrades that they had touched his virtue-bearing garments. Mr. Lincoln rode with bared head, the tears swam in his eyes, and his voice was so broken by emotion that he could hardly speak the words of thanks to these humble and devoted ones whose love was more precious to him than all the praise of kings. Turn the leaves of storied heroics and you will find no surpassing 11 161 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES incident to the pathos and the love of redeemed man over that shown in the camps before Peters- burg. General Grant was notably affected, and in speaking to him of the tenderly dramatic event Mr. Lincoln said: 'I was opposed on nearly every side when I first favored the raising of colored regi- ments; but they have proved their efficiency in taking six out of the sixteen guns captured the other day. I told my opposers that it is well to be a little color-blind, and these boys are now showing what the negro can do.'' General Porter says that while sitting at the camp-fire alone with Grant one night he said: "General, it seems singular that you have gone through all the rough and tumble of army service and have never been provoked into swearing. I have never heard you utter an oath or use an im- precation." "Well, somehow or other, I never learned to swear," Grant replied. "When a boy I seemed to have an aversion to it, and when I became a man I saw the folly of it. I have always noticed, too, that swearing helps to rouse a man's anger; and when a man flies into a passion his adversary who keeps cool always gets the better of him. In fact, I could never see the use of swearing. To say the least, it is a great waste of time." Grant was great in his friendships, and his un- selfishness reacted from those who had contact 162 PORTER ON GRANT AND LINCOLN with that side of his singular nature. Nowhere was this rare quality better shown than in his rela- tions with General Sherman, and these two large figures illustrated at a trying time what a true friendship means between possible rivals. After Sherman's splendid march "from Atlanta to the sea "there was a proposal for Congress to elevate him to the rank of lieutenant-general, which would have made him eligible to Grant's place at the head of the armies; but Sherman promptly wrote to ex-Senator John Sherman in Washington, say- ing that he would emphatically decline any com- mission calculated to bring them into rivalry. "I would rather have you in command than anybody else," he wrote to Grant. "I believe you to be as brave, patriotic, and just as the great prototype, Washington; as unselfish, kind-hearted, and hon- est as a man should be; but the chief characteristic is the simple faith in success you have always man- ifested, which I can liken to nothing else than the faith a Christian has in the Savior." In his letters General Grant showed the same manly spirit of unselfishness, and said to Sher- man: "No one would be more pleased at your ad- vancement than I, and if you should be placed in my position, and I put subordinate, it would not change our relations in the least. I would make the same exertions to support you that you have ever done to support me, and I would do all in my 163 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES power to make our cause win. How far your exe- cution of whatever has been given you to do en- titles you to the reward I am receiving you can not know as well as I do. I feel all the gratitude this letter would express, giving it the most flat- tering construction." General Buckner, who surrendered to Grant at Donelson, was making a speech in New York City on April 27, 1889, at a Grant birthday banquet, and paid a touching tribute to the great command- er's generosity. "I had at a previous time be- friended General Grant," he remarked in descri- bing the surrender, "and it has been justly said that he never forgot an act of kindness. I met him on the boat, and he followed me when I went to my quarters, leaving his own officers, and with that modest manner peculiar to himself he there tendered me his purse. It seemed to me that in the modesty of his nature he was afraid the light would witness that act of generosity, and sought to hide it from the world." 164 A Character Sketch of General Maximo Gomez, BY GEORGE RENO. WITH TH the dawn of peace on the island of Cuba, and the passing of the Spaniard from po- litical and ecclesiastical power, one stern, solitary figure alone remained of all Cuba's great leaders in the late revolution. Of that group of heroes who took the field in February of 1895 to engage in what proved to be the last struggle of a long-oppressed people for their liberty, there was at the beginning of the year 1899 but one survivor. José Marti, Antonio Maceo, Serafin Sanchez, and Calixto Garcia had been gath- ered to the silent host of the dead who live forever in the memories of men; and Maximo Gomez, rug- ged, uncompromising, and unbending, was the only member of that famous little band who lived to observe the new order of things. The sight of this old warrior left without one of his former companions is in itself a pathetic one; and if the different angles of his character present some aspects of eccentricity, they no less serve to 165 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES reflect qualities which are intrinsically noble, altho tinged with some bitterness by the experiences of a life of singular hardship. It is in reality difficult to form an unbiased judgment of any man, no mat- ter how well rounded his character, how complete his attributes, how symmetrical his life; it is doubly so when the subject to be considered is one so pe- culiarly endowed that he has the warmest of ad- herents and the bitterest of enemies. Neither friends nor enemies will hesitate on one point: Maximo Gomez is a great man; great be- cause his life is founded on integrity, because no suspicion of self-aggrandizement clings to his skirts; great because the keynote of his whole career has been the noblest that has ever brought blessings to the human race-liberty for oppressed humanity. A checkered career, hardships, vicissitudes, the power lodged in his hands under that semi-despot- ism known as military authority,-all these have had their influence in shaping the character of a man predisposed by temperament to rule. Yet, in analyzing the secret springs of some lines of action which appear severe, possibly unjust, the unpreju- diced will find neither mere arrogancce nor the intent to become a dictator, but an unfortunate acidity resulting from long rebellion against a do- minion hated and despised. It is but fair to say that many misrepresentations made about Gomez, 166 SKETCH OF GENERAL MAXIMO GOMEZ much of the false light in which he has time and again been held up to the public, are due simply to the fact that he has not been understood. Perhaps never in all his life has any one understood him, with the sole exception of Antonio Maceo. Be- tween these two there was the affection of brothers; no jealousies ever arose between them. Gomez relied on Maceo more than on any other leader in the beginning of the late revolution, and Maceo's death was a blow that unnerved him for the time being, for Maceo was literally his right hand. In estimating a man like the old leader, it is necessary, before forming a final judgment, to dis- tinguish in causes for action between character and temperament. In Gomez the former is absolutely unassailable, but in the latter one may find remark- able deviation exhibited in conduct which at first seems to condemn a high estimate. An erratic in- dividuality has thus resulted; yet, in deciding be- tween nobility and eccentricity, there is fortunately a happy medium where Gomez the military com- mander and Gomez the man may be adjusted on an impartial plane. It is astonishing that at this day any one of suf- ficient ignorance could be found to assert that Gomez has colored blood in his veins; yet this statement was made to me but a few days since by a man supposed to be well informed, moving in literary circles, and one of the proprietors of a 167 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES publication in this city which has printed much about Cuba and the Cubans. "Well, he was born in San Domingo anyhow, wasn't he?" demanded my questioner. "Now, they are niggers there, so of course he must be one." The cold and pitiless sarcasm that this unfor- tunate mortal will encounter if he ever ventures to express this opinion to Gomez himself is something to contemplate with secret relish. General Maximo Gomez was born on the island of San Domingo, but he is Spanish by ancestry, having entered the scene of action in the era before the Spaniards were driven out of the island. In the revolution which finally freed that portion of the world, Gomez was a captain in the Spanish army, and fought against the people who were striving to obtain their liberty. This was but nat- ural, for he was young, he had Castilian blood in his veins, and he had not yet learned the great les- son which converted him. No more striking illus- tration of his character could be given than that, after this war in San Domingo, Gomez renounced Spain and her methods forever. His apprentice- ship in the peninsular forces had opened his eyes to the nature of Spain's policy, and, his integrity rising in revolt against it, he threw off the yoke forever. It was during his term of service in the Spanish army in San Domingo that Gomez imbibed a bitter and uncompromising hatred of three things 168 GENERAL MAXIMO GOMEZ SKETCH OF GENERAL MAXIMO GOMEZ Given any -corruption, cowardice, and laziness. one of this trio, and to this hour the one who falls under his displeasure may well tremble when brought before the stern eye of his commander for rebuke, for Gomez can use words that bite and sting like a lash. The complete rottenness of Spain's policy with regard to her colonies being fully unveiled to Gomez, he turned against the mother country more completely than could an alien, and from that hour to this he has had but one object in life-to relieve his adopted people from a dominion loathsome to every moral fiber he possessed. Entering the field at an early age, his education is not what may be termed a comprehensive one, altho a quick and assimilative mind has absorbed much information, and made him intelligent on all leading questions of the day. He is now about sixty-nine years of age, and, unlike most military leaders, he does not pose as a statesman nor aspire to a political career. A rugged common sense concerning himself never fails him. Not long since he was approached by one who asked him if he would accept the nomina- tion for the presidency of the island when the first election for that office is held by the Cubans. His reply was eminently characteristic: "In the first place I would refuse it, and in the second place I would say that the Cubans displayed 169 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES I am a very bad judgment in nominating me. military man, not a politician." Knowing General Gomez as I do, I take this opportunity to set at rest as far as may be cer- tain unjust rumors diligently circulated-whether through ignorance or intention it is hard to decide. One of these I have indicated in speaking of his ancestry; another is the assertion that he wishes to found a military dictatorship, or, if not that, to have the honor of being the first president of Cuba when she is really free; for affairs are so entirely in transitu just now that it is not strange there are those who ask if it be not merely a change of masters. A clause was long ago inserted in the constitu- tion by the Cuban assembly, the distinct intent of which was to make General Gomez eligible to the highest office within the gift of the people should he ever be their choice; but Gomez is entirely too sensible to accept it. Did he see fit to do so, there is little doubt that the gratitude of the people would cause him to receive an overwhelming vote; nor can I recall any of the younger aspirants for political honors who would be likely to take the field against him. The value of this voluntary re- nunciation of a position that might well tempt any man to enter the lists should be given due consid- eration in forming an estimate of Gomez, for if there be one glittering bait above another which 170 SKETCH OF GENERAL MAXIMO GOMEZ the average man can not resist, it is the tenure of office. In his attitude on this question there ap- pear a certain simplicity and unselfishness well deserving of emulation. Maximo Gomez has made Cuba his home ever since he left San Domingo at the close of the rev- olution which drove the Spaniards out, and he is a Cuban of the Cubans in his patriotism, devotion, self-sacrifice, and heroic efforts to free her people. To Spaniards, he is an object of hatred; to Cubans, a figure deserving of admiration and respect; to the world at large, he is an enigma. History alone will present him in his proper light and assign him to the niche which only he could fill. On the dis- affection of some of his officers it is not necessary to dwell here, for such incidents would inevitably be part of a career dominated by such a personality as Gomez possesses, and they are unfortunate chiefly in alienating from him those who might be his sup- porters and friends. For José Marti, Gomez had a high admiration, and when the tocsin of the last revolution sounded, Gomez was the first in the field. The exceedingly aggressive campaign he carried on is a matter of history, nor is it possible to go into details here; but it may be well to explain that at least part of the reason for the drastic measures he adopted lay in the fact that early in the war he found in some portions of Santa Clara province and in other parts 171 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES of the island a disposition to let the revolution drag. Many of the people were neutral, non-com- bative, inclined to take a safe middle ground, and, while reaping the fruits of the uprising if success- ful, escape by a policy of inaction the immediate dangers of the insurgents. Gomez' stern methods quickly dissipated much of this; and while his burning of the cane-fields and destruction of sugar- mills belonging to Cubans as well as Spaniards did not tend to make him beloved by some, it was un- doubtedly a measure justified by the necessities of the rebellion. Just such sternness was needed. Otherwise a weaker policy would have argued un- certainty, and this the undaunted heart of the old warrior never knew. Another thing he demanded of his men was that they must not only be will- ing to fight, but anxious to hunt up a fight, make a fight, to do anything so that a war against the Spaniard was kept always in prog- ress. A few days of quiet made him restless, and did not tend to increase his equanimity. "Are all the Spaniards on the island killed off?" he would inquire of his officers. "Do you think we shall gain independence by sitting still like old women?" General Gomez was one of the heroes of the ten- years' war, but it was his campaign of the Occi- dent in this last revolution upon which rests his fame as a military commander. Studied in detail, 172 SKETCH OF GENERAL MAXIMO GOMEZ it presents such features as have won from the great military critics of foreign nations their un- qualified admiration and the unanimous decision that it was one of the most famous campaigns in strategy and singularly effective tactics that the world has ever known. Landing in Santiago de Cuba province in April of 1895, Gomez met there Bartolome Maso with his forces, and they were soon joined by Antonio Maceo with his troops. Gomez, Marti, and Maceo then started westward, intending to cross into the province of Puerto Principe. At the battle of Dos Rios on the 19th of May, José Marti was killed. Maceo kept on fighting, and made a feint to cross the line into Puerto Principe on the north, and Martinez Cam- pos immediately concentrated his forces to meet Maceo, turn him back, and stop the onward move- ment of the insurgent forces. Under cover of Maceo's movement, Gomez marched to the south, crossed the Jobo river in- to Puerto Principe, thus outwitting Campos. In Camaguey he was met by Salvador Cisneros, whose undaunted soul was always ready for revolution, together with a large body of young men, the flower of Puerto Principe. Reenforced in the Najassa mountains by these troops, council was held, and Gomez presently executed a series of brilliant maneuvers; he encircled the city of Puerto Prin- cipe and captured the towns of Altagracia, Mulate, 173 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES and San Jeronomio, thereby reenforcing his am- munition. It was at this time that I was endeavoring to reach General Gomez from the city of Puerto Principe; but owing to over-anxiety on the part of the Cuban forces to aid me in getting through the Spanish lines, the plan failed, and I was unable to meet him. My arrest and deportation soon fol- lowed, but I was nevertheless able to bring to the United States a report on the number of men under his command, their arms, ammunition, and equip- ment, and also General Gomez' plan for the cam- paign of the Occident, soon to be inaugurated. At this time Gomez had with him about twenty-two hundred men, with an average of four rounds of ammunition to each man, an outfit which did not in the least disconcert him. All summer he lay in the Najassa mountains, organizing his men and preparing for the winter foray. In September of that year the assembly met, and Salvador Cisneros was made president and Gomez commander-in-chief. Word had been sent to Antonio Maceo to hurry his forces forward in order to unite with those of Gomez near the Ju- caro-Moron trocha just ahead of them, where Mar- tinez Campos had marshaled thirty thousand men to prevent their further advance. Before Gomez was reenforced by Maceo, however, he succeeded in executing one of his most daring feats. On the 174 SKETCH OF GENERAL MAXIMO GOMEZ other side of the trocha lay Pelayo, a town de- fended by three forts. The insurgents had no cannon, but they took a very large iron tubing from a sugar estate. This tubing was about six feet in length and about five inches in diameter, and drilling a touch-hole near the breech, they mounted it on a wheeled carriage and loaded it with scraps of old brass, pieces of telegraph and barbed-fence wire, nails, and other bric-a-brac of a like nature, and thus laid siege to Pelayo. Ap- proaching the first fort, General Gomez demanded surrender. The garrison had nothing but rifles, but they refused to yield, whereupon without more ado the cannon was fired, creating such havoc that this fort at once surrendered. Unfortunately in the discharge of the cannon it cracked, but the artillerymen wound it tightly with strands of wire, and Gomez then ordered the second fort attacked. Here the demand for surrender also met with refusal, and, since there was no help for it, the one field-piece of the Cubans was again fired, the men in charge of it not being quite certain whether it would blow them or the fort into atoms. Once more a hail of missiles the like of which the Span- iards had never seen was poured into the fort, kill- ing several of the garrison, and the fort was given up instantly. This time the cannon was all but shattered; but it was necessary to take the third fort, and, under Gomez' orders, it was once more 175 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES loaded, altho all knew that it would never stand another shot. The third fort had learned wisdom from the fate of the other two. The demand for surrender was met half way, and General Gomez entered the city, and took forty thousand rounds of ammunition, a most fortunate reenforcement for his men, besides capturing rifles, clothing, food, and various inci- dentals greatly needed. Gomez then made a forced march, penetrated the Spanish lines, and regained the other side of the trocha with but a few wounded. This in defiance of the declaration of Campos that he would turn him back at the trocha and end the revolution. On the eastern side of the line he was met by Antonio Maceo with his men, where they divided up their ammunition, recrossed the trocha, and started west- ward on that justly famous and brilliant campaign of the Occident. The sole object of this campaign was to carry the revolution into the provinces of Matanzas, Havana, and Pinar del Rio, where it had never been known, and also to demonstrate to the owners of sugar estates that Gomez could, if necessary, enforce his orders in regard to the making of sugar, for there were many districts where no attention had been paid to them, and the grinding season had now begun. The Cuban army had no base of sup- plies; no ammunition save what they could capture 176 SKETCH OF GENERAL MAXIMO GOMEZ as they went along, and no food except that fur- nished by the country. Under these conditions the march across the island was begun. The Cuban army was divided into three columns: Antonio Maceo being at the head of the central division, Gomez at the south, and Quintin Bandera on the north. These three columns were preceded by what was known as the flying squadrons, bodies of picked cavalry of from fifty to two hundred men each, selected to ride ahead, and confuse and de- ceive the Spaniards as to the real direction of the column behind them. In addition to this, the insurgents never marched in a straight line, but always zigzagged. The constant skirmishes kept up by the advancing cavalry would seem to indi- cate the approach of the insurgents from perhaps the south. Thus misled, the Spaniards would start to head off the Cubans in the direction where they were supposed to be, swift couriers would ride back to the main column, and while the Spanish were headed pell-mell toward the southward, the insur- gents would safely pass by to the north. All the way across the island these tactics were kept up; and so successful were they that nothing checked them, the Cubans also possessing the advantage of knowing the country thoroughly, and always fight- ing from ambush when possible. Altogether, Campos had about fifty thousand men in the field to stop Gomez, who in the three 12 177 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES columns had but six thousand. Campos took the field himself, and made his first headquarters at Santa Clara; but, on hearing that Gomez intended to attack Cienfuegos, he hurriedly left to reenforce that place, whereupon Gomez, having accomplished his purpose of drawing Campos out of Santa Clara, marched to the west. At Mal Tiempo the Cubans had their hardest fight with the Spaniards, but were successful. Campos, finding that he was in the rear of the Cubans, again went ahead; but every time he established a base of operations it was only to discover that the Cubans had outflanked him, and were again between him and Havana. In this way he was forced back successfully from Colon, Jovellanos, Limonar, and Matanzas, whence he retired to Havana and admitted that it was impos- sible for him to stop the westward progress of the insurgents. In this movement toward the capital the distance as the bird flies is about five hundred miles, but with the zigzagging of the Cubans they marched over seven hundred, successfully outwit- ting a force more than eight times as great as theirs. This remarkable campaign or raid deservedly ranks as one of the greatest military operations of the age. During all this time, no arms or ammunition from expeditions reached the Cubans, for the sim- ple reason that Gomez traveled too fast for him to be located, not to mention that the direction he would take from day to day was known only to 178 SKETCH OF GENERAL MAXIMO GOMEZ himself. The couriers who rode constantly from one column to another were able to bring informa- tion which enabled the three generals to work in harmony, but it was never at any time the policy to give a pitched battle in the open; but, if at- tacked, to fall back, make a flank movement, and then by a detour go forward. Gomez was deter- mined to reach Havana, and this he did, thereby fulfilling his famous prophecy that he would camp within range of Morro Castle light by Christmas. Safely within Havana, Campos concentrated all his efforts to prevent Gomez from entering Pinar del Rio by fortifying the railroad between Havana and Batabano, and keeping trains constantly mov- ing with forces in iron-clad coaches. The insur- gents rewarded these precautions by crossing the line and tearing up part of the track-merely to prove by this demonstration that they were not materially impeded. Gomez accompanied Maceo across the trocha into Pinar del Rio, and then, recrossing, camped dur- ing the entire winter of 1895-96 in Havana prov- ince, where, strange to say, he was never taken. Nor did it seem as tho any particular attempts were made to capture him. The truth is that Go- mez by this march had made a name that was feared. Behind him he had left ruined fields and sugar plantations; where once telegraph lines had permitted communication there were now but scraps 179 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES of wire and broken poles; entire sections of rail- road had been torn up; he had enforced every order that he had issued, and had taught both Spaniards and Cubans that the revolution was a grim reality. Besides this, he had been largely reenforced during the entire march, drawing to his standard many who had before hesitated, and the strength of the revolt had reached its high-water mark. Gomez' near presence to Havana was re- garded as a menace, and at no time were the Span- iards absolutely certain that he would not attack the city. It is manifestly impossible to follow Gomez' movements throughout the war in a brief sketch like this, for it would inevitably include a history of the entire revolution. That he has become the greatest living master of ambush and guerrilla war- fare and of strategic tactics, is admitted by every competent critic, he having been the subject of the admiration of all the military critics of continental Europe. Deeply hidden from public view lies a heart as tender and loving as a woman's for those who ap- peal to his affections. An almost pathetic love for his son Francisco-"Panchito," as his father always called him-was a prominent characteristic. Whenever I met him in the camp his first inquiries were about his son, his education, whether he was well and enjoying himself. 180 SKETCH OF GENERAL MAXIMO GOMEZ Francisco's death, occurring at the same time as that of Antonio Maceo, was a terrible shock. The boy lost his life in attempting to raise Maceo, who had just fallen wounded from his horse, upon his own. Maceo's legs were paralyzed by the bul- let which had entered his spinal column, and as "Panchito" was assisting him into the saddle, a volley from the Spaniards killed Maceo, Panchito, and Maceo's horse, all falling together in a lifeless heap. 181 Old Father Walsh. BY HENRY IRVING DODGE. G EN. THOMAS L. JAMES, president of the Lincoln National Bank, of New York, re- gards the following as one of the greatest cases of heroism that has ever come to his knowledge: "It was during the time that I was postmaster of New York," said he, "that one of the most fatal yellow-fever epidemics that ever cursed a commu- nity swept over the South. The dread disease made its appearance at a very early day, and the news of its horrible and devastating progress was read with alarm and sorrow by all the people in the North. "The clerks and carriers of the post-office, always quick to respond to the cry of distress, put their hands in their pockets and raised $1,200, which a committee of their number brought to me with the request that I see that proper disposition was made of it. "I took the money down to the office of Mr. J. Pierpont Morgan, who was then treasurer of all funds raised for this purpose in New York, and sent in my card. When Mr. Morgan came out I 182 OLD FATHER WALSH told him the nature of my visit. 'How shall we dispose of this?' he asked as he took the money. I told him that I would leave the whole matter in his hands. "Finally Mr. Morgan asked me how many of the donors of the money were Catholics. I told him about half. "Then,' he exclaimed, 'we'll divide this in two, and send one half to some committees of Protes- tants, and the other to some of Catholics. Now how would you like the Catholic half to be dis- posed of?' "I told him that I would like $300 sent to New Orleans and the other $300 to the six Sisters of Charity at Memphis, whose noble work in behalf of the fever sufferers had attracted world-wide at- tention. This band of heroic workers was led and assisted by a priest whom I had heard spoken of as' Old Father Walsh.' "Well, the plague waxed hotter and hotter and still more deadly. Nothing was talked of in the North but its awful work, and all possible means were devised to send succor to the victims. 6 "Presently our boys' at the post-office raised another $1,200 and sent me with it to Mr. Morgan as before. "Mr. Morgan sent the $300 to New Orleans, and then, one day, wrote me asking for the address. of some one in Memphis to whom to send the re- 183 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES mainder. I was somewhat surprised at the letter, as I imagined Mr. Morgan already knew to whom to send the money. However, I went to a certain prominent Catholic in the city to again refresh my memory as to the whereabouts of the six sisters, and he told me that they had all died of the fever and that almost no one was left in Memphis to carry on their work. When I told this to Mr. Morgan I don't think I ever saw a man so moved by anything before. The news seemed to daze him. He remained silent for a moment, and then murmured half to himself: That's heroism, 6 that's heroism!' "Some time afterward one of my clerks brought a young priest into my office and introduced him to me. His hair was prematurely white, but he seemed to be not more than thirty-five years old. I was amazed to find that he was 'Old Father Walsh,' the hero of Memphis, and the only survivor of that band of seven heroic workers." 184 One of Cuba's Heroic Women. BY MARY C. FRANCIS. T has been customary whenever Cuban women I undeveloped creatures, incapable of the spirit and independence of what is termed advanced woman- hood, and as being but a small and insignificant factor in the warp and woof of Cuba's history. Not so. Cuba's heroes have been women as well as men, and there are some names as widely known throughout the island to-day for their record of courage as is that of any military leader, living or dead. It was during my visit in Cuba that I gathered in different places and from various sources much of the material of these sketches; and to hear them as I heard them, under the stars of a tropic night, with the royal palms vaguely outlined in stately beauty against the velvety sky, is to feel a thrill, that warm quickening of the blood that comes but from the inspiration of noble deeds. Mrs. Sanchez' husband, Francisco Sanchez y Betancourt, was one of the heroes of the ten- years' war. When that began and he went into 185 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES the field for his country, Mrs. Sanchez came to New York with her family of small children. There were but few Cuban families here at that time, and there was no Junta to provide funds for the support of the families of men fighting in Cuba as there was in the late war, so Mrs. Sanchez was obliged to depend upon her own resources. She placed the children in a charity school, and worked with her needle to support them, toiling far into the night in order that she might be able to pay for their modest maintenance rather than depend upon assistance, no matter how friendly. The home of the Sanchez has for generations been in Puerto Principe. Mrs. Sanchez and her family were living there in peace when the late war broke out, her husband having died in 1894, honored throughout Cuba. Her sons, educated in the United States, were among the first to go into the field, for the men of that family were always fighting for Cuba when there was any fighting to be done. In 1895 an American on his way to join General Gomez had commented on the pa- triotism of her family. Drawing herself up to her full height, she replied: "I have five sons, whom God knows I love as much as a mother can. Four of them are now insurrectos, fighting for the independence of Cuba; the other is here with me, an invalid and a cripple, as you can see; but if Cuba needs him she may have him also." 186 ONE OF CUBA'S HEROIC WOMEN Cuba did need him, and he became well and joined his brothers. All five fought through the entire war, and survived. In the spring of 1897 Mrs. Sanchez was ar- rested. Mrs. Sanchez had known that she was regarded with suspicion for the crime of being the mother of five insurrectos, and she was prepared. She immediately accompanied the officers without ques- tion. She was first confined for several weeks in the common jail of Puerto Principe, and was then ordered to be deported to Havana. This beautiful and aristocratic woman, accus- tomed to the refinements of wealth and the regard of adoring friends, was marched bareheaded and manacled and under a heavy guard, through the streets of the city of Puerto Principe to the rail- road station, where she was sent to Nuevitas, and thence by boat to Havana. Being a woman of wealth and social position, it was thought well to make an example of her, and she was treated with marked disrespect. At Havana, as in Puerto Principe, there were no charge, no trial, no hearing, no legal proceedings of any kind. She was hurried to the Recojidas, that infamous bastile for dissolute women, and thrown in with one hundred and twenty of the lowest and most degraded of her sex, nearly all of them being negresses. Here she met Evangelina 187 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES Cisneros, who had then been a prisoner for over a year. They instantly assumed the relation of mother and daughter, and each strove to lighten the trials of the other. I might relate many incidents illustrating the humiliations to which they were subjected. A few days after Mrs. Sanchez had been imprisoned she was talking in a low tone with Evangelina Cisneros, when a repulsive negress came up with a threatening air, and, holding out a strong, coarse cigar, shoved it almost in Miss Cisneros's mouth, saying: "Smoke this, and stop putting on airs. You're no better than the rest of us. Smoke it quick!" There was no alternative. Miss Cisneros smoked it. Had she not done so, other and worse indig- nities were in the power of the depraved creatures with whom they were thrown in contact. A thou- sand and one cruelties for women of a refined na- ture were thrust upon them, nor was it prudent to do otherwise than conciliate them, for an appeal to the prison guards brought only a laugh and a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. Mrs. Sanchez had been in prison but a short time when she was set to scrubbing floors. Her devoted daughter, who had followed her from Puerto Principe to do what she could for her, was almost distracted. She appealed to Weyler to see if her mother could not be relieved from this me- 188 ONE OF CUBA'S HEROIC WOMEN nial task. Weyler sent her to the prison officials. Emalia sought the chief of the guard, and made a pathetic appeal, saying: "My mother is old, and moreover she has been accustomed to her own servants all her life, and it is impossible for her to do a task fit only for serv- What can be done about it?" ants. "Well,” replied the official, "I think it can be fixed if you pay for it." "Willingly," responded Emalia. much, that I may see to it at once. cost?" 66 "Tell me how What will it Well, I think it can be done for $6 a day," was the reply. Nothing daunted, the daughter went her way. Fortunately the resources of the Agramonte estate were such that it was not a difficult matter to ar- range for the necessary sum. In a short time she returned to the prison. "I will pay the amount you require in order to save my mother from scrubbing the floors," she said. "Come in, "All right," replied the keeper. and we'll see about it now." They went into the prison together, and the one hundred and twenty dissolute creatures were lined up in response to a demand. "There's a woman here," said the keeper, "who's going to pay so that she won't have to scrub. Now, if any one is 189 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES willing to do her work for her, I'll pay her fifty cents a day." There were half a dozen volunteers. The offi- cial selected one. "That's all right," he said, turning to Emalia. "Your mother won't have to scrub." "But you are charging me $6—and only paying fifty cents," said the astonished girl. "That's no difference," was the rough response. "I have to come in on this deal. You pay $6 every day, or your mother scrubs just the same as the rest." Mrs. Sanchez did no more scrubbing, but Emalia paid $6 every day during the rest of her impris- onment. But this was not all. Emalia also tried to get some small toilet articles to her mother. She sent a tooth-brush, but she did not receive it. Then that experience was repeated with soap, a comb and brush, and other things. Once more Emalia appealed to the chief of the prison officials. "Why is it," she asked, "that my mother does not get the small articles I have sent her lately?" "You do not send enough of them." "Not send enough! Why, she only needs one." "Yes; but do you see that man there, and that man there? They are my assistants. And do you see me? There are three of us; and we can use these things as well as your mother. If you 190 ONE OF CUBA'S HEROIC WOMEN want her to get these articles, send four every time you send any, and she will get her share.' "" Amid surroundings and under conditions like these, Mrs. Sanchez remained in the Recojidas until the pressure brought to bear by Consul-Gen- eral Lee secured her release, with the proviso that she leave the island at once. Arrived in New York, she immediately set about to aid the cause of independence for Cuba. Ta- king a valuable diamond necklace, an heirloom that had been in the Agramonte family for many years, she went to Mr. Benjamin Guerra, treasurer of the Cuban delegation, and said: "Mr. Guerra, at one time I intended this for my daughter's wedding-gift when she should marry; but for a long while I have thought that some time it would have to be used as a ransom either for myself or some member of my family. Now I am safe in the United States, I wish you to take this necklace and turn it into money to use for the cause." Mr. Guerra took the jewels she laid in his hand, then, handing them back to her, he said: "No, Mrs. Sanchez. You have given five sons to the cause of Cuba's independence, and that is quite enough. It may happen that none of them may be left to you by the time this war is over; and if So, these jewels would always stand between you and want. I will not accept them." 191 The Apostle to the Lepers of Hawaii. BY DR. G. W. WOODS, U. S. N. JOSE OSEPH DAMIEN DE VEUSTER, the so- called "Apostle to the Lepers," was born in the little village of Iremeloo, a suburb of Lou- vain, Belgium, January 3, 1841. He was the youngest of seven children, and the family were in humble circumstances; but the father seems to have striven hard to give them every possible ad- vantage, and the mother was a woman of more than usual gifts and virtues. It seems to have been the wish of the youthful Joseph to lead a religious life; but his elder broth- er preceded him in taking orders, and it was not until his nineteenth birthday that he took formal steps himself. On a visit to his brother, Joseph had begged his father to let him remain, his first intention being to enter the monastery as a simple lay brother. He did not aspire to the higher po- sition of the priesthood until his brother and their superiors, observing his remarkable scholarly at- tainments and godly life, urged him to take the higher step. 192 FATHER DAMIEN [From the best photograph of him in existence] FATHER DAMIEN IN HAWAII From a reproduction of Mr. Clifford's picture, painted Molokai at the time of his visit to the priest in 1888] THE APOSTLE TO THE LEPERS The day of action for Damien, as he was now called, came sooner than he anticipated. His brother's studies were finished and he was to go to a mission in the South seas; but when the time came he was dangerously ill with a fever, and Da- mien, who instantly volunteered, was allowed to go in his place. He worked for several years on dif- ferent islands in the Pacific and at last in the Ha- waiian group; but it was not until 1873 that, to use his own words, "By special providence our di- vine Lord, who during His public life showed such particular sympathy for lepers, traced' my way toward Molokai." " He was attending the dedication of a chapel on the island of Maui when he heard the bishop of Olba expressing his grief at the impossibility of caring properly for the lepers, especially of send- ing them a resident pastor, for which position no priest had expressed his desire or willingness to be delegated. Such an appointment fulfilled com- pletely the long-pent-up aspiration of the youthful, ambitious missionary, and Père Damien at once volunteered. "I will go to Molokai,” he said; and on the evening of that very day he left on a cattle steamer, accompanying a body of lepers condemned to expatriation. The Molokai of to-day is so utterly changed by the hand of heroic charity and the generous help of the Hawaiian government under King Kalakaua 13 193 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES and his successors that it is hard to realize its frightful condition when Father Damien landed there in 1873. The awful motto of the place- "Aole kanawai ma kea wahi” (“In this place there is no law")—is terribly suggestive of the absence of protection under civilized rule, and the brave- hearted priest saw before him not only a struggle with possible anarchy, sickness, poverty, and filth, but a still harder fight for morality and religion. The settlement consisted of a chapel, a Protestant house of worship, a store, and a few rude houses; but many lepers slept upon the ground, and our young priest made his lodging for this night under the protection of a wide-spreading hau- tree, which was eventually to be the location of his grave. His welcome was not an enthusiastic one. He turned his attention first to the renovation of the little chapel and his own diminutive house, that he might transform the former into a worthy place for Christian worship, in which work he found no will- ing hand but his own. Gradually, however, his godly life won all hearts, and soon the chapel and priest's house assumed a respectable appearance. Soon with materials furnished by the "board of health" and private benevolence, guided by the good priest, a hospital was completed, and neat wooden houses began to take the places of the old native thatched huts. 194 THE APOSTLE TO THE LEPERS · In this work Father Damien was architect, builder, carpenter, and painter, yet finding time to attend the sick and the dying, to dress the wounds of the poor, mutilated beings who came to him beg- ging for help, besides administering the holy offices of the church. "He also inculcated temperance, sexual morals, family life, the avoidance of gam- bling, cleanliness of person and attire, and instruct- ed the people in gardening, cooking, and many lit- tle household arts, adding greatly to their comfort. It is a wonderful recital of the work of an energetic man performing the work of fifty by example and precept, and the inspiring of others with his own marvelous energy, so that all who came under his influence became 'helping hands.' Such zeal in- spired the government to every proper effort. All that was asked for was freely and lavishly given, and in 1876 no community, leprous or otherwise, under government support in any country was bet- ter housed, fed, or clothed." The good priest was at first unpopular, and his attempts at reform were angrily or sullenly resent- ed-particularly his crusade against the manufac- ture of a terrible intoxicating liquor which they made from the kava-root, a plant growing on the island, and which literally turned men into beasts. The suppression of this vice was his first triumph. He soon became the ever-present and indispensable friend of the lepers-dressing their wounds, making 195 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES their clothing, building their houses, teaching their children, ministering to their spiritual wants, and digging their graves for them when they died. Gradually the appreciation of this heroic self-sacri- fice grew upon them; and when, after ten years of his life with them, the inevitable was manifest, and he knew himself to be a leper, the most reluc- tant were won over and they felt themselves to be indeed his children. I first met Father Damien in 1876. I was at- tached to the United States steamship Lackawanna at this time, and with the object of making a re- port on the subject of leprosy I secured letters from the Hawaiian board of health, with permission to make a prolonged stay and have every facility af- forded me for an investigation of the dread disease on the island of Molokai. I landed on an October evening at the village of Kaluapapa, the chief northern landing-place of the island, where I was met by a cortège of lepers, mostly on horseback, the procession headed by Governor Ragsdale, himself a self-exiled leper. With him rode Father Damien, who impressed me profoundly. He was then in the perfection of youthful health and vigor, about thirty-three years of age, with a smooth, thin face, and features constantly irradiated by a beautiful smile. He had a fine head, covered with black, curly hair. "This is my work in this world," he said to me. "Sooner or later I shall become a • 196 THE APOSTLE TO THE LEPERS leper, but God grant it may not be until I have exhausted my capabilities for good to these, my un- fortunate, afflicted children. I have endeavored to help them not only morally and materially, but as a healer of physical wounds." What a contrast to him whom I saw some years later-a physical wreck with disfigured, swollen head, pendulous ear-lobes, a lion's countenance, and distorted fin- gers; shorn of all physical beauty, but still at work conscientiously for the good of his afflicted parish- ioners! I was conducted to the governor's house, where I was to be the guest of the government, and in apartments devoted to the "board of health" was comfortably lodged, my meals being cooked and served by a non-leper. In the evening Father Damien came to the house accompanied by his Molokai band of leper boys, who made really good music with drums and flage- olets-the latter fashioned by Father Damien him- self out of old tin coal-oil cans. He spoke excel- lent English, and told me the story of his life and advent at Molokai, as well as his later life, which had now been so smoothed by the board of health that it had become an easy path for him, only later to be roughened by the attacks of dis- ease and cruel slander. His conversation was charming and his experi- ences graphically told, which Governor Ragsdale 197 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES supplemented by an account of his own remarkable life, including his self-denunciation as a leper, and some charming recitations from the poets, especially Byron and Moore-for the governor was highly educated, and had been a practising lawyer at Hilo before coming to Molokai. During my stay I made an earnest study of leprosy, and with Father Damien visited the af- flicted fellows daily in the hospital and at their homes, watching the patient care bestowed on them by the good father, and the scientific treatment of their wounds and deformities-for no surgeon at that time was attached to the settlement. Our work over, we went to mass perhaps or to vespers, and then to dinner or supper, where a frugal meal was partaken of, the only luxury being a beer brewed from pineapple-parings by the good father himself. He was always cheerful, indefatigable in his performance of the duties of his church, and tireless in helping in the village work of con- struction and repair; and yet much of it was re- volting, especially the atmosphere of the little church crowded with worshipers, where the odors from the leprous sores were offensive beyond be- lief, often nauseating the priest at the altar, com- pelling him to seek the open window. My stay was short at Molokai, but it was long enough to im- press me with the wonderful energy of this noble man in good works. And tho no cure has yet been 198 THE APOSTLE TO THE LEPERS found for leprosy, his work and example brought to him without question, through the board of health, everything demanded, and made an ideal settlement, far in advance of those provided by other nations for the care of those similarly afflicted. But his fearless exposure in attending to the sick and dying, without any precaution against contract- ing the disease-which was intentional, so that the lepers might not feel, by any manifestation of del- icacy and fear, that he was repelling them-could have but one result, and he became a leper, suc- cumbing to the disease in 1889. In a letter which I received from him the year before, he told of a terrible storm which had done much damage on the island, especially to the church, the tower of which he had built with his own hands the year of my visit. Of himself there was only slight mention. He said: "The disease is progressing. My face and hands are undergoing a transformation. There is much misery here, but Almighty God knows what is best for us, and we are resigned to His holy will. I should have liked to see the bishop again, but the bon Dieu is calling me to keep Easter with Himself!" On the 15th of April, 1889, he died. There have beeen critics of Father Damien's life and his intercourse with the lepers. But the mouths of these critics, and especially that of the originator of the slander about "the comfortable 199 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES Honolulu manse," have been shut forever by a great defender-Robert Louis Stevenson. One letter of this great man is alone sufficient to satisfy any lin- gering doubts of Damien's greatness. 99 When Stevenson visited the "lazaretto " the mar- tyred priest was already sleeping his last sleep un- der the tree which had sheltered him on the night of his arrival. His memory was fresh, and no halo of time or imagination yet encircled it. The novelist heard plain facts about a plain man, a peasant, therefore not always kingly in his ways. The conclusion, however, is inevitable: he was not only a good man, he was a great man. "What," says Stevenson, "is a little personal neatness, more or less, in the face of an heroic death? I tell you,' he continues to the "reverend gossipers," "all the reforms of the lazaretto are properly the work of Damien-Damien crowned with glories and hor- rors, toiling and rotting in that pig-sty of his under the cliffs of Kalawao. At a blow and with the price of his life he made the place illustrious and public; and that, if you will consider largely, was the one reform needful, pregnant of all that should succeed. It brought money, it brought (best individual addi- tion of all) the sisters, it brought supervision, for public opinion and public interest landed with the man at Kalawao. If ever a man brought reforms, and died to bring them, it was he; there is not a clean cup or towel in the bishop's home but dirty 200 THE APOSTLE TO THE LEPERS. Damien washed it. The man who tried to do what Damien did is my father, and the father of all who love goodness; and he was your father too, if God had given you grace to see it." 201 The Man Who Could Not Be Bought. By L. GRACE FERGUSON. Α' FTER the collapse of the Mexican empire that Louis Napoleon tried to establish, the “Em- peror," the Archduke Maximilian, Francis Joseph's unfortunate brother, was held as a prisoner at Que- retaro, while the French and Austrian governments were using all possible influence at Washington and with the Mexican government to save him from ex- ecution. Among the officers who were confined with him were Mejia and Miramon, who were after- ward his companions in death, and Col. Salm Salm, called Prince Salm Salm, since he was the son of a petty German ruler. He was a young man who had served with some distinction in the Union army in the American civil war, and at its close had come to Mexico, looking for new fields for military ex- ploits. The wife of Col. Salm Salm, an American woman-who made a visit to this country in the summer of 1899,-had accompanied him to Mexico, and was living in Queretaro, and was allowed to visit her husband and the other prisoners at will. This gave to them the means of communicating with other friends outside the prison, and, using 202 THE MAN WHO COULD NOT BE BOUGHT her as an agent, they set on foot a plot to escape. There were many friends of the empire in the city, while the Mexican soldiers and officers were in a pitiable condition of poverty, which made it pos- sible to use the considerable money that Maximilian still had at his command to bribe the aid of some of them who were not statesmen enough to see what perils would come to the republic if the defeated pretender should escape. So the plot flourished, and a strong party of mounted men was prepared to ride with the fugitives on a certain night, and guard them to one of the seaports, where a vessel was ready to carry them to Europe. The only obstacle to carrying out the plan was now the officer who had the immediate charge of the royal prisoner, Col. Miguel Palacios. The at- tempt to win him over was entrusted to the Princess Salm Salm. This clever woman invited him to call at her hotel, and manifested the deepest concern for his family, who, she told him, she knew to be de- prived of even the necessities of life by his long and unpaid services for his country. She talked to him of his destitute, almost starving children, and of his sick wife with her new-born babe, and besought him to accept for them a considerable sum of money that she offered him, saying that it was in his power to repay her a thousandfold by a sim- ple act of kindness. Almost overcome by this seeming kindness from 203 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES one who belonged to the enemy, Colonel Palacios asked her what the favor she mentioned was; and she, believing that he was ready to accept, told him that it was simply to go to sleep the following night instead of commanding the guard as it was his cus- tom to do. She then hastened to show him a draft, signed by Maximilian himself, and drawn in favor of Colonel Palacios upon the imperial house of Hapsburg for £40,000 sterling. This she assured him the Emperor Francis Joseph would gladly pay, making the poor soldier rich for life; while she showed him as well that the plot was so laid that no suspicion could attach to him. She intimated, too, that he would be really serving his country in helping Maximilian to escape, as the republican government did not know what to do with him, fearing to let him go and fearing still more to exe- cute him. It does not often fall to the lot of a man to be tempted under more trying circumstances; but the simple story, as told in the military record of the Mexican army, is that Colonel Palacios promptly reported the whole plot to the general commanding, and that the intriguing princess was at once ban- ished from the city. Her husband was released, and died at the head of a Prussian regiment at Gravelotte; but the unfortunate archduke and his two generals were shot, just outside Queretaro, on the sun-burned slope of the "Hill of the Bells." 204 The Career of Antonio Maceo. BY MAJOR MIGUEL A. VARONA, LATELY AIDE-DE-CAMP TO GENERAL MACEO. A WAR so extraordinary in the inequality of the combatants as that which Cuba maintained for three and a half years must, of necessity, have such exceptional warriors as Maceo. The terrible struggle between a colony which had nothing on its side except the right, and a European nation pos- sessing every military resource, aided by the crim- inal indifference of the world, could reach a suc- cessful termination only by the possession of char- acters like that great soldier who was born in Majaguabo, an obscure corner of the province of Santiago de Cuba, in the year 1840-Antonio Maceo. There, in Majaguabo, he passed his early years, engaged in farm labor until the revolutionary move- ment inaugurated by Carlos Manuel de Cespedes, on Aug. 10, 1860, came suddenly into his life. He could carry nothing into the rising revolution save his person, for, besides being of most humble 205 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES origin, he had to fight against race prejudices in a country where slavery at that time existed in all its rigor. Maceo was a mulatto. Without culti- vation, without preparation of any kind, barely knowing how to read and write, from a simple pri- vate soldier he rose to the highest rank in the army wholly by his marvelous military abilities. From the very first moment he showed his great qualities; and, always ascending, he crowned his military history with the famous campaign of Pinar del Rio. His rapid promotion during the ten-years' war was always at the cost of his life's blood, and in the course of his military career more than twenty hos- tile bullets pierced his body. In the year 1870 he took part, with the grade of captain, in the invasion of the difficult zone of Guantanamo, under the command of Gen. Maximo Gomez. There was in that campaign a beautiful episode that shows how great a place brotherly affection had in Maceo's heart. At the entrance of the valley of Guantanamo there was situated a coffee plantation, "La Indiana," defended by the most valiant "Frenchmen" of the province. Frenchmen is the name given in Santiago de Cuba to the descendants of the French who immigrated to Cuba in the beginning of the century. They gave many good soldiers to the revolution of 1868, but the greater part of them were loyal to Spain. It was necessary to take this position, and General 206 THE CAREER OF ANTONIO MACEO Gomez determined to accomplish it at any price. Already, in fruitless attacks, excellent Cuban officers had fallen, when General Gomez ordered Lieutenant José Maceo, brother of Antonio, to lead the assault. "General," cried Antonio, "send me, send me! I know they will kill my brother." "Captain Maceo," said Gomez, "I have given the order that Lieutenant Maceo go; if he falls, you may go; if you fall, I will go myself." The as- sault was made. As Lieutenant Maceo mounted the parapet of the fort a bullet full in the breast hurled him backward; but not to the earth. The arms of his brother Antonio received him. As if destiny had wished to temper the character of that man, this was the eighth of his brothers who had fallen on the field of battle. In the year 1871, already a colonel, he assumed command of the forces of the Orient upon the re- moval of General Gomez by President Carlos Man- uel de Cespedes. In the year 1874 he was named Ichief of the division which the Orient was under obligations to furnish for the invasion of the west- ern provinces, a plan which General Gomez long cherished. The invasion never took place, for the division was needed in the battles of Las Guasi- mas, La Sacra, and El Naranjo, which, tho they were victories over the Spaniards, still forbade the realization of General Gomez' plans. In all these actions Maceo notably distinguished himself. Re- 207 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES turning to the Orient, he continued the struggle without cessation till, like a thunderbolt, the peace of Zanjon" fell upon him, at the very time that he was winning successes in the field. Up to this point of his life Maceo had been dis- tinguished only as a soldier; from this time began his political influence, and he became an indispen- sable factor in the future movements of the Cuban revolutionists. The man had undergone a com- plete transformation. The terrible school of war -such a war as that in Cuba-had prepared his spirit for grand undertakings. A man of keen in- telligence, he had improved the opportunity of con- stant intercourse with the prominent men of the revolution for self-education and refinement. As a soldier Maceo had all the virtues of a great captain extraordinary valor, audacity, energy, and tenacity. Added to these, a blind faith in the tri- umph of the cause of Cuba and a great love of glory made him a man for whom no undertaking was impossible. His whole life is adorned with instances, any one of which would be enough to build a soldier's reputation. The most remarkable act in this period of his life was the "protest of Baragua." The revolution of the ten years was terminated by the treaty of Zan- jon. But Maceo refused to accept the conditions which had been agreed to there without his knowl- edge, and, rejecting the brilliant propositions which 208 THE CAREER OF ANTONIO MACEO were personally made to him by the Spanish gen- eral, Martinez Campos, continued the war almost unsupported for three months. During this time, while he alone was in arms, Spain sent to him by one of her army chiefs a definite offer of honors and money if he would make peace. Maceo, in a beautiful letter which is preserved, refused the offer in such terms as give the highest proof of both his patriotism and his self-respect. After three months Maceo was sent abroad by the pro- visional government to seek aid for continuing the combat. His mission failed on account of the ex- treme poverty of the Cubans who had emigrated to the United States. The war having thus been ended in 1878, he was not willing to return to Cuba under Spanish domination. The government of the republic of Honduras recognized his military rank, and to- gether with General Gomez he obtained various employments in that country. But never for a single moment did he cease to think of a renewal of the war in Cuba. He took a leading part in the conspiracy of 1885. This having failed, Maceo obtained from the government of the republic of Costa Rica a grant to colonize certain lands upon its Pacific coast. There he remained until, in 1890, he returned to Cuba. The government of Spain suspecting that his return to Cuba had as an object the rekindling of the revolution, he was 14 209 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES expelled from the city of Santiago by the Spanish general, Camilo Polavieja. He returned again to Costa Rica, and there remained until the outbreak of 1895, prepared by Marti, when he went again to Cuba. Here began the third and most brilliant stage of the career of the great Cuban. From the time of his landing until his death there was not a single act that was not worthy of commemoration. With twenty-one followers, in a little sail-boat, with only eleven firearms in the party, he landed on the coast of Baracoa in the month of March, 1895, and with- in the first hour had fought his first engagement at Duaba. Until that time Spain had hoped to stifle the movement, but as soon as she learned of his land- ing she comprehended that she had war upon her hands, and prepared for a long and hard campaign; for no one better than she, from past experiences, knew the meaning of the presence of this chieftain in the revolutionary field. For this reason she made every effort to intercept the march of Maceo toward the center of the province of Santiago, where the nuclei of the movement were strongest. Her hope was dashed to pieces by the strategy and the physical endurance of Maceo. Fifteen days' march across mountains and through virgin forests, without food save sour oranges, and pursued by the terrible guerrilleros of Guantanamo, could not dis- 210 THE CAREER OF ANTONIO MACEO may him. In those few days, with only a third of his companions left, he reached the jurisdiction of Santiago, where he began his campaign. Comprehending that the result of the movement depended upon its not being localized, he centered his forces and made his march through the terri- tory of Holguin, where he set on foot the revolu- tion. A little time afterward he fell upon the Spanish general Martinez Campos and routed him in Peralejos, and upon Colonel Canella in Sao del India, driving him in retreat thirty miles until he took refuge in the city of Guantanamo. By this time Maximo Gomez had arrived in Camaguey, and the provisional government of Jimaguayu had been established. Consequently Maceo was ordered to form a division to invade the western provinces, and was named lieutenant-general of the army of liberation. On the 22d of October, 1895, he set out from the historic spot, Baragua, situated in the center of the province of Santiago, and began his famous military march which is known by the name of "La Invasion," and was to terminate at Cape San Antonio, traversing the whole length of the island of Cuba, in spite of the efforts of Spain's best gen- erals with seventy thousand soldiers and all the railroads and towns in their possession to stop him. The Spanish, sharply on the watch, attempted to arrest his progress at the borders of Las Tunas. 211 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES One clever march left them waiting behind him, and Maceo entered without resistance the territory of Camaguey. On the 29th of November, join- ing General Gomez in the territory of Las Villas, the invading column was reenforced with the forces of that locality, and Maceo was named their chief. Maceo had already demonstrated that the Cuban warfare had no secrets for him, and that as a Cuban guerrillero no one was his superior. In the cam- paign of the invasion he revealed his abilities in the highest grades of military science. The 7th of January, 1896, the invading army arrived at the gates of Havana. There Generals Gomez and Maceo separated, and Maceo continued the march through the length of the province of Pinar del Rio. From combat to combat, winning town after town, he advanced, and on the 22d of January Maceo occupied the town of Mantua, the most western place in the island of Cuba, and the strategy of the invasion had been accomplished. Having organized the forces of that region, Maceo began his return march toward the center of the island, reaching the province of Matanzas, whence on the 10th of March the general-in-chief, Maximo Gomez, ordered him to return to the prov- ince of Pinar del Rio, where he arrived on the 15th of March. During these movements, between October 22 and March 15, General Maceo found 212 THE CAREER OF ANTONIO MACEO himself obliged to give battle more than thirty times. General Weyler determined to crush Maceo in the province of Pinar del Rio, and for that purpose planned to imprison him there, and ordered the construction of the trocha from Mariel to Majana, and garrisoned it with sixteen thousand soldiers. Then, massing forty thousand men in the narrow limits of the province, he hurled them upon Maceo. Thus began the last campaign that Maceo fought. The military history of the human race records in all its pages no instance parallel to the conflict be- tween Maceo's handful of half-armed followers and Spain's trained army of forty thousand men; yet Maceo held his own in the province of Pinar del Rio until he was ordered by the general-in-chief to recross the trocha, since his presence was indis- pensable in other parts of the island. In the early part of December, 1896, accompanied by some of his aids, at the bay of Mariel he crossed the trocha which the Spaniards held to be impregnable. Once more Maceo laughed at all the plans of the enemy. But already it had been written that he should close his eventful life. At the gates of Havana, in an encounter with an insignificant Spanish leader, the most notable of Cuban warriors met his death. The savage joy with which the Spanish nation received the news of his death was the highest 213 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES tribute to his glory. Even the most cultivated classes in Spain celebrated the fall of this chieftain with drunken orgies. His death was a great loss and a heavy grief to the army of liberation; but it came as a surprise to none of his comrades in arms. Always foremost in battle, there never was an en- counter in which he did not expose his life time after time, being often carried by his impetuosity where retreat was attended with the greatest diffi- culty. An instance of his headlong daring and a char- acteristic picture of Cuban warfare will linger long in the memory of some of his followers. On the day following the battle of Mal Tiempo he was marching, at daybreak, with the invading column, when he was informed that something was occur- ring in the van-guard. Spurring his horse forward, and followed by a few of his aids, he hastened to the place indicated. On coming out into the road he saw a body of the enemy's cavalry which had killed a Cuban private soldier and were carrying his body hoisted as a trophy. Maceo, without an instant's hesitation, dashed forward. Before his impetuous attack the Spaniards fled in panic. To those who followed the sight was at once both beautiful and terrible. Maceo, mounted upon a magnificent white horse, rode in advance of his followers at the very heels of the enemy. Just then the sun burst through the morning mist, and 214 A CHARACTER SKETCH OF MACEO what seemed a flash like lightning shone upon the head of one of the fleeing Spaniards, who fell- never to rise again. The flash was the machete of Maceo. A Character Sketch of Maceo. BY GEORGE RENO. G EN. MARTINEZ CAMPOS, when informed of the uprising of '95, asked for the names of the leaders in the revolt. Not until Maceo's name was mentioned did he show concern. Then with a startled look he sprang from his chair, ex- claiming: "Carramba! This means serious trouble for Spain." Afterward, when captain-general of Cuba, Campos frequently stated that it was Maceo whom he feared more than any other leader in the insurgent cause. The greatest disappointment which Martinez Campos suffered in the ten-years' war was his fail- ure to induce Maceo to sign the treaty of Zanjon, which was intended to end Cuban troubles for all time to come. All the prominent leaders, inclu- ding Maximo Gomez, had attached their signatures to the document all save two, T. Estrada Palma, who was imprisoned in Madrid, and Antonio Maceo, who, placing no reliance in the sincerity of Spain's promises of reform, had with a few faithful 215 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES followers remained in the field, and had drawn up a proclamation known as the protest of Baragua, which declared the intention of fighting Spain until independence was assured or the bitter end came. They even elected a provisional government. Martinez Campos, who always entertained the greatest respect for Maceo, visited him in his camp at Baragua, and with his staff officers dined with the Cuban general. The entire situation was dis- cussed in detail. Campos argued earnestly and at great length, but to no purpose. Maceo frankly said that in him personally he had the greatest confidence; "but Spain will repudiate the promises she has authorized you to make to the Cubans, and after inducing us to lay down our arms she will ignore every clause in that treaty you wish me to sign. I would not trust her in anything, for she has proven herself unworthy of it." From Maceo's decision there was no appeal, and there were tears in the eyes of the old Spanish warrior, who, realizing that his mission of peace was fruitless, slowly took his departure and pre- pared to continue the fight against men who wanted only independence. Whence came that marvelous magnetism which seemed to draw toward Maceo people of all classes; that courtesy and charm of manner which held them spellbound; that ability to rise above the trivial and grasp the secret of true greatness-none 216 A CHARACTER SKETCH OF MACEO 66 can tell. Maceo was born of mulatto parents, humble tillers of the soil, and in early life became an arriero," or kind of Cuban rough rider. In youth he was a favorite with his companions be- cause of his genial temper and absolute unselfish- ness. At the outbreak of the ten-years' war he imme- diately tendered his services to the insurgents; and when, a few months later, for courage and ability, he was made a captain, Maceo accepted the honor with the remark: "No man has the right to be a captain in the Cuban army and be unable to read and write." Whereupon he procured a book and set himself diligently to work. In a few months' time he had mastered the first steps necessary to an education, and ever after spent most of his leisure hours in improving his mind. By this time Maximo Gomez' attention had been called to the young officer, who soon became his protégé, and from this past grand master of strategy Maceo learned the tactics of Cuban warfare which afterward proved so effective in that and subse- quent revolutions. A singular impediment of speech afflicted nearly every member of Maceo's family, and Antonio was no exception. They were all unable to talk with- out stammering fearfully. It was a source of great annoyance to the young captain. When, some time after, he was promoted to the rank of colonel 217 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES for signal bravery and ability to direct and encour- age others on the battle-field, Maceo made an heroic resolve. "No colonel in the army of Cuba should stutter," he said, and by pure force of will he conquered the habit forthwith. In order to accomplish this he was compelled to speak very slowly and distinctly, which gave him the reputa- tion of being very deliberate. Maceo's thoughts came quickly enough, but their utterance was with a peculiar calmness and precision of manner which was afterward of great benefit to him as an orator. No more just or magnanimous man ever lived than Maceo. He would make excuses for any fail- ing but duplicity; even physical cowardice he looked upon as an unfortunate disease of the nerves, and encouraged many a poor fellow when under fire for the first time by some word of kindness or gentle reproof. As a natural result Maceo was simply idolized by his men. They followed him through love, and not because of fear. The fact that he never hesitated to expose himself where the bullets were thickest, and that he had been wounded twenty-eight times without suffering serious injury, led the superstitious to believe that he bore a charmed life, which indeed at times seemed to be the case. When, during the famous invasion of the Occi- dent, many negroes from the cane-fields of Matan- zas joined the insurgents and were exposed to fire 218 A CHARACTER SKETCH OF MACEO for the first time, there was a natural disposition on their part to dodge bullets which whistled close to their heads. Observing this, one old colored veteran rebuked the raw recruits by saying: "What for do you try to dodge those bullets? If you are afraid, get right behind General Maceo, and you will be safe, 'cause there ain't no bullet made what can kill him. They dodge his vitals and pass right through him, and I'm sure they wouldn't stop to fool with any cheap nigger after leaving the body of that hero." 219 A Battle with an Eagle. BY REV. GEORGE T. LEMMON. BRAVE deeds are not alw RAVE deeds are not always done by men. It knows no sex. Could man or woman be more brave than this fair daughter of Pennsylvania? Two years ago, Anna McDowell, of Quakake Valley, while walking a short distance from her home, was startled by the frightened cries of a child. Answering the voice, Miss McDowell climbed the fence and ran toward a little trout stream which purled through the valley. Near this stream the Hinckles had their home, and Nettie, their three-year-old daughter, loved to play "fishing" in its waters. It was this child who now cried for help, and as Miss McDowell burst through the bush and ran toward the stream she realized that there was cause for the little one's outcries. A great bald-head eagle was fiercely clawing at the little girl. While busy paddling in the water, Nettie had been surprised with a whirr of wings, and before she could rise and run, the great bird 220 A BATTLE WITH AN EAGLE had pounced upon her and dug his beak and talons in her flesh. Screeching with terror, the little one sought to run toward home, but the bird fought her back, and it was thus Miss McDowell found her. The brave young woman-for Anna was but nineteen -did not hesitate an instant. Rushing forward, she grasped the child, tore her from the eagle, and cried for help. But help did not come, and the eagle, rendered furious by the intrusion of a third party, turned with a screech to fly at Anna. Be- fore she could pick up the wounded child and run with her, the great bird had made the circular sweep which gave him impetus, and, with all the fierceness of his tribe, threw himself on the young woman. Deep into her neck he drove his beak, while his talons dug out great chunks of flesh from her arms and shoulders; but bravely Anna covered the child as best she could, and fought off with her hands the terrifying onslaughts of the aroused monarch of the air. More and more ferocious grew the eagle, and more fierce became his swoops upon the heroic girl. She was now too weak from the intense excitement, loss of blood, and the pain of her wounds to fly. She continued to call for help, but none came. She must fight the battle alone, and she realized that it was really for her own as well as for the child's life that she fought. In the struggle her hat, torn from her head, 221 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES dropped at her feet. Her eyes caught sight of her hat-pin, and as eagerly as ever a knight reached for his sword she put forth her hand for this truly feminine weapon. It was just an ordinary steel pin, but with it she pluckily defended herself, and plunged the sharp point many times into the feath- ered body of her foe. But her hope of winning victory by this tiny weapon soon fled, for the pin- thrusts appeared only to still further enrage the savage bird. Anna felt her strength failing. She prayed for help, and wondered why none came, and realized that she could not much longer continue the desperate battle. She had a moment's respite as the eagle soared above her head. He seemed preparing for a fiercer swoop upon her. Then down he came. Anna longed to close her eyes and shut out the hideous sight, for his bloody beak was open, and the cruel talons from which shreds of flesh dangled were poised for deadly digging. But she dare not shut her eyes. She must master him now or never. Down he came. As his beak plunged into her head and his talons dug into her shoulders, she caught his neck in one hand, and gripping him with all the strength left her, held him while she plunged the pin again and again through his head. It was a sickening task, but it was performed. The great wings flapped in death about her, and releasing her hold, the dead bird dropped to the ground— 222 A BATTLE WITH AN EAGLE and Anna, completely overcome, fell senseless upon him. Nettie Hinckles, protected by this living shield, was safe, and ran screaming to call the neighbors. Unconscious they found the eagle fighter, her face and head and body torn by the battle. Some of her wounds were terrible to behold, and the doctor, when he dressed them, said: "She will bear the marks of this fight as long as she lives.” The eagle, stuffed and mounted, Anna McDowell keeps as a memento of this deed which tells of the heroism of the common daily round. 223 The Story of a Noble Woman. BY JULIAN HAWTHORNE. HERE will always remain in my memory a years ago in a country village in New England. I had been spending an hour in a little farmhouse there, and when I took my departure my enter- tainer came out on the veranda, and, as I turned at the garden gate, threw up an arm, and ex- claimed, in pursuance of our conversation, "I am the champion of the Indians!" Who was this person? Was it a man in the prime of life, full of power and purpose, rejoicing in his strength, confident in his masculine ability to struggle with men and overcome them, independ- ent, rich, armed at all points for a life-and-death wrestling-match with entrenched and rooted wrong? No, it was very far from being such a person. It was an old woman of sixty-five, infirm in body, poor as a church mouse, almost utterly helpless so far as material means were concerned; she had no "pull," no backing, and hardly any one to even believe in the value of her self-imposed mission. I 224 THE STORY OF A NOBLE WOMAN am free to admit I did not believe in it myself. I was of the opinion that the red man was destined to go, and that the best thing to do with him was to let him die out as soon as possible. And I cer- tainly could not bring myself to believe that this poor old woman could effect anything. Yet there she stood, with a smile on her homely old face, and with tears in her old eyes, tossing up her frail arm with a heroic gesture, and exclaim- ing, "I am the champion of the Indians! The afternoon breeze of summer blew upon her bowed and fragile figure, and a strand of her white hair got out from under her cap and fluttered in the air. The spectacle was at once ridiculous and poignantly pathetic. I felt like laughing; but I am glad to say I felt much more like weeping. I could find no words in which to respond to her; I smiled and waved my hand and walked away. And as I passed down the pretty country road, under the great elms, along the stone walls that bordered the apple-orchards, I thought over this old woman's life, and I felt humiliated. What amazing unselfishness and devotion! What pure love, inexhaustible, fresh, boundless as the sea, for her fellow creatures! What dauntless resolve to do them all the good in her power in the face of whatever obstacles, sneers, discouragements! How many hundred times had she been deceived by impostors, robbed by sleek thieves, imposed upon 99 15 225 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES by sturdy beggars, exploited by every species of rascal and selfish humbug; and yet, at the end of her life, she was as full as ever of faith and energy, happy in doing all she could, never satisfied that she was doing enough, accepting every one on their own recommendation, serving them hand and foot from morning till night, all for love-love of man and love of right and truth! What a heart and what a soul in that venerable body, raying out through those dim eyes! What crusader of old times was braver than she? what martyr more stedfast? What an intense, living faith she had in the infinite power of the divine goodness! I, too, wished well to my race, and flattered myself that I had once in a while done something, or avoided doing something, with an eye to their ad- vantage as well as to my own! But I had the grace to feel humiliated before this old woman as I recalled some of the events of her career. I can not write her name here, for, tho she is dead, she was during her lifetime so mortified and pained if any one ascribed merit to her-so indig- nant, almost, if any one said, "You did this," instead of giving all the glory to God-that it is impossible to put this embarrassment even upon her memory. A few who knew her, reading this, will know of whom I speak, and will silently add their eulogy to my own. But to the public, who knew her not, she must be nameless. Mankind 226 THE STORY OF A NOBLE WOMAN can not reward her except by becoming better and happier for her sake. She was one of the most learned women of her time: able to prepare boys for college, and to ex- amine them as to their proficiency after they were graduated; competent to converse on equal terms with all the scholars of her generation. She knew Greek, Latin, and Hebrew critically; she was a profound historian, an ardent and deep-seeing sociologist; she was familiar with the philosophies and religions; she was widely read in general literature. Her knowledge was prodigious, and so finely welded together and inter-related that she could not discuss any subject without a tendency, as she went on, to connect it with all other subjects to exhibit it in all its relative bearings. Thus to converse with her was always vividly interesting, and yet the conversation was never finished; when you left her, after an hour or many hours, she was still in the midst of her exposition. She wrote delightful letters, overflowing with spiritual beauty and insight; but neither were the letters ever fin- ished-she must needs break off at last in what seemed the most entrancing passage. Of course she was the friend of all the "best people" of her generation; the better they were the more they valued her intercourse; but she was far from con- fining her attention to them; she would lavish every gift of her mind and heart upon a child, or a 227 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES laborer, or any poor waif of the world, in the effort to be of use to them, without a single after- thought, or misgiving that she was throwing away her time. She never seemed to think of time: she seemed to have the idea that eternity was at her disposal: she probably believed that God would give her all the opportunity to do His work in this world that was expedient, and when He had used her to the end here He would' open the next world to her for further and never-ending industries. And yet she was a woman who was always busy, as if this day were her last, and all the labor of her lifetime must be concentrated in it. Never have I seen her idle; I can not imagine her idle. But she was as generous, as prodigal of herself as only the busiest people (whose business is not sel- fish) can be. When she was quite a young woman she fell in love with a man who was worthy of her love; he was one of the eminent men of his day, a noble character, a man whom the world knows, beautiful in person as in nature. She loved him, and he ad- mired her, and their intellectual friendship was full of fine sympathies and mutual insights; but he did not love her, never thought of loving her in the way that a man loves a woman; nor did he for a moment suspect that she had given him her heart. She had a sister, however; and before long she realized, with the intuition of the heart, 228 THE STORY OF A NOBLE WOMAN that the man of her choice loved this sister, and that the love was returned. I will not presume to attempt to analyze her feelings upon this dis- covery. Upon a nature of such exquisite tender- ness and susceptibility not a pang could have been lost. But no word betraying this pain ever escaped her, no act indicated it. Perhaps a dark hour passed over her; the cup of sorrow and self-sacri- fice was held to her lips, and she drank it. Then, from that valley of the death of all her woman's hopes, she came forth cheerful and resolute. She devoted herself to smoothing away the obstacles which lay between the lovers; to bringing them together, to foreseeing and averting perils, to in- spiring them with faith in their future, and to affirming, with a divine radiance in her homely face, that this was a marriage truly made in heaven. It was some years before the marriage took place; the wedded couple were poor, and she had no money to give them; but she was able to give them help that was worth money, and much more; she lived in and through them, tho she never intruded upon their loving privacy; she aided the man in unseen ways to obtain channels for the development of his genius; she rejoiced with a full heart in his happiness and his success; and when children came, she loved them with a holy love. I have sometimes wondered whether those children ever understood why their old aunt loved them so 229 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES much, and was always anxious to add to their felicity and welfare. Let it be remembered that there was never in her aspect or bearing any trace of the melancholy, self-denying saint who confers benefits with a heart-broken air, and says sweet things with a sigh and a heavenward glance. She was cheerful, full of the good-natured bustle of the world, humorous, sympathetic, unpretending, self-effa- cing, simple and homely in all things; a woman to take hold of things practically and produce concrete results. Nobody ever thought of pitying her; of saying, How nobly she has overcome the world! Her brightness and good cheer seemed a merely temperamental matter; she was so because that was her nature. Wherever she went, sunshine went with her; but no one thought of thanking her for it, any more than we think of offering thanks to the sun in the sky; it was a matter of course. And if there were any unwelcome or irksome thing to be done, it seemed perfectly natural that she should be called on to do it; nay, it was not often that she waited to be asked. The need could hardly come that she was not at hand to supply it; you would have said that there was for her a mag- netism, an attraction in human extremity, which had the effect of always drawing her to it to relieve it. Some people who seem most amiable and well-intentioned have the fortune always to be 230 THE STORY OF A NOBLE WOMAN somewhere else when their help would be useful. It was just the other way with this woman. Whenever fate aimed a blow at any one of her ac- quaintance, she generally chanced to get between. and catch it on her own shoulders. There was little physical substance to her-a child could have knocked her down; but these blows aimed at others which she intercepted never staggered her or ban- ished the smile from her kindly face; one would have said, rather, that they contained some life- giving quality, which reenforced her spiritual vitality. But this is one of the mysteries of love. How she supported herself it would be difficult to say. She had no property of her own, and no one ever gave her any. Indeed, it would have been vain to give her anything, because she always had a hundred persons at hand who, in her opinion, needed it more than she did; and they would have got it. She was an enthusiast on education; and at different times she kept schools, or had private pupils, or read papers on education before learned bodies, or wrote articles for magazines, or pub- lished them in the form of pamphlets. I believe she wrote one or two school-books which may have brought her a few dollars. At all events, she was never obliged to ask help of others; she never had more than a few dollars at her disposal, but she always seemed to have those few dollars: enough to get a meal with, to pay a fare on a railway, to 231 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES defray the rent of a lodging. And it was a per- plexing fact that, altho she was always thus strait- ened (but seldom wholly destitute) in the matter of her private expenses, she was continually being supplied with money or its value in an apparently miraculous manner for the expenses of her benefi- ciaries. I have met with one or two other in- stances of this quasi-miraculous kind; but they can not be common. This woman had at various times houses in one or another part of the country, and if you went there you would always find them full of helpless creatures, or creatures who were willing to live on charity, for whom this woman I write of was working and planning, whom she fed and clothed, and whom she regarded and spoke of as the flower of the human race, victims of wrong, misfortune, or oppression. The aspect of these persons was anything but attractive: as a rule, to the unimpassioned observer, they were either vol- untary ne'er-do-weels of the most obvious stamp; or they were feeble and useless wrecks, who could do the world no other service so valuable as to leave it; or they were wild-eyed and impecunious fanatics, victims of some insane delusion of the moral or social description; or they had invented some absurdity out of which they expected to make a fortune. For the most part, as a matter of course, they were wholly ungrateful for her care and protection; 232 THE STORY OF A NOBLE WOMAN they took all she gave as if they deserved much more, and grumbled stoutly at being deprived of luxuries. If she procured for one of her fanatics an opportunity to deliver a lecture on his hobby before an audience resigned (at her urgent recom- mendation) to listen to his nonsense, and to pay him something for doing so, the lecturer would declare himself foully ill used at being subjected to such a strain. She never resented this ingrati- tude, she never regarded it as being ingratitude; she cordially agreed with the grumblers that they were not getting nearly such good treatment as they ought to have; and she apologized to them for not possessing the means to treat them better. I am not exaggerating facts in the slightest degree. Her humbleness, her inability to do justice to her- self, was occasionally almost preposterous, and made one angry; and it would not have been wholly admirable had it not been accompanied by a spirit as free and indomitable as I have ever known in a woman- —a spirit which would fight to the last gasp for the right, and would suffer not the smallest compromise with injustice when it concerned any but herself. But she was actually incapable of seeing where she came in at all, and no eloquence of exposition on your part could remedy this blindness. What business had she to exist (she would ask) if not to do what she could to help people? What else was there for her to 233 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES do? It was a privilege, in her opinion, to perform such trifles as she might for persons so worthy and so unhappy as her eleemosynary lodgers and board- ers; and when, as constantly happened, they were ultimately proved to have been wholly unworthy of her care, if not actual thieves and scoundrels, she would be sorry and thoughtful for a moment, and the next moment she would be full of life and cheer once more, planning to relieve the wants of such new dependents as had taken the place of the first. She was quite incorrigible, and one could only conclude that God makes such people to bring down the average of the world's selfishness. What they do may often seem to us Quixotic and foolish; but the spirit in which it is done is what tells, and since that spirit is divine, we can never set any bounds to its possible value. But the smallest fraction of what she did can be indicated in an article like this. It is to be wished that some knowing and seeing person would write her biography. Meanwhile I will say a word about one other little incident in her career. The daughter of a dear friend of hers, who was dead, married a man who was in no sense a proper match for her. He was a selfish, sluggish, talented ras- cal, possessed by the notion that everybody owed him a living, and that his wife, in particular, was designed to be his slave and beast of burden. She, on the other hand, was of a fine and generous na- 234 THE STORY OF A NOBLE WOMAN ture, but quick-tempered and passionate; willing to devote herself, and ready to put the best con- struction on things, but resentful of manifest in- jury and gifted with a wit which could, upon oc- casion, cut like a knife. Her relatives deeply re- gretted her marriage, and were inclined to take measures to secure a divorce for her, if she would permit it. Here, then, were the materials for as thorough a life-shipwreck as could be desired. But my heroine had thought deeply on marriage, as well as on other things; and she did not believe that divorce was the true way out of a scrape like this. At the same time she fully recognized the almost insuperable difficulties of the situation. How could two beings so incompatible and inhar- monious as these be brought into practical accord? The enterprise would be little short of making them over again. Any one else would have given it up at the start; but she never faltered for a moment. She believed that marriage happiness. was not impossible for these two, and she set her- self, with the whole force of her soul, to bring it about. And she kept the struggle up for nearly twenty years. The principle upon which she worked was that there is good in every one; and her aim was to develop and keep in the foreground the good in these two, and to keep the evil back and out of sight. As I have said, she had a gift for letter- 235 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES writing; and she set on foot and maintained a cor- respondence with the husband and wife, some part of which I have, since then, been permitted to see. Taking up whatever topic happened at the moment to be suggested by the situation, she would proceed to discuss it in the light of the highest and purest motives and conceptions; if the faces of her corre- spondents were turning toward darkness, she would win them by beautiful picturings of light and wholesomeness-not creations of fancy, but true records of what men and women had done and been of good, drawn from the immense reservoir of her knowledge and experience. For every weed of hell that sprang up in their pathway she showed them a flower of heaven. For every temptation to evil that beset them she wooed them with a story of self-conquest and magnanimity. If one or other of them complained of this or that that had hap- pened as intolerable, she would answer with noble examples of human strength and constancy in the face of difficulties far more trying. In a word, she arrayed the whole great world of good against their petty private world of ill, and with its splen- dor and hope shamed away their dreary despairs. She kept the heavenly possibilities that are in man constantly in their sight, and prevented them from declaring "We can not!" by adducing the grand instances of those who had said "We can!" And what of her championship of the Indians? 236 THE STORY OF A NOBLE WOMAN She fought their battle valiantly; and if there has been any amelioration in our treatment of them, it may be ascribed in great measure to her efforts and representations. But the Indian prob- lem is not to be solved by any individual, no mat- ter how gifted and devoted. My friend died not very long after undertaking the crusade. She died obscurely and humbly and cheerfully, as she had lived. She was not saddened by any notion that she was taken away in the midst of her usefulness, and that the world would miss her. She was con- fident that God could raise up numberless good folks to carry on all she had striven for, with bet- ter faculties and stronger abilities than she pos- sessed. She looked for no reward hereafter, for she could not understand that she merited any; but she departed with joy and peace because she was sure that God is love. 237 facing Death at Rorke's Drift. BY ARTHUR VIZETELLY. SERG ERG. HENRY HOOK, V. C., of the First Royal Fusileer Volunteers, is one of the survivors of the gallant little band of English soldiers that during the Zulu war held Rorke's Drift after the disaster of Isandhlwana against overwhelming odds, and prevented the irruption of hordes of savage Zulus into Natal. Eleven Victoria Crosses were awarded for the deeds of valor performed during that memorable and heroic defense, but not one of the recipients was more worthy of the distinction than Henry Hook. Rorke's Drift, where Henry Hook and his com- rades were outnumbered by the Zulus twenty-five to one, was the name of a homestead situated about three quarters of a mile from the Drift, itself a ford across the winding Buffalo river. When the Zulu war broke out the post was used as a depot for the commissary as well as a base-hospital. The homestead formed the hospital, and contain- ed about forty patients, and the building that 238 mu SAVING THE PATIENTS [From a drawing by W. H. Worrall after Harry Payne] FACING DEATH AT RORKE'S DRIFT. had once been used as a church, about thirty yards away, was turned into a storehouse and stable. Just as two wagons from Helpmakaar were being unloaded about three o'clock on Wednesday after- noon, January 22, 1879, two horsemen were seen approaching at a gallop. Soon they drew up in the center of the mission bearing the news that the Zulus were advancing in heavy numbers on the post, and told of the awful disaster at Isandhl- wana, where the flower of the British army in Africa had been annihilated. One of the messen- gers galloped off with all speed to Helpmakaar to warn the garrison there, and the other remained to assist in defending the station against the victo- rious Zulus. As for the missionary in charge, no sooner did he hear the news that the Zulus were coming than he mounted his mule and trotted off. Immediately the little garrison prepared for at- tack. All the patients in the hospital were dressed, and those that could bear arms took their rifles to join the defenders. But there were twenty-three of them who were helpless, and to protect them six men were told off, of whom Hook was one. In the fight that followed three of these six men were killed. As to means for defense, there were few: the windows and doors of the hospital were blocked up with mattresses, and the walls loop- holed; and as a breastwork a bank was built of 239 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES bags of mealies to a height of not more than four feet, while two wagons and a number of packing- cases were utilized as a barricade connecting the hospital with the storehouse. Less than two hours later the Zulus, over three thousand strong, crossed the Buffalo river about four miles below Rorke's Drift and came to a small green hill, where they rested. After taking snuff they advanced, led by two mounted chiefs, who were preceded by an advanced guard in open or- der. At 4:30 P.M. they were sighted, and five or six hundred of them at once charged the breast- work, and, when they were within fifty yards of it, drew so hot a fire that they swerved. Then they attempted to rush the hospital, but being repulsed, dispersed, and retiring to take up a position on a rocky ledge that overlooked the buildings, kept up a continuous fire. On the approach of the main body the Zulus, advancing under cover of the bush that the British garrison had not had time to cut down, crept up to within a few feet of the breastwork, frequently even holding one side of it until beaten off by the defenders who held the other. A series of des- perate charges followed one after the other rap- idly, but every one was brilliantly repulsed by that mere handful of defenders. Every time the Zulus withdrew out of range they held war-dances as if to brace their nerves for a renewed effort, and 240 FACING DEATH AT RORKE'S DRIFT. then again they rushed headlong to meet death from bayonet or ball. The order to save ammunition was given out, so that each bullet fired might find its billet, and during one of the Zulu onslaughts a private of the Twenty-fourth shot one of the mounted chiefs and eight of his followers. Throughout the fiercest of these attacks Hook and his brave comrades held the hospital. "During the space of four hours," the gallant sergeant said, as he told me the story, "I held my ward with two other men, both of whom were slain. Then our ammunition ran short, and things became so frightfully hot that I felt we should not be able to stand it much longer. For a while I defended the threshold with my bayonet, husbanding the few cartridges left me, and at every lull in the enemy's attack I built a barricade in the doorway before me with the bodies of the dead and anything else on which I could lay my hands, until I had formed a breastwork reach- ing to my shoulders. This at least afforded me some protection and relief." Just at this time Hook narrowly escaped death from an assagai which pierced his helmet and grazed the top of his head, while several more stuck in the wall at the end of the room behind him. Finding they could not carry the hospital by assault, the Zulus determined on setting it on fire. Then it was that the true heroism of the 16 241 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES man came out. Hook got a pick, made a small hole in the dry brick wall, dragged several of his sick and wounded comrades through it into the next ward, and repeated the operation until he had a clear passage through two more party-walls and had brought his patients after him. Then he met Lance-Corporal Williams, and with his assistance succeeded in bringing eight invalids into the last room, where they managed to get them out of a window, and finally, despite the heavy fire they had to pass through, gained an inner defense that had been hastily formed near the church. By this time three of Hook's comrades had been slain at their posts. Not till the little garrison of the hos- pital had defended it room by room, bringing out all the sick that could be moved, did the survivors retire. Blood-curdling as was this scene—the hospital in flames with some of its inmates dying-the gar- rison owed its salvation to it. Once the hospital flared up, the glare of the burning building revealed the tactics of the Zulus; and every time they got to within six hundred yards of the defenses they were met by a well-directed fire that plowed great gaps in their ranks. Throughout the night their charges continued, and the fire had no sooner burned itself out than the savages made another desperate charge, which was successfully repelled. Toward three in the morning the Zulus ceased 242 FACING DEATH AT RORKE'S DRIFT. firing, and slowly withdrew after twelve hours of almost incessant fighting. With the dawn of the next day a terrible sight met the eyes of the survivors. A few yards away were the smoldering ruins of the hospital, with the charred remains of slaughtered comrades amid the heap of smoking rubbish; hard by lay the bodies of other brave fellows, all assagaied and mutilated, while for hundreds of yards around the ground was strewn with the dusky corpses of the fierce assailants. Hook and some others went to ascertain if there were any of their fallen comrades still alive, and he came upon the body of a giant Zulu stretched on the ground. Just as he was passing him the savage, who was merely feigning death, and who, tho wounded in the leg, was still full of life, suddenly stretched out his arm and clutched the stock of Hook's rifle; then, springing to his knees, he made a terrific effort to wrest it from his grasp. Then they struggled for it, but finally Hook wrenched the gun away. A few months later Sergeant Hook received his cross from the hands of Lord Wolseley at Fort Melville, about eight hundred yards from the very spot where he had borne himself so bravely. 243 Zola and the Dreyfus Drama. BY ERNEST ALFRED VIZETELLY. PEOPLE EOPLE often ask me how it happened that Émile Zola, at the height of his fame and popularity, earning $40,000 a year by his pen, with town house and country house replete with works of art and perfect in all their appointments, having, moreover, no cares to plague him and no political ambition to satisfy, should have plunged neck and crop into the Dreyfus case, and thereby have imperiled popularity, fortune, comfort, per- sonal liberty, and even life itself for the sake of one whom some people call a "mere Jew," and who was shut off from the world on a strip of sand and rock known as "Devil's Island." Those who ask this question have never read Zola's books, and most certainly they have never read the one entitled, "Paris.” This man Émile Zola has had but two passions throughout his life-truth and justice. On many points, no doubt, his views are not those of certain parties and sects paramount in one or another country. He regards Chris- tianity as a failure because, according to his lights, 244 EM ZOLA LAVERITE ESTEN MARCHE ETRIEN NELARRETERA LNILE ZOLA 15 JANVIER 1888 MEDAL IN HONOR OF ZOLA, STRUCK IN FRANCE [The inscriptions read: Homage to Emile Zola. The Truth is on the march and nothing will impede it] JOVANOR ZOLA AND THE DREYFUS DRAMA there are nowadays quite as much vice, hypocrisy, and crime in the world as there were in the pagan days of the Cæsars; and he has said, and says still, that concealment fosters vice, hypocrisy, and crime. Therefore let all be revealed so that all may be cured or remedied. If, as some say, he has wallowed in the gutter, it has been solely for the purpose here enunciated. It is too late to preach to men, he says; they must be shocked, made to look with horror on themselves. And when the world, or a great part of it, protests that the pictures of human life given in his novels are merely atrocious libels, he quietly shrugs his shoulders and adds: "No, they are truth. There was never greater iniquity in the world than there is at this hour. Our generation will not admit it, but another will; and our children's children will witness and participate in the great purging." There, then, is Zola's theory in a nutshell. And, such being his views, his plunge into the Dreyfus case was only natural. He has simply made his actions consistent with his writings. In this said Dreyfus case there were error, injustice, and concealment-three abominations which, ac- cording to his views of the world, he, Zola, had been fighting for thirty years. And so he dived into the vortex, risking everything, daring every- thing, for the principles of his whole life. By doing so he rendered himself liable, alto- 245 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES gether, to sixteen months' imprisonment; he for- feited at least half a year's income-say $20,000; and he expended out of his own pocket another $30,000. At least his disbursements for the cause stood almost at that figure in November, 1898. For of course there has never been any Jewish finan- cial syndicate, and Zola has not only paid his own fines, costs, and damages, but the fines, costs, and damages of many others, such as the newspapers that he dragged into the affair, as well as the poorer Dreyfusites-those whose few sticks of furniture would have been sold by the officers of the law had not Zola's purse been opened for their relief. Zola knows what poverty is. He is ever and ever reverting in his books to the cruel hardships of the poor. He was poor himself once; his fa- ther died almost penniless; and for years he slaved in a garret to provide his mother with bread. Vir- tually his first employment was at Hachette's- the Paris publishers—where he tied up parcels and addressed catalogs for a pittance of $4 a week. And when he began to write it was years before an editor or a publisher would deal with him. Ah! the dreary days, the cold bleak nights, the fireless stove, the curtainless window, the rush-light burn- ing on the little deal table, the snow out of doors, the frost both without and within, the youthful aspirant for literary renown penning his first effu- sions with red, numbed fingers-these things, of 246 ZOLA AND THE DREYFUS DRAMA which we often read in novels, are not fiction: Émile Zola knew them all. Could he count the days when he had neither breakfast nor dinner? I doubt it. I know that in that toilsome, desper- ate period of his youth he went at times for two- and-sixty hours without food! And when a man has passed through such an ordeal as that, must he not be compassionate? Can he be otherwise, unless, indeed, his heart con- tain nothing but spite and rancor? To those who have real grit in them, there is, quite apart from Zola's doctrines, a glorious promise in his career. Given talent and will, even bitter poverty and semi-starvation may end in renown and affluence. But it may be asked if Zola had to begin his Dreyfus campaign afresh, would he do so? Has not exile, has not moral, mental suffering, sever- ance from old habits, from prized friendships and affections, in some measure blunted his will? Not a bit of it! If the Dreyfus agitation were to begin afresh, Zola would be in it. Perhaps he might not act in every circumstance as he has acted, for experience brings its lessons with it. But sub- stantially he would do as he has done. As he has often told me, he has nothing to repent of, nothing to regret, nothing to ask excuse for. The agitation in favor of Alfred Dreyfus had no sooner started than, like all Frenchmen, Zola be- gan to take a keen interest in it. This interest 247 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES was the greater by reason of his principles. Still, it was only after the facsimiles of the famous "bordereau" had been published, and when they were being generally talked about, that Zola was moved to take action. Worried already by the rumors of a possible miscarriage of justice, he was struck by the similarity of the handwriting appear- ing on this "bordereau " with that of Count Walsin Esterhazy. He spoke out, at first dubiously, and then in a tone of growing conviction, in the col- umns of Le Figaro. Day by day this conviction of his gathered strength; it was virtual inspira- tion, for he was far from knowing all the facts; a form indeed of prophetic intuition such as genius grants to those few great men that she favors. And meantime the readers of Le Figaro murmured and grumbled; the editor even had to resign his post, for the paper is one much read by French army men, to whom its views and theories on Dreyfus's trial were not palatable reading. Then Zola-Le Figaro having been closed against him— tried appeal by pamphlet; he addressed stirring words to France, to her students, her young men of intellect; and, still proceeding on his course, he at last hurled upon the country his famous thun- derbolt, that letter addressed to the President of the republic beginning with the words: "I accuse." Ah! his medium was a poor little radical paper, called l'Aurore, edited by one Ernest Vaughan, 248 ZOLA AND THE DREYFUS DRAMA who for long years had been the right-hand man of Henri Rochefort, but who had quarreled with his patron, left him, and founded this poor little struggling print. Perhaps fifteen thousand copies of it were then sold each day; but it published Zola's thunderbolt, and now nearly half a million copies of each number issue from its presses. Newspapers, like books, have their destinies. Fi- nancially, those of l'Aurore would seem to be of the brightest. But Zola's letter "J'accuse" led to his prosecu- tion; how he was tried and retried; how, advised by his friends, he left France—not to escape im- prisonment, but purely and simply to keep the affair "open" and thwart all attempts to stifle it in the interests of the French general staff: all these matters belong to history. The case has not been stifled; it has steadily gone on and on. "Truth," as Zola put it, "was "—and is—" on the march." As for himself, he knew to whom to come when he quitted his native land. For years he has never had but stanch men and true around him. Thus he disappeared, in the interests of his cause, and the world asked: Where is Zola?" 66 Just a few people knew the precise spot-I among them. But all the wealth of all the Amer- ican millionaires put together could not draw the secret from any one of us. We were happy in this: we numbered a dozen, and we counted no 249 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES Judas Iscariot in our midst. For many months Zola's enemies wished to serve on him personally the judgment pronounced against him by default by the court of Versailles, and this virtually meant that he would be forced to do a year's imprison- ment without chance of appeal. We were all de- termined that he should do no such thing. We learned from eminent English counsel that it was legally possible for a French process-server to hand Zola a copy of the French judgment against him even in England, provided that no breach of the queen's peace were committed; and that in this event he would have to put in an appearance in France within five days, under penalty of finding his conviction definitive, beyond question of appeal. So we hid him; and what friend of truth and jus- tice will blame us? Many as are Zola's admirers in this Dreyfus business, especially in English-speaking lands, there are some, superficial readers and so forth, who misconstrue his motives, think him a paid agent of the Jews-he who more than any other novelist of his time has attacked Jew capitalists- and blame him for attacking the army, which is France's right arm. But he does not attack the army. He simply attacks those officers who have perpetrated or hushed up fraud and crime. He undoubtedly hates, loathes, abhors an overbearing military spirit. He does not wish to see his coun- 250 ZOLA AND THE DREYFUS DRAMA try ruled by the saber. But in France the army is the nation. All Frenchmen serve in it, or should do so. And Germany is ever there, ever ready, ever watchful, at Strasburg and at Metz, within five days' march of Paris! Of this Zola certainly needs no reminder. I know that some of his friends, some of Dreyfus's partizans, go fur- ther than the great novelist does. I have occasion- ally witnessed their discussions, their altercations together, and I have even parted and pacified them. As Zola says, France, ever open to inva- sion, needs a powerful army, but an army imbued with a true democratic spirit. Alas! that brings to the front another problem: militarism and de- mocracy are they compatible one with the other? To plunge into that question would be futile. Time ever and ever upsets the most attractive theories; and time alone can show whether, in peace, a nation in arms can really prove to be a democratic nation. 251 "All Hands Bury the Dead!” BY REV. GEORGE T. LEMMON. THE HE Fredonia, seven years on the sea, and one of the best-known fisher-craft of our north coast, had never lost a spar until December, 1896, when she was caught off Cape Sable in a terrific hurricane. It was far from sunrise when the storm broke on the ship, and Captain Morgan hove to at once, and under a double-reefed foresail thought to ride it out. But suddenly, with a rush that was terrible, a great whirling monster swept over the ship. It was a stroke of the wind which would have staggered the Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse and swept the smokestacks from the Oceanic. It cleaned the deck of the Fredonia. Every mast, dory, sail, chair, and unplanked thing above deck was cut away in a moment. Even the rudder went, and the wreck of a hull lay at the mercy of the waves and storm. One man went to his death with the masts, and Olaf Olson was so crushed and torn that in six hours he died. The pumps remained, and at them the men set 252 "ALL HANDS BURY THE DEAD!" diligently to work. There was great need of this muscular labor, for the deck was nearly flush with the sea. Thus for twenty-four hours the twenty- one living men battled. Hope of life was well- nigh dead when, just before the dawn of the 18th, the Colorado bore down to the rescue. The sea was still rough, and it took stout hearts to face it in the little boats; but such hearts were found, and sixteen of the Fredonia's men were soon safe in the Colorado. Five remained on the wreck, Captain Morgan one of them, and on the sinking ship they pondered what to do with their dead mate. Burial at sea, so terrible to the mind of land- folks, is an honor to the tar who has spent his life on the brine; but it must be burial, not aban- donment. The Brotherhood of the Sea will not suffer a mate to sink without a shroud beneath the waves. When Olson died his body had been lashed to prevent its being washed away. Now it lay on the deck of the sinking ship in the light of the rising morning sun, and Morgan exclaimed: "Lads, we mustn't leave him behind! It's too foul a way to treat the mate we've ate with.” "But, skipper, we'll all go down if we stay," answered one of the men. "It's a wonder the old hulk stands up as it is." "You're right, Tom, but let's do our duty. We can't take him away, but we can give him to the 253 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES sea proper-like. I'll not leave the ship till he's had decent burial or I'll go down with him and it.” "All right, skipper, we'll stand by." And they did. Morgan hailed the Colorado's boat to stand off until they were called. Swiftly the body of Olson was unlashed, and then wrapped, and tied in a blanket for the grave in the deep. The winds were still howling and the waves beating over the deck, so that the men could scarcely stand, and the ship with staggering lurches was steadily set- tling. At last the body was ready for the sea. "Boys, we mustn't slide him over like a log. We must have a prayer, but-I can't pray. Dig- gins, you talk it." "I'll do my best, skipper," answered Bob Dig- gins, and with heads bare to the winter's storm the five men stood about the silent bundle, while Diggins prayed to the God who holdeth the sea in His hands. Ay, there they stood in the calm, holy grandeur of the truest heroism to pay friend- ship's last tribute to a messmate, tho they knew not whether his dead body or their live ones should be first to drop into the sea. The prayer ended, the body was pushed over the side, and while the gale sang its requiem sank beneath the tossing waves. Then the Colorado's boat was hailed. 254 Slave Boy and Leader of His Race. BY GILSON WILLETS. THIS HIS is a chapter from the true story of the heroic struggles of one who was born a slave and who to-day is the leader of a race of 10,000,- 000 people, the successor of Frederick Douglas and the most respected negro in the United States. Up to the day on which he first entered a school- house he was quite content with the name of Booker Taliaferro. "But all these other little colored boys have three or four names," said the teacher. The lad scratched his head a while, then said: "Well, put me down-Washington." Thus the future founder and head of the fore- most institution for the education of negroes, at Tuskegee, Ala., came to be known as Booker T. Washington. He knows that he was born on the plantation of James Burroughs at Hale's Ford in "Ole Virgin- ny; "but the date of the event he knows not. In those days the birth of a slave baby was of no consequence than the arrival of a litter of more 255 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES kittens. Hence no record. Meeting Mr. Wash- ington recently, I remarked that "I had expected to see an older man." "I think," he replied, "that I entered this world in 1857 or 1858. Any- way, I feel that I have passed the fortieth mile- stone on my life-road. And as every man is ex- pected to have a birthday, I usually celebrate mine on Easter Sunday." His father was a white man, but his mother was as ebony. His recollections go back to a one-room log cabin with one door and no windows. "I hardly think I can get a photograph of that cabin," said he, "for I would not recognize it to-day were I to see it." In that cabin he was lying one day on the clay floor, swathed in rags, when, as he says, "My now sainted mother bent over me praying for the suc- cess of Marsa Linkun' and for our freedom." 6 Even then, tho only about six years old, he felt a boyish shame in the knowledge that he was simply a bit of property belonging to "Marsa" Burroughs. A year later he was sitting on the clay floor eating his dinner of "cone-pone" when an old aunty poked her head into the cabin, shout- ing, "Halleluiah!" and announcing that all the "niggers" had been ordered to assemble on the porch of the mansion. That day the lad learned that the war had ended, that he and his mother and all his kind were free, that he was no longer 256 THE WASHINGTON FAMILY SLAVE BOY AND LEADER OF HIS RACE a piece of property, but a little man. And the determination-probably mere instinct at that time-came to him to make the best use of his new estate. For a year or two he remained on the planta- tion, helping his mother in the kitchen of the mansion. Then came the day when he first made up his mind to get an education. "My thirst for knowledge," he says, "came to me while watching a young colored man who was reading a newspaper to a group of colored people. The mouths of the bystanders yawned and their eyes grew big, not at the news, but at the fact that one of their own color could read. To them the reader was a sort of god. Now this accomplishment, this knowing how to read, seemed to me a power, and I resolved to acquire it. "Then it was that I went to school for the first time, and gave myself the family name of Wash- ington. The young woman who taught the col- ored children knew how to read and write, but that was all. I soon knew as much as she did, and then I stayed home. Thus I graduated from my first school." Now came a great change. His mother died, and he and his brother, John Washington, now a teacher of the Tuskegee Institute, started across the mountains, on mules given them by their old "Marsa" Burroughs, to the coal-mines of West 17 257 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES Virginia. It was a dangerous journey, for the hills were still infested by guerrillas. Deep down in the black earth the lad hauled coal by day; in a miner's hut at night he contin- ued his studies. He borrowed book after book from the country school-teachers, and mastered their contents. Again his studies came to a standstill. Again he knew as much as the teachers, and no more books were to be had. "Oftentimes," he says, "I would hear that a new school-teacher had arrived, five, ten, fifteen miles away. I would walk and walk till I found the teacher-only to go back disappointed. For I myself could teach the teachers." Again the instinct to better his condition made the lad uneasy. Realizing that there was no chance in the mines for advancement, he sought other em- ployment. He had tramped only a few leagues from the mines to a town-Charleston, W. Va.- when his good angel materialized in the person of Mrs. Viola Ruffner, a New England lady who had married a Southerner. She engaged the ambitious boy to work in the kitchen and run errands at a few cents a month and "found." Here Booker continued his plan of "getting on" by studying at night. Mrs. Ruffner lent him books and devoted an hour or two every day to teaching him. He came to her knowing two of the three R's. Now she taught him the third-'rithmetic. 258 SLAVE BOY AND LEADER OF HIS RACE "I used to sit up nearly all night," says Mr. Washington, "burning dear old Mrs. Ruffner's oil. To her I owe more than to any of my early teach- ers. From her I received my first training in thrift and industry, from her I learned that the difference in social conditions is principally the result of intelligent energy. Her truck farm was about eight miles from the town, and I tell you I made that farm pay. I was off in the market wagon daily before daylight; and among the com- peting neighbors our energy caused consternation and our profits amazement." At last, when sixteen years of age, he overheard a man in the Charleston market-place telling about the Hampton Institute-that it was a place where negro boys could get an education by working for it. Young Washington immediately decided that Hampton was the place for him. Here was his great opportunity. He had saved $12 from his earnings, and with this and a stout pair of legs he started for Hampton, three hundred miles away. He recrossed the Blue Ridge mountains back into Virginia, begging a ride when he could, reaching Richmond at last, footsore, lame, weary, penni- less. Here he decided to earn enough money to pay his way over the remaining hundred-odd miles to Hampton. The stevedores on the wharves hired. him, but they made him work as hard as a grown man, loading and unloading fruit-steamers. In 259 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES order to hoard each day's earnings he went to bed under a board sidewalk. "That couch was as down to me," he says now, "for every night I fell asleep remembering that I had that day added forty or fifty cents more to my Hampton fund.” After a long, long tramp, after a protracted hand-to-hand encounter with poverty, after hun- ger and even homesickness-for he often thought of dear old Mrs. Ruffner-he reached his Mecca. Presenting himself, rags, dust, and all, a stranger, a tramp, to General Armstrong, he related his struggles and his aspirations. "Well," said the head of the institute, "if you are worth educating we will give you the chance." His entrance examination, Mr. Washington tells me, was rather unique. "They hardly knew," he says, "whether to admit me, a seeming ragamuffin, or not. While they were making up their minds they handed me a broom and a duster and told me to do' a certain room. Well, I did it. I swept that room as I never swept a room before. I think I swept and dusted it ten times over. Eventually a teacher came in and drew her handkerchief along the wall; but not a speck of dust could she find. She took me back to General Armstrong, who said: 'You are admitted on trial.' Whereupon tears of joy began raining down my face and the teacher hurried me out of the principal's room." Thus, at last, Booker T. Washington was in his 260 SLAVE BOY AND LEADER OF HIS RACE element. In 1875 he graduated from Hampton and was given charge of the village school at Mal- den, W. Va. In 1878 he took a course of study at Wayland Seminary, in Washington, D. C. In 1879, by invitation, he stumped the state of West Virginia-such had been his success as a public speaker-pleading for the removal of the state cap- ital to Charleston. Then, urged by the judge of a district court, he began studying law and just concluded to enter the legal profession, when Gen- eral Armstrong sent for him to take charge of a class at Hampton. Back to Hampton he went, and it was there, in 1881, that he resolved hence- forth to devote himself to the elevation of his own race. A call for a teacher came from Tuskegee, Ala. Washington was given the post, and there, in a shanty, on the Fourth of July, 1881, with thirty pupils and one teacher, he founded the Tuskegee Institute. Even while he addressed his pupils the condition of the "institute" building was such that he had to hold an umbrella over his head as a protection against the inpouring rain. The next day he mailed a letter to General Armstrong ask- ing a loan of $500 for a new building. eral responded with a check, and Washington and his pupils determined to build the building them- selves. They even made their own bricks. But when it came to burning the bricks they had to The gen- 261 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES stop-no one knew how to fire a kiln. They could not spare a penny of their $500 for labor and they had to burn the bricks. Washington owned a gold watch, a prize won at Hampton. This watch he pawned, and with the money thus obtained hired an experienced workman to fire the kiln. The principal of Tuskegee carries to-day a cheap Wa- terbury, for he has never redeemed that gold watch, -tho the property of the institute now includes 2,500 acres of land and thirty-eight buildings,- holdings valued at $250,000, where one thousand colored young men and women are receiving an education under the direction of nearly one hun- dred teachers. 262 The Man Who Bore the Stigma. BY L. GRACE FERGUSON. THE HE revival of interest that has been shown during the last few months in the history of the Austrian Archduke Maximilian's ill-starred Mexican empire gives a measure of timeliness to otherwise overtardy effort, and to the publica- tion-for the first time, I believe, in the English language of the real facts in vindication of one of the most unfortunate of the victims of that trag- edy. I refer to Col. Miguel Lopez, who com- manded the body-guard of the unfortunate " em- peror," and who, all accepted histories unite in telling us, received a bribe from the Mexican Re- publican leaders and treacherously admitted their army to the city of Queretaro, where Maximilian was captured. Almost immediately after the capture of the city -May 14, 1867-the story of his alleged betrayal gained currency there, and was industriously circu- lated by the friends of the archduke, who charged that Lopez in return for this service had received three thousand "ounces." 263 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES A reference to semi-official Mexican records in my possession fails to discover any proof of this charge, but does show that on the night of the cap- ture of the city Colonel Lopez did visit the camp of the Republican general, Escobedo, as the bearer of a proposition from the besieged "emperor." Maximilian, it appears, had become discouraged to the extent of total despair. With a force of only about five thousand men he had for seventy days been withstanding a siege by an army of thirty thousand. That very day his leading generals had united in a representation to him that their only hope, forlorn enough, lay in a general sortie, sta- king everything upon the issue of one battle against overwhelming odds. But he recognized the use- lessness of this, and was willing to surrender if only his honor, of which he had most romantic ideas, could be saved. So Lopez came that night to Escobedo, says the record, with the offer of the surrender of the city and the army if the "emperor" would be allowed to "escape" to some gulf port with a single squad- ron of cavalry, giving his word that he would at once sail for Europe and never return. This offer was promptly refused. Lopez then inquired if Escobedo would give a guaranty of personal safety to Maximilian if he would surrender. This was also refused, and the disappointed messenger re- turned to the doomed city. 264 THE MAN WHO BORE THE STIGMA Scarce had he gone when Escobedo ordered a general advance; and upon all sides the Republican troops came silently closing in through the dark- ness. A strong advance party surprising the guards at the La Cruz convent gardens, on the borders of the city, captured Colonel Lopez him- self, and with him as prisoner forced their way into the convent proper and the church, where Maximilian's headquarters were. Maximilian es- caped them for a few hours, but was soon captured with the remnants of his army at a little fort on the Hill of the Bells, where he was afterward executed. All these circumstances lent color to the charge of treason, and Lopez was soon the most despised and hated man in the republic. Imperialist and Re- publican alike scorned him. For years men spit upon him in the streets, women held back their skirts lest they should touch him, and the children hooted as he passed. By and by a few of his old friends began to talk about his case, and it was asserted that Maximilian before his death had said things to those who were with him totally inconsistent with the theory that Lopez was a traitor. A letter also had been seen by a few people-a personal friend of my own among the number-written by the emperor to Lopez after the surrender, in which this sentence appeared: "Forever remember that you are the guardian of our imperial honor." 265 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES From these things the friends of Lopez argued that a third proposition had been committed to Lopez by Maximilian on that fatal night and had been accepted by Escobedo, who had sent forward his troops with the understanding that Lopez, act- ing under the emperor's orders, would open the gates for them. This was wholly in keeping with the character of Maximilian, who, recognizing the utter hopelessness of his position, was anxious to avoid further battle, but felt an almost insane fear of compromising his honor by a voluntary sur- render. man. But no word could be wrung from the accused Year after year he bore the stigma without a murmur. With quiet dignity he received, but never resented nor replied to, the insults heaped upon him. The foolish "emperor's " honor could not have been committed to safer keeping. A worthless bauble, it was guarded like a crown jewel. At length, when his head had long been white under the burden of years and shame, one morn- ing the people of Mexico city were startled by the publication of an open letter in the columns of a daily newspaper. It was addressed to General Mariano Escobedo, and was signed by the almost- forgotten "traitor" Col. Miguel Lopez. "I have borne," said the disgraced old soldier, "a burden of shame for a quarter of a century. For myself 266 THE MAN WHO BORE THE STIGMA I would carry it to the grave, whither I soon go; but since those for whom I have borne it are long dead and well-nigh forgotten, for my children's sake I appeal to you to tell the Mexican people whether I did or did not in return for a bribe be- tray the trust imposed in me by Maximilian." Escobedo responded to the touching appeal, and over his own signature published a full denial of the story of the bribe, and stated that he had placed a complete history of the event in the hands of President Diaz, for use as he should see fit. So far as I know the president has never pub- lished the document, but no well-informed person in Mexico any longer believes Lopez to have been anything else than a victim to his devotion to his emperor. Still, all the histories tell us and per- haps will always tell of the "treason" of Lopez, and when he died, some two years ago, it was cabled over the world as "the death of the man who betrayed Maximilian." Many sovereigns have had servants who have died for them; for poor Maximilian was reserved the honor of such devotion that for him a man would live long years under a cloud of infamy. 267 Carl Schurz as a Revolutionist. BY WILLIAM E. JOHNSON. IN N the spring of 1899, four hundred men, com- prising many representatives of the best brain and blood of American citizenship, sat down to a dinner at Delmonico's to celebrate the seventieth anniversary of the birth of Carl Schurz. These four hundred men rejoiced that their guest is an American. A week later, representative Germans of the New World celebrated the same event at the New York Liederkranz, rejoicing that their guest of honor is a German. An address proclaiming the civic virtues of the man, bearing the indorse- ment of five hundred societies and the signatures of seventy thousand individuals, was laid at his feet. Forty members of the German Reichstag cabled greetings of the Teutonic race. Ex-Presi- dent Grover Cleveland wrote, lauding the "disin- terested public service" of the same honored guest, and Count Herbert Bismarck cabled the good will of the court of Germany, which but a few years ago sought his life. The life of Carl Schurz is both consistent and 268 Copyright by R. Wilhelm, New York. CARL SCHURZ THE CIVILIAN CARL SCHURZ AS A REVOLUTIONIST contradictory. In Germany, Schurz was a revolu- tionist of the revolutionists. Monarchical emissa- ries pursued him all over Europe as an anarchist who would upset the divine right of kings. The German penitentiary yawned for him as one "dan- gerous to society." In America, this man, a con- servative of the conservatives, is berated as the chief prophet of the "mugwumps." And yet the Carl Schurz of Germany and the Carl Schurz of America stand for exactly the same thing: a gov- ernment good enough to extend to the citizen his fullest liberty, and strong enough to defend the liberties so extended. a matte of fact, the present constitutional government of Germany is far more liberal and democratic than that which was demanded by Schurz and his fellow revolu- tionists fifty years ago. During the first half of this century the German confederation dominated Central Europe-a bed- lam of thirty-nine German states in constant tu- mult, a combination of predatory princes, backed by the Holy Alliance, which had the liberties of the people by the throat. Again and again did the monarchs, large and small, pledge a constitu- tional government, and as many times were the promises forgotten. The people were taxed unto starvation, plundered by petty exactions, driven into unwilling wars, browbeaten, robbed, and mur- dered. Under the Holy Alliance, French armies 269 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES suppressed uprisings in Spain; Austrian troops quelled a revolution in Italy. Thunders muttered around every throne in Europe. In these dark hours the German universities were shrines where the flame of liberty perpetu- ally burned. They were always under the ban of ecclesiastical and monarchical suspicion. At Jena, at Göttingen, at Bonn, at Heidelberg, at Berlin, at Vienna, at Leipsic, and at Frankfort the youth of the continent had breathed into their ears the gos- pel of human rights, the whisperings of discontent. It was in this atmosphere that Carl Schurz was born, at Libar, Cologne, on March 2, 1829. His father was a college 66 teacher." From the hour of his birth Carl absorbed the doctrines of these centers of revolutionary ideas. Ten years before, Charles Sands, a student of Jena, entered the home of an autocratic oppressor and stabbed him to death. Sands was duly beheaded. A delegation from Heidelberg attended the execution, and dipped their handkerchiefs in his blood. From that hour the memory of Charles Sands was the altar at which every student in Central Europe worshiped. Persecution by the princes was but the scourge with which they lashed their own backs. When- ever a professor or "teacher" of one of these uni- versities was driven into exile, scores were added to the ranks of the revolutionists. Bonn was the storm-center of the revolutionary 270 CARL SCHURZ AS A REVOLUTIONIST idea, and Johann Gottfried Kinkel, the poet, the- ologian, philosopher, author, and lecturer, was its high priest. Never did a man have such a hold on the undergraduate heart. Among those who sat at his feet was young Carl Schurz, a curly- headed chap in his teens, but ten years in advance of his age. Between the boy and his teacher there grew up an affection that lasted until the latter's death. In 1848, at Wartburg, a patriotic stu- dents' congress was held, at which delegates were in attendance from all the German universities. Schurz was the delegate from Bonn, and his fiery eloquence made him a leader at once. Upon his return, under the instruction of Kinkel, the with others made missionary pilgrimages up and down the Rhine, addressing assemblages of stu- dents and laborers. In February, 1848, the storm broke out in France. The people drove Louis Philippe off his throne and beyond the border. The echo of the strife sounded throughout the continent. King Lewis was ousted from the Bavarian throne. Prince Metternich, the backbone of the Holy Al- liance, fled from Vienna. Würtemberg, Darm- stadt, Nassau, and Hesse, one after another suc- cumbed to the people's demands. Saxony, Han- over, and Berlin were in an uproar. Revolution- ary armies began gathering in the southern states. Meanwhile the eyes of Bonn were on Kinkel, 271 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES who was even then editing a revolutionary pa- per called Spartacus. He asked from his wife permission to go to the front. He kissed her and the three little ones good-by that very night. With young Schurz as a companion, he gathered together a few lads and laborers, and attempted to seize the arsenal at Siegburg. The attempt was a failure, but Schurz and Kinkel escaped to the south, where they joined the revolutionary army. A few bold dashes made young Carl an adjutant to the commander of all the forces. The revolution was short, sharp, and decisive. Most of the revolutionists were caught in a trap at Rastadt, where they were killed or captured; but at the same time most of the demands of the revo- lutionists were acceded to. At the forefront of the siege of Rastadt were Kinkel and his pupil Schurz. Kinkel was wounded and captured, but the lad crawled through a sewer from the interior of the fortress and escaped. Tramping by night and sleeping by day, the young refugee with others succeeded in reaching Switzerland. From there he made his way to Paris. The other leaders bagged at Rastadt were either shot or sent to the penitentiary for life. Among the latter was the wounded Kinkel, upon whom was visited especial vengeance. For three months he was confined within the walls of Naugard on the Baltic, and compelled to scrub floors. Then he 272 ALL COULE RAHARBORNS FALKENDALIAN (GSSAGES SEE CARL SCHURZ AS A REVOLUTIONIST was sent to the great penitentiary of Spandau. He head was shaved. He was refused communi- Ication with the outside world. He was dressed in coarse sackcloth. He slept on a bed of straw and was forced to spin thirteen hours a day. Such were the stories that came to the student refugees at Paris, and stirred their young blood to the boil- ing-point. Schurz yearned for his master's liberty. One night, in a Paris café, a plot was hatched to rescue their imprisoned teacher. A wealthy stu- dent was found to furnish the necessary funds, and Carl Schurz was commissioned to undertake the execution of the desperate plot. At different points two or three fugitive lads made their way across the German border, all headed for Berlin. For five months Schurz hovered around the great penitentiary of Spandau, worming his way into the confidence of different officials, all the time know- ing that the discovery of his identity meant almost certain death. The least that he could hope for, in such an event, would be to join his teacher inside the walls for life. At the end of five months the rescue was effected-in November, 1850. Accom- panied by young Schurz, the master fled to the Baltic coast, spent a few hours for rest in Meck- lenberg, and took a craft provided for them at Cox Haven. Most of the refugees made their escape via Switzerland, and officials were on the lookout in that direction; but Schurz fooled the pursuers 18 273 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES by taking the most direct route to the British shores. For half a century German bards have sung of the daring escapade of this curly-headed, lion- hearted youth. To this day the details of the res- cue have never been fully cleared up, as men im- plicated in the plot are still high in German official life. Enough facts leaked out, however, to send to prison for three years one of the wardens who played into Schurz's hands. This mystery has given the romantic Teuton opportunity to invent tales to suit his fancy. Schurz is pictured as an organ-grinder playing under the great gray walls the favorite tunes of the master, thus making him- self known to the imprisoned one. In song he is described as wooing the guards to sleep and boldly snatching his Eurydice from the bowels of the living tomb. Others, more superstitious, aver that he was assisted by the gods, and that the master was spirited away through the air to be material- ized by the magic wand of the hero youth in a Mecklenberg forest. Dr. Abraham Jacobi, of New York city, who was then a hidden revolutionist near Bonn, tells me a story which illustrates the difficulties surrounding this famous feat. "During the summer of 1850," says the doctor, "a barefooted tramp entered my apartments on the top floor near Bonn, without knocking. He had 274 CARL SCHURZ AS A REVOLUTIONIST 6 on his back a kit of tools like a traveling mechanic. He wore big whiskers. He was begrimed and dirty. Have you heard from Schurz?' was the first question he asked. I said: 'No.' 'You will hear soon,' was the reply. But who are you?' I asked. 'Schimmelpfenning,' was all that I heard; but that was enough, I knew him. I fed and hid the famished one for several days, but no word came from Schurz. It became dangerous for the tramp to stay longer, and he fled one night. A few days later word came to me that 'some one wanted to see me outside the town after the moon went down.' I made my way to an out-of-the- way summer-place, the appointed spot, outside the town, when whom should I meet but Schurz. He was working his way by night journeys to Span- dau to rescue the imprisoned master. He wanted food and directions." 6 Gen. Franz Sigel tells me of the first glimpse that he had of young Schurz. Sigel was an officer in the revolutionary army, and escaped to the south after the fall of Rastadt. In Switzerland he was safe if he behaved himself; but that he did not do. He began writing articles regarding German affairs that made things so hot that Prus- sian representatives demanded his expulsion. Swiss officers thereupon took him in charge and con- ducted him to the French frontier. That night he was taken to Paris on his way to England. At 275 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES Paris he was paroled for twenty-four hours, and at once started in search of fellow refugees. "I succeeded in finding a bunch of them in an out of- the-way place," says the general, "but where it was I could not tell for the life of me; but among them was Carl Schurz, a young, easy-going beard- less fellow with a piercing eye. I saw him but a few moments; but we afterward met in London, and were together considerably before we came to this country." Gottfried Kinkel, after his rescue, taught school for a time in England, and later went to Switzer- land, where he was professor of belles-lettres in the University of Zurich till his death, November 15, 1882. A few months after the rescue of Kinkel, Schurz landed in New York, ignorant of our language and of our ways. The next day he was sitting on a bench in Union Square, wondering what to do, when a policeman came near arresting him as a suspicious character. Schurz had difficulty in ma- king the officer believe that he was a respectable man, and not a burglar. Within ten years this same "suspicious charac- ter" was sent to Spain by Abraham Lincoln as the American minister to the court at Madrid. He had scarcely arrived when our civil war broke out, and Schurz resigned his post to command a brigade in the Federal ar His return trip took him 276 CARL SCHURZ AS A REVOLUTIONIST through his old German haunts. German law still demanded his life for his part in the uprising of 1848. German law also wanted him for his rescue of Professor Kinkel in 1850. He had not yet been pardoned for his various "crimes," but it would not do to arrest and imprison a minister of the United States. Accordingly an official notice was printed in the German newspapers, notifying the authorities that "one Carl Schurz, a minister of the United States," was about to make a journey through the German empire, and warning the po- lice to let him alone. That barefooted tramp who knocked at the up- per door of Dr. Jacobi's den near Bonn, afterward led a brigade under General Sherman on his im- mortal march to the sea. It was General Schim- melpfenning. In personal appearance, Carl Schurz is tall and slender. His curly hair and beard are slightly tinged with gray. He more nearly resembles a man of fifty than of seventy years. He has a nervous manner, is courteous and approachable, but he has an uncontrollable aversion to talking about himself or of his exploits. He treated me kindly, even cordially, until I began asking ques- tions about Professor Kinkel and how he was res- cued from Spandau. Mr. Schurz then began back- ing away in a crab-like fashion out of the room. He suddenly remembered that he was "busy at 277 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES work on a paper for the American Academy of Political Science" and must sit at his desk every minute. It is a characteristic that every news- paper man has encountered who has ever attempted to induce him to discuss his own exploits. 278 One of the Busiest Women of New York. BY CARRIE D. McCOMBER. OR more than twenty-five years, on the days a sight has been witnessed on Second avenue, New York city, in one of the tenement districts. On each of those days about two hundred women and children, each equipped with a capacious basket, have thronged the neighboring street, and filed through the narrow hallway of the front house, through the unattractive back yard, to a rear tene- ment house, where each has been given materials for a holiday dinner. Each "dinner" has always consisted of a fowl, and groceries and vegetables enough to last an ordinary family a week, and is the result of the loving thought and effort of Mrs. Bella Cook, who has not been out of that house for forty-three years nor off her bed for forty-three years. During all that time, altho never rising to a sitting posture, and in constant pain, shut away from the world and all that we are accustomed to 279 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES 66 think makes life attractivo, with never a sight of tree or shrub or blade of grass, with only a narrow strip of blue sky showing between the ugly sky- lines of the buildings and above the pulley-lines with their unsightly array, Mrs. Cook has spent an active and joyous life. I said to her once: What weary days you must have spent here, Mrs. Cook! She replied in her bright, emphatic manner: "Weary! not one. When ministers and other people pray with me, and tell the Lord what a dreadful time I have had, and how He has afflicted me, I tell them that I had rather they would not pray for me at all than to do so in that way. I have not been so afflicted. My years have been happy." "Talk about heroism," said one recently. "I can see how one can be brave in the face of dan- ger to himself or others when nerved to it by ex- citement, or can sacrifice his life for a noble pur- pose when stimulated by enthusiasm; but to lie on a bed of pain in that forlorn place for almost half a century, and overlook one's own suffering, and control tortured nerves, all for the sake of the rank and file of unfortunate humanity,-well, in my mind, Mrs. Cook has out-heroed heroism!" A first visit to this remarkable woman must al- ways be a surprise, however familiar with the facts one may be. As one climbs the staircase to the second floor and knocks at the door, a brisk, 280 THE BUSIEST WOMAN OF NEW YORK cheery voice, very unlike that of an invalid, says, "Come in." Except the bed, the room lacks all the characteristics of a sick-room. The face on the pillow may quiver with a paroxysm of pain, but a bright smile always greets one, and there is a welcome in the very air. The little room is ex- quisitely clean, the tiny cook-stove shines like a mirror, pictures and friendly tokens are about the room, and there are always flowers. A maid does the work, and cares for her. Her bedstead was made especially for her, and was given to her in 1871. She has never been off it since that time. By an arrangement of straps and pulleys, head or feet or knees may be raised or lowered, or she can be raised on a canvas to allow her bed to be made and the mattress to be turned and changed. A large broad shelf swings back and forth on a level with her hands, encircling her body. This Mr. John Stephenson, the street-car manufacturer, had made for her. It holds her work, writing mate- rials, and all that she needs for her day's work. Everything is done that it is possible to do in that place to make her comfortable and her sur- roundings attractive. Among other things, a tele- phone was once tried connecting her bed with the • pulpit of the Rose Hill Methodist church, of which she has been a member for more than fifty years. The effort to listen through it, however, wearied her, and it was removed. During the years many 281 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES physicians have been consulted with reference to moving her from the house, and every expedient has been discussed; but all have agreed that the attempt would result in her death, and that she could not live to reach the street. Her "office hours," as she laughingly calls her day, are from nine to six, and between those hours she is seldom alone. She has a keen sense of hu- mor, and understands human nature intuitively. Men and women with all sorts of needs come to her. Well-known society people find their way to her humble home, seeking comfort in bereavement and trouble. Erring ones, those in search of work, the needy-all come to this apparently most helpless woman for council and aid. There is a continual coming for a dime for a night's lodging, for food, for the wherewithal with which to re- deem things from the laundry or from pawn, able- bodied men who can "get work to-morrow, ma'am, if I can only get a shave and a clean shirt,"—and so her busy days go by. And all get all that that noble soul can give them. Many a one has re- ceived there the first upward impulse to a new life, and found a before unknown hope and joy and peace. Every one who comes gets a hearing, and all who appeal to her credulity go down in her lit- tle book and are "looked up" by her helpers. I once asked her if she never reached the end of her "But then I resources. "Oh, yes!" she said. 282 THE BUSIEST WOMAN OF NEW YORK write to some of my rich people, and tell them that I am in a hole, and that it is not my work, but the Lord's; and they respond." Mrs. Cook was born in Hull, England, in 1821. She and her husband started for this country with their three little children in 1847. The baby was one of the twenty-five persons to die on the ship during the tedious seven weeks' voyage. Mrs. Cook had not learned patience in those days, and her grief for her child was immoderate and uncon- trollable. Her husband died of cholera two years after their arrival. To support herself and her two little ones, she took in fine sewing. In that way she made some very rich and influential friends, the ladies for whom she worked becoming interested in the intel- ligent and philanthropic little seamstress. During that time she devoted two hours of each day to visiting the sick and suffering, making up for the time thus spent by working early mornings and late nights. In Bellevue Hospital, where she was to be seen almost daily, she became known as the "Little Sunbeam." She was never strong. When two years old she fell and received injuries from which she never re- covered. Later in life she fell on the ice; and it is to those falls that she owes her long invalidism. 283 Winning Back the Sudan. BY EDWARD PAGE GASTON. ERE he comes-hurrah for the sirdar!" Long files of expectant people stood along the Victoria embankment, patiently awaiting a sight of England's most popular hero of the day, Lord Herbert H. Kitchener, conqueror of Khar- tum. He was on the way to the lord mayor's mansion to be given the freedom of the city of London and to receive the city's sword of honor, the first to be thus doubly honored in nearly twenty years. When his carriage swung by I saw an erect form and a strong face ruddied by the sun of the African deserts. 66 H Rarely has the United Kingdom been so stirred as by the news that came up from the Sudan in September of 1898 that Mahdism was dead, Khar- tum regained, and Gordon avenged. Her Majesty conferred a peerage on General Kitchener, many decorations for valor were given, and the queen visited the wounded soldiers on their return. The chain of events having their successful climax in the battle of Omdurman, the stronghold 284 WINNING BACK THE SUDAN of the rebellious Sudanese, make up a striking romance of modern times. In 1881 the English and Egyptian governments sent the late "Chinese " Gordon to the Sudan, fifteen hundred miles up the Nile, as governor-general of that vast region. As soon as he left Khartum at the end of his term, the Egyptian and other officials began again to rob and persecute the natives. The deliverer of the Sudan then appeared in the person of El Mahdi el Muntazar, who claimed that he was a descendant of the Prophet Mohammed, and therefore the long-expected Mussulman mes- siah. Rallying his forces, he began to sweep the land free from the hated intruders, and defeated force after force of their troops. As there was little profit in holding the arid Sudan, England and Egypt decided to withdraw from that terri- tory, and to accomplish this General Gordon was sent back up the Nile on as forlorn and desperate a mission as man ever undertook. The home government promised to keep open his communi- cations with Lower Egypt, a promise which was not fulfilled. Gordon reached Khartum in safety, but the war of extermination against the hated Christians was pressed by the mad Mahdi with greater vigor. Berber, down the Nile, was taken, and with its fall Gordon's touch with the outside world was broken, and he prepared for a siege against him- 285 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES self and his nine thousand soldiers and their fam- ilies quartered at Khartum. Month after month dragged along, and death cut down his fighting forces nearly one half in nine months. Still the queen's and khedive's troops did not come to the rescue, although tardy efforts were made to relieve the garrison, which was in desperate straits. Sunday, the 25th of January, 1885, was a sad day in the beleaguered camp at Khartum. Gen- eral Gordon was feeling unwell, and as he heard the continual firing of the enemy on his troops he seemed to realize that the end was near. "I have done my best for the honor of my country. Good-by. C. G. GORDON." These were the last words found in his journal, and after writing them he went and prayed long and earnestly, as was his custom. During the night the fire of the attacking Arabs diminished, but at half past three o'clock in the morning of Monday there was a stealthy rush for a part of the walls destroyed by the river floods, and then a swarm of fifty thousand Dervishes came howling through the break. "To the palace! to the church! was the cry. The palace guards heard the alarm and aroused their master, who attempted to escape with his body-servants to the arsenal. As the general ap- peared at the top of the stone steps descending to the ground from the government house, a howl of 99 286 WINNING BACK THE SUDAN savage delight went up. An Arab came bounding up the steps where General Gordon stood, saying, "Take me to your master, the Mahdi." Without heeding the words the Dervish lunged at his victim with a huge spear, and Gordon fell forward on the steps without another word. His head was severed from the body to gain its captor the reward promised by the Mahdi, while thou- sands of the yelling fiends mangled the remains with sword and spear thrusts, that they might say Gordon's blood was on their weapons, after which the body was thrown into the river. The head was carried in triumph through Omdurman, and then was displayed for three days upon a high pole in sight of Khartum. The success of Mahdism was complete, and the defeat of England was held by many to leave the stain of the brave Gordon's blood upon the nation's honor. Savagery drove out nearly every trace of civilization, and the slave-hunter succeeded the missionary. Postal communication was cut off, the railroad which was reaching southward to the Sudan was torn up and destroyed, and the Der- vishes used the wreck of the telegraph wires for spear-points. History tells of no such lapse from modern civilization to the worst kind of barbarism. The Mahdi who had accomplished all this died in the year of his triumph over Gordon, and his devoted followers erected to his holy memory a 287 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES high-domed tomb in Omdurman, which was wrecked by the explosive lyddite shells fired by the English gun-boats during the last campaign. The Khalifa, who succeeded the dead ruler, was a worthy leader of such a cause, and among his barbarities was the division of a large number of the followers of the dead Mahdi, whom he hated, into three groups. The members of one were hanged to a man, those of the second were decapitated, and the remainder had their right hands and left feet cut off. Among the English officers who in 1884-5 at- tempted to rescue Gordon was Col. Herbert H. Kitchener, noted as one of the most determined of the younger men in the Egyptian service. He never forgot for an hour the stigma on his country from the delay in moving to the relief of Khartum, and as the following years brought him advancement he begged only to avenge the death of his old gen- eral. In 1896 his ambition was rewarded when he was given command of the campaign aiming at the reconquest of the Sudan. His military and engineering genius had long been quietly at work on the problem, learning lessons from the previous failures, and adding new designs of his own. The difficulty to surmount was not alone the devastating Dervishes, but the murderous desert. The cata- racts of the Nile prevent the passage of upward- bound steamers except in the brief flood seasons, and clearly the advance against Omdurman must 288 WINNING BACK THE SUDAN be made in part overland across the hundreds of miles of the Nubian desert. Camel trains had been used before, but General Kitchener asked that he might build a railway to carry his troops and sup- plies, and for use later in the reopening of com- merce. In the face of much opposition he built this road through to Atbara in little more than two years, and at a fourth of the usual expense, by em- ploying his native black soldiery and convicts on its construction. Skirmishes with the Dervishes were frequent, but the first battle was fought at Atbara in April of 1898, when sixteen thousand of the Khalifa's forces were found strongly defended by entrench- ments and a zereba, or stockade, of thorny mimosa brush. They were attacked by twelve thousand of the Anglo-Egyptian troops, who rushed through the barriers of thorns after their field-guns and long- range rifles had done effective preliminary work. The Sudanese were found to have burrowed into the earth like rabbits. The slaughter was tremen- dous, and many of the depressions were entirely filled by the dead and dying. Shortly a rout of the Arabs began before the overwhelming onrush of the Highlanders and other troops; but many remained in the blood-sodden trenches, praying to Allah that they might kill a Christian dog before dying. The wounded asked no quarter, and had to be killed to prevent their killing, many instances 19 289 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES being shown of the ferocious heroism-which was later evidenced in a larger degree in the splendid courage of the Dervish forces at Omdurman. One little Arab boy of but ten years seized a heavy ele- phant gun to defend his wounded father, and fired at the English soldiers as they rushed by. He missed his aim, and his dying parent kicked him viciously for his awkwardness; but the lad had done what he could. The commanding Mahmud was found sitting on a rug in his tent, saying his dying prayers and surrounded by his weapons, as befitted a defeated war chief who expected soon to die. He was brought before the Sirdar, and to the English com- mander's question, answered: "Yes; I am Mah- mud, and I am the same as you-commander-in- chief." Early in August the definite movement on Om- durman, one hundred and fifty miles up the river from Atbara, was begun, heavy reenforcements being made to the sirdar's troops until a total of twenty-three thousand was numbered in his infan- try, cavalry, and camelry, reenforced by seven river boats, three of which had been brought up in sections by rail. The last day of August gave the advancing army its first view, through the clear atmosphere, of Omdurman, twenty miles away, and the Anglo- Egyptian army encamped the night before the 290 WINNING BACK THE SUDAN great battle at a small village on the Nile five miles from the city. A force of thousands of the enemy afoot and mounted had been seen the day before, and there was a sharp watch kept against a night surprise, the English troops building up a thorny zereba before them, and the blacks making trenches. The morning of the 2d of Septem- ber opened in cloudy weather, and at shortly after six o'clock the battle to the death began. I have talked with numbers of the men who were in the fight, and they say that a strange, dense silence fell upon the invading forces when the plain in front of the camp was dimly seen to move as fully fifty thousand Arab troops advanced upon them in five great divisions. It was an imposing and brilliant spectacle, their battle-front being nearly four miles in length, and showing the glinting shields and banners of the one hundred and fifty emirs leading their tribesmon. As they approached to the at- tack the English heard an ominous hum of myriad oices, and as distance lessened the sound rose to a raucous wave of fury, like the surf of an angered sea, as they hoarsely shouted their battle-cry, "Allah Rasul-Allah el Mahdi!" The Khalifa and his Mollah priests had wrought up their fol- lowers to a fanatical frenzy, and the Khalifa had told the priests at the mosque that he would anni- hilate the infidels and be back in Omdurman in time for noonday prayers. 291 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES The jar of the British field-guns startled the mass into more definite life, for at the first fire the Dervishes surged forward in a white-garmented wave, coming straight at their foes at a running speed. Then the British guns began to speak in section volleys at two thousand yards, and so exact was the firing that it all seemed a single report of a mighty gun. Yet on the Khalifa and his follow- ers came, in the face of such a ripping fire as per- haps no civilized troops would endure. They were mowed down in whole battalions by the murderous shells and bullets. The ragged lines gathered closer together, and still rushed on in mad fury against the wicked rut! rut! rut! of the quick-fir- ing Maxims and the thudding of the gun-boats sta- tioned on the flanks resting on the river. In this first rush of that mad day there was shown that complete defiance of death which has always been so admired in the fighters of the Sudan. One old man whose eyes blazed in fanatical fury raced ahead of his people, carrying one of the white flags. While others faltered, he rushed straight at the enemy's rifles. On he came, a splendid specimen of bravery, until he was within two hun- dred yards of the English line, when a bullet hit his breast. Then he folded his arms across his chest, his limbs loosened, and he sank, still trying to support his flag. The Dervishes did not retreat, 292 WINNING BACK THE SUDAN but the section of the Omdurman horde which flung itself against the British front was simply annihilated, and the desert was littered with bloody, white-robed figures of the dusky warriors, some of the wounded continuing their fire until death shook them in its final paroxysm. A few dropped only a few paces from the English lines, over which they cast their spears. During the mad forward rush the sinister wh-t! wh-t-wh-t! of the bullets from the Dervish guns sang their requiem among the invading forces; but the execution was light, as only four hundred of the sirdar's men were lost during the day. It was nearly ten o'clock in the morning, and the English troops were turned toward Omdur- man, to which it was thought the main Mahdist forces had retreated, when a buzzing fire suddenly broke out again from behind the hills on three sides of the advancing and exultant army. It was then discovered that the Khalifa had divided his warriors into three companies, and the Dervishes who had just been repulsed were only one of the three. Another came near to capturing the cam- elry and cavalry of one of the British divisions, sixty of the Egyptian camelmen being killed and wounded. Most glorious of all the day's deeds was the charge of the Twenty-first Lancers, numbering three hundred and twenty men. During the sec- 293 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES ond engagement these horsemen, who were in their first fight, saw a detached body of about three hun- dred Dervishes, upon whom the Lancers boldly charged. "Knee to knee they swept on," one of the men tells me, "until they were but two hundred yards from the enemy. Then suddenly they saw the trap. Between them and the three hundred there yawned a hidden water-course; out of this ravine. there sprang instantly a cloud of dark heads amid brandished swords and a thunder of savage voices. Three thousand Dervishes were hidden in that ravine." But the Lancers swept on splendidly. They leaped their horses boldly into the breach, each man aiming his lance or saber at one of the Der- vishes, who were crouching ready for the ham- string cut to disable the horses. Of the Lancers who were unhorsed, but one escaped alive. It was a wild mêlée through a foe outnumbering them thirty to one; but on the brave men fought, until they came out on the other side of the kohr which had threatened to overwhelm them. The Lancers were war-wild, and all with one accord re-formed to again lunge into the bloody masses they had left behind them in the pit; but their officers would not permit this second rash onset, and ordered the men to dismount for carbine fire. They pressed the Arabs back until they came under an English bat- 294 WINNING BACK THE SUDAN tery, and the three thousand cunning savages were shortly dead. Twenty-five of the Lancers were killed, fifty were wounded, and nearly one hun- dred and fifty horses felt the blade and spear; but the feat was one which stands alone in all the tri- umphs of British arms for nearly half a century. The battle crashed and swirled in its shifting track, when finally the Arabs made their last great stand around the black banner of the kingly Kha- lifa, which was planted at the front in the sand, where it flapped, raven-like, in the storms of lead and smoky flame. The Khalifa, his brother, the Emir Yakub, and his son, the Sheikh el Din, all joined forces in the last dramatic and desperate rally of the royal family to regain their failing fortunes. From there they charged and charged again, the footmen being led by the Baggara horse, the Rough Riders of the Sudan, and their bravery was simply superb as they followed the Emir Yakub. It was the remnant of the greatest army that Mahdism ever raised, and it died worthily for the mighty empire for which it battled. There was not one rush nor several, but dash on dash in quick-succeeding waves of frenzy, each attack being made over the slippery slaughter-floor of the preceding ones. The most of those remaining around the black flag, as also about the other green one which still floated, became simply death-loving maniacs, as they wandered toward the enemy as 295 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES calmly as if on a saunter, and without a twinge of fear. On some of these the English soldiers would not fire, as a tribute to their bravery. Un- der the shell-torn black flag at last stood only three of the living, facing as many thousands of the English, but still unconquered. They calmly folded their arms about its bullet-splintered shaft, and gazed steadily forward. Two sank before the fire that centered upon them. The last Dervish to surrender stood taller, and filled his chest proudly; he shouted the name of Allah, and hurled his spear. After this he waited for the bullet, which took him in the heart. He quivered, and fell forward in an involuntary salaam of death to his conquerors. Under the black flag, Mahdism died at midday after a six hours' contest. After the battle the Northern soldiers saw how calmly an Arab may die. Some had removed their slippers and placed them under their heads before expiring, to pillow their last sleep; a few were kneeling with hands clasped to pray, their dead faces turned toward Mecca, while others were lit- erally torn to pieces by the gusts of leaden death. Now and again a form seemingly lifeless sprang to its feet, showing grievous wounds, and with a snarl of imprecation flung a spear or fired a rifle at the nearest soldiers before being bayoneted. Of the three leaders of the Mahdists, the Emir Osman Azrak was dead under the white banner, 296 WINNING BACK THE SUDAN and Yakub, the brother of the Khalifa, was dying under the black flag, with fifty of his comrades heaped about him. While death-gasping, he rec- ognized his old British captive, Slatin Pasha, for- merly a governor of the Sudan, but who escaped and returned with General Kitchener to see Mah- dism die. The Khalifa's banner was supported by dead arms, so that it still fluttered its rent folds of defiance when Christian hands were laid upon it. When I saw this famous standard, its bullet- slitted fabric and splintered bamboo staff bore a silent testimony to the fearful ordeal which it had stood to inspire, and where it had only dipped in surrender when its defenders had died. Seeing that his cause was lost, the Khalifa fled into the deserts toward Kordufan; but such num- bers of his camels were captured that he had to abandon many of his wives. Eleven thousand killed, sixteen thousand wounded, and four thousand prisoners-this was the Dervish loss on that day of long-delayed reck- oning. The destruction was such as has hardly befallen any great army in a like space of time in all the known history of war. When the sirdar's forces approached Omdur- man an old man came out on a donkey with a white flag to surrender the city; but it was not until the following day that desultory firing upon the invading soldiery was stopped. Then the late 297 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES Mussulman warriors came in hundreds to enlist in the Anglo-Egyptian armies. On Sunday General Kitchener and a company of officers and troops crossed the river to Khartum, where a Gordon memorial service was held at the wrecked palace of the governor-general, upon which the English and Egyptian flags were then raised and saluted. It was the burial ceremony for the brave Christian after nearly fourteen years' delay. Four of the army chaplains led the service; the bands played the "Dead March in Saul," "A Few More Years Shall Roll," and the favorite evening hymn of the dead soldier, "Abide with Me." There were twitching lips and tear-dewed faces among the war-bronzed men in that pathetic serv- ice, which finally wiped away the stain from Eng- land's name, if such there ever had been. 298 The Hermit of Mount Alto. BY J. MONTGOMERY M'GOVERN. NEAR TEAR the summit of Mount Alto, one of the spurs of the Blue Ridge mountains in the extreme northern part of Georgia, one is startled to find in the midst of the surrounding wilderness a high stone wall surrounding a beautiful garden, with an orchard adjoining. At the extreme end of the garden is a tiny stone house-merely a one-room hut; but it contains a veritable curiosity-shop of treasures. The walls are lined from floor to ceiling with shelves contain- ing books, nearly all valuable, and all handsomely bound. A large medicine-cabinet filled with vials and boxes is in the room, and on the table, beside a violin-case, is a pair of medicine-scales, one pan of which still contains a small quantity of white powder, as if the owner had been interrupted be- fore he could finish weighing out the medicine. Everything, however, is now thickly covered with dust. From the "crackers," whose primitive cabins stand at intervals in small "clearings" in the 299 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES woods farther down the mountain-side, and from the wealthier planters living in the valley, one learns the story of the "Hermit of Mount Alto," as he was called. Dr. Berkman was a Belgian who came to this country a comparatively young man. Letters of introduction from some of the most distinguished men in his own country and other European coun- tries would have given him entrée into any society in America; but before definitely deciding upon any place of permanent abode in this country he chanced to spend a few days in the mountain dis- trict of Northwest Georgia. Realizing the degra- ded condition of the rural "mountain population," the Belgian doctor determined to devote the re- mainder of his life to ameliorating their condi- tion. With his own hands he built the little stone hut from stones collected on the mountain-side and laboriously carried to the spot he had chosen for his home, and under his care the garden on that bleak and stony mountain-top soon blossomed lit- erally "as the rose.' In his isolation from all re- fined and congenial surroundings, Dr. Berkman's flowers and the music he was able to draw from his treasured violin were his sole recreations. "" The mountain crackers, naturally shy and sus- picious, at first refused to meet the advances of the kindly spoken foreigner, with his broken Eng- 300 THE HERMIT OF MOUNT ALTO lish accent; but when several members of one fam- ily living in a cabin near the doctor's home were taken sick at one time, and Dr. Berkman not only went to them, giving them medicine and a physi- cian's treatment gratuitously, but remained with them day and night, nursing the sick with the gentleness of a woman and the skill of a trained physician, they grew to appreciate his worth. After that Dr. Berkman's ministrations among the crackers were constant. He taught them habits of order and cleanliness, and showed them more wholesome methods of preparing food. No matter how great the distance or how inclement the weather, the doctor would come to them if they were in trouble. But it was not for the improvement of their physical condition alone that Dr. Berkman spent his life among these mountain crackers. Many of them he taught to read and write; he lent them. books, papers, and magazines, and encouraged them to discuss current topics of interest. He did much to improve their social and moral condition. As a rule, there is scarcely a greater social dis- tance between the Russian autocrat and the muzhik on his estate than there is between the aristocratic Southern planter and the cracker of the Southern mountains; yet by the example of his own earnest work, and by force of his eloquent persuasion, Dr. Berkman succeeded in interesting many of the 301 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES planters in the welfare of their unfortunate moun- tain neighbors. One morning when a mountaineer came in haste to summon the doctor to the bedside of an ill woman he received no answer to his knock; and, pushing open the door, he found Dr. Berkman lying on his couch, unconscious, with one hand resting near the little medicine-scales by his bed- side. Directions were found for the shipping of Dr. Berkman's body to relatives in a distant city; but he left no directions or request for the disposition of his books and other personal belongings, and they remain in his little stone hut to-day just as he left them. " 302 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES Lea Hurst, the charming Derbyshire home of the Nightingales. When Miss Nightingale left England, on the 21st of October, 1854, no one knew publicly as to the time of her going. She took with her fourteen sisters of an Anglican community, and was joined at Paris by ten of the Roman Catholic Sisters of Mercy. There were ten other English ladies who had volunteered. At Boulogne the fishermen found out who the ladies were, and in spite of objections insisted on carrying their luggage and respectfully performing other services. On arrival at Scutari, Turkey, November 5, the "deliverer," as Miss Nightingale has been termed, found thirteen thou- sand sick and wounded awaiting her care. With a death-rate of forty-two, when her task was done it was found that the mortality had been reduced to two per cent. So fearful had been the surgical mismanagement, that before her arrival in four out of every five cases of amputation, death from gan- grene ensued. A fund of $5,000,000 was raised and placed at her disposal through the London Times. To say that it was wisely and beneficently expended would be a truism unnecessary to utter. In all probability the only living American who had the opportunity, however brief, of seeing Miss Nightingale in the midst of the great work she ac- complished is Richard C. McCormick, ex-member of Congress, first secretary and second governor of 304 1 FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE "THE LADY OF THE LAMP "" the territory of Arizona, and first accepted war correspondent of an American newspaper. He represented the New York Evening Post at Bala- klava and in the English Crimean camp around Sebastopol during the fall and winter of 1854-55. I had a pleasant little talk with him recently. My special interest was, of course, centered upon the descriptions of camps and hospitals of that date, and more particularly upon the fact that he visited the great Scutari hospital which Florence Nightin- gale so splendidly transformed from an abode of al- most brutal indifference and squalid incompetency into a monumental example of organized and hu- manizing beneficence. Mr. McCormick's recollec- tions are still vivid and exact. "The camp life and conditions," said the ex- Congressman, "of the allied armies were quite dif- ferent. Those of the Turks were simply unendur- able. The English camp was incomplete, exposed, badly managed; the men were overworked, badly fed, improperly clothed, and exposed, as the world now knows, to the worst maladies and sickness in- cidental to neglected camps, bad sanitary condi- tions, poor commissariat, and worse medical care. The French were well provisioned, well clad and cared for, and as free from sickness as could be expected under the circumstances. They had good wagon-trains; the English had none. With every French regiment were good cooks and a regular 20 305 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES baker, portable ovens, and other conveniences. The French-field hospitals were clean and well equipped, able to accommodate a considerable num- ber, while the one maintained by the British at Balaklava was small and ill equipped, even dirty, when I first saw it. As for the Turks, it was but 'kismet' for them. After Dr. Russell and Mr. MacDonald, the correspondent and business man- ager of the London Times, arrived, the medical staff improved vastly. There soon was one doctor to each one hundred men, and of the most compe- tent men England could find. The Balaklava hos- pital at least became clean and fairly well sup- plied. But it was a long time before they ceased letting goods rot at Varna or remain worse than useless in transport holds. Sick and wounded, men with amputated limbs-gangrened, often- fever-worn, and weak to pitifulness were sent to Scutari across the disagreeable cold and choppy Black sea. To me, the English army organization of that period remains in memory as the worst I have seen or heard of. "You want to know something of the Scutari hospital and of Miss Nightingale? I only saw her but a few moments, but her face and figure re- main fixed in my mind. "When Miss Nightingale and her small staff came from England, backed with the utmost power of the War Department, whose new secretary, Sid- | 306 "THE LADY OF THE LAMP." ney Herbert, appreciated the tremendous failure of his predecessor and the overmastering needs in the Crimea, whose exposure by its correspondent, Dr. Russell, almost made the London Times leader of an English revolution, the barracks hospital was nearly destitute of beds even. It was filthy in the extreme. Confusion reigned, and red tape alone held command. Ill ventilated, cold, filthy, badly located, and thus more than badly adapted, it was indeed a wretched state of affairs which that won- derful English lady so soon transformed into com- parative decency and cleanliness, making it fit by untiring skill in direction and by the unyielding personal supervision she gave to its details. I met Sydney Godolphin Osborne, an English clergyman of a well-known aristocratic family, who had been at Scutari for a considerable period, voluntarily aiding with his son in the care of the suffering. He was coolly told, after arrival, that they had everything-nothing was wanting.' But he found the transport service to be infamously unfit; there were no nurses except a few invalid soldiers; in many other ways there was no adequate medical service, the food was hardly fit for well men and wholly unfit for sick ones, and the water on ship- board was usually out of reach of sick men, and often undrinkable when obtained. When I first saw the Scutari hospital the floor was still covered with pallets, and nearly ten thousand men were in 307 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES the building. MacDonald, agent of the London Times, was Miss Nightingale's efficient aid. He had all the money needed, and like the 'Lady of the Lamp' was able, ready, and willing to break rules and cut all bonds of red tape and officialism in order to help those who needed. Yes, I heard about the incident of Miss Nightingale having the locked door of a medical storeroom broken in when the medical official declared it could not be opened without some absent person's order. The supplies were needed. A man and an ax appeared, a low-voiced order was given, and then the door was opened. Officialism learned its lesson. As to deaths, I have no positive-that is, personal— knowledge, but here are figures that were given at the time. The total loss was put at 44,000, only 10,000 of whom could be in any way accounted for as lost in battle and fields. The remainder, 34,000, were accounted for as follows: dysentery, 9,860; diarrhea, 9,180; fever, 4,760; exposure, insufficient and bad food, rheumatism, insufficient clothing, etc., 10,200—all being preventable causes of death. "When passing through the outer room of the great barracks I saw for a few moments only—it was my first visit the famous lady whose name was to become immortal. She was busily engaged in directing the preparation of some dishes, and seemed wholly concentrated in the task. I recall 308 "THE LADY OF THE LAMP" her quite plainly: a slender, tall, graceful figure, draped in some cool, soft gray fabric. She looked fragile indeed. Her face, lifted for a moment, was small, pallid, but very fine. Reticence and refine- ment were instantly impressed on me, yet I no- ticed as some one spoke to her a curious luminous- ness of concentration. The eyes were dark, clear, steely almost in their earnestness, and tho I was not near enough to hear the few low-voiced words, I caught the clear, distinct intonation, and was struck by it as by the quick look of the brood- ing eyes." Miss Nightingale has expressed her own concep- tion of the work to which her life has thus been devoted in these words: (6 "Nursing is an art, and if it is to be made an art it requires as exclusive a devotion, as hard a preparation, as any painter or sculptor's work; for what is having to do with dead canvas or cold mar- ble compared with having to do with the living body-the temple of God's spirit? It is one of the fine arts-I had almost said the finest of fine arts." The gratitude of the British people was as a pil- lar of light. They raised a testimonial fund of £72,000, or $360,000, for the "Lady of the Lamp," who accepted it only on the understand- ing that it was to be expended in the great work of training nurses and creating the effective hospi- 309 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES tal service, public and private, with which her name will always remain associated. How effec- tually this has been done, the world now knows. Its results remain both as an object-lesson and as a constant means of emergent benefit. Tho an invalid ever since her return to Eng- land, she is in the seventy-eighth year of her re- markably active and beneficent life; and never having ceased to help mankind, is even now from her sofa and library table at her home in Mayfair, London, and the country place in Bucks county nearby, between which her days are divided, still the intellectual director of the great hospital and training service which she organized and has always shaped and managed. Her training-schools alone have sent to the public service at least twenty-five thousand graduates, and there are half as many more engaged in private service whose training has come from the Nightingale or related schools. Florence Nightingale really founded, then, as Kinglake, the historian of the Crimean war, has declared: "A gracious dynasty that reigns su- preme in wards where sufferers lie." Her life has lifted the race. As she slowly passes, her gentle face, silver-crowned, blesses the days she lived, and endows those which the world will remember with an enduring sense of holiness. 310 José Martí, "The Master." BY GEORGE RENO. OCCASI CCASIONALLY, perhaps once in a century, unheralded and unannounced, there comes from some unexpected quarter of the horizon an intellectual meteor which illumines the world for a brief period, and then sinks back into the great unknowable. Such was José Marti, a genius born of the peo- ple, to whom all who came within the radius of his influence willingly doffed the cap and bowed in reverence. Had not Marti sacrificed everything — time, money, energy, health, life itself to the one great purpose of his existence, the freedom of Cuba, he would have won for himself in the world of art and letters a place which might have been envied by any writer of the present century. Marti was born in Havana on the 28th of Janu- ary, 1853. His father, Don Mariano Marti, was a retired military officer of Spain, who married Doña Leonor Perez, a Cuban, José's mother. His father never gave evidence of other merit than 311 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES good citizenship. His mother's face indicated great strength of character, but this was not made manifest save in the works of her son. Neither parent gave promise of that sublime genius which made José Marti the greatest man of Latin blood produced in this hemisphere, and one of the most gifted men of any race who lived in the nineteenth century. At a very early age he began to display not only an aptitude for learning, but the possession of orig- inal thought as well. From childhood to the grave, Marti seemed to imbibe, to actually drink in, knowledge from myriad sources. Human nature, learned from the faces of men and women, was his favorite study. Marti read and digested everything worth read- ing. Books and papers were his constant compan- ions, but he did not learn their contents as others are compelled to do. One glance at a page seemed sufficient. Through a strange kind of intellectual or spiritual telepathy, thoughts of writers long dead seemed to be instantaneously conveyed from the printed page to his receptive brain. Draper's "History of the Intellectual Development of Europe" he devoured and digested within an hour. It was as natural for him to write in verse or prose as it was to read. At the age of fourteen he contributed to one of the more liberal papers of Havana a poem, some stanzas of which reflected 312 JOSE MARTI, "THE MASTER" upon the wisdom and justice of Spanish rule in Cuba. For this he spent his fifteenth birthday behind bars, where he was closely interrogated in regard to his loyalty and support of the Crown. For many months, under a burning tropical sun, he was compelled to carry heavy blocks of stone to the top of a scaffolding, dragging behind him a ball and chain which at every step threatened to trip and hurl him down to the rocks below. "To simply drop and end it all would have been so easy," he afterward said; "but that would have pleased Spain, and encouraged her in making slaves of a people who had to be free." Not dying within the time hoped for, and fear- ing that his sufferings might produce a dangerous sympathy in Havana, Marti was transferred a pris- oner to Spain, where, removed from the scene of danger, he was permitted some degree of liberty. In a short time his sweetness of disposition and wonderfully clever conversational powers had gained for him so many friends that he was given the freedom of the city of Zaragoza, and soon after- ward was permitted to attend the university, from which he was graduated in 1873, the degree of bachelor of arts and letters being conferred upon him in spite of the powerful opposition of the Carlist influence prevailing at that time. When only seventeen he published a pamphlet in Madrid, "The Political Prisons of Cuba," de- 313 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES scribing the horrors which he had witnessed while confined therein, and appealing for a reform of the evils. Before his twentieth birthday Marti as- sumed a very prominent rôle in the political dis- cussions which took place in the Academy of Jurisprudence, and was the acknowledged leader of the Cuban element of Madrid, where he founded the "Logia de Cubanos," establishing and teaching in a free night school for poor Spanish children. His eloquence soon became so popular and his influence so great that Señor Sagasta ordered the Logia closed, whereupon Marti departed for the republic of Mexico. There he was received with every mark of appreciation and esteem, and soon won for himself among men of law and letters a name and reputation which remained permanent. Shortly after the treaty of Zanjon in 1878, which terminated the ten-years' war, Marti re- turned to Havana, whence General Blanco, con- vinced that he was connected with the threatened uprising of 1879, exiled him to Spain. But during his short stay in Havana his intellectual accom- plishments, his wonderful oratory and brilliant essays, took the capital by storm. Marti had friends in Madrid who helped him to escape across the frontier of France, whence he embarked for New York, in the early part of 1880. Here he soon became known as leader of the great body of Anglo and Latin-American Cubans 314 JOSÉ MARTI, "THE MASTER " whom oppression had driven into exile, and from that time on he worked unceasingly to bring them into one great political union whose object was the freedom of Cuba. Their views upon the most effectual means and the most opportune time for bringing this about were widely at variance. Petty jealousies and sectional strife existed in all quarters; false social lines were drawn in every direction, many Cuban societies absolutely refusing to cooperate with others. In the face of these serious obstacles to success, Marti heroically went to work. He wrote, lectured, and traveled in the cause of liberty, and in carrying on this campaign of diplomacy and education he visited every place where Cubans could be found. The work was a stupendous one, but the genius and untiring industry of Marti were equal to it. With rare tact and foresight he applied himself to the education of the masses, the great body of poor and unlettered Cubans, the cigar-makers and labor- ers, black, white, and yellow, who had never be- fore taken active part in any revolution in Cuba. To these men he taught for the first time the true meaning and possibilities of liberty, and also that fine discrimination between liberty and license which they had never before heard. He appealed to them in person, and for this purpose established a system of night schools, 315 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES where the poor assembled after working hours to listen to his discourses, not alone on politics, but on every possible subject that would tend to en- lighten their minds and improve their condition. To aid him in this work, Marti surrounded himself with an able corps of assistants, who lectured nightly upon subjects calculated to enlarge the horizon of their thought. In New York city his four devoted companions and colaborers were Mr. Benjamin Guerra, after- ward treasurer of the Cuban Delegation; Señor Gonzalo Quesada, chargé d'affaires at Washington; Mr. Horatio Rubens, advisory counsel; and Mr. T. Estrada Palma, chief delegate. The results of this system of education were marvelous; an actual hunger for knowledge soon prevailed even among the most ignorant. All hailed him as the great teacher, "El Maestro." The brighter pupils became coinstructors to their companions; the most intelligent, when sufficiently prepared, were sent to Cuba, there to sow the seeds of liberty and education, to spread the gospel of independence. In this way the poor "guajiro," or countryman of the interior, learned for the first time the meaning of the word liberty, and was consequently prepared to fight for it. Thus it came to pass that the last revolution in Cuba was not, like the previous one, a war of the aristocracy, but was an uprising of all classes of 316 JOSÉ MARTI, "THE MASTER" the people. During all this time, Marti was work- ing with untiring energy through a hundred differ- ent channels. A voluminous correspondence was kept up with influential men in all quarters of the globe. Plans were being laid and matured for desperate work to come. The agents of Spain did all in their power to foster and maintain the petty jealousy and sec- tional feeling among the Cubans in America; but the magnetic eloquence and unanswerable logic of "El Maestro" finally prevailed, and on the tenth day of April, 1892, the two hundred clubs of the Western hemisphere were for the first time consol- idated, and became the "Partido Revolucionario Cubano," or Cuban Revolutionary Party. No other man lived who could have accomplished this end, and it was absolutely necessary in order to secure the freedom of Cuba. For the first time, all refugees from the island put their shoulders to the wheel to raise the neces- sary funds to inaugurate the revolution and carry on the war for independence, and they elected Marti chief delegate with supreme executive au- thority. During all of these busy days, Marti performed an amount of labor which would have crushed any ordinary man. In addition to the work done in the schools which he had established, two hours were devoted every evening to teaching in the 317 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES night schools of New York. He wrote an editorial letter for a prominent newspaper in the City of Mexico six days in the week, and contributed a number of articles upon various subjects to the columns of the New York Sun; in fact, Charles A. Dana's unsv swerving faith in the cause of Cuban in- dependence may be attributed largely to the per- sonal influence of José Marti. At the time of the latter's death, Mr. Dana wrote: "He was a man of genius, of imagination, of hope, and of courage; he died as such a man might wish to die, bat- tling for liberty and democracy." During this period Marti held the positions of consul-general in New York of the Argentine Re- public, of the Republic of Paraguay, of Bolivia, and was also minister plenipotentiary from Uruguay. On October 10, 1894, Marti resigned his various consulships (one of which paid him $6,000 a year) in order to speak at a meeting which was held to commemorate the anniversary of the beginning of the ten-years' war, announcing himself to be in the future "only a Cuban patriot." The time was rapidly approaching when the in- itial blow of the revolution would be struck. The 25th of December, 1894, was determined upon as the day when the signal-gun of revolt would be fired in the Oriente. A large Everything seemed to be in readiness. 318 JOSÉ MARTI, "THE MASTER” amount of ammunition and rifles had been pur- chased and shipped to Fernandina, Fla. Three fast steam yachts had been chartered to convey them, together with several bands of Cuban lead- ers, from the United States, Costa Rica, and San Domingo to the island, where they were to be met by the insurgents, who had been previously noti- fied of the day of the uprising. Marti himself was to accompany one of the ex- peditions, the one led by Gomez. On the day pre- vious to the sailing as planned, four of Marti's companions and colaborers waited to bid him good- by and god-speed in a little office at No. 111 Broadway. They were Benjamin Guerra, Gonzalo Quesada, T. Estrada Palma, and Horatio Rubens. The latter, as he entered the room, carried in his hands a copy of an evening newspaper which gave them news of betrayal. When Marti a few mo- ments later entered the apartment, the paper was handed him without a word. His face paled as he read it, but he gave no other sign of emotion; then, turning to his companions, he asked: "Do you wish to abandon the project, or will you stand by me?" With one voice they answered: "We will stand by you to the end.” "Then," said Marti, "in spite of this delay, I will be at the head of an army in Cuba within ninety days." 319 TRUE STORIES OF HEROIC LIVES And he was the 24th of February being se- lected as the date for the uprising. On that day Gen. Bartolome Maso struck the first blow for Cuban independence in the late revolution. On the 31st of March, Gen. Antonio Maceo, with thirty companions, landed near Baracoa, and on April 6, José Marti, with General Gomez and five companions, landed near Guantanamo, on the south coast. With the arrival of these leaders the revolution rapidly spread; all classes, from the aristocracy to the humblest half-breed, taking part. They swept everything before them in the Oriente, until their first defeat at the battle of Dos Rios, on May 19, when José Marti, the founder of the revolu- tion, and the most distinguished of all Cubans, was killed. Upon approaching the enemy, which greatly outnumbered the insurgents, General Gomez requested Marti to remain at a designated spot while he with a small party of men reconnoi- tered on the right. During the sharp firing that soon after followed, Marti found it impossible to remain out of action, and against the protest of his staff he charged in the face of the enemy, and was mortally wounded, his horse falling dead and pinning him to the ground. 320 DOES NOT CIRCULATE Roosevelt 130.T76 True stories of heroic lives : Widener Library 006757636 3 2044 086 960 085