> -r FIFTY YEARS AFTER The Author firry years AFTER by JOHN H\ PAYNTER, A.M. MARGENT PRESS NEW YORK 1940 copyricht, 1940, by john h. paynter Published by Marcent Press 120 East 39TH Street, New York, N. Y. All rightt reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission of the publisher FEINTED IM THE UNITED STATES OF AHIIICA »V J. I. LITTLE tt IVES COMPANY. NEW YORE CONTENTS Part I LETTERS 9 DEDICATION TO WILSON CARY 19 THEN AND NOW 17> BONNY ENGLAND 2J MORE LONDON SIGHTS 48 PARIS FIFTY YEARS AFTER 6% PARIS VIGNETTES 69 EVENINGS IN PARIS 82 VERSAILLES AND MALMAISON 87 HOMEWARD BOUND 96 Part II Memories and Musings in Prose and Poetry OLD GEORGETOWN IO3 DAVID COPPERFIELD 122 MY DOG FRIENDS 143 V vi CONTENTS BROTHER JARRETT SEES NEW YORK AND FINDS GOOD SPIRITS ARE APPRECIATED 150 REMINISCING RAMBLES 158 "skins MAY DIFFER, BUT AFFECTIONS. ..." 161 GRANDMA 'MELIA's ADVICE 164 THE NEW YORK BOARDING HOUSE 174 EXECUTIVE MEETING, FAR EAST CITIZENS ASSOCIA- TION l80 back to denver, a little journey to the west i 89 the district liners 202 lincoln university 206 a christmas retrospect 209 uncle jake's christmas 210 to emperor selassie 213 as to mr. stoddard's "rising tide of color" 214 the black hundred 215 lincoln heights training school 217 THE PARASITE 2l8 HOW DO YOU DO 219 PORTRAIT OF A LADY 220 EACH CAN DO A LITTLE 221 MEDITATION 222 COME CLEAN 223 ODE TO 1940 224 ILLUSTRATIONS the author Frontispiece Facing page WILSON CARY 19 HON. JOHN R. ARCHER 28 PROF. LOUIS T. ACHILE 64 VERDEN T. PAYNTER, BRENT PAYNTER, WILLIAM CARY PAYNTER IOO THE AUTHOR AND WAGS IN THE DEN I48 10 FIFTY YEARS AFTER When your letter arrived, they, under the influence of great anxiety and suspense, lost all fear of my indig- nation (if I should feel any, for having my letter opened) and opened the letter, which afforded them great relief, and not a little amusement—relief, because from what you had stated, and the fact that you had written from Palermo they felt convinced that I was safe and on my way homeward—and amusement caused by your happy and graphic description of a rough night at sea and the ludicrous appearance of the Captain as described by you. I must confess that you are robbing the Literary World of a great treasure in going to sea. I don't know what you think about. Well Old Fellow, after I parted from you that last night at Gibraltar I went to bed and slept soundly till half after four the next morning when I got up, washed and dressed, and prepared for two or three day's (as I knew it to be) hard work. Well, after partaking of what little food I had, I started from the hotel and boldly walked out of the town, through the gates, across the English and Spanish lines into "Elina." When I arrived in Spanish Town I felt and breathed a little easier; although not perfectly safe, I knew I was on the right road to getting safely away. After passing through "Elina" I followed the road to "San Roque" where I rested some little time and from thence across some great hills, and a sandy plain, and found myself about noon on the margin of a forest of "Cork Yielding Trees" which I was compelled to traverse to get to a place called "Pablo." I at once plunged into FIFTY YEARS AFTER 11 the forest, not knowing whether I was going the right way or the wrong one, but all the same, going straight ahead; when I had been walking about a couple of hours I came to a little hut on a clear space surrounded by trees and there I rested myself and partook of some refresh- ment provided for me by the lady of the house. While resting at the hut a party of Mulateers and their guide were going by, and on being asked by the lady of the house whither they were going answered, "To Malaga." When I heard "To Malaga" my heart gave a great bound and I felt overcome with joy; it seemed to me a special act of providence, the sending of these men in my way, and I fervently thanked God for my deliverance from I knew not what; but I knew that about eighty miles of mountainous country lay between me and my destination and I knew not a foot of the way, and here were guides (it seemed to me specially sent) ready and willing, for the sake of my company, to conduct me to the place I wanted to go so I hastily finished and paid for my repast, and started on the road with my newly found friends and guides, and after about six hours hard travel- ling up hill and down hill, rough road and smooth road, but with an astonishingly small percentage of smooth road we at last reached "Pablo" where we rested for the night. To make a long story short I must tell you we had four days hard travelling, making about twenty miles a day over mountains and hills with a river here and there, which I found to be very hard work, and which I should not like to go through again. Well we arrived, at last, safely at "Malaga" where I at once went in search of an 12 FIFTY YEARS AFTER English ship and was fortunate enough to find one, bound to "London" the day after my arrival. I found the Cap- tain aboard and made terms with him in which transac- tion it was agreed between us that I should hand over my watch and chain to the ship's steward for safe keeping, and as pledge of my good intention to pay him (the Cap- tain) a certain sum of money claimed, by him, for my keep while aboard his ship, and which I was to redeem on my arrival in Brighton, so I got aboard the ship the next day and joyfully started (en route) for England, which we reached after fifteen days sail. The reason we were so long on the journey was the boat was a freighter and we had to call at "Cadiz," "Lisbon" and "Vigo" for freight; but I did not care so long as I was on board a ship for England and safe away from Gibraltar. My people, I need not tell you, were overjoyed to see me once more, and I have had to relate every incident of my life while aboard the "Ossipee" to them, and many friends besides, so I assure you your name has been men- tioned more than once. I am glad to hear "Phil Rourke" is going on allright, but sorry to hear he is put back to coal-heaving, although I suppose it won't be for long. I am very sorry "Phil" took it so much to heart about those clothes I promised him. I myself, thought them worthless, and when I promised them to him, I intended to keep my promise, but (as doubtless you remember) it seemed doubtful for several days before I left the ship whether I should get liberty or not; so in consequence I gave nothing away but what I could spare and when at last the morning came, on FIFTY YEARS AFTER 13 which I went on liberty, I was too deeply engaged with my own thoughts to think about my clothes, and it was only when changing myself to go ashore that I thought anything at all about them. Then, there was but one man in the engine room where my locker was, and where I changed and kept my clothes; to him, then, I gave my two keys, one the key of my locker, the other the key of my small box on the berth deck. Prior to the time I changed my clothes I assure you I had no idea of giving any of my things to the man I gave my keys to but there was no one else about there and I thought in a hurry I might as well give them to him as anyone else, so hoping Our Dear Old Friend Phil will forgive me and that you will please try to explain to him how this unpleasant thing came, and trusting this will find you both and Our Old Friend Cary in the enjoyment of excellent health and spirits I remain your sincere friend (signed) J. H. (P.S.) Dear John please excuse me writing my initials in lieu of name—I think you will see the force of this discretion. I will send you a Photo as soon as possible. You know my address. 43 Ditchling Rise Preston, Brighton July 13th, 1885 Dear Sir: Your letter of May 29th arrived here on the roth of this month, and I took the liberty of opening, for the FIFTY YEARS AFTER 17 1337 L St., N. W. Washington, D. C. Dec. 2, 1895. Mr. John H. Paynter, Washington, D. C. My dear Sir: Permit me to most sincerely thank you for your great kindness and courtesy in sending me a copy of your most interesting work, "Joining the Navy," which was for- warded to me at this place from Richmond, Va. I would have acknowledged its receipt ere this had it not been for the wretched condition of my health; in fact so greatly pleased am I with your kind remembrance of me that I would have hunted you up so as to thank you personally had I not been such an invalid. I have read the book with the greatest interest and I am glad to be able to most sincerely and heartily con- gratulate you upon having written a most interesting work. You have told the history of the cruise in a most entertaining manner; but what strikes me as most ad- mirable is that although during your service many dis- agreeable things must have occurred yet you do not dwell upon them or in any way bring them into prominence. I had a hearty laugh over your description of the rough and tumble time we had in the cabin on our passage from Palermo to Messina, and think your account of my appearance quiet accurate. It had been my intention to include in this a check for another copy as I want to send it to the West Indies, but as I do not know the price I must wait until I hear from you. Besides my wife has lost your address, and I am not 18 FIFTY YEARS AFTER quite certain whether it is Internal Revenue or not, but will risk it. I shall be very glad if you can find time to come and see me, if not will you be kind enough to tell me the price of the book so that I can obtain another copy. Again most sincerely thanking you for a very great pleasure and wishing you every success and happiness, I remain Yours very sincerely (signed) John F. McGlensey. [ Wilson Cary Dedication MEMORIAL TRIBUTE TO WILSON CARY When my shipmate, Wilson Cary and I returned in 1885 from a cruise around the world on Uncle Sam's battleship, the U.S.S. Ossipee, we promised ourselves that one day we would make another trip abroad under free and more comfortable circumstances. Fate interfered and sent Wils on a longer trip, so I dedicate to his memory this volume which describes the trip I made alone, fifty years after. The first voyage was undertaken directly after my graduation from Lincoln University in Pennsylvania, in 1883. We had been taught much of "what to do" and "how to do," but the "where to do" was as ever uncer- tain. After my shipboard experience I was impressed that I should probably have made as good a cabin boy without a college degree. Yet, with the lack of such preparation, could there have been any widening vista of work or usefulness? Would not the cabin boy have been content to serve his captain well; to nose about among the bazaars of Africa and the Orient; to view with cold indifference the essential oneness of our wide, far-flung humanity, to lift the hammock and the foc'sle to a place of perma- nence on the horizon of his aspirations—idealizing the one and democratizing the other? 19 20 FIFTY YEARS AFTER The experience of fifty years has about convinced me that "how to do" is the most important question in life, and just here is where the tribute to my friend and ship- mate, Wilson Cary, comes in. Wils, as he was affectionately called, came nearer to being able to do everything well than any man I ever knew. I doubt that he had ever before set foot on a ship's deck, and yet when he had learned his way around, he was as much at home in the duties and emergencies of ship life as the veriest old salt alive. I was a stranger to even the most ordinary kinds of toil and it was he who pointed the way, often assuming the tasks himself, and lifting the veil of frequent despondency by wise counsel and watchful care. In this way he succeeded in making a perfectly competent cabin boy out of an only tolerable college man, and infused a spirit of optimism in situa- tions strange and often discouraging. His belief and faith in this cabin boy never faltered. At Denver, Colorado, some years later, when he was headwaiter at the Brown Palace, the intimate friendship was renewed, and in the interval of twenty years which followed he sent me from Alamo Gordo, N. M., a wall plaque in four sections, reminding me of Gibraltar and recalling vividly a day in June at the bullfight across the bay at Algeciras. The plaque, beautifully done in the best style of Mexi- can featherwork, shows, first, "Ensemble for Parade" and below that panel is inscribed in a well-remembered hand, "Friendship begins in sunshine." The second pic- tures "Picadors in tilt with the plunging Bull" and below that is inscribed the query, "Shall we conquer our Foes?" FIFTY YEARS AFTER 21 In the third we have "The Death Thrust of the Mata- dor," and the motto, "We depend upon our skill, (Thy best)." The fourth, "The Matador and the Prostrate Bull" affirms "We conquer, I show you the last." Some years after this I passed a ten day vacation with him and his dear wife at Springfield, Ohio; ten cheerful, happy days in the month of September, but so different, so very different from those many happy earlier days of long ago. He was now a devoted disciple of Pastor Russell, and lived as nearly the life of the Man of Nazareth as was humanly possible. His home was the weekly meeting place of the sect, where high and low, black and white, met on a common level, all content to do the Master's will that His name might be glorified. Those wonderful ten days, so strange, so beautiful and uplifting, are my last precious memories of Wilson Cary. For the next September I again journeyed to Springfield sadly, for "the last which comes to all" and had at last come to him. "Peace to his ashes." Chapter i THEN AND NOW THIS MONTH of December marks the fiftieth anniversary, the "golden anniversary," of my re- turn to America from a cruise around the world. The story of the adventures and experiences of that first jour- ney and the many moons of my youth it took, is told in a little volume, Joining the Navy, or Abroad With Uncle Sam. It is a rare and golden opportunity not only to be able to remember back to that voyage of fifty years ago but to have celebrated the anniversary with another trip abroad, the story of which I shall now undertake to tell. It is hard to believe that so many years have passed since, as a youngster just graduated from Lincoln Uni- versity, I was signed on as cabin boy by the ship's clerk of the U.S.S. Ossifee for the cruise of that vessel on the Asiatic station. But—it's true, as the ineffaceable marks of the knocks, buffets, boosts and bruises of the intervening years have registered in permanent record—unimpeach- able witnesses whose testimony may neither be disputed nor erased. But as I christened my youth with an ocean voyage, so, too, was I fated to begin the last quarter of a possible century of living with another ocean crossing. As I pen 23 24 FIFTY YEARS AFTER these lines the vibration of mighty engines, the roaring swirl of waters and the sonorous, braying blasts of the fog-horn piercing the darkness with an appeal for watch- fulness and care, bring assurance that we are once more at the mercy of wind and wave—though not so perilously as before, and on our wallowing way to unknown lands and unaccustomed scenes. What a contrast does this modern, palatial giant, the He de France, present to the Ossipee, an old-line battle- ship of the Civil War. The Ossipee was as staunch and valorous as any of that day, and no word of scorn or detraction is aimed at the old stand-by, for it was the only home we knew for more than two years; and its rough human associations, its wind-filled sails, its swaying hammocks and crowded berth-deck odors seem now as insistently present in memory as in that other day of actual hard experience. This later voyage is certainly a contrast in every respect. For the uniform and the discomforts of the cabin boy have been laid aside and not only the habiliments of a gentleman but all the freedom and amenities of civil life and retired leisure have taken their place. Without care or exertion, we are free to enjoy the trip instead of having to make it. One of the major factors in the transformation, per- haps, is this lavishly equipped ocean liner, the lie de France of the French line, on which we find ourselves speeding eastward bound for old England at more knots an hour than the Ossipee often did in a whole day, and with 2,600 souls aboard, counting crew and passengers. And what different company! Among them are some THEN AND NOW 25 fifty or more of our old home folks. The largest single group of these are the members of the Adolph Hodge travel party. Mr. and Mrs. Hodge have gained much experience in their nine successive years of conducting tours. In this year's group are a Dean and another pro- fessor of Howard University, a lady delegate from Washington to the International Congress of Social Work to be held in London, a widely known New York minister and his poet son, a number of public school teachers and professional folks from as far west as Chicago, and others who have achieved respect in their various fields. With them are a mother and her son of five years, who is already something of a globe-trotter. It is the second trip abroad for the manly little fellow. Added to these are several painfully dignified middle-aged ladies from away down home, scrupulously neat and observant of all the formalities. It was most heartening to realize that for once we were enjoying an unrestricted equality; that our women folks, whether or not they were easy on the eyes, were being accorded the most scrupulous deference. Thus it was demonstrated, in a most welcome way, that the French Shibboleth, "Liberty, Fraternity and Equality" really embraces all the children of men, of whatever creed, race or color. There was another travel party aboard, conducted by a vivacious little lady from Chicago. In this group there were several of the other race. They were on their way to Moscow for a study of the labor and social conditions in the land of the Soviets. Another party attracting general attention was com- posed of some twenty-five young men and women, Chapter ii BONNY ENGLAND THERE is much in the Plymouth Harbor scene that reminds us of our own Hampton Roads. A sugges- tion of a dismantled riprap on a base of rugged, De- flowered and mossy stone rises from the water in the fore- ground, while across the bay looms a verdant hillside with a wealth of wild and richly colored vegetation abruptly lifting from a grey and rock-bound coast. But look closer, and the softer lines, greener grass and balmier air tell us that it is Bonny England. The transfer, identification and examination of baggage consumed less than an hour, so expert were the customs and railway men in this art of shepherding tourists. Cables and telegrams were filed notifying relatives and friends of safe arrivals; and we were all ready for the new sights. Yet a few details—exchange of money, purchase of stamps for the inevitable post-cards and the thousand and one inquiries so unavoidable in foreign travel. But all elicit the most courteous attention in this land of good manners, and soon, with bags and parcels safely stowed away by the porters, we are comfortably seated in the compartments of the train, reserved in advance to save confusion, and are on our way to famous London Town. 27 28 FIFTY YEARS AFTER How beautiful is this countryside through which we are passing—a veritable green and velvety Arcadia. The eye sees no discoverable barren spots and notes the curious absence of broken-down fences, so characteristic of our own countryside. Indeed, there are no fences; the separate holdings being marked by well-cropped hedges. Thus the boundary lines enhance the beauty of the rolling vales and hillsides with their browsing herds, and frame a beautiful picture as the landscape leads up to the higher levels of the tree clustered homes and cottages. A four hour run, with a welcome lunch in the diner, brings us to Paddington Station, not at all ornate, as the palatial stations of our large American cities, nor as pretentious as the more central Victoria Station of London itself. Still, Paddington is commodious in its own rambling way, admirably designed for the handling of great crowds. Here have been enacted scenes both sad and gay that are an imperishable part of the fame and glory that are England's. Here they have welcomed with shouts and rejoicing the heroes of their great wars; and here, too, have come the solemn and mournful throngs accompanying the remains of well-loved sovereigns— Victoria, Edward VII, and lately King George V—as they entrained to fill their niche in the vaults reserved for royalty in the Palace and Fort at Windsor. Here I took my leave of the Hodge party, who after a brief two days in London were to resume an itinerary embracing many of the cities of Central Europe and lead- ing eventually to the Land of the Midnight Sun. Starting off on my own, my first experience developed the fact, as true abroad as at home, that if one does not BONNY ENGLAND 29 keep a keen eye open and a mind alert as well, he is bound to experience some embarrassing disillusionment and perhaps also some discomfort. A much travelled but total stranger in this neck of the woods, I could, of course, not know either the direction or the distance to go to reach my friends in Battersea. As I inquired of a taxi- driver, I was told it was a terrible long way, and that he couldn't think of doing it for less than six shillings, nine pence; not a small sum in either pounds or dollars. But I began to suspect that both the distance and the fare were being boosted, so I took up with another driver, for whom the journey was only a little way over Albert Bridge for three and six, about half the former charge. Needless to say, as Maurice Chevalier would put it, I closed with him right away. In about ten minutes he brought me to No. 9 Reform Street, and there I met the hearty greeting of friends, the relatives of the late Mayor of Battersea, whom I had known only through corre- spondence, but whose friendship I had enjoyed for years. In this I was fortunate far beyond the average traveller whose lot is cast among strangers as well as strange sights. The Gardiner family, to whom I have referred, father, mother and daughter, were most solicitous for my com- fort and welfare, and during the five weeks I was in London guided my tours so that I saw the city from end to end. It was not unusual for our party of four to start out just after mid-day and board a tram or clamber up to the sight-seeing deck of a bus, pass along the Thames Embankment to the active marts of trade and big business or to the restful parks and gardens with their impressive memorials and monuments. It is remarkable how these 30 FIFTY YEARS AFTER park retreats are designed in London. A brief walk places us in the heart and flow of city traffic making its never ending way through the Strand, Bond and Fleet Streets, Piccadilly or the Kingsway, while a turn in the other direction puts one either in the heart of a quiet, restful garden or the shadowy seclusion of some ancient pile. The world of today on one side; the old world atmos- phere of drab and quaint and solemn buildings, such as the almost medieval Inner and Middle Temple Courts and Temple Bar, close by, on the other. Another day a different route would be taken; we would go in the opposite direction by way of the Batter- sea, Lambeth or Westminster Bridge, and reach the impressive site where the ornate Houses of Parliament rise and spread out over nine hundred feet of the Thames Embankment to remind us of the fact that London is the heart and seat of the great Empire. Mute witnesses of this hoary past are the statues of all the English monarchs since William the Conqueror, and dominating all, rises the three hundred foot bell tower, housing the best known clock in the world, Big Ben, also reputed to be the most accurate, powerful, and largest striking clock in the world. In the immediate vicinity are the ancient Westminster Abbey, the Hall of Westminster, and the Westminster Cathedral, with mosaic covered walls and its richly deco- rated chapels of St. Gregory, St. Andrew and the Holy Souls. Here again is a three hundred foot tower, com- manding a superb view of West London. Yet this historic location is only a stone's throw from the busy, modern, Victoria Station; and in convenient nearness, one may wander into the department stores of Barkers or Portings, BONNY ENGLAND 31 invade the Grosvenor Gardens section, where at No. 4 we found the American Embassy, or take a peep at the Fifteenth Century Church of St. Margaret, with its impressive memorial window to Sir Walter Raleigh, pre- sented, by the way, by American citizens. It is this St. Margaret's that is the celebrated marriage church of high society in London, and its altar recalls many an inter- national romance that has culminated there. The reader should not find it hard to imagine the thrills of contemplating the evidences of human genius, culture and energy, much of it centuries old. London is full of such things. Outstanding among them, certainly, is that masterpiece of Christopher Wren's, built to com- memorate the restoration of the city after the Great Fire of 1666, St. Paul's Cathedral. It was erected in 1675 on the site of a church of St. Paul that had stood there for 1300 years. It is also the military Pantheon of England, housing the remains of Nelson, Wellington, Admirals Jellicoe and Beatty, and many other British heroes. Not far from the Cathedral a marble column, known simply as the "Monument" rises to the height of 202 feet. Its winding staircase leads to a balcony from which one can view all of London, with the great teeming East Side directly at one's feet. To us, one of the most impres- sive sights of all was not the city itself, but the winding Thames whose serpentine course can be seen, on a clear day, far out as it reaches beyond the city to the open countryside. 32 FIFTY YEARS AFTER London Town England has not only suitably remembered her rulers, her heroes, her statesmen and her poets with imposing memorials in age-defying bronze and stone, but also, by her grandly ornate temples lifting to the skies in homage to the ever-living God, she has graciously perpetuated the life-work of her churchmen. These men, defying scorn and persecution, even courting death, have sought, with brain and consecrated energy, to see to it that the true light of Christian faith might penetrate the gloom and ignorance of a wicked world. Such a remembrance is that of William Tyndale, trans- lator of the English Bible and Protestant martyr, who was tried, condemned and burned at the stake in 1536 at the age of 46. His memorial, a massive bronze replica, is placed prominently in the Embankment Gardens on the Thames, and bears this inscription, "His last words were: 'Lord open the King of England's eyes.' " Following this is the statement, "A Bible was placed in every parish church within the year." The church of St. Martin in the Fields made a special appeal to me through the agency of a radio sermon by its rector, the Reverend Pat MacCormack. This sermon was broadcast the second Sunday evening of each month. On this particular evening, at the close of his sermon, the Reverend gentleman spoke feelingly and with great praise of the late Richard B. Harrison and the play The Green Pastures. "To him," he said, "the play was the most moving and forceful portrayal of faith and whole-hearted devotion to the religion of our Lord on 34 FIFTY YEARS AFTER "Negro" and "darky." I have before me the clipping from an issue of a leading London daily newspaper, tell- ing of an outing of colored boys and girls at Epsom Downs, sponsored by "the League of Colored Peoples; The Colored Men's Institute and The Society of Friends." The article is headlined: Darky Boys and Girls Have a Joy-Day, while the picture of five little boys and girls with laughing, jolly faces is shown as they lean from the coach windows, presumably on their way to Epsom Downs. The opening sentence of the article fol- lows with these words: "Ten dozen little darky boys, to say nothing of little darky girls, spent today on Epsom Downs." Another excerpt says: "Happiest of all were the colored stewards assisting Dr. Harold Moody of Jamaica, who was the coal-black daddy of the day." And further on: "In ordinary life these young men are University graduates, but today they ate the cherries and drank the milk with the others." If you can imagine the reaction to such an article appearing in any of our dailies, at least above the Mason and Dixon line, it will not be difficult to realize the indignation and protesting horror of its reception by American citizens of color. Being one myself, and rather thin-skinned, that was precisely my reaction. However, I sought light on the subject from one of the associate editors of The London Daily Telegraph, presenting to him the generally accepted American view of such racial designations. He was greatly surprised and quite earnest in his defense of the English view. "The term Negro," he said, "was quite unthinkable as a designation for colored people; not only does it fail to disclose the ethnic BONNY ENGLAND 35 origin, but attaches to them by suggestion the savage and barbarous garb of tribal Africa and the jungle. Darky to our mind and as used by the English people carries no degrading stigma or scornful thrust. Indeed, it is with us more of a pet name by which a small group of alien people, differing in complexion, has been incorporated with the great body of English people." I am not sure our home folks can take this explanation and like it too; but at least we must admit that it is ingenious. But on to less contestable matters. Among the great sights of London, Hampton Court Palace stands out in my memories, not only because of its intrinsic significance, but because seeing it caused me to miss seeing someone else. It had been one of the treasured anticipations of my trip to meet Mr. Turner Layton, the celebrated musician who has made London his home for so long. He is the son of the late John T. Layton of Washington, our old home-town friend. Fate was perverse on this occa- sion, for after receiving a card from Paris that he was out of town but would arrange a rendezvous on his return, that appointment came by telegram the very day we were at Hampton Court. And when I called the next day, it was only to be informed, to my great disappoint- ment, by Mrs. Layton that he had had to leave that morning for another out of town engagement. And so I doubly remember Hampton Court. Hampton Palace is for a number of reasons the most celebrated of all the English royal houses. It was the private dwelling of the great Cardinal Wolsey, whose power and influence in state as well as in church affairs rivalled that of his king, Henry VIII. His Eminence lived there in great 36 FIFTY YEARS AFTER luxury for a number of years, and tradition has it that on one occasion he entertained, right royally, the Ambas- sador of France and a retinue of four hundred who had come on a mission to conclude a treaty with England. But, as we all know, the King's flair for new wives was the rock upon which the Cardinal's power crashed, for he opposed the marriage to Anne Boleyn after Henry's divorce from Catherine of Aragon. The Cardinal's des- perate gesture for the retention of royal favor by present- ing Hampton Court Palace to His Majesty was not effective in saving him from final disgrace and dismissal in 1529. We paid a visit of more than seven hours to this palace, and viewed well its broad courts and colonnades, its miles of lofty, richly paneled hallways and suite after suite of gorgeously tapestried chambers, their vaulted ceilings presenting legend, history and allegory in the marvelous artistry of the great masters. Such sights daze the senses and conjure up a deep appreciation of the manifold gifts with which man has been endowed by the Great Creator. We realize that this massive pile has stood for more than four hundred years, and while kings and queens and their royal retinues have made their entrances and their exits, the palace—with its splendid paintings (as brilliantly fresh today as when originally done), noble sculptures of finely wrought figures in bronze and stone —still remains for the edification and delight of genera- tions yet to come. The entrance is called the Trophy Gate, so named from the leaden cannon. This gate is set off by four pillars, two representing conquests of war, and the others BONNY ENGLAND 57 supporting shields on which are emblazoned the lion and the unicorn—the royal arms of George II. An extensive brick-paved court leads to the Anne Boleyn Gate, the arched center of which bears the monograms of Henry and Anne, entwined as a lover's knot beneath which is inscribed the kingly motto "Dieu et mon Droit." In the center at the top of the broad, three-storied facade is set a great astronomical clock made in 1540, which, it is claimed, still keeps accurate time. It takes thirty minutes to wind each week, and on its seven foot square dial are depicted the twelve signs of the Zodiac, the hour of the day, the day, the month, the position of the sun in the Ecliptic and other astronomical phenomena. The King?s kitchen, with its great open fire-place, its roasting rods and mammoth iron cooking vessels, is also to be seen, and the huge bricked ovens for bread baking. The floor is roughly brick-paved, while the walls, also of brick, are now white-washed. The wide windows have hinged drop leaves, presumably for the transfer of food to the banquet board. The wine cellar and buttery, with a brick elevated platform along the side to take care of the casks of wine and brew which supplied the huge flagons from all parts of the Palace, give some idea of the extent and profligate cost of royal bounty and enter- tainment. Hampton Court was indeed the center of the sump- tuous entertainments for which Queen Elizabeth's reign was noted. In the Great Hall is pointed out the spot where Shakespeare and his fellow actors of the King's Company acted before James I, at Christmas, 1603. It was here, too, that this King presided as Moderator over 38 FIFTY YEARS AFTER the Hampton Court conference between the Episcopalians and the Puritans of the Church, which ordered that authorized versions of the Bible for which William Tyn- dale never ceased to pray and for which he gave his life. It may be realized with what a feeling of awe we followed our guide through cloistered vestibules to the gallery from which visitors may view the Chapel Royal. The vaulted roof of the Chapel is strikingly beautiful, with three rows of gilded pendants each surrounded by four gracefully poised figures representing the angelic choir, either playing pipes or singing from hymn scrolls or bearing scepters. Above, in the vault, is a rich blue sky with stars of gold. A miniature chapel called the Holy Day Closet or King's Oratory overlooks the Chapel Royal. Here it is said the King was hearing Mass when the document revealing the misconduct of Katharine Howard, then his Queen, was handed him by Archbishop Cranmer. Whereupon the Queen was instantly confined under guard until she could be removed to the Tower. A few days later, learning that the King was about to leave the Palace, she slipped through her guards in the hope of making a personal appeal, but was overtaken and forced back while Henry continued his devotions regard- less of her piercing screams. Apropos of this incident, we are told of the legend of the Haunted Gallery, where it is said on various nights a white-clad spectral figure with jewelled hood may be seen rushing to the Oratory, whence she turns back utttering the most unearthly shrieks. The Palace's thousand rooms are now partly laid out in apartments for the use of persons of noble lineage in BONNY ENGLAND 39 reduced circumstances who are the guest tenants by the grace and at the pleasure of the Sovereign. The Chapel Royal, as in those long gone days when royalty was in residence, is still open for Divine Service on Sundays and Saint's Days; and doubtless this means of convenient worship is highly prized by those who in the twilight of their lives have the privilege of quiet retreat in an environment so unusual and inspiring. Cer- tainly those last days of inevitable decline which is the lot of all who live long, could not be passed in surround- ings more appealing, where the senses may delight in numberless acres beautified by the perfection of landscape art, with spreading lawns, brilliant flower-beds, trim terraces of gravel and great avenues of yew and lime stretching for far vistas on every side. The Great Foun- tain and the Long Water, as the canal reaching out to the Thames is called, add to all this their sparkle and shim- mering beauty. The visitor is attracted to the Vinery, where is to be found one of the largest vines in the world. Our inspec- tion disclosed a mammoth principal stem said to be 81 inches around at ground level; its longest branches more than ioo feet, trained over the roof and sides of glassed-in hot houses and weighted at this time of year with clusters of fast-purpling grapes, the bunches weigh- ing from one to two and a half pounds. These vines were planted in 1769 and the fruit, formerly kept for the King's table at Windsor, is now sold in baskets made by blind soldiers for their self-support at the St. Dunstan's Home. Before invading the Wilderness, which was the old 40 FIFTY YEARS AFTER orchard of Henry VIII, and passing out through the Lion Gate we wandered into the celebrated Hampton Court maze. It is an intricate puzzle of paths of triangular shape, with walks leading here and there and back, with mystifying insistence. The enclosing hedges are six feet high and we found it impossible, as many others do, to get out until the keeper came to our assistance. Next to Hampton Court, in my view, comes that other treasure house of England's traditions, and the scene of the coronation of all the British sovereigns from William the Conqueror to George VI, the sanctuary of Westmin- ster Abbey. We enter at the door which faces the statue of the Great Emancipator, Abraham Lincoln—and cer- tainly no more fitting location could have been chosen. Standing as the lanky figure does in that familiar, full- length pose with the careworn, rugged face and kindly look, it brings to this Old World repository of a nation's glory, the one stupendous act that symbolizes the glorious fact of human freedom in the New Republic. Just within the entrance of the Abbey rests the en- tombed remains of England's Unknown Soldier. The bronze slab that covers the spot bears this inscription: "They buried him among the Kings, for he had done good toward God and His House." Among the many statues and memorial tablets which for one reason or another might appeal to the visitor are those representing all types of human service, churchmen, toilers in the field of letters, statesmen and reformers, enemies of the slave power and other forms of human oppression, stars of the stage, jurists, teachers, indeed every category of the great. A statue of the Wesley BONNY ENGLAND 41 brothers, Charles and John, bears the impressive inscrip- tion: "God buries His workmen but carries on His work." The statue of William Wilberforce is thus inscribed: "His name will ever be with those whose exertions by the blessing of God removed from England the guilt of the African Slave Trade." Mr. Wilberforce, as we remember, was a member of Parliament from 1780 to 1835, and was the one to intro- duce the bill in Commons for the Abolition of Slavery, which he tirelessly pressed and lived to see written into the statutes. This deathblow to slavery in the British Empire was dealt at the instance of Thomas Clarkson, president of the London Anti-Slavery Convention held in 1840. Clarkson spent his later years as a resident of Battersea, and a medal in his honor was struck by his native town. One of these, the prized possession of Mr. Archer, the late Mayor of Battersea, was presented to me upon my departure from London. But let us return to the Abbey. Here we find ourselves intrigued, as all visitors are, by the Poets' Corner, where are the memorials of all the great masters of English literature since Chaucer. That of Bulwer-Lytton acclaims him as "laborious and distinguished in all fields of literary activity—indefatigable and ardent in the cultivation and the love of letters." To the long line of these great writers honored here have recently been added, at the time of my visit, those two literary giants of our day, Rudyard Kipling and Thomas Hardy. A quotation from Thomas Hardy's first novel, The Poor Man and the Lady, reads: "The world and its ways have a certain worth and to press a point while these oppose were a 42 FIFTY YEARS AFTER simple policy; best wait, and we lose no friends and gain no foes." The slab under which lie the remains of the world's master delineator of human passions, foibles and ambition, Charles Dickens, simply bears his name and birth and death dates, 1812-1870. A seemingly curious twist of fate was brought to our attention by the guide, who pointed out the sarchopagus in which it is said reposes all that is mortal of Queen Elizabeth and Mary Stuart—rivals and adversaries in life, but ironically united in death. In an adjoining glass case is shown the ring given the Earl of Essex by Elizabeth, a small green, unpretentious cameo, which, however, carried the promise to win him favor in whatever circumstance it should be brought to her. Confined in the Tower and sentenced to death, he dispatched the ring as a last resort. The legend continues that it fell into the hands of the Countess of Nottingham, allied with the enemies of Essex, and was never delivered. The Queen, it is said, apprized of this, in a furious rage, shook the dying Countess in her bed. But the historic reminders are legion; we pause a moment as we pass in review the illustrious ranks of the masters of the histrionic art, in full stature and dramatic pose, the great Siddons, Irving, Terry and others, and then pass on to the spacious vaults of Westminster Hall. Westminster Hall is devoid of all the fittings and adornments which crowd the Abbey. In strange contrast, its lofty interior and extraordinary size are impressive, as are also its obvious age and severe Norman architecture dating from the 1 ith Century. Various tablets in brass and stone, however, apprize one of its historic incidents, rang- BONNY ENGLAND 43 ing from the earliest times to the historic events of our own generation. Here, for instance, is a tablet recalling the trial of Charles I; and nearby, tablets commemorating the lying in state of Edward VII and George V. A brief walk brings us to the Houses of Parliament. We pass through a hallway lined with volumes telling the story of empire building, and reach a more spacious passage leading directly to the House of Lords. This noble Gothic hall we find hung with the richly framed paintings of the Kings and Queens of England and other celebrities portraying the crucial events in the progress of the British nation. Here is Henry VIII, delineated in the gorgeous finery of his kingly estate and side by side in the order of their succession, the portraits of his numerous wives. Noteworthy among many is the great historical canvas portraying King John, facing the Barons at Runnymede and assenting to the Magna Charta; Elizabeth commissioning Sir Walter Raleigh in 1584; Richard Coeur de Lion setting out for the Crusades; The Trial of Wallace in 1305; the Trial of Cromwell in 1658. On the dais, under the gorgeously decorated vaults of the Chamber stands the Royal Throne, where sit the King and Queen with the Woolsack or seat of the Lord Chancellor directly in front of it. At the time of our visit there was but one seat for the occupancy of His Majesty, King Edward VIII. Since those days, great events, then little foreseen but tremendously affecting the Empire, have occurred. The House of Commons, much less pretentious and rather somber in general appearance, is entered by way of another lobby crowded with historical paintings. But 44 FIFTY YEARS AFTER here the real drama of English history has been played, as all know who remember that it is Commons that con- trols the government, and by whose vote governments rise and fall. Here is the real heart of the great world- encompassing Empire upon which the sun never sets. But one must not forget that London is full of more than historic monuments of state and state affairs. One of the major objectives of my visit, in fact, was to view the relics and souvenirs that in one way or another were associated with the work of Charles Dickens, and to make a leisurely inspection of the neighborhoods and environs about which his genius has woven so much that is fasci- nating and memorable. And to no one feature of my travels can I look back with a more genuine joy and satisfaction. The Old Curiosity Shop, No. 14 Portsmouth Street, is a diminutive, low-ceilinged structure, particularly sug- gestive, through its quaint exterior, of the original shop from which it takes its name. But it is a rather commer- cialized venture where are to be found plaques, cards and booklets dealing with the multitudinous episodes and characters which have made the name of Dickens a house- hold word in all parts of the world. Certainly one finds in it nothing suggestive of the freakish decorations and curious instruments of fight and frolic, the frightful death's-head door knocker, with grinning mouth, bulging eyes and gleaming fangs, so graphically pictured by Dickens. Nor, indeed, could one transform it by the most exhaustive feat of imagination into the depot of motley curiosities gathered by the grandfather of Little Nell and BONNY ENGLAND 45 bartered for the means of gaming to that cruel and in- human vulture known in the story as Mr. Quilp. The general vicinity of the Old Curiosity Shop is full of genuine survivals of the old locale; of places and incidents made familiar to us all in the works of Dickens. Lincolns Inn Fields is especially fruitful in this respect; for we recall that little Miss Flite, tireless in attendance on the chancery case of Jarndyce and Jarndyce, fondly referred to the Fields as "her garden." Not far away is the Golden Cross Hotel, from which Pickwick and Jingle started on their coach ride to Rochester; and here, also, Copperfield and Steerforth put up for the night. And from the Strand nearby, the Adelphi Arches may be easily reached, those cavernous hidings where the idle and the vicious made their criminal rendezvous in many of his novels. They may be followed their dim length down to the Thames Embankment. We ventured about fifty feet to a bend whence its continuing gloom stretched out before us, and then returned to the rushing crowds of the Strand, glad to be back in the daylight of even a frowning London sky. Next on our calendar was a visit to the Dickens Museum at No. 40 Doughty Street. This proved a veri- table treasure house of Dickens relics and associations. Its three stories and basement are crowded with all imaginable souvenirs of the great writer; even a number of the kitchen utensils that formed a part of the simple housekeeping arrangements of the Dickens family. Promi- nently one finds the desk presented by C. D. himself to Mrs. Dickens; and later, in 1872, presented by her sister, Miss Georgina Hogarth to an American friend, Miss 46 FIFTY YEARS AFTER Grace Norton. The action through which it became incor- porated with the other priceless relics of the Museum is beautifully emphasized in the lines inscribed upon it now: A little relic of the past Kind fate has sent me, 1 offer one I know will love The thing it sent me; A gift from bride-groom to his bride Your interest thickens, Her name was Kate or Catharine, His name was Dickens. Hundreds of autograph letters, including the famous one defining the policy to be pursued upon assuming the Editor's chair of The Daily News, are here preserved for posterity; and there is the old grandfather's clock that stood in the coach office of the White Hart Inn at Bath, of which Moses Pickwick was proprietor; presented by the Pickwick Club in 1926. Here is the original drawing of the Peggotty boat home at Yarmouth, so suggestive of David Copperfield's visit and the hours of delightful, happy play with little Emily along the sea-shore; and of the tragic aftermath of grief and sadness. Then, too, a model of the Maypole Inn at Birmingham, so familiar to readers of Barnaby Rudge, and, most interesting to American visitors, the square, plush-covered reading desk used in the famous reading tour of America. Also we find the window of the attic at No. 141 Bayham Street, Camden Town, which was occupied by the Dickens family when they came to London from Chatham. Row upon row of pewter tankards assembled from the old Pick- wickian inns; and innumerable prints and engravings, BONNY ENGLAND 47 original illustrations of Dickens' works—all bearing some association linked with the work of this prodigious genius. Happening to look from the window on the rear of the second floor of No. 40, I saw in the next yard several young colored men engaged in the pleasurable game of table-tennis and, curiously enough, upon leaving the Museum, I met another young colored man. Upon in- quiring of him the direction of Gower Street, the address of Mr. Rosamond Johnson, who with Mr. Tim Moore and Mr. George Smith, was playing with the "Blackbirds of 1936" at the Gaiety Theatre, I was interested to dis- cover him to be Mr. Louis A. H. McShine, from Trini- dad, a last year student of medicine at the St. Bartholo- mew Hospital. Later I learned that there were more than a score of colored young men from the West Indies tak- ing professional courses at the Polytechnic and other scientific and professional schools in London. He invited me to accompany him to an afternoon gathering of these men, who met frequently for social cheer and tea. To my surprise he conducted me back to the house next door to the Dickens Museum, and there a very interesting hour was passed. Among the dozen or so present was a former Washingtonian, Mr. John Payne, now of No. 17 Regent Park Road, a long-time resident of London and promi- nent figure in the world of music. Chapter hi MORE LONDON SIGHTS WE ARE again in the East Side of London Town, but this time not in the swirling human tides of Ludgate Circus and St. Paul's Cathedral Hill, but on the Thames side, by the great drawbridge that faces what is generally appraised as the most historic building in the world. Certainly all will agree that London Tower is unparalleled in national historic annals. The most memorable mental picture one carries away from the Tower is not that impression of a single squat medieval tower standing out across a drawbridge moat, by which London Tower is known pictorially throughout the world. I was hardly prepared for the reality, which instead of one tower is a whole series of towers ringing round a well-worn uneven stone paved courtyard. One tower does, indeed, dominate all others. London Tower actually is an old medieval fortress, on the Thames side, with busy commercial East Side London at its feet. And as one literally climbs up the sloping courtyard one realizes that its proper appellation, Tower Hill, is really correct. The Tower owes its inception to William the Con- queror and was begun in 1078. Within its confines is still to be seen, however, a remnant of the Wall built during 48 MORE LONDON SIGHTS 49 the Roman occupation. It combines the triple functions of palace, fortress and prison. It is the last capacity that incorporates the many tragic associations that stand out in its history. A brass tablet inserted in the flagstones of the mid-portion of the "Open" marks the place of execu- tion of Henry VIII's short-lived Queen, Anne Boleyn. A few of the other distinguished involuntary residents of the Tower, we remember, were Lady Jane Grey, Sir Walter Raleigh and the Earl of Essex; all were led to execution on Tower Hill. The Tower is truly medieval and the original old- world atmosphere is noticeably observed in both dress and ceremony. The Yeoman of the Guard and Warders, with battle-axe and pike, wearing the somber, rufHe-necked blouse and broad, flat tam-o-shanter headgear all are as insistently medieval today as they were hundreds of years ago. These are the famous "Beefeaters" of history. But apart from its grewsome horrors, the Tower is additionally attractive in an aesthetic way. It is also the treasure house of the Crown Jewels, those insignia, deco- rations and royal equipment which from time immemorial have made of royal progress and pageant a gorgeous and unforgettable spectacle that has never failed to inspire and stimulate the traditional zeal and loyalty of the nation. In the center of the Jewel Room of Wakefield Tower is an immense glass-enclosed case in which are displayed a dazzling array of Crown Jewels, the King's State Crown and Sceptre, in the handle of which is set the largest known diamond in the world. The White Tower, housing the extensive armor, also is a storehouse of skill and art. MORE LONDON SIGHTS 51 iron cylinder, it was abandoned during a storm in the Bay of Biscay, but finally recovered and landed safely, to add in a friendly foreign land, more centuries to its hoary age." An eloquent reminder of a visit of the German bombing fleet during the World War of our day is to be seen in the shrapnel scars on this ancient monument, which however scarred, still stands flaunting its original hieroglyphics and later inscriptions in the solemn grandeur of its plain pedestal on the Embank- ment. The other, and larger Obelisk, has stood in Central Park, New York City, since 1879. And now to another type of grand monument in this town of great monuments—the British Museum, which, in the words of Ruskin, is the "grandest concentration of human knowledge in the world." One might spend weeks, even months, adequately viewing its treasures, as a tour of several days merely glancing here and there at the highlights of its exhibits quite convinced me. It is espe- cially rich in the relics of ancient civilization, Egypt, Assyria, Babylon, Greece and Rome—their famous sculp- tures, specimens of delicate workmanship in carvings, bronzes, metals, jewels, enamels and potteries. In pottery alone, one can trace human art and culture from its crude and earliest beginnings down through the centuries to its peaks of artistic achievement. It is easy to concede the claim that this is the most comprehensive collection of this type in the world. One piece, of special interest to me, was a specimen of Mojolica pottery depicting the building of Solomon's Temple. The wooden scaffolding, distinctly outlined, is painted on an opaque white ground formed by a tin glaze. It is accredited to the year 1480. 52 FIFTY YEARS AFTER Another priceless majolica, of the early 17th Century, vividly portrays the departure of the Prodigal Son. A Chelsea porcelain after a famous painting by Rubens, depicts Cimon, an Athenian general of the fifth Century B.C. in exile after serious reverses of war, and in such a desperately famished state, he is receiving sustenance from the breast of his daughter, Pero. Numerous other cases display the elegance of early book craftsmanship and binding. A Bible, with crimson velvet centerpieces, and cor- ners and clasps of enameled gold, bears the significant crest of a double red rose and the royal initials, "E. R." A purple velvet Bible embroidered with the arms of Henry and Katharine Parr, was originally printed and bound in Venice in 1544. Another, embroidered with roses of colored silk, gold threads and seed pearls, also bears the royal arms of Henry and is dated 1540. Still another, of orange velvet binding and gold cord, is initialed, "H. R., 1543." Closely associated with these gorgeous presentations of the Holy Word, we find the Gold Communion Cup used by Queen Elizabeth on such occasions when even she "drew near with faith and took the Holy Sacrament to her comfort, making her humble confession to Almighty God, devoutly kneeling." This Royal cup, the inscription informs us, has been held at various times by France and Spain, and is appraised in value second only to the English Royal Crown. Considerable space in other cabinets is appropriated for the display of the various editions of the works of Eras- mus, the Dutch scholar-theologian of the early 16th Century. Acclaimed as the most gifted and industrious MORE LONDON SIGHTS 53 pioneer of modern scholarship, he aligned himself on the side of the Reformation, but disagreed sharply with Luther, deploring the dogmatic character of the Lutherans; arguing that the open vices of the monks and clergy should be the chief point of attack. Another rare old book, his Adagio, is a collection of classical proverbs, containing gems of wisdom and striking commentary on human nature, especially the greed and covetousness of the nations. On the opened page, we read: "What nation is there that has not been driven from some part of its territory and which has not in turn driven others? I will only say that if every claim or disputed title be a sufficient cause for undertaking a war, that it is likely in the multi- tudinous changes and chances of human affairs, a claim or disputable title will never be wanting." This wisdom was first published in 1500. My visit to London recorded no greater thrill than was felt on the two occasions I enjoyed a leisurely inspection of the new Masonic Temple in Great Queen Street. This splendid edifice is the home of the Mother Grand Lodge of England from whence issued a Warrant of Constitution to Prince Hall and his brethren for Afri- can Lodge No. 459. It is built of immaculate white marble, covers a half acre of ground and cost a million pounds. It is richly furnished and elaborately decorated. The two bronze doors to its Grand Lodge Room each weigh a ton and in their casting have been portrayed historic scenes from the building of the great Temple of Solomon. The Grand Lodge Room rises three stories in amphi- theatre form and is ceilinged with a gloriously painted MORE LONDON SIGHTS 55 Windsor Castle Another rare experience of a London visit is that of seeing Windsor Castle. Here, also, the romantic history of traditions, going back eight hundred years, grips the imagination of the stranger and the national pride of the native Britisher. It, too, covers all the dynasties from William the Conqueror to George VI, and thus has its permanent place in the foreground of the pageant that depicts the continuity of England's greatness and glory. Approached by the Great Western Railway after a little less than an hour's ride from London, Windsor is first glimpsed as a great stone rampart, lifting up from a heavily wooded park and nearby playing field to the north, its grey stone towers rising brusquely to dominate the scene. One enters from the adjacent town of Windsor through the great Henry VIII Gate, and traverses what is known as the Lower Ward. Here one views at close range the Curfew Tower, from which tradition says the poet Gray heard "the tolling knell of parting day" re- ferred to in his famous Elegy. Following a gentle ascent, we pass the ancient timbered structures that house the chapel choristers, and then a broad Gothic window where legend has it that Henry VIII first saw Anne Boleyn as she was visiting her uncle, Canon Sansom of Windsor Chapel. In this Lower Ward is also the Chapel of the Order of the Garter, founded by Edward III, to which men are elected not by virtue of inherited nobility but because their personal service and private character merits the honor. Why the garter was chosen as the symbol of the Order is lost in legend. A traditional account, not 56 FIFTY YEARS AFTER entirely accredited, tells the tale of a Royal ball at Windsor during the progress of which the garter of the Countess of Salisbury dropped at the feet of the King. Whereupon he is reputed to have recovered the dainty appendage and placed it about his knee, uttering for the first time the phrase now known the world over as the motto of high-mindedness and honor: "Honi soit qui mal y pense." Proceeding along the Lower Ward, we next approach the Dean's Cloisters. Here the yeoman guide lingers be- fore the Deanery whose stained and weather-beaten walls spread out on two sides of the cloisters up to the northern wall of the Castle. We have his word for it that the Deanery has been the scene of notable pomp and cere- mony as well as of grief and mourning. It was here, in a small room of the Deanery, that Henry VII received the King of Spain (it was then used as the chapter house by the Knights of the Garter) and placed upon the knee of the royal visitor the insignia of the order. It was here, too, that the Spanish King later returned the compliment by presenting Henry VIII with the Order of the Golden Fleece. But in contrast, in another room of the same Deanery, we were shown the table upon which the body of King Charles rested, awaiting burial in the Chapel of St. George. The same room was the scene of a ball held in celebration of the return to sanity of the demented George III. Further on one is even more impressed by the mag- nificent and classic beauty of the Chapel of St. George itself. Its exterior carries at intervals niches in which the statues of English kings have been placed. The interior MORE LONDON SIGHTS 57 is even richer because of a marvelous stone ceiling with elaborately carved tracery and dazzlingly gilded devices emblazoned upon it. All this, with graceful Gothic arches, frames beautiful stained glass windows, each of their sections six feet high, depicting also the kings and dig- nitaries of England. In fact, St. Georges is a series of chapels, crammed with wealth and artistry in metal, glass and stone. Notable among the later decorations is a painting de- picting the ministry, passion and atonement of Our Lord. Also the filigree altar Cross given by Queen Victoria in honor of her Jubilee, and a pair of brass candlesticks, the gift of King George and Queen Mary, inscribed: "To the glory of God and in memory of our parents." In the middle, before the altar, is the beautiful brass Lectern, of marvelous craftsmanship and dating back to 1552. Then come the State Apartments, a magnificent suite, as one might well imagine, sumptuously furnished and richly decorated. The paintings, armor, ceramics, tapes- tries and furniture impress one with the masterful genius of those great craftsmen in the world of art, who, as far back as the 14th Century, were making with patient labor of hand, their priceless contributions to the aesthetic enrichment of our modern world. From the terrace one is rewarded with the most pleas- ing and symmetrically beautiful view of the Castle that is anywhere to be had. This is the East Front view, and we had the pleasure of enjoying it on our last visit to Windsor on a Sunday in mid-August. The sun was out in full splendor (it had been overcast during our previous 58 FIFTY YEARS AFTER visits), and with the whole scene and the forest burnished in sunlight, it was one of those great, unforgettable experiences. That Sunday, after a rest and tea at the Nell Gwynne Tea Room, we climbed up Castle Hill and entered the Quadrangle, through the St. George Gateway. This is the route by which the sovereigns and their guests arrive and depart. The spacious East Front, terraced, balanced and beautiful in a perfection of landscaping, presents a colorful picture. That afternoon a Guards' Band fur- nished an additional thrill in their picturesque uniforms, and provided a concert of martial music while the throngs of visitors and townspeople sauntered leisurely along the flower-bordered pathways. Many lingered around the fountain, or paused to gaze at the many statues of the historic great which adorn the spreading lawns and ter- race walks. The Guards, red-coated and shako-crowned, trod their posts with measured, unvarying step, seemingly oblivious to the gaily chatting crowds about them. That they were alert to their duty, however, was only too convincingly demonstrated when, with reasonable inquisi- tiveness, I stepped across the lawn better to identify a particularly striking statue. The Guard at once approached and politely but firmly requested me to "keep off the grass." The shades of evening and the last notes of the band concert were on us, as we were getting our last close-up of the great equestrian statue of George III, located on Snow Hill at the further end of the Long Walk. And so, glancing from tower to turret and along the vast facade, to review the composite picture of the wonders that have MORE LONDON SIGHTS 61 and the throne passed on to the next in succession. Edward the King, through the alchemy of a romantic love affair, had become just the citizen David Windsor. In retrospect this greatest of all the recent dramas of the crown gives added depth and emotion to one of the most vivid last memories of our visit to London Town. Chapter iv PARIS FIFTY YEARS AFTER THE kindness of my hosts at No. 9 Reform Street in Battersea was the last and the best souvenir I carried away from London. It was difficult to realize when leaving, that just five weeks before, when I arrived in London, we had been strangers to sight; although friends by associations and letters. On the morning of August 12th, when I entrained at Victoria Station for Plymouth, en route to Paris, it was necessary to take leave of the Gardiner family and their tireless and hearty hospitality. The Channel crossing brought me a glimpse of the sun, which, except at rare intervals since leaving New York, had been successful in an almost perfect record for a hide-a-way performance. But now, with a gently rolling sea under a fine sky, the coast line of Brittany looms up before our curious eyes; and then, a little later, as Brit- tany dips below the horizon the more rugged coast of Normandy appears. At last the port of Havre, no longer the mystery of our sea-faring youth, but now a great city of docks and world commerce—and a familiar sight even fifty years after. By one thirty we had arrived in Paris by the speedy 62 Professor Louis T. Achile PARIS FIFTY YEARS AFTER 65 reserve their highest appreciation for water, not as a beverage, but as a means of cleanliness. Within a few yards of the vaults, one may enter the subway station of Jussieu, and through its network of underground facilities, range over the whole of Paris. Provided, of course, one learns how to follow the crowd up innumerable steps and turns at the proper transfer points. Eventually one emerges into the welcome daylight either at one's chosen center of business or of pleasure— the Place de l'Opera, the Tuilleries, the Louvre, the Arc de Triomphe, or where you will. The morning after my arrival introduced me to that great institution, the bedside continental breakfast—a cup of coffee of delicious aroma and the crisp knob of a crusty French loaf and pat of churned fresh butter. After that, with M. Pinci's good company, I passed the morning, rambling here and there in the shaded paths, under the grateful shelter of age-old trees of the Jardin and glimpsing a seemingly interminable stretch of landscaped flower beds in a prodigal array of bloom. And so we meet enticing mid-summer Paris, until the internal urge of appetite forces us to ignore the contrary urge to stroll further along the banks of the Seine. We return by way of the Zoo, along a circular path through boulders and ancient trees, ideal restful retreats for decrepit oldsters and mothers who, over their needlework, carefully watch the romping play of their little ones. As we make our exit from this Arcadia and its restful, bewitching charm, we pause before a bronze statue of Bernardin St. Pierre, reposing in a luxuriant tropical setting, with the figures of those two innocent childhood lovers whom he has 66 FIFTY YEARS AFTER idealized for the ages in his story of Paul and Virginia. The statue bears the simple inscription: "Bernardin St. Pierre—1792." Later, through the entree to this kindly family, I had the pleasure of an afternoon and evening with Mlle. Paulette Nardal as my charming guide. It was not strange, perhaps, that—with her unusual Parisian charm, yet with a richly dark complexion, so decidedly strange in contrast with the native Parisienne—she, and even her escort, who was decidedly not native though less attractive, should win some unusual attention from the passers-by. But it was an attention of polite and restrained curiosity, French to the core. However, Mlle. Nardal was, or seemed, oblivious; concerned with only where to go and how to get there. Under her competent guidance we first viewed the Hotel des Invalides, the palatial retreat established in 1670 as an asylum for soldiers, and that now, also, gives asylum for eternity to the ashes of Napoleon I. This historic pile is especially magnetic, here in the domed silence of the church of St. Louis, where rests under a massive cupola the great porphyry sarcophagus with his remains. Then, after a jaunt across Paris, came the Palais Royale and its extensive courts and gardens, its colonnades of shops and fashion depots; the old mid-town seat of the Bourbon court, and for that very reason, the site of many a dramatic and tragic scene of the French Revolution. Nor shall we soon forget the grandeur of the more modern marble palaces and apartments that, with a wealth of harmonious architectural genius, spread out to ravish the senses on either side of the Place de la Concorde, 68 FIFTY YEARS AFTER varied insignia of war and victory. In the very center, under the main arch, rests the tomb of the Unknown Soldier, sunk in the ground, and lighted constantly with the burning torch that is poetically called "the light of remembrance." The interior face of this imposing memorial, whose central arch rises ninety feet over a span wider than an ordinary American street, records the names of Napoleon's generals whose service and devotion made possible the military triumphs the arch commemorates. The whole area of the Place de L'Etoile combines both utility and beauty in the layout of modern Paris, for it is a busy traffic center, the hub of a wheel, whose spokes represent the broad arteries of traffic and trade. Yet the spaces so artistically designed, reveal an unsurpassed vista of famous temples and buildings, each making its distinctive offer- ing to that unrivalled ensemble of charm and design, that is Paris—Paris the unique. One of the main avenues radiating from the Arc is the famous Bois de Boulogne, commonly referred to as just the Bois. This opens into still another enchanting playground of pleasure and fashion. Finally its shady walks lead, after miles, to the great Pare of the Bois, with the well-known racetrack of Longchamps. From this distance one looks back at a city of spires, towers and symmetrical roof-tops, but domi- nating it all, soars that highest of all human-made structures, the Eiffel Tower; gaunt, commanding—the familiar symbol of Paris. Chapter v PARIS VIGNETTES PARIS in its physical aspect greatly resembles London, for each metropolis boasts a rather uniform terrain through which flows a stream that lends itself to the practical needs of commerce as well as to the insistent demands of the populace for diverting pleasures and recre- ations. But in atmosphere, of course, they are as different as the diverse temperaments of the two nations. The river Seine winds in serpentine fashion about the environs of Paris. Numerous bridges, spanning it at intervals, are in many instances artistic or picturesque, according to their age and the character of the section of the city through which they pass. Few are such triumps of engineering as the great bridges of the Thames, but they have no need to be. However, the bridges of Paris are definitely more ornamental. Along the protect- ing wall of either bank numerous small industries and commercial ventures are to be found; small stalls pre- sided over for the most part by decrepit old ladies, and offering all sorts of wares from books, pictures and engravings to household wares and utensils. The most popular and best patronized are the stalls selling old prints of early Parisian days, which, together with old 69 70 FIFTY YEARS AFTER books and engravings, give one a bird's eye view of all the stages and epochs of the long Parisian history. Many, too, have another Parisian specialty, cellophane wrapped paper novels of decidedly inflammable temperature; a business evidently of very sizeable revenue and jealously supervised by numerous concessionaires. The public buildings and monuments of the French capital also flank the riverside as they do in London. Most notable of all in Paris is the peerless Cathedral of Notre Dame, on the old city island, a narrow strip be- tween two branches of the great river. From whatever direction one approaches, it is impressive—the noble old Norman front with its balanced lofty towers, or the more graceful elegance of the Gothic rear with its flying but- tresses so familiar in illustrations. Its tranquil outlines show the spirit of the place and the age that built it; it is a prayer in stone lifted up to that great Benevolence which is the hope and the inspiration of all races of men. What a contrast we have, however, in that other famous church of Paris, the Madeleine. Relatively mod- ern and devoid of spires, it stands in pure1 Grecian beauty with its surrounding colonnade of lofty pillars, with niches displaying colossal statues of the saints, and sur- mounted by a massive pediment depicting, in sculptured frieze, incidents in the lives of the eminent defenders of the Faith. Even in a city noted for its sacred shrines, the Madeleine stands out uniquely grand. Then, in the Latin Quarter stands what is now known as the Pantheon, really the Church of St. Genevieve, patron-saint of Paris. Its crypts contain the ashes and bones of some of the great of France—Voltaire, Rousseau, Zola PARIS VIGNETTES 71 and many another illustrious son so honored since its dedi- cation in 1791. The aisles along the four walls (the pattern of the building is that of a Greek cross) carry a remarkable series of paintings; and the shrine chapel of St. Genevieve herself, just within the entrance, portrays her in heroic pose in the tradition of her faith and courage when, it is said, she saved Paris in the time of Atilla's invasion. Another rare architectural gem is the Sainte Chapelle, surrounded by the law courts, but within it is a rare Gothic jewel box of stone and glass tracery. Sainte Chapelle was built as a votive church by the devout Louis. It has an upper and lower chapel, one reserved for the King and the other for his suite. The upper one, more lofty and ornate, has great windows of gorgeous coloring. It is dedicated to the sacred relics for which the chapel was the repository; the Holy Crown and Holy Cross, reputedly inherited from Emperor Constantine and sent to France during the Crusades, and housed here since the church was built in 1245. From the street, so close are the law buildings around it, one would scarcely sus- pect the presence of this medieval gem, but for the delicate lofty spire, projecting up over the incongruous later architecture of the Palais de Justice. Paris is endless in finds like this. Whichever way we turn we are confronted with beauty and historical asso- ciations. Here, too, not far away down the Boulevard St. Michel is the Museum and Palace of the Luxem- bourg; associated with the late Medicis, but now the seat of the French Senate and the site of the modern art gallery of this city of art treasures. Most famous of all 72 FIFTY YEARS AFTER are its beautiful gardens, fine alleys of trees, and outdoor statuary. It is the playground of the Latin Quarter, and is the much sought rendezvous for the fun and love- making of the motley student population of this great old University of Paris, which is but a stone's throw away. One of my grandest surprises was on an early morning walk in the neighborhood of my domicile, for here with- out warning I stumbled on a great open circular structure built apart from a hillside of trees and houses, by which it was surrounded. What was it but a relic of pre-Christian days, a vast stadium that had been the scene of the trans- planted Roman holidays of the garrison citizenry of the "town of huts" that Caesar founded on the banks of the Seine in 52 B.C. Here, still intact, is the shell of a dismantled amphitheatre, with conclusive evidence in the time-stained, moss-covered walls and even in the iron- barred dungeon-like cages, from which ferocious beasts may have been unleashed for the gory spectacles of Roman days. Though crumbling with age and disuse, nothing more eloquently symbolizes the evolution of Paris than this relic of barbarism, an evolution which embraces that saving of the embryonic city from Atilla's invasion by the inspiring intervention of St. Genevieve, to which we have already referred. Surviving through several genera- tions of the Romans, and then the early pagan tribes, the Normans, the bloody insurrections and turmoils of the Crusades, the medieval quarrels and feuds of kings and the lordly great, Paris has come down through the ages, with some surviving relics of each. PARIS VIGNETTES 73 But it was the revolution of 1848 which was the birth- date of the Paris of today, the metropolis of a people's republic, democratic, liberal and enlightened. Though but short-lived, it laid the basis for the traditions of modern France, the Liberty, Equality and Fraternity, that today is her special character among the civilized nations. This is characteristic of European towns; one can step from one century back or forward, depending on one turning right or left. The walk in the other direction from the Achile home leads across the Jardin des Plantes to the Boulevard St. Germain. Here are such celebrated institutions as the Odeon Theatre, the Luxembourg Palace, the School of Medicine and most of the publishing houses and great book stores, which border on the Latin Quarter. On the way one passes the theater made famous by Sarah Bern- hardt. The house was closed, but an attendant permitted me a peep in at the great shadows enveloping the dusty stage, and at the pit and dome of the large auditorium where once her spell reigned supreme. Heart of the Latin Quarter, naturally enough, is the Sorbonne, the oldest section of the University of Paris. Its chapel contains the remains of Cardinal Richelieu who built it, as the inscription reminds us: "Armandos Joannes, Cardinal Richelieu, built this house and erected this temple Anno Domino, 1613." It was this same Richelieu who was the dominant figure of the reign of Louis XIII who could rightly say, as Bulwer makes him, "I have re-created France." For it was he, who in addition to founding the Sorbonne, founded the French Academy, the Jardin des Plantes with its geological museum and 74 FIFTY YEARS AFTER menagerie, the Palais Royal, and the gardens of the Luxembourg. Indeed, all Paris of that time was reno- vated by the replacement and refurbishing of the older buildings; and Paris started to become outwardly beautiful. Before that, as the old prints of the city will tell, the streets of Paris were dark, narrow and crooked and many of the houses projected their upper stories and gables till they almost met over the street. Some few remnants are left, just to show what old Paris really was like; the rest from the good Cardinal's time, with the exception of the historic palaces and monuments, has been entirely remodeled. The Revolution, however, took over all the universities from the Church, and since then the chapel of the Sor- bonne, formerly used for masses, has become an empty monument of the art of the Renaissance for the admira- tion of tourists. The strong anti-clericalism of the French Republic precluded its being used for religious services. At present, the tension between Church and State being relaxed, the Archbishop of Paris has permission to say Holy Mass in the Sorbonne Chapel once a year, on the anniversary of Cardinal Richelieu's death. The first mass was said in 1934, with the Catholic members of the faculty and student body in attendance, and the Catholic members of the French Academy; among them George Goyan and Francois Mauriac. In the close vicinity we find the curious little Gothic church of St. Julien le Pauvre, not only one of the oldest but one of the most legendary of the Paris churches. It seems that St. Julien, a nobleman and great hunter, on PARIS VIGNETTES 75 one occasion having killed a number of deer, was con- fronted by a huge stag, who, indignant at the outrage, pronounced a curse that one day he, St. Julien, should kill his own father and mother. Terrified by the prophecy, Julien fled to a distant country, trying to purge his soul by deeds of charity to the poor and distressed. He fore- swore hunting, but one night on hearing the howling of a fox near the castle, his old passion for hunting overcame him. His parents, unable to account for his disappearance had set out in search of him; and according to the legend, had reached his new abode this very night. His wife put them up, thinking to surprise him in the morning; but on his late return, stealing in to surprise his wife, he failed to recognize his parents and stabbed the two strangers to death. In his remorse, for penance he took his station at the ford of a river, dangerous for travellers, and ferried them across to the comforts of his home. A few nights later he heard a voice calling from the dis- tance in evident distress: "Julien, Julien." On crossing in his little boat, he found a stranger clad in rags and evidently a leper. But nothing daunted, he carried him across, gave him to eat and drink and placed him in his bed. In the silence of the night the leper appeared to him and told him that his sin was forgiven and his soul saved. By the dazzling halo around the head of the stranger, St. Julien realized he was in the presence of the Christ. In such wise, they relate, St. Julien became the patron-saint of travellers. Extending along one side of the Rue St. Jacques, be- hind the Old, is the New Sorbonne, its facade richly adorned with statues and sculptured figures. In the court- 76 FIFTY YEARS AFTER yard is a vast fresco representing a sacred grove and allegorical figures of the Muses, the Arts and Sciences and many of the great scholars of Europe's long history. It is in this same Rue St. Jacques, No. 51, that the famous Negro painter, Henry Ossawa Tanner, used to have his studio. His "Disciples at Emmaus" was pur- chased by the city and hangs in the Museum of the Luxembourg. Another of his celebrated paintings, "The Three Mary's," was acquired by the Art Institute of Chicago. The son of a Bishop, Benjamin Tanner of Philadelphia, Henry Ossawa Tanner took up his work in Paris in early manhood. He was a pupil of Benjamin Constant, and finally won such fame as to be made a Chevalier of the Legion of Honor. Everywhere, the atmosphere of study and art pre- dominates. The students of the Latin Quarter, these many years, have been noted for their extra-curricular activities, almost as much as for their achievements in the arts and sciences. The routine of the students in the earlier days began at five A.M., with the sounding of the chimes of Notre Dame. Shortly after, they took their seats on the floor, on straw which had been scattered. The taking of notes seems to have been the main classroom business, even as it is today; discussion thereof being confined to the masters, who once each week held a forum in the presence of the students. Even as now, the spirit of youth was effervescent, and frequent rivalry of brawn and skill characterized their jovial relaxation in some favorite wine shop, which often led to many a more serious clash of factional strife, or student riots. Up the main artery of the student quarter, Boulevard PARIS VIGNETTES 77 St. Michel, one comes to the Pont Notre Dame, connect- ing with the isle of the old City. With a park at either end, the Cathedral dominates the island; but there is room for both the Palace of Justice on one side, and the huge Hotel Dieu or City Hospital on the other. The foundation of the latter goes back to Louis IX, who was its patron. It was he who set the tradition that the poor and sick were to have every care, and were to come first in the consideration of all, even before the Friars and Sisters. Looking more like a combination palace-fortress, it is still a hospital today, and to all appearances, from its quiet smoothness of routine, a safe haven for the sick and suffering. The visit gives one another final glimpse at the glories of Notre Dame, as one crosses the square of the Hotel Dieu, past the colossal statue of Charlemagne on horse- back, to a close-up view of the front of the old building. Here, tower the three arched entrances, elaborately carved in high relief with hundreds of human and saintly figures. The center panel represents The Last Judgment, the Apostles and the major saints filling out the company. From a position just within the portal, one gains an unforgettable glimpse of the mammoth interior, and the sombre, quiet peace of the richly decorated sanctuary. In the nave is a subdued radiance, so soft and mellow as to leave even the most casual with a sense of mystic exaltation. One regrets to leave and turn away from those beautiful rose windows, whose tempered reflections along the lofty interior bathe the edifice in light over the gloom of the lower aisles. In this presence one senses keenly the PARIS VIGNETTES 79 Time and again as I ran across the Paris trails of Napoleon, I was forced to call to mind the familiar features of his nephew, Jerome Bonaparte, who in the early 1870's resided in exile in Washington, D. C, in the 1600 block of K Street. On many occasions he might be seen, upturned moustachios and military stride, making his way across McPherson Square to the Metropolitan Club, or driving out Connecticut Avenue with Madame Bonaparte in state, with booted and cockaded coachman and footmen on the box. In the reserved section just off the Dome of the Hotel des Invalides, where the First Napoleon lies in marble and granite state, there are hung numerous portraits of the whole Napoleon family, or clan, one might say from their great number. I sought out particularly the oil portrait of Jerome, and imme- diately recognized the already familiar features. But no reminders of that temple of military memories are as eloquent as the thousands of war-torn flags, weather-worn, discolored and tattered, but fluttering in profusion from the ceilings, with their inscribed streamers reminiscent of battle and siege, victory, retreat and defeat. Napoleon's career has been variously appraised, but none can doubt his greatness or miss the impress he made on Paris, the city of his hopes and dreams, achievements and disappointments. Perhaps the most eloquent appraisal comes from one of his denouncers, the American orator who thus recorded his emotions as he stood at Napoleon's tomb: "I thought of the orphans and the widows he had made, of the tears that had been shed for his glory, and of the only woman who ever loved him, pushed 80 FIFTY YEARS AFTER from his heart by the cold hand of ambition. And I said I would rather have been a French peasant and worn wooden shoes. I would rather have lived in a hut with a vine growing over the door, and the grapes growing purple in the kisses of the autumn sun. I would rather have been that poor peasant, with my loving wife by my side knitting, as the day died out of the sky—with my children upon my knees and their arms about me—I would rather have been that man and gone down to the tongueless silence of the dreamless dust, than to have been that imperial impersonation of force and murder, known as Napoleon the Great." And yet, even with this vigorous and true indictment, one cannot overlook the glamorous audacity with which this man, superman if you will, set out to conquer the world; or the brilliant strategy of his campaigns and the determined optimism with which he yielded to so fatalistic an obsession. Despite cruelties and untold sacrifices im- posed, he achieved a place in world history. To think of France is to visualize Napoleon the masterful. Caesar and Alexander traveled far along the road to world control, but the ambitious endeavors of either are fate- fully obscured in the dazzling brilliance of the Napoleonic conquests. He was the most indomitable challenger of Fate and the most daring aspirant for Olympian honors the centuries have known. But in this game of history, we must remember, it is the common people who pay dearly for the fruits of change and progress. At no spot in Paris is this clearer than in the world famous Place de la Bastille, upon whose broad plaza is erected the bronze column, rising to a height of 150 feet, with a gilded figure atop; the torch ** PARIS VIGNETTES 81 of freedom in one hand and broken chains in the other. This is the Column of July, dedicated to the victim- heroes of the Revolution of 1830. Standing there, one cannot avoid thoughts of those terrible days of death and suffering, the end of which this shining shaft so eloquently commemorates. I well remember Dickens' description of the grewsome proceedings of the guillotine in the Place de la Revolution manipulated by Sanson, the state executioner. I recall his picture in A Tale of Two Cities, of Madame Lafarge, portly and unemotional, indus- triously knitting in the forefront of the holiday crowd, counting the heads as they fell into the basket, seemingly more intent on her stitches as the rumbling tumbrils rolled along. Among the more than twelve hundred victims of this bloody inquisition, several were the shining marks of revolutionary reprisal for most unusual reasons. There was Danton, heroic and masterful to the end, announcing with unruffled calm: "I am Danton, not unknown to the Revolution; you will find my name in Valhalla." Then Charlotte Corday, also courageous and unafraid in death as in life, executed for her conscientious swift vengeance on the arch-conspirator, Marat. The house where Danton lived, and a memorial statue in his honor stand in the neighborhood. In the midst of all this sightseeing and history review- ing, I recalled the remark of my old shipmate, Philip Rourke, while on the good ship Ossipee many years ago, "Paynter," said he, "when you have seen Paris, you have seen the world." Chapter yi EVENINGS IN PARIS OUR stay in Paris thus far had been entirely devoted to sightseeing; as yet there had been no experience of the witchery of dazzling lights, the charm and gaiety of the boulevards at play, or of the fascinating ensembles of beauty and fashion that are envisioned in the phrase "An Evening in Paris." We could have experienced an evening or two of this sort from the start, but residing a considerable distance from such scenes, it seemed prudent "to hie me home at evening's close to sweet repast and calm repose." One never can tell, however, what is just around the corner, and so to our surprise, and pleasure too, as may be imagined, at the midday meal one Friday Monsieur Achile announced that a box had been put at his disposal for that evening's performance at the Folies Bergere. Evening clothes, of course, were in order. Fortunately an old friend who had supervised my packing, had in- sisted that such sartorial equipment should go along. So all was set. It was a gala party of five ladies—dear little Madame, Tante Sarah, and the three daughters—and of three men —Messrs. Louis Achile, Mario Pinci and I. We set out 82 84 FIFTY YEARS AFTER The performance elicited frequent and prolonged ap- plause. The actresses, each and all presenting an Amazonian pulchritude, were elegantly decorated, but in the period costume of those first early days when the world was young and not so giddy, and when fashions were set on the theory (seemingly now enjoying a re- birth ) that beauteous nature needs no outward adornment. The highlight of the evening's performance was a jungle scene, in which the gently rolling turf of the wooded dell had been abandoned to the lone occupancy of a recumbent exotic Venus. Suddenly there appeared, descending cautiously from the hills, a brown-skinned native of giant stature, who espied the slumbering nymph on coming into the clearing. (Oh, said I, what's going to happen now?) The great, loosely jointed figure advanced warily, with an exciting weaving motion of body and arms to within a few feet of the beauty. And then, intently gazing for a second or two, turned abruptly, his long arms cleaving the air and fled back into the hills. A typical French moment of suspense was the climax! The enjoyable evening was brought to a close with some light refreshments at a buffet, where the mirrored walls reflected the dress and manners of many nations, all mingling in the gaiety of their "evening in Paris." Another event of social charm and zest was a dinner tendered Dr. Edward P. Davis, Dean of the College of Liberal Arts of the Howard University. Dr. Davis, a member of the Hodge Party of tourists, was again in Paris previous to sailing on the Normandie, homeward bound. The dinner was a family affair, at which Professor Achile carried the dual role of host and interpreter. Mlle. EVENINGS IN PARIS 85 Nardal and I were the other guests on this occasion, so that, as it were, an impromptu English speaking alliance was able to present quite a respectable front in the inter- change of wit, story and travel comment during the progress of the dinner. An after-dinner session of instru- mental and vocal numbers followed in the salon, with Monsieur and Madame Pinci the star performers. After a grand repast, this convivial amusement over the demi- tasse and thimble of rare old cordial is one of the features of entertainment in a country where entertaining is a tradition and a fine art. Before adieus were said Madame Achile invited the group to the balcony. There, far below us, lay the Jardin des Plantes, an unforgettable etching in light and shadow, its gravelled walks and flower-beds gleaming in the twinkling lights of the park and of the moonlight. Escorting Mlle. Nardal back to her home in the Rue du Dr. Roux, I was cautioned to mark well the route, against confusion on my return. With the notable land- marks and the familiarity of one previous trip, that, to my mind was not necessary. But after the affable "bon nuits" and "bon voyages" had been said, I proceeded in exactly the opposite direction; so instead of passing the familiar Sorbonne, Pantheon, etc., I passed the Luxem- bourg and the Rue Soufflot. And before the smoke got out of my eyes, I found myself in front of the beautiful church du Val de Grace, staring at its strange dome piercing the moonlit sky. Yes, it was an imposing sight, all right, but a good long way from No. 51 Geoffroy St. Hilaire. A little maneuvering, however, made the error into a 88 FIFTY YEARS AFTER fession in the vibrant, pleasant tones with which he drew our attention to the residences of famous Frenchmen or particularly attractive stretches of scenery along the route. At one point the road lay between seemingly impenetrable woodlands, where fitful gleams of sunlight could rarely be observed. If one could hark back in imagination to a period several centuries ago, when "might made right," when these roads were infested with roving bands of marauders, intent on theft and hesitating not at murder, when travel between Paris and Versailles was undertaken by the Royal Court, only under the protection of numer- ous outriders, one may realize the dangers the less opulent travellers might have been called upon to face. Not wholly irrelevant to this thought came the booming com- ment of the guide: "These woods have seen some mighty queer goings-on; and it is said that it was in this gloomy stretch of road that D'Artagnan and the Three Mus- keteers, Athos, Porthos and Aramis, members of the Guard of Louis XIV, fought and defeated a detachment of Cardinal Richelieu's Guards which had been dispatched to arrest them on the charge of duelling." Because of the great throng of tourists incident to a fine Sunday, we were advised to delay going to the Palace, and first take in the Park, and look through Malmaison, the home of Josephine, which was nearby. We wandered for an hour or so along its broken paths, leaf and branch strewn from the old trees that still lifted skyward about the old house, a verdant crown that the storms of cen- turies had been impotent to destroy. In this half sad wilderness, which had been described as once "a restful paradise of charm and beauty," we found three remnants VERSAILLES AND MALMAISON 89 of a glorious past, protesting eloquently against the rape that time and circumstance have imposed. One, the once gilded statue of Neptune, towering above a fountain, from which no water flowed into the basin of fast crumbling stone. Another was the Temple de l'Amour, the historic love rendezvous of Josephine and Napoleon, lifting its Grecian front above a struggling waterfall, the disordered limbs of ancient trees and a tangled growth of hardy plants and weedy vines. Then there was the rustic summer cabin of Napoleon, now sad and gloomy in its avenue of linden trees. Three stone steps led to the glass-enclosed entrance to this royal workshop, where even now the shades of that great pervasive presence may claim its awesome homage. Malmaison had been a beauty spot of gardening, and here and there its flower beds and hedges have kept some of their accustomed beauty; but for the most part, a sad chaos of neglect and decay hovers over the place, in keeping with the tragic life of its illustrious master and mistress. Quite in contrast was the mein and appearance of the residence we were about to visit. Malmaison itself is in the pink of condition, as was evident from the moment we entered the Vestibule d'Honneur, with its chaste marble columns, gleaming black and white tiles, and groups of statuary interspersed with busts of bronze. Ascending to the main floor, we view the regal setting, which framed even the domestic life of that same Napoleon and Jose- phine, as well as the elaborate social setting that eddied about the Court of the First Consul. These and the ambi- tions they aroused eventually broke the domestic bond and romance, as history only too sadly records. 90 FIFTY YEARS AFTER The rooms are all barred to a near approach, but can be readily viewed from their open doorways. We pass in review the library, severely rich in massive mahogany cases and the elaborately carved desk and chairs of period design; then the heavily draped Council Chamber of the Emperor, with a great oval table and center lamp, the table draped in fringed red velvet matching the paneled walls and richly upholstered chairs. After that the salle a manger, presenting in no sense the usual setting of a dining room, but more like a museum, with its costly gold and silver serving vessels and decorations. Its walls are adorned with full-length portraits of mythical divinities, prominently displaying the ripened sheaf and horn of plenty. A harp of gold stands alone in the center of a rug of heavily flowered pile, while here and there are a richly embroidered screen and chairs of graceful design, all forming an alluring scene upon which, from their gilded frames, Napoleon and Josephine still seem to gaze with pleasurable content. Then the bedroom of Napoleon, with a single medal- lion portrait of the Emperor, reproduced here as it origi- nally was at the Palais des Tuilleries. The room seems extremely plain, except that its canopied bed is of a beautifully inlaid mahogany. A lounge and chair are the only other furniture. Leaving the Palace Malmaison, our attention was directed to the carriage of Josephine, with its high-rigged and paneled body, decorated in gold and displaying the insignia of the Empress. We were told that this regal equipage was last used by the Empress on the day of her divorce, December 16, 1809. After this stage of our VERSAILLES AND MALMAISON 91 sightseeing, the throng of hungry tourists now besieged the hotels and cafes. The Hotel de France was the choice of our party, and to my great pleasure, I found myself at a table with two young colored ladies, who had been travelling leisurely through Europe since early summer, and were on their way to London before their return sailing. Both were school teachers; one from Philadel- phia, the other from a prominent institution in West Virginia. While enjoying an after-dinner smoke, I fell into con- versation with several gentlemen tourists from Canada. The inevitable hawker, spying prey, engaged our atten- tion, but finding no business in that line, he then quite surreptitiously produced a gallery of cards of another sort, which, through his effort at concealment, we realized were here as much a violation of the law as in the States. There being no business in this line either, he finally drifted away, and left us to develop an interesting con- versation. One of the Canadians had noticed an emblem in my lapel. He recognized it, and having heard that colored Masons were a separate fraternal body in the States, was curious to know how such a situation came about, since persons otherwise competent, were eligible for member- ship in the Dominions regardless of race. Answering his query, I told the story of Prince Hall. How he, an emi- grant from the island of Barbadoes, had been initiated, passed and raised in an English Lodge in 1775, a lodge attached to the army of General Gage, and from which a Dispensation was issued naming Prince Hall a Wor- shipful Master. Under this title, a group of fourteen 92 FIFTY YEARS AFTER companions petitioned for a Warrant from the Mother Grand Lodge of England, which arrived in 1784, setting them apart as African Lodge No. 459. Under this War- rant other Prince Hall lodges were established and in 1791 representatives from these lodges met at Boston and formed the Prince Hall Grand Lodge, electing Prince Hall, the founder, as first Grand Master. As my Canadian friends were to return home by way of London, I sug- gested that they by all means visit the splendid new Masonic Temple in Great Queen Street; after which we parted, to join our respective buses for the drive over to the Palace of Versailles itself. Our guide had already warned us that it would take all of two hours to get even a cursory view of the Palace and its gardens. So we could well realize how its splendor is indifferently challenged by famous royal residences in other parts of Europe. We entered by the majestic Place D'Armes, an extensive parade reviewing ground. Noticing on one side the cavalry barracks, we were told that when the court was in residence hundreds of horses were stabled there for use during the royal hunting season. Beyond, on the garden front of the palace, a vast extent of mam- moth buildings loomed up before our astonished gaze. We were not surprised to be told that this facade is more than a quarter mile in length. What otherwise would be a tiresome uniformity, however, is avoided by a central projection of several hundred feet which stands out, harmoniously adorned with open spaces filled in with marble columns and busts and groups of statuary. The view from this central vantage point discloses a veritable paradise of architectural and landscape beauty. VERSAILLES AND MALMAISON 93 Here, in striking contrast with the gardens of Malmaison, the gardens are trim and well tended, brilliantly bordered by parterres of blooming plants, sheets of shimmering water and long stretches of close-cropped velvet green. Moreover, the wide terrace is adorned by two fountains placed in symmetrical balance to the great central en- trance. One, the Crowns, has its jets of water spouting from crowns of laurel; the other, the Pyramids, flows from basin to basin through pyramidal forms. All is in finely sculptured marble. Indeed, the number of foun- tains on the descending slopes and terraces is amazing. In several instances they form a complement to broad basins of gleaming water, in the centers of which are sculptured figure groups in graceful poses representing legendary lore. The group representing the Nymphs of Diana at bath is especially engaging. We regretted missing the festival display of the Great Fountains—"Les grandes Eaux" as the French put it. These, the fountains of Neptune and the Dragon, are said to have cost several hundred thousand dollars; they play only on state occa- sions, when each event entails an expense of $2,000. The large fountains play every other Sunday, but it happened that on the day of our visit the fountains were not scheduled to play. By far the most impressive of the many ingenious water-jets is the one placed near the great Basin D'Apollon. It represents the God of Day in his chariot, regally drawn by four prancing steeds, the whole encircled by monstrous denizens of the deep. Then came the tour of the palace interior. It partakes of an endurance test, because of the endless corridors VERSAILLES AND MALMAISON 95 Crusades, comes in for his share of glory. After that—for Versailles is almost endless, come the Salons of War and Peace, through which we pass to the majestic height of the Grand Gallery of Louis XIV. This is of awesome proportions, more than 300 feet in length. It is resplen- dent with colorful paintings, fluted Grecian columns ornately capitaled, and allegorical figures in the niches between, offering an unrivalled vista of beauty and stately grandeur. The Grand Gallery of Battles is devoted to murals of the many battles in which the forces of France have been joined from the earliest days down to the time of its construction. Finally, for the especial interest of the American visitor, are to be noted, in a gallery devoted to modern history and France's diplomatic relations, the portraits of Benjamin Franklin, Andrew Jackson, James Polk, Daniel Webster, Henry Clay and others. These memen- toes remind us of the close relationship of the two Republics since the foundation of the United States and the bonds of common principles which unite these two democracies. Versailles and its environs had been a fitting climax; and we arrived back in Paris crammed with sights and memories to be cherished as long as memory lasts. Chapter viii HOMEWARD BOUND ARRIVING back in the city, no suggestion might be l discovered of that restful morning calm we had left but a few hours before. Fast gathering twilight, with a welcome evening breeze, made its gradual but sure ap- proach to a night freed from the discomforts of a mid- August sun. There was the bustle of the French in their Sunday night holiday mood. Cafes and theaters were donning their electric evening dress of colorful, flashing signs. Strolling throngs of women, decorously gowned in summery stuffs, accompanied or not, in pairs or groups, moved with merry jest and chatter along the boulevards. Music filled the air, rolling from cafe doors with caress- ing rhythm to stimulate the gaiety of their jovial side- walk guests. Even the display windows of the great shops in the rue de la Paix and other shopping centers were brilliantly lighted and exhibited their wares of art, ex- pensive jewelry, dainty creations of gowns and furs; all of which were major attractions to the ever shifting and admiring crowd. Indeed, yielding to these alluring scenes entailed a belated arrival at 51 Geoffroy St. Hilaire, and with that the penalty of dining alone. But M. Achile had provided pleasant diversion for the 96 HOMEWARD BOUND 97 later evening—a projection showing, for the young men and women friends of the "Companions of St. Francis of Assisi," of the films he had taken on the hiking pilgrim- age he had conducted. The scenic and social happenings of the trip had been recorded, so that the entire adventure lived again. There followed, to the delight of our Ameri- can hearts, pictures of the buildings, monuments and other interesting features of the capitol city of America, including photographs of the buildings and grounds of the world-famous Howard University, all of which evoked enthusiasm and applause. Whereas other incidents of the hiking tour, depicting some of the fun and pranks of the journey, elicited much merriment and friendly banter. The show finished, the dining room, which had been used for the picture show, was then made ready for a light buffet lunch, and there were music and chorus singing, in which one alien tongue endeavored to carry the tunes with rhythmic sounds, which savored neither of English nor of French and this brought to a close a happy get- together of the most cordial and unforgettable sort. And with that, an au revoir to the adopted family of these charming French friends; and a bon voyage to the Ameri- can traveler, whose time was nearly up. On the morrow, August 28th, I joined the Hodge Party at the railway station and journeyed to Havre for the return voyage on the "Normandie." We found our original group somewhat depleted through earlier departures on the "He de France," and others lingering for a later sailing. Good health and buoyant spirits prevailed. The more elderly ladies from 98 FIFTY YEARS AFTER down home gave unmistakable evidence of both physical and spiritual rejuvenation. The cause should not be far to seek, for there had been freely placed to their lips during these past two months, the nectar of a real free- dom which America considers too rich a vintage for the palates of the dark minority. Our little sailor-lad, Darwin Turner, was the same ubiquitous sprite, with newly ac- quired information on tap, about sights and facts of the dykes of Holland or the Fortress of St. Peter and Paul at Leningrad. Settling down to ship routine entailed the usual round of pleasant activities—scanning the noonday bulletin of weather and progress, reading, writing letters, library lounging, a turn on the deck, a restful doze in the deck- chair, scrutiny of sea and sky, the mealtime rush to soothe an aching void, the official inspection tour of the engine- room, the sight of the sliding scale of splendor and service in the cabins of the various ship classes, and then the evening gathering for music and the dance. Special amusement and entertainment were featured by a film show of Anthony Adverse and of course a pari mutuel opportunity to win or lose on the shipboard races \ dummy horses advanced by the attendants as far as the dice and the colors might indicate. A ticket on the horse making the least speed in one of the races found itself in the money—and it was discovered that I had the ticket. The ever popular bridge held the interest of some devotees in the Hodge Party morning, noon and evening just as on our voyage over. But here the coterie was augmented by three most amiable persons, two ladies and a gentleman—Mrs. Emma Chambliss of Louisville, Miss HOMEWARD BOUND 99 Ruth Cann of Albany, and Mr. Joseph Matthews, long a resident of the Island of Java, but who was to visit New York in furtherance of a literary venture. These, with Mr. Countee Cullen, made a necessary foursome always available. It should be added that occasionally "the sinking flame of hilarity was fanned by the wing of friend- ship" and the ruddy wine or energizing highball was passed. Miss Cann was an accomplished musician as well as a charming singer, and frequently delighted an admir- ing audience. As usual, the highlight of sociability was reached the evening before landing, when the gala dinner with souve- nirs is tendered the passengers. It wound up in the early hours with dancing, bon-bons and confetti and with the salon lavishly decorated to signalize the end of a most delightful crossing. And now at the end, the return of fifty years ago looms so clearly in contrast. Then, we were at sea more than five months, leaving Nagasaki, Japan, July ist, sailing and steaming down the East African coast across to Madagascar, round the Cape, northward with a view of St. Helena, on to the Barbados to coal and at length into New York on December ioth. Now, in less than six days, we pick up the Jersey and New York coast line, and sight the towering piles of stone and iron along the sky line of Greater New York. On we pass, swiftly saluting Governors Island and the Statue of Liberty, gracious gift of freedom-loving France. Then, too, the personal contrast—then in vigorous hopeful youth, we looked forward across the threshold of manhood, confidently, "with a heart for any fate." 100 FIFTY YEARS AFTER Now, approaching the exit of life, I hope that the scars and bruises of three-quarters of a century of living, the tears and laughter, may be so synthesized by the Master Chemist, that from the crucible of Time there may exhale the breath and aroma of a perfect calm and sweet content. One thought is uppermost as we reach our journey's end, and that is this: the hope and prayer that freedom may truly come to this our native land, a freedom so broad that it includes every native son, as well as the sojourner in her land. It was this sort of Freedom which Danton, the French patriot, hero and martyr, thus apostrophised: "We proclaimed universal freedom yes- terday when the President gave the fraternal kiss to the colored deputies." Soon, we trust, the Statue of Liberty, gracious symbol of real fraternity, may be known to reflect the ideals and practice of our own beloved America, as indeed has been so pleasurably exemplified through our own happy expe- rience and observation, with the government and the people of France. Verden T. Paynter, Brent Paynter, William Cary Payn- ter—signposts along the roadway of a life. Brent died at seven ._ _ I OLD GEORGETOWN Part I AS the years have come and gone, with their spring- l. times and harvests, summers and winters—each succeeding the other, with a bewildering insistence that is Nature's sure reminder that she neither sleeps nor slumbers—an altogether strange phenomena has seemed to be developing within me. But I am assured that I am not alone in this experience, for acquaintances of similar fossilized antiquity report a like affliction. This is indeed consoling. I find that, with little or no effort, the most trivial details associated with happenings and persons of a remote period may be summoned to the cinema of the mind, while those of a comparatively recent date, encompassing time, places and names of persons, are recalled with difficulty and frequently not at all. In illustration, a wealth of reminiscence takes shape as I look back to the Georgetown of sixty or seventy years ago. How carefully and completely do I restore, in form and color, buildings and homes whose tenants, even as they have long since been numbered with the things that were. Asphalted streets now carry an almost noiseless trade 103 104 FIFTY YEARS AFTER on cushioned wheels that, in that long ago, rumbled over wooden blocks and cobblestones. The neighborhood pump, with its iron handle and dipper (that never would hold enough for me) securely attached by chain, yielding its cool and inviting flow for the general refreshment, was frequently overworked and taxed the energy of relays of youth to bring forth even a hesitant, trickling stream. The dear old pump, seared and chipped and bearing on its rugged sides many cut-in initials, with its tired mono- tone of creaking noises and, so often in the dog-days, called on to suppy cooling comfort to barefoot urchins, has long since been retired to the limbo of out-moded but unforgettable things. There was also a house of curious build, occupied by a gentleman who was not exactly curious, but decidedly of an unusual type, that I would give a pretty penny to look upon once more. It was located somewhere on the Heights, but many rambles have failed to discover it to me. Perhaps, and it is more than probable, it too, has gone the way of other old-timers; but I cannot forget its peculiar shape and coloring. It had a roof shaped like an inverted cone and this part was at least a third of its entire height. It was built of boards a foot wide, perpen- dicularly placed, the joining of which was concealed by paneled strips, three inches wide. The wide boards were painted white, and the narrow ones red, while the cone- like roof was a dazzling blue. In all my getting about over the world, I have never seen anything so grippingly curious, so unusually bizarre in its appeal. The whole was inclosed by a six-foot paling, painted a battleship gray, with a gate equally high that could only be opened OLD GEORGETOWN 105 from inside. The grounds were beautifully landscaped. Graveled paths, where no sprig of grass was permitted to obtrude, wound in and out between flower beds of various shapes and sizes, in which grew plants both strange and beautiful. Captain Chandler, the owner and occupant of this place, was tall and thin and gray, with deep-set luminous eyes which flashed a continuous restless glow from out their hazel depths. Overhanging brows, entirely white, like his close-cropped beard, intensified an ensemble that im- pressed one as anything but natural. As a lad of seven or eight, I first beheld this ghostly looking gentleman, and with a shrinking and trembling that would not be controlled, I took refuge behind Mother Cover's ample skirts. I had myself alone to blame for the shock of this meeting, for I had insisted on accompanying her, in the cool of an early autumn Saturday evening, to help (?) pull the wagon of laundered clothes she was returning to her patrons. Captain was as much amused as I was frightened, but when he had drawn me to him, and placed one of those early minted three-cent silver pieces in my hand, all was forthwith forgiven. Some years later, details of the personal history of Captain Chandler were told me by my foster mother. An early product of the American Navy, he was with Com- modore Decatur in the campaign against the Tripolitan states and was an officer on the ship on which her son, Henson, served. On his return from that duty, the Cap- tain brought her news of the drowning of her boy who 106 FIFTY YEARS AFTER had been knocked overboard by a swinging spar, during a violent storm while en route to the Tripolitan coast. The laundry of the Captain was a matter of much concern to Mother Cover, for each piece must be pressed and folded just so, and his shirts, with collars and cuffs attached, must be starched, not too little, and not too much—but just enough. There were never less than six, and if they were not done to his liking, they had to be done over. Mother Cover had the family wash of several maiden ladies, and as was then the vogue, many of the pieces were abundantly ruffled and fluted. These were the innocent cause of much weariness and headaches. In order to com- plete her work for Saturday delivery she frequently ironed until far into the night. I would beg to be allowed to stay up and, bravely battling encroaching drowsiness, would finally succumb with head on folded arms, resting on the ironing board. And then the periodical thump of the iron would bring the headache with which eventually I would stagger off to bed. In maturer years, recalling these and other labors of this remarkable woman, performed week after week, and month after month, throughout many years, I have been led to wonder how she could so well have sustained the physical drain, the loneliness of her situation and ever recurrent thoughts of the dear ones she had loved and lost. It must, indeed, have been that she drew strength and sustenance from that Fountain, whose helpful Spirit is "not given by measure," but is ever ample and ready to restore and sustain the flagging spirits of man. Her abounding faith pointed the way, and even now I seem to OLD GEORGETOWN 107 hear the trembling, passionate whisper of prayer in the silent midnight, that the Heavenly Father would grant "His Grace more and more abundantly each day until at last she should be brought into His Kingdom." Part II It was not for the reason that I was anxious to solve the mystery of mortality that I wandered into the old Mount Zion graveyard a short while back. It is true, however, that every one does, now and then, think about that "Last that comes to all at last," and if you happen to find yourself in a special or appropriate environment, such thoughts are all the more likely. So it was, after descending from the heights of Old Georgetown, with its wealth of last century homes, some tenanted, others dismal and silent, within the shadow of age-old trees and shrubbery, I passed through an un- latched palinged gate and stood within what seemed not only a silent city, but a forgotten city of the dead. It had been many years since I had sought out in this awesome silence a spot enclosed by an iron fence, in one corner of which was a marble slab bearing the inscription, "Erected to the Memory of Henry Cover, born died 1861. His widow, Mary Cover." Henson Cover, an only son, a sailor in the U. S. Navy died in the service and was buried at sea. His memory is perpetuated on the same tablet. The location, as I remembered it, was at the western part of the cemetery. But now, making my way through tripping vines and wildly growing shrubbery, closely 108 FIFTY YEARS AFTER scrutinizing such markers as were not totally hidden be- neath the tangled foilage, I failed to discover that iron fence. "Surely," I mused, "I did not only dream of such a spot, with its marble slab, so eloquent of the duty, love and reverence of one who had filled the place of mother to an orphaned boy. Oh no, it must be here somewhere! For just across this wide ravine at the base of which there flows a noisy little stream, I see again the tidy, winding and mounting paths of far-famed old Oak Hill and view the stately shafts and solid tombs which mark the resting place of many distinguished dead." Somewhat bewildered, I was about to abandon the quest, when the caretaker discovering the intruder and being assured that his sacred trust would not in any way be violated, joined in the search. In a very short time he called out, "Here's an iron fence and there's a marble slab in one corner." Sure enough. There it was, and in the center of the plot, defiant of throttling weeds and tangling vines, there proudly bloomed a sturdy bush of roses, as if to save the spot from utter desolation. Reaching between the iron pickets, the enshrouding vines were torn away, and on the weather-beaten, scarred and discolored face of the slab, now almost obliterated, the inscription was deciphered. The soil of the old Mount Zion graveyard is enriched with the bodies of many of its substantial colored citizens who in their day and generation, and in their varying humble capacities, achieved much for the growth and progress of the city, and laid an enduring foundation for OLD GEORGETOWN 109 the material and cultural development of the generations which were to follow. With little, and in many instances no, acquaintance whatever with letters, they possessed a nobility of soul, an undiscouraged urge to ignore the cruel injustices and hardships of the social state in which they were placed and, with a spiritual optimism, they plodded on in their destined path content, never doubting that just a little way ahead lay larger opportunity and greater freedom. The legacy left by these humble folks is rich in its inspirational value, and should be accorded a generous meed of praise in any estimate of the character and mate- rial worth her colored citizens have since achieved. The deplorable condition of this "God's Acre," where the bones of a so worthy dead are deposited, is sad indeed; and it would seem that a serious charge of the most callous unconcern should be placed at the door of their descendants, the beneficiaries of their early service and sacrifice. A determined effort on several occasions, to conquer an almost impenetrable growth of tangled weeds and thorny vines, by which means alone a path might be made to the headstones, enabled me to obtain the names of a number of old residents of this forlorn City of the Dead. In many instances the inscriptions were partially or wholly undecipherable. In others, the slabs of marble lay flat on the ground, or had relinquished their original upright posture and were reclining at an angle which made an inspection quite impossible. Here and there, a few shafts, more respectable and of rather recent placement, were from four to six feet in height, and lifted themselves in 110 FIFTY YEARS AFTER contrasting dignity, as if in solemn rebuke of the desola- tion which they were forced to observe. Among a number of names which were readable were: Daniel Ferguson, Margaret B. Ferguson, Eliza Tinney and Edward Tinney, Mary and Henry Walker, Sarah Pryor, Margaret M. Grisby, Mary and Clement Beckett, Henry Logan and Mary J. Logan, Dr. Collins Crusor, Rev. Mr. Hicks, Lucy Bowles, Isaac Williams, Mrs. Nancy Simms, Thomas C. Page, Francis Martin, James L. Turner and Mary Turner, George C. Smith, Rev. Daniel Wheeler, John N. and Esther Simms, Elizabeth Alexander, Charles Vessells, George W. Gibson and Josephine Gibson, Mildred Jones, Almira Smith, Elzy Curtis, Clement Morgan and Elizabeth Morgan, Moses R. Thompson and Lewis Bolden. The surging flood of memory carried me adrift to that long-gone year, when as a toddling chap I was adopted into the home of her, whose memorial I had sought, and uncovered. The old Mount Zion Church, adjacent to the Ceme- tery, was abandoned many years ago, and now houses the descendants of its early worshippers in an attractive, modern temple, more accessibly and conveniently placed on nearby Twenty-eighth Street. The old site, upon which stood the row of squalid tenements known as the Nine Buildings, is now occupied by an apartment house, accom- modating white tenants and overlooking the cemetery from the rear; while directly across, that aggressive and ubiquitous herald of modern travel convenience, a gasoline service station, has been given an artistic setting. The great rambling Kew Gardens, curving and bulging OLD GEORGETOWN 111 its lengthening surface in a westerly direction, occupies a full half block across the street, of what in that long ago seemed reserved and unapproachable, the Rittenhouse Estate. And now, as I stand at 27th and P Streets, I rebuild in fancy the modest though comfortable Cover home. How distinctly present with me is its whole ensemble of house, shop, and garden of fruit trees, gooseberry and currant bushes, fragrant shrubs and flowering plants. But now the site is bare, and only through memory may we glimpse the panorama of persons and incidents, which made the Cover home a center of influence for civic and cultural interest, in those long past days in Old George- town. Part III A day of soft breezes in which sunshine and cloud seemed forever contending for mastery, was one in mid- July. After a busy morning with lawn mower and hedge shears, I decided to make use of the pass, which the Capital Transit Co. had so generously placed at the dis- posal of citizens—for one dollar per week it was good for all cars, at any, and all times—for a ramble in the vicinity of Rock Creek. The latest release of a popular feature writer in the magazine section of a local Sunday paper, had described most interestingly some of the old Georgetown homes and referred to that of the widow of Robert Todd Lincoln, son of the President. This name Lincoln, so redolent of might events in the history of the nation, so suggestive of civil strife and 112 FIFTY YEARS AFTER tragic fate, and so indeliby written in the enfranchisement of a race of native-born Americans, loses not with the years its unique charm, and seems destined, and rightly so, to spread an everlasting glow along the pathway of future progress. I felt I'd like to look upon that house, and so, in a very few moments, after leaving the car at 30th and P Streets, I stood before it. I saw nothing grand or ornamental in its broad facade; just a large, plain, three-storied, roomy dwelling of brick, with a central entrance. As I looked upon this house, I thought, "Here, in the person of the widow of the Emancipator's son, it holds all that may claim title to the Lincoln name; but that name, whether borne by any human or not, will stand through the ages like some dimless star to beckon and to cheer. The great soul who made the name immortal needs no earthly aid to preserve its endless glory. He wished that the country he loved so well and for which he gave his life might be one where every man has a right to be the equal of every other man. God grant that this may one day be so." Proceeding northward toward Oak Hill, I accosted a young man who was cleaning about the front of a large apartment house, and inquired of him the location of the old Governor Cooke mansion. Conversing for a while I discovered he was the son of an associate in the old Chamberlin school days, by the name of Booth. His father had been many years in government service and was now retired and living just a short distance away in Valley Street. The name he had just mentioned affected me strangely, my mind clicked to the sound as though it were OLD GEORGETOWN 113 an echoed strain from a once familiar tune. I realized I had stumbled into the locality in which had stood the oddly interesting residence of Captain Chandler, that had so impressed me in those childhood days. Storing this information for future action I walked to the vicinity of 29th and Q; and there, sure enough, stood the once familiar Governor's house, camouflaged through modernistic treatment of the exterior, and extending at the sides and at the rear into a three-storied apartment house, the form and shape of the front, cupola and all unchanged. In those old days the original dwelling, occupying the northwest corner of the square, seemed superbly grand in its isolated beauty and dignity. At that time trees and shrubbery, garden and stable yard, were spread over the other part of the entire square. Through a family connection with an old servitor of the Cooke menage, Mason Coxen by name, my cousins Will, Joe and Ellie, their ages running from nine to fourteen, would stop by when they came over on a visit to Mr. Coxen, and if I had been a good boy I was per- mitted to accompany them. There were the cutest little Shetland ponies to groom and ride, and with whoop and yell in the very best aborigine fashion we would charge upon the soldiers entrenched in the stable fort, or stage a hectic race from the barn and back between rival steeds. Then a dinner of succulent ham with fresh vegetables from the garden patch, and a washer of real rich buttermilk, would bring to an end a perfect day. Up 29th and westward along the front of Oak Hill and its pretty little adjacent park, shelving down in shade 114 FIFTY YEARS AFTER and sunshine to Rock Creek's lazy flow, 1 make my leisurely way. Inquiring of an old man, just then mopping his brow and giving his lawnmower a rest, I was in- formed, "There ain't no Valley street no more. It uste be, but now it's 32nd street, and it's two blocks over there." So it was, but it only extended a short half block to the north, where it right-angled with S street and from this point resumed its westward trend. Retracing my steps, Valley, now 32nd, became more and more familiar and, viewing it as I now did, I at once realized that the old name of Valley was by far the more appropriate. In the first place it was narrow just as a valley should be. And just as in a valley, too, there was abundant evidence of another quite natural function; that of having and hold- ing, always and forever, all the leaves that had long since served nature's original purpose on the rising slopes. It is now built up closely with tenements of brick and frame on the west side, and on the other apartment dwellings, from behind and over which branches of trees may be discerned on the higher adjacent ground. I had asked the postman making his delivery as to the owner, or occupant, of the great house and walled-in estate at the corner I had just left, with its massive wooden driveway gates; but he had yelled to me, "I can't tell you. It's against the regulations." This at first struck me as peculiar, but then I remembered that the suspicion and circumspection which were the components of the World War period probably made such a rule necessary. I was not long without the information, however, for a little further along a boy and two girls of high-school age, comely, clean and well-spoken, let me know that it OLD GEORGETOWN IIS was occupied by the owner, Hon. Robt. Woods Bliss, a retired diplomat, who had been American Minister to the Argentine. A bit further along Valley street I am brought up with a shock, for there before me is the Captain Chandler house. There in outline only, with no semblance of its former odd but cleanly beauty. The timbers were there in good state of preservation, the broad perpendicular outer boards with the narrow joining panels just as I last saw them sixty years ago. The striking colors with which they had been adorned were now weather-beaten to a dull and mottled gray. Each sash showed only broken panes or none at all, while the floors, as I peered through the shutterless windows, disclosed only damp and dirt and mouldy filthiness. No sign of the pretty graveled paths, for weeds and thorny vines were so thick as to obscure even the ground itself. It was a ghastly, ghostly wreck, all that remained of the pictured place my memory held. With what pointed truth some one has asked, "What's not destroyed by Time's devouring hand? Where's Troy and where's the Maypole in the Strand?" As I turned away a matronly colored woman appeared from the next house. "Yes that was the Captain Chan- dler's house," she said, "but it hasn't been occupied for a number of years. The Captain died before I was born, but I've heard my mother tell, how at the last it was his custom to suddenly rush out of the gate, and frighten the children of the neighborhood; and then with a laugh disappear into the house." She further informed me that the house was for several 116 FIFTY YEARS AFTER years tenanted by white folks, but was then vacant for a long time, until disuse and weather erosions brought such a state of disrepair as seemed to justify a colored occupancy. Finally abandoned, even by these, it was taken over exclusively by a promiscuous assortment of reptiles, birds and rodents. The day was still young, as summer days go, and as there was ample time in which to reach my District Liner for the homeward trip, before the after-office rush, I decided to extend my ramble to Rock Creek via the bury- ing ground. On my previous visit I had engaged the caretaker to clean up the Cover plot, and had given him a small deposit for the work, with a promise of more when I came again. As nearly a month had passed I was not inclined to keep him waiting longer. I expected to find the iron railing standing out in bold relief, but did I? Positively nothing had been done. Weeds and rankly odorous vines were flourishing more defiantly than be- fore, while the wild rose and berry bushes had now both flowered and fruited. Evidently the deposit and promise meant nothing whatever to that gentleman caretaker. One of these mornings I shall get an early start, don my overalls, pack my grubbing tools and go out there and do the job myself. The little path between the Oak Hill and the Mount Zion cemetery, shelving sharply down to the creek, in that long ago, was a roadway for wagons of flour and feed, going to and from the mill. Over this road too, Mother Cover and I hauled many a bag of leaves, in winter, for the comfort of her pigs. Now it is a mere OLD GEORGETOWN 117 pathway due to the closing of the mill. At the end of the path is a five-foot bridge, spanning the creek, but never a vestige of the mill, with the moss of many years cling- ing to its ancient wheelhouse, may be seen. A fine, hard- surfaced road, bounded by well kept lawns, rambles away in a curve and ascends to form a scenic paradise of unequalled beauty. A marker conspicuously placed, just opposite the little bridge, reads, "Site of the ruins of Lyons Mill, erected 1780. General Grain Mill until 1875. Later used for barn dances and social affairs of the young folks of Georgetown." Part IV There was a time, now long since gone, when the native colored citizens of Old Georgetown were looked upon as a group apart and distinctly different from their sisters and brothers on the other side of Rock Creek. If the case may be diagnosed, the feeling was much akin to that which city relatives were wont to bestow on their country cousins. Be that as it may, the fact remains that personal or group contacts, whether intimate or casual, disclosed a reserve on the one hand and a better-than-thou demeanor on the other, which was not at all surprising, if we consider the wide difference in municipal influence and benefits apportioned by the authorities. This condition of affairs, however, not only did not discourage the citizens of Georgetown, but aided mate- rially in the cultivation of a prideful independence, and a closely knit spirit of emulation for all that made for 118 FIFTY YEARS AFTER civic excellence and progress. Young and old alike seemed to imbibe a challenging ardor, a sort of "I'll show you spirit" that became increasingly manifest, especially in the field of education. In support of this trend there was at hand a rich vein of character, gentility and an economic stability that was articulate in homes of modest comfort and liberally sup- ported places of worship. The Barkers, Popes, Cornells, Crusors, Saunders, Beasons, Turners, Morgans, Williams, Cartwrights, Coakleys and the Beckets (of whom the late Attorney Thos. Beckett was one) might easily qualify for leading roles in any pageant of "Early Georgetown settlers." They were a bulwark for defense of civic privilege and opportunity, while the churches, Mount Zion, Ebenezer and Rev. Sandy Alexander's spiritual fount, served the community with a food highly vitaminized with gospel truth, upon which generations of descendants have con- tinued to thrive. The attitude of these founding fathers found ready response and support through the action of the school trustees—the colored schools at this time being equally autonomous with the whites—who brought into the sys- tem a number of teachers from the north and east whose background of culture and racial pride was largely to stimulate and satisfy the passionate longing for lifted standards of both living and learning. The superintendent, Mr. George F. T. Cook, scholarly, courtly and indefatigable in effort to place the system on the highest plane of excellence, was ably assisted by the associated colored tustees, some of whom were Messrs. OLD GEORGETOWN 121 The snow (also made by the Prof.) came down thick and fast, covering everything, as well as the little girl and boy who were enjoying the ride, snuggled together, in great coat and furs. And how that invisible chorus made the rafters ring with "Jingle Bells." The little girl, who seemed quite comfortable during this drive in zero weather, was Nellie West (Mrs. Simon Burnett) of the Chamberlain school and her companion was a gentleman with a good memory for the Old Georgetown of fifty and sixty years ago. DAVID COPPERFIELD A Favorite Fiction Child of Charles Dickens CHILDHOOD, which is the sign-post to the diver- gent pathway of maturer human life, is nowhere more beautifully illustrated than in the many-sided forms and characters of those little folks, who were brought upon the stage of fiction, through the patient labor and unrivalled genius of Charles Dickens. There is, perhaps, no more genuine or certain test of the quality of human sympathy than that afforded in the many and baffling problems of childhood. Childhood, innocent and dependent, facing a grown-up world with all its cruel strength and egotism. Childhood, around which the fairy godmothers are wont to hover and whisper into eager, listening, quivering ears the wistful tracings and golden dreams which may symbolize their later, adult lives. The children whom Dickens has given to the world of literature, bring to us an appeal that grips the heart and may not be denied. We feel this whether we accompany them in some joyful mood and share with them their play and happiness; or whether roused and indignant through contemplation of the wrong and outrage which shadow their tender lives. We follow tearfully when their 122 DAVID COPPERFIELD 123 creator, with saddened heart, rings down the curtain on their brief life's journey; and there is felt a spiritual exaltation that one is impotent to suppress. Through con- templation of these lives so early merged with the shadows, which for all are but lifted for awhile, one's sympathies and duty as to love and helpfulness to our humankind are more than ever realized and acknowledged. The childhood of David Copperfield, which is said to embody much of the personal experiences of the author himself, brings to us an appeal that is somewhat different from that of his other youthful characters. This, perhaps, may be due to the intensely human and natural scenes which are contrived, and the unique assembling and asso- ciation of unusual characters which are at times humorous, grotesque, repulsively hypocritical, or engagingly suave and dangerous and so quaintly typical that they lift them- selves at once to the highest shelf of our lasting remem- brance. At the very first we learn what a terrible disappoint- ment to his paternal great aunt, Miss Betsey Trotwood, was little David's birth; for she had decreed, most posi- tively, that the newcomer must be a girl, and that her name should be Betsey Trotwood Copperfield. When informed by the attendant that a boy had arrived, she took her bonnet by the strings and aimed a blow at the head of the purveyor of the bad news and immediately left the house never to return. Of the book, David Copperfield, the author says, in one of his prefaces, "Of all my books I like this the best. It will easily be believed that I am a fond parent to every child of my fancy and that no one can ever love that 124 FIFTY YEARS AFTER family as dearly as I love them. But like many fond parents I have in my heart of hearts a favorite child and his name is David Copperfield." Little David's childhood, embracing so much of the author's experience, is more than justification for such parental fondness. He engages our entire sympathy and affection as we find him involved in the atmosphere of an unfriendly step-parent, and growing day by day into realization of the selfish cruelties inflicted upon him and his mother by Mr. Murdstone. We are touched by the homely virtues and loyalty of his nurse, Peggoty, and have a keen sense of personal pleasure in making a trip with her and Master David to the seaside home of the Peggoty family at Yarmouth. At once we feel a nearness to these sturdy fisher folk. How wholesome is the rugged naturalness of old Mr. Peggoty and his nephew Ham, and how is it possible to escape appreciation for the feeling of utter desolation and lonesomeness, which, like an enveloping cloak, the widow, Missis Gummidge, persists in drawing about her. David finds the boathouse home, with its bow and stern and porthole windows, wonderfully stimulating to adventure and romance; and what a charming playmate he finds in little coy and winsome Emily, as hand in hand, they race along the sands, or follow a receding wave with joyous cry to increase their store of odd and beautiful shells. Through the unusually hard and unhappy childhood of Dickens, there was developed an overmastering sym- pathy, and an insistent urge to correct those civic and social abuses which operate to the hurt of children and DAVID COPPERFIELD 125 to lift the whole realm of childhood into the helpful consideration which its dependent condition demands. His observant mind absorbed the details of each sordid en- vironment and these were to appear in the gripping scenes and pictures which were to make the name of Dickens a household word. John Dickens, the father of Charles, was good-natured but wholly impractical and woefully improvident. Though greatly attached to his family, in which there were eight children, he seemed never seriously to grasp the idea of responsibility for their welfare, or to address himself industriously to the management of whatever means he might possess. He was particularly fond of Charles and was a good story-teller; which talent he freely exercised during their long walks about the countryside. Doubtless, he had a gleam of the native genius of the boy; for he was never happier than when on some special occasion (and he could always make an occasion) at home or at the Pub he would have Charles say his "Piece" for a circle of admiring friends. Of a light and volatile temperament, jolly and carefree, even as the Micawber of David Coffer field, a crisis, which had but been delayed, brought him to the debtor's prison at the Marehalsea. The scenes incident to this residence, and the characters encountered, furnish the nucleus about which the maturer Dickens was to build a comedy, romance and tragedy that was to charm and absorb the readers, young and old. A little later on, however, the troubles of the family were relieved through an unexpected legacy, and they were reunited in a modest though comfortable home, 126 FIFTY YEARS AFTER where the youthful Charles hoped to get a start along the road to that cultural development he so much desired. The elder Dickens did not long survive this prosperity, and in his passing another rung in the ladder of destiny was formed for David through the widowed mother, who after a brief courtship became the wife of Mr. Murdstone, a partner in the blacking warehouse firm of Murdstone and Grinby. We cannot but feel that the mother whom David dearly loved, though childish in manner and tem- perament, hoped to secure, thereby, the love and protec- tion so much needed by her self and her orphaned boy. But, alas, the realization was so different, so cruelly different and disappointing. The household became a rack of torture. The love and sympathy that had flowed freely between heart and heart in a natural family devotion was no longer possible. A domestic inquisition which proceeded to banish every natural impulse of motherhood and childhood, to ridicule, decry and forbid any manifestation of the same, was set up by Murdstone, where tears and love and laughter had been esteemed the symbol of earth's highest virtue and privilege. The love and devotion of good old Peggoty and its reciprocal manifestation were denounced as a vulgar exhibition that could not be tolerated; while the free and frequent visits of David to the kitchen precincts were wholly forbidden. The dreary monotony of the time passed, through compulsion, in the presence of Jane Murdstone and her brother, may scarcely be realized. The boy listens with head bowed over a book, seeing no word of the text; DAVID COPPERFIELD 129 dences, sobbings and kisses conveyed by way of the keyhole. It was not long before the calm and hopeful outlook which is the normal attitude of healthy boyhood assumed its rightful sway and we find David turning the gloom of his prison into joyous sunshine, by means of the books which filled a shelf in the room and which formed the library of his father. There were the romances and adven- tures that DeFoe and Smollett and Fielding move around their several heroes; and, although already acquainted with those jolly spirits, we may well imagine the pleasure the author of Copperfield now found in these treasure houses of fun and intrigue. Indeed it is highly probable that this wealth of fancy and storied experience, absorbed with no diverting circumstance, was the magic wand touching to life a genius that was to flower forth in many a priceless gem of literature and become a treasured legacy to the Dickens lovers of every age and clime. Humor, pathos and tragedy was each to make its valuable contribution to the work of the Master and the youth of Copperfield shows much of each. The boarding school experiences of Copperfield were acquired at Salem House where the Creagles held forth, much to the discomfort and unhappiness of the boys. It was to this dismal seat of learning that he was banished as a direct result of the biting episode. The first stage of the journey was made in charge of Mr. Barkis, whose cryptic message to Peggoty, certifying to his willingness to do something or other not exactly specified, was later on to have the most happy result. While waiting for the coach which was to carry him on, DAVID COPPERFIELD 131 Some wanted to know if he was to be paid for at school as two brothers or three or whether he was to be boarded by contract. The upshot of it all was that he was ashamed to eat anything when a stop was made for supper and so was doomed to the miseries of hunger for the rest of the journey. His first acquaintance with the schoolroom at Salem House was to bring him humiliation, for it was Mr. Mell, Head Master, who had been sent to meet him at the coach office—poor, kindly and honorable, though brow- beaten Mr. Mell—who was the instrument of its infliction. The venomous sting of the serpent Murdstone had reached David even here. Alone in the schoolroom he had discovered a placard on the desk which read, "Take care of him, he bites." He had scrambled to the top of the desk in a panic of fright at the moment Mr. Mell appeared. "I beg your pardon, Sir," said David, "I'm looking for the dog." Mr. Mell assured him sorrowfully and gravely that there was no dog, but that the placard had been ordered for the young master's back. Such was his introduction to Salem House and it may be taken as an indication of the almost continuous night- mare of punishment and discomfort under which the boys were compelled to live. Creakle appeared in the doorway on the first day of the term with a scowling countenance and delivered him- self as follows: "Now boys, this is a new half. Take care what you are about in this new half. Come fresh up to the lessons, I advise you; for I will come fresh up to the punishment, I won't flinch." Stalking over to where 132 FIFTY YEARS AFTER Copperfield sat, he announced that he was famous for biting too. He showed him the cane and asked what he thought of it for a tooth, repeating the question with an emphasizing cut that made the little fellow squirm. In this way he made the round of the room, scowling and cutting right and left, leaving tears and hurts and vengeful thoughts to nurse through the hateful windings of their student day. It is a curious though merciful truth that in most sad and painful situations of life, there is usually found some pleasurable circumstance. Some being or thing, or indeed it may be a sensible and well-trained dog, whose presence, contact or association may furnish the one agreeable reac- tion to a period of dreariness. How readily, how freely and how insistently do we yield ourselves to such an influence, and as we clutch it jealously to our bosom, we place our feet again on the ladder of hope, and climb beyond the reach of our sordid misery. Such a panacea, all satisfying and absorbing, David found at Salem House in the one outstanding and domi- nant character in the whole student body, James Steer- forth, a youth several years his senior, who became his champion and protector. The spoiled child of a widowed mother of independent means was as much out of place in Creakle's school as was our Copperfield. The establishment had been delib- erately selected by his mother, for knowing the boy's imperious temperament, she had been at some pains to place him where a liberal allowance for expenses might be considered an offset against a too close adherence to rules or reason. DAVID COPPERFIELD 133 Another likable, honest and honorable chap, who was at once and completely won to his side, answered to the highly euphonious name of Tommy Traddles. His fun- loving bent and humorous view of delicate or trouble- brewing situations frequently saved the day for that good fellowship among the boys which on numerous occasions approached dangerously near the rocks. He helped Cop- perfield over the embarrassment of the placard incident, treating it as a joke, patting him and smoothing him down, laughing merrily all the while. Others called him Towser and bade him come to them. This complacent attitude did not appeal to Steerforth who had just returned for the last half of the school year, and, at once becoming Copperfield's champion, denounced it as a "jolly shame." Creakle's selfish greed and Steerforth's genial though dominating spirit combined to produce an autocrat whose word was law to the other boys. Under the magic spell of his protection, the hardships and discomforts were largely discounted, so that little treats and evasions of rules were frequently enjoyed. Through Peggoty's generosity, David had arrived with quite a little fund of pocket money, and in ratification of the new friendly alliance between him and Steerforth, this was turned over to the latter. It was proposed that there should be a little spread in the dormitory some night after "Lights Out," to all of which David most willingly agreed; proud of the opportunity to show his regard for his newly found friend. He considered it a piece of good fortune that he was able to do this, for Steerforth already filled a very large space on the horizon 134 FIFTY YEARS AFTER of his expectations. Daisy, was the chum name bestowed on him and thus wise was set up an intimacy that was to loom large in the years which lay ahead. Innocence and confidence, not endowed with the gift of phophecy were to become the unconscious tributaries to suffering and heart ache—to grave deceit and cruel wrong. Little David's experience and actual contact with the world had been restricted thus far to the immediate environment of an unhappy fireside, and his brief but most agreeable excursion to the Yarmouth coast and the boathouse home of the Peggotys. To be taken into such high favor by one so superior in every way, whose word was disputed but rarely if ever, even by old Creakle him- self, seemed to him almost too good to be true. The menu for the feast which was scheduled for Satur- day night was left entirely to Steerforth. He decreed that a bottle of currant wine, almond cakes and biscuits were the proper order, and these he agreed to smuggle in, as he enjoyed a more generous liberty than the others. What a picture we glimpse of this undercover spread, the dormitory in darkness, save where the moon threw a soft shadow of the casements, here and there on the floor. The favored boys in their night togs gathered about Steerforth, master of ceremonies, and Copperfield the obliging host. How their young tongues wagged in whispered tone with quip and jest, holding this or that one up to scorn or ridicule and venting their just and righteous rancor on the ogre of the institution, even old Creakle himself. Tommy Traddles with irrepressible humor, risking dis- covery by causing laughter scarce suppressed, through DAVID COPPERFIELD 135 pretending to shiver with fright at what he solemnly declared was mighty like a ghost at the other end of the room. Then cavorting about the beds in his stockinged feet, he drew the laugh to Steerforth, as he described how happy Miss Creakle seemed, when that gentleman in white trousers carried her parasol and walked arm in arm with her to church. But this, as every other oasis of fun or pastime in the course of life, must be left behind, and so regretfully one by one they sneak off to bed. After his "Good-night Copperfield," David says, as he raised himself to look on Steerforth's handsome face as he lay in the moonlight, "There was no shadowy picture of his footsteps in the garden he dreamed of—the garden where in his dreams that night, he again wan- dered hand in hand and picked up shells and pebbles with little Emily." The term at Salem House was abruptly ended for David, by the death of his mother and that of his infant brother. Of her death he says, "She winged her way back to her calm untroubled youth and again she was the mother who used to wind her bright curls round and round her finger, and to dance with me at twilight in the parlor. The mother who lay in the grave was the mother of my infancy, the little creature in her arms was myself as I had once been, hushed forever on her bosom." Quite in keeping with the cruelly unnatural im- pulses of the Murdstones, it was now decreed that David should be put to work; and so was begun a period of toil and soul-torture at the Blacking-box factory, pasting labels on blacking boxes in a dingy basement workroom. DAVID COPPERFIELD 137 bers, the head of the house being represented as a sort of agent of the bottling warehouse; and in this manner is brought into the story that ridiculous bundle of good humor and pompous conceit, Wilkins Micawber. Aside from this little agency, which paid practically nothing, Micawber, waiting for something to turn up, was almost wholly dependent upon the pitiful sum that David was able to pay for his lodging. On one occasion Mrs. Micawber confided to David, in strictest confidence, that there was only the heel of a cheese in the larder (explaining that when she lived with her dear papa and mama they always spoke of the "Larder") but as a matter of fact she added, "there is not a thing to eat in the house." David was very much distressed at this intelligence and immediately relieved the situation with the remnant of his week's pay. Mrs. Micawber was profuse in thanks and assured David that it would not be long now before Mr. Micawber's great talents would reap their just re- ward and lift them out of their distress. The family was already large and still growing, and in that connection David remarks that there was a pair of twins and that he scarcely remembers ever having seen them both detached from her person at the same time, as one or the other was always taking refreshment. David's weekly pay being frequently commandeered, as we have seen, there was little left for himself, so that he was often forced to patronize the left-over pastries and puddings of the neighborhood shops to satisfy his hunger. One of the puddings he described as "fat and flabby with great fat raisins in it." DAVID COPPERFIELD 139 contrived ingeniously, without exciting suspicion as to his intentions, to inquire the address of his aunt. The guinea arrived punctually and with it the information that Miss Trotwood lived somewhere at or about Dover. Acting upon this and to forestall inquiry for him when paytime came he told Mealy Potatoes that he was going to his lodgings to look after a box. The label, "David Copperfield, hold till called for," was all ready to affix but he thought it better to get started on his journey before doing this and so when safely out of sight, he asked the carrier to stop for a minute and this was the beginning of his misfortune. The wily rascal pretended to believe that David had stolen something and was running away. The boy had taken the guinea in his mouth to leave his hands free to adjust the label and before he could realize it he was taken with a sharp thump on the back of the neck and the money shot out into the carrier's hand. The fellow at once jumped into his cart, yelling, "Police, Police," at the top of his voice, and rattled off down the road. Poor David, he followed as fast as his little feet would carry him, halloaing to the rascal to give him his money, narrowly escaping serious hurt or worse, a score of times and at last sank to the ground on the side of the road thoroughly worn out and crying as though his heart would break. He couldn't think of turning back and though entirely destitute, money and small belongings all gone, after a short rest he set out bravely to accomplish the distance afoot. Trudging along until late evening, he reached the neighborhood of Salem House, so recently the scene of DAVID COPPERFIELD 141 Nodding to him with a little sympathy and much con- descension she bade him follow her. Anxious and wondering what kind of reception was in store for him he stood a pitiful picture, coatless and almost shoeless, his remnant of clothes torn and soiled with damp and dirt, darkly tanned and dusty as a miller from head to foot. Expectantly gazing at the door through which the maid had disappeared his vision is lifted to an upper window where a curious face is seen to peer intently at him, blink- ing and winking and smiling which encourages him not a little and then, mittened and hooded for work among her plants, comes Miss Betsey Trotwood. He waits for her to turn towards him and then encouraged by the winks and blinks and smiles of that inscrutable philosopher, Mr. Dick, for he it is at the upper window, he hesitatingly reaches her side. "Eh, Eh, what's this?" says she rising rigidly to her full height. "If you please, Ma'am, I want to speak to you." "No boys, no boys," says she and then desperately, "If you please, Aunt," says David, "I'm your nephew David Copperfield, I've run away, I have no home and I've come to you." "Good Lord," shrieks Miss Trotwood and straightway plumps herself down on the graveled walk. In another moment she had regained her feet and grabbing him by the collar almost lifted him bodily into the house. Mr. Dick was summoned in conference and when asked what should be done with David Copperfield's boy he very sagely replied, "I should wash him." This suggestion, so obviously fitting, was of a kind that 1+2 FIFTY YEARS AFTER permitted no debate and forthwith Janet was ordered to prepare the bath. So, with this bodily cleansing, the struggles, cruelties and discomforts which had shadowed the pathway of David's youth were packed away on memory's shelves. In their stead were enthroned the freshness, the beauty and the hopefulness of a new-dawning day and before him, stretching forward through the magic of Aunt Betsey's love, he glimpsed a vista of lengthening, pur- poseful years, which should make Dickens and Copper- field, one and inseparable, a composite figure among the world's immortals, to whom the generations yet to come will bring unceasing tributes of love and grateful praise. 144 FIFTY YEARS AFTER quarter, started him on a run in the wrong direction, and we haven't seen him since. We next adopted Jack, then less than a year old. He was a silky-haired collie, of a shiny, tortoise-shell-and- black variety, and had a mild hazel eye. He and Ted, our little youngster, struck up a chummy friendship from the start. He'd watch his chance to steal up stairs in the morning while the mother was getting breakfast, scratch discreetly on the door, which was immediately opened, and, at a foot-fall on the stairs, was tucked away beneath the covers. Jack was not socially demonstrative like some of his fellows and generally contented himself with a gentle wag of the tail. The street on which we live is a much traveled thoroughfare and frequently recklessly traveled at that. It is the same for both man and beast. Get out of the way or get hit, seems to be the idea. The fact that the dog's license gives him some highway privileges has no weight at all. Jack got his when about ten years old, which is about the beginning of old age for dogs. An old Ford, which by every rule of pride or reason, should long before have found its last resting place with those of its honored family who had gone before, side- swiped him on the left hip and knocked him in to the bushes on the side of the road. The result was a virtual paralysis of the hind quarters, called corhoea, from which it is seldom that the animal can recover. The veterinarian who was called in advised chloro- MY DOG FRIENDS form, giving it as his opinion that the dog could not get well and that it would be a mercy to give him thus a pain- less exit. But who could look into the dear old fellow's beseeching and trusting eyes and pass him on in that way? Oh no, as good old brother Johns used to say in the student prayer-meeting, when invoking the parable of the camel and the eye of the needle "It just couldn't be did." The head of the house said "No indeedy, he's got to get a good deal worse than he is now." And so we prepared a place for him in a corner of the dining room by placing the sofa across, and there for two months he was doctored with home remedies, Alco-rubbed twice a day, with a sherry and egg occasionally, and plenty of fresh milk forming his principal diet. At the end of this time he was able to get about the house and yard. The effects of age were beginning, however, to be quite apparent and soon he had become partially blind. The little excursions which he had been accustomed to take about the neighborhood were no longer possible. He did take his daily walk in the block just as might be expected of any dignified and portly old gentleman whose long and happy residence had made him loved and respected by old and young alike. His habits were now staid and regular like all old persons. He liked nothing better than a dash across the snoot in the morning with the lathered brush and a wipe off with a dampened cloth and then he was ready for breakfast. This he would speak for, with a bark that grew fainter and fainter until it seemed but an echo of its earlier resonant ring. Did you ever notice how much alike is the old age 146 FIFTY YEARS AFTER of dogs and humans? (Not strange, however, for they have more in common with us than any other animal.) There is the gradual slowing down; the increasing sense of detachment and the diminishing power and keenness of the senses, are all apparent, painfully so sometimes in each. Jack lingered with us a few years longer in the enjoy- ment of a serene and comfortable old age, rarely going out of the yard or beyond the front porch. His diet of milk-soaked bread was fed him one evening toward the end of March, but he took only a little and that lying down. He wagged his tail feebly when I stroked his head and said good-night. It was the last good-night, for when I looked in on him after midnight he had vanished into the shadows which mark the close of life's fitful day for man and dog alike. Jack II was also a large, beautiful collie, with a growth of luxuriant gray and white hair. That on his breast was long and silvery white. He came to us when about a year old, but even then fully grown. With care and attention a slight distemper was soon dissipated and dur- ing the seven years of his residence a more loyal friend and companion was never had. He had a cordial dislike for the bath and the spouting hose and splash in the tub sent him scurrying to a hide-a-away; but when the opera- tion was over and he, shaking and showering the spray, rubbed and dried and cavorting in a perfect abandon of healthful reaction and happiness, was a pleasure to behold. My old touring car was his special care and delight. It just couldn't be moved without him. He would park MY DOG FRIENDS 147 himself by its side, and on the run alternately between the front and back seat would bark a challenge to every moving thing. This Jack II was a valiant fighter, too, but on an occa- sion when I was spending the week-end in town, the gate having been left open, he was attacked by five other dogs, among them a vicious bull. A neighbor who was a witness to the unequal combat brought the news and my boy Cary brought him home in his arms. There were no lacerations and so it would seem that the heart had given way under the terrible strain. Jack was known and loved by old and young alike and many will recall a jolly picture of piled-in youngsters as we rode about the country-side after a Junior League game of baseball. This brings us to Wags, the most self assertive of all the canine bunch. He was a wire-haired terrier and wiry to the nth degree. There was a reason, too, for this assertiveness, for he was born on the place and, as he grew, seemed to develop and exhibit an uncanny sense of authority and responsibility. The circumstances of his birth were at least romantic and unusual. His mother, fat, mild-mannered and silky- haired and his father of excellent wire-haired lineage had shown considerable fondness in their playful gambols and food-hunting excursions. The former, widowed through the death of Jack, was daily about the place and so being obliged to have a dog, a kidnapping was arranged, the two of them made comfortable in the barn, and Wags was the sequel. Somehow, after a rather extensive contact with humans 148 FIFTY YEARS AFTER of all sorts and conditions, there has been developed in me a very high appreciation for dogs. To be sure, they do not speak our language, but a restricted comprehension may not be denied them. How instantly the master's emotions are reflected in the droop or wag of the tail or the resonant bark and joyous leaping in a very ecstasy of excited good feeling. Wags shows extraordinary precocity in many ways. His playful moods are a riot of fun and frolic. With an air of teasing he will reach to the table or machine and drag off a pair of hose or other article and prance up to you and back away with a sort of "get it if you can" expression. Again it may be a perfectly good rubber shoe or a letter given him by the postman, and if you give chase, such make-believe anger and terrible growling you've seldom heard. Then, too, I've been interested to note what an acute sense of an invisible presence dogs have. There are two windows in the den—at one the typewriter and stand and' at the other a settee. Wags may be sleeping peacefully in one of the big chairs and all at once will rush to one or the other viewpoint with an ominous growl. Sure enough, there is a dog in sight, and then what vigorous barking and skipping from window to window while the dog is in view. The contacts of dogs, too, are much like those of humans. They have friends and mere acquaintances and any number of those whom they see quite often but whose friendship they never encourage. There's a very pretty little poodle that comes by every morning with the school children of his home. For a week or more Wags ran along BROTHER JARRETT SEES NEW YORK 153 fashion and apparent prosperity he had heard so much, he concluded to look around a day or two before seeking employment. Looking around in little old New York is not so safe a recreation as its many agencies for moral uplift could wish, and when strangers are extra good-natured and relax a protecting scrutiny of acts of seeming friendliness, there's no telling what may happen. At this time the great tide of Negro civics, culture and commerce had not yet set out toward the upper Harlem stretches. Negro activities, in the main, radiated about Sixth Avenue and 27th Street. Nowhere within the reach of this center was the question of morals ever allowed on any pretext to inure to the detriment of money. Social and political clubs galore, each exclusive yet all inclusive, offering a menu of entertainment in rhyme, rhythm or reason for the purely aesthetic, and under the same roof an attractive equipment for those inclined to speculation was conveniently housed, up one flight and to the right. Brother Jarrett passed here and there in leisurely won- der and amazement, his hands clasped behind him and tropical innocence beaming from every feature. The lights, the ladies, the mingled noises of organ grinder and chil- dren at play; the belated huckster crying his wares and a lusty insistence on "Oh Promise Me" by some strong- lunged entertainer, induced a condition of strange bewil- derment. At this moment he was courteously approached by a prosperous looking brown-skinned individual who induced him to temporarily exchange his eighty-five bucks for an 154 FIFTY YEARS AFTER envelope in which he could have sworn he saw placed an even hundred. The envelope was then sealed and he was told to wait five minutes and not move from the spot. Brother Jarrett figured he had made fifteen dollars the easiest ever. The five minutes lengthened to thirty and the thirty to sixty, but the friend had not returned. At the club where he was to be taken, he was told they knew no such person. The man in charge opened the envelope and immediately burst out laughing. "Nigger," he said, "they's certeny done you dis time, you am' got nuthin but er dirty piece er paper." It was only too true. Brother Jarrett's eyes, now bigger than ever with the realization that he was almost penni- less and in a strange city, went to his lodging for which he had fortunately paid a week in advance. The next day he started on a hunt for a job. He naturally thought of his particular line of car- pentering and seeing several openings on an agency's bulletin with wages stated at $6 per day, a broad smile spread over his features. "I see you've got a carpenter's place and I'd like to get it if you please." The man looked at him for a full minute. "Where're you from, Nigger? Don't you know you can't get that kind of place in New York?" Brother Jarrett was too desperately concerned to think of resenting the brutal scorn and insult, so he answered meekly, "I'm from Jamaica and as I'm a carpenter, I naturally turned to that." 156 FIFTY YEARS AFTER compelled the two ladies to champion the cause of the ill-used helper. Retiring to their boudoir, they put on their paint and feathers, and emerging therefrom, commanded the re- luctant Jarrett to get his hat and come with them. The poor fellow dared not refuse, although he felt he had already seen quite enough of the bright lights of New York. Besides, the ladies were now giving unmistakable evidence of a jovial and reckless hilarity that filled his big eyes with wonder, and convinced him of the danger that might attend him in the character of such escort. Brother Jarrett was shocked as never before, as the ladies proceeded once more to ruminate with Jamaica. But he yielded to his fate with tolerable grace, as once outside, they each took him by an arm and piloted him through the evening crowds. They drifted along with the throngs with Brother Jarrett saying never a word, but attracting general atten- tion by reason of his great height and country appearance, in distinct contrast to his fashionably clad companions. Jus as they turned the corner of 27th Street he stopped, and although the ladies endeavored to urge him forward, he stood, seemingly rooted to the spot, while the crowds drifted about them. "What the matter with you, man?" asked Mandy, "is you seen er ghost?" Brother Jarrett, with his big eyes stretched to the utmost, and mouth wide open, seemed fascinated by the vision of something far away. "That man got my money," he faintly whispered with BROTHER JARRETT SEES NEW YORK 157 the sweat bursting from his forehead, and pointing with trembling fingers across the street. "Which man?" asked Mandy. "Show him to me!" demanded Miss Sadie. Dragging him along, they crossed over to the front of a shoeshine stand where several customers were being polished up. "That's him!" accused Jarrett, pointing out a dapper little fellow in the end chair. Both ladies were on him in a minute. "You thief. You dirty little rascal." Mandy had him by the collar and out of the chair. "I'll teach you to roll a nice young innercent feller," shaking him back and forth. Sadie yelled, "Ger er perlice!" But one was already coming on the run, attracted by the crowd. Brother Jarrett, still bewildered by these unexpected developments, was sufficiently composed when they reached the station, to describe the swindle that had been worked on him, and identify the culprit. "Yes, dat's him. I give him me good $85 and he tell me to hold dis enverlope wid er hundred dollars in it, but dere's nothing in it but er dirty piece er paper." On being ordered by the Desk Sergeant to "dig," the swindling sport produced a goodly roll and was held for an interview with His Honor in the morning. A few days later Brother Jarrett was on his way to Montreal, and as he sat back in the N. Y. Central coach, a comfortable smile broke all over his innocent ebony face as he said to himself, "It sure is a good thing I brought that Jamaica rum along." REMINISCING RAMBLES 159 I had been seated next to a little lady of finely chiseled features, a dark, velvety complexion, large lustrous black eyes, and hair the color and gloss of a raven's wing. Something in the face and features stirred my recollec- tions, and when the director assembled the mourners and friends to make up the cortege, the name of Miss Ella Williams touched to life the fading picture of old familiar Georgetown faces. I stepped to her side and whispered, "Aren't you one of the P Street Williamses?" "Yes," said she, "and that's my sister who was sitting with me, and ain't you the Johnny Cover our folks talk so much about?" So memory completes the picture, for within the space of three city blocks, there mingled and intermingled, "toiling and rejoicing" in that intimate friendliness of the old-school citizens many worthy families among whom were the Waymans. In fancy, even now, I bring again my well-worn shoes to the Wayman shop for repairs, and I see the elder Wayman at his cobbler's bench, with his great arms bared to the elbow, his mouth full of pegs or tacks as he sticks them on and drives them in with the hammer. An eye singularly clear and radiant of good nature lighted his jolly round face, and the smile, which the years had grown into a permanent feature, flashed a cheery welcome to all who passed that way. In many ways, Dennis was the prototype of his father; only there was no permanent smile, but rather a calm thoughtfulness, as of one pondering over the vexing prob- lems of life and seeking to penetrate the mysteries which lie beyond. This seems to have grown on him as the years 160 FIFTY YEARS AFTER advanced and will be remembered of him as a boy at play, or in the classroom at the old Chamberlain building, when, gazing wide-eyed and wistfully at little Miss Daffin, he gravely solved a problem in mental arithmetic, or caused her curly head to bob with satisfaction as he explained the difference between simple, compound and complex sentences. Working with his father, after school and during vaca- tion time, he acquired the trade and chose to follow it as his life's work. For a long time he carried on in the old shop, but for many years past, he had been at the corner of 12th and U. It may be truly said of him that he dignified an humble trade, and by conscientious, painstaking labor, which per- mitted no detail to be slighted, lifted it to the level of an art. Such modest, earnest, lovable characters as Dennis Wayman are the salt of the earth. The world is the poorer in his passing. "SKINS MAY DIFFER, BUT AFFECTIONS" OH, Gommy! my poor Vincent is so sick, and they've taken him to the hospital. Please go up there and see about him." Such was the greeting of little Snooki, to grandma Boulet, as she returned from the office on a winter's day, not so long ago. The child's distress was so great, that grandma took her on her lap and hushed her sobs, until she was able to tell her more about her precious invalid. Vincent was the twelve-month old baby of the colored janitor and his wife, who occupied a small apartment on the ground floor of the "Gridley." From the very coming of the little lump of ebony, the child had seemed to feel that he had been sent into the world for her special care and affection. She was the presiding genius of the morning bath, and hovered about his little cradle until the glow of twilight had deepened into night. Later, on sunny days, she proudly wheeled the carefully wrapped bundle around the block, supremely careless of the giggles, and dis- dainful of the scornful thrusts of the other children. The older folks were not at all disturbed over the unusual situation, and through the sympathy engendered by traditional family associations of a century of life in 161 162 FIFTY YEARS AFTER the old New Orleans Parish of St. Bernard, quite naturally indulged the whim of their little darling, but it was a strange phenomenon in these parts to see a beau- tiful white child playing the tender and attentive nurse to a little pickaninny, with every evidence of pleasure and careful devotion. "I just don't care, Gommy," the child had said. "They can just 'tend to their own business, 'cause you know, Gommy, you had your little colored playmates, and you know how much you love to get a letter from dear old Mamma Lize. And—and—Gommy, that's the way I love Vincent. It don't make a bit of difference 'cause he's black, and when I get him all to myself, Gommy, I just kiss him and hug him as much as I please. But, oh, Gommy, he must be awful sick, and I know he wants me. Won't you ask the hospital people to let me come up there?" When Daddy came the story was poured into his ears, and as a result the hospital was called and the inevitable "doing as well as can be expected" was received, but that he could not be seen. Snooki was more than ever disconsolate, so much so that Daddy took her in his arms and promised that he would either see Vincent in the morning or something terrible would happen to that hospital. The days dragged slowly. Lessons were neglected. The child seemed so changed and sad, and the teachers at the convent were much concerned. Good Sister Catharine, seeking to know the trouble, was urged to go into the Chapel and pray with her for little Vincent. At the end of a fortnight, the simple, childish faith GRANDMA 'MELIA'S ADVICE 165 Here, in a cozy corner of "The Swifts," his varied expe- riences on the road were frequently retailed to a group who might find themselves with an hour or two of leisure. "The Swifts" was one of the oldest of several semi- political organizations which have borne an important part in the municipal contests of the great metropolis. It was well named, in more than one respect, for the majority of its members traveled for a livelihood, and during hours between trips they were still on the go, having exchanged the object of their travel from legiti- mate getting to indiscriminate spending. Any time after nine o'clock, on any of the seven eve- nings of the week, a very decided quorum of Swifts made their presence felt, in a spirituous or other social sense, within its cheerful rooms. The large bay window at the front was made beautiful by the foliage of tropical plants; each room displayed paintings, artistic bric-a-brac, and homely, comfort-giving furnishings; and from an alcove at the rear, one's ears were ravished with a delicious tinkle, tinkle, and teasing siss and jingle of the mixer. Darrell looked in at the Club on a Sunday evening towards the close of December. The one item of news he picked up, and of which he most seriously thought, was that a stranger had inquired for him several times. Wondering whom it could be, he ran over his mail and found a letter, in an unlooked for, but familiar hand. Hastily breaking the seal, he read: "Dear Darr, You will be surprised to know that I am in New York. Have been looking for you since Wednesday. Will be at your Club punc- tually at nine o'clock Sunday night. Don't fail me. _ GRANDMA 'MELIA'S ADVICE 167 Darrell, as he now reviewed the far-flung contacts of his cousin both at home and abroad, his successful adven- ture in publishing his Naval experiences, and his appoint- ment to a government position, all seeming to indicate a prosperous future, was at a loss to pleasurably construe the last three words of Gerald's note, "Don't fail me." He couldn't escape the conviction that the terseness of the message was intended to impress him with the serious, if not desperate, situation in which his cousin found him- self, but try as he would he could think of nothing that in the remotest way suggested an explanation. Always there was encountered the knowledge of Gerald's dutiful, methodical habits and his almost fanatical devotion to the principles of justice, truth and fair dealing. The rambling character of his reverie encompassed, too, the more pleasant features of their intimate contact. He was again at the altar, dividing the honors with his soul's first and only love. Here, too, Gerald was at his side. It was his hand that passed the ring in that hour of greatest joy and supreme content. He felt again the consolations of a happy home, and seemed to hear the clear, sweet tones of mirth and play. And then this happy interval, brief and dreamlike, passed all too swiftly and was gone, leaving him stranded, broken, wrecked beside a new-filled grave. A grip on the shoulder and a voice saying, "Hello, Darr, old man," brought him abruptly to himself. Dar- rell's face as he welcomed his cousin was a battleground of conflicting emotions. The feeling that the visit in some way portended trouble possessed him completely. His greeting was all the more cordial on this account, for he GRANDMA 'MELIA'S ADVICE 169 remember how she used to clap her hands and shout, 'Praise the Lord and bless His Holy Name'?" "Do I remember? Well I guess I do; for during one of those happy spells the good soul walked all over me, and soundly punched my head with her elbows. But what a picture she was, bouncing here and there, her fat face all aglow and her short skirts making circles like a girl jumping rope." The interlude was brief, for then Darrell, placing a hand on the other's shoulder, asked: "What is all this about, Gerald? There's something wrong; what is it, lad?" "Oh, I don't know that there's anything that can be helped." "When are you going back?" "I can't tell; I don't know." "Don't know? Now look here, lad, this is too late a day for lack of confidence between you and me. Are you in financial trouble, what is it?" "Money has to do with it only indirectly. I should say rather clashing temperaments and opposing ideals are more largely responsible. Heredity, too, must bear its share; for what's in the blood will find expression in the life of a person. Through no fault of her own, Zita carries the dominating instincts and the ruthless unyielding will of that old master class who brooked no opposition, and would not be diverted from a determined course. This disposition was early made apparent in our married life. There was only one way a thing could be done, and that was her way. It mattered not if another way was obviously the better, there could be no concession. Childish petu- 170 FIFTY YEARS AFTER lance, nagging and abuse were the usual follow-up. Con- sistency, fairness and truth were just words with no relevance that would devalue a stand once announced. "I have often thought, too, that if acquaintance might have been had with the late Col. Theodore Roosevelt, a most valuable associate for his cousin Maria might have been recruited for his Ananias Club. "Regrettable as such tendencies and quirks of character are, they were but as the annoying buzz of a persistent insect in comparison with an attitude of virulent opposi- tion to a hobby that has been with me since the old college days. I mean that of trying to write. "This opposition proceeded to a climax with the con- templated publication of a second book, The Flight that Failed, through which a very devil's broth of intolerant opposition in which the ingredients of selfishness, greed, jealousy and downright meanness were discovered. "The cost of this later effort though defrayed by a legacy derivable from the estate of our Uncle Will, was considered only as diminishing, by just so much, what of value might remain after my demise. "Consideration of the effort as a stimulant to Negro pride of race, as an addition to the rapidly expanding volume of Negro achievement in the field of letters, or as a gesture in the direction of increased family prestige, either, it would seem, might have been counted upon to assure the support of one so closely associated. "Was such support given? It was not. Rather the most vitriolic opposition and denunciation. Disparaging and sarcastic references on any occasion of 'Gerald's old book,' GRANDMA 'MELIA'S ADVICE 171 'Literary gentleman,' 'You think you are something what you ain't,' 'You'd like to be along with Kerly Piller, Welborn Jansen and Curtis Woodin, but you never will be.' 'Nobody wants the old book. Your own people don't care anything about it.' "Abuse and insult, Darrell, were my daily ration, and I think you must realize what this sort of thing has done to me. "I had looked forward to a more happy closing of what some one has referred to as 'that inquiet day which we call life' but the counsels of the Infinite seem to have decreed otherwise." Gerald was visibly affected during the recital. His cousin took a turn or two about the room and after a moment or two said: "I think I understand just how you feel, my boy, and while I doubt whether you are taking the proper course, I can also realize how impossible it is for you to condone the indefensible attitude you have described. Life in general," he continued, "and especially married life, calls for mutual concessions along every line. I regret, more than I can say, the development of such a situation. My own marital experience, short and miser- ably managed on my part, was in every way the opposite of what you describe. I was headstrong, pleasure-loving, neglectful and devoid of all ambition. There is nothing similar in our cases and it would be presumptuous for me to advise. It is deplorable that this unhappy condition should have developed in the face of much that should make life a thing of joy for you and yours." "That is true, Darr, and I assure you I am deeply 172 FIFTY YEARS AFTER pained; but there is no way to condone the terrible wrong and injustice of the thing. Its horror seems to have gripped my very soul. One is sensible of the fact that not everyone may respect or appreciate the strength of a hobby that has grown and grown throughout the years, but at least, when such is worthy and entails no sacrifice or impingement on the rights of another, it does not merit scorn, abuse and insult. It should not be a surprise that through these differences a gulf of resentment has been opened that seems to forbid a crossing from either side." With a good-natured twinkle in his eye Darrell placed a hand on his cousin's shoulder. "Gerald," he said, "do you remember how Grandma 'Melia used to tell us to 'Bottle it up, Bottle it up' when in a childish angry moment we felt we had a grievance? Well, my boy, the words of that dear old soul are just as good advice today, in our manhood, and so I say to you, 'Bottle it up, Bottle it up.'" Gerald took passage on the midnight train. Its occa- sional screech of stop and go; its shrill warning whistle of scheduled right of way and its constant rush and roar as it plowed into a continuing darkness, formed a fitting companion to his varied emotions. The homely though suggestive injunction, "Bottle it up, Bottle it up," formed the dominant thread in the pattern of life his soul was weaving. It seemed to point the way of reason to a possible contentment. Toward the end of the journey some lines he ran across on a poet's calendar while at Shanghai many years ago 176 FIFTY YEARS AFTER have rendered childhood days so golden and happy. There was a cash register, too, just on the inside of a little window, and through this the proprietor reached, ringing up his cash and making change, for it was utterly impos- sible for him to enter by way of the door. Proprietor Johnson, who very much resembles his more famous namesake, Mr. Jack, has learned a great deal during the years he has been baking and stewing, and he knows that to do business you've got to put yourself on a "show me" basis. Hence the cash register and the telephone. The walls upon which the lingering vapors from the cookings of many days have left their telltale shadows, are appropriately decorated with sundry toothsome an- nouncements, happily conceived to whet the appetite and facilitate the selection of a meal. Mr. Johnson, large of form, ebony-hued, with bright eyes and close-cropped shiny head, and Mrs. Johnson, brown and comely, with lots of wavy hair, mixed gray and black, swift of foot as well as at making change, fill completely and with easy grace the positions of chef and second cook, head and second waiter. There are no strikes in the kitchen, no running over each other, no dropping of trays, no disputes about orders, or kicks about working over-time. Everything's as smooth and easy as a piece of machinery with the latest automatic oiling attachments. The regulars of the New York Boarding House are none of your fad or fashion artists, and a boiled shirt or a stiff hat on a week day would appear completely out of place. Indeed, the furtive glances of scorn and suspicion 178 FIFTY YEARS AFTER weeping willow kind of tremolo in his voice, "won't you please sir, let me have that ten fork chops, I ain' got but five minutes ter eat an' git ter work." "Deed, Son," comes a voice from the kitchen, "I ain' got nuthin' ter do wid dat, yer'l have ter eat it runnin' fer all I knows. I'se had breakfast ready sence six o'clock an' ef yer'd started in time yer'd er ben in time." "Dere now, didn't I told yer so?" says someone at the late- comer's table. The going on Monday mornings is usually rather rough for Mr. Johnson. Everything seems to go wrong and everyone's out of patience. At such times he ex- presses the opinion to every one in general "that Sunday meetings don' seem to do some people no good no how." On one of these wash-day mornings not long ago, in the very flush of the breakfast hour, a wizened little old man entered, having a well filled pillow case hanging from his shoulder. Mr. Johnson, bending over the range in the act of dishing up an order, threw his optics to the front and was horrified at sight of the bundle. "Oh, Son," he cried, vigorously waving a large iron spoon, "don' bring dat thing in here, please don'. Leave it outside an' den come in. Dat san'tary man's li'ble ter pop in here any minute, an' he's done gim me warnin' 'bout habbin dem 'spicious bundles 'round whar der' eatins goin' on. Oh yes, go on, son, lebe it on de outside." Mr. Johnson had been advancing and talking at the same time and was now near the unwelcome guest, ready to assist him out if necessary. But poor old "son" had no stomach for compromise and mumbled as he shufHed out, "I won't lebe it on de outside none. I'll jest go furder." 184 FIFTY YEARS AFTER "Now take the Training School next door, that Miss Furroughs certeny is some business woman; she saw the thing right off the bat. She says, 'Yes, I'll dedicate and glad to do it.' She knowed that what she'd give away would make the rest of the place ten times more valuable. She didn't hesitate a minute but wrote the Commissioners to use whatever land was necessary to establish the street." This piece of news pleased the members immensely and the dignity of "de bode" was completly suspended during a season of hilarious applause and hand shaking. But what's the matter with our worthy chairman? He looks from one to the other, but smiles only faintly and when order is partially restored he rises all in a tremble and, shifting his attention from one to another until he has fixed the attention of all with impressive deliberation, addresses them as follows: "I'm glad to know that the Training School has dedicated, but it's no new thing for me 'cause I've been doin' an' doin' and givin' an' givin' ever since I've been on this hill. I've been out here now nigh on to twenty years an' nobody's give me nothin' yet. I let the railroad people have the strip down there in the bottom so de cars could come through an' I won't stan' in de way of the road neither; if the city won't pay for the land I'll have to dedicate an' that's all there is to it an' the secretary is authorized to make that report to the 'sociation." More applause followed this announcement and a motion put by the secretary (for the modesty of the president would not allow him to handle so delicate a matter) that the thanks of the Association be tendered Miss Furroughs and Mr. Rollins Clapman for their 186 FIFTY YEARS AFTER "Now, Mr. President, you all knows I ain' got no children to sen' to school, but at the same time I think this school matter is one of the most important before this 'bode' an' we oughter do sumpin erbout it right erway an' I'm goin' ter move yer, Mr. President, that we au- thorize the secretary to take what steps he considers necessary ter head off the 'propriation fer de Beanwood school an' git us a new building in Billville." A half dozen seconds were offered to the motion in just that length of time and after the motion was carried Mr. Willett W. Johns expressed himself as of the opinion that the matter could not have been left in better hands. Now it happened that the worthy principal of the Beanwood school was present as the guest of the President of "De bode" and as may be imagined was highly inter- ested in these proceedings, and at this point was introduced by his host. "My position, gentlemen," says he rising as he swal- lowed a hot dog and alternately smiled and frowned as was his custom on all important occasions, "is rather an embarrassing one, for as your guest, I should be in accord with your desires and ambitions, while in fact from an instinct of self-preservation, I cannot find it in my heart to wish you success in all that you propose." Prof. Darcozo here bent his eagle eye here and there about the board and paused impressively. Resuming, he said, "The question is between a new school for you and an addition to the old one for me and since I've got so much the start on you, I can honestly say that you at least have my sympathy and I am sure your energetic secretary will make such good use of the authority placed EXECUTIVE MEETING 187 in his hands, that although he may not succeed in switch- ing the appropriation from Beanwood, the necessity for a new building at Billville will be made so apparent as to make its realization only a question of a short while. On all other points I am thoroughly in accord and I congratulate the Association on having so competent and wide-awake an Executive Board." At this stage of the proceedings Mr. Prixly Hixson of "Membership" claimed the floor. Prixly had the distinc- tion of standing to Willett W. Johns, the President, in that close-fitting relation that is frequently alluded to as one's own right hand and since for some reason, not always apparent, that gentleman, presumably from exces- sive modesty, seldom spoke for himself, it was usually understood and so taken by the members of "de bode" that "Old Prixly" as he was affectionately referred to by that worthy, had a standing commission to do the talking. "Now, Mr. Churman," says Prixly, his little black eyes sparkling and his large white teeth showing bril- liantly in their coral setting, "dere ain't no use of us wasting er lot er time now on dis school matter; if the trustees has recermended an addition to Beanwood and the Commissioners has sent it to Congress, dat settles it, an' we mout as well set down an' take our medicine. We jest woke up too late, dat's all, an' all we can do now is to be sure we gits our recermendations in fer er new building nex' year. "Le's try ter git some lights an' some streets an' git dese devilish Baltimore cars ter blow dere whistles an' slow down er little when dey come through here. Dey come through here now like er roarin' lion an' ef yer 188 FIFTY YEARS AFTER don' scoot out er de way dey sure will eat yer up. Now dis is suppin we ken do; let de secretary put dat in his recermendations an' le's try an' git some cinders an' fill up some er de mud holes roun' erbout here an' git some wagon bridges throwed across Watts Branch an' den we would be doin' suppin'." Prixly was here interrupted by loud and prolonged applause. Resuming, he said, "Now, Mr. Churman, befo' I set down I wants ter invite 'de bode' an' 'stend er invertation fer dem ter meet at my house at de nex' regular meeting. Taint my turn ter entertain 'de bode,' but Mrs. Hixon won't be here when my turn comes, cos she's goin' erway wid de Senator's family ter do de cooking, so ef dere's no objection I'll have de ole woman fix up fer 'de bode' de fust Sadday night in Febrary." The Chairman said he thought there would be no objection to accommodating Mr. Hixon, and with such understanding the Board adjourned. The secretary took up the matter of a new school build- ing for Billville with the District sub-committee of the House, proving the greater need of Billville, resulting in a switch of $40,000 intended for a Beanwood addition to a new building for Billville which forms the initial unit of its present $200,000 school building. 190 FIFTY YEARS AFTER an old Washington boy who but a few years ago had the courage to take Horace Greeley's advice and by continuous industry has succeeded in turning it into prestige and cash, our facilities for observation and intimate contact with the men who are keeping the Negro in the picture of the progress and development of a greater Chicago could not be improved. We are led to wonder what would have been the thought of our poor disfranchised brothers and sisters of the southland could they have seen these two stalwart defenders of the suffrage rights and privileges of their constituents, as they battled during several days before the Election Commissioner to lift the ban of "suspect" from many of the voters of the district. It is significant of the righteousness of their cause when we say that more than six hundred arbitrarily suspected men and women who made the long journey to the City Hall through snow and rain were triumphantly vindi- cated and their votes on November 2nd swelled the large majority by which Chicago citizens registered their ap- proval of the splendidly constructive work of Mayor Thompson. We wonder again what would be the thought of those folks, our folks "away down home," if they might have a vision of other occurrences and other modes of life among these other men of their group; see them in their homes surrounded by elegant conveniences of culture and refinement; see them prompt, regular and efficient in the performance of duty and honored, respected and consulted with no reserve or condescension by those of place and power, who deem it no derogation of their BACK TO DENVER 199 ably impelled him to say with a visible sheepishness, "Ahem, er yes, this is the colored people's car." After a lay-over of five hours at Geary we arrive about midnight at Wewoka. Col. J. Coody Johnson, our old college mate, was not expecting us until Saturday, but upon inquiry we found a couple of fellow passengers who would pass his home and who kindly permitted us to accompany them. The home is both ornate and substantial, of the rambling, bungalow type; thoroughly modern from lawn to lavatory and carrying its own electric lighting, water power system and heating plant. The logs in the great fire place of the living room still shoot forth an occa- sional spark in evidence of an earlier evening flame. On either side are well filled book cases and all about, floor coverings, hangings and bric-a-brac and cushioned ma- hogany, appraise in eloquent terms the substance as well as culture of the Johnson home. As we sit here in his home, we think of the stripling who with his father appeared at Lincoln in the Fall of '79 with gold hoops in his ears. This was in the old In- dian Territory days and his father, a descendant of the Creeks and an interpreter at the Fort Smith Agency, was even then considered well off as an owner of lands and cattle. The son, with education and enterprise and in- heriting his father's talent for interpreting the Indian dialects, made frequent trips to Washington with one or another of the Five Civilized Tribes and is respon- sible for much of the legislation enacted to procure a satisfactory status for those people. General Porter and Halputta Micou, former Chiefs of THE DISTRICT LINERS 203 Line and hauls all sorts and conditions of men, women and children, and the usual accepted classes of fowls and domestic animals. Travel is regulated by the exigencies of occupation or pursuit, so that the regular in-going 8:iO and the coming out 4:30 District Line cars, carrying office and school people, are usually made up of the same old regular Liners, and one experiences a certain number of awkward moments, when, as occasionally occurs, the railway schedule is smashed and he finds it necessary to join an unfamiliar contingent of earlier or later Liners. It is not intended to be invidious in our comparison of Liners, for there are excellent brands in all classes; just as it is also true that there are brands in all classes who are not so excellent. Probably nowhere else is the one touch of nature so conspicuously in evidence, in so many ways, as one finds in daily contact with the various classes of District Liners. There seems to be no hard and fast rule of segregation either, by white or black liners, yet it is seen that they have fallen apart as clear and clean as a whistle, the whites—and those so taken—on one side and the various shades of brown and black on the other. The 8:10 is very popular with the school going con- tingent, who have graduated out of the grades into one or another of the high schools in the city; and if one is lucky enough to get hold of a strap about midships, he may find, opened up for his edification, much interesting information, little of which is to be found in any textbook. On this car, the staid and sober-minded old Liner, whether male or female, is very imperfectly seen and A CHRISTMAS RETROSPECT ONCE more we approach the Yuletide.with its sug- gestions of joys and sorrows; its pleasures and disappointments. We turn the mind backward and there passes before us a procession of persons and events, in- timately or remotely associated, and all woven into the expanding pattern of our personal lives. At such times the pattern is spread before us without our slightest effort. We see in the woven fabric patches of golden deeds which delight our hearts, and then there are somber spots of mistaken effort which make us sad and penitent. Thus the plan of the ages unfolds, holding to the view of each a faithful mirror and in its wondrous depths we glimpse a compassionate Saviour, admonishing, restrain- ing, encouraging, and drawing us nearer and ever nearer toward that Fatherhood in God which the Cross made sacred as the hope and symbol of our human brotherhood. 909 212 FIFTY YEARS AFTER "'Co'se I didn't feel so desprit bad myse'f coz I knowed where de little foot square box wuz, an' I knowed it wuz mighty near full, en any ways nuf ter keep us goin' till I got anoder job; but po' Mary, she wuz certeny de mos' cut up woman I ever see. "When Christmas mornin' come, we called de chilern togeder fer fam'ly prayers an' when I hear Mary's voice all er trimble like, I knowed she were uncommon worked up an' sech er prayer as I's nebber heered before ner sence. De words jes sputtered out like er sizzlin' cracker an' when she slowed up an' got down off her high horse de sweat wuz a stan'in' out on her nose an' for'ed like de bead on er glass er good likker. "Well we set down ter breakfus' an' after helpin' de chilern, I see Mary push de plate fum her an' look kin'er sot an' stern erbout de mouf, an' when little Tommy sez 'Why don't you eat Mama?' it wuz too much fer her an' de tears jes bust out her eyes in a study stream. "I had jes took er bite er corn pone, an' when I see Mary in dat fix I got sort er choked in de throat mese'f an' I jumped up an' run fer dat foot square box an' un- screwed de top an' fetched it back an' sot it in her lap. "Well chillern, I nebber seen sech a transferation 'fore ner sence, laffin' wid de tears chasin' down her cheeks an' lookin' jes lak de Sun brekin' thu de clouds on er rainy day." THE BLACK HUNDRED 215 An indictment and protest against the measure of "freedom" the American Negro has been permitted to achieve during seventy years of toil, devotion and loyalty to flag and country.—With apologies to Lord Tennyson. THE BLACK HUNDRED Seventy years! Seventy years! How stands the verdict? Still in the shadow of doubt Gropes the Black Hundred. Forward the Black Brigade, Stand firm, be brave was said, All manhood's rights to gain Strive hard with brawn and brain Onward! Black Hundred. Upward the Black Brigade There's not a soul dismayed Though the black race well knows Great ones have blundered. There's not to make resolve—, There's not to question "Why?" Ours is to struggle on Cursed and oppressed by wrong Forward! Black Hundred! Jim Crow at Mount Vernon's gate Jim Crow in church and state Jim Crow by boat and car Points ever the way; Frowned on with hate of hell, Bravely they strove, and well Upward from slavery's death Seeking Freedom's pure breath Onward! Black Hundred! HOW DO YOU DO 219 HOW DO YOU DO "How do you do" precisely said From early mora 'till time for bed Takes meaning both from tone and look As can't be found in any book. With careless nod and furtive glance Betokening a sort of trance The "How do you do" with curling lip Most plainly says "Who cares a rip." But a "How do you do" that one can feel Means real concern for a fellow's weal Is the one worth while when all is said And helps us along on the road ahead. 222 FIFTY YEARS AFTER MEDITATION Myriads of men have passed this way In sunshine, shadow, joy and pain Chasing the "Rainbow" that some day Fortune's smiles they might attain. Child and youth with care-free trend Recks not of life that lies ahead For youth and manhood form a blend That brings content whate'er be said. Then comes ripe age with retrospect Of happenings strange, scarce realized So, taken all in all, if we reflect What life well lived may be despised? COME CLEAN 223 COME CLEAN A worthy phrase, but homely is "Come Clean" It means to act with kindness and be just, That the rays of truth may ever beam And bare to scorn each jealous thrust. It matters not who is the Guy Whether newly met or old time friend; "Come Clean" to all men should apply To each be fair—his rights defend. The rule is hard and some it seems Prefer the small and meaner way; "Come Clean" may haunt them in their dreams But means nothing to them in the day. 224 FIFTY YEARS AFTER ODE TO "1940" All Hail the New Year, fresh and clean, Just arrived from the mists of what has been; It comes with the promise that each may make Some gift of service that will partake Of that age-old mandate "Do unto others." In the spirit of love that makes all brothers. The concept of life 'twin man and man And woman too, she is not under ban Sees Justice, Truth—Keystone of life's Arch; Puts lying, greed, hypocrisy on the march And outlaws the grin, the smirk and "Ha! -Ha!" That many assume will keep them at Par.