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2504	----	SOME CITIES AND SAN FRANCISCO AND RESURGAM By Hubert Howe Bancroft SOME CITIES AND SAN FRANCISCO There had been some discussion as to improving and beautifying the city of San Francisco prior to the catastrophe of April 18th. Landscape architects had been consulted, proposals considered, and preliminary plans drawn. Therefore when on that day the city was swept by fire, obviously it was the opportune moment for the requisite changes in the rebuilding. For a brief period enthusiasm waxed warm. It helped to mitigate the blow, this fencing with fate. Let the earth shake, and fires burn, we will have here our city, better and more beautiful than ever--and more valuable--an imperial city of steel it shall be, and thus will we get even with the misfortunes of this day. Reform in the rebuilding was needed, whatever should be the scale of beauty or utility decided upon. Fifty years ago the elevating influences of tasteful environment were not so highly appreciated as now, and all large cities are fifty years old or more. All large cities, as a rule, had their beginning with narrow, crooked streets and mean houses. In Europe and Asia there are aggregations of humanity whose domiciles have remained unchanged, one might almost say uncleansed, for hundreds or thousands of years, or ever since their mythical beginning, save only for the covering of the debris of dead centuries. These ancient towns, mostly offspring of feudalism, begun under castle walls and continued after walls and castle had crumbled, as their area enlarged, with some improvement, perhaps, in the suburban parts, still retained this patch of mediaevalism, until obliterated by war, or fire, or later by modern progress. Look at Edinburgh, for example. With all its Scotch thrift and neatness, there yet remains the ill-conditioned and once filthy quarter, beside which rise the old-time ten-story houses built into the hillside, while in the modern part of the city in sharp contrast are broad streets and open squares and fine buildings. In America the birth of towns is quite different. Here are no plantings of trembling poverty under lordly walls, but bold pioneering, forecasting agriculture and commerce; no Babel building, with "Go to, let us build here a Cleveland or a Cincinnati," but rather, "Here for the present we will abide." If, however, serfdom and mediaevalism were absent in New World town-planting, so also were aestheticism or any appreciation of the beautiful apart from the useful. Old cities require reconstruction to make them what modern taste and intelligence demand; settlements in their incipiency are dominated by their sturdy founders, who usually have other things to think about than beauty and adornment. In this day of great wealth and wonderful inventions we realize more and more the value of the city to mankind, and the quality of the city as a means of culture. Cities are not merely marts of commerce; they stand for civility; they are civilization itself. No untried naked Adam in Eden might ever pass for a civilized man. The city street is the school of philosophy, of art, of letters; city society is the home of refinement. When the rustic visits the city he puts on his best clothes and his best manners. In their reciprocal relations the city is as men make it, while from the citizen one may determine the quality of the city. The atmosphere of the city is an eternal force. Therefore as we value the refinement of the human mind, the enlargement of the human heart, we shall value the city, and strive so to build, and adorn, and purify, that it may achieve its ultimate endeavor. Civic betterment has long been in progress among the more civilized communities through the influence of cultured people capable of appreciating the commercial as well as the aesthetical value of art. Vast sums have been spent and great results accomplished, but they are nothing as compared with the work yet to be done--work which will continue through the ages and be finished only with the end of time. And not only will larger wealth be yet more freely poured out on artistic adornment, but such use of money will be regarded as the best to which it can be applied. For though gold is not beautiful it can make beauty, even that beauty which elevates and ennobles, which purifies the mind and inspires the soul. Progress is rapid in this direction as in many others. A breach of good taste in public works will ere long be adjudged a crime. For already mediaeval mud has ceased to be fashionable, and the picturesque in urban ugliness is picturesque no longer. All the capitals of Europe have had to be made over, Haussmannized, once or several times. Our own national capital we should scarcely be satisfied with as its illustrious founder left it. It is a hopeful sign amidst some discouraging ones that wealth as a social factor and measure of merit is losing something of its prestige; that it is no longer regarded by the average citizen as the supreme good, or the pursuit of it the supreme aim in life; there are so many things worth more than money, so many human aspirations and acquirements worthy of higher considerations than the inordinate cravings of graft and greed. Hoarded wealth especially is not so worshipful to-day as it was yesterday, while the beautiful still grows in grace--the beautiful and the useful, compelling improvement, always engendered by improved environment. Some cities are born in the purple--rare exceptions to the rule. San Francisco is not one of these. St. Petersburg, the city of palaces, of broad avenues and granite-faced quays, whose greatest afflictions are the occasional overflow of the Neva and the dynamite habit, was spoken into being by a monarch. Necessity stands sponsor for Venice, the beautiful, with her streets of water-ways and airs of heavenly harmony; while nature herself may claim motherhood of Swedish Stockholm, brilliant with intermingling lakes islands and canals, rocks hills and forests, rendering escape from the picturesque impossible. Penn planted his Quakers about 1682, long before many of the present large cities in America were begun, yet Philadelphia was one of the few sketched in such generous proportions that little change was afterwards necessary to make it one of the most spacious of urban commonwealths. With this example before him came in 1791, more than a century later, the father of his country, who permitted his surveyors so injudiciously to cover the spot on the Potomac which he had chosen for the capital city of the republic as to require much expensive remodeling later. Yet what American can drive about Washington now and say it is not worth the cost? Further, as an example, the repeated reconstruction and adornment of the national capital by Congress are priceless to the whole United States, the government therein bearing witness to the value of the beautiful. And if of value on the Potomac, is it not equally so at the portal of the Pacific? A few other cities there have been which have arisen at the command of man, potentate or pirate, besides those of the quaker Penn and the tzar Peter--Alexandria, the old and the new, with Constantinople between; the first by order of the poor world conqueror, at the hand of the architect Dinocrates, two or three centuries before Caesar, Cleopatra, and Antony, but made fit for them and their chariots by streets a hundred feet wide. The Danube is the mother of many cities, directing the destiny of nations, from the Iron Gate to the Golden Horn. Vienna has been made brilliantly modern since 1858. Beside the sufferings of Constantinople our little calamity seems tame. Seven times during the last half century the city has been swept by fire, not to mention earthquakes, or pestilence, which on one occasion took with it three hundred thousand lives. Yet all the while it grows in magnificence faster than the invisible enemies of Mohammed can destroy it. But for these purifying fires the city would still be one of narrow, filthy streets and vile smells, reeking with malaria. The Golden Horn of the Bosporus possesses no greater natural advantages than the Golden Gate of San Francisco, nor even so great. The industrial potentialities of the former are not to be compared with those of the latter, while for healthful airs and charming environment we have all that earth can give, and therewith should be content. Cities have been made as the marquis of Bute made Cardiff, by constructing a dock, and ship canal, and converting the ancient castle into a modern palace. Many towns have been started as railway stations, but few of them attained importance. Steamboat landings have been more fortunate. Some cities owe their origin to war, some to commerce, and not a few to manufactures. Fanaticism has played a part, as in India and parts of Africa, where are nestings of half-savage humanity with a touch of the heavenly in the air. Less disciplined are these than zion--towns, but nearer the happiness of insensibility--the white--marbled and jeweled Taj Mahal, Agra on the Jumna, and Delhi, making immortal Jehan the builder, with his pearl mosque and palace housing the thirty-million-dollar peacock throne; Benares, on the Ganges, a series of terraces and long stone steps extending upward from the holy water, while rising yet higher in the background are temples, towers, mosques, and palaces, all in oriental splendor. Algiers, likewise, an amphitheatre in form, might give San Francisco lessons in terrace construction, having hillsides covered with them, the scene made yet more striking by the dazzling white of the houses. After the place became French, the streets were widened and arcades established in the lower part. In fact, the French believe in the utility of beauty, and in Paris at least they make it pay. The entire expenses of the municipal government, including police and public works, are met by the spendings of visitors. To their dissolute monarchs were due such creations as the Tuileries, the Louvre, and Versailles. Have we not dissolute millionaires enough to give us at least one fine city? London and Paris stand out in bold contrast, the one for utility, the other for beauty. Both are adepts in their respective arts. The city proper of London has better buildings and cleaner streets than when St. Paul was erected; otherwise it is much the same. Elsewhere in London, however, are spacious parks and imposing palaces, with now and then a fine bit of something to look out upon, as the bridges of the murky Thames, the Parliament houses, the Abbey, Somerset house, and Piccadilly, perhaps. Children may play at the Zoo, while grown-ups sit in hired chairs under the trees. Three times London was destroyed by the plague, and five times by fire, that of 1666 lasting four days, and covering thrice the area of the San Francisco conflagration; yet it was rebuilt better than before in three and a half years. Always the city is improved in the rebuilding; how much, depends upon the intelligence and enterprise of the people. Paris is brilliant with everything that takes the eye--palaces, arches, Bon Marche shops, arcades, colonnades, great open spaces adorned with statues, forest parks, elysian driveways, and broad boulevards cut through mediaeval quarters in every direction, as well for air as for protection from the canaille blockaded in the narrow streets. San Francisco may have some canaille of her own to boast of one of these days; canaille engendered from the scum of Europe and Asia, and educated at our expense for our destruction. Over and over, these two cities, each a world metropolis, have been renovated and reconstructed, the work in fact going on continuously. For some of the most effective of our urban elaborations we must go back to the first of city builders of whom we have knowledge. The Assyrians made terraces, nature teaching them. On the level plain building ground was raised forty feet for effect. Like all artists of precivilization, the Assyrians placed adornment before convenience, as appeared in Nineveh on the Tigris and Babylon on the Euphrates. At Thebes and Palmyra it was the same, their palaces of alabaster, if one chooses to believe what is said, covering, some of them, a hundred acres. The fashion now is to build upward rather than outward. Besides this alabaster acreage there are to be taken into account the pyramids, artificial mountains, and endless towertowns, supposed to be an improvement on whatever existed before their time. Around the Mediterranean and over India way were once hundreds of charming places like the Megara suburb of Carthage and the amphitheatre of Rhodes, prolific in classic art and architecture, precious gifts of the gods. But before all other gods or gifts comes Athens, where the men were as gods and the gods very like the men. Encircling the Acropolis hill--most ancient cities had their central hill--the city owes its grandeur to the many temples dedicated to the Olympian deities by the men who made them, made both deities and temples, that long line of philosophers the sublimity of whose thoughts civilization fed on and found expression in the genius of now and then a Pericles or a Phidias. Twenty times Rome suffered, each time worse than ever befell an American city, the debris of destruction overspreading her sacred soil some fathoms deep, yet all the while mistress of the world. The Moors in Spain reconstructed and embellished many cities, and built many entire. To them Spain owes her finest specimens of art and architecture, as Seville, Cordova, and the Alhambra. In Naples the mediaeval still overshadows the modern. The city needs cleansing, though she flourishes in her filth and volcanic belchings. Nice, like Paris, plans to please her guests. Berlin was a little late with her reconstructive work; the town walls were not removed till 1866. Though dating from 1190, Glasgow is practically modern, having been several times renovated by fire. Antwerp, burned in 1871, was quickly rebuilt. The Hague is charming as the city of peace. Munich, on the Isar, is every day drifting into the beautiful, not to say aesthetical. Pekin is a city sui generis, with its Kin-Ching, or prohibited city, sacred to royalty; its Hwang-Ching, or imperial city, exclusively for court officials; its Tartar division and Chinese division, all completed according to the grand khan and Confucius. Happy Celestials! There is nothing more to be done, nothing to reconstruct, nothing to improve; it stands alone, the only city in all the world that is absolutely finished and perfect. But of a truth our public works sink into insignificance beside those of the ancient barbarians, the great wall and canal of China, the pyramids of Egypt, and the brilliant cities of Assyria and Palmyra. The cities of Australia--Melbourne, Sydney, Adelaide--in common with all those of the British colonies, are laid out along liberal lines, with broad streets, parks, public squares, and beautiful modern buildings, requiring little change for many years to come. The English part of Calcutta is a city of palaces, built from the spoils of subjugation. Yokohama was a small fishing station when Commodore Perry called there in 1854. In the New World as in the Old, from John Cotton to Joseph Smith, religion with cupidity inspires. One William Blaxton in 1630 lived where Boston now is, and invited thither Winthrop and his colonists. When banished from Massachusetts, Roger Williams stepped ashore on the bank of the Seekonk, on a rock where is now Providence. The French built a fort where Marquette camped in 1673, and there is now Chicago. Buffalo was a military post in 1812. St. Paul was an Indian trading station prior to 1838. The building of Fort Washington was followed by settlers and Cincinnati was begun. Henry Hudson touched at Manhattan island in 1609, and the Dutch following, New York was the result. Brigham Young, journeying westward, came to the Great Salt Lake, where, as he told his followers, he was instructed by divine revelation to plant the City of the Saints. It proved more permanent than might have been expected, as zion--cities usually are quite ephemeral affairs. Boston, the beneficial, swept by fires, smallpox, witchcraft, quakerism, snowstorms, earthquakes, and proslavery riots, still lives to meditate upon her own superiority and to instruct mankind. Much attention has been given of late in Boston and suburban towns to artistic effect in street architecture. Until recently New York has given but little thought to pleasing effects. Broadway was not broad, and Fifth Avenue was not striking. Of late, however, the city has become imperial, houses parks and driveways being among the finest in the world. New Orleans has survived at least a dozen great yellow-fever crises since 1812, population meanwhile increasing twentyfold. After the enforced construction of the levee, the idea came to some one that the top of it would make a fine driveway, which in due time was extended from the river and bayous to the lake, thus becoming the most attractive feature of the place. Though not without natural attractions, Chicago was not made by or for her things of beauty. Beginning with low wooden houses along dirty streets, transformations were continued until systems of parks and boulevards with elegant edifices came into view,--which shows that, however material the beginning of American towns may be, if prosperity comes the aesthetical is sure to come with it. A contrast to Chicago may be found in St. Louis, for a long time trading-post town and city, which would be of more importance now were her people of a different quality. Even her chronic calamities, tornadoes, floods, and epidemics, fail to rouse her energies, so that Chicago, starting later and under more adverse circumstances, outstripped her in every particular. Cleveland was laid out for a fine city, so that as she grew little alteration was found necessary. The streets are wide, 80 to 120 feet--Superior Street 132 feet--and so abundant is the foliage, largely maple, that it is called the Forest city. As an instance of modern aesthetic town construction one might cite Denver, a western Yankee metropolis of ultrarefined men and women from down Boston way, breathing a nomenclature never so freely used before among mid-continent mountains, streets, schoolhouses, parks, and gardens--all alive with the names of New England poets, philosophers, and statesmen. Scarcely yet turned the half century in age, few such charming cities as Denver have been made with fewer mistakes. San Francisco at her birth and christening had for godfather neither prince nor priest, nor any cultured coterie. The sandy peninsula, on whose inner edge, at the cove called Yerba Buena, stood some hide and tallow stores and fur depots which drew to them the stragglers that passed that way, was about as ill-omened a spot as the one designated by the snake-devouring eagle perched upon an island cactus as the place where the wandering Aztecs should rest and build their city of Mexico. San Francisco's godparents were but common humanity, traders and adventurers, later gold-seekers and pot politicians, intelligent, bold, and for the most part honest; few intending long to remain, few dreaming of the great city to arise here; few caring how the town should be made, if one were made at all. When was improvised an alcalde after the Mexican fashion, and two boards of aldermen were established after the New York fashion, and the high officials saw that they could now and then pick up a twenty-five-dollar fee for deeding a fifty vara lot, if so be they had on hand some fifty varas, they forthwith went to work to make them by drawing lines in front of the cove and intersecting them at right angles by lines running up over the hills, giving their own names, with a sprinkling of the names of bear-flag heroes, not forgetting the usual Washington and Jackson, leaving in the centre a plaza, the cove in front to be filled in later. The streets were narrow, dusty in summer and miry in winter. Spanish-American streets are usually thirty-six feet wide. Winding trails led from the Presidio to the Mission, and from Mission and Presidio to the cove. This was the beginning of San Francisco, which a merciful providence has five times burned, the original shacks and their successors, the last time thoroughly, giving the inhabitants the opportunity to build something better. All this time the matchless bay and inviting shores awaited the coming of those who should aid in the accomplishment of their high destiny. Situated on the Pacific relatively as is New York on the Atlantic, the natural gateway with its unique portal between the old East and the new West, the only outlet for the drainage of thousands of square miles of garden lands and grain fields, a harbor in the world's center of highest development, with no other to speak of within five hundred miles on either side; dominator of the greatest of oceans, waters more spacious than those of Rio, airs of purple haze sweeter than those of Italy, hills islands and shore lines more sublime than any of Greece--all this time these benefactions of nature have awaited the appreciation and action of those who for their own benefit and the benefit of the nation would utilize them. Are they here now, these new city-builders, or must San Francisco wait for another generation? They must be men of broad minds, for this is no ordinary problem to be worked out. It is certain that in the near or distant future there will be here a very large and very wealthy city, probably the largest and wealthiest in the world. The whole of the peninsula will be covered, and as much more space beyond it, and around the bay shores to and beyond Carquinez strait. Viewed in the light of history and progressional phenomena, this is the only rational conclusion. Always the march of intellectual development has been from east to west, the old East dying as the new West bursts into being, until now west is east, and the final issue must here be met. In the advent and progress of civilization there was first the Mediterranean, then the Atlantic, and then the Pacific, the last the greatest of all. What else is possible? Where else on this planet is man to go for his ultimate achievement? Conviction comes slowly in such cases, and properly so. Yet in forecasting the future from the light of the past cavilers can scarcely go farther afield than our worshipful forbears, who less than a century ago, on the floor of the United States congress, decried as absurd settlement beyond the Missouri, ridiculed buying half a continent of worthless Northwest wilderness, thanked God for the Rocky mountain barrier to man's presumption, scouted at a possible wagon road, not to say railway, across the continent, lamented the unprofitable theft of California, and cursed the Alaska purchase as money worse than thrown away. In view of what has been and is, can anyone call it a Utopian dream to picture the Pacific bordered by an advanced civilization with cities more brilliant than any of the ancient East, more opulent than any of the cultured West? Rio de Janeiro! what have the Brazilians been doing these last decades? Decapitating politically dear Dom Pedro, true patriot, though emperor--he came to me once in my library, pouring out his soul for his beloved Brazil--they abolished slavery, formed a republic, and modernized the city. They made boulevards and water drives, the finest in the world. They cut through the heart of the old town a new Avenida Central, over a mile in length and one hundred and ten feet wide, lining it on either side with palatial business houses and costly residences, paving the thoroughfare with asphalt and adorning it with artistic fixtures for illumination, the street work being completed in eighteen months. Strangling in their incipiency graft and greed, after kindly dismissing Dom Pedro with well-filled pockets for home, these Portuguese brought out their money and spent hundreds of millions in improving their city, with hundreds of millions left which they have yet to spend. Thus did these of the Latin race, whom we regard as less Bostonian than ourselves. With this brief glance at other cities of present and other times, and having in view the part played by environment in the trend of refining influences, and remembering further, following the spirit of the times, that nothing within the scope of human power to accomplish is too vast, or too valuable, or too advanced for the purpose, it remains with the people of San Francisco to determine what they will do. It is not necessary to speak of the city's present or future requirements, as sea water on the bills, and fresh water with electric power from the Sierra; sea wall, docks, and water-way drives; widened streets and winding boulevards; embellished hillsides and hilltops; bay tunnels and union railway station; bay and ocean boating and bathing; arches and arcades; park strips or boulevards cutting through slums, and the nests of filthy foreigners, bordered on either side by structures characteristic of their country--all this and more will come to those who shall have the matter in charge. The pressing need now is a general plan for all to work to; this, and taking the reconstruction of the city out of politics and placing it in the hands of responsible business men. If the people and government of the United States will consider for a moment the importance to the nation of a well-fortified and imposing city and seaport at San Francisco bay; the importance to the army and navy, to art and science, to commerce and manufactures; of the effect of a city with its broad surroundings, at once elegant and impressive, upon the nations round the Pacific and on all the world, there should be little trouble in its accomplishment. And be it remembered that whatever San Francisco, her citizens and her lovers, do now or neglect to do in this present regeneration will be felt for good or ill to remotest ages. Let us build and rebuild accordingly, bearing in mind that the new San Francisco is to stand forever before the world as the measure of the civic taste and intelligence of her people. RESURGAM The question has been oftener asked than answered, why Chicago should have grown in wealth and population so much faster than St. Louis, or New Orleans, or San Francisco. It is not enough to point to her position on the lakes, the wide extent of contributory industries, and the convergence of railways; other cities have at their command as great natural advantages with like limitless opportunity. As to location, city sites are seldom chosen by convention, or the fittest spots favored. Chicagoans assert that a worse place than theirs for a city cannot be found on the shores of Lake Michigan. New York would be better up the Hudson, London in Bristol channel, and San Francisco at Carquinez strait. Indeed, it was by a Yankee trick that the sand-blown peninsula secured the principal city of the Pacific. It happened in this way. General Vallejo, Mexican comandante residing at Sonoma, upon the arrival of the new American authorities said to them: "Let it bear the name of my wife, Francesca, and let it be the commercial and political metropolis of your Pacific possessions, and I will give you the finest site in the world for a city, with state-house and residences built and ready for your free occupation." And so it was agreed, and the general made ready for the coming of the legislature. Meanwhile, to the American alcalde, who had established his rule at Yerba Buena, a trading hamlet in the cove opposite the island of that name and nucleus of the present San Francisco, came Folsom, United States army captain and quartermaster, to whom had been given certain lots of land in Yerba Buena, and said: "Why not call the town San Francisco, and bring hither ships which clear from various ports for San Francisco bay?" And so it was done; the fine plans of the Mexican general fell to the ground, and the name Benicia was given to what had been Francesca. A year or two later, with five hundred ships of the gold-seekers anchored off the cove, not all the men and money in the country could have moved the town from its ill-chosen location. Opportunity is much the same in various times and places, whether fortuitous or forced. More men make opportunity than are made by it, particularly among those who achieve great success. Land being unavailable, Venice the beautiful was built upon the water, while the Hollanders manage to live along the centuries below sea level. The builders of Chicago possessed varied abilities of a high order, not least among which was the faculty of working together. They realized at an early date that the citizens and the city are one; whatever of advantage they might secure to their city would be returned to them by their city fourfold. "Oh, I do love this old town!" one of them was heard to exclaim as, returning from the station, his cab paddled through the slushy streets under a slushy sky. He was quite a young man, yet he had made a large fortune there. "It's no credit to us making money here," he added, "we couldn't help it." So citizenized, what should we expect if not unity of effort, a willingness to efface self when necessary, and with intense individualism to subordinate individual ideas and feelings to the public good? In such an atmosphere rises quickly a new city from the ashes of the old, or a fairy creation like the Columbian Exposition. Imagine the peninsula of San Francisco covered by a real city equal in beauty and grandeur to the Chicago sham city of 1893. The typical West-American city builder has money--created, not inherited, wealth. But possession merely is not enough; he gives. Yet possessing and giving are not enough; he works, constantly and intelligently. The power which wealth gives is often employed in retarding progress when the interests of the individual seem to clash with those of the commonwealth; it is always lessened by the absence of respect for its possessor. But when wealth, intelligence, honesty, and enthusiasm join hands with patriotism there must be progress. Time and place do not account for all of Chicago's phenomenal growth, nor do the distance from the world's centres of population and industry, the comparative isolation, and the evil effects of railway domination account wholly for San Francisco's slow growth toward the end of the century. For, following the several spasms of development incident to the ages of gold, of grain, and of fruit, and the advent of the railway incubus, California for a time betook herself to rest, which indeed was largely paralysis. Then, too, those who had come first and cleared the ground, laying the foundations of fortunes, were passing away, and their successors seemed more ready to enjoy than to create. But with the opening of a new century all California awoke and made such progress as was never made before. Coming to the late catastrophe, it was well that too much dependence was not placed on promises regarding rehabilitation made during the first flush of sympathy; the words were nevertheless pleasant to the ear at the time. The insurance companies would act promptly and liberally, taking no advantage of any technicality; congress would remit duties on building material for a time, and thus protect the city-builders from the extortions of the material men; the material men roundly asserted that there should be no extortion, no advance in prices, but, on the contrary, all other work should be set aside and precedence given to San Francisco orders; eastern capitalists were to cooperate with the government in placing at the portal of the Pacific a city which should be a credit to the nation and a power in the exploitation of the great ocean. None of these things came to pass. Indeed it was too much to expect of poor human nature until selfishness and greed are yet further eliminated. Never to be forgotten was the superb benevolence which so promptly and so liberally showered comforts upon the poor, the sick, the hungry, and the houseless until it was feared that the people might become pauperized. But that was charity, whereas "business is business." The insurance companies, themselves stricken nigh unto death, paused in the generous impulse to pay quickly and in full and let the new steel city arise at once in all its glory. They began to consider, then to temporize, and finally, with notable exceptions, to evade by every means in their power the payment of their obligations. The loss and the annoyance thus inflicted upon the insured were increased by the uncertainty as to what they should finally be able to do. Congress likewise paused to consider the effect the proposed remission of duties would have on certain members and their lumber and steel friends. Thus a hundred days passed by, and with some relief half a hundred more. Outside capital was still ready, but San Franciscans seemed to have sufficient for present needs. Capital is conservative and Californians independent. Even from the government they never asked much, though well aware that since the gold discovery California has given a hundredfold more than she has received. Her people were accustomed to take care of themselves, and managed on the whole to get along. A general conflagration was not a new thing. Four times during gold-digging days San Francisco was destroyed by fire, and each time new houses were going up before the ashes were cold. True, there was not so much to burn in those days, but it was all the people had; there was not so much to rebuild, and there were no insurance companies to keep them back. San Francisco would be grateful, and it would be a graceful thing for the government to do, to keep away the sharks until the people should get their heads above water again, not as charity, but for the general good. The exaction of duties on lumber from British Columbia was simply taking money from the San Francisco builders and thrusting it into the plethoric pockets of the Puget Sound people, who at once advanced their prices so as seriously to retard building and render it in many cases impossible. Even as I write word comes of another advance in the price of lumber, owing to the apathy at Washington and elsewhere, after twice before raising the price to the highest limit. Meanwhile, in and around the burned district, traffic never ceased. The inflow of merchandise from all parts continued. Upon the ashes of their former stores, and scattered about the suburbs, business men established themselves wherever they could find a house to rent or a lot to build upon. Shacks were set up in every quarter, and better structures of one or two stories were permitted, subject to removal by order of the city at any time they should appear to stand in the way of permanent improvement. Some business houses were extinguished, but other and larger ones arose in their stead. Rebuilding was slow because of the debris to be removed and the more substantial character of the permanent structures to be erected. Around the bay continues the hum of industry. The country teems with prosperity. Never were the services of the city needed so much as now. There are no financial disturbances; money is easy, but more will be required soon; claims are not pressed in the courts. Any San Francisco bonds thrown upon the market are quickly taken by local capitalists. Customs receipts are larger than ever before, and there is no shrinkage at the clearing house. Land values remain much the same; in some quarters land has depreciated, in other places it has increased in price; buyers stand ready to take advantage of forced sales. Labor is scarce in both city and country; wages are high and advancing. Five times the present number of mechanics can find profitable employment in the city, and it will be so for years to come, as there is much to be done. With the advance of the labor wage and of lumber, rents are advanced. Mills and factories are running at their full capacity. Orchards and grain fields are overflowing, and harvesters are found with difficulty. Merchants' sales were never so large nor profits so good. Prices of everything rule high, with an upward tendency, the demand at the shops being for articles of good quality. Oriental rugs and diamonds are conspicuously in evidence. Insurers are paying their losses to some extent, and many people find themselves in possession of more ready money than they ever had before. They are rich, though they may have no house to sleep in. It is a momentary return to the flush times of the early fifties, though upon a broader and more civilized scale, and without their uncertainty or their romance. In view of the facts it seems superfluous to discuss questions regarding the future of San Francisco. That is to say, such questions as are propounded by chronic croakers: Will the city be rebuilt? If so, will it be a city of fine buildings? Will not the fear of earthquakes drive away capital and confine reconstruction to insignificance? Let us hasten to assure our friends that the day of doom has not yet come to this city; that the day of doom never comes to any city for so slight a cause, or for any cause short of a rain of brimstone and fire, as in the case of Sodom. Whether of imperial steel or of imperial shacks; whether calamities come in the form of such temblores as are here met occasionally in a mild form, or in the far more destructive form of hurricanes, floods, pestilence, sun--striking, and lightning, so common at the east and elsewhere, and from which San Francisco is wholly free, there will here forever be a city, a large, powerful, and wealthy city. Every part of the earth is subject at any time to seismic disturbance, and no one can truthfully say that California is more liable to another such occurrence than any other part of the United States. Indeed, it should be less so, the earth's crust here having settled itself, let us hope, to some centuries of repose. Never before has anything like this been known on our Pacific seaboard. Never before, so far as history or tradition or the physical features of the country can show, has California experienced a serious earthquake shock--that is to say, one attended by any considerable loss of life or property. Nor was the earthquake of April last so terrible as it may seem to some. Apart from the fire there was not so very much of it, and no great damage was done. The official figures are: 266 killed by falling walls, 177 by fire, 7 shot, and 2 deaths by ptomaine poisoning--452 in all. The property damage by the earthquake is scarcely worth speaking of, being no more than happens elsewhere in the world from other causes nearly every day; it would have been quickly made good and little thought of it but for the conflagration that followed. Compare San Francisco casualties with those of other cities. Two hundred and sixty-six deaths as the result of the greatest calamity that ever happened in California! Not to mention the floods, fires, and cyclones common to St. Louis, Chicago, Galveston, and all mid-continent America, the yellow fever at New Orleans and along the southern shore, or the 25,000 deaths from cholera in New York and Philadelphia in less than twenty-five years, or the loss of 1,000 ships on the Atlantic coast in the hurricane of August, 1873-not to mention the many extraordinary displays of vindictive nature, take some of the more commonplace calamities incident to most cities except those along the Pacific coast. Every year more people and more property are destroyed by lightning, floods, and wind-storms on the Atlantic side of the Rocky mountains than are affected by earthquakes on the Pacific side in a hundred years. Every year more people drop dead from sunstrokes in New York, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and other eastern cities than are killed by earthquakes in San Francisco in a thousand years, so far as we may know. Yet men and women continue to live and build houses in those cities without thought of running away. Nor can California claim the whole even of United States earthquakes. In 1755 all New England was shaken up, and Boston housetops and walls were set dancing, the horror coming in "with a roaring noise, like that of thunder," as the record has it, "and then a swell like the roaring sea"; and yet, and notwithstanding the great fire later, the city still shows vitality, the people are not afraid, and property is valuable. And so in regard to New York and London and all cities. In Missouri, in 1811, the earth shook almost continuously for several months along a stretch of three hundred miles, throwing up prairies into sand hills and submerging forests. Chicago and New York, and all the country between, were visited by earthquakes in 1870. Then there are Virginia and the Carolinas, Alabama Texas and Colorado--there is not a state in the union that has not had a touch of well-authenticated earthquakings at some time in its history. To one who knows the people and the country, the people with their magnificent energy and ability, their indomitable will and their splendid courage; the country with its boundless natural wealth and illimitable potentialities; the city, key to the Golden Gate, which opens the East to the West and West to East; the bay, mistress primeval, through which flows the drainage of six hundred miles in length of interior valley, the garden of the world; to one who has here lived and loved, assisting in this grand upbuilding, thoughts of relinquishment, of lesser possibilities, of meaner efforts, do not come. What would you? If there is a spot on earth where life and property are safer, where men are more enterprising and women more intelligent and refined, where business is better or fortunes more safely or surely made, the world should know of it. The earth may tremble now and then, but houses may be built which cannot be destroyed, fires are liable to occur wherever material exists that will burn, but fires may be controlled. As for the city, its life and destiny, there is this to be said. The few square miles of buildings burned were not San Francisco, they were only buildings. Were every house destroyed and every street obliterated, there would still remain the city, with its commerce, its manufactures, its civilization, a spiritual city if you like, yet with material values incapable of destruction--an atmosphere alive with cheerful industry; also land values, commercial relations, financial connections, skilled laborers and professional men, and a hundred other like souls of things. In a thousand ideas and industries, though the ground is but ashes, the spirit of progress still hovers over the hills awaiting incarnation. Dependent on this pile of ashes, or the ghosts thereof, are fleets of vessels sailing every sea; farms and factories along shore and back to and beyond the Sierra; merchants and mechanics here and elsewhere; mines and reclamation systems, and financial relations the world over. The question now is not as to the existence or permanency of a central city on the shores of San Francisco bay. That fact was established beyond peradventure with the building of the bay, and nothing short of universal cataclysm can affect it. It is rather to the quality of that city that the consideration of the present generation should be directed. The shell has been injured, but the soul of the city is immortal; and in the restoration it would be strange if our twentieth-century young men cannot do better in artistic city building than the sturdy gold-seekers and their successors of half a century ago. If history and human experiences teach anything; if from the past we may judge somewhat of the future, we might, if we chose, glance back at the history of cities, and note how, when the Mediterranean was the greatest of seas, Carthage and Venice were the greatest of cities; how, when the Atlantic assumed sway, Ghent, Seville, and London each in turn came to the front; or how, following the inevitable, as civilization takes possession of the Pacific, the last, the largest in its native wealth as well as in its potentialities the richest of all, it is not difficult to see that the chief city, the mistress of this great ocean, must be mistress of the world. But this is not all. A great city on this great bay, beside this greatest of oceans, centrally situated, through whose Golden Gate pass the waters drained from broad fertile valleys, a harbor without an equal, with some hundreds of miles of water front ready for a thousand industries, where ocean vessels may moor beside factories and warehouses, with a climate temperate, equable, healthful, and brewed for industry; a city here, ugly or beautiful, fostered or oppressed, given over to the sharks of speculation or safeguarded as one of the brightest jewels of the nation, is an inexorable necessity; its destiny is assured; and all the powers of graft and greed cannot prevail against it. It is a military necessity, for here will be stationed the chief defenses and defenders of the nation's western border. It is an industrial necessity, for to this city three continents and a thousand islands will look for service. As the Spanish war first revealed to America her greatness, so the possible loss of San Francisco quickly demonstrates the necessity of her existence to the nation. It is an educational necessity, whence the dusky peoples around the Pacific may draw from the higher civilization to the regeneration of the world. In the University of California, standing opposite the Golden Gate, with its able and devoted president and professors, this work is already well established, the results from which will prove too vast and far-reaching for our minds at present to fathom. And in all the other many byways of progress the results of the last half-century of effort on our sand-dune peninsula are not lost. Earthquakes cannot destroy them; fire cannot burn them. San Francisco grew from the Yerba Buena hamlet in sixty years. In a new and untried field city-building then was something of an experiment; yet population grew to half a million, and wealth in proportion; and never was improvement so marked as just before the fire. With wealth and population but little impaired, and with the ground cleared for new constructive work, there would be nothing strange in a city here of three or four millions of people in another sixty years. Actual progress has scarcely been arrested. We are rudely hustled and awake to higher and severer effort. No house or store or factory or business will be rebuilt or established except in a larger and more efficient way, and that is progress. In and around the city are already more people than were here before the fire, and soon there will be twice as many, for from every quarter are coming mechanics and business men, attracted by high wages and the material requirements of the city. Hundreds of millions of money from the insurance companies and from local and outside capitalists are finding safe and profitable investment. And this is only the beginning. San Francisco is already a large manufacturing city; it will be many times larger. Around its several hundred miles of bay shore and up the Carquinez strait will be thousands of industries to-day not dreamed of, and all ministering to the necessities of the thousand cities of the Pacific. There is no place in the world better adapted for manufacturing. All sorts of raw material can be gathered here from every quarter of the earth at small cost, lumber, coal, iron, wool, and cotton for a hundred factories, and mineral ores for reduction. Likewise labor at a minimum wage, congress and the lords of labor permitting. Add to these advantages a climate cool in summer and warm in winter, where work can be comfortably carried on every day in the year, and a more desirable spot cannot be found. Industrially San Francisco should dominate the Pacific, its firm land and islands, upon whose borders is to be found more natural wealth, mineral and agricultural, than upon those of all the other waters of the earth combined, and the exploitation of which has scarcely begun. Here in abundance are every mineral and metal, rich and varied soils, all fruits and native products, fuels and forests, for some of which we may even thank earthquakes and kindred volcanic forces. Manufactures compel commerce, and the commerce of the Pacific will rule the world. The essentials of commerce are here. Intelligence and enterprise are here and open to enlargement. For the late severe loss the city may find some compensations--as the cleansing effect of fire; much filth, material and moral, has been destroyed. Yet one is forced to observe that the precincts of Satan retain their land values equal to any other locality. The greatest blessing of the destruction, however, is in the saving from a life of luxury and idleness our best young men and women, who will in consequence enter spheres of usefulness, elevating and ennobling, thus exercising a beneficial influence on future generations. Already work has become the fashion; snobbism is in disgrace; and some elements or influences of the simple life thus reestablished will remain. When all has been said that may be regarding the present and the future, regarding purposes and potentialities, the simple fact remains that the city of San Francisco will be what people make of it, neither more nor less. The fruitful interior and the pine-clad Sierra; the great ocean, its islands and opulent shores, with their fifty thousand miles of littoral frontage, and every nation thereon awaiting a higher culture than any which has yet appeared; the Panama canal, the world's highway, linking east and west, all these will be everything or nothing to those who sit at the Golden Gate, according as they themselves shall determine. For the glory of a city is not altogether in its marble palaces and structures of steel, though these have their value, but in its citizens, its men and women, its men of ability, of unity, of energy, and public spirit, and its brave and true women. And has not this city these? Surely, if in the late catastrophe all that is noble, benevolent, and self-effacing did not appear in every movement of our people, then no such qualities exist anywhere. The manner in which they rose to meet the emergency argues well for the city's future. Before the calamity was fairly upon them they sprang to grapple it and ward it off so far as possible. It was owing to them and to the military that the city was saved from starvation, anarchy, and disease. It also speaks well for men so severely stricken to be the first to send aid to a similarly stricken city, the metropolis of Pacific South America. All this leads us to the highest hopes for the future. What we need most of all is a centralization of mechanical industries around the shores of this bay. Let everything that is made be made here, and the requirements of all the peoples facing this ocean here be met. The Panama canal will be a blessing or a curse to California in proportion as she rises to the occasion and makes opportunities. Manufactures and commerce tell the whole story. Let us have the city beautiful by all means--it will pay; Paris makes it pay; but we must have the useful in any event--this, and a municipality with its several parts subordinated to a general scheme. What we can do without is demagogism, with its attendant labor wrangles, and all the fraud, lying, and hypocrisy incident to a too free government. We want a city superior to any other in beauty, as well as in utility, and it will pay these United States well to see that we have it. If we build no better than before, we gain nothing by this fire which has cost many a heartache. The game of the gods is in our hands; shall we play it worthily? Two decades of inaction at this juncture, like those which followed the advent of the overland railway, would decide the fate of the city adversely for the century, and the effect of it would last for ten centuries. When the shores of the Pacific are occupied as the shores of the Atlantic now are, when all around the vast arena formed by America, Asia, and Australia are great nations of wealth and culture, with hundreds of Bostons and Baltimores, of Londons and Liverpools, the great American republic would scarcely be satisfied with only a porter's lodge at her western gateway. It is not much to say that the new city will be modern and up to date, with some widened streets and winding boulevards, gardens banging to the hillside, parks with lakes and cascades, reservoirs of sea water on every hilltop; public work and public service, street cars telephones and lighting being of the best. Plans for such changes were prepared before the fire; they can be extended and carried out with greater facility since the ground has been cleared from obstructions. All this and more may easily be done if the government can be made to see where the true interests of the people lie, to regard a west-coast metropolis with an eye for something of beauty as well as of utility, an eye which can see utility in beauty, and withal an eye of pride in possession. A paltry two or three hundred millions judiciously expended here by the government would make a city which would ever remain the pride of the whole people and command the admiration and respect of all the nations around this great ocean. Of what avail are art and architecture if they may not be employed in a cause like this? Here is an opportunity which the world has never before witnessed. With limitless wealth, with genius of as high an order as any that has gone before, with the stored experiences of all ages and nations--what better use can be made of it all than to establish at the nation's western gate a city which shall be the initial point of a new order of development? Away back in the days of Palmyra and Thebes the rulers of those cities seemed to understand it, if the people did not--that is to say, the value of embellishment. And had we now but one American Nebuchadnezzar we might have a Babylon at our Pacific seaport. For a six-months' world's fair any considerable city can get from the government five or ten millions. And why not? There's politics in it. Can we not have some of "those politics" for a respectable west-coast city? Would it not be economy to spend some millions on an industrial metropolis which should be a permanent world's fair for the enlightenment of the Pacific? The nation has made its capital beautiful, and so established the doctrine that art, architecture, and beautiful environment have a value above ugly utility. May we not hope for something a little out of the common for the nation's chief seaport on the Pacific, a little fresh gilding for our Golden Gate? THE END 
33059	----	[Frontispiece: Roman Britain shewing the chief Roman Roads.] THE TOWNS OF ROMAN BRITAIN By the Rev. J. O. Bevan, M.A., F.G.S., Assoc. Inst. C.E., F.S.A.; Fellow of the College of Preceptors and Examiner, Sometime Prizeman, Exhibitioner and Foundation Scholar of Emmanuel College, Cambridge. Author of "_The Genesis and Evolution of the Individual Soul_" "_Egypt and the Egyptians_" "_University Life in the Middle Ages_" "_Handbook of the History and Development of Philosophy_" "_Archæological Map of Herefordshire_" and numerous other Works. London Chapman & Hall, Ltd. 1917 [All Rights Reserved] THE WESTMINSTER PRESS 411A HARROW ROAD LONDON W PREFACE The Author writes the last line of this book with a sigh at the incompleteness of his work. He is conscious he has touched but the fringe of the mantle covering the form of the silent Muse of History, but his efforts will be justified if he succeeds in persuading even a single student to persevere and lead the fair Clio to disclose the full story of which broken whispers are here recorded. No one can doubt the fascination of this page of our nation's development, dealing as it does with the dawn of that day of which, please God, the complete effulgence will shine more and more to the perfect end. In this brochure attention has been chiefly directed to the _towns_ of Roman Britain, as it would have required a volume of stupendous size to formulate a record of sites associated with isolated settlements, camps, burrows, "and bowers," or grounds whereon sports were conducted. Again, there are spots of interest more or less connected with Roman occupation, in tradition or in fact, such as Alderney,[1] Porchester,[2] Glastonbury, Avebury, Arbow Low in Derbyshire, Stripple Stones, on Bodmin Moor, in Cornwall, the hill-fort in Parc-y-meirch Wood, Dinorben, Denbighshire. The line we have been compelled to draw necessarily excludes such as these. The present work is intended to furnish a compendious guide to readers who desire to study the fruits of the Roman occupation, to trace out the roads they laid down, and to possess themselves of the position and essential features of the centres where they congregated for commerce, pleasure, or defence. The Author has long been attracted to the elucidation of the early history of Britain, and this feeling was intensified by the work he undertook some years ago in connection with the compilation of an Archæological Map of Herefordshire, on lines laid down by the Society of Antiquaries. His experience at that time made him aware how such an undertaking might serve to quicken the curiosity, and to whet the expectation of the student of old time as to the wonderful secrets which await the skilful use of such humble implements as the shovel and the pick in almost any quarter of our island home. [Footnote 1: Alderney (Ald, _old_; Ey, _island_). This, the most northerly of the four Channel Islands seems to have been known to the Romans as _Riduna_. Remains of ancient dwellings have been found there.] [Footnote 2: To the north of Portsmouth Harbour is situated Porchester Castle, a ruined Norman fortress, occupying the site of the _Portus Magnus_ of the Romans.] The Author desires to convey his acknowledgments to Messrs. Philip and Son, Ltd., of Fleet Street, for their kindness in permitting him to make use of the blocks for the two Maps which appear in this volume. CHILLENDEN RECTORY, CANTERBURY. _Nov., 1916_. TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . v Table of Contents . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii Introduction Historical Sketch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1 Early History . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5 Main Divisions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Roman Britain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7 Remains . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Introduction of Christianity . . . . . . . . 10 Influence of Roman Occupation . . . . . . . . 11 Roman Roads . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Roman Influence . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 List of Roman Towns . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 Aldborough (_Isurium Brigantum_) . . . . . . 19 Aldeburgh . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Bath (_Aquae Solis_, or _Sulis_) . . . . . . 19 Caerleon (_Isca Siluvum_) . . . . . . . . . . 22 Caerwent (_Venta Silurum_) . . . . . . . . . 24 Caistor Castle (_Venta_) . . . . . . . . . . 24 Canterbury (_Durovernum_) . . . . . . . . . . 24 Cardiff . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27 Chester (_Caerleon Vawr_) . . . . . . . . . . 28 Chesterford (_Iceanum_) . . . . . . . . . . . 28 Chichester (_Regnum_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 29 Cirencester (_Corininum_) . . . . . . . . . . 30 Colchester (_Camolodunum_) . . . . . . . . . 30 Corstopitum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 The Wall of Hadrian . . . . . . . . . . . . 32 The Wall of Antonine . . . . . . . . . . . 34 Dorchester (Dorsetshire) (_Durnovaria_) . . . 35 Dorchester (Oxfordshire) (_Dorcinia_) . . . . 36 Dover (_Dubris_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 36 Exeter (_Caer Isca_; _Isca Damnoniorum_) . . 38 Gloucester (_Glevum_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Isle of Wight (_Vectis_) . . . . . . . . . . 39 Kenchester (_Magni_) . . . . . . . . . . . . 39 Lancaster (_Castra ad Alaunam_) . . . . . . . 40 Leicester (_Ratae_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Lincoln (_Lindum Colonia_, or _Lindocolina_) 41 London (_Augusta_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 Lympne (_Lemanae_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Maldon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Manchester . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Portsmouth . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Reculver (_Regulbium_) . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Richborough (_Rutupiae_) . . . . . . . . . . 50 Rochester (_Durobrivae_) . . . . . . . . . . 51 Silchester (_Calleva Atre-batum_) . . . . . . 51 St. Albans (_Verulamium_) . . . . . . . . . . 52 Winchester (_Venta Belgarum_) . . . . . . . . 54 Wroxeter (_Uriconium_, or _Viroconium_) . . . 55 York (_Eboracum_) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 56 Appendix A . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 Appendix B . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60 Appendix C . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 61 Appendix D . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 64 TABLE OF MAPS. Roman Britain showing the chief Roman Roads Frontispiece The Roman Wall To face page 31 INTRODUCTION HISTORICAL SKETCH. The earliest notice of Britain is in Herodotus (B.C. 480-408); but he mentions the Tin Islands (Scilly Islands and Cornwall), only to confess his ignorance about them. More important is a passage in Aristotle (B.C. 384-322), who (writing a century later) is the earliest author who mentions the British Isles by name, as he does in the following passage: "Beyond the Pillars of Hercules (the Strait of Gibraltar) the ocean flows round the earth, and in it are two very large islands (Nesoi Britannikoi), called in British Albion and Ierne, lying beyond the Keltoi." The application of the name Britannia to denote the larger island, is due to Julius Cæsar (B.C. 100-44), who is the first _Roman_ writer to mention Britain. The name itself may be derived from Welsh, _brith_, mottled, tattooed, or from _brithyn_, cloth, cloth-clad, as opposed to the skin-clad Celts. The history of Britain would be a very long one if we only knew it. It is clear that a considerable interchange of commerce was carried on between the south-eastern parts of the island and Gaul, and that even the remoter regions of the Mediterranean were largely dependent upon Britain for their supplies of tin from the Cornish mines, of lead from Somerset, and of iron from Northumberland and the Forest of Dean. Politically, Britain consisted of a number of independent bodies, united in a federation of the loosest kind, in which the lead was taken by that tribe which happened at the time to be the most powerful or to have the bravest or most astute leader. About B.C. 56 Caius Volusenus was sent to this country by Julius Cæsar to examine the coast preparatory to an invasion. The step was threatened, because it was alleged that the Britons had aided and abetted some of the Gaulish tribes in their resistance to the Roman domination. On August 26th, B.C. 55, Cæsar himself set sail from Portus Itius, near Boulogne, with two legions, and effected a landing, presumably near Deal. A good deal of discussion has taken place relative to this point, and much has been said as to the action of the winds and tides in determining his landing place. Probably he would have made a feint at Dover and one or two other places, under cover of which the main body would land at a spot weakly defended. At all events, the resistance offered by the British was soon overcome, easy terms being imposed on their submission. Soon after, Cæsar left, but early in the following summer he again invaded these shores with five legions and two thousand cavalry. He landed in the same neighbourhood as before, and advanced 12 miles inland to the river Stour before meeting with the islanders. Ultimately he decisively defeated Cassivelaunus, the leader, either near London or his capital, Verulamium. The conqueror departed at the fall of the year, without leaving behind any garrison, but, at the same time, taking away hostages to ensure the carrying out of the terms imposed. Then ensues a period during which direct Roman influence of a dominant or military character fell into abeyance, so that one is required to take up the tale at a much later period, viz., the accession of Claudius, in A.D. 41. That emperor determined to carry out the intention of Augustus to exact the promised tribute from Britain. In 43 he despatched Aulus Plautius with four legions, who obtained an easy victory. Claudius himself received the submission of the tribes. In 42, Vespasian also--who afterwards became emperor in 69--was warring against the Silurian chief, Caradog, or Caractacus (a son of Cunobelin). The latter was defeated in 50 by P. Ostorius Scapula, and found refuge in the country of Cartismandua, queen of the Brigantes, who, however, ultimately gave up her prisoner. There is a tradition embodied in the Welsh Triads that Caradog and his wife were taken to Rome, and that three hostages accompanied them, by name Bran, Llin, and Claudia, respectively the father, son, and daughter of the brave British chieftain. It is further surmised that Llin and Claudia were the Linus and Claudia referred to by St. Paul in 2 Tim. iv, 21, and that Bran, after seven years banishment at Rome--where he embraced Christianity under the influence of the great Apostle of the Gentiles--returned to his native land to proclaim the new religion to the people. In 61, Boadicea, Queen of the Iceni, revolted against the Roman yoke, sacked London and Colchester, but was defeated near the former city, and took poison rather than fall into the hands of the victors. Agricola became governor in 78, and subjected to his rule the Ordovices Nivales. Not long after, he attacked the Brigantes and Galgacus. In 120, Hadrian was engaged in building the Roman or Pict wall between the Tyne and Solway Frith, which has for so long borne his name. Nineteen years later, Tollius Urbicus constructed the rampart, called the Wall of Antonine (Antoninus Pius 86-161), along the line of Agricola's forts, built between the Forth and the Clyde, to overawe the wild tribes to the north. This wall is now known by the name of Graeme's Dyke. In 207 onwards, Severus built a new wall along the line of Hadrian's rampart. He died at York in 211. The years 287, 288, saw the reigns of Carausius and Allectus. In 296, Constantius Chlorus regained Britain for Rome. He also died at York in 306. In 307 the Picts and Scots overran the country as far as London. The General Theodosius was sent to oppose them, and drove them back beyond Valentia, the fifth Roman division northwards. The title of Emperor was assumed by Maximus in 383, but he was put to death in 388. Stilicho, the general of Honorius, transferred one legion from Britain into Gaul. This weakened the defence of the land against the northern tribes, as the legion never returned. At this epoch ever-growing confusion and division manifested themselves within the Roman Empire, whereupon its hold on distant provinces grew weaker and weaker. At one period there were as many as six Emperors contending with one another for the sole authority; and in 410, the year in which Rome was sacked by the Goths under Alaric, the Roman occupation was terminated according to the terms of a letter addressed by Honorius to the cities of Britain. EARLY HISTORY. Nothing very specific can be said about the settlements of the Celtic inhabitants of these islands before the coming of Cæsar. The country must have been largely covered by forests and intersected by fens. Different tribes occupied different centres and were nomadic according to the season of the year. Barter was common, and there must have been facilities for the distribution of those goods which had their origin in Gaul. An export trade, too, was actively carried on in regard to such metals as tin, which were borne in rude conveyances along well-defined trackways wrought out along the sheltered sides of hills. Certain spots--woods, hills, wells--from their size, shape, position, or some accidental association, were regarded as sacred, and became the centres of religious worship, of sacrifice, and of schools of priests. Thus we have--then, or in somewhat later times--Bangor, Mona, or the Isle of Augury, Stonehenge, Avebury, etc. The coming of the Romans led to the opening up of new roads, and caused the building of walls of defence against predatory tribes. It also accentuated the position of many of the camps, centres of population, and strategic posts. MAIN DIVISIONS. In the reign of Claudius (B.C. 41-A.D. 54), the country south of the Solway Frith and the mouth of the Tyne formed one Roman province under a consular legate and a procurator. Ptolemy (_fl._ 139-162) (who flourished at Alexandria, and was one of the greatest of ancient geographers) mentions 17 native tribes as inhabiting this district. The Emperor Severus (146-211) divided the whole into two parts, Britannia Inferior, the south, and Britannia Superior, the north. In the division of the country under Diocletian, Britain was made a diocese in the prefecture of Gaul, and was governed by a vicarius, residing at York. It was split up into five provinces, of which the boundaries, though somewhat uncertain, are supposed to have been as follows: _Britannia Prima_--the country south of the Thames and of the Bristol Channel. _Britannia Secunda_--Wales. _Flavia Caesariensis_--the country between the rivers Thames, Severn, Mersey, and Humber. _Maxima Caesariensis_--the rest of England, up to the wall of Hadrian. _Valentia_ (soon abandoned by the Romans), Scotland south of the Wall of Antoninus. To ensure the obedience of the natives, various Roman legions, composed of Gauls, Germans, Iberians, rather than of pure Romans, were stationed in Britain, viz., at such places as Eboracum (York), Deva (Chester), Isca (Caerleon), and Magni, or Magna (Kenchester).[1] [Footnote 1: In the _Itinerary_, as in the Ravenna Geographer, we have only the form _Magnis_, presumably from a nominative _Magni_, or _Magna_.] ROMAN BRITAIN. The population of Roman Britain was, in the main Celtic; the Cymric division predominating in the south and east, the Gaidhelic in the north and west. There existed, besides these, remnants of two earlier races--a small dark-haired race, akin to the Basques, or Euskarian (found in S.W. England, S. Wales,[2] and parts of the Scotch Highlands), and a tall, fairhaired race. [Footnote 2: See Appendices A & B.] Under the Romans, many towns (_coloniae_ and _municipia_) were founded. In several cases their position had been occupied, as winter or summer quarters, by the aboriginal inhabitants; the choice of the site being determined by the contour of the hills, the convergence of trackways, or the proximity to the sea or rivers. Fifty-six Roman towns are enumerated by Claudius Ptolemy (_fl._ A.D. 139-162). They formed centres of Roman authority, law, commerce, and civilization; the conquerors, to a very limited extent, were able to introduce their own literature. Amongst others, the free inhabitants of Eboracum and Verulamium enjoyed the coveted rights of Roman citizenship. The Ravenna Geographer gives a list of towns--the names of some of which being difficult to identify. Principally to ensure military dominance, the conquerors made many main roads, mostly centering in London. They also developed the land into a corn-growing country. The history of the towns that became Roman is known to us very imperfectly and unevenly, in respect of elements earlier than the conquest of A.D. 43; of the beginnings, whether official or personal; of their size, original planning, character and composition of the buildings, of the language, degree of civilization, and comparative wealth of the inhabitants; of the relation of the town-life to the life of the adjacent country-side. Further, great mystery shrouds the particulars of their overthrow when the aegis of the Roman authority was withdrawn. There are but few survivals of towns to the present day, and parallels must be sought rather in Pannonia[3] and North Africa than in the Western European Empire. [Footnote 3: Now Illyria, a part of Hungary; finally subdued by Tiberius, A.D. 8.] REMAINS. The site of a Roman town always occupied a commanding position as to elevation, the confluence of roads, or the proximity of rivers. It was surrounded with walls, which were pierced with gates defended by towers and bastions. The houses of the well-off were unpretentious outside, but were fitted inside with comfort and even elegance. The rooms were built around a courtyard. In the villas at Brading and Chedworth tesselated pavements have been found, and traces of baths. Each city was furnished with a Forum, a Basilica, a Temple, and a series of Public Baths. Outside the walls were a Theatre, an Amphitheatre, and a Cemetery. A goodly proportion of articles recovered constitute treasure-trove in its purest form--objects buried, perhaps, by the owners in expectation of a raid, and never recovered owing to the incidence of death. Many finds have been simply fortuitous, but tombs have been the most valuable repositories. The objects recovered therefrom are in very different states of preservation. Fashioned iron implements have suffered the greatest from natural decay, often merely suggesting the fine smith's work lavished upon them; bronze articles are the less corroded. Gold, the purest of metals, has defied the ravages of time, and ornaments can be reproduced in the form and semblance they possessed when they left the hands of the maker. It is tolerably certain that women formed a part of the early Saxon and Danish raiders; and it is no less certain that a few women, at various times, came over with Roman soldiers or immigrants. To the graves of women especially we look for the recovery of numberless articles of use and adornment. Probably, at the first, there were also surface memorials over the graves so closely jumbled together in the cemeteries, but the violence of man and the inroads of the weather would combine to sweep them away at an early period. The Baths at Bath furnish the best example of the kind in England; London also has the remains of a Bath of Roman times in the Strand. It is stated that the church of St. Mary the Virgin at Dover is built on the site of a Roman bath, and that the market square there occupies the position of the Roman Agora. Pits used for tanning or dyeing are to be seen at Silchester, and various other industrial occupations are indicated from what may be seen at that city, at Wroxeter, and at various other centres. INTRODUCTION OF CHRISTIANITY. Before Christianity was planted in Britain, the religion of its inhabitants was Druidism. Julius Cæsar described this form of devotion as it existed in Gaul. The history of the beginnings of Christianity in this country is obscure. Most likely the faith was originally proclaimed in Britain by various independent agents, in different parts of the island. There are indistinct echoes of apostolic origin--of contact with the East and with Spain; but probably the new doctrine was introduced by merchants from Gaul or by soldiers in the Roman legions who were sent into the island by Claudius Cæsar under Aulus Plautius in the year 43 A.D. In the following pages mention will be made of the martyrdom of certain of these early saints at St. Albans and Caerleon. It may be said that the first Christian institution in Britain, _i.e._, the church of the garrison towns, was Roman in its origin and atmosphere; and that the second was founded by the followers of S. Germanus of Vienne, in France, whose Christianity was probably derived from Ephesus. Also that the origins of Celtic Christendom contained distinctively Greek elements. In the Romances,[4] too, there are various obscure but significant indications of certain influences derivable from Egyptian Christianity; but, vitally and essentially, the Celtic Church constituted itself. Like that of Ireland, it was tribal and monastic, not diocesan; and, in both cases, this loose organization proved to be a source of great weakness. [Footnote 4: Compiled by such men as Robert of Gloucester (_temp._ Henry III).] INFLUENCE OF ROMAN OCCUPATION. Roman remains found in different parts of the island include foundations of towns (such as Silchester, Wroxeter), streets, milliaria, parts of walls and gates; baths, furnaces, flues, wooden and leaden water-pipes (London, Bath); villas with mosaic pavements, painted walls (London, Chedworth, near Cheltenham, Brading, Carisbrooke); altars, votive inscriptions, sculptures, bridges, weapons, tools, implements, pottery, domestic utensils, gold, silver, and bronze ornaments and toilet articles, and coins. The Romans laboured to render permanent their conquest of Britain. They introduced their native refinement, and greatly improved British arts. To this fact testimony is furnished by the tumuli, barrows, earthworks, monoliths, cromlechs, cairns, and such like remains, which are continually revealing secrets concealed ever since the debâcle which followed the departure of the Roman hosts from our shores. Even as these words were being written, the Author read in _The Times_ of the day an account of Nonsuch Palace at Ye Well, or Ewell, in Surrey, in which it was stated that in the course of recent excavations for the creation of a Japanese garden and lakes, Roman silver coins and pottery were found, testifying to the fact that Ewell was a Roman settlement, being, in fact, identified with Noviomagus.[5] [Footnote 5: About the same time, the discovery of a Roman pavement was recorded at Filey, and of coins and a Roman bath at Templeborough Camp, Yorkshire.] So true is it that below us on every side there have been hidden for centuries by the dull, heavy soil, innumerable traces of the life, working, and death of the different races of men successively inhabiting this island. What a wonderful story would not these remains be able to disclose if each claimant were granted a voice, and if each voice could unfold its own narrative! ROMAN ROADS. The method of the construction of the Roman roads largely varied with the nature of the country traversed; but they were uniformly raised above the surface of the neighbouring land, and ran from station to station in a straight course, almost regardless of hills. The more important lines were elaborately constructed with a foundation of hard earth, a bed of large stones, sometimes two more layers of rough stones and mortar, then gravel, lime, and clay; and, above all, the causeway was paved with flat stones. The width was generally about fifteen feet, and at regular intervals were posting stations. The distance was regularly marked off by milestones (_mille passuum_--a thousand paces). The principal roads were four in number, viz., Watling Street, the Fosse Way, Icknield Street, and Ermine Street. Originally, Watling Street probably ran from London to Wroxeter. Its northward and westward continuations proceeded from Wroxeter into Wales; its southern continuations between London, Canterbury and the parts about Dover seem also to have received the same name. Drayton, in his Polyolbion, XIII (1613), says: "Those two mighty ways, the Watling and the Fosse ... the first doth hold her way From Dover to the furth'st of fruitful Anglesey; The second, north and south, from Michael's utmost mount, To Caithness, which the farth'st of Scotland we account." The Fosse ran from the sea-coast at Seaton, in Devonshire, (R. Maridunum) to Leicester, with a continuation known as High Street, to the Humber. The Icknield Way seems to have extended from east to west from Icilgham, or Icklingham, near Bury St. Edmunds, underneath the chalk ridge of the Chilterns and Berkshire Downs, to the neighbourhood of Wantage, thence to Cirencester and Gloucester. The Ermine Street ran north and south through the Fenland from London to Lincoln. Besides the four great lines there were many scarcely subordinate ones. There were, _e.g._, several Icknield Streets. Akeman Street ran from Bath, north-east by Cirencester, through Wych-wood Forest and Blenheim to Alcester and Watling Street. A high-road ran from Exeter to the Land's End in continuation of the Fosse. Another route ran from Venta Silurum to St. David's Head; another to the Sarn Helen up the western Welsh coast to Carnarvon (Welsh, _sarn_--a road). ROMAN INFLUENCE. To a certain extent the conqueror enters into the entail of the conquered. Nevertheless he must obey the conditions of life which the natural features, or the climate of the country of which he has possessed himself, have compelled the aborigines to adopt. Occasionally, as in the case of Greece and Rome, the conquered enslave their masters in regard, at all events, to literature and art; but this did not obtain in the case before us, for the Roman occupation of Britain was largely military, and the Britons had little enough to impart either in literature or art. It is observable, however, that the Romans either did not seek to impose, or were unable to impose, their religious ideas on the Britons. In this connection it must be remembered that the composition of the Roman legions was largely cosmopolitan. The moral and religious influence brought to bear upon the native Britons by reason of the Roman occupation of close on four centuries can easily be overestimated. A section of the people in the vicinity of Roman towns were humanized and civilized, but the sequel proved that (to a certain extent) the fibre of the hardy and courageous Briton deteriorated and his faculty of resource and fighting diminished; so that when he was deserted by his Roman masters and deprived of his leading strings, he fell a prey--though not until after a protracted and sanguinary struggle--to the Pict and Scot and Saxon, who were able to combine for the attack, and who were regardless of ease and privation and love of life. Although the days of this old time are far away, and the face of the land has changed, this lesson is not without warning to the ignorant, indifferent, pleasure-loving sections of our England of the twentieth century, and this lesson is even now being brought home to us in no uncertain way in our death-grip with a cruel and relentless foe. LIST OF TOWNS Here follows an alphabetical list of the Roman towns described in the following pages: Aldborough (Yorkshire), Aldborough (Suffolk), Bath, Caerleon, Caerwent, Caistor, Canterbury, Cardiff, Chester, Chesterford, Chichester, Cirencester, Corstopitum, Dorchester, Dover, Exeter, Gloucester, Isle of Wight, Kenchester, Lancaster, Leicester, Lincoln, London, Lympne, Maldon, Manchester, Portsmouth, Reculver, Richborough, Rochester, Silchester, St. Albans, Winchester, Wroxeter, York. LIST OF TOWNS ALDBOROUGH--(A.S. burh, buruh, byrig--an earthwork) is situated in the West Riding of Yorkshire, 16 miles W.N.W. of York. It is now remarkable only for its numerous ancient remains. It was the Isurium Brigantum (the capital of the Brigantes) of the Romans, and here and there in the neighbourhood the remains of aqueducts, spacious buildings, and tesselated pavements have been found, as well as numerous implements, coins and urns. The Museum Isurianum is in the grounds of the Manor House. ALDEBURGH, or ALDBOROUGH--is situated in the county of Suffolk, 25 miles E.N.E. of Ipswich. The borough was incorporated by a charter of Edward VI, and in former times was a place of considerable extent, but the old town known to the Romans was gradually submerged by the encroachments of the sea. BATH.--107-1/2 miles W. by S. of London. On the banks of the Avon. Aquae Solis, corrupted by the Anglo-Saxons to Akemannes-ceaster--the invalids' city--reached by the Akemannes Way. For many centuries it has been known by its truly descriptive name of Bath. Tradition says it was founded by the British King Bladud, 863 B.C.; but there is no real evidence of an early British settlement, though the hot springs must have been known from the beginning. However, the name of Aquae Solis is thought to point to a British goddess, Sol or Solis, somewhat equivalent to the Roman Minerva. It was never a Roman military station, being used apparently solely as a Spa. The remains of the Roman Baths were first uncovered in 1755, when the Duke of Kingston pulled down the old priory to form the Kingston Baths. The remains disclosed included a bath, hypocaust, channels and pipes for the passage of water and hot air, and tesselated pavements. But very little use was made of the discovery for, though some antiquaries took an interest in it, and a few relics were removed and preserved, the spot was filled in and the site covered with buildings for another 120 years. In 1878, however, public interest was aroused, a number of houses were removed, and a large area (of which that opened in 1755 was only a small part) was cleared, with the result that an extensive system of baths in a remarkable state of preservation was laid bare. The great bath, some 70 feet long and 28 feet wide, was found to be floored with lead two-thirds of an inch thick, in a perfectly sound condition. The service-pipe being cleared out, the bath still held water as it had done 1,500 years before. What a find this lead floor would have been to the builders of the houses above it had they but laid their foundations a few inches deeper! It would have gone the same way as Alfred's coffin at Winchester. Several other baths--one circular--and hypocausts were opened out, and--perhaps as interesting as anything--the culvert was discovered for drawing off the waste water, an excellent piece of masonry, and high enough for a man to stand upright in it. The remains of these old Baths of the Romans are not mere traces of walls, intelligible only to the antiquary, but are the actual basins, capable still of use, and one can ascend by the same steps and tread the same pavement as did the Roman bather of old. On the Romans leaving Britain, the baths were for a long time deserted, and were soon buried under alluvium by the flooding of the river; but the hot springs never ceased to pour forth their abundant stream. The waters are impregnated with calcium and sodium sulphates and sodium and magnesium chlorides, and we must not forget the metal which called forth Mr. Weller's description: "I thought they'd a very strong flavour o' warm flat-irons." They are in greater vogue than ever now that radium has been found to be one of the constituents. Bath was a place of resort even in Saxon times; for our forefathers--before the days of goloshes, mackintoshes and umbrellas--must have been sad sufferers from rheumatic affections. It is also clear that the brine-springs, or _wyches_, of Droitwich, in Worcestershire, were also known to the Romans, as well as Spas in other parts of the country. That there was a Roman station at Droitwich is evidenced by the remains of a villa, containing interesting and valuable relics, discovered some years ago during the construction of the Oxford and Wolverhampton Railway. CAERLEON, IN MONMOUTHSHIRE. This is the Isca Silurum of the Romans. It is situated on the right bank of the Usk, and is the Old Port, in contradistinction to the New Port, some 3-1/2 miles distant, lower down the river. Caerleon seems to be a corruption of _Castrum Legionis_. The place was one of the great fortresses of Roman Britain, and constituted the station of the Second Augustan Legion in the first century A.D. It ranked as a Colony, and as the capital of Britannia Secunda during the period of Roman domination. Its position was favourable for the coercion of the wild Silures. No civil life or municipality seems to have grown up outside its boundaries; like Chester, it remained purely military. There remain fragments of the walls, and outside these limits there is a grass-grown amphitheatre, 222 ft. by 192 ft., in which the tiers of seats are distinctly visible. The hamlet on the opposite bank preserves in a modified form the Roman name of _Ultra Pontem_. It is probable that the connecting bridge was a pontoon similar in character to that which survived to the close of the last century. The local Museum is rich in objects of archaeological interest. On the hill-side, which formed the burial place of the ancient city, fragments of slabs and memorial urns are even now often exhumed. Giraldus Cambrensis, or Gerald de Barry, Archdeacon of Brecknock (1147-1220), borrowing from Geoffrey of Monmouth (1130-1140, Bishop of St. Asaph, author of _Chronicon sive Historia Britonum_), says that "its splendid palaces, with their gilded roofs, once emulated the grandeur of Rome," which testimony we receive with a certain amount of incredulity; nevertheless, it bears witness to the reputation it enjoyed in his day. The city is connected with the romance of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. It is said that hither Arthur came at Pentecost to be crowned, and that here he often took council with Dubric, or Dubritius, "the high saint." The keep of a castle is mentioned in Domesday Book, the ruins of which, now limited to a solitary bastion on the river's side, were very extensive, even in Leland's time (1506-1552). Caerleon was a place of great ecclesiastical importance and the seat of an archbishopric. It is noticeable as the place of martyrdom, according to Giraldus Cambrensis, of two saints, Aaron and Julius. Their bodies were buried in the city, each afterwards having a church dedicated to him. There is good reason for regarding these as historical personages, but as Caerleon-upon-Dee was also called "the City of the Legions," there is some doubt whether their martyrdom occurred at the former, now called Chester, or at the latter, which still retains its British name. Around the church of S. Cadoc there are abundant remains to show the important centre Caerleon-upon-Usk constituted in Roman times. There is a tradition that its bishop was one of three who attended the Council held at Arles, in 314, to discuss the validity of ecclesiastical orders conferred by such bishops as in time of persecution had delivered up to be burnt their sacred writings. CAERWENT.--This place is on the Chepstow side of Caerleon, near Severn Tunnel Junction. It was a military station, and important discoveries of Roman remains have been made here. CAISTOR CASTLE, or VENTA.--4-1/2 miles from Yarmouth. Caistor Village is 3 miles distant. This place occupies the site of a Roman camp, which, in conjunction with Burgh Castle, guarded this part of the coast. No remains of the camp now exist, but Roman urns, pottery, and coins have been found in and near the village. A field west of the church, styled "East Bloody Furlong" has been fixed upon as the site of the Castrum. CANTERBURY.--Cant-wara-byrig--the burgh of the men of the headland. (Hence, Archepiscopus Cantuariensis). Before the invasion of Cæsar, a tribe of the Belgae from Gaul had taken possession of a large portion of South Britain, including Kent. The principal Roman road was the Watling Street, between Dover and London, which followed much the same course as the modern highway. This road was joined at Canterbury by two others, proceeding respectively from Lympne and Reculver. Two other important Roman stations may be distinguished, Durolevum and Vagniacae, the one probably by Faversham, the other by Springhead, near Gravesend. The important position of modern Canterbury is affirmed by the fact that no fewer than 16 roads and railway routes now converge upon the city. So, too, in the olden time, it was a great nerve-centre, and the mid-point of the important Roman fortresses of Dover, Richborough, Reculver, and Lympne. The Roman remains found throughout Kent are numerous and important. There were potteries of purple or black ware at Upchurch, on the S. bank of the Medway. Leaden coffins, elaborately ornamented glass and bronze vessels, and gold and silver ornaments, have been found in Roman cemeteries. The city itself occupies the site of the Roman Durovernum (Celtic, _dwr_--water), and was established upon that ford of the Stour at which the roads from the four harbour-fortresses before mentioned became united into the one great military way through Britain, which became known as Watling Street in later times. The Romans do not seem (at least towards the end of their occupation) to have made the city a military centre, or given it a permanent garrison, but rather to have used it as a halting place for troops on the march. In a commercial sense (lying, as it did, in the direct path of all the south-eastern continental traffic of Britain) its importance at this epoch must have been considerable. The Cathedral stands on the site of a church founded in Roman times, and given by King Ethelbert (together with his own palace adjacent) to Augustine and his monks. St. Pancras (the foundations of which have now been uncovered) was originally Ethelbert's "Idol-house"; and St. Martin's, the sanctuary where the King's christian queen, Bertha, worshipped under the tutelage of Bishop Luithard. The structures existing in Ethelbert's day were destroyed, and ultimately the cathedral was entirely rebuilt by Lanfranc (1005-1089); to this additions were made by Anselm (1033-1109), and by succeeding builders even as late as 1495, when the addition of Goldstone's Central Tower left the Cathedral as we have it to-day. St. Martin's Church cannot be dismissed in a summary manner. It is said by Bede to have been built whilst the Romans still occupied Britain. It is dedicated to the well-known Bishop of Tours (371-397). Certainly the nave shows evidences of Roman workmanship and plaster. A high arch has recently been discovered in the west wall, on each side of which is a window, apparently Roman in its origin, but which has been subsequently lengthened out by Saxon or Norman builders. The chancel, originally but 20 feet long, is variously conjectured to be Roman work or to have been built by St. Augustine. There is a square-headed Roman doorway and a round-headed Saxon one, in the south wall; also an early English sedile, bordered by Roman tiles on the same side, eastward. The writer, the present Rector of Chillenden, feels a peculiar pleasure in recalling the fact that two of the Priors took their names from his parish, viz., Adam de Chillenden (_d._ 1274) and Thomas de Chillenden (_d._ 1411). The name of the latter, in the Diocesan Calendar, is distinguished by bold type, by reason of the fact that between 1370 and 1410, the present nave and transepts of Canterbury Cathedral, with the middle part of the present central tower, were built upon Lanfranc's old foundations by the Convent under his superintendence, assisted as he was by King Richard II and Archbishops Courtenay and Arundel. The Chapel of St. Michael, the Warriors' Chapel, was also added to by him. Moreover to him is due the building of most of the cloisters, the great Dormitory windows, the vaulting here and along the north alley, as also the foliated window-like screens in the latter alley. The house in the precincts, known as Chillenden Chambers, was used in mediæval times for the reception of pilgrims. It has been occupied for some years by Dr. Walsh, Bishop of Dover. CARDIFF.--Castle on the Taff, in the County of Glamorgan. The position between the rivers Taff and Rhymney, as also between the mountains and the sea, marked out this site, probably to the Romans, certainly to the Normans, as a favourable position for a fortified station. The remains of the Keep of the Castle still exist, and the church of St. John has venerable memories. The buildings of the Blackfriars and Greyfriars have long ago disappeared. The old church of St. Mary, too, was washed away by the sea. To the west, beyond the suburb of Canton, the foundations of Roman buildings have been uncovered and various objects of interest found and lodged in the National Museum. CHESTER.--Otherwise Caerleon Vawr, or Caerlleon ar Dyfyrdwy. Here was situated the great camp of the renowned Twentieth Legion on the Dee, the Deva of the Roman Itinerary. It stood at the head of the then most important estuary on this part of the coast, and at a point where several Roman roads converged. It is doubtful whether the city constituted a Colonia. It boasted a fine Basilica. There may still be seen the remains of a Roman arch impinging upon the Keep, or Cæsar's Tower, in the Castle. CHESTERFORD.--In Essex, 47-1/2 miles N. of London. To-day the Great Eastern Railway crosses the Cam, or Granta, near a Roman station. Great Chesterford is the ancient Iceanum, once thought to be Camboricum. The foundations of walls enclosing about 50 acres are known to have existed a century and a half ago. The site was thoroughly explored between 1846 and 1848, under the superintendence of the Hon. R. C. Neville, afterwards Lord Braybrooke. Many Roman remains were recovered and are preserved at his seat, Audley End--one of the finest examples of Jacobean architecture now remaining in England. In this neighbourhood, at Heydon, two miles N.W. of Chrishall, and in the extreme angle of Essex, there was discovered, in 1848, a chamber cut in the chalk. It contained a sort of altar and an abundance of Roman fibulæ. Its purpose has not been clearly made out. CHICHESTER. This city is built on a Roman site, near a line of road now known as Stane Street. It is usually identified with Regnum, a town of the Belgae, mentioned in the Antonine Itinerary. A slab of grey Sussex marble, now at Goodwood, discovered in 1713, on the site of the present Council House, bears an inscription which gives rise to an hypothesis which represents Chichester as the seat of the native king, Cogidubnus, mentioned by Tacitus as possessing independent authority. It is further conjectured that this king was the father of Claudia (2 Tim. iv, 21), whose husband seems to have been Pudens, mentioned in the same verse (traditionally said to have been a Roman Senator, who became a Governor of Britain). Cogidubnus appears to have taken to himself the more euphonious name of his imperial patron, Tiberius Claudius, hence, too, Claudia. It would appear from this slab that Chichester was the abode of a considerable number of craftsmen, and that they erected a temple to Neptune and Minerva under the patronage of a certain Pudens--in his unregenerate days, doubtless, if this be the same as St. Paul's Pudens. In the early Saxon occupation, the town was destroyed by one Ella, but restored by Cissa, hence Cissa's Castra, or Chichester; hence, also, the Bishop's signature, Cicestriensis. CIRENCESTER, or CORININUM.--In Gloucestershire, 93 miles W.N.W. of London, on the river Churn, a tributary of the Thames. This was a flourishing Romano-British town, a cavalry post, also a civilian city. At Chedworth, 7 miles, N.E., there has been unearthed one of the most interesting Roman villas in England. COLCHESTER.--51 miles N.E. of London, on the right bank of the Colne, 12 miles from the sea. Colonia Victricensis, Camolodunum, or Camulodunum. (This colony is on the River Colne, even as another stream of the same name flows by the colony of Verulamium). Before the Roman conquest it was the royal town of Cunobelin, the Cymbeline of Shakespeare. When Claudius had conquered the south-eastern part of the island, he founded a _colonia_ here, which may be said to be the first in time of the Roman towns of Britain. Even now, the walls of Colchester are the most perfect Roman walls in England. There are other remains, including the guard-room at the principal gate. A large cemetery has been disclosed along the main road leading out of the town. A valuable collection of sepulchral remains has been made and placed in the local museum. The city was refounded and ultimately developed into a municipality, with discharged Roman soldiers as citizens, to assist the Roman dominion and spread Roman civilization. Under Boadicea, the Iceni burnt the town and massacred the colonists. CORSTOPITUM, or CORCHESTER.--In Northumberland. This important station lies half a mile west of the little town of Corbridge, at the junction of the Cor with the Tyne, which is here crossed by a fine bridge of seven arches, dating from 1674. It has been suggested that the name Cor is associated with the Brigantian tribe of Corionototae. In regard to building operations hereabouts extensive use has been made of materials derived from Corstopitum. This--in its day--occupied a commanding position as a Roman Station, inasmuch as it furnished a storehouse for grain and a basis for the northward operations carried on about the time of Antoninus Pius. When these operations became unsuccessful, Corstopitum ceased to be a military centre, though it still furnished a basis of civilian occupation. The town was brought to desolation early in the fifth century, and was never again occupied. It was only to be expected that valuable finds should be unearthed from the remains. Many have been found by accident, as _e.g._, in 1734, a silver dish was dug up weighing 148 oz., and ornamented with figures of deities. Again, much later, in 1908, there was recovered a hoard of gold coins, wrapped in leadfoil, and thrust into the chink of a wall by a fugitive who was fated never to return and recover his treasure. The first-rate importance of the city in its relation to the Roman Wall, and military operations based on Corstopitum as a centre, was only fully revealed by systematic investigations begun in 1907. There were then uncovered, the foundations of several structures fronting a broad thoroughfare, one of which is the largest Roman building found to the present in England, with the exception of the Baths at Bath. Two of these warehouses were evidently granaries. All testified to the importance attached to Corstopitum as a storehouse and distributing centre. [Illustration: The Roman Wall.] THE WALL OF HADRIAN. It may be of interest to insert here a few directions for any investigator who wishes to track out the Roman Wall. Such a traveller might profitably visit first the Museum at Newcastle, where many memorials are preserved. There might be included the Castle Keep and Chapel, with its richly-moulded Norman arches and the Black Gate, with the collection of Roman inscribed and sculptured stones from the eastern fortresses on the Wall between Bowness and Wallsend. The numerous carved altars are especially noticeable. From Newcastle the road can be taken alongside the Wall to Chollerford, by way of Denton Burn, Wallbottle, Heddon on the Wall, Vindobala, Harlow Hill, Wallhouses, Halton Shields Hunnum, Stagshaw Bank, and so, by a steep descent, into Chollerford. If the train be taken, it is expedient to break the journey at Prudhoe to view the ruins of the Castle, built in the reign of Henry II. The curious old bridge over a ravine is one of the oldest in the North. From Prudhoe to Corbridge is twenty minutes or so by rail. The buried city of Corstopitum lies to the west of Corbridge. There can be traced the Forum, streets, granaries, baths, and fountain. The excavations conducted during 1908 and the two following years are deeply interesting. There are Roman altars and monuments to be seen at Hexham. Close to Chollerford are the remains of the remarkable Roman bridge over the Tyne. Cilurnum (Chesters), the largest station on the Wall, lies on the river bank. In the Museum by the gates are deposited sculptured stones, vases, etc., discovered hereabouts. Journeying from Brunton to Limestone Bank, one finds the fosses and vallum exceptionally perfect. On the whole there are said to have been about 23 important stations on the Wall, named as follows:--Segedunum (Wallsend), Pons Ælii (Newcastle), Condercum (Benwell Hill), Vindobala (Rutchester), Hunnum (Halton Chester), Cilurnum (Chesters), Procolitia (Carrawburgh), Borcovicus (House-steads), Vindolana (Chesterholm), Æsica (Great Chesters), Magna (Carvoran), Amboglanna (Birdoswald), Petriana, Aballaba, Congovata, Axelodunum, Gabrosentum, Tunocelum, Glannibanta, Alionis, Bremetenracum, Olenacum, and Virosidum. It is noteworthy that not a trace of the original names survives in the local nomenclature of to-day, though the exact position of most of the stations has been made out from other indications. It will be seen that one Wall extended from Wallsend on the Tyne to Bowness on the Solway Firth, a distance of 73 miles. It would have been about 12 feet high and 6 feet thick, in parts 9-1/2 feet thick. Probably about 10 years were expended in the building. About 10,000 men would be required adequately to garrison its stations. It is difficult to believe that it was constructed _de novo_, or all at one time. Probably a line of stations, suggested by the lie of the country, existed here before Roman times, which line was extended and consolidated by successive Roman generals and emperors. The Wall now bears the name of Hadrian, Emperor from 117 to 138, but other names associated with it are Agricola (37-93), Severus (193-211), Theodosius (346-395) and Stilicho (_d._ 408). To complete, or, rather round off, our account, a few words ought to be added as to the Northern Wall. The Wall of Antoninus, or Graham's Dyke (perhaps from C. _greim_--a place of strength, and that which is _dug_--a rampart) extends across the island from the Firth of Clyde to the Firth of Forth--a distance of about 36 miles. It consisted of an immense ditch, behind which was raised a rampart of intermingled stone and earth, surmounted by a parapet, behind which ran a level platform for the accommodation of the defenders. South of the whole ran the military way--a regular causeway about 20 feet wide. Commencing in the west on a height called Chapel Hill, near the village of Old Kilpatrick, in Dumbartonshire, it ran eastwards, passing in succession Kirkintilloch, Crory, Castlecary, and Falkirk, terminating at Bridgeness, a rocky promontory that projects into the Firth of Forth, south of Borrowstonness in Linlithgowshire. A writer of the life of the Emperor Antoninus Pius (138-161) states that Lollius Urbicus, a legate of that sovereign, erected, after several victories over the Britons, "another rampart of turf" to check their incursions, but what has been said with reference to the builders of Hadrian's Wall may be repeated with reference to that of Antonine.[1] [Footnote 1: Appendix C.] DORCHESTER (Dorsetshire).--130 miles S.W. from London. On the right bank of the Frome. Dorcestre (Dwr--a portion of the name of the Durotriges, or dwellers upon the _dwr_ or water). Dorchester was a Romano-British town of considerable size, probably successor to the British tribal centre of the Durotriges. The walls can be traced in part, and many mosaics and other remains of houses have been found. Near Dorchester may be seen at Maumbury Rings remains of an amphitheatre. Maiden Castle, 2 miles S.W. of the town, is a vast earthwork, considered to have been a stronghold of the Durotriges.[2] Many other such remains are traceable in the vicinity. [Footnote 2: Mai-den = _Mai Dun_ = the stronghold of the plain. It is clearly originally the work of men of the latest Stone Age--men who lived their lives in round barrows, and who raised this entrenchment with merely their primitive picks or "celts" as tools, for a defence against their finally successful invaders, the Durotriges. In their turn, the latter used the forts against the Romans--unless, as is more probable, they submitted without fighting.] DORCHESTER (Oxfordshire).--Situated at the junction of the Thames and the Thame. There is a Roman station near the present village, and (across the Thames) the double isolated mound known as Wittenham Hills (Sinodum), on the summit of which are strong early earthworks. In 655, this place was the seat of a bishopric, the largest in England, including the whole of Wessex and Mercia. In 1086, William the First and Bishop Remigius removed the bishop's stool to Lincoln. DOVER.--Roman _Dubris_, on the Dour (_dwr_--water), the principal Cinque port, is situated close to the South Foreland, and is 72 miles from London. It is the eye of England, looking over to the nearest part of the continent. It is also the gate of England, through which have come and gone in all historic ages kings and queens and lesser folk on all kinds of missions, relating both to war and peace. Geologically it is knit to the French shore, by the existence both of _white_ and _black_ rocks, _i.e._, chalk and coal. At a time when Britain was joined to what is now Europe, when the cave bear devoured his prey in Kent's cavern, and the monkey gambolled in the lofty trees, when the Thames was a tributary of some great eastern stream, the Dour might have been a considerable river, as it has worked for itself a deep erosive valley. Even in early historic times its estuary must have occupied a great part of the land on which stands modern Dover. Originally wood fires were lighted on corresponding sites on the E. and W. cliffs to guide vessels into the intermediate beach and natural harbour during the darkness of a winter's night. Even when the Pharos was reared, the primitive mode of illumination by means of wood or coal was employed. The modern form of lighthouse, with glass or metal reflectors, dates but from 1758, when the first Eddystone lighthouse was built. A common coal fire-light was continued at St. Bees Head, in Cumberland, as late as 1820. Architecturally, the Dover Pharos (so called from one erected at Pharos, Alexandria, in 285 B.C.--550 ft. high--said to have been visible 42 miles away) is interesting from the fact that the stones from which it is built are not native, but are supposed to have been brought over as ballast in Roman galleys. In some places it would appear that they were built up wall-shape, liquid cement being poured into the interstices. That the ubiquitous King Arthur built the first castle on the cliffs, 300 ft. above the sea, is a tradition--one we should like to believe. His name is also associated with sites on the Western Heights and Barham Downs. It is certain that the Roman invaders early took advantage of the position of this "key" of the island, and that amongst their five coast castles, under the control of "the Count of the Saxon Shore," Dover held a position second only to Richborough. In the Watling Street, the baths, now destroyed, the church within the Castle, the Pharos, the Romans have left clear evidence of their occupation. St. Mary's may be the first Christian church in Britain. To the beginning of the eighteenth century it was used for worship; it was then dismantled, and, after being filled with stores, at last became a coal cellar. With the greatest difficulty it was saved from destruction in 1860, and restored by Sir Gilbert Scott. EXETER.--172 miles, W.S.W. from London. Caer Isca of the Britons (Keltic, _esk_--_exe_--_uisge_--water). In Camden's time (1551-1623), the name was written Ex-cester. Exeter is situated on a broad ridge of land, rising steeply from the left bank of the Exe. At the head of the ridge is the Castle, occupying the site of a strong British earth-work. Exeter was the Romano-British country town of Isca Damnoniorum, the most westerly town in the government of Roman Britain. Traces of Roman walls survive in mediæval walls, all the gates of which, however, have disappeared. Exeter is the nexus of a considerable number of roads. GLOUCESTER.--114 miles W.N.W. of London. On the east bank of the Severn. It is doubtful if it were a British settlement. The Roman municipality, or colonia, of Glevum, was founded by Nerva between 96 and 98. Part of the original walls of the town may still be traced. ISLE OF WIGHT.--Called by the Romans, _Vectis_; Wight being a corruption of this word. This island was known in early times to the ancients, and appears to have been used as a summer or sea-bathing resort. There are interesting remains of Roman villas at Brading and Carisbrooke. KENCHESTER, or Magni, or Magna, sometimes Magnis, is situated on the Wye, about 4 miles west of the city of Hereford. Discoveries of coins and other objects suggest that British villages existed here. The Watling Street running from Wroxeter to Caerleon passes near, communicating with Stoney Street, south of the Wye. The site has yielded considerable evidence of Roman occupation. Kenchester appears to have been a small town, in shape an irregular hexagon, with an area of some seventeen acres, surrounded by a stone wall pierced by four gates. The principal street, 15 ft. wide, ran from east to west; the houses contained tesselated pavements, hypocausts, leaden and tile drains; coins of various periods; fibulae (some of silver), glass, pottery, and the like, abound; while two inscriptions (one dated A.D. 283), lend a distinctive Roman colouring. Suburbs lay outside; and there was a villa a mile to the west at Bishopstone. The town, though small, had pretensions to comfort and civilization; it is the only important Romano-British site in Herefordshire. A legion was stationed here. LANCASTER.--Castra ad alaunam--camp on the Lune, from Gaelic _all_--white. Therefore we have _al_--white; _avn_, or _afon_--water; which the Romans latinized into Alauna. LEICESTER. Before the Roman invasion, Leicester was inhabited by the Coritani. Under the Romans it formed part of the province of Flavia Cæsariensis. Watling Street,[3] the Fosse Way and Via Devana converge on Leicester. [Footnote 3: This does not actually pass through Leicester, but is twelve miles away at nearest.] The principal Roman stations near were: Ratae --Leicester; Verometum --Borough Hill; Manducosedum--Mancetter; Benones --High Cross. In this region Roman remains have been found at: Leicester,[4] Rothley, Wanlip, Hasby, Bottesfold, Hinckley, Sapcote, and Melton Mowbray. In 1771 a Roman milestone of the time of Hadrian (76-138) was discovered at a spot two miles from Leicester. Near Blaby, over the Soar, is a bridge locally known as the Roman Bridge. [Footnote 4: There is to be seen _in situ_ beneath the Great Central Station here a beautiful and almost perfect tesselated pavement.] LINCOLN.--_Llyn_--a deep pool, and _Colonia_. The Britons called it _Lind-coit_. The name _Linn-dun_, of which _Lindum_ is the Romanised version, means _The hill-fort of the pool_. The territory hereabouts was first settled by Belgae; who, however, at the time of Cæsar's invasion, had become a mixed race with the real Britons. The country was conquered by the Romans about 70 A.D., and formed part of the province of Flavia Caesariensis. The tribe which occupied Lincolnshire were the Coritani, who had Lindum and Ratae for their tribal centres. In this territory remains of British camps are found at Barrow, Folkingham, Ingoldsby, Revesby, and Wells. Also traces of Roman camps are discoverable at Alkborough, Caistor, Gainsborough, Gadney Hill, near Holbeach, Honington, near Grantham, South Ormsby, and Yarborough. The Roman roads in this neighbourhood are nearly perfect. There is Ermine Street on the eastern side of the Cliff Hills and the Fosse Way, running S.W. from Lincoln. There is a famous arch--the Newport--at Lincoln. It is one of the most perfect specimens of Roman architecture in England. It is sunk fully eleven feet below the present level of the street, and has two smaller arches on each side, the one to the west being concealed by an adjoining house. The Ermine Street passes through this gate, running north from it for eleven or twelve miles as straight as an arrow. Many Roman coins and ornaments have been found in the immediate vicinity of this gate. In the Cloister garden of the Cathedral are preserved a tesselated pavement and the sepulchral slab of a Roman warrior. LONDON.--Londonum, Londinium, the Augusta of the Romans. _Llyn Din_--the Black Llyn or Lake, or perhaps from Celto-Saxon _dun_, or _don_--a hill fort. This fort may have been situated where abouts St. Paul's now stands, or, in a more extended form, it may have been constituted by Tower Hill, Cornhill, and Ludgate Hill; bounded thus by the Thames on the South, the Fleet on the West, and the Fen of Moorfields and Finsbury (afterwards by Hounsditch and the Tower) on the East. It must be premised that the course of the Thames, the containing bounds, the depth of the stream, the character of the rivulets--such as the Lea, the Fleet, Wall-brook, West-Bourne, Tye-Bourne--presented marked differences in early historic days from the appearance they show to-day. The sites north and south of the line where London Bridge now stands constituted firm ground, with a tendency to an elevation in the north. These facts determined the position of the British settlement. At that part of the river the Britons had, if not a ford, at least a ferry, and finally a rough bridge--perhaps of coracles or boats--the progenitor of the noble structure now existing. The ferry went from what is now Dowgate to a similar opening still existing to the west of St. Saviour's, Southwark. A British settlement of an early date would not now be thought to deserve the name of town. No less an authority than Julius Cæsar tells us that it was nothing more than a thick wood, fortified with a ditch and rampart, to serve as a place of retreat from the inroads of enemies. At that time, we may, therefore, imagine a clearing carved out of the forest, extending probably from the site of St. Paul's Cathedral to that of the Bank of England, the dwellings of the Britons being spread about the higher ground looking down upon the river, including Tower Hill. At the time of the revolt of the Iceni, the Roman governor, Paulinus Suetonius, being unable to make a stand, abandoned London to Boadicea, who entirely destroyed the city, after having massacred the inhabitants. We find London holding an important place in the Antonine Itinerary, Londinium being a starting point for nearly half the routes described in the portion devoted to Britain. Traditionally, Constantine the Great walled the city, at the request of his mother Helena, who is said to have been a native of Britain. Probably we should place the northern wall somewhere along the course of Cornhill[5] and Leadenhall Street; the eastern in the direction of Billiter Street and Mark Lane; the southern in the line of Upper and Lower Thames Streets; the western on the S.W. side of Walbrook. About the centre of each side might be placed the four main gates, corresponding with Bridge Gate, Ludgate, Bishopsgate and Aldgate. [Footnote 5: Perhaps somewhat to the north of the modern street. A portion is to be seen in the churchyard of St. Giles, Cripplegate.] The vision of Geoffrey of Monmouth of a great British city, Troy Novant, founded by Brut, a descendant of Æneas, must be relegated to the limbo of myths. A more probable story is that one Belinus formed a port or haven on the site of the present Billingsgate, though it does not follow that he built a gate of wonderful structure, still less that he built over it--as the story goes--a prodigiously large tower. It should be noted that "gate" may not mean a gate at all in the modern sense of the word, but only an opening or an entrance, even as the "Yats" leading to the harbour of Yarmouth.[6] Mayhap this settlement constituted the headquarters of Cassivellaunus, which were taken and sacked by Julius Cæsar. At all events, Tacitus (61-117 A.D.) the first Roman author who mentions London by name, speaks of it as an important commercial centre. It had not, up to A.D. 61, been dignified by the name of a Colony. A temple, dedicated to Diana, appears to have stood on the site of our Eastminster, S. Paul's, and another, to Apollo, at Westminster. When Tacitus wrote, Verulamium and Camulodunum possessed mints, whilst London did not. The earliest Roman London must have been a comparatively small place, with a fort to command the passage of the Thames. Perhaps to the Romans are due the primitive embankments which were designed to restrain the vagaries of the river at the times of tide and flood. London Stone, built into another stone in Cannon Street, outside the wall of St. Swithin's Church, is generally considered to be a milliarium (to mark so many thousand paces) or central station from which to measure distances, but it may conceivably have had some more ancient and peculiar designation in connection with a public or sacred building. Old London lies 20 feet or so below the present street level, so that, when excavations are made for any purpose, Roman remains are frequently found and parts of the Roman wall uncovered. [Footnote 6: In like manner we have Margate, Kingsgate, Westgate, Ramsgate, Sandgate, &c., indicating probably sites where a passage has been cut through the cliff by a stream or human agency.] Remains--pavements, etc.--are to be seen in abundance in the Guildhall Museum. When the old General Post Office in St. Martin's-le-Grand was demolished a large series of Roman rubbish pits was disclosed. The lowest portions of 120 of these were carefully excavated. The "finds" included a few whole pots and many thousands of fragments of Samian and coarse pottery, besides building materials, whetstones, beads, knives, coins, and other small articles. It has been possible to assign dates to most of the holes--between A.D. 50 and 200. By the association in the same hole of datable with undatable pottery, light has been thrown upon many types of the latter. Not long ago, while the buildings 3-6 King William Street were being demolished, another series of five large Roman pits was uncovered. From the fragments obtained therefrom nine Samian vessels of the first century have been pieced together, and are now in the Guildhall Museum. These include a decorated vessel, finer than any previously found in London, and two specimens of a shape unknown hitherto in England. A lamp, two coins, and other objects of pottery and bronze were also obtained from this source.[7] [Footnote 7: Besant's _London_ and his _Westminster_ convey a fascinating account of what was a labour of love on the part of the author to compile. All sorts of unexpected pleasures await the wanderer in London's highways and byeways. One of these may be noticed in respect of the Roman bath in the Strand. Turning down Strand Lane (a narrow passage between King's College and Surrey Street), a few yards bring one to the baths. The lane itself is as ancient as anything in London, inasmuch as it must have been in very early times a path by the side of the stream fed by the bath spring, and perhaps by the Holy Well, which afterwards gave its name to the notorious Holywell Street, this stream finally flowing into the Thames.] It is a moot point whether the Saxon migration along the Thames waterway was checked by the presence of London, which remained a city stronghold since Roman times, but it is evident that a gap was made in the history of the city just after the departure of the Romans, and the theory of continuous occupation can hardly be maintained in face of the fact that the mediæval City streets in no case follow the Roman roads traces of which lie beneath the mediæval houses. LYMPNE, or _Lemanae_.--Pevensey District, Anderida. It is considered that Reculver was the earliest Roman coast-fortress in Kent, that Richborough was founded somewhat later, and that Lympne and Pevensey constituted the latest stations; also, that (probably even before the time of Constantine) a division of the Romano-British fleet was stationed at Lympne and a series of buildings erected by their crews. When Romney Marshes were covered by an inland sea, and many streams drained this eastern side of the Andred Forest, the Romans established the military station Lemanae, at the estuary of the chief of those streams, and defended it by the castrum, the ruins of which are now known as Stutfall Castle. Some of the stones of this castrum were used by Archbishop Lanfranc in the construction of a church at Lympne. MALDON, Essex.--Situated on an acclivity rising from the south side of the Blackwater--44 miles E.N.E. of London, and 16 S.W. from Colchester or Camulodunum, with which it has sometimes been identified, or rather, confounded. It is supposed to have received its name[8] (Cross Hill) from a cross erected on the eminence. A large number of Roman remains have been found in the neighbourhood, testifying to the importance of the place during the time of their occupation. On the West side of the town there are also traces of a large camp, which was doubtless utilized by different bodies of invaders and settlers. The oldest historical mention of Maldon is in 913, when Edward the Elder encamped near it to oppose an incursion of the Danes. [Footnote 8: Maldon may be a shortened form of a second Ca_mul_odunum. _Dun_ would be a _hill-fortress_, and a cross being erected thereon would give rise to the appellation _Cross Hill_.] MANCHESTER.--180 miles N.W. of London. (Celtic _man_--a district). It is situated in the neighbourhood of four rivers, viz., the Irwell, Medlock, Irk, and Tib. It has been conjectured that at Castlefield there stood a British fortress, which was afterwards taken possession of by the soldiers of Agricola; at all events, it would appear to be certain that a Roman Station of some importance existed in this locality, as a fragment of a wall still exists. Even up to the end of the eighteenth century considerable evidences of Roman occupation were visible in and around Manchester, and from time to time in the course of excavation (especially during the digging for the Bridgewater Canal) old-time remains have been found. The coins recovered were those of Vespasian, Antoninus Pius, Trajan, Hadrian, Nero, Domitian, Vitellius, and even as late as the time of Constantine. The period immediately succeeding the Roman occupation is largely legendary; but up to the seventeenth century there was a floating tradition that Tarquin, an enemy of Arthur, kept the castle of Manchester, but was subsequently killed by Launcelot of the Lake. The town was probably one of the scenes of the preaching of Paulinus, the celebrated Bishop of York and of Rochester (597-644), and is said to have been the residence of Ina, King of Wessex, and his queen, Ethelburga, after he had defeated Ivor, in the year 689. It suffered greatly from the ravages of the Danes. In Domesday Book, Manchester, Salford, Rochdale, and Radcliffe are the only places named in South-east Lancashire. PORTSMOUTH.--74 miles S.W. of London. To the north of the harbour is situated Porchester Castle, a ruined Norman fortress occupying the site of the _Portus Magnus_ of the Romans. Portsmouth and Southampton must have been used by the Romans as a passage way to the Isle of Wight, where the remains of villas show that the island furnished a place of residence for rich and distinguished Romans. RECULVER. At the time of the Roman occupation Thanet was an island, and to guard the north-west end of the important channel of the "Wantsume," which separated the island from the main part of Kent, the Romans built Regulbium, corresponding to the greater Rutupiae of the southern outlet.[9] The Roman fort was probably one of the earliest in the country. It must have covered about eighty acres, and was garrisoned by the first cohort of Vetasii from Brabant. In 670, Bassa, a priest, erected a monastery and church here, which, nearly three hundred years later, were annexed by the monks of Christ Church, Canterbury. The greater part of these buildings was ruthlessly destroyed by the villagers in 1809, but the intervention of the Trinity House authorities in the following year saved the towers of the church, to serve as landmarks to the mariner. The churchyard is being slowly eroded by the sea. [Footnote 9: It is possible that works now proceeding, necessitated by the Great War, may result in the regulation of the waterways close to Sandwich and in its neighbourhood in such wise as to open up again this channel, and constitute Thanet once more an island in fact as well as in name.] RICHBOROUGH.--Rutupiae. This furnishes one of the finest remaining relics of Roman Britain. Built somewhat later than Reculver--about the middle of the third century A.D.--the castle guarded the principal and oldest port of entry into Britain in the Roman period. The rectangular enclosure still existing was the fortress of a considerable Roman settlement which lay to the south and south-west. At a little distance is an amphitheatre with three entrances. Out of the West or Decuman Gate, the Roman road to London and the North started. In the centre of the North wall is the opening of the Postern Gate, and there were probably central gates on the east and south. The feature of greatest interest remaining is the subterranean structure in the centre. This consists of an overhanging platform on a concrete foundation. There are traces of an encircling wall, and projecting upwards from the centre is an extraordinary cruciform platform. An underground passage runs round the whole. Some antiquaries consider that all this formed part of some temporary or substitutional building raised in lieu of an original more ambitious design; others think it may have been a signal tower combined with a lighthouse. In the Liverpool Museum are to be found many objects discovered here, including mural paintings, pottery, toys, dice, a steelyard with weights, and bone spurs, used for cock-fighting. ROCHESTER.--Durobrivæ; Horfcester, 33 miles E.S.E. of London. Its situation on the Roman Way from the Kentish ports to the metropolis, as well as its strategical position on the bend of the Medway, gave Rochester and the adjacent places on the river early importance. It was a walled Romano-British town, though of no great size. The original bridge across the Medway to Strood probably dates from the Roman period, taking the place of a ferry. SILCHESTER.--In North Hampshire--Calleva, 10 miles south of Reading. A Romano-British town, which was thoroughly explored under the auspices of the Society of Antiquaries between 1890 and 1909. The whole plan of the ancient town within the walls was disclosed as successive portions were uncovered. The suburbs, and the cemeteries, which, as usual, were located without the gates, have not yet been excavated. The ruins of the Town Hall still remain. The Duke of Wellington, whose residence is at Strathfieldsaye, is the owner of the site. He has arranged that most of the objects found at Silchester shall be deposited in the Museum at Reading. ST. ALBANS.--Verulamium. Originally within the limits of the territory of the tribe of which Cassivellaunus was, at one time, the head. Before the Roman Conquest it was a British capital. In Roman times it received the dignity of a _municipium_--implying municipal status and Roman citizenship for its free inhabitants. Tacitus informs us that the town was burnt by Boadicea in 61 A.D., but it soon rose again to prosperity. The site is still easily recognisable, its walls, of flint rubble, surviving in stately fragments, enclosing an area of well-nigh 200 acres. Of the buildings formerly occupying this area but little is now known. The theatre was excavated in 1847, and parts of the forum in 1898. The tower of the famous Abbey is largely built of bricks taken from the Roman buildings! During the first three centuries ten distinct general persecutions swept over the nascent Christian Church. Owing to the remote position of Britain, it appears to have escaped these fiery trials until the time of the Emperor Diocletian, about 304. Several names among the Britons have been traditionally handed down to us as having received the honour of martyrdom, but the premier place among them has always been accorded to a young soldier who was stationed at Verulam. It appears that he was converted by an evangelist named Amphibalus, to whom, when the trial came, he gave shelter, and even facilitated his escape by an exchange of garments. When brought before the judges and charged with concealing "a blasphemer of the Roman gods," Alban avowed himself a convert to the proscribed religion and refused, in spite of torture, to burn incense upon the heathen altars. He was therefore beheaded outside the city about the year 285 (although the precise date is uncertain).[10] About A.D. 785, Offa, king of that part of Britain which we call the Midland Counties, caused search to be made for the bones of the proto-martyr, and built a noble monastery and church where they were found, which possibly may be identified with the older parts of the present structure.[11] Eventually his shrine was reared up in the South transept of the Cathedral. Behind and just above the shrine is the Watching Gallery, where devotees offered continual prayer and guarded the relics from fire and robbery. Close by is another shrine in memory of S. Amphibalus. The monastery attained to great eminence--its head was the premier Abbot of England--and the shrine was loaded with ornaments of enormous value. The glory departed at the time of the Dissolution under Henry VIII. The Monastic Church is now admitted to the rank of a Cathedral. The building was restored (or deformed?) at great cost by the first Lord Grimthorpe, who did things with all his right, but, as in this case, as some say, with all his wrong. [Footnote 10: Appendix D.] [Footnote 11: These words are written within a mile of a site in Kent which bears the name of St. Albans, inasmuch as a small daughter-house was established there.] The church in the neighbourhood of old St. Albans, on the North side of the chancel, contains a monument to the memory of Francis Bacon, Viscount St. Albans, a great lawyer, an incisive thinker, the founder of the school of inductive philosophers--a man who, unhappily, was cast from his exalted legal position by the malice of his foes. How far he himself contributed to his disgrace we will not say. WINCHESTER.--Wynton, otherwise, Venta Belgarum (_Venta_, a Latin form of _Win_, which is derived from the Celtic, _gwent_, a plain; hence also _Venta Silurum_, and Bennaventa=Daventry); 66-1/2 miles S.W. London. The city is situated in and above the valley of the Itchen, mainly on the left bank. Tradition ascribes its foundation to Tudor Rous Hudibras, and dates it 99 years before the first building of Rome! Earthworks and relics testify that the Itchen Valley was originally occupied by Celts, and it is certain from its position at the centre of six Roman roads, and from the relics found there, that the Caer Gwent (White City of the Celts--_Ghwin_--white[12]) under the name of Venta Belgarum, was an important Romano-British country town. Legends accumulate here around the persons of Arthur and his knights. After the conquest of Hampshire by Gervisus, the place became the capital of Wessex, then of England, when the Kings of Wessex consolidated the kingdom. Alfred and Canute resided here, amongst other English sovereigns; and here were laid to rest Alfred's remains, until--at the close of the eighteenth century--the coffin that contained them was sold by a mercenary municipality for the sake of the lead in which they were enclosed! Egbert, Edmund the Elder, and Canute were also buried here. Edward the Confessor was crowned in the Minster in 1043. Being near the New Forest, and only 12 miles from Southampton, Winchester was much frequented by the Norman Kings. William I wore the crown there at Easter, even as at Westminster at Whitsuntide, and at Gloucester at Christmas. [Footnote 12: The two words _gwent_ and _ghwin_ probably look to each other in a common meaning. _Gwent_, that which is extended, as a plain; _ghwin_, that which presents a uniform lightish tint, such as a plain or a lake, as contrasted with dark patches or morass.] WROXETER.--(Towards the Welsh border the _c._ or _ch._ of _chester_ becomes an _x_, and the tendency to elision is very strong.) The equivalent is Uriconium, properly Viroconium. The original Celtic name survives in _Wroxeter_ and _Wrekin_, it being derived from Celtic _rhos_--a moor. Wroxeter is situated on the Severn, 5 miles E. of Shrewsbury. It was a large Romano-British town, originally the chief town of the Cornovii. At first (perhaps about 45-55 A.D.) it constituted a Roman legionary fortress, held by Legio XIV (Gemina) against the Welsh hill tribes. However, its garrison was soon removed, and it became a flourishing town with stately Town Hall, Baths and other appurtenances of a thoroughly Roman and civilised city. It was larger and probably richer than Silchester. The lines of its walls can still be traced, enclosing about 170 acres. Parts of important public buildings have been disclosed by the excavations, which are still progressing. They are carried on under the auspices of the Society of Antiquaries.[13] [Footnote 13: See Appendix D.] YORK.--(Celtic, contracted from _eure-wic_; _wic_, from L. vicus), otherwise Eboracum. It lies in a plain watered by the Ouse, at the junction of the Foss stream with the main river, 188 miles N. by W. of London. In British times the city bore the name of Caer-Ebroc. It was chosen by the Romans as an important _depôt_ after the conquest of the Brigantes by Agricola in 79. Ultimately it became the most important Roman centre in North Britain. The fortress of Legio VI (Victrix) was situated near the site of the present Minster, and a municipality or colonia sprang up where now stands the railway station on the opposite side of the Ouse. There is a large collection of remains to be found in the hospitium of St. Mary's Abbey, derived from the cemetery and the site of the railway station. The base of the Multangular Tower, N.W. of the walls, is Roman, of mingled brick and stone work. The present names of the Bars are Micklegate, Bootham, Monk (Goodrum), and Walmgate. Of the Norman fortress erected by William the Conqueror in 1068 some portions were probably incorporated in Clifford's Tower, which was partly destroyed by fire in 1684. The Cathedral, or Minster of St. Peter, if surpassed by some other English fanes in certain special features, is on the whole the most striking and imposing specimen of ecclesiastical architecture in Britain. The Emperor Hadrian visited York in 120. The Emperor Severus died in this city in 211, and his body was probably burnt on the hill which now bears his name. After the death of Constantius Chlorus at York, his son, Constantine the Great (who, according to an ancient but incorrect tradition, was born at York), was inaugurated in this imperial centre. The Romans withdrew in 410, and after that, scarcely is anything known of the state of things hereabouts until 627, when King Edwin was baptized and Paulinus consecrated in what then constituted the metropolitan church. APPENDIX A Of late years measurements and records in regard to racial characters have been made more or less thoroughly throughout Europe, partly by individual enterprise, partly by Government officials, who have mainly taken children and soldiers as the material of observation. It is thus established that there is along the Mediterranean, throughout the Spanish Peninsula, extending into the western borders of France, and as far north as the West of England, parts of Wales and of Scotland, and of Ireland (where dwell the descendants in the British Isles of the ancient Picts or long-barrow men), a predominating race which is called "the Mediterranean" or "Iberian" race, characterized by a narrow, long, skull, dark colour of the hair, eyes, and skin, and short stature. Fringing the north and north-west border of Europe, occupying Scandinavia, and largely dominating Great Britain and Ireland (where it has overrun the earlier Iberian, or Pictish people) is the second great European race--the Nordic. It was formerly called the "Teutonic," but, as this term has been misapplied in Germany for political reasons, so as to include a large body of the last, or third, race, it is better to use the word "Nordic." The Nordic race is, like the Iberian, long-headed, but in contrast it is blond and very tall. The third great European race occupies a vast wedge intruding between the areas occupied by the Iberian race to the South and the Nordic people to the North. It fills all but the northern border of Russia and occupies Hungary (where there are also intrusive Huns of Mongolian origin), Austria, Roumania, Serbia, and Bulgaria. It also populates Germany (except its northernmost provinces) and occupies the north and north-west of Italy, the west and centre of France and half of Belgium. It is characterized by the round head, sturdy size, and a colouration intermediate between that of the Iberians and Nordics, a colouration which may tend to brunette or blond according as either of these races is mixed with it. It is best called the Alpine race, but is also styled the Celtic, on account of its association with the Celtic culture and language; though it never occupied Ireland, and does not exist at the present day in Cornwall and Scotland, and is hardly recognisable in Wales. The Nordic element is predominant in Great Britain and Ireland, associated with the earlier and partly absorbed Iberian, with hardly a trace of the Alpine or Celtic race, in spite of the talk about Celtic fringes and the ancient introduction and prevalence of Celtic language and culture due to the influence of small groups of Celtic immigrants. APPENDIX B In the course of an enquiry in Australia, having for its object the fostering a love of the country districts and stemming the exodus to the cities, which is a disquieting feature of life in the Commonwealth, medical inspectors in the schools of Victoria have come to the conclusion that blue-eyed people seek the land, and that the city populations are recruited largely from the brown-eyed. If this conclusion could be generally supported, it opens up interesting questions as to the connection of eye-pigmentation with race, and its possible modification by inter-marriage. From the uncertainty of our knowledge as to the immediate cause of eye and hair pigmentation one cannot but be faced with the alternative--either that little formal attention has been paid to the subject, or that the elements of investigation are uncertain and conflicting. What would Mendel have said to this problem? APPENDIX C In the course of the compilation of this History, the Author re-perused the _Handbook to the Roman Wall_, in the fifth edition, put forth by Mr. Robert Blair, many years after the death of the original compiler, Dr. Bruce. In the light of succeeding events it is curious to note what is said of Corstopitum, a site noted in the text as being near Hadrian's great line of wall and its defences. Thus the record runs: This site, which lost its military importance with the retreat of the Romans, apparently became a commercial emporium, and underwent very various fortunes, culminating in its destruction by barbarians; so that, from the fifth century, it ceased to be from that day to this; no man dwelling on the site. Mr. Blair says of the place itself: Its form and extent gave it the aspect of a city rather than of a camp. Remains of a bridge across the Tyne are to be seen when the river is low. Excavations were made in the summer of 1906. Nothing of account was found except a few walls, an intaglio, some fragments of pottery and a few coins. How frigid and disappointing is not this record! But listen to the story which Sir Arthur Evans related to the British Association for the Advancement of Science in his Presidential address at Newcastle last September: The work at Corbridge, the ancient Corstopitum, begun in 1906, and continued down to the autumn of 1914, has already uncovered throughout a great part of its area the largest urban centre--civil as well as military in character--on the line of the Wall, and the principal store-house of its stations. Here (together with well-built granaries, workshops, and barracks, and other records of river life as are supplied by sculptured stones and inscriptions, and the double discovery of hoards of gold coins) has come to light a spacious and massively constructed stone building, apparently a military store-house, worthy to rank besides the bridge-piers of the North Tyne among the most important monuments of Roman Britain. There is much here, indeed, to carry our thoughts far beyond our insular limits. On this, as on so many other sites along the Wall, the inscriptions and reliefs take us very far afield. We mark the gravestone of a man of Palmyra, an altar of the Tyrian Hercules--its Phoenician Baal--a dedication to a pantheistic goddess of Syrian religion and the raised effigy of the Persian Mithra. So, too, in the neighbourhood of Newcastle itself, as elsewhere on the Wall, there was found an altar of Jupiter Dolichenus, the old Anatolian God of the Double Axe, the male form of the divinity once worshipped in the prehistoric Labyrinth of Crete. Nowhere are we more struck than in this remote extremity of the Empire with the heterogeneous religious elements, often drawn from its far Eastern borders, that before the days of the final advent of Christianity Roman dominion had been instrumental in diffusing. The Orontes may be said to have flowed into the Tyne as well as the Tiber. This quotation has been given at length in order to sustain the contention--put forth more than once in this book--that treasures associated with the Roman epoch lie around us in every part of our island, and that all sorts of novel surprises mutely await the advent and quest of the diligent investigator. But to return for a moment to Corstopitum. It has been realised that the city was a centre of iron-work and pottery-making to supply the needs of the troops. It furnished a base for the invasion of Caledonia by Lollius Urbicus in A.D. 140, and for the great expedition of Septimius Severus in A.D. 208. Much of the area excavated during 1906 and the following years has been filled in, but the most important buildings remain open--two large granaries, the fountain or public water-pant, and a large unfinished building, which may have been designed as a military storehouse, or as the praetorium of a legionary fortress which never came into being. The most remarkable finds made here have been the Corbridge lion in stone, which now enjoys an European reputation, and two hoards of gold coins, now in the British Museum.[1] [Footnote 1: _Vide_ Official Handbook to Newcastle and District, put forth on the occasion of the last visit of the British Association to that city.] The Map above gives the line of Hadrian's Wall through the two counties of Northumberland and Cumberland, viz., from Wallsend to Bowness, and indicates the principal places on the route. For further details of this absorbing subject the reader is referred to such works as the Proceedings and Transactions of learned societies, such as the _Archæologia Æleana_, or the _Lapidarium Septentrionale_. The _Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum_, Vol. vii gives a full rendering of the inscriptions. APPENDIX D "The Society of Antiquaries, in conjunction with the Shropshire Archæological Society, carried on extensive excavations at Wroxeter during the years 1912, 1913, and 1914. "Wroxeter, the ancient Viroconium or Uriconium, is situated on the east bank of the Severn, between five and six miles south-east of Shrewsbury. The lines of its walls can still be traced, enclosing an area of about 170 acres, and the town must have been an important centre in Roman-Britain, as it stood at the junction of two of the main roads, viz., the Watling Street from London and the south-east, and the road from the legionary fortress of Caerleon in South Wales. There were also other roads running from it into Wales and to Chester. The town is referred to by the Ravenna Geographer as Viroconium Cornoviorum, and was probably the chief town of that tribe which inhabited a district including both Wroxeter and Chester. "That the site was inhabited soon after the invasion under Claudius in 43 A.D. is evident. Coins and other objects of pre-Flavian date have been met with in some quantities, and there are tombstones of soldiers of the XIV Legion from the cemetery. This legion came over with Claudius, and left Britain for good in the year 70 A.D. Wroxeter, situated on the edge of the Welsh hills and protected from attack on that side by the river Severn, would have formed an admirable base for operations against the turbulent tribes of Wales, and it is more than likely that it was used as such in the campaigns undertaken by Ostorius Scapula in 50 A.D. and by Suetonius Paulinus in 60 A.D. "The Welsh tribes were finally subdued before the end of the reign of Vespasian, and the country became more settled. Wroxeter appears to have ceased to be a military centre and to have grown into a large and prosperous town. It is in this period--namely, the last quarter of the first century A.D.--that the occupation began on the part of the site recently excavated. Very little of the earlier buildings remained, as they all appear to have been built of wood and wattle-and-daub. "In the second century more substantial houses were erected, and in the course of the excavations the following buildings were uncovered. In 1912, four long shops, with rooms at the back and open fronts with porticoes on the street. In 1913, a temple, which must have been of some architectural pretensions, and contained life-sized statues, of which several fragments were discovered. In 1914, a large dwelling house, consisting of a number of rooms with a large portico on the street and a small bath-house on the south side. The porticoes of all these buildings formed a continuous colonnade by the side of the street. At the back of the large dwelling-house another structure was discovered. Unfortunately it could not be entirely explored, as its west part was beyond the reserved area. It consisted of two parallel walls, 13 ft. apart, which enclosed an oblong space with rounded corners 144 ft. wide and 188 ft. long to the furthest point excavated. No other building of this form appears to have been found elsewhere, and it is difficult to say for what purpose it was used, especially as part of it is still unexcavated. It is possible, however, that it may have been a place of amusement for games, bull-baiting, etc., and that the two parallel walls held tiers of wooden seats. "The buildings that faced the street had been altered and rebuilt several times, the mixed soil being from 8 ft. to 10 ft. deep in places, making the work of excavation very slow and laborious. For instance, in 1914 there was evidence of at least four different periods of buildings on the same site. In the early period there were wood and wattle-and-daub houses. Over the remains of these in the first half of the second century three long buildings were erected with open fronts or porticoes similar to those found in 1912. About the middle of the second century these three buildings were incorporated in one large house with corridors, two courtyards, many rooms, some with mosaic floors, and others fitted with hypocausts. A bath-house, with cold baths and hot rooms, was situated at the south-west corner. At a later period this dwelling was considerably altered, several of the rooms being swept away, and the central part of the building turned into one large courtyard with corridors on three sides. Two new hypocausts were inserted and extra rooms and a long corridor or verandah built at the back. Water was supplied to the houses by a water main at the side of the road. By shutting sluice-gates it was possible to divert the water into side channels which ran through the houses, flushing their drains, and discharging at the back into the river. Eleven wells were found during the excavations, varying from 10 ft. to 12 ft. in depth and stone-lined. "A number of crucibles and some unfinished bronze castings, etc., have been met with, showing that metalworking was carried on on the site. There was also evidence of other industrial processes, such as enamelling and working in bone. A very large number of small objects has been discovered during the excavations, such as cameos and engraved gems (some still set in finger rings), many brooches of different metals, enamelled ornaments, and a quantity of interesting articles in different metals, bone, glass, etc. "The great quantity of pottery found may be judged by the fact that upwards of 900 potters' stamps on Samian ware have been recorded. The coins number between 1,200 and 1,300, among them being a few British varieties. No coins later than the end of the fourth century have been, as yet, met with, and the town does not appear to have been inhabited after that date. What was the cause of its destruction or desertion is, as yet, uncertain, but it is hoped that future excavations will solve the problem. "Detailed accounts of the excavations are printed in the Reports of the Research Committee of the Society of Antiquaries of London, Nos. 1, 2, and 4." The above has been extracted, by kind permission of the Council, from the proceedings of the British Association for the Advancement of Science for 1915; and is taken from the Report of the Committee on "Excavations on Roman Sites in Britain," comprising the Special Return made by J. P. Bushe-Fox, F.S.A. WORKS BY REV. J. O. BEVAN, M.A., F.G.S., F.S.A. (_Rector of Chillenden, Canterbury; Sometime Prizeman, Exhibitioner, and Foundation Scholar of Emmanuel College, Cambridge_). THE GENESIS AND EVOLUTION OF THE INDIVIDUAL SOUL 2/6 _Williams & Norgate_ EGYPT AND THE EGYPTIANS (With Preface by Sir George Darwin) 5/- BIRTH AND GROWTH OF TOLERATION, AND OTHER ESSAYS 5/- EXPOSITION OF THE COLLECTS, EPISTLES, AND GOSPELS 2/6 THE SCIENTIFIC BASIS OF RELIGION 2/6 OUR ENGLISH BIBLE 6d. WITS AND THEIR HUMOURS 2/6 WOOING AND WEDDING 1/- WOOED AND WEDDED (Sequel to the above) 1/- _Allen & Unwin_ CHAUCER AND HIS TALES 3d. _Goulden, Canterbury_ ST. PAUL IN THE LIGHT OF TO-DAY 1/6 _Allenson & Co._ UNIVERSITY LIFE IN THE MIDDLE AGES 5/- HANDBOOK OF THE HISTORY AND DEVELOPMENT OF PHILOSOPHY 5/- _Chapman & Hall_ 
13205	----	Proofreaders Europe, http://dp.rastko.net. _Civics: as Applied Sociology_ by Patrick Geddes Read before the Sociological Society at a Meeting in the School of Economics and Political Science (University of London), Clare Market, W.C., at 5 p.m., on Monday, July 18th, 1904; the Rt. Hon. CHARLES BOOTH, F.R.S., in the Chair. INTRODUCTION This department of sociological studies should evidently be, as far as possible, concrete in treatment. If it is to appeal to practical men and civic workers, it is important that the methods advocated for the systematic study of cities, and as underlying fruitful action, be not merely the product of the study, but rather be those which may be acquired in course of local observation and practical effort. My problem is thus to outline such general ideas as may naturally crystallise from the experience of any moderately-travelled observer of varied interests; so that his observation of city after city, now panoramic and impressionist, again detailed, should gradually develop towards an orderly Regional Survey. This point of view has next to be correlated with the corresponding practical experience, that which may be acquired through some varied experiences of citizenship, and thence rise toward a larger and more orderly conception of civic action--as Regional Service. In a word, then, Applied Sociology in general, or [Page: 104] Civics, as one of its main departments, may be defined as the application of Social Survey to Social Service. In this complex field of study as in simpler preliminary ones, our everyday experiences and commonsense interpretations gradually become more systematic, that is, begin to assume a scientific character; while our activities, in becoming more orderly and comprehensive, similarly approximate towards art. Thus there is emerging more and more clearly for sociological studies in general, for their concrete fields of application in city after city, the conception of a scientific centre of observation and record on the one hand, and of a corresponding centre of experimental endeavour on the other--in short of Sociological Observatory and Sociological Laboratory, and of these as increasingly co-ordinated. Indeed, is not such association of observations and experiments, are not such institutions actually incipient here and elsewhere? I need not multiply instances of the correlation of science and art, as of chemistry with agriculture, or biology with medicine. Yet, on the strictly sociological plane and in civic application they are as yet less generally evident, though such obvious connections as that of vital statistics with hygienic administration, that of commercial statistics with politics, are becoming recognised by all. In the paper with which this Society's work lately opened, the intimate connection between a scientific demography and a practical eugenics has been clearly set forth. But this study of the community in the aggregate finds its natural parallel and complement in the study of the community as an integrate, with material and immaterial structures and functions, which we call the City. Correspondingly, the improvement of the individuals of the community, which is the aim of eugenics, involves a corresponding civic progress. Using (for the moment at least) a parallel nomenclature, we see that the sociologist is concerned not only with "demography" but with "politography," and that "eugenics" is inseparable from "politogenics." For the struggle for existence, though observed mainly from the side of its individuals by the demographer, is not only an intra-civic but an inter-civic process; and if so, ameliorative selection, now clearly sought for the individuals in detail as eugenics, is inseparable from a corresponding civic art--a literal "Eupolitogenics." A--THE GEOGRAPHIC SURVEY OF CITIES Coming to concrete Civic Survey, where shall we begin? Not only in variety and magnitude of civic activities, but, thanks especially to the work of Mr. Charles Booth and his collaborators in actual social survey also, London may naturally claim pre-eminence. Yet even at best, does not this vastest of world cities remain a less or more foggy labyrinth, from which surrounding [Page: 105] regions with their smaller cities can be but dimly descried, even with the best intentions of avoiding the cheap generalisation of "the provinces"? For our more general and comparative study, then, simpler beginnings are preferable. More suitable, therefore, to our fundamental thesis--that no less definite than the study of races and usages or languages, is that of the groupings of men--is the clearer outlook, the more panoramic view of a definite geographic region, such, for instance, as lies beneath us upon a mountain holiday. Beneath vast hunting desolations lie the pastoral hillsides, below these again scattered arable crofts and sparsely dotted hamlets lead us to the small upland village of the main glen: from this again one descends to the large and prosperous village of the foothills and its railway terminus, where lowland and highland meet. East or west, each mountain valley has its analogous terminal and initial village, upon its fertile fan-shaped slope, and with its corresponding minor market; while, central to the broad agricultural strath with its slow meandering river, stands the prosperous market town, the road and railway junction upon which all the various glen-villages converge. A day's march further down, and at the convergence of several such valleys, stands the larger county-town--in the region before me as I write, one of added importance, since not only well nigh central to Scotland, but as the tidal limit of a till lately navigable river. Finally, at the mouth of its estuary, rises the smoke of a great manufacturing city, a central world-market in its way. Such a river system is, as geographer after geographer has pointed out, the essential unit for the student of cities and civilisations. Hence this simple geographical method of treatment must here be pled for as fundamental to any really orderly and comparative treatment of our subject. By descending from source to sea we follow the development of civilisation from its simple origins to its complex resultants; nor can any element of this be omitted. Were we to begin with the peasant hamlet as our initial unit, and forget the hinterlands of pasture, forest, and chase (an error to which the writer on cities is naturally prone), the anthropologist would soon remind us that in forgetting the hunter, we had omitted the essential germ of active militarism, and hence very largely of aristocratic rule. Similarly, [Page: 106] in ignoring the pastoral life, we should be losing sight of a main fount of spiritual power, and this not only as regards the historic religions, but all later culture elements also, from the poetic to the educational. In short, then, it takes the whole region to make the city. As the river carries down contributions from its whole course, so each complex community, as we descend, is modified by its predecessors. The converse is no doubt true also, but commonly in less degree. In this way with the geographer we may rapidly review and extend our knowledge of the grouping of cities. Such a survey of a series of our own river-basins, say from Dee to Thames, and of a few leading Continental ones, say the Rhine and Meuse, the Seine and Loire, the Rhone, the Po, the Danube--and, if possible, in America also, at least the Hudson and Mississippi--will be found the soundest of introductions to the study of cities. The comparison of corresponding types at once yields the conviction of broad general unity of development, structure, and function. Thus, with Metschnikoff we recognise the succession of potamic, thalassic, and oceanic civilisations; with Reclus we see the regular distribution of minor and major towns to have been largely influenced not only by geographical position but by convenient journey distances. Again, we note how the exigencies of defence and of government, the developments of religion, despite all historic diversities, have been fundamentally the same. It is not, of course, to be forgotten how government, commerce, communications, have concentrated, altered or at least disguised the fundamental geographical simplicity of this descending hierarchy from mountain-hamlet to ocean-metropolis; but it is useful for the student constantly to recover the elemental and naturalist-like point of view even in the greatest cities. At times we all see London as still fundamentally an agglomeration of villages, with their surviving patches of common, around a mediaeval seaport; or we discern even in the utmost magnificence of Paris, say its Place de l'Etoile, with its spread of boulevards, but the hunter's tryst by the fallen tree, with its radiating forest-rides, each literally arrow-straight. So the narrow rectangular network of an American city is explicable only by the unthinking persistence of the peasant thrift, which grudges good land to [Page: 107] road-way, and is jealous of oblique short cuts. In short, then, in what seems our most studied city planning, we are still building from our inherited instincts like the bees. Our Civics is thus still far from an Applied Sociology. B--THE HISTORIC SURVEY OF CITIES But a city is more than a place in space, it is a drama in time. Though the claim of geography be fundamental our interest in the history of the city is supremely greater; it is obviously no mere geographic circumstances which developed one hill-fort in Judea, and another in Attica, into world centres, to this day more deeply influential and significant than are the vastest modern capitals. This very wealth of historical interests and resources, the corresponding multiplicity of specialisms, more than ever proves the need of some means by which to group and classify them. Some panoramic simplification of our ideas of history comparable to that of our geography, and if possible congruent with this, is plainly what we want. Again the answer comes through geography, though no longer in mere map or relief, but now in vertical section--in the order of strata ascending from past to present, whether we study rock-formations with the geologist, excavate more recent accumulations with the archaeologist, or interpret ruins or monuments with the historian. Though the primitive conditions we have above noted with the physiographer remain apparent, indeed usually permanent, cities have none the less their characteristic phases of historic development decipherably superposed. Thus below even the characteristically patriarchal civilisations, an earlier matriarchal order is often becoming disclosed. Our interest in exploring some stately modern or Renaissance city is constantly varied by finding some picturesque mediaeval remnant; below this some fragment of Roman ruin; below this it may be some barbarian fort or mound. Hence the fascinating interest of travel, which compels us ever to begin our survey anew. Starting with the same river-basin as before, the geographic panorama now gains a new and deeper interest. Primitive centres long forgotten start into life; pre-historic tumuli give up their dead; to the stone circles the [Page: 108] worshippers return; the British and the Roman camps again fill with armed men, and beside the prosaic market town arises a shadowy Arthurian capital. Next, some moment-centuries later, a usurper's tower rises and falls; the mediaeval abbey, the great castles, have their day; with the Reformation and the Renaissance the towns again are transformed; and yet more thoroughly than ever by the Industrial Revolution, with its factories, railways, steamships, and all that they bring with them. Thus, for instance, almost more important than the internal transformation and concentration wrought by railway and telegraph, is the selection, amidst the almost innumerable seaports of the older order, of the very few adapted to the deep draught of modern ships. In a word, not only does the main series of active cities display traces of all the past phases of evolution, but beside this lie fossils, or linger survivals, of almost every preceding phase. Hence, after many years of experiment and practice in teaching sociology I still find no better method available than that of regional survey, historical as well as geographical. Beginning with some popular excursion of obvious beauty and romantic interest like that to Melrose, we see with every tourist how naturally and fully the atmosphere and tradition of the Border found its expression and world influence in Sir Walter Scott. Thence, passing by way of contrast through the long isolated peninsula of Fife, say to representative towns like Kirkcaldy and Largo, we still see the conditions of that individualism of which Adam Smith and Alexander Selkirk ("Robinson Crusoe") have each in his way become the very prototypes. In such ways the connection of regional geography, history, and social psychology becomes increasingly clear. Again, we explore the other old Fife seaports, a series of survivals like those of the Zuyder Zee, or again work out in the field the significance of Stirling, so often the strategic centre of Scotland. Again, Dunfermline, as early mediaeval capital and abbey, furnishes a convenient object lesson preparatory to the study of the larger Edinburgh. Here, again, its triple centre, in the port of Leith, the Royal Castle, the Abbey of Holyrood, are the respective analogues of the port of London, the Tower, and Westminster; while each city-group has its outlying circle of minor burghs, tardily and imperfectly incorporated into a civic whole. Again, such a marked contrast of civic origins and developments as those of Glasgow and Edinburgh has to be accounted for; and thus through such progessively complexer surveys we reach the plane of modern civic problems and policies. Understanding the present as the development of the past, are we not preparing also to understand the future as the development of the present? The impressiveness of the aspect of Edinburgh to its visitors is thus not [Page: 109] merely pictorial. Be the spectator conscious of this or no, it turns primarily upon the contrast of the mediaeval hill-city with its castle ramparts, its fretted cathedral crown, with park and boulevard, with shops, hotels and railway stations. But the historic panorama is unusually complete. See the hill-fort defended by lake and forest, becoming "_castrum puellarum_," becoming a Roman and an Arthurian citadel, a mediaeval stronghold of innumerable sieges, a centre of autocratic and military dictatures, oligarchic governments, at length a museum of the past. So in the city itself. Here the narrow ridge crowded into a single street all the essential organs of a capital, and still presents with the rarest completeness of concentration a conspectus of modern civic life and development; and this alike as regards both spiritual and temporal powers, using these terms in their broadest senses as the respective expressions of the material order and its immaterial counterparts. Thus the royal and noble castles of the Middle Age become with the Renaissance here as everywhere something of palaces, while with the industrial revolution they have become replaced by factories or transformed into breweries. So the guidance of speculative thought, once concentrated in the mediaeval abbey, becomes transferred to the Reformation assembly of divines, to the Renaissance college; and again at the Revolution, is largely taken over by the speculative encyclopædists, of whom Hume and Smith were but the most eminent. Nor are later developments less obvious. Of the following generation, we have the neo-classic architecture which everywhere dominated Europe after the French Revolution and during the First Empire, while of the next generation's reaction against all this in the romantic movement, the neo-Gothic monument of Scott is the most characteristic possible representative. Again, just as in the Oxford movement we had the (appropriately regional) renascence of the idealism of the Cavaliers, so in Edinburgh we have naturally the simultaneous renascence of the Puritan ideal, e.g., in the Free Church, whose monument accordingly rises to dominate the city in its turn. The later period of prosperous Liberalism, the heroic enthusiasms of Empire, have each left their mark; and now in the dominant phase of social evolution, that of Finance, the banks, the financial companies, the press are having their turn as monument builders. Our Old Edinburgh is thus the most condensed example, the visible microcosm of the social evolution which is manifest everywhere; so that as a teaching model of sociological development it may renew its educational attractiveness when its improving hygiene has lessened its medical advantages. Setting down now these phases of historical development in tabular form, we have a diagram such as the following:-- ANCIENT | RECENT | CONTEMPORARY | INCIPIENT ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Primitive | Matri- | Patri- | Greek | Mediaeval | Renaissance | Revolution | Empire | Finance | ? ? ? | archal | archal | and | | | | | | | | | Roman | | | | | | which, were it placed erect, we might now compare to the increasing [Page: 110] nodes of a growing stem, or rather say the layers of a coral reef, in which each generation constructs its characteristic stony skeleton as a contribution to the growing yet dying and wearying whole. I have elaborated this example of the panoramic aspect of Old Edinburgh as a widely familiar instance of the method of literal survey with which social and civic studies may so conveniently begin; and I press the value of extending these even to the utmost elaborateness of photographic survey: in my view, indeed, a sociological society has at least as much use for a collection of maps, plans and photographs as of statistics, indeed scarcely less than one of books. Of course, in all this I am but recalling what every tourist in some measure knows; yet his impressions and recollections can become an orderly politography, only as he sees each city in terms of its characteristic social formations, and as he utilises the best examples from each phase towards building up a complete picture of the greatest products of civic evolution, temporal and spiritual, of all places and times up to the present. Such a parallel of the historic survey of the city to that of its underlying geological area is thus in no wise a metaphoric one, but one which may be worked out upon maps sections and diagrams almost completely in the same way--in fact, with little change save that of colours and vertical scale. The attempt to express the characteristic and essential life and thought of a given region in each period upon a series of maps is in fact the best method of understanding the everyday map at which we commonly look so unthinkingly. Much of the preceding, I am assured, must be most unsatisfactory to those who look at cities only from the standpoint of so many committees dealing with police, water, finance, and so on; or to those who are content to view the magnitude, the wealth and the population, the industries and the manufactures of a great city without considering whence these have come and whither they are leading; equally unsatisfactory also, I fear, to those to whom civic dignities and precedence, or the alternations of winning political colours, appear of prime importance. I can only hope that some of these may, on consideration, admit that the points of view I have endeavoured to outline above may be worth some thought and study as elementary preliminaries to their own more special and developed interests; and if the society permit. I hope to approach these more closely in a later paper. [Page: 111] The abstract economist or legalist, the moral or political philosopher may also resent the proposed mode of treatment as an attempt to materialise sociology by reducing it to concrete terms alone. But I would reply that observation, so far from excluding interpretation, is just the very means of preparing for it. It is the observant naturalist, the travelled zoologist and botanist, who later becomes the productive writer on evolution. It is the historian who may best venture on into the philosophy of history;--to think the reverse is to remain in the pre-scientific order altogether: hence the construction of systems of abstract and deductive economics, politics or morals, has really been the last surviving effort of scholasticism. Viewed as Science, Civics is that branch of Sociology which deals with Cities--their origin and distribution; their development and structure; their functioning, internal and external, material and psychological; their evolution, individual and associated. Viewed again from the practical side, that of applied science, Civics must develop through experimental endeavour into the more and more effective Art of enhancing the life of the city and of advancing its evolution. With the first of these lines of study, the concretely scientific, our philosophical outlook will not fail to widen; with the second, the practical, our ethical insight will not fail to deepen also. As primarily a student of living nature in evolution, I have naturally approached the city from the side of its geographic and historic survey, its environment and functional change; yet it is but a step from these to the abstract interpretations of the economist or the politician, even of philosopher and moralist. Again, since in everyday practice co-ordinating the literal maps of each civic surveys with even more concretely detailed plans as gardener and builder, I find less danger than may at first appear of ignoring the legitimate demands of the needed practical division of labour in the city's service. When the first mutual unfamiliarity is got over, there is thus also a greatly diminished distance between speculative thinkers and practical men, who at present, in this country especially, stand almost unrelated: the evolutionist student and worker thus begins to furnish the missing link between them. C--THE CITIZEN IN PROCESS OF DEVELOPMENT Leaving now the external survey of the city by help of its material framework, its characteristic buildings and predominant styles, for the deeper psychological survey of the citizens themselves, we may conveniently begin with these also in their process of development--in fact, our method compels us to this course. We enter then a school; and if we bring fresh eyes we may soon be agreed that the extraordinary babel of studies its time-table and curriculum reveal, is intelligible from no single one of the various [Page: 112] geographic or historic points of view we have traversed from mountain to sea, or from past to present. But this unprecedented conflict of studies becomes at once intelligible when viewed apart from any and every definite theory of education yet promulgated by educationists, and even acquires a fresh theory of its own--that of the attempted recapitulation of the survivals of each and all preceding periods in their practical or speculative aspects, particularly the later legends and literatures, their rituals and codes. Thus, the inordinate specialisation upon arithmetic, the exaggeration of all three R's, is plainly the survival of the demand for cheap yet efficient clerks, characteristic of the recent and contemporary financial period. The ritual of examinations with its correlation of memorising and muscular drill is similarly a development of the imperial order, historically borrowed from the Napoleonic one; the chaotic "general knowledge" is similarly a survival of the encyclopædic period; that is, of the French Revolution and the Liberal Movement generally; the Latin grammar and verses are of course the survivals of the Renaissance, as the precise fidelity to absurd spelling is the imitation of its proof readers; the essay is the abridged form of the mediaeval disputation; and only such genuine sympathy with Virgil or Tacitus, with Homer or Plato as one in a thousand acquires, is truly Roman or Greek at all. The religious instruction, however, re-interpreted by the mediaeval Church or the Reformation, has still its strength in some of the best elements of patriarchal literature; while the fairy tale, by which all this superincumbent weight of learning is sometimes alleviated, is the child's inheritance from the matriarchal order. Finally, the apple and the ball, at the bottom of this whole burden of books, complete the recapitulation; as the one, the raw fruit; the other, the ready missile, of primeval man. Our child then is heir of all the ages more fully than he or his teachers commonly realise. The struggle for mastery of the schools is thus no temporary feud, but an unending battle; one destined to increase rather than diminish; for in this there is the perpetual clash of all the forces of good heredity and evil atavism, of all the new variations also, healthy or diseases. [Page: 113] D--THE APPLIED SOCIOLOGY OF THE PRESENT The city and its children thus historically present a thoroughly parallel accumulation of survivals or recapitulations of the past in the present. Few types nowadays are pure, that is, keep strictly to their period; we are all more or less mixed and modernised. Still, whether by temporal or spiritual compulsion, whether for the sake of bread or honour, each mainly and practically stands by his order, and acts with the social formation he belongs to. Thus now the question of the practical civics, that is, of the applied sociology, of each individual, each body or interests may be broadly defined; it is to emphasise his particular historic type, his social formation and influence in the civic whole, if not indeed to dominate this as far as may be. We are all for progress, but we each define it in his own way. Hence one man of industrial energy builds more factories or slums, another as naturally more breweries to supply them; and in municipal or national council his line of action, conscious or unconscious, remains congruent with these. Representative government fails to yield all that its inventors hoped of it, simply because it is so tolerably representative of its majorities; and there is thus great truth in the common consolation that our municipal governments, like larger ones, are seldom much worse than we deserve. Each social formation, through each of its material activities, exerts its influence upon the civic whole; and each of its ideas and ideals wins also its place and power. At one time the legal and punitive point of view, directing itself mainly to individual cases, or the philanthropic, palliating sufferings, dispute the foremost places; and now in their turn hygienic or educational endeavours arise, towards treating causes instead of waiting for consequences. Such endeavours are still undeniably too vague in thought, too crude in practice, and the enthusiast of hygiene or education or temperance may have much to answer for. But so, also, has he who stands outside of the actual civic field, whether as philistine or aesthete, utopist or cynic, party politician or "mug-wump." Between all these extremes it is for the united forces of civic survey and civic service to find the middle course. [Page: 114] We observe then in the actual city, as among its future citizens, that our action is generally the attempt to mould both alike to some past or passing social formation, and, therefore, usually towards the type to which our interest and our survey incline, be this in our own city or more probably in some earlier one. Even in the actual passing detail of party politics we are often reminded how directly continuous are the rivals with puritan London, with royalist Oxford; but still more is this the case throughout the history of thought and action, and the intenser the more plainly; for it is in his highest moments of conviction and decision that the Puritan feels most in sympathy with the law or the prophets of Jerusalem, the scholar with Athens; or that the man of action--be he the first French republican or the latest imperialist--most frankly draws his inspiration from the corresponding developments of Paris. It is a commonplace of psychology that our thought is and must be anthropomorphic; a commonplace of history that it has been Hebraomorphic, Hellenomorphic, Latinomorphic, and so on by turns. This view has often been well worked out by the historian of inventions and discoveries, of customs or laws, of policies or religions, as by the historian of language or the fine arts. What we still commonly need, however, is to carry this view clearly into our own city and its institutions, its streets and schools and homes, until either in the private spending or public voting of the smallest sum we know exactly whether we are so far determining expenditure and influence towards enlarging, say, the influence and example of renascent Florence in one generation or of decadent Versailles in another. There is no danger of awaking this consciousness too fully; for since we have ceased consciously to cite and utilise the high examples of history we have been the more faithfully, because sub-consciously and automatically, continuing and extending later and lower developments. E--CITIES, PRESENT AND FUTURE Hence, after a Liberal and an Imperial generation, each happy in their respective visions of wealth and expanding greatness [Page: 115], the current renewal of civic interests naturally takes the form of an awakening survey of our actual environment. First, a literal mapping of its regional elements, and then an historic interpretation of these--not, alas, merely or mainly in terms of the cities of sacred or classic tradition, nor of the Mediaeval or Renaissance cities which followed these, but as stupendous extensions of the mediaeval Ghetto, of the Wapping Stairs, of the Lancashire factories and of the Black Country, relieved by the coarse jollities of Restoration London, and adorned for the most part, with debased survivals from the Italian and the French Renaissance. There is thus no more question in our civic discussions of "bringing in" or "leaving out" geography or history; we have been too long unconscious of them, as was M. Jourdain of his speaking in prose. But what of the opening Future? May its coming social developments not be discerned by the careful observer in germs and buds already formed or forming, or deduced by the thinker from sociological principles? I believe in large measure both; yet cannot within these limits attempt to justify either. Enough for the present, if it be admitted that the practical man in his thought and action in the present is mainly the as yet too unconscious child of the past, and that in the city he is still working within the grasp of natural conditions. To realise the geographic and historic factors of our city's life is thus the first step to comprehension of the present, one indispensable to any attempt at the scientific forecast of the future, which must avoid as far as it can the dangers of mere utopianism. F--LITERATURE OF CIVICS No discussion of the preliminaries and fundamentals of Civics can omit some consideration of the vast and ever growing literature of cities. But how are we to utilise this? How continue it? How co-ordinate it with the needed independent and first-hand survey of city by city? And how apply this whole knowledge of past and present towards civic action? The answer must plainly be a concrete one. Every city [Page: 116] however small, has already a copious literature of its topography and history in the past; one, in fact, so ample that its mere bibliography may readily fill a goodly volume,[1] to which the specialist will long be adding fresh entries. This mass of literature may next be viewed as the material for a comprehensive monograph, well enriched with maps and illustrations, such as many cities can boast; and this again may be condensed into a guide-book. Guide-books have long been excellent in their descriptive and historical detail, and are becoming increasingly interpretative also, especially since Mr. Grant Allen transferred his evolutionary insight and his expository clearness from natural to civic history. [1] e.g., Erskine Beveridge, LL.D., Bibliography of Dunfermline.--_Dunfermline, 1902._ 8vo. After this general and preliminary survey of geographic environment and historic development, there nowadays begins to appear the material of a complementary and contemporary volume, the Social Survey proper. Towards this, statistical materials are partly to be found amid parliamentary and municipal reports and returns, economic journals and the like, but a fresh and first-hand survey in detail is obviously necessary. In this class of literature, Mr. Booth's monumental Survey of London, followed by others, such as Mr. Rowntree's of York, have already been so widely stimulating and suggestive that it may safely be predicted that before many years the Social Survey of any given city will be as easily and naturally obtainable as is at present its guide-book; and the rationalised census of the present condition of its people, their occupation and real wages, their family budget and culture-level, should be as readily ascertainable from the one, as their antecedents understood or their monuments visited by help of the other. But these two volumes--"The City: Past and Present,"--are not enough. Is not a third volume imaginable and possible, that of the opening Civic Future? Having taken full note of places as they were and are, of things as they have come about, and of people as they are--of their occupations, families, and institutions, their ideas and ideals--may we not to some extent discern, then patiently plan out, at length boldly suggest, something of [Page: 117] their actual or potential development? And may not, must not, such discernment, such planning, while primarily, of course, for the immediate future, also take account of the remoter and higher issues which a city's indefinitely long life and correspondingly needed foresight and statesmanship involve? Such a volume would thus differ widely from the traditional and contemporary "literature of Utopias" in being regional instead of non-regional, indeed ir-regional and so realisable, instead of being unrealisable and unattainable altogether. The theme of such a volume would thus be to indicate the practicable alternatives, and to select and to define from these the lines of development of the legitimate _Eu-topia_ possible in the given city, and characteristic of it; obviously, therefore, a very different thing from a vague _Ou-topia_, concretely realisable nowhere. Such abstract counsels of perfection as the descriptions of the ideal city, from Augustine through More or Campanella and Bacon to Morris, have been consolatory to many, to others inspiring. Still, a Utopia is one thing, a plan for our city improvement is another. Some concrete, if still fragmentary, materials towards such a volume are, of course, to be found in all municipal offices, though scattered between the offices of the city engineer and health officer, the architect and park superintendent; while the private architect and landscape gardener, the artist, sometimes even the municipal voters and their representatives, may all have ideas of their own. But though our cities are still as a whole planless, their growth as yet little better than a mere casual accretion and agglomeration, if not a spreading blight, American and German cities are now increasingly affording examples of comprehensive design of extension and of internal improvement. As a specific example of such an attempt towards the improvement of a British city, one not indeed comprehending all aspects of its life, but detailed and reasoned so far as it goes, and expressing that continuity of past and present into future which has been above argued for, I am permitted by the courtesy of the Carnegie Dunfermline Trust to lay on the Society's library table an early copy of a recent study of practicable possibilities in a city typically suitable for consideration from the present standpoint, since presenting within a moderate and readily intelligible [Page: 118] scale a very marked combination of historic interests, and of contemporary and growing activity, both industrial and cultural, with hopeful civic outlook. That co-adjustment of social survey and social service which has been above argued for as the essential idea of civics as applied sociology is thus no abstract principle, but a concrete and practicable method. Yet it is one not lacking in generality of application. For what we have reached is really the conception of an _Encyclopædia Civica_, to which each city should contribute the Trilogy of its Past, its Present, and its Future. Better far, as life transcends books, we may see, and yet more, forsee, the growth of civic consciousness and conscience, the awakening of citizenship towards civic renascence. All this the production of such volumes would at one imply and inspire--life ever producing its appropriate expression in literature, and literature reacting upon the ennoblement of life. Apart altogether from what may be the quality and defects of particular volumes, such as those cited as examples of each part of such a proposed civic trilogy, one as yet nowhere complete, the very conception of such a possible threefold series may be of some service. For this would present a continuous whole, at once sociological and civic--the views and the resources of the scholar and the educationist with their treasures of historic culture, of the man of action with his mastery of immediate affairs, of the thinker with his vision of the opening future, now all co-ordinated by help of the design of the artist, and thence to be gradually realised in the growing heritage of the city, the enlarging life of the citizen. NOTE--As an example of the concrete application to a particular city, of the sociological methods and principles indicated in the above paper, Prof. Geddes exhibited an illustrated volume embodying the results of his studies and designs towards the improvement of Dunfermline, under the Trust recently established by Mr. Carnegie. This has since been published: P. GEDDES. City Development. Park Gardens and Culture Institutes; a Report to the Carnegie Dunfermline Trust. With 138 illustrations. Edinburgh, etc.. 1904. [Page: 119] DISCUSSION The Chairman (MR. CHARLES BOOTH) in opening the discussion said: The paper we have just heard read is one of the most complete and charming papers on a great and interesting subject I have ever heard. I think you will all agree in this, and I hope the discussion which follows will emphasise and, if that is possible, add to the wealth of ideas that this paper contains. MR EBENEZER HOWARD (Founder of the Garden City Association) said: I have read and re-read--in the proof forwarded to me--Professor Geddes' wonderfully luminous and picturesque paper with much interest. He has given us a graphic description of the geographic process which leads to the development of the city. We see vividly the gradual stages by which the city grows and swells, with the descent of the population from the hillsides into the valleys, even as the river which flows through the city is fed continually by the streams which flow down to it. But is there not this essential difference between the gathering waters of heaven, as they pour into the great city, and the gathering tide of population, which follows the path of the waters? The waters flow through the city on, on toward the mighty ocean, and are then gradually gathered upward into the soft embraces of the clouds and wafted back again to the hills, whence they flow down once more to the valleys. But the living stream of men, women, and children flows from the country-side and leaves it more and more bare of active, vigorous, healthy life: it does not, like the waters, "return again to cover the earth," but moves ever on to the great city, and from thence, at least for the great majority, there is no chance of more than, at best, a very short stay in the country. No: the tide flows resistlessly [Page: 120] onward to make more crowded our overcrowded tenements, to enlarge our overgrown cities, to cause suburb to spread beyond suburb, to submerge more and more the beautiful fields and hilly slopes which used to lie near the busy life of the people, to make the atmosphere more foul, and the task of the social reformer more and yet more difficult. But surely there must be a way, could we but discover it, of imitating the skill and bountifulness of Nature, by creating channels through which some of our population shall be attracted back to the fields; so that there shall be a stream of population pouring from the city into the country, till a healthy balance is restored, and we have solved the twin problems of rural depopulation and of the overcrowded, overgrown city. This brings me to the second branch of Prof. Geddes' paper, the historical. The Professor reminds us how vestiges of one civilisation lie super-imposed upon another, like geological strata, and asks. "Understanding the present as the development of the past, are we not preparing also to understand the future as the development of the present?" Following this line of thought, I venture to suggest that while the age in which we live is the age of the great, closely-compacted, overcrowded city, there are already signs, for those who can read them, of a coming change so great and so momentous that the twentieth century will be known as the period of the great exodus, the return to the land, the period when by a great and conscious effort a new fabric of civilisation shall be reared by those who knew how to apply the knowledge gained by "Social Survey to Social Service." What are the signs? What words can we place under the head of "Incipient" in Prof. Geddes' diagram? I would suggest, for one of Prof. Geddes' interrogation marks might be substituted "Decentralisation of Industry"--as a great, but yet incipient movement, represented by Port Sunlight, Bournville, Garden City. For there are now many agencies at work making for industrial decentralisation. Industries are being driven out of the great towns by the excessive rents and rates which have to be paid there--by the difficulty of obtaining adequate space for the modern factory, a one-storey building; and for the homes of our workers, which must be vastly different to what they now are if England is to maintain her place among the nations. And while factories are being driven from the city, they are also being attracted to the country by its newly-discovered potentialities. Thus Messrs. Lever Brothers, crowded out of Warrington, established an entirely new town on a new site at Port Sunlight; and, because the site was new and raw, it was therefore possible for Mr. Lever to plan his little town with a single eye to the best and most desirable conditions, alike from an industrial and a health and housing point of view. And the same is true of Bournville. Bournville is one of the most beautiful villages in the world, largely again because of the potentialities of a new site acquired for the definite purpose of building thereon a village in which overcrowding shall be deliberately and permanently prevented, [Page: 121] and in which work inside the factory may be varied by work in the garden. Now that these successful experiments have been carried out in this country, is it not time that the idea of establishing new industries on new sites, and of surrounding those industries with healthy homes, should be carried forward on a larger scale, with wider and more concerted aims--carried forward, too, in such a manner as to make it possible for the small manufacturer to take part in a movement which has proved to be so beneficial alike to employer and employed? It is out of this thought that the Garden City idea has grown, an idea now in course of being fulfilled. Three thousand eight hundred acres of land, or nearly ten times the area of Bournville or Port Sunlight, have been acquired in Hertfordshire, two miles west of the town of Hitchin, and on the branch line of railway between that town and Cambridge. State aid has not been sought; that would indeed be weary work. But a company has been formed, through the untiring efforts of the Garden City Association; plans for the town have been carefully prepared, plans which, of course, have regard to the contours of the land (which were first taken, showing every change of level of five feet), to the preservation of its natural beauties--its trees and the picturesque villages of Norton and Willian; to the necessity for railway sidings and railway station, now, thanks to the Great Northern Railway, already provided; to the making of roads of easy gradient and of suitable width, affording access to different parts of the estate, actual work on which is progressing; the careful guarding from contamination of our water supply, already proved to be abundant; the provision of a reservoir of suitable elevation, now in course of construction; a system of drainage, about to be started with; the provision of parks and playgrounds within the town, as well as a wide belt of agricultural land around it; sites for homes for 30,000 persons, with good sized gardens. About six cottages have already been built, not by the Company but by private enterprise, while many others are just about to be started upon; the setting apart of sites for schools, churches, and other public buildings, while plans are in preparation for lighting the town, as well as for providing it with motive power. The programme which I have sketched out is certainly not too bold or comprehensive for the British race. If a hundredth part of the organising skill which the Japanese and the Russians are showing in the great war now in progress were shown by ourselves as citizens in our great civil war against disease and dirt, poverty and overcrowding, we could not only build many new cities on the best models, but could also bring our old towns into line with the new and better order. Prof. Geddes wishes well, I know, to the Garden City Association, a propagandist body, and to its first child, the Garden City Company; and I am sure you will all unite with me in the hope that the best and most lasting success may crown the generous gift of Mr. Carnegie of £500,000 to the City of Dunfermline, and reward the efforts of the Trustees and of Prof. Geddes to make, by the application of modern [Page: 122] skill, science and art, the ancient city of Dunfermline a centre of sweetness and light, stimulating us all to higher and yet higher efforts to secure civic, national and imperial well-being. MR. C.H. GRINLING said: Like most of the audience, doubtless, he came not to speak but to draw ever fresh inspiration from Prof. Geddes. But there was one aspect of the subject he would like to bring out and emphasise. He referred to the sociological institute, which, under the name of the Outlook Tower, had grown up in connection with the School of Sociology which Prof. Geddes had founded and developed in Edinburgh. That institute was at once an organisation for teaching and for research, for social education, and for civic action. It was, in fact, a concrete and working application of the principle indicated in the paper as the very foundation of Civics--"social survey for social service." And, seeing that the Outlook Tower was an institution designed in every respect for application to any given locality, he urged the Sociological Society to advocate its general extension, so that no region should be without its own sociological institute or Outlook Tower. If one individual could accomplish so much, what could not be accomplished by the sociologists of our day who would concentrate themselves, each on his own locality, not necessarily to do the work, but to give the inspiration which would call out the work of collecting just that material which Prof. Geddes suggested all through his paper was one of the great needs of our time? And so one hoped that papers of this kind would not merely lead to discussion, but to workers accumulating results of this kind, giving the inspiration to others, and thus laying up treasures for the sociologists of the future for their interpretation. Thus, the Sociological Society should be not only the one scientific society in constant touch with all the leading brains over the country, but it should be an inspiration, as Prof. Geddes has himself been, to groups of workers everywhere for just the kind of work which the Sociological Society has been founded to develop. MR. J.M. ROBERTSON said: I would first add my tribute to this extremely interesting and stimulating paper. It recalled confabulations I had with Prof. Geddes, many years ago, when he was first formulating in Edinburgh those ideas which have since become so widely known. I would like, however, to suggest a few criticisms. The paper is, broadly speaking, an application of the view of a biologist to Sociology. It is not so much an application of Darwin's view as that of Von Baer. Prof. Geddes has characterised his paper as one of elementary preliminaries, but he has really contributed a paper that [Page: 123] would form part of a preliminary study in a series of studies in Sociology. The paper does not quite bear out its title: "Civics: as Applied Sociology." The application has not begun. The somewhat disparaging remarks on encyclopædias of general knowledge, further, might well be applied to the scheme of an encyclopædia of the natural history of every city and every village as an original centre. This atomism will not help Sociology. Had he to master all that, the sociologist's life would be a burden not to be borne, and we would never get to applied sociology at all. There is a danger, too, in following this line, of fastening attention on one stage of evolution and leaving it there. The true principle is that evolution is eternal and continuous; and I think harm may be done, possibly, when you take, say, the phenomenon of the communication of general knowledge in schools and call it a derivation from the French _Encyclopedie_. Why leave it there? Where did that come from? If you are going to trace the simple evolution of civic forms, if you are to trace how they have come about, it will not do to stick at a given point. This is a survival of that. That is a survival of something else. The French _Encyclopedie_ will have to be traced back to the encyclopædia of the mediaeval period; and even to the still earlier period of Isidore of Seville. Then again, there is a danger, I think, analogous to the danger met with in early botany--the danger of confusing a resemblance with a relationship. It is extremely interesting to speculate that the Place de l'Etoile is an evolution from the plan of the game-forest, with its shooting avenues radiating from a centre, but it would be difficult to show that there is any historical connection. The thing is not proved. Of course, the vital question is not this tracing of evolution. The question is: Is "Civics" to be only the study of forms? If so, Sociology is a dead science, and will effect little practical good until it is vivified by such suggestions as Mr. Crane has put in his paper. Mr. Walter Crane brought in a vital question when he said: "How are you going to modify the values of your civic life unless you grapple with political problems?" I am not forgetting that Prof. Geddes promises to deal in another paper with the civics of the future; but I insist that it will have to grapple with political questions. As he says, a city is not a place, but "a drama in time." The question for the sociological student of history is: How has this inequality of wealth and of service arisen, and how is it to be prevented in the future? That is the problem we have to study if we wish to make sociology a vital interest. A definition of progress is really the first step in sociology. Prof. Geddes' next paper should give us a definition of progress, and it is better that we begin to fight over a definition of progress, in order to get a dynamic agreement, than that we should multiply the archaeological study of many towns. I admit that it is very interesting. In travelling in South Africa, I often tried to gather how communities began; what, for example, was the nucleus of this or that village. It was surprising how very few had an idea of any nucleus at all. I deprecate the idea, however, that [Page: 124] we are all to amass an enormous accumulation of such researches. Mr. Booth's single compilation for London is a study for years; but Mr. Booth's admirable investigation of the difficulties of life among the poor of London does not of itself give any new impulse to the solution of the problem of London. It merely gives exact knowledge in place of general knowledge. The problem of sociology arose on the general knowledge. I fear lest the work of sociology should run to an extension of this admirable study instead of to the stimulation of action taken on that particular knowledge, or on more general knowledge. We all knew there was plenty of poverty, and how it was caused. We all had Ideals as to how it was to be got rid of in the future; but the question is: Is the collection of detail or the prescription of social method the kind of activity that the Sociological Society is to take up? SIR THOMAS BARCLAY said: I am not sure that I agree with Mr. Robertson that it is desirable to define either "progress" or "civilisation." On the whole, their chances lie rather in the great variety of ideas of what constitutes them than in any hard-and-fast notion of their meaning. They are generalisations of what is, rather than an object towards which effort should tend. But neither do I agree with Prof. Geddes' restriction of "civics" to the mere outward part of municipal effort. In America the word "civics" is applied to the rights and duties of citizens, and I should like to see Prof. Geddes include in Civics the connection between citizen life and the outward improvement of cities. I am sure, however, Professor Geddes, as a practical man, will deal rather with realities than theoretical views on the subject for which he has done so much himself. Edinburgh owes more than many are willing to admit to Prof. Geddes. I think Ramsay Lodge one of the greatest embellishments of the Castle Hill in Edinburgh. I hope he will now be successful in doing something still more admirable for my native town of Dunfermline. My friend Mr. Carnegie, whose native town it also is, I believe intends to show by an object lesson what can be done for all cities. Prof. Geddes is helping him in this work with his suggestions. I hope they will be carried out. In America there are several very beautiful cities. No one can ever forget Washington, which is truly a garden city. No money is spared in America to beautify and healthify (excuse the barbarism) the habitations of the thousands. A beautiful city is an investment for health, intellect, imagination. Genius all the world over is associated, wherever it has been connected with cities, with beautiful cities. To grow up among things of beauty ennobles the population. But I should like to see Prof. Geddes extend his projects for Dunfermline to the population itself. Most of you know what Mr. Henderson did to utilise the Edinburgh [Page: 125] police in the care of children. The future of the country depends upon them. The subject is too serious to continue to be left to the haphazard mercies of indifferent parents. Every child born is an agent for good or for evil among the community, and the community cannot afford to neglect how it is brought up, the circumstances in which it has its being, the environment from which it derives its character and tendencies. Necessity may be the mother of invention, but need of food and insufficient clothing develop in the child an inventiveness that is not for the good of the community. It seems a matter of too great an importance to be left even to private initiative, as was done under Mr. Henderson's regime in Edinburgh; but everywhere else, or nearly so, very little is done by even private initiative for the protection of the children against their vicious environment. In short, I do not think that civics, in the sense in which my friend Prof. Geddes treats it, is a complete subject at all. Civics, to my mind, includes everything that relates to the citizen. Everywhere something is being done in one direction or another to make them capable, prosperous, and happy. In America happiness is taught in the schools. Every schoolmaster's and schoolmistress's first duty is to set an example of a happy frame of mind; smiling and laughing are encouraged, and it is not thought that the glum face is at all necessary for the serious business of life. In fact, the glum face is a disqualification; is associated with failure, and bad luck and ill-nature. In Germany the schoolmaster is in the first place a trainer of the body. One of his chief duties is to watch and prevent the deterioration of the eyesight, to promote the development of the lungs, to prevent spinal deviation. The second part of his business is to watch over the character of the child, and only the third part is to ram knowledge into the poor little mind. And wherever you go over the world you will find something in the course of being done in civics, as I understand the subject. I thank Prof. Geddes for what he is doing for Dunfermline, and hope he will understand "progress" without requiring to define it. DR. J. LIONEL TAYLER (Author of "_Aspects of Social Evolution_") said: While agreeing with Prof. Geddes in his belief in the importance of institutional and geographical studies as a basis for the investigation of the development of cities, it yet seems to me that these studies cannot prove of supreme value to society unless they are accompanied by a detailed examination of the _natural_ characteristics of all individuals who have been born into and existed in, or merely dwelt in, these surroundings. It is not enough to trace out, however accurately, the various stages of a town's growth from its commencement to the present time, because _the cause_ of [Page: 126] the evolution of any city aggregate lies deeper, is in large part animate, and not inanimate, in character. The value of the surroundings depends at least as much upon the capacity of the individual citizen, singly and collectively, to utilise what he or she is brought in contact with as upon the peculiarities of these surroundings themselves. Place, tradition, social organisation, individual development, education, are factors in town evolution that cannot safely be overlooked, and they all vary from age to age and in place and place. If it were possible to completely exchange the inhabitants of a large town in England with those of an equally large town in France two groups of changes would become more or less rapidly observable: (1) the French and English citizens would adapt themselves, as far as they desired and were able, to their altered conditions; (2) the characteristics of both towns would gradually change, in spite of geographical position, in response to the altered human needs. Similarly, a town composed of individuals who are naturally uncultured and unprogressive will tend to preserve its uncultured and unprogressive characters more than another that has alert citizens to carry on its activities. Every profession and every trade tends to foster its own social atmosphere; and towns will vary with their industrial life, and individuals favourably disposed to this atmosphere will come to the town, and those unfavourably inclined to it will leave. _These changing citizens, as they act upon and react to their surroundings and vary in their powers age by age, are the real evolvers of the conditions in which they dwell_; hence the citizen must not be omitted from our study if we are to understand city growth. In other words, I think that every investigation of civic, and for that matter country life should be studied from two aspects: (1) to note the peculiarities, growth and development of the material, non-living and non-thinking elements in the problem--the buildings, their geographical position, their age, their fitness for past and present life, and the distinctive local features that are evolving or retrogressing with the multiplication of some trades and industries and the decline of others in each area that is studied; (2) the change in the quality of the citizens themselves through racial, educational, and other factors, noting how far ideals are altering, not only in the mass of individuals taken as a whole, but also by examining the changing outlook in every trade and profession. With these two parallel lines of investigation to study, we could then determine how far environment--social and climatic--how far racial and individual characteristics have been powerful in the moulding of the fabric around us. With these two lines of study to our hands, we could predict the vitality, the growing power, and the future possibilities of the social life of which we are a tiny though not an insignificant part; we could, knowing something of the response that we make to that which surrounds us, form some estimate of how the future ages will develop, and, knowing the [Page: 127] intensity of the different national desires for progress _and the causes which are likely to arouse such desires_, we could realise what will stimulate and what will retard all that is best in our civic life. PROFESSOR EARL BARNES (in moving a vote of thanks) said: For years I have been accumulating a debt of obligation to Prof. Geddes for ideas, suggestions, and large synthesis of life, and it gives me special pleasure to voice the feeling of this meeting concerning the paper read to us this afternoon. To me, as an American, it is especially interesting to hear this presentation of life as an organic whole. Life is but a period of education, and if there is nothing behind this present moment of life it is all extremely insignificant. To an American, who has lived at No. 1067 in 63rd Street, Philadelphia, and at No. 1718 in G Street, in Washington, it is profoundly interesting to think of the possibility of a man's so living that his whole existence shall be significant, so that the realities of his world, geographical, geological, and material, and all that long development of humanity through the historic past--that all these things will be really and truly significant to him. Prof. Geddes has himself shown us that is possible. Any man who has gone to Edinburgh and seen the restoration of the old life that has been carried out there under his hand knows it can be done. I suppose we all came here to hear Professor Geddes speak on practical affairs because his name is now connected with the plans for making a city that shall be really expressive of all its potentialities to all of its people. I am personally profoundly grateful to him for his paper; and I move you that he be given a very hearty vote of thanks. The Chairman. (MR. CHARLES BOOTH), in closing the discussion, said: I myself entirely agree with what Mr Robertson has said as to the extreme difficulty of bringing investigations of the kind referred to, to practical conclusions--practical points. Practical work at present needs the most attention. I perhaps am too old to do it, but I feel the attraction of that kind of work, and that was one reason I was sorry Mr Loch had to leave before we could hear what he might have to say. The description I have given of London does seem to be a foggy labyrinth I agree, but nevertheless I cannot but think that we do require a complete conception if we are to do the definite work of putting different people in their proper places in an organic whole, such as a city is. I do not think we can do without it, and I regard the paper of this evening as an important contribution [Page: 128] to that complete conception which I feel we need. I should like each worker and thinker to have and to know his place in the scheme of civic improvement; and I think it perfectly possible for every man to know what it is that he is trying to do, what contribution it is that he ought to give to that joint life which is called here civics, which is the life of a city and the life in the city. One man cannot possibly concentrate it all in himself. Within a society such as the Sociological Society a general scheme is possible in which each individual and each society shall play its acknowledged and recognised part. It does not follow that the work done in one city can apply as an example to another. Individuality has too strong a hold; but each town may work out something for itself. I have been very much interested in the work which Mr. Rowntree has done in York, on which he was kind enough to consult me. He entered upon it on quite other grounds from mine, but so far as the ground was common between him and me we tried to have a common basis. Those of you who have not read Mr. Horsfall's volumes on Manchester would do well to do so. Prof. Geddes gave us a vivid picture of a larger regional unit which culminates geographically in the city as industrial climax. In his particular instance he referred, I take, to Dundee. In Dundee there is at this moment an inquiry being started, and I am in communication with those who are doing it, and I hope it will add something to the completeness of the picture we have of that city. In Dundee they have excessive difficulties in respect to crowding and female labour. What I suggested was, that they should make a special study of such circumstances as are special to Dundee. Labour there is very largely sack-making and jute manufacture, and there is a great deal of girl labour; and that is one of the special subjects that will be considered in that inquiry. Then, with regard to the preservation of such of the natural beauties that do remain even quite near to busy town centres, surely it is of the greatest importance that they should be watched and protected and preserved. Prof. Geddes has contributed a portion of his practical work to that practical question at Dunfermline. His charming volume on Dunfermline ("A Study in City Development") shows what beautiful features there are near Dunfermline, and how much may be done to preserve and improve them in ways that are most interesting to study. His use of photography in this matter is extraordinarily successful. Prof. Geddes has photographed a scene as it now is, with its background and distance and its squalid foreground, already ruined by the debris of the city--old tin pots and every [Page: 129] kind of rubbish--thrown down by the side of the stream, which is naturally beautiful. By manipulating the photographic plates he wipes out that which he does not want and introduces other features, including a little waterfall; and you have, instead of a miserable suburb, a dignified park. Well now, that is practical work. It has in it that element which he has described by a question-mark in his diagram, the element of forecast. You have the same idea in Manchester, in Mr. Horsfall's work. They have laid out their map of Manchester and shown in what way it may develop, so as not to spoil the beauty that remains on two sides of Manchester. There is really exquisitely beautiful natural scenery close to Manchester, which may be entirely spoiled or preserved, according as a forecast is made and forethought taken. This is not a question on which there is reason to think that people will disagree. The difficulties are always supposed to be financial. It is a sad thing that we should be so hampered by our methods of finance that we throw away opportunities to retain these actual beauties which undoubtedly add to the actual money value of a district. I cannot suppose that the way in which cities are laid out with narrow streets really results in an increase of value. The surroundings of our cities are undeveloped estates, which we have only to agree amongst ourselves how to lay out, and everybody would benefit by such joint action. There is an excellent illustration in regard to that in Mr. Horsfall's work in connection with Germany. It must be said that from Germany there is a great deal to learn in civic matters. In one of its towns the properties lie in extraordinarily long strips. It is the final result of properties having been measured by the length of the plough's run. When that method is applied to town sites, it is not convenient for streets; and there are some quarters in this German town ruined in this way, and the people have agreed together to improve matters. Every owner is to be given credit for his share in the total value of the improvement that is found to accrue from the re-arrangement of these undesirable divisions, and any difference of opinion as to the just share and proportion is to be referred to an impartial arbitrator. All the owners will gain, though some a little more than others. That is an example that we may do well to try and follow, and in some way or other improve the money value, and social value, and hygienic value of towns, and if necessary compel the carrying out of improvements when some few might be disposed to hold out against them. [Page: 130] WRITTEN COMMUNICATIONS From PROF. BALDWIN BROWN (Professor of Fine Art in the University of Edinburgh) I am glad of this opportunity of saying how cordially I agree with the method adopted by my friend Professor Geddes in dealing with the life of cities. He treats the modern community and its material shell as things of organic growth, with a past and a future as well as a present, whereas we too often see these wider considerations ignored in favour of some exigency of the moment. A historic British town has recently furnished a striking object-lesson in this connection. The town possesses portions of an ancient city wall and fosse that were made at a time when the town was, for the moment, the most important in Great Britain. Yet the Town Council, a year ago, destroyed part of this wall and filled a section of the fosse for the purpose of providing a site for a new elementary school. No doubt, in that school, books "approved by the Department" will instruct scholars in the past history of the burgh, but the living witness of that history must first of all be carefully obliterated. All the rest of this ancient and historic enceinte was condemned a few weeks ago to complete destruction, merely on the plea that the site would be convenient for workmen's dwellings. The monument has now been saved, but it has taken the whole country to do it! Here were chosen officials, governors of no mean city, absolutely oblivious of these important interests committed to their care, and all for want of having drilled into them these broader views which Professor Geddes puts forward so well. He has himself done practical work in Edinburgh on the lines he lays down, and I have lately had occasion to note, and call attention to the advantage to the city of much wise conservatism in regard to our older buildings which he and his associates have shown. In Edinburgh we have the advantage that our older monuments, [Page: 131] in which so much of the past life of the city is enshrined, are firm and solid; and it takes some trouble to knock them down. Hence for some time to come we shall preserve here object-lessons in civic development that will be of interest to the country at large. From MR. WALTER CRANE (President of Arts and Crafts Exhibition Society) Professor Geddes' very interesting "Study in City Development" is highly suggestive, and shows how great a difference thoughtful and tasteful treatment might make in dealing with such problems. It is sad to think of the opportunities wasted, and of the more ignorant and often too hasty clearances for traffic which have often been apparently the sole motives in city improvement. The conservation of historic buildings, whenever possible, the planting of trees along our streets, the laying out of gardens, the insistence upon a proportional amount of air and open space to new buildings would go a long way towards making our bricks-and-mortar joyless wildernesses into something human and habitable. Whether, under favourable circumstances and the rare public spirit of private owners, much can be done, or to any wide extent, so long as absolute individual ownership in land and ground values is allowed, seems to me very doubtful. We cannot hope to see great social improvements without great economic changes, but every effort in the direction of improving the beauty of our cities is welcome to all who have the well-being of the community at heart; and such work as Prof. Geddes is doing should arouse the keenest interest and the earnest attention of all who realise its immense social importance. From MR. J.H. HARLEY, M.A. If sociology is ever to vindicate itself as an art, it must be able to analyse and explain the present, and to some extent at least to cast the horoscope of the future. It must feel its way through all the tangled labyrinths of city life, and show us where we have arrived and whither we are going. But this is exactly the part of Professor Geddes' Applied Sociology where he becomes most vague and unsatisfactory. "Enough for the present," we are told, "if it be admitted that the practical man in his thought and action in the present is mainly as yet the too unconscious child of the past, and that in the city he is still working within the grasp of natural conditions." Now we must all be willing to admit that the present is the child of the past, and that we cannot adequately understand [Page: 132] the present until we have led up to the present by the study of its antecedents more and less remote. But what Professor Geddes fails to bring out is that it is only in the present or the more immediate past that the City has really become a City in the modern sense of the word. The City as City is a product of the Industrial Revolution. Its huge and casual assemblages of human life, its overcrowding, its poverty line, its East End and its West End, its infantile mortality, its trades massed in their own particular districts, it aliens, its criminals and its vices--all these problems of social pathology arise from the fact that the conditions of modern industry have brought people together who have few interests in common, and who were compelled to arrange themselves in some kind of decent order within a limited area, without sufficient time being given to evolve a suitable environment, or to prepare themselves for the environment which they actually found on every side of them. London in the past, therefore, cannot help us so very much to solve the riddles of London in the present, because London in the past had not developed these social growths or offered a mature ground to those social parasites which make us sometimes despair of being able to get much insight into the London of the present. The fact seems to be that Prof. Geddes conceives sociology too much as a primary and too little as a secondary science. He defines applied sociology as the application of social survey to social science, when social ratiocination or social philosophy are needed before one can be said to have gauged the extent of the influence which this comprehensive science may have in our actual practice or on our Budget of the future. No doubt, "observation, so far from excluding interpretation, is just the very means of preparing for it," but this preparation must be made in the various specialisms which make up the complete or encyclopædic science of sociology. To me it seems an unwarrantable narrowing of the scope or significance of sociology to say that there is no better method available of teaching it "than that of regional survey, historical as well as geographical." Surely "regional survey" Is the appropriate method in the very simplest and most concrete parts of the complete science of sociology, and even when we come to history proper we must do very much more than make a regional survey. It is very interesting, no doubt, to "survey" history in the course of a summer ramble to the ruins of some old monastery, but unless the monks had kept records of what had been done there in bygone days, the mere outward survey will not carry us further than Prof. Geddes is carried in the very general map which he makes of the whole field of history. In other words, history, in any proper sense, demands more than "survey" in Prof. Geddes' sense of the word. It calls to its aid linguistics, criticism, archaeology, jurisprudence, and politics--there must be comparison and criticism as well as "survey." History is the laboratory in which the sociologist sees his social experiments working out their [Page: 133] results, and history is to the sociologist what experiment is to the physician, or the comparative method to the biologist. This being so, the scope of "civics" as "applied sociology" is immensely widened. The present is the child of the past, but we see that it is only in the present that such ancient groups as the colony of Hanseatic merchants in Old London have shown us what has been the ultimate significance of their embryological life. The modern city bristles with sociological problems which demand a knowledge of most of the specialisms included in the complete science of sociology, and almost invite us to cast the horoscope of the future. We see, as Booth and Rowntree saw before us, the poverty line like a fiery portent at every point of our study, and we are led finally to ask ourselves whether M. Arthur Bauer was not right in choosing the title "Les Classes Sociales" as the most characteristic title he could give to his recent and most suggestive analysis of the general characteristics of social life. From MR. T.C. HORSFALL (President, Manchester Citizen's Association, &c.) The teaching of the paper seems to me to be most sound and helpful. The town of the future--I trust of the near future--must by means of its schools, its museums, and galleries, its playgrounds, parks and gymnasia, its baths, its wide tree-planted streets and the belt of unspoilt country which must surround it, bring all its inhabitants in some degree under the _best_ influences of all the regions and all the stages of civilisation, the influences of which, but not the best influences, contribute, and have contributed, to make our towns what they are. From H. OSMAN NEWLAND (Author of "_A Short History of Citizenship_") The failures of democratic governments in the past have been attributable, in part, to the lack of intelligence and self-consciousness among the mass of those who were given a voice in the government of their country. Citizenship, like morality, was allowed to grow by instinct; it was never systematised as a science, or applied as an art. Sparta and Athens approached towards a system of civics much less elaborate than that expounded by Professor Geddes; but in Sparta citizenship became inseparable from Nationalism, and in Athens it scarcely rose above Municipalism. In more modern times, civic education has had to encounter the same difficulty as in America, where the young citizen's first duty is to salute his flag, and as in London, where "Civics" is distributed in doles of local [Page: 134] history in which the municipality plays a part altogether out of proportion to its relation to the country, the age, and the world. Civics, as the applied sociology of each individual and each body of interests, has but begun to be dreamed of; and before it can be properly developed it is desirable, if not necessary, that the general public should know something more than at present both of the historic development of the "civic" idea, and of the psychology of aggregations as differentiated from the psychology of the individual. Not until we can make "the man in the street" a conscious citizen, instead of a political automaton, shall we be able to enlist his sympathies with "Civics"; and without those sympathies the sociologist's "Civics" will, I fear, be but partial and inaccurate. From MR. G. BISSET SMITH (H.M. Registration Examiner for East of Scotland). There is an elusiveness here and there in this paper which has helped to confirm me in the opinion that it is well to emphasise the fact that Prof. Geddes is not only a dreamer of lofty dreams but a doer and a practical initiator. He has expressed himself not only in words but in art and in architecture, and in educational organisation; and he has in many ways, sometimes indirectly, influenced scholastic and civic activities. If from the Outlook Tower he dreams of an idealised Edinburgh he has only to reply to the scoffer who asks, "What have you done?" "_Circumspice!_" There stand the settlements he initiated, the houses beautiful, bright, delectable; and the tower itself is an embodiment of his ideas, an encyclopædia in stone and in storeys. We must, in criticising this paper, take into account these attempts towards realisation of its principles. The sociological evolutionist is "concerned primarily with origins, but ultimately and supremely with ideals," we were reminded in a recent paper read before this Society. And in the same paper it was affirmed that, "through the formulation of its larger generalisations as ideals, sociology may hope to achieve the necessary return from theory to practice." Thus, if Civics is applied Sociology, we must rest its claims on these criteria. What, then, we have to ask is:--(1) What actually are the generalisations of the present paper? (2) How far they are warranted by verifiable sociological testimony, and (3) What results do they yield when transformed by the touch of emotion into ideals of action? To attempt an adequate answer to these questions would perhaps transcend the limits of this discussion. But merely to raise these questions of presupposition should tend to clarify the discussion. Coming to detail, I may say, as one whose occupation is demographic, I regret the unavoidable briefness of the reference in "Civics" to a "rationalised census of the present condition of the people." [Page: 135] No one, however, who has studied the concluding portion of "The Evolution of Sex" can accuse Prof. Geddes of ignoring questions of _population_; and his eulogium, written ten years ago, of "Mr. Charles Booth as one of our own latest and best Economists," is familiar to all readers of "Education for Economics and Citizenship." In that extremely suggestive treatise, Prof. Geddes further points out that population must have a primary place in consideration, and that "our studies of the characteristic occupation of region by region are the essential material of a study of its whole civilisation." Accepting Mr. Branford's definition of _occupation_ as "any and every form of human endeavour, past, present, and future," we see that occupation must have a large place in the description, explanation, and forecasting of the evolution of cities--such as Edinburgh, Glasgow, Dundee--in the scheme of survey outlined so sweepingly in "Civics." "Life and Labour of the People in London" contains several general observations almost equally applicable to our largest Scottish cities, with the demographic conditions of which my official duties give me special opportunities for becoming familiar and for regional survey. In the concluding volume of that great contribution to sociology Mr. Booth (page 23) remarks:-- "Many influences conspire to cause the poor to multiply almost in proportion to their poverty, and operate in the other direction in the case of the better off, almost in proportion to their wealth. But," says Mr. Booth, "when we bring the death-rate into account this law no longer holds." With the poor living under bad conditions in crowded homes the net increase is diminished. To those of us who are hopeful of improvement by eugenics it is pleasing to note that Mr. Booth--somewhat unlike Mr. Kidd in his well-known "Social Evolution"--is optimistic in his conclusion that "on the whole it may fairly be expected that concurrently with a rising standard of health we may see a fall in birth-rate as well as death-rate, and thus have no cause to fear, as the result of better sanitation, that the largest natural increase in population will ever be contributed by the lowest class." So the heritage of the city may grow not only in quantity but also in quality. From PROFESSOR W.I. THOMAS (Professor in the University of Chicago, U.S.A.) From the standpoint of its applicability to new countries like America, Professor Geddes' programme is inadequate because of its failure to recognise that a city under these conditions is formed by a rapid and contemporaneous movement of population, and not by the lapse of time. [Page: 136] The first permanent white settler came to Chicago precisely one hundred years ago, and the city has a population at present of about two and a quarter millions. It is here not a question of slow historic development but of the rapid drifting towards a certain point, of a population from all quarters of the globe, and the ethnological standpoint therefore becomes of more importance than the historical. PROFESSOR GEDDES' reply I am sincerely glad to be able to express myself in substantial agreement with the majority of my critics, only asking them in turn to recognise that this is but the first half of my subject--an outline of civics as in the first place a matter of science, a geographic and historic survey of past conditions, a corresponding census of present ones--here discussed and insisted on as affording the needful base for their demands upon civics as an art, that of effective social service. In this respect various critics have in fact anticipated large elements of this future portion of my paper, so that in general views, at least, critics and writer are not so far apart as would appear were the preceding pages submitted as a comprehensive outline of the subject, instead of as its scientific introduction merely. Of criticisms strictly applicable to this paper as it stands, there are really very few. I am confident that the chairman must be quite alone in too modestly applying to his great work that description of London itself, with which the paper (Section A, pp. 104-107) opens, since his volumes offer really our first effective clue to the labyrinth, and his method of intensive and specialised regional survey, the intensest searchlight yet brought to bear upon it. Taking, however, a concrete point of criticism, such as that of the monumental planning of modern Paris as derived from forest rides, the critic need only walk through any French forest, or even to consult a Baedeker, or other guide-book, with its maps of any historic dwelling and its surroundings, from Chantilly or Fontainebleau to minor ones, to see that this plan, originally devised for the pleasure, success and safety [Page: 137] of the hunt, and later adapted to domination and defence, became next appreciated as affording the finest possible perspectives of the palatially rebuilt chateau. So that it is not at all a fantastic hypothesis, but an obvious and inevitable conclusion that Napoleon's and Haussman's plans were not at all invented by them for Paris, but were directly imitated from the familiar landscape architecture of the preceding century, which again was but the simplest development from the spacious forest rides of older hunting nobles, laid out without any thought of the architectural and city developments they were destined in later centuries to determine. The citizen of Washington had till lately often forgotten that the magnificent perspectives of his city are due to the French landscape-architect (Major L'Enfant) whom Washington imported for the express purpose of laying out his capital; yet it is no less clear that this most magnificent of the New World city plans is derived from Old World forest rides, than that its monumental edifices descend from Renaissance and classic exemplars. I plead indeed for such studies of the plans of any and every city from the point of view of its natural development. The too purely abstract and subjective sociology of the dwellers of great cities like London would in this way be helped by the facts of their own topographic history, already well known and clearly explained by geographer and historian, towards again feeling with the naturalist that even the modern city is but the most complex evolutionary expression and development of the life of Nature. This view I take to be indeed a commonplace in France; but I account for its apparent unfamiliarity to English readers from the fact of our scanty forests in this island being left practically wild, our nobles not inhabiting them, but the cultivated pasture and arable regions below--planting trees indeed, "plantations," but seldom woods, and practically never forests at all. This again brings out the fact that the French nobles, despite our urban associations with regard to them have belonged far more than ours to the social formation and tradition of the hunter--while ours, despite their love of sports, are yet fundamentally squires, i.e., essentially and historically approximating to the peasants of their villages. The bearing of all this upon their respective history will be obvious. Here again we have the origins of the vivid contrast of the English or so-called naturalistic style of landscape-gardening with the more formal French tradition. Yet in a very true sense we see the former to be even more highly artificial than the latter. [Page: 138] The English citizen who may even admit this way of looking at the contrasted city plans of London and Paris may fail, unless he has appreciated the principle here involved, to see why London and Paris houses are so different--the one separate and self-contained, with its door undefended and open upon the street, while the normal Parisian house is a populous, high-piled tenement around a central court, with high _porte cochère_ closed by massive oaken doors and guarded by an always vigilant and often surly _concierge_. A moment of historical reflection suffices to see that the former is the architecture of a long-settled agricultural place, with its spreading undefended villages, in which each household had its separate dwelling, the other a persistence of the Continental fortified city crowded within its walls. But beyond this we must see the earlier historic, the simpler geographic origins of the French courtyard house as a defensible farmyard, of which the ample space was needed nightly for defence against wild beasts, if not also wilder men, against whom the _concierge_ is not only the antique porter but the primitive sentinel. I may seem unduly to labour such points, yet do so advisedly, in order to emphasise and make clearer the essential thesis of this portion of my paper--that every scientific survey involves a geographic and historic exploration of origins, but that of the still unwritten chapter, that the far-reaching forelook, idealistic yet also critical, which is needful to any true and enduring contribution to social service, is prepared for by habitually imaging the course of evolution in the past. Speaking personally, as one whose leisure and practical life have alike been largely spent in the study and the preservation of ancient buildings, I may say that this has not been solely, or even essentially, from an antiquarian interest in the historic past, but still more on behalf of a practical interest--that of the idealistic, yet economic, utilitarian, because educational and evolutionary, transformation of our old cities--old Edinburgh, old Dunfermline, and the like--from their present sordid unhygienic failure; and therefore industrial and commercial insufficiency, towards a future equalling if not transcending the recorded greatness of the civic past. It has, therefore, been to lay the broadest possible basis of evolutionary science, of geographic and historic fact, for what would otherwise be open to ridicule as a Utopian hope, that of Civics as Applied Social Art, that I have insisted at such length above upon Civics as Applied Social Science. [Page: 139] PRESS COMMENTS _The Times_ (July 20, 1904) in a leading article, said: In the paper read on Monday at a meeting of the Sociological Society by Professor GEDDES--an abstract of which we print--are contained ideas of practical value to be recommended to the study of ambitious municipalities. This is the age of cities, and all the world is city-building. Almost everywhere is a flow from the country town-ward. China and India may be still, in the main, lands of villages. But the West, Russia perhaps excepted, is more and more peopled by dwellers in cities. In a dim sort of way many persons understand that the time has come when art and skill and foresight should control what so far has been left to chance to work out; that there should be a more orderly conception of civic action; that there is a real art of city-making, and that it behoves this generation to master and practise it. Professor Geddes truly said the land is already full of preparation as to this matter; the beginnings of a concrete art of city-making are visible at various points. But our city rulers are often among the blindest to these considerations; and nowhere probably is to be seen a municipality fully and consistently alive to its duties in this respect. London may be left out of the question. Still a province rather than a city in the strict sense, wanting what, in the view of the early master of political science, was an essential of the true city, that it could "easily be overseen," with a vast floating population, it will be some time before it can be dealt with as an organic whole. But the rulers of such communities as Manchester and Newcastle and York ought long ago to have realised, much more than has been done, that they are not so much brick and mortar, so much rateable area, so many thousands of people fortuitously brought together. They have all a regional environment of their own which determined their origin and growth. They have all a rich past, the monuments of which, generally to be found in abundance by careful, reverent inquirers, ought to be preserved; a past which ought to be known more or less to all the dwellers therein, and the knowledge of which will make the present more interesting. Even when old buildings have disappeared, ancient roads, pathways, and streets can be traced; place names keep alive much history; and the natural features reveal to the practised eye what must have been the look and condition of a town in past ages. Professor Geddes gives a sketch of what he conceives the vast and ever-growing literature of cities will one day be. Even if the comprehensive monographs which he foreshadows are never [Page: 140] written, it is not surely fanciful to expect that, with education universal, almost every dweller in our old towns will acquire some sort of that feeling with which a member of an ancient family looks upon its ancestral house or lands--will, even without much reading, have some sort of notion of his predecessors and a certain pride in his membership of an ancient community. If he has not the good fortune to be a De Vere, a De Bohun, a Howard, Mowbray or Cavendish, he may perhaps be a citizen of a town which flourished when some of these families were unknown. Such pride, or, as the lecturer preferred to term it, such "growth of civic consciousness and conscience, the awakening of citizenship towards civic renascence," will be the best security for a worthy city of the future.... Professor Geddes glanced at the opening civic future, "the remoter and higher issues which a city's indefinitely long life and correspondingly needed foresight and statesmanship involve," the possibilities which may be easily realised if only there be true civic pride, foresight, and unflagging pursuit of a reasonable ideal.... It remains to be seen what our cities will become when for some generations the same spirit of pride and reverence shown by old families as to their possessions has presided over all civic changes and developments.... Ruskin somewhere points out the mediaeval love of cities, unwholesome, dirty, and forbidding though they were. He did not teach his generation that that affection might with more reason attach to the modern city if its people knew what it had been and steadily strove to make it better, if there was in every large community patriotism and a polity. DR. J.H. BRIDGES in _The Positivist Review_ (Sept., 1904), said: Under the title, "Civics, as applied Sociology," Prof. Geddes read on July 18th a very interesting paper before the Sociological Society. The importance of the subject will be contested by none. The method adopted in handling it, being in many ways original, invites remark ... What is wanted is first a survey of the facts to be dealt with--a regional survey. This point of view has next to be correlated with corresponding practical experience acquired by practical civic life, but "aiming at a larger and more orderly conception of civic action.".... Students of Comte will not forget his well-known maxim, _Savoir pour prévoir, afin de pourvoir_. What is to be the area of survey? Prof. Geddes decides that the City may be taken "as the integrate of study." Whether any modern towns, and, if so, what, may be taken as integrates in the sense which would undoubtedly apply to ancient Athens or to mediaeval Florence, may be questioned; but it is too soon to interrupt our author.... Every one who heard the lecturer must have been fascinated by his picture of a river system which he takes for his unit of study; the high mountain tracts, the pastoral hillsides, the hamlets and villages in the valleys, the market town where the valleys meet, the convergence of the larger valleys into a county town, finally, the great city where the river meets the sea. The lecturer went on to advocate the systematic study of some of the principal river-basins of the world for the purpose of examining the laws which govern the grouping of cities. All would agree that much instruction might be derived from such [Page: 141] a survey, provided two dangers be avoided. One is the exaggeration of the influence of the environment on the social organism, an error into which the Le Play school have sometimes fallen; as when, for instance, it was sought to explain Chinese civilisation by the rice-plant. The other danger, which needs much care and thought to avoid, is the accumulation of such a mass of irrelevant detail as renders (perhaps sometimes it is intended to render) all generalisation impossible. Thinking men are at last beginning to regard the accumulation of memoirs as one of the principal obstacles to scientific progress. On the pretext of "more evidence," conclusions are adjourned, not merely _sine die_, but _sine spe diei_. Yet so long as man is man, he must, and will, have conclusions; be they final or otherwise. From the physiography of the city we pass to its history ... In this part of his subject he has, as we all know, many precursors and fellow-workers. The remarkable series, entitled "Historic Towns," instituted by Prof. Freeman, is known to most. The study of towns was the life and soul of Mr. Green's historic labours. Eloquent and powerful pictures of the great cities of the world fill the greater part of Mr. Harrison's well-known volume, "The Meaning of History"; and the student of universal history (a few of these, it may be hoped, are still left) finds them very stimulating and helpful. The special note of Prof. Geddes' method is that he does not limit himself to the greater cities, but also, and perhaps by preference, deals with the smaller, and with their physical environment; and, above all, that he attempts not merely to observe closely and thoroughly, but to generalise as the result of his observation. In biology, the study of any single organism, however minute and accurate, could reveal no laws (i.e., no general facts) of structure or function. As for instance, many forms of heart must be examined before the laws governing blood-circulation could be revealed; so here. Countless, indeed, are the forms of cities; even limiting our field of observation to those that have grown up in the last century they are numerous enough. Their differences and analogies would doubtless repay analysis, always supposing that we are clear how far the modern town, as contrasted with the mediaeval or Graeco-Roman city, can usefully be treated as "an integrate." This raises large questions of nation, of groups of nations, finally of Humanity, which cannot here be touched. Meantime, from the teacher's standpoint, there can be no question at all, among those who look upon education as something more than a commercial asset, as to the utility of looking on every old town, with the neighbourhood around it, as a condensed record, here and there perfect, elsewhere lamentably blotted, yet still a record, of the history of our race. Historic memories survive in our villages far more widely than is thought. The descendants of the man who found the body of Rufus in the New Forest still live hard by. The builder whom the first William set to build Corfe Castle was Stephen Mowlem; and the Dorsetshire firm of Mowlem still pave London causeways. A poor woman in a remote hamlet, untouched by tourist or guide-book, has shown me the ash-tree under which Monmouth was seized after Sedgemoor; a Suffolk peasant, equally innocent of book-knowledge, has pointed Out "Bloody Mary's lane," through which that bugbear of Protestants passed three hundred years before on her way to Framlingham. The abbey immortalised in Carlyle's "Past and Present," and still the wonder of Eastern England, is surrounded now by the same villages that Jocelyn tells us of. The town named after St. Alban, with its memories of Cassivellaun and Julius Caesar, of an old Roman city, of the Diocletian persecution, of the great King Offa, founder of the abbey that was to become [Page: 142] at once a school of historical research, and our best epitome of mediaeval architecture--all this, with the monument of the author of the "Novum Organum" crowning the whole--sums up for us sixteen centuries of history. Professor Geddes for more than twenty years has adopted this method of teaching sociology in the open air; "in the field," as geologists would say.... This is much more than the study and the description of buildings and places of historical interest. His aim is first to study the way in which a city grows, always having due regard to its physical environment; secondly, by comparing like with like, as a naturalist compares the individuals of a species, or the species of a genus, to throw light on the laws which govern civic development, and thus to help forward and direct civic action. All this is set forth with greater fulness in the Report which Professor Geddes has been asked to write for the Carnegie Dunfermline Trust. The purpose of the Report (printed, but not yet published) was to suggest the way in which the revenue of the Trust, amounting to £25,000, should be spent for the benefit of this ancient and historic town. The scheme, with its many pictures, real and ideal, of workshops, parks, culture-institutes--physical, artistic, and historical--will deeply interest even those who reject much of it as Utopian. But it is at least a Utopia specially adapted to a given place and time, one in which every feature of landscape and history is made the most of, one in which a beginning can be made at once, leaving room for further developments as occasion may serve. Moreover, it is penetrated through and through with the Republican ideal of bringing the highest truth within the reach of all. Comte has pointed out, in the fifth chapter of his "General View of Positivism," and elsewhere, that it is not enough to enunciate sound principles of social renovation unless they can be rendered visible and palpable. "The principal function of art," he says, "is to construct types on the basis furnished by Science.... However perfectly the first principles of social renovation may be elaborated by thinkers, they will still not be sufficiently definite for the practical results.... But, at the point where Philosophy must always leave a void, Art steps in, and stimulates to practical action.... Hence, in the future, systematic formation of Utopias will become habitual; on the distinct understanding that as in every other branch of art, the ideal shall be kept in subordination to the real." Now, the Dunfermline Report is an admirable example of art thus allied with science for social service. It is an ideal picture, strictly adherent to local colour and conditions, of an ancient city prolonging its vitality into the present and future by providing a very high form of training for its citizens, a training not of intellect only, but of the senses, of manual dexterity, of imagination, of Republican sympathy--a training in which "laborious inacquaintance with dead languages," infusing into the few touched by it a tincture of caste and militarism, gives way to comprehensive study of the evolution of Man, preparing the whole, and not a section merely, of the new generation for social service. Such a Utopia as this may be looked upon as fulfilling the true social function of Art; standing midway between theory and practice; inspired by thought, and stimulating action. Only the social artist has to look to it that his thoughts be not merely true but adequate, lest he degenerate into a mere decorator. How far will a series of "regional surveys," like those of [Page: 143] Mr. Booth in London and Mr. Rowntree in York, carry us! Not so far, I fear, as Professor Geddes seems to hope. Cities in our modern life are organs inseparable from a larger whole, the nation; and before the life of cities can be much changed, we have to ask ourselves, What is the national life? What is its ethical and religious standard? What is its practice as to the acquisition and distribution of wealth? And, again, What is to be the intercourse of nations? Is it to be war or peace? Mr. Carnegie has given half a million for the benefit of a town of 30,000 inhabitants. Magnificent as the donation is, it is not too much; not nearly enough, indeed, for the full realisation of Professor Geddes' scheme. Still, wisely used, it might accomplish great results. What we have recently sunk in the work of suppressing two free States in South Africa would have made it possible to do for three hundred towns what has been done for Dunfermline. Half of what we are now spending on our army and navy would enable us to endow thirty more of such towns annually. Mr. ISRAEL ZANGWILL in _To-day_ (Aug. 10, 1904), said: The Sociological Society is forging ahead at American speed; the professors jostle one another, and Geddes treads on the heels of Galton. After "Eugenics," or the Science of Good Births, comes "Civics," or the Science of Cities. In the former Mr. Galton was developing an idea which was in the air, and in Wells. In the latter Professor Geddes has struck out a more novel line, and a still more novel nomenclature. Politography, Politogenics, and Eu-Politogenics, likewise Hebraomorphic and Latinomorphic and Eutopia--quite an opposite idea from Utopia--such are some of the additions to the dictionary which the science of Civics carries in its train. They are all excellent words--with the double-barrelled exception--and still more excellent concepts. But I fancy the general idea of them all could be conveyed to the man in the street under the covering of "the human shell." This shell of ours is the city. It is the protective crust we have built round ourselves. In a smaller sense our house is our shell, but in a larger sense each house is only a lobe of the complex and contorted whole. Geography shapes our shells from without, and the spirit of our particular community shapes it from within. History tells us how it has been shaped in the past, Art tells us how it should be shaped in the future. Professor Geddes, in fact, envisages our civic shell as becomes a brilliant biologist, who also happens to be a man of historic imagination, ethical impulses, and aesthetic perceptions. For the human shell is not merely geometrical and architectural, like those of apian or beaverish communities; it holds and expresses all those differences by which we are exalted above the bee or the beaver. It is coloured with our emotions and ideals, and contorted with all the spirals of our history. And all these manifestations of humanity may be studied as systematically as those of the lower orders of creation, which have till recently monopolised the privilege of pin and label. The old lady who admired the benevolence of Providence in always placing rivers by the side of large towns was only expressing in an exaggerated way the general failure to think of Civics scientifically. The geographers, in whom may be found the bases of the science, have always pointed out that the river system is the essential unit for investigation. From source to sea goes the line of evolution. And yet even the peasant hamlet at the source depends, as [Page: 144] Professor Geddes reminds us, on the hinterland of pasture, forest, and chase; and the hunter is the germ of the soldier and the aristocrat. The whole region contributes to the ultimate city, as the whole river to the ultimate sea. The Professor says, justly enough, that we should try to recover the elemental or naturalist point of view, even for the greatest cities. He sees London as "fundamentally an agglomeration of villages with their surviving patches of common around a mediaeval seaport." This is accurate vision; but when he discerns "even in the utmost magnificence of Paris, say, its Place de l'Etoile, its spread of boulevards, but the hunter's tryst by the fallen tree, with its radiating forest rides, each literally straight," I cannot help suspecting the over-ingenuity of a prolific intellect. The view of London as a growth from embryos, and the view of Paris as the outcome of atavistic instinct, belong to different planes of scientific thinking. That Haussmann in reconstructing Paris was merely an unconscious hunter and woodlander, building as automatically as a bee, is a fantastic hypothesis; since cities, if they are to be built on a plan at all, cannot avoid some unifying geometrical pattern; and there are not very many possibilities.... In the department of Eu-Politogenics we shall be confronted with the problem of consciously overriding what evolution has unconsciously evolved, and building towards a fairer future. No doubt much of our creation will be imitation, and Professor Geddes is particularly suggestive in bidding us, at least, to be aware which of the tangled strands of influence we desire to follow; but a measure of artistic free-will remains. With the development of a corporate conscience we should be able to turn out far more satisfactory shells than many that have blundered into being. "Garden City" is only a particular application of the science of Civics.... Eu-Politogenics concerns itself, however, with more than the mere configuration of our human shell. Its colour and the music it holds are considerations no less important. But they are too important to touch at the fag-end of an article. Professor Geddes must, however, be congratulated on a stimulating paper, and upon his discovery of Eutopia. For Eutopia (unlike Utopia, which is really Ou-topia, or no place) is merely your own place perfected. And the duty of working towards its perfection lies directly upon _you_. "Civics--as applied sociology" comes to show you the way. CIVICS: AS CONCRETE AND APPLIED SOCIOLOGY, PART II BY PROFESSOR GEDDES Read before the Sociological Society at a Meeting in the School of Economics and Political Science (University of London), Clare Market, W.C., on Monday, January 23rd, 1905, the Rt. Hon. CHARLES BOOTH, F.R.S., in the Chair. A--INTRODUCTION: THE NEED OF CIVIC SURVEYS To the previous discussion of this subject[2] the first portion of this present title, "Civics as Concrete Sociology," would have been more suitable than the second, (that of "Civics as Applied Sociology") actually used. For its aim was essentially to plead for the concrete survey and study of cities, their observation and interpretation on lines essentially similar to those of the natural sciences. Since Comte's demonstration of the necessity of the preliminary sciences to social studies, and Spencer's development of this, still more since the evolution theory has become generally recognised, no one disputes the applicability of biology to [Page: 58] sociology. Many are, indeed, vigorously applying the conceptions of life in evolution, in geographical distribution and environment, in health and disease, to the interpretations of the problems of the times; while with the contemporary rise of eugenics to the first plane of interest, both social and scientific, these lines of thought, bio-social and bio-geographic, must needs be increasingly utilised and developed. [2] "Sociological Papers," Vol 1., pp. 103-118. But Comte and Spencer, with most other biologically-minded sociologists have been more at home among biological generalisations and theories than among the facts they arise from, and hence it is ever needful to maintain and extend a first-hand contact with these. I seek, therefore, to press home the idea that just as the biologist must earn his generalisations through direct and first-hand acquaintance with nature, so now must the sociologist work for his generalisations through a period of kindred observation and analysis, both geographic and historical; his "general laws" thus appearing anew as the abstract of regional facts, after due comparison of these as between region and region. May not much of the comparative sterility of post-Comtean (or at any rate post-Spencerian) sociology, which is so commonly reproached to us, and to which the difficult formation and slow growth of sociological societies and schools is largely due, be thus explained? Is it not the case that many able and persuasive writers, not only knowing the results, but logically using the generalisations of Comte or Spencer, as of old of Smith or now-a-days of List in the economic field, are yet comparatively sterile of fresh contributions to thought, and still more to action? In fact, must we not apply to much of the literature of recent sociology, just as to traditional economics, the criticism of Comte's well-known law of three states, and inquire if such writers, while apparently upon the plane of generalised science, are not really in large measure at least arrested upon Comte's "metaphysical stage," Mill's "abstractional" one? Conversely, the revival of sociological interest in this country at present is obviously very largely derived from fresh and freshening work like that of Mr Francis Galton and of the Right Hon. Charles Booth especially. For here in Mr. Galton's biometrics and eugenics is a return to nature, a keen scrutiny of human beings, which is really an orderly fruition of that of the same author's "Art of Travel." Similarly, Mr. Booth's "Survey of London" is as truly a return to nature as was Darwin's Voyage, or his yet more far-reaching studies in his garden and farmyard at home. [Page: 59] Is it not the main support of the subtle theorisings and far-stretched polemic of Prof. Weismann that he can plague his adversaries with the small but literal and concrete mice and hydroids and water fleas with which his theories began? And is it not for a certain lack of such concrete matter of observation that the vast systematisations of M. de Greef, or M. de Roberty, or the original and ingenious readings of Prof. Simon Patten leave us too often unconvinced, even if not sometimes without sufficiently definite understanding of their meaning? The simplest of naturalists must feel that Comte or Spencer, despite the frequently able use of the generalisations of biology, themselves somewhat lacked the first-hand observation of the city and community around them, and suffered thereby; this part of their work obviously not being on a level with the historic interpretations of the one or the psychological productivity of the other. And if, without warlike intent, I may yet strike a conspicuous shield or two within these friendly lists, is it not this one element of concrete observation and illustration which is sometimes lacking to give its full effect to the encyclopædic learning and the sympathetic insight of one of our recent papers, to the historic and poetic interpretations of another, or to the masterly logic of a third? Before the polemics of our educationists, the voluminous argumentation and casuistic subtlety of our professors of economics and ethics, yet more before the profound speculations of the epistemologists, the mere naturalist observer can but feel abashed like the truant before his schoolmasters; yet he is also not without a certain deep inward conviction, born of experience, that his outdoor world is yet more real, more vast, and more instructive than is theirs. And this impression becomes strengthened, nay verified and established, when he sees that the initiative thinkers from whom these claim to descend, have had in each and every case no merely academic record, but also a first-hand experience, an impulse and message from life and nature. Hence the contributions of Locke, of Comenius, and of Rousseau. Hence the Physiocrats found economics in peasant life; and thus too Adam Smith renewed their science, with due academic logic, doubtless, but from his experience of Glasgow and Kirkcaldy manufactures and trade. Even the idealist Berkeley owed much of his theory to his iridescent tar-water; while surely the greater ethicists are those who have not only been dialecticians, but moral forces in the world of men. In such ways, then, I would justify the thesis that civics is no abstract study, but fundamentally a matter of concrete and descriptive sociology--perhaps the greatest field of this. Next, that such orderly study is in line with the preliminary sciences, and with the general doctrine of evolution from simple to complex; and finally with the general inquiry into the influence of geographical conditions on social development. [Page: 60] In short, the student of civics must be first of all an observer of cities; and, if so, of their origins and developments, from the small and simple beginnings of which the tiniest hamlet is but an arrested germ. The productive sociologist should thus be of all investigators a wandering student _par excellence_; in the first place, as far as possible, a literal tourist and traveller--and this although like the homely Gilbert White or the world voyaging Darwin, he may do his best work around his own home. B--INITIAL METHODS OF CONCRETE SURVEY Hence our civic studies began (vol. 1, p. 105) with the survey of a valley region inhabited by its characteristic types--hunter and shepherd, peasant and fisher--each on his own level, each evolving or degenerating within his own region. Hence the concrete picture of such a typical valley section with its types of occupation cannot be brought too clearly before our minds.[3] [3] Fig. 1. What now of the causes of progress or decay? Are not these first of all the qualities and defects inherent in that particular social formation?--though we must also consider how these different types act and react, how they combine with, transform, subjugate, ruin or replace each other in region after region. We thus re-interpret the vicissitudes of history in more general terms, those of the differentiation, progress or degeneracy of each occupational and social type, and the ascending and descending oscillations of these types. In short, these occupational struggles underlie and largely interpret even the conflict of races, upon which Mr. Stuart-Glennie and other sociologists have so ably insisted. The fundamental importance of these initial factors of region and occupation to all studies of races and types, of communities and institutions, of customs and laws, indeed of language and literature, of religion and art, even of ideals and individualities, must be my excuse if I seem to insist, in season and out of season, upon [Page: 61] the services of Le Play as one of the main founders of sociology; and this not only _(a)_ on account of his monographic surveys of modern industrial life--those "Monographies Sociales" from which our current economic studies of the condition of the worker, of the family budget, etc., descend--but _(b)_ yet more on account of his vital reconstruction of anthropology (albeit still far from adequately realised by most anthropologists) through his renewed insistence upon the elemental rustic origins of industry, family types, and social organisation alike, from these simplest reactions of man in his struggle for existence in varied and varying environment. It does not suffice to recognise, with many economists, hunting, pastoral and agricultural formations, as states _preliminary_ to our present industrial and commercial, imperial, and financial order of civilisation. This view, still too commonly surviving, is rather of hindrance than help; what we need is to see our existing civilisation as the complex struggle and resultant of all these types and their developments to-day. So far, therefore, from leaving, as at present, these simple occupational types to the anthropologist, or at best giving him some scant hospitality within our city museum, we are learning to see how it is at one time the eager miner, or the conservative shepherd, or at another the adventurous fisher or hunter who comes concretely upon the first plane of national, imperial or international politics, and who awakens new strife among these. We not only begin to see, but the soldier frankly tells us, how the current sports of youth, and the unprecedented militarism of the past century, are alike profoundly connected with the hunting world. Hence the hope of peace lies not only, as most at present think in the civilised and civilising development of international law, or of culture intercourse, excellent though these are, but also in a fuller and complete return to nature than has been this recent and persistent obsession of our governing classes with the hunter world almost alone; in short, in adding the gentler, yet wider, experiences of the naturalist, the sterner experiences of other occupations also. Nor does such elementary recognition of these main social formations content us; their local differentiations must be noted and compared--a comprehensive regional survey, therefore, which does justice to each local variety of these great types; speaking henceforth of no mere abstract "hunter," but of the specific hunting types of each climate, and distinguishing these as clearly as do our own milder sportsmen of deer-forest and the turnip field from themselves and from each other. After such needed surveys in detail, we may, indeed must, compare and generalise them. Similarly for the pasture, the forest. Every tourist in this country is struck by the contrast of Swiss towns and cities with our own, and notes [Page: 62] too that on the Swiss pasture he finds a horde of cattle, while in Scotland or Yorkshire he left a flock of sheep. And not only the tourist, but the historian or the economist too often fail to see how Galashiels or Bradford are developments of the wool hamlet, now familiar to many in R.L. Stevenson's native Swanston. Again, not only Swiss wealth, but Swiss character and institutions, go back essentially to the high pasture and the well-filled byre. That this rich Swiss cow-pasture rests on limestone, and the poor Scottish sheep-grazing upon comparatively unmouldering and impermeable gneiss, is no mere matter of geologist's detail; it affords in each case the literal and concrete foundation-stone of the subsequent evolution of each region and population, and this not only in material and economic development, but even in higher and subtler outcomes, aesthetic, intellectual and moral.[4] It is for such reasons that one must labour and re-labour this geographic and determinist aspect of sociology, and this for no merely scientific reason, but also for practical ones. Nowhere perhaps have more good and generous souls considered how to better the condition of their people than in Swiss, or Irish, or Scottish valleys; yet it is one main reason of the continual failure of all such movements, and of such minds in the wider world as well, that they do not first acquaint themselves with the realities of nature and labour sufficiently to appreciate that the fundamental--I do not say the supreme--question is: what can be got out of limestone, and what can be got out of gneiss? Hence the rare educative value of such a concrete sociological diagram and model as was the Swiss Village at the Paris Exposition of 1900, for here geographic and economic knowledge and insight were expressed with artistic skill and sympathy as perhaps never before. Only as similar object-lessons are worked out for other countries, can we adequately learn, much less popularly teach, how from nature comes "rustics," and from this comes civics. But civics and rustics make up the field of politics; they are the concrete of which politics become the abstract--commonly the too remotely abstract. [4] For a fuller justification of this thesis as regards Switzerland, see the writer's "International Exhibitions," in _International Monthly_, October, 1900. For final illustration, let us descend to the sea-level. There again, taking the fisher, each regional type must be traced in his contribution to his town. Take for instance the salmon fisher of Norway, the whaler of Dundee, the herring-fisher of Yarmouth, the cod-fisher of Newfoundland, the coral fisher of the Ægean; each is a definite varietal type, one developing or at least tending to develop characteristic normal family relations, and corresponding social outcomes in institutions; in which again the appropriate qualities and defects must be expressed, even as is the quality and twist of the hemp in the strength of the cable, or as is the chemistry and the microscopic structure of the alloy in the efficiency of the great gun. [Page: 63] Our neighbouring learned societies and museums geographical, geological and the rest, are thus avowedly and consciously so many winter shelters in which respective groups of regional surveyors tell their tales and compare their observations, in which they meet to compare their generalisations from their own observations made in the field with those made by others. So it must increasingly be for this youngest of societies. We may, we should, know best our Thames valley, our London basin, our London survey; but the progress of our science implies as increasingly varied and thorough an inquiry into rustic and civic regions and occupations and resultants throughout the whole world present and past, as does the corresponding world survey with our geologic neighbours. I plead then for a sociological survey, rustic and civic, region by region, and insist in the first place upon the same itinerant field methods of notebook and camera, even for museum collections and the rest, as those of the natural sciences. The dreary manuals which have too long discredited those sciences in our schools, are now giving place to a new and fascinating literature of first-hand nature study. Similarly, those too abstract manuals of civics which are at present employed in schools[5] must be replaced by concrete and regional ones, their abstract counsels of political or personal perfection thus also giving place to a corresponding regional idealism which may then be supplemented from other regions as far as needs demand and circumstances allow. [5] For a fuller review of these, compare the writer's "City Development," in _Contemporary Review_, October, 1904. C--GEOGRAPHICAL DETERMINISM AND ITS DIFFICULTIES To interpret then our tangle of ideas, both of the city and its citizens, let us now bring more fully to our transverse valley sections, and to each occupation separately, the geographical view-point which we have found of service to elucidate the development of towns and cities upon its longitudinal [Page: 64] slope. But this is neither more nor less than the method of Montesquieu, whose classic "Esprit des Lois" anticipates and initiates so much of that of later writers--Ritter, Buckle, Taine, or Le Play. Once more then let their common, or rather their resultant, doctrine be stated in terms expressing the latest of these more fully than the first. Given the region, its character determines the nature of the fundamental occupation, and this in turn essentially determines the type of family. The nature and method of the occupation must normally determine the mode of its organisation, e.g., the rise and character of a specialised directive class, and the nature of these occupational chiefs as contrasted with the people and with each other. Similarly, the types of family tend to develop their appropriate types of institutions, e.g., for justice, guidance, and of course notably in response to social environment as regards defence or attack. Thus at this point in fact we seem to be pressing upon the student of sociology the essential argument of geographical and evolutionary determinism, in fact inviting him to adopt a view, indeed to commit himself to a method, which may be not only foreign to his habits, but repugnant to his whole view of life and history. And if able advocacy of this determinist view of society for at least the past five generations has not carried general conviction, why raise so controversial a suggestion, in the guise too of a method professing to harmonise all comers? Yet this is advisedly done; and as no one will deny some civil importance to geographical factors, let patience be granted to examine this aspect of the city's map and shield, and to get from it what it can teach, under the present assurance to the philosophic and idealist critic that his view of other factors, higher and deeper, as supreme in human life, and therefore in city making, will not be forgotten, nor excluded from consideration when we come to them. All that is really insisted upon here is that if anything of naturalistic method of evolutionary conception is to be permitted at all, we must obviously proceed from this simple towards the more complex, and so begin with it here and now. It is the appropriate slope or steppe, the needful rainfall, that conditions the growth of grass, this which conditions the presence of herds or flocks, and these again which determine the very existence of shepherds. These granted then, not only do the pastoral arts and crafts arise, but the patriarchal type and family develop, and this not only with their hospitality and other virtues, with their nomadic tendencies, at any rate, their unfixed land-tenure, very different from the peasant's, but their slow and skilful [Page: 65] diplomacy (till the pasture is bared or grown again, as the negotiator's interests incline). The patriarch in his venerable age, the caravaneer in his nomadic and exploring youth, his disciplined maturity, thus naturally develop as different types of chief and leader; and it is therefore not until this stage, when all is ready for the entry of Abraham or Job, of Mohammed the camel-driver, or Paul the tent-maker, that any real controversy can arise between the determinist and his opponent, between the democratic and the great-man theories of history, towards which these respectively incline.[6] And at that stage, may not the controversy stimulate a fruitful analysis? After all, what is the claim of free-will but to select among the factors afforded by a given set of circumstances? And the utmost stretch of determinism to which geography and civics may lead us obviously cannot prove the negative of this. But whether the psychologic origins of new ideals be internal to the mind of genius, or imparted by some external source, is a matter obviously beyond the scope of either the geographer or the historian of civics to settle. Enough surely for both controversialists if we use such a means of tabulating facts as to beg the question for neither view; and still better if we can present the case of each without injustice to either, nay, to each with its clearness increased by the sharp edge of contrast. If the geographical determinist thesis on one hand, and its ethical and psychological antithesis on the other, can thus clearly be defined and balanced, their working equilibrium is at hand, even should their complete synthesis remain beyond us. [6] A fuller study, upon this method, of the essential origins of pastoral evolution, and of its characteristic modern developments, will be found in the writer's "Flower of the Grass," in _The Evergreen_, Edinburgh and Westminster, 1896. See also "La Science Sociale," _passim_, especially in its earlier vols. or its number for Jan. 1905. D--NEED OF ABSTRACT METHOD FOR NOTATION AND FOR INTERPRETATION Not only such general geographical studies, but such social interpretations as those above indicated have long been in progress: witness the labours of whole schools of historians and critics, among whom Montsquieu and his immediate following, or in more recent times Buckle and Taine, are but the most prominent; witness the works of geographers like Humboldt, Ritter, Reclus, or of developmental technologists like Boucher de Perthes and regional economists like Le Play. The main lines of a concrete and evolutionary sociology (or at [Page: 66] least _sociography_) have thus been laid down for us; but the task now before us, in our time, in such a society as this--and indeed in such a paper as the present one--its that of extracting from all this general teaching its essential scientific method, one everywhere latent and implicit, but nowhere fully explicit, or at least adequately systematised. It is in fact only as we can agree upon some definite and orderly method of description that our existing literature of social surveys can be adequately compared or new ones co-operatively undertaken. Hence the importance of discussions of scientific method such as those who have so largely occupied our first volume. Yet, I submit, here lies the means of escaping from these too abstract (and consequently too static) presentments of the general methodology of social science into which sociologists are constantly falling; and to which must be largely ascribed the prevalent distaste for sociology so general in this would-be practical-minded community in which we find ourselves, as indeed also the comparative unattractiveness of our studies to the body of specialist scientific workers, not even excepting those within what we consider sociological fields. The history of each science, be it mathematics or astronomy, botany, zoology or geology, shows us that it is not enough to have the intelligent observer, or even the interpretative thinker with his personally expressed doctrine. This must be clearly crystallised into a definite statement, method, proposition, "law" or theory, stated in colourless impersonal form before it is capable of acceptance and incorporation into the general body of science. But while astronomer and geologist and naturalist can and do describe both the observational results and their general conceptions in literary form, requiring from the ordinary reader but the patience to master a few unfamiliar terms and ideas, they also carry on their work by help of definite and orderly technical methods, descriptive and comparative, analytic and synthetic. These, as far as possible, have to be crystallised beyond their mere verbal statement into formulae, into tabular and graphic presentments, and thus not only acquire greater clearness of statement, but become more and more active agencies of inquiry--in fact, become literal _thinking-machines_. But while the mathematician has his notations and his calculus, the geographer and geologist their maps, reliefs and sections, the naturalist his orderly classificatory methods, it has been the misfortune and delay of political economy, and no small cause of that "notorious discord and sterility" with which Comte reproached it, that [Page: 67] its cultivators have so commonly sought to dispense with the employment of any definite scientific notations; while even its avowed statisticians, in this country especially, have long resisted the consistent use of graphic methods. I submit, therefore, for discussion, as even more urgent and pressing than that of the general and abstract methodology of the social sciences, the problem of elaborating a concrete descriptive method readily applicable to the study and comparison of human societies, to cities therefore especially. To do justice to this subject, not only the descriptive labours of anthropologists, but much of the literature of sociology would have to be gone through from the "Tableau Economique" of the Physiocratic School to the "Sociological Tables" of Mr. Spencer, and still more fruitfully to more recent writers. Among these, besides here recognising specially the work of Mr. Booth and its stimulus to younger investigators, I would acknowledge the helpful and suggestive impulse from the group of social geographers which has arisen from the initiative of Le Play[7], and whose classification, especially in its later forms[8], cannot but be of interest and value to everyone whose thought on social questions is not afloat upon the ocean of the abstract without chart or bearings. [7] La Nomenclature Sociale (Extrait de La Revue, "La Science Sociale," Dec. 1886) Paris, Firmin-Diact, 1887. [8] Demoulins, La Science Sociale d'apres F. Le Play 1882-1905; Classification Sociale, "La Science Sociale," Jan. 1905. Yet with all respect to each and all these classifications and methods, indeed with cordially acknowledge personal obligation and indebtedness to them from first to last, no one of these seems fully satisfactory for the present purpose; and it is therefore needful to go into the matter afresh for ourselves, though utilising these as fully as we can. E--THE CITY-COMPLEX AND ITS USUAL ANALYSIS In the everyday world, in the city as we find it, what is the working classification of ideas, the method of thought of its citizens? That the citizens no more think of themselves as using any particular sociological method than did M. Jourdain of talking prose does not really matter, save that it makes our observation, both of them and it, easier and more trustworthy. They are speaking and thinking for the most part of [Page: 68] People and of Affairs; much less of places. In the category of People, we observe that individuals, self and others, and this in interest, perhaps even more than in interests, commonly take precedence of groups. Institutions and Government are, however, of general interest, the state being much more prominent than is the church; the press, for many, acting as the modern substitute for the latter. In the world of Affairs, commerce takes precedence of industry, while sport runs hard upon both. War, largely viewed by its distant spectators as the most vivid form of sport, also bulks largely. Peace is not viewed as a positive ideal, but essentially as a passive state, at best, of non-war, more generally of latent war. Central among places are the bank, the market (in its financial forms before the material ones). Second to these stand the mines then the factories, etc.; and around these the fixed or floating fortresses of defence. Of homes, that of the individual alone is seriously considered, at most those of his friends, his "set," his peers, but too rarely even of the street, much less the neighbourhood, at least for their own sake, as distinguished from their reaction upon individual and family status or comfort. This set of views is obviously not easy of precise analysis of exact classification. In broad outline, however, a summary may be made, and even tabulated as follows:-- THE EVERYDAY TOWN AND ITS ACTIVITIES. PEOPLE AFFAIRS PLACES (a) INDIVIDUALS (a) COMMERCE (a) MARKET, BANK, etc. (Self and others). INDUSTRY, etc. FACTORY, MINE, etc. SPORT. (b) GOVERNMENT(S) (b) WAR (b) FORT, FIELD, etc. Temporal and Spiritual and Peace (State and Church). (Latent War). Next note how from the everyday world of action, there arises a corresponding thought-world also. This has, [Page: 69] of course, no less numerous and varied elements, with its resultantly complex local colour; But a selection will suffice, of which the headings may be printed below those of the preceding scheme, to denote how to the objective elements there are subjective elements corresponding--literal reflections upon the pools of memory--the slowly flowing stream of tradition. Thus the extended diagram, its objective elements expressed in yet more general terms, may now be read anew (noting that mirror images are fully reversed). PEOPLE AFFAIRS PLACES "TOWN" (a) INDIVIDUALS (a) OCCUPATIONS (a) WORK-PLACES (b) INSTITUTIONS (b) WAR (b) WAR-PLACES "SCHOOLS" (b) HISTORY (b) STATISTICS AND (b) GEOGRAPHY ("Constitutional") HISTORY ("Military") (a) BIOGRAPHY (a) ECONOMICS (a) TOPOGRAPHY Here then we have that general relation of the town life and its "schools," alike of thought and of education, which must now be fully investigated. Such diagrammatic presentments, while of course primarily for the purpose of clear expression and comparison, are also frequently suggestive--by "inspection," as geometers say--of relations not previously noticed. In both ways, we may see more clearly how prevalent ideas and doctrines have arisen as "reflections upon" the life of action, and even account for their qualities and their defects--their partial truth or their corresponding inadequacy, according to our own appreciative or depreciative standpoint. Thus as regards "People," in the first column we see expressed briefly how to (a) the individual life, with the corresponding vivid interest in biography, corresponds the "great man theory" of history. Conversely with _(b)_ alone is associated the insistance upon institutional developments as the main factor. Passing to the middle column, that of "Affairs," we may note in connection with _(b)_ say the rise of statistics in association with the needs of war, a point connected with its too empiric character; or note again, a too common converse weakness of economic theory, its inadequate inductive [Page: 70] verification. Or finally, in the column of "Place," the long weakness of geography as an educational subject, yet is periodic renewal upon the field of war, is indicated. We might in fact continue such a comparison of the existing world of action and of ideas, into all the schools, those of thought and practice, no less than those of formal instruction; and thus we should more and more clearly unravel how their complexity and entanglement, their frequent oppositions and contradictions are related to the various and warring elements of the manifold "Town" life from which they derive and survive. Such a fuller discussion, however, would too long delay the immediate problem--that of understanding "Town" and its "School" in their origins and simplest relations. F--PROPOSED METHODICAL ANALYSIS (1) THE TOWN More fully to understand this two-fold development of Town and School we have first of all apparently to run counter to the preceding popular view, which is here, as in so many cases, the precise opposite of that reached from the side of science. This, as we have already so fully insisted, must set out with geography, thus literally _replacing_ People and Affairs in our scheme above. Starting then once more with the simple biological formula: ENVIRONMENT ... CONDITIONS ... ORGANISM this has but to be applied and defined by the social geographer to become REGION ... OCCUPATION ... FAMILY-type and Developments which summarises precisely that doctrine of Montesquieu and his successors already insisted on. Again, in but slight variation from Le Play's simplest phrasing _("Lieu, travail, famille")_ we have PLACE ... WORK ... FOLK It is from this simple and initial social formula that we have now to work our way to a fuller understanding of Town and School. [Page: 71] Immediately, therefore, this must be traced upward towards its complexities. For Place, it is plain, is no mere topographic site. Work, conditioned as it primarily is by natural advantages, is thus really first of all _place-work_. Arises the field or garden, the port, the mine, the workshop, in fact the _work-place_, as we may simply generalise it; while, further, beside this arise the dwellings, the _folk-place_. Nor are these by any means all the elements we are accustomed to lump together into Town. As we thus cannot avoid entering into the manifold complexities of town-life throughout the world and history, we must carry along with us the means of unravelling these; hence the value of this simple but precise nomenclature and its regular schematic use. Thus, while here keeping to simple words in everyday use, we may employ and combine them to analyse out our Town into its elements and their inter-relations with all due exactitude, instead of either leaving our common terms undefined, or arbitrarily defining them anew, as economists have alternately done--too literally losing or shirking essentials of Work in the above formula, and with these missing essentials of Folk and Place also. Tabular and schematic presentments, however, such as those to which we are proceeding, are apt to be less simple and satisfactory to reader than to writer; and this even when in oral exposition the very same diagram has been not only welcomed as clear, but seen and felt to be convincing. The reason of this difficulty is that with the spoken exposition the audience sees the diagram grow upon the blackboard; whereas to produce anything of the same effect upon the page, it must be printed at several successive stages of development. Thus our initial formula, PLACE ... WORK ... FOLK readily develops into FOLK PLACE-WORK WORK FOLK-WORK (Natural advantages) (Occupation) PLACE This again naturally develops into a regular table, of which the [Page: 72] filling up of some of the squares has been already suggested above, and that of the remaining ones will be intelligible on inspection:-- PLACE FOLK WORK-FOLK FOLK ("Natives") ("Producers") PLACE-WORK WORK FOLK-WORK PLACE WORK-PLACE FOLK-PLACE So complex is the idea of even the simplest Town--even in such a rustic germ as the "farm-town" of modern Scottish parlance, the _ton_ of place-names without number. The varying development of the Folk into social classes or castes night next be traced, and the influence and interaction of all the various factors of Place, Work, and Family tabulated. Suffice it here, however, for the present to note that such differentiation does take place, without entering into the classification and comparison of the protean types of patrician and plebeian throughout geography and history. G--ANALYSIS CONTINUED.--(2) THE SCHOOL Once and again we have noted how from the everyday life of action--the Town proper of our terminology--there arises the corresponding subjective world--the _Schools_ of thought, which may express itself sooner or later in schools of education. The types of people, their kinds and styles of work, their whole environment, all become represented in the mind of the community, and these react upon the individuals, their activities, their place itself. Thus (the more plainly the more the community is a simple and an isolated one, but in appreciable measure everywhere and continually) there have obviously arisen local turns of thought and modes of speech, ranging from shades of accept and idiom to distinctive dialect or language. Similarly, there is a characteristic variety of occupational activity, a style of workmanship, a way of doing business. There are distinctive [Page: 73] manners and customs--there is, in short, a certain recognisable likeness, it may be an indefinably subtle or an unmistakably broad and general one, which may be traced in faces and costumes, in tongue and literature, in courtesy and in conflict, in business and in policy, in street and in house, from hovel to palace, from prison to cathedral. Thus it is that every folk comes to have its own ways, and every town its own school. While the complex social medium has thus been acquiring its characteristic form and composition, a younger generation has been arising. In all ways and senses, Heredity is commonly more marked than variation--especially when, as in most places at most times, such great racial, occupational, environmental transformations occur as those of modern cities. In other words, the young folk present not only an individual continuity with their organic predecessors which is heredity proper, but with their social predecessors also. The elements of organic continuity, which we usually think of first of all as organic though of course psychic also, are conveniently distinguished as the _inheritance_--a term in fact which the biologist seeks to deprive of its common economic and social senses altogether, leaving for these the term _heritage_, material or immaterial alike. This necessary distinction between the inheritance, bodily and mental, and the heritage, economic and social, obviously next requires further elaboration, and with this further precision of language also. For the present, let us leave the term heritage to the economist for the material wealth with which he is primarily concerned, and employ the term _tradition_ for these immaterial and distinctively social elements we are here specially considering. This in fact is no new proposal, but really little more than an acceptance of ordinary usage. Broadly speaking, tradition is in the life of the community what memory is for its individual units. The younger generation, then, not only inherits an organic and a psychic diathesis; not only has transmitted to it the accumulations, instruments and land of its predecessors, but grows up in their tradition also. The importance of imitation in this process, a matter of common experience, has been given the fullest sociological prominence, by M. Tarde especially.[9] Thanks to these and other convergent lines of thought, we no longer consent to look at the acquirement of the social tradition as a matter requiring to be imposed upon reluctant youth almost entirely from without, and are learning anew as of old, with the simplest and the most developed peoples, the barbarians and the Greeks, to recognise and respect, and, if it may be, to nourish the process of self-instruction, viewed as normal accompaniment of each developing being throughout the phases of its [Page: 74] organic life, the stages of its social life. Upon the many intermediate degrees of advance and decline, however, between these two extremes of civilisation, specific institutions for the instruction of youth arise, each in some way an artificial substitute, or at least a would-be accelerant, for the apprenticeship of imitation in the school of experience and the community's tradition, which we term a school in the restricted and pedagogic sense. This whole discussion, however, has been in order to explain and to justify the present use of the term "School" in that wide sense in which the historian of art or thought--the sociologist in fact--has ever used the term, while yet covering the specialised pedagogic schools of all kinds also. [9] Tarde, "L'imitation Sociale," and other works. Once more, then, and in the fullest sense, every folk has its own tradition, every town its school. We need not here discriminate these unique and characteristic elements to which the art-historians--say of Venice and of Florence, of Barbizon or Glasgow--specially attend from those most widely distributed ones, in which the traditions and schools of all towns within the same civilisation broadly agree. Indeed, even the most widely distributed of these--say from Roman law to modern antiseptic surgery--arose as local schools before they became general ones. Similarly for the general social tradition. The fundamental occupations and their division of labour, their differentiation in detail and their various interactions up to our own day, at first separately considered, are now seen to be closely correlated with the status of woman; while all these factors determine not only the mode of union of the parents, but their relation to the children, the constitution of the family, with which the mode of transmission of property is again thoroughly interwoven. H--TOWN AND SCHOOL COMPARED "TOWN" FOLK WORK PLACE SURVEY CRAFT-KNOWLEDGE "SCHOOL" CUSTOM We may now summarise and tabulate our comparison of Town and School,[10] and on the schema (p.75) it will be seen [Page: 76] that each element of the second is printed in the position of a mirror-reflection of the first. This gives but the merest outline, which is ready, however, to be applied in various ways and filled up accordingly. A step towards this is made in the next and fuller version of the scheme (p. 77). It will be noted in this that the lower portion of the diagram, that of School, is more fully filled up than is the upper. This is partly for clearness, but partly also to suggest that main elements in the origins of natural sciences and geography, of economics and social science, are not always so clearly realised as they might be. The preceding diagram, elaborating that of Place, Work, Folk (p. 75), however, at once suggests these. Other features of the scheme will appear on inspection; and the reader will find it of interest and suggestiveness to prepare a blank schedule and fill it up for himself. [10] For the sake of brevity, an entire chapter has been omitted, discussing the manifold origins of distinct governing classes, whether arising from the Folk, or superimposed upon them from without, in short, of the contrast of what we may broadly call patricians and plebeians, which so constantly appears through history, and in the present also. These modes of origin are all in association respectively with Place, Work, and Family, or some of the various interactions of these. Origin and situation, migration, individual or general, with its conflict of races, may be indicated among the first group of factors; technical efficiency and its organising power among the second; individual qualities and family stocks among the third, as also military and administrative aptitude, and the institutional privileges which so readily arise from them. Nor need we here discuss the rise of institutions, so fully dealt with by sociological writers. Enough for the present then, if institutions and social classes be taken as we find them. These two forms of the same diagram, the simple and the more developed, thus suggest comparison with the scheme previously outlined, that of People, Affairs, Places (p. 68), and is now more easily reconciled with this; the greater prominence popularly given to People and Affairs being expressed upon the present geographic and evolutionary scheme by the ascending position and more emphatic printing (or by viewing the diagram as a transparency from the opposite side of the leaf). In the column of People, the deepening of custom into morals is indicated. Emphasis is also placed upon the development of law in connection with the rise of governing classes, and its tendency to dominate the standards previously taken as morals--in fact, that tendency of moral law to become static law, a process of which history is full. GOVERNING ========= ========= CLASSES ======= ======= ^ | FAMILY TYPES ============ ---------------------------------------------- INDUSTRIES ========== ---------- ---------------------------------------------- (FOLK-PLACE) REGION (WORK PLACE) ------------ ====== ------------ (TOWN) | ====== | V -------------------------------------------- | V SURVEY ("SCHOOL") ====== ========== !--LANDSCAPE (CRAFT-TRADITION) ----------------- (FOLK-LORE) ?--TERRITORY ----------- | | V --------------------------------------------- | V [NATURAL [APPLIED [SOCIAL -------- ======== ======= SCIENCES] SCIENCES] SCIENCES] --------- ========= ========= | | V ------------------------------------------- | CUSTOMS V ------- MORALS ====== GEOGRAPHY ECONOMICS ------ --------- ========= & LAWS ==== ==== In the present as in the past, we may also note upon the scheme the different lines of Place, Work and Folk on which respectively develop the natural sciences, the applied or [Page: 78] technical sciences, and finally the social sciences, and the generalising of these respectively. Thus, as we see the popular survey of regions, geography in its literal and initial sense, deepening into the various analyses of this and that aspect or element of the environment which we call the natural sciences--but which we might with advantage also recognise as what they really are, each a _geolysis_--so these sciences or geolyses, again, are tending to reunite into a higher geography considered as an account of the evolution of the cosmos. Again, in the column of School, corresponding to Work, we have the evolution of craft knowledge into the applied sciences, an historic process which specialist men of science and their public are alike apt to overlook, but which is none the less vitally important. For we cannot really understand, say Pasteur, save primarily as a thinking peasant; or Lister and his antiseptic surgery better than as the shepherd, with his tar-box by his side; or Kelvin or any other electrician, as the thinking smith, and so on. The old story of geometry, as "_ars metrike_," and of its origin from land-surveying, for which the Egyptian hieroglyph is said to be that of "rope stretching," in fact, applies far more fully than most realise, and the history of every science, of course already thus partially written, will bear a far fuller application of this principle. In short, the self-taught man, who is ever the most fertile discoverer, is made in the true and fundamental school--that of experience. The need of abbreviating the recapitulation of this, however, sooner or later develops the school in the pedagogic sense, and its many achievements, its many failures in accomplishing this, might here be more fully analysed. Still more evident is this process in the column of Folk. From the mother's knee and the dame's school of the smallest folk-place, the townlet or hamlet, _ton_ or home, up to the royal and priestly school of the law of ancient capitals, or from the "humanities" of a mediaeval university to the "Ecole de Droit" of a modern metropolis, the series of essential evolutionary stages may be set down. Or in our everyday present, [Page: 79] the rise of schools of all kinds, primary, secondary, higher up to the current movement towards university colleges, and from these to civic and regional universities, might again be traced. The municipalisation of education is thus in fact expressed, and so on. Leaving the schools in the main to speak for themselves of their advancing and incipient uses, a word may be said upon the present lines. As a first and obvious application of this mode of geographic study of cities appears the criticism, and; when possible, the amendment of the city's plan, the monotonous rectangularity of the American city, and the petty irregularity more common in our own, being alike uneconomic and inartistic because ungeographic, irrational because irregional. With the improvement of communications, the physicist's point of view thus introduced--that of the economy of the energies of the community--is only beginning; the economy of fuel, the limitation of smoke and fogs being symptoms of this and pointing to a more economic organisation of industrial activities generally. But this next carries with it the improved efficiency of the producers themselves, with whom, however, the standpoint changes from the mere economisation of physical energies to the higher economy of organic evolution. The convention of traditional economics, that the productive capacity of the actual labourer is the sole concern of his science, thus gives place to what is at once the original conception of economics and the evolutionist one, viz., that the success of industry is ultimately measured neither by its return in wealth of the capitalist nor in money wages of the labourer, nor even by both put together, but in the results of industry upon the concrete environment, the family budget, the home, and the corresponding state of development of the family--its deterioration or progress. The organisation of industrial groups or of representative institutions found conducive to the well-being and progress of these prime civic units, the families, may now be traced into its highest outcome in city government. The method of analysis and graphic statement thus outlined may be shown to be even capable of useful application towards the statement of the best [Page: 80] arguments of both progressive and moderate parties in city politics. Passing from Politics to Culture. Culture, the needs of this also become clearer; each community developing a similar general series of culture institutions, from the simplest presentation of its geography, landscape and architecture, to the complex development of industrial, technical and scientific instruction; and for provision also for the institutions of custom and ethic in school, law, and church. Just as place, occupation, and family are intimately connected in the practical world, so their respective culture institutions must more and more be viewed as a whole. Civic improvers will find their ideals more realisable as they recognise the complex unity of the city as a social development of which all the departments of action and thought are in organic relation, be it of health or disease. The view of theoretic civics as concrete sociology, and of practical civics as applied sociology may be more simply expressed as the co-adjustment of social survey and social service, now becoming recognised as rational, indeed in many cities being begun. I--DEVELOPMENT OF SCHOOL, AND ITS REACTION UPON TOWN The reactions of the School upon the Town are observed in practice to be of very different values;--how are these differences to be explained? From the very first the school is essentially one of memory, the impress of the town-life, even at its best and highest individual quality and impressiveness, as in the work of a great master, the observation and memory of which may long give his stamp to the work of his followers. The fading of this into dullness, yet the fixing of it as a convention, is familiar to all in arts and crafts, but is no less real in the general lapse of appreciation of environment. Most serious of all is the fixation of habit and custom, so that at length "custom lies upon us with a weight heavy as death, and deep [Page 81] almost as life." This continual fixation of fashionable standards as moral ones is thus a prime explanation of each reformer's difficulty in making his moral standard the fashionable one, and also, when his doctrine has succeeded, of the loss of life and mummification of form which it so speedily undergoes. Of conventional "education," considered as the memorisation of past records, however authoritative and classic, the decay is thus intelligible and plain, and the repetition of criticisms already adequately made need not therefore detain us here. For this process is there no remedy? Science here offers herself--with senses open to observe, and intellect awake to interpret. Starting with Place, she explores and surveys it, from descriptive travel books at very various levels of accuracy, she works on to atlas and gazetteer, and beyond these to world-globe and "Geographie Universelle." With her charts and descriptions we are now more ready for a journey; with her maps and plans we may know our own place as never before; nay, rectify it, making the rough places plain and the crooked straight; even restoration may come within our powers. Similarly as regards Work. Though mere empiric craft-mastery dies with the individual, and fails with his successors, may we not perpetuate the best of this? A museum of art treasures, a collection of the choicest examples of all times and lands, will surely raise us from our low level of mechanical toil; nay, with these carefully observed, copied, memorised, and duly examined upon, we shall be able to imitate them, to reproduce their excellencies, even to adapt them to our everyday work. To the art museum we have thus but to add a "School of Design," to have an output of more and less skilled copyists. The smooth and polished successes of this new dual institution, responding as they do to the mechanical elements of modern work and of the mechanical worker-mind, admitting also of ready multiplications as patterns, ensure the wide extension of the prevalent style of imitating past styles, designing patchwork of these; and even admit of its scientific reduction to a definite series of grades, which imitative youth may easily pass onwards from the age of rudest innocence to that of art-knowledge and certificated art-mastery. Our School of Design thus becomes a School of Art, a length a College, dominating the instruction of the nation, to the satisfaction not only of its promoters, but of the general public and their representatives, so that annual votes justly increase. Lurking discontent may now and then express itself, but is for practical purposes negligible. [Page: 82] The example of art accumulation and art instruction is thus naturally followed in other respects. For the commercial information of the public, varied representative exhibitions--primarily, therefore, international ones--naturally suggest themselves; while so soon as expansion of imperial and colonial interests comes upon the first plane, a corresponding permanent Exhibition is naturally instituted. But when thus advancing commercial instruction, we must also recognise the claims of industry in all its crafts and guilds, and in fact the technical instruction of the community generally. Hence the past, present, and promised rise of technical institutes upon increasing scales of completeness. In the rise of such a truly encylopædic system of schools, the university cannot permanently be forgotten. Since from the outset we have recognised the prime elements of the school in observation and memory, the testing of these by examinations--written, oral, and practical--however improvable in detail, must be fairly recognised, and the examining body or university has therefore to be adopted as the normal crown of our comprehensive educational system. Teaching, however is found to be increasingly necessary, especially to examination, and for this the main field left open is in our last column, that of People. Their lore of the past, whether of sacred or classical learning, their history, literature, and criticism, are already actively promoted, or at any rate adequately endowed at older seats of learning; while the materials, resources, conditions and atmosphere are here of other kinds. Hence the accessibility of the new University of London to the study of sociology, as yet alone among its peers. Hence, beside the great London, maritime, commercial and industrial, residential and governmental, there has been growing up, tardily indeed, as compared with smaller cities, yet now all the more massively and completely, a correspondingly comprehensive system of schools; so that the historic development of South Kensington within the last half century, from International Exhibitions of Work, Natural History Museums of Place onwards to its present and its contemplated magnitude, affords a striking exemplification of the present view and its classification, which is all the more satisfactory since this development has been a gradual accretion. Enough then has been said to show that the rise of schools, their qualities and their defects, are all capable of treatment upon the present lines; but if so, may we not go farther, and ask by what means does thought and life cope with their defects, especially that fixation of memory, even at its best, that evil side of examination and the like, which we often call Chinese in the bad sense, but which we see arises so naturally everywhere? [Page: 83] J--FROM "SCHOOL" TO "CLOISTER" The preceding view is, as yet, too purely determinist. The due place of ideals, individual and corporate, in their reaction upon the function and the structure of the city, and even upon its material environment, has next to be recognised. For where the town merely makes and fixes its industry and makes its corresponding schools, where its habits and customs become its laws, even its morality, the community, as we have just seen, sinks into routine, and therefore decay. To prevent this a twofold process of thought is ever necessary, critical and constructive. What are these? On the one hand, a continual and critical selection among the ideas derived from experience, and the formulation of these as Ideals: and further, the organisation of these into a larger and larger whole of thought; in fact, a Synthesis of a new kind. This critical spirit it is which produced the prophets of Israel, the questioning of Socrates, and so on, to the journalistic and other criticism of life to-day. The corresponding constructive endeavour is now no mere School of traditional learning or of useful information. It is one of science in a new and reorganised sense; one of philosophy also, one of ideals above all. As from the Schools of the Law, as over against these, arise the prophets, so from the technical and applied sciences, the descriptive natural sciences, should arise the scientific thinkers, reinterpreting each his field of knowledge and giving us the pure sciences--pure geometry henceforth contrasted with mere land surveying, morphology with mere anatomy, and so on; while instead of the mere concrete encyclopædia from Pliny or Gesner to Diderot or Chambers, vast subjective reorganisations of knowledge, philosophic systems, now appear. Similarly, the mere observations of the senses and their records in memory become transformed into the images of the poet, the imagery too of the artist, for art proper is only thus born. That mere imitation of nature, which so commonly in the graphic arts (though happily but rarely in music) has been mistaken for [Page: 84] art, thus modestly returns to its proper place--that of the iconography of descriptive science. Thus from the Schools of all kinds of knowledge, past and present, we pass into the no less varied Cloisters of contemplation, meditation, imagination. With the historian we might explore the Cloisters of the past, built at one time from the current ideals of the Good, at another of the True, at another of the Beautiful; indeed, in widely varying measures and proportions from all of these. How far each of these now expresses the present, how far it may yet serve the future, is obviously a question of questions, yet for that very reason one exceeding our present limits. Enough if in city life the historic place of what is here generalised under this antique name of Cloister be here recognised; and in some measure the actual need, the potential place be recognised also. Here is the need and use, beyond the fundamental claims of the material life of the Town, and the everyday sanity of the Schools, with all their observations and information, their commonsense and experience, their customs and conventions, even their morals and their law, for a deeper ethical insight than any rule or precedent can afford, for a fuller and freer intellectual outlook than that which has been derived from any technical experience or empiric skill, for an imagery which is no mere review of the phantasmagoria of the senses. In our age of the multiplication and expansion of towns, of their enrichment and their impoverishment, of the multiplication and enrichment of schools also, it is well for the sociologist to read from history, as he then may more fully see also around him that it is ever some fresh combination of these threefold products of the Cloister--ideal theory, and imagery--emotional, intellectual, sensuous--which transforms the thought-world of its time. The philosopher of old in his academic grove, his porch, the mediaeval monk within his studious cloister's pale, are thus more akin to the modern scientific thinker than he commonly realises--perhaps because he is still, for the most part, of the solitary individualism of the hermit of the Thebaid, of Diogenes in his tub. Assuredly, they are less removed in essential psychology than their derived fraternities, their [Page: 85] respective novices and scholars, have often thought. It is thus no mere play of language which hands on from the one to the other the "travail de Bénédictin," though even here the phrase is inadequate savouring too much of the school, into which each cloister of every sort declines sooner or later, unless even worse befall. The decay of the cloister, though thus on the one hand into and with the school, may also take place within itself, since imagination and ideal may be evil, and theory false. That examples of all these decays abound in the history of religion, of philosophy, of art also, is a commonplace needing no illustration. Nor should the modern investigator think his science or himself immune to the same or kindred germs in turn. K--THE CITY PROPER Now, "at long last," we are ready to enter the city proper. This is not merely the Town of place and work and folk, even were this at their economic best. It is not enough to add the School, even at its completest; nor the cloister, though with this a yet greater step towards the city proper is made. For though this is not itself the City, its ideals of human relations, its theory of the universe and man, its artistic expression and portrayal of all these, ever sooner or later react upon the general view and conduct of life. Hence the Academe of Plato and the Lyceum of Aristotle, the mediaeval cloister and the modern Research Institute, have been so fertile, so creative in their influence upon the city's life, from which they seemed to be retired. Hence it is ever some new combination of the threefold product of the cloister--ideal, idea, and image--which transforms the world, which opens each new epoch. Each new revelation and vision, each system of thought, each new outburst of poetry and song, has moved the men of its age by no mere mechanical pressure of economic need or external force, by no mere scholastic instruction, but in a far subtler way, and into new and unexpected groupings, as the [Page: 86] sand upon Chladon's vibrating plate leaps into a new figure with each thrill of the violinist's bow. Instead of simply developing our morals from custom, and therefore codifying them into law as in the school they are now boldly criticised, as in part if not in whole, hindrances to a better state of things. As this becomes more and more clearly formulated as an ideal, its ethic transcendence of convention and law not only becomes clear, but the desire for its realisation becomes expressed. This may be with all degrees of clearness of reason and vividness of imagery, yet may remain long or altogether in the plane of literature, as has Plato's Republic or More's Utopia--standard and characteristic types of the cloister library as we may call it, one of inestimable value to the world in the past, and perhaps in our time needed as much as ever to help us to see somewhat beyond the output of the busy presses of town and school. Yet our ideal, our "Civitas Dei," "Civitas Solis," need not remain unrealised: it may be not only seriously planned towards realisation, as was Platonopolis of old, but bravely founded, as has been done in cases without number, from the ancient world to modern communities, by no means wholly unsuccessful. Though in our great industrial towns, our long settled regions, such new departures seem less easy, the principle remains valid--that it is in our ideal of polity and citizenship, and in our power of realising this, that the city proper has its conception and its birth. Again, instead of simply deriving our thought from experience we now project our clarified thought into action and into education; so that from cloister of philosophy, and from its long novitiate of silence, there grows up the brotherhood of culture, the culture city itself. Similarly in art, we no longer imitate nature, nor copy traditional designs. Art proper appears, shaping bronze and marble into images of the gods, and on a burnt and ruined hill-fort renewing the Parthenon. In general terms, instead of simply adjusting, as in the school, our mental picture to the outward facts, we reverse the process; and with a new art conception, be it good or bad, we transform the outward world, like wax under the seal. Thus from the [Page: 88] cloister and chapel of the musician, the studio-cell of the artist, the scriptorium of the poet, comes forth the architect, remodelling the city around his supreme material expression and home of its moral and material reorganisation, its renewed temporal and spiritual powers. Of this, the city proper, the Acropolis of Athens, the Temple of Jerusalem, the Capitol and Forum of Rome are classic and central examples, and in the mediaeval city, pre-eminently the cathedral; though beside this we must not forget the town house and its belfry, the guild houses, the colleges, the great place, the fountains, the city cross, and if last, still best if good at all, the streets and courts and homes. Returning once more to the history of educational development, we have here a means of unravelling the apparently perplexing history of universities. For the university past or present has but its foundations in the school, with its local and its general tradition, whatever may be the accordance of these with well-ascertained fact, its true novitiate can only be afforded in the cloister of reflection and research, of interpretation and synthesis; while for its full development it needs the perpetual renewal of that generous social life--that inspiring intercourse "of picked adolescents and picked senescents"--which has marked the vital periods of every university worthy of the name. Realisation in ACROPOLIS } CATHEDRAL } CITY UNIVERSITY } (EU)-POLITY ^ | CULTURE | ^ Rise towards | Formulation | ART and Realisation, Rise through ^ through | { Politics { Action Rise to { Church Militant { Education expression ^ ^ ^ | | | | | | | | | | | "IMAGERY" | | AESTHETICS | | (Beautiful) SOCIAL. ECON. POL. "IDEAS" ^ SYNTHETICS | (True) "IDEALS" ETHICS (Good) Criticism, Selection, Re-synthesis, in HERMITAGE ACADEME CLOISTER, etc. In summary then, to the town has been added the school, with its advantages, its increasingly obvious limitations also, which it is for the cloister to remedy--even the advantages of the barrack finding a main element of its claim in this no less than in its professed training as regards citizenship. But here also it is for few to remain, albeit free for each to return at will. Ideals, to survive, must surely live, that is, be realised; hence for full life one needs "to meditate with the free solitary; yet to live secular, and serve mankind." TOWN | CITY FOLK | POLITY | WORK | CULTURE | PLACE | ART -----------------------------+-------------------------------- SURVEY | IMAGERY | KNOWLEDGE | IDEAS | MORALS | SOC. ECON. | IDEALS LAW | ETHICS SCHOOL | CLOISTER L--THE CITY COMPLIED: TOWN, SCHOOL, CLOISTER, AND CITY PROPER In course of this fourfold analysis, it is plain that we have reached the very converse--or at all events the [Page: 90] complement--of that geographical determinism with which we started, and that we have returned to a view corresponding to the popular one (of "People, Affairs, Places," p. 69), which we then set aside for the reasons given. The "great man theory" of history, at best less crudely stated, thus reappears; in short, to the initial thesis we have now the distinct antithesis. It is time, therefore, to bring these together towards the needed synthesis. Hence to the page (p. 77) on which was summarised the determinist view of Town and School, we now require the complemental statement upon page (p. 87) of Cloister and City proper. Nor must we be content, with too many controversialists hitherto, to keep in view only one at a time; but by folding back the pages of print between these two half-schemes, as the book lies open, to take in both together. We may thus finally compress the essentials of this whole paper into a simple formula-- TOWN | CITY | FOLK | POLITY | WORK | CULTURE | | ^ PLACE | | | ART -----------------|----|----|---------------------- LORE | | | IMAGERY v | | LEAR | IDEA | LOVE | IDEAL | SCHOOL | CLOISTER or most briefly-- | TOWN | CITY ^ | -------+--------- | v SCHOOL | CLOISTER | [Page: 91]--noting in every case the opposite direction of the arrows. The application of this formula to different types of town, such as those already indicated in the former instalment of this paper (Vol. I., p. 107) or in the present one, will not be found to present any insuperable difficulty. It must, however, be kept clearly in view that the city of each day and generation subsides or decays more or less completely into the mere town anew, as the cloister into the schools. The towns and cities of the world are thus classifiable in terms of their past development and present condition. Summary Condensing now this lengthy, yet compressed and abbreviated series of analyses into a single page of summary, we may briefly define the main aspects and departments of civics from the present point of view. First then, comes the study of civics as fundamentally (and ever anew) an orderly development--at once geographic, economic, and anthropologic in its nature--a survey of place, work, and folk--and these not merely or mainly as broken up into the fine dust of censuses and statistics, nor even of the three too separate sciences above named, but as a living unity, the human hive, the Town. Corresponding to this objective and organic life we reorganise its fundamental subjective life. This is fundamentally, and ever partially, the record and reflex of the life of the hive, the Town: of all its general and particular environment and function, its family type and development; and however overlaid by imported culture or by decayed ideals, it is fundamentally expressed in local knowledge, in craft tradition, in kinship and its associated kindness, in habits and customs, and their developments up to morals and laws. Simple terms corresponding to place, work, and folk, are hard to find; say, however, till better be suggested, that in close relation to the maternal arms in which general social thought and its utmost pedagogic developments alike begin, it is place-lore, work-lear, and folk-love, which are the essentials of every [Page: 92] School.[11] That existing educational machineries may not adequately recognise these is not of course the question here. [11] The use of _lore_ as primarily empirical, and derived from the senses, it is traditional; it is well therefore to restrict it to this, and to revive the old word _lear_, still understood in Scotland in these precise senses--intellectual, rational, yet traditional, occupational also. These three terms, lore, lear, and love are thus well related to their respectively deepening levels of sense, intelligence and feeling; and their respective relation is thus more plain to the imagery, the theory, and the idealism above defined as the essentials of the Cloister. The psychology of the processes of poetic, philosophic and spiritual awakening and renewal is in these days being approached anew, both from the individual and social side, but cannot here be entered upon. Finally and supremely arises the City proper--its individuality dependent upon the measure and form in which ideals are expressed and harmonised in social life and polity, ideas synthetised in culture, and beauty carried outwards from the study or chamber of the recluse into the world of art. Practical conclusion The investigation of the City thus tends towards the practice of citizenship. Thus social survey prepares for social service, as diagnosis towards treatment and hygiene; and these react fruitfully upon our knowledge and understanding anew. Beyond social observations, and the needed observatories for making them more adequately, we need social activities and the laboratories for preparing them, or at least the leavens of them; or, again, in happier phrase, at once simple and more synthetic, we need some shelter[12] into which to gather the best [Page: 93] seed of past flowerings and in which to raise and tend the seedlings of coming summers. We need definitely to acquire such a centre of survey and service in each and every city--in a word, a Civicentre for sociologist and citizen. [12] Without forgetting the many institutions and workers in almost all departments of the field of civics, the rise of definite surveys and of scientific groupings like this Society, without ignoring also the many admirable workers and institutions of social endeavour, and their progressive integration into Social Unions, Institutes of Service, and the like, I may be permitted to press for the need of uniting both types, the scientific and the practical, into a single one--a civic museum and active centre in one. Of this type, my own Outlook Tower at Edinburgh is, so far as I am aware, the earliest beginning; and, despite its rudimentary condition, may thus serve to suggest a type of institution which will be found of service alike to the sociologist and the citizen. M--THE HISTORIC CITY-COMPLEX The criticism may have already arisen in the reader's mind that the "Town" and "School" of our analysis are by no means so simple as we have assumed them. Our surveys of antique towns ever disclose the material survivals, at least the vestiges, of the cloister or the acropolis of the past, of its cathedral or its forum. The processes of our industries, in what is now their daily artisan routine, include, repeat, condense, what were yesterday or longer ago living inventions, each instinct with Promethean fire. The hackneyed ornament of our homes was once glowing with beauty, radiant or dark with symbolism. So it is for our everyday customs and institutions, and so for living languages; our own, perhaps, most of all. These, of course, are facts made familiar by investigators of all orders, from the scholar and antiquary of old, the historian and philologist of yesterday, to the geographer or the sociologist of our own time: witness Mr. Spencer's masterly treatment of their main results. How, then, shall we correlate this process of all things growing old with the analysis of cities above attempted? In other words, how shall we interpret the course of their historic evolution, their renewed growth and decay, progress and degeneracy, their present condition, crowded with residues of the past, with those potentialities which our outline discloses? This is the more necessary since this fourfold analysis applies in principle to all human groupings from the simplest village to the Eternal City. To this, indeed, we have in principle already traced it, onwards from our primitive valley section with its humble hamlets, its fundamental occupations. Returning then to our main diagram, with its four-fold analysis of the City so soon as we have completed this, and [Page: 94] carried its progress up to the level of city life proper, we must next turn over the leaf and begin a new page, with place and work and folk once more. This simplest of acts expresses with graphic significance the very process of history; for in closing our diagram page its "Cloister" has been folded down on the "School," our cathedral and forum, our "City" proper upon the "Town." Thus it is that the ideals and the achievements of one day and generation and city are ever melting away, and passing out of sight of the next; so that to the joy or sorrow of the successors the new page seems well nigh bare, though ever there comes faintly through some image or at least blurred suggestion of the fading past. Hence each page of history is a palimpsest. Hence our modern town, even when yesterday but prairie, was no mere vacant site, but was at once enriched and encumbered by the surviving traditions of the past; so that even its new buildings are for the most part but vacant shells of past art, of which now only the student cares to trace the objective annals, much less penetrate to the inner history. So for the decayed Renaissance learning of our schools, for the most part so literally dead since the "Grammarian's Funeral"; and so, too, for the unthinking routines, the dead customs and conventions, and largely too the laws and rituals of our urban lives. Hence, then, it is that for the arrest and the decay of cities we have no need to go for our examples to the ancient East. These processes, like those of individual senility and death, are going on everywhere day by day. Upon the new page, then, it is but a complexer "Town" and "School" anew: we have no continuing City. This too commonly has existed at its best but for the rare generation which created it, or little longer; though its historic glories, like those of sunset and of after-glow, may long shed radiance and glamour upon its town, and linger in the world's memory long after not only these have faded, but their very folk have vanished, their walls fallen, nay their very site been buried or forgotten. Upon all these degrees of dying, all these faint and fading steps between immortality and oblivion, we may arrange what we call our historic cities. Obviously in the [Page: 95] deeper and more living sense the city exists only in actualising itself; and thus to us it is that the ideal city lies ever in the future. Yet it is the very essence of this whole argument that an ideal city is latent in every town. Where shall we in these days find our cloistered retreats to think out such ideals as may be applicable in our time and circumstances: the needed kinetic ethics, the needed synthetic philosophy and science, the needed vision and imagery and expression of them all? N--THE EVILS OF THE CITY Disease, defect, vice and crime I have spoken little of town evils, and much of town ideals, primarily for the reason that even to recognise, much less treat, the abnormal, we must know something of the normal course of evolution. Hence, the old and useful phrase by which physiology used to be known, that of "the institutes of medicine." Sociology has thus to become "the institutes of citizenship." Often though philanthropists forget this, diagnosis should precede treatment. The evils of the city, by the very nature of our hypothesis, demand special survey, and this no less thoroughly than do the normal place and work and industry. It is only our most permanent intellectual impulse, that of seeking for unity, which excuses the cheap unitary explanations so often current; as, for instance, that social evils are mainly to be explained by intemperance, as for one school of reformers; by poverty or luxury, for a second and third; by Tammany or other form of party government, by socialism or by individualism for yet others; that they are due to dissent or to church, to ignorance or to the spread of science, and so on almost indefinitely--doubtless not without elements of truth in each! Yet let me offer as yet another explanation of civic evils, this more general one--distinguished from the preceding by including them all and more--that not only is our "Town" in itself imperfect, but the other three elements we have been characterising as school, cloister and city, are yet more imperfect, since disordered, decayed, or undeveloped anew. It is because of each and all of these imperfect realisations of our civic life, that the evils of life sink down, or flame out, into these complex eruptions of social evils with which our human aggregations are as yet cursed. Hence, to those who are struggling with disease and pain, with ignorance and defect, with vice, and with crime, but for the most part too separately, it is time to say that all these four evils are capable of being viewed together, and largely even treated together. They are not unrelated, but correspond each as the negative to that fourfold presentment of ideals we have hitherto been raising. To this ideal unity of healthy town, with its practical and scientific schools of all kinds, with its meditative cloister of ethical and social idealism, of unified science and philosophy, of imagination and drama, all culminating in the polity, culture, and art which make a city proper, we have here the corresponding defects in detail. The evils of existing city life are thus largely reinterpreted; and if so more efficiently combated; since the poverty, squalor and ugliness of our cities, their disease and their intemperance, their ignorance, dulness and mental defect, their vice and crime are thus capable not only of separate treatment but of an increasingly unified civic hygiene, and this in the widest sense, material and moral, economic and idealist, utilitarian and artistic. Even the most earnest and capable workers towards civic betterment in these many fields may gain at once in hope and in efficiency as they see their special interests and tasks converging into the conception of the city as an organic unity, and this not fixed and settled, nor even in process of progress or degeneration from causes beyond our ken, but as an orderly development which we may aid towards higher perfection, geographic and cultural alike. Our modern town is thus in a very real sense, one not hopeless, but as hopeful as may be, a veritable purgatory; that is a struggle of lower and higher idealisms, amid the respective expressions and outcomes of these. Indeed, in our own present [Page: 97] cities, as they have come to be, is not each of us ever finding his own Inferno, or it may be his Paradise? Does he not see the dark fate of some, the striving and rising hope of others, the redemption also? The supreme poetic utterance of the mediaeval world is thus in great measure, as each thoughtful reader sees, an expression of impassioned citizenship and this at one of the golden moments of the long history of city life. This expression--this exiled citizen's autobiographic thought-stream--is resumed at every level, from youthful home and local colour, from boyish love and hopes, from active citizenship and party struggle, to the transfiguration of all these. Hence these mystic visions, and these world ambitions, temporal and spiritual; hence this rise from cloistered faith and philosophy into many-sided culture; hence the transformation of all these through intensest symbol-visions into enduring song. Am I thus suggesting the _Divina Comedia_ as a guide-book to cities? Without doubt, though not necessarily for beginners. Yet who can see Florence without this, though we may pack below it Baedeker and Murray? Or who, that can really read, can open a volume of Mr. Booth's severely statistical Survey of London, with all its studious reserve, its scientific repression, without seeing between its lines the Dantean circles; happy if he can sometimes read them upward as well as down? O--A CIVIC SYMBOL AND ITS MEANING But such books of the city, whether of the new and observant type, from Baedeker to Booth, or of the old and interpretative Dantean one, are too vast and varied to keep open before us. Even the preceding open page of diagram is complex enough with its twofold, indeed four-fold city; and we are called back to our daily work in the first of these divisions, that of the everyday town. Since its subjective aspects of school and cloister may fade from memory, its higher aspect also, that of city proper, how can we retain this fourfold [Page: 98] analysis, and how test if it be true? Take then one final illustration; this time no mere logical skeleton, however simple or graphic, but an image more easily retained, because a concrete and artistic one, and moreover in terms of that form of life-labour and thought-notation--that of current coin--which, in our day especially, dominates this vastest of cities; and hence inherits for the region of its home and centre--"the Bank" which has so thoroughly taken precedence of the town-house and cathedral, of the fortress and palace--the honoured name of "City." The coinages of each time and place combine concrete and social use with statements of historic facts; and they add to both of these a wealth of emblematic suggestions: but that is to say, they express not only their town, and something of its _school_, but much of its thought also, its _cloister_ in my present terminology. So before me lies an old "bawbee" of my own home city. On one side stands the hammerman at his anvil, below him the motto of his guild, "_Non marte sed arte_." Here then the industrial "Town" and its "School" express themselves plainly enough, and precisely as they have been above defined. But on the other side spreads the imperial double eagle; since Perth _(Bertha aurea)_ had been the northmost of all Rome's provincial capitals, her re-named "Victoria" accordingly, as the mediaeval herald must proudly have remembered, so strengthened his associations with the Holy Roman Empire with something of that vague and shadowy historic dignity which the Scot was wont to value so much, and vaunt so high. On the eagle's breast is a shield, tressured like the royal standard, since Perth was the national capital until the "King's Tragedy" of 1457; but instead of the ruddy lion the shield bears the lamb with the banner of St. John, the city's saint. This side, too, has its motto, and one befitting an old capital of King and Commons, both in continual strife with the feudal nobles, "_Pro Rege, Lege, et Grege_." Here then, plain upon this apparent arbitrarily levised trifle, this petty provincial money-token, this poor bawbee, that is, this coin not only of the very humblest order, but proverbially sordid at that, we find clearly set down, long generations ago, the whole [Page:99] four-fold analysis and synthesis of civic life we have been above labouring for. For what makes the industrial Town, what can better keep it than strenuous industry at its anvil? How better express its craft school, its local style and skill, its reaction too upon the town's life in peace and war, than by this Hal o' the Wynd by his forge? Nay, what better symbol than this hammer, this primitive tool and ever typical one, of the peaceful education of experience, form Prometheus to Kelvin, of the warlike, from Thor to modern cannon-forge? Turning now from Town and School to Cloister, to the life of secluded peace and meditation--from which, however, the practical issues of life are ever renewed--what plainer symbol, yet what more historic or more mystic one can we ask than this of the lamb with the banner? While of the contrasted yet complemental civic life of fullest, broadest action, what expression like the Roman eagle--the very eyes of keenness, and the spreading wings of power? So rarely perfect then is this civic symbol, that I must not omit to mention that it has only come to my notice since the body of this paper, with its four-fold analysis of cities as above outlined, was essentially finished. Since it thus has not in any particular suggested the treatment of cities here advocated, it is the more interesting and encouraging as a confirmation of it. It is also to my mind plain that in this, as in many other of our apparent "advances in science," and doubtless those in social studies particularly, we are but learning to think things anew, long after our forefathers have lived them, even expressed them--and these in their ways no less clear and popular than can ever be ours. That we may also again live them is once more curiously expressed by the same symbol; for its re-appearance is due to its having been appropriately revived, in a fitting art form, that of the commemorative and prize medal of the local arts and crafts exhibition, held in the new Public Library, under civic auspices. Little scrutiny of this last sentence will be needed to see the four-fold completeness of the civic event which it describes. For just as we have seen on the old coin the hammerman [Page: 100] and his motto answer to the town and school; so now on its reissue to the renascent local arts and crafts, with their commemoration in this library. And as the greater motto, that of widest policy, corresponds to the cloister of reflection and resolve, so we note that this new impulse to civic betterment is associated with the new library--no mere school-house of memory, but also the open cloister of our day. Finally, note that this impulse is no longer merely one of aesthetic purpose, of "art for art's sake," nor its execution that of a cultured minority merely; it announces a re-union of this culture and art with the civic polity. What fitter occasion, then, for the striking of a medal, than this renewal of civic life, with municipal organisation and polity, art and culture, renascent in unison. That such events are nowadays far from exceptional is so true that we are in danger of losing sight of their significance. Yet it is amid such city developments that the future Pericles must arise. We thus see that our analysis is no mere structural one, made post-mortem from civic history; but that it applies to the modern functioning of everyday life in an everyday city, so soon as this becomes touched anew towards cultural issues. Furthermore, it is thus plain that civic life not only has long ago anticipated and embodied our theories of it, but once more outruns them, expressing them far better than in words--in life and practice. In this way the reader who may most resent these unfamiliar methods of exposition, alternately by abstract diagram or concrete illustration--which may seem to him too remote from ordinary life and experience, perhaps too trivial--may now test the present theory of the city, or amend it, by means of the ample illustrations of the processes and results of social life which are provided by his daily newspaper, and these on well-nigh all its fields and levels. Note finally that it is the eagle and lamb of temporal and spiritual idealism that form the "head" of this coin, the craftsman and anvil but the modest "tail." The application is obvious. Thus even numismatics revives from amid the fossil [Page: 100] sciences. For from this to our own common coinage, or notably to that of France, America, Switzerland, etc., the transition is easy, and still better to that of the noblest civic past, both classic and mediaeval. Without pursuing this further here my present point is gained, if we see, even in the everyday local details of work and people, the enduring stamp, the inextinguishable promise, of the flowering of our everyday industries and schools into worthier ideals than they at present express, and of the fruition of these in turn upon nobler heights of life and practice. It expresses the essential truth of the popular view of the city; that in terms of the formula--People ... Affairs ... Places--above referred to (page 69). It also explains the persistent vitality of this view, despite its frequent crudity, and lack of order in detail, in face of the more scientific treatment here at first employed, that in the elementary geographic order--Place ... Work ... People. For though this objective order be fundamental, it is the complementary subjective evolution which throughout history has ever become supreme; so that our scheme must combine the outward geographic presentment with the inward psychological one. This may be graphically expressed by changing the order of presentment from that used hitherto:-- Town | City City | Town -------------------- to ---------------------- School | Cloister Cloister | School P--FORECAST OF CITY DEVELOPMENT. SPECIAL AND GENERAL The dual and four-fold development of the city, as above sketched, is by no means far advanced in most of our present towns or cities, which have obviously but scanty expression of the ideas shadowed forth for the modern equivalents of cloister and cathedral, of academe and acropolis. But this is to say that such towns, however large, populous and rich according to conventional economic standards, are to that extent small and poor, indeed too often little better than cities by courtesy. Yet their further development, upon this [Page: 102] four-fold view of civic evolution, though in principle the same for each and all, has always been, and let us hope may always be, in large measure an individual (because regional) one. For if each human individuality be unique, how much more must that of every city? In one concrete case, that of Dunfermline, I have already submitted definite suggestions towards the realisation of the civic Utopia, and even architectural designs towards its execution,[13] so that these may at any rate suffice to show how local study and adaptive design are needed for each individual city, indeed for every point of it. It is thus, and thus only, that we can hope to have a city development truly evolutionary, that is, one utilising the local features, advantages, and possibilities of place, occupation, and people. Of course, it is needful to supplement these by the example of other cities; but it is no less needful to avoid weighting down the local life with replicas of institutions, however excellent elsewhere, if really irregional here. With the re-awakening of regional life in our various centres, and of some comprehension of its conditions among our rulers, they will cease to establish, say, a school of mines in Piccadilly, or again one of engineering and the like in South Kensington. The magistrates of Edinburgh have long abandoned their old attempt to plant mulberries and naturalise silk culture upon their wind-swept Calton Hill; albeit this was a comparatively rational endeavour, since a population of Huguenot refugee silk weavers had actually come upon their hands. [13] Cf. the writer's "City Development," Edinburgh and Westminster, 1904. Similarly, it is plain that we must develop Oxford as Oxford, Edinburgh as Edinburgh, and so on with all other cities, great or small--York or Winchester, Westminster or London. And so with Chelsea or Hampstead, with Woolwich or Battersea. Has not the last of these grown from a mere outlying vestry, like so many others, into a centre of genuine vitality and interior progress, indeed of ever-widening interest and example; and all this in half a generation, apparently through the sagacious leadership--say, rather the devoted, the [Page: 103] impassioned citizenship--of a single man? And does not his popular park at times come near giving us a vital indication of the needed modern analogue of cathedral and forum? Civic development is thus no mere external matter, either of "Haussmannising" its streets, or of machine-educating its people; the true progress of the city and its citizenship must alike grow and flower from within albeit alive and open to every truly fertilising impulse from without. Yet since national interests, international industry, commerce, science, and therefore progress are nowadays and increasingly so largely one, may we not in conclusion foresee something at least of the great lines of development which are common to cities, and generalise these as we are accustomed to do in history? Witness the Classical, Mediaeval, and Renaissance types to which historic cities preponderatingly belong, and within which we group their varied individualities, as after all of comparative detail. Here then it is time to recall the presentment of ancient, recent and contemporary evolution already outlined in the part of this paper previously read (Vol. I, p. 109), dealing with the historic survey of cities. We have now to face the question, then postponed, indeed left in interrogation-marks--that of seeking not indeed sharply to define the future order of things, yet in some measure to discern such elements of progress as may be already incipient in the existing order, if not yet largely manifest there. Such elements may be reasonably expected to grow in the near future, perhaps increasingly, and whatever be their rate of growth are surely worthy of our attention. Contemporary science, with its retrospective inquiries into origins in the past, its everyday observation of the present, is apt practically to overlook that the highest criterion and achievement of science is not to decipher the past, nor record the present, not even to interpret both. It is to foresee: only thus can it subserve action, of which the present task ever lies towards the future, since it is for this that we have to provide. Why then should not Comte's famous aphorism--"_Voir pour prévoir, prévoir pour pourvoir_," become applicable in our civic studies no less than in the general social and political fields to [Page: 104] which he applied it? In navigation or engineering, in agriculture or hygiene, prevision and provision alike are ever increasing; yet these are no mere combinations of the preliminary sciences and the fundamental occupations, but obviously contain very large social elements. It is proverbially safe to prophesy when one knows; and it is but this safe prediction which we make every day of child or bud, where we can hardly fail to see the growing man, the coming flower. Yet do not most people practically forget that even now, in mid-winter, next summer's leaves are already waiting, nay, that they were conceived nine months ago? That they thus grow in small, commonly unnoticed beginnings, and lie in bud for a period twice as long as the summer of their adult and manifest life, is yet a fact, and one to which the social analogies are many and worth considering. While recognising, then, the immense importance of the historic element of our heritage, renaissance and mediaeval, classic and earlier; recognising also the predominance of contemporary forces and ideas, industrial and liberal, imperial and bureaucratic, financial and journalistic, can we not seek also, hidden under all these leaves, for those of the still-but-developing bud, which next season must be so much more important than they are to day? It is a commonplace, yet mainly of educational meetings, to note that the next generation is now at school; but how seldom do we recognise its pioneers, albeit already among our own contemporaries? At any rate we may see here and there that their leaven is already at work. In this respect, cities greatly differ--one is far more initiative than another. In the previous paper (vol. I, p. 109), we saw how individuals, edifices, institutions, might represent all past phases; these, therefore, often predominate in different cities sufficiently to give its essential stamp. Why then should we not make a further survey and seek to see something of the cities of the future; though we may have to look for these in quarters where at first sight there may seem as yet scanty promise of flower? [Page: 105] To recall an instance employed above, probably every member of this Society is old enough to remember incredulous questionings of whether any good thing could come out of Battersea. Again, how few, even in America, much less than in Europe, a few years ago, forsaw the rapid growth of those culture-elements in St. Louis, of which the recent World-Exposition will not have been the only outcome? Only a few years earlier, it was Chicago which, for New England no less than for the Old World, seemed but the byword of a hopelessly materialised community. So Birmingham or Glasgow has won its present high position among cities in comparatively recent times; so it may now be the turn of older cities, once far more eminent, like Newcastle or Dundee, to overtake and in turn, perhaps, outstrip them. But all this is still too general and needs further definition; let us attempt this, therefore, somewhat more fully, in the concrete case of Glasgow. Q--GLASGOW AS TYPICAL OF CIVIC TRANSITION--FROM "PALEOTECHNIC" TO "NEOTECHNIC" My own appreciation of the significance of Glasgow was first really awakened over twenty years ago by William Morris, who in his vivid way pointed out to me how, despite the traditional culture--superiority of Edinburgh, Glasgow was not only the Scottish capital, but, in his view, in real progressiveness the leading and initiative city of the whole United Kingdom. And this for him was not merely or mainly in its municipal enterprise, then merely in its infancy--although he expressed this development in the phrase "In London, people talked socialism without living it; but in Glasgow, they were socialists without knowing it!" Despite all the ugliness which had so repelled Ruskin, the squalor which moved Matthew Arnold to the fiercest scorn in all his writings, Morris's appreciation arose from his craftsman's knowledge and respect for supreme craftsmanship. The great ships building upon the Clyde were for him "the greatest achievement of [Page: 106] humanity since the days of the cathedral-builders," nay, for him actually surpassing these, since calling forth an even more complex combination and "co-operation of all the material arts and sciences" into a mighty and organic whole; and correspondingly of all their respective workers also, this being for him of the very essence of his social ideal. For these reasons he insisted, to my then surprise that the social reorganisation he then so ardently hoped for "was coming faster upon the Clyde than upon the Thames": he explained as for him the one main reason for his then discouragement as to the progress of London that there East and West, North and South, are not only too remote each from the other, but in their occupations all much too specialised--there to finance, there to manufactures, or here to leisure, and so on; while on the Clyde industrial organisation and social progress could not but develop together, through the very nature of the essential and working unity of the ship. Since Morris's day, a local art movement, of which he knew little, has risen to eminence, a foreign critic would say to pre-eminence, in this country at least. Since Ruskin's savage response to a Glasgow invitation to lecture--"first burn your city, and cleanse your river,"--a new generation of architects and hygienists have not a little transformed the one, and vigorous measures have been taken towards the purification of the other. That the city and university pre-eminently associated with the invention of the steam-engine, and consequently with the advent of the industrial revolution throughout the world, should, a century later, have produced a scarcely less pre-eminent leader of applied science towards the command of electricity is thus no isolated coincidence. And as political economy, which is ever the theory corresponding to our phase of industrial practice, and there some of its foremost pioneers, and later its classical exponent, Adam Smith himself, so once more there are signs at least of a corresponding wave of theoretic progress. Students of primitive civilisation and industry have now long familiarised us with their reinterpretation of what was long known as the stone age, into two very distinct [Page: 107] periods, the earlier characterised by few and rough implements, roughly used by a rude people, the second by more varied tools, of better shape, and finer edge, often of exquisite material and polish. We know that these were wielded more skilfully, by a people of higher type, better bred and better nourished; and that these, albeit of less hunting and militant life, but of pacific agricultural skill, prevailed in every way in the struggle for existence; thanks thus not only to more advanced arts, but probably above all to the higher status of woman. This distinction of Paleolithic and Neolithic ages and men, has long passed into the terminology of sociological science, and even into current speech: is it too much then, similarly, to focus the largely analogous progress which is so observable in what we have been wont to generalise too crudely as the modern Industrial Age? All are agreed that the discoveries and inventions of this extraordinary period of history constitute an epoch of material advance only paralleled, if at all, in magnitude and significance by those of prehistory with its shadowy Promethean figures. Our own advance from a lower industrial civilisation towards a higher thus no less demands definite characterisation, and this may be broadly expressed as from an earlier or _Paleotechnic_ phase, towards a later or more advanced _Neotechnic_ one. If definition be needed, this may be broadly given as from a comparatively crude and wasteful technic age, characterised by coal, steam, and cheap machine products, and a corresponding _quantitative_ ideal of "progress of wealth and population"--towards a finer civilisation, characterised by the wider command, yet greater economy of natural energies, by the predominance of electricity, and by the increasing victory of an ideal of qualitative progress, expressed in terms of skill and art, of hygiene and education, of social polity, etc. The Neotechnic phase, though itself as yet far from completely replacing the paleotechnic order which is still quantitatively predominant in most of our cities, begins itself to show signs of a higher stage of progress, as in the co-ordination of the many industries required for the building of a ship, or in the yet more recent developments which begin to renew for us the conception of the worthy construction of a city. As [Page: 108] the former period may be characterised by the predominance of the relatively unskilled workman and of the skilled, so this next incipient age by the development of the chief workman proper, the literal _architectos_ or architect; and by his companion the rustic improver, gardener and forester, farmer, irrigator, and their correspondingly evolving types of civil engineer. To this phase then the term _Geotechnic_ may fairly be applied. Into its corresponding theoretic and ideal developments we need not here enter, beyond noting that these are similarly of synthetic character; on the concrete side the sciences unifying as geography, and on their more abstract side as the classification and philosophy of the sciences,--while both abstract and concrete movements of thought are becoming more and more thoroughly evolutionary in character. But evolutionary theories, especially as they rise towards comprehensiveness, cannot permanently content themselves with origins, or with classifications merely, nor with concentrating on nature rather than on man. Nature furnishes after all but the stage for evolution in its highest terms; of this man himself is the hero; so that thus our Geotechnic phase, Synthetic age (call it what we will) in its turn gives birth to a further advance--that concerned with human evolution, above all subordinating all things to him; whereas in all these preceding industrial phases, even if decreasingly, "things are in the saddle and ride mankind." This age, now definitely evolutionist in policy, as the geotechnic was in theory and in environment we may term the _Eugenic_. For its theory, still less advanced, the term _Eupsychic_ may complete our proposed nomenclature. Thus then our conception of the opening future may be increasingly defined, since all these apparently predicted phases are already incipient among us, and are thus really matters of observed fact, of social embryology let us say; in short, of city development. In summary, then, the diagram of the former instalment of this paper (vol. 1, p. 109) ANCIENT || Primitive | Matriarchal | Patriarchal || RECENT || Greek and Roman | Mediaeval | Renaissance || CONTEMPORARY || Revolution | Empire | Finance || INCIPIENT ? ? ? [Page: 109] has thus its interrogations filled up. Omitting the left-hand half, that generalised as Ancient and Recent in the above diagram, so as to give more space to the Contemporary and Incipient phases, these now stand as follows:-- CONTEMPORARY || INCIPIENT Revolution | Revolution | Empire ||Neotechnic | Geotechnic | Eugenic To elaborate this farther would, of course, exceed my present limits; but I may be permitted to say that long use of this schematic outline, especially of course in more developed forms, has satisfied me of its usefulness alike in the study of current events and in the practical work of education and city betterment. I venture then to recommend it to others as worth trial. R--A PRACTICAL PROPOSAL--A CIVIC EXHIBITION How shall we more fully correlate our theoretic civics, i.e., our observations of cities interpreted as above, with our moral ideas and our practical policy--i.e., our Applied Civics. Our ideals have to be selected, our ideas defined, our plans matured; and the whole of these applied; that is realised, in polity, in culture, and in art. But if this be indeed the due correlation of civic survey and civic service, how may we now best promote the diffusion and the advancement of both? At this stage therefore, I venture to submit to the Society a practical proposal for its consideration and discussion; and if approved, I would fain hope for its recommendation to towns and cities, to organisations and to the public likely to be interested. Here then is my proposal. Is not the time ripe for bringing together the movements of Civics and Eugenics, now here and indeed everywhere plainly nascent, and of setting these before the public of this country in some such large and concrete ways, as indeed, in the latter subject at least, have been so strongly desiderated by Mr. Galton? As regards Civics, such have been afforded to America during the summer of 1904 by the Municipal Section of the St. Louis Exhibition; in [Page: 110] Dresden also, at the recent Towns Exhibition; and by kindred Exhibitions and Congresses in Paris and elsewhere. All these have taken form since the Paris Exposition of 1900, with its important section of social economy and its many relevant special congresses. Among these may be specially mentioned here as of popular interest, and civic stimulus, the _Congres de L'Art Public_; the more since this also held an important Exhibition, to which many Continental cities sent instructive exhibits. Other exhibitions might be mentioned; so that the fact appears that in well-nigh every important and progressive country, save our own, the great questions of civics have already been fully opened, and vividly brought before their public, by these great contemporary museums with their associated congresses. With our present Chairman, the Rt. Hon. Charles Booth, with Canon Barnett, Mr. Horsfall, and so many other eminent civic workers among us; with our committee and its most organising of secretaries, might not a real impulse be given in this way by this Society towards civic education and action? Let me furthermore recall the two facts; first, that in every important exhibition which has been held in this country or abroad, no exhibits have been more instructive and more popular than have been (1) the picturesque reconstructions of ancient cities, and the presentment of their city life, and (2) the corresponding surveys of the present conditions of town life, and of the resources and means of bettering them. Even as a show then, I venture to submit that such a "Towneries" might readily be arranged to excel in interest, and surpass in usefulness, the excellent "Fisheries," "Healtheries", and other successful exhibitions in the record and recent memory of London. The advantages of such an exhibition are indeed too numerous for even an outline here; but they may be easily thought out more and more fully. Indeed, I purposely abstain for the present from more concrete suggestion; for the discussion of its elements, methods, plans, and scale will be found to raise the whole range of civic questions, and to set these in freshening lights. [Page: 111] At this time of social transition, when we all more or less feel the melting away of old divisions and parties, of old barriers of sects and schools, and the emergence of new possibilities, the continual appearance of new groupings of thought and action, such a Civic Exhibition would surely be specially valuable. In the interest, then, of the incipient renascence of civic progress, I plead for a Civic Exhibition.[14] [14] Since the preceding paper was read, it is encouraging to note the practical beginnings of a movement towards a civic exhibition, appropriately arising, like so many other valuable contributions to civic betterment, from Toynbee Hall. The Cottages Exhibition initiated by Mr. St. Loe Strachey at Garden City, and of course also that admirable scheme itself, must also be mentioned as importance forces in the directions of progress and propaganda advocated above. Of such an exhibition, the very catalogue would be in principle that _Encyclopædia Civica_, into which, in the previous instalment of this paper (vol. I, p. 118) I have sought to group the literature of civics. We should thus pass before us, in artistic expression, and therefore in universal appeal, the historic drama of the great civic past, the mingled present, the phantasmagoria and the tragi comedy of both of these. We should then know more of the ideals potential for the future, and, it may be, help onward some of the Eutopias which are already struggling towards birth. DISCUSSION The Chairman (THE RT. HON. CHARLES BOOTH) said: I feel always the inspiring character of Professor Geddes' addresses. He seems to widen and deepen the point of view, and to widen and deepen one's own ideas, and enables us to hold them more firmly and better than one can do without the aid of the kind of insight Professor Geddes has given into the methods of his own mind. I believe that we all hold our conceptions by some sort of tenure. I am afraid I hold mine by columns and statistics much underlined--a horrible prosaic sort of arrangement on ruled paper. I remember a lady of my acquaintance who had a place for everything. The discovery of America was in the left-hand corner; the Papacy was in the middle; and for everything she had some local habitation in an imaginary world. Professor Geddes is far more ingenious than that, and it is most interesting and instructive and helpful to follow these charming diagrams which spring evidently from the method he himself uses in holding and forming his conceptions. That it is of the utmost value to have large conceptions there can be no doubt--large conceptions both in time and place, large conceptions of all those various ideas to which he has called our attention. By some means or other we have to have them; and having got them, every individual, single fact has redoubled value. We put it in its place. So I hope that in our discussion, while we may develop each in his own way, the mental methods we pursue, we may bring forward anything that strikes us as germane, as a practical point of application to the life of the world, and especially anything having an application to the life of London. I would make my contribution to that with regard to a scheme that has been explained to me by its originator, Mrs. Barnett, the wife of Canon Barnett of Toynbee Hall. The idea concerns an open [Page: 113] space which has recently been secured in Hampstead. It is known to you all that a certain piece of ground belonging to the trustees of Eton College has been secured, which extends the open space of Hampstead Heath in such a way as to protect a great amount of beauty. The further proposal is to acquire an estate surrounding that open space which has now been secured for ever to the people, and to use this extension to make what is called a "garden suburb." It is a following out of the "garden-city" idea which is seizing hold of all our minds, and it seems to me an exceedingly practical adaptation of that idea. Where it comes in, in connection with the address we have just heard, is that the root idea is that it shall bring together all the good elements of civic life. It is not to be for one class, or one idea, but for all classes, and all ideas--a mixed population with all its needs thought for and provided for; and above everything, the beauty of those fields and those hills is not to be sacrificed, but to be used for the good of the suburb and the good of London. I hope that out of it will come an example that will be followed. That is a little contribution I wish to make to the discussion to-day, and if I can interest any one here in forwarding it, I shall be exceedingly glad. MR. SWINNY said: Towards the close of his lecture, Professor Geddes remarked that the cities of America inherited a great part of their civilisation from Greece and Rome and the Europe of the Middle Age. I believe that thought will lead us to consider the point whether this geographical survey should precede or follow a general historical survey. Now, if we consider that a river valley in England, with the towns in that valley, are part of the English nation, and that the English nation has shared in the general historical evolution of Western Europe, it would seem that the first simplification the question allows of is: What is there in the historical development of that city that is common to the whole of Western Europe, and what is peculiar to its position as an English city? And the second simplification that the problem allows of is to consider what part of the evolution of a particular city is due to its peculiar position in that river valley? So that it seems necessary first to get a general idea of the historical evolution of England and the West; and then you can proceed to consider what is due to the part played by the city in that evolution. Thus you have to consider not so much the city as a result of its immediate environment, but the effect of its environment in modifying the general course of civilisation as it affected that city. DR. J.L. TAYLER, [Page: 114] referring to Professor Geddes' remarks on the working craftsman and the thinking craftsman, said he believed that in a country like England, where the prevailing tendencies of thought and action were of an essentially practical nature, many people who now felt contempt for higher mental ideals would alter their views, if this idea of the _causal_ relationship between thinkers and workers could be driven home. If business men and women could be made to realise that in the higher regions of pure science there were always to be found some thinkers who belonged to the same craft or trade as they themselves, they would naturally tend to rely on these thinkers when dealing with problems that necessitate a wide mental outlook. Moreover, the thought that students of great mental powers studied the objects with which working craftsmen were in daily contact, could not fail to deepen, refine and purify their more practical and, in some respects, grosser aims; while the knowledge that every science-study had an industrial as well as a scientific aspect would make the thinking craftsmen more alive to the needs of everyday existence. Such conceptions, if spread through all classes of our community, would inevitably change the feeling of distrust of learning into one of healthful enthusiasm, and give in addition a unity and direction to our various life pursuits which might in time generate a true modern national spirit; for it is precisely this divorce of mental and physical, of theoretical and practical, class and individual effort--which such a thinking and working craft theory would rectify--that destroys our efficiency by creating an unreal chasm between refined and unrefined, learned and unlearned, where there should be only a progressive evolution from the lower to the higher, from the immediate practical to the ultimate ideal. THE REV. DR. AVELING said: There was one point that the lecturer made which, I think, might be a fit and fruitful subject for discussion. He said that we were the product of the city. To a great extent that is undoubtedly true; but on the other hand, he advocated an improvement in the conditions of environment, to be brought about by our own endeavours. Therefore, the city can be shaped and made by us. What, then, is the exact value to be given to the seemingly contradictory doctrines that the individual is the product of the city and also that the city is the product of the citizen? The establishing of some fixed relation between--or the adjusting of the relations of--these two causes of social progress would be, I think, interesting to the philosopher, and useful to the economist. The problem is [Page: 115] without doubt a difficult one, but its solution would be of great value. I do not venture to offer any answer to the question I raise--I merely state it. MR. A.W. STILL said: We have been passing through a period in which the city has created a type of man so wholly absorbed in the promotion of his own individual interests that he tends almost entirely to forget the social obligations which ought to make the greatest appeal to him. We may take some hope from what Professor Geddes has said, that the time is coming when we shall bring the force of our own characters to bear on our environment, and endeavour to break away from conditions which have made us the slaves of environment. I know the lovely little garden city of Bourneville intimately, and some of the experiments in other quarters. But in the common expansion of cities, I have seen that as the people get away from one set of slums, they are creating new areas which will become as degraded and abominable as those which are left behind. It has always seemed to me that there is room for good work by some committee, or some body of men, who would be voluntary guardians of the city's well-being, who would make it their business to acquire all that knowledge which Professor Geddes has just put before us in terms so enchanting, and would use all the ability that they possess in order to lead the minds of the community towards the cultivation of the best and highest ideals in civic life. I do not think it need be regarded as impossible that, from an association of this kind, such a movement as I have mentioned should spring. I conceive the possibility of each group developing into a trust, capable of acting in the interests of the city in years to come, exercising a mighty influence, being relied upon for guidance, and administering great funds for the common good. If we could get in each of our populous centres a dozen thoroughly intelligent broad-minded men, capable of watching all the streams of tendency--all the developments of civic life, bringing their judgment to bear on its progress, and urging the public to move in the right direction, a great service might be rendered. At least once a year, these little groups of men might meet together at some general conference, and, by the exchange of their opinions and by the mutual helpfulness of intellectual intercourse, raise up and perfect civic ideals which would be a boon to this country. We suffer at present, I think, from the too great particularisation of our efforts. We get one man devoting himself exclusively to a blind asylum, another seeming to take no interest in anything but a deaf-and-dumb institute or the like, and yet another devoting himself to charity organisation. It is all excellent work, but the difficulty is to get broad, comprehensive views taken of the common good. To reduce poverty and to check physical degeneracy, there must be an effort continuously made to [Page: 116] raise the tone of the environment in which we live. The home and the city need to be made wholesome and beautiful, and the people need to be encouraged to enlarge their minds by contact with nature, and by the study of all that is elevating and that increases the sum of social responsibility. MR. E.S. WEYMOUTH said: He found it somewhat difficult to see what was to be the practical outcome of civics if studied in the way proposed. Would Professor Geddes consider it the duty of any Londoner, who wished to study sociology practically, to map out London, and also the surrounding districts, with special reference to the Thames River Basin, as appeared to be suggested in both Professor Geddes' papers? Looking at civics in its practical or ethical aspect, he was bound to confess that, though he had acquired a tolerable knowledge of the geography of the Thames Basin, he did not feel it helped him materially towards becoming a better citizen of London. Would Professor Geddes wish them to study, first, London with its wealth side by side with its squalor and filth, and then proceed to study another large town, where the same phenomena presented themselves? What gain would there be in that proportionate to the labour entailed? In his own case, so disheartened had he felt by observing that all their efforts, public and private, for the improvement of their civic conditions seemed to end in raising considerably the rents of the ground landlords of London, while leaving the bulk of the population engaged in a hard struggle for their existence, that he had for years past found it difficult to take much interest in municipal affairs, so long as the rates and taxes were--as it seemed to him--put upon the wrong shoulders. And for the study of civics, he had preferred to turn to those cities where efforts were being made to establish communal life on what seemed to him juster conditions. In 1897, he was struck with the title of an article in the "Daily Telegraph." It was headed, "The Land of Beauty, Society without Poverty, Life without Care." He found the article was a description of Durban in Natal. The writer attributed the prosperity of this town to the fact that the suburbs were kept in the hands of the community, instead of being handed over to private owners who would absorb all the unearned increment. Even if this eulogium betrayed exaggeration still a student of civics might feel that the economic conditions of that town were worth studying. Similarly, in New Zealand, the adoption in 1891 of the tax on land values brought prosperity to the towns, and changed the tide of emigration from New Zealand into immigration. Again, at home they had Bourneville, Port Sunlight, and that most interesting of all present-day experiments in this country, the Garden City, all of these being founded by men with ideals. He could not help feeling [Page: 117] that a student of civics, possessed of such a fair working knowledge of the city he lived in as most of them might reasonably lay claim to, would make more real progress by studying the success or failure of social experiments, than by entering on the very formidable task that seemed to be set before them by Professor Geddes. However, when they left abstract civics, as they had it portrayed to them in these papers, and turned to the architectural or the historical side of concrete civics, there should be no better guide than Professor Geddes, whose labours in Edinburgh, and whose projected schemes for the improvement of Dunfermline, were becoming widely known. MR. TOMKINS (_of the London Trades Council_) said: If before any person was allowed to serve on our different public bodies, he should be required to attend a course of lectures such as those given by Professor Geddes on civics, that would surely be a means of developing his social interests, and would tend to eliminate that self-interest which too often actuated public men. There was nothing more difficult than for workmen to-day to be able to take larger views. The workman's whole business was now so different from what is was in the days of the arts and crafts guilds of the Middle Ages; they now found him ground down into some little division of industry, and it was quite impossible for him to work in his own way. Thus he got narrow-minded, because concentrated on some minor process. He was kept at work with his nose to the mill the whole time, and it became too exhausting for him to try and take these larger views of life. He often thought of the amount of talent and energy and practical beauty which was wasted in our workshops to-day. Referring to the Garden Cities of this country and the United States, Mr. Tomkins said the idea of getting great Trusts to use their money in a social spirit, and not merely to get the workers tied to their mills, was really something which opened out a vista of grand possibilities in the future; but if any movement was to be successful it would be necessary to teach the great masses of workers, and to create a real sound social public opinion amongst them. PROFESSOR GEDDES' reply Professor Geddes, in replying to the discussion, said he entirely agreed with the point made by Mr. Swinny, and he should just like to correct what he had said in his lecture by reference to what he meant by a civic museum. In Edinburgh, he had in his museum a large room, with a geographical model [Page: 118] of the old town with its hill-fort, and so on; and he hung round this maps and diagrams of historical and geographical details. On the opposite side of the room, he had a symbol of the market-cross, which stood for the centre of its municipal life, of its ideals and independence of environment. Around it was grouped what represented the other side of the city; and here he might answer another point, and say that they could never settle the great philosophical controversy of determinism and free-will. They would always incline when young to the novel of circumstance, and later, to the novel of character, but they should always feel that life was a game of individual skill with interfering circumstances. These diagrams of his were only the page split. On the one side, he meant to push to the extreme the idea that the place makes us, and on the other side, that we make the place. By what process do men struggle towards the selection of their ideals? They find themselves within the grasp of their environment, their whole heritage of culture, of good and ill, the whole tradition of the past; but they must select certain elements of these--the elements that seem to them good, and so they might escape from the manner of the city. Pointing to a drawing of the old Scotch bawbee, Professor Geddes said it was not a very dignified symbol of the coinage of the world, but let them mark how it had on the one side the hammerman at his work, with his motto "_Beat deus artem_," and, on the other side, a larger legend, with the eagle of the empire and the lamb of Saint John. To return to his civic museum: the room below the one he had described was the larger museum for Scotland, and in the room below that, again, the museum for England, Ireland and America, the whole English-speaking world--not the Empire only. And the whole stood on a museum and library representing that larger evolution of the occidental civilisation which showed them they were merely children of the past. Professor Geddes pleaded for museums in which every city displayed its own past and present, but related itself to the whole of Europe and the whole occident. One or two practical questions of great importance had [Page: 119] been raised; but, with all respect, he submitted that they could consider what was practical and practicable without requiring to go into the question of taxing land. That was a matter of political opinion. It was as if they were discussing the geology of coal, which they could do, without reference to coal royalties. Mr. Weymouth was with them on the subject of preserving old buildings; and he thought there was a great deal to be learned, if Mr. Weymouth would descend the valley of the Thames once more. It was of great importance if he found a great city at the tidal limit. Going down the Thames and the Tay, they would find, at the last ford of one, the old Abbey of Westminster, and at the last ford of the other, the old Abbey of Scoon. The kings of England and Scotland were crowned there because these were the most important places--a point of great historic interest. As a matter of practical interest, he might mention that Scoon and Westminster alike passed out of supreme importance when bridges were built across the river below; and he would next point out how just as Perth became of subordinate importance when the great Tay Bridge was built, so it became a tremendously important question to London, as it might in turn be much affected by the making of a great and a new bridge much further down the stream. This study of the descending river had real and practical, as well as historical importance. He had been about considerably in the great cities of the United States, and had been struck by the amount of good endeavour there. It was not, however, by denouncing Tammany that they could beat it, but by understanding it. They must understand the mechanism by which the Celtic chieftain ruled his clan, and they must deal with these methods by still other methods; and they might often find it more satisfactory to re-moralise the chieftain than to destroy him. Professor Geddes concluded by saying that he appreciated the admirable suggestion of Mr. Still towards the evolution of civic unions. He was sure Mr. Still had there an idea of great significance which might be developed. 
61119	----	DANGEROUS QUARRY BY JIM HARMON One little village couldn't have a monopoly on all the bad breaks in the world. They did, though! [Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] They say automation makes jobs, especially if "they" are trying to keep their own job of selling automation machines. I know the Actuarvac made one purple passion of a job for me, the unpleasantly fatal results of which are still lingering with me. Thad McCain, my boss at Manhattan-Universal Insurance, beamed over the sprawling automatic brain's silver gauges and plastic toggles as proudly as if he had just personally gave birth to it. "This will simplify your job to the point of a pleasant diversion, Madison." "Are you going to keep paying me for staying with my little hobby?" I asked, suspiciously eyeing my chrome competitor. "The Actuarvac poses no threat to your career. It will merely keep you from flying off on wild-goose chases. It will unvaryingly separate from the vast body of legitimate claims the phony ones they try to spike us for. Then all that remains is for you to gather the accessory details, the evidence to jail our erring customers." "Fine," I said. I didn't bother to inform him that that was all my job had ever been. McCain shuffled his cards. They were cards for the machine, listing new individual claims on company policies. Since the two-month-old machine was literate and could read typewriting, the cards weren't coded or punched. He read the top one. "Now this, for instance. No adjuster need investigate this accident. The circumstances obviously are such that no false claim could be filed. Of course, the brain will make an unfailing analysis of all the factors involved and clear the claim automatically and officially." McCain threaded the single card into the slot for an example to me. He then flicked the switch and we stood there watching the monster ruminate thoughtfully. It finally rang a bell and spit the card back at Manhattan-Universal's top junior vice-president. He took it like a man. "That's what the machine is for," he said philosophically. "To detect human error. Hmm. What kind of a shove do you get out of this?" He handed me the rejected claim card. I took it, finding a new, neatly typed notation on it. It said: Investigate the Ozark village of Granite City. "You want me to project it in a movie theater and see how it stands it all alone in the dark?" I asked. "Just circle up the wagon train and see how the Indians fall," McCain said anxiously. "It's too general. What does the nickel-brained machine mean by investigating a whole town? I don't know if it has crooked politics, a polygamy colony or a hideout for supposedly deported gangsters. I don't care much either. It's not my business. How could a whole town be filing false life and accident claims?" "Find that out," he said. "I trust the machine. There have been cases of mass collusion before. Until you get back, we are making no more settlements with that settlement." * * * * * Research. To a writer that generally means legally permissible plagiarism. For an insurance adjuster, it means earnest work. Before I headed for the hills, or the Ozark Mountains, I walked a few hundred feet down the hall and into the manual record files. The brain abstracted from empirical data but before I planed out to Granite City I had to find the basis for a few practical, nasty suspicions. Four hours of flipping switches and looking at microfilm projections while a tawny redhead in a triangular fronted uniform carried me reels to order gave me only two ideas. Neither was very original. The one that concerned business was that the whole village of Granite City must be accident-prone. I rejected that one almost immediately. While an accident-prone was in himself a statistical anomaly, the idea of a whole town of them gathered together stretched the fabric of reality to the point where even an invisible re-weaver couldn't help it. There was an explanation for the recent rise in the accident rate down there. The rock quarry there had gone into high-level operation. I knew why from the floor, walls, ceiling border, table trimmings in the records room. They were all granite. The boom in granite for interior and exterior decoration eclipsed earlier periods of oak, plastics, wrought iron and baked clay completely. The distinctive grade of granite from Granite City was being put into use all over the planet and in the Officer's Clubs on the Moon and Mars. Yet the rise in accident, compared to the rise in production, was out of all proportion. Furthermore, the work at the quarry could hardly explain the excessive accident reports we had had from the village as far back as our records went. We had paid off on most of the claims since they seemed irrefutably genuine. All were complete with eye-witness reports and authenticated circumstances. There was one odd note in the melodic scheme: We had never had a claim for any kind of automobile accident from Granite City. I shut off the projector. It may be best to keep an open mind, but I have found in practice that you have to have some kind of working theory which you must proceed to prove is either right or wrong. Tentatively, I decided that for generations the citizens of Granite City had been in an organized conspiracy to defraud Manhattan-Universal and its predecessors of hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of dollars in false accident claims. Maybe they made their whole livelihood off us before the quarry opened up. I used my pocket innercom and had my secretary get me a plane reservation and a gun. After so many profitable decades, Granite City wasn't going to take kindly to my spoil-sport interference. * * * * * The Absinthe Flight to Springfield was jolly and relatively fast. Despite headwinds we managed Mach 1.6 most of the way. My particular stewardess was a blonde, majoring in Video Psychotherapy in her night courses. I didn't have much time to get acquainted or more than hear the outline of her thesis on the guilt purgings effected by The Life and Legend of Gary Cooper. The paunchy businessman in the next lounge was already nibbling the ear of his red-haired hostess. He was the type of razorback who took the girls for granted and aimed to get his money's worth. I gave Helen, the blonde, a kiss on the cheek and began flipping through the facsimiles in my briefcase as we chute-braked for a landing at the Greater Ozarks. It took me a full five minutes to find out that I couldn't take a copter to Granite City. Something about downdrafts in the mountains. Since that put me back in the days of horsepower, I trotted over to the automobile rental and hired a few hundred of them under the hood of a Rolls. That was about the only brand of car that fit me. I hadn't been able to get my legs into any other foreign car since I was fifteen, and I have steadfastly refused to enter an American model since they all sold out their birthrights as passenger cars and went over to the tractor-trailer combinations they used only for cargo trucks when I was a boy. Dragging around thirty feet of car is sheer nonsense, even for prestige. It was a tiresome fifty-mile drive, on manual all the way after I left the radar-channel area of the city. Up and down, slowing for curves, flipping into second for the hills. The whole trip hardly seemed worth it when I saw the cluster of painted frame buildings that was Granite City. They looked like a tumble of dingy building blocks tossed in front of a rolled-up indigo sports shirt. That was Granite Mountain in the near foreground. But I remembered that over the course of some forty years the people in these few little stacks of lumber had taken Manhattan-Universal for three quarters of a megabuck. I turned off onto the gravel road, spraying my fenders with a hail of a racket. Then I stepped down hard on my brakes, bracing myself to keep from going through the windscreen. I had almost sideswiped an old man sitting at the side of the road, huddled in his dusty rags. "Are you okay?" I yelled, thumbing down the window. "I've suffered no harm at your hands--or your wheels, sir. But I could use some help," the old man said. "Could I trouble you for a lift when you leave town?" I wasn't too sure about that. Most of these guys who are on the hobo circuit talking like they owned some letters to their names besides their initials belonged to some cult or other. I try to be as tolerant as I can, and some of my best friends are thugs, but I don't want to drive with them down lonely mountain roads. "We'll see what we can work out," I said. "Right now can you tell me where I can find Marshal Thompson?" "I can," he said. "But you will have to walk there." "Okay. It shouldn't be much of a walk in Granite City." "It's the house at the end of the street." "It is," I said. "Why shouldn't I drive up there? The street's open." The old man stared at me with red-shot eyes. "Marshal Thompson doesn't like people to run automobiles on the streets of Granite City." "So I'll just _lock_ the car up and walk over there. I couldn't go getting tire tracks all over your clean streets." The old man watched as I climbed down and locked up the Rolls. "You would probably get killed if you did run the car here, you know," he said conversationally. "Well," I said, "I'll be getting along." I tried to walk sideways so I could keep an eye on him. "Come back," he said, as if he had doubts. * * * * * The signs of a menacing conspiracy were growing stronger, I felt. I had my automatic inside my shirt, but I decided I might need a less lethal means of expression. Without breaking stride, I scooped up a baseball-size hunk of bluish rock from the road and slipped it into my small change pocket. I have made smarter moves in my time. * * * * * As I approached the house at the end of the lane, I saw it was about the worse construction job I had seen in my life. It looked as architecturally secure as a four-year-old's drawing of his home. The angles were measurably out of line. Around every nail head were two nails bent out of shape and hammered down, and a couple of dozen welts in the siding where the hammer had missed any nail. The paint job was spotty and streaked. Half the panes in the windows were cracked. I fought down the dust in my nose, afraid of the consequences of a sneeze to the place. My toe scuffed the top porch step and I nearly crashed face first into the front door. I had been too busy looking at the house, I decided. I knocked. Moments later, the door opened. The lean-faced man who greeted me had his cheeks crisscrossed with razor nicks and his shirt on wrong side out. But his eyes were bright and sparrow alert. "Are you Mr. Marshal Thompson, the agent for Manhattan-Universal Insurance?" I put to him. "I'm _the_ marshal, name of Thompson. But you ain't the first to take my title for my Christian name. You from the company?" "Yes," I said. "Were you expecting me?" Thompson nodded. "For forty-one years." * * * * * Thompson served the coffee in the chipped cups, favoring only slightly his burned fingers. Catching the direction of my glance, he said, "Company is worth a few scalds, Mr. Madison." I accepted the steaming cup and somehow it very nearly slipped out of my hands. I made a last microsecond retrieve. The marshal nodded thoughtfully. "You're new here." "First time," I said, sipping coffee. It was awful. He must have made a mistake and put salt into it instead of sugar. "You think the claims I've been filing for my people are false?" "The home office has some suspicions of that," I admitted. "I don't blame them, but they ain't. Look, the company gambles on luck, doesn't it?" "No. It works on percentages calculated from past experience." "But I mean it knows that there will be, say, a hundred fatal car crashes in a day. But it doesn't know if maybe ninety of them will be in Iowa and only ten in the rest of the country." "There's something to that. We call it probability, not luck." "Well, probability says that more accidents are going to occur in Granite City than anywhere else in the country, per capita." I shook my head at Thompson. "That's not probability. Theoretically, anything can happen but I don't--I can't--believe that in this town everybody has chanced to be an accident prone. Some other factor is operating. You are all deliberately faking these falls and fires--" "We're not," Thompson snapped. "Or else something is causing you to have this trouble. Maybe the whole town is a bunch of dope addicts. Maybe you grow your own mescalin or marijuana; it's happened before." Thompson laughed. "Whatever is going on, I'm going to find it out. I don't care what you do, but if I can find a greater risk here and prove it, the Commission will let us up our rates for this town. Probably beyond the capacity of these people, I'm afraid." "That would be a real tragedy, Mr. Madison. Insurance is vital to this town. Nobody could survive a year here without insurance. People pay me for their premiums before they pay their grocery bills." I shrugged, sorrier than I could let on. "I won't be able to pay for my own groceries, marshal, if I don't do the kind of job the company expects. I'm going to snoop around." "All right," he said grudgingly, "but you'll have to do it on foot." "Yes, I understood you didn't like cars on your streets. At least not the cars of outsiders." "That doesn't have anything to do with it. Nobody in Granite City owns a car. It would be suicide for anybody to drive a car, same as it would be to have a gas or oil stove, instead of coal, or to own a bathtub." I took a deep breath. "Showers," Thompson said. "With nonskid mats and handrails." I shook hands with him. "You've been a great help." "Four o'clock," he said. "Roads are treacherous at night." "There's always a dawn." Thompson met my eyes. "That's not quite how we look at it here." II The quarry was a mess. I couldn't see any in the way they sliced the granite out of the mountain. The idea of a four-year-old--a four-year-old moron--going after a mound of raspberry ice cream kept turning up in my mind as I walked around. The workmen were gone; it was after five local time. But here and there I saw traces of them. Some of them were sandwich wrappers and cigarette stubs, but most of the traces were smears of blood. Blood streaked across sharp rocks, blood oozing from beneath heavy rocks, blood smeared on the handles and working surfaces of sledge hammers and tools. The place was as gory as a battlefield. "What are you looking for, bud?" The low, level snarl had come from a burly character in a syn-leather jacket and narrow-brimmed Stetson. "The reason you have so many accidents here," I said frankly. "I'm from the insurance company. Name's Madison." "Yeah, I know." I had supposed he would. "I'm Kelvin, the foreman here," the big man told me, extending a ham of a fist to be shook. "Outside, doing my Army time, I noticed that most people don't have as many slipups as we do here. Never could figure it out." "This rock is part of it--" "What do you mean by that!" Kelvin demanded savagely. "I mean the way you work it. No system to it. No stratification, no plateau work..." "Listen, Madison, don't talk about what you don't know anything about. The stuff in these walls isn't just rock; it isn't even plain granite. Granite City exports some of the finest grade of the stone in the world. And it's used all over the world. We aren't just a bunch of meatheaded ditch diggers--we are craftsmen. We have to figure a different way of getting out every piece of stone." "It's too bad." "What's too bad?" "That you chose the wrong way so often," I said. Kelvin breathed a virile grade of tobacco into my face. "Listen, Madison, we have been working this quarry for generations, sometimes more of us working than other times. Today most of us are working getting the stone out. That's the way we like it. We don't want any outsider coming in and interfering with that." "If this quarry has anything to do with defrauding Manhattan-Universal, I can tell you that I will do something about that!" As soon as my teeth clicked back together, the sickening feeling hit me that I shouldn't have said that. * * * * * The general store was called a supermarket, but it wasn't particularly superior. I took a seat at the soda fountain and took a beer, politely declining the teen-age clerk's offer of a shot of white lightning from the Pepsi-Cola fountain syrup jug for a quarter. Behind me were three restaurant tables and one solitary red-upholstered booth. Two men somewhere between forty and sixty sat at the nearest table playing twenty-one. Over the foam of my stein I saw the old man I had almost run down in the road. He marched through the two-thirds of the building composed of rows of can goods and approached the fat man at the cash register. "Hello, Professor," the fat man said. "What can we do for you?" "I'd like to mail a letter," he said in an urgent voice. "Sure, Professor, I'll send it right off on the facsimile machine as soon as I get a free moment." "You're sure you can send it? Right away?" "Positive. Ten cents, Professor." The professor fumbled in his pants' pocket and fished out a dime. He fingered it thoughtfully. "I suppose the letter can wait," he said resignedly. "I believe I will buy a pair of doughnuts, Mr. Haskel." "Why not get a hamburger, Professor? Special sale today. Only a dime. And since you're such a good customer I'll throw in a cup of coffee and the two sinkers for nothing." "That's--kind of you," the old man said awkwardly. Haskel shrugged. "A man has to eat." The man called "the professor" came over and sat down two stools away, ignoring me. The clerk dialed his hamburger and served it. I stayed with my beer and my thoughts. More and more, I was coming to believe that Granite City wasn't a job for an investigative adjuster like myself but a psychological adjuster. Crime is a structural flaw in a community, yes. But when the whole society is criminal, distorted, you can't isolate the flaw. The whole village was meat for a sociologist; let him figure out why otherwise decent citizens felt secure in conspiracy to defraud an honored corporation. I didn't feel that I was licked or that the trip had been a failure. I had merely established to my intuitive satisfaction that the job was not in my field. I glanced at the old man. The proprietor of the store knew him and evidently thought him harmless enough to feed. "I think I can make it down the mountain before dark, Old Timer," I called over to him. "You can come along if you like." The acne-faced kid behind the counter stared at me. I looked over and caught the bright little eyes of Haskel, the proprietor, too. Finally, the old professor turned on his stool, his face pale and his eyes sad and resigned. "I doubt very much if either of us will be leaving, Mr. Madison," he said. "Now." * * * * * I took my beer and the professor his coffee over to the single booth. We looked at each other across the shiny table and our beverage containers. "I am Doctor Arnold Parnell of Duke University," the professor said. "I left on my sabbatical five months ago. I have been here ever since." I looked at his clothes. "You must not have been very well fixed for a year's vacation, Professor." "I," he said, "have enough traveler's checks with me to paper a washroom. Nobody in this town will cash them for me." "I can understand why you want to go somewhere where people are more trusting in that case." "They know the checks are good. It's _me_ they refuse to trust to leave this place. They think they _can't_ let me go." "I don't see any shackles on you," I remarked. "Just because you can't see them," he growled, "doesn't mean they aren't there. Marshal Thompson has the only telephone in the village. He has politely refused to let me use it. I'm a suspicious and undesirable character; he's under no obligation to give me telephone privileges, he says. Haskel has the Post Office concession--the Telefax outfit behind the money box over there. He takes my letters but I never see him send them off. And I never get a reply." "Unfriendly of them," I said conservatively. "But how can they stop you from packing your dental floss and cutting out?" "Haskel has the only motor vehicle in town--a half-ton pick-up, a minuscule contrivance less than the size of a passenger car. He makes about one trip a week down into the city for supplies and package mail. He's been the only one in or out of Granite City for five months." It seemed incredible--more than that, unlikely, to me. "How about the granite itself? How do they ship it out?" "It's an artificial demand product, like diamonds," Professor Parnell said. "They stockpile it and once a year the executive offices for the company back in Nashville runs in a portable monorail railroad up the side of the mountain to take it out. That won't be for another four months, as nearly as I can find out. I may not last that long." "How are you living?" I asked. "If they won't take your checks--" "I do odd jobs for people. They feed me, give me a little money sometimes." "I can see why you want to ride out with me," I said. "Haven't you ever thought of just _walking_ out?" "Fifty miles down a steep mountain road? I'm an old man, Mr. Madison, and I've gotten even older since I came to Granite City." I nodded. "You have any papers, any identification, to back this up?" Wordlessly, he handed over his billfold, letters, enough identification to have satisfied Allen Pinkerton or John Edgar Hoover. "Okay," I drawled. "I'll accept your story for the moment. Now answer me the big query: Why are the good people of Granite City doing this to you? By any chance, you wouldn't happen to know of a mass fraud they are perpetrating on Manhattan-Universal?" "I know nothing of their ethical standards," Parnell said, "but I do know that they are absolutely _subhuman_!" "I admit I have met likelier groups of human beings in my time." "No, understand me. These people are literally subhuman--they are inferior to other human beings." "Look, I know the Klan is a growing organization but I can't go along with you." "Madison, understand me, I insist. Ethnologically speaking, it is well known that certain tribes suffer certain deficiencies due to diet, climate, et cetera. Some can't run, sing, use mathematics. The people of Granite City have the most unusual deficency on record, I admit. Their _psionic_ senses have been impaired. They are completely devoid of any use of telepathy, precognition, telekinesis." * * * * * "Because they aren't supermen, that doesn't mean that they are submen," I protested. "I don't have any psionic abilities either." "But you do!" Parnell said earnestly. "Everybody has some psionics ability, but we don't realize it. We don't have the fabulous abilities of a few recorded cases of supermen, but we have some, a trace. Granite City citizens have _no_ psionic ability whatsoever, not even the little that you and I and the rest of the world have!" "You said you were Duke University, didn't you?" I mused. "Maybe you know what you are talking about; I've never been sure. But these people can't suffer very much from their lack of what you call psi ability." "I tell you they do," he said hoarsely. "We never realize it but we all have some power of precognition. If we didn't, we would have a hundred accidents a day--just as these people _do_. They can't foresee the bump in the road the way we can, or that that particular match will flare a little higher and burn their fingers. There are other things, as well. You'll find it is almost impossible to carry on a lengthy conversation with any of them--they have no telepathic ability, no matter how slight, to see through the semantic barrier. None of them can play ball. They don't have the unconscious psionic ability to influence the ball in flight. All of us can do that, even if the case of a 'Poltergeist' who can lift objects is rare." "Professor, you mean these people are holding you here simply so you won't go out and tell the rest of the world that they are submen?" "They don't want the world to know _why_ they are psionically subnormal," he said crisply. "It's the _granite_! I don't understand why myself. I'm not a physicist or a biologist. But for some reason the heavy concentration and particular pattern of the radioactive radiation in its matrix is responsible for both inhibiting the genes that transmit psi powers from generation to generation _and_ affecting those abilities in the present generation. A kind of psionic sterility." "How do you know this?" "We haven't the time for all that. But think about it. What else _could_ it be? It's that granite that they are shipping all over the world, spreading the contamination. I want to stop that contamination. To the people of Granite City that means ruining their only industry, putting them all out of work. They are used to this psionic sterility; they don't see anything so bad about it. Besides, like everybody else, they have some doubts that there really are such things as telepathy and the rest to be affected." "Frankly," I said, hedging only a little, "I don't know what to make of your story. This is something to be decided by somebody infallible--like the Pope or the President or Board Chairman of Manhattan-Universal. But the first thing to do is get you out of here. We had better get back to my car. I've got good lights to get down the mountain." Parnell jumped up eagerly, and brushed over his china mug, staining the tabletop with brown caffeine. "Sorry," he said. "I should have been precognizant of that. I try to stay away from the rock as much as possible, but it's getting to me." I should have remembered something then. But, naturally, I didn't. * * * * * It was the time when you could argue about whether it was twilight or night. In the deep dusk, the Rolls looked to be a horror-flicker giant bug. I fumbled for the keys. Then the old man made me break stride by digging narrow fingers into my bicep. Marshal Thompson and the bulky quarry foreman, Kelvin, stepped out of the shadow of the car. "First, throw away that gun of yours, Mr. Madison," the marshal said. I looked at his old pistol that must have used old powder cartridges, instead of liquid propellants, and forked out my Smith & Wesson with two fingers, letting it plop at my feet. "I'm afraid we can't let you spread the professor's lies, Mr. Madison," Thompson said. "You planning on killing me?" I asked with admirable restraint. "I hope not. You can have the run of the town, like the professor. I'll tell your company you are making a _thorough_ investigation. Then maybe in a few weeks or months I can arrange so it looks like you were killed--someplace outside." "We don't aim to let any crazy fanatic like Parnell ruin our business, our whole town," Kelvin interjected bitterly. I took a pause to make abstractions on the situation. I glanced at the little man at my right. "Parnell, my car is our only chance of getting out of here. If they stop us from getting in that car, we'll be bums here on town charity for the rest of our lives." "_No!_" Parnell gave a terrier yell and charged the gun in the old marshal's hand. It seemed as if it would take me too long to recover my gun from the dirt, but almost instinctively I felt the rock in the pocket of my pants. I scooped out the sample of granite and heaved it at the head of the old cop. But my control seemed completely shot. It missed the old man's head with an appalling gap and hit the roof of the Rolls. Fortunately, the granite radiations didn't influence non-human-oriented factors of chance. The stone bounced off the car and struck the marshal's gun hand. Thompson dropped his gun and I reached for mine in the dust, vaguely aware of Kelvin pumping toward me. I straightened up. He led with his right, of all damn things. I blocked it with my gun hand and let him have my left in the midst of his solar plexus. He crumpled prettier than a paper doll. When the dust cleared, Professor Parnell was sitting on Thompson's chest. "Hooray," I said, "for our side." * * * * * The people had made one mistake. They thought people would believe us. Parnell and I broke the story to some newspaper friends of mine. They gave it a play in the mistaken belief the professor and I were starting our own cult, and the equal-time law is firm. But nobody paid any more attention to us than to the Hedonists, the Klan, the Soft-shelled Baptists or the Reformed Agnostics. I tried to get Thad McCain to realize all the money this cursed granite was costing us in accident claims, but it wasn't easy. Manhattan-Universal owned stock in Granite City Products, Inc. And we had spent a quarter of a megabuck modernizing our offices with granite only months before. "McCain," I said earnestly, "will you just let me feed the new data we've got from Parnell into the Actuarvac? It's infallible. See what it says." "Very well," McCain said with a sigh. He let me feed the big brain the hypothesis I had got from Parnell. It chattered to itself for some minutes and at last flipped a card into the slot. I dug the pasteboard out and read it. It said: No such place as Granite City exists. "The rock has got to the machine," I screamed. "Chief, this brain is stoned. It's made a _mistake_. We _know_ there is such a place." "Nonsense, my boy," McCain said in a fatherly way. "The Actuarvac merely means that no such place as you erroneously described could possibly exist. Why don't you try one of our Hedonist revival meetings tonight?" * * * * * Things have got steadily worse since then. So far nobody has made the big mistake of dropping an H-bomb on anyone, but that's probably because all the governments made so many smaller mistakes the people made the mistake (or was it?) of kicking them out for almost absolute anarchy. But the individuals are doing worse than the governments...if that's possible. People have given up going anywhere except by foot, for the most part. Granite City granite is still as widely disbursed and almost as highly prized as South African diamonds. I hope we will find some way out of our current world crisis, although I can't imagine what it will be. Meanwhile, I hope you will excuse any typographical errors. It seems as if I just can't seem to hit the right keys on my typewriter any more, as my--and all of our--psionic sterility increases. I ask hugh--wear wall it owl end? 
7992	----	BETTER HOMES IN AMERICA Plan Book _for Demonstration Week October 9 to 14, 1922_ THE WHITE HOUSE WASHINGTON July 21, 1922. My dear Mrs. Meloney: I am directed by the President to assure you of his earnest endorsement of the Better Homes Campaign which has been launched by the Advisory Council and is being carried on by representative women of America. He regards the campaign as of particular importance, because it places emphasis not only upon home ownership, which he regards as absolutely elemental in the development of the best citizenship, but upon furnishing, sanitation and equipment of the home. The President feels that as many millions of dollars and the best minds of this generation have been devoted to improve factory conditions, the home is deserving of its share of the same intensive consideration. There are twenty millions of house-keepers in America. For them, the home is their industrial center as well as their place of abode, and it is felt that altogether too little attention has been paid to lightening the labors and bettering the working conditions of these women. The President feels that the women, who are so successfully conducting this campaign are entitled to all consideration and recognition, and he hopes that every community in America will exhibit a model home. Your sincerely, Secretary to the President. Mrs. W. B. Meloney, Sec'y., Advisory Council for Better Homes Campaign, 223 Spring Street, New York City, N. Y. BETTER HOMES DEMONSTRATION WEEK Advisory Council CALVIN COOLIDGE _Vice-President of the United States_ HERBERT HOOVER _Secretary of Commerce_ HENRY C. WALLACE _Secretary of Agriculture_ JAMES JOHN DAVIS _Secretary of Labor_ Dr. HUGH S. CUMMING _Surgeon-General United States Public Health Service_ Dr. JOHN JAMES TIGERT _U. S. Commissioner of Education_ C. W. PUGSLEY _Assistant Secretary of Agriculture_ JOHN M. GRIES _Director Division of Building and Housing, Dept. of Commerce_ JULIUS H. BARNES _President Chamber of Commerce of the United States_ JOHN IHLDER _Director Housing Conditions, Chamber of Commerce of the United States_ DONN BARBER _Fellow American Institute of Architects_ JOHN BARTON PAYNE _Chairman Central Committee American Red Cross_ LIVINGSTON FARRAND _Chairman National Health Council_ Mrs. THOMAS G. WINTER _President General Federation of Women's Clubs_ MRS. LENA LAKE FORREST _President National Federation of Business and Professional Women's Clubs_ * * * * * Bureau of Information, THE DELINEATOR, 223 Spring Street IN AMERICA--October Ninth to Fourteenth Co-operating Governors ALASKA SCOTT C. BONE, _Governor_ ARIZONA THOS. E. CAMPBELL, _Governor_ ARKANSAS T. C. McRAE, _Governor_ COLORADO O. H. SHOUP, _Governor_ FLORIDA CARY A. HARDEE, _Governor_ IDAHO D. W. DAVIS, _Governor_ INDIANA W. T. McCRAY, _Governor_ KANSAS HENRY J. ALLEN, _Governor_ KENTUCKY E. P. MORROW, _Governor_ MARYLAND A. C. RITCHIE, _Governor_ MASSACHUSETTS C. H. COX, _Governor_ MISSISSIPPI LEE M. RUSSELL, _Governor_ MISSOURI A. M. HYDE, _Governor_ NEBRASKA S. R. McKELVlE, _Governor_ NEVADA E. D. BOYLE, _Governor_ OHIO H. L. DAVIS, _Governor_ OREGON B. W. OLCOTT, _Governor_ PENNSYLVANIA W. C. SPROUL, _Governor_ SOUTH CAROLINA WILSON G. HARVEY, _Governor_ SOUTH DAKOTA W. H. McMASTER, _Governor_ TENNESSEE ALFRED A. TAYLOR, _Governor_ UTAH CHAS. R. MABEY, _Governor_ VERMONT JAMES HARTNESS, _Governor_ VIRGINIA E. L. TRINKLE, _Governor_ WYOMING ROBERT D. CAREY, _Governor_ * * * * * New York City Secretary, Mrs. William Brown Meloney _Better Homes_ _By_ CALVIN COOLIDGE We spend too much time in longing for the things that are far off and too little in the enjoyment of the things that are near at hand. We live too much in dreams and too little in realities. We cherish too many impossible projects of setting worlds in order, which are bound to fail. We consider too little plans for putting our own households in order, which might easily be made to succeed. A large part of our seeming ills would be dispelled if we could but turn from the visionary to the practical. We need the influence of vision, we need the inspiring power of ideals, but all these are worthless unless they can be translated into positive actions. The world has been through a great spiritual and moral awakening in these last few years. There are those who fear that this may all be dissipated. It will be unless it can be turned into something actual. In our own country conditions have developed which make this more than ever easy of accomplishment. It ought to be expressed not merely in official and public deeds, but in personal and private actions. It must come through a realization that the great things of life are not reserved for the enjoyment of a few, but are within the reach of all. There are two shrines at which mankind has always worshipped, must always worship: the altar which represents religion, and the hearthstone which represents the home. These are the product of fixed beliefs and fixed modes of living. They have not grown up by accident; they are the means, deliberate, mature, sanctified, by which the human race, in harmony with its own great nature, is developed and perfected. They are at once the source and the result of the inborn longing for what is completed, for what has that finality and security required to give to society the necessary element of stability. The genius of America has long been directed to the construction of great highways and railroads, the erection of massive buildings for the promotion of trade and the transaction of public business. It has supplied hospitals, institutions of learning and places of religious worship. All of these are worthy of the great effort and the sustained purpose which alone has made them possible. They contribute to the general welfare of all the people, but they are all too detached, too remote; they do not make the necessary contribution of a feeling of proprietorship and ownership. They do not complete the circuit. They are for the people, but not of the people. They do not satisfy that longing which exists in every human breast to be able to say: "This is mine." We believe in American institutions. We believe that they are justified by the light of reason, and by the result of experience. We believe in the right of self-government. We believe in the protection of the personal rights of life and liberty and the enjoyment of the rewards of industry. We believe in the right to acquire, to hold, and transmit property. We believe in all that which is represented under the general designation of a republic. But while we hold that these principles are sound we do not claim that they have yet become fully established. We do not claim that our institutions are yet perfected. It is of little avail to assert that there is an inherent right to own property unless there is an open opportunity that this right may be enjoyed in a fair degree by all. That which is referred to in such critical terms as capitalism cannot prevail unless it is adapted to the general requirements. Unless it be of the people it will cease to have a place under our institutions, even as slavery ceased. It is time to demonstrate more effectively that property is of the people. It is time to transfer some of the approbation and effort that has gone into the building of public works to the building, ornamenting, and owning of private homes by the people at large--attractive, worthy, permanent homes. Society rests on the home. It is the foundation of our institutions. Around it are gathered all the cherished memories of childhood, the accomplishments of maturity, and the consolations of age. So long as a people hold the home sacred they will be in the possession of a strength of character which it will be impossible to destroy. Apparently the world at large, certainly our own country, is turning more and more for guidance to that wisdom born of affection which we call the intuition of woman. Her first thought is always of the home. Her first care is for its provision. As our laws and customs are improved by her influence, it is likely to be first in the direction of greater facility for acquiring, and greater security in holding a home. Some of the fine enthusiasm which was developed by the required sacrifices of war may well find a new expression in turning towards the making of the home. It is the final answer to every challenge of the soundness of the fundamental principles of our institutions. It holds the assurance and prospect of contentment and of satisfaction. Under present conditions any ambition of America to become a nation of home owners would be by no means impossible of fulfillment. The land is available, the materials are at hand, the necessary accumulation of credit exists, the courage, the endurance and the sacrifice of the people are not wanting. Let them begin, however slender their means, the building and perfecting of the national character by the building and adorning of a home which shall be worthy of the habitation of an American family, calm in the assurance that "the gods send thread for a web begun." Here will be found that satisfaction which comes from possession and achievement. Here is the opportunity to express the soul in art. Here is the Sacred influence, here in the earth at our feet, around the hearthstone, which raises man to his true estate. (Signed) Calvin Coolidge THE HOME AS AN INVESTMENT By HERBERT HOOVER One can always safely judge of the character of a nation by its homes. For it is mainly through the hope of enjoying the ownership of a home that the latent energy of any citizenry is called forth. This universal yearning for better homes and the larger security, independence and freedom that they imply, was the aspiration that carried our pioneers westward. Since the preemption acts passed early in the last century, the United States, in its land laws, has recognized and put a premium upon this great incentive. It has stimulated the building of rural homes through the wide distribution of land under the Homestead Acts and by the distribution of credit through the Farm Loan Banks. Indeed, this desire for home ownership has, without question, stimulated more people to purposeful saving than any other factor. Saving, in the abstract, is, of course, a perfunctory process as compared with purposeful saving for a home, the possession of which may change the very physical, mental, and moral fibre of one's own children. Now, in the main because of the diversion of our economic strength from permanent construction to manufacturing of consumable commodities during and after the war, we are short about a million homes. In cities such a shortage implies the challenge of congestion. It means that in practically every American city of more than 200,000, from 20 to 30 per cent, of the population is adversely affected, and that thousands of families are forced into unsanitary and dangerous quarters. This condition, in turn, means a large increase in rents, a throw-back in human efficiency and that unrest which inevitably results from inhibition of the primal instinct in us all for home ownership. It makes for nomads and vagrants. In rural areas it means aggravation and increase of farm tenantry on one hand, an increase of landlordism on the other hand, and general disturbance to the prosperity and contentment of rural life. There is no incentive to thrift like the ownership of property. The man who owns his own home has a happy sense of security. He will invest his hard earned savings to improve the house he owns. He will develop it and defend it. No man ever worked for, or fought for a boarding-house. But the appalling anomaly of a nation as prosperous as ours thwarted largely in its common yearning for better homes, is now giving way to the gratifying revival of home construction. Accordingly the time is ripe for this revival to afford an opportunity to our people to look to more homes and better ones, to better, more economical and more uniform building codes, and to universal establishment and application of zoning rules that make for the development of better towns and cities. We have the productive capacity wasted annually in the United States sufficient to raise in large measure the housing conditions of our entire people to the level that only fifty per cent, of them now enjoy. We have wastes in the building industry itself which, if constructively applied, would go a long way toward supplying better homes, so that what is needed imperatively is organized intelligence and direction. For the problem is essentially one of ways and means. And, finally, while we are about Better Homes for America and are lending such indirect support to the movement as the Government, States, counties, communities, and patriotic individuals and organizations can rightfully give, let us have in mind not houses merely, but homes! There is a large distinction. It may have been a typesetter who confounded the two words. For, curiously, with all our American ingenuity and resourcefulness, we have overlooked the laundry and the kitchen, and thrown the bulk of our efforts in directions other than those designed to make better homes by adding to the facilities of our very habitations. If, in other words, the family is the unit of modern civilization, the home, its shelter and gathering-point, should, it would seem, warrant in its design and furnishing quite as large a share of attention as the power plant or the factory. We believe, therefore, that in every community in which it is possible a "_Better Homes in America_" Demonstration should be planned and carried through during the week of October 9th to 14th, 1922. (Signed) Herbert Hoover THE SECRETARY OF AGRICULTURE WASHINGTON July 24, 1922. Dear Mrs. Meloney: Naturally I am interested in the "Better Homes in America" movement. When we consider the all powerful influence of home conditions and home atmosphere on the lives and character of our people, both young and old, surely every proper effort to improve those conditions should have the support of all good citizens. Our people in the Department of Agriculture will be glad to advise with your committee chairmen on any matters in which they can lend assistance. Our home demonstration agents in different sections of the country can no doubt be helpful in advising as to the setting up of demonstration kitchens. You seem to have gathered to your help the cooperation of a large number of state governors and also a number of other gentlemen who, because of their public work, can possibly contribute to the success of the campaign. With very best wishes, I am Sincerely yours, [Signature] Mrs. William Brown Meloney, Secretary to the Advisory Council for the "Better Homes" Campaign, 223 Spring Street, New York City. [Illustration: DEMONSTRATION OF BETTER. HOMES--October 9 to 14, 1922] A PLAN for COMMUNITY ORGANIZATION of BETTER HOMES IN AMERICA _Demonstration Week October 9th to 14th, 1922_ _The future history of America will be shaped in large measure by the character of its homes. If we continue to be a home-loving people we shall have the strength that comes only from a virile family life. This means that our homes must be attractive, comfortable, convenient, wholesome. They must keep pace with the progress made outside the home. Realization of this has crystallized into a national civic campaign for Better Homes in America endorsed and encouraged by Federal and State officials and by prominent men in public life as set forth in this Plan Book._ The following plan has been prepared to give practical help to citizens of any community organizing for a _Better Homes in America_ Demonstration Week, October 9th to 14th, 1922. The Campaign in each community centers about a _Better Home_--completely equipped, furnished and decorated, in accordance with approved modern practice, and placed on exhibition during Demonstration Week. Better Homes exhibitions have already been held, but now for the first time a national organization, endorsed and supported by the President of the United States and other Federal and State officials, is prepared to give practical help to every community wishing to share in the _Better Homes in America_ movement. The community which exhibits a _Better Home_ during Demonstration Week will be given a powerful impetus for good. Every civic interest, every business and industry will be favorably affected. A _Better Homes_ demonstration is a stimulus to better living, civic pride and community morale. It encourages thrift and industry. It develops a higher standard of taste. It means a better community in every way. This has been proved by the experience of many communities which have held successful exhibitions. They have ranged from cities as large as Cleveland, Milwaukee, Columbus, Kansas City and Dayton to villages of a few hundred population. In every case where the demonstration has been properly organized lasting benefits have followed. _Follow the Plan_ The National Advisory Council of _Better Homes in America_, through its Bureau of Information, has made a thorough investigation of previous exhibitions of this character. This investigation has shown clearly that when the local organizations proceed in the right way a _Better Homes_ demonstration may easily be made a great success. Causes of trouble as well as of success have been analyzed to bring out the methods that should be avoided. The Advisory Council, therefore, is in a position to recommend plans that have stood the test of practical experience. With Federal and State governments endorsing and encouraging this Plan of educating the people to _Better Homes in America_, the conduct of local demonstrations is given tremendous impetus and support. And with the suggestions and the Plan for conducting such demonstrations herewith presented, any community may confidently undertake the production of a _Better Homes_ Exhibition during Demonstration Week, October 9th to 14th, 1922. A comparatively few energetic and capable women, with the support of local civic organizations, can effectively put into practice the ideas and plans with which they will be supplied by the Bureau of Information. The expense of a _Better Home_ demonstration need not be great; in some communities it may be kept as low as $25.00. Builders, merchants and prominent citizens will combine to supply the Model _Better Home_, and to furnish it. Civic organizations and newspapers will cooperate to interest the public. The most successful demonstrations have been so managed as to impress upon visitors that they were not selfish enterprises, intended to help special interests, particular firms or individuals. They have been so conducted as to benefit every line of business and to help the community as a whole. Neither the name of the builder or owner of the home exhibited, nor the name of any person or business firm furnishing any portion of the exhibit, is permitted to be displayed. The motive behind the demonstration is primarily educational. _How to Form a General Committee for Better Homes Demonstration Week_ A Better Homes Demonstration should be organized and directed by a disinterested group of prominent women, working from motives of public service. This group should be formed of a Chairman and a General Committee of from four to seven members, depending upon the size of the community. Each member of the General Committee is Chairman of one or more sub-committees as outlined later in this Plan. The Chairman of the General Committee is appointed through the National Advisory Council of _Better Homes in America_. She appoints the members of the local General Committee. They in turn appoint the members of the Sub-committees. In the case of the Sub-committees it is particularly important that appointments should be made with the knowledge and approval of the local civic and commercial interests whose co-operation is desired. Detailed suggestions for procedure are outlined later. The duties of the members of the General Committee fit naturally into the following arrangement of Sub-committees with a member of the General Committee as Chairman of each Sub-committee: (1) Sub-committee on Advertising and Publicity. (2) Sub-committee on Selection of Demonstration Home. (3) Sub-committee on Equipment of Demonstration Home. (4) Sub-committee on Furnishing and Decorating. (5) Sub-committee on Reception of Visitors and Management of Home. (6) Sub-committee on Program of Events. (7) Sub-committee on Budget for Demonstration Week. Where the size of the community makes it desirable to have a General Committee of only four members, some such distribution of the Sub-committees as this is recommended: (1) Chairman (a member of the General Committee) heading (a) Sub-committee on Advertising and Publicity; and (b) Sub-committee on Progress of Events. (2) Chairman (a member of the General Committee) heading (a) Sub-committee on Equipment of Demonstration Home; and (b) Sub-committee on Furnishing and Decorating. (3) Chairman (a member of the General Committee) heading (a) Sub-committee on Selection of Demonstration Home; and (b) Sub-committee on Reception of Visitors and Management of Home. (4) Chairman (a member of the General Committee) heading (a) Sub-committee on Budget for Demonstration Week. _How To Secure Patrons for Better Homes Demonstration; Full Cooperation of All Local Interests Essential_ Following the organization of the General Committee, the first duty of its Chairman should be the arrangement for meetings of the Committee--or its individual members--with the various City Officials, and Civic and Commercial Organizations in the community, to explain the Plan for a _Better Homes_ Demonstration and to secure their endorsement and active support. Those endorsing and supporting the Demonstration may be known as Patrons and should comprise the following: The Mayor Commissioner of Education (or Superintendent of Public School) Publishers or Owners of Local Newspapers Presidents of Important Women's Clubs President of Chamber of Commerce Agricultural Home Bureau, etc. President of Real Estate Board President of Rotary Club President of Kiwanis Club Presidents of Building & Loan Associations Presidents of other Business or Trade Associations related to the Home Building and Furnishing Industries. Churches should also be asked to support the movement. Additional Patrons may properly be selected from prominent citizens of the community, who are noted for their public spirit and are not included in the above list. The two essentials for a successful _Better Homes in America_ Demonstration are genuine co-operation from all local civic, financial, commercial and educational interests, and full and extensive publicity through the local newspapers. From the youngest boy or girl scout to bank president, business man, school teacher, minister, manufacturer and city official, everybody in a community should have a real personal interest in the Demonstration. When the benefits of a successful _Better Homes_ Demonstration are once understood this interest is readily aroused. Investigation of successful exhibitions in Kansas City, Indianapolis, Cleveland and elsewhere proved conclusively that the cooperation of all local interests was the biggest single factor of success. _How to Form Sub-Committees_ It is important to appoint as Chairman of each Sub-committee a member of the General Committee who is particularly fitted to the specific work assigned to her Sub-committee. The special abilities of the members of the General Committee should be taken into careful consideration and so used in the arrangement of the Sub-committees as to secure the best and quickest results. The formation of Sub-committees is necessary not only to divide the work effectively, but also to arouse the interest and cooperation of the various local interests directly affected by home building and home betterment. All the local business groups--furniture dealers, hardware dealers, wall-paper and paint dealers, electrical dealers, real estate dealers, etc.--should be interviewed and asked to nominate a representative from each group to serve on the appropriate Sub-committee. In this way the appearance of favoring special interests will be avoided and the fullest co-operation secured. It may be well to stress here that the Chairman of the General Committee should not become immersed in the details of the Sub-committees' work. She establishes a point of contact and a clearing house for _all_ Sub-committees and directs the _Better Homes_ Demonstration as a whole, but not in detail. Neither should the Chairman of a Sub-committee attempt to enter into details of the work of other Sub-committees not under her direction. The Chairman of each Sub-committee is responsible to the Chairman of the General Committee, and to her alone. Suggestions for the formation and activities of the various Sub-committees are given in the following: _I--How to Form Sub-Committee on Budget for Demonstration Week_ A member of the General Committee is the Chairman. This Sub-committee should be made up of prominent citizens, representing both the financial and mercantile interests of the community. It would be appropriate to secure a Bank Cashier, who is accustomed to keeping accurate records of receipts and expenses, to act as Vice-chairman of the Sub-Committee. He may also act as Treasurer of the General Committee. This committee should have charge not only of the securing of the modest expense fund necessary for Demonstration Week, but also of the recording of facts and figures regarding the operation of the Demonstration Home, and the results obtained. Such a record will be exceedingly useful to the local General Committee as well as the National Advisory Council. Accurate figures on the local _Better Homes_ Demonstrations will be invaluable in continuing the _Better Homes_ in America Campaign, and arrangements have been made for prizes to be given to those Committees submitting the best reports and records of successful demonstrations. _Suggestions for the Sub-Committee_ There will be certain general expenses incurred in conducting a _Better Homes_ Demonstration. These general expenses may range from $25 to $500 or more, depending upon the size of the committee and the extensiveness and completeness of the Demonstration. Some of the items of expense which may be incurred are: insurance of borrowed property; special advertising in the form of street signs, window cards and posters; printing; prizes for contests; lecturers, and, possibly, special forms of entertainment. In many communities where Demonstrations have been held, the small contributions necessary have been readily volunteered by the various organizations, business firms or individuals directly interested in the financing and furnishing of homes. Contributions may be secured from bankers, stores, public utilities, real estate dealers, building material dealers, insurance men, etc. The amounts contributed by the various interests should be carefully apportioned and only a sufficient sum collected to pay the actual expenses of the Demonstration. In Dayton and other cities it was found that volunteer contributions were readily made by manufacturers of, or dealers in, trade-marked articles, such as pianos, vacuum cleaners, refrigerators, electrical equipment, etc. As these articles, because of the trade name affixed, received special advertising in the Demonstration Home, it was considered proper to accept contributions from the dealers. The selection of trade-marked articles which may be shown in a Demonstration Home should be made in a disinterested manner by the Subcommittee on Equipment. _2--How to Form Sub-Committee on Advertising and Publicity_ A member of the General Committee is Chairman. The success of the Demonstration rests largely upon the thoroughness with which this Committee does its work. It should, therefore, be composed of all of the Publishers or Advertising Managers of local Newspapers, and the Advertising Managers of Department Stores and other large business houses. The fullest co-operation should be secured from all the local publishing and advertising interests. Local newspapers will gladly aid a _Better Homes_ Demonstration, for such an exhibition presents unusual opportunities for selling advertising space to local merchants. In some of the cities where Demonstrations have been held, the newspapers have brought out large special editions carrying a great amount of local advertising, and filled with interesting and instructive reading matter regarding home building and home betterment. _Suggestions for the Sub-Committee_ The campaign publicity should commence with an announcement of the organization of the General Committee and the selection of Patrons. It should be continued, in advance of the opening of the Demonstration Home, by the use of reading matter descriptive of home planning, furnishing, decoration and equipment. The local newspapers should co-operate with the Sub-committee in seeing that advertisements of exhibitors during the demonstration week do not mention the fact that the advertiser is an exhibitor. This, of course, should not preclude the general advertising of goods suitable for the equipment or furnishing of _Better Homes_. This regulation is in line with the non-commercial policy of the campaign, and merchants will readily understand its fairness. This Sub-committee should provide painted signs announcing the location of the Exhibition Home. These signs should be placed at neighboring street intersections. Signs in the form of arrow pointers should be tacked on telephone poles in all parts of the city pointing in the direction of the Demonstration Home and announcing its exact location. Automobile Posters or Banners for the cars of the members of the Committee may be furnished by local sign painters or printers. The Committee should also see that show cards advertising the Demonstration are properly distributed and displayed in store windows and that posters are put up in suitable public places. Show cards, posters and stickers bearing the imprint of the _Better Homes in America_ campaign, with space left for local announcements, may be obtained by application to the Bureau of Information, _The Delineator_, 223 Spring Street, New York City, Secretary, Mrs. William Brown Meloney. A circular descriptive of the show cards, posters and stickers may also be obtained through the Bureau of Information, which has arranged to have this advertising display matter prepared for the use of local Committees. It is strongly recommended that these posters and cards be used in order to standardize the various local Demonstrations. The stickers should be widely distributed among local merchants for use on city mail during the week preceding and the week of the campaign. Small electrotypes of the _Better Homes in America_ campaign insignia, or trade-mark, may be obtained through the Bureau of Information for use on printed matter and in newspapers. They are shown in the circular descriptive of the advertising display material. _3--How to Form Sub-Committee on Selection of Demonstration Home_ A member of the General Committee is Chairman. The selection of the home to be used for the Demonstration should be made by a _disinterested_ committee. Experience has shown that this is the only satisfactory method, as all personal interests are thus eliminated and criticism avoided. Previous experience also indicates that this Sub-committee, with a member of the General Committee as Chairman, of course, should be composed of the President of the local Real Estate Board (if there is one in the community), a representative of the Chamber of Commerce or Merchants Association, a representative architect, and a representative of the Building Material Dealers. Here again is illustrated the importance of securing the full co-operation of the various groups of business men directly affected by home building and owning. These groups should be interviewed and each group asked to appoint its representative on this committee. When the National campaign for _Better Homes in America_, and the Plan as outlined here, have been clearly explained to these interests, a Sub-committee for selecting the Demonstration Home may be organized, which will act disinterestedly and effectively. _Suggestions for the Sub-Committee_ The three cardinal principles to be observed in the selection of a Demonstration Home are: first, situation with respect to accessibility and nearness to street car lines; second, type of architecture; and third, cost. A Demonstration Home should be situated within a reasonable distance of the business section of a community, and it should not be more than four blocks from the nearest street car line. In a city where the Demonstration Home was selected some eight blocks from the car line and upon a hill, the attendance was disappointingly small. The Demonstration Home should not be situated in the outskirts of a community. This was found to be a disadvantage in a city where a Demonstration Home was selected in a new, partially developed suburb, some distance from the city limits. An extreme type of architecture should be avoided in a Demonstration Home. With respect to the cost of the home selected, it has been shown in a number of cities that a house priced slightly above the average cost of homes in the community attracted the larger number of visitors. The public apparently likes to visit a home costing more than the average, because of a desire to see and admire better things. Demonstration Homes, therefore, may range in price from $5,000 to $15,000, including the land, but not including the furnishings and equipment. Other essentials of an ideal home for demonstration purposes are fully outlined in an article prepared by direction of Secretary of Commerce Hoover and included in this Plan Book on pages 7 and 8. The builder or owner of the Home selected should be willing to loan it to the General Committee for the Demonstration Week, without charge. He should also be willing to landscape the grounds, decorate the walls and carry all insurance and damage risks. This has been gladly done by builders in Syracuse, Cleveland, Milwaukee, Kansas City and elsewhere. There is no better selling method for homes than that of putting on display a completely furnished and equipped home. If the entire plan of campaign is explained to the builder or owner of a suitable home, and the advantages of indirect selling methods are pointed out to him, his co-operation will be readily secured. The name of the builder or owner is not to be displayed on the Demonstration Home in any manner, shape or form, nor is his name to be carried in any of the advertising during the campaign. This will do away with all appearance of favoritism in the choice of the house to be used. It is proper, however, to insert a reading notice in the newspapers announcing the selection of the Demonstration Home and giving the name of the owner or builder. No further reference should be made to him in any of the advertising matter during Demonstration Week, though the attendants in the home may properly give his name to any person inquiring for it. _4--How to Form Sub-Committee on Equipment of Demonstration Home_ A member of the General Committee is Chairman. The selection and installation of all practicable labor-saving devices and appliances in the Demonstration Home is left to this Sub-committee. It should be composed of representatives of dealers in home equipment, architects, builders, and, if possible, a Home Demonstration agent of the Agricultural Department. (See announcement of special co-operation of Department of Agriculture by Secretary Wallace on page 9). _Suggestions for Sub-Committee_ On pages 47-49 will be found a statement of the best modern practise in the equipment of a home permitting the most efficient and economical housekeeping. It is probable that many communities will be unable to equip the Demonstration Home completely, in accordance with the standards laid down. So far as practicable these suggestions should be followed, but local conditions and the stock of equipment carried by local dealers may require some modifications in detail. _5--How to Form Sub-Committee on Furnishing and Decorating_ A member of the General Committee is Chairman. In the selection of this Sub-committee the greatest care must be taken to secure the cooperation of all the business firms and individuals concerned in the furnishing and decorating of homes. Each group--furniture dealers, hardware dealers, paint and wallpaper dealers, department stores (if any), decorators (if any), art and book stores--should be interviewed on this important subject and asked to appoint representatives to serve on this Subcommittee. _Suggestions for Sub-Committee_ In order to maintain the non-commercial aspect of Demonstration Week, no exhibitor's name should be displayed on any article shown in the Demonstration Home. No price tags should be permitted on any article. In this way all appearance of commercialism is avoided. This feature will appeal to the fair and broad-minded merchant and will secure the enthusiastic support of all the merchants in the community, no matter how small their business may be. The attendants at the Home, in response to inquiries as to where certain articles may be secured, should be instructed to reply that they may be had from the inquirer's own dealer or from any dealer in the city. In Dayton this non-commercial plan was wonderfully successful. In communities where suitable furnishings and decorations are not obtainable from the local stores they may be borrowed from public spirited citizens, who have such articles as are adapted to the scheme of decoration and furnishing. For the guidance of the Sub-committee, which may not include expert decorators or furnishers as members, practical suggestions on good furnishing and decorating have been set forth on pages 30-42 of this Plan Book. These suggestions will undoubtedly prove helpful in assembling the furnishings and decorations for a Demonstration Home. If more detailed information is required, write to the Bureau of Information, _The Delineator_, 223 Spring Street, New York City, Secretary, Mrs. William Brown Meloney. In all cases the basement of the Demonstration Home should be very carefully arranged, equipped and prepared for exhibition. The furnishing of the Demonstration Home should include well-selected, standard home literature and reference books, properly arranged in book-cases or on shelves. A printed list of this selected library may be supplied for distribution to the visitors. _6--How to Form Sub-Committee on Management and Reception_ A member of the General Committee is Chairman. The members of this Sub-committee should be selected for their ability to manage the Demonstration Home and to receive and care for the visitors. It may be composed of representatives of the various women's organizations in the city. In order to insure the keeping of accurate records of attendance, one or more bank tellers should be members of the Sub-committee. This Sub-committee is to provide the attendants at the Demonstration Home and to handle the visitors in such a way as to avoid confusion and damage. It should also keep an accurate record of attendance, of interesting inquiries and the general results. It should report in detail to the Budget Committee, so that the General Committee may have an opportunity to compete for the prizes offered for the best report of a successful Demonstration. _Suggestions for the Sub-Committee_ During the hours of exhibition the Demonstration Home should be in charge of a capable woman of suitable personality. This may be a volunteer, or a paid worker, for the entire week, or several volunteer workers may undertake the management of the Home, having definite days of attendance assigned to them. The hours of exhibition should be from 1:00 to 10:00 p.m. continuously. It has been found in exhibitions that the home need not be kept open during the morning hours. During this period it may be cleaned and placed in readiness for visitors. An attendant for the bedrooms and two attendants for the first floor--one in the hall or living room and the other in the dining room and kitchen--will be required to direct and control the visitors and to keep the house in perfect order during the exhibition hours. These attendants may be club or committee members who volunteer their services for certain days in the week. It has been noted in several exhibitions that visitors usually congregate at certain hours in the afternoon and evening, and frequently overcrowd upon the lawns. It is necessary, therefore, to erect light guard rails along the sidewalk leading from the street to the house. And it may sometimes be necessary to have an outside attendant who will keep the visitors in an orderly line of entrance. This is work that may very well be performed by Boy Scouts. During times of congestion visitors should be taken through the house in groups not to exceed fifteen in number. They should be conducted through the rooms in an orderly manner by the attendants. In some cases it has been found advisable to send the visitors to the second floor first, so that they may depart through the kitchen after inspecting the first floor and basement. Girl Scouts may be used for conducting the visitors through the home. A careful check on the attendance at the Demonstration Home should be kept. This can best be done by assigning a Boy or Girl Scout to count the visitors as they enter the home and keep an accurate tally, which should be reported to the manager in charge. In some cities it has been found that a list of visitors to the home may be readily obtained by having them register upon a numbered card, which can be used for a drawing contest--a prize being awarded to the lucky number. In smaller communities where the attendance will not be large at any one time the names of visitors may be kept in a small register or list book. _7--How to Form Sub-Committee on Program of Events_ A member of the General Committee is Chairman. This Sub-committee should be composed of persons who are particularly capable in arranging programs of entertainment, and may be selected from members of the Board of Education, School Principals and Teachers, Theatrical and Moving Picture Managers, Community and Song Leaders, etc. _The Following Events Are Suggested_ 1--Sermons, Addresses and Sunday School talks in all churches on the Sunday preceding the opening of the exhibition. 2--Color slides relating to home owning, home management, home furnishing and decoration to be shown in moving picture houses. 3--Four-Minute Talks on thrift, home owning, home financing, home furnishing, home decoration, etc., in all moving picture houses. 4--Block Parties in front of the Demonstration Home. Lights for the block party may be supplied from the headlights and searchlights of automobiles properly arranged. 5--Window Dressing Contests for hardware merchants, house furnishing merchants, department stores, etc. 6--Erection of Miniature Home, suitable for a girl's playhouse, on Public Square--this playhouse may be given as first prize to the girl of school age writing the best essay on "Why You Should Own Your Home." 7--Showing special _Better Homes_ films in all moving picture houses. (See special announcement on page 24.) 8--Prizes for the best example of a Model Kitchen in the community. 9--Cooking Demonstrations by Home Demonstration Agent, or some well-known local cook, High School or Normal School student. 10--Singing by Choir or Quartette on porch of Demonstration Home each evening at about 7:30 and 8:00 o'clock. 11--(a) Guessing contest as to how many visitors enter Demonstration Home. 11--(b) Prize for best essay by a boy on Home Owning. (c) Prize for best essay by a girl on Home Equipment or Furnishing. (d) Prize for best landscape design for Small Home by High School or Art student. 12--Radio Program at Demonstration Home, or elsewhere in the city. 13--Lectures on Home Equipment, Decoration or Furnishing by experts, in local auditorium. It has been found that admission to these lectures may be charged, to help defray the expense of lecturers. _Lecture Courses and Lectures_ Lectures on Home Building, Furnishing, Decoration and allied subjects have been found to attract large audiences in cities where they have been given under the auspices of local organizations. Undoubtedly many communities co-operating in the _Better Homes in America_ Demonstration Week, October 9th to 14th, will desire to include in their program of events lectures on _Better Homes_ subjects. _Better Homes in America Bureau of Information The Delineator 223 Spring Street, New York City Secretary,_ Mrs. WILLIAM BROWN MELONEY The Bureau of Information has been established to support and coordinate the work of local _Better Homes in America_ committees. Additional copies of this Plan Book may be obtained from the Bureau of Information. Other data and material will be supplied as indicated in the Plan Book. Bulletins will be sent out from time to time to keep local committees posted on the national development of the _Better Homes in America_ campaign. In the following pages of the Plan Book are special articles prepared by governmental and other authorities on various phases of home building, equipment, decorating, sanitation, etc. The Bureau of Information will either answer inquiries in regard to any of these special articles or, when necessary, will refer the questions to the authors of the articles. MOTION PICTURE PRODUCERS & DISTRIBUTORS OF AMERICA, INC. 522 FIFTH AVENUE NEW YORK CITY WILL H. HAYS president COURTLAND SMITH SECRETARY Telephone Vandebilt 2110 July 19, 1922 Mrs. W. B. Meloney, 233 Spring Street, New York City. My dear Mrs. Meloney: I am immensely interested in the Better Homes Campaign. This is something that the motion picture industry should be interested in and I am sure that they will want to be. I would like to help you to have available for your Better Homes week, October 9-14, pictures that would show clearly just what the modern home should be. I am glad that the Better Homes Council has had such an encouraging response from the governors of the various states and from the women of this country. Certainly it is a matter to which all of us should give our very best. It will have an enduring influence on the lives of our people and it is one of the most creditable movements that I know of. I have a little home in Sullivan, Indiana, that we are most anxious to equip in just exactly the best way, and I am as much interested as any one could be in learning how this should be done, so I am looking forward to October 9-14 with much interest. With best wishes always, I am, Sincerely yours, [Signature] Essentials for Demonstration Home Suggestions on Buildings and Grounds By JOHN IHLDER DIRECTOR, HOUSING CONDITIONS, CHAMBER OF COMMERCE OF THE UNITED STATES Different parts of the country have quite distinct types of one-family dwellings. The best, unquestionably, is the detached house with adequate yard space on all four sides; the house which gets sun and air no matter which way it faces or what the direction of the prevailing breeze; the house whose yard makes it possible for the family, and especially for the children, to live much in the open. But, though this is the best type, it may prove impracticable for people of moderate means in communities where past practice has resulted in crowding the land to such an extent that group or row houses have become the standard. Whatever the type of house, however, there are certain fundamentals of an essentially good house. The exhibition house should, as far as possible, embody these fundamentals as given below. _Open Space Belonging to the House_ If the house is of the detached type (open on all four sides) it should have a lot wide enough to permit fifteen feet of yard space on each side. Then it is protected from any danger of side windows being darkened and air cut off by any building which is permissible in a one-family house residence district (see Zoning and What it Means to the Home). Where there are no zoning regulations to give protection, even fifteen feet of side yard will not prevent injury from a tall apartment house or commercial building. Under no circumstances should the demonstration house, if of the detached type, have less than ten feet of side yard. If no detached house with ten feet or more (preferably fifteen feet or a little more) of side yard can be secured, then seek a house of another type. Next in order of excellence is the semi-detached house (twin--two houses side by side with a party wall). The single side yard of this house should be fifteen feet wide and never less than ten feet. Next in order is the group house, or the row house. The row house may be a perfectly good house if it is wide enough in proportion to its depth so that there may be adequate open spaces before every window, and if it is so planned as to take full advantage of these open spaces. Moreover a row of houses may be so designed--perhaps as one unit so far as the front elevation is concerned--that they will be very attractive in appearance. A wide, row house (18 to 20 feet or more), properly planned, is much better to live in than a detached or a semi-detached house whose side yards are so narrow that they do not give adequate light and air to middle rooms. The really good house is bright and airy. Consequently the demonstration house should be set back from the street and its front yard should be deep enough not only to assure privacy from the street, but also to permit at least a well sodded grass plot. The rear yard will, of course, extend across the whole lot. Or the rear yard may be 100 feet deep. But in this connection, it is necessary to bear in mind that a yard may be too large as well as too small. It must fit in with the house, and some account must be taken of the probable habits of its occupants. A family which has no servants, and in which the breadwinner works long hours away from home, may find a large yard a burden unless some member is an enthusiastic gardener. Lacking this gardener the back of a deep yard is likely to become a dump-heap. _The House Itself_ Given adequate open space as described above there are certain essentials in the house itself. _Construction_ A house is, or should be, an investment. Therefore it should be honestly constructed. One of the most important lessons for the home buyer to learn is that the initial cost of a house is not its full cost. It pays well to spend a little more on purchase price if, thereby, repair bills and maintenance costs are kept down. And it pays not only in dollars and cents but in satisfaction as well, for the house that soon begins to go to pieces, that soon looks shabby, is quite the opposite of a "joy forever." Consequently the demonstration house should be well built, and one of the most valuable parts of the demonstration should lie in pointing out by suitable placards its structural excellencies. Has the ground immediately outside the walls been drained so that water will not lie against these walls and gradually soak into them? Is the cellar well drained and dry; well lighted and ventilated? Is the foundation well built? Are the beams and joists heavy enough and of good material? Are the floors and woodwork of good material, well seasoned, and of good workmanship? Is the hardware (locks, hinges, lighting fixtures, etc.) strong enough to stand usage? Are the outside walls of good material--if of brick, of good quality with good quality mortar; if of frame, of good lumber, well seasoned and well painted with three coats of paint? What kind of sheathing is used? Is wood well seasoned? Is the roofing of a material adapted to the climate and of good quality? What material is used for flashing? Recently there has been some discussion of the heat-retaining quality of walls. It is advocated that openings which permit circulation of cold air between outer and inner walls shall be filled. This adds but little to the cost of building and in cold climates reduces materially the coal bill. Incidentally it also aids both in reducing the fire hazard and in rat proofing. For the latter, care must be taken that there are no unscreened openings through foundation walls into a cellar, and that all openings from the cellar to the space between outer and inner walls of stories above shall be filled with rat-proof material. Much attention is now being given to standardizing the parts of a house, both to reduce initial cost and to make replacement easier and less expensive. Are the doors, windows and other parts of the demonstration house of standard stock sizes? _Light and Ventilation_ _Every_ room must have adequate window areas giving upon wide outdoor spaces. An interior room, or one poorly lighted from a narrow court, or receiving its only light from a wide porch, may not impress the visitor, who sees it only when the house is new and the room artificially lighted, but it does in time impress the family who inhabit it. Row houses are best when they are only two rooms deep from front to rear. If, however, an extension is built upon the rear of a row house, the court on one side of this extension, from which middle rooms are lighted, should be _at least six_ feet wide for a two-story dwelling and seven feet for a three-story dwelling. If there is a front porch on a row house it should not extend clear across the front, darkening every window of the front ground-floor room, but should extend only part way, leaving one window free. This also adds to the value of the porch by giving it greater privacy, but of course it necessitates a house at least 18 feet wide, if the porch is to be large enough to use as an outdoor sitting room for the whole family in warm weather. So far as practicable, each room should have at least two windows, and corner rooms should have windows in two walls. The rooms should be planned so that they may be opened into each other and the breeze permitted to sweep through. _Privacy_ While the family is a unit, and a function of the house is to symbolize and emphasize family unity, there should, nevertheless, be provision for some individual privacy. The most elementary provision, of course, is that there be at least three bedrooms--on the assumption that the normal family will contain both boys and girls. Consequently the demonstration house must contain not less than three bedrooms. But beyond this, the grouping of rooms possible in a two-story house (bedrooms and bath on the second floor, common living rooms on the first floor) as against a one-story house, adds greatly to privacy. At the same time the two-story house is nearly always the more economical both to build and to operate, while one flight of stairs does not add appreciably to the house-wife's work. With the kitchen, dining room, living room and a lavatory on the ground floor there is comparatively little need of running up and downstairs, even when there are young children in the family. A third story, an upstairs sitting room, no ground floor lavatory, do add appreciably to the amount of stair climbing. Stair climbing is reduced by having the laundry on the same floor as the kitchen instead of in the basement or cellar. Though it is the scene of greatest activity only one or two days a week, it is often used at other times, and often in connection with kitchen work. On the score that the number of steps is thereby reduced, laundry tubs may be placed in the kitchen; but against this must be balanced the annoyance, or worse, that comes from having the kitchen full of steam and all cluttered up with clothes in process of washing when meals must be prepared. Because of this many women prefer a separate laundry in an ell or extension opening off the kitchen. From the latitude of Philadelphia south, this extension may be of light construction without danger of pipes freezing except in the coldest weather; and it is a simple matter to install a cut-off, so that these pipes may be emptied when not in use. _Sanitation_ There should be a fully equipped bathroom on the bedroom floor and a toilet--preferably a wash bowl also--on the ground floor. A toilet in the cellar is only a half-way measure. It does give an added convenience of very real value, especially when there are servants; but it is usually less accessible than the upstairs bathroom and, unless the cellar is unusually well lighted and ventilated--unless it is heated and unless its floor is high enough above the sewer to provide for the necessary slope of the soil pipe--it is very likely to become a nuisance. A sewer-connected toilet in the yard is only a step above the old-time privy vault. It is inaccessible in bad weather; after dark it is public; and it is likely to freeze. _Suggestion for Furnishing and Decorating the Demonstration Home_ PREPARED BY THE BUREAU OF INFORMATION Changing an empty house into a furnished, restful place of beauty is no less a task than transforming a piece of paper into a lovely picture. In one sense, interior decoration is a creative art. It is true that decorators, or persons furnishing houses, do not weave their own hangings, build their own furniture, or design their own wall-paper, but they select the things they require from shops, where they have been designed by others, and choose in such a way as to make a beautiful and harmonious whole. Persons who must furnish a house for the occupancy of a family face four distinct problems: first, they must see that the things selected suit the house in size, coloring, and style; second, that the pieces selected are harmonious with each other, and that they are comfortable and well-made; third, that they suit the requirements of the family; and fourth, that they fit the family purse. _Backgrounds_ The first requisite of a house is that it be restful; therefore, it is wise to use wall coverings that are plain in effect. Plain paints or tints, and wall-papers of a cloudy, all-over pattern, make the best backgrounds. When a room faces north, the best colors to use are the yellows, which might range from a cream color to a deep pumpkin yellow. In rooms that face south, it is possible to use light grays, which might range to a deep putty color; though it is possible in sunny rooms to use almost any color except those which might fade easily. The best way to treat rooms which have wide doorways connecting them with other rooms is to have the walls of both rooms alike, preferably in some plain color. _Floor Coverings_ Rugs and floor coverings should be several shades darker than the walls, and be either in plain colors or have a small or indefinite all-over design. Where walls are plain, the latter type of carpet should be used. When walls have on them any figured covering, plain carpet should be used. _Hangings_ The hangings for rooms which have plain wall coverings could be striped or figured, but in rooms where there is a figured wall covering, the hangings should be in plain colors, taking the color scheme for these from the dominating color note in walls and carpet. _Furnishings_ A good rule to follow in choosing furnishings is to avoid anything which strikes you as elaborate, or prominent. If a piece of furniture, carpet, or curtain material stands out in a shop, you may be quite certain that it will be even more noticeable in a house. A house can only be considered properly furnished when it meets the real needs of the occupants. Comfortable chairs, sofas, and beds, good tables, and soft carpets, make up the most important objects, and these should be the best that the family can afford. No definite rule can be applied to the arrangement of the furniture, but balance and wall space should be considered first. Where a single opening is placed in the center of the wall, or like openings at equal distances, the wall spaces will be in balance; in the case of unequal openings, the wall spaces will be out of balance. At balanced wall spaces, place pieces of furniture of relative size and contour. These may be tables, chairs, sofas, and pictures. Leave the more intimate and personal furniture, such as favorite chairs, sewing table, and foot stool, for a grouping at one side or in the center of the room. Lay all carpets and rugs parallel with the longest sides of the room. In a room with unbalanced wall spaces, place against the longest spaces the largest pieces of furniture--the piano, the bookcase, the davenport--grouping perhaps a table, mirror, and chair against a smaller and opposite wall space. This permits the comfortable chairs, tables, lamps, and pottery to relieve the stiffness, allowing them to be grouped in the center of the room. Do not indulge in too many pictures, but select a few of interest and good quality. These few should be hung on a level with the average eye. Small pictures should be hung somewhat lower. Do not invest in many ornaments. A few bits of colored pottery, or some brass ware, is all that is required to strike a lively note. Place these so that they will balance other objects arranged on the same mantel or bookshelf. For example, a pair of brass candlesticks placed at either end of a mantel, with a pottery bowl, clock, or ornament in the center, strikes a balance. Never have a large jar on a small table or stand, or small ornaments on a large table. A good thing to remember is that ornaments decrease in value as they increase in number. In the following pages will be found suggestive lists of articles which the rooms in a Better Home might contain. For further assistance and more detail, write the Bureau of Information. _Suggestions for Furnishing the Hall_ [Illustration: HALL A Modern Colonial Hall of good proportions and design, with the simple but necessary furnishings for convenience and welcome.] The first impression of a house and its occupants comes as one enters through the front door into the hall. Thus, nowhere in the entire house is it more important to strike the right keynote in furnishing and decoration. If there is no closet in the hall for wraps and umbrellas, it will be necessary to have in some obscure corner a wooden strip painted the same color as the woodwork, in which are solid brass hooks, placed low enough so that the young members of the family can reach them. Also, for umbrellas, provide a plain pottery jar which will harmonize with the color scheme of walls and carpets. On the hall table have a card tray--brass if the hardware is brass--silver if the hardware is nickel or iron--and a medium-sized pottery vase in crackle ware, or some natural color. A hall lantern or scones would be in harmony with these furnishings, and have decorative value. _A Suggested Color Scheme for the Hall_ _Walls_--Ivory paper or paint. _Woodwork_--Paint--dull finish. _Floors_--Hardwood--Stained antique oak, finished with wax or varnish. _Floors_--Softwood--Painted a deep yellow, or gray, or stained to represent hardwood. _Floors_--Linoleum--In a tile pattern of black and white, provided the living room is not directly connected with the hall; in such case use only plain brown, grey, or Jaspe linoleum. _Below is a Suggested List of Furnishings Which the Hall Might Contain_ _A table_--Of oak, mahogany, or walnut, either drop-leaf, gate-leg, or console. _A mirror_--Gilt, or to match the wood in the table, Early American or English. _A straight chair or two_--With or without rush seats, enameled black, with stencil design, or to match the wood of the tables. _A low-boy_--Of mahogany or walnut, with drawers for gloves, string, etc. _A large chest_--Of oak or brass-trimmed mahogany, for overshoes, etc. _One or two rugs_--May be _Oriental_ in blues, browns, tans or black; or wool braided, in blues, browns, tans or black; or Wilton, in blues, browns, tans or black; or Axminster, in blues, browns, tans or black. _A cocoa mat_ placed at front door. _The Living Room_ As the living room is the gathering place for family and friends, it may well be considered the most important room in the house. It should take its keynote for decoration from the hall. If there is a wide doorway connecting the living room with the hall, the color scheme should be the same. As the living room serves as library also, open book shelves, painted the same as the woodwork, are essential, and more substantial than book cases. The first requisite of such a room is that it shall be restful. Avoid using rocking chairs. Use little bric-a-brac. Nothing which does not contribute to the necessity and beauty of the room should be allowed. Tan or ivory is good in a room which is inclined to be dark, or gray and gray-green in a room inclined to be bright. _A Suggested Color Scheme for Living Room_ _Walls_--Ivory, cream or gray--paper or paint. _Woodwork_--Ivory paint--dull finish. _Floors_--Hardwood--Stained antique oak with wax or varnish finish. _Floors_--Softwood--Painted a deep yellow or gray, or stained to represent hardwoods. _A Suggested List of Furnishings for Living Room_ _Table_--Drop-leaf--in mahogany, weathered oak, or walnut; Gateleg--in mahogany, weathered oak, or walnut; Modern Chippendale--mahogany, weathered oak, or walnut, or Sheraton type of table. _Sofa_--Upholstered in either sage green or brown upholsterer's velvet; blue, yellow, mauve satin or taffeta sofa cushions. _Armchair_--Overstuffed chair in indefinite striped upholsterer's velvet in sage green; satin cushion in corn color. _Armchair_--Back and seat upholstered in brown like sofa--arms of mahogany. _Desk_--A reproduction of a Sheraton, Hepplewhite, or Early English Desk. _Chair_--Rush bottom--same wood as desk, or in dull black or sage green dull enamel, conventional stencil design. _Wicker chair_--Of brown or natural wicker, with printed linen cushions in floral pattern. _Tilt table for cards or tea_--Mahogany or walnut. _Fireplace_ (If any)--A wood-box or basket; andirons and fire screen, hearth brush and tongs. _A Reading Lamp_--Sage green or black pottery base; an old gold colored paper shade, fluted or plain, top and bottom bound with sage green tape ribbon, or guimpe. _A Clock_--In simple, plain design of wood, antique gilt, or leather. _Footstool_--Small ottoman, covered in black and yellow needlework, or velvet same as sofa (brown). _Waste paper basket_--Small black wicker next to desk. _Decorative Accessories_--Green vase, gold luster bowl, mauve pottery piece; Desk appointments in dull brass, bronze, or leather; Book-ends--Library Shears. Match box and ash tray on table in brass or bronze. _Carpet_--One large or several small Orientals, or a Wilton, Axminster, or velvet in two tone of brown or tan, or in plain colors. _Glass curtains_--Cream, marquisette, cheese-cloth, or scrim, made plain. _Overdraperies_--(If desired)--Can be either printed linen, same as cushion in wicker chair, lined with sage green sateen, or brown or sage green poplin, silk damask or sunfast. _Chairs_--If the room is large enough, one or two chairs, chosen to correspond with those already in the room, may be added. _Dining Room_ The dining room should be one of the most cheerful and inspiring rooms of the house. It is the place where the family gathers to enjoy meals together, and nothing insures a better start than having breakfast in a bright, cheerful room. If the dining room and living room are connected by wide doorways, have the walls of both rooms alike. If they are connected by a small door, the walls may be in some light cloudy landscape paper, or in a small allover pattern in light cream, buff, gray, tan, or putty color. Because there is so much blue china, persons feel that they want blue dining rooms. This is a mistake, as blue used in large quantities in either walls, china, or hanging absorbs the light and makes a room gloomy. Do not display china or glassware in a so-called china closet. A built-in corner cupboard, or a small mahogany or rosewood cabinet, which might hold rare bits of pottery and china, is permissible. It is far better to use the pantry shelves for china than to crowd it into a china closet. It is best to use a rug with small figures. The hangings should be in plain colors, taken from the predominating colors in the wall covering; or if the walls are the same as the living room, the hangings should be chosen from the predominating color in the living room. This will bring the rooms into perfect harmony, without having them just alike. _Suggested Color Scheme for Dining Room_ _Walls_--Ivory or cream, if closely connected with living room. A cloudy landscape, crepe, or cartridge paper in buffs, pale grays, fawn, or cream if closed off from living room. [Illustration: DINING ROOM This well-proportioned dining room with its plain walls and figured floor covering has a square mahogany table and eight chairs of the Georgian period.] _Woodwork_--Ivory. _Floors--Hardwood_--Stained antique oak, with wax or varnish finish. _Floors--Softwood_--Painted a deep yellow or gray, or covered in plain brown, gray, or Jaspe linoleum. _Suggested List of Furniture for Dining Room_ _Table_--Round or square extension, or drop-leaf--six legs--in mahogany, walnut, weathered oak, or painted black, gray, or coco. Might be reproduction of Hepplewhite, Sheraton, or Georgian period. A glass, silver, or pottery bowl, containing flowers, on the table; plain ecru linen doilies. _Chairs_--8 chairs--Mahogany--Damask seats, Hepplewhite backs. Walnut--English linen seats, Sheraton backs. Weathered Oak--Velvet Seats, Queen Anne backs. Painted--Rush seats, or wooden seats, Windsor or straight backs. _Sideboard_--Low, broad, after Hepplewhite or Sheraton, a Welsh dresser with Windsor chairs. (Here keep either a few good pieces of silver with candlesticks on either end, or a large pottery bowl filled with fruit in the center, and candlesticks to match the bowl placed at either end, or some bits of red or yellow glass, but do not combine all three. Do not use delicate lace runners or doilies. Plain linen, or heavy real filet is far more effective Display no cut glass or hand-painted china.) _Mirror or Mellow, dark-toned painting_--Framed in antique gilt or to correspond with the wood of the furniture selected, and hung on level with the eye, directly in the center and over the sideboard. _Serving Table_--To correspond with other furniture selected, and placed as near the kitchen door as possible. Here keep two or four silver or glass candlesticks which are used on the table at night, also a silver, mahogany, or wicker tray. _Mirror_--Queen Anne type--over serving table--especially if serving table is between two windows, it gives effect of space. _Muffin stand_--Especially for maidless house--of mahogany, walnut, or painted to correspond with furniture selected. _Nest of Tables_--Small, square, of either mahogany, walnut, or black lacquer, to be kept in a corner and used for tea parties, functions, etc. _Rug--Large Oriental_--In blues, yellows, browns, or old rose and black; Wilton--in blues, yellows, brown, or old rose, and black; Axminster--in blues, yellows, browns, or old rose, and black; Chenille or velvet, in plain colors. _Curtains_--Glass curtains to match living room, in either marquisette, cheese cloth, or scrim, made plain. _Overdraperies_--If desired, can be either like the living room, if rooms are in close proximity, or taken from the predominating color note of living room hangings if these are figured. With a cloudy or landscape paper, use plain poplin, rep, or sunfast, in warm tans, sage green, with bands of black or orange, or both, across the bottom; this would give character to the room. _Uniformity in furniture chosen_--Be sure in choosing your furniture that uniformity is observed as to period, wood, and type. For example, if a Sheraton sideboard in mahogany is selected, then the entire furniture of the dining room should be of the Sheraton type in mahogany. _Bedrooms_ The first requisite in furnishing a bedroom is that it appears crisp and clean. The walls, light in color, must be restful and simple in design. The woodwork should be white, if possible. Painted furniture is very popular for a bedroom because of its dainty appearance, but dull-finished mahogany or walnut in four post or Colonial design, with rag, braided, or hooked rugs, makes a charming bedroom. Place the bed where the sleeper will not be subject to strong light or cross drafts (see page 27 for proper ventilation). A dressing table is fashionable, but not as practical as a chest of drawers with mirror above. A full-length mirror installed in a closet door, or hung in a narrow wall space, is a very decided adjunct. Be sure to place the dressing table or chest of drawers where the light is not reflected from an opposite window. To secure a good view, the light should be directed upon the person to be reflected, and not upon the mirror. Avoid placing the furniture all on one side of the room. If possible, intermingle high and low pieces to secure a proper balance. If one bed is used, be sure to place beside it a table on which should be a lamp, telephone, and small water bottle and glass. If two beds are used, place this table between the two beds. If the walls are plain in color, figured draperies and bedspreads can be used. If the walls have on them a small design, plain materials for these purposes should be used. _Suggested Color Scheme for Bedroom_ _Walls_--Corn colored cross-bar paper. _Woodwork_--White, dull finish, paint. _Floors_--_Hardwood_--Stained antique oak, with wax or varnish finish. _Floors_--_Softwood_--Painted a deep yellow, or covered in plain brown, tan, or Jaspe linoleum. _Suggested List of Furnishings for the Bedroom_ _Bed_--Full size, or twin beds--In mahogany, walnut, ivory paint, or enamel. Box or wire springs. Mattress and pillows. Bedspreads and bureau covers may be made of unbleached muslin, bound with wide bands of plain yellow, blue, and brown, these colors overlapping each other, or plain white Swiss, dimity, or Marseilles. _One high-boy_, or high chest of drawers for man--In mahogany, walnut, or painted. This piece should conform with or match other furniture in room. Brushes, comb, box for odds and ends, clothes brush. _Mirror_--Hung flat against the wall--in same wood as high-boy. _One Dressing Table_--or low chest of drawers--for lady--with mirror hung over the chest of drawers. May be in mahogany, walnut, or painted. With toilet articles in silver or tortoise shell, or ivory; pin cushion, scent bottles. The mirror may be of Queen Anne type in antique gilt, to correspond with woods used in room. _Two straight back chairs_--In mahogany, walnut, or painted, with plain wood, rush, or caned seats. _Natural wicker arm chair_--Sturdy type placed near window, with cushions of chintz or sateen to match the bedspreads. _Small flat-top desk and chair_--In either mahogany, walnut, or painted, to correspond with furniture. Supply with note paper, silver or brass ink-well, and blue feather pen. _Small Sewing Table_--Of Martha Washington design, or a Colonial type, in mahogany or rosewood. Place on it small lamp with base of wood, in brown or tan porcelain, and having a shade of blue silk lined with tan silk. _A Chest_--In either cedar, mahogany, or cretonne-covered, and placed under a window or in a corner for storage of summer or winter clothes. _Rugs_--Oriental in black, blues, or yellows, plain brown or tan carpet, made into a large rug, or wool braided, hooked, or heavy rag rugs, in black, blues, tans, browns. Small rugs should be placed near the bed, dressing table, and high-boy. _Curtains_--Glass curtains of scrim, marquisette, or cheese-cloth, to correspond with those of living room and dining room. _Draperies_--Draperies of either cretonne or muslin to match bedspreads, with bands of yellow, blue and brown sateen to correspond with bedspreads. _Bedroom for Either Boys or Girls_ It has been proven that furnishings and color produce either desirable or disastrous effects upon the sensitive minds of children. As all children's rooms are usually a combination of bedroom, play room, and study, it is well to keep in mind colors, design, arrangement, and practicality for all purposes. To most children, a spotty or too often repeated design is distracting. Blues and violets soothe, while reds, yellows, and sometimes greens are exciting and stimulating colors. We so often send our children to study and amuse themselves in their room, but have we done our share in providing them with the comforts and necessities that will assist them to produce better school work? _Boys_--With no frills, light fabrics, or woodwork for them to soil and mar, their rooms still may be made interesting--even beautiful--but convenience and masculinity should be kept foremost in mind. _Girls_--A girl's room, on the other hand, should be dainty, bright, and frivolous. Her personality, even at a very tender age, will clearly be disclosed by the way she cares for her room. There is no need of a great expenditure of money in buying furniture or hangings for a girl's room. Some of the cheaper fabrics and simplest furniture will make the most charming room. _BOY'S ROOMS_ _A Suggested Color Scheme_ _Walls_--Buff-colored paint, or tinted walls. _Woodwork_--Stained mission oak or walnut. _Floors_--Hardwood floor, strips of coco matting, or woolbraided rugs. Softwood--a large square of linoleum. _Suggested List of Furnishings_ _Bed_--Something of the day bed type. Bedspread of blue denim, with stitched bands of yellow sateen at edge. _Chest of Drawers_--Painted buff or brown, or walnut or mission oak. _A Mirror_--Antique gilt, or of wood to match chest of drawers, hung low. _A Desk_--Of the craftsman type, with stool or bench to match. _Two Wooden Chairs_--Either painted or of mission oak. _A Table_--Low, plain wooden table, of walnut, or stained to match the woodwork. _One Comfortable Chair_--Brown wicker, or the Windsor type. _A Lamp_--Of the student type, or on a bracket, securely fastened on the wall. _A Tie Rack_--Hung near chest of drawers. _One or two shelves_--For books, trophies, etc. Made of plain wood, stained to match the woodwork of a plain bookcase of mission oak. _Curtains_--Of blue denim, with stitched bands of sateen at edge--hung straight. _GIRLS' ROOMS_ _A Suggested Color Scheme_ _Walls_--Papered in a soft gray-rose, allover design paper. _Woodwork_--Cream paint. _Floor_--Hardwood--Rag rugs, with rose stripes or a gray chenille carpet. Softwood--Battleship gray paint, with rag rugs or rose chenille carpet. _Suggested List of Furnishings_ _Bed_--_Single_--Painted ivory or cream--four post, or with some low, simple headboard. Bedspread of rose dotted swiss, with wide ruffle. _A Dressing Table_--To match bed, with rose colored sateen mats--bound in pale-gray with drawers. _A Large Box_--For waists, etc. Covered in rose and gray cretonne. _A Desk_--To correspond with painted furniture; a gray blotter and rose colored pen. _Two Chairs_--One of natural wicker with cushions of rose sateen, and one of wood to correspond with painted furniture, caned seat. _A Sewing Table_--Of mahogany or cherry. _A Lamp_--China base with a shade of silk, dotted swiss, or rose-colored paper. _The Nursery_ The ideal nursery is also a play room. It should, as nearly as possible, meet the ideals of the child's own world. In that room are received early impressions which are never forgotten, and which have a lasting influence on the adult life. Don't bedeck the cribs, beds, or curtains with ribbons and laces, and expect your child to be happy. The "don'ts" and "be carefuls" make children irritable and unhappy. Choose the room with a thought to sunlight, and be sure it has outside blinds which will darken the room without keeping out the air. The floor should be bare with the exception of one rug near the bed, or should be covered with a good grade of plain linoleum. The walls and woodwork should be painted, if possible, a cream or light gray. Some fairy tale friezes are attractive, and afford opportunities of introducing color, but, if used, should not be placed too high on the wall--about three-quarters of the way up from the floor is a reasonable height. Child-study has taught that many and oft-repeated designs and subjects become meaningless, especially to older children. The furniture in the nursery should be practical. Painted furniture and wicker chairs are attractive. A comfortable winged or overstuffed chair for the grown-ups is essential. Low shelves and cupboards, built for toys and books, are necessary if the room is to be kept neat and tidy. A stationary blackboard, and a large box for books and cherished belongings, are very welcome additions. _A Suggested Color Scheme for the Nursery_ _Walls_--A soft, misty, gray paint, tint, or plain paper. _Woodwork_--A dull white. _Floors_--Plain hardwood, with a rag or braided rug in sapphire blue--or softwood, entirely covered in taupe Jaspe linoleum. _Below Is a Suggested List of Furnishings Which the Nursery Might Contain_ _A Crib_--White iron or wood, on ball bearing casters. Bedspread of yellow and white seersucker, or a silky yellow sunfast. _A Tall Chest of Drawers_--Painted cream or white, with plenty of drawers. _Table_--Low nursery table or tall one which has had its legs cut. _Two Chairs_--Low, with wooden seats, and painted to match the furniture. _A Desk_--Flat top with plenty of paper and pencils. _Waste Paper Basket_--White or natural wicker. _One Large Fireside Chair_--With slip cover of blue and yellow striped linen. _Glass Curtains_--Of best quality of cream colored cheesecloth, bound in yellow tape. _Over draperies_ (If desired)--Of primrose yellow silk, or sunfast, or striped yellow and blue linen to match slip cover. _Clothes Rack_--Low wooden rack, painted white, with at least four hooks. _Closet_--Should have a low pole on which could be hung plenty of hangers. Also a shelf about 6 inches from the floor for shoes, etc. _Large Cushions_ for the floor--One each of blue, yellow, nile green and orange. _Color Scheme_--If you desire another color scheme, such as blue-and-white, or pink-and-white, write for information. _Model Kitchen_ PREPARED BY THE HOME ECONOMICS BUREAU OF THE DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE The first consideration in arranging kitchen equipment is to save steps and labor. The kitchen should be clean, odorless and attractive. _Size_--Not more than 120 square feet of working space for preparing food and washing dishes. More space when kitchen is used for laundry or has dining alcove. _Ventilation_--If no cross drafts are provided for, cut a transom over back door if possible and arrange window boards to allow ventilation through top and bottom of window. Is desirable to have hood installed over stove to carry off drafts. _Lighting_--Two or three windows desirable and a glass pane in kitchen door. If unavailable, increase light by having very pale walls and mirrors in dark corners. Artificial light should be from powerful burner hung from center of ceiling. Electric light should be indirect. Additional side lights should be added near sink and stove, unless they receive full light. _Wall Coverings_--(1) Commercial oil cloth wall covering; or (2) good oil enamel paint. Color--Light tones. On Southern exposure--pale gray, green or pale blue; on Northern exposure--buff walls with a deeper buff or tan woodwork are good. For very dark rooms--white. Avoid white in well lighted rooms because of glare. If natural color, woodwork should have two coats of water proof varnish; if painted, two coats of flat paint and one of enamel paint. _Floor Coverings_--If room has cement floors, provide rubber mats before sink, stove and cabinet to avoid foot strain. Otherwise, use linoleum slightly darker than walls and harmonizing or contrasting in color; or any other surface easy to keep clean. _List of Kitchen Fixtures_ The Kitchen should have the following equipment: _Range_--Coal, wood, gas, oil or electric. Good hood for ventilation is desirable. Height of all working surfaces depends upon height of woman who will work in kitchen. All working surfaces including top of range should be as near the same height as possible. Height should be at least 32 inches, or more, if worker is tall. A label should state this fact. If coal range is the main one, have supplementary gas, electric or oil range. Gas range should have stove pipe from oven. _Sink_--Sink should be large enough to accommodate both a washing and rinsing dish pan. Have large drain board on each side with raised edge or beading. It should either slope gradually toward sink or have sloping grooves. If only one drain board is provided, add an adjustable folding board. Bottom of sink should be at least 32 inches from floor. Sink should be placed under or near a window to insure coolness and view. _Cabinet_--White or colored enameled metal or natural wood finish with broad working shelf 32 inches from floor or higher according to height of worker. Shelves and bins for most commonly used supplies and utensils. If a cabinet with a good work shelf is not available an additional table near cabinet should be provided. _Tables_--One or two tables, porcelain, glass, enamel, or zinc topped. If none of these can be had, linoleum may be fitted with waterproof cement to a wooden table. It should be at least 32 inches high. A table with drawers underneath and a swinging stool and space for knees is good. _Cupboard_--If there is no dining room pantry, a cupboard should be added for the china; if space permits, this should be added anyhow for less frequently used utensils and supplies. _Stool_--Stool, preferably white, should be of right height to allow sitting at table, work-shelf or sink. Add a plain chair if space permits. _Refrigerator_--A well insulated ice box, preferably white. Ice compartment should be at side or top. Straight easily cleaned drain pipe should attach to plumbing. If refrigerator is indoors a door for icing from the outside is desirable. _Towel Rods_--Wood or nickel with space for four or five dish towels. _Hand Towel Rack_--If only one person uses it, roller towel rack may be installed. Otherwise, paper toweling or individual hand towels hung on cup hooks near sink by loops on corners. _Wall Clock_--Simple, with clear figures. _Housekeepers' Rest Corner_--If space permits, a comfortable chair, footrest and small table for books and sewing should occupy a little-used portion of the room, to permit rest and recreation while waiting for food to cook. _Garbage Pail_--Covered; with foot lever to raise cover without stooping; fireproof trash basket. _Arrangement of Equipment_ Sink, cabinet with broad working shelf and dish cabinet (if dishes are washed in kitchen) should be as close together as possible without cramping passage room. Stove should be convenient to, but slightly away from, work shelf for hot weather. An ideal arrangement is china cupboard at right of sink, cabinet with broad work shelf at left of sink and, in a narrow kitchen, range on opposite wall from sink across narrowest part of room; if range is far from any broad working surface a table should be very near range. All kitchen equipment, except range, should be as near as possible to dining room door. If no dining room pantry with sink is provided, kitchen sink should be near dining room door. Range with supplementary range beside it should be so placed that full day light will light the oven. If stove is already installed in a dark place in exhibition house, move it into light, even though repiping and wiring may be required. Mirrors may be hung to throw additional light on range. If there is no good working shelf on cabinet, a table should be near cabinet for mixing food. There will then have to be a second table with a heat proof top near the stove unless stove is so near to cabinet that one table will serve both for mixing and setting hot utensils on. If possible, install a gas range, or an electric range if current is cheap enough to warrant. The range should, if possible, have an oven heat regulator. Where gas is unavailable and cost of electric current high, install a good oil stove with an oven. Refrigerator should be on porch or vestibule just outside kitchen door or should be in the kitchen near the back door away from the stove. If space permits, table next to refrigerator is a convenience. An out-icer is a convenience; in cold weather the ice compartment may be left empty and open for the air to cool the food. Dish towel and hand towel racks should be as near as possible to sink, high enough to be out of the way. The dish towel rack should be on side towards window for drying and airing. Wall clock should be within sight of stove without worker turning around. Garbage pail and trash basket should be under sink. Stove should be near chief working surface; either table or cabinet. _Decorations_--Simple, easily washed curtains of gingham, striped calico or unbleached muslin with a colored tape border add to the attractiveness of the room. They should not obscure the light. If the windows are near working centers, curtains may be half length, that is, from top of window to center sash, and finished with a fringe. Smaller up-to-date equipment, such as a fireless cooker, a pressure cooker, utensils, electric whippers, cutlery, strainers and so on, should also be installed. Further information is given in another bulletin. _The Kitchen as Laundry_ If the Kitchen is also used as Laundry, laundry equipment should be away from cooking equipment if possible. _Two Tubs_--well-lighted, tops 34 inches, a _Washing Machine_ run by whatever power the locality affords, preferably electricity. Washing Machine may have direct connection with plumbing, or good pipe hose should be provided for draining and filling machine. Copper lined _Wash Boiler_ with spigot for emptying. _Zinc Topped Table_--on rollers, same height as top of stove, for carrying wash-boiler between sink and stove. _Ironing Board_--If possible, board that folds into cupboard. Board should have its own support far enough in from ends to permit of putting garment over it. _Clothes Basket_--_with Casters on Bottom_. _Iron_--Electric Iron, or if electricity is unavailable, gas iron. Electric or hand _Mangle_ for ironing. Have tubs, washing machine, ironing board and plug for electric iron grouped together. _The Equipment of the House_ Having a house that is structurally sound, well planned and with adequate yard space, the next question is its equipment. Equipment has to do with the operation, with the house work. On the one hand this is more or less determined by the size and plan of the building, on the other by the furnishing and decoration. A well planned house makes house work lighter; and furnishing and decoration which add unnecessarily to the number of things which must be cleaned or cared for, or heavy pieces which must be moved, add to the labor of house work. Nevertheless, equipment occupies a clear outfield of its own that calls for separate discussion. _Heating_ _Central Heating_--Central heating preferred. May be hot air, steam, hot water, or vapor. Insulate heater and pipes. Large furnace water pan, or radiator waterpans, desirable. Select heating system, using fuel most economical for your locality. Thermostat heat regulator installed in living room is desirable. Write placards describing why you selected this heating plant; why it is so well insulated; why large water pan or radiator water pans are important. _Supplementary Heat_--Open fireplace, Franklin stove or gas logs desirable in living room for beauty and comfort in spring and fall. _Water Supply_ Should have running hot and cold water. If city water not available, should be pumped by power rams. Hot water boiler may be attached to coal range with auxiliary gas or oil heater for summer. Where gas rate is low, gas may be used alone. Automatic gas hot water heaters very desirable. _Bathroom_ _Size_--Should be large enough for tub, basin, toilet, clothes-hamper, stool, medicine cabinet and towel cabinet. _Floor_--Should be most sanitary. Tile, stone or linoleums are the most sanitary. Small black and white pattern or light blue and white are good. A well-filled painted wood floor of battleship gray or colonial buff may be used. _Walls_--Tile or plaster painted with two coats flat paint and one coat of enamel, or oil cloth wall covering. White, blue and cream are the best colors. _Ventilation_--Window board should be in window to allow top and bottom ventilation. An additional separate ventilator is desirable. _Fixtures_--Porcelain or enameled iron tub with hot and cold running water; shower with spray set at angle not to wet hair. _Basin_--Porcelain or enamel with hot and cold water. _Toilet_--porcelain, white enameled seat desirable. _Medicine Cabinet_ with door and mirror over basin, shelves for shaving equipment, lotions, antiseptics, etc. _Cupboard_ large enough to hold supply of towels, soap, toilet paper, and equipment for cleaning bathroom fixtures. _Clothes hamper_ unless chute to bin near wash tubs is provided. Hamper should have white smooth surface. Enameled metal or wood desirable. _Towel racks_--A nickel or enameled wood rack for each member of family to keep towels separate. _Miscellaneous fixtures_--Two nickel or enameled metal soap racks, one beside basin and one beside or hooked to tub. Tooth brush rack to hold tooth brushes well separated. Toilet paper basket or rack. Individual mugs or glasses for each member of family. Shelf of glass or wood covered with oil cloth over basin. _Stool_--White enamel, preferably. _Clothes hooks_ on back of door, or clothes tree. _Sash curtains_ of white material, easy to launder. _Lavatory_--It is well to have additional lavatory on ground floor to save steps. It should contain toilet, wash bowl, stool and fixtures for accessories. Should be as easy to clean and hygienic as bathroom. _Lighting_ Electricity if possible. Bulbs in all rooms should be frosted or shaded. _Hall_--Electricity or lamp hung from center in form of lantern or cast iron bracket to hold at least one bulb or one lamp. If side lights are desired, fixtures of brass, cast iron, or enameled iron are effective. _Living Room_--If possible, at least one baseboard plug, one center ceiling light or side brackets if desired. If room is large a center floor plug is desirable. Plugs permit lamps to be used without unnecessary cords showing. If wire must pass through rug, do not cut rug but push threads apart. _Dining Room_--If a center light in shape of dome is used, hang low enough to avoid shining in eyes of those dining. A soft effect is gained by side brackets representing sconces. Wired metal or glass candlesticks on mantel and side-board, give pleasing effect. Floor plug near dining table for electrical table appliances. _Bedrooms_--Fixtures should be placed in long wall space convenient to bureau or dressing table. Have plug near bed for lamp for reading in bed. If space permits, night light on table in upper hall is useful. All plugs and sockets should be of standard shape and size. _Cleaning_ House should be easy to clean with hard smooth floors, with cracks well filled, and rugs rather than carpets. Rounded edges and corners of baseboards desirable, also simple baseboards. One flight of stairs is sufficient if located out of sight of living room. This saves labor of cleaning two flights. Two cleaning closets, one on ground floor and one on second floor, are labor savers. Have space for vacuum cleaner and for hanging all brushes, brooms and dusters, and a shelf above or at side for the cleaning compounds. Zinc or other fireproof lining to cupboard and ventilator desirable. _Storage Space_--Attic with rows of shelves for storing boxes and small objects is desirable. Wooden chests, trunks, and a cedar lined chest or cupboard useful. Built-in closets or rows of inexpensive chests of drawers with space to pass between are good. _Storage Closets_ Every bedroom should have clothes closet with hooks and a rod for hangers, a shelf for hats and a bottom shelf for shoes. A tall closet may have near ceiling an additional rod for hangers for less often used clothes, and long rod lifter to reach hangers. A cupboard for bed linen should be in upstairs hall or in a centrally located room. On ground floor coat closet is desirable; also tool cupboard or chest, large china cupboard, low enough for all china to be within reach. Cold closet with open wire screen cabinets in basement. _Pantry_ If kitchen is well ventilated and stove has hood, pass pantry not necessary. It makes extra steps. If pass pantry is in house, only its narrowest dimension should divide kitchen from dining room. Partitions under sink for trays to stand; a narrow space for table leaves; a china cupboard with reachable shelves, and a sink and drainboards like those described for kitchen are desirable. Drawer on small shelf for cleaning compounds and brushes for cleaning silver, steel, brass and copper. FINANCING A HOME PREPARED BY THE DIVISION OF BUILDING AND HOUSING, DEPARTMENT OF COMMERCE _1.--What You Buy and How to Buy It_ In purchasing a home a misstep may be unfortunate, so get the best advice you can, and watch every step. First of all, what you buy is the site and the improvements on it. If a building and loan association, or bank, loans you money on the property, it has a direct financial interest in helping you guard yourself on certain points, such as making sure that there are no old mortgages, no unpaid back taxes, or bills for building materials, or other claims against the property. Be certain your title is clear, or have it insured or guaranteed. Learn of any easements, such as the right of a telephone company to place its poles upon your lot. If you make a purchase offer with a cash deposit, include a statement as to whether window shades, stoves, and other movable property are included. Risk from loss by fire or elements should be assumed by the owner until the title passes to you. Your offer should be dependent on your obtaining a satisfactory loan to finance the proposition, and the ability of the owners to furnish papers to show a good marketable title, free from liens or encumbrances. In other words, do not bind yourself to the purchase until you are sure of what you are paying for, and that you can finance it. You must be prepared to pay taxes on your property, and special assessments for installation of water, sewerage, electric light, gas or other public utilities, or street paving and sidewalks. Note what improvements are already made, and what additional ones you may have to pay for. _2.--How to Pay for Your Home_ In buying a house and lot you must borrow what you cannot pay in cash. Remember that the more risks you assume, the fewer the lender will have to charge you for. Your promise to pay back what you borrow will be secured by a mortgage or trust on the property. A first mortgage loan on not over one-half or two-thirds of the value of a piece of property is a very safe investment, and the rates of interest should be low. The lender on a second mortgage takes more risk, and rates of interest and discounts are higher. If you agree to buy a home without the title passing to you at once, the seller takes less risk, and you may save money. _3.--Where to Get Loans_ There are building and loan associations throughout the country, usually organized to serve the needs of people like yourself, who wish to finance a home. Their plan of weekly or monthly payments, both on principal and for interest, has proved sound from the experience of millions of people as an aid to systematic saving. Loans may often be obtained from savings banks, trust companies, state banks, individuals, and trustees for estates. Obtaining money on a second mortgage is usually not so easy. Remember that when the owner of a house takes a second mortgage in payment he may plan to sell it for four-fifths or less of its face value, and that he probably charges you accordingly. Above all, when you start to save for a home do not throw your money into glittering schemes that promise big dividends and the chance to borrow money at 3 per cent or less. The concerns behind such schemes cannot be trusted. _4.--How Much Can You Afford?_ It is said that a man may own a home worth one and one-half to two and one-half times his annual income but the payments you make during the first few years after purchasing are what you should pay most attention to. Rent ordinarily requires from ten per cent, to twenty-five, or even more, of a family's annual income. In addition to what you ordinarily pay for rent, you can devote your customary savings, or more, to paying off the principal of loans on your home. Following is an example: A man who earns $2,000 a year buys a house and lot costing $4,000. He has $1,000 cash to pay down on it, and obtains a loan of $3,000, or 75 per cent, of the value of the property, from a building and loan association. Cost per year for a $4,000 house (not including depreciation) Payments on $3,000 B. & L. Shares at 1/2% a month or 6% a year (savings) $180.00 a year Interest on $3,000 loan at 6% 180.00 " " Interest on $1,000 cash at $% 50.00 " " Taxes (vary locally) 75.00 " " Insurance 5.00 " " Upkeep at 1-1/2% 60.00 " " -------- $550.00 Of the total income of $2,000, the $550 represents 27-1/2% divided as follows: 18-1/2% for rent; 9% for savings. In about twelve years the loan is paid off, and the home owned free and clear. Zoning and What it Means to the Home By DR. JOHN M. GRIES CHIEF DIVISION OF BUILDING AND HOUSING, DEPARTMENT OF COMMERCE Zoning helps home owners by establishing residential districts from which garages, and business and factory buildings are excluded. Apartments or houses covering more than 30 or 40 per cent. of the area of a lot may be prohibited in some sections. This all means a better and fairer chance for each family to have a home with enough light and air, and healthful, decent surroundings, near to schools, playgrounds and transportation facilities. It may be added that zoning, when wisely carried out, provides for grouping of neighborhood stores at convenient points, and for guided growth of business and industrial districts, in the directions best suited for them. In the words of the Advisory Committee on Zoning appointed by Secretary Hoover: "Zoning is the application of common sense and fairness to the public regulations governing the use of private real estate. It is a painstaking, honest effort to provide each district or neighborhood, as nearly as practicable, with just such protection and just such liberty as are sensible in that particular district. It avoids the error of trying to apply exactly the same building regulations to every part of a city or town regardless of whether it is a suburban residence section or a factory district, or a business and financial center. "Zoning gives everyone who lives or does business in a community a chance for the reasonable enjoyment of his rights. At the same time it protects him from unreasonable injury by neighbors who would seek private gain at his expense. "Zoning regulations differ in different districts according to the determined uses of the land for residence, business, or manufacturing, and according to the advisable heights and ground areas. "But these differing regulations are the same for all districts of the same type. They treat all men alike." But the benefits of zoning are not confined to safeguarding the home and its surroundings. It can reduce losses due to topsy-turvy growth of cities, and cut the cost of living. Every year millions of dollars are wasted in American cities from the scrapping of buildings in "blighted" districts. For instance, fine residential districts may be threatened by sporadic factories or junk yards, and owners may become panicky and sell at a sacrifice millions of dollars worth of valuable dwellings which will be left to stand practically idle. The public must pay for this loss in one way or another. Frequently money for street, sewers and other utilities need never be spent if it is known in advance that large factories are to occupy new developments. Industry and homes are both more efficient if kept generally separate, though separation need not mean great distances for workers to travel. "How has zoning worked?" "What has it accomplished?" About 70 cities and towns have adopted zoning ordinances since 1916, and the idea has worked well. Reliable authorities declare that "the New York zoning regulations have prevented vast depreciation in many districts and effected savings in values amounting to millions of dollars in established sections." The highest class residential districts in New York, in which only 30 per cent of the lot area may be used for dwellings, have developed with much greater confidence, due to the knowledge that houses built would be safe from invasion by apartments or industry. In St. Louis "it was found that residences tended to follow the residence districts, and did not even attempt to seek locations in industrial or unrestricted areas. Except commercial buildings which were built partly in commercial and partly in industrial districts, the development of St. Louis is said to be fitting itself very closely to the zoning plan. "In New Jersey it has been found that the unzoned suburban town is at a distinct disadvantage as compared with the community protected by a zoning ordinance." It is sometimes said that zoning is arbitrary and restricts the liberty of the individual to do as he wishes; but when zoning laws have been sensibly and comprehensively drawn, the courts have approved them as a reasonable exercise of the police power "for the public health, safety and general welfare." Zoning should always be undertaken in close relation to a city plan. It is essentially a neighborly proposition, and there should be neighborhood meetings to explain it and gather suggestions. The purpose of a zoning ordinance is to insure that growth, instead of taking place sporadically and wastefully, should go on in an orderly way in response to generally recognized needs, and with due notice to all concerned. Zoning today is giving security and the sense of security to hundreds of thousands of families in America, in the enjoyment of happy homes amid the right kind of surroundings. _Is your city zoned_? 
44854	----	[Illustration: BUILDING A SKYSCRAPER] GREAT CITIES OF THE UNITED STATES HISTORICAL, DESCRIPTIVE, COMMERCIAL INDUSTRIAL BY GERTRUDE VAN DUYN SOUTHWORTH AUTHOR OF "BUILDERS OF OUR COUNTRY," BOOKS I AND II, "THE STORY OF THE EMPIRE STATE," AND "A FIRST BOOK IN AMERICAN HISTORY" AND STEPHEN ELLIOTT KRAMER ASSISTANT SUPERINTENDENT OF SCHOOLS, WASHINGTON, D.C. IROQUOIS PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC. SYRACUSE, NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY GERTRUDE VAN DUYN SOUTHWORTH AND STEPHEN ELLIOTT KRAMER ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 316.3 PREFACE Just as the history of a country is largely the history of its great men, so the geography of a country is largely the story of its great cities. How much more easily history is grasped and remembered when grouped around attractive biographies. With great cities as the centers of geography-study, what is generally considered a dry, matter-of-fact subject can be made to attract, to inspire, and to fix the things which should be remembered. This book, "Great Cities of the United States," includes the ten largest cities of this country, together with San Francisco, New Orleans, and Washington. _In it the important facts of our country's geography have been grouped around these thirteen cities._ The story of Chicago includes the story of farming in the Middle West, of the great ore industry on and around the Great Lakes, and of the varied means of transportation. Cotton, sugar, and location are shown to account largely for the greatness of New Orleans. In a similar way, the stories of the other cities sum up the important geography of our country. Enough of the history of each city is given to show its growth and development. The distinctive points of interest are described so that one feels acquainted with the things which attract the sight-seer. The commercial and industrial features are made to stand out as the logical sequence of fortunate location for manufacturing, for securing raw materials, for markets, and for convenient means of transportation. In order to make uniformly fair comparisons, local statistics have been ignored and all data have been taken from the latest government reports. The authors wish to express their sincere appreciation to the historical societies, to the chambers of commerce, to those in the various cities who have furnished material and reviewed the manuscript, and to all others who have rendered assistance. It is hoped that by the use of this book our country, in all its greatness, will mean more and will appeal more to the boys and girls of America than ever before. To the publishers of Allen's "Geographical and Industrial Studies: United States" we are indebted for the use of the map appearing at the end of the text. THE AUTHORS CONTENTS PAGE NEW YORK 3 CHICAGO 41 PHILADELPHIA 67 ST. LOUIS 89 BOSTON 105 CLEVELAND 137 BALTIMORE 155 PITTSBURGH 171 DETROIT 189 BUFFALO 207 SAN FRANCISCO 227 NEW ORLEANS 245 WASHINGTON 265 REFERENCE TABLES 299 INDEX 305 LIST OF MAPS PAGE The Boroughs of New York--Entrances to her Harbor 10 Manhattan Island and the City Parks 20 New York's Subway and Bridge Connections 29 Where Chicago was Founded 44 Chicago's Canals 48 Chicago To-day 60 Location of Philadelphia 69 Philadelphia To-day 80 Louisiana Purchase 90 St. Louis and her Illinois Suburbs 92 Map of Boston and its Vicinity 106 The City of Boston 118 Boston's Land and Water Connections 120 Cleveland and her Neighbors 140 The City of Cleveland 144 The City of Baltimore 164 Location of Baltimore 168 The Pittsburgh District 173 The City of Pittsburgh 179 The Great Lakes 190 The City of Detroit 201 New York's Canals 209 The Site of Buffalo 212 The City of Buffalo 218 The Site of San Francisco 232 The City of San Francisco 234 Where New Orleans Stands 246 The City of New Orleans 250 The District of Columbia 268 The City of Washington 270 Some of the Great Railroads of the United States 303 * * * * * [Illustration: THE MUNICIPAL BUILDING] GREAT CITIES OF THE UNITED STATES NEW YORK "Drop anchor!" rang out the command as the little Dutch vessel furled her sails. On every side were the shining waters of a widespread bay, while just ahead stretched the forest-covered shores of an island. [Illustration: INDIANS VISITING THE _HALF MOON_] All on board were filled with excitement, wondering what lay beyond. "Have we at last really found a waterway across this new land of America?" they asked. There was only one way to know--to go and see. So on once more, past the island, glided the _Half Moon_. From time to time, as she sailed along, the redskin savages visited her and traded many valuable furs for mere trifles. But at last the _Half Moon_ could go no further. This was not a waterway to India, only a river leading into the depths of a wild and rugged country. Sick with disappointment, her captain, Henry Hudson, turned about, journeyed the length of the river which was later to bear his name, once more passed the island at the mouth of the river, and sailed away. All this in 1609. [Illustration: "MY BROTHERS, WE HAVE COME TO TRADE WITH YOU"] Manhattan was the Indian name for the island at the mouth of the Hudson River. Tempted by Henry Hudson's furs, the thrifty Dutchmen sent ship after ship to trade with the American Indians. And as the years went by, these Dutchmen built a trading post on Manhattan, and a little Dutch village grew up about the post. Soon the Dutch West India Company was formed to send out colonists to Manhattan and the land along the Hudson. A governor too was sent. His name was Peter Minuit. [Illustration: PETER STUYVESANT] Now Peter Minuit was honest, and when he found that the Dutch were living on Indian land to which they had helped themselves, he was not content. So he called together the tribes which lived on Manhattan and, while the painted warriors squatted on the ground, spoke to them in words like these: "My brothers, we have come to trade with you. And that we may be near to buy your furs when you have gathered them, we wish to live among you, on your land. It is your land, and as we do not mean to steal it from you, I have asked you to meet me here that I may buy from you this island which you call Manhattan." Then, in payment for the island, Peter Minuit offered the Indians ribbons, knives, rings, and colored beads--things dearly loved by the savages. The bargain was soon closed, and for twenty-four dollars' worth of trinkets the Dutch became the owners of Manhattan Island. [Illustration: NEW YORK IN OLDEN TIMES] The Dutch settlement on Manhattan was called New Amsterdam. New Amsterdam was a pretty town, with its quaint Dutch houses built gable end toward the street and its gardens bright with flowers. Dutch windmills with their long sweeping arms rose here and there, and near the water stood the fort. But though New Amsterdam grew and prospered in the years after Peter Minuit bought Manhattan, life there did not run as smoothly as it might. In time Peter Stuyvesant came to be governor, and a stern, tyrannical ruler he was. He always saw things from the Dutch West India Company's point of view, not from the colonists'. Disagreement followed disagreement till the people were nearly at the end of their patience. Then, one day in 1664, an English fleet sailed into the bay. A letter was brought ashore for Governor Stuyvesant. England too, so it seemed, laid claim to this land along the Hudson River, and now asked the Dutch governor to give up his colony to the Duke of York, a brother of England's king. This done, the Dutch colonists could keep their property, and all their rights and privileges. In fact, even greater privileges would then be given them. [Illustration: WASHINGTON TAKING THE OATH OF OFFICE] In a towering rage Governor Stuyvesant tore the letter into bits and stamped upon them and called upon his colonists to rise and help him repulse the English. But the colonists would not rise. They felt that there was nothing to gain by so doing. The English promised much, far more than they had had under the rule of tyrannical Peter Stuyvesant and the Dutch West India Company. What could the governor do? Surely he alone could not defeat the English fleet. So at last, sorrowfully and reluctantly, he signed a surrender, and the Dutch Colony was given over to the English. Once in possession, the English renamed New Amsterdam, calling it New York. Now followed a hundred years of ever-increasing river, coast, and foreign trade, of growing industries, of prosperity. And then--the Revolution. When the Declaration of Independence was signed on July 4, 1776, George Washington and his army were in New York, guarding the city from the English. But before the close of the year he was forced to retreat, and the English took possession. By the close of the Revolution, in 1783, the English had robbed the city of much of its wealth and had ruined its business. [Illustration: THE FIRST TRAIN IN NEW YORK STATE] After the war the thirteen states who had won their freedom from England joined together, drew up a constitution for their common government, and chose their first president. Then came the thirtieth of April, 1789. The streets were crowded, and a great throng packed the space before New York's Federal Hall. This was Inauguration Day, and on the balcony stood General Washington taking the oath of office. It was a solemn moment. The ceremony over, a mighty shout arose--"Long live George Washington, president of the United States." Cheers filled the air, bells pealed, and cannons roared. The new government had begun, and, for a time, New York was the capital city. Already New York was recovering from the effects of the war. Her trade with European ports had begun again, and it was no uncommon sight to see over one hundred vessels loading or unloading in her harbor at one time. New York harbor is one of the largest and best in the world. Add to this the city's central location on the Atlantic seaboard, and it is no wonder that a vast coasting trade grew up with Eastern and Southern ports. Without doubt, however, the greatest business event in the history of New York City was the opening of the Erie Canal in 1825. The canal joined the Great Lakes with the Hudson River, making a water route from the rich Northwest to the Atlantic, with New York as the natural terminus. So with nearly all of the trade of the lake region at her command, New York soon became a great commercial center, outstripping both Boston and Philadelphia, which up to this time had ranked ahead of New York. A few years later the building of railroads began. The first railway from New York was begun in 1831, and it was not long before the city was the terminus of several lines and the chief railroad center of the Atlantic coast. As the railroads did more and more of the carrying, and the Erie Canal lost its former importance, New York did not suffer from the change, but still controlled much of the trade between the Northwest and European nations. Besides, as time went on, she built up an immense traffic with all parts of the continent, being easily reached by rail from the north, east, south, and west. [Illustration: THE BOROUGHS OF NEW YORK--ENTRANCES TO HER HARBOR] The first half of the nineteenth century saw the arrival of many thousand immigrants from Europe. These, with the thousands of people who came from other parts of America, attracted by the city's growing industries, made more and more room necessary. First, about 13,000 acres across the Harlem River were added to the city. Then, in 1895, the city limits were extended to the borders of Yonkers and Mt. Vernon. And finally, in 1898, New York, Brooklyn, Long Island City, and some other near-by towns were united under one government, forming together Greater New York, the largest American city and the second largest city in the world. New York to-day covers about 360 square miles, its greatest length from north to south being 32 miles, its greatest width about 16. The city is divided into five boroughs: Manhattan, The Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens, and Richmond. The Borough of Manhattan, on the long narrow island of that name, lies between the Hudson and the East River. North and east of Manhattan, on the mainland, lies the Borough of The Bronx. Just across the narrow East River, on Long Island, are the boroughs of Queens and Brooklyn; while Staten Island is known as the Borough of Richmond. [Illustration: NEW YORK SKYSCRAPERS] As more and more people came to the city the business area on Manhattan proved too small, and with water to the east, to the west, and to the south, there was no possibility of spreading out in these directions. Yet business kept increasing, and the cry for added room became more and more urgent. Finally, the building of the ten-story Tower Building in 1889 solved the difficulty. It showed that, though hemmed in on all sides, there was still one direction in which the business section could grow--upwards. And upwards it has grown. To-day lower Manhattan fairly bristles with huge steel-framed skyscrapers which furnish miles and miles of office space, twenty, thirty, forty, in one case even fifty-five, stories above the street level. The supplying of office and factory space is not the only use that has been made of these steel buildings. Great apartment houses from twelve to fifteen stories high provide homes for thousands. Mammoth hotels covering entire city blocks furnish temporary homes for the multitudes which visit the city each year. Fifteen of the largest of these can house more than 15,000 guests at one time--a good-sized city in itself. Thus has Manhattan become one of the most densely populated areas on the globe. In the boroughs of Queens and Richmond, on the other hand, large tracts of land are given over to farms and market gardens. [Illustration: HOW A SKYSCRAPER IS MADE] Manhattan is at once the smallest and the most important borough in the city. Here are the homes of more than 2,000,000 people, the business section of Greater New York, and the chief shipping districts. [Illustration: A MAMMOTH HOTEL] When building the narrow irregular streets of their little town on lower Manhattan, the inhabitants of New Amsterdam little dreamed that they would one day be the scene of the enormous traffic of modern New York. Those old, narrow, winding streets to-day swarm with hurrying throngs from morning till night and are among the busiest and noisiest in the world. The newer part of the city from Fourteenth Street north to the Harlem River has been laid out in wide parallel avenues running north and south. These are crossed by numbered streets running east and west from river to river. Fifth Avenue runs lengthwise through the middle of the borough, dividing it into the East and West sides. On the East Side you will find the crowded homes of the poorer classes, where many of the working people of Manhattan live. On the West Side are many manufacturing plants, lumber yards, and warehouses. On the upper stretch of Fifth Avenue, and on the streets leading off, are the homes of many of New York's wealthiest residents. Opposite Central Park are some of the most costly and beautiful mansions in the city. [Illustration: FIFTH AVENUE FROM THIRTY-FOURTH STREET] In this regular arrangement of streets, Broadway alone is the exception to the rule. Beginning at the southern end of the island, it runs straight north for more than two miles, then turns west and winds its way throughout the whole length of the city. About its lower end, and on some of the neighboring streets, center the banking and financial interests. Here are many of the city's richest banks and trust companies. [Illustration: BROADWAY CROSSING SIXTH AVENUE] Wall Street, running east from Broadway about one third of a mile from the southern end of Manhattan, was named from the wall which the Dutch, in 1683, built across the island at this point, because they heard that the English were planning to attack them from the north. Though only half a mile in length, Wall Street probably surpasses all others in the extent of its business. [Illustration: WALL STREET] North of the banking center is the great wholesale region, where merchants from all parts of the country buy their stock in large quantities, to sell again to the retail merchants. Beyond the wholesale region are the large retail stores--New York's great shopping district. In these retail stores the merchants who have bought from the wholesalers sell direct to the people who are to use the goods. In this middle section of the island are also most of the better-class hotels, restaurants, clubs, and theaters, which have been gradually making their way further and further uptown, crowding the best resident section still further north. The customhouse, where the government collects duties on goods brought into the port of New York from other lands, was built at the extreme southern end of the island, where Fort Amsterdam used to stand. The United States Sub-Treasury, in Wall Street, stands on the site of Federal Hall, where Washington was inaugurated. Here are stored large quantities of gold, silver, and paper money belonging to the government. In and about City Hall Park are the post office, the courthouse, and the Hall of Records. The new public library, on Fifth Avenue between Fortieth and Forty-second streets, is the largest library building in the world. [Illustration: CLEOPATRA'S NEEDLE] The city's parks are many. Central Park, in the center of Manhattan, ranks among the world's finest pleasure grounds. It is two miles and a half long and one-half mile wide, and has large stretches of woodland, beautiful lawns, gleaming lakes, and sparkling fountains. Here, too, are the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Cleopatra's Needle--an obelisk thousands of years old, presented to the city by a ruler of Egypt. And here are reservoirs which hold the water brought by aqueducts from the Croton River, about forty miles north of the city. This river was for many years the sole source of Manhattan's water supply. In 1905, however, the city began work on an immense aqueduct which is to bring all the drinking-water for all five boroughs from reservoirs in the Catskill Mountain region. [Illustration: NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY] [Illustration: METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART] [Illustration: MANHATTAN ISLAND AND THE CITY PARKS] The tomb of General Grant is at the northern end of Riverside Park, which is on a high ridge along the Hudson River above Seventy-second Street. Riverside Drive, skirting this park, is one of the most beautiful boulevards in the city. Then there are Prospect Park in Brooklyn, and Pelham Bay and Van Cortlandt parks in The Bronx. The city zoo and the Botanical Gardens are in Bronx Park. And in addition to all these there are more than two hundred smaller open spaces and squares scattered over the city. [Illustration: THE TOMB OF GENERAL GRANT] Columbia University, New York University, Fordham, the College of the City of New York, and Barnard College are among the most noted of New York's many educational institutions. About five million people live in this wonderful city, and to supply them all with food is a tremendous business in itself. During the night special trains bring milk, butter, and eggs; refrigerator cars come laden with beef; and from the market gardens of Long Island fruits and vegetables are gathered and taken to the city during the cool of the night that they may be sold, fresh and inviting, in the morning. [Illustration: WHERE THE SEALS LIVE IN BRONX PARK] Great numbers of New York's inhabitants are from foreign lands. Several thousand Chinese manage to exist in the few blocks which make up New York's Chinatown. A large Italian population lives huddled together in Little Italy, as well as in other sections of the city. Thousands upon thousands of Jews are crowded into the Hebrew section on the lower east side of Manhattan. There is also a German and a French colony, as well as distinct Negro, Greek, Russian, Armenian, and Arab quarters. Most of these are in lower Manhattan, and in consequence lower Manhattan is by no means deserted when the vast army of shoppers, workers, and business men have gone home for the night. [Illustration: THE ELEPHANT HOUSE IN BRONX PARK] [Illustration: VISITING THE BIRDS IN BRONX PARK] [Illustration: THE OLD AND THE NEW] The necessity of carrying these shoppers, workers, and business men to and from their homes in the residence sections of the city and in the suburbs gradually led to the development of New York's wonderful rapid-transit system. Within the borders of Manhattan itself, horse cars soon proved unequal to handling the crowds that each day traveled north and south. So the first elevated railway was built. Then six years later, a second line was constructed. Others soon followed, not only in Manhattan but also in Brooklyn and The Bronx. Raised high above the busy streets by means of iron trestles, and making but few stops, these elevated trains could carry passengers much faster than the surface cars, and for a time the problem seemed to be solved. [Illustration: A NEW YORK ELEVATED RAILWAY] The traveling public was rapidly increasing, however, and before the close of the nineteenth century both the surface cars, now run by electricity, and the elevated trains were sorely overcrowded during the morning and evening rush hours. More cars were absolutely necessary, and as there was little room to run them on or above the surface, New York decided to make use of the space under the ground, just as it had already turned to account that overhead. [Illustration: NEW YORK'S FIRST TWO-STORY CAR] [Illustration: A SUBWAY ENTRANCE] The work was begun in 1901. A small army of men was set to blasting and digging tunnels underneath the city streets,--a tremendous task,--and in 1904 the first subway was opened. Electric cars running on these underground tracks carry passengers from one end of the island to the other with the speed of a railroad train. [Illustration: SUBWAY TUNNELS] [Illustration: A FERRY BOAT] But what of the means of travel for those living outside of Manhattan? Years back, business men living on Long Island had to cross the East River on ferry boats. This was particularly inconvenient in winter, when fogs or floating ice were liable to cause serious delays. Besides, as New York grew, such numbers crossed on the ferries that they were overcrowded. Relief came for a time when, in 1883, the Brooklyn Bridge was built over the East River from Brooklyn to New York. This bridge is over a mile long. Across it run a roadway, a walk for foot passengers, and tracks for elevated trains as well as for surface cars. Two even longer bridges, the Williamsburg Bridge and the Manhattan Bridge, have since been built between Manhattan and Brooklyn. Then, too, there is the Queensboro Bridge, between Manhattan and the Borough of Queens. Though thousands and thousands daily crossed the East River over these bridges, men soon foresaw that the time was not far distant when ferries and bridges together would be unable to take care of the ever-growing traffic. Further means of travel had to be provided, and the success of the city's underground railway suggested a practical idea. As early as 1908, the subway was continued and carried under the East River to Brooklyn. Several tubes have since been built under the Hudson, connecting Manhattan with the New Jersey shore. To-day New York is building many miles of new subway under various parts of the city as well as under the Harlem and East rivers. Carrying passengers under water has proved as great a success as carrying them underground. [Illustration: NEW YORK'S SUBWAY AND BRIDGE CONNECTIONS] [Illustration: BROOKLYN BRIDGE] Over and above all these means of rapid transit, Greater New York has at its service ten of America's great railroads. The Pennsylvania Railroad has an immense station in New York, one of the finest of its kind. Tunnels under the Hudson and East rivers carry its trains to New Jersey and Long Island. [Illustration: THE PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD STATION] [Illustration: THE GRAND CENTRAL STATION] The new Grand Central Station is the greatest railroad terminal in the world. The station is a beautiful building of stone and marble, large enough to accommodate thirty thousand people at one time. Between railroads and tunnels, bridges and ferries, surface cars, elevated trains, and subways, New York's rapid transit system is one of the best in the world. With such advantages as a receiving and distributing center, it is small wonder that the city has become the nation's chief market place. It is without a rival as the center of the wholesale dry-goods and wholesale grocery businesses. More than half of the imports of the United States enter by way of New York's port, and its total foreign commerce is five times that of any other city in the country. Rubber, silk goods, furs, jewelry, coffee, tea, sugar, and tin are among the leading imports. Cotton, meats, and breadstuffs are the most important exports. Besides being the principal market place of the United States, New York is also its greatest workshop, as it makes over one tenth of the manufactures of the country. In the manufacture of clothing alone, more than a hundred thousand people are employed. There are comparatively few large factories for carrying on this work, as much of it is done in tenement houses and in small workshops. The growth of this industry has been largely due to the abundance of cheap unskilled labor furnished by the immigrant population of the city. Second in importance is the refining of sugar and molasses, carried on chiefly in Brooklyn along the East River, where boats laden with raw sugar from the Southern states and the West Indies unload their cargoes. New York City leads in the refining of sugar as well as in its importation. [Illustration: THE BATTERY] Added to these, printing and publishing, the refining of petroleum, slaughtering and meat packing, the roasting and grinding of coffee and spices, the making of foundry and machine-shop products, cigars, tobacco, millinery, furniture, and jewelry are the leading industries of the many thousands which have grown up in the city. All this is largely due to the ease with which raw materials can be obtained and finished articles marketed. Thanks to its commercial advantages, New York leads all American cities in the value of its manufactures and surpasses them in the variety of its products. [Illustration: LOWER MANHATTAN] [Illustration: NEW YORK CITY DOCKS] [Illustration: LOADING A FREIGHT STEAMER] At the southern end of Manhattan Island is the Battery. In the old days the Battery was a fort. Now it is used as an aquarium. From the Battery New York's docks extend for miles along both sides of lower Manhattan and line the Long Island and New Jersey shores as well. The wharves are piled high with bales and bags, boxes and barrels. Ships from the South come with cargoes of cotton, others bound for England take this cotton away. Tank steamers from Cuba bring molasses; similar ones are filled with petroleum destined for the ends of the earth. Cattle boats take on live stock brought from the West, grain ships load at the many elevators built at the water's edge, and vessels from all the larger ports of the world put ashore goods of every description. Along both shores of the Hudson River are the piers of the great trans-Atlantic steamship companies, the landing places of the largest and fastest passenger vessels in the world. Here also are the docks of the many river and coastwise lines which carry passengers to and from the cities and towns on the Hudson and the Atlantic coast. Half the foreign trade and travel of the United States passes over the wharves of lower Manhattan. [Illustration: A DOCK SCENE] The entire harbor includes the Hudson and East rivers and the upper and lower New York Bay with the connecting strait known as The Narrows. The upper bay, New York's real harbor, can be entered from the ocean in three ways--a narrow winding channel around Staten Island, a northeast entrance through Long Island Sound and the East River, and an entrance through The Narrows from the lower bay. [Illustration: A GREAT OCEAN LINER] Among the islands in the upper bay is Ellis Island, where immigrants are inspected before being allowed to enter our country. On another island stands the splendid bronze statue of "Liberty Enlightening the World," given to the United States by the people of France. It is now America's greeting to her future citizens as they sail up the harbor. [Illustration: NEW YORK HARBOR] What a different picture the harbor presents to-day from the one Hudson saw over three hundred years ago! The quiet undisturbed waters of that time are now alive the year around with craft of every sort, from the giant ocean liner to the graceful sailboat. Vessels freighted with merchandise, tugs towing canal boats, ferries for Staten Island, barges loaded with coal, river steamers, excursion boats, and battleships from far and near, day and night, pass in an endless procession where the solitary Indian used to glide in his silent canoe. [Illustration: THE STATUE OF LIBERTY] When the Dutch bought Manhattan it was a beautiful wooded island inhabited by Indians who supplied their simple wants by hunting and fishing. What a change the island has undergone since that time! The Indians have disappeared with the forest. In their place live and struggle vast armies of human beings gathered together from all the corners of the earth. Where squaws used to pitch their wigwams, giant skyscrapers tower up toward the clouds. The stillness of the forest has been succeeded by the noise and bustle of a busy city. The lazy monotonous life of the savage has given way to a ceaseless activity and hurry. The twenty-four dollars which bought the whole island--less than three hundred years ago--would not now buy a single square inch in the center of the city. The hunting and fishing ground of the red men has become the heart of the greatest city of the Western Hemisphere. =NEW YORK= FACTS TO REMEMBER Population (1910), nearly 5,000,000 (4,766,883). First city in population in the United States. Second city in population in the world. Divided into five sections, called boroughs. Carries on more than half the foreign trade of the United States. Leads all American cities in the value of its manufactures. One of the best harbors in the world. Connected by great railway systems with all parts of America. Connected with the Great Lakes by the Hudson River and the Erie Canal. A city of skyscrapers. Wonderful system of underground, overhead, and surface transportation. QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW AND STUDY 1. Why did the Dutch settle on Manhattan Island? How did the Dutch governor secure the land from the Indians? 2. What great ceremony connected with the establishment of the government of the United States took place in New York? Why was this ceremony held in New York? 3. What was the most important event in advancing the business growth of New York? 4. What effect did the arrival of vast numbers of immigrants have upon the city? 5. Why are there such tall buildings in New York? 6. Name some of the principal streets and their chief features; name some of the colleges and universities. 7. Give some facts about Central Park, The Bronx, and Riverside Drive. 8. Give some idea of the size of New York, its population, and the nationalities that comprise it. 9. Give a brief account of the means of transportation. 10. In what respects does New York rank first of all the cities of the United States? 11. What are its principal exports and imports? 12. What commercial advantages does New York enjoy? 13. What are the chief manufactured products of New York City, and how can it produce so much without many great factories? 14. Compare the harbor and city of to-day with that of three hundred years ago. 15. From a New York newspaper find out the foreign countries and the cities of this country to which vessels make regular sailings from New York. 16. Name all the railroads entering the city. CHICAGO "Chicago is wiped out." "Chicago cannot rise again." So said the newspapers all over the country, in October, 1871. And well they might think so, for the great fire of Chicago--one of the worst in the world's history--had laid low the city. The summer had been unusually dry. For months almost no rain had fallen. The ground was hot and parched, the whole city dry as kindling wood. Then about nine o'clock on a windy Sunday night, the fire broke out in a poor section of the West Side. It seemed as if everything a spark touched, blazed up. While the firemen stood by, helpless to check the flames, rows of houses and blocks of factories burned down. In a short time the lumber district was a great bonfire, the flames shooting hundreds of feet into the air. On and on swept the fire along the river front. Then the horror-stricken watchers saw the flames cross to the South Side. All had thought that the fire would be checked at the river, but the wind carried pieces of burning wood and paper to the roofs beyond. The business section was burning! The firemen worked desperately, but in vain. Hundreds of Chicago's finest buildings--stores, offices, banks, and hotels--were swallowed up by the flames. The city had become a roaring furnace, and the terrified people rushed madly for safety. [Illustration: AFTER THE FIRE] Once more the fire crossed the river, this time to the North Side, with its beautiful residence districts. Here too wind and flame swept all before them till Lincoln Park was reached, where at last the fire was checked in its northward course; there was nothing more to burn. It had raged for two nights and a day, laying waste a strip of land almost four miles long and one mile wide. [Illustration: Courtesy of Central Trust Company of Illinois, Chicago HOME OF JOHN KINZIE] Tuesday morning saw seventeen thousand buildings destroyed and one hundred thousand people homeless. The best part of Chicago lay in ruins. What wonder that men everywhere thought the stricken city could not rise again! At the time this terrible disaster happened, Chicago had been a city for a little less than thirty-five years. The mouth of the Chicago River had been a favorite meeting place for Indians and French trappers long before permanent settlement began. In 1777 a negro from San Domingo, who had come to trade with the Indians, built a log store on the north bank of the river. This store was bought in 1803 by John Kinzie, another trader and Chicago's first white settler. The next year the United States government built Fort Dearborn on the south side of the river, not far from the lake. Though Fort Dearborn was nothing more than a stockade with blockhouses at the corners, a little settlement gradually grew up around it. [Illustration: WHERE CHICAGO WAS FOUNDED] During the War of 1812 the Indians attacked the fort, burned it to the ground, and either massacred or captured most of the settlers while they were fleeing to Detroit for safety. Fort Dearborn was rebuilt after the war, but settlers were slow in coming. By 1830 there were scarcely a hundred people in Chicago, then a little village of log houses scattered over a swampy plain. Fur trading was still the chief occupation. A change was soon to come. The southern part of Illinois was by this time being settled and dotted with farms, and each year larger crops were produced. The farmers saw that they must get their products to the Atlantic coast if they wished to prosper, and the Great Lakes were the most convenient route over which to send them. Lake Michigan extended into the heart of the fertile prairie lands, but its shores were almost unbroken by harbors. Men early saw the possibilities of the mouth of the Chicago River. It could be made into an excellent harbor with little expense, and if once this were done, Chicago would be the natural port of the rich Middle West. In 1833 the government began improvements by cutting a channel through the sand bar across the mouth of the river and building stone piers into the lake to keep out the drifting sand. Vessels were soon entering the river instead of anchoring in the lake as formerly. Lake trade increased. More and more boats were bringing goods from the East to be distributed among the farmers of Illinois. The new harbor made intercourse with the outer world easy. The growth of trade, however, was hindered by the absence of good roads. Farmers who wished to bring anything to the Chicago market had to cross the open prairie, which was wet and marshy near the town. Such a ride was an unpleasant experience, as often the wagon would stick in the deep mud, and the poor driver had no choice but to wait until help should happen along. Many preferred to take their crops to the cities farther south, where better roads had been built. [Illustration: AN EARLY CHICAGO DRAWBRIDGE] "We too will have roads," said the people of Chicago, anxious for more trade, and they set about building them with a will. Soon good roads entered the town from all directions, and over them the rich products of the surrounding country came pouring into Chicago. Business and wealth increased, and more and more settlers arrived. Most of them came by way of the lakes, but many came in prairie schooners, as the immigrants' great covered wagons were called. By 1837 the population had risen to four thousand, and Chicago became a city. Its growth from this time was marvelous. Its location at the head of Lake Michigan, its fine harbor, the resources of the rich back country, all combined to make it the chief commercial center of the Middle West. [Illustration: WHERE THE STAGECOACH STARTED] In the early days, when Chicago was only a tiny village, there had been talk of connecting Lake Michigan at Chicago with the Illinois River by canal. As the Illinois flows into the Mississippi, this would furnish a water route from the East down the entire Mississippi valley. In 1836 the canal was actually begun. A few years later hard times came, and the work was stopped for a while, but it was finished in 1848. This was known as the Illinois and Michigan Canal. It extended from La Salle, on the Illinois River, to Chicago--a distance of over ninety miles--and offered cheap transportation between Chicago and the fertile farm lands to the south. [Illustration: CHICAGO'S CANALS] Though the canal was a success, railroads did even more for the city. The year that saw the canal completed also saw the first train run from Chicago to Galena, near the Mississippi, in the heart of the lead country. Four years later, in 1852, came railroad connection with the East, when the Michigan Southern and Michigan Central railroads entered the city. Other lines soon followed, and it was not long before Chicago was one of the important railroad centers of the country. But while Chicago was fast becoming rich and big, it was not a pleasant place in which to live. The site of the city was a low and marshy plain, almost on a level with the lake, and the problems of drainage of such a location had to be met and solved. In the beginning, to keep the houses dry, they were built above the ground and supported by timbers or piles. Cellars and basements were unknown, and the city streets were a disgrace. In spring they were flooded and swimming with mud. Even in summer, pools of stagnant water stood in many places. For years wagons sticking fast in the mud were common sights. Cholera, smallpox, and scarlet fever swept the city again and again. People, knowing only too well that unsanitary conditions brought on these diseases, did their best to remedy matters. They saw that Chicago would be clean and healthy if only they could find a way to carry off her wastes. First they decided to turn the water into the river by sloping all the streets towards it. Then came a severe flood which did much damage and showed the folly of digging down any part of the city. Chicago was too low already. So the people hastened to raise their streets again by filling them in with sand, and this time they made gutters along the side to carry off the water. Heavy wagons soon wore away the sand, however, and the streets were as muddy as before. Finally, an engineer advised the people to raise the whole city several feet; then brick sewers could be built beneath the street to carry the sewage into the river. At first many refused to listen to such a proposal. The undertaking was so great that it frightened them. But as things were, business and health were suffering. Something had to be done, and at last the city determined to raise itself out of the mud, and work was begun. Ground was hauled in from the surrounding country, streets and lots were filled in, the buildings were gradually raised, and sewers were built sloping toward the river. It was a gigantic task and cost years of labor, but when it was done, Chicago was, for the first time, a dry city. It must be remembered that the area of Chicago at that time was but a small part of the present city. Another source of trouble was the drinking-water, which was taken from Lake Michigan. The sewage in the river flowed into the lake and at times contaminated the water far out from the shore, thus poisoning the city's supply. It was therefore decided to build new waterworks, which would bring into the city pure water from farther out in the lake. A tunnel was built, extending two miles under Lake Michigan. At its outer end a great screened pipe reached up into the lake to let water into the tunnel. Over the pipe a crib was built to protect it. On the shore, pumping stations with powerful engines raised the water to high towers from which all parts of the city were supplied. [Illustration: CHICAGO HIGH SCHOOL, 1856] The first tunnel was completed in 1867. With the growth of the city other tunnels and cribs have been built, farther out in the lake, to supply the increasing need. By 1870 Chicago had become one of the largest cities in the country. In 1830 the settlement at the mouth of the Chicago River had barely twenty houses. Forty years later it had over three hundred thousand inhabitants. The wonderful resources of the upper Mississippi valley had been largely responsible for the city's growth, and the rapid development of the entire West promised Chicago a still greater future. Then came the fire, and to the homeless people looking across miles of blackened ruins it seemed that Chicago had no future at all. Had not the fire undone the work of forty years? [Illustration: CLARK STREET IN 1857] The first despair gradually gave way to a more hopeful feeling. Truly the loss was great--the best part of the city lay in ruins. But was not the wealth of the West left, and the harbor and the railroads? These had built up Chicago in the beginning, and they would do so again. The rebuilding began at once. At first little wooden houses and sheds were constructed to give temporary shelter to the homeless. Help came to the stricken city from all sides. Thousands of carloads of food were sent, and several million dollars were collected in Europe and America. Two thirds of the city had been built of wood. Now the business blocks, at least, were to be as nearly fireproof as possible. Tall buildings of brick and stone were planned. But such structures are heavy, and if they were built directly on the swampy ground underlying the city, there would be danger of their settling unevenly and possibly toppling over. So layers of steel rails crossing each other were sunk in the ground, and the spaces between them were filled in with concrete. Upon this solid foundation the first skyscrapers of Chicago were built. To-day concrete caissons are constructed on bed rock, often from 100 to 110 feet below the surface, and upon these rest the steel bases of the modern Chicago skyscrapers. Work went on quickly. In a year the business section was rebuilt. In three years there was hardly a trace of the fire to be seen in the city, which was larger and more beautiful than before. After the rebuilding, the water question came up for discussion again. In spite of all that had been done to protect the water supply, the increasing sewage of the city, carried by the river into the lake, at times still made the water unfit to drink. The one way of getting pure water was to prevent the river from flowing into the lake. This could be done only by building a new canal, large and deep enough to change the flow of the river away from the lake. Such a canal was finally completed in 1900, after eight years' work and at a cost of over $75,000,000. It is 28 miles long, 22 feet deep, and 165 feet wide, and it connects the Chicago River with the Des Plaines, a branch of the Illinois River. A large volume of water from Lake Michigan continually flushes this immense drain, carrying the sewage away. The Chicago River no longer flows into the lake, and at last the danger of contaminated drinking-water from this source is past. [Illustration: BUSY SCENE AT ENTRANCE TO CHICAGO RIVER] One dream of the builders of the canal has not yet been realized. They called it the Chicago Drainage and Ship Canal, in the hope that it might some day be used for shipping purposes as well as for draining the river. This cannot happen, however, till the rivers which it connects are deepened and otherwise improved. Such has been the history of the growth of Chicago--to-day the greatest railroad center and lake port in the world. It is now the second city in size in America and ranks fourth among the cities of the world. The port of Chicago owes much to the Chicago River, which has been repeatedly widened, deepened, and straightened. It is to-day one of the world's most important rivers, commercially considered. After extending about one mile westward from the lake, the river divides into two branches, one extending northwest, the other southwest. Many docks have been built along its fifteen miles of navigable channel, and its banks are lined with factories, warehouses, coal yards, and grain elevators. [Illustration: Courtesy of Central Trust Company of Illinois, Chicago CHICAGO'S FIRST GRAIN ELEVATOR] These grain elevators are really huge tanks where the grain is stored and kept dry until time to reship it. There are many of them along the river, and they bear witness to the fact that Chicago is the world's greatest grain center. In 1838 the city received only seventy-eight bushels of wheat. This was brought in by wagons rumbling across the unbroken prairie. Canal boats and railroads have taken the place of the wagons of early days and every year bring hundreds of millions of bushels of grain from the West to the elevators along the Chicago River. Though much of the grain remains here but a short time and is then shipped to other points, a great quantity is made into flour in the city's many flourishing mills. [Illustration: A GRAIN ELEVATOR OF TO-DAY] Of equal importance with the Chicago River harbor is the great harbor in South Chicago at the mouth of the Calumet River. Here ships from the Lake Superior region come with immense cargoes of ore. This ore, together with the supply of coal from the near-by Illinois coal fields, has developed the enormous steel industry of South Chicago. Vast quantities of steel are turned out. Some of this is shipped to foreign countries, but most of it is used in Chicago's many foundries for the making of all kinds of iron and steel articles, in the city's immense farm-tool factories, and in the shipyards for building large steamships. Close to the water front, too, are extensive lumber yards, for Chicago is the largest lumber market in the United States. Here boats can be seen unloading millions of feet of timber from the great forests of Michigan and Wisconsin, sent to Chicago's lumber yards to be distributed far and wide over the country. Large quantities are also taken to the factories in the city, to be cut and planed and made into doors, window frames, furniture, and practically everything that can be made of wood. In addition to her inner harbors, Chicago has a fine outer harbor. This is now being enlarged by the extension of its breakwaters, and a $5,000,000 pier is under construction which will be more than half a mile in length and will greatly increase the shipping facilities. With all these advantages as a shipping point, thousands of vessels come to Chicago every year. Steamers connect it with the states along the Great Lakes and with Canada and the outer world. Its trade with Europe is large, corn and oats being the chief exports. New York alone in America surpasses Chicago in the total value of its commerce. Of Chicago's nearly 2,500,000 inhabitants a large percentage are foreign born, Germans, Poles, Irish, and Jews having settled here in great numbers. About forty languages are spoken, and newspapers are regularly published in ten of them. With its suburbs, Chicago stretches nearly 30 miles along the shore of Lake Michigan and reaches irregularly inland about 10 miles. The city limits inclose an area of over 191 square miles, which the two branches of the Chicago River cut into three parts, known as the South, West, and North sides. The three divisions of the city are connected by bridges and by tunnels under the river. [Illustration: COURTHOUSE AND CITY HALL] Though business is spreading to the West Side, the central business section is still on the South Side and extends from the Chicago River beyond Twenty-sixth Street. Most of the great wholesale and retail houses, banks, theaters, hotels, and public buildings are crowded into this area, and here is the largest department store in the world, in which over 9000 people work. The automobile industry alone occupies nearly all of Michigan Avenue for two miles south of Twelfth Street. Surrounding this crowded business section are most of the terminals of Chicago's many railroads. These connect the city with New York, Boston, and Philadelphia in the East; with New Orleans, Galveston, and Atlanta in the South; as well as with San Francisco and the other large cities of the West. The courthouse and city hall and the new Northwestern Railway Station are among the city's finest buildings. Elevated railways and a freight subway have been built in recent years and have somewhat relieved the crowded condition of the streets. This subway, opened in 1905, connects with all the leading business and freight houses, and carries coal, ashes, garbage, luggage, and heavy materials of every kind to and from them. [Illustration: THE NORTHWESTERN RAILWAY STATION] Five miles southwest of the city hall are the Union Stockyards, the greatest market of any kind in the world, covering about five hundred acres. When Chicago was only a small village, herds of cattle were driven across the prairies to be slaughtered in the little packing houses which grew up along the Chicago River. As the raising of cattle and hogs increased in the state, most of them were sent to the Chicago market, and the stockyards continued to develop until to-day they can hold more than four hundred thousand animals at once. [Illustration: CHICAGO TO-DAY] Near the yards are the famous packing houses of Chicago, where over two thirds of the cattle, hogs, and sheep received in the city are slaughtered and prepared for shipping. The use, during the last forty years, of refrigerator cars has made possible the sending of dressed meats to far-distant points, and a great increase in Chicago's packing business has resulted. [Illustration: WHERE CARS ARE MADE] Beef, pork, hams, and bacon from Chicago are eaten in every town and city of America and in many parts of Europe. Other products are lard, soups, beef extracts, soap, candles, and glue, for every bit of the slaughtered animal is turned into use. [Illustration: THE SKELETON OF A PULLMAN CAR] In a district of South Chicago, known as Pullman, are the shops of the Pullman Palace Car Company and the homes of its army of workmen. Cars of all sorts are manufactured by the Pullman company, which owns and operates the dining and sleeping cars on most American railroads. [Illustration: THE CAR COMPLETED] There is no one striking residence quarter in Chicago, but beautiful homes are found in many parts of the city. Among the finest streets are Lake Shore Drive, along the lake front on the North Side, and Drexel and Grand avenues. [Illustration: MICHIGAN BOULEVARD] The parks of Chicago are nearly one hundred in number, the most important being Lincoln, Washington, Humboldt, Garfield, Douglas, and Jackson. These are connected by boulevards, or parkways, forming a great park system, sixty miles in length, which encircles the central part of the city. Lincoln Park borders the lake on the North Side and covers hundreds of acres, its area having been doubled by filling in along the shores of the lake. Jackson Park, on the lake shore of the South Side, was the site of the World's Columbian Exposition, which celebrated the four-hundredth anniversary of the discovery of America. This park is connected with Washington Park by what is known as the Midway. Grant Park has been recently constructed on made land facing the central business portion of the city. Here is to be located the Field Museum of Natural History. Bordering the Midway are the fine stone buildings of The University of Chicago, opened in 1892. Its growth, like that of Chicago, has been marvelous. Already it is one of the largest universities of the country. [Illustration: © The University of Chicago THE LAW SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO] But with all its parks, its boulevards, its splendid water front, and its many other advantages, the people of Chicago are not yet satisfied. To-day they are working to carry out a splendid plan which will give the city more and larger parks and playgrounds, better and wider streets, and a really wonderful harbor. All this is being done "that by properly solving Chicago's problems of transportation, street congestion, recreation, and public health, the city may grow indefinitely in wealth and commerce and hold her position among the great cities of the world." =CHICAGO= FACTS TO REMEMBER Population (1910), over 2,000,000 (2,185,283). Second city in population. Second only to New York in value of manufactures. The leading market in the world for grain and meat products. A great iron and steel center. Chief lumber and furniture market of the United States. Greatest railroad center in the country. Most important lake port in the country. Has had a remarkable growth in industries and in population. QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW AND STUDY 1. Tell what you can of Chicago's early history. 2. What great disaster befell Chicago in 1871? 3. Give five causes for the wonderful growth of Chicago. 4. What part has the Chicago River played in the development of the city? 5. Describe a grain elevator. Why are they necessary in handling grain? 6. Name the advantages which Chicago enjoys on account of its location. 7. What are the great wheat-growing states of the United States? 8. Give reasons for the development of the following industries in Chicago: Iron and steel industries Meat packing Lumber trade 9. What are the advantages of water transportation over rail transportation? 10. In what respects is rail transportation better than water transportation? 11. Why was Chicago willing to spend millions of dollars to improve her water supply? How was this done? 12. Where are the workers secured to carry on the great industries of Chicago? 13. Make a table, by measurement of a map of the United States, showing the distance from Chicago to the following places: New York City Denver Boston Seattle Washington, D.C. San Francisco New Orleans St. Louis 14. In what respects does Chicago stand first of American cities, and in what two things does she lead the world? 15. Compare Chicago and New York as to exports and value of commerce. 16. What is the benefit of parks to a city? What has Chicago done to make her parks among the best in this country? PHILADELPHIA In early days, when there was no United States and our big America was a vast wilderness inhabited mostly by Indians, people who came here were thought very adventuresome and brave. At that time there lived in England a distinguished admiral who was a great friend of the royal family. The king owed him about $64,000, and at his death this claim was inherited by his son, William Penn. Now William Penn was an ardent Quaker, and because of the persecution of the Quakers in England he decided to found a Quaker colony in another country. King Charles II, who seldom had money to pay his debts, was only too glad to settle Penn's claim by a grant of land in America. To this grant, consisting of 40,000 square miles lying west of the Delaware River, the king gave the name Pennsylvania, meaning "Penn's Woods." The next year, 1682, William Penn and his Quaker followers entered the Delaware River in the ship _Welcome_. Penn believed in honesty and fair play. He was generous enough not to limit his colony to one religion or nationality. All who were honest and industrious were welcome. The laws he made were extremely just, and land was sold to immigrants on very easy terms. [Illustration: PENN'S TREATY WITH THE INDIANS] Soon after his arrival in America, Penn wisely made a treaty with the Indians whose wigwams and hunting grounds were on or near the banks of the Delaware River. Beneath the graceful branches of a great elm he and the Indian chief exchanged wampum belts, signifying peace and friendship. In the center of the belt which Penn received are two figures, one representing an Indian, the other a European, with hands joined in friendship. This belt is still preserved in Philadelphia by the Historical Society of Pennsylvania. [Illustration: PENN'S WAMPUM BELT] [Illustration: LOCATION OF PHILADELPHIA] In 1683 Penn laid out in large squares, between the Delaware and Schuylkill rivers, the beginning of a great city. This city he called Philadelphia, a word which means "brotherly love." At that time the so-called city had an area of 2 square miles and a population of only 400. To-day Philadelphia has an area of nearly 130 square miles and a population of more than a million and a half. It is America's third city in population, and it ranks third among the manufacturing cities of the United States. Philadelphia is on the Delaware River, a hundred miles from the ocean, but it has all the advantages of a seaport, for the river is deep enough to let great ocean steamers navigate to the city's docks. Philadelphia's easy access to the vast stores of iron, coal, and petroleum, for which Pennsylvania is famous, its location on two tidewater rivers,--the Delaware and the Schuylkill,--and its important railroads, all have helped to make it a great industrial and commercial center. One half of the anthracite coal in the United States is mined in Pennsylvania. Much of it is shipped to Philadelphia and from there by rail and water to many other states and countries. [Illustration: THE OLD STAGE WHICH JOURNEYED FROM PHILADELPHIA TO PITTSBURGH] Some of the greatest manufacturing plants in the United States, in fact in the world, are in Philadelphia. In certain branches of the textile, or woven-goods, industry Philadelphia is unsurpassed. In the making of woolen carpets she leads the world. This industry goes back to Revolutionary times, when the first yard of carpet woven in the United States came from a Philadelphia loom. In 1791 a local manufacturer made a carpet, adorned with patriotic emblems, for the United States Senate. Other important industries of the city include the manufacturing of woolen and worsted goods, hosiery and knit goods, rugs, cotton goods, felt hats, silk goods, cordage, and twine and the dyeing and finishing of textiles. The largest lace mill in the world is in Philadelphia. [Illustration: OLD IRONSIDES] Philadelphia is also noted for the manufacture of iron and steel. The largest single manufactory in Philadelphia is the Baldwin Locomotive Works, which is the greatest of its kind. Pictures of the old Flying Machine, a stagecoach which made trips to New York in 1776, and of Old Ironsides, the first locomotive built by Matthias W. Baldwin in 1832, seem very queer in comparison with the powerful 300-ton locomotives built in Philadelphia to-day. Old Ironsides weighed a little over 4 tons and lacked power to pull a loaded train on wet and slippery rails; hence the following notice which appeared in the newspapers: "The locomotive engine built by Mr. M. W. Baldwin of this city will depart daily when the weather is fair with a train of passenger cars. On rainy days horses will be attached." Besides the American railroads using Baldwin locomotives, engines built in this plant are in use in many foreign lands. There is hardly a part of the world to which one can go where a Philadelphia-made locomotive is not to be seen. [Illustration: THE FIRST TRAIN ON THE PENNSYLVANIA RAILROAD] Philadelphia holds an important place in the construction of high-grade machine tools. She has great rolling mills, foundries, and machine shops, and one of the most famous bridge-building establishments in the world. Her people smile at being called slow; in fourteen weeks a Philadelphia concern made from pig iron a steel bridge a quarter of a mile long, carried it halfway around the world, and set it up over a river in Africa. Shipbuilding in Philadelphia began with the founding of the colony. It was the first American city to build ships and was also the home of the steamboat. The first boat to be propelled by steam was built by John Fitch in Philadelphia in 1786. This was more than twenty years before Robert Fulton had his first steamboat on the Hudson River. Robert Fulton, who was a Pennsylvanian by birth, also lived at one time in Philadelphia. Shipbuilding, to-day, is one of the city's great industries. [Illustration: A PRESENT-DAY LOCOMOTIVE] The art of printing has been practiced in Philadelphia since the very beginning of its history. William Bradford, one of the first colonists, published an almanac for the year 1687. This was the first work printed in Philadelphia. Benjamin Franklin entered the printing business in Philadelphia in 1723, and six years later published the _Pennsylvania Gazette_. This was the second newspaper printed in the colony, the first being the _American Weekly Mercury_, the first edition of which was printed in Philadelphia in 1719. Both of these papers were very small and would appear very odd alongside of the daily papers of to-day. The first complete edition of the Bible printed in the United States was published by Christopher Saur in Germantown, which is now a part of Philadelphia, in 1743. Philadelphia ranks first among the cities of the United States in the publication of scientific books and law books. One of the large publishing houses of the city now uses over a million dollars' worth of paper each year. It is interesting to know that when the Revolutionary War began there were forty paper mills in and near Philadelphia. At that time, and for many years after, it was the great literary center of the country. [Illustration: IN FAIRMOUNT PARK] When William Penn founded his Quaker town in the wilderness, he made little provision for parks, as at that time the town was so small and was so surrounded by forests that no parks were needed. But Philadelphia now possesses the largest park in the United States. This is known as Fairmount Park, which covers over three thousand acres of land. Splendid paths and driveways give access to every section of this park. On all sides one sees beautiful landscape gardening, fine old trees, and picturesque streams and bridges. Here is a great open amphitheater where concerts are given during the summer months; here are athletic fields, playgrounds, race courses, and splendid stretches of water for rowing; and here also for many years were located the immense waterworks which pumped the city's water supply from the Schuylkill River. [Illustration: ONCE THE HOME OF WILLIAM PENN] Among the famous buildings in the park are Memorial Hall and Horticultural Hall. They were erected at the time of the great Centennial Exhibition, which was held in Philadelphia in 1876 to celebrate the hundredth birthday of American independence. Memorial Hall is now used as an art gallery and city museum. Horticultural Hall contains a magnificent collection of plants and botanical specimens, brought from many different countries. Another interesting building in Fairmount Park is the little brick house which was once the home of William Penn. It is said to have been the first brick house erected in Philadelphia. It stood on a lot south of Market Street, and between Front and Second streets. Some years ago it was moved from its original site to Fairmount Park, where thousands of people now visit it. Here too, before the Revolutionary War, was the home of Robert Morris, the great American financier, who, during that war, time and again raised money to pay the soldiers of the American army. [Illustration: LOOKING NORTH ON BROAD STREET] Many statues of American heroes ornament the driveways and walks of Fairmount Park. At the Green Street entrance stands one of the finest equestrian statues of Washington in the country. The carved base, which is made of granite and decorated with bronze figures, is approached by thirteen steps, to represent the original thirteen states. [Illustration: BALLOON VIEW OF FAIRMOUNT PARK AND THE SCHUYLKILL RIVER, 1000 FEET ABOVE THE GROUND] [Illustration: PHILADELPHIA'S WASHINGTON MONUMENT] The streets of Philadelphia, while not broad, are well paved, and many of them are bordered by fine old trees. It was William Penn who named many of the streets after trees. The names of several of the streets in the oldest part of the town are recalled in the old refrain: Market, Arch, Race, and Vine, Chestnut, Walnut, Spruce, and Pine. Philadelphia is a city of homes. Besides its splendid residential suburbs, it has miles of streets lined with neat attractive houses where live the city's busy workmen. [Illustration: THE CITY HALL] Perhaps the city hall is the most striking of the notable buildings. It is a massive structure of marble and granite and stands at the intersection of Broad and Market streets. This immense building covers four and a half acres and is built in the form of a hollow square around an open court. The most attractive feature of the building is the great tower surmounted by an immense statue of William Penn. This lofty tower is nearly 548 feet high and is 90 feet square at its base. It is 67 feet higher than the great Pyramid of Egypt and nearly twice as high as the dome of the Capitol at Washington. The Washington Monument exceeds it in height by but a few feet. The great statue of Penn is as tall as an ordinary three-story house and weighs over 26 tons. It is cast of bronze and was made of 47 pieces so skillfully put together that the closest inspection can scarcely discover the seams. Around the head is a circle of electric lights throwing their brilliant illumination a distance of 30 miles. To one gazing upwards, the light seems a halo of glory about the head of the beloved founder of the city. [Illustration: THE CITY-HALL STATUE OF PENN] Philadelphia has many fine schools, both public and private. The two most noted educational institutions are the University of Pennsylvania and Girard College. The University of Pennsylvania was founded largely through the efforts of Benjamin Franklin. It now occupies more than fifty buildings west of the Schuylkill River and is widely known as a center of learning. [Illustration: PHILADELPHIA TO-DAY] Girard College was the gift of Stephen Girard, who, from a humble cabin boy, became one of Philadelphia's richest benefactors. The college is a charitable institution devoted to the education of orphan boys, who are admitted to it between the ages of six and ten. Girard left almost his entire fortune of over $7,000,000 for the establishment of this great educational home for poor boys. Two millions of this sum were for the erection of the buildings alone. [Illustration: THE UNITED STATES MINT] Other prominent educational institutions are the Penn Charter School, chartered by William Penn; the Academy of Fine Arts; The Drexel Institute for the promotion of art, science, and industry; the School of Industrial Art; the School of Design for Women; and several medical colleges which are among the most noted in the country. When the United States became an independent nation it was necessary to have a coinage system of its own. In 1792 a mint was established in Philadelphia to coin money for the United States government. All of our money is not now made in Philadelphia. The paper currency is made in Washington, and there are mints for the coinage of gold, silver, and copper in San Francisco, Denver, and New Orleans as well as in Philadelphia. [Illustration: OLD CHRIST CHURCH] A visit to the Philadelphia mint is most interesting. Visitors are conducted through the many rooms of this great money factory and are shown the successive processes through which the gold, silver, nickel, and copper must pass before it becomes money. We first see the metal in the form of bars or bricks. In another room we find men at work melting the gold and mixing with it copper and other metals to strengthen it. Coins of pure gold would wear away very rapidly, and so these other metals are added. The prepared metal is cast into long strips, about the width and thickness of the desired coins. In still another room these strips are fed into a machine which punches out round pieces of the size and weight required. These disks are then carefully weighed and inspected, after which they are taken to the coining room to receive the impression of figures and letters which indicates their value. One by one the blank disks are dropped between two steel dies. The upper die bears the picture and lettering which is to appear upon the face of the coin, and the lower, that which is to appear on the reverse side. As the disk lies between them the two dies come together, exerting an enormous pressure upon the cold metal. The pressure is then removed, and the bright disk drops from the machine, stamped with the impression which has changed this piece of metal into a coin of the United States. All coins are made in much the same way. [Illustration: INDEPENDENCE HALL] In our brief visit we see many wonderful machines for counting, weighing, and sorting the thousands of coins which are daily produced in this busy place. At every step we are impressed with the great precautions taken to safeguard the precious materials handled. The old parts of Philadelphia are even more interesting than the mint, because of their historic associations. Within the distance of a few squares one may visit famous buildings whose very names send thrills of pride through the heart of every good American. [Illustration: THE LIBERTY BELL] Old Christ Church, whose communion service was given by England's Queen Anne in 1708, is perhaps the most noted of Philadelphia's historic churches. In this old church Benjamin Franklin worshiped for many years, and when he died he was buried in its quaint churchyard. And here too George Washington and John Adams worshiped when Philadelphia was the capital city. Carpenters' Hall and Independence Hall ought to be known and remembered by every boy and girl in America. When the Massachusetts colonists held the Boston Tea Party, England undertook to punish Massachusetts by closing her chief port. This meant ruin to Boston. All the English colonists in America were so aroused that they determined to call a meeting of representatives from each colony, to consider the wisest course of action and how to help Massachusetts. It was in Carpenters' Hall that this first Continental Congress met, in September, 1774. The building was erected in 1770 as a meeting place for the house carpenters of Philadelphia--hence its name. [Illustration: THE HOME OF BETSY ROSS] On Chestnut Street stands the old statehouse, which is called Independence Hall because it was the birthplace of our liberty. Here it was that, when all hope of peace between the colonies and England had been given up, the colonial representatives met in 1776 in the Continental Congress and adopted the Declaration of Independence, which declared that England's American colonies should henceforth be free and independent. While the members of Congress discussed the Declaration and its adoption, throngs packed the streets outside, impatiently waiting to know the result. At last the great bell rang out--the signal of the joyous news that the Declaration of Independence had been adopted. Independence Hall was built to be used as a statehouse for the colony of Pennsylvania. The old building has been kept as nearly as possible in its original condition and is now considered "A National Monument to the Birth of the Republic." This sacred spot is under the supervision of the Sons of the American Revolution and is used as the home of many historic relics. Among these may be found the Liberty Bell, which hung in the tower of the statehouse for many years. It was later removed from the tower and placed on exhibition in the building. It has made many journeys to exhibitions in various cities, such as New Orleans, Atlanta, Chicago, Charleston, Boston, St. Louis, and San Francisco. The old bell is now shown in a glass case at the main entrance to Independence Hall. [Illustration: THE FIRST UNITED STATES FLAG] On Arch Street, not far from Independence Hall, is the little house where it is claimed the first American flag was made by Betsy Ross. For ten years, from 1790 to 1800, Philadelphia was the capital of the United States. In this city Washington and Adams were inaugurated for their second term as president and vice-president, and here Adams was inaugurated president in 1797. Philadelphia to-day is a great city: great in industry, great in commerce, and great in near-by resources. Every street of the old part of the town is rich in historic memories. William Penn dreamed of a magnificent city, and the City of Brotherly Love is worthy of her founder's dream. =PHILADELPHIA= FACTS TO REMEMBER Population (1910), over 1,500,000 (1,549,008). Third city in rank according to population. Place of great historic interest: Founded by William Penn. Home of Benjamin Franklin. First Continental Congress met here in 1774. Declaration of Independence signed here in 1776. Capital of the nation from 1790 to 1800. First United States mint located here. A great industrial and commercial center. Ranks third in the country as a manufacturing city. Principal industries: Leads the world in the making of woolen carpets. Has the largest locomotive works in the United States. Manufactures woolen and worsted goods. Ranks high in printing and publishing, the refining of sugar, and shipbuilding. Deep-water communication with the sea. QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW AND STUDY 1. When, how, and by whom was the site of Philadelphia acquired? 2. Compare the city of 1683 with that of to-day. 3. How does Philadelphia rank in size and manufactures among the great cities of the United States? 4. Name several advantages which have helped to make the city a great industrial and commercial center. 5. What are the leading exports of the city? 6. Name some of the important industries of Philadelphia. 7. Tell what you can of Philadelphia's great iron and steel works. 8. Tell something of the history and the present importance of printing in Philadelphia. 9. Give some interesting facts about the city's great park. 10. State briefly some of the things which may be seen in a visit to the mint. 11. What events of great historical interest have taken place in Carpenters' Hall and Independence Hall? ST. LOUIS Soon after Thomas Jefferson became president of the United States, he bought from France the land known as Louisiana for $15,000,000. This sum seemed a great deal of money for a young nation to pay out, but the Louisiana Purchase covered nearly 900,000 square miles and extended from the Mississippi River to the Rocky Mountains and from the Gulf of Mexico to Canada. So when one stops to think that the United States secured the absolute control of the Mississippi and more than doubled its former area at a price less than three cents an acre, it is easier to understand why Jefferson bought than why France sold. When Louisiana became part of the United States in 1803, St. Louis was a straggling frontier village, frequented mostly by boatmen and trappers. It had been established as a trading post back in 1764 by a party of French trappers from New Orleans, and had, from the first, monopolized the fur trade of the upper Mississippi and Missouri River country. Here hunters and trappers brought the spoils of distant forests. Here the surrounding tribes of Indians came to trade with the friendly French. Here countless open boats were loaded with skins and furs and then floated down the Mississippi. [Illustration: LOUISIANA PURCHASE] Notwithstanding this flourishing trade, the growth of the settlement was slow. In 1803 the population numbered less than one thousand, made up of French trappers and hunters, a few other Europeans and Americans, and a considerable number of Indians, half-breeds, and negro slaves. But as soon as Louisiana belonged to the United States, a new era began in the West. Emigrants from the Eastern states poured over the Appalachian Mountains. St. Louis lay right in the path of this overland east-to-west travel. From here Lewis and Clark started, in 1804, on their famous exploring trip of nearly two years and a half, up the Missouri River, to find out for the country what Louisiana was like. It was here that emigrants headed for the Oregon country stopped to make final preparations and lay in supplies. The remote trading post of the eighteenth century was suddenly transformed into a wide-awake bustling town. [Illustration: MISSISSIPPI RIVER BOATS] Furs were now no longer the only article of trade. The newly settled Mississippi valley was producing larger crops each year. Because of the poor roads, overland transportation to the markets on the Atlantic was out of the question, and trade was dependent on the great inland waterways. Early in the century, keel boats and barges carried the products of field and forest down the Mississippi. Then came the arrival of the first steamboat, the real beginning of St. Louis' great prosperity, working wonders for this inland commerce whose growth kept pace with the marvelous development of the rich Middle West. [Illustration: ST. LOUIS AND HER ILLINOIS SUBURBS] St. Louis, lying on the west bank of the Mississippi, between the mouths of the Ohio and Missouri rivers and not far from the Illinois, became the natural center of this north-and-south river traffic. By 1860 it was the most important shipping point west of the Alleghenies. [Illustration: THE MUNICIPAL COURT BUILDING] Meanwhile railroad building had begun in the West. Ground was broken in 1850 for St. Louis' first railway, the Missouri Pacific. Other roads were begun during the next two years. In a short time the whole country was covered with a network of railroads, and a change in the methods of transportation followed. The steamboats were unable to compete with their new rivals in speed--a tremendous advantage in carrying passengers and perishable freight--and their former importance quickly grew less. St. Louis lost nothing by the change. Many of the cross-continent railroads, following the old pioneer trails, met here. To-day more than twenty-five railroads enter the city, connecting it with the remotest parts of the United States as well as with Canada and Mexico. [Illustration: THE CITY HALL] St. Louis now has about 700,000 inhabitants and occupies nearly 65 square miles of land, which slopes gradually from the water's edge to the plateau that stretches for miles beyond the western limits of the city. The city is laid out in broad straight streets, crossing each other at right angles wherever possible and numbered north and south from Market Street. The shopping district lies mainly between Broadway,--the fifth street from the river,--Twelfth Street, Pine Street, and Franklin Avenue. The financial center is on Fourth Street and Broadway, while Washington Avenue, between Fourth and Eighteenth streets, is one of the greatest "wholesale rows" in the West. Besides its public schools--which include a teachers' college--and private schools, St. Louis has two higher institutions of learning, Washington University and St. Louis University. Among the most important public buildings in the business section are the municipal court building, the city hall, the courthouse, and the public library. [Illustration: THE NEW CENTRAL LIBRARY] The St. Louis Union Station, used by all railroads entering the city, is one of the largest and finest stations in the world. Pneumatic tubes connect it with the post office and the customhouse, while underground driveways and passages for handling bulky freight, express, and mail matter radiate from it in all directions. Almost directly west of the business section, on the outskirts of the city, lies Forest Park, the largest of St. Louis' many recreation grounds. It covers more than thirteen hundred acres of field and forest land, left largely in a natural state. Here is the City Art Museum, which was part of the Art Palace of the world's fair held in St. Louis in 1904 to celebrate the centennial of the Louisiana Purchase. [Illustration: THE UNION STATION] The beautiful Missouri Botanical Garden, generally known as Shaw's Garden, is open for the use of the public. Compton Hill Reservoir Park, on the South Side, though small, is one of the finest in the city. Its water tower and basins are a part of the municipal water system, costing more than $30,000,000. The city water is pumped from the Mississippi River and purified as it passes into great settling basins. Though St. Louis' attractive houses are found almost everywhere outside the strictly business quarters, the real residence section has gradually been growing toward Forest Park, and many of the city's business men have built homes in the suburbs beyond the western limits of the city. One of these suburbs, University City, bids fair to become America's most beautiful residence town. Unlike most of our large cities, St. Louis has no sharply defined factory district. Its manufacturing establishments are distributed over nearly the whole city. An important part of its manufacturing interests centers on the eastern bank of the Mississippi in the city's Illinois suburbs. [Illustration: THE ART MUSEUM] The industrial development of these Illinois suburbs was greatly increased by the opening of the Eads Bridge in 1874. Before this time there had been no bridge connection over the Mississippi. Passengers and freight ferries had plied regularly between St. Louis and her suburbs across the river, but there were seasons when floating ice made the river impassable, sometimes cutting off communication between the two shores for days. The Eads Bridge is 6220 feet long and is so built that the railroad tracks cross it on a level lower than the carriage drives and foot paths. With its completion, communication between opposite sides of the river became as easy as between different parts of the city. [Illustration: THE EADS BRIDGE] Other bridges have since been built. In 1890 the Merchants Bridge, used solely by railroads, was built across the Mississippi three miles to the north of Eads Bridge, and now there is the McKinley Bridge between the two. In addition to these the city is building a bridge which, when completed, will be open to traffic without toll charges. [Illustration: SHAW'S GARDEN] [Illustration: A PUBLIC BATH] Among the Illinois suburbs thus brought into closer touch with the western side of the river are East St. Louis,--a growing city of about 75,000,--Venice, Madison, Granite City, and Belleville. Being principally manufacturing communities, these cities contribute in no small degree to St. Louis' importance as an industrial center. [Illustration: A MISSOURI COAL MINE] St. Louis' importance, however, is mainly due to the city's favorable location at the heart of one of the world's richest river valleys. The vast natural resources of the Middle West are at her command. Raw materials of every kind abound almost at her door. Missouri ranks high as an agricultural and mining state. Its position in the great corn belt makes hog raising a highly profitable industry. The prairies to the north furnish extensive grazing areas for cattle. The Ozark Mountains to the southwest afford excellent pasturage for sheep and yield lumber as well as great quantities of lead, zinc, and other minerals. In addition, the state has large deposits of soft coal, while only the Mississippi separates St. Louis from the unlimited supply of the Illinois coal fields. As a result, the cost of manufacturing is low and the city's many and varied industries thrive. Chief among these is the manufacture of boots and shoes. Though this business is comparatively young in the West, St. Louis already ranks among the three leading footwear-producing cities of the country, turning out over $50,000,000 worth of boots and shoes yearly. Most of these are of the heavier type made for country trade, but the output of finer footwear is steadily increasing. [Illustration: MAKING SHOES] Next in importance are the tobacco, meat-packing, and malt-liquor industries. St. Louis is one of the leading cities in the country in the manufacture of tobacco. The meat-packing establishments, including those in East St. Louis, hold fourth place among America's great packing centers. Its mammoth breweries lead the country in the output of beer. Flour mills, foundries, and sugar refineries also do an immense business. Street and railroad cars, stoves of all kinds, paints, oils, and white lead are made in scores of factories, while hundreds of other industries flourish in the city, making it one of the greatest workshops in the United States. [Illustration: MULES IN A STOCKYARD] Important as St. Louis is as a manufacturing city, it is even more noted as a distributing center, its location making it the natural commercial metropolis of the Mississippi valley. It markets not only its own manufactures but products which represent every section of the country. The vast territory to the west and southwest depends almost entirely on St. Louis for its supply of dry goods and groceries. Other staples are boots and shoes, tobacco, hardware, timber, cotton, breadstuffs, cattle, and hogs. In the handling of furs St. Louis leads the cities of the world. She also holds a high place among the great grain markets. In this country her annual receipts of corn, wheat, and oats are exceeded only by those of Chicago and Minneapolis. Shipments of grain and breadstuffs to Central and South America, Cuba, Great Britain, and Germany constitute the city's leading exports. As a live-stock market it is no less important. The National Stockyards, located on the Illinois side of the river, contain several hundred acres. Though packing houses and slaughtering houses occupy some of this land, the main part is covered with sheds, pens, and enclosures for the reception and sale of live animals. Millions of cattle, hogs, and sheep are handled here every year. St. Louis also buys and sells hundreds of thousands of horses and mules, being the largest market for draft animals in the world. Just as the frontier trading post of the eighteenth century grew into the thriving river port of the nineteenth, so the river port of the nineteenth century has developed into one of the leading railroad and commercial centers of the twentieth. And the fourth city of America in size is now St. Louis. =ST. LOUIS= FACTS TO REMEMBER Population (1910), nearly 700,000 (687,029). Fourth city according to population. Well located; center of the Mississippi valley, between the mouths of the Missouri and Ohio rivers. Important shipping point by rail and water. A great railroad center. The leading market in the world for furs and draft animals. One of the greatest boot-and-shoe-manufacturing centers. One of the chief markets in the United States for grain, flour, and live stock. QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW AND STUDY 1. Why did Jefferson buy the country included in the Louisiana Purchase? 2. Give a brief account of the Louisiana Purchase; from whom purchased, the cost, the territory included. 3. Tell what you know of St. Louis before the Louisiana Purchase. 4. What brought about the sudden and rapid growth of St. Louis after the purchase? 5. What effect did the railroads have upon St. Louis' water transportation? Why? 6. Describe the St. Louis Union Station. 7. What three bridges were built across the Mississippi at St. Louis, and why? 8. To what does St. Louis owe her importance as an industrial center? 9. In what lines does St. Louis lead the world? 10. Name some of the products sent to St. Louis from the neighboring country. 11. What are some of her most important industries? 12. Name some of the things which St. Louis supplies to other sections of the country. 13. In what business has St. Louis held an important place from its beginning? 14. By consulting a map, find what great railroad systems run to St. Louis. BOSTON Let us take a trip to New England and visit Boston. Boston is New England's chief city in size, in population, in historic interest, and in importance. It is the capital of Massachusetts and the fifth city in size in the United States. If we were going to visit some far-away cousins whom we had never seen, we should surely want to know something about their age, their appearance, and their habits. Would it not be just as interesting to find out these things about the city we are to see on our journey? In the early days the Indians called the district where Boston now stands Shawmut, or "living waters." The first white man to come to Shawmut was William Blackstone, a hermit who made his home on the slope of what is now Beacon Hill. Though Blackstone liked to be alone, he was unselfish. So when he heard that the settlers of a Puritan colony not far away were suffering for want of pure water, he went to their governor, John Winthrop, "acquainted him with the excellent spring of water that was on his land and invited him and his followers thither." Blackstone's offer was gladly accepted. The Puritans purchased Shawmut from the Indians and in 1630 began their new settlement, which they named Boston in honor of the English town which had been the home of some of their leading men. [Illustration: MAP OF BOSTON AND ITS VICINITY] Originally Boston was a little irregular peninsula of scarcely 700 acres, entirely cut off from the mainland at high tide. It did not take the colonists long, however, to outgrow these narrow quarters. They soon filled in the marshes and coves with land from the hills. They spread out over two small islands and made them part of Boston. Then, one by one, they took in neighboring settlements. And from this start Boston has grown, until to-day it has an area of about 43 square miles and a population of nearly 700,000. We must get a clear idea of these various districts of Boston. If not, we shall be puzzled to meet friends from Roxbury or Dorchester and hear them say that they live in Boston. There is Boston proper, the old Boston before it annexed its neighbors; East Boston, comprising two islands in the harbor which joined Boston in 1635 and 1637; then, annexed from time to time, come Roxbury, Dorchester, Charlestown,--the scene of the Battle of Bunker Hill,--West Roxbury, and Brighton; and last, Hyde Park, which, by the vote of its people and the citizens of Boston, joined the city in November, 1911. These have all kept their original names, but have given up their local governments to share Boston's larger privileges and advantages. So remember that when we meet friends from Roxbury, West Roxbury, Dorchester, Brighton, East Boston, South Boston, or Hyde Park, they are all Boston people. The children from these districts would resent it if they were not known as Boston boys and girls just as much as those who live in the very heart of the city. [Illustration: THE WASHINGTON STREET TUNNEL] While we have been reading all this, our boat has been drawing closer to the city, and now we must gather up our wraps and bags and be ready to start out. We see a very busy harbor, its noisy tugs drawing the sullen-looking coal barges; its graceful schooners loaded to the water's edge with lumber; and its fishing boats with their dirty sails, not attractive but doing the work that has placed Boston first in importance as a fishing port. Crowded steamers and ferryboats pass swiftly by, while huge ocean steamships may be seen poking their noses out from their docks at East Boston and South Boston or heading toward the city with their thousands of eager passengers. As we hurry along with our fellow travelers we must decide how best to reach our hotel. There are taxicabs and carriages for some; electric cars, both surface and elevated, for the many. Boston has excellent car and train service. The Boston Elevated Railway Company controls most of the car lines in the city as well as in the outlying towns. This makes it possible for us to ride for a nickel an average distance of at least five miles. [Illustration: A BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF BOSTON] A line of elevated trains running across the city connects West Roxbury on the south with Charlestown on the north. Some of these trains pass through the Washington Street tunnel, from which numerous well-lighted, well-ventilated stations lead directly to the shopping and business section of the city. On this elevated road are two huge terminal stations, into which rush countless surface cars, bringing from all points north and south the immense crowds of suburbanites who come to Boston proper each day, to work or on pleasure bent. Chelsea folks come to the city by ferry or by electric car, while those from East Boston have two ferry lines as well as a tunnel for cars under the harbor. The city proper has two immense union railroad depots, the North and the South station, where hundreds of local, as well as long-distance, trains leave and arrive each day. The railroads entering Boston are the Boston & Albany, which, by means of the New York Central lines, connects with the West; the Boston & Maine, leading northward to Maine and Canada; and the New York, New Haven & Hartford, which connects by way of New York with various points in the South. All these transportation advantages have made Boston an excellent place in which to live, as its suburbs afford the benefits of country life while yet they are within a few minutes' ride of a big city. There are several ways in which we can see Boston. We may climb into one of the great sight-seeing autos and ride from point to point while the man with the megaphone calls our attention to the interesting landmarks and gives their history; we can engage a guide who will take us from place to place; or we can simply follow the directions of our guide book. [Illustration: THE SOUTH STATION] No trip to Boston is complete without a visit to the State House, or capitol, whose gilded dome is seen glittering in the sunlight by day and sparkling with electric lights by night. It is situated on Beacon Hill, the highest point of land in the city proper. Up to 1811 one peak of the hill was as high as the gilded dome is now, and on its summit a beacon was set up as early as 1634, to warn the people in the surrounding country of approaching disaster. It seems, however, that the beacon was never used, and during the Revolution the British pulled it down and built a fort in its place. Even if there were no gilded dome on the State House, the building itself is handsome enough to attract attention. It was designed in 1795 by Charles Bulfinch, a famous architect. The front of the building to-day is the historic Bulfinch front. But as Boston grew, so also did the State House, and additions were made in 1853, in 1889, and in 1915, until now we have the impressive building we are about to enter. [Illustration: DRILLING ON THE COMMON] But stop after climbing the main steps, turn around, and look at the green field before you. This is Boston Common, the famous Boston Common where the people of long ago used to pasture their cows; where the British in the early days of the Revolution set up their fortified camps during the siege of Boston; and where, at the present time, the admiring relatives of the high-school boys assemble yearly to see them go through their military drill. Situated as it is in the very heart of the city, Boston Common is the resting place, the breathing place, for thousands. It is the people's playground. Fireworks, band concerts, public speaking, all prove that its public character has never been lost, and that it is now as much of a Common as it was in 1649, when it was first laid out. By a wise clause in the city charter, this Common cannot be sold or leased without the consent of the citizens. [Illustration: A CORNER OF THE COMMON, SHOWING THE SHAW MEMORIAL] The Common contains many memorials erected by a grateful people. The most conspicuous is the Army and Navy Monument, which reaches far above the trees. Directly opposite the State House is the Shaw Memorial, a wonderful bronze bas-relief by Saint Gaudens, showing the gallant Colonel Shaw and his colored regiment. The sight of Shaw's earnest young face amid his dusky followers prepares us for entering Doric Hall in the State House, set apart as a memorial for those who died in their country's cause. We look with awe and reverence on the flags whose worn and tattered edges tell plainly of the struggles of their bearers and defenders. [Illustration: THE STATE-HOUSE CODFISH] Let us peep into the Senate chamber and into the hall of the House of Representatives with its historic codfish suspended from the ceiling, a reminder of a most humble source of Massachusetts' wealth. We will then climb to the dome and see Boston before a cold east wind sweeps suddenly in, covering the city with fog and making all misty and uncertain. As we reach the highest point, it really seems as if the fog had rolled in, but it is only a fog of smoke from the many chimneys of the city's countless factories. [Illustration: THE STATE HOUSE] As our eyes get accustomed to the view, the mist seems to roll away, and the city lies before us. That blue line to the east is the harbor, and between us and the harbor is the business section of Boston, the noisy, throbbing heart of a big city. Directly back of us as we stand facing the water is the West End, once a fashionable section where Boston's literary men held court, now a district largely given over to tenements and lodging-houses. To the north and south lie the North and South ends; the former, the oldest of the city and the great foreign district of the present time, where children from many lands have their homes. [Illustration: BUNKER HILL MONUMENT] That broad winding stream of water that we see is the Charles River. Just beyond it to the north is Charlestown, its Bunker Hill Monument towering up for all to see. The city of Cambridge is just across the Charles River to the west, and next to it, skirting the southern bank of the river, is the district of Brighton. South Boston, Roxbury, West Roxbury, Hyde Park, and Dorchester lie toward the south. Among the many islands in the harbor, East Boston is the most crowded and the closest to the city proper. Towards the southwest, between us and the Charles, lies Back Bay, once tidewater but now filled in and made into land. Look around you and notice how the surrounding parts of Boston form a chain about their parent, a chain broken only by Cambridge--the seat of Harvard University--and Brookline,--Massachusetts' wealthiest town,--which refuses to become a city or to join its larger neighbor. [Illustration: WASHINGTON STREET] As we leave the State House, a few minutes' walk brings us to the heart of Boston's great shopping district and to Boston's leading business street. You will be glad to know that this street is called neither Main Street nor Broadway, but Washington Street. Originally, part was known as Orange, part as Marlborough, and part as Newbury. But when, at the close of the Revolution, Washington rode through the city at the head of a triumphal procession, the people renamed the street along which he passed, Washington, and so it is called to-day in all its ten miles of length. Washington Street is very narrow in parts, and as it is lined on both sides with some of Boston's largest and finest department stores, it presents a very animated appearance on a week-day afternoon. [Illustration: THE CITY OF BOSTON] Stop for a moment on busy Newspaper Row. Here a bystander may read the news of the world as it is posted hourly upon the great bulletin boards of the various newspaper offices. Parallel to Washington Street, and connected with it by many short streets, is Tremont Street, another old historic road. Originally Tremont Street was a path outlined by William Blackstone's cows on their way to pasture; now it is second only to Washington Street in importance. Washington Street is really the main dividing line between the retail and wholesale parts of the city. The water front is the great wholesale section. Here there is a constant odor of leather in the air, and great heavy wagons laden with hides are continually passing to and from the wharves and stations. When we stop and consider that Boston and the neighboring cities of Brockton and Lynn are among the largest shoe-manufacturing cities in the world, then we do not wonder at the leather we see. It is no vain boast to say that in every quarter of the world may be seen shoes that once, in the form of leather, were carted through the streets of Boston. [Illustration: BOSTON'S LAND AND WATER CONNECTIONS] What is true of leather is also true of cotton and wool. Lowell, Fall River, and New Bedford are calling for cotton to be made into cloth in their busy mills, while Lawrence is the greatest wool-manufacturing city in the country. Boston, with its harbor and great railroad terminals, is constantly receiving these materials and distributing them to these cities. The finished cloths often return to Boston to be cut and made into clothes, and an army of men and women cut and sew from day to day on garments for people far distant from Boston as well as for those near home. One glance at the wharves along Atlantic Avenue and Commercial Street and our glimpse of busy Boston will be ended. Here are wharves and piers jutting out into the harbor, where are boats of every kind from every land. New York alone among American cities outranks Boston in the value of her foreign commerce. From one large steamer thousands of green bananas are being carried. They will be sold to the many fruit dealers, from those whose show windows are visions of beauty, to the Greek or Italian peddler who pushes his hand cart out into the suburbs. Some of the steamers are already puffing with importance as if to hasten the steps of travelers who are on their way to board ship for different ports in the South, for Nova Scotia and other points north, or perhaps to cross the Atlantic. Two of the wharves--T Wharf and the new fishing pier--are devoted to the fishing industry. From the banks of Newfoundland and the other splendid fishing grounds along the coast from Cape Cod to Labrador, fishermen are constantly bringing their catches to Boston, their chief market. In addition, Gloucester and other fishing ports re-ship most of the fish brought to them to the Boston market. Is it any wonder that Boston ranks first of all the cities of the United States in the fish trade? In 1910 Boston received and marketed $10,500,000 worth of fish--more than any other American city, and exceeded by only one other port in the world. [Illustration: A FISHING FLEET] In this neighborhood too is a tablet marking the site of Griffin's Wharf, where the Boston Tea Party of the Revolution took place. We remember how the people of Boston refused to pay the tax on tea; how the shiploads of tea sent from England remained unloaded at the wharf; and how, finally, after an indignation meeting had been held at the Old South Meeting House, a band of men and boys, disguised as Indians, boarded the vessels, ripped open the chests, and emptied all the cargo into the harbor. It was rightly called the Boston Tea Party. [Illustration: © Dadmun Co. Boston BOSTON'S NEW CUSTOMHOUSE] As we are so close to the North End, we may as well go there at once. The North End is the oldest section of Boston. It was here that Samuel Adams, John Hancock, Paul Revere, and other patriots had their headquarters during the troublous times before the Revolution. Paul Revere, of whose famous ride we have all read in Longfellow's poem, lived and carried on his business in this very district. If we wish, we can see his home as well as the famous Old North Church, where his friend hung the lanterns warning him of the movements of the British. [Illustration: OLD NORTH CHURCH] But to-day there is little else to remind us of the past. As we cross North Square and see the gesticulating, dark-skinned men, the stout, gayly kerchiefed women in the doorways, and the hordes of dark-eyed children on street and sidewalk, we wonder if by mistake we have not entered some city in southern Europe. To-day the North End of Boston is the great foreign section of the city. Here live the Jews, Italians, and Russians. They tell us that more than one third of the entire population of the city are foreigners. [Illustration: THE NORTH END] But when a group of boys rushes toward us, each begging to be our guide to the Old North Church, to Paul Revere's house, or to the famous Copp's Hill Burying Ground,--all for a nickel,--we are sure we are in America and gladly follow our leader through the narrow, crooked streets. From among the parents of these children come the fruit peddlers, the clothing makers, the street musicians, and the great army of laborers which helps to keep the city in repair. [Illustration: PAUL REVERE'S HOUSE] Are we tired of the noise and confusion of the crowded tenement district? If so, let us go to the broad streets and beautiful parks of the Back Bay, the abode of the wealthy. The Back Bay, as its name suggests, was originally the Back Cove, and where these houses now stand, the waves once danced in glee. But Boston filled in the marshes and coves and laid out fine streets on the newly made land. Here is the famous Beacon Street, and parallel to it is Boston's most beautiful thoroughfare,--Commonwealth Avenue,--two hundred and twenty feet wide, with a parkway running through the center. See the children with their nurses, playing on the grass or roller skating on the broad sidewalks, apparently no happier than the little ones of the North End. But it is not merely its fine streets and homes that make the Back Bay the handsomest part of the city. In this section are many of Boston's finest public buildings. Come to Copley Square, the most beautiful in the city. Here stands Trinity Church,--Phillips Brooks' church,--a magnificent structure of granite with sandstone trimmings. Phillips Brooks was for a brief year the Protestant Episcopal bishop of Massachusetts. He was loved by those of all denominations. After his death the citizens of Boston united in erecting a splendid memorial, in token of their love for him and their gratitude for his services. The statue is by Augustus Saint Gaudens and is considered one of the greatest works of that great sculptor. [Illustration: COMMONWEALTH AVENUE] On Copley Square we see also the New Old South Church and the Boston Public Library. Boston is very proud of her public library, and rightly so, for it is not only one of the finest buildings in Boston but also one of the finest libraries in the country. Look at the magnificent marble staircase, the curiously inlaid floor and ceiling of the entrance hall, the graceful statues, the wonderful paintings, and the fine courtyard with its sparkling fountain. On the floors above are the children's room with its low tables and chairs and rows upon rows of interesting books; Bates Hall, a most attractive reading room; Sargent's mystical paintings; and Edwin A. Abbey's series of paintings, which are called "The Quest of the Holy Grail." [Illustration: PHILLIPS BROOKS' MEMORIAL] Besides the main library there are branch libraries or reading rooms in every section of the city. Altogether the Boston Public Library contains over one million volumes, making it the largest circulating library in the United States. But there are other buildings in the Back Bay which rival those on Copley Square. We should see the Christian Science church with its massive dome; the Boston Opera House; and Symphony Hall, the home of the famous Boston Symphony Orchestra, known the country over. [Illustration: BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY] The Boston Museum of Fine Arts stood originally on Copley Square, but in 1909 a new and magnificent building was opened, farther out in the Back Bay. Not far from the new museum stands the Harvard Medical School, an imposing group of five white-marble buildings. But now we are tired of buildings, so come into the Public Garden--the gateway to the Back Bay--and while you rest I will tell you about Boston's parks. Sitting in the beautiful Public Garden, it will not be hard for you to believe that the park system of Boston is the finest in the country. The first park was, as we have seen, the Common. For many years the Common was not a place of beauty. Edward Everett Hale spoke of it as a "pasture for cows, a playground for children, a training ground for the militia, a place for beating carpets." Many changes have taken place on the Common since the old days, but two of the characteristics still remain. Boston Common is still a playground for children, and military drills are still to be seen there from time to time. The Common is just across Charles Street from the Public Garden--the second great park to be laid out in Boston. This Public Garden was reclaimed from the marshes, and at present covers about twenty-four and a half acres. It is truly a garden, and during the spring, summer, and fall nearly every species of beautiful flower, plant, and shrub may here be seen--a riot of color and beauty. But the people of Boston did not stop even with the Public Garden. The city of Boston has, besides, numerous small squares at intervals through the city. She also has vast tracts of rural land, which, unlike the Public Garden, are left to their own wild beauty. Owing to Boston's expanse of water front, it is possible for her to have both inland and ocean parks, where may be found all kinds of open-air sports and recreations. Some of the most important of these parks are Franklin Park, the Fens, the Arnold Arboretum, Marine Park, and the Charles River Basin. In the Arnold Arboretum, the property of Harvard College, are rare shrubs and trees. Fortunate is the one who can visit it in lilac time, when scores of varieties of lilacs, both white and many shades of violet, scent the air with their delicate perfumes. The best example of the ocean parkways is Marine Park. There one finds extensive bathhouses, a good beach, lawns, and a long pier extending several hundred feet out into the water. Connected with Marine Park by a long bridge is Castle Island, the site of Fort Independence. The Charles River Basin is a popular promenade. This river, until recently, showed for many hours of the day the uncovered mud flats of low tide. Now by means of a dam it has been turned into a great fresh-water lake. Cambridge and Boston have laid out parkways on either side of the river, and before long further improvements will make this basin even more attractive. Through the influence of Boston the surrounding cities and towns have given certain large areas of great natural beauty to form the Metropolitan Park System. This Metropolitan Park System consists of 3 forest reserves of 7000 acres of woodland, 30 miles of river park, 10 miles of seacoast, and 40 miles of connecting parkways. Two great ocean parks in the system are Revere Beach and Nantasket, both favorite summer resorts, while the most noted inland reservations are the Blue Hills and the Middlesex Fells. A Roman matron of long ago, when asked to show her jewels, pointed to her sons with pride, saying, "These are my jewels." And so it is with Boston. She is proud of her history, her fine public buildings, her busy thoroughfares, her parks, her great centers of industry, and her commerce; but most of all, she is proud of her more than ninety thousand school children. From the earliest times Boston's schools have ranked among the best in the country. The first public school in America was established in Dorchester, and some of the greatest educators, such as Horace Mann and Charles W. Eliot, have been associated with Boston or its suburbs. [Illustration: © Leon Dadmun, Boston, 1903 THE HARVARD YARD] Boston is the home of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, a famous training college in applied sciences; Simmons College for women; the Harvard Medical College; Boston College (Roman Catholic); Boston University; the Normal Art School; the Conservatory of Music; the Emerson School of Oratory; and other schools of high standing. Harvard, the oldest and largest university in the country, has its home in Cambridge. Radcliffe, a college for women, whose pupils receive the same courses of instruction as the students in Harvard, is also in Cambridge. Tufts College is in the neighboring city of Medford, while in the beautiful hill town of Wellesley, a suburb of Boston, is Wellesley College, a woman's college of high rank. But now, if we hurry, we shall be just in time to see the children flocking in crowds to one of their many playgrounds. Here they find swings and other apparatus for sport; and here they may play tennis, baseball, or football in the spring, summer, and fall. In the winter months they may make use of the ice, which is kept in good condition for the skater. In the various districts, also, are swimming pools and indoor gymnasiums, where old and young meet for recreation as well as for physical training. Having seen Boston at work and at play, we now ask ourselves where the food comes from to feed this vast multitude. Its meats, flour, and grain of all kinds are brought into its huge freight stations from the West. Its great ocean trade with the ports in the South as well as in Europe and Asia supplies other food necessities and luxuries. New England is a great dairy center, and much of the city's milk, butter, and other dairy products comes to Boston each morning from New Hampshire, Vermont, and western Massachusetts. The purity of the milk is carefully watched, and it is impossible to buy even a pint of milk in anything but a sealed jar. Boston's drinking-water is equally well guarded. The water, as well as the sewage, is under the control of the Metropolitan Water and Sewage Commission. There is a high-pressure distributing station at Chestnut Hill, which gives power sufficient to force water to the highest of Boston's buildings. The sewage of the down-town sections of the city is collected in a main drainage system, pumped through a tunnel under Dorchester Bay to Moon Island, held in large reservoirs, and discharged into the water when the tide is going out. The sewage of the outlying districts is conveyed to various places in the harbor and discharged into the water at a depth of thirty or forty feet, where it can be quickly carried out to sea. Our stay in Boston is now at an end. Not only have we traveled over many miles of her streets and visited her famous State House, her busy wharves, and her interesting playgrounds, but we have reviewed many events of her thrilling history. What of all we have seen or heard is it most important for us to remember? First, that Boston is the fifth city in size in the United States; second, that she is the capital city of Massachusetts; third, that she is the chief trade center of New England; and fourth, that among America's cities she ranks second only to New York in foreign commerce. Then we must not forget the important place she holds in the early history of our country. As we traveled into Boston, so we will journey out again. And with the last of the great city fading from our view, we call to mind the large-hearted Blackstone and say to ourselves, "Quite a change from the hermit's home on the sunny slope of Beacon Hill." =BOSTON= FACTS TO REMEMBER Population (1910), nearly 700,000 (670,585). Fifth in rank according to population. Ranks first among American cities in fish and wool trades. Chief trade center of New England. Principal industries (as measured by value of products): Printing and publishing; manufacture of boots and shoes, of clothing, of foundry and machine-shop products. Place of great historical interest. One of the leading educational centers of the United States. QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW AND STUDY 1. Tell something of the settlement and the early history of Boston. 2. Tell of the Boston Tea Party. 3. Tell the story of the naming of Boston's leading business street. 4. Why is Boston's chief park called the Common? 5. Compare the North End during Revolutionary times with the same district to-day. 6. What is there of interest in Back Bay? in Copley Square? 7. Describe some of the busy scenes which may be observed along the wharves of the city. 8. Tell something about the street railways and other means of transportation. 9. Give a brief description of the Boston Public Library. 10. Tell what you know of Harvard University. What other noted schools are in or near Boston? 11. Name some of the advantages which Boston enjoys on account of her splendid harbor. 12. Give some facts about the commercial importance of Boston. 13. In the manufacture of what three products does Boston, with her neighboring cities, rank high? 14. Why is a codfish suspended in the hall of the House of Representatives in the State House? CLEVELAND In the days that followed the Revolution, Connecticut claimed certain lands south of Lake Erie. A large part of these she sold to the Connecticut Land Company, who wanted to colonize the country and establish New Connecticut. It was in 1796 that the Connecticut Land Company sent General Moses Cleaveland west, to survey the land and choose a site for a settlement. After surveying about sixty miles, Cleaveland fixed on a plateau just south of Lake Erie, where the Cuyahoga River runs into the lake. Soon the settlement was laid out with a square and two main streets and was very properly called Cleaveland. The name was spelled with an _a_, just as Moses Cleaveland spelled his name. There is no _a_ in the city's name to-day, the story being that the extra letter was dropped, and the new spelling adopted, in 1831, through a newspaper's claiming that the _a_ would not fit conveniently into its headline. At first the new settlement did not prosper. The soil was poor, and commerce along the Ohio River attracted immigrants into the interior. Those that stayed in Cleveland had a hard struggle with fever. The mouth of the Cuyahoga River was frequently choked with sand, making the water in the river's bed stagnant and furnishing a breeding place for malaria-carrying mosquitoes. During the summer and autumn of 1798 affairs were in a desperate condition. Every one in the settlement was miserable. There was no flour, and for two months Nathaniel Doan's boy was the only person strong enough to go to the house of one James Kingsbury, on the highlands back of the town, for corn. This he carried to a gristmill at Newburgh, six miles to the south, and had it ground into meal for the sick. Besides the suffering caused by fever, there was danger of Indian attacks and the ever-present dread of the wolves and bears which prowled about the settlement, so that no one dared go out at night unarmed, and no door was left without a loaded musket to guard it. But in spite of the dangers of these early years, the settlers for the most part led a busy, happy life. The women especially had their hands full--keeping their houses clean and neat; doing the cooking and baking; spinning, weaving, cutting out, and sewing the clothes for their families (usually large) and knitting their stockings. Then there were the sick to be visited and nursed, and the neighbors to be helped with their quilting. When a new settler arrived, all the men would pitch in and help in the "cabin raising," finishing the work in short order. They often ended up with a jolly dance, though the music was sometimes nothing more than the whistling of the dancers. For the first ten years Cleveland was only a hamlet of a few dozen people. Still it continued to exist, and in 1815 was incorporated as a village. Another year saw the first bank started, and before long its first newspaper was printed. This paper was supposed to be a weekly, but often appeared only every ten, twelve, or fifteen days, at the convenience of the editor. Already, in supplying her own needs, Cleveland was laying the foundation for some of her future industries. In fact, soon after the settlement was founded, Nathaniel Doan built a blacksmith shop on what is now Superior Avenue. Though the shop was only a rude affair built of logs, it deserves the name of Cleveland's first manufacturing plant. Here Nathaniel Doan not only shod the few horses which needed his services but made tools as well. A gristmill and sawmill came next, and then began the building of small schooners. In the early years of the nineteenth century there was practically no way of communicating with the settlements on the Ohio River. And except for an occasional party of French and Indians, there was no means of hearing from Detroit. In 1818, however, regular stage routes began to be opened. One line went to Columbus, one to Norwalk, and one to Painesville. This last route advertised that its stage would leave Cleveland at two on Friday afternoon and would reach Painesville on Saturday morning at eight--a journey which to-day can easily be made by automobile in a little more than an hour. Turnpikes soon displaced these rough stage routes, and over them great six-horse wagons drew freight into Cleveland. Though all these things helped Cleveland, it was still nothing more than a village--and so primitive a village that when two hundred dollars was voted for improvements, one of the old citizens asked, "What on earth can the trustees find in this village to spend two hundred dollars on?" [Illustration: CLEVELAND AND HER NEIGHBORS] Finally, came two events which were the making of Cleveland. In 1827 the Ohio Canal was opened from Cleveland to Akron and later to the mouth of the Scioto River, which flows into the Ohio at Portsmouth; and in 1828 a channel was cut through the bar at the mouth of the Cuyahoga River. Consider what this meant to Cleveland. The Ohio Canal connected the village with the Ohio River, thus putting Cleveland in touch with the rich coal, iron, oil, and coke lands of western Pennsylvania. Travelers, too, found the canal boats much better to journey on than the old stagecoaches. [Illustration: A RIVER SCENE] The deepening of the mouth of the Cuyahoga River gave Cleveland a harbor and a place to build the enormous docks which to-day line the river's shore for the last few miles of its length. A few years earlier an effort to protect lake vessels had been made by building a pier out into the lake near the sand bar. The lake soon tore the pier to pieces, however, and the vessels still had to be hauled over the bar to safety. But with the sand bar cut, boats could sail in and out of the river at their pleasure. Splendid results followed. The population increased, frame houses gradually came to take the place of log cabins, business greatly improved, and in 1836 Cleveland became a city. [Illustration: AN ORE STEAMER ENTERING CLEVELAND'S HARBOR] The year 1851 saw a great celebration in Cleveland over the opening of the first railroad. This brought added prosperity to the city. Then, too, iron ore began to arrive by water from the Lake Superior mines. At the same time more and more coal was being received. The manufacturers commenced to appreciate the tremendous advantages of living at a natural meeting place of these two great necessities. Cleveland awoke to a new business activity. [Illustration: COAL DOCKS] Then came the Civil War, and the manufacturing of iron products for the government crowded Cleveland's factories. During the years of the war the refining of coal oil developed into one of the city's leading industries. It was then that the great Standard Oil Company was organized. Many came to the city, attracted by these growing industries, so that what proved a disastrous period in many sections of our country was really a time of growth for Cleveland. [Illustration: THE CITY OF CLEVELAND] Soon after the war East Cleveland was annexed to the city, and in 1873 Newburgh too became a part of Cleveland. Then, in 1893, West Cleveland and Brooklyn were taken in, and when Cleveland celebrated the anniversary of its founding in 1896, it had become a city of great importance in the country. [Illustration: HUGE VIADUCTS SPAN THE VALLEY] At present Cleveland extends for over 14 miles along Lake Erie and covers more than 50 square miles. The larger part of the city lies to the east of the Cuyahoga River. The valley of this river is filled with car tracks, lumber yards, car shops, coal sheds, ore docks, and shipyards. Being in the valley, these are partially hidden from the city. Huge viaducts span the valley and unite the east and west sides of Cleveland. [Illustration: THE HEART OF THE BUSINESS QUARTER] The heart of the business quarter and the center of the street railway lines is Monumental Square, which lies about a mile from the lake shore. From this square radiate the streets in a fan shape, at every angle from northeast to west. Euclid Avenue is Cleveland's most famous street, having for years enjoyed the reputation of being one of the country's finest avenues. The lower end is taken up with business, but farther out are many splendid residences surrounded by extensive and beautifully kept lawns. Cleveland is called the Forest City, and it is to the old trees which grace its parks and line both sides of Euclid Avenue that it owes its name. Another important business street is Superior Avenue, which runs through the main business portion of the city. [Illustration: MONUMENTAL SQUARE] [Illustration: LOOKING UP EUCLID AVENUE] Though Cleveland is a beautiful city, its importance really lies in the fact of its occupying just the position that it does. Being on Lake Erie puts it in touch with the copper fields of Michigan, the iron mines of Minnesota and Michigan, and the huge forests along the Great Lakes. Through railroad connections it is also in touch with the coal, oil, and iron supplies of western Pennsylvania and Ohio. Thus, lying in the center of eastern and western commerce, Cleveland has become a great manufacturing center, and the Cleveland district is the largest ore market in the world. Lake vessels bring the ore to Cleveland's enormous docks, where huge machines quickly transfer it to cars waiting to carry it to Pittsburgh and other cities. [Illustration: ORE DOCKS] [Illustration: WHEELING & LAKE ERIE BRIDGE] Cleveland, also, has several blast furnaces and immense factories of iron and steel supplies. It holds first rank in America for the making of wire and nails. More ships are built in the Cleveland district than anywhere else in the world except in the shipyards on the Clyde River in Scotland. Then, too, Cleveland makes steel bridges and buildings, automobiles, and gas ranges. Quantities of women's clothing are made in Cleveland. Slaughtering and the wholesale meat-packing business are other important industries. [Illustration: THE UNIVERSITY CIRCLE] It is a simple matter to ship Cleveland's manufactures in every direction. The main lines of the New York Central and the Nickel Plate pass through Cleveland, and it is a terminal city of the Cleveland, Cincinnati, Chicago, & St. Louis Railroad,--commonly known as the Big Four,--the Pennsylvania, the Erie, the Baltimore & Ohio, and the Wheeling & Lake Erie railroads. More than this, Cleveland is the center of a vast network of interurban electric railways that carry both passengers and freight and keep the city in hourly communication with the many smaller cities of northern Ohio. Cleveland gets its water supply from Lake Erie through tunnels built out under the lake, which connect with two intake cribs, one of which is five miles from the shore. Natural gas, pumped through large mains from the gas fields of West Virginia, more than 200 miles away, is sold to the people of Cleveland at 30 cents a thousand. The street railway service is among the best in the country, and the fare is lower than in any other large American city. [Illustration: A DRIVE IN GORDEN PARK] Cleveland has excellent educational advantages. Western Reserve University, founded in 1826, is especially noted for its law and medical schools. In Cleveland, also, are the Case School of Applied Science, the Cleveland School of Art, St. Ignatius College, the Homeopathic Medical College, and the University School. The public schools of the city are among the best. [Illustration: THE CITY HALL] [Illustration: THE NEW COURTHOUSE] Cleveland has a beautiful park system. The different parks are connected by boulevards, which form a great semicircle through the residence districts. There are also numerous small parks and playgrounds in the more congested districts. A plan for grouping the city's public buildings about a broad parkway is being carried out. Several of the buildings are already completed. When finished, this will be one of the most beautiful and most imposing spectacles in America. All of these things, added to the great possibilities for occupation offered by the city's many lines of work, have given Cleveland a population of over 560,000. To-day the little settlement of Cleaveland, made in 1796 at the mouth of the Cuyahoga, has become the second of all lake ports and the sixth city in size in the United States. =CLEVELAND= FACTS TO REMEMBER Population (1910), over 500,000 (560,663). Sixth city in rank according to population. Important manufacturing center. Center of the largest ore market in the world. Ranks first in America in making wire and nails. Great shipbuilding center. A center of trade in copper, iron, lumber, coal, and oil. Important railroad center. QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW AND STUDY 1. Give the history of the name and the settlement of Cleveland. 2. Tell something of the dangers and difficulties of the first settlers of Cleveland. 3. What was Cleveland's first manufacturing plant, and what others did it soon have? 4. What means of communication with other cities did Cleveland have in the early days of its history? 5. To what two events does Cleveland chiefly owe its rapid growth? Why? 6. What two products found a meeting place at Cleveland, and with what results? 7. How did the Civil War help the growth of the city? 8. What benefits does Cleveland derive from its location on Lake Erie? 9. What are the most important industries of the Cleveland district? 10. What railroad facilities has Cleveland to-day? 11. Mention some of the things that make Cleveland a pleasant place in which to live and a good place for business. BALTIMORE Near the head of Chesapeake Bay stands Baltimore, the largest of our Southern cities and the seventh city in size in the United States. Because of her importance as a Southern railroad center and her excellent harbor on the largest bay of the Atlantic coast, Baltimore is called "The Gateway to the South." Great ships from all parts of the world unload their cargoes at her docks and take in return products from nearly every section of the United States. The railroads bring to Baltimore vast quantities of iron, coal, and grain from the West, and up from the South ships and trains come laden with raw sugar, tobacco, fruits, and vegetables. Here the oysters, fish, and crabs from Chesapeake Bay and the products of the rich farm lands of Maryland and Virginia find a ready market. Knowing these things, one can surmise what the city's leading industries and exports must be. Baltimore is the world's greatest oyster market, she leads the world in the canning of vegetables and fruits, she is one of the country's largest banana markets, and more corn is exported from this city than from anywhere else in America. Baltimore is a great sugar-refining center, she leads the world in the making of straw hats, and among her foremost industries are the manufacture of clothing and the making of tobacco goods. [Illustration: AN OYSTER BOAT] Thanks to the coal and iron she receives, Baltimore builds cars, ships, and almost everything made of iron and steel. Then, too, the city has the largest copper-refining plant in America. If this story had been written a few years ago, it would tell you that Baltimore's streets were narrow, that miles of them were paved with cobblestones or were not paved at all, and that the city generally was developing very slowly. But to-day we have a quite different Baltimore. [Illustration: THE BALTIMORE FIRE] On February 7th and 8th, 1904, a great fire swept the business section of the city, destroying $125,000,000 worth of property. While the ruins were still smoldering, the courageous people, refusing all help from outside, began to plan a bigger and better Baltimore. The work began in the burned part of the city. The narrow down-town streets were widened and paved, and new and better buildings took the place of the burned ones. Most of these new buildings are three or four stories high, though a few tall ones range from ten to sixteen stories. Fortunately three of Baltimore's oldest and most imposing buildings escaped the fire--the post office, the city hall, and the courthouse. [Illustration: THE BURNED PART OF THE CITY] Two important streets cross this newly built business section--Charles Street, running north and south, and Baltimore Street, running east and west. Baltimore Street is the chief business thoroughfare, and north and south of it are the wholesale, financial, and shipping districts. [Illustration: PIER 4] [Illustration: ONE OF THE NEW WHARVES] The city owned little wharf property of importance before 1904, but the fire made it possible to buy all the burned district fronting the harbor. This the city purchased and laid out in a wonderful system of public wharves and docks open to the commerce of the world. [Illustration: THE POST OFFICE] Pier 4, at the foot of Market Place, has been set aside for the use of market boats, and here small crafts bring much of the fruit, vegetables, fish, crabs, and oysters which make the markets of Baltimore among the most attractive in the United States. There are eleven of these markets, and on market days they are a most interesting sight with their busy jostling crowds all eagerly buying or selling. [Illustration: THE CITY HALL] But these great improvements in the business center and along the water front are only part of the good results which have followed the fire. In past years Baltimore had many miles of open sewers, an unhealthful arrangement which caused much sickness. The very year after the fire, work was begun to do away with this evil, and to-day the city has a sanitary, up-to-date sewer system. [Illustration: LEXINGTON MARKET] [Illustration: FALLSWAY] Another important work of the city-betterment plan has to do with a stream called Jones Falls, which used to flow in an open channel right through the center of the city. This stream now flows through great concrete tubes, over which is a broad highway running diagonally across the city, all the way from the docks to the railroad terminal. Then, too, the city has a new water system, great enough to supply the entire city with purified water from Gunpowder River. And besides all these a great dam, the third longest in the world, has been built across the Susquehanna River at McCall Ferry, furnishing electric power which lights the streets, runs the cars, and supplies power for many of the city's factories. [Illustration: McCALL FERRY DAM] From the harbor Baltimore stretches away to the north and west, covering thirty-two square miles. Within the city are green hills and pleasant valleys, and a chain of beautiful parks with many splendid old trees bordering the boulevards which connect them. Two of these parks, Mount Vernon Place and Eutaw Place, are near the center of Baltimore. The former is cross shaped, and here stands the famous monument to George Washington, the first statue erected to his memory in this country. Eutaw Place is a long parkway made beautiful with statuary, flowers, fountains, and winding walks, and on either side stand handsome residences. Covering seven hundred acres of picturesque rolling land is Druid Hill Park, with its miles of driveways, its ancient oak trees, its athletic grounds, tennis courts, botanical palace, zoo, and a large reservoir lake. The rugged scenery of Gwynn's Falls Park challenges Druid Hill's claim to unequaled beauty. In Patterson Park there is the largest artificial swimming pool in the United States. [Illustration: THE CITY OF BALTIMORE] Besides its many swimming pools and indoor baths, the city has organized a system of portable baths--small houses which are moved from corner to corner in the crowded sections, supplying hot- and cold-water shower baths to many thousands each year. [Illustration: THE FIRST WASHINGTON MONUMENT] [Illustration: PATTERSON PARK SWIMMING POOL] Baltimore has won a reputation as an educational center through the splendid equipment and wonderful accomplishments of Johns Hopkins University, which is noted throughout the world, especially for its work along medical lines. [Illustration: A PORTABLE BATHHOUSE] [Illustration: A JOHNS HOPKINS BUILDING] Goucher College, for women, ranks with the best women's colleges in the South. The Baltimore College of Dental Surgery is the oldest college of its kind in the world. The Walters Art Gallery, and the Peabody Institute with its art gallery, conservatory of music, and library, afford opportunities for the study of art, music, and literature. With its more than 550,000 inhabitants, Baltimore, like Philadelphia, is a city of homes and is renowned for its good old Southern hospitality. Way back in 1634, a company of Catholic pilgrims came to America to found a colony where their religion would not be interfered with. King Charles I of England granted to these people a certain territory north of the Potomac River, which he named Maryland in honor of his wife, Mary, who was also a Catholic. The founder of the province was Lord Baltimore, and from the very beginning, settlers of all beliefs were made heartily welcome. About one hundred years after the planting of this Catholic colony, sixty acres of land on the north side of the Patapsco River was purchased and laid out for a city. To honor the generous-hearted founder of Maryland, the place was named Baltimore. [Illustration: LOCATION OF BALTIMORE] One of the most thrilling events in Baltimore's history led to the writing of our national song--"The Star-Spangled Banner." Francis Scott Key, of Baltimore, was a prisoner on a British man-of-war in 1814, when the British attacked Fort McHenry. Fort McHenry guarded Baltimore, and if the fort fell, the city too must go. All day the English ships fired shot and shell at the fort. During all the night the attack went on. Anxiously Key watched through the darkness. Could the fort hold out against such a terrible bombardment? From time to time, by flashes from bursting bombs, he could see the outlines of the fort. Then came the dawn. In the early morning light Key saw our flag still waving, and in his joy he wrote on the back of an old letter the words of the song that has since become so famous. A wide thoroughfare which follows the curve of the water front for several miles is named in honor of Francis Scott Key. Key Highway, it is called, and it leads to Fort McHenry, which the War Department has lately given over to the care of the city of Baltimore. =BALTIMORE= FACTS TO REMEMBER Population (1910), over 500,000 (558,485). Seventh city in rank, according to population, in the United States. Located near the head of Chesapeake Bay. Has a fine harbor and a splendid dock system. An important railroad center. Has a large and growing foreign commerce. An important manufacturing center. Ranks first among the cities of the United States as a canning and preserving center. The world's chief center for the manufacture of straw hats. An important center for shipping oysters and crabs. Associated with the writing of "The Star-Spangled Banner." QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW AND STUDY 1. What advantages of location does Baltimore possess? 2. Why is Baltimore called the gateway to the South? 3. What are the leading exports of this city? 4. In what industries does Baltimore rank first in the United States? 5. What great disaster visited Baltimore in 1904, and how did the people of the city make this great trouble result in a better city? 6. What educational institution has won a splendid reputation for Baltimore? 7. Tell something of the settlement of Maryland and the city of Baltimore. 8. Tell the story of the writing of a famous song of which Baltimore is justly proud. 9. Find by inquiry or by consulting time tables the time required to reach Baltimore from the following places: New York City Atlanta Philadelphia Norfolk Washington, D.C. Richmond Pittsburgh New Orleans PITTSBURGH Pittsburgh and New Orleans--both of vast commercial importance--are connected by one of the greatest water highways in the world. Never were two cities more unlike. New Orleans, near the mouth of the Mississippi, with its French and its Southern population, might be termed the Paris of our country--this gay, fashionable town, with its fine opera houses, its noted restaurants, and its brilliant Mardi Gras pageants. Pittsburgh, on the other hand, at the head of the Ohio River, in the heart of a famous coal-and-iron region, is well named the "workshop of the world." Many years ago, when the governor of Virginia sent George Washington to drive the French from the Ohio valley, there stood, where the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers unite to form the Ohio River, a small fort which the French called Fort Duquesne. This fort was captured in 1758 by the British and renamed Fort Pitt, in honor of England's great statesman, William Pitt. To-day the place is known as Pittsburgh, and is the center of the most extensive iron works in the United States. At first the little settlement was important as a break in transportation, for here cargoes were changed from the lighter boats used on the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers to the heavier barges on the broad Ohio. Even then Pittsburgh was recognized as a gateway of the West. Gradually the settlement became a trading center, which soon developed into a big, busy, manufacturing city. Now Pittsburgh has a population of over half a million and is the eighth city in size in the Union. [Illustration: FORT DUQUESNE] In her countless factories, her mammoth steel mills, and her huge foundries, she uses the products of the rich surrounding country as well as an enormous amount of iron ore from the Lake Superior mines. Although western Pennsylvania too furnishes iron ore, its chief contribution to Pittsburgh is a vast amount of coal, which the city in turn supplies to the world. Pittsburgh leads the world in the manufacture of steel and iron, glassware (including plate and window glass), armor plate, steel cars, air brakes, iron and steel pipe, tin plate, fire brick, coke, sheet steel, white lead, cork wares, electrical machinery, and pickles. [Illustration: BLOCKHOUSE IN FORT DUQUESNE] To carry on these important industries, Pittsburgh, the city of McKeesport, the boroughs of Homestead and Braddock, and many other places,--all together known as the Pittsburgh district,--have more than 5000 manufacturing plants and employ over 350,000 people. The amount paid the laborers in these factories in prosperous times is over $1,000,000 a day. [Illustration: THE PITTSBURGH DISTRICT] [Illustration: FILLING MOLDS WITH MOLTEN METAL] The famous Homestead mills make armor plate for battleships. At Braddock are steel works, where great furnaces turn out enough rails in a year to span the United States from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The great Carnegie Steel Company has its headquarters in the city of Pittsburgh and leads the world in the production of structural steel, steel rails, and armor plate. [Illustration: BLAST FURNACES OF THE CARNEGIE STEEL COMPANY] [Illustration: MINERS AT WORK] Perhaps your knife blade is made of steel manufactured in one of the huge factories in this busy district. The car tracks of your town, the street-car wheels, and the great locomotives, to say nothing of the heavy steel beams and girders of your fireproof buildings, may all be products of this mighty workshop. [Illustration: IN A MODERN COAL MINE] [Illustration: THE ENTRANCE TO A COAL MINE] Pittsburgh coal is used all over the country. The near-by mines form a great underground city, whose dark passageways, far below the surface of the earth, are lighted by tiny electric lights. More than fifteen thousand men find employment in this weird city. Day after day the brave miners go down into the mines, never sure that they will see the sunlight again, for many are the perils of mining. Who has not read of the terrible disasters caused by suffocation from fire damp, by flood, the falling of walls, or the explosion of coal dust? Small particles of coal dust are constantly floating in the mines, and much is stirred up by the cars used to carry the coal to the outside world. A tiny spark may ignite this dust and cause it to explode with terrific force. Sometimes even the presence of much oxygen in the air will make the dust explode, tearing down great blocks of coal which bury the poor miners or stop up the passageways so that there is no escape unless the victims are dug out before they die. [Illustration: SCENE IN A COAL MINE] [Illustration: PITTSBURGH COAL IS SENT ALL OVER THE WORLD] But the world must have coal, for, used for our great boilers, it drives our powerful locomotives, sends mighty vessels plowing across the ocean, and supplies the power which turns the wheels of industry, both great and small. Yes, the world must have coal. So Uncle Sam, in pity for the miners who brave these awful dangers, has bought a mine at Bruceton, a short distance from Pittsburgh. There the government is making experiments to find out the causes of explosion, aiming in this way to protect the miners by lessening their dangers. [Illustration: THE CITY OF PITTSBURGH] Much of the coal is made into coke by burning out certain gases in open-air ovens. Thousands of these ovens are located in the Pittsburgh district, and their fires at night illuminate the country for miles. The coke is used as fuel in the steel furnaces of Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Chicago, and other cities. [Illustration: THE BUSINESS DISTRICT] A little more than fifty years ago petroleum, or rock oil, was discovered near Pittsburgh, and although oil has since been found in many other places, Pittsburgh is still one of the great centers for this product. Crude petroleum as it comes from the earth is a liquid, formed from the decay of plants and animals long ago buried underground. It is obtained by sinking wells, or pipes, into oil-bearing rock, which is very porous. Sometimes the pipes are sunk a quarter of a mile deep. The average yield is from 50 to 75 barrels a day, and occasionally a pipe well is found which yields as high as 1000 barrels. Sometimes a well stops flowing. Then the oil must be pumped from the earth or else forced out by the explosion of dynamite. Such a well is spoken of as a "shot well." When a well is shot, a vast column of oil is thrown into the air, just as water is thrown up in a geyser or hot spring, by the action of gases under ground. Pittsburgh makes great storage tanks for the oil, as well as apparatus for drilling wells, and supplies these not only to our own country but to every foreign land in which oil is found. When petroleum is heated it gives off vapors, varying according to the heat. These vapors are then condensed and form many products which are now in every-day use, such as kerosene, gasoline, naphtha, and benzine. Vaseline is what remains in the vats after heating the petroleum. Paraffin is another product. Pittsburgh manufactures all these and supplies them to the world. The discovery of natural gas about twenty-five years ago, and its use as a fuel, attracted the attention of the world to Pittsburgh as a center of cheap fuel. Natural gas is found in and around oil fields, so it is supposed that the gas and the oil have the same origin. The porous rock in which the gas is found is usually covered with clay rock, or shale, which prevents the gas from escaping. Natural gas, like petroleum, is obtained by sinking pipes. When the gas is reached, it rushes out with great force. Large quantities of it were formerly used in Pittsburgh's glass factories and iron works, but its greatest use to-day is for lighting and heating. The city of Pittsburgh stretches for 7 miles along the Allegheny, about the same distance on the Monongahela, and entirely covers the space between. The city of Allegheny, across the Allegheny River, has recently been annexed, thus giving Pittsburgh an area of 38 square miles. The two cities, with the river between, remind us of Brooklyn and Manhattan. [Illustration: WOOD STREET AT SIXTH AVENUE IN 1902] The city's water supply is taken from the Allegheny River and is purified in the largest single filtration plant in the world. The main business section covers the V-shaped space between the two rivers--known as the Point--and extends into the streets further back. Still beyond are heights upon which are many beautiful parks, fine residences, and splendid public buildings, including the Carnegie Museum, Library, and Technical Schools, and the buildings of Pittsburgh University. Though the population of the "Steel City" was at first mainly Scotch-Irish, it now includes citizens from almost every nation in Europe. The workmen in its factories are of at least thirty nationalities. Side by side stand English, Germans, Welsh, Irish, Scotch, Negroes, Jews, Italians, Syrians, Swedes, Greeks, Slavs, Poles, and Hungarians. [Illustration: WOOD STREET AT SIXTH AVENUE IN 1915] In one section of the city there is a distinct German center, whose inhabitants speak German and have German newspapers. Another section has received the name of Little Italy because of the number of Italians who have come there to live. Six papers are published for these people in their own tongue. In Little Italy are many of the fruit stands and market places which in this country seem to furnish a favorite employment for the sons of Italy. In still another section, which is called the Ghetto, live the Jews, whose conversation is largely carried on in Yiddish, and whose newspapers are printed in that language. All of these foreign-born people have adopted the dress of American citizens, and their descendants will soon become Americanized in manners and language. To-day their foreign ways make them the more interesting. But the laborers are by no means the only inhabitants of Pittsburgh. There are many wealthy residents, whose palatial homes, built beyond the reach of the soot and smoke, far away from the noises of the great business thoroughfares, are in great contrast to the workmen's simple homes near the furnaces. [Illustration: A FOREIGN QUARTER] Pittsburgh can boast of many great men. It is the home of Andrew Carnegie, whose reputation for wealth and benevolence is world wide. He it was who conceived the idea of founding free libraries in different cities, they in turn to support these libraries by giving an annual sum for that purpose. His first offer was to his own city. In 1881 he proposed to give Pittsburgh $250,000 for a free public library if the city would set apart $15,000 each year for its care. The offer was refused, and the library was given to Allegheny instead. Later Mr. Carnegie gave Pittsburgh an Institute and Library combined, for the support of which the city gives $200,000 each year. The Carnegie Institute is a massive and beautiful building in Schenley Park. It covers 5 acres of land and is filled with treasures of art and literature. To-day there are nine Carnegie libraries in Pittsburgh, containing over 360,000 volumes. [Illustration: AN INCLINED PLANE] George Westinghouse was another Pittsburgh capitalist. His early days were spent in making agricultural implements in Schenectady. He was called Lazy George because he was always making pieces of machinery to save doing work with his hands. Later, by his invention of air brakes for trains, he became rich. Choosing Pittsburgh as his home, he established in and near the city the great Westinghouse Electric Company. It was Mr. Westinghouse who gave to Pittsburgh natural gas, conveying it through forty miles of pipe from Murrysville. Towering above Pittsburgh are high hills, which are reached from the business districts by inclined planes. Passengers and freight are carried up the inclines in cable cars. Up the steepest of these planes, the Monongahela, whose summit is four hundred feet above the river, the railroad runs through a tunnel and brings the passengers out upon a high bluff. [Illustration: FROM THE HEIGHTS ABOVE THE CITY] From the heights above the city one views the surrounding country--a wonderful panorama of hills and valleys, with the three great rivers, spanned by seventeen splendid bridges, stretching away in the distance. In every direction are towns called "little Pittsburghs," where live the workers engaged in the gigantic industries of the Pittsburgh district. And looking down, one sees the Point--the center of this great city, the heart of the "workshop of the world." =PITTSBURGH= FACTS TO REMEMBER Population (1910), over half a million (533,905). Eighth city in rank, according to population. Has the largest structural-steel plant in the world. Has the largest glass-manufacturing plant in the United States. Has the largest commercial coal plant in the United States. Has the largest pickling plant in the world. Has the largest electrical manufacturing plant in the world. Leads the world in the manufacture of iron, steel, glass, electrical machinery, steel cars, tin plate, air brakes, fire brick, white lead, pickles, and cork wares. Place of great historical interest in connection with the development of the West. One of the foremost commercial distributing centers. QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW AND STUDY 1. Compare Pittsburgh with New Orleans in location and in interests. 2. Tell how Fort Pitt grew into the great city of Pittsburgh and give two causes for its growth. 3. Where does Pittsburgh get her iron ore, coal, and petroleum? 4. In what manufactures does the city lead the world? 5. What great advantages does its location on the Ohio River give Pittsburgh? 6. Where are her great steel works, and what do they manufacture? 7. Describe the mine cities and the miners. Tell of their dangers and how these are to be lessened. 8. How is petroleum obtained? What products in daily use are made from it? 9. Give some facts about natural gas and its use in Pittsburgh. 10. Why is Pittsburgh called the "workshop of the world"? 11. Name two famous men of Pittsburgh and tell what they have done for the city and for the world. 12. Examine a map and find what shipping ports are within easy access of Pittsburgh. 13. Find by what route ore and other material shipped by way of the Great Lakes reach Pittsburgh. DETROIT In population, Detroit is the ninth city of the United States. In the value of its manufactured products, it is fifth. In the value of its exports, it is the leading port on the Canadian border. With these facts in mind it will be interesting to learn something of the history of Detroit; something of the goods it manufactures and the reasons for its growth and prosperity. During the years when the French governed Canada, manufacturing and agriculture played a very small part in their affairs. Their business men were chiefly interested in the fur trade; their governors were interested mainly in extending the territory over which floated the banner of their king; and the teaching of Christianity to the hordes of Indians who inhabited the country seemed of the greatest importance to their priests and missionaries. So, because it served the purpose of each, all three classes--the fur traders, the crown officers, and the missionaries--worked hand in hand in exploring and in penetrating the wilderness in every direction. They suffered every hardship, endured every privation, and very often fell victims to the cruelty of the savages. [Illustration: THE GREAT LAKES] In those days of French rule, railroads were unheard of, and wagon roads were almost as scarce. Travel was sometimes through the woods, along the trails made by the Indians; but usually it was by the water courses, over which the Indian canoes carried furs to be traded for the goods of the French. Now if you will look at a map which shows the Canadian border of the United States and follow the course of the Great Lakes, you will see that at four places their broad waters narrow into rivers or straits. These places are first, the Niagara River; second, where the waters of Lake Huron pass into Lake Erie; third, at the Sault Ste. Marie; and fourth, at the Straits of Mackinac. Between the East and the West, the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence River formed the main artery of travel. To control the narrow rivers and straits that connect the Great Lakes was to control the travel over them, and as the French extended their rule from Quebec to the West, they fortified these narrow places one by one. Fort Niagara was built at the mouth of the Niagara River. Then on July 24, 1701, Antoine de la Mothe Cadillac landed on the banks of the Detroit River and began the work of building a palisade fort, almost where the river widens into Lake Saint Clair. Cadillac thought that at Fort Detroit he had found one of the garden spots of the country. In the pine forests of the Michigan peninsula game of every sort abounded, and their skins enriched alike the Indians and the French. The waters of Lake Saint Clair swarmed with wild fowl. In the woods wild grapes grew in profusion, and the rich lands bordering both sides of the river assured plentiful crops, depending only upon the industry of those who tilled the soil. However, in spite of his enthusiasm over the beauty of the site, Cadillac proceeded to lay out a very ugly little town with rude dwellings huddled along narrow muddy streets. Such as it was, Detroit remained under French rule for fifty-nine years, becoming one of the most prosperous of the French outposts. The Indians were, for the most part, friendly with the French, and in 1760 the place had a population of 2500, which made it of great importance in the sparsely settled West. Then came the years of the French and Indian wars, and finally the French, having lost Quebec, were obliged to surrender to the English. So in November, 1760, Detroit was given up to Major Robert Rogers in command of a detachment of British regulars and American militia. The English were not allowed to remain long in undisturbed possession of their new outpost. Pontiac, chief of the Ottawas and one of the craftiest of all Indian warriors, was friendly to the French. In 1763, through his immense influence with all the Western tribes, he organized a conspiracy to drive the English from the territory which they had won with such difficulty. Detroit was one of the first places to be attacked. The siege lasted several months, but in spite of the cruelty and cunning of the attack, the garrison held out until at last relief came. Thus by their bravery they did much to prevent the success of Pontiac's Conspiracy, as the uprising is called. Then came the Revolution. At its close, the Treaty of Paris was signed in 1783. By the terms of this treaty, Detroit, together with the other British outposts in the West, became the property of the United States. However, it was not until 1796 that the place was actually occupied by American troops. Sixteen years later Detroit again passed into the possession of the British. This was during the war of 1812 and followed the defeat of General William Hull's ill-fated expedition into Canada. Falling back to Detroit, Hull was attacked, and surrendered to the British after a half-hearted resistance. A little more than a year later, however, in October, 1813, Oliver Hazard Perry won the famous battle of Lake Erie. This gave the Americans control of the lake, and the British soon abandoned Detroit, which has since remained in the possession of the United States. Detroit had prospered but little since 1760. Its inhabitants were for the most part easy-going Frenchmen. They were not suited to the strenuous work of city building. Detroit, instead of growing larger, was becoming smaller; and when, in 1820, the United States took a census of the place, it had but 1442 inhabitants as against the 2500 that Major Rogers found in 1760. [Illustration: DETROIT IN 1820, AND STEAMER _WALK-IN-THE-WATER_ (From an old print)] But from 1820 the growth of Detroit has been continuous. In 1825 the Erie Canal was opened, furnishing an easy means of communication from the East to the West. Then came a great tide of immigration to all the states bordering on the Great Lakes. Michigan was one of the first to profit, and Detroit was the gateway to Michigan. Most of the pioneers who sought homes in the West were farmers. The life of cities and villages offered few attractions to them. The number that stayed in Detroit was small as compared to the number that passed through into the back country to clear the woodlands and take up the work of agriculture. But as the back country filled up, there came a demand for the things in which cities deal, while at the same time there came the need of places where the products of the farm could be gathered together ready for transportation to the Eastern market. [Illustration: A DRY DOCK] In this way Detroit began its great growth. It bought the wool and wheat which the Michigan farmers raised, and shipped them East. It bought from the East the dry goods, hardware, and various other things which the Michigan farmers needed, and distributed them. It grew prosperous as the country back of it became more populated, and as this population became richer and able to buy larger amounts and more expensive goods, Detroit reaped the advantage. [Illustration: A PASSENGER STEAMER] Then too the traffic on the lakes became more important, requiring larger and better vessels. Detroit has one of the best harbors on all the Great Lakes, making it splendidly suited for the building and launching of vessels. Always engaged more or less in shipbuilding, Detroit improved its shipyards and kept pace with the demand. To-day it builds all types of vessels, from magnificent passenger steamers to the great steel ore ships which carry the iron ore of the Lake Superior districts. It was in 1860 that Detroit began to take its place among the industrial cities of the country. Now it is fifth among the cities of the United States in the value of its manufactured products. Let us see what its chief industries are. [Illustration: A LAKE VESSEL BUILT IN DETROIT] First of all comes the manufacture of automobiles and the parts of which they are made. It is estimated that more than half of all the automobiles made in the United States are built in Detroit factories. Until 1899 there was not a single automobile factory in the city. To-day there are over thirty, many of them covering acres of ground. As few of the automobile factories make all the parts of their machines, there are in Detroit many shops for the manufacture of steel, aluminium, and brass castings, and of gears, wheels, and various other automobile parts. Another of Detroit's important industries is the manufacture and repair of steam- and electric-railroad cars. These are largely freight cars, although many passenger cars are also made. Other lines of business include foundry and machine-shop products, the making of druggists' preparations, the manufacture of flour, the packing of beef and pork, and the preparation of other food stuffs. [Illustration: WHERE AUTOMOBILES ARE MADE] Then Detroit makes great quantities of soda ash and alkalies. This industry Detroit owes to the fact that here are found both limestone and salt, which is obtained from wells driven along the river bank. Both of these materials are required in the manufacture of soda ash. The printing-and-publishing business gives employment to thousands; so does the manufacture of paints and varnishes. In stoves, ranges, and furnaces, Detroit leads every other city in the country. It is interesting to know that Detroit makes great numbers of adding machines, that it is the largest producer of overalls in the country, that it is a center of the brass industry, that it turns out more than 300,000,000 cigars each year, and that it is one of the largest producers of wrought- and malleable-iron castings. The entire business of a city is, of course, never wholly manufacturing. Part of its business is always the distribution of things to supply the needs of its inhabitants and of the people who live in the surrounding country. When these goods are sold in large quantities to merchants who in turn sell them to the person using them, the business is known as a wholesale business. When they are sold by the merchant directly to the user, he does what is called a retail business. The wholesale business of Detroit is very large. Its merchants do the larger part of the wholesale business through the entire state of Michigan and in parts of northern Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. They even furnish certain supplies to some parts of Canada. Dry goods, drugs, hardware, and groceries are the principal things in which Detroit wholesalers deal. Detroit has also many large retail stores, which supply not only the people who live in the city of Detroit but those in the surrounding country as well. Thanks to the many suburban electric railroads and the many steam roads, the people who live in the smaller places are able to come to Detroit to purchase things they want. Now let us take our map again and notice the location of Detroit in relation to the rest of the country, for location, as you know, has very much to do with the growth of cities. [Illustration: THE DETROIT RIVER TUNNEL] We find in the first place that it is separated from Canada by only the width of a river. So we are not surprised to hear that Detroit is one of the principal points for the exchange of goods between the two countries. The two most important Canadian railroads have terminals at Windsor, on the Canadian side of the water, and also at Detroit. A very large part of the United States finds Detroit the most convenient point from which to send its products into Canada, since goods can so easily be brought to Detroit by water or rail. Statistics issued by the United States government show that of the eighteen customhouses on the Canadian border the one at Detroit does the largest volume of business. Then too, by the lakes, Detroit can reach all of the American lake ports, and from Buffalo, through the Erie Canal, it can even reach New York. The many railroads which serve Detroit give it excellent communication with all parts of the United States. The Michigan Central Railroad dives under the river, from Detroit to Windsor, through one of the most remarkable tunnels in the world. For years the cars of the Michigan Central Railroad, both passenger and freight, were carried across the river on ferryboats. This, of course, was a very slow way of crossing, but a bridge was impractical for various reasons, so at last it was decided to build a tunnel. When the engineers studied the river bottom, they found that it was covered with mud so deep that it was impossible to build a tunnel under it. Instead they built the tunnel of steel on the river bank, and when it was completed they sank it in sections and then fastened it together. Two belt-line railroads, extending from the river bank, circle through Detroit. One is some two miles from the center, the other, six. Along these railroads are many factories which have switches directly into their plants. This makes shipping a simple matter for the Detroit manufacturers. Now, having learned something of the history of Detroit, something of the manufacturing which it does and the commerce it carries on, let us take a look at the city itself. [Illustration: THE CITY OF DETROIT] The older parts of most great cities are badly laid out. In very few cases do men realize that their little settlements are to grow into large cities. And so they pay little attention to laying out streets, but in building their houses follow the farm lanes and often the paths made by the cows as they are driven to and from the pastures. This is not always the case however. Washington was laid out long before it ever became a city, and, in consequence, it has magnificent broad streets and many parks. [Illustration: NORTH WOODWARD AVENUE] Detroit was one of the badly laid-out settlements, but in 1805 a fire burned every house in Detroit with one exception. Now at that time Judge Augustus B. Woodward was a prominent figure in the city government. When the fire wiped out the old town, the judge thought that a plan should be made for Detroit just as had been done for Washington. His idea was to have a great circle, called the Grand Circus, in the center of the town. Two streets, 120 feet wide, were to cross this circle, dividing it into quarters, and from the circle other broad avenues were to radiate in all directions. As the city grew, other circles were to be built with streets radiating from them. Unfortunately the citizens of Detroit did not have the belief in the growth of their city that Judge Woodward had, and so his scheme was only carried out in part. That part, however, gave to Detroit its Grand Circus, its broad avenues, and its down-town parks, and did much to earn for it the title of the City Beautiful. Detroit to-day has many splendid and costly residences. It has also street after street filled with comfortable medium-priced houses where the workmen live, and its people are fond of boasting that it is a city of homes. Woodward Avenue, which is 120 feet wide, is named after Judge Woodward. This avenue runs from the river bank right through the entire city. At its lower end it is the principal retail street of the city, while further out are many fine residences. As the town grew, a boulevard was built, which, starting at the river, runs completely around the city at a distance of some two and a half miles from the center. This boulevard is known as the Grand Boulevard and is more than 12 miles long and from 150 to 200 feet in width. In the center is a narrow strip upon which are grown flowers, trees, and grass, while upon either side run macadam roads. [Illustration: AT BELLE ISLE] The most popular of Detroit's parks is Belle Isle. This is on an island of about 700 acres, directly opposite the city. Originally the island was for the most part a swamp infested with snakes. In order to get rid of the snakes a drove of hogs was turned loose on the island, and for a long time it was known as Hog Island. Then the city bought it and turned it into a park. The swamps were drained, and lakes and canals were built, which in the summer time are covered with canoes and boats. In the winter they make excellent places for skating. Playgrounds, baseball fields, and picnic grounds were laid out and a zoo was built, as well as one of the best aquariums in the country. And here, too, is a horticultural building, where many rare plants and flowers are grown. A large part of the island was covered with woods, and this was left in its native state, with winding roads built through it. The island is connected with the mainland by a broad bridge. The health conditions of Detroit are excellent. Its water supply is taken at a depth of 40 feet from the Detroit River, just where it leaves Lake Saint Clair. The city has an ample sewerage system. It has many fine public schools, and here also are the University of Detroit and the Detroit colleges of law and medicine. In short, from every point of view Detroit is a good place in which to live. A short time ago prizes were offered to the public-school pupils in the fifth, sixth, seventh, and eighth grades for the five best essays on "Why I am Glad I live in Detroit." Here is what one sixth-grade boy wrote about his home city: "What a beautiful city is Detroit," says the world-wide traveler, as he passes along its broad avenues, in the shade of its magnificent trees. "Detroit has a fine commercial center," says the enterprising manufacturer as he surveys its busy wharves. "What an excellent situation this city has," says the farmer, as he comes trudging to town with his load of produce. "In Detroit life is worth living," says the happy pleasure seeker, as he whiles away his time, either on the lake or in its many parks and boulevards. "You can have loads of fun at Belle Isle," whispers the small boy, as he thinks of the many pastimes which so appeal to every child. "What an interesting history has Detroit," says the historian, as he recalls its many struggles, first with the Indians, then with the French, and last of all the English. Many strangers will come to our city during the next few months, and I know that after they have seen it and go to their homes again, they will tell their neighbors and friends of our beautiful city, and I, who live here, will be very proud of it. =DETROIT= FACTS TO REMEMBER Population (1910), more than 450,000 (465,766). Ninth city in rank, according to population. Important shipping and manufacturing center. Important center for trade with Canada. Most important center in United States for the automobile industry. Place of great historical interest. QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW AND STUDY 1. How does Detroit rank among our great cities in population, manufactured products, and exports? 2. What were the ambitions of the French governors, traders, and missionaries of Canada in the early days? 3. Why did the French build forts on the narrow rivers and straits that connect the Great Lakes? 4. Describe Detroit and its surroundings in 1701. 5. How and when did the English first acquire Detroit? 6. How did the development of the farm lands about the city help the growth of Detroit? 7. Tell about its growth since 1760, and give three causes. 8. Name and describe some of the industries of the city. 9. Tell something of its vast wholesale and retail trade. 10. Show how the location of Detroit influences its commerce and contributes to its growth. 11. Name three products in the manufacture of which Detroit leads all other cities in the country. 12. What conditions have made Detroit a great center for commercial relations with Canada? BUFFALO About 1783 Cornelius Winne, a trader, built a little log store at the mouth of Buffalo River, which empties into Lake Erie. That was the beginning of Buffalo, the queen city of the lakes, the home to-day of more than four hundred thousand people. To understand the wonderful growth of this city we must go back to the days of the Revolution and see New York in those early times. Almost all the people of the United States then lived on the narrow strip of land lying between the Atlantic Ocean and the Appalachian Highlands. The high forest-covered mountains made a barrier that kept the colonial settlers from attempting to push out toward the west. But in New York State nature had left an opening between the mountain ranges, along the courses of the Hudson and the Mohawk rivers. Settlers had early followed these streams and built homes in their valleys. Beyond lay the trackless hunting grounds of the Indians--the great West. With the close of the Revolution things began to change. New York made a treaty with the Indians, whereby they agreed to sell large tracts of their lands. Pioneers pushed their way into the unknown wilderness of the western part of the state and found a beautiful fertile country. Their reports led hundreds to follow them. Soon central and northern New York were dotted with settlements. More and more immigrants kept coming, all seeking the land beyond the Appalachian Mountains. The great western movement of the nineteenth century had begun. [Illustration: A LOCKPORT LOCK] Winne had built his trading post before this westward movement reached Lake Erie. For some time he lived in his log cabin in the midst of the forest, with no neighbors except the Indians with whom he traded. But gradually other settlers came and built homes near him. By 1804 there were about twenty houses in the little settlement, which, for a short time, was called New Amsterdam. [Illustration: Barge canals shown by solid lines; Erie and other canals by dotted lines. NEW YORK'S CANALS] By 1812 the name had been changed to Buffalo, and the town had a population of 1500. That year war with England broke out, and in 1813 a body of British soldiers with their Indian allies crossed the Niagara River during the night, took the Americans by surprise, and burned Buffalo. Of its three hundred houses, just one escaped the flames. But nothing daunted, the men began to rebuild their homes, and in a few years no traces of the fire were to be seen. In early times the Indians going from the seacoast to the Great Lakes had followed the Hudson and Mohawk rivers and then gone on directly west to Lake Erie. With the coming of the white man the Indian pathway grew into a road, and in 1811 stagecoaches began to run over this road between Buffalo and Albany. But carrying passengers and freight by stagecoach was very expensive, and a few men, headed by Governor De Witt Clinton, began to say that the state ought to build a canal connecting Lake Erie with the Hudson River. Many laughed at this idea. They knew very little about canals and thought it foolish to waste millions of dollars on a useless "big ditch," as they called it. [Illustration: TRAVELING BY CANAL] However, those in favor of the scheme finally won, and the work of building the Erie Canal was begun in 1817. It very nearly followed the old trail between Albany and Buffalo and was 363 miles long. Eighty-three locks raised and lowered the boats where there was a difference of level in the canal. Lockport, a city 25 miles northeast of Buffalo, was named after these locks, there being 10 of them there. In 1825 the work was completed; the Erie Canal was opened, and at last there was a waterway between the Great Lakes and the Atlantic. All the towns along the canal held a great celebration. None had better reason for rejoicing than Buffalo. In 1825 Buffalo was a little hamlet on the frontier. Thanks to the Erie Canal, it was soon to become one of the leading cities of the country. It was not long before the "big ditch" was known as the "path to the great West." A rush of emigration further west followed, and all these travelers stopped at Buffalo, for here they had to change from the flat-bottomed canal boats to the lake vessels. Hotels were crowded, business flourished, and Buffalo became "a great doorway of the inland sea." [Illustration: THE BARGE CANAL NEAR BUFFALO] During the first years after its completion little freight was carried over the Erie Canal, but settlers kept flocking into the West, and before many years these Western pioneers were raising far more grain than they could use. Lake commerce began. Hundreds of ships brought wheat, lumber, and furs to Buffalo from the West and returned laden with manufactured goods. Buffalo was the chief lake port, and for many years shipping was its leading industry. Then came the railroads. The first railroad to Buffalo was completed in 1836. A few years later, trains ran between Albany and Buffalo, and in time carloads of grain were shipped by rail. Though shipments by canal continued and even increased for a time, the railroads gradually did more and more of the carrying, and finally robbed the canal of much of its former importance. [Illustration: THE SITE OF BUFFALO] Still, shipping by canal was cheaper. Improvements have been made in the Erie Canal from time to time, and in 1903 the state voted $101,000,000 for the enlargement of the Erie, Oswego, and Champlain canals into the 1000-ton-barge canal. When this is completed it will be 12 feet deep and will float much larger barges than did the Erie Canal. But to return to Buffalo. The city's location naturally made it one of the great centers of the country. Only the Niagara River separates the city from the most thickly settled part of Canada, and it is therefore a most convenient meeting place of the two countries. Already Buffalo's trade with Canada amounts to over $50,000,000 a year. Besides being one of the chief commercial centers of the country, Buffalo is an important manufacturing town. Three things are necessary to success in manufacturing--raw materials, power, and a market where the finished goods can be sold. Buffalo has all of these near at hand. The country round about is singularly rich in natural resources. Forests, fertile farm lands, and rich iron and coal deposits are all within easy reach of the city and supply it with raw material at small cost for transportation. No city in the world has greater advantages than Buffalo in the matter of power. The Niagara Falls furnish an unlimited supply of electric power, which is a substitute for coal and, for many purposes, more convenient. Buffalo's nearness to the coal fields of Pennsylvania makes the cost of both hard and soft coal low. Natural gas and oil furnish about one fifth of the power now used in the city. Both are found near Buffalo, stored in the pores and cavities of rocks. Holes are bored into the rocks, and the petroleum or rock oil is pumped into huge tanks. The gas is carried by underground pipes to the city, where it is used in heating and lighting thousands of homes and factories. Lastly, Buffalo does not have to ship its products far to find a market. Within 450 miles of the city live almost 50,000,000 people, and lakes, canals, and railroads offer cheap and rapid transportation to all parts of the country. Thirteen steamship lines and 18 railroads enter the city. There are 2 trunk lines from New England; 5 from New York; 1 from Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Washington; 1 from St. Louis; and 4 from Chicago. [Illustration: LACKAWANNA IRON AND STEEL COMPANY] The richest iron mines in the world are located south of Lake Superior, but there are no coal deposits in this region, and coal is necessary for the manufacturing of iron and steel. As it was cheaper to ship the ore to the coal than to carry the coal to the ore, there were men who, as early as 1860, saw that iron and steel could be manufactured with profit in Buffalo. Though blast furnaces were built from time to time, the industry did not attract great attention until 1899. In that year the Lackawanna Iron and Steel Company, of Scranton, Pennsylvania, moved to Buffalo and built an immense metal-working plant. This plant is south of the city and extends several miles along the shore of Lake Erie. The company has built a ship canal over half a mile long, which the largest lake vessels can enter. On one side of this canal are hundreds of coke ovens and the storage grounds for coal; on the other side are the ore docks, a row of huge blast furnaces, and the steel works with their numerous mills, foundries, and workshops. In the coke ovens millions of tons of soft coal are every year turned into coke, which is really coal with certain things removed by heating. This coke is used in melting the iron in the blast furnaces--so called because during the melting strong blasts of air are forced into the furnaces. These furnaces are almost a hundred feet high, are made of iron, and lined with fire brick. Tons of coke, limestone, and iron ore are dropped in from above by machinery, and the intense heat of the burning coke melts the iron, which sinks to the bottom of the furnace while the limestone collects the impurities and forms an upper layer. At the bottom of the furnace there are openings where the fiery-hot liquid runs off into molds, or forms, in which it cools and hardens. The waste matter, called slag, is also drawn off at the bottom. More coke and ore are added from above, and the smelting goes on night and day without interruption until the furnace needs repair. After the iron has been separated from the ore, it is taken to the foundries where it is made into steel rails and many other kinds of iron and steel goods. Other iron and steel companies have sprung up in Buffalo, and the city and its vicinity is now manufacturing enormous quantities of pig iron, steel rails, engines, car wheels, tools, and machinery. [Illustration: THE ELECTRIC BUILDING] Back in the first half of the nineteenth century New York was the leading wheat-raising and flour-producing state. The first flour mill in the Buffalo district was run by water power furnished by the Erie Canal. As larger mills followed and steam took the place of water power, Buffalo became an important flour-milling center. Later, wheat began to be raised further west, and the Central States soon took the lead in wheat growing and flour milling. But Buffalo had the advantage of an early start. Its mills were already built and working. Grain from the West kept pouring into the city to be stored in its great grain elevators, and the production of flour increased. Larger mills were built, some of them making use of the Niagara water power. To-day there are more than a dozen companies in Buffalo operating flour mills which turn out over 3,000,000 barrels of flour in a year. [Illustration: THE BUFFALO HOME OF THE NEW YORK TELEPHONE COMPANY] Buffalo's slaughter-house products for a single year are worth millions of dollars. There are two large meat-packing firms in the city, slaughtering over a million cattle and hogs each year. They both had small beginnings in the butcher business more than fifty years ago. In 1852 the first stockyards were opened, and the city's live-stock industry began. Shipments of live stock from the grazing states of the West increased until the city became the second cattle market in the world, Chicago alone handling more live stock than Buffalo. When first settled, the lake region was covered with forests, and lumber was one of the first products sent eastward by lake steamers. Millions and millions of feet of pine were towed down the lakes on barges and transferred to canal boats at Buffalo, and the city became one of the great lumber markets of the country. Although shipments from the Northern forests have not been so great in the last twenty years, the lumber industry continues to be of great importance to Buffalo. In addition to pine from the lake region, the city receives hard wood from the South. You see enormous piles of lumber in the yards of the city itself, and Tonawanda, a suburb ten miles north of Buffalo, has the largest lumber yards in the world. These yards carry on a large wholesale and retail trade, and sawmills, planing mills, and many lumber industries have grown up around them. Mill work, doors, mantels, piano cases, and furniture are some of the things made in the Buffalo workshops. [Illustration: THE CITY OF BUFFALO] [Illustration: THE ARMORY] While commerce and industry were thus developing, the city itself was growing in size, population, and beauty. It extends about ten miles along the shore of Lake Erie and the Niagara River. In the residence section there are thousands of beautiful homes, set well back from broad streets and surrounded by wide lawns and gardens. Delaware Avenue, with its branching boulevards and parkways, is the finest of these residence sections. [Illustration: WADING POOL IN HUMBOLDT PARK] [Illustration: A PUBLIC PLAYGROUND] Several large parks and many smaller squares are scattered throughout the city, while swimming pools, wading ponds, and public playgrounds delight the hearts of the children. Lake breezes make the city cool in summer, and altogether Buffalo is one of the cleanest, most healthful, and most beautiful cities of the country. [Illustration: THE ALBRIGHT ART GALLERY] Through the southern part of the city flows the sluggish and winding Buffalo River. In the early days the mouth of this stream was the only harbor of the port, although it was then very shallow. Millions of dollars have been spent in deepening and improving this inner harbor, while a larger outer harbor has been made by inclosing a part of the lake by breakwaters. The harbor of Buffalo is now one of the best on the Great Lakes. About two miles north of the mouth of Buffalo River is The Front, a park overlooking the water and giving a beautiful view of Lake Erie, the Niagara River, and the Canadian shore. It is a government reservation, and here is Fort Porter. Further north the International Railroad Bridge connects Canada with the city of Buffalo. [Illustration: THE McKINLEY MONUMENT] Delaware Park, in the northern part of the city, is the largest and most beautiful of Buffalo's parks. Near the northeastern entrance is the zoölogical garden, with a seal pool, bear pits, and many strange and interesting animals. In the western part is the Albright Art Gallery, a beautiful building of white marble. Here, too, is the Buffalo Historical-Society Building, which was the New York State Building during the Pan-American Exposition which was held in Delaware Park and on the adjoining land in 1901. [Illustration: NIAGARA FALLS] In the center of Niagara Square stands the McKinley Monument, erected by the state of New York in honor of President William McKinley, who was shot at the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, on September 6, 1901. It was in this city that President Roosevelt took the oath of office after President McKinley's death. It is also worthy of note that Buffalo was the home of two of our presidents--Fillmore and Cleveland. The business district of Buffalo is only a short distance from the harbor. The most important business streets are Main Street and Broadway. Twenty miles north of Buffalo the Niagara River plunges over a precipice more than one hundred and fifty feet high, forming the world-famous Niagara Falls. The width of the river, the beauty of the mighty waters as they rush thundering over the edge of the precipice, the foam and spray rising from the foot of the cataract, all combine to make Niagara Falls the greatest natural wonder on the American continent. In the middle of the stream lies Goat Island, which divides the Falls into the Horseshoe Falls on the Canadian side and the American Falls on the New York side. Hardly less interesting than the Falls are the power plants on both sides of the river, which are making the force of Niagara do a mighty work. It has been reckoned that the volume of water which passes over the Falls is two hundred and sixty-five thousand cubic feet each second. Think of it! This tremendous rush of water, the experts tell us, represents five million horse power. To make this gigantic power of use to man, canals have been built above the Falls to bring water from the river to the power houses where its great force turns huge water wheels and produces electric power. Cables of copper wire raised high in the air carry this power to all the surrounding country. It runs many of Buffalo's factories, lights the city streets, and moves its trolley cars as well as those in Syracuse, one hundred and fifty miles away. Such then, with its wonderful power, its command of material, its beautiful and important location, is the Buffalo of to-day. The little settlement of one hundred years ago has become the eleventh city in size in the United States. =BUFFALO= FACTS TO REMEMBER Population (1920), over 500,000 (506,775). Eleventh city according to population. Important lake port. One of the best harbors on the Great Lakes. Located at the western end of the Erie Canal. Great transfer point between lake boats and canal boats and railroads. Important railroad center. Center for live-stock trade. Important center for wheat, lumber, meat packing, and the iron and steel industries. Electric light and power obtained from Niagara Falls. QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW AND STUDY 1. How did it happen that the people of New York first came to settle west of the Appalachian Mountains, and where were these first settlements? 2. Tell about the beginning of Buffalo, and give its original name. 3. What was the first route from Albany to Buffalo, and why was it used? How was the journey made between 1811 and 1825? 4. Tell the story of the Erie Canal, and give its effect on Buffalo and the West. 5. How did Buffalo's location make it one of the great centers of industry? 6. What three things are necessary to success in manufacturing? 7. How is Buffalo furnished with power for her great manufacturing interests? 8. Where does Buffalo find a market for her products? How? 9. What great steel company is located near this city? Why? 10. Describe the wonderful coke ovens and blast furnaces near Buffalo. 11. Give some idea of Buffalo's flour mills, slaughter houses, and lumber yards, and of her importance in these industries. 12. What do you know of Niagara Falls and the power plants on both sides of the Niagara River? SAN FRANCISCO The United States extends from the Atlantic to the Pacific, and just as New York is our leading seaport on the Atlantic, so San Francisco is the leading seaport on the Pacific. San Francisco's history is inseparably connected with the development of the resources of California. In 1769 Spain sent an expedition overland from Mexico to colonize the Pacific coast, and Don Gaspar de Portolá, at the head of these colonists, was the first white man known to have looked upon San Francisco Bay. Seven years later, in 1776, the Franciscan friars built a fortified settlement on the present site of San Francisco. The Mission Dolores, which is still standing, was begun the same year, and a little village slowly grew up around it. At the close of the Mexican War, in 1848, California was ceded to the United States, and the Stars and Stripes were raised over the little settlement, whose name was soon changed from Yerba Buena to San Francisco. In 1848, too, came the discovery of gold in California, and San Francisco suddenly grew from a Spanish village to a busy American town. The population jumped from 800 to 10,000 in a single year. A city of tents and shanties quickly arose on the sand dunes. Thousands of people were leaving their homes in the East to seek a fortune in the gold fields. Many came by water, either rounding Cape Horn or else traveling by boat to the Isthmus of Panama, crossing on foot, and reëmbarking on the Pacific coast. Others came overland in large canvas-covered wagons called prairie schooners. These newcomers were men of all classes--ministers, lawyers, farmers, laborers. Some were educated, others were ignorant. While most of them were industrious and law-abiding, a considerable number were desperate and lawless men. These last caused much trouble. Gambling, murders, and crimes of all kinds were alarmingly common, and the city government was powerless to punish the lawbreakers. Finally, the better class of citizens formed a vigilance committee, which hung four criminals and punished many in other ways until law and order were established. San Francisco has been called the "child of the mines." It was the discovery of gold that first made it the leading city of the Pacific coast. From that day the production of gold has been steadily maintained. Nearly $20,000,000 worth is mined in the state of California each year, with a total production of over $1,500,000,000. Later the silver mines in Nevada were discovered and developed, and their immense output brought increased wealth to San Francisco. As time went on, however, people began to see that California's real wealth lay not so much in her mines as in her fertile farm lands. These, combined with the wonderful climate, have made California a leading agricultural state. [Illustration: AN ORANGE GROVE] The great central valley of California, about 400 miles long and 50 miles wide, lies between the Sierra Nevada Mountains and the Coast Ranges. Its farms, orchards, orange groves, and vineyards produce immense quantities of grain, and of grapes, and other fruits. Large numbers of cattle and sheep are raised. In the southern counties many tropical fruits are grown successfully. Irrigated groves of orange, lemon, and olive trees cover thousands of acres. Other important crops are English walnuts, almonds, prunes, and figs. Copper, silver, oil, quicksilver, and salt are also valuable products, while the forest-covered mountains supply excellent lumber. Such is the wealth of California's natural resources, and San Francisco is the great port and market of this rich back country. [Illustration: PICKING GRAPES] As the Sacramento River flows into San Francisco Bay from the north and the San Joaquin from the south, the two offer cheap transportation up and down their valleys, being navigable to river steamers for over 200 miles. The great bay of San Francisco is the largest landlocked harbor in the world. Here the navies of all the nations could ride at anchor side by side in safety. Though 65 miles long and from 4 to 10 miles wide, the bay is completely sheltered from dangerous winds and storms. It is connected with the Pacific Ocean by a strait called the Golden Gate, which is 2-3/4 miles long and over a mile wide. [Illustration: THE GOLDEN GATE] Such advantages have made San Francisco a great commercial and financial center. Ships from San Francisco carry the products of California westward to all the countries bordering on the Pacific, while others sail to the Atlantic seaports of America and Europe. The outgoing steamers are loaded with wheat, cotton, canned goods, oil, barley, prunes, flour, dried fruits, leather, machinery, lumber, and iron manufactures. Incoming steamers bring raw silk, coffee, tea, copra, nitrate of soda, tin ingots, sugar, rice, cigars, coal, burlap, vanilla beans, cheese, and manila hemp. [Illustration: THE SITE OF SAN FRANCISCO] Already the foreign commerce of San Francisco amounts to more than $150,000,000 annually, and with the increasing trade of Japan and China and the shortened route to the Atlantic through the Panama Canal, the future of its foreign trade cannot be estimated. [Illustration: A FLOWER MARKET] In addition to her foreign trade, San Francisco has many growing industries at home. Printing and publishing, slaughtering and meat packing, are among the most important. The canning and preserving of fruits and vegetables is a leading industry of the city. The California Fruit Canners Association employs many thousands of people during the fruit season and is the largest fruit-and-vegetable canning company in the world. It operates thirty branches throughout the state, and its products are sent to all parts of the globe. Though iron has to be imported,--there being little mined in California,--the city does a thriving iron business. In the early days there was need of mining machinery in the West, and San Francisco at that time began manufacturing it. She also has one of the greatest shipbuilding plants in the United States. The famous battleship _Oregon_, the _Olympic_, the _Wisconsin_, the _Ohio_, and other ships of the United States Navy were built in San Francisco. [Illustration: THE CITY OF SAN FRANCISCO] In 1906 a severe earthquake shook San Francisco, wrecking many buildings. Fire broke out in twenty places, and as the earthquake had broken the city's water mains, the fire fighters had to pump salt water from the bay and use dynamite to stop the progress of the flames. During the three days of the fire, four square miles were laid in ruins. [Illustration: ON SAN FRANCISCO'S WATER FRONT] Because of occasional slight shocks in former years, the inhabitants had built their city of wood, thinking it safer than brick or stone. They had not thought of the greater danger of fire. This earthquake taught them a lesson. The few skyscrapers in the city had stood the shock remarkably well, and profiting by this experience thousands of modern structures--steel, brick, and reënforced concrete--were built to replace the old wooden buildings. A far more modern and beautiful city has arisen from the ashes of the ruins. [Illustration: CHINATOWN] The city occupies 46-1/2 square miles at the end of the southern peninsula which lies between San Francisco Bay and the Pacific Ocean. The site of the city is hilly, especially in the northern and western parts. Market Street, 120 feet wide and the chief business thoroughfare, extends southwest from the water front and divides the city into two parts. The southern district contains many manufacturing plants and the homes of the laboring people. The streets here are level. North of Market Street lie three high hills--Telegraph Hill, Nob Hill, and Russian Hill. In this half of the city are the finest residences, Nob Hill having been given its name in the early days when the mining millionaires built their homes upon it. [Illustration: THE UNION FERRY BUILDING] The main business section is in the northeastern part of the city, facing the harbor, and is on level ground. It contains hundreds of new office buildings, many of them from eight to twenty or more stories high. Fine modern hotels and beautiful banks add much to the beauty of this part of San Francisco. The most important public buildings are the United States mint and the post office, which escaped the flames in 1906, the customhouse, the Hall of Justice, the new Auditorium, and the city hall. These last two face the Civic Center, which is being created at a cost of nearly $17,000,000. At the foot of Telegraph Hill is the largest Chinese quarter in the United States. It was completely destroyed during the fire, but is now rebuilt and much improved. Its temples, joss houses, and theaters, its markets, bazaars, and restaurants, with their strange life and customs and their oriental architecture, attract crowds of visitors. There are now about 10,000 Chinese in San Francisco, but their number has been steadily decreasing since the Exclusion Act was passed, prohibiting Chinese laborers from entering this country. It was thought necessary to have this law in order to protect the American workingman on the Pacific coast, as the Chinese laborers who had already been admitted were working for wages upon which no white man could live. [Illustration: FISHERMAN'S WHARF] At the foot of Market Street, on the water front, stands the Union Ferry Building, a large stone structure with a high clock tower. Only one of the cross-continent railroads--a branch of the Southern Pacific--lands its passengers in the city of San Francisco. All the other roads, which include the main line of the Southern Pacific, the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fé, the Union Pacific, and the Western Pacific, terminate on the eastern shore of the bay and send the travelers to San Francisco by ferry. In consequence, San Francisco has developed the best ferry service in the world, all lines meeting at the Union Ferry Building. [Illustration: MT. TAMALPAIS FROM NOB HILL] North and south of the Union Ferry Building stretch eight miles of wharves and docks and many factories, lumber yards, and warehouses. At the docks, ships are being loaded and unloaded continually. In March and April each year a fleet of forty or fifty vessels starts out for the Alaskan fisheries. San Francisco is the leading salmon port of the United States, distributing millions of dollars' worth of salmon yearly. Fisherman's Wharf, at the northern end of the water front, is full of interest, with its brown, weather-beaten fishermen and their odd fishing boats. To the south of the Union Ferry Building is "Man-of-war Row," where United States and foreign battleships ride at anchor. [Illustration: PRESIDIO TERRACE] The cities of Alameda, Oakland, Richmond, and Berkeley are directly across the bay from San Francisco, on the east shore. Like New York, San Francisco is the center of a large metropolitan district, and the residents of these neighboring cities daily travel to their work in San Francisco on the ferries. For several years there has been talk of uniting these cities with San Francisco. If this plan were carried out, it would add over 350,000 to San Francisco's present population, which is between 400,000 and 500,000. [Illustration: THE TOWER OF JEWELS OF THE PANAMA-PACIFIC EXPOSITION] The University of California, in Berkeley, has nearly 7000 students, tuition being free to residents of California. The Leland Stanford University, 30 miles from San Francisco, is another noted institution in the state. [Illustration: IN GOLDEN GATE PARK] To the north of the Golden Gate is Mt. Tamalpais, 2592 feet high, overlooking the bay and San Francisco. To the south is the Presidio, the United States military reservation, covering 1542 acres. Here are the harbor fortifications and the headquarters of the western division of the United States Army. Fronting on the ocean beach and extending eastward for 4 miles is Golden Gate Park, the largest of San Francisco's many parks and squares. [Illustration: IN FRONT OF THE EXPOSITION'S PALACE OF FINE ARTS] Occupying part of the Presidio and facing the water at the northern end of the city is the site of the Panama-Pacific International Exposition, held in 1915 to celebrate the completion of the Panama Canal. That the citizens of San Francisco look to the future was shown at a gathering of business men in 1910, when more than $4,000,000 was raised in two hours for this Panama exposition. The climate of the city (averaging more than 50 degrees in winter and less than 60 degrees in summer), the beauties and wonders of California, the romantic history of the city, exhibits from many parts of the world--all these, the citizens knew, would attract thousands of visitors from afar and make known to the world the advantages and prosperity of the Far West and its chief city, San Francisco. =SAN FRANCISCO= FACTS TO REMEMBER Population (1910), over 400,000 (416,912). Eleventh city according to population. Largest city of the Western States. One of the finest harbors in the world. The natural shipping point for the products of the rich state of California. Chief center for the trade of the United States with the Orient. Leads all American cities in the shipment of wheat. Has great canning and preserving industries. QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW AND STUDY 1. Find by measurements on a map of the United States the distance of San Francisco from New York City in a direct line. 2. Find by consulting time tables or by inquiry of some railroad official how long it would take to make the journey from New York to San Francisco, and what railroad system might be used. Answer this question, applying it to your own city. 3. Who founded San Francisco, and what was it first called? 4. When and how did San Francisco become an American possession? 5. Of what was the great wealth of California supposed to consist at first? What is the great wealth of the state considered to be to-day? 6. What are the chief exports of the city, and to what countries are they sent? 7. What are the chief imports of the city? 8. What are the great advantages of San Francisco Bay? 9. When did the great fire at San Francisco occur, and what damage was done? 10. What benefit will San Francisco derive from the completion of the Panama Canal? 11. Why is the ferry system of San Francisco so important? 12. Name four cities across the bay from San Francisco, and tell how they are related to that city. 13. Tell something of the fishing industry of San Francisco. 14. Does the name "Golden Gate" seem appropriate to you? Why? 15. Name the chief industries of San Francisco. 16. Describe the location of the city. 17. Find out how many days' journey by steamship are the following places from San Francisco: Honolulu Shanghai Manila Yokohama Sydney Buenos Aires NEW ORLEANS The story of New Orleans, the Crescent City, reads like a wonderful romance or a tale from the Arabian Nights. As in a moving picture, one can see men making a clearing along the east bank of the Mississippi River, one hundred and ten miles from its mouth. It is 1718. The French Canadian Bienville has been made governor of the great tract of land called Louisiana, and he has decided to found a settlement near the river's mouth. At the end of three years the little French town, named for the duke of Orleans, stands peacefully on the banks of the great Mississippi, its people buying, selling, fighting duels, and steadily thriving until the close of the French and Indian War. Then France cedes Louisiana to Spain, and for some years New Orleans is under Spanish rule. In 1800, however, Spain cedes Louisiana back to France, and once more New Orleans has a French commissioner and is a French possession. Again the scene changes. Energetic, sturdy men sail down the river, land in the quaint little town, and march to the Cabildo, or Government Hall, where they receive the keys of the town. Because of the Louisiana Purchase, New Orleans with all its inhabitants--Spanish, French, Italians, and Jews--is being given over to the United States. The French flag is taken down, and the Stars and Stripes are unfurled over what was, and is to-day, the least American of all American cities. [Illustration: WHERE NEW ORLEANS STANDS] As the history of New Orleans unrolls, one follows the thrilling scenes of a great battle. It is in the War of 1812, and on the last day of December, 1814, the British begin an attack on the city, with an army of 10,000 trained soldiers. They mean to capture New Orleans and gain control of Louisiana and the mouth of the Mississippi. Andrew Jackson commands the American forces, made up of regulars, militia, pirates, negroes, and volunteers, numbering only about half the attacking British army. Day after day goes by with no great victory gained on either side, until Sunday, January 8, dawns. With the daylight, the British commence a furious assault. But Jackson and his men are ready for them. Rushing back and forth along his line of defense, the commander cries out, "Stand by your guns!" "See that every shot tells!" "Let's finish the business to-day!" Many of Jackson's men are sharpshooters. Time and again they aim and fire, and time and again the enemy advance, fall back, rally, and try to advance once more. But in three short hours the British leader and more than 2500 men have dropped, hundreds shot between the eyes. It is no use! In confusion the British turn and flee. Jackson has saved the city. [Illustration: THE CABILDO] In the Civil War the turn of affairs is different. Louisiana was one of the seven states to secede from the Union in 1860 and form themselves into the Confederate States of America. Of course this made New Orleans a Confederate city. Naturally, the north wanted to capture New Orleans in order to control the mouth of the Mississippi River. This time the attacking force is a Union fleet, and the defenders of the city are stanch Confederates who have done all in their power to prevent the approach of the Northerners. Across the river, near its mouth, two great cables have been stretched, and between the cables and the city are a Confederate fleet and two forts, one on each side of the river. The Union fleet under David Farragut appears, opens fire on the forts, and keeps up the attack for six days and nights. Still the forts hold out. Then Farragut decides that since he cannot take the forts he will run his ships past them. But there are the cables blocking his way. The steamer _Itasca_ undertakes to break them and rushes upon them under a raking fire from both forts. The cables snap. That night the Union ships, in single file, start up the river. At last the forts are passed and the Confederate ships overcome, but not the spirit of the people of New Orleans. They fight to the finish as best they can. Cotton bales are piled on rafts, set afire, and floated downstream among the Union ships. Still the ships come on. At least the Northerners shall not take the valuable stores of cotton, sugar, and molasses! So the cotton ships are fired, and hogsheads of molasses and barrels of sugar are hurriedly destroyed. When the Union forces land and takes possession, the people of New Orleans, though heartbroken, know that they have done their best. Then comes peace. The war is over, and New Orleans is once more a city of the United States. To-day New Orleans presents the unusual combination of an old city, full of historic interest, and a splendid new city, a place of industry, progress, and opportunity. The successful building of a great city on the site of New Orleans is a triumph of engineering skill. As the city lies below the high-water mark of the Mississippi, it was necessary to build great banks of earth to hold back the water in the flood season. These levees, as they are called, form the water front of the city. In the early days the only drinking-water in New Orleans was rain water caught from the roofs and stored in cisterns. Imagine a city without a single cellar. Then not even a grave could be dug in the marshy soil. The cemeteries were all aboveground. In some cemeteries there were tiers of little vaults, one above the other, in which the dead were laid. In others, magnificent tombs provided resting places for the wealthy. Such was old New Orleans. To-day modern sewers and huge steam pumps draw off the sewage and excess water, discharging them into the river, while a splendid water system filters water taken from higher up the river, giving a supply as pure as that enjoyed by any city in our land. The marshes have been drained by the construction of canals, which are used as highways for bringing raw materials from the surrounding country to the factories of New Orleans. Many of these canals extend for miles into the interior of the state of Louisiana. [Illustration: THE CITY OF NEW ORLEANS] The city proper covers nearly two hundred square miles and is laid out in beautiful streets, parks, and driveways, crossed in many places by picturesque waterways. Here are splendid trees, belonging both to the temperate zone and to the tropics. Palms and cypresses abound. In the City Park is one of the finest groves of live oaks in the world. Audubon Park, named for the great lover of birds, who was born near this city, is another of the beautiful parks of New Orleans. [Illustration: CANAL STREET] Canal Street divides New Orleans into two sections, with the Old Town, or French Quarter, on one side and the New Town, or American Quarter, on the other. This is the main thoroughfare of the city. It is a wide street, well-kept and busy. Here are many of the great retail stores, and to this street comes every car line. From Canal Street one may take a car to any section of the city, and a car taken in any part of New Orleans will sooner or later bring one to Canal Street. On this street are handsome stores, club buildings, hotels, railroad stations, and the United States customhouse. The upper end of the street is a beautiful residence section, whose houses are surrounded by spacious lawns and fine trees. Almost all of these houses have wide galleries, or verandas, upon which their owners may sit and enjoy, all the year round, the balmy air of the southern climate. Very seldom does the temperature drop below 30 degrees Fahrenheit. Usually it is between 50 and 60 degrees, and even in summer it varies only between 75 and 90 degrees. New Orleans is really cooler in summer than some of our northern cities, being so surrounded by river and lakes. [Illustration: A CREOLE COURTYARD] The old New Orleans lies northeast of Canal Street. Here the early settlers established their homes, and in this French Quarter the French language is still in common use, and many old French customs are observed. The streets, many of which bear French names, are narrow and roughly paved and are closely built up with old-fashioned brick buildings ornamented with iron verandas. Open gateways in the front of many a gloomy-looking house give us a glimpse of attractive interior courts, gay with flowers and splashing fountains. Many other courts, alas, are deserted or neglected, for this is no longer the fashionable section of New Orleans. Most of the city's creole population lives in the French Quarter. These people are the descendants of the early French and Spanish inhabitants. [Illustration: JACKSON SQUARE AND THE CATHEDRAL OF ST. LOUIS] In the French Quarter is Jackson Square, which was the center of governmental life in the early years of the city. Here are the Cabildo--the old Spanish court building--and the Cathedral of St. Louis, an old and beautiful church. On Chartres Street is the Archiepiscopal Palace, said to be the oldest public building in the Mississippi Valley. [Illustration: BAYOU ST. JOHN] The French Market is one of the world's famous market places. In the long low buildings occupying four city blocks may be found fruits, vegetables, meats, fish, and game in wonderful variety. To the Oyster Lugger Landing come the oyster boats, bringing from the bays of the Gulf coast some of the finest oysters in America. Other points of interest in the French Quarter are the Royal Hotel, formerly known as the St. Louis Hotel; the United States mint; the Soldiers' Home, whose gardens are noted for their beauty; Bayou St. John, a picturesque waterway; and Jackson Barracks. [Illustration: ST. ROCH'S CHAPEL] Two other places must not be slighted. In the Ursuline convent stands a statue before which, on January 8, 1815, the nuns prayed for the success of the Americans in the battle of New Orleans. Then there is St. Roch's Shrine, a chapel built by Father Thevis. Each stone in it was placed by his own hands, in fulfillment of a vow that "if none of his parishioners should die of an epidemic, he would, stone by stone, build a chapel in thanksgiving to God." This ancient shrine is visited by thousands of people every year. To the southwest of Canal Street is the American Quarter. This was originally a tract of land, known as the Terre Commune, reserved by the French government for public use. But after a while the land was laid out in streets. Soon the merchants of this section began to trade with the North and West. The river boats landed in front of the Faubourg St. Marie, as this part of the city was then called, bringing tobacco, cotton, pork, beef, corn, flour, and fabrics. Commercial buildings sprang up, and as the trade was distinctly American, the district came to be known as the American Quarter. In the days when the French Quarter was all there was of New Orleans, the city was in the shape of a half moon or crescent. The newer part of the city follows the course of the river and makes the New Orleans of to-day more like a letter S. [Illustration: ST. CHARLES AVENUE] St. Charles Avenue is the most beautiful residential street in the American Quarter. It is a wide avenue with driveways on either side of a grassy parkway. Rows of trees, many of them stately palms, border the avenue. Here are splendid homes, each with its flower beds and gardens of tropical plants. Churches and charitable institutions abound in New Orleans. One of the latter, Touro Infirmary, covers an entire city block. This infirmary was endowed by Judah Touro, a Jew, and is supported by Jews, but receives sufferers of any creed. In its courtyard is a fountain erected by the Hebrew children of New Orleans. Tulane University is the most renowned educational institution in the city, and is noted for its medical and engineering departments. On Washington Avenue is the H. Sophie Newcomb Memorial College for young women, which is the women's department of Tulane University. The great hotels and many restaurants of the city are noted throughout the United States. The creole cooks have made famous such dishes as chicken gumbo, chicken à la creole, and pompano. The country around New Orleans is one of the richest in the world. Within a few hours' ride of the city are great fields of cotton, sugar, and rice. Two hundred miles from the city are immense deposits of sulphur and salt. Oil fields are within easy reach, and coal is brought by water from the mines of Alabama and even from Pennsylvania. Great forests to the north furnish lumber which is transported by water to the city, making New Orleans one of the foremost ports in lumber exportation. The immense sugar-cane fields of the South look very much like the cornfields of the more northern states. Negroes cut the cane close to the ground, as the lower part of the stalk has the most sugar. After the leaves and tops have been trimmed off, the stalks are shipped to the presses, cut into small pieces, and crushed between heavy rollers. The juice is strained, boiled, and worked over to remove the impurities, and then, in a brownish mass called raw sugar, is sent to great refineries to be made by more boiling and other processes into the white sugar we use daily. This sugar industry is very important, as figures show that each American, both grown-ups and children, consumes an average of more than seventy pounds of sugar a year. [Illustration: A SUGAR-CANE FIELD] [Illustration: A SUGAR REFINERY] Away down South is the land of cotton as well as the land of sugar, and there is no more beautiful sight than a field white with the opening bolls of the cotton plant. Between the long white rows pass the picturesque negroes with their big baskets into which they put the soft fleecy cotton as they pick it from the bolls. The raw cotton is then sent to the cotton gin, where the seeds are taken out to be made into cottonseed oil. The cotton itself is shipped to factories where it is made into thread and cotton cloth of all kinds. In addition to the immense quantities sent to the mills in various parts of the United States, New Orleans ships to Europe each year over $100,000,000 worth. When the cotton reaches the city it is in the form of bales covered with coarse cloth and bound with iron bands. The great steamers waiting at the dock must fill their holds to the best advantage in order that they may carry as large an amount as possible on each voyage. The cotton as it comes from the plantation presses occupies too much space. It is interesting to stand near the steamship landings and see the workmen cast off the iron bands and place the bales between the powerful jaws of huge presses which seem, almost without effort, to close down upon the mass of fleecy whiteness and cause it to shrink from four feet to about one foot in thickness. While the cotton is still under pressure, iron bands are once more placed upon it, and the bale is then taken from the press. After this process four bales can be loaded on the steamer in the space which one plantation bale would have occupied. [Illustration: A BANANA CONVEYOR] The location of New Orleans near the mouth of the Mississippi and close enough to the Gulf of Mexico to be called a Gulf port makes it naturally the great port of exchange of all the products of the Mississippi Valley, the islands of the Gulf, and the countries on the north coast of South America. It is the second largest export port in America and is the world's greatest export market for cotton. Oysters and fish in abundance are brought to the city from the Gulf, making New Orleans one of the largest fish-and-oyster markets in the United States. More bananas arrive at New Orleans than at any other port in the world. The great bunches of fruit are unloaded by machinery, placed upon specially designed cars, and sent by the fastest trains to the various parts of the United States. With the sugar-producing districts so near, New Orleans is, of course, one of our country's chief sugar markets. The largest sugar refinery in the world is located here. We have already mentioned the water front, but this important and interesting part of the city deserves more attention. For fifteen miles along the river, the port of this great city stretches in an almost unbroken line of wharves and steel sheds. The steamboat landings are near the foot of Canal Street, and here may be seen the river packets from Northern cities and the little stern-wheelers which run up Red River. Above is the flatboat landing, and further on still are the tropical-fruit wharves and miles of wharves for foreign shipping. Just below Canal Street are the sugar sheds, where barrels and hogsheads of sugar and molasses cover blocks and blocks. At Julia Street are huge coffee sheds where more than 80,000 bags of coffee, each bag holding about 138 pounds, can be stored in the large steel warehouses. At Louisiana Avenue are the huge Stuyvesant Docks, which cover 2000 feet of river frontage. One of the big elevators here will hold 1,500,000 bushels of grain, another 1,000,000 bushels. Each one can unload 250 cars a day and deliver freight to 4 steamships at the same time. [Illustration: MARDI GRAS PARADE] While the people of this interesting Southern city are great workers, they are quite as fond of play as of work. Their love of music is shown by their fine opera house, where celebrated French operas are given. Because of its gayety, which attracts many visitors, especially in winter, New Orleans has been called the Winter Capital of America. The city's great holiday is the Mardi Gras carnival, which is celebrated just before Lent. The keys of the city are then given over to the King of the Carnival, and all day long high revelry holds sway. Brilliant floats, representing scenes of wonderful quaintness and loveliness, parade through flower-garlanded avenues thronged with people who have come from every quarter of the globe. Carried away by the spirit of the fête, these guests join with the citizens in turning New Orleans for the time into a fairy city of wonder and delight. =NEW ORLEANS= FACTS TO REMEMBER Population (1910), nearly 350,000 (339,075). Fifteenth city in rank, according to population. The natural port of export and exchange for the Mississippi Valley. The second largest export port in the United States. The world's greatest export market for cotton. The center of a great sugar industry. A great import port for tropical fruit and coffee. Splendid harbor and shipping facilities along the river. Excellent communications by water and rail with other great American cities. Protected by great levees from overflow of the Mississippi River. Holds annually a great Mardi Gras carnival. QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW AND STUDY 1. Tell briefly the story of the settlement of New Orleans. 2. Can you tell why it was important for the United States to own New Orleans? 3. Describe the city's part in two wars. What wars were they? 4. What great natural disadvantages were overcome in improving the city of New Orleans, and how was it done? 5. State some facts about the principal business street of the city. What unusual arrangement of street cars is found in New Orleans? 6. Contrast the French Quarter of the past with the same section as it is to-day. 7. What is interesting about Jackson Square? 8. Tell what you can of the river front. 9. What are the chief imports and exports of New Orleans? 10. Give a brief account of the preparation of cotton, from the field to its being loaded for shipment to foreign lands. 11. Do you know why so much cotton is sent to foreign countries? 12. Tell how sugar is made from the sugar cane. Do you know from what else we get sugar? 13. Tell what you can of the Mardi Gras carnival. 14. Find by reference to a map of the United States the great cities which may be reached by river steamers from New Orleans. 15. Why was New Orleans called the Crescent City? WASHINGTON THE CAPITAL CITY Washington, the capital city of our nation, is the center of interest for the whole country. Every citizen of the United States thinks of the city of Washington as a place in which he has a personal pride. Here one may see in operation the work of governing a great nation. The representatives whom the people have chosen meet in the splendid Capitol to make laws for the whole country. The home of the president is here, and here are located the headquarters of the great departments of our government. The capital city is a city of splendid trees, of wide, well-paved streets and handsome avenues. At the intersection of many of the streets and avenues are beautiful parks and circles, ornamented by statues of the great men of the nation. "How," we are asked, "did it happen that the capital of a great nation was built almost on its eastern boundary?" The distance from Washington to San Francisco is 3205 miles. In other words, Washington is almost as near to London as to San Francisco. The answer is simple. The site was chosen when the settled part of our country lay between the Allegheny Mountains and the Atlantic Ocean. At that time most of the land west of the Alleghenies was looked upon as a wilderness whose settlement was uncertain, while no one dreamed that the infant nation would extend its boundaries to the Pacific Ocean. "And why was it decided to build a new city as the nation's capital, on a site where there was not even a settlement? Why was not some city already established chosen to be the chief city of the nation?" The story is interesting. Before the Revolutionary War the colonies were much like thirteen independent nations, having little to do with one another, but during the war a common peril held them together in a loose union. With the danger passed and independence won, this union threatened to dissolve, but thanks to the influence of the wisest and best men in the country the thirteen states finally became one nation and adopted the Constitution which governs the United States to-day. Then discussion arose as to the site of the new nation's capital. Several states clamored for the honor of having one of their cities chosen as the government city. The men who framed the Constitution were wise enough, however, to foresee difficulty if this were done, and insisted that the seat of government should be in no state but in a small territory which should be controlled entirely by the national government. After much debate the present location was chosen, and the two states of Maryland and Virginia each gave to the federal government entire control over a small territory on the Potomac River. The two pieces of land formed a square, ten miles on each side. The territory was named the District of Columbia, and the city to be built was called Washington in honor of our first president, whose home, Mount Vernon, was but a few miles away. Later, in 1846, the Virginia part of the District was given back, so now all the District is on the Maryland side of the Potomac and is no longer in the shape of a square. [Illustration: MOUNT VERNON] A firm belief in the future of Washington led to the making of very elaborate and extensive plans for laying out the city. But as the public buildings began to rise, with great stretches of unimproved country between them, many thought the plans much too elaborate and feared that the attempt to build a new city would end in failure. It was in the fall of 1800 when the government moved to Washington. Then, in 1814, when things had taken a start, a dreadful misfortune happened; just a few months before the close of the war of 1812, the British attacked the city and burned both the Capitol and the White House. In spite of these early discouragements and years of ridicule, the capital has fully justified the plans and hopes of the far-seeing men who built not for their own day but for the years to come. [Illustration: THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA] Perhaps one gets the best idea of the city to-day from the height of the Capitol's beautiful dome that rises over three hundred feet above the pavement. There is a gallery around the outside of the dome, just below the lantern which lights its summit, and from here one can see for miles in any direction. Our view of the city from this height shows us that most of the streets are straight and run either north and south or east and west. The east and west streets are lettered; those running north and south are numbered. One might easily imagine four great checkerboards placed together, with the Capitol standing at the point where the four boards meet. I say four checkerboards, because from the Capitol three great streets go to the north, the south, and the east, while a broad park runs away to the west, thus dividing the city into four sections. Running across the regularly planned streets of these checkerboards are broad avenues, many of which seem to come like spokes of wheels from parks placed in different sections of the city. These avenues are named for different states. [Illustration: LOOKING WEST FROM THE DOME OF THE CAPITOL] Close about us is a splendid group of majestic buildings. The Capitol, upon the brow of the hill overlooking the western part of the city, is the center of the group. To the north and south of the Capitol rise the beautiful marble buildings for the use of the committees of the Senate and the House of Representatives. To the east is the Library of Congress, the most beautiful building of its kind in the world. [Illustration: THE CITY OF WASHINGTON] Toward the northwest and southeast runs Pennsylvania Avenue, one hundred sixty feet wide, the most famous street in the city. About a mile and a half up Pennsylvania Avenue from the Capitol is another imposing group of public buildings. Here are the Treasury Department, the Executive Mansion,--the home of the president,--and the State, War, and Navy Building. Pennsylvania Avenue leads past the fronts of these buildings and on for more than two miles to the far-western part of the city. [Illustration: A VIEW OF PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE] Directly west from the Capitol we look along the fine parkways which divide the city in that direction just as do the main streets which run from the Capitol to the north, east, and south. This handsome series of parks is called the Mall. In the Mall are a number of public buildings placed in an irregular line stretching west from the Capitol, with sufficient distance between them to allow spacious grounds for each building. Here we find the home of the Bureau of Fisheries, the Army Medical Museum, the National Museum, the Smithsonian Institution, the Department of Agriculture, the Bureau of Engraving and Printing, and the Washington Monument. As we walk around the gallery of the Capitol dome, we see that almost every street and avenue is lined on either side with beautiful shade trees which give the city a gardenlike appearance. And looking toward the south we see the eastern branch of the Potomac meeting the main stream and flowing away in a majestic river, over a mile in width. On all sides of the city the land rises in beautiful green hills, guarding the nation's capital as it lies nestled between the river's protecting arms. Having this picture of the general plan of Washington, let us visit some of the buildings; first of all the Capitol, for it is the most imposing as well as the most important building in the city. For a good view of the building, walk out upon the spacious esplanade which extends across the eastern front. Even here it is hard to appreciate that the Capitol is over 751 feet long, 350 feet wide, and covers more than 3-1/2 acres of ground. The eastern front shows the building to have three divisions, a central building and a northern and a southern wing. Each division has a splendid portico with stately Corinthian columns and a broad flight of steps leading to the portico from the eastern esplanade. [Illustration: THE UNITED STATES CAPITOL] Every four years a new president of the United States is elected, and March 4 is the day on which he takes office. On this day a great stand is put up over the steps leading to the central portico of the Capitol, and upon this platform a most imposing ceremony takes place. Here the new president, in the presence of all the members of Congress, the representatives of foreign nations, many distinguished guests, and an immense throng of people, takes upon himself the obligations of his high office. The Chief Justice of the Supreme Court holds a Bible before the president, who places his hand upon it and repeats these words: "I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States." After the president has delivered his inaugural address, a splendid procession escorts him to his new home, the Executive Mansion. [Illustration: WHEN PRESIDENT WILSON WAS INAUGURATED] Above the central division of the Capitol building, which for many years served as the entire Capitol, rises the imposing dome from which we have just come. It is crowned with a lantern upon the top of which is placed the statue of Freedom. Across the western front of the Capitol is a marble terrace overlooking the lower part of the city. Though the western front is ornamented with colonnades of Corinthian columns, it lacks the splendid approaches of the eastern side. This immense building, representing the dignity and greatness of our nation, is given over almost entirely to the work of lawmaking. In the central part is the large rotunda beneath the lofty dome. The northern wing is occupied by the Senate of the United States, while the southern wing is the home of the House of Representatives. We enter the rotunda by the broad stairs leading from the eastern esplanade and find ourselves in a great circular hall, almost a hundred feet in diameter, whose walls curve upward one hundred and eighty feet. At the top a beautiful canopy shows the Father of his Country in the company of figures representing the thirteen original states. About these are other figures, personifying commerce, freedom, mechanics, agriculture, dominion over the sea, and the arts and sciences. Encircling the upper part of the walls, but many feet below the canopy, is a frieze of scenes from the history of the United States. Around the lower part of the walls are eight great paintings. Four of them are the work of one of Washington's officers, Colonel John Trumbull of Connecticut, and are of great interest because the figures are actual portraits of the people represented. These paintings show the signing of the Declaration of Independence, the surrender of Burgoyne at Saratoga, the surrender of Cornwallis at Yorktown, and the resignation of General Washington at the close of the Revolution. [Illustration: STATUARY HALL, IN THE CAPITOL] From the rotunda, broad corridors lead north to the Senate Chamber and south to the House of Representatives. Following the corridor to the south, we come to a large semicircular room. When the central division of the building was all there was to the Capitol, this room was occupied by the House of Representatives, and here were heard the speeches of Adams, Webster, Clay, Calhoun, and many other famous statesmen. It is now set apart as a national statuary hall, where each state may place two statues of her chosen sons. As many of the states have been glad to honor their great men in this way, a splendid array of national heroes is gathered in the hall. Among the Revolutionary heroes we find Washington, Ethan Allen, and Nathaniel Green. A statue of Fulton, sent by New York, shows him seated, looking at a model of his steamship. Of all these marble figures, perhaps none attracts more attention than that of Frances Elizabeth Willard, the great apostle of temperance, and to the state of Illinois belongs the distinction of having placed the only statue of a woman in this great collection. Leaving Statuary Hall, we go south to the Hall of Representatives. Here representatives from all the states gather to frame laws for the entire nation. Seated in the gallery it seems almost as if we were in a huge schoolroom, for the representatives occupy seats which are arranged in semicircles, facing a white marble desk upon a high platform reached by marble steps. This is the desk of the Speaker of the House. The Speaker's duty is to preserve order and to see that the business of this branch of Congress is carried on as it should be. Before delivering a speech, a representative must have the Speaker's permission. The Speaker is a most important person, for all business is transacted under his direction. The representatives come from every state in the Union, and even far-off Hawaii, Alaska, and the Philippines are allowed to send delegates to this assembly to represent them in making laws. Think what a serious matter it would have been to the people of the far West to have the capital of their nation in the extreme Eastern section of the country if the development of the railroads, the telegraph, and the telephone had not made travel and communication so easy that great distances are no longer obstacles. [Illustration: THE OPENING OF CONGRESS] But we can pay only a brief visit to the House of Representatives, for there is another body of lawmakers in the northern end of the Capitol which we wish to see. Back to the rotunda we go and then walk along a corridor leading to the northern, or Senate, end of the Capitol. Each day, for a number of months in the year, an interesting ceremony takes place in this corridor promptly at noon. Nine dignified men, clad in long black silk robes, march in solemn procession across the corridor and enter a stately chamber which, though smaller, resembles Statuary Hall in shape. These men make up the Supreme Court of the United States, the highest court of justice in the land. Often in cases at law a person does not feel that the decision of one court has been just. He may then have his case examined and passed upon by a higher court. This is called "appealing," and some cases, for good cause, may be appealed from one court to another until they reach the Supreme Court. Beyond the Supreme Court there is no appeal. What this court decides must be accepted as final. The room in which the Supreme Court meets was once used as the Senate Chamber, and many of the great debates heard in the Senate before our Civil War were held in this room. The Senate Chamber of to-day is further down the north corridor. This room is not unlike the Hall of Representatives in plan and arrangement, though it is somewhat smaller. Instead of having a chairman of their own choosing, as is the case in the House, the Senate is presided over by the vice president of the United States. This high official, seated upon a raised platform, directs the proceedings of the Senate just as the Speaker directs those of the House of Representatives. There seems to be an air of greater solemnity and dignity in this small group of lawmakers than in the House of Representatives. It is smaller because each state is entitled to send but two senators to the Senate, whereas the number of representatives is governed by the number of inhabitants in the state. The populous state of New York has thirty-seven representatives and but two senators, the same number as the little state of Rhode Island whose population entitles it to only two representatives. The purpose of having two lawmaking bodies is to provide a safeguard against hasty and unwise legislation. In the House of Representatives the most populous states have the greatest influence, while in the Senate all states are equally represented, and each state has two votes regardless of its size and population. Since every proposed law must be agreed to in both the Senate and the House before it is taken to the president for his approval, each body acts as a check on the other in lawmaking. [Illustration: INAUGURAL PARADE ON PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE] Just to the east of the Capitol grounds stands the magnificent Library of Congress. This wonderful storehouse of books is a marvelous palace. It covers almost an entire city block, and its towering gilded dome is visible from almost every part of the city. Once inside, we could easily believe ourselves in fairyland, so beautiful are the halls and the staircases of carved marble, so wonderful the paintings and the decorations. Every available space upon the walls and ceilings is adorned with pictures, with the names of the great men of the world, and with beautiful quotations from the poets and scholars who seem to live again in this magnificent building which is dedicated to the things they loved. [Illustration: BOTANICAL GARDENS] In the center of the building, just beneath the gilded dome, is a rotunda slightly wider than the rotunda of the Capitol, though not so high. Here are desks for the use of those who wish to consult any volume of the immense collection of books. The books are kept in great structures called stacks, 9 stories high and containing bookshelves which would stretch nearly 44 miles if placed in one line. Any one of the great collection of 1,300,000 volumes can be sent by machinery from the stacks to the reading room or to the Capitol. When a member of Congress wants a book which is in the Library, he need not leave the Capitol, for there is a tunnel connecting the two buildings through which runs a little car to carry books. The Librarian of Congress has charge of the enforcement of the copyright law. By means of this law an author may secure the exclusive right to publish a book, paper, or picture for twenty-eight years. One of the requirements of the copyright law is that the author must place in the Library of Congress two copies of whatever he has copyrighted. Hence, on the shelves of this great library may be found almost every book or paper published in the United States. Leaving the Library we once more find ourselves upon the great esplanade east of the Capitol. In the majestic white-marble buildings to the north and south,--known as the Senate and House office buildings,--committees of each House of Congress meet to discuss proposed laws. Having seen the lawmakers at work in the Capitol, let us visit the officials whose duty it is to enforce the laws made by Congress. Chief among these is the president of the United States. His house is officially known as the Executive Mansion, but nearly everybody speaks of it as the White House. The first public building erected in Washington was the White House. It is said that Washington himself chose the site. He lived to see it built but not occupied, for the capital was not moved to the District of Columbia until 1800, a year after Washington's death. [Illustration: THE WHITE HOUSE FROM THE NORTH] This simple, stately building is a fitting home for the head of a great republic. In the main building are the living apartments of the president and his family, and the great rooms used for state receptions; the largest and handsomest of these is the famous East Room. Other rooms used on public occasions are known, from the color of the furnishings and hangings, as the Blue Room, the Green Room, and the Red Room. There is also the great State Dining Room, where the president entertains at dinner the important government officials and foreign representatives. In the Annex, adjoining the White House on the west, are the offices of the president and those who assist him in his work. In this part of the building is the cabinet room, where the president meets the heads of the various departments to consult with them concerning questions of national importance. Across the street from the president's office is the immense granite building occupied by the three departments of State, War, and Navy. The secretaries in charge of these departments have their offices here, together with a small army of clerks. [Illustration: THE UNITED STATES TREASURY] On the opposite side of the White House from the State, War, and Navy Building is the National Treasury. The Treasury Building is one of the finest in the city. To see the splendid colonnade on the east is alone worth a journey to Washington. From this building all the money affairs of the United States government are directed. In the Treasury Building and in the Bureau of Engraving and Printing one may see the entire process of manufacturing and issuing paper money. In the Treasury we see new bills exchanged for old, worn-out bills, which are ground to pieces to destroy forever their value as money. [Illustration: BUREAU OF ENGRAVING AND PRINTING, "UNCLE SAM'S MONEY FACTORY"] But to understand the story of a dollar bill or a bill of any other value we must visit the Bureau of Engraving and Printing. This building, which is some distance from the Treasury Building, reminds us of a large printing office, and that is just what it is. Here we are shown from room to room where many men and women are at work, some engraving the plates from which bills are to be printed and others printing the bills. The paper used is manufactured by a secret process for United States money, and every sheet is most carefully counted at every stage of the printing. Altogether the sheets are counted fifty-two times. Many clerks are employed to keep a careful account of these sheets, and it is almost impossible for a single bill or a single piece of paper to be lost or stolen. After the money is printed it is put into bundles, sealed, and sent in a closely guarded steel wagon to the Treasury Building, where it is stored in great vaults until it is issued. [Illustration: A CIRCLE AND ITS RADIATING AVENUES] At the Treasury we find the officials sending out these crisp new bills in payment of the debts of the United States or in exchange for bills which are so tattered and torn that they are no longer useful. This exchanging of new money for old is a large part of the business of the Treasury and calls for the greatest care in counting and keeping records, in order that no mistakes may be made. After the old bills are counted they are cut in half and the halves counted separately, to make sure that the first count was correct. When the exact amount of money has been determined, new bills are sent out to the owners of the old bills, and the old bills are destroyed. When we have seen enough of the counting of old money, our guide takes us down into the cellar of this great building, where we walk along a narrow passageway with millions of dollars in gold and silver on either hand. All is carefully secured by massive doors and locks, and none but trusted officials may enter the vaults themselves. These gold and silver coins are made in the United States mints in Philadelphia, Denver, New Orleans, and San Francisco. You see the paper bill is not real money but a sort of receipt representing gold and silver money which you can get at any time from the Treasury. As we peep through the barred doors of the vaults and see great piles of canvas sacks, it is interesting to know that some of the silver and gold coins they hold are ours, waiting here while we carry in our pockets the paper bills which represent them. In addition to issuing money, the Treasury Department has charge of collecting all the taxes and duties which furnish the money for the payment of the expenses of the government. Washington is a government city. Of its population of over 330,000, about 36,000 are directly engaged in the various departments of the government, while most of the other lines of business thrive by supplying the needs of the government's employees and their families. Very little manufacturing is done in the District of Columbia, and such articles as are manufactured are chiefly for local use. People from almost every country in the world may be seen on the streets, for almost all civilized nations have ministers or ambassadors at Washington to represent them in official dealings with the United States. These foreign representatives occupy fine homes, and during the winter season many brilliant receptions are given by them as well as by our own high officials. [Illustration: CONTINENTAL MEMORIAL HALL] The people of Washington have built fine churches and many handsome schools, to which all, from the president to the humblest citizen, send their children. In or near the city are the five universities of George Washington, Georgetown, Howard University for colored people, the Catholic University, and the American University, where graduates from other colleges take advanced work. [Illustration: ANNEX AND GARDEN OF THE PAN-AMERICAN UNION] The citizens of the District of Columbia do not vote nor do they make their own laws, as it was feared there might be a disagreement between Congress and the city government if people voted on local matters. All laws for the District of Columbia are made by the Congress of the United States and are carried out by three commissioners appointed by the president with the consent of the Senate. Many inhabitants of the District are citizens of the states and go to their homes at election time to cast their votes. Isn't it strange that there is a place in the United States where the citizens cannot vote? [Illustration: UNION STATION] You are, no doubt, beginning to think that the places of interest in Washington must be very numerous. This is true, for few cities in the world have so many interesting public buildings. Among these are the Corcoran Art Gallery; the Continental Memorial Hall, the majestic marble building of the Daughters of the American Revolution; and the palatial home of the Pan-American Union, a place where representatives of all the American republics may meet. Then there is the Patent Office, for recording and filing old patents and granting new ones; the Pension Office, from which our war veterans receive a certain sum each year; the Government Printing Office, whose reports require over a million dollars' worth of paper each year; Ford's Theater, where President Lincoln was shot; the naval-gun factory, for making the fourteen-inch long-range guns used on our battleships; and the Union Railroad Station, whose east wing is reserved for the use of the president. [Illustration: WASHINGTON MONUMENT FROM CONTINENTAL MEMORIAL HALL] There is one almost sacred spot, upon which the nation has erected a splendid memorial to our greatest hero, George Washington. The Washington Monument is a simple obelisk of white marble, that towers 555 feet above the beautiful park in the midst of which it stands. Those openings near the top which seem so small are 504 feet above us and are actually large windows. On entering the door at the base of the monument, we pass through the wall, which is 15 feet thick, and find an elevator ready to carry us to the top. If we prefer to walk, there is an interior stairway of 900 steps leading to the top landing. At the end of our upward journey we find ourselves in a large room with two great windows on each of the four sides. From here we get another view of the hill-surrounded city, and the scene which lies before us is inspiring. The Washington Monument is near the western end of the Mall, that series of parks extending from the Capitol to the Potomac River. Near by are the buildings of the Department of Agriculture, which has been of the greatest help to the farmers of our land by sending out important information concerning almost everything connected with farm life. Through the Bureau of Chemistry this department did much to bring about the passage of the Pure Food Law, which protects the people by forbidding the sale of food and drugs that are not pure. In the spacious park adjoining the grounds of the Department of Agriculture is a building which looks like an ancient castle. This is the Smithsonian Institution, which carries on scientific work under government control. The National Museum, which is under the control of the Smithsonian Institution, has a fine building of its own. This museum is a perfect treasure house of interesting exhibits of all kinds. Here may be seen relics of Washington, of General Grant, and of other famous Americans; and here are exhibits showing the history of the telegraph, the telephone, the sewing machine, the automobile, and the flying machine. Stuffed animals of all kinds are arranged to look just as if they were alive. So numerous are the exhibits that it would require a large book simply to mention them. Many of the boys and girls of Washington spend their Saturday afternoons examining the wonderful things which have been brought to this museum from all parts of the world. [Illustration: THE CITY FROM ARLINGTON HEIGHTS] Washington has also a zoölogical park where there are animals from everywhere. It is on the banks of a beautiful stream on the outskirts of the city and is part of a great public park which covers many acres of picturesque wooded country. We must not omit the Post Office Department, for that is the part of the federal government which comes nearest to our homes. Here are the offices of the postmaster general and his many assistants. To tell of the wonders of our postal system would be a long story in itself. If all the people employed by the Post Office Department lived in Washington, they would fill all of the houses and leave no room for anyone else. Of course this great army of employees are not all in any one city, for the work of the post office extends to every part of the United States, and, through arrangement with other nations, to every part of the civilized world. In the country surrounding the city of Washington are several important and interesting places. Just across the river, in the state of Virginia, are Fort Myer, an army post, and the famous Arlington National Cemetery. Arlington was the home of Martha Custis, who became the bride of George Washington. At the opening of the Civil War it was the home of the famous Confederate general, Robert E. Lee. Then it passed into the hands of the United States government and is now the burial place of over sixteen thousand soldiers who gave their lives for their country. On the Virginia shore of the Potomac River, sixteen miles south of the city of Washington, is Mount Vernon, the home and burial place of George Washington. The spacious old mansion in the midst of fine trees and shady lawns looks out over the wide peaceful river which Washington loved. To this home Washington came to live shortly after his marriage. He spent his time in farming on this estate until he was called to take command of the American army. After our independence was won he returned to his home and his farm. Once more he was called upon to leave this quiet country life to become the first president of the new nation. When he had served his country two terms he gladly retired to Mount Vernon, where he lived until his death in 1799. [Illustration: WASHINGTON'S TOMB] To-day the house and grounds are preserved with loving care. The rooms of the house are furnished with fine old mahogany furniture, many pieces of which belonged to Washington. In the grounds, not far from the stately mansion, is the simple brick tomb where rest the bodies of Washington and his wife. During the years which have passed since his death, thousands of his countrymen have come to this tomb to do honor to his memory. As we sail up the Potomac toward the city after our visit to the home of the great man whose name it bears, the Washington Monument, the White House, the State, War, and Navy Building, the Capitol, the Library, and the post office tower above the surrounding buildings and, shining in the golden light of sunset, make a picture never to be forgotten. This city of parks, of broad avenues, of beautiful buildings, belongs to the Americans who live in the far-distant states as well as to those who live and work in the capital itself. It is our capital and we may justly be proud of it, for it is one of the most beautiful cities in all the world. =WASHINGTON= FACTS TO REMEMBER The capital of the nation. Population (1910), nearly 350,000 (331,069). Sixteenth city in rank, according to population. Center of the federal government of the United States. Governed entirely by Congress under provision of the Constitution. Chief offices of every department of the federal government located here. Splendid streets, avenues, parks, and monuments. Many magnificent public buildings. Very few manufacturing industries. A city of homes of government employees. One of the most interesting and beautiful cities in the world. QUESTIONS FOR REVIEW AND STUDY 1. Give some reasons why every citizen of the United States should be interested in Washington. 2. What interesting buildings are located here, and for what are they used? 3. What were some of the reasons for selecting the location of the capital city? 4. After whom was the city named? 5. In what year did Washington become the capital city, and what disaster visited it a few years later? 6. Describe the plan of the city, and name one of its famous streets. 7. Name three interesting groups of buildings: one on Capitol Hill, one on Pennsylvania Avenue, and one in the Mall. 8. What are some of the natural beauties of the city? 9. Give some idea of the size and beauty of the Capitol and of the imposing ceremony which takes place there every four years. 10. Describe briefly the House of Representatives when in session and the duties of its members. 11. Where does the Supreme Court of the country sit, and why is it called the Supreme Court? 12. How does the Senate differ from the House of Representatives? What are the duties of senators? How many come from each state? 13. Why do we have two lawmaking bodies? 14. Name some of the attractions of the Library of Congress. Tell how its books are stacked and how they are sent to the Capitol, and give some facts about the copyright law. 15. Tell what you know of the White House. 16. What two fine buildings are on either side of the White House, and for what is each used? 17. Describe the making of paper money. 18. What are the duties of the Treasury Department, and what may be seen in the Treasury vaults? 19. Tell something about the people of Washington, their chief occupation, and why so many foreign diplomats have their homes here. 20. How are the city of Washington and the District of Columbia governed? 21. Name some places of interest in Washington not already mentioned. 22. Describe the splendid monument by which our greatest hero is honored. 23. Tell why you would like to visit the Smithsonian Institution, the National Museum, and the Zoölogical Park. 24. Why are Fort Myer, Arlington, and Mount Vernon very interesting to all citizens of the United States? 25. To whom does the beautiful city of Washington really belong, and why should we be proud of it? REFERENCE TABLES LARGEST CITIES OF THE WORLD ACCORDING TO POPULATION RANK London 1 New York 2 Paris 3 Chicago 4 Berlin 5 Tokio 6 Vienna 7 Petrograd 8 Philadelphia 9 Moscow 10 Buenos Ayres 11 Constantinople 12 INCREASE IN POPULATION OF OUR GREAT CITIES--NATIONAL CENSUS =============+===================================++==================== | POPULATION || RANK CITY |-----------+-----------+-----------++------+------+------ | 1910 | 1900 | 1890 || 1910 | 1900 | 1890 -------------+-----------+-----------+-----------++------+------+------ New York | 4,766,883 | 3,437,202 | 1,515,301 || 1 | 1 | 1 | | | || | | Chicago | 2,185,283 | 1,698,575 | 1,099,850 || 2 | 2 | 2 | | | || | | Philadelphia | 1,549,008 | 1,293,697 | 1,046,964 || 3 | 3 | 3 | | | || | | St. Louis | 687,029 | 575,238 | 451,770 || 4 | 4 | 5 | | | || | | Boston | 670,585 | 560,892 | 448,477 || 5 | 5 | 6 | | | || | | Cleveland | 560,663 | 381,768 | 261,353 || 6 | 7 | 10 | | | || | | Baltimore | 558,485 | 508,957 | 434,439 || 7 | 6 | 7 | | | || | | Pittsburgh | 533,905 | 321,616 | 238,617 || 8 | 11 | 13 | | | || | | Detroit | 465,766 | 285,704 | 205,876 || 9 | 13 | 15 | | | || | | Buffalo | 423,715 | 352,387 | 255,664 || 10 | 8 | 11 | | | || | | San Francisco| 416,912 | 342,782 | 298,997 || 11 | 9 | 8 | | | || | | Milwaukee | 373,857 | 285,315 | 204,468 || 12 | 14 | 16 | | | || | | Cincinnati | 363,591 | 325,902 | 296,908 || 13 | 10 | 9 | | | || | | Newark | 347,469 | 246,070 | 181,830 || 14 | 16 | 17 | | | || | | New Orleans | 339,075 | 287,104 | 242,039 || 15 | 12 | 12 | | | || | | Washington | 331,069 | 278,718 | 230,392 || 16 | 15 | 14 =============+===========+===========+===========++======+======+====== THE FOREIGN-BORN POPULATION OF OUR GREAT CITIES ==========================+======================= | CITY | | LEADING COUNTRIES OF | BIRTH OF FOREIGN-BORN | POPULATION--1910 +-----------+----------- | First | Second --------------------------+-----------+----------- Baltimore | Germany | Russia Boston | Ireland | Canada Buffalo | Germany | Canada Chicago | Germany | Austria Cincinnati | Germany | Hungary Cleveland | Austria | Germany Detroit | Germany | Canada Jersey City | Germany | Ireland Los Angeles | Germany | Canada Milwaukee | Germany | Russia Minneapolis | Sweden | Norway New Orleans | Italy | Germany New York | Russia | Italy Newark | Germany | Russia Philadelphia | Russia | Ireland Pittsburgh | Germany | Russia St. Louis | Germany | Russia San Francisco | Germany | Ireland Washington | Ireland | Germany ==========================+===========+=========== SHORTEST RAILWAY TRAVEL--DISTANCE FROM NEW YORK CITY San Francisco 3182 miles New Orleans 1344 miles St. Louis 1059 miles Chicago 908 miles Detroit 690 miles Cleveland 576 miles Pittsburgh 441 miles Buffalo 439 miles Boston 235 miles Washington, D.C. 226 miles Baltimore 186 miles Philadelphia 92 miles SHORTEST RAILWAY TRAVEL--DISTANCE FROM CHICAGO San Francisco 2274 miles Boston 1021 miles New Orleans 923 miles New York 908 miles Philadelphia 818 miles Baltimore 797 miles Washington, D.C. 787 miles Buffalo 523 miles Pittsburgh 468 miles Cleveland 339 miles St. Louis 286 miles Detroit 272 miles TO WHOM WE SELL THE MOST THE AMOUNT FOR 1914 Great Britain $594,271,863 Germany $344,794,276 Canada $344,716,981 France $159,818,924 Netherlands $112,215,673 Italy $74,235,012 Cuba $68,884,428 Belgium $61,219,894 Japan $51,205,520 Argentina $45,179,089 Mexico $38,748,793 FROM WHOM WE BUY THE MOST THE AMOUNT FOR 1914 Great Britain $293,661,304 Germany $189,919,136 Canada $160,689,709 France $141,446,252 Cuba $131,303,794 Japan $107,355,897 Brazil $101,303,794 Mexico $92,690,566 British India $73,630,880 Italy $56,407,671 [Illustration: SOME OF THE GREAT RAILROADS OF THE UNITED STATES] INDEX Abbey, Edwin A., 128 Adams, John, 84, 87 Adams, Samuel, 124 Alameda, 240 Allegheny, 182, 184 Allegheny River, 171, 172, 182 Baldwin, Matthias W., 71 Baldwin Locomotive Works, 71 Baltimore, 155-170 railroad center, 155 harbor, 155 industries, 155, 156 exports, 155 fire of 1904, 156 public markets, 160 settlement of, 167 Baltimore, Lord, 168 Barge canal, 212 Belleville, 98 Berkeley, 240 Bienville, Governor, 245 Blackstone, William, 105 Boston, 105-136 capital of Massachusetts, 105 settlement of, 105 divisions of, 107 harbor, 108 trade center, 119 foreign commerce, 121 industries, 121 Boston Tea Party, 84, 122 Braddock, 173 Bradford, William, 73 Brockton, 119 Brooklyn, 11, 24, 28, 30 Brooks, Phillips, 127 Bruceton, 178 Buffalo, 207-226 settlement of, 207, 208 named, 209 Erie Canal, 210 lake port, 211 importance of location, 212 trade with Canada, 212 manufacturing center, 213 Niagara power, 213, 216, 224-225 iron industry, 214 flour mills, 216 important live-stock market, 217 important lumber market, 217 harbor, 221 Buffalo River, 207, 221 Bulfinch, Charles, 111 Cadillac, Antoine de la Mothe, 191 Calumet River, 56 Cambridge, 116, 117, 131, 133 Carnegie, Andrew, 184 Carnegie Steel Company, 175 Centennial Exhibition, 75 Charles River, 116 Chicago, 41-66, 180 fire of 1871, 41 settlement of, 43 harbor, 45, 56, 57 becomes a city, 46 important railroad center, 54 greatest lake port, 54 grain market, 55 steel industry, 56 largest lumber market, 57 exports, 57 center of packing industry, 61 Pullman, 62 Chicago drainage and ship canal, 54 Chicago River, 41, 43, 45, 53, 54, 57 Civil War, 247 Cleaveland, General Moses, 137 Cleveland, 137-154, 180 settlement of, 137 harbor, 141 becomes a city, 142 industries, 142, 143, 148 importance of location, 148 manufacturing center, 148 largest ore market in the world, 148 center of shipbuilding, 148 important lake port, 153 Cleveland, Grover, 224 Clinton, De Witt, 209 Coal, 56, 70, 100, 142, 172, 175, 213, 214, 215, 257 Coal mines, 175 Commerce, foreign, 35, 57, 121, 231, 259 Cotton, 257, 258, 261 Croton River, 18 Custis, Martha, 294 Cuyahoga River, 137, 138, 140, 141, 145 Declaration of Independence, 8, 85 Delaware River, 67, 68, 69 de Portolá, Don Gaspar, 227 Des Plaines River, 53 Detroit, 139, 189-206 leading port on Canadian shore, 189, 199 founded, 191 early history, 191 growth, 192 trade center, 194 harbor, 195 shipbuilding industry, 195 becomes industrial city, 196 center of automobile trade, 196 industries, 197 immense wholesale trade, 198 railroad center, 200 Detroit River, 191, 200, 205 District of Columbia, 267, 288, 289 Doan, Nathaniel, 139 Dutch West India Company, 5 East River, 27, 36 East St. Louis, 98 Erie Canal, 9, 193, 209, 210, 212 Exports, value of, 301 Fall River, 121 Farragut, David, 248 Fillmore, Millard, 224 Fish industry, 121, 239 Fitch, John, 72 Fort Dearborn, 44 Fort McHenry, 169 Fort Myer, 294 Fort Pitt, 171 Foreign-born population, 300 Franklin, Benjamin, 73, 84 French and Indian War, 171, 191, 245 Fulton, Robert, 72 Girard, Stephen, 79 Gold, 227 Golden Gate, 231, 241 Grain industry, 55, 102 Granite City, 98 Gunpowder River, 163 Hale, Edward Everett, 130 _Half Moon_, 3 Hancock, John, 124 Homestead, 173 Hudson, Henry, 4 Hudson River, 4, 30, 35, 36, 207, 209, 210 Hull, General William, 192 Illinois and Michigan Canal, 47 Illinois River, 47, 53, 93 Imports, value of, 302 Increase in population of our great cities, 299 Iron industry, 171, 172, 214, 233 Jackson, Andrew, 246 Jefferson, Thomas, 89 Key, Francis Scott, 169 Kingsbury, James, 138 Kinzie, John, 43 Lackawanna Iron and Steel Company, 215 Largest cities in the world, 299 Lawrence, 121 Lee, Robert E., 294 Lewis and Clark expedition, 90 Louisiana Purchase, 89, 245 Louisiana Purchase Exposition, 96 Lowell, 121 Lumber, 57, 100, 217, 257 Lynn, 119 Madison, 98 Manhattan, 4, 11 McCall Ferry dam, 163 McKeesport, 173 McKinley, William, 224 Mexican War, 227 Mints, 81, 82, 237 Minuit, Peter, 5 Mississippi River, 47, 89, 91, 96, 97, 171, 245, 248, 249 Missouri River, 90, 93 Mohawk River, 207, 209 Monongahela River, 171, 172, 182 Morris, Robert, 75 Mt. Vernon, 267, 294 Natural gas, 151, 181, 185, 213 New Amsterdam, 6, 14 New Bedford, 121 New Orleans, 171, 245-264 early history, 245 in the War of 1812, 246 in the Civil War, 247 building the city, 249 the French quarter, 251, 252 the American quarter, 251, 255 important lumber market, 257 important cotton market, 258, 261 Gulf port, 261 second export port in America, 261 exports, 261 important sugar market, 257, 261 Mardi Gras, 263 New York, 3-40 settlement of, 4 surrendered to English, 7 named, 8 capital city, 9 harbor, 9, 36 becomes Greater New York, 11 boroughs, 11 nation's chief market place, 32 imports, 32 exports, 32 nation's greatest workshop, 32 industries, 32 Niagara Falls, 213, 224 Niagara River, 190, 191, 209, 212, 219, 224 Oakland, 240 Ohio Canal, 140 Ohio River, 93, 137, 139, 140, 171, 172 Ore, 56, 142, 214 Packing industry, 59, 61, 101, 217, 233 Panama Canal, 233, 242 Panama-Pacific International Exposition, 242 Pan-American Exposition, 224 Patapsco River, 168 Penn, William, 67, 74, 75, 76 Perry, Oliver Hazard, 192 Petroleum, 180, 213, 257 Philadelphia, 67-88, 167 settlement of, 67 manufacturing city, 69 commercial center, 70 industries, 70 United States mint, 81 Continental Congress, 84, 85 Declaration of Independence signed at, 85 capital of the nation, 87 Pitt, William, 171 Pittsburgh, 148, 171-188 workshop of the world, 171 named, 171 trade center, 172 manufacturing city, 172 center of steel industry, 173 industries, 173 Pittsburgh district, 173 mines, 175, 177 petroleum, 180 natural gas, 181 Pontiac's conspiracy, 192 Population of our great cities, 299 Potomac River, 267, 272, 292 Pullman, 62 Puritans, 105 Quakers, 67 Railroads, 9, 49, 58, 70, 93, 110, 142, 150, 200, 211, 213, 238 Pennsylvania, 30, 150 New York Central, 32, 110, 150 Michigan Southern, 49 Michigan Central, 49, 200 Missouri Pacific, 93 Boston & Albany, 110 Boston & Maine, 110 New York, New Haven & Hartford, 110 Nickel Plate, 150 Cleveland, Cincinnati, Chicago & St. Louis, 150 Erie Railroad, 150 Baltimore & Ohio, 150 Wheeling & Lake Erie, 150 Southern Pacific, 238 Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fé, 239 Union Pacific, 239 Western Pacific, 239 Revere, Paul, 124 Revolution, War of the, 8, 75, 111, 112, 119, 122, 192, 207, 266 Richmond, 240 Rogers, Major Robert, 191, 193 Roosevelt, Theodore, 224 Ross, Betsy, 86 Sacramento River, 230 St. Gaudens, 113, 127 St. Lawrence River, 190 St. Louis, 89-104 frontier village, 89 trade center, 93 railroad center, 94 favorable location, 98 industries, 100 distributing center, 102 fur, grain, and live-stock market, 102, 103 San Francisco, 227-244 early history, 227 growth of, 227, 228 "child of the mines," 228 San Francisco Bay, 230 trade center, 231 exports, 231 imports, 231 industries, 233 United States mint, 237 leading salmon port, 239 San Joaquin River, 230 Sargent, John S., 128 Sault Ste. Marie, 190 Saur, Christopher, 73 Schuylkill River, 68, 75 Scioto River, 140 Shaw, Colonel, 113 Shortest railway routes from Chicago, 301 Shortest railway routes from New York, 300 Silver, 228 Standard Oil Company, 143 Steel, 56, 71, 173, 180 Straits of Mackinac, 190 Stuyvesant, Peter, 6 Sugar, 32, 257, 261 Susquehanna River, 163 Thevis, Father, 255 Tonawanda, 219 Touro, Judah, 257 Trumbull, John, 275 Union Stockyards, 59 University City, 96 Venice, 98 War of 1812, 44, 192, 209, 246, 268 Washington, 202, 265-298 the capital city, 265 location, 265 story of, 266 District of Columbia, 267, 288, 289 plan of the city, 268 capitol, 272 House of Representatives, 277, 289 Supreme Court, 279 Senate, 279, 289 Library of Congress, 280 White House, 282 National Treasury, 284, 286 Bureau of Engraving and Printing, 285 Washington Monument, 291 Post Office Department, 294 Arlington National Cemetery, 294 Washington, George, 8, 84, 87, 119, 171, 267, 282, 294 Westinghouse, George, 185 Westinghouse Electric Company, 185 Winne, Cornelius, 207, 208 Winthrop, John, 105 Woodward, Augustus B., 202 World's Columbian Exposition, 63 York, Duke of, 7 * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been maintained. Inconsistent hyphenation and accents are as in the original if not marked as a misprint. Index entries out of sequence have not been corrected. Text in italics has been marked with underscores (_text_) and text in bold with equal signs (=text=). Captions have been added to the maps on page 69 and 268 as listed in the "List of Maps" at the beginning of the book. The table below lists all corrections applied to the original text. frontpage: BOOKS I AND II -> BOOKS I AND II, p. 160: here small craft -> crafts p. 225: Important center for. -> Important center for p. 227: Pacific coast, and Don Gasper -> Gaspar p. 239: Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe -> Fé p. 248: forces land and take -> takes p. 306: de Portolá, Don Gasper -> Gaspar 
45367	----	Transcriber's Notes Text appearing in illustrations has been replicated along with the illustration caption. Italics are surrounded with _ _ and bold text with = =. Some presumed printer's errors have been corrected. These are listed below with the original text (top) and the replacement text (bottom): p. 57 Westminster Abbey, As more Westminster Abbey. As more p. 101 magis-strates [end-of-line hyphen] magistrates p. 141 plainly At the end plainly. At the end OUR ENGLISH TOWNS AND VILLAGES OUR ENGLISH TOWNS AND VILLAGES BY H. R. WILTON HALL Library Curator, Hertfordshire County Museum; Sub-Librarian St. Alban's Cathedral, &c. Author of "Hertfordshire: a Reading-Book of the County", &c. I do love these ancient ruins,-- We never tread upon them but we set Our foot upon some reverend history. LONDON BLACKIE & SON, LIMITED, 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C. GLASGOW AND DUBLIN 1906 PREFACE Many things connected with the history of our towns and villages have to be passed over in an ordinary school history reader. In the following pages an attempt is made to call attention in simple language, very broadly and generally, to connecting-links with the past in our towns and villages. There are many relics and customs yet remaining in many places, which, with a little care and attention to local circumstances, may be made helpful in teaching history, so that it shall be something more than a collection of names, dates, battles, and lists of eminent persons. The book is intended as a reader, not as a text-book to be worked up for examination purposes. Its aim is rather to arouse interest in the "why and the wherefore" of things which can be seen by an intelligent and observant boy or girl in the place in which he or she lives: to do for history, and the subjects connected with it, what "nature-lessons" are intended to do in their "sphere of influence". Attention is being directed to localities, their special history, physical, political, industrial, and commercial, as it has never been before in our Educational history; and all that a special locality can contribute in the way of illustration and exemplification is worth knowing, understanding, and utilising. It is hoped that this book may be of some service in quickening intelligence in looking out for "things to see". The observation which is directed to noting the numbers on the motor cars, the names of locomotives, and the collection of postage-stamps and picture post-cards, can also be usefully turned, say, to noting the styles of architecture which really mark broadly great periods of our national life and development; and may help us, perhaps more than anything else, to arrange our ideas of the days of old in a proper order and sequence. An old building may be an excellent date-book. The chapters are intended to be suggestive, not exhaustive, and may be expanded by the teacher in conversational or more formal lessons as his own predilection, taste, and judgment shall direct. Local and County Histories, Guide-books and Hand-books will be found of great service to the teacher in dealing with special districts. The general subject embraces a very wide range of literature, but amongst books readily accessible may be mentioned _English Towns_, by E. H. Freeman; _English Towns_ and _English Villages_, by Rev. P. H. Ditchfield; and the Rev. Dr. Jessopp's Essays in _The Coming of the Friars_ and _Studies of a Recluse_. In conclusion, the book is designed for older scholars who already know something of the dry bones of the history of England, and it is hoped that it may do something towards covering those dry bones with flesh, instinct with life and vigour. H. R. W. H. St. Alban's, _December, 1905_. CONTENTS Chapter Page I. Introduction 9 II. Men who lived in Caves and Pits 11 III. The Pit-Dwellers 14 IV. Earthworks, Mounds, Barrows, etc. 19 V. In Roman Times 22 VI. Early Saxon Times 26 VII. Early Saxon Villages 28 VIII. Anglo-Saxon Tuns and Vills 32 IX. Tythings and Hundreds--Shires 36 X. The Early English Town 41 XI. In Early Christian Times 44 XII. Monasteries 46 XIII. Towns and Villages in the Time of Cnut the Dane 51 XIV. Churches and Monasteries in Danish and Later Saxon Times 56 XV. Later Saxon Times 59 XVI. In Norman Times 62 XVII. In Norman Times (_continued_) 66 XVIII. In Norman Times: The Churches 68 XIX. Castles 71 XX. Castles and Towns 74 XXI. In Norman Times: The Monasteries 78 XXII. Early Houses 81 XXIII. Early Houses (_continued_) 85 XXIV. Early Town Houses 88 XXV. Life in the Towns of the Middle Ages 92 XXVI. The Growing Power of the Towns 98 XXVII. The Villages, Manors, Parishes, and Parks 102 XXVIII. Traces of Early Times in the Churches 106 XXIX. Traces of Early Times in the Churches (_continued_) 110 XXX. Clerks 114 XXXI. Fairs 118 XXXII. Markets 123 XXXIII. Schools 128 XXXIV. Universities 133 XXXV. Changes brought about by the Black Death 137 XXXVI. Wool 140 XXXVII. The Poor 143 XXXVIII. Changes in Houses and House-building 149 XXXIX. The Ruins of the Monasteries and the New Buildings 153 XL. The New Houses of the Time of Queen Elizabeth 158 XLI. Larger Elizabethan and Jacobean Houses 162 XLII. Churches after the Reformation 166 XLIII. Building after the Restoration: Houses 169 XLIV. Building after the Restoration: Churches 174 XLV. Schools after the Reformation 179 XLVI. Apprentices 183 XLVII. Play 185 XLVIII. Government 189 XLIX. Some Changes 193 OUR ENGLISH TOWNS AND VILLAGES CHAPTER I INTRODUCTION 1. A little boy, who had been born in a log cabin in the backwoods of Canada, was taken by his father, when he was about eight years old, to the nearest settlement, for the first time in his life. The little fellow had never till then seen any other house than that in which he had been born, for the settlement was many miles away. "Father," he said, "what makes all the houses come together?" 2. Now that sounds a very strange and foolish question to ask; but it is by no means as foolish a question as it seems. Here, in England, there are towns and villages dotted about all over the country. Some of them are near the sea, on some big bay or inlet; others stand a little farther inland on the banks of tidal rivers; others are far away from the sea, in sheltered valleys or on the sunny slopes of hills; some stand in the midst of broad fertile plains, while others are on the verge of bleak lonely moorlands. What has made all the houses in these towns and villages come together in these particular spots? There must be a reason in every case why a particular spot should have been chosen in the first instance. 3. In trying to find an answer to this question with reference to any town or village in our country we have to go back, far back, into the past. We may have to go back to ages long before there was any written history. As we go back step by step into the past we learn much of the people who have lived before us--of their ways and their doings, and of the part they played in the life and work of the country. 4. The little Canadian boy's question can be asked about every town and village in the land. There are no two places exactly alike; each one has its own history, which, however simple it may be, is quite worth knowing. The busy manufacturing town, with its tens and hundreds of thousands of people, where all is movement and bustle, has its history; and the lonely country village, where everybody knows everybody else, has often a history even more interesting than that of the big town; if we only knew what to look for, and where to look for it. 5. One summer day, a few years ago, a party of tourists was climbing Helvellyn. One of the party was an elderly gentleman, who was particularly active, and anxious to get to the top. After several hours' stiff climbing, the party reached the summit; and there, spread out before them, was a lovely view of hills and dales, of mountains and lakes. Most of the party gazed upon this fair scene in quiet enjoyment; but our old gentleman, as soon as he had recovered his breath, and mopped his red face with his pocket-handkerchief, gave one look round, and then said in a grieved tone: "Is that all? Nothing to see! Wish I hadn't come." 6. He saw nothing interesting because he did not know what to look for, and he might just as well have stopped at the bottom. He came to see nothing, _and he saw it_. =Summary.=--All towns and villages in England have a history. In every case there is a special reason why that town or village grew up in that particular place. In trying to find out how this came about we learn a great deal of the history of the past, shown in old names, old buildings, old manners and customs. CHAPTER II MEN WHO LIVED IN CAVES AND PITS 1. Man is a very ancient creature. It is a curious fact that we have learned most of what we know about the earliest men from the rubbish which they have left behind them. Even nowadays, in this twentieth century, without knowing much about a boy personally, we can tell a good deal about his habits from the treasures he turns out of his pockets. Hard-hearted mothers and teachers call these treasures rubbish, but the contents of a lad's pockets are a pretty sure indication of the boy's tastes. 2. The earliest traces of the existence of man in our part of the world are found in beds of gravel, which in some places now are many feet above the level of the sea. There, in the gravel, are the roughly chipped stone tools and weapons which those early men used; tools which they lost or threw away. Almost every other trace has quite disappeared. Remains belonging to the same period have been noticed in caves in various parts of the world. [Illustration: Chipped Flint Weapons] 3. Here, in Britain, caves have been found where these early men have left their stone implements and remains of their rubbish. Some of the best-known of such cave-dwellings in Britain are near Denbigh and St. Asaph in North Wales; at Uphill in Somersetshire; at King's Car and Victoria Cave near Settle; at Robin Hood's Cave and Pinhole in Derbyshire; in Pembrokeshire; in King Arthur's Cave in Monmouthshire; at Durdham Down near Bristol; near Oban; in the gravels in the valleys of the Rivers Trent, Nore, and Dove; in the Irish River Blackwater; near Caithness; and in a good many other places. 4. So, you see, the remains of these early men cover a pretty wide area. In the course of ages rivers and seas have flowed over the places where these stone tools had been dropped, and year after year throughout the ages the drift brought down by the rivers covered them inch by inch and foot by foot. Great changes have taken place in the surface of the land, some suddenly, but most of them very, very slowly. The land has risen, and sunk again, and long, long ages of sunshine and storm, of ice and snow, of stormy wind and tempest, have altered the surface of the country. 5. Those very ancient men, who lived in the Early Stone Age, are called =Cave-Dwellers=, because they lived apparently in caves, and =River-Drift Men= and =Lake-Dwellers=, because the roughly chipped tools are found in the _drift_ of various rivers and lakes. =Summary.=--The earliest remains of man are found in certain beds of gravel and in caves. They consist chiefly of roughly chipped stone implements. Such _celts_ are found in all parts of England, and in caves in North Wales; in Somersetshire at Uphill; in Yorkshire near Settle; in Derbyshire at Robin Hood's Cave and Pinhole; in Pembrokeshire and Monmouthshire; at Durdham Down near Bristol; near Oban; and in the valleys of the Rivers Trent, Nore, and Dove; in the Irish River Blackwater; and near Caithness. These men are known as the River-Drift Men, the Cave-Dwellers, or the Lake-Dwellers. CHAPTER III THE PIT-DWELLERS 1. Other remains not so ancient as these oldest stone implements, but still very ancient, are found nearer the surface than the remains of the River-Drift Men. They are the remains of people who, like the Drift Men, knew nothing of metals, and used stone weapons and tools, but better made. They had learned to shape and finish their tools by rubbing, grinding, and polishing them, and were, evidently, a more advanced race of men than the Cave or Drift Men. 2. For the most part we have to go to somewhat desolate parts of England to find traces of them now. In fact, those traces would long ago have disappeared had they not been in places which were so wild and difficult to get at, that it was not worth any man's while to cultivate them. The spade and the plough would very soon remove all traces of them. In fact, the plough _has_ removed many traces of these ancient men, and most of the specimens of their tools and weapons, which you can see in museums, were found by men employed in ploughing and preparing the land for crops. 3. You must not suppose that we can fix a date when these men first appeared, as we can fix an exact date for the landing of Julius Cæsar, or the sealing of Magna Carta. Neither can we say for how many centuries they occupied land in what we now call Britain. It was a long period, at any rate, and during that time their manners and their customs changed very, very slowly. [Illustration: Polished Implements of Flint, Stone, &c. Polished Flint Wedge; Granite Wedge or Axe; Stone Axe; Stone Axe; Bone Comb; Flint Arrow Heads; Harpoon Head of Flint; Saw-edged Flint Knife; Circular-edged Flint Knife.] 4. The lowest forms of savage life seem very much alike, all the world over. Savages are hunters, and do not as a rule cultivate the soil. Now hunters must follow their prey from place to place, so that we should expect these early men to have no settled homes. But even the earliest Pit Men had advanced beyond this lowest stage, for they had flocks and herds and dogs. No doubt they hunted as well; but they were mainly a pastoral people, and at first did not till the soil. Races of men who did not till the soil are called =Non-Aryan=. They chose for their settlements the tops of hills, and avoided the narrow valleys and low-lying lands. 5. The =Pit-Dwellers= are so called from the simple fact that they had their homes in pits--not, however, dug anywhere and anyhow. The hole in the ground is the simplest notion of a house. When in your summer holiday by the sea you see the little boys and girls digging deep holes in the sand to make "houses", they are doing in play what the early Pit-Dwellers did in real earnest. 6. The pits were usually some six or eight feet in diameter; and they probably had cone-shaped roofs, formed by poles tied together, and covered with peat. In the centre of the hut was the hearth, which was made of flints carefully placed together. The hut would hold two or three people, and the fire on the hearth was its most important feature. The hut in the centre of the group belonged to the head of the family, and other huts were ranged round it. 7. Surrounding the group was an earthen rampart for further protection; and these earthworks can still be traced in many parts of the country. The huts have gone, of course, and all that can be seen in most cases now is a number of circular patches in the turf, slightly hollowed. People living in the neighbourhood will very likely speak of them as "fairy rings". It is from a careful examination of these hollows that learned men have been able to gather much information concerning the habits of these Pit-Dwellers. 8. We English folk speak proudly of "hearth and home"; they are the centre of our social life, and the idea has come down to us through all these long, long ages. The hearth and the fire upon it was the centre of the life of these men, and the head of a family was also its priest. 9. Some of the best known of these pit-dwellings are found near Brighthampton, in Oxfordshire; at Wortebury, near Weston-super-Mare; and along the Cotswolds, looking over the Severn Valley; and at Hurstbourne, in Hampshire. 10. In the course of time this race seems to have learned something in the way of cultivating the ground. The hilltops, where they built their huts, were only suited for their cattle, and in order to find soil which they could till they had to go outside their earthwork, and some distance down the hill-slope. By their way of digging the ground they gradually, in the course of many years, carved broad terraces, one below the other, on the hillsides. There are some very marked traces of such terraces still to be seen near Hitchin and Luton.[1] 11. In the course of time--how long ago it is still quite impossible to say--a race of men, more advanced than these early Pit-Dwellers, found their way to this part of the world. They were more civilized, and were =Aryans=; that is, they were cultivators of the soil. You may be pretty sure that fighting took place between the two races. 12. The newer race preferred to make their settlements near running streams. In the middle of each settlement there would be an open space, or meeting-ground, usually a small hill or a mound, round which their huts were built. Beyond this was the garden-ground, then the ground where the grain was grown, and beyond that the grazing-lands. These men began cultivating at the bottom of the hillsides and valleys, and as they required more ground they would advance higher up the slopes. 13. Gradually to this race came the knowledge of metals, and we reach the =Bronze Age=, and so, step by step, we come to the =Iron Age=. =Summary.=--The remains of the Pit-Dwellers are found on desolate heaths and moorlands. These men used stone weapons, which they smoothed and polished. They had a greater variety of tools than the Drift Men. They were a non-Aryan race; that is, they did not till the soil. They were a pastoral people; that is, they kept cattle. Their settlements were on the hilltops. Their houses were pits, covered with a rough kind of roof, and were placed in clusters. In the centre of each dwelling was a hearth made of stones. All that can be seen of them now are circular hollows, often called "fairy rings". The clusters of huts were usually enclosed by an earthen wall or rampart. In course of time they learned to cultivate the ground. They worked _downhill_, and carved out many hillsides into broad terraces, which can still be traced in some places, as between Hitchin and Luton. An Aryan race also found its way here. These cultivated the soil, but their settlements were in the _valleys_, near running streams. An Aryan settlement had an _open space_ in the centre, or meeting-ground. The huts were built round this. Then came the garden-ground, and then the grazing-lands. They began cultivating from the _bottom_ of the hills, and worked upwards. In time they learned the use of metal--bronze,--and gradually also they came to know the value of iron. CHAPTER IV EARTHWORKS, MOUNDS, BARROWS, ETC. 1. There are still remaining, in many parts of the country, curious mounds and stones. We can say very little about them here; but though learned men have discovered much, there is still a good deal to be explained concerning them. Old-world stories put most of these strange objects down to the work of witches, fairies, or giants; some ascribe them to the Romans, or to Oliver Cromwell; others even to the devil. But most of them really belong to this period of which we are speaking--the very early part of our history, of which there is no written record. 2. =Earthworks= are of many kinds, but the very earliest are usually found on hilltops. There are some which enclose considerable spaces of ground, bounded by an earthen rampart, with a ditch outside. Sometimes there are two such ramparts. Frequently they are spoken of as =British Towns= or =British Camps=. They appear to have been enclosures into which the cattle were driven in time of danger, and in which a whole tribe could take refuge and hold out against their enemies. 3. Then there are big mounds or heaps, called =Barrows=. Some of these are oval in shape, and are called =Long Barrows=; others are round, and are called =Round Barrows=. The Long Barrows are thought to be the older kind, and were apparently the burial-places of great leaders. The Round Barrows were also burial-places; but those who raised them burned their dead. The great pyramids of Egypt are barrows, only they are made of stone, not of earth. [Illustration: Round Barrow] [Illustration: Long Barrow] [Illustration: Twin Barrow] 4. The =circles of stones= at Stonehenge and Avebury seem to have been connected with the worship of these early people. There are many single stones, especially in Cornwall and Wales, which also seem to have been connected with religious rites; but of this we know nothing for certain. In later times they have served as boundary marks. [Illustration: White Horse Hill] 5. In various parts of England there are deep lanes or cuttings, which have received curious local names. There are no less than twenty-two such cuttings in different parts of England all known as =Grim's Ditch=. These, no doubt, formed boundaries, separating various tribes. 6. The =White Horse=, cut out of the slope of Uffington Hill, and several similar objects in Wiltshire, as well as the crosses--also cut in the turf--at Whiteleaf and Bledlow, may also belong to this period. Some learned men, however, have thought that they are of a later date. 7. From these early men then the =Ancient Britons= appear to have descended, and they were settled here a good many centuries before the coming of the Romans. Many of the wild tales and legends, still told in country villages, about giants and fairies, have come down to us from these early times. =Summary.=--There are many curious mounds and stones, about which wild tales are told. _Earthworks_ are of various kinds. Those enclosed by an earthen wall or rampart are often called British towns or camps. They were places of refuge. There are two kinds of _mounds_, called Long Barrows and Round Barrows. Both were burial-places. The Long Barrows belonged to the older race. _Stone circles_, like those at Stonehenge and Avebury, had something to do with worship, and there are many stones in Cornwall and Devon which most likely were put to the same use. There are twenty-two old trackway boundaries in England all called Grim's Ditch. The _White Horse_ and several other cuttings in the turf possibly belong to this same period. The old legends and tales about all these are worth keeping in mind, though at present we do not understand them. CHAPTER V IN ROMAN TIMES 1. Here, then, at the time the Romans first came to Britain were tribes of Britons who had been established in the country for centuries, living their lives according to the customs of their forefathers, and more or less cultivating the land. The Romans invaded the country, and, in time, subdued the people. They remained masters here for nearly four hundred years, but they did not make such a permanent impression on this country as they did in some countries which they conquered--as on France and Spain, for instance. 2. We are to-day masters of India; but we have not made India English, nor are we trying to do so. The natives there go on cultivating the land according to their custom from time out of mind. They preserve their own manners, customs, and religions. In places where they come much in contact with our fellow-countrymen, they are influenced to a certain degree; but in India to-day the English and the natives lead their own lives, each race quite apart from the others. 3. So it was with the Romans in Britain. They formed colonies in various places and built towns all over the land; they had country villas dotted here and there, some little distance from the chief towns, and built strong military stations in suitable districts. These posts were kept in communication by means of good roads. Many Britons must in the course of time have adopted Roman ways and Roman civilization; but the bulk of the Britons, living away from the Roman centres, kept to their own customs, and cultivated the ground in the way their ancestors had done. They prospered, on the whole, as the Romans kept the various tribes from fighting with one another. 4. No doubt, in districts such as that which we now call Hampshire, and along the Thames valley, where wealthy Romans had their country villas, Roman methods of farming were in use. The Britons would see something of Roman ways of doing things, and, perhaps, tried to copy them. 5. But the Romans have not left many marks upon our towns and villages. It is quite true that a large number of our present towns and cities are on the _sites_ of, or near, Roman towns; but, in most cases, we have to dig down into the earth to find Roman remains. The most important Roman city, Verulam, has quite disappeared; and the most complete remains of a Roman town, Silchester, are near to what is now a quiet country village. The present cities of London, Winchester, Gloucester, Lincoln, Chester, Carlisle, and the towns of Colchester and Leicester, and several others, can hardly be said to have sprung from Roman towns, though they stand on their sites. [Illustration: Photo. S. Victor White & Co., Reading REMAINS OF A ROMAN HOUSE, EXCAVATED AT SILCHESTER (page 24)] 6. Most of the Roman cities were built in districts where the Britons had been strong, or where they were likely to give trouble. Carlisle and Gloucester were, for instance, =military towns=, because they were on the borders of the Roman territory. London and Winchester were =trading cities=, and they developed much in Roman times. 7. But, when the Roman power was withdrawn, there was, in those cities at any rate, a British population, which had adopted very extensively Roman customs and ideas. For a time things went on much as they had done while the Romans were here; in fact, until the struggles with the Saxons began. 8. As a matter of fact, the coming of the Saxons began a good while before the Romans actually left. Various tribes of Saxons attacked different parts of the coast. Colchester had to keep a sharp look-out for them on the east coast; and the Romans built Portchester Castle, in Hampshire, to guard the south coast. 9. Christianity had found its way to Britain during Roman times, and that helped in the work of civilizing the Britons. But we do not know very much of the early British Church. Christianity probably made more headway among the population in and near the Roman towns than in the wilder districts. The foundations of an early Christian church have been found at Silchester. =Summary.=--The Romans held Britain much as we hold India. They did not interfere with the manners and customs, or the religion, of the Britons. The Romans lived in their towns and villas, the Britons in their own settlements. Britons in and near Roman towns gradually adopted Roman ways. Verulam was the chief Roman city, and there were others at London, Winchester, Gloucester, Lincoln, Chester, Carlisle, Colchester, &c. These modern cities, though on the _sites_ of these Roman towns, have not sprung from the Roman cities. The Saxons began to give trouble before the Romans left. Christianity came in Roman times, and the remains of a church have been found at Silchester, in Hants. CHAPTER VI EARLY SAXON TIMES 1. The conquest of Britain by the Saxons took a long time--considerably over one hundred and fifty years. A great many people are born, and live their lives, and die, in such a period of time as that. It was only little by little that the various tribes of Saxons got a footing in England. They were the stronger and fiercer race, and the Britons were gradually subdued or driven into the mountainous regions by them. 2. Those early tribes of Saxons, who came to Britain, brought with them their own special manners and customs. As they settled down, the face of the country was gradually changed by them. They disliked and suspected everything Roman, and destroyed the towns and villas. They hated the idea of walled towns. These, therefore, were left in ruins; and the great highways, being neglected in most places, were, in the course of years, overgrown with brushwood and hidden in thick forests. 3. In some parts of the country the Saxons seem to have completely swept the Britons away, and almost all traces of them vanished; but, in other parts, there certainly were some of them left, because we have still their marks upon our language. Although most of the =place-names= in use now are Saxon or Danish, there are still a good many of British, or partly British, origin. 4. The names of many of our rivers are British or Celtic, such as Axe, Exe, Stour, Ouse, and Yare. So are many names of hills; and, in some parts of the country, the names of the villages are partly British and partly Saxon. Take, for instance, such a common name as Ashwell. Some learned men think that it is made up of two words, =Ash= and =Well=, both meaning pretty much the same thing, _ash_ being British for "water", and _well_ being Saxon for "watering-place". Now, if the Saxons had quite got rid of the Britons, they would not have known that a particular place was called "Ash"--they learned to call it "Ash" from the natives, but they did not know what it meant. They knew that there was a spring of water there, which they called a "well"; and so, to distinguish it from other wells in the neighbourhood, they got into the habit of calling it "Ashwell"--and the name has stuck to the place. 5. In some such way as this many other place-names, partly British and partly Saxon, were formed; and they teach us this, that Saxons and Britons must have lived near each other closely enough for the Saxons to take up and use some British names. 6. There are some English counties in which you will hardly find one place-name which is not Saxon. This shows us that the Britons were either killed or completely driven away. That is the case in Hertfordshire. But in Hampshire, while most of the names are Saxon, there are many partly Saxon and partly British. This same thing can be noticed in the county of Gloucester. The Britons, then, must have been in these districts long enough for the Saxons to pick up a good many place-names. They did not understand the meaning of them, and so tacked on to them names which they _did_ understand. 7. The Saxons made their settlements at first away from the Roman towns and British villages. In the course of time, in a good many cases, they made settlements very close to these old sites, and we know that Saxons lived in such places as Winchester, Gloucester, and London. We find, especially in Hampshire and Gloucestershire, that near, or in, certain villages with Saxon names, Roman remains have from time to time been dug up. =Summary.=--The Saxon conquest was gradual. At first the invaders destroyed and avoided the remains of Roman cities. In some parts of the country the Britons were swept quite away, and British names forgotten. The old place names in some places show that the Britons and Saxons must have lived side by side, as was the case in Hampshire and Gloucestershire. In others, as in Hertfordshire, the Britons quite disappeared, as nearly all the place-names are Saxon. Roman remains have been found in some places with Saxon names, which seems to show that after a time the Saxons took to some old Roman sites for their dwelling-places. CHAPTER VII EARLY SAXON VILLAGES 1. It is with the coming of the Saxons that the history of our towns and villages really begins. For, though there are not a few places which show some connection with Romans, Britons, and Pit-Dwellers, it is mainly from Saxon times that we can follow the history of the places in which we live, with any certainty. 2. When the Saxons came to Britain they brought their own ideas with them, of course. Nowadays, when English folk go to settle in a distant land, they take their English notions with them. They find, however, in the course of time, that they have to modify or alter them somewhat, according to the circumstances in which they are placed. They may find that roast beef and plum-pudding do not at all suit them in the new climate. If they are wise, they will see whether the foodstuffs used by the natives, and by folk who have lived out there for many years, are not more suitable, even though they are inclined to despise such food at first. Now the Saxon tribes who first settled in England in the fifth century belonged to a race of people, bold, strong, fierce, and free. But they could not make their new homes exactly what their old ones had been in the land from whence they had come. 3. Like those other Aryan people, who had made their way to Britain in the Stone Age, they lived together in families. When the family became too large, some of the members had to turn out, like bees from a hive, though not in such great numbers, and set out on their travels to form new settlements, or =village communities=. 4. This idea of a village community had come down to them through many generations. The early Saxon idea of a village community was something of this sort:-- 5. All the men of the family had equal rights; though there was one who was the head of the family, and who took the lead. The affairs of the family were discussed and settled at open-air meetings, called =folk-moots=. The spot where these were held was regarded as a sacred place. The tilling of their land, their marriages, their quarrels, their joining with other villages to make war or peace, were all settled at the folk-moot. The question whether the younger branches of the family should leave the village and go out and form another was fixed by the folk-moot also. In the course of time many such little swarms left the parent hive, and settled farther away. But they always looked back upon the old settlement as their home, and the head of the family as their chief. They were all of one _kin_, and in the course of time they began to look upon their chief as their king. 6. Now what was the nature of the old Saxon village settlement? In its general arrangement it was very like the old Pit-Dwellers' settlement. There was the open space where the men of the village met, the sacred mound where the folk-moot was held. The houses in which the family dwelt were placed close together, round the hut of the head of the family. Outside these was a paling of some sort, so that all the houses were within the enclosure, or "tun", as it was called; and here calves and other young stock were reared near the houses. Beyond the enclosure, or tun, was the open pasture-ground and the arable land, or land under cultivation. Beyond these would be the untouched forest-land, or open moorland. 7. Each man of the tun had a share in these lands; not to deal with as he liked, but to use according to the custom of his family. The arable land was divided into strips, and shared amongst the men. However many strips of land a man might have, he could not have them for all time. The strips were apparently chosen by lot, and changed from time to time, so that all had an equal chance of having the best land. In the same way the number of cattle a man might turn out to graze on the pasture-land was regulated. The folk-moot, or meeting of the people, was a very important assembly, and through it the little community was governed. 8. Such was the mode of life to which the Saxons who came to England had been used; but they were not nearly as free individually when they landed here as their ancestors had been. More and more power had come into the hands of the chief or king, and to him the people looked for protection and guidance. In times of war, or when the tribe was invading new lands, the power of the king increased. By the time, then, that the Saxon tribes began their conquest of England, they were very much under the rule of their chiefs or kings. The kings had rights and power over their followers, which had gradually grown up by long custom, and none of those followers ventured to dispute such rights and powers. =Summary.=--The history of our present towns and villages really begins with the Saxons. The Saxons had been used to a settlement very like the early Aryan settlement. All the men had equal rights, and the business of the community was settled in the _folk-moot_. When new settlements were formed they looked back to the early settlement as their home: they were all of one _kin_. Gradually the chief man of the first home was looked upon as their chief or _king_. The land was shared amongst the men in strips in the common field, and the shares changed from time to time. When the Saxons came to England they were _less free_ than they had been; more power was in the hands of the chief or king, and they looked to him for leadership in battle, and he had certain rights which had grown up by long custom. CHAPTER VIII ANGLO-SAXON TUNS AND VILLS 1. A good many Britons no doubt settled down with the Saxons as slaves, and that probably accounts for so many of the natural features of the country--the rivers and hills--keeping their old British names. The British villages must have had names, but those villages were apparently destroyed, and the slaves would be settled near the homesteads which their conquerors set up. 2. In fixing on a place for a "tun" the Saxons would choose a valley rather than a hill, usually near a running stream, or a plentiful supply of water. At the present time nearly all over England we can find villages which have not been touched by modern improvements and alterations; and most of these show something even now of their Saxon origin. 3. For instance, in the county of Rutland there is a village named Exton, which has for many centuries kept several features which show its connection with Saxon days. Its name Ex-ton seems to be compounded of the British word "ex", which means "water", and the Saxon "ton" or "tun", which means the "enclosure"--"the tun by the water". There, sure enough, flowing by the village, is the River Gwash; just such a stream as the Saxons loved. In the middle of the village is the triangular open space, or village green. Round it the houses are thickly clustered together, with hardly any garden ground at the back or in front, and most of them with none at all. Outside the ring of houses are small grass fields or closes, where calves and cows feed, and poultry run. These little fields form a kind of ring round the village, and the hedges enclosing them represent the old fence of Saxon days, which formed the "tun". Beyond this are wider pasture-grounds and big plough-lands, stretching away in several directions up the gentle slopes. [Illustration: THE VILLAGE GREEN, EXTON, RUTLANDSHIRE (page 33)] 4. You will be able to find a good many villages which have some resemblance to Exton; they answer very closely to the Anglo-Saxon =vill= and the Anglo-Saxon town, for town and village were laid out on the same principle. 5. Now look at some little sleepy country town, and you will see much the same arrangement as in the village. The wide open space in the middle, where the town pump stands, and where the market is held, answers to the village green. Though this is often spoken of as the Market Square, it is usually more like a triangle in shape than a square. 6. The old houses round the market square are built very closely one into the other, and with queer narrow alleys leading to houses behind those in front; much in the same way as the houses are clustered round the village green. Round the outskirts of the town, at the back of the houses, are small green closes or paddocks. Beyond them are the larger meadows and pastures; then the wide corn-lands and woods; and, not far away, the heath or common. 7. The Saxon settlements, the "tuns" or "vills", whether they afterwards became what we now understand as "towns" or "cities", or remained what we call villages, had all the same chief features. Just as ordinary school-rooms are all pretty much alike, because they all have to serve much the same purpose, so the Saxon settlements were very similar in their general plan. 8. There was the open place, where people met and the folk-moot was held, surrounded by the houses of stone or wood, in which the people lived. Around these lay the grass yards or common homestead; and, beyond them, the arable and pasture lands, with patches of moorland and forest. 9. But outside the actual "tun" there would be something connected with the Saxon settlement which you would be sure to notice. After you had passed the boundary to the tun, you would see no hedgerows, or walls, dividing the land into fields. The arable land was one huge field. Its position would depend, of course, upon the nature of the soil and the lie of the land. You would not expect to find it down in the water-meadows, through which the river flowed; it would be higher up, out of the reach of floods; perhaps on the hillsides. 10. Then, you would see the huge field, ploughed in long strips, about a furlong in length, that is, a "furrow long", and one or two perches in breadth. Between the ploughed strips would be narrow unploughed strips, on which, in places, brambles would grow. The heath-lands and moorlands were uncultivated tracts, where rough timber and underwood grew, which was cut and lopped by the people of the vill under certain conditions. There were no formal spinneys[2], nor wide stretches of old timber, such as we nowadays expect to see in a forest. In places the forests contained old timber, and were thick with undergrowth, and infested with wild animals, such as wolves and boars. The name =forest= was often given to an uncultivated district, not much differing from a rough common, where sheep, cattle, and swine could pick up a living. =Summary.=--Anglo-Saxons _tuns_ and _vills_ were usually in a valley near a stream, with a meeting-place or green in the middle, and the houses built round it. At the back were small closes, and all was surrounded by a fence. Outside was the big common field, reaching up the slope, and beyond these the wide pasture-grounds. In many old villages and towns something of this arrangement can still be seen. CHAPTER IX TYTHINGS AND HUNDREDS--SHIRES 1. Though the Saxons, as they settled down in England, formed "tuns", which at first had very little to do with one another, that state of things probably did not last a very long time. In fighting the Britons they had had to act together; and, for the sake of protection and help, these separate communities had to combine. Somewhat in this way ten families in a district would form a =tything=; and the heads of the villages would, from time to time, meet together, to consult on various matters in which they were interested. 2. Then larger areas would need to be covered, as the country became more settled. Ten tythings would make a =hundred=; and, from time to time, men from all the places in the hundred would meet together and hold =hundred courts=. Most of the English counties are still divided into hundreds. In those days the hundreds were not all of the same size, because, owing to the nature of the soil, some tuns were far apart from one another, and a tything might cover a wide district, and a hundred a much larger area. If the hundred was small, that would show that the tuns were pretty close together, and that the district was populous. If, on the other hand, the tythings and hundreds were large, that would show that the district was thinly peopled. 3. We have seen that new settlements were formed by portions of the family leaving the old home, and making a new tun in the most suitable place they could find. It would happen, no doubt, in favourable districts, that new tuns would spring up not very far from the mother tun; and, in the course of time, there would be a good many more tuns in the tything than there were originally. The fact seems to be, that when once the boundaries had been roughly agreed upon, they were not often altered. From being a combination of families, or tuns, the tything got to be a =district=; and it kept its name of tything long after the number of tuns in it had increased. 4. It was much the same with the =hundreds=. In time they were represented by certain districts, whose borders were known to the people living in them. The hundreds all over the country have not altered their boundaries to any great extent until quite recently. In Hampshire to-day there are thirty-seven hundreds; in Hertfordshire there are only eight; and Middlesex has now the same six hundreds which it had twelve centuries ago when a good part of the county was forest land. 5. As to the time when the hundreds became grouped into =shires= we cannot say much: the change was brought about gradually, and quite naturally. It is not at all likely that all the various kingdoms in England came together on some particular occasion and said: "Now we'll divide all our kingdoms into shires". But the hundreds did become grouped into =shires=, doubtless because it was necessary that they might act together in matters which concerned all. 6. There is nothing like a threatened danger from without to draw men together. In the tun, no doubt, the villagers fell out with each other; however fairly the strips of land were shared somebody was sure to get what he did not like, and to grumble about it. Some of his fellow-villagers would take his side, and say it was a shame; and others would take the opposite side. But if the cattle belonging to the tun over the hills, or on the other side of the marsh, had been seen on the wrong side of the =mark=, or boundary which separated the lands of the two tuns, the dispute about the strips in the field would be forgotten, and away the people would go in a body towards the offending tun "to see about it". 7. In much the same way, when the boundaries of a tything or hundred were invaded by another tything or hundred, the differences between the tuns would be dropped, in order to preserve the rights which they had in common. 8. There was strife among the Saxon kingdoms which lasted for many years, especially between the three great rivals, Wessex, Mercia, and Northumbria. The lesser kingdoms were under the dominion, sometimes of one, sometimes of another of these rivals. All this fighting and settling down put more and more power into the hands of the kings. Instead of each village fighting for itself, and leaving all the others to fight for themselves, it was found to be a much safer and wiser policy to join together for common protection. Now if people join together, whether in peace or war, to win a football match, or to take a city, somebody must be in authority to give the necessary orders. Hence the power of the king, and the officers acting under him, grew up by custom, until the overlordship of the king was so firmly established that no one dared call it in question. [Illustration: Saxon King and Eorlderman] 9. Apparently from the smaller Saxon kingdoms we get our older =shires=. Whether the overlord happened to be the King of Mercia, or the King of Wessex, the under-king continued to rule over his old kingdom, or share. When, at length, in the ninth century, the King of Wessex was acknowledged as the overlord or King of England, Wessex and Mercia, and a part of Northumbria, were gradually divided into _shares_, or shires, over each of which the King of England appointed a =reeve= to look after his interests--the shire-reeve or =sheriff=. The King of England still appoints the high sheriff of each county. An =eorlderman=, who, in the case of the older shires, was at first no doubt a descendant of the old under-king, looked after the business of the shire itself. 10. Amongst the older shires we have Kent, Surrey, Sussex, Essex, Middlesex; while the newer ones were all named after some important central town, which in each case gave its name to the shire; such are Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire. =Summary.=--In time ten free families or tuns joined together for protection, formed a _tything_. Gradually the name _tything_ was given to the _district_, though many more tuns had grown up upon it. Then the tythings had to join together, and ten of these formed the _hundred_. These, too, got to be the names of districts, and these are still in use in most counties. The divisions known as _shires_, or shares, came later. The earliest formed were those which had been little kingdoms, like Kent, Sussex, Essex, Middlesex, and Surrey. When the bigger kingdoms were broken up, they were named after important towns in the district, like Hertfordshire, Gloucestershire, Northamptonshire, &c. The king's officer, or reeve, in each county in time was called the shire-reeve, or _sheriff_. CHAPTER X THE EARLY ENGLISH TOWN 1. At first, as we have seen, the Saxons were an agricultural people, and each village or tun produced all that it needed for its own support. But in peaceful times a tun might produce more than it needed; and, by and by, something like trade and exchange between one place and another would begin. There were many places, as for example London, which in Roman times had been great places for commerce, to which ships had come bringing various kinds of goods. In time, as the Saxons settled down, they began to have new wants, and some of them began to be attracted towards places where there were more people than in their native tuns. Some men found that they could make certain articles of common use better than their neighbours could. Thus certain trades took their rise. Those who worked at them would gradually give up the agricultural labour in which everybody else in the tun was employed. We do not know the causes which led certain of these agricultural tuns to become trading-places; but it is quite certain that they did gradually grow to be what we now call =towns=. 2. We find Saxon towns springing up near the places where some of the Roman towns had been; in some cases on the actual site of the Roman city. In Gloucester and Lincoln, for instance, some of the streets to-day follow the actual lines of the Roman streets. These towns are, however, really Saxon towns, not old Roman towns turned into Saxon towns. The men of these Saxon towns had lands on the outskirts of the towns, just as the village men had. Even to-day you will notice that there are many towns which possess lands called by such names as the Townlands, Townfield, or Lammas Land. 3. The men in these towns were, from the very first, more inclined to hold out against an overlord than the men in the villages were. In the first place, their numbers were greater; and then they had more varieties of occupation than the villagers, or, as we may say, had wider interests. In the trading towns, like London and Southampton, they came in contact with traders from other lands, and trade brought them more wealth. They, too, had their =folk-moots=, and they had more business to transact in them than the country villagers had. They were very particular to keep a tight hold on their rights, and were always on the look-out to gain fresh privileges if they possibly could. 4. The fence or wall, which surrounded the town, was made much stronger than that round the village; and men saw the use now of the thick walls of the old Roman cities which their ancestors had despised, for they had wealth and goods which needed protection. 5. We have seen that the power of the king gradually increased; and, as it did so, the king and the town became more necessary to each other. The town was wealthy; but it could not stand by itself against all the rest of the country. The king had the power of the country at his back, and could protect it if he would. The town had to give something to the king in return for this protection. But we shall presently see more of the relations between king and town. [Illustration: The Water Tower and Wall, Chester] =Summary.=--Trading towns, like London, gradually arose: the Saxons took to trades and trading; and towns sprang up over the land. The townsmen were jealous of any overlord, and better able to make a stand against him than the men in the _vills_. Their folk-moots were important, and the men held very tightly to any privileges which the town had, and were always on the look-out to secure fresh rights. Gradually they became rich, and needed the king's protection, and both the king and the town had to depend a great deal upon each other. CHAPTER XI IN EARLY CHRISTIAN TIMES 1. One great and important factor in the making of Saxon England was Christianity. The first Saxons who came were heathen, and they wiped out the British Christianity, where they settled, as completely as they wiped out Roman civilization. Towards the end of the sixth century Christian missionaries were at work in the north and in the south of what we now call England; and, from that time onwards, the Church played an important part in the making of the nation. 2. So, side by side with the development and political growth of the country, came the spread of Christianity and the organization of the Church. We find that the Saxon kingdoms, following the lead of their kings, became Christian as a matter of course. Over and over again we find the kings giving up Christianity and going back to paganism, and their people following them, also as a matter of course. The conversion of England took many years to accomplish, and mixed up with the Christianity was much paganism, which was not overcome for many centuries. The Dioceses[3] of the early Saxon bishops were, roughly speaking, of the same extent as the early kingdoms, and the bishops and their clergy travelled about as missionaries. 3. As the lords or thanes of the various vills, following the example of their kings, accepted Christianity, their people followed their example. In the open places of the tuns and vills, where the folk-moots were held, Christianity was preached and the cross set up. That, probably, was the origin of most of the =village= and =market crosses=. Then, in the course of time, in some cases, a church was built on a part of the old sacred open spaces. You cannot help noticing to-day how in many towns the chief =church= is by the market-place, and in the villages by the village green. In other cases we find the church and manor-house are outside the present village. That may be because the thane's or lord's land was outside the vill or tun, and he built the church on his own land, not on the common public land in the middle of the tun. It may have happened, also, that at the time the church was first built the houses were there also; but, owing to changes, many years afterwards, the people have removed to another spot some distance away--possibly to the side of a busy main road. Then the original village has dwindled away; the houses, having fallen into ruin, have been pulled down, and no traces of them left. [Illustration: Photo. Valentine CROSS AND CHURCH, GEDDINGTON, NORTHAMPTONSHIRE (page 45)] 4. A =priest= would be appointed to work in a tun, and a portion of land would be set apart in the common fields to maintain him and to aid in carrying on the services of the church. In course of time there were certain dues and fees given to him, the paying of which became a recognized custom. Somewhat in this way =glebe lands= and =tithes= took their rise, and became a part of the land system of the Saxon people. 5. Along with the growth of churches in the tuns and vills was the founding of =monasteries=. Small bodies of men bound themselves by simple rules to live and work and worship together. Frequently they made their settlements in lonely, desolate places, which they worked to bring under cultivation. So there sprang up settlements, or convents, of these religious people, living under their own rules. Work and worship went side by side. It was a new kind of life, different from the life in the "tun" which the early Saxons were used to; but, in time, it had a mighty influence in the land, and played an important part in the making of England. =Summary.=--At the end of the sixth century Christian missionaries were working in the north and in the south of England, but the progress made was very slow. The early bishops and their clergy travelled about as missionaries. In time churches were built in the vills and tuns, and a priest left in charge, who had his share in the strips of land, and in the course of time had other _dues_ paid to him. Monasteries, too, sprang up. These were bodies of religious people living together to work and worship. CHAPTER XII MONASTERIES 1. The Saxons learned to respect the quiet simple lives of the early monks. They saw them toiling hard in their fields, bravely facing many difficulties and hardships, and turning the wilderness into a garden. At first each monk, from the abbot downwards, had to take his share in the toil, wherever it was, and the monastery, as well as the vill, had to produce all that it needed. 2. Men, who were not very good or very religious, began to respect the lives and works of the monks. We find thanes and kings not only allowing monks to settle on some of their unoccupied land, but making over to them some of their own land, on condition that they and their children after them might always have a share in the prayers of these good men. We see, too, that whole vills came gradually into the hands of some monasteries; so that the convent became the lord of the vill, instead of a thane or a king. 3. Some convents made rapid progress, while others never prospered, but in the course of time disappeared. We have seen that the vill and the "town" grew up in much the same way, and were formed on the same plan. There are, however, a good many towns which grew up round monasteries in the first instance. 4. For example, King Offa II, at the end of the eighth century, founded the monastery of St. Alban, giving to it a wide extent of land round the ruins of the old city of Verulam. The monastery was built, and much land brought under cultivation. We find the sixth abbot, Ulsinus, two centuries later, encouraging people to settle round the walls of the monastery. That monastery lay near one of the great roads of England; many people were coming and going; so houses were built and a market was established. Churches, too, were erected for the use of the people who settled in the town. The abbot was the lord of this "town", and the people dwelling in it were his tenants. He, like any other lord of a "tun", or "vill", was responsible for the keeping of order and good government on his land. [Illustration: ST. ALBAN'S CATHEDRAL page 47] 5. St. Edmund's Bury, or Bury St. Edmund's, grew up round a monastery which had been established in a lonely place; and there, also, arose in time a flourishing town, under the rule of the abbot. 6. A number of towns, which to-day are cathedral cities, grew up round the churches where the bishop and his principal clergy had their homes and chief centres of work. 7. These things only came about very gradually. The monks who settled first at Bury, or those whom King Offa settled by the ruins of Verulam, never dreamed that in the years to come their convents would be great land-owners, with many hundreds of tenants. But it was so; and the monasteries at length formed one of the most important classes of land-owners in the country; their special rights and privileges coming to them so gradually, and so naturally, that no one realized exactly what was taking place. 8. Those who entered a monastery, or embraced "the religious life", intended to keep out of the world, and apart from its cares and worries as much as they could. But the lands left to them had to be looked after and cultivated. These did not always lie close round the monastery--very frequently they were tracts of land in distant counties,--and somebody had to look after them. New possessions mean new responsibilities; and so we find that the monasteries had not only to attend to the daily round of worship and work inside the walls of the monastery, but had to carry on all the business belonging to great estates as well. 9. So in time a monastery had to use the services of many men besides monks; the monks became great employers of labour one way and another, and this attracted to their towns a good many skilled workmen. 10. The times when the Danes ravaged the greater part of the country were very trying to the life of English villages and towns. These sea-rovers came, at first, as plunderers, and the destruction of towns, churches, and monasteries was very great. Some monasteries, like Crowland[4], suffered several times, and many were never rebuilt. But, gradually, the invaders settled in England. They did not bring with them an entirely new land system. As they settled down to farming and village life, we find that land was held in almost exactly the same manner as under Saxon customs. 11. Of course there were some differences, and those who have studied the subject closely can indicate a good many points in which the Saxon and Danish land customs differed from each other. The dangers to which the Saxons had been exposed by the attacks of the Danes had put a great deal of power into the hands of the thanes and the king. Thus, by the time the Danes had settled in England, every vill and tun had got into the hands of some lord or thane, or was in the king's hands. In Danish settlements there seems always to have been an overlord, who led his people in war and ruled in time of peace; though there was a class of =freemen= amongst them which had special rights and privileges. 12. But the Danes were something more than tillers of the soil; they were traders too, and "tuns" became in many places more like our "towns" and trading-places than ever they had been before. In time we find the largest towns in the Danish part of England--Leicester, Lincoln, Derby, Nottingham, and Stamford--binding themselves together to protect their trading interests. =Summary.=--Land was gradually left to monasteries by kings and nobles on condition that they and their families should always be prayed for. The monasteries became holders of lands, often far away from their houses, which had to be attended to. Towns grew up round many monasteries, like St. Alban's and Bury St. Edmund's, and the monastery was their overlord. The Danes brought no new land system with them to England, though amongst them there was a class of freemen. Towns grew to be greater trading-places in Danish times. CHAPTER XIII TOWNS AND VILLAGES IN THE TIME OF CNUT THE DANE 1. Now let us see what an ordinary village was like in the time of King Cnut, when Saxon and Dane were living pretty comfortably together, side by side, under good government. 2. We find that each vill or tun had a =lord=, an eorl, or thane, who practically owned the place and everything in it, though he could not do entirely as he liked. There was the land which belonged to him, and which was in his own hands, or occupation, as we say; that was called his =demesne=. The rest of the land was also his, but it was let out to people who had lived on the land from time out of mind--the =cheorls= or =villeins=. The lord's house was on his demesne. The villeins' houses were all together in the tun, with the grass yards for the cattle close to them, and the open fields and pasture-lands outside the tun, just as they had been in the olden days. 3. There seem to have been two classes of villeins--=geburs= and =cottiers=. 4. The geburs were the higher class. They seem very frequently to have held about 120 acres of land; they had to work on the lord's home farm two or three days a week, or pay him certain produce of the land as a rent; and they had to provide one or more oxen for the village plough, when there was ploughing to be done on the lord's farm, or in the common field. 5. In the Danish part of the country there appears to have been a class of freeholders in some places, called =socmen=, but there were not very many of them. They, no doubt, had had their rights granted to them for distinguished service in the Danish wars. 6. The =cottiers= held only about 5 acres of land. They had to work for the thane or lord on certain days of the week; but, as they had no oxen, they had no ploughing to do for him. 7. Below the geburs and the cottiers were the =theows=, =thralls=, or =slaves=, who could be bought and sold. They were captives taken in war; or men who, for their crimes, had been doomed to slavery. [Illustration: Serf or Theow] 8. We must remember that the overlord might be the king, or a bishop; a monastery, or a thane. Their rights over their vills and tuns were much the same in each case, and their duties to those vills and tuns were also similar. 9. A very large number of vills and tuns were under the lordship of the various bishops and monasteries. It was so with towns like Winchester, Reading, Bury St. Edmund's, and St. Alban's. The custom had grown up quite naturally and in the course of many years. 10. It is pretty clear that the overlord did not always reside in his vill or tun. The tuns or vills of the bishopric of Winchester, for instance, were scattered about in various parts of the diocese. It was the same with other overlords. But we find in every place a =steward=, and in each town the =king's reeve= or the =lord's reeve=. These acted for the overlord, whoever he was, and saw that the villeins and cottiers did their proper proportion of work at the right time; they saw that the lord's tolls at the markets, fairs, and ferries, were properly enforced. The steward was a most important officer in every town and village, and a great deal of power was in his hands. 11. Then in the ordinary country vill there was the =faber=, or smith; the =mason=; the =pundar=, or man who looked after the fences and hedges and drove stray cattle into the pound. The simple ordinary trades were found in the country villages then, as they are now; but the craftsmen, the most skilled workmen, had become for the most part dwellers in the towns. Even in very early times we find craftsmen in towns formed into trades' unions or =guilds=, to protect their special trades. 12. Now the land was shared amongst the villeins and cottiers in strips, usually containing an acre or a half-acre, in the common fields of which we have heard before. The villein did not have all the strips belonging to his holding set out side by side--they lay in different parts of the great open field. Crops had to be sown according to the custom of the vill or tun, and according to a fixed order. Wheat and rye would be sown one year on a part of the great field; barley, oats, and beans the next year; and the third year the land must be left fallow. The lord's land had to be treated in the same way. 13. On the pasture-land and in the meadows the villein and cottier had the right to turn out a certain number of cattle, according to the size of their holdings. The crops, whether of hay or corn, had to be cleared from the fields by certain fixed days, so that cattle might be turned out to graze. You will still find, in some towns, that certain of the freeholders, or burgesses, have the right to turn a certain number of cattle on certain lands for a part of the year between fixed dates. 14. Then, on the rough commons or heaths, there were also grazing rights for the lord and his tenants. The tenants might "top and lop" the trees growing there at certain times, but they might not cut the trees down--that was the lord's right. There were also rights of cutting turf and heather, and the turning of hogs into the forest; all these rights were ruled by "custom", which bound both the lord and the tenants. 15. The lord, or steward, or reeve, held =courts= or meetings at regular intervals. At first these took place in the open air, like the old folk-moots; but in time they came to be held in a court-house. The court was a meeting, presided over by the lord or his steward, to see that the customs of the place were kept up; to call to account those tenants who had failed to do their share of the work; to put new tenants into the places of those who had removed or died; and to punish offenders. 16. This last right, of punishing offenders, was one thought to be of vast importance. In the early days the men of the tun were bound together to keep the peace, and to see that it was kept; and they were strong enough to keep evil-doers in check. In the trading tuns or towns especially, the right was valued very highly; but, at the time we are now treating of, the right to exercise punishment was in the hands of the overlord, though the men of the place had still some voice in the government of their town. The right to have a =gallows= was one eagerly sought for, and held very firmly; not because people particularly wanted to hang one another, but because the gallows represented to them the highest power of government. The towns had lost most of their rights in this respect, but they had never forgotten those they had had, and were always on the alert to get back any lost right, or to gain a new one, which should help them to obtain the privilege of self-government. =Summary.=--Each vill had an overlord, who might be the king, a bishop, a noble, or a monastery. Land held by the lord was his _demesne_. Those who lived on the land were _villeins_ or _cheorls_. Villeins were divided into _geburs_ and _cottiers_. Geburs held about 120 acres each, did so many days' work on the lord's land, and supplied an ox for the village plough. Cottiers had only 5 acres. In Danish districts there were some _socmen_, or freemen. The _thralls_, or serfs, were a lower class still. Each vill and tun had a steward, who looked after the lord's interests, and courts were held regularly in each. The right of a gallows was a sign of right to govern, and so it was much valued, especially by the trading towns. The faber or smith, mason, and pundar were the common trades in the vills. CHAPTER XIV CHURCHES AND MONASTERIES IN DANISH AND LATER SAXON TIMES 1. In speaking of our towns and villages we are obliged to make mention frequently of churches and monasteries. At the time when Cnut was king, each vill or tun had its church and its priest to minister in it. There were parts of the land, in the common fields and pasture, mixed up with the villeins' strips, set apart for the support of the services of the Church, the maintenance of the priest, and the care of the poor. In time various dues and customs were also paid to the priest for certain things which he was expected to do. 2. There are very few churches still standing which have any parts of their structure dating from before the time of King Cnut. In the early days churches were very simple buildings, built mainly of wood, and in the Danish wars most of them were destroyed. 3. In the tenth century there was a very general belief that the world was coming to an end at the end of the thousand years after the establishment of Christianity; so there was not much actual church-building going on. But in King Cnut's time a revival of interest in church-building took place, and there are in a good many of the old churches of England little bits of work in the walls, or very rude carvings over the doorways, which belong to this time. Unless such work is pointed out to you by one who understands something about these matters, you will not be likely to discover it for yourself, any more than you are likely to discover the traces of the pit-dwellings, of which we spoke in an early chapter. 4. These parish churches and parish priests were under the control of the bishop, who had his chief church or =cathedral= in some important place in his diocese. Those cathedrals were generally served by colleges of clergy, called canons. 5. These were the =public churches=. But besides them there were colleges and monasteries, which were =private societies= of men living together. Some of the religious houses were in towns, as we have seen, and others were in wild desolate places. Every religious house, whether a monastery for men or a nunnery for women, had its church, which was the private chapel of the house, and not open to the public. In the course of years these private chapels were built as huge churches, much larger than the parish church. Even now you may see close to a big college church a much smaller parish church, as for example St. Margaret's Church, which stands by the side of Westminster Abbey. As more land came into the possession of these religious houses, the monks had more business with the outside world, for, as landlords, they had to see that their lands were turned to good account, and cultivated according to the notions of the day. 6. The monasteries, especially in their early days, were great centres of good and useful work. Those who founded them, or gave them lands, did so because they felt they were doing excellent service for the people, and they wanted to have a share in the work, and to be remembered in the prayers of the monks. Founders of religious houses believed that they were getting something worth having in return for the lands which they gave. 7. In the wild times of the Danish invasions the monasteries were looked upon as places of safety for the weak and helpless. But they were not always safe places. People sometimes, when the country was in a disturbed state, would send their valuables to the nearest monastery. In time the Danes got to know of this, and many a religious house was attacked and sacked by them on account of the tales they had heard of the marvellous wealth hidden there. 8. A story is told of a worthy person living near St. Alban's monastery at a time when a visit from marauding Danes was expected. One market-day he sent a number of heavy iron-bound chests, guarded by armed men, through the market to the monastery. Everybody, of course, turned to look, and talked about the affair. As a matter of fact the chests only contained stones; the treasure was carefully hidden somewhere else, till all danger was thought to be over. That plan was used to put the Danes "off the scent", as we should say. 9. All the land that did not go with the tuns and vills in early days was apparently regarded as belonging to the people, and was called the =folk-land=. The king came to be regarded as the custodian or guardian of these folk-lands. Little by little they became the =property of the king=, until practically he could do what he pleased with them. It was from these folk-lands--which in early times were probably scraps of land which nobody thought to be worth very much, since the nearest vills and tuns had never taken them in--that kings gave land to bishoprics and monasteries. By and by these rough lands became very valuable; but in most cases it was the labour, the skill, and the brains of the monks of the early days which turned the waste lands into fruitful fields. =Summary.=--Each vill had its church, but there are none of these old churches now standing. Bits of stone-work belonging to that time are sometimes found built into old church walls. The early churches were mostly of wood. The monastery churches were often very large, but they were not public churches. In times of danger, monasteries were looked upon as places of safety. The waste lands which did not belong to any tun or vill in early times were called _folk-land_, and belonged to the people. The king was regarded as the guardian of these lands, but in time they were looked upon as his private property. Land given to monasteries was often very rough, but the care the monks gave to it in time made it fertile. CHAPTER XV LATER SAXON TIMES 1. Every old town and village has got its oldest house, of course. You will most likely have heard people trying to be funny about it, and saying they think it must have been built in the year One. There is, we may pretty safely say, no house now standing exactly as it was in the days of King Cnut and the later Saxon times. But even yet there are some buildings standing, and still in use, which have certain parts which were erected in those times. These buildings are mostly churches, and in various parts of the country, indeed in almost every county, something belonging to this age can be pointed out. 2. Churches built of stone in those days had very thick walls with very small windows. The east end of the chancel was usually semicircular, forming an _apse_. The wall between the chancel and the nave was pierced by a narrow, low, round-headed arch. Most of the windows had plain, round-headed arches, and in some of them, dividing the opening into two parts or "lights", were stone pillars with bulging stems. Some of the doorways had triangular heads, others had round heads. There are some very curious bits of sculpture over some of these doorways. The meaning of them was quite plain, no doubt, to the people who carved them, but they are very difficult for us to understand. They represent the ideas which the Saxons had of good and evil, and of the strife going on between them. [Illustration: Saxon Baluster Window (Monkwearmouth Church, Durham)] 3. King Edward the Confessor had been brought up in Normandy, where church-building was in advance of anything in England. He encouraged Norman ideas in building, as well as in other directions, and so prepared the way for the coming of the Normans. Some parts of the buildings connected with Westminster Abbey were built at that time. 4. We do not know much of Saxon castles, though the Saxons had their strongholds and fortified places. 5. The houses in which the people lived were most of them in those days built of wood. There was not much difference, except in size, between the house of the king, the thane, and the villein. There was the hearth, on which was the fire; and the room or hall in which it was placed was the chief building, close to which, very gradually, other buildings arose. Apparently the buildings had a framework of timber, filled in with wood, wattled together like hurdles. In the more important buildings, stone gradually came into use. [Illustration: Saxon Doorway (Tower of Earls-Barton Church)] 6. The monasteries and convents each had the buildings in which the monks lived grouped round the church. After the Danish wars the buildings improved, stone taking the place of wood. 7. Even in the towns wood was chiefly used for the ordinary house; though, as we should expect, stone was used in the more important buildings, and in the wall round the town. 8. What we understand by comfort in a house was absent. There was the fire on the hearth in the middle of the floor; in this room the people of the house, from the highest to the lowest, had their meals; and there, on the floor, most of them slept at night. Cooking was almost entirely done in the open air. =Summary.=--In most towns and villages the oldest building now in use is usually the church. Some churches have remains of Saxon[5] work in them. The style was very plain: the chancel usually had an apse or semicircular end; the windows were round-headed and sometimes had pillars with bulging shafts; doorways were round-headed or triangular. King Edward the Confessor prepared the way for Normans and Norman ways of building. The Saxons had strongholds, but they were not castle-builders. Ordinary houses were usually of wood, and consisted of a room or hall, with a hearth in the middle; in this room the family slept. Most of the cooking was done in the open air. CHAPTER XVI IN NORMAN TIMES 1. When Duke William of Normandy became King of England, the power of the Crown was greater than it had ever been before. All the old folk-land had become =king's land=. Many knights had followed Duke William from Normandy into England, and expected to be provided for by their leader. The lands belonging to King Harold, and those of the Saxon eorls who had died fighting at Senlac, King William regarded as his own. These he granted to his followers, on condition that they acknowledged him as their overlord, and followed him in war when required. This was a stricter condition than had ever before been required in England. The Normans were used to it, and it did not seem at all strange to them. 2. Neither was it so very strange to the Saxon nobles and thanes. Most of them were allowed to keep their estates if they took the =oath of allegiance= to the king, as the Normans did. Of course they grumbled: it was only natural that they should do so; but if they did not acknowledge the king in this way they were looked upon as rebels, and lost their lands. 3. King William was very careful, in the grants which he made, not to put too much power into the hands of his nobles. The old =vills= of Saxon times were now pretty generally called =manors=. When the king granted land, it was not given in huge slices--whole counties, halves, and quarters of counties--to this great follower of his or to that one. Between the old vills, or manors, there were often wide stretches of the king's own land, the old folk-land. If he had granted to a Norman knight a quarter of a county, or so, he would have been giving away much of his own land. Besides that, the king did not mean his followers to become too powerful. 4. He granted the land in separate manors. It is quite true that in every county we can, so to speak, put our finger on some Norman knight, and say that he got the lion's share of the manors in that county. Thus in Hampshire there was Hugh de Port, and in Hertfordshire Eustace de Boulogne. But their manors did not all lie side by side, nor were they conveniently close together. Just as a villein's holding was spread out in various fields, so the manors, or fief, which a knight held under King William were often scattered over various counties. 5. At the time of the Conquest a very large number of manors belonged to bishoprics and monasteries. Now the Normans were a Christian race. The Norman Conquest was not like the Saxon or the Danish Conquest--a rush of heathen, bent on plunder and bloodshed. Bitter as the strife was, it was not as bad as those invasions had been. There was something which the Normans and the later Saxons both respected, and that was their =religion=. The Normans were a particularly religious and devout people, stern and cruel as they were. The lands of the Church and of the monasteries were not interfered with to any extent. King William, however, took care that they were in the hands of people whom he could trust. 6. The story is told that the Abbot Frederick of St. Alban's, who did not love the Normans, once remarked to King William that he owed his easy conquest of England to the fact that so many of the manors were held by monks and clergy, who could not and would not bring out their men to fight. 7. The king replied that that must be mended; for enemies might again invade the land, and he must have men whom he could depend upon to meet the foe. At that time a great tract of land between St. Alban's and London belonged to the Abbey, and the abbot allowed Saxon outlaws to infest it, who were a great nuisance to the Normans. As the land had been given by former kings, the king at once took half of it back again, in order to clear out the outlaws. Abbot Frederick had said too much. He fled away to the Camp of Refuge at Ely, and King William would only accept as abbot a Norman and a friend of his--Paul de Caen. =Summary.=--After the Conquest the power of the king increased. The manors of Saxon nobles who had opposed King William were granted to his own followers. Other Saxon nobles kept their lands if they took the oath of allegiance. The land was given in manors and groups of manors. Between many of these there were large stretches of the king's own lands. The lands of bishoprics and abbeys were not much interfered with; but the king took care that only those were accepted as bishops or abbots who would be loyal to him. CHAPTER XVII IN NORMAN TIMES (_Continued_) 1. The king, then, granted manors to his followers, and to such Saxon eorls and thanes as were willing to hold their lands on the same conditions as the Normans. If they objected, as from time to time a good many of them did, they had to go. 2. Now, though every manor had a lord, where the lord held many manors it was quite impossible for him to be living in the manor-house of each of them, and looking after his estate himself. He could, if he chose, let out some portions of these manors to a man beneath him in rank, on exactly the same conditions as the king had granted to him. The man must swear to be his vassal, and appear, when required, with his proper number of men, to fight his lord's battles. He, in his turn, might let parts of the lands to others under him. 3. By this means the king could command a pretty large army. He would summon his great vassals, they would summon their vassals, each of whom would in turn summon his followers; and so from every manor men would be called to fight. It was something like the old nursery tale: "The fire began to burn the stick; the stick began to beat the dog; the dog began to worry the pig; and so the pig began to get over the stile". 4. If the lord was not living in the manor-house there was someone there to represent him, and to look after his interests. In scores of manors the people never set eyes on their overlord; but they felt the grip of his power through the =steward of the manor=. Now, though the steward could not go against the customs of the manor openly, there were many ways in which he could make himself very disagreeable to the people under his care. He was there to grind what he could out of the tenants for the lord, and he took care to grind for himself too. It seems to have been quite an understood thing that he was to get what he could out of the manor for himself, so that very often villeins and tenants had anything but an easy pleasant life. 5. The Norman Conquest did not interfere with the customs of the manors, and the life on an ordinary manor went on very much the same in King William's reign as it had done under King Edward the Confessor. About twenty years after King William I had come to the throne, that great survey, recorded in =Domesday Book=, was made. Learned men who have studied the Domesday Book closely have discovered many things connected with the life of people in England at this period. We can even see what parts of the country suffered by opposing King William, and which districts had submitted quietly to him. =Summary.=--The great tenants could let out their manors to others beneath them; and these in turn to others beneath them. In this way the king could get together a big army. On the manors the _steward_ was a most important officer, and the tenants saw more of him than of their lord. The customs of the manors were not altered by the Conquest, and the condition of the people on the land was very little changed. Domesday Book, drawn up twenty years after King William came to the crown, gives us much information as to the state of the country at that time. CHAPTER XVIII IN NORMAN TIMES: THE CHURCHES 1. When we speak of Norman times we must bear in mind that they lasted for over 130 years--say from 1066 to 1200. That period covers a good many years, and consequently a good many changes took place. Now this period is marked by a particular style of architecture known as Norman or Twelfth Century. 2. With the coming of William the Conqueror to England began a great period of building in this country. There was what we may almost call a "great rage" for =founding= or establishing =religious houses= and =churches=, and for =building castles=. All the religious houses have gone, and nearly all the castles, but in their ruins we can see specimens of Norman work. In a large number of old churches we can see very good examples of this style. In Hampshire especially there is scarcely one old church, even in the most out-of-the-way village, which has not some Norman work to show. 3. You will expect to find that the style of building altered somewhat during that long time. In the beginning it was very plain, but gradually it became more ornamental. At first there were plain, round-headed arches and heavy stone pillars, with boldly cut caps to them. But in the time of King Henry II, and later, we find the mouldings of the arches, and the caps of the pillars, ornamented more and more with bold carvings. There is a vast difference between the plain, almost ugly Norman work, in St. Alban's Cathedral, which was begun about the year 1077, and the Norman work which can be seen in Durham Cathedral, or the west door of Rochester Cathedral. The St. Alban's builders had no stone at hand to speak of, but any amount of Roman tiles from the ruins of Verulam. They could not build anything very ornamental, but they could and did build something vast and imposing. In most of the cathedrals there are very fine specimens of later Norman work. [Illustration: Cushion Capital] [Illustration: Capital--Chapel in Tower of London] [Illustration: Transition Norman Capital, hall of Oakham Castle] [Illustration: Transition Norman Capital, Canterbury Cathedral] [Illustration: Photo. S. B. Bolas & Co. GALILEE CHAPEL, DURHAM CATHEDRAL (page 70)] 4. We see, towards the end of the period, from the way in which the Norman arches were used to intersect each other, and form two pointed arches within a round-headed arch, that a change in style was showing itself. Towards the end of Norman times, in the reigns of Richard I and John, we reach what architects call the =Transition Period=, when the Norman style was gradually changing into the =Early English=, or Pointed Style. The choir of Canterbury Cathedral is one of the best-known specimens of this Transition Period. Just as changes took place in the style of the buildings, so, too, the life of the nation changed. All the changes were not improvements; some, indeed, were changes for the worse. [Illustration: Photo. Valentine CHOIR OF CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL (page 70)] =Summary.=--The Norman period lasted for 130 years, from 1066 to about the year 1200. The round-headed style of building, called Norman, lasted through this period. It became more ornamented as the years went on. In the latter part of the time the style began to change. St. Alban's Cathedral and Durham Cathedral have examples of plain and highly ornamental Norman work. The choir of Canterbury Cathedral gives an example of Transition work at the end of Norman days. CHAPTER XIX CASTLES 1. The passion for building castles in England had begun before the Norman Conquest; but during the Norman period a great many castles (about 1100, it is said) were built in various parts of the country. They were not all of the same size, strength, or importance. Some were royal castles, belonging to the king, who placed each one in charge of a constable or warden. These were necessary for the defence of the country. We should expect to find important castles, for instance, at such places as Carlisle, Ludlow, Gloucester, Dover, and London. We can, too, trace lines of castles along the Scottish and Welsh borders; and there were no fewer than twenty-five in the county of Monmouth alone. 2. Many castles were placed on the site of Saxon strongholds, and of strongholds dating from still earlier times. Others were built where the overlord thought they would be of service to him in protecting his interests and keeping his tenants in order. So it often came to pass that the castles were built close to, or in the very heart of, a town or city. Frequently the castle was at once the protection and the terror of the neighbourhood. [Illustration: Norman Castle.--From a drawing in Grose's Military Antiquities.--1, The Donjon-keep. 2, Chapel. 3, Stables. 4, Inner Ballium. 5, Outer Ballium. 6, Barbican. 7, Mount, supposed to be the court-hill, or tribunal, and also the place where justice was executed. 8, Soldiers' Lodgings.] 3. It is curious to note that some of the greatest castles-builders of the time were bishops. There was Bishop Gundulph of Rochester, who built the Keep of Rochester Castle and the White Tower in the Tower of London. There was Bishop Henry de Blois of Winchester, who built a number of castles on lands belonging to his bishopric. Strange as it may seem to us that bishops should be great rulers and leaders of armies, it did not strike the people of those days as at all extraordinary or improper. A bishop was as much a ruler as the king, and had territories to look after and keep in order. In those days he was quite as able to carry out these duties as the boldest baron of them all, and could give and take hard knocks with the best of them. 4. The great castle-builders had no love for the traders in towns and cities; indeed they looked down on that class. But they found them very useful. Towns attracted traders by land and by water; and every town, every bridge, and every ferry belonged to some lord or other. No goods could be brought into or taken from a town, or carried across bridge or ferry, without paying toll and custom to the overlord. But he had certain duties to perform in return, in protecting the town and its trade; and the better the protection the more traders came to pay toll, and the better it was for everybody concerned. 5. So we find, near many of our ancient towns and cities, a castle, or its ruins--or perhaps only the site is left--where the lord of the town kept a number of men to protect the town and district, even when he was not there himself. 6. If there was no love lost between the lord of the castle and the townsmen, there was still less between the latter and the soldiers. The soldiers were inclined to take liberties, and to be insolent and oppressive. As they had it in their power to "make trouble", if not kept in good-humour, the townsmen put up with much for the sake of peace and quietness. =Summary.=--The Norman period was a great castle-building age: 1100 strongholds were then built in England. Castles were not all of the same size or importance. There were royal castles, especially on the border-lands, as at Carlisle, Ludlow, Gloucester, and Dover. Every noble regarded a castle as a necessity. Castles were built near towns, partly to protect them, partly to keep them in order. Castles and towns were necessary for the protection and encouragement of trade. Townsmen and the men-at-arms in the castles were very jealous of each other. Some of the bishops were great castle-builders, because they were great landholders, not because they were bishops. CHAPTER XX CASTLES AND TOWNS 1. However useful a castle might be in protecting the overlord's tenants and property, the sense of security was always a great temptation to quarrel with other lords. With strong kings, like William I and Henry I, the danger of disorder was not so great, as they knew how to keep their great barons in check. But in the time of King Stephen, during the long years of civil war, the barons were divided into two parties, and each castle became a centre of strife. 2. The baron in his castle had his men to keep. These he did not pay in regular wages. He fed, clothed, and armed them after a fashion; and, to give them something to do, would rake up some old grievance with a neighbouring baron, make an attack upon his property, and let his men plunder, burn, and kill to their hearts' content. Then the other baron would retaliate. 3. It is easy to see that the conditions of life in England were most unsettled in the reign of King Stephen. There was no safety in town or village, and the dwellers on the manors must have suffered most severely. Their own lord would send and gather in all their store to victual his castle from time to time: his enemy would send _his_ men to seize what they could. It made very little real difference to the villeins which side won; _they_ suffered, as they were heavily oppressed by both parties. Their own lord expected his dues just the same, war or no war, famine or no famine, whether he or his enemy had carried off the best part of the corn and cattle or not; and he would take his pick of the men on his manors to fill the places of his men-at-arms who had been put out of action. 4. Many of the barons became little better than monsters of cruelty, and their castles "nests of devils and dens of thieves". One of the very worst of these was Geoffrey de Mandeville, who had large estates in Essex and Hertfordshire. His castle of Anstey, in Hertfordshire, was a den of fearful wickedness. He and his men neither feared God nor regarded man; nothing was sacred to them--they spared neither church nor monastery, town nor village. 5. Dreadful tales are still told of the cruel deeds done in the deep dungeons of nearly all these old castles by the "bold bad barons" of the time of King Stephen. 6. When Henry II became king he put a stop to these disorders, and large numbers of the castles were pulled down; but the evils they had caused lived long after, and were the source of much trouble. 7. It is said that "Everything comes to those who know how to wait", and the townsmen, under the rule of a great lord, knew how to wait. Great as the lord of the town was, whether he was baron, bishop, or the king himself, he could not do without the town--and the town knew it. People were sometimes short of ready money in those days, just at the very time when they needed it most urgently. 8. You will remember that the =Crusades= began in the reign of King William I. Now and again the crusading "fever" took hold of some of these Norman barons, and many wanted to go to fight the Turk--especially when there was not much fighting going on at home. But crusading was a costly business, and of course there was a good deal of rivalry between these crusading knights as to who could raise the best-furnished troop of men. The baron would be glad to get together as much money as he could. So the chance came to many a town to advance money to their lord. He, in return, would grant to the town the right to collect the tolls and customs payable to him for a term of years; or perhaps on condition that they allowed him so much every year out of the tolls collected. 9. Bishops, too, were often in urgent need of money, for there were many calls upon them. The monasteries were, at this period, beginning to do so much expensive building, that often they, too, were glad to get money by granting to the townsmen privileges for which they were willing to pay. 10. Then there were other towns, not depending so closely on a baron or bishop or monastery, which wanted to gain similar privileges of levying toll and custom. These would petition the king for the right to be given to them too, to levy dues, in return for a large sum of money paid down, or for a yearly payment to the king. 11. The towns were becoming strong, and they gained considerable rights during this Norman period. As far back as the time of King Cnut we find, in some districts, towns banding themselves together to protect their trade and interests. This was the case with Leicester, Nottingham, Derby, Stamford, and Lincoln. =Summary.=--In the time of King Stephen castles became dens of robbers, and their owners were nearly always at war with each other. The Crusades attracted many fighting barons when there was no war at home. They needed money to fit out troops to go abroad, and in many cases the towns found the money on condition that they got certain rights to levy tolls and customs. Bishops and monasteries in want of ready-money often let out or parted with their rights to towns in a similar manner. Towns began to be very powerful, and sometimes joined together to protect their interests. This was the case with the towns of Leicester, Nottingham, Derby, Stamford, and Lincoln. CHAPTER XXI IN NORMAN TIMES: THE MONASTERIES 1. The hundred years after the Norman Conquest was a great period of building. It was a time for establishing or _founding_ new =religious houses=. Something like 389 such houses were opened during this period, so that they played a very important part in the history of the times. The Normans were not very much interested in the English religious houses which they found already established here. In fact, a good many of them, since the times of the Danish invasion, 200 years before, had got into very bad order, and were in need of reform. Little by little, as Norman bishops and abbots were appointed over these Saxon religious houses, reforms did take place, but not always very easily or quietly. 2. At the time of the Conquest the religious houses in Normandy were in a far better state than those in England. Their members lived better lives, did better work, and set a much better example of godly living and working. There were several =new orders= or societies of monks, which had their head-quarters on the continent of Europe. These interested King William's companions more than the old English monasteries, because they and their fathers had helped to establish them. 3. So we find, as the Normans received lands here in England, and founded religious houses, most of them were connected with the monasteries across the sea, and were ruled by abbots who lived across the sea. Such branch houses were generally called =priories=, and the kings and barons who founded them gave them manors and parts of manors, sometimes taking them from the older Saxon monasteries and cathedrals.[6] 4. Then, too, there were the old Saxon houses, like St. Alban's Abbey, Westminster Abbey, and Glastonbury Abbey: they were reformed and improved, and to them, too, lands were given in various parts of the country, often far away from the mother house. Thus St. Alban's Monastery had important lands in the neighbourhood of the River Tyne, and a daughter house was opened there called =Tynemouth Priory=. So, you see, there were two kinds of priories in England: one class attached to English religious houses, and the other to Norman or foreign religious houses. In time the foreign priories received the name of =alien priories=. 5. All these religious houses had some interest in the land, and all of them, to a greater or less degree, were landlords. In some cases the lands given to them were manors which had been managed and tilled in the same way for hundreds of years. The only change was that the lord of the manor might be a society or religious house instead of a baron. Each of the manors had its steward, its villeins, and so forth, like any other in the land. But a good deal of the land given to these new religious houses had never been occupied before. 6. Though some of the monasteries, like St. Alban's and St. Edmund's Bury, were in towns, there were others, especially those founded in these Norman times, far away from towns, in pathless woods or deep dales, like Rievaulx, in Yorkshire. Others, like Ramsey and Thorney, were in lonely fens and marshes. Here the monks themselves set to work, as in the earlier days, and tilled the ground, keeping up their regular services in their little church most carefully--praying and working. Gradually their lands improved; other lands came to them; more labour was needed; and so, little by little, tenants took holdings on their lands, and farmed them for the "house", on much the same conditions as in the older manors. 7. We find that in many of the monasteries attention was given to other occupations besides agriculture. Some, especially those in towns, like St. Alban's, became in this period great seats of learning. All of them wrote the books they used, and some of them were particularly famed for their writing and illuminating. In fact, they were the =book-producers= of the age, and very little of the work of learned ancient scholars could have come down to us had it not been for the careful, painstaking work of simple monks quite unknown to history. 8. Some of the abbeys in the west of England, like Bath Abbey, had a good deal to do with opening up the =wool trade=, which in the Middle Ages became the staple trade of the south and west of England. Flaxley Abbey, in Gloucestershire, developed =iron-smelting=. 9. In the monasteries men could quietly think and work, and use the talents they had, without being called away to fight or do the unskilled work of the world. In these early times there were no other places where men could lead quiet, thoughtful lives, and "think things out", and then put them into practice. The men in the monasteries were not all equally good or religious or clever, but the work done in and through these old institutions was most important and most valuable to the country. =Summary.=--Many new religious houses were founded[7] in Norman times. The Norman barons were more interested in establishing branch houses of Norman monasteries than in those they found[8] in England. Branch houses of the various monasteries were called _priories_, and those which belonged to foreign monasteries were called _alien priories_. All the monasteries were landholders. Some of them took over old manors, others had uncultivated land given to them which in time became manors. Some monasteries, like St. Alban's, Westminster, and Glastonbury, became great centres of learning. Others, in out-of-the-way places, encouraged various trades--Bath did much for the wool trade of the west of England; Flaxley developed iron-smelting. CHAPTER XXII EARLY HOUSES 1. When we go from a big modern manufacturing town into an old town or village, we cannot help noticing the old buildings, the ancient churches, the old town-hall, the alms-houses, and the old houses with their plastered fronts, tiled roofs, and huge chimney-stacks. 2. As years go by, the number of these old houses gets less and less. In the course of time many of the smaller ones especially, which have been neglected and allowed to fall into bad repair, become dangerous to live in. The sanitary inspector and the medical officer of health condemn them as unfit for human habitation, and the houses are shut up. Then, perhaps, they stand empty for some years; mischievous boys throw stones and break the glass left in the queer little windows; bill-posters paste notices of all kinds on the doors, walls, and window-shutters; holes are knocked in the plaster, bits of the woodwork are torn away, chalk-marks are scrawled on the walls, and the buildings very shortly look disgracefully untidy. Then some day the "house-breaker" appears on the scene, and the houses, which have stood for centuries, are cleared away, and modern buildings take their places. 3. Thoughtful people, who know something of the history of the town or village, are always sorry to see old buildings disappear; because there is much to be learned from them, and they help us to recall many things of great value and importance which we very easily lose sight of. 4. But, old as the houses in our streets and villages are, there are very few of them which date back more than three hundred or three hundred and fifty years. Most of them only date back to the time of Queen Elizabeth--the latter part of the sixteenth century. 5. There are, however, a number of fine old houses which have work in them of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and some people can point out to you traces of work in some old houses of an earlier date than that. There is at Lincoln, for instance, a fine old stone house called "the Jew's House", which was built late in the twelfth century. But stone houses for ordinary people, both in towns and villages, were very rare then--wood was the common material. Of course in parts of the country where stone was plentiful and wood scarce, stone would be very largely used. For instance, amongst the Cotswolds stone has always been the handiest material for building walls, and for covering roofs. [Illustration: Norman Dwelling.--The Jew's House, Lincoln] 6. Nowadays, both in town and country, houses are commonly "bunches of bricks". The Romans knew how to make bricks or tiles, and in places near old Roman cities Roman tile is still to be seen, which has been used up over and over again in the walls of old buildings. The big tower of St. Alban's Cathedral is built of Roman tiles which had been used centuries before in the walls of Roman houses in Verulamium. That tower has been standing as it is now for over 800 years. 7. But in Saxon times the _art_ of brick-making was lost, and Saxons and Normans, it appears, were quite ignorant of it. There is an old brick house--Little Wenham Hall, in Suffolk--which is believed to have been built in the latter part of the thirteenth century. That is the oldest brick house in England. In the fifteenth century the art of brick-making had been rediscovered, and it seems to have been imported from Flanders. The old palace at Hatfield is one of the brick buildings of this period; but brick did not come much into use until quite a century later. In the county of Middlesex, where there is found clay which is very suitable for brick-making, the art was not used to any great extent till the time of King James I. After the Great Fire of London, in the year 1666, there was a great demand for bricks, and the use of that material has quite changed the character of the houses in our towns and villages. [Illustration: THE OLD PALACE, HATFIELD (page 84)] =Summary.=--The oldest buildings in a town are usually the church, the town-hall, and alms-houses. Most of the houses with gabled roofs and plastered fronts do not go back farther than the time of Queen Elizabeth. There are a very few houses older than this: one at Lincoln, called the Jew's House, dates back to the twelfth century. Wood was the common material for house-building; but in _stone districts_, like the Cotswolds, stone took the place of wood. Brick is now the _ordinary_ material for house-building. The Romans made and used tiles, but the art was lost. The earliest _brick_ houses, like Little Wenham Hall in Suffolk, were built of material brought from Holland. The art of brick-making began to revive in this country in the fifteenth century, but was not very extensively practised till after the Great Fire of London, in 1666, in the neighbourhood of the metropolis. CHAPTER XXIII EARLY HOUSES (_Continued_) 1. For many centuries the houses of the villeins and cottiers did not alter very much in their general plan. You will remember that in those old pit-dwellings the hearth and its fire was the centre of the home. The room, or space round the fire, gradually became larger, especially in the houses of the thanes and eorls, till we get the hall, with the hearth in the middle, and the hole in the roof to let out the smoke. 2. All through the later Saxon and Danish times, and in the Norman period, the hall was the most important part of the house. As the years went on, and the style of building altered, the walls, the windows, and the roof became more beautiful and ornamental, becoming most magnificent in the fourteenth century, or Decorated Period. Gradually other buildings were added to the hall for comfort and convenience. 3. So far as we know, the house or hut of the villein was a very simple affair before the time of the Norman Conquest. Two pairs of poles were set up, sloped and joined at the top, and connected by a ridge pole something after this fashion-- [Illustration] The space between was then filled in by other poles and wattle-work. This was plastered with clay, and covered with turf or rough thatch. There seems to have been a pretty regular length for this building, which was long enough to take four stalls for oxen. That required about 16 feet, and was called a "bay". The villein and his oxen were all housed under one roof at first. When another bay was added, the size of the house was doubled, and so on. In the course of time the houses were improved; side walls were raised of wood framing, and the sides were filled in with wattles and covered with clay. 4. In the course of years these houses or huts grew out of date, and were replaced by others in much the same style, but gradually improving in comfort and workmanship. In the villages there was not much alteration down to the fourteenth century. When a house in a manor or village was pulled down, and was to be rebuilt, the manor court kept a sharp eye upon the building operations to see that the new walls did not encroach upon the highway, or upon the lord's land. No addition could be made to the house without the consent of the overlord. Customs in the villages changed very, very slowly, and so it is that, though the houses in out-of-the-way villages have been rebuilt over and over again, there are many lath-and-plaster houses standing now round village greens, built between two and three hundred years ago, on old foundations which date back to Saxon times. 5. So for many hundreds of years an ordinary village house was, to our way of thinking, a very wretched, comfortless place. Even as late as the time of Queen Elizabeth a countryman's house is thus described:-- "Of one bay's breadth, God wot, a silly cote, Whose thatchèd spars are furred with sluttish soote A whole inch thick, shining like blackmoor's brows Through smoke that down the headlesse barrel blows. At his bed's feete feaden[9] his stallèd teame, His swine beneath, his pullen[10] o'er the beam." =Summary.=--The _hearth_ was the central feature in the early pit-dwellings. The space round it gradually became larger and grew into the hall in Saxon days, and the hall, or house-place, remained the chief part of the house for centuries. As architecture improved, so did the appearance of the halls in important houses. Gradually other rooms were added. The hut of the villein was very simple. At first only like a rough roof, with sloping sides, in time this roof was raised on side walls. They usually were about 16 feet in length, and such a length was called a bay. Though built and rebuilt time after time, the style did not vary much for centuries for such houses as these. CHAPTER XXIV EARLY TOWN HOUSES 1. Houses in towns have been more frequently rebuilt and altered in various ways than those in the villages. The chief material used in building was wood, as it was in the villages, and one of the great dangers in the Middle Ages was that of fire. In the towns this danger was greater than in the villages, and fires happened more frequently. 2. The leading men in a town had more money to spend, and the increase of business, or a desire for change, led them to improve their houses. It was easier for a wealthy townsman to get leave from the "corporation" or guild to rebuild his house than it was for the villein in the village to get the leave of the manor court. 3. The thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries all saw a great growth in architecture; they were the Early English, the Decorated, and the Perpendicular Periods of architecture. In most of the old churches, and in many of the old mansions, we have specimens of all these periods; but not very many of the town houses founded in the Middle Ages, and still standing, are much earlier than the fifteenth century. In that age there was a great development of wood-work, and there is hardly one old town which has not some wood-work of that time in some of its old houses. 4. The rich and prosperous townsman rebuilt his house according to the fashion of his time; but through all the three centuries the general arrangements of the dwelling-house did not alter very much. 5. In some parts of London, and in many country towns, you can see that some of the shops in the main street are reached from the pavement by a little flight of steps. Below the shop there is a big light cellar, and the small boy or girl who wants to look in at the shop window has to "tiptoe" very much in order to do so. Now, that arrangement is just a little relic of the old town house of the Middle Ages. 6. The house was usually quite narrow, and had a gable facing the street. It was built over a cellar of stone, often arched and vaulted very much like a church. There were steps from the street down to the cellar, and these steps had to be protected, or accidents were certain to happen to careless foot-passengers. Then, too, there were steps up to the room over the cellar, which formed the shop and workroom in one. The front of the shop would be open, like a stall, and there would probably be a passage through to the back of the house. 7. Above the shop would be another room or rooms, over which, in the open space under the roof, was the great attic running through the house. This attic was often kept as a store-room, and goods were hoisted from the street by a crane; but, in later times, it would be formed most likely into little sleeping-rooms, very small, very dark, and very unhealthy. 8. Most of the work would be done in the shop, where the master, his workmen, and apprentices all did their share. The apprentices would sleep in the shop at night, and very probably the workmen as well. It was quite a usual thing for all the establishment to work and live and sleep on the premises. The rooms occupied by the master and his family at first were few in number; separate bedrooms only came into use very gradually indeed. 9. The walls of the house above the cellar were usually of wood, and the front towards the street was often skilfully and beautifully carved. In some English counties still there are very fine specimens of these old town houses; those at Chester, Shrewsbury, and Ludlow, for instance, are famed all over the world. [Illustration: Photo. Catherine Ward IRELAND'S HOUSE, SHREWSBURY (page 90)] 10. We must not suppose that all the houses were equally splendid, or equally well built; there was then, no doubt, bad building as well as good. In fact there must have been some very careless building in early days, and especially so in Norman times. It is a curious fact that almost every big Norman church tower tumbled down because it was badly built, even though Norman work looked very massive and substantial. 11. Merchants and wealthy tradesmen took great pride in their houses, and the wood-work and furniture in them were splendid. Kings and nobles were no better housed than these wealthy townsmen, nor did they have more of the comforts of life. 12. But the poor! There were always the poor and the outcast in every town; but they did not exist in the enormous numbers of later years, or of the present day. Their wretched little hovels were huddled together in close alleys, and life in them must have been very cheerless. It was, however, somebody's business to look after them. The religious houses, the churches, the colleges, all did their part in distributing food at their gates daily. Many wealthy people, both nobles and citizens, did likewise; and to give =alms to the poor= was a work of charity which no self-respecting citizen thought of shirking. Then, too, the guild or corporation kept a sharp look-out upon the poor; strangers were turned out of the town, and the people punished who had taken them into their houses. =Summary.=--Town houses were often rebuilt, owing to the fact that fires were common, and townsmen had more money to spend on building. They consisted of a cellar of stone, a shop, a room or rooms above, and a big attic. All the work was done in the shop, and there the men and apprentices slept at night. The wooden fronts of these houses were often very handsome, and specimens of those built in the fifteenth century may be seen at Chester, Shrewsbury, and Ludlow. All the building of those days was not equally good, but some of the best has lasted. Wealthy townsmen were as well housed as kings and nobles. The poor were not crowded in the towns. It was a work of mercy to look after the poor, and the poor were kept very largely by the places to which they belonged. Strangers were not admitted into the towns, and so many wanderers were kept away. CHAPTER XXV LIFE IN THE TOWNS OF THE MIDDLE AGES 1. Disease was one of the great dangers always lurking in a town. Plague of some kind or other was never very far away, and it frequently made its presence felt. People had not realized the sinfulness of dirt. 2. The best-drained buildings were the monasteries and colleges. Near the ruins of every big monastery, from time to time, underground passages have been discovered, many of them big enough for a man to walk along upright, and leading nobody knows where. When these were found, people shook their heads and said: "Ah, those old monks; you don't know what they were up to. They made these secret passages, going for miles and miles underground, so that they might get in and out of the monastery, and be up to all sorts of mischief, without anyone being the wiser." 3. Many wonderful tales have been told about these underground passages; but, as a matter of fact, most, if not all of them, have turned out to be =sewers=, which the monks made from their monasteries to some water-course, so that the sewage might be safely carried away. The monks were usually in advance of the townsmen of those days in sanitary matters. No doubt a sanitary engineer of the present day would be able to point out how much better the drainage-works could have been carried out; but the monks set an example in this matter which, bit by bit, the rest of the nation began to follow. 4. The chief streets of the town and the market-place were paved with huge lumps of stone, sloping towards the middle of the street from the houses on each side of the way, a gutter or "denter" running down the middle. When a heavy shower of rain fell, the water flushed the gutter more or less. If the street happened to be pretty level, the gutter, or denter, was just an open sewer all the year round; and it did its deadly work in poisoning the worthy citizens, high and low, rich and poor, though they did not realize it. Those towns were the best drained which were perched on a steep slope, so that the contents of the gutter found their way speedily to the nearest water-course. 5. There were no great manufacturing towns in those days. Most of the ordinary articles used by the townsfolk were manufactured in the town itself, and much of the work went on in the open air. The butcher killed his animals in the street, before his shop, and that added to the horrors of the gutter. But then all the butchers in a town were located in one part of it. Even now most old towns have got a Shambles, or Butchers' Row, or Butchery Street, or place of similar name, near the market-place. Other trades had their own parts of the town, where they made and sold their goods. Cordwinder Street or Shoemakers' Row are still common street names. The smith and the armourer did much of their work out in the open street; the joiner put together there any big piece of wood-work which he had in hand; the wheel-wright "shut" his tyres; the chandler melted fat and made candles. The streets of the town must have been very noisy and very "smelly". 6. There were no footways for passengers. Wagons, drays, and wheel-barrows there were, but carriages had hardly been invented, and coaches and light-wheeled vehicles had not been dreamt of. 7. No doubt the tradesmen were expected to clear up the mess they made in front of their houses, and the apprentices had to sweep up. But that usually meant only drawing the rubbish together to the great refuse-heap close to the house, which the fowls and the pigs, to say nothing of the children, speedily managed to scatter. Now and then these heaps would be carted away to a spot outside the town; but usually the street was looked upon as the handiest place into which to fling any refuse from the houses. However clean the citizens' houses might be inside, and however richly ornamented the wood-work, plague and pestilence was always very near. 8. Still, though many persons died, and were buried close by in the little churchyard, where for hundreds of years the dead had been buried, people lived, and throve, and did good work. For one thing, they lived a great deal in the open air, and they were not so much afraid of draughts in their houses as we are. 9. The =water-supply= of a town was a very important matter. Here, again, the monasteries and colleges frequently led the way, and showed how water might be brought by pipes from a distant spring. It was not an uncommon thing for water to be brought in this way to a "conduit" in the market-place, whence the people fetched it as they needed. Many a good wealthy citizen has performed the pious work of providing his town with a supply of water. Parts of old water-pipes, some of wood and some of lead, laid for such a purpose, have often been discovered in recent years. 10. Usually, however, a town had to depend upon wells for its water-supply; and with open gutters running through the town it is very easy to see that many of these wells supplied water which, at times, could not have been pure, however bright and clear it may have looked. 11. In the villages the dangers arising from want of proper drainage and from impure water were not quite so great as in the towns. Yet even now, in this twentieth century, how to drain our villages properly, and provide them with a good water-supply, are questions needing attention in many places. We have seen that the houses in the villages were usually close together, and men had not realized that dirt is one of the greatest enemies of mankind. There are a good many people, even in our time, who see no great harm in having pigsties, refuse-heaps, and manure-heaps close to their houses. 12. One of the most loathsome of the diseases common in the Norman times and later was =leprosy=. The lepers _were_ kept out of the towns, but at first very little was done for them. The refuse of the markets, and the food that was so bad that it had to be carted outside the town, was thought to be good enough for them. Gradually, however, we find =hospitals for lepers= established. They were not what we understand by hospitals, places where sick folk could be doctored and nursed and cured; they were religious houses which poor lepers might enter, and in which they might have safe shelter, care, and attention for the rest of their sad lives. They were always built outside the walls of the towns. 13. =Other hospitals= for poor and suffering people were also established. They were not large buildings, with wards holding scores of people. They were little religious houses, each with its chapel and priests to carry on its services, providing homes for small numbers--perhaps half a dozen or a dozen. 14. Kings, bishops, earls, and citizens all took part in this good work. Every founder expected that every day "for ever" he and his family should be prayed for by the inmates. Some hospitals were "founded" or established as thank-offerings for escape from some great danger; some to "make up" for some wrong that had been done and could never be put right, and to show that the founder was "really sorry"; some were built for good reasons, others for selfish reasons. Nowadays we arrange fêtes and demonstrations for our hospital funds, and we are asked to buy tickets, because "it's a good cause". We get some enjoyment for ourselves and help the hospital; thus, as it were, doing good and receiving good at the same time. =Summary.=--The monasteries in the Middle Ages were the best-drained buildings. "Underground passages" often met with near old monastery ruins were, for the most part, _sewers_. The gutter which ran down the middle of the town streets formed a kind of sewer. Towns on the slope of a hill were the best drained. In the Middle Ages there were no big manufacturing towns. Each town supplied most of its own wants. Different trades had their own quarters in the town, which is shown in some old street-names. Refuse was left lying about the streets, and the dead were buried in churchyards in the town. In some cases water was brought from a distance in wooden or leaden pipes to "conduits" in the town. Most towns depended on wells, which were often tainted with sewage matter. _Leper hospitals_ were founded and placed outside the walls of nearly all the towns. Other hospitals sprang up in the towns. None of them were large, or at all like our hospitals. They were alms-houses and homes, not places where folk went to be healed. CHAPTER XXVI THE GROWING POWER OF THE TOWNS 1. Back in early Saxon times we find that the inhabitants of a town were banded together to keep the peace, thus forming a society pledged to each other--the Peace or Frith Guild. It lost nearly all its _real_ power in later Saxon and Norman times. But it did not actually die out, and it appears that from this Frith Guild what we now understand by a =corporation= took its rise. The guild was a great power in some of the Saxon towns; only those belonging to it could trade in the town, and its members were very slow to admit outsiders to share in their privileges. 2. We have seen that the free, or nearly free, =tuns= gradually came under the power of an overlord--the king, a bishop, a baron, or a monastery, as the case might be, and very little real power was left to the guild. The overlord appointed a =reeve= to look after his interests, and the government of the place was in his hands. Yet the old Frith Guild seems to have regulated matters connected with the _customs_ of the town, which did not interfere with the lord's rights. 3. When we reach Norman times we have come to a period during which the towns improved their position. The Norman Conquest led to increased trade with the Continent. The great building operations here attracted skilled workmen and craftsmen to this country. These men naturally found their way to the towns rather than to the villages. They were protected and encouraged by the Norman nobles, who preferred _their_ work to that of the Saxons. Although they might be foreigners, these strangers had ideas of freedom and liberty which fitted in very well with the town's ideas of self-government. Then, too, these craftsmen were bound together in trade societies or guilds, and that made them strong and worthy of consideration in the places where they settled. 4. A =charter= to a town granted and secured to it certain privileges, and a town with a charter became a =borough town=. The king granted a good many charters to towns during the Norman Period. A town which wished a charter had to pay heavily for it. But it was quite worth while for the town to secure the right which a charter gave it--the right to manage its own affairs. What a town most desired was to be free from the authority of the king's officer, to choose its own port-reeve, who could preside over the court of the town, so that the town might not have to appear before the hundred court. By paying an annual rent to the king, however heavy the amount might be, the town hoped to escape from the many extra fees and taxes which the king's officers put upon it. It could then settle its own disputes, raise its own taxes as it needed them, and punish its own evil-doers. 5. In many cases bishops, barons, or religious houses were the overlords of districts containing important towns, and those towns managed to get charters from their overlord as other towns had from the king. By so doing they could get out of the power of the sheriff or shire-reeve. Charter or borough towns have most of them been very particular to preserve their rights and privileges. 6. If you live in a small country borough town, or city, you will notice that two different benches of =magistrates= sit in the town-hall to hear police cases; and there are two different =courts of justice=, though held often in the same room. There are first of all the =Borough Sessions=, at which the =mayor= of the borough presides, and which deal with cases arising in the borough, whether trifling or serious. Then, on another fixed day in the week, in the very same building, another body or bench of magistrates sits. These gentlemen usually come in from country places outside the town, and the cases brought before them have to do with the mischief done in the villages and country parishes. These magistrates have nothing at all to do with offences committed within the borough. These are the =county magistrates=, and their court is called the Petty Sessions, or the =County Sessions=. 7. Some offences are too grave for the borough or county magistrates to settle, and they have to be tried by a higher court of justice, which has greater powers than the Court of Petty Sessions, the Court of =Quarter Sessions=. The bench of this court is made up of magistrates drawn from all parts of the county, and a jury of twelve men, householders, from different parts of the county, has to be sworn to hear the evidence in the cases to be tried. The jury decides whether the man is proved to be guilty or not, when they have heard all that can be urged for and against him, and the magistrates decide what his punishment is to be, according to law. 8. There are some cases too grave or too complicated for the Court of Quarter Sessions to decide, and these have to stand over to the =Assizes=. These Assizes are held three times a year in the county town of each county, and every prisoner in the county jail must be accounted for. The court is presided over by one or more of the =king's judges=. These are trained lawyers, and they attend in the king's place, and are treated with much pomp and ceremony. =Summary.=--The Frith or Peace Guild in Norman times had lost most of its power in the towns, but it did not die out. Our _corporations_ have sprung from these. Towns were always trying to get out of the power of the overlords' reeve or the shire-reeve, and gradually many of them got the right of appointing their own reeve. That right was granted by _charter_, usually from the king. That is the beginning of our present _borough towns_. The mayor in them is the chief magistrate. In many country towns two different courts are often held in the same building: the _Borough Sessions_, at which the mayor presides, deal with offences done in the town; and _County Sessions_, at which magistrates from the country district round deal with offences outside the borough. _Quarter Sessions_ deal with graver matters four times in the year, and about three times a year one or more of the king's judges comes to the county town, and _Assizes_ are held for graver matters still. CHAPTER XXVII THE VILLAGES, MANORS, PARISHES, AND PARKS 1. We have seen that in Norman times the whole country was, so to speak, the king's. There were the great lords who held "fiefs" or possessions directly from the king, which consisted of manors in various parts of the country--sometimes a number of manors pretty close together,--often with big stretches of unoccupied land between them, over which the king had full control. Out of these unused districts the king could, and did, often make new grants of land. 2. As years rolled on, the =manors= became more valuable, and new manors were formed. In the earlier days the manor and the =parish= meant much the same thing; but in course of time, though the boundaries of the parish did not alter much, the number of manors increased in some parishes from one to two or three, or even more. 3. In many cases the mode of life on these manors went on unchanged for centuries, the tenants of these different manors going to the original =parish church=, and the parish priest ministering to the people in all the manors in his parish. In other cases daughter churches, or =chapels of ease=, were built in the newer manors, and provision was made for the support of a priest to minister to them. These have in some instances been erected in the course of time into separate parishes; but many remained as parts of the mother parish, though they might be several miles away from the parish church. 4. All through the Norman times there was a tendency to make new manors, and this gave rise to so many difficulties that the practice was stopped in the time of King Edward I. 5. In all parts of England to-day we have =parks=, belonging to big mansions; and our big towns and cities have their =parks= too, which are usually recreation-grounds for the people. A park in Norman and in Early English times was very different in appearance from our parks, whether in town or country. Just as the king had his great forests for hunting wild beasts, so in the later Norman times the great lords were anxious to enclose pieces of waste and forest land for the same purpose. 6. As we have seen, there were in early times vast tracts of wild, uncultivated, unenclosed land, partly wooded and partly heath lands, between the manors, which belonged to the king. The king alone could give leave to make a park. In the reign of King Henry III especially we find many such parks were "empaled". Of course the nobles had to give something to the king for this privilege. 7. Many of the old parks in England, now celebrated for their fine timber and beautiful scenery, date back to this period; but they were at first much wilder, and the trees then were neither so many nor so fine as they are now. The deer in them to-day just serve to remind us of the "wild beasts" with which they were stocked. 8. The laws for preserving the wild beasts and the game in these parks and forests and chases were very strict, harsh, and severe. Many of these new parks took away from the villeins, who lived in the neighbourhood, certain rights and privileges which their forefathers had had "time out of mind". 9. Though the land could not be bought and sold outright, manors became divided and subdivided, let and underlet, for various terms of years, and in many curious ways, so that in time the profits, or the income, of a manor, instead of going straight to the lord of the manor, might be going to half a dozen different persons and places. For instance, the half of a manor might be divided amongst several people for, say, twenty years, or for the lives of three or four people; but at the end of the twenty years, or on the death of the last of those persons, it must go back to the lord of the manor, who could keep it in his hands, or let it out in other ways to quite a different set of people. 10. It is not very difficult to understand that the management of an estate of many manors, broken up into many small portions, became very complicated. =Records= of all these various transactions had to be made in writing and carefully kept, and copied and re-copied time after time. People who understood all the "ins and outs" of the laws relating to the possession of land became very important and very busy. 11. There are immense numbers of documents, some of them dating back to Norman and even earlier times, still in existence. The =Record Office=, in London, has many thousands of documents connected with the king's business; the monasteries each had their own records, but most of them disappeared in the sixteenth century; every old estate has such documents; and many of the old manors have still records going back many centuries. Of course thousands more of these old documents have been lost, some destroyed purposely, and others through carelessness and ignorance. Some have been burnt in times of danger, when their owner, knowing that there were documents amongst them which might get him into trouble, and cost him his head, set fire to bundles of papers and parchments. Others have been stored away in dark, damp cellars, and forgotten for years and years; and rats and mice have nibbled them away, or mildew and damp have caused them to rot. 12. Those that we have left can still be read, and it is surprising to find in many cases how well they have been preserved all through the centuries. The letters are very often beautifully formed, and the whole still clear and distinct. They were written in Norman French and Latin, the latter being the language in which law business was carried on for many centuries. =Summary.=--New grants of land were constantly being made by the king out of his own land. Manors were divided and new manors made down to the time of King Edward I. Then a single manor would often be let out in different portions to various tenants for a term of years, but they always came back to the lord of the manor. He could not sell his land outright. _Parks_ for hunting were portions of "forest" taken in by leave of the king. They began to be common in the time of King Henry III. The trees were not as fine as they are now. Only the deer in them remain to remind us of the "wild beasts". The manors being let out in so many portions, there was much writing to be done relating to them. Many of these documents are still in existence, and can be read. The Record Office in London is the place where most of the old records belonging to the king are kept. All towns have their records, and a large number of manors have them also. The documents of that period were always written in Latin or Norman French. CHAPTER XXVIII TRACES OF EARLY TIMES IN THE CHURCHES 1. In most villages the =church= is the chief old building in the place, and it is a good thing to be able to tell the time to which its different parts belong. It will help us to fix in our minds the different periods, or steps, in the history of our country. Never be ashamed to ask questions about an old building. It will be a very strange thing, indeed, if you cannot find, in every town and village, _somebody_ who has a keen interest in old buildings, and who will delight in pointing them out to you. Nearly every local newspaper in the country, from time to time, prints odds and ends connected with the history of the neighbourhood. If there is anything about an old building that you want explained, you can easily write a short letter to the editor of the paper, and there is sure to be someone who will take the trouble to answer your question, and help you to understand. [Illustration: Architectural Features Long and Short Work (Saxon); Anglo-Saxon Doorway; Anglo-Saxon; Double Window; Norman Curving; Norman Doorway; Lancet Windows; Doorway, 14th Century; Window, 15th Century] 2. An old parish church has a good deal to tell us about the history of the parish and its people, and if you know something of the history of the place in which you live, you will know something _worth knowing_ of the history of your country, which will help you to be a good citizen. 3. There are, as we said in a former chapter, some few churches which have little bits of Saxon work left in their walls and windows. In a great many more we shall see some Norman work, especially in pillars and arches and doorways. That Norman Period takes in the reigns of all the kings from William I to the time of King John, from the middle of the eleventh century to the end of the twelfth, down to the time of Magna Carta. 4. When we come to the time of Magna Carta we are in the thirteenth century, when pointed arches came into use. Through the reigns of King Henry III and King Edward I a great deal of building in that style went on. In almost every parish some alteration was made in the church in that century; and probably in the chancel there are one or two old windows, which will be pointed out to you as having been first put in during that century. 5. You may, perhaps, find a very old battered figure of a man in chain armour, the sort of armour in which King Edward I went fighting in the Third Crusade, in Wales, and in Scotland; in which Simon de Montfort and Wallace and the Bruce fought. Some of these effigies have the legs crossed--some at the ankles, some at the knees, and some at the thighs. It used to be said that these represented crusaders; but nobody seems really to know what was the meaning of the cross-legged effigies. [Illustration: Effigy with Crossed Legs in the Temple Church, London] 6. Then there are some flat stones, lying in the pavement, with inscriptions running round the edge in strange worn letters, with perhaps an ornamental cross also cut the whole length of the stones. These are the cover-stones of the graves where some great baron or land-owner was buried, and they belong to the thirteenth century, and some are even of earlier date. They are called =incised slabs=. 7. In this same century another kind of cover-stone for a grave came into use, especially in the southern and eastern parts of England. Metal was fixed in the incised slabs, and the portrait of the knight and his lady, the merchant or the lawyer, the bishop or priest was engraved on the metal, showing the person in the kind of dress he wore during life. It is said that there are about 4000 of these =brasses= still left in England. Some of them have been sadly damaged and worn. They do not all belong to the thirteenth century, as this kind of memorial of the dead was used during several centuries--in fact, well on into Queen Elizabeth's reign, at the end of the sixteenth century. The oldest brass in England, showing a man in armour, is in Surrey, in Stoke D'Abernon Church. Brasses are very valuable, as they show us the kinds of armour and dress worn in particular centuries. =Summary.=--There is not much Saxon work left in any of the old churches, but a good deal of Norman work, in round-headed arches and doorways. The Norman period lasted from King William I to King John. Pointed arches then came in, and in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries there was much church-building and alteration. Battered _effigies_ of cross-legged figures in armour belong to this period. _Incised slabs_ were originally the cover-stones of graves. In the thirteenth century _brasses_ came into fashion, and they show us changes in costume, as they were used down to the time of Queen Elizabeth. CHAPTER XXIX TRACES OF EARLY TIMES IN THE CHURCHES (_Cont._) 1. The fourteenth century is covered by the reigns of King Edward II, King Edward III, and King Richard II. The architecture became much more ornamental, and there is a good deal of fine stone-carving. Many beautiful window-heads and doorways belong to this period. A good many aisles were added to the old naves; many of the old Norman towers were rebuilt, and crowned with graceful spires; but the work is not all equally good. 2. There are a great many =tombs= in the churches in various parts of the country, and much money was spent upon them in this and in the next century. They are raised some two or three feet from the ground; the sides are divided into panels and ornamented with rich carvings and shields of arms, brilliantly coloured and gilded. On the top of the tombs are to be seen effigies carved in stone of the man and his wife, lying on their backs, with hands clasped. The men are usually in armour, and their wives in the dress of the time, with strange-looking head-dresses. Many of the effigies are much defaced and battered, but there are others of them well preserved still. It was in the latter part of the fourteenth century that great attention began to be paid to shields of arms, and heraldry became an important science. 3. But in the middle of the fourteenth century, during the reign of King Edward III, there came a time of great distress. There were the long years of war with France, years of famine and the =Black Death=. That meant a period of great distress for the country; all classes suffered, and there was much discontent and disorder. These bad times left their mark upon the buildings, especially upon the churches. In some churches work can be pointed out to you which was begun before the time of the Black Death on a grand scale, but finished off in a much plainer manner--apparently years after it was begun. The work had been started, but bad times stopped it, and it had to wait. Those who had begun it never saw it finished, for the pestilence carried them away; and, long afterwards, those who did finish it were not well enough off to carry out the design as it was at first intended. 4. Still, all through these centuries much was spent on the churches, not only by the great nobles, not only in monastery buildings and the cathedral churches, but on the ordinary town and village churches as well. 5. The wealthy =wool-merchants=, especially in the fourteenth century, spent much on the building and decoration of churches. Some of the finest churches in the eastern and western counties of England owe much to them. Then, too, it was quite a common thing for the various =trade guilds= in a town to have a little chapel, or an aisle, or an altar in the parish church, which the guild undertook to keep up. One guild tried to outdo the others in this matter. All the craftsmen of those days belonged to a trade guild of some sort, and much good artistic work was done, which found a place in the churches. 6. People took much interest in their churches, and we find them leaving money towards their upkeep, towards making a statue, or doing some carving, or even keeping a light burning. Whatever may have been their reasons for so doing, the fact that they did so is very clear. 7. They used their churches in ways that may seem strange to us; but they looked upon them as their own, and were evidently in many cases proud of them. Each parish annually chose its =churchwardens=, who had charge of the buildings and the furniture, and these were responsible to the bishop, as well as to the people of the parish. Every now and then the bishop visited the parish, or sent someone to do so in his name. Enquiry was made as to how the priest and the people carried out their duties towards each other. Complaints were heard, and attempts made to set matters right. Some of the reports which were made on such occasions have come down to us, and show often much disorder, and at times much that was evil. But we must not forget that good was also being done then, which was not talked much about. "The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones." =Summary.=--The kings of the fourteenth century were Edward II, Edward III, and Richard II. There was much ornamental stone-work then done; _aisles_ were added to the naves, and towers and spires built. _Altar tombs_ came much into use, with effigies, panelled sides, coloured shields of arms, and rich carving. The _Black Death_ divided the century into two parts, and work done after that time was often much poorer than before, because the country was poorer. As the century went on, building revived. The great _wool-merchants_ of the east and west of England were great church-builders. _Trade guilds_ often looked after parts of churches. People were proud of their churches, and often left presents to them in their wills. _Churchwardens_, who had charge of the churches, were important officers at that period. CHAPTER XXX CLERKS 1. Changes took place much more slowly in the Middle Ages than they do now. First of all, the population was very much smaller, and hundreds and hundreds of acres, now covered by big manufacturing towns, were then unoccupied land. 2. At the time of the Norman Conquest the whole population of England only numbered about 2,000,000 people; and in the time of King Henry VII it was only 4,000,000; so that, in the course of 400 years, the population had only doubled itself. 3. The people were not crowded into the towns. For instance, in the time of King Edward III, Colchester was one of the large towns, yet it had only 350 houses, in which 3000 people lived, all told. There were only nine larger towns in the country at that time. 4. The bulk of the people were living in the villages, in the various manors, not in the towns. Many things prevented the population from growing very rapidly--disease, famine, and war kept it down. Death was the punishment for a very large number of offences, so that it is not to be wondered at that the population did not increase very fast. 5. The population was divided into two distinct classes--those who were =clergy=, or =clerks=, and those who were not. By "clergy" we understand, in these days, "ministers of religion"; but the word had a very different meaning in the Middle Ages. 6. In early Saxon times religion and learning were very closely related. Colleges and monasteries were centres of learning, and bishops, abbots, priests, and monks took the lead in matters in which a knowledge of reading and writing was required. Folk who had a leaning towards learning naturally became connected with colleges or monasteries. They began as scholars, and then were admitted, or =ordained=, to one of the lower orders of the ministry--often when they were still only boys. 7. There are many thousands of boys to-day who are choir-boys. In early times those admitted to such an office as that had to be ordained, or set apart for the purpose, by the bishop. That ordaining made them =clerks= or clergy; and they were under the authority of the bishop or his officers. If they did wrong, they were tried and punished in the =bishop's court=. 8. In the course of years there grew up, side by side, two different sets of courts of justice, the =Church Courts= and the =King's Courts=, which were guided by different laws. The laws which ruled the Church Courts were much more merciful than those which ruled the civil or King's Courts. Death was the punishment for almost every offence tried in the King's Courts and in the Manor Courts; but in the Church Courts the punishments were much less severe, and the culprit had a much better chance of "turning over a new leaf". 9. If a man was brought before the King's Court charged with a crime, he could call for a book. If he could read a few sentences, that was taken to show that he was a clerk, and he could claim to be tried by the Church Court. That is, he could claim "benefit of clergy". 10. You can readily see that such a state of things, however good it may have been at the first, was dreadfully abused in the course of time. What at first had been merciful and just became in time mischievous and dangerous. The great struggle between King Henry II and Archbishop Thomas à Becket had to do with the power of these two sets of courts, the Church Courts and the King's Courts--it had to do with government, _not_ with religion and religious matters. 11. Clerks, or the clergy, were drawn from all classes of society, from the royal family down to the serfs on the manors. In fact, before the time of the Black Death, the only way in which a serf could become a freeman was by buying his freedom or by becoming a clerk. A serf who wanted his son to rise to a better position than his own would try to get him made a clerk; for the moment he became a clerk he was a =free man=. 12. But to attain his purpose the serf must first have the permission of his master or overlord. All overlords were not tyrants by any means. The serf might do his master a good turn--save his life, for instance--and in return his master would set him free, or allow his son to be taught by the priest and ordained; or he might let him join a college or monastery. 13. Many and many a priest, clerk, or monk, rose from being a serf or a villein in this way; so many, in fact, that a writer in the twelfth century complains that villeins were attempting "to educate their ignoble offspring". Later still, Piers Plowman complains that "bondsmen's bairns could be made bishops". 14. There was a very sharp line of division between clerks and those who were not clerks, and the privileges which clerks had, led to much squabbling and many disorders. 15. Kings and nobles employed clerks on their business, for the simple reason that they were able men. From the clerks, too, were drawn the men whom we should now call =lawyers=. We have seen that there was a vast deal of writing to be done in those days in connection with the towns and the manors. Amongst these clerks were good men and bad men; some who loved learning for its own sake; some who found that it paid better than anything else; and others who misused their privileges, did much evil, and brought the name of "clerk" into sad disgrace. =Summary.=--The population of England in the Middle Ages was small. At the Conquest it numbered 2,000,000, and in the time of King Henry VII it was only 4,000,000. It was kept down by famine, wars, and death-punishments, as well as by disease. The population was divided into two great divisions, _clerks_ and those who were _not clerks_. Religion and learning in early days went together. Clerks were under the rule of the bishop, other folk under the king's rule. "Benefit of clergy" in time was misused. Clerks were needed for the king's business, and to do all sorts of work where learning was required. From them sprang the _lawyers_. Clerks were drawn from all classes of society, and they were very popular, because it was the only way by which the son of a serf might become a _free man_. Many of the greatest clerks rose from very humble origin. Many of these clerks greatly misused their privileges, and in time their order, or class, got to be much disliked. CHAPTER XXXI FAIRS 1. The word "Fair" calls up to our minds all sorts of wonderful sights and sounds--the stalls with their wonderful "fairings" and "goodies"; the shows and the shooting-galleries; the "flying horses" and the "conjurors"; the wonderful caravans and cocoa-nuts; the musical instruments of all sorts, from the mouth-organ and "squeaker" to the steam-organ of the roundabout. 2. Many such fairs are still held in every county, and they connect the present day very closely with the life of bygone days. It is "all the fun of the fair" which draws people to them mostly nowadays, but in some of them there is still important business done; people are attracted to them for =trade= as well as for =pleasure=. 3. Some of these fairs are held in big towns, such as Lincoln and Carlisle. At Barnet a great horse fair is held every year in September. But some big fairs are held away from any large town, such as the big sheep fair at Weyhill, in Hampshire. At Stourbridge, in Cambridgeshire, a fair is still held; it is quite an ordinary one now, but in the Middle Ages it was one of the most important fairs, not only in England, but in Europe--a kind of Nijni-Novgorod, where East and West met. 4. In some places the business part of the fair has now quite died out, and a few stalls, a roundabout, a shooting-gallery, and swings are all that can be seen on a fair-day. 5. The word "fair" comes from an old word which means a "feast" or festival. There are many villages which still have their annual =village feast=, more important to the village than Christmas or a "Bank Holiday". Houses are turned out and cleaned from top to bottom; everything must be made fit to be seen "for the feast". It is a great meeting-time for families, and the boys and girls who have gone away to work in some big town try to get back for a few hours to their native village, to "the old house at home". [Illustration: STOURBRIDGE FAIR, IN THE MIDDLE AGES (page 119)] 6. In the beginning the village feast was connected with the parish church--it was the festival of the saint after whom the church was named. That day was a holiday, and all the people went to church as a matter of course. The church was the gathering-place, and, in the porch and the churchyard, and on the village green, friends, neighbours, and relatives met and had a time of rejoicing. 7. So many people coming together attracted pedlars and hawkers, who spread out their goods on the green, in the churchyard, and in the church porch itself. People who met but seldom used the chance of doing a little business with each other. Little by little, then, the "feast" became a "fair", and in many cases was a very important business and trading meeting. 8. Now it did not suit the ideas of people in those days that outsiders should come into their village and buy and sell as they chose. You know how the boys living in one street even nowadays object to the boys from another street coming to play in their street--"You go and play in your own street". So in very early times the lord of the manor began to regulate these things. Outsiders who brought their goods for sale had to pay a "due" or "toll" to the lord of the manor to be allowed to trade; and the right of receiving tolls for fairs became one of an overlord's privileges. 9. The people in the towns, who were more interested in trade than the people in the villages, saw how very important and profitable a fair was--that it was something "with money in it"--and the towns were very anxious to get the right to hold one or more annual fairs. But the overlord, the king, had a voice in the matter, because each stall set up, and each bale of goods, brought in "by right" an income. 10. The king had the right to grant, almost to whom he pleased, the privilege of holding a fair; and the privilege was much sought after. Towns, as we saw in a former chapter, got =charters= from the king, which very often gave to them this right. But it was quite a common thing for the king to make a grant of an annual fair to a religious house which he wanted to benefit, without much cost to himself, and the profits of the fair went to support the house. The king's nobles did the same kind of thing. 11. All the shops in the place where the fair was held had to be shut while the fair was on, and nothing could be bought or sold except in the fair. The tradesmen of the place had to pay their tolls to the person or public body to whom the fair had been granted, just as the strangers coming into the town did. 12. Fairs lasted in some cases for only one day; in others for two, three, or more days, and sometimes as long as a fortnight, during which time, whether the inhabitants liked it or not, all trade had to be carried on only in the fair. That was one of the things which caused jealousy between the trading class and the religious houses, and often led to much ill-feeling and disorder. 13. Then, too, the king could grant to any person the right to go to any fair in the country without paying toll and duty. Of course those persons to whom the king granted this right had to pay him very heavily for this privilege, but you can see that it was quite worth their while. Foreign merchants and Jews[11] often had such privileges granted to them, and that partly accounts for the great dislike there was to these classes of people. 14. Many of the religious houses had entered into trade too, and very often the same privilege of putting their goods on the market was granted to them. Members of a religious house could often travel from place to place without having to pay tolls and duties which other folk had to pay. That might be quite right and reasonable when they were on some religious duty or errand of mercy, but when it was connected with buying and selling the goods produced or manufactured on the monastery lands it was "rather hard", as we should say, on the traders. The grievance grew up gradually, but it caused very often a bitter feeling between the towns and the religious houses in them. =Summary.=--Fairs are usually now only for pleasure, though in many places, like Lincoln, Carlisle, and Barnet, they are important business meetings. The most important fair in the Middle Ages in England was at Stourbridge. It was a kind of Nijni-Novgorod. The Fair was at first the "feast-day" of the parish church. It brought people together, and pedlars began to sell their goods on such occasions. Gradually the overlords regulated these meetings, and strangers had to pay toll. Kings granted the right to hold fairs to towns and religious houses, and the privilege was much sought after. Freedom from paying tolls was also a privilege which the king could grant. It led in time to many squabbles between townsmen and the religious houses. CHAPTER XXXII MARKETS 1. One of the pleasantest sights, to a Londoner at any rate, is the market-place of an old-fashioned country town on a market-day. In many such towns the weekly market is held, in the open air, in the same place where it has been held for centuries. Probably none of the houses round the market square are as old as the market, but the buildings, altered and rebuilt as they have been, take us back several centuries, and speak of days long gone by. 2. A good many towns have built covered markets. Some of them are near the =old market-place=, but in other cases the market is now held in quite another part of the town. Cattle-markets, which used to be held in the open street in a busy thoroughfare, are now often held in places more suitable for that purpose some distance away from their old quarters. 3. Corn-markets are held in most market-towns, frequently on the same day as the general market, and many towns now boast a =corn exchange=. Then, too, in some places there are markets held in connection with the chief trade of the neighbourhood. 4. The =market-house= is often a curious building. You may almost speak of it as "a big room on legs". There is a large room standing on stone or wooden arches. The open space underneath serves to shelter some of the market stalls, and a staircase leads up from the street to the room above, where the town council holds its meetings. On the roof of this building is a turret containing a clock, and perhaps a fire-bell and a market-bell. There is such a quaint old market-house still standing at Amersham, in Buckinghamshire, but so many of these old buildings have been pulled down to make way for larger structures, in which the town can carry on its business, and where the various officers can have their offices, that the town-hall is mostly now a smart modern building. 5. The =stalls= set up on the market-day are of the same simple kind as those which have been used for centuries. It is curious to notice how the different trades keep to different parts of the market-place--butchers in one place, green-grocers in another, and fishmongers in another. Just as the trades had their special quarters in town, so they had in the market. Things have altogether changed as far as the shops are concerned, but the setting out of the market is almost exactly the same to-day as it was five hundred years ago. 6. The =market-cross= still remains in some towns, but the cross itself has in many cases disappeared long ago. In some places the steps and the lower part of the cross still remain, but there is a kind of open shed built round it to form a shelter. Some of these shelters are very ornamental, like those at Chichester and Winchester. It is not an uncommon thing for such a cross as that to be called the Butter Cross, from the fact that around the cross was held the butter-market. Some of these shelters are quaint rather than beautiful, and cover the town pump, which is now carefully locked up. In some places a drinking-fountain stands where once the cross stood. At the cross a good deal of business was done. The mayor or his officers would read out public notices there on the market-day, that everybody might hear. Not far from the cross was the =cage=, where folk who had been "taken up" were set for a time. The =stocks=, the =pillory=, and the =whipping-post=, in the seventeenth century, were usually here in the market-place, not far from the cross. [Illustration: Market Cross and portion of Shelter, Winchester] [Illustration: Photo. Valentine CASTLE AND BUTTER MARKET, DUNSTER, SOMERSETSHIRE (page 124)] 7. There is much to see in a market-place on a market-day. If the market-day is Saturday, you will find the place thronged with people, especially at night; and even quite small towns are then so crowded that you wonder where the people come from. 8. Fairs, in the Middle Ages, provided for much of the =wholesale trade= of the country, and markets for the =retail trade=. The two were very much alike, and the rights to hold an annual fair and a weekly market mostly went together. 9. Some places had, and still have, more than one market a week. In many places the market has quite died out now, but in the early days one of the first steps of a "tun" towards becoming a "town" was to obtain the right to hold a market. There are many of our modern towns which have grown up in manufacturing districts, near great railway centres, or near docks and railway-stations, which have no market. Nearly all of our old towns, however small they may be, have, or at one time _had_, the right of holding markets. 10. Nobody can set up a stall in the market as he pleases. On the market-day you will see the =beadle= going about from stall to stall taking the toll from each stall-holder. In many cases he wears an old-fashioned dress trimmed with gold lace. Now this reminds us of the time when no one except a freeman of the town could trade freely. The stall-holders were outsiders--"foreigners"--and had to pay to the town a toll, or due, for permission to sell in the town. In our day you can go and settle in any town you please, and open a shop just as you like, but you cannot so easily take a stall and sell in the market: you must pay the =market toll= even now. Such tolls go towards the expenses of the town, and help to keep down the rates. 11. In the market the town and the country meet. In these days, when the produce of the country can be quickly sent into the heart of the largest town, the country provision-markets are not of as much importance as they once were, but they are very useful and very popular still. 12. There are many places where the market beadle rings a =bell=--in some towns it is a handbell, in others a bell in the clock-tower--to give notice of the opening and closing of the market. In former days, if a man dared to sell anything before the bell was rung in the morning, or after it had rung in the evening, he was very severely punished. 13. There were proper town officers appointed by the mayor and corporation to look after the markets, and to see that goods were sold at the proper market price, and that there was no cheating in weight and measure. =Summary.=--Markets in the open are often held on the same spots where they have been held for centuries. In some towns covered markets have been built, and more convenient cattle-markets. Different kinds of provisions are sold still in different parts of the market. In some places the Market Cross is called the Butter Cross. Here public notices were given out, and ill-doers flogged, put in the _stocks_ or _pillory_, or in the _cage_. Markets are still very popular, especially on Saturday nights. Stalls in a market have to be paid for, and the tolls are usually paid to the market beadle. Town and country meet in the market, and in olden times they were the chief means for providing the towns with food. CHAPTER XXXIII SCHOOLS 1. The earliest schools in England were held in the =monasteries=, and were intended for boys and young men who were to be trained as priests, missionaries, or monks. There were famous schools at Canterbury, York, and Jarrow in the seventh and eighth centuries. In King Alfred's time, at the end of the ninth century, great attention was paid to the teaching of both girls and boys. Later still, in the tenth century, we find the teaching of the young attracting great attention. 2. Latin was taught in these schools, and many of the scholars became famous students and deep thinkers. In the course of time others, besides those intending to become monks and priests, were also taught, and became clerks and found various employments, as we have seen, in civil business. 3. Gradually =other schools= sprang up, outside the monasteries and cathedrals, which were not meant for monks or priests, though they were at first connected with monasteries, colleges, and cathedrals. For instance, in Norman times, not very long after the Conquest, there were =grammar-schools= at Derby, St. Alban's, and Bury St. Edmund's. 4. When we think of these schools we must not picture to ourselves great buildings to hold two or three hundred boys, such as we see now; nor must we suppose that there was a great rush of pupils to them. Boys did not go to school from nine till twelve, and from two till four, with plenty of time for cricket, football, and sports of all descriptions. School work was very hard, and was regarded as a serious business. There was a great deal of learning by heart to be done. You see, books were few and costly, and a man's best reference library was his own well-stored memory. No doubt this hard work helped to train the memory, and was good discipline for the scholar. 5. In the monasteries and colleges, where boys were trained to sing in the =choir=, they had to learn their services by heart. In the ordinary services there were long psalms and passages of Scripture attached to them which differed for every day, and the boys had to know these perfectly in Latin. For hours and hours every day the little fellows were drilled in the services till they were word-perfect. There were something like seven services to be learned for each of the three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. 6. We talk of Latin nowadays as a dead language, but it was anything but a dead language in the Middle Ages. School was held all day long, from quite early in the morning; and during school-hours woe betide the lads if they talked in any other language but Latin. 7. Choir-boys had to be taught in the =song-school= as well, how to sing their services, and the music was just as difficult as the words and had also to be learned by heart. 8. In the parish churches the priest and the parish clerk had boys whom they trained to help in the services. The services were much simpler and shorter than those in the monasteries; but they were in Latin, and had to be known by heart. 9. In the grammar and other schools the boys were drilled in the works of old Latin scholars in much the same way, and in some cases in Greek authors as well, with a certain amount of arithmetic and science. 10. There were no long weeks of holidays to look forward to at Christmas, Easter, Whitsuntide, and in the summer; but during the year there were many holy days kept, which were holiday, on which neither school-boys nor villeins did their ordinary work. Thus, no doubt, school-boys managed to get a fair amount of play, and found time for getting into mischief. 11. For instance, at St. Alban's we read that in the year 1310 the boys were forbidden to wander or run about the streets and roads without reasonable cause. If a lad did so, he was to be sought for and punished by the master "in the accustomed way"; and every boy knows what that was. Then, too, the scholars must not bear arms, either in school or out of school. That was to prevent them from fighting with the townspeople. It is very curious to notice that even nowadays there is often no love lost between "grammar boys" and "town boys"; they can get up a quarrel almost as easily in the twentieth century as they did in the thirteenth. 12. Boys took part in acting the =earliest plays= that were represented in England. At first the plays dealt with religious subjects, and were called "Mysteries" and "Miracles"; and these plays and shows became very popular in England. Geoffrey de Gorham, in early Norman days, taught a school at Dunstable, and wrote one of these plays called St. Catherine. He borrowed vestments from St. Alban's Abbey, in which to dress some of his characters; but on the following night his house somehow caught fire, and his books and the borrowed vestments were destroyed in the flames. 13. In the cloisters of some of our old cathedral churches and colleges, such as Gloucester and Westminster, on some of the old stone benches, there are holes and scratches still to be seen where school-boys of long ago played games with marbles and stones. 14. By the thirteenth century there seem to have been schools in all the chief towns. Though they may not have held very many scholars, they were not intended for the sons of well-to-do people only; they were for =poor scholars= as well. Thus, at St. Alban's, provision was made for sixteen poor scholars, and the same kind of provision was quite common. There was some chance, even in those days, for a lad with "brains" to get on in the world. In fact, we know that in those Middle Ages a good many men rose "from the ranks" to hold high office in the state. There was, for instance, Thomas à Becket. He was born in London, and not ashamed to be known as Thomas of London. Then there was Thomas Scot, who rose to be Archbishop of York and Chancellor of England in the fifteenth century, who was known as Thomas of Rotherham, after the place where he was born. William of Wykeham, that great founder of schools, is still known by the name of the little out-of-the-way Hampshire village where he was born--Wykeham. Winchester College, the first of our =public schools=, was founded by him. His real surname was Longe, and the motto he chose, "Manners Makyth Man", is worth putting up in every school in the land. [Illustration: Photo. Valentine WINCHESTER COLLEGE (page 132)] 15. But there were dunces in those days too, who made little or no use of their opportunities, and others who turned them to bad purposes. =Summary.=--Schools began in the monasteries, and those at Canterbury, York, and Jarrow were famous in the seventh and eighth centuries; and King Alfred was a great promoter of schools. Soon after the Conquest other schools began at Derby, St. Alban's, and Bury St. Edmund's. Learning had to be by heart, as books were few. Latin was the great language of learning in the Middle Ages. There were frequent holidays, though they did not last for weeks at a stretch. Boys took part in the early _Mystery Plays_, which were the origin of our stage plays. By the thirteenth century there were small schools in most towns, and provision was made for poor scholars. Many great men, like Thomas à Becket, Thomas of Rotherham, and William of Wykeham, rose from such schools as these. CHAPTER XXXIV UNIVERSITIES 1. Now, just as the tide flows and ebbs, so in England did interest in learning rise and fall during the Middle Ages. Schools of all kinds had their good times and their bad times. Sometimes we find the thirst for learning being shown in one direction; then it almost died away for a time; revived again, and took another direction. 2. At first we see it going in the direction of making monks and priests and missionaries; then in making able men who could take part in the civil business of the manor, the town, and the country; and then, in the thirteenth century, it began again to take a turn towards learning for learning's sake. 3. As we get near to the thirteenth century, we find the beginnings of our English =universities=. A university was a corporation or body of learned men who bound themselves together to teach, and who got the sole right of appointing teachers in their districts. A man could only have leave to teach after his knowledge and ability had been well tried by them; and when that leave was given he was said to take his =degree=. 4. The opportunity of getting wider knowledge and higher teaching attracted scholars, lads and young men who had had their early teaching in the small college and grammar-schools. They were encouraged and in many ways helped to go to the university. Gifts were left to their old schools to help the likely boys to go to the university; many of the monasteries and colleges sent their pupils there, and it was looked upon as a pious work and a work of mercy to help poor scholars in this way. 5. Scholars flocked in hundreds to various universities, and we find Oxford and Cambridge rising as university towns. We cannot say exactly when this began, but we read that in King John's reign, in the year 1209, there was a great "town and gown" riot at Oxford. Three of the gownsmen were hanged as a punishment; so about 3000 of the rest left Oxford and went to other universities, and Oxford was deserted for a time. These facts show that by the beginning of the thirteenth century, just when the Early English style of architecture was coming into fashion, universities, with their "higher education", were very important. [Illustration: Photo. Taunt & Co., Oxford CLOISTER QUADRANGLE, MAGDALEN COLLEGE, OXFORD (page 136)] 6. At first it seems that the scholars at the university lived in the town, where they chose or where they could, attending the various lecture-halls. Then various people seem to have hit upon the plan of setting up houses in the town, and letting the rooms to the scholars, so that a number of them might live together. Thus they were divided up into different sets. These houses were called =hostels=, and we find them at Cambridge in the beginning of the thirteenth century. 7. Early, too, in this same century a new religious order found its way to England--the =Friars=. The Dominican Friars were a very learned teaching order, and when they settled at Oxford they greatly strengthened the work of the university and kept it alive and active. 8. A Surrey man, Walter de Merton, Chancellor and Bishop of Rochester, was the inventor or founder of =colleges= at the universities as we know them to-day. In the hostels the scholars did pretty much as they pleased, chose their own officers, and made their own rules. There was much disorder after a while; many quarrels and fights took place between one hostel and another, as well as with the townsfolk. Merton spent twelve years in thinking out his plan, and at last, in the year 1264, he founded or established the first of the Oxford Colleges. 9. The old monasteries and colleges in the early times had been founded to keep up a continual round of worship, work, and learning; the special work of these new colleges was to promote learning and fellowship. In many ways they were like the older convents; but the work of education was the chief object of these new foundations, and we find teachers and taught, governors and pupils, living under the same roof, under rule and order. 10. Merton's idea was soon afterwards followed at Cambridge, where Peterhouse College was opened in the year 1284. During this century, too, we find a rival university springing up at Stamford; but, owing to the opposition of Oxford and Cambridge, it was snuffed out, though there are still standing some interesting buildings which were connected with it. College after college, at both Oxford and Cambridge, has been founded since then; each one has its own special laws and government, which have been altered from time to time, and for many centuries now they have been cities of colleges, unlike anything else in the country. 11. Many old customs are kept up still at Oxford and Cambridge; the scholars and officials of the colleges and universities go about in their gowns, as they have done for centuries, and each university has still rights and privileges in the government of the town which have naturally come to it in the course of time. The town and the townsfolk have their interests and government; so that there are two authorities, side by side, responsible for law and order. The gown and the town depend upon each other; and in days gone by they have, times without number, misunderstood each other, and quarrelled, and fought. 12. In the reign of King Edward III Oxford was the most famous seat of learning in Europe. Many of its students were foreigners, but, as everyone could talk Latin as well as he could his native language, they had no real difficulty in making themselves understood. =Summary.=--Our _universities_ began about the thirteenth century. A university is a corporation, or body of learned men banded together to teach. Scholars were attracted to the universities from the schools, and encouraged and helped to go to them. _Hostels_ were gradually started for scholars in the university town. The Dominican Friars were a great teaching order. Walter de Merton was the founder of the first Oxford College; by that means the teachers and taught lived together. The object of these colleges was to promote learning. Stamford had a university for a time. Many old customs are still observed in a university city. Oxford in the reign of King Edward III was the most famous university in Europe. CHAPTER XXXV CHANGES BROUGHT ABOUT BY THE BLACK DEATH 1. In the middle of the fourteenth century, in the reign of King Edward III, came the Black Death. It carried off half the population of the country at least, and all classes of society felt its effects. 2. We have said that in some of the old parish churches you can see, by some of the work done just after this time, that the builders were very much poorer than they had been, and had to finish off in a very plain fashion work begun on a grand scale. You must remember, too, that there were several different kinds of land-owners or overlords--the king, the great lords, bishops, colleges, and monasteries. The manors, of which these estates were made up, in the course of centuries were divided and subdivided in many ways as the land became more valuable. Many people might thus have an interest in one manor which a couple of hundred years before had been in the hands of one person only. That made law business very complicated when these little parcels of land changed hands. 3. Though manors could not be bought and sold outright, little by little money was paid to have bits of manors and the various rights in manors let out, or =leased=, for a term of years. This was especially the case with property in towns, and with lands belonging to corporations, like colleges and monasteries, which were often scattered about in various parts of the country. 4. On the manors in the country districts the same thing was going on, though perhaps more slowly than in the towns. It became much more convenient for the villeins and cottiers, and other tenants of a manor, to pay a =rent= to the lord instead of actually working on the lord's land. At first this rent was paid in the produce of the land--a few hens or eggs, a calf or a lamb, or so much corn, till by and by we find actual payments in money as rent. 5. Then, too, a class of =labourers= had gradually sprung up on the manors. As the tenants and villeins began to pay to the lord a quit-rent, instead of working so many days a week on the land, the lord of the manor had to employ persons to do the work on his home-farm. These would naturally be the cottiers and serfs on the manor--the "landless men"--who thus became what we know as labourers. 6. All these had to be accounted for in the =manor court=, which was held regularly every few weeks. If a labourer was missing he was sought for, and brought back to the manor, which he might not leave without his lord's permission. It is quite true that if he could only remain unclaimed in some borough town for a year and a day he was no longer bound to the lord of his native manor; but the towns did not encourage strangers, as we have seen. If, however, labour happened to be wanted in the town, no doubt his being there would be "winked at", and no notice would be taken of his "harbouring" there. 7. But it was not an easy matter for a labourer to get away from his native manor. After the Black Death, labour became very scarce, for on some of the manors almost every tenant and labourer died. All over the country land-workers were wanted badly; and tenants and landlords, when they were so hard pushed, were glad to employ almost any man who appeared, and they did not trouble to ask whose "man he was" or whence he came. 8. The wages of the labourers, of course, went up; but before very long the landlords saw that that would not do; it made their farming so much more expensive, and so their incomes were less and less. Law after law was passed to get the labourers back to their native manors, and to keep down the price of labour. 9. All classes of overlords, and especially the colleges and monasteries, had much difficulty in working their lands, and so the custom of letting them out in =farms= increased a good deal after the Black Death. 10. At first the owners let out these farms with a certain amount of stock on them. They were let for so many years, or for so many lives. At the end of the time the farm had to be given up and the stock replaced as it had been at the first. The land belonging to the farm was mixed up with the land of other tenants in the manor, in the big unenclosed fields, and had to be farmed still according to the old customs of the manor. Some of the very oldest farms existing to this day began in this kind of way, and there are possibly a few of the very oldest farmhouses which were first built early in the fifteenth century. =Summary.=--Manors were much broken up and underlet in various ways, and _rent_ was gradually being paid in place of personal service. _Labourers_ had taken the place of serfs, but until after the Black Death they were tied to their native manors. After the Black Death land began to be _farmed out_; that is the beginning of our oldest farms. The farms were not compact, but the land lay about in strips in the big common fields. CHAPTER XXXVI WOOL 1. The two great industries of England in the Middle Ages were =agriculture= and =wool-raising=. The wool was the finest grown in Europe, and attracted hither merchants from the Continent. They travelled through England--in the Cotswold and Hampshire districts, for instance--and bought wool largely. But in pretty early days England began to =manufacture cloth= of various kinds; and that, too, became an important article of export. This manufacture was especially strong in the eastern and western parts of the country. 2. Weavers from Flanders were encouraged to settle in various parts of England, by several of the Norman kings, soon after the Conquest. This was the case in Gloucestershire, for example; but the manufacture declined in the reigns of King John and King Henry III. In the reign of King Edward III it was again introduced. 3. As the country began to recover from the effects of the Black Death, the cloth trade became a very flourishing industry, and English =wool-merchants= became a very wealthy and powerful body. These have left their mark on the churches of the land pretty plainly. At the end of the fourteenth century, and in the fifteenth, some of the finest Decorated and Perpendicular work was done, and a large number of churches, especially in Suffolk, Gloucestershire, and Somersetshire, have magnificent towers, which were built at this period. It is pretty safe to say that where to-day you find a little village with a big church--very much larger than the place now needs--with a good deal of work belonging to the Decorated and early Perpendicular periods, that those places were once engaged in some branch or other of the wool and cloth trades. 4. Many of the fine brasses of which we spoke in a former chapter cover the graves of merchants "of the staple", as these great wool and cloth traders were called. Then, too, some of the very finest timbered houses, with their richly carved fronts, as in Chester and Shrewsbury, were built at this same time. 5. We have spoken before of the =trade guilds=. These, too, after the Black Death period, increased in power and wealth. Each guild looked well after the interests of its own craft. It regulated the number of apprentices which a craftsman might have, the hours of work, the rate of pay; it made provision for helping its members in sickness and need; and it saw to burying them decently when they died. Guilds took a lively interest in their parish churches, helped sometimes in forming new schools, hospitals, and alms-houses, and had regular times for meeting together for business and for feasting. They were good to their members, but very hard on those who were not of their number. [Illustration: Guildhall, London. From an old print in the British Museum] 6. From the members of these trade guilds in a town the town guild, or =corporation=, was formed to rule the town according to its ancient customs and charters, and to obtain for the town as many new rights and privileges as possible. There is much in the corporation of a great city like London, with its many companies, or guilds, which is connected with city life and work of the Middle Ages. =Summary.=--_Wool_ and _agriculture_ were the great industries of the Middle Ages in England. English wool was an article of export, and English cloth also, in later times. Norman kings had introduced Flemish _cloth-workers_ here, but the trade died down in the time of King Henry III. After the Black Death it revived greatly, and _wool-merchants_ became a very rich and powerful body. Many of the fine church towers, in Suffolk, Gloucestershire, and Somersetshire especially, were built by them. This was a period, too, when _trade guilds_ were very strong. CHAPTER XXXVII THE POOR 1. From early Christian times in England to =relieve the poor= was looked upon as a Christian duty, and every church and religious house took its part in the work as a matter of course. You will remember that in early days there was not much moving about of people from one manor to another, so that it was not at first difficult to know the sick and the needy in each place, whether in town or country. Many religious houses or hospitals were founded for the purposes of relief. They were not on a large scale, but there were a good many of them. In the fourteenth century =pilgrimages= were very popular, and many pilgrims were always to be found on the road. 2. We must remember that there was another side to a pilgrimage besides the religious one. A pilgrimage was one way of travelling and seeing the world. Indeed it was almost the only means by which a poor man could travel and have change of scene. Permission was given for that purpose because it was regarded as a religious act. It is not at all surprising that folk who wanted to see the world often took advantage of a pilgrimage from no very religious motive. Pilgrims could always find food and lodging at a religious house on their way, and there were scores of places in England to which pilgrimages might be made, to say nothing of a journey to the Holy Land, or to the shrine of St. James of Compostello, which were two grand pilgrimages. 3. In time pilgrimages became somewhat of a nuisance, for many of the people taking part in them were anything but pious; and, towards the end of the fourteenth century, strict measures were taken to prevent beggars and servants from wandering from one hundred to another on pretence of going on a pilgrimage. Each had to have a letter, properly signed by an officer of the hundred, giving him leave. [Illustration: Canterbury Pilgrims] 4. But beggars and wanderers increased. We find some towns, in Tudor times, taking steps to put down =beggars=. In the early part of the sixteenth century vagabonds found in London were to be "tayled[12] at a cart's tayle", and collections were made for the poor weekly, and distributed at the church door. In the year 1536 there were fifteen hospitals and four lazar-houses in the city of London. At the dissolution of the religious houses all these were seized, but the city managed to save St. Mary Spital, St. Thomas's Hospital, and St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The city found that it could not get enough money to keep even one of these going, so a tax was levied for the purpose. Bishop Ridley and others tried to draw up a scheme for finding work for the poor, teaching them to make caps, feather-bed ticks, nails, and iron-work. 5. Other towns tried the same plan, and the king and Parliament issued many orders about the treatment of the poor and vagabonds. But it was much easier to issue these orders than to carry them out, and the beggars increased in numbers and in impudence in spite of all. In 1547 it was ordained that a sturdy beggar might be made a slave for two years, and if he ran away, then he was to remain a slave for life. The sons of vagabonds were to be apprenticed till they were twenty-four years old, and their daughters till they were twenty years of age, and if they rebelled, they were sent to slavery. The idea was to train them to work. 6. In all this the difficulty was, how to find the money to carry out these schemes. The king had swept away all the goods and gifts which had been made to monasteries, churches, and hospitals; the free-will offerings of many generations had gone into the pockets of the king; the institutions which had been founded to help the poor had become the private property of the king's favourites. It was not likely that people would be very keen to offer their money for the relief of the poor, and though urged to give what they could, they were very backward in doing so. Later on, in Queen Elizabeth's reign, the dwellers in each parish were urged to find work for the labourers in their parish; but the beggars still wandered and the poor still abounded. 7. In the year 1572 some very =severe laws= were made concerning vagabonds. A man who was convicted a third time of being a vagabond was to be punished with death. Habitations were to be found for all the poor belonging to a parish; no strangers were to be allowed to settle in a parish; and each parish was to be taxed for the relief of the poor. At the same time, every parish was to find something to do for all the poor who were able to work. Usually a stock of wool, hemp, and flax was bought, and the poor were supposed to be taught to spin. Each county was also to provide a House of Correction, where those who would not work should be forced to do so. 8. To keep down the number of poor people in a parish, order was given that only one family might live in one house, and no new house might be built in the country unless it had 4 acres of ground attached to it. In the cities of London and Westminster, and for three miles round them, no houses were to be built except for persons worth a specified amount. Houses might not be divided into tenements, nor might lodgers be taken in. 9. All this was to keep people as much as possible in the places where they belonged. The =churchwardens and overseers= had to attend to the relief of the poor. There are, belonging to a good many parishes in England, =old account-books=, showing how these officers raised and spent money on the =relief of the poor=. Some of these books go right back to this time, though most of them begin a good deal later. These officers had to keep a very sharp look-out. Of course they did not want the poor-rate to be any higher than they could help, so strangers coming into the parish were quickly tracked and hindered from gaining a settlement there. Vagabonds and strolling players were hurried out of the parish, and in some cases whipped. The stocks, the whipping-post, and the cage were set up near the churchyard gate, and they were in pretty constant use. 10. The officers were very anxious, too, to prevent any =travellers= from falling ill in their parish. Those who were sick, and could possibly be moved, they shifted on to the next parish, lest they should become chargeable to the parish. Some parishes spent a good deal of money, and the officers much time, in conveying people out of their bounds. That led, we may imagine, to many disputes between parishes, and gave the court of Quarter Sessions a lot of work to do; for amongst the many things which Quarter Sessions had to attend to was the carrying out of the Poor-Laws. 11. Parishes had to look after and to support their own poor in much the same way right down to the early part of the nineteenth century, less than a hundred years ago. =Summary.=--_Relieving the poor_ was, in early times, a Christian duty. The poor belonging to a place were then easily known. Wandering from place to place was discouraged. _Pilgrimages_ became very popular, as it was the chief way by which poor people could travel and see the world. In later times pilgrims were often idle vagabonds. In the sixteenth century some attempts were made to restrain vagrants, and to find work for the poor. After the religious houses had been got rid of, the duty of doing this was thrown on the parishes, and gradually _rates for the relief of the poor_ came into being. The officers who specially looked after the poor were called _overseers_. Most parishes have still the old account-books, which show how the money was raised and spent for about two hundred years. Our present poor-law came into being less than 100 years ago. CHAPTER XXXVIII CHANGES IN HOUSES AND HOUSE-BUILDING 1. In the time of King Edward III, that is, in the fourteenth century, there was a great change in the arrangement of castles and castle-building. We cannot say much about it here, it would take too long; but the changes made show that there was a desire to make the castle, not merely a strong defence against an enemy, but also a dwelling-place for the baron, his family, his servants and men-at-arms. Many buildings were added for comfort and convenience. In fact, a castle became a kind of little town. 2. William of Wykeham, that great master-builder, was not only a builder of churches and colleges, but a castle-builder as well. The great Round Tower at Windsor Castle, and other parts of that building still in use, are his work. The general arrangement of the Tower of London will give us an idea of the sort of habitation a castle of the fourteenth century was intended to be. In fact, we may say that every old castle, which is still inhabited, has considerable indications of work done in this and the following centuries, to fit it to be a comfortable dwelling-place as well as a fortress. [Illustration: The Round Tower, Windsor Castle] 3. A good many houses, too, were protected by walls, and sometimes even called "castles", though they were not what we usually understand by the term. Many of these were =moated houses=, the moat forming the first line of protection. Then came the battlemented wall, within which the house proper was built. 4. The fourteenth and fifteenth centuries were stirring war times, and the nobles kept up bands of armed men, who lived close to, and even in, their strong houses and castles. In the fifteenth century, during the long period of the Wars of the Roses, there was much work for these "men-at-arms to do". This constant warfare weakened at length the power of the barons. Sometimes the Yorkist king, sometimes the Lancastrian king was in power; and whichever side got the upper hand the king seized the property of the nobles on the other side. 5. As a matter of fact the nobles killed each other off, and when Henry Tudor, a Lancastrian, became king, there was an enormous amount of power in his hands; and he used it so as to keep a closer grip of it. 6. The towns and the traders had no liking for war, and they were quite satisfied to see the government of the country in the hands of a strong king. The new nobles, whom King Henry VII made, had most of them sprung from the merchant and trading class. 7. These new men, and even the king's own friends and supporters, were not allowed to keep bands of armed servants or retainers, able to turn the scale of a battle against the king. The Earl of Warwick, the "King-maker", had played that game several times; and it was through Lord Stanley bringing his men over from King Richard III's side to the side of Henry in this way that he had won the Battle of Bosworth, and placed the English crown on Henry's head. 8. After becoming king, Henry VII determined that these bands of armed men, who would follow the whistle of their lord, must be put down. He therefore set to work cautiously, but he had his way. The nobles might no longer keep hosts of servants in livery as they pleased. The king cut down the numbers, so that he might be in a position to say to any of his nobles that his good word he did not want, and his bad word he cared nothing at all about. 9. You will remember the story of King Henry VII and the Earl of Oxford. The king went to pay the earl a visit, and his host, to show him honour, had two long lines of stout retainers, all armed and dressed in his livery, drawn up to meet him. He did all in his power to show honour to the king. When the visit was over, the king said to the earl: "I thank you, my lord, for your good cheer, but I may not endure to have my laws broken in my sight; my attorney must speak with you." 10. Then there was "trouble"; and the earl thought himself very fortunate in getting out of the "scrape" by paying a small fine of £10,000. It was very awkward for a man to be a noble in Tudor times. He never knew exactly where he was. The king might be making a great fuss with him one day, clapping him in the Tower a few days after, and then chopping off his head and ornamenting London Bridge with it. 11. Well, this did away with the necessity for big fortified houses which might contain barracks for soldiers, and so we find that the new houses, built in Tudor times, were less like fortresses than they had been before. More attention was now paid to the size and convenience of the rooms. This sixteenth century was a great time for the building of large houses; indeed, the new nobles had better ideas of what a comfortable house was than the older barons had. =Summary.=--In the time of King Edward III many Norman castles were altered so as to be more comfortable dwelling-places. Most of them could hold bands of men-at-arms. King Henry VII put down these large bands of retainers, and the new nobles whom he made were not allowed to keep up bands of men-at-arms. The need for castle-dwellings was gone. The new nobles were most of them raised from the merchant class. They had great ideas of comfort, and the age of Tudor houses began. CHAPTER XXXIX THE RUINS OF THE MONASTERIES AND THE NEW BUILDINGS 1. In early Tudor times our towns were much more picturesque than they are to-day. That was chiefly owing to the fact that there were in every town so many religious houses, colleges, and hospitals. These buildings all had grounds of their own in the town, some more, some less; but these open spaces and garden grounds, though they were not open to the public, all helped to make the town airy, and to give variety to the view. 2. The buildings themselves were all different, and many of them were hundreds of years old. Towers, spires, turrets, gables, gateways, and archways in all styles of architecture abounded. There were, of course, many things in the towns which we should not have liked, but they had a pleasant variety which our modern towns have not. Thousands of streets in our towns are just rows and rows of houses, all alike, all ugly, and very dull and dreary to look at and to live in. 3. In the reign of King Henry VIII all the religious houses were suppressed, and given up into the king's hands. The life that had gone on in them for centuries came to an end. Both in town and country districts there were many people besides those who actually lived in them to whom this made a great difference--people who, in one way or another, got their living out of the monasteries. Shutting up the monasteries threw all these people, so to speak, out of work. That meant a great deal of suffering. [Illustration: Photo. Valentine FOUNTAINS ABBEY, YORKSHIRE, ONE OF THE MONASTERIES RUINED BY HENRY VIII (page 154)] 4. Nowadays, if a factory which has employed a number of people is suddenly closed, it means suffering for those who have been employed there and for their families. Now, though the monasteries did not employ people in the way in which a factory does, it did affect in many ways those who lived and worked and depended on them. 5. In these days, if people are thrown out of employment in one place they are free to go and seek it in another; but that was not the case in the reign of King Henry VIII. If they wandered from their native towns and villages they were treated as vagabonds. It is true that the new persons, to whom the monastery lands were granted, were supposed to do for the people on the land--the poor and the sick--what the monasteries had done for them. But what they were _supposed_ to do and what they _did do_ were very different things. [Illustration: Old Timbered House, at Presleigh, Radnorshire, dated 1616] 6. It is pretty easy to see how things worked. A wealthy man managed to get a grant of the property of several monasteries at a very cheap rate. He did not want these places to live in; he wanted to make money out of them. The first thing that he did was to strip the buildings of everything which would fetch any money. The lead was usually the most valuable part of what the king had left. The roofs would be stripped, the graves broken open to get at the leaden coffins, and the windows smashed for the sake of the lead. Then the building was left standing a ruin. The poor people of the district had been used to receive food daily at the monastery gate, and no doubt had grumbled at the quality and quantity of the food often enough. But now it was no use going to the monastery gate, for the place was a ruin. They could not go to the new lord's house, for that might be miles away. Even if they did find him, he might be the owner of three or four such ruined monasteries. How could he be quite sure that they were the poor he was bound to relieve? And so the poor folk lost the daily food on which they had depended. 7. Then as regards the land. The new landlord, perhaps, might farm his fields; in which case the rents, instead of going to the monastery, went to him. But he was not always on the spot, and very frequently the land was let out to tenants; an agent or steward collected the rents, and the tenants never saw the landlord. But many of these new owners found that the management of the estates caused them a lot of trouble; and, naturally enough, they wanted to get as much money out of the property as they could at the least cost to themselves. 8. Now there was in this sixteenth century still a great demand for wool, and many of these landlords found it would save trouble to turn these monastery lands into =sheep-runs=. A very few men could look after a great many sheep, and there would be no bother about keeping up buildings and barns. If the people were got off the land, there would be no poor to bother about relieving. So it came to pass that much land, which had been cultivated for many centuries, went out of cultivation, and the people were turned adrift. It was a hard state of affairs. The rights which they had had to relief from the religious houses were taken from them, and the means of getting their living also taken away; they were robbed of their employment, and punished for wandering, for not working, and for begging. 9. There were, of course, many instances in which the new landlord came and lived near the old monastery. In some cases the old buildings were altered and turned into a dwelling-house; in others the building material was used for building a brand-new house close by. Where this was the case the old custom of relieving the poor who came to the gate did not quickly die out. 10. For instance, at Standon in Hertfordshire, there was a house belonging to the Knights Hospitallers. When the house was dissolved, much of the property at Standon went to Sir Ralph Sadleir, who had been secretary to Thomas Cromwell, the "hammer of the monks". He owned Standon Lordship, and when the poor were no longer relieved at the Hospitallers' House, in the village, they trooped from Standon up to Standon Lordship, about fifty of them, every day. That custom of relieving the poor was kept up there for many years. =Summary.=--Most of the picturesque buildings belonging to the religious houses were stripped of all that was valuable and let go to ruin. The new owners, many of them, lived away from their property; and, as _wool-farming_ was very profitable then, much arable land was turned into sheep-runs. That threw many out of employment, and increased the number of _vagrants_. The new owners were expected to do for the people on their lands what the monks had done, but very few of them did so. The custom of relieving the poor at the gate of the great house was kept up in some few cases, as at Standon Lordship, in Hertfordshire. CHAPTER XL THE NEW HOUSES OF THE TIME OF QUEEN ELIZABETH 1. There were, in the days of Queen Elizabeth, in all parts of the country, hundreds of bare, gaunt ruins where once had been flourishing houses and centres of life and work. It may seem strange to us that the materials left were not sold and cleared away, and the sites made tidy. We must remember, however, that people could not build houses either in town or country as they chose. In Queen Elizabeth's reign the laws against building new houses were very strict indeed, so that there was not a very great demand for building material. Then, too, the quantity of such stone and wood in all these many buildings, in every town and almost every village, was enormous, so that the material was not worth much. The ruins were left, a sad and sorry sight, for many a long year. 2. In the towns some of the buildings were turned by their new owners into private houses, and the parts of the monastery were put to strange uses. Nobody seemed to mind; the spirit of destruction seemed to be in the air. Then, as years went on, and buildings needed repair, or roads wanted mending, the old ruins were the handiest places from which to get a load of stone; and so, with leave or without, many loads of stone were carted away from them. 3. We said just now that there was no encouragement given to the building of new houses in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, and yet most of the most picturesque old houses in our towns and villages still standing were built at that time. These, however, were not new houses; they were rebuilt on old sites, _improved_ according to the ideas of the time. 4. You will notice in country places a great many houses built somewhat after this style. Many of them are now cottages, but they were not built for cottages; they were the ordinary houses in which yeomen lived in the sixteenth century. 5. There was the hall or house-place--an oblong room in the centre,--on to which other rooms were built, forming a wing at one end, or often a wing at each end, with gables towards the street, and projecting upper stories. A great deal might be said about this kind of house, but there is only space for a very short account of it. 6. The house was built upon a foundation of stone or brick, so that the wooden sill should be above the ground-level. Into this wooden sill strong upright posts of timber, quite rough, some 8 or 9 inches square, were set. The posts at the angles were larger, often being butts of trees placed roots upwards, so that the upper story might project. Then on the main posts beams were laid, the ends projecting, upon which the framing of the upper story was set. It was just a timber skeleton, into which other timbers were set 8 or 9 inches apart. In later times these timbers were wider apart, and curved or diagonal braces were often used, but at first the uprights were pretty closely set. [Illustration: Old English House] 7. The spaces between the uprights were then filled in with lath and plaster, flush with the wood-work. In some parts of the country brick was used instead, set in a herring-bone fashion. In later times, when the lath and plaster had decayed, the spaces were often filled in with brickwork laid in the ordinary way. Then again, in other cases the wood-work of the house shrank and left gaps between the lath and plaster and the wood, so the whole of the outside has been covered with plaster, or weather-boarded and painted or tarred, or hung over with tiles. 8. The windows were small, and sometimes in the upper story one was built out, forming an oriel. The roofs were high pitched, in many cases tiled, but more often thatched. In these old houses the =chimney-stack= is a great feature outside, and the huge fireplace, with its wide chimney-corners, takes up half the house-place inside. From most of these nowadays the old hearth is gone, and a small chimney-breast has been bricked up to take a modern range; but the old chimney-corner, with its funny little window, can usually still be traced. 9. There are quite a large number of =village inns= of this kind. Very often these are the oldest and most picturesque buildings left in a village, except the church. It is these old-fashioned houses which make village scenery so pleasing to the eye after the dreary rows of bunches of brick, with holes in them for windows, covered in with slate, which fill the streets of our towns, all alike and all ugly. =Summary.=--There were ruins in every town and nearly every village in the days of Queen Elizabeth. Gradually the stones were carted away for building purposes and for road-mending. There were many restrictions on building new houses. Most of the quaint old houses, with overhanging stories and high-pitched roofs, belong to the time of Queen Elizabeth. They were built on older foundations. The wood-work in later times has been in some cases filled in with brickwork, in others covered with boarding or hung with tiles. In those houses the chimney is usually at one end of the house, and the queer little window on one side shows where the chimney-corner once was. [Illustration: An Elizabethan Interior] CHAPTER XLI LARGER ELIZABETHAN AND JACOBEAN HOUSES 1. We have said that the Tudor period was a time of building of big houses and mansions. Every county in England has some such houses to show. Many of them were built of =stone=, some partly of =brick and stone=. Their style shows that the English or old fashion of Gothic building was dying out. Italian ideas and Italian ornament were coming into favour. No doubt one reason why so much of the old work was ruthlessly destroyed was because it was out of fashion. It is astonishing, even in these days, how much good work is destroyed just because it has gone out of date. Among the most famous of these houses we may mention Burleigh House "by Stamford Town", Haddon Hall, and Knebworth; and, belonging to a rather later date, Hatfield House. [Illustration: Photo. Photochrom Co., Ltd. HADDON HALL, FROM THE STEPS (page 163)] 2. For a big house the idea was to build it round a quadrangle. Smaller houses were in plan very like the half-timbered houses of the yeomen, only on a larger scale, and more richly ornamented. The hall and its wings were extended considerably, and, with a handsome porch, formed in plan a big capital =E=, thus:-- [Illustration] Some people have thought that this plan was chosen in honour of Queen Elizabeth, but the truth is that it was the most convenient form, and fitted in best with the ideas of the time. It had grown up quite naturally, in the course of many generations, from the simple hall with the hearth in the middle, the beginnings of which we saw in the huts of the pit-dwellers. 3. Quite early in the fourteenth century =brick= had begun to come into use for building, but the first bricks were probably imported from Flanders. Hull, which had been founded by King Edward I, had many buildings of brick, and by about the year 1320 it had brick-yards of its own. Flemish weavers were encouraged to settle in England by King Edward III, and they used brick in buildings which they set up. There are a good many houses in the eastern counties and in Kent still standing, which show Flemish and Dutch ideas. 4. Cardinal Wolsey's palace at Hampton Court is a good specimen of the brickwork of his time; and all through the reign of King Henry VIII the chief material used was brick, terra-cotta[13] being employed for mouldings and ornament. This was chiefly the work of Italian artists, and they produced also some very beautiful ceilings in plaster-work[14] for many of their fine houses. [Illustration: Photo. Photochrom Co., Ltd. HAMPTON COURT PALACE (page 164)] 5. After King Henry VIII's quarrel with Rome fewer Italians were employed, and English artists were left to work out these new ideas in their own way. From about the middle of the sixteenth century the use of terra-cotta dropped out, and moulded and shaped bricks began to be used, though stone was used for the more ornamental portions. 6. When we reach the reign of King James I, we find that the leading architect was Inigo Jones. We do not hear very much of =architects= during the Middle Ages. The man employed to do the actual work was allowed to select his own materials and carry out his own ideas pretty much in his own way. But in the sixteenth century the architect became a more important person than the craftsman, and the craftsman had to work according to the pattern and design provided for him. 7. The =Jacobean[15] houses= show that the old English styles of building were being left behind, and a newer type of house, plainer and heavier, was taking its place. The Civil War was a very bad time for architects and craftsmen, but after the Restoration a better time came to them again. 8. The Great Fire of London, which swept away almost every mediæval building in the city, gave a great _impetus_, or push forward, to building. You can quite understand that, with so much building going on, the work would be somewhat hurried and very much plainer than it had been. So London became a city of bricks and mortar. Middlesex has large quantities of good brick-earth; and, though bricks were made in that county long before the Great Fire, the Great Fire developed the industry greatly. There was a worthy old Royalist knight of Hammersmith, Sir Nicholas Crispe, who, after the execution of King Charles I, went over to Holland, as so many other Royalists did. There he watched very closely bricks and brick-making, and when he came back to England he introduced many improvements in the art of brick-making along the Thames valley. =Summary.=--Italian ideas gradually were adopted in place of Gothic. Many of the finest houses, like Burleigh House and Haddon Hall, belong to this time. The Elizabethan house often took the form of a letter =E=. Brick has been used in Hull and in other places on the east coast from the thirteenth century, but the brick at first was imported from Flanders. It came into fashion about the time that Cardinal Wolsey built Hampton Court Palace. Italian artists were much employed at first, and _terra-cotta_ and _plaster_ were much used. After the Great Fire of London brick became the chief building material in London, and the houses became much plainer. Sir Nicholas Crispe, after the Restoration, introduced many improvements into brick-making along the Thames valley. CHAPTER XLII CHURCHES AFTER THE REFORMATION 1. Not very long after the dissolution of the monasteries the churches had a very bad time to go through. It is perfectly marvellous how rapidly some people, who were in power, discovered that the valuable ornaments and fittings in them were so very wicked and superstitious, that the only thing to do was to seize them for the use of the king as his private property. No attempt was made to apply the money taken for the benefit of the parishes; it was shamefully and shamelessly squandered. The buildings were very badly treated, and everything in some of them that could be defaced and destroyed was so treated. The changes made in religion under the Tudor kings and queens were so many, and so violent, that ordinary everyday people could not understand them, and deeply religious people were driven in opposite directions. There was bitter persecution for all who did not fall in with the will of the Tudor sovereign, whether Catholic or Protestant, and good men had to suffer and to die on both sides for their faith. 2. All who did not attend their parish church, and take part in the services which those in authority considered to be most fitting, were regarded as bad citizens, and treated as such. We cannot wonder that the parish churches were allowed to go to decay. English people had spent much money on their churches right up to the time of the Reformation. Then they saw the gifts they and their forefathers had made abused or stolen. People were not disposed to do much for their churches after that. In some cases, especially in country places, where the leading people were Catholics or Puritans, it seems as if they purposely let the parish church, to which they were compelled to go by law, get so thoroughly out of order that they might be able to say that there was no church to go to. 3. Many of the houses built during Tudor times had =secret chambers= and hiding-places, which were known only to a very few persons. And such hiding-places were much used, in the times of Queen Elizabeth and King James I, by priests, who ministered in secret to those who clung to the old faith. 4. But though the churches were much out of repair, in some of them stately and costly =monuments= were erected in the sixteenth and early part of the seventeenth centuries. They were different from the monuments set up before the Reformation, and were usually built against a wall. They were of various coloured marbles, the effigies lying under circular-headed canopies, supported by columns in the Italian style. The effigies of man and wife were usually represented clad in robes of state, coloured, their children kneeling round the tomb in various attitudes. 5. By and by, instead of the effigies being represented as lying on their backs, with hands clasped, they were shown lying on one side, supporting their heads on their hands. There are many such monuments in Westminster Abbey, and in almost every old town church one or more can be seen. 6. It became a very common practice for one of the old =chapels=, built on to the parish church, to be set apart as the private burial-place of a great land-owner. Many new chapels were built for this special purpose. In them we may see specimens of the different fashions in monuments from Tudor days, or earlier, right down to the present time. =Summary.=--Much was destroyed in the churches during the violent changes made in the form of worship. In some cases the churches were let go to decay, so that there might be no church to go to. There were secret chambers built in many Tudor houses, where those in danger might hide. It was a great time for setting up splendid monuments in the Italian style, usually brilliantly coloured and ornamented. CHAPTER XLIII BUILDING AFTER THE RESTORATION: HOUSES 1. The most notable architect after the Great Fire of London was Sir Christopher Wren, and his master-piece is, of course, St. Paul's Cathedral. He designed, too, most of the city churches. The style was adopted in various parts of the country by various noblemen for building great houses. Brick was regarded as too mean a material for such very grand houses, and stone was used for facing them. [Illustration: Photo. Valentine ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL, LONDON: SIR CHRISTOPHER WREN'S MASTERPIECE (page 169)] 2. In the houses which Wren built brick was very largely used. He introduced rubbed bricks, and had them laid with very close joints. We have some very fine examples of such brickwork in gables of various forms in the early part of the eighteenth century--the reign of Queen Anne. 3. Designs for houses did not improve in beauty as the eighteenth century went on. Many of the houses were very substantially built, and were arranged with an eye to comfort and convenience. The hall, which had been the centre of the old English home, became smaller and smaller; the kitchens were placed below the ground-level, and in towns were often reached by a flight of steps down from the street to the =area=, which is still so common in London streets. [Illustration: House in Queen Anne style, South Kensington] 4. The =front door= of the house became the great ornamental feature of the building, approached by a flight of steps often protected by very handsome iron railings. Attached to many of the railings still are light upright posts for carrying an old-fashioned oil-lamp. Just a few of these =lamp-carriers= have extinguishers, which were for the use of the link-boys, when on dark nights they had safely lighted the master of the house through the dangers of the streets to his own front door. 5. The brickwork of these houses had become very plain, and less and less stone was used for ornament--a little over the principal windows, and the boldly cut quoins at the angles of the house. Most of the windows were merely oblong openings in the blank wall. 6. The great point aimed at was to get a handsome =doorway=. Sometimes a portico was built out, supported by stone pillars having richly-carved capitals. In other cases a canopy, supported by half-columns, or by brackets, was placed over the doorway. Stone was sometimes used for these canopies, but wood was more common. These wooden canopies and brackets are often very fine pieces of joinery and wood-carving. The canopy sometimes takes the form of a kind of big shell, the ornaments and pattern being finely moulded, and the cornice being deeply and boldly cut. These canopies were painted, and the tops covered with lead to protect them from the weather. As you walk along the streets of an old town, which has not been too much modernized, you will be almost sure to see some specimens of this kind of work. 7. The thick panelled doors of these houses are often grand pieces of work, which would rejoice the heart of a joiner who loves his craft. So many boys now are taught something of joinery at school that there must be a good many of them who know enough to see the beauty there is in a good piece of work, even though it may be quite plain. 8. Another feature in these doorways is the window over the door, intended to give light to the hall. We call it the =fan-light= because it was usually made somewhat in the shape of an open fan, and you will find in fan-lights some very pretty designs cleverly put together. 9. About the middle of the eighteenth century =stucco= came into fashion. It was easy to handle, and ornamental patterns could be readily produced. The ornamental stone and wood-work was imitated in plaster. Like all mere imitations of good work, it soon became poor, and showed itself to be a sham; but it was very fashionable. There was such a rage for it that the brickwork of a house was often covered with a smooth coat of it, and the whole painted white, or cream colour. Some of the old houses of good sound brick were covered in this way, and it was often used to cover up very poor bricks and brickwork. Good plaster-work, no doubt, often served a purpose in keeping out damp, but it was very formal, and not very beautiful. 10. In the middle of the same century a fancy for =Gothic architecture= revived, and many brick buildings were built with pointed arches, doorways, and windows, with turrets and pinnacles, all covered with plaster-work and cement, imitating Gothic mouldings and carvings; but it was only sham Gothic, and not at all satisfactory. 11. Indeed we may say that, as the century went on, houses did not become more beautiful. As the population increased in the town, streets of houses sprang up, some large, some small, built in rows and crescents and terraces, in which all the houses were alike; and very dull and drab and mean-looking many of them have become. When they were built they were made to look neat, or even smart, in front, but little care was taken about the appearance and convenience of their backs. They were not arranged in such a way that each might have a proper amount of light, and that a free current of air could pass through them and around them. 12. In some respects we have improved our houses, but we have much to learn yet. We have, for instance, yet to see that _all_ houses, however small, shall have a proper number of bedrooms, large, light, and airy--for we spend one-third of our lives in them. We have also to see that both beauty and fitness shall be properly considered in building a house. Too often no care is taken to provide proper places where food and clothing can be kept, and where that very necessary but unpleasant process of washing and drying of clothes can be carried on without spoiling the comfort and health of the household. Every house needs a bath-room as much as a grate, for where dirt is there is disease, suffering, and death. =Summary.=--Stone was used for facing large brick houses in the time of Sir Christopher Wren and at the beginning of the next century (Queen Anne's reign). Wren introduced _rubbed brick_, laid with close joints, and the specimens of that period are very good. As the eighteenth century went on, beauty declined. The hall became a mere passage, and the windows were oblong holes in the brick walls. The _doorways_ were often handsome, with porticoes and canopies, some of stone, some of wood. Many of these remain in old town and village streets. The _iron-work_ of that date is often very good indeed. The doors themselves were usually plain, but well made and solid. The windows over the doors, usually called _fan-lights_ from their original shape, give many varieties of shape. _Stucco_ came into use about the middle of the eighteenth century, and became very fashionable, carving being imitated in plaster, and often covering very poor work. Gothic began to revive, but plaster, not stone, was used, and it was a very poor imitation. The fashion for building whole streets, rows, and terraces of houses in the same style came into use. CHAPTER XLIV BUILDING AFTER THE RESTORATION: CHURCHES 1. After the Reformation the churches, as we have said, were much neglected for a long time. They were used in a different way from what they had been in the Middle Ages--a great deal more was thought of preaching and hearing sermons. People grew to be very particular as to where they sat in church, and to have a seat in accordance with their dignity and importance. =Pews= became very important things. Churches were not heated in those days, though the services were very long, for sermons often lasted for an hour or two. No doubt one reason for making pews so high was to keep off draughts. The great people of the parish seemed to try to outdo each other in the height of their pews. Some of the grand pews had canopies to them, like old-fashioned four-post bedsteads, and they were hung round with curtains. In later times they even had fireplaces, with poker, tongs, and shovel all complete. 2. Gradually the whole floor-space got filled up with pews, some square, some oblong, all shut in with doors, and with seats like shelves running round them. The fashion of having pews shut in with doors lasted for several centuries; indeed you may see them still in some churches, though they are not nearly as high as they once were. 3. The churches needed repairs from time to time in the seventeenth century, and a few, a very few, new ones were built. But money was not spent upon them as it had been in the Middle Ages. They were patched up and mended for the most part as cheaply as possible. In very few cases was any attempt made to make them as beautiful as the houses which were being built at the time. 4. After the Restoration there arose a great interest in =bells= and bell-ringing. At the end of the seventeenth century a great many rings of bells were hung in the old steeples and belfries, which had to be altered to receive them. 5. The =monuments= set up in the churches in the reign of King Charles II were somewhat smaller than they had been. They were often =tablets= on the walls, ornamented with curious carvings of skulls and cross-bones, cherubs' heads, curtains, and festoons of flowers and fruits, often finely carved. You will not find in churchyards many =grave-stones= or tombs of an earlier date than 1660. The =head-stones= were then very small, and had little on them except "Here lyeth the body of" so-and-so, and the date. 6. A great many churches were built in London after the Fire. They were furnished with high pews, usually all of the same height, and having doors. The wood-work, especially of the pulpit, reading-desk, and organ-case, in these churches is mostly very fine. A celebrated carver of this period was Grinling Gibbons, and he and his pupils did a great deal of such work, both in churches and houses. 7. In other parts of the country Wren's work was imitated in some of the new churches then built, and in some of the old ones which were altered or rearranged. One of the best specimens of work done at this time is to be seen at Whitchurch, in Middlesex. 8. Not very many new churches, however, were built until the beginning of the nineteenth century, except in some of the towns which had grown up from country villages. In and round London most of the villages increased so much in size that the little old parish church was much too small for the population. Galleries were put up in them in all sorts of queer places, to provide more seats. More room still being wanted, many churches were pulled down, and larger buildings set up. 9. The new churches of the latter part of the eighteenth and the early years of the nineteenth centuries were simply big oblong rooms. The outsides were often copies of parts of Grecian temples. They were crowned with towers and spires somewhat like those on Wren's churches, but not nearly so handsome. 10. Inside, the church was fitted up with a gallery running along two sides and across one end. In the end gallery a big organ was placed, and on either side of it, high up, near the ceiling, were smaller galleries, one for the charity-school boys, the other for the charity-school girls of the parish. The galleries and floor of the church were filled with high pews. On the floor opposite the organ were three huge boxes, rising one above the other. The lowest box was for the parish clerk, the middle one was the reading-desk, and the highest was the pulpit, which was often provided with a sounding-board, not unlike an umbrella. The altar was in a little niche behind the pulpit. Chapels were fitted up in much the same way. 11. Under all these churches and chapels were =vaults=, in which people were buried, but not in the earth. The coffins were placed on shelves, one above the other, round the vault. On the walls of the church above were often =tablets= to the memory of people lying in the vaults below. These, by the nineteenth century, were for the most part simply slabs of white marble, with black or grey borders. There was hardly any carving at all on them; only inscriptions or epitaphs, and texts. 12. The =churchyards= were used for burials, and by the middle of the nineteenth century most of them were crowded with tombstones. In London nearly all are now laid out as open spaces; many of the grave-stones have quite disappeared, and those which remain are rapidly perishing. 13. When we remember that the churchyards of the old churches had been used as burial-places in many cases since the early days of Christianity, and even before that, we can easily grasp the fact that the earth had been used over and over again for burials. About the middle of the nineteenth century the nation came to the conclusion that burials in churches and crowded town churchyards should no longer be allowed. The practice was dangerous to the living. So =cemeteries= were opened in districts away from the towns and homes of the people. Towns have grown so fast that many of these cemeteries are now surrounded by houses, and are the centres of big populations. 14. About the year 1840 interest began to be taken in the old English styles of building, and a taste for =Gothic architecture= arose again. Since that time places of worship of all descriptions have for the most part been built in some sort of Gothic. When you read that such and such a church or building is in the fourteenth or fifteenth century style, you must understand that it is not a copy of a church built in the fourteenth or fifteenth century, but that its window-heads, doorways, arches, and fittings are _in the style_ of the fourteenth or fifteenth century. Most of these modern buildings are of brick, only faced or dressed with stone. It is pretty safe to say that there is no old church standing which was built entirely in the fourteenth century, and has remained unaltered from that day to this. 15. In our towns almost every tower and spire which we see is a modern building, though the _styles_ may vary from Norman to Perpendicular and seventeenth century. Modern buildings, churches, halls, public offices, and private houses are mostly imitations of the work of past ages. There is no nineteenth-century style of English architecture. Some day, perhaps, England may develop a new style of architecture, such as the world has never yet seen, but at the present time we can only copy and adapt the work of those who have gone before us. =Summary.=--_Pews_ came much into use in churches after the Reformation, and the sides were very high. In the seventeenth century very few new churches were built, but many rings of bells were placed in the towers. The _monuments_ became tablets, ornamented with skulls, cross-bones, &c. The oldest _tombstones_ in churchyards are not earlier than 1660. In Wren's churches there is much fine woodwork. In the eighteenth century the new churches built were oblong rooms, fitted up with galleries on three sides, having _high pews and a tall pulpit_. Corpses were buried in _vaults_ under these churches and chapels, but by the middle of the nineteenth century burials in town churches and churchyards came to an end. About 1840 a liking for _Gothic architecture_ revived, and the churches and chapels since then have been built mostly in one or other of the Gothic styles. The nineteenth century has no style of architecture of its own. CHAPTER XLV SCHOOLS AFTER THE REFORMATION 1. A little of the property which had belonged to the religious houses was saved and turned to useful purposes. Just a very few of the old alms-houses were allowed to continue their work, like St. Cross at Winchester, and some schools and colleges were founded. 2. There are some of those schools which bear the name of King Edward VI. But Edward VI was only a lad of sixteen years of age when he died, so that he had practically nothing to do with either the good or the evil which was done in his name. In other towns, besides London, good men set to work and managed to get back some small part of the property of old religious houses for school work. In some places they were allowed to have part of an old ruin, which they patched up and made to serve as a school-room. This was the case, for instance, at St. Alban's, where the Lady Chapel of the monastery was the grammar-school until about twenty-five years ago. 3. It is quite true to say that many of our present =grammar-schools= rose out of the ashes of the monasteries. But they were not great buildings to hold scores of scholars. Many of them were only founded for ten or twelve scholars from a particular town or district. The sum set apart for a master to teach them was very small, so that he was usually allowed to take other scholars who paid for their education. 4. These schools had their "ups and downs", but many of them in the eighteenth century were in a very bad way. Some had scarcely any scholars, and the buildings were much out of repair. However, most of them are alive and active to-day, and many of them have histories of which they may be proud, and a past which should help them to excel in the future. 5. Children were often taught in the church and =church porch= in country places. John Evelyn was so taught in the early part of the seventeenth century, and many more people could read and write than we sometimes imagine; but knowledge was not within the reach of all. 6. The condition of the poor occupied a good deal of attention, and the =poor-laws= were used to improve matters in many ways. At Norwich, for instance, in the year 1632, a children's hospital was provided for boys between the ages of ten and fourteen. They were to be taught useful trades, and fed and clothed. For dinner they were to have 6 ounces of bread, 1 pint of beer, and, on three days of the week, 1 pint of pottage and 6 ounces of beef; on the other four days, 1 ounce of butter and 2 ounces of cheese. For supper they were to have 6 ounces of bread, 1 pint of beer, 1 ounce of butter, and 2 ounces of cheese. For breakfast every day they had 3 ounces of bread, 1/2 ounce of butter, and 1/2 pint of beer. 7. About the year 1685 the Middlesex magistrates established a "College for Infants", as they called it, where poor children might be trained and taught; and the same plan was followed in other places. 8. Then, too, about the same time, we find private persons establishing =charity schools= for a similar purpose. The boys and girls, however, in these schools were not always boarded and fed, but lived at home and went to school day by day. The rules drawn up for them by their founders seem very quaint and almost laughable to us. We must remember that there were good reasons for those rules when they were made. There were charity schools in almost every town, and most of them were carried on in the old way till well into the nineteenth century. 9. The =dress= of the school-boys looks queer to us, because it is the style of dress worn when the school was founded. A =blue-coat= boy wears still the dress worn in the sixteenth century. The little =charity-school boys= wore leather breeches, coloured stockings, coats of a quaint cut of brown or blue or green or grey, and flat caps, with two little pieces of fine linen fluttering under their chins--bands as they were called. This was the boys' dress of the seventeenth century, and they wore it long after it was out of fashion. The girls, too, had frocks and cloaks of a wonderful cut and colour, white aprons, and "such mob-caps". 10. They went to school in queer old buildings on Sundays and on week-days. They were often taken to church, where they were perched up aloft by the organ in dreadfully uncomfortable galleries, so uncomfortable that it is a wonder that some of them did not fall over into the church below. There they led the singing--what little there was. Their hours in school were pretty long, but they managed to get in a very fair amount of play, and always had time for falling into mischief. 11. People often laugh at these old-fashioned charity schools, and the work they did. That is a pity, because they were founded long before Parliament troubled itself about the education of the people. All honour to those good old-fashioned men and women who did what they could to provide teaching and training for poor boys and girls, and to put them in the way of being able to earn their own living. =Summary.=--Most of Edward VI _grammar-schools_ were founded out of small portions of property which had belonged to religious houses. Generally they were only for a small number of scholars. In the eighteenth century many of these schools were in a very poor condition. Most of them now are alive and flourishing. In the seventeenth century a good many attempts were made to teach the children of the poor on a small scale. Some took charge of the children altogether; others, the _charity schools,_ were day-schools. These lasted without much change till the middle of the nineteenth century. The blue-coat boys' dress and the dress of these charity children was the dress of the time when they were founded. CHAPTER XLVI APPRENTICES 1. From many of these old-fashioned schools boys and girls were apprenticed. Connected with old parishes there are still funds for so placing out boys and girls. 2. All through the Middle Ages the only way by which a man could become a craftsman was by being first of all an =apprentice=, and the rules by which a lad was bound to a master were very strict. Things did not alter much in this respect in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries. An apprentice was always bound for seven years in the presence of magistrates. The master had to find his apprentice in food, clothing, lodging, and to instruct him in his art, or "mystery" as it was called. The apprentice lived in his master's house, and was bound to serve him. 3. His master could chastise him if he was idle or "saucy", and even have him sent to the house of correction for further punishment. Both masters and apprentices could complain of each other to the magistrates at the Quarter Sessions, and the hearing of the complaints often took up a lot of time. According to many of the complaints, of which records still exist, some of the apprentices must have had rather a hard time--"seven years, hard". Some complained of having to eat mouldy cheese and rotten meat; others, of their ragged clothes; others, that their masters beat them with pokers, hammers, pint-pots, to say nothing of whips and sticks; prevented them from going to church; and others, that their masters turned them out-of-doors, or ran away and left them. The masters, on their side, often complain that their apprentices are idle, that they rob them, that they stop out at night and keep company with bad characters, and so on. So it seems they did not always get on well together. 4. But then there were the others--those who made the best of it. Where the master did his duty, and the apprentice took pains to learn, they got on pretty well together. It was not an easy life for the apprentice, but it made him a craftsman. 5. In some parts of the country, in manufacturing districts, there were little schools where children were taught =straw-plait= and =lace-making=. Then, especially in villages, the parish clerk, or some old lady, kept a =small school=, in which a few boys and girls picked up a little reading, writing, and arithmetic. 6. =Elementary schools=, out of which our present schools have grown, began about a century ago. Many and great changes have taken place since then, and knowledge is within the reach of every boy or girl to-day. =Summary.=--Many boys and girls were put out as _apprentices_ from old charity schools, and many parishes have still funds for apprenticing boys and girls to trades. For centuries a man could only become a craftsman who had been an apprentice. The apprentice had to serve for seven years, and the life was often very hard and trying, but it made good craftsmen in many cases. There were _plait schools_ and _lace-making_ schools in some parts of the country, and almost every village had its _little school_ taught by the parish clerk or an old lady. Our present _elementary schools_ began less than a century ago, and they have passed through many changes already. CHAPTER XLVII PLAY 1. In all the many centuries of our history there have been boys and girls; and, whatever has been going on in the world around them, they have found time to play. Many of their games go back so far in the history of man that their origin is forgotten. Yet there are games which children play now just as they did in the days of Queen Elizabeth; and those queer rhymes, which you know so well, and understand nothing about, have been repeated, some of them, since England began to be England. 2. There is plenty to say about games, but not enough space to say it all here. There are some games which come and go as regularly as the seasons. The queer part of it all is: Who starts the game? As sure as the early spring evenings arrive you will find boys playing at marbles. Town or country, it does not matter, all at once "marbles are _in_". Nobody says it is "marble season"; nobody ever yet found the boy who brings out the first marble of the season. Somehow a _something_ inside a boy tells him it is "marble" time, and the marbles appear in his pocket. 3. It is just the same with "tops"; they come and they go with absolute regularity. They come as if by magic, and by magic they disappear. When the errand-boy, who has left school a month or two, stops, basket on arm, to watch the game, you may be sure that it is the height of the season. When the ground is occupied by the little chaps who have just come up from the infant school, and the errand-boy passes whistling by on the other side, it is quite certain that the season is over and gone. 4. These are games that want no clubs, associations, nor subscriptions. Yet they are governed by time-honoured rules, which have never been written down, but must be strictly observed, or there is much talking and wrangling over the game. 5. =Sports= have an important place in the life of towns and villages nowadays; but, though cricket and football are old games really, they have not always been as popular as they are now. =Cricket=, in some form or other, was played in the thirteenth century; indeed all games where a ball is used are more or less ancient. It seems to have been played at Guildford as early as 1598, but modern cricket only dates from the middle of the eighteenth century. Kent seems to have led the way, and Hampshire was the home of the game in 1774. 6. =Football= has almost driven every other game out of our towns, but it is only within the last thirty years that it has become so popular. Football of some kind has been played for many centuries, especially in the streets of towns. Kingston, Chester, and Dorking, amongst other places, have a custom of playing football on Shrove Tuesday. The story as to how the custom arose is the same in most of these places. 7. Far back in the ninth century a party of Danes ravaged the district and attacked the town. The townsmen made a brave stand against them till help came. Then the Danes were defeated, their leader slain, his head struck off, and kicked about the streets in triumph. That is said to have given rise to the custom; but it was a very hideous football. 8. Football was not always regarded with favour. Folk often wanted to play football when their lords and masters wanted them to practise with their bows and arrows. So the young men and apprentices were frequently told what a dangerous game it was, and over and over again it was forbidden. Football was always apparently a game over which the players fell out, much as they do now. Nearly four hundred years ago a worthy gentleman wrote of the game:-- "It is nothyng but beastely fury and extreme violence, whereby procedeth hurte, and consequently rancour and malice do remayne with thym that be wounded". [Illustration] 9. There are some places where the school-boys of long, long ago have left their marks. In the cloisters at Westminster Abbey and Gloucester Cathedral, for instance, are some roughly cut marks in the old stone benches, forming the "tables" or "boards" on which they played some almost forgotten games with stones. =Summary.=--_Children's games_ are very ancient, and the rhymes have been handed down from very early times, so that we do not know now what they mean. Marbles, tops, and hop-scotch are games which come and go regularly, and are governed by unwritten rules. _Football_ and _cricket_ are old games. Both games have altered very much. The marks of some old games, which were played with stones, are still to be seen in the cloisters at Westminster and Gloucester. (See cut on previous page.) CHAPTER XLVIII GOVERNMENT 1. There was not much change for many centuries in the way in which towns and villages were governed. 2. The borough towns, which gained their charters back in the days of King John, or King Henry III, had them confirmed by various kings in later times; but the powers of the towns were not much altered. The =corporation= of a borough was usually made up of men chosen by the freemen; but if the freemen did not admit many persons to the freedom of the borough, the power of electing, in the course of years, fell into the hands of a very few people. 3. This was what actually happened in a very large number of cases, and at the end of the eighteenth century there were many old boroughs which were governed by "close corporations"--the bulk of the people living in the borough having no voice in the management of the affairs of the town. All that was altered in the early part of the nineteenth century. Many of the old boroughs lost their privileges, as they had become such small unimportant places. All other boroughs now have regular elections of town councillors by the rate-payers each first of November. The councils elect the mayor on each 9th of November. 4. The =mayor=, and some of the inhabitants of the borough, are also magistrates and attend to police cases; while the =town council= looks after matters connected with sewers, lighting, paving, and cleansing the streets of the town. It has now also charge of educational affairs. 5. In London and large towns, where there is much =police-court business=, there are special magistrates who attend to nothing else. 6. In country places, for centuries, the =manor court= governed the manor; but gradually, and by Tudor times, most of the power of the manor court, or court leet as it was sometimes called, had passed into the hands of the =Vestry=. This consisted of the parish officers and rate-payers in the whole parish. It was called the Vestry, because its meeting-place was the vestry of the parish church, or even the church itself. 7. The relief of the poor and the care of the highways provided the vestry with most of its business. The =churchwardens= had special care of the property of the Church, but in Tudor times they were also charged with the relief of the poor. To help them in this work two =overseers=, at least, in each parish, were chosen every year. All the rate-payers were liable to serve in turn if elected, unless they could show a good reason for not serving. The elections took place about Lady Day. The vestry fixed what rates were to be made, and the overseers collected them. But the overseers had to be admitted to their office, and all rates allowed, by two justices of the peace, before they were legal. 8. It became necessary, as the poor-law business increased, to have constables to help the overseers in keeping an eye on strangers, vagrants and beggars who came into the parish. These, too, had to serve for one year. In big parishes they were assisted by a =beadle=, and had, with the help of all the inhabitants in turn, to keep =watch and ward= at night. Very unpleasant work they had to do in towns and places just outside towns. This duty of watching and warding had to be carried out until towards the middle of the nineteenth century, when our present system of =police= was established. Beadles and constables had to see to the whippings, which were so common, and to setting people in the stocks and the cage; to moving sick and diseased wretches on to the next parish, and other unpleasant duties. 9. The =surveyors of the highways= had to see that each person who was liable did his share of the work of the highways, or paid for having it done. But by far the most important business was that of the churchwardens and overseers. They had to settle in what houses the poor folk were to live, who were to look after them, what allowance was to be made for them. The poor usually had their money paid to them at church, monthly. Then the overseers had to see that every able-bodied man was at work, often having to provide the work, to place out apprentices, and to supply flax or wool for the women and children to spin. Sometimes the poor were boarded out; some of them lived in cottages, or in the poors' house which the parish built. Then, too, these officers had to relieve beggars, and persons passing through the parish. 10. This work of providing for the poor was very difficult and very anxious, especially at the end of the eighteenth and in the early part of the nineteenth century. 11. Then =poor-law unions= were formed, and =union workhouses= built, in which the helpless poor might be better cared for, and vagrants and wanderers find a night's lodging. We have not a perfect plan yet, by any means. The difficulties of how to deal with the poor who, through no fault of their own, cannot help themselves, and how to deal with those who are lazy and will not work, are very great. 12. The work of the old vestries has now passed to the =Parish Councils,= the =District Councils,= and the =County Councils=. The work is important, and has much to do with the welfare of our towns and villages. We must not expect that these bodies can do everything at once, or that they will make no mistakes. If we know something of the past history of our towns and villages it will help us to form a right judgment concerning difficulties which have to be met in the present, and so to act that those who come after us may be able to go on building upon our work, that there may be nothing to undo, nothing to blame, but that future years may say of our times: "They knew how to work, and they worked on right principles". =Summary.=--In the course of centuries the government of most boroughs got into the hands of few people. This was altered early in the nineteenth century. Borough towns now choose a certain number of members, and the councils elect a mayor. The mayor is a magistrate; in the large towns of England trained lawyers are appointed magistrates to act in the police courts. In country places much of the power of the manor court got into the hands of the vestry. The vestry made the rates required, and chose churchwardens, overseers, surveyors of highways, every year. In towns the inhabitants had to keep "watch and ward" in turn, till the police force was organized in the nineteenth century. Each parish looked after and provided for its own poor till early in the nineteenth century. The work of the vestries is now done by Parish Councils, District Councils, and the County Councils. CHAPTER XLIX SOME CHANGES 1. There was not much alteration in the outward appearance of the villages and the "look" of the country round them for many centuries. Indeed even now many of the villages themselves are not greatly altered in their general arrangement. Down to the times of the Tudor kings the old land and manor customs had gone on since Saxon days, changing but very slowly. Many of the class which had been villeins in the Middle Ages had become yeomen; some had got lands of their own, and some land on the old manors, which they rented. But they did not alter very much the old way of treating the land, and it was only gradually that =farmhouses= sprang up away from the villages. 2. In some parts of the country these lonely farmhouses are more common than in others. There are, for instance, a good many in the Weald of Sussex which sprang up first as huts in forest clearings, and afterwards became houses with farm-buildings attached to them. 3. On the borders of great lonely heaths and commons we can often see very old and very small cottages, with walls of clay, or wood, or stone, according to the district in which they happen to be. Long ago some =squatter= built his little hut here, and out of pity, perhaps, or carelessness, the lord of the manor took no notice. There he remained, year after year, until custom allowed him to look upon it as his own; and in time it actually became his private property. Such squatters in lonely places were often looked upon more or less with fear by the timid folk living in the distant village. They did not care to do or say anything to upset the stranger, fearing for the safety of their sheep, cattle, and poultry. Many little holdings and small farms began in this way. 4. Many of the =farms=, though they were separate holdings, still had strips in the big fields of the parish. The crops were sown and gathered according to the ancient customs, and the cattle turned into them and out on the waste lands at certain seasons, just as they had been in the Middle Ages. 5. But about the beginning of the eighteenth century there was a pretty general movement towards breaking up these big fields into separate parts, and letting each farmer have his portion to himself, so that he might know exactly what land was his and what belonged to his neighbour. So it came to pass that =Enclosure Acts= were passed for parish after parish. The old common arable fields were divided amongst those who had rights in them. Then many of the old wastes, heaths, commons, and marshes were treated in the same way. 6. That caused a great change in the appearance of the parish. Instead of the fields in long, straight strips, with unploughed balks between them, the strips belonging to each farmer were thrown into one, and =hedgerows= planted. In time they became smooth fields, separated from each other by hedges, in which grew here and there timber trees. The old cart-tracks, winding across and round the common fields, in time became =lanes= bounded by high hedges. The trackways across many of the old wastes and commons in a similar way were turned into lanes, and the waste broken up into fields. Still a good deal of the waste land was left, and has never yet been enclosed. So far as we can see now, this is not likely to happen, because we feel more and more every year that, for the sake of the health and recreation of the people, it is absolutely necessary to preserve them as open spaces. 7. The fields, the hedgerows, and the lanes which delight us so much in the country are, most of them, some two hundred years old. 8. When the farm had its own separate fields allotted to it, it became convenient for the farmer to live in the midst of his land. So we find the farmhouse and its buildings, with a few labourers' cottages, a long way out of the village, and away from the church. If you take notice you will find that from this outlying farmhouse there is usually a pretty straight field-path to the parish church. 9. Then, too, in parishes through which a big main road ran, as the traffic on the road increased, houses of entertainment for man and beast became necessary; =ale-houses= and =inns= sprang up, with little farmsteads round them. =Coaches= were put on many roads in the time of King Charles II, and had regular stopping-places, and these little inns often became important centres of business. Gradually hamlets sprang up round many of them. 10. The roads were so bad that horses frequently cast their shoes, tires came off wheels, and wheels came off carts and coaches; so under many "a spreading chestnut-tree" a little smithy and wheel-wright's shop arose. A smithy is always a centre of life and news, as everybody knows. You can see to-day, along many of our roads, sheds and shops being opened, where broken-down cycles and motor cars can be repaired and supplied with odds and ends which they may happen to need. 11. Thus =hamlets= have grown up away from the old village green, its church, and its manor-house. In scores of places the hamlet has become of more importance than the old village, and has grown into a little town, where new churches and chapels and public buildings have sprung up. 12. Then there are the =districts= where new industries and manufactures have been planted. That is too large a subject to deal with here, but think of the great changes these have wrought on the face of the country in the coal and mineral districts of England in the last two hundred years. 13. Again, there are the =railways=. Notice how little townships have grown up round the railway-stations, especially on the main lines in districts near a big town. Houses spring up for the hosts of people who, like streams of human ants, hurry to the station to catch the early morning trains, and, as the afternoon wears into evening, come again from the station to snatch a few hours' rest at home. 14. We have said nothing of "The beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea", and the part they have had in the making of our towns and villages. This subject would require a book all to itself, and then we shall only just have begun to think about it, and to find out how little we know and understand of the things which go to make up our daily lives. 15. Yes, the life of our towns and villages is a very interesting subject. Nature and Man each works for and with the other; both are full of mystery, life, and beauty, if we could only use our eyes to see, our intelligence to understand, our hearts to sympathize, and our hands to work. =Summary.=--The earliest _farmhouses_ began as settlers' huts in such forest regions as the Weald. _Squatters_ gradually got little holdings near lonely heaths and commons. _Separate farms_, with farm-buildings and labourers' cottages attached to them, date from about the middle of the eighteenth century, when the _old common fields_ began to be enclosed. _Fields and hedgerows and country lanes_, as we see them now, mostly began then. _New hamlets_ sprang up by main roads as coaches came into use: an ale-house and a forge were usually the first buildings. _New towns_ have sprung up in manufacturing districts and round railway-stations. FOOTNOTES: [1] Also between Hitchin and Cambridge, at Clothall, in Herts, in the Chiltern Hills, on the steep side of the Sussex Downs, in Clun Forest, in Carmarthenshire, and in Wilts. [2] Spinneys are plantations of trees growing closely together. [3] A diocese is the district over which a bishop rules. [4] In the Fens. [5] When we speak of Saxon work in buildings we mean work done between the time of King Cnut and the Norman Conquest--the first half of the eleventh century. [6] The Cistercian houses here in England, however, were always known as _abbeys_, though Citeaux, their head-quarters, was in France. [7] _founded_, that is, established. [8] _found_, that is, discovered. [9] _feaden_, that is, feed. [10] _pullen_, that is, poultry. [11] The Jews were expelled from England A.D. 1290. [12] That is, whipped at a cart's tail. [13] _Terra-cotta_ is a compound of pure clay, fine sand, or powdered flint. [14] See the picture on p. 162. [15] _Jacobean_ means of the time of James I and on to James II. 
47342	----	GADSBY +--------------------------------+ | _A Story of Over 50,000 Words_ | | _Without Using the Letter "E"_ | +--------------------------------+ by ERNEST VINCENT WRIGHT Wetzel Publishing Co., Inc. : Los Angeles, California : Copyright 1939 by Wetzel Publishing Co., Inc. TO YOUTH! [Illustration: ERNEST VINCENT WRIGHT] INTRODUCTION The entire manuscript of this story was written with the E type-bar of the typewriter _tied down_; thus making it impossible for that letter to be printed. This was done so that none of that vowel might slip in, accidentally; and many _did_ try to do so! There is a great deal of information as to what _Youth_ can do, if given a chance; and, though it starts out in somewhat of an impersonal vein, there is plenty of thrill, rollicking comedy, love, courtship, marriage, patriotism, sudden tragedy, _a determined stand against liquor_, and some amusing political aspirations in a small growing town. In writing such a story,--purposely avoiding all words containing the vowel E, there are a great many difficulties. The greatest of these is met in the past tense of verbs, almost all of which end with "--ed." Therefore substitutes must be found; and they are _very few_. This will cause, at times, a somewhat monotonous use of such words as "said;" for neither "replied," "answered" nor "asked" can be used. Another difficulty comes with the elimination of the common couplet "of course," and its very common connective, "consequently;" which will, unavoidably cause "bumpy spots." The numerals also cause plenty of trouble, for none between six and thirty are available. When introducing young ladies into the story, this is a _real_ barrier; for what young woman wants to have it known that she is over thirty? And this restriction on numbers, of course taboos all mention of dates. Many abbreviations also must be avoided; the most common of all, "Mr." and "Mrs." being particularly troublesome; for those words, if read aloud, plainly indicate the E in their orthography. As the vowel E is used more than five times oftener than any other letter, this story was written, not through any attempt to attain literary merit, but due to a somewhat balky nature, caused by hearing it so constantly claimed that "it can't be done; for you _cannot_ say anything at all without using E, and make smooth continuity, with perfectly grammatical construction--" so 'twas said. Many may think that I simply "drop" the E's, filling the gaps with apostrophes. A perusal of the book will show that this is not so. All words used are _complete_; are correctly spelled and properly used. This has been accomplished through the use of synonyms; and, by so twisting a sentence around as to avoid ambiguity. The book may prove a valuable aid to school children in English composition. People, as a rule, will not stop to realize what a task such an attempt actually is. As I wrote along, in long-hand at first, a whole army of little E's gathered around my desk, all eagerly expecting to be called upon. But gradually as they saw me writing on and on, without even noticing them, they grew uneasy; and, with excited whisperings amongst themselves, began hopping up and riding on my pen, looking down constantly for a chance to drop off into some word; for all the world like sea-birds perched, watching for a passing fish! But when they saw that I had covered 138 pages of typewriter size paper, they slid off onto the floor, walking sadly away, arm in arm; but shouting back: "You certainly must have a hodge-podge of a yarn there without _Us!_ Why, man! We are in every story ever written, _hundreds of thousands of times!_ This is the first time we ever were shut out!" Pronouns also caused trouble; for such words as he, she, they, them, theirs, her, herself, myself, himself, yourself, etc., could not be utilized. But a particularly annoying obstacle comes when, almost through a long paragraph you can find no words with which to continue that line of thought; hence, as in Solitaire, you are "stuck," and must go way back and start another; which, of course, must perfectly fit the preceding context. I have received some extremely odd criticisms since the Associated Press widely announced that such a book was being written. A rapid-talking New York newspaper columnist wanted to know how I would get over the plain fact that my name contains the letter E three times. As an author's name is _not_ a part of his story, that criticism did not hold water. And I received one most scathing epistle from a lady (woman!) denouncing me as a "genuine fake;" (that paradox being a most interesting one!), and ending by saying:--"Everyone knows that such a feat is impossible." All right. Then the impossible has been accomplished; (a paradox to equal hers!) Other criticism may be directed at the Introduction; but this section of a story _also_ is not part of it. The author is entitled to it, in order properly to explain his work. The story required five and a half months of concentrated endeavor, with so many erasures and retrenchments that I tremble as I think of them. Of course anybody can write such a story. All that is needed is a piece of string tied from the E type-bar down to some part of the base of the typewriter. Then simply go ahead and type your story. Incidentally, you should have some sort of a bromide preparation handy, for use when the going gets rough, as it most assuredly will! Before the book was in print, I was freely and openly informed "there is a trick, or catch," somewhere in that claim that there is not one letter E in the entire book, after you leave the Introduction. Well; it is the privilege of the reader to unearth any such deception that he or she may think they can find. I have even ordered the printer not to head each chapter with the words "Chapter 2," etc., on account of that bothersome E in that word. In closing let me say that I trust you may learn to love all the young folks in the story, as deeply as I have, in introducing them to you. Like many a book, it grows more and more interesting as the reader becomes well acquainted with the characters. Los Angeles, California February, 1939 I If Youth, throughout all history, had had a champion to stand up for it; to show a doubting world that a child can think; and, possibly, do it practically; you wouldn't constantly run across folks today who claim that "a child don't know anything." A child's brain starts functioning at birth; and has, amongst its many infant convolutions, thousands of dormant atoms, into which God has put a mystic possibility for noticing an adult's act, and figuring out its purport. Up to about its primary school days a child thinks, naturally, only of play. But many a form of play contains disciplinary factors. "You can't do this," or "that puts you out," shows a child that it must think, practically, or fail. Now, if, throughout childhood, a brain has no opposition, it is plain that it will attain a position of "status quo," as with our ordinary animals. Man knows not why a cow, dog or lion was not born with a brain on a par with ours; why such animals cannot add, subtract, or obtain from books and schooling, that paramount position which Man holds today. But a human brain is not in that class. Constantly throbbing and pulsating, it rapidly forms opinions; attaining an ability of its own; a fact which is startlingly shown by an occasional child "prodigy" in music or school work. And as, with our dumb animals, a child's inability convincingly to impart its thoughts to us, should not class it as ignorant. Upon this basis I am going to show you how a bunch of bright young folks did find a champion; a man with boys and girls of his own; a man of so dominating and happy individuality that Youth is drawn to him as is a fly to a sugar bowl. It is a story about a small town. It is not a gossipy yarn; nor is it a dry, monotonous account, full of such customary "fill-ins" as "romantic moonlight casting murky shadows down a long, winding country road." Nor will it say anything about tinklings lulling distant folds; robins carolling at twilight, nor any "warm glow of lamplight" from a cabin window. No. It is an account of up-and-doing activity; a vivid portrayal of Youth as it is today; and a practical discarding of that worn-out notion that "a child don't know anything." Now, any author, from history's dawn, always had that most important aid to writing:--an ability to call upon any word in his dictionary in building up his story. That is, our strict laws as to word construction did not block his path. But in _my_ story that mighty obstruction _will_ constantly stand in my path; for many an important, common word I cannot adopt, owing to its orthography. I shall act as a sort of historian for this small town; associating with its inhabitants, and striving to acquaint you with its youths, in such a way that you can look, knowingly, upon any child, rich or poor; forward or "backward;" your own, or John Smith's, in your community. You will find many young minds aspiring to know how, and WHY such a thing is so. And, if a child shows curiosity in that way, how ridiculous it is for you to snap out:-- "Oh! Don't ask about things too old for you!" Such a jolt to a young child's mind, craving instruction, is apt so to dull its avidity, as to hold it back in its school work. Try to look upon a child as a small, soft young body and a rapidly growing, constantly inquiring brain. It must grow to maturity slowly. Forcing a child through school by constant night study during hours in which it should run and play, can bring on insomnia; handicapping both brain and body. Now this small town in our story had grown in just that way:--slowly; in fact, much _too_ slowly to stand on a par with many a thousand of its kind in this big, vigorous nation of ours. It was simply stagnating; just as a small mountain brook, coming to a hollow, might stop, and sink from sight, through not having a will to find a way through that obstruction; or around it. You will run across such a dormant town, occasionally; possibly so dormant that only outright isolation by a fast-moving world, will show it its folly. If you will tour Asia, Yucatan, or parts of Africa and Italy, you will find many sad ruins of past kingdoms. Go to Indo-China and visit its gigantic Ankhor Vat; call at Damascus, Baghdad and Samarkand. What sorrowful lack of ambition many such a community shows in thus discarding such high-class construction! And I say, again, that so will Youth grow dormant, and hold this big, throbbing world back, if no champion backs it up; thus providing it with an opportunity to show its ability for looking forward, and improving unsatisfactory conditions. So this small town of Branton Hills was lazily snoozing amidst up-and-doing towns, as Youth's Champion, John Gadsby, took hold of it; and shook its dawdling, flabby body until its inhabitants thought a tornado had struck it. Call it tornado, volcano, military onslaught, or what you will, this town found that it had a bunch of kids who had wills that would admit of no snoozing; for that is Youth, on its forward march of inquiry, thought and action. If you stop to think of it, you will find that it is customary for our "grown-up" brain to cast off many of its functions of its youth; and to think only of what it calls "topics of maturity." Amongst such discards, is many a form of happy play; many a muscular activity such as walking, running, climbing; thus totally missing that alluring "joy of living" of childhood. If you wish a vacation from financial affairs, just go out and play with Youth. Play "blind-man's buff," "hop-scotch," "ring toss," and football. Go out to a charming woodland spot on a picnic with a bright, happy, vivacious group. Sit down at a corn roast; a marshmallow toast; join in singing popular songs; drink a quart of good, rich milk; burrow into that big lunch box; and all such things as banks, stocks, and family bills, will vanish on fairy wings, into oblivion. But this is not a claim that Man should stay always youthful. Supposing that that famous Spaniard, landing upon Florida's coral strands, had found that mythical Fountain of Youth; what a calamity for mankind! A world without maturity of thought; without man's full-grown muscular ability to construct mighty buildings, railroads and ships; a world without authors, doctors, savants, musicians; nothing but Youth! I can think of but a solitary approval of such a condition; for such a horror as war would not,--could not occur; for a child is, naturally, a small bunch of sympathy. I know that boys will "scrap;" also that "spats" will occur amongst girls; but, at such a monstrosity as killings by bombing towns, sinking ships, or mass annihilation of marching troops, childhood would stand aghast. Not a tiny bird would fall; nor would any form of gun nor facility for manufacturing it, insult that almost Holy purity of youthful thought. Anybody who knows that wracking sorrow brought upon a child by a dying puppy or cat, knows that childhood can show us that our fighting, our policy of "a tooth for a tooth," is abominably wrong. So, now to start our story:-- Branton Hills was a small town in a rich agricultural district; and having many a possibility for growth. But, through a sort of smug satisfaction with conditions of long ago, had no thought of improving such important adjuncts as roads; putting up public buildings, nor laying out parks; in fact a dormant, slowly dying community. So satisfactory was its status that it had no form of transportation to surrounding towns but by railroad, or "old Dobbin." Now, any town thus isolating its inhabitants, will invariably find this big, busy world passing it by; glancing at it, curiously, as at an odd animal at a circus; and, you will find, caring not a whit about its condition. Naturally, a town should grow. You can look upon it as a child; which, through natural conditions, should attain manhood; and add to its surrounding thriving districts its products of farm, shop, or factory. It should show a spirit of association with surrounding towns; crawl out of its lair, and find how backward it is. Now, in all such towns, you will find, occasionally, an individual born with that sort of brain which, knowing that his town is backward, longs to start things toward improving it; not only its living conditions, but adding an institution or two, such as any _city_, big or small, maintains, gratis, for its inhabitants. But so forward looking a man finds that trying to instill any such notions into a town's ruling body is about as satisfactory as butting against a brick wall. Such "Boards" as you find ruling many a small town, function from such a soporific rut that any hint of digging cash from its cast iron strong box with its big brass padlock, will fall upon minds as rigid as rock. Branton Hills _had_ such a man, to whom such rigidity was as annoying as a thorn in his foot. Continuous trials brought only continual thorn-pricks; until, finally, a brilliant plan took form as John Gadsby found Branton Hills' High School pupils waking up to Branton Hills' sloth. Gadsby continually found this bright young bunch asking:-- "Aw! Why is this town so slow? It's nothing but a dry twig!!" "Ha!" said Gadsby; "A dry twig! That's it! Many a living, blossoming branch all around us, and this solitary dry twig, with a tag hanging from it, on which you will find: 'Branton Hills; A twig too lazy to grow!'" Now this put a "hunch" in Gadsby's brain, causing him to say; "A High School pupil is not a child, now. Naturally a High School boy has not a man's qualifications; nor has a High School girl womanly maturity. But such kids, born in this swiftly moving day, think out many a notion which will work, but which would pass our dads and granddads in cold disdain. Just as ships pass at night. But supposing that such ships should show a light in passing; or blow a horn; or, if--if--if--By Golly! I'll do it!" And so Gadsby sat on his blossom-bound porch on a mild Spring morning, thinking and smoking. Smoking can calm a man down; and his thoughts had so long and so constantly clung to this plan of his that a cool outlook as to its promulgation was not only important, but paramount. So, as his cigar was whirling and puffing rings aloft; and as groups of bright, happy boys and girls trod past, to school, his plan rapidly took form as follows:-- "Youth! What is it? Simply a start. A start of what? Why, of that most astounding of all human functions; thought. But man didn't start his brain working. No. All that an adult can claim is a continuation, or an amplification of thoughts, dormant in his youth. Although a child's brain can absorb instruction with an ability far surpassing that of a grown man; and, although such a young brain is bound by rigid limits, it contains a capacity for constantly craving additional facts. So, in our backward Branton Hills, I just _know_ that I can find boys and girls who can show our old moss-back Town Hall big-wigs a thing or two. Why! On Town Hall night, just go and sit in that room and find out just how stupid and stubborn a Council, (put _into_ Town Hall, you know, through popular ballot!), can act. Say that a road is badly worn. Shall it stay so? Up jumps Old Bill Simpkins claiming that it is a townsman's duty to fix up his wagon springs if that road is too rough for him!" As Gadsby sat thinking thus, his plan was rapidly growing; and, in a month, was actually starting to work. How? You'll know shortly; but first, you should know this John Gadsby; a man of "around fifty;" a family man, and known throughout Branton Hills for his high standard of honor and altruism on any kind of an occasion for public good. A loyal churchman, Gadsby was a man who, though admitting that an occasional fault in our daily acts is bound to occur, had taught his two boys and a pair of girls that, though folks do slip from what Scriptural authors call that "straight and narrow path," it will not pay to risk your own Soul by slipping, just so that you can laugh at your ability in staying out of prison; for Gadsby, having grown up in Branton Hills, could point to many such man or woman. So, with such firm convictions in his mind, this upstanding man was constantly striving so to act that no complaint from man, woman or child should bring a word of disapproval. In his mind, what a man might do was that man's affair only and could stain no Soul but his own. And his altruism taught that it is not difficult to find many ways in which to bring joy to such as cannot, through physical disability, go out to look for it; and that only a small bit of joy, brought to a shut-in invalid will carry with it such a warmth as can flow only from acts of human sympathy. For many days Gadsby had thought of ways in which folks with a goodly bank account could aid in building up this rapidly backsliding town of Branton Hills. But, how to show that class what a contribution could do? In this town, full of capitalists and philanthropists contributing, off and on, for shipping warming pans to Zulus, Gadsby saw a solution. In whom? Why, in just that bunch of bright, happy school kids, back from many a visit to a _city_, and noting its ability in improving its living conditions. So Gadsby thought of thus carrying an inkling to such capitalists as to how this stagnating town could claim a big spot upon our national map, which is now shown only in small, insignificant print. As a start, Branton Hills' "Daily Post" would carry a long story, outlining a list of factors for improving conditions. This it did; but it will always stay as a blot upon high minds and proud blood that not a man or woman amongst such capitalists saw, in his plan, any call for dormant funds. But did that stop Gadsby? Can you stop a rising wind? Hardly! So Gadsby took into council about forty boys of his vicinity and built up an Organization of Youth. Also about as many girls who had known what it is, compulsorily to pass up many a picnic, or various forms of sport, through a lack of public park land. So this strong, vigorous combination of both youth and untiring activity, avidly took up Gadsby's plan; for nothing so stirs up a youthful mind as an opportunity for accomplishing anything that adults cannot do. And did Gadsby _know_ Youth? I'll say so! His two sons and girls, now in High or Grammar school, had taught him a thing or two; principal amongst which was that all-dominating fact that, at a not too far distant day, our young folks will occupy important vocational and also political positions, and will look back upon this, _our_ day; smiling kindly at our way of doing things. So, to say that many a Branton Hills "King of Capital" got a bit huffy as a High School stripling was proving how stubborn a rich man is if his dollars don't aid so vast an opportunity for doing good, would put it mildly! Such downright _gall_ by a half-grown kid to inform _him_; an outstanding light on Branton Hills' tax list, that this town was sliding down hill; and would soon land in an abyss of national oblivion! And our Organization girls! _How_ Branton Hills' rich old widows and plump matrons did sniff in disdain as a group of High School pupils brought forth straightforward claims that cash paving a road, is doing good practical work, but, in filling up a strong box, is worth nothing to our town. Oh, that class of nabobs! How thoroughly Gadsby _did_ know its parsimony!! And how thoroughly did this hard-planning man know just what a constant onslaught by Youth could do. So, in about a month, his "Organization" had "waylaid," so to say, practically half of Branton Hills' cash kings; and had so won out, through that commonly known "pull" upon an adult by a child asking for what plainly is worthy, that his mail brought not only cash, but two rich landlords put at his disposal, tracts of land "for any form of occupancy which can, in any way, aid our town." This land Gadsby's Organization promptly put into growing farm products for gratis distribution to Branton Hills' poor; and that burning craving of Youth for activity soon had it sprouting corn, squash, potato, onion and asparagus crops; and, to "doll it up a bit," put in a patch of blossoming plants. Naturally any man is happy at a satisfactory culmination of his plans and so, as Gadsby found that public philanthropy was but an affair of plain, ordinary approach, it did not call for much brain work to find that, possibly also, a way might turn up for putting handicraft instruction in Branton Hills' schools; for schooling, according to him, did not consist only of books and black-boards. Hands also should know how to construct various practical things in woodwork, plumbing, blacksmithing, masonry, and so forth; with thorough instruction in sanitation, and that most important of all youthful activity, gymnastics. For girls such a school could instruct in cooking, suit making, hat making, fancy work, art and loom-work; in fact, about any handicraft that a girl might wish to study, and which is not in our standard school curriculum. But as Gadsby thought of such a school, no way for backing it financially was in sight. Town funds naturally, should carry it along; but town funds and Town Councils do not always form what you might call synonymous words. So it was compulsory that cash should actually "drop into his lap," via a continuation of solicitations by his now grandly functioning Organization of Youth. So, out again trod that bunch of bright, happy kids, putting forth such plain, straightforward facts as to what Manual Training would do for Branton Hills, that many saw it in that light. But you will always find a group, or individual complaining that such things would "automatically dawn" on boys and girls without any training. Old Bill Simpkins was loud in his antagonism to what was a "crazy plan to dip into our town funds just to allow boys to saw up good wood, and girls to burn up good flour, trying to cook biscuits." Kids, according to him, should go to work in Branton Hills' shopping district, and profit by it. "Bah! Why not start a class to show goldfish how to waltz! _I_ didn't go to any such school; and what am I now? _A Councilman!_ I can't saw a board straight, nor fry a potato chip; but I can show you folks how to hang onto your town funds." Old Bill was a notorious grouch; but our Organization occasionally did find a totally varying mood. Old Lady Flanagan, with four boys in school, and a husband many days too drunk to work, was loud in approval. "Whoops! Thot's phwat I calls a grand thing! Worra, worra! I wish Old Man Flanagan had had sich an opporchunity. But thot ignorant old clod don't know nuthin' but boozin', tobacca shmokin' and ditch-diggin'. And you know thot our Council ain't a-payin' for no ditch-scoopin' right now. So _I'll_ shout for thot school! For my boys can find out how to fix thot barn door our old cow laid down against." Ha, ha! What a circus our Organization had with such varying moods and outlooks! But, finally such a school was built; instructors brought in from surrounding towns; and Gadsby was as happy as a cat with a ball of yarn. As Branton Hills found out what it can accomplish if it starts out with vigor and a will to win, our Organization thought of laying out a big park; furnishing an opportunity for small tots to romp and play on grassy plots; a park for all sorts of sports, picnics, and so forth; sand lots for babyhood; cozy arbors for girls who might wish to study, or talk. (You might, possibly, find a girl who _can_ talk, you know!); also shady nooks and winding paths for old folks who might find comfort in such. Gadsby thought that a park is truly a most important adjunct to any community; for, if a growing population has no out-door spot at which its glooms, slumps and morbid thoughts can vanish upon wings of sunlight, amidst bright colorings of shrubs and sky, it may sink into a grouchy, fault-finding, squabbling group; and making such a showing for surrounding towns as to hold back any gain in population or valuation. Gadsby had a goodly plot of land in a grand location for a park and sold it to Branton Hills for a dollar; that stingy Council to lay it out according to his plans. And _how_ his Organization did applaud him for this, his first "solo work!" But schools and parks do not fulfill all of a town's calls. Many minds of varying kinds will long for an opportunity for finding out things not ordinarily taught in school. So Branton Hills' Public Library was found too small. As it was now in a small back room in our High School, it should occupy its own building; down town, and handy for all; and with additional thousands of books and maps. Now, if you think Gadsby and his youthful assistants stood aghast at such a gigantic proposition, you just don't know Youth, as it is today. But to whom could Youth look for so big an outlay as a library building would cost? Books also cost; librarians and janitors draw pay. So, with light, warmth, and all-round comforts, it was a task to stump a full-grown politician; to say nothing of a plain, ordinary townsman and a bunch of kids. So Gadsby thought of taking two bright boys and two smart girls to Washington, to call upon a man in a high position, who had got it through Branton Hills' popular ballot. Now, any politician is a convincing orator. (That is, you know, all that politics consists of!); and this big man, in contact with a visiting capitalist, looking for a handout for his own district, got a donation of a thousand dollars. But that wouldn't _start_ a public library; to say nothing of maintaining it. So, back in Branton Hills, again, our Organization was out, as usual, on its war-path. Branton Hills' philanthropy was now showing signs of monotony; so our Organization had to work its linguistic ability and captivating tricks full blast, until that thousand dollars had so grown that a library was built upon a vacant lot which had grown nothing but grass; and only a poor quality of it, at that; and many a child and adult quickly found ways of profitably passing odd hours. Naturally Old Bill Simpkins was snooping around, sniffing and snorting at any signs of making Branton Hills "look cityish," (a word originating in Bill's vocabulary.) "Huh!! _I_ didn't put in any foolish hours with books in my happy childhood in this good old town! But I got along all right; and am now having my say in its Town Hall doings. Books!! Pooh! Maps! BAH!! It's silly to squat in a hot room squinting at a lot of print! If you want to know about a thing, go to work in a shop or factory of that kind, and find out about it first-hand." "But, Bill," said Gadsby, "shops want a man who knows what to do without having to stop to train him." "Oh, that's all bosh! If a boss shows a man what a tool is for; and if that man is any good, at all, why bring up this stuff you call training? That man grabs a tool, works 'til noon; knocks off for an hour; works 'til----" At this point in Bill's blow-up an Italian Councilman was passing, and put in his oar, with:-- "Ha, Bill! You thinka your man can worka all right, firsta day, huh? You talka crazy so much as a fool! I laugha tinkin' of you startin' on a patcha for my boota! You lasta just a half hour. Thisa library all righta. This town too mucha what I call tight-wad!" Oh, hum!! It's a tough job making old dogs do tricks. But our Organization was now holding almost daily sittings, and soon a bright girl thought of having band music in that now popular park. And _what_ do you think that stingy Council did? It actually built a most fantastic band-stand; got a contract with a first-class band, and all without so much as a Councilman fainting away!! So, finally, on a hot July Sunday, two solid hours of grand harmony brought joy to many a poor Soul who had not for many a day, known that balm of comfort which can "air out our brains' dusty corridors," and bring such happy thrills, as Music, that charming Fairy, which knows no human words, can bring. Around that gaudy band-stand, at two-thirty on that first Sunday, sat or stood as happy a throng of old and young as any man could wish for; and Gadsby and his "gang" got hand-clasps and hand-claps, from all. A good band, you know, not only can stir and thrill you; for it can play a soft crooning lullaby, a lilting waltz or polka; or, with its wood winds, bring forth old songs of our childhood, ballads of courting days, or hymns and carols of Christmas; and can suit all sorts of folks, in all sorts of moods; for a Spaniard, Dutchman or Russian can find similar joy with a man from Italy, Norway or far away Brazil. II By now, Branton Hills was so proud of not only its "smarting up," but also of its startling growth, on that account, that an application was put forth for its incorporation as a city; a small city, naturally, but full of that condition of Youth, known as "growing pains." So its shabby old "Town Hall" sign was thrown away, and a black and gold onyx slab, with "CITY HALL" blazing forth in vivid colors, put up, amidst band music, flag waving, parading and oratory. In only a month from that glorious day, Gadsby found folks "primping up"; girls putting on bright ribbons; boys finding that suits could stand a good ironing; and rich widows and portly matrons almost out-doing any rainbow in brilliancy. An occasional shop along Broadway, which had a rattly door or shaky windows was put into first class condition, to fit Branton Hills' status as a city. Old Bill Simpkins was strutting around, as pompous as a drum-major; for, now, that old Town Council would function as a CITY council; HIS council! His own stamping ground! According to him, from it, at no far day, "Bill Simpkins, City Councilman," would show an anxiously waiting world how to run a city; though probably, I think, how _not_ to run it. It is truly surprising what a narrow mind, what a blind outlook a man, brought up with practically no opposition to his boyhood wants, can attain; though brought into contact with indisputably important data for improving his city. Our Organization boys thought Bill "a bit off;" but Gadsby would only laugh at his blasts against paying out city funds; for, you know, all bombs don't burst; you occasionally find a "dud." But this furor for fixing up rattly doors or shaky windows didn't last; for Old Bill's oratory found favor with a bunch of his old tight-wads, who actually thought of inaugurating a campaign against Gadsby's Organization of Youth. As soon as this was known about town, that mythical pot, known as Public Opinion, was boiling furiously. A vast majority stood back of Gadsby and his kids; so, old Bill's ranks could count only on a small group of rich old Shylocks to whom a bank-book was a thing to look into or talk about only annually; that is, on bank-balancing days. This small minority got up a slogan:--"Why Spoil a Good Old Town?" and actually did, off and on, talk a shopman out of fixing up his shop or grounds. This, you know, put additional vigor into our Organization; inspiring a boy to bring up a plan for calling a month,--say July,--"pick-up, paint-up and wash-up month;" for it was a plain fact that, all about town, was many a shabby spot; a lot of buildings could stand a good coat of paint, and yards raking up; thus showing surrounding towns that not only _could_ Branton Hills "doll up," but had a class of inhabitants who gladly would go at such a plan, and carry it through. So Gadsby got his "gang" out, to sally forth and any man or woman who did not jump, at first, at such a plan by vigorous Youth, was always brought around, through noticing how poorly a shabby yard did look. So Gadsby put in Branton Hills' "Post" this stirring call:-- "Raking up your yard or painting your building is simply improving it both in worth; artistically and from a utilization standpoint. I know that many a city front lawn is small; but, if it is only fairly big, a walk, cut curvingly, will add to it, surprisingly. That part of a walk which runs to your front door could show rows of small rocks rough and natural; and grading from small to big; but _no_ 'hit-or-miss' layout. You can so fix up your yard as to form an approach to unity in plan with such as adjoin you; though without actual duplication; thus providing harmony for all who may pass by. It is, in fact, but a bit of City Planning; and anybody who aids in such work is a most worthy inhabitant. So, _cut_ your scraggly lawns! _Trim_ your old, shaggy shrubs! Bring into artistic form, your grass-grown walks!" (Now, naturally, in writing such a story as this, with its conditions as laid down in its Introduction, it is not surprising that an occasional "rough spot" in composition is found. So I trust that a critical public will hold constantly in mind that I am voluntarily avoiding words containing that symbol which is, _by far_, of most common inclusion in writing our Anglo-Saxon as it is, today. Many of our most common words cannot show; so I must adopt synonyms; and so twist a thought around as to say what I wish with as much clarity as I can.) So, now to go on with this odd contraption: By Autumn, a man who took his vacation in July, would hardly know his town upon coming back, so thoroughly had thousands "dug in" to aid in its transformation. "Boys," said Gadsby, "you can pat your own backs, if you can't find anybody to do it for you. This city is proud of you. And, girls, just sing with joy; for not only is your city proud of you, but I am, too." "But how about you, sir, and your work?" This was from Frank; a boy brought up to think fairly on all things. "Oh," said Gadsby laughingly, "I didn't do much of anything but boss you young folks around. If our Council awards any diplomas, I don't want any. I would look ridiculous strutting around with a diploma with a pink ribbon on it, now wouldn't I!" This talk of diplomas was as a bolt from a bright sky to this young, hustling bunch. But, though Gadsby's words did sound as though a grown man wouldn't want such a thing, that wasn't saying that a young boy or girl wouldn't; and with this surprising possibility ranking in young minds, many a kid was in an anti-soporific condition for parts of many a night. But a kindly Councilman actually did bring up a bill about this diploma affair, and his collaborators put it through; which naturally brought up talk as how to award such diplomas. At last it was thought that a big public affair at City Hall, with our Organization on a platform, with Branton Hills' Mayor and Council, would furnish an all-round, satisfactory way. Such an occasion was worthy of a lot of planning; and a first thought was for flags and bunting on all public buildings; with a grand illumination at night. Stationary lights should glow from all points on which a light could stand, hang, or swing; and gigantic rays should swoop and swish across clouds and sky. Bands should play; boys and girls march and sing; and a vast crowd would pour into City Hall. As on similar occasions, a bad rush for chairs was apt to occur, a company of military units should occupy all important points, to hold back anything simulating a jam. Now, if you think our Organization wasn't all agog and wild, with youthful anticipation at having a diploma for work out of school hours, you just don't know Youth. Boys and girls, though not full grown inhabitants of a city, do know what will add to its popularity; and having had a part in bringing about such conditions, it was but natural to look back upon such, as any military man might at winning a difficult fight. So, finally our big day was at hand! That it might not cut into school hours, it was on a Saturday; and, by noon, about a thousand kids, singing, shouting and waving flags, stood in formation at City Park, awaiting, with growing thrills, a signal which would start as big a turn-out as Branton Hills had known in all its history. Up at City Hall awaiting arrivals of city officials, a big crowd sat; row upon row of chairs which not only took up all floor room, but also many a small spot, in door-way or on a balcony in which a chair or stool could find footing; and all who could not find such an opportunity willingly stood in back. Just as a group of officials sat down on that flag-bound platform, distant throbbing of drums, and bright, snappy band music told of Branton Hills' approaching thousands of kids, who, finally marching in through City Hall's main door, stood in a solid mass around that big room. Naturally Gadsby had to put his satisfaction into words; and, advancing to a mahogany stand, stood waiting for a storm of hand-clapping and shouts to quit, and said:-- "Your Honor, Mayor of Branton Hills, its Council, and all you out in front:--If you would only stop rating a child's ability by your own; and try to find out just _what_ ability a child has, our young folks throughout this big world would show a surprisingly willing disposition to try things which would bring your approbation. A child's brain is an astonishing thing. It has, in its construction, an astounding capacity for absorbing what is brought to it; and not only to think about, but to find ways for improving it. It is today's child who, tomorrow, will, you know, laugh at our ways of doing things. So, in putting across this campaign of building up our community into a municipality which has won acclaim, not only from its officials and inhabitants, but from surrounding towns I found, in our young folks, an out-and-out inclination to assist; and you, today, can look upon it as labor in which your adult aid was but a small factor. So now, my Organization of Youth, if you will pass across this platform, your Mayor will hand you your diplomas." Not in all Branton Hills' history had any boy or girl known such a thrill as upon winning that hard-won roll! And from solid banks of humanity roars of congratulation burst forth. As soon as Mayor Brown shook hands (and such tiny, warm, soft young hands, too!) with all, a big out-door lunch was found waiting on a charming lawn back of City Hall; and this was no World War mobilization lunch of doughnuts and a hot dog sandwich; but, as two of Gadsby's sons said, was "an all-round, good, big fill-up;" and many a boy's and girl's "tummy" was soon as round and taut as a balloon. As twilight was turning to dusk, boys in an adjoining lot shot skyward a crashing bomb, announcing a grand illumination as a fitting climax for so glorious a day; and thousands sat on rock-walls, grassy knolls, in cars or at windows, with a big crowd standing along curbs and crosswalks. Myriads of lights of all colors, in solid balls, sprays, sparkling fountains, and bursts of glory, shot, in criss-cross paths, up and down, back and forth, across a star-lit sky; providing a display without a par in local annals. But not only did Youth thrill at so fantastic a show. Adults had many a Fourth of July brought back from a distant past; in which our national custom wound up our most important holiday with a similar display; only, in our Fourths of long ago, horrifying, gigantic concussions would disturb old folks and invalids until midnight; at which hour, according to law, all such carrying-on must stop. But did it? Possibly in _your_ town, but not around _my_ district! All Fourth of July outfits don't always function at first, you know; and no kid, (or adult!) would think of quitting until that last pop should pop; or that last bang should bang. And so, many a dawn on July fifth found things still going, full blast. III Youth cannot stay for long in a condition of inactivity; and so, for only about a month did things so stand, until a particularly bright girl in our Organization, thought out a plan for caring for infants of folks who had to go out, to work; and this bright kid soon had a group of girls who would join, during vacation, in voluntarily giving up four days a month to such work. With about fifty girls collaborating, all districts had this most gracious aid; and a girl would not only watch and guard, but would also instruct, as far as practical, any such tot as had not had its first schooling. Such work by young girls still in school was a grand thing; and Gadsby not only stood up for such loyalty, but got at his boys to find a similar plan; and soon had a full troop of Boy Scouts; uniforms and all. This automatically brought about a Girl Scout unit; and, through a collaboration of both, a form of club sprang up. It was a club in which any boy or girl of a family owning a car would call mornings for pupils having no cars, during school days, for a trip to school and back. This was not only a saving in long walks for many, but also took from a young back, that hard, tiring strain from lugging such armfuls of books as you find pupils laboriously carrying, today. Upon arriving at a school building, many cars would unload so many books that Gadsby said:-- "You would think that a Public Library branch was moving in!" This car work soon brought up a thought of giving similar aid to ailing adults; who, not owning a car, could not know of that vast display of hill and plain so common to a majority of our townsfolks. So a plan was laid, by which a car would call two days a month; and for an hour or so, follow roads winding out of town and through woods, farm lands and suburbs; showing distant ponds, and that grand arch of sky which "shut-ins" know only from photographs. Ah; _how_ that plan did stir up joyous anticipation amongst such as thus had an opportunity to call upon old, loving pals, and talk of old customs and past days! Occasionally such a talk would last so long that a youthful motorist, waiting dutifully at a curb, thought that a full family history of both host and visitor was up for an airing. But old folks always _will_ talk and it will not do a boy or girl any harm to wait; for, you know, that boy or girl will act in just that way, at a not too far-off day! But, popular as this touring plan was, it had to stop; for school again took all young folks from such out-door activity. Nobody was so sorry at this as Gadsby, for though Branton Hills' suburban country is glorious from March to August, it is also strong in its attractions throughout Autumn, with its artistic colorings of fruits, pumpkins, corn-shocks, hay-stacks and Fall blossoms. So Gadsby got a big motor-coach company to run a bus a day, carrying, gratis, all poor or sickly folks who had a doctor's affidavit that such an outing would aid in curing ills arising from too constant in-door living; and so, up almost to Thanksgiving, this big coach ran daily. As Spring got around again, this "man-of-all-work" thought of driving away a shut-in invalid's monotony by having musicians go to such rooms, to play; or, by taking along a vocalist or trio, sing such old songs as always bring back happy days. This work Gadsby thought of paying for by putting on a circus. And _was_ it a circus? _It was!!_ It had boys forming both front and hind limbs of animals totally unknown to zoology; girls strutting around as gigantic birds of also doubtful origin; an array of small living animals such as trick dogs and goats, a dancing pony, a group of imitation Indians, cowboys, cowgirls, a kicking trick jack-ass; and, talk about clowns! Forty boys got into baggy pantaloons and fools' caps; and no circus, including that first of all shows in Noah's Ark, had so much going on. Gymnasts from our school gymnasium, tumbling, jumping and racing; comic dancing; a clown band; high-swinging artists, and a funny cop who didn't wait to find out who a man was, but hit him anyway. And, as no circus _is_ a circus without boys shouting wildly about pop-corn and cold drinks, Gadsby saw to it that such boys got in as many patrons' way as any ambitious youth could; and that is "going strong," if you know boys, at all! But what about profits? It not only paid for all acts which his Organization couldn't put on, but it was found that a big fund for many a day's musical visitations, was on hand. And, now a word or two about municipal affairs in this city; or _any_ city, in which nobody will think of doing anything about its poor and sick, without a vigorous prodding up. City Councils, now-a-days, willingly grant big appropriations for paving, lights, schools, jails, courts, and so on; but invariably fight shy of charity; which is nothing but sympathy for anybody who is "down and out." No man can say that Charity will not, during coming days, aid _him_ in supporting his family; and it was Gadsby's claim that _humans_:--_not blocks of buildings_, form what Mankind calls a city. But what would big, costly buildings amount to, if all who work in such cannot maintain that good physical condition paramount in carrying on a city's various forms of labor? And not only _physical_ good, but also a mind happy from lack of worry and of that stagnation which always follows a monotonous daily grind. So our Organization was soon out again, agitating City Officials and civilians toward building a big Auditorium in which all kinds of shows and sports could occur, with also a swimming pool and hot and cold baths. Such a building cannot so much as start without financial backing; but gradually many an iron-bound bank account was drawn upon (much as you pull a tooth!), to buy bonds. Also, such a building won't grow up in a night; nor was a spot upon which to put it found without a lot of agitation; many wanting it in a down-town district; and also, many who had vacant land put forth all sorts of claims to obtain cash for lots upon which a big tax was paid annually, without profits. But all such things automatically turn out satisfactorily to a majority; though an ugly, grasping landlord who lost out, would viciously squawk that "municipal graft" was against him. Now Gadsby was vigorously against graft; not only in city affairs but in any kind of transaction; and that stab brought forth such a flow of oratory from him, that as voting for Mayor was soon to occur, it, and a long list of good works, soon had him up for that position. But Gadsby didn't want such a nomination; still, thousands of townsfolks who had known him from childhood, would not hark to anything but his candidacy; and, soon, on window cards, signs, and flags across Broadway, was his photograph and "GADSBY FOR MAYOR;" and a campaign was on which still rings in Branton Hills' history as "hot stuff!" Four aspiring politicians ran in opposition; and, as all had good backing, and Gadsby only his public works to fall back on, things soon got looking gloomy for him. His antagonists, standing upon soap box, auto truck, or hastily built platforms, put forth, with prodigious vim, claims that "our fair city will go back to its original oblivion if _I_ am not its Mayor!" But our Organization now took a hand, most of which, now out of High School, was growing up rapidly; and anybody who knows anything at all about Branton Hills' history, knows that, if this band of bright, loyal pals of Gadsby's was out to attain a goal, it was mighty apt to start things humming. To say that Gadsby's rivals got a bad jolt as it got around town that his "bunch of warriors" was aiding him, would put it but mildly. _Two quit instantly_, saying that this is a day of Youth and no adult has half a show against it! But two still hung on; clinging to a sort of fond fantasy that Gadsby, not naturally a public sort of man, might voluntarily drop out. But, had Gadsby so much as thought of such an action, his Organization would quickly laugh it to scorn. "Why, good gracious!" said Frank Morgan, "if _anybody_ should sit in that Mayor's chair in City Hall, it's you! Just look at what you did to boost Branton Hills! Until you got it a-going it had but two thousand inhabitants; now it has sixty thousand! And just ask your rivals to point to any part of it that you didn't build up. Look at our Public Library, municipal band, occupational class rooms; auto and bus trips; and your circus which paid for music for sick folks. With you as Mayor, _boy!_ What an opportunity to boss and swing things your own way! Why, anything you might say is as good as law; and----" "Now, hold on, boy!" said Gadsby, "a Mayor can't boss things in any such a way as you think. A Mayor has a Council, which has to pass on all bills brought up; and, my boy, upon arriving at manhood, you'll find that a Mayor who _can_ boss a Council around, is a most uncommon bird. And as for a Mayor's word amounting to a law, it's a mighty good thing that it can't! Why, a Mayor can't do much of anything, today, Frank, without a bunch of crazy bat-brains stirring up a rumpus about his acts looking 'suspiciously shady.' Now that is a bad condition in which to find a city, Frank. You boys don't know anything about graft; but as you grow up you will find many flaws in a city's laws; but also many points thoroughly good and fair. Just try to think what a city would amount to if a solitary man could control its law making, as a King or Sultan of old. That was why so many millions of inhabitants would start wars and riots against a tyrant; for many a King _was_ a tyrant, Frank, and had no thought as to how his laws would suit his thousands of rich and poor. A law that might suit a rich man, might work all kinds of havoc with a poor family." "But," said Frank, "why should a King pass a law that would dissatisfy anybody?" Gadsby's parry to this rising youthful ambition for light on political affairs was:-- "Why will a duck go into a pond?" and Frank found that though a growing young man might know a thing or two, making laws for a city was a man's job. So, with a Mayoralty campaign on his hands, plus planning for that big auditorium, Gadsby was as busy as a fly around a syrup jug; for a mass of campaign mail had to go out; topics for orations thought up; and contacts with his now truly important Organization of Youth, took so many hours out of his days that his family hardly saw him, at all. Noon naturally stood out as a good opportunity for oratory, as thousands, out for lunch, would stop, in passing. But, also, many a hall rang with plaudits as an antagonist won a point; but many a throng saw Gadsby's good points, and plainly told him so by turning out voluminously at any point at which his oratory was to flow. It was truly miraculous how this man of shy disposition, found words in putting forth his plans for improving Branton Hills, town of his birth. Many an orator has grown up from an unassuming individual who had things worth saying; and who, through that curious facility which is born of a conviction that his plans had a practical basis, won many a ballot against such prolific flows of high-sounding words as his antagonists had in stock. Many a night Gadsby was "all in," as his worn-out body and an aching throat sought his downy couch. No campaign is a cinch. With so many minds amongst a city's population, just that many calls for this or that swung back and forth until that most important of all days,--voting day, was at hand. What crowds, mobs and jams did assail all polling booths, casting ballots to land a party-man in City Hall! If a voting booth was in a school building, as is a common custom pupils had that day off; and, as Gadsby was Youth's champion, groups of kids hung around, watching and hoping with that avidity so common with youth, that Gadsby would win by a majority unknown in Branton Hills. And Gadsby did! As soon as it was shown by official count, Branton Hills was a riot, from City Hall to City limits; throngs tramping around, tossing hats aloft; for a hard-working man had won what many thousands thought was fair and just. IV As soon as Gadsby's inauguration had put him in a position to do things with authority, his first act was to start things moving on that big auditorium plan, for which many capitalists had bought bonds. Again public opinion had a lot to say as to how such a building should look, what it should contain; how long, how high, how costly; with a long string of ifs and buts. Family upon family put forth claims for rooms for public forums in which various thoughts upon world affairs could find opportunity for discussion; Salvation Army officials thought that a big hall for a public Sunday School class would do a lot of good; and that, lastly, what I must, from this odd yarn's strict orthography, call a "film show," should, without doubt occupy a part of such a building. Anyway, talk or no talk, Gadsby said that it should stand as a building for man, woman and child; rich or poor; and, barring its "film show," without cost to anybody. Branton Hills' folks could thus swim, do gymnastics, talk on public affairs, or "just sit and gossip", at will. So it was finally built in a charming park amidst shrubs and blossoms; an additional honor for Gadsby. But such buildings as Branton Hills now had could not fulfill all functions of so rapidly growing a city; for you find, occasionally, a class of folks who cannot afford a doctor, if ill. This was brought up by a girl of our Organization, Doris Johnson, who, on Christmas Day, in taking gifts to a poor family, had found a woman critically ill, and with no funds for aid or comforts; and instantly, in Doris' quick young mind a vision of a big city hospital took form; and, on a following day Gadsby had his Organization at City Hall, to "just talk," (and you know how that bunch _can_ talk!) to a Councilman or two. Now, if any kind of a building in all this big world costs good, hard cash to build, and furnish, it is a hospital; and it is also a building which a public knows nothing about. So Mayor Gadsby saw that if his Council would pass an appropriation for it, no such squabbling as had struck his Municipal Auditorium plan, would occur. But Gadsby forgot Branton Hills' landlords, all of whom had "a most glorious spot," just right for a hospital; until, finally, a group of physicians was told to look around. And did Branton Hills' landlords call upon Branton Hills' physicians? I'll say so!! Anybody visiting town, not knowing what was going on, would think that vacant land was as common as raindrops in a cloudburst. Small plots sprang into public light which couldn't hold a poultry barn, to say nothing of a big City Hospital. But no grasping landlord can fool physicians in talking up a hospital location, so it was finally built, on high land, with a charming vista across Branton Hills' suburbs and distant hills; amongst which Gadsby's charity auto and bus trips took so many happy invalids on past hot days. Now it is only fair that our boys and girls of this famous Organization of Youth, should walk forward for an introduction to you. So I will bring forth such bright and loyal girls as Doris Johnson, Dorothy Fitts, Lucy Donaldson, Marian Hopkins, Priscilla Standish, Abigail Worthington, Sarah Young, and Virginia Adams. Amongst the boys, cast a fond look upon Arthur Rankin, Frank Morgan, John Hamilton, Paul Johnson, Oscar Knott and William Snow; as smart a bunch of Youth as you could find in a month of Sundays. As soon as our big hospital was built and functioning, Sarah Young and Priscilla Standish, in talking with groups of girls, had found a longing for a night-school, as so many folks had to work all day, so couldn't go to our Manual Training School. So Mayor Gadsby took it up with Branton Hills' School Board. Now school boards do not always think in harmony with Mayors and Councils; in fact, what with school boards, Councils, taxation boards, paving contractors, Sunday closing-hour agitations, railway rights of way, and all-round political "mud-slinging," a Mayor has a tough job. Two of Gadsby's School Board said "NO!!" A right out-loud, slam-bang big "NO!!" Two thought that a night school was a good thing; but four, with a faint glow of financial wisdom, (a rarity in politics, today!) saw no cash in sight for such an institution. But Gadsby's famous Organization won again! Branton Hills did not contain a family in which this Organization wasn't known; and many a sock was brought out from hiding, and many a sofa pillow cut into, to aid _any_ plan in which this group had a part. But, just as funds had grown to what Mayor Gadsby thought would fill all such wants, a row in Council as to this fund's application got so hot that "His Honor" got mad; _mighty mad!!_ And said:-- "Why is it that any bill for appropriations coming up in this Council has to kick up such a rumpus? Why can't you look at such things with a public mind; for nothing can so aid toward passing bills as harmony. This city is not holding off an attacking army. Branton Hills is not a pack of wild animals, snapping and snarling by day; jumping, at a crackling twig, at night. It is a city of _humans_; animals, if you wish, but with a gift from On High of a _brain_, so far apart from all dumb animals as to allow us to talk about our public affairs calmly and thoughtfully. All this Night School rumpus is foolish. Naturally, what is taught in such a school is an important factor; so I want to find out from our Organization----" At this point, old Bill Simpkins got up, with: "This Organization of Youth stuff puts a kink in my spinal column! Almost all of it is through school. So how can you bring such a group forward as 'pupils?'" "A child," said Gadsby, "who had such schooling as Branton Hills affords is, naturally, still a pupil; for many will follow up a study if an opportunity is at hand. Many adults also carry out a custom of brushing up on unfamiliar topics; thus, also, ranking as pupils. Possibly, Bill, if you would look up that word 'pupil,' you wouldn't find so much fault with insignificant data." "All right!" was Simpkins' snap-back; "but what I want to know is, what our big Public Library is for. Your 'pupils' can find all sorts of information in that big building. So why build a night school? It's nothing but a duplication!" "A library," said Gadsby, "is not a school. It has no instructors; you cannot talk in its rooms. You may find a book or two on your study, or you may not. You would find it a big handicap if you think that you can accomplish much with no aid but that of a Public Library. Young folks know what young folks want to study. It is foolish, say, to install a class in Astronomy, for although it _is_ a 'Night School,' its pupils' thoughts might not turn toward Mars, Saturn or shooting stars; but shorthand, including training for typists amongst adults who, naturally don't go to day schools, is most important, today; also History and Corporation Law; and I know that a study of Music would attract many. Any man or woman who works all day, but still wants to study at night, should find an opportunity for doing so." This put a stop to Councilman Simpkins' criticisms, and approval was put upon Gadsby's plan; and it was but shortly that this school's popularity was shown in a most amusing way. Branton Hills folks, in passing it on going out for a show or social call, caught most savory whiffs, as its cooking class was producing doughnuts and biscuits; for a Miss Chapman, long famous as a cook for Branton Hills' Woman's Club, had about forty girls finding out about that magic art. So, too, occasionally a cranky old Councilman, who had fought against "this foolish night school proposition," would pass by; and, oh, hum!! A Councilman is only an animal, you know; and, on cooking class nights, such an animal, unavoidably drawn by that wafting aroma, would go in, just a bit humiliatingly, and, in praising Miss Chapman for doing "such important work for our young girls," would avidly munch a piping hot biscuit or a sizzling doughnut from a young girl's hand, who, a month ago, couldn't fry a slab of bacon without burning it. V Just as Gadsby was thinking nothing was now lacking in Branton Hills, a child in a poor family got typhoid symptoms from drinking from a small brook at a picnic and, without any aid from our famous Organization, a public clamor was forthcoming for Municipal District Nursing, as so many folks look with horror at going to a hospital. Now District Nursing calls for no big appropriation; just salary, a first-aid outfit, a supply of drugs and so forth; and, now-a-days, a car. And, to Branton Hills' honor four girls who had had nursing training soon brought, not only small comforts, but important ministrations to a goodly part of our population. In districts without this important municipal function, common colds may run into long-drawn-out attacks; and contagion can not only shut up a school or two but badly handicap all forms of public activity. "Too many small towns," said Gadsby, "try to go without public nursing; calling it foolish, and claiming that a family ought to look out for its own sick. BUT! Should a high mortality, such as this Nation HAS known, occur again, such towns will frantically broadcast a call for girls with nursing training; and wish that a silly, cash-saving custom hadn't brought such critical conditions." At this point I want to bring forward an individual who has had a big part in Branton Hills' growth; but who, up to now, has not shown up in this history. You know that Gadsby had a family, naturally including a woman; and that woman was fondly and popularly known throughout town as Lady Gadsby; a rank fittingly matching Gadsby's "His Honor," upon his inauguration as Mayor. Lady Gadsby was strongly in favor of all kinds of clubs or associations; organizing a most worthy Charity Club, a Book Club and a Political Auxiliary. It was but a natural growth from Woman's part in politics, both municipal and National; and which, in many a city, has had much to say toward nominations of good officials, and running many a crook out of town; for no crook, nor "gang boss" can hold out long if up against a strong Woman's Club. Though it was long thought that woman's brain was minor in comparison with man's, woman, as a class, now-a-day shows an all-round activity; and has brought staid control to official actions which had had a long run through domination by man;--that proud, cocky, strutting animal who thinks that this gigantic world should hop, skip and jump at his commands. So, from, or through just such clubs as Lady Gadsby's, Branton Hills was soon attracting folks from surrounding districts; in fact, it was known as a sort of Fairyland in which all things turn out satisfactorily. This was, plainly, a condition which would call for much additional building; which also brings additional tax inflow; so Branton Hills was rapidly growing into a most important community. So, at a School Board lunch, His Honor said:-- "I trust that now you will admit that what I said long ago about making a city an attraction to tourists, is bringing daily confirmation. Oh, what a lot of politically blind city and town officials I could point out within a day's auto trip from Branton Hills! Many such an official, upon winning a foothold in City Hall, thinks only of his own cohorts, and his own gain. So it is not surprising that public affairs grow stagnant. Truly, I cannot fathom such minds! I can think of nothing so satisfying as doing public good in as many ways as an official can. Think, for an instant, as to just what a city is. As I said long ago, it is _not_ an array of buildings, parks and fountains. No. A city is a living thing! It is, actually, _human_; for it is a group of humanity growing up in daily contact; and if officials adopt as a slogan, "all I can do," and not "all I can grab," only its suburban boundary can limit its growth. Branton Hills attracts thousands, annually. All of that influx looks for comforts, an opportunity to work, and good schools. Branton Hills has all that; and I want to say that all who visit us, with thoughts of joining us, will find us holding out a glad hand; promising that all such fond outlooks will find confirmation at any spot within cannon-shot of City Hall." At this point, a woman from just such a group got up, saying:-- "I want to back up your mayor. On my first visit to your charming city I saw an opportunity for my family; and, with woman's famous ability for arguing, I got my husband to think as I do; and not an hour from that day has brought us any dissatisfaction. Your schools stand high in comparison with any out our way; your shops carry first-class goods, your laws act without favoritism for anybody or class; and an air of happy-go-lucky conditions actually shouts at you, from all parts of town." Now, as months slid past it got around to Night School graduation day; and as it was this institution's first, all Branton Hills was on hand, packing its big hall. An important part was a musical half-hour by its big chorus, singing such grand compositions as arias from Faust, Robin Hood, Aida, and Martha; also both boys' and girls' bands, both brass and strings, doing first-class work on a Sousa march, a Strauss waltz, and a potpourri of National airs from many lands, which brought a storm of hand clapping; for no form of study will so aid youth in living happily, as music. Ability to play or sing; to know what is good or poor in music, instills into young folks a high quality of thought; and, accuracy is found in its rigidity of rhythm. As soon as this music class was through, Gadsby brought forth soloists, duos and trios; violinists, pianists, and so many young musicians that Branton Hills was as proud of its night school as a girl is of "that first diamond." That brought our program around to introducing pupils who had won honor marks: four girls in knitting, oil painting, cooking and journalism; and four smart youths in brass work, wood-carving and Corporation law. But pupils do not form all of a school body; so a group of blushing instructors had to bow to an applauding roomful. Though this was a school graduation, Mayor Gadsby said it would do no harm to point out a plan for still adding to Branton Hills' public spirit:-- "This town is too plain; too dingy. Brick walls and asphalt paving do not light up a town, but dim it. So I want to plant all kinds of growing things along many of our curbs. In our parks I want ponds with gold fish, fancy ducks and big swans; row-boats, islands with arbors, and lots of shrubs _that blossom_; not just an array of twigs and stalks. I want, in our big City Park, a casino, dancing pavilion, lunch rooms; and parking for as many cars as can crowd in. So I think that all of us ought to pitch in and put a bright array of natural aids round about; both in our shopping district and suburbs; for you know that old saying, that 'a charming thing is a joy always.'" So a miraculous transformation of any spot at all dull was soon a fact. Oak, birch and poplar saplings stood along curbs and around railway stations; girls brought in willow twigs, ivy roots, bulbs of canna, dahlia, calladium, tulip, jonquil, gladiola and hyacinth. Boys also dug many woodland shrubs which, standing along railway tracks, out of town, took away that gloomy vista so commonly found upon approaching a big city; and a long grassplot, with a rim of boxwood shrubs, was laid out, half way from curb to curb on Broadway, in Branton Hills' financial district. As Gadsby was looking at all this with happy satisfaction, a bright lad from our Night School's radio class, told him that Branton Hills should install a broadcasting station, as no city, today, would think of trying to win additional population without that most important adjunct for obtaining publicity. So any man or boy who had any knack at radio was all agog; and about a thousand had ambitions for a job in it, at which only about six can work. And City Hall had almost a riot, as groups of politicians, pastors and clubs told just what such a station should, and should not broadcast; for a broadcasting station, with its vast opportunity for causing both satisfaction and antagonism, must hold rigidly aloof from any racial favoritism, church, financial or nationality criticisms; and such a policy is, as any broadcasting station will admit, most difficult of adoption. First of all stood that important position of what you might call "studio boss." Although a man in control of a station is not known as "boss," I think it will pass in this oddly built-up story. Now I am going to boost our famous Organization again, by stating that a boy from its ranks, Frank Morgan, was put in; for it was a hobby of Gadsby to put Branton Hills boys in Branton Hills Municipal jobs. So Frank, right away, got all sorts of calls for hours or half hours to broadcast "most astounding bargains" in clothing, salad oils, motor oils, motor "gas", soaps, cars, and tooth brush lubricants. With a big Fall campaign for Washington officials about to start, such a position as Frank's was chuck full of pitfalls; a stiff proposition for a young chap, not long out of High School. But Gadsby took him in hand. "Now, boy, hold your chin up, and you will find that most folks, though cranky or stubborn at first, will follow your rulings if you insist, in a civil way, that you know all our National Radio Commission's laws binding your station. _Millions_, of all kinds, will dial in your station; and what would highly satisfy a group in Colorado might actually insult a man down in Florida; for radio's wings carry far. You know I'll back you up, boy. But now, what would you call this station?" "Oh," said our tyro-boss; "a radio station should work with initials showing its location. So a Branton Hills station could stand as KBH." Such initials, ringing with civic patriotism, hit Gadsby just right; his Council put it in writing; and "Station KBH" was born! Though it is not important to follow it from now on, I will say that our vast country, by tuning in on KBH, found out a lot about this Utopia. "You know that good old yarn," said Gadsby, "about making so good a rat-trap that millions will tramp down your grass in making a path to your front door." VI Now don't think that our famous Organization, having shown its worth on so many occasions, sat down without thinking of doing anything again. No, sir! Not _this_ bunch! If a boy or girl thought of any addition to Branton Hills' popularity it was brought to Mayor Gadsby for consultation. And so, as Lucy Donaldson on a trip through a patch of woods, saw a big stag looking out from a clump of shrubs, nothing would do but to rush to His Honor to pour what thoughts that charming sight had brought up in this bright young mind. So, as Gadsby stood at City Hall's front door, this palpitating, gushing young girl ran towards him, panting and blowing from a long run:-- "I want a zoo!!" "A WHAT?" "A ZOO!! _You_ know! A park with stags and all kinds of wild animals; and a duck pond, and--and--and----" "Whoa! Slow down a bit! Do you want an actual zoo, or an outfit of toys that wind up and growl?" "I want a truly, out-and-out, big zoo. Why can't you build walls around a part of City Park, and----" Gadsby saw that this was an addition which nobody had thought of, until now; so, grasping his young visitor's hand, joyfully, said:-- "It's a fact, Lucy!! And, as you thought of it, I'll call it,--now wait;--what _shall_ I call it? Aha! That's it! I'll call it 'Lucy Zoo'. How's that for quick thinking?" "My! That's just grand; but what will Papa say?" Now Gadsby had known Lucy's family from boyhood, so said:-- "You inform your dad that at any sign of balking by him, I'll put HIM in Lucy Zoo, and pay a boy to prod him with a sharp stick, until his approval is in my hands." This brought such a rollicking laugh that a man mowing City Hall lawn had to laugh, too. Now, (Ah! But I can't avoid saying it!) our Organization was out again; but, now having grown a bit from such childish youths as had, at first stood in its ranks, a boy, now approaching manhood, and a girl, now a young woman, could solicit funds with an ability to talk knowingly in favor of any factor that a hanging-back contributor could bring up in running down such a proposition. You can always count on finding that class in any city or town upon any occasion for public works; but I can proudly say that many saw good in our Organization's plan; and Lucy soon found that out, in Old Lady Flanagan. "Whoops! A zoo, is it? And pray, phwat can't thot crazy Gadsby think up? If our big Mayor had four sich bys as I brought into this woild; worra, worra! his parlor, halls, dinin' room an' back yard 'd furnish him wid a zoo, all right! Wid two always a-scrappin' about a ball bat or a sling shot; a brat continually a-bawlin' about nuthin'; an' a baby wid whoopin' cough, _I_ know phwat a zoo is, widout goin' to City Park to gawk at a indigo baboon, or a pink tom cat." "But," said Lucy, trying hard not to laugh; "Mayor Gadsby isn't thinking of putting in pink tom cats, nor any kind of tom cats in this zoo. It is for only _wild_ animals." "WILD!! Say, if you could look into my back door as Old Man Flanagan quits work, an' brings back a load o' grog, you'd find thot you had wild animals roight in this town, all roight, all roight." But, as on so many occasions, this charming girl got a contribution, with Old Lady Flanagan calling out from a front window:-- "Good luck, Lucy darlin'! I'm sorry I was so dom cranky!" But though popular opinion was in favor of having a zoo, popular opinion didn't hand in donations to within four thousand dollars of what it would cost to install; and Gadsby and his "gang" had to do a bit of brain racking, so as not to disappoint lots of good folks who _had_ paid in. Finally, Sarah Young thought of a rich woman living just across from City Park. This woman, Lady Standish, was of that kind, loving disposition which would bring in a cold, hungry, lost pup, or cat, and fill it up with hot food and milk. Branton Hills kids could bring any kind of a hurt or sick animal or bird; and Sarah had long known that that back yard was, actually, a small zoo, anyway; with dogs, cats, poultry, two robins too young to fly, four sparrows and a canary, almost bald. Sarah thought that any woman, loving animals as Lady Standish did, might just thrill at having a big zoo-ful right at hand. So, saying, "I'll go and find out, right now," was off as an arrow from a bow. As soon as this kindly woman found out what was on Sarah's mind, our young solicitor got a loving kiss, with:-- "A zoo! Oh! how truly charming! What _grand_ things Mayor Gadsby can think up without half trying!" And Sarah had to grin, thinking of Lucy, and Old Lady Flanagan's opinion of His Honor! "You may not know it, Sarah," said Lady Standish, "but John Gadsby and I had a big flirtation, way back in our school days. And HOW downcast poor Johnny was at my finding a husband out of town! But that was long, long ago, darling. So, just to sort of pacify my old pal, John, I'll gladly put up your missing four thousand; and you go to His Honor and say that I wish him all sorts of good luck with this plan." Now, Olympic champions must train continuously, but, customarily, in gymnasiums. But today, folks in Branton Hills' shopping district had to turn and gasp; for a young woman was sprinting wildly toward City Hall; for Sarah was in a hurry. Gadsby was just coming out, as this girl, as badly blown as Lucy was in asking for a zoo, ran up, calling out:-- "I GOT IT!! I GOT IT!!" "Got what? A fit?" "No! I got that final four thousand dollars! It's from Lady Standish, who says that way back in school days, you and----" "Whoa!! That was back in _history!_" but Gadsby was blushing, and Sarah was winking, coyly. Now Gadsby was as fond of his Organization boys and girls as of his own; and Sarah was so radiantly happy that all His Honor could say was:-- "My, now, Sarah! That's mighty good work! And as I told Lucy I'd call our zoo Lucy Zoo for thinking of it, I'll find a way to honor you, too. Aha! I'll put up a big arch, through which all visitors must pass, and call it 'Sarah Young's Rainbow Arch.' How's that?" Now Sarah had a bit of natural wit; so quickly said:-- "That's just grand if you'll bury that famous pot of gold at its foot, so I can dig it up!" VII Now that a Zoo was actually on its way, Gadsby had to call in various groups to talk about what a Zoo should contain. Now, you know that _all_ animals can't find room in this orthographically odd story; so, if you visit Lucy Zoo, you'll miss a customary inhabitant, or two. But you'll find an array worthy of your trip. So a call was put in two big daily journals, asking for bids on animals and birds; and soon, from north, south and criss-cross points, a hunting party or a city with too many zoo animals on hand got in touch with Branton Hills, with proposals for all kinds of animals, from kangaroos to bats; and our Organization had a lot of fun planning how many it could crowd into City Park, without crowding out visitors. Finally a ballot put Lucy's zoological population as follows:-- First, according to Lucy, "an awfully, AWFULLY big hippopotamus, with a pool for its comfort;" a yak, caribou, walrus, (also with a pool,) a long fox-run, bisons, gnus, stags, (it was a stag, you know, that got this zoo plan going!), alligators, mountain lions, African lions, wild cats, wild boars, llamas, gorillas, baboons, orang-outangs, mandrils; _and_, according to Gadsby's boys, a "big gang" of that amusing, tiny mimic always found accompanying hand-organs. Also an aviary, containing condors, buzzards, parrots, ibis, macaws, adjutant birds, storks, owls, quail, falcons, tiny humming birds, a sprinkling of hawks, mocking birds, swans, fancy ducks, toucans; and a host of small singing birds; and oh! without fail, an ostrich family; and, last, but most important of all, a big first cousin of old Jumbo! A big glass building would hold boa constrictors, pythons, cobras, lizards, and so forth; and down in back of all this, an outdoor aquarium, full of goldfish, rainbow trout, various fancy fish and blossoming aquatic plants. All in all it would furnish a mighty amusing and popular spot which would draw lots of out-of-town visitors; and visitors, you know, _might_ turn into inhabitants! And so things finally got around to Inauguration Day; and, knowing that no kid could sit still in school on such an occasion, it was put down for a Saturday; and, so many happy, shouting, hopping, jumping kids stood waiting for His Honor to cut a satin ribbon in front of Sarah Young's Rainbow Arch, that grown folks had to wait, four blocks back. As Gadsby was roaming around with Lucy, to find if things should start moving, old Pat Ryan, from Branton Hills' railway station, was hunting for him; finally locating him in a lunch room, and rushing in with:-- "Say! That big hop-skip-and-jump artist is down in my trunk room! I got a punch on my jaw, a crack on my snout, and a kick on my shins a-tryin' to calm him down!" "A kick and a punch? What actions!" said Gadsby. "I don't know of any hop-skip-and-jump artist. How big a man is it?" "Worra, worra! It ain't no man at all, at all! It's that thing what grows in Australia, and--" But Lucy saw light right off; and "laughing fit to kill," said:-- "Oh, ho, ho!! _I_ know! It's that boxing kangaroo you bought from Barnum's circus!" and a charming girl was doubling up in a wild storm of giggling, ignoring old Pat's scowls. "Ah! That's him, all right," said Gadsby. "So, Pat, just put him in a burlap bag and ship him to this zoo." "Who? _I_ put him in a burlap bag? Say, boss! If I can pick up about six husky guys around that station; and if I can find a _canvas_, not a burlap, bag; and put on a gas mask, a stomach pad, two shin-guards, and----" But that crowd at Sarah's Arch was shouting for Gadsby to cut that ribbon so old Pat had to bag that Australian tornado; and in a way that would not hurt him; for kangaroo actors cost good cash, you know. So that crowd of kids got in, at last! Now zoo animals can think, just as humans can; and it was amusing to watch a pair of boys staring at a pair of orang-outangs; and a pair of orang-outangs staring back at a pair of boys; both thinking, no doubt, what funny things it saw! And, occasionally, both animal and boy won a point! Now if you think that only young folks find any fun in going to a zoo, you probably don't go to zoos much; for many a big, rotund capitalist had to laugh at simian antics, though, probably figuring up just how much satisfaction his cash contribution brought him. Many a family woman forgot such things as a finicky child or burning biscuits. All was happy-go-lucky joy; and, at two o'clock, as Branton Hills' Municipal Band, (a part of Gadsby's Organization of Youth's work, you know) struck up a bright march, not a glum physiognomy was found in all that big park. Gadsby and Lucy had much curiosity in watching what such crashing music would do to various animals. At first a spirit akin to worry had baboons, gorillas, and such, staring about, as still as so many posts; until, finding that no harm was coming from such sounds, soon took to climbing and swinging again. Stags, yaks and llamas did a bit of high-kicking at first; Gadsby figuring that drums, and not actual music, did it. But a lilting waltzing aria did not worry any part of this big zoo family; in fact, a fox, wolf and jackal, in a quandary at first actually lay down, as though music truly "hath charms to calm a wild bosom." At Gadsby's big aquarium visitors found not only fun, but opportunity for studying many a kind of fish not ordinarily found in frying pans; and, though in many lands, snails form a popular food, Lucy, Sarah and Virginia put on furious scowls at a group of boys who thought "Snails might go good, with a nut-pick handy." (But boys always _will_ say things to horrify girls, you know.) And upon coming to that big glass building, with its boa constrictors, alligators, lizards and so on, a boy grinningly "got a girl's goat" by wanting to kiss a fifty-foot anaconda; causing Lucy to say, haughtily, that "No boy, wanting to kiss such horrid, wriggly things can kiss us Branton Hills girls." (Good for you, Lucy! I'd pass up a _sixty_-foot anaconda, any day, for _you_.) In following months many a school class was shown through our zoo's fascinating paths, as instructors told of this or that animal's habits and natural haunts; and showing that it was as worthy of sympathy, if ill, as any human. And not only did such pupils obtain kindly thoughts for zoo animals, but cats, dogs and all kinds of farm stock soon found that things had an uncommon look, through a dropping off in scoldings and whippings, and rapidly improving living conditions. But most important of all was word from an ugly, hard-looking woman, who, watching, with an apologizing sniff, a flock of happy birds, said:-- "I'm sorry that I always slap and bawl out my kids so much, for I know, now, that kids or animals won't do as you wish if you snap and growl too much. And I trust that Mayor Gadsby knows what a lot of good all his public works do for us." Now this is a most satisfactory and important thing to think about, for brutality will not,--_cannot_,--accomplish what a kindly disposition will; and, if folks could only know how quickly a "balky" child will, through loving and cuddling, grow into a charming, happy youth, much childish gloom and sorrow would vanish; for a man or woman who is ugly to a child is too low to rank as highly as a wild animal; for no animal will stand, for an instant, anything approaching an attack, or any form of harm to its young. But what a lot of tots find slaps, yanks and hard words for conditions which do not call for such harsh tactics! _No_ child is naturally ugly or "cranky." And big, gulping sobs, or sad, unhappy young minds, in a tiny body should _not_ occur in any community of civilization. Adulthood holds many an opportunity for such conditions. Childhood should not. Now just a word about zoos. Many folks think that animals in a zoo know no comforts; nothing but constant fright from living in captivity. Such folks do not stop to think of a thing or two about an animal's wild condition. Wild animals must not only constantly hunt for food, but invariably fight to kill it and to _hold_ it, too; for, in such a fight, a big antagonist will naturally win from a small individual. Thus, what food is found, is also lost; and hunting must go on, day by day, or night by night until a tragic climax--by thirst or starvation. But in a zoo, food is brought daily, with facility for drinking, and laid right in front of hoofs, paws or bills. For small animals, roofs and thick walls ward off cold winds and rain; and so, days of calm inactivity, daily naps without worrying about attack; and a carting away of all rubbish and filth soon puts a zoo animal in bodily form which has no comparison with its wild condition. Lack of room in which to climb, roam or play, _may_ bring a zoo animal to that condition known as "soft"; but, as it now has no call for vigor, and its fighting passions find no opportunity for display, such an animal is gradually approaching that condition which has brought Man, who is only an animal, anyway, to his lofty point in Natural History, today. Truly, with such tribulations, worry, and hard work as Man puts up with to obtain his food and lodging, a zoo animal, if it could only know of our daily grind, would comfortably yawn, thankful that Man is so kindly looking out for it. With similar animals all around it, and, day by day, just a happy growth from cub-hood to maturity, I almost wish that I was a zoo animal, with no boss to growl about my not showing up, mornings, at a customary hour! VIII Now, as our Organization of Youth is rapidly growing up, a _young_ crowd, too young to join it at first, is coming up; imbibing its "why-not-do-it-now?" spirit. So, as Gadsby stood in front of that big Municipal Auditorium (which that group, you know, had had built), Marian Hopkins, a small girl, in passing by, saw him, and said:-- "I think Branton Hills ought to buy a balloon." "Balloon? Balloon? What would this city do with a balloon? Put a string on it so you could run around with it?" "No; not that kind of a balloon, but that big, zooming kind that sails way up high, with a man in it." "Oh! Ha, ha! You think an air-craft is a balloon! But what would--Aha! An airport?" "Uh-huh; but I didn't know how to say it." "By cracky!" said His Honor. "I thought this town was about through improving. But an airport _would_ add a bit to it; now wouldn't it?" Marian had a most profound opinion that it would; (if profound opinions grow in such small kids!) so both took a walk to City Hall to hunt up a Councilman or two. Finding four in a Council room, Gadsby said:-- "Youth, or, I should say, childhood, has just shown that Branton Hills is shy on a most important acquisition," and Old Bill Simpkins just _had_ to blurt out:-- "And, naturally, it calls for cash! CASH! CASH! CASH!! What will this town amount to if it blows in dollars so fast?" "And," said Gadsby, "what will it amount to, if it don't?" That put a gag on Old Bill. Councilman Banks, though, was curious to know about Marian's proposition, saying:-- "It is probably a plan for buying Christmas toys for all Branton Hills kids." But tiny Marian, with a vigorous stamp of a tiny foot, swung right back with:-- "NO, SIR!! Santa Claus will bring us our gifts! But I thought of having a--what did you call it, Mayor Gadsby?" "This child thinks Branton Hills should build an airport, and I think so, too. If our inhabitants, such as this tot, can think up such things, all adults should pack up, and vanish from municipal affairs. All right, Marian; our City Council, _your_ City Council, my young patriot, will look into this airport plan for you." So, as on similar occasions months ago, word that land was again cropping up in Gadsby's mind, brought out a flood of landlords with vacant lots, all looking forward to disposing of a dump worth two dollars and a half, for fifty thousand. Now an airport must occupy a vast lot of land, so cannot stand right in a City's shopping district; but finally a big tract was bought, and right in back of tiny Marian's back yard! Instantly, City Hall was full of applicants for flying Branton Hills' first aircraft. To Gadsby's joy, amongst that bunch was Harold Thompson, an old Organization lad, who was known around town as a chap who could do about anything calling for brains. As an airport is not laid out in a day, Harold got busy with paid aviators and soon was piloting a craft without aid; and not only Branton Hills folks, but old aviators, saw in Harold, a "bird-man" of no small ability. And so tiny Marian's "vision" was a fact; just as "big girl" Lucy's Zoo; and, as with all big City affairs, an Inauguration should start it off. Now, on all such affairs you always find a "visitor of honor"; and on this grand day Gadsby couldn't think of anybody for that important post but Marian. And, as it would occur in August, any day would do, as that is a school vacation month. And what a _mob_ stood, or sat, on that big airport, waiting for a signal from young Marian which would start Harold aloft, on Branton Hills' initial flight! Almost all brought a lunch and camp-stools or folding chairs; and, as it was a hot day, thousands of gay parasols, and an array of bright clothing on our school-girls, had that big lot looking as brilliant as a florist's window at Christmas. Our young visitor of honor was all agog with joy; and, I think, possibly a touch of vanity; for what child _wouldn't_ thrill with thousands watching? But though Marian had always had good clothing, coming from a family who could afford it, _no_ tot, in all history, had so glorious an outfit as that which about all Branton Hills' population saw on that platform, amidst flags, bunting and our big Municipal Band. As an airship is a simulation of a bird; and as a bird, to a child, is not far from a fairy, Marian had gaudy fairy wings, a radiant cloak of gold, a sparkling gown all aglow with twinkling stars, and a long glass wand, with a star at its top. As soon as all was in condition Gadsby told Marian to stand up. This brought that vast crowd up, also; and Gadsby said:-- "Now hold your wand way up high, and swing it, to signal Harold to start." Up shot a tiny arm; and Harold, watching from his cockpit, sang out:--"CONTACT!!" A vigorous twist of his ship's gigantic "fan" a shout, a roar, a whizz, a mighty cloud of dust, and amid a tornado of clapping, shouts, and band music, Branton Hills was put on aviation's map. Way, way up, so far as to look as small as a toy, Harold put on a show of banking, rolling and diving, which told Gadsby that, still again, had Branton Hills found profit in what its Organization of Youth, _and, now, its small kids_, had to say about improving a town. During that box-lunch picnic, many of our "big girls" brought so much food to Marian that Dad and Ma had to stand guard against tummy pains. And what a glorious, jolly occasion that picnic was! Gay band music, songs, dancing, oratory; and a grand all-round "howdy" amongst old inhabitants and arriving tourists soon was transforming that big crowd into a happy group, such as it is hard to find, today, in any big city; cold, distant, and with no thought by its politicians for anybody in it; and Gadsby found, around that big airport, many a man, woman and child who was as proud of him as was his own family. IX I think that now you should know this charming Gadsby family; so I will bring forth Lady Gadsby, about whom I told you at Gadsby's inauguration as Mayor; a loyal church woman with a vocal ability for choir work; and, with good capability on piano or organ, no woman could "fill in" in so many ways; and no woman was so willing, and quick to do so. Gadsby had two sons; bright lads and popular with all. Julius was of a studious turn of mind, always poring through books of information; caring not what kind of information it was, so long as it was information, and not fiction. Gadsby had thought of his growing up as a school instructor, for no work is so worthy as imparting what you know to any who long to study. But William! Oh, hum!! Our Mayor and Lady Gadsby didn't know just _what_ to do with him; for all his thoughts clung around girls and fashions in clothing. Probably our High School didn't contain a girl who didn't think that, at no distant day, Bill Gadsby would turn, from a callow youth, into a "big catch" husband; for a Mayor's son in so important a city as ours was a mark for any girl to shoot at. But Bill was not of a marrying disposition; loving girls just _as_ girls, but holding out no hand to any in particular. Always in first class togs, without missing a solitary fad which a young man should adopt, Gadsby's Bill was a lion, in his own right, with no girl in sight who had that tact through which a lasso could land around his manly throat. Gadsby had many a laugh, looking back at his own boyhood days, his various flirtations and such wild, throbbing palpitations as a boy's flirtations can instill; and looking back through just such ogling groups as now sought his offspring; until a girl, oh, _so_ long ago, had put a stop to all such flirtations, and got that lasso on "with a strangling hold," as Gadsby says; and it is still on, today! But this family was not all boys. Oh, my, no! Two girls also sat around that family board. First, following William, was Nancy, who, as Gadsby laughingly said, "didn't know how to grow;" and now, in High School, was "about as big as a pint of milk;" and of such outstanding charm that Gadsby continually got solicitations to allow photographing for soft-drink and similar billboard displays. "No, sir!! Not for any sort of pay!! In allowing public distribution of a girl's photo you don't know into what situations said photos will land. I find, daily, photographs of girls blowing about vacant lots, all soggy from rains; also in a ditch, with its customary filth; or stuck up on a brick wall or drawn onto an imaginary body showing a brand of tights or pajamas. _No, sir!!_ Not for _my_ girl!!" Fourth in this popular family was Kathlyn, of what is known as a "classical mold;" with a brain which, at no distant day, will rank high in Biology and Microscopy; for Kathlyn was of that sort which finds fascination in studying out many whats and whys amongst that vast array of facts about our origin. This study, which too many young folks avoid as not having practical worth had a strong hold on Kathlyn, who could not sanction such frivolous occupations as cards, dancing, or plain school gossip. Not for an instant! Kathlyn thought that such folks had no thoughts for anything but transitory thrills. But in Biology!! Ah!! Why not study it, and find out how a tiny, microscopic drop of protoplasm, can, through unknown laws grow into living organisms, which can not only go on living, but can also bring forth offspring of its kind? And not only that. As said offspring must combat various kinds of surroundings and try various foods, why not watch odd variations occur, and follow along, until you find an animal, bird, plant or bug of such a total dissimilarity as to form practically, a class actually apart from its original form? Kathlyn did just that; and Gadsby was proud of it; and I think, just a bit curious on his own part as to occasional illustrations in this studious young lady's school books! Now it is known by all such natural "faddists" that any such a study has points in common with a branch akin to it; and Kathlyn was not long in finding out that Biology, with its facts of animal origin, could apply to a practical control of bugs on farms. (This word, "bugs," is hardly Biological; but as Kathlyn is in this story, with its strict orthographical taboo, "bugs" must unavoidably supplant any classical nomination for such things.) So, Mayor Gadsby sought Branton Hills' Council's approval for a goodly sum; not only for such control, but also for study as to how to plant, in ordinary soil, and not risk losing half a crop from worms, slugs and our awkwardly-brought-in "bugs." This appropriation was a sort of prod, showing this Council that publicity of any first-class kind was good for a city; and was casting about for anything which would so act, until Gadsby's son, Bill, (who, you know, thought of nothing but girls and "dolling up,") found that Branton Hills had no distinction of its own in outfits for man or woman, so why not put up a goal of, say fifty dollars, for anybody who could think up any worthy "stunt" in clothing; which should go out as "Branton Hills' This" or "Branton Hills' That." Possibly just a form of hat-brim, a cut of coat-front, or a sporting outfit. And our worthy Council did put up that goal, and many brought all sorts of plans to City Hall. And Bill won, by thinking up a girls' (always girls, with Bill!) hiking outfit, consisting of a skirt with a rain-proof lining, which could, during a storm, form a rain-suit by putting it on, as Bill said, "by substituting outwards for inwards." (This will hit Bill amusingly, as days go by!) Going with it was a shirt with a similar "turn-out" facility, and a hiking boot with high tops as guards against thorns and burs; but which, by undoing a clasp, would slip off; and, LO!! you had a low-cut Oxford for ordinary occasions! In about a month a big cotton mill had work going full blast on "Branton Hills' Turn-it-out Sport and Hiking Outfit," and a small boot-shop got out a pair of Bill's "two-part boots," though saying that it would "probably fall apart without warning!" But Kathlyn put on a pair and found it most satisfactory for a long, rough hill-climb, hunting for bird and animal forms for Biological study. This proof of Branton Hills' goods was soon known in surrounding towns, and that critical boot-shop and big cotton mill had hard work to fill calls from Canada, Holland, Russia, Spain and Australia! And Bill was put upon Branton Hills' Roll of Honor. X Now I'll drop civic affairs for a bit, and go on to a most natural act in this city of many young chaps and charming young girls which was slowly working up all through this history, as Mayor Gadsby had occasion to find out, sitting comfortably on his porch on a hot, sultry August night. Amidst blossoming shrubs, a dim form slowly trod up his winding pathway. It was a young man, plainly trying to act calmly, but couldn't. It was Frank Morgan, our radio broadcasting "boss", you know, who, for many a month, had shown what a romantic public calls "a crush" for Gadsby's young Nancy. So a jolly call of:--"What's on your mind, boy?" rang out, as Frank sank wiltingly into a hammock, wiping his brow of what I _actually_ know was _not_ natural humidity from an August night! Now Gadsby, who was, as I said, a gay Lothario in his own youth, saw right off what was coming, and sat back, waiting. Finally, finishing a bad attack of coughing, (though Frank hadn't any cold!), that young man said:-- "I,--that is, Nancy and I,--or, I will say that I want to,--that is,--I think Nancy and I would--" and Gadsby took pity on him, right off. Nancy had always had a strong liking for Frank. Both had grown up in Branton Hills from babyhood; and Gadsby thought back about that lasso which had brought him Lady Gadsby. Now asking a girl's Dad for that young lady's hand is no snap for any young swain; and Gadsby was just that kind of a Dad who would smooth out any bumps or rough spots in such a young swain's path. Nancy wasn't a child, now, but a grown-up young woman; so Gadsby said:-- "Frank, Lady Gadsby and I know all about how much you think of Nancy; and what Nancy thinks of you. So, if you want to marry, our full wish is for a long and happy union. Nancy is out in that arbor, down this back path; and I'll watch that nobody disturbs you two for an hour." At this grand turn of affairs, Frank could only gasp:--"OH-H-H!!" and a shadowy form shot down that dusky path; and from that moonlit arbor, anybody knowing how a man chirps to a canary bird, would know that two young birds put a binding approval upon what His Honor had just said!! Many a man has known that startling instant in which Dan Cupid, that busy young rascal, took things in hand, and told him that his baby girl was not a baby girl now, and was about to fly away from him. It is both a happy and a sad thrill that shoots through a man at such an instant. Happy and joyous at his girl's arrival at maturity; sad, as it brings to mind that awkward fact that his own youth is now but a myth; and that his scalp is showing vacant spots. His baby girl in a bridal gown! His baby girl a Matron! His baby girl proudly placing a _grandchild_ in his lap!! It's an impossibility!! But this big world is full of this kind of impossibility, and will stay so as long as Man lasts. So Nancy, tiny, happy, laughing Nancy, was "found" through a conspiracy by Dan Cupid and Frank Morgan; and right in all glory of youth. _Youth!!_ Ah, what a word!! And how transitory! But, how grand! as long as it lasts. How many millions in gold would pour out for an ability to call it all back, as with our musical myth, Faust. During that magic part of a child's growth this world is just a gigantic inquiry box, containing many a topic for which a solution is paramount to a growing mind. And to whom can a child look, but us adults? Any man who "can't stop now" to talk with a child upon a topic which, to him is "too silly for anything," should look back to that day upon which _that_ topic was dark and dubious in his own brain. A child who asks nothing will know nothing. That is why that "bump of inquiry" was put on top of our skulls. XI But to go back to Nancy. It was in August that Frank had stumblingly told Gadsby of his troth; and so, along in April, Branton Hills was told that a grand church ritual would occur in May. May, with its blossoms, birds and balmy air! An idyllic month for matrimony. I wish that I could call this grand church affair by its common, customary nomination; but that word can't possibly crowd into _this_ story. It must pass simply as a church ritual. All right; so far, so good. So, along into April all Branton Hills was agog, awaiting information as to that actual day; or, I should say, night. Gadsby's old Organization of Youth was still as loyal to all in it as it was, way back in days of its formation; days of almost constantly running around town, soliciting funds for many a good Municipal activity. Finally this group got cards announcing that on May Fourth, Branton Hills' First Church would admit all who might wish to aid in starting Nancy and Frank upon that glamorous path to matrimonial bliss. May Fourth was punctual in arriving; though many a young girl got into that flighty condition in which a month drags along as though in irons, and clock-hands look as if stuck fast. But to many girls, also, May Fourth was not any too far away; for charming gowns and dainty hats do not grow upon shrubs, you know; and girls who work all day must hurry at night, at manipulating a thousand or so things which go towards adorning our girls of today. Now, an approach to a young girl's "big day" is not always as that girl might wish. Small things bob up, which, at first, look actually disastrous for a joyous occasion; and for Nancy and Frank, just such a thing did bob up; for, on May Third, a pouring rain and whistling wind put Branton Hills' spirits way, way down into a sorrowful slump. Black, ugly, rumbling clouds hung aggravatingly about in a saturation of mist, rain and fog; and roads and lawns got such a washing that Nancy said:-- "Anyway, if I can't _walk_ across that front church yard, I can _swim it!!_" That was Nancy; a small bunch of inborn good humor; and I'll say, right now, that it _took_ good humor, and lots of it, to look upon conditions out of your control, with such outstanding pluck! But young Dan Cupid was still around, and got in touch with that tyrannical mythological god who controls storms; and put forth such a convincing account of all Nancy's good points, (and Frank's too, if anybody should ask you) that a command rang out across a stormy sky:-- "Calling all clouds!! Calling all clouds!! All rain to stop at midnight of May Third! Bright Sun on May Fourth, and no wind!!" So, as Nancy took an anxious squint out of doors at about six o'clock on that important morning, (and what young girl _could_ go on, calmly snoozing on such a day?) Lo!! Old Sol was smiling brightly down on Branton Hills; birds sang; all sorts of blossoming things had had a good drink; and a most _glorious_ sky, rid of all ugly clouds, put our young lady into such a happy mood that it took a lot of control to avoid just a tiny bit of humidity around a small pair of rich, brown orbs which always had that vibrating, dancing light of happy youth; that miraculous "joy of living." And, _what_ a circus was soon going full tilt in Mayor Gadsby's mansion! If that happy man so much as said:--"Now, I----" a grand, womanly chorus told him that "a man don't know anything about such affairs;" and that a most satisfactory spot for him was in a hammock on his porch, with a good cigar! That's it! A man is nominally monarch in his own family; but _only_ so on that outstanding day upon which a bridal gown is laid out in all its glory on his parlor sofa, and a small mob of girls, and occasionally a woman or two, is rushing in and out, up and down stairs, and finding as much to do as a commonly known microscopic "bug" of prodigious hopping ability finds at a dog show. _Rush! rush! rush!_ A thousand thoughts and a million words, (this crowd was all girls, you know!) making that parlor as noisy as a saw mill! But Gadsby laughingly staid out of it all, watching big armfuls of bloom and many a curious looking box go in through that front door; flying hands rapidly untying glorious ribbon wrappings. Now, upon all such occasions you will find, if you snoop around in dining room or pantry, an astonishing loaf of culinary art, all fancy frosting, and chuck full of raisins and citron, which is always cut upon such an auspicious occasion; and it is as hard to avoid naming it, in this story, as it is to withstand its assault upon your stomach. Oh hum! Now what? Aha! May Fourth, lasting, as Nancy said, "for about a million months," finally got Gadsby's dining room clock around to six-fifty; only about an hour, now, to that grand march past practically half of Branton Hills' population; for all who couldn't jam into that commodious church would stand around in a solid phalanx, blocking all traffic in that part of town; for all Branton Hills was fond of its Mayor's "baby girl." But, during this rush and hubbub, how about Frank? Poor boy! Now, if you think that a young lad at such an instant is as calm as a mill-pond, you don't know romantic Youth, that's all. About forty of Gadsby's old Organization boys, now manly young chaps, had bought him a car, which Nancy was _not_ to know anything about until that throwing of old boots, and what is also customary, had quit. Frank didn't want to hold it back from Nancy, but what can a chap do, against forty? Also, last night, at a big "so sorry, old chap" party, Frank had found how loyal a bunch of old pals can turn out; and this "grand launching into matrimonial doubt" had put him in a happy mood for that all important oration of two words:--"I do." So now I'll hurry around to church to find out how Nancy's Organization girls put in a long day of hard labor; not only at floor work, but up on stools and chairs. My! My! Just _look_ and gasp!! A long chain of lilacs runs from door to altar in two rows. And _look_ at that big arch of wistaria and narcissus half way along! Artificial palms stand in curving ranks from organ to walls; and, with all lights softly glowing through pink silk hoods; and with gilt cords outlining an altar-dais of moss and sprays of asparagus, it is a sight to bring a thrill to anybody, young or old. And, now--_aha!!_ With organist and Pastor waiting, a murmur and hand-clapping from that big front door told all who had luckily got in that Nancy was coming! It took thirty cars to bring that bridal party to church; for not a boy or girl of our old Organization would miss this occasion for a farm, with a pig on it with four kinks in its tail. Now, naturally, any girl would long to walk up that Holy path with Nancy, but too many would spoil things; so, by drawing lots, Nancy had for company, Sarah Young, Lucy Donaldson, Priscilla Standish, Virginia Adams, Doris Johnson and Cora Grant; with Kathlyn as Maid of Honor, as charming an array of youthful glory as you could find in all Branton Hills. Until this important arrival, Branton Hills' famous organist, just plain John Smith, was playing softly,--"Just a Song at Twilight," watching for a signal from Mayor Gadsby; and soon swung into that famous march which brought forth a grand thrill, as tiny, blushing, palpitating Nancy took "Dad's" arm, gazing with shining orbs at that distant--oh, _so_ distant--altar. Now I want to know why anybody should want to cry on such a grand occasion. What is sad about it? But many a lash was moist as that tiny vision of glamorous purity slowly trod that fragrant pathway. Possibly girls can't avoid it; anyway, our Branton Hills girls didn't try to do so. Gadsby, as has many a good old Dad, fought back any such showing; but I won't say that his thoughts didn't nag him; for, giving away your baby girl to any young, though first-class chap, is not actually _fun_. But that long, long trail finally brought him to that mossy dais, at which Frank, coming in through a handy door, stood waiting. Nancy was as calm as a wax doll; but Frank stood shaking with a most annoying cough (of imaginary origin!) as Pastor Brown stood, book in hand. Now I won't go through with all that was said; nor say anything about Nancy's tiny, warm, soft hand as it was put in Frank's big clumsy fist by Pastor Brown. Nor about that first Holy kiss; nor that long, mighty roar of organ music, as our happy, blushing pair trod that long pathway, doorwards. You know all about it, anyway, as most such rituals follow a standard custom. Nor shall I go into that happy hour at His Honor's mansion, during which that fancy loaf of frosting, raisins and citron was cut; (and which many a girl put in a pillow that night!); nor of that big bridal bunch of blossoms, which was thrown from a stairway into a happy group of hopping, jumping, laughing girls. (But I will say,--shhhh! that Kathlyn caught it!); nor anything of Nancy and Frank's thrilling trip to Branton Hills' big railway station, in that gift car which Nancy thought was a king's chariot; nor of a grand, low bow by old Pat Ryan of that station's trunk room. It was just that customary "_All aboard!!_" a crowd's "Hooray!!" and "Good Luck!!", with Branton Hills' Municipal Band a-blaring, and a mighty mob shouting and waving. XII Oh, hum! I'll turn from this happy affair now and try to find out what was going on in this thriving, hustling city. Now you probably think of a city as a gigantic thing; for, if you go up onto a high hill, and look around across that vast array of buildings, parks, roads and distant suburbs, you not only think that it is a gigantic thing, you _know_ it is. But, _is_ it? Just stop and think a bit. All such things as bulk, or width, you know by comparison only; comparison with familiar things. So, just for fun, go up in an imaginary balloon, about half way to that old Moon, which has hung aloft from your birth--(and possibly a day or two in addition)--and look down upon your "gigantic" city. How will it look? It is a small patch of various colors; but you know that, within that tiny patch, many thousands of your kind hurry back and forth; railway trains crawl out to far-away districts; and, if you can pick out a grain of dust that stands out dimly in a glow of sunlight, you may know that it is your mansion, your cabin or your hut, according to your financial status. Now, if that hardly shows up, how about _you_? What kind of a dot would _you_ form in comparison? You must admit that your past thoughts as to your own pomposity will shrink just a bit! All this shows us that could this big World think, it wouldn't know that such a thing as Man was on it. And Man thinks that his part in all this unthinkably vast Cosmos is important!! Why, you poor shrimp! if this old World wants to twitch just a bit and knock down a city or two, or split up a group of mountains, Man, with all his brain capacity, can only dash wildly about, dodging falling bricks. No. You wouldn't show up from that balloon as plainly as an ant, in crawling around our Capitol building at Washington. But why all this talk about our own inconspicuosity? It is simply brought up to accompany Nancy's thoughts as that train shot across country; for Nancy, until now, had not known anything approaching such a trip. So this happy, happy trip, back upon which many a woman looks, with a romantic thrill, was astounding to such a girl. From Branton Hills to San Francisco; a boat to Honolulu, Manila, Shanghai, Hong Kong, Colombo, and finally Cairo. Ah! Cairo!! In thinking of it you naturally bring up two words--"Pyramids" and "Sphinx", words familiar from school days. Practically from birth, Nancy, along with millions of folks, had known that famous illustration of a thing half Lion and half woman; and a mountainous mass of masonry, built for a king's tomb. So, standing right in front of both, Nancy and Frank got that wondrous thrill coming from attaining a long, long wish. From Cairo to Italy, Spain, London, Paris, and that grand Atlantic sail, landing at Boston, and hustling by fast train (but _how_ slow it did go!!) to Branton Hills! So, along about Thanksgiving Day, about half of its population was again at its big railway station, for Nancy was coming back. (And Frank, too, if anybody should ask you.) And with that big Municipal Band a-booming and blaring, and the crowd of our old Organization girls pushing forward, did Branton Hills look good to Nancy? _And did Nancy look good to Branton Hills?_ _What_ a glorious tan, from days and days on shipboard! And was that old Atlantic ugly? Ask Frank, poor chap, who, as on that big Pacific, had found out just what a ship's rail is for! And that stomachs can turn most amazing flip-flops if an old boat is too frisky! In just an instant, actual count, Nancy was in Lady Gadsby's arms, fighting valiantly to hold back a flood of big, happy sobs; and Frank was busy, grabbing a cloud of hands surging towards him. Coming back from a long trip is a happy occasion. And it is also mighty good to put a trunk or a bag down, knowing that it will "stay put" for a day or two, anyway. That constant packing and unpacking on a long trip, soon turns into an automatic function; and how Nancy did worry about what transportation customs in various lands would do to a first class trunk which has a romantic history, owing to its coming as a matrimonial gift from a group of loving girls. But now; _ah!!_ Put it away, and your things around, in familiar disposal. Long trips do bring lots of fun and information; but a truly long trip is tiring, both in body and mind. But Nancy and Frank won't stay with Gadsby long; for, during that trip, a charming bungalow was built on a lot of Gadsby's, facing City Park; and Nancy put in many days arranging things in it. Anybody who has had such joyful work to do, knows how assiduously a young pair would go about it; for two young robins carrying bits of cotton and string up to a criss-cross of twigs in a big oak, with constant soft, loving chirps, "had nothing," according to our popular slang, on Nancy and Frank. Finally "moving in day" got around, with that customary party, to which you carry a gift to add to such things as a young husband on only a small salary can install. And _how_ gifts did pour in!! Rugs, chairs, small stands, urns, clocks, photos in wall mountings, dainty scarfs (all handwork by our girls in our Night School), books, lamps, a "radio" from Station KBH, until, finally, a big truck found an opportunity in that coming and going throng to back in and unload an upright piano, all satin ribbon wrappings, with a card:--"From Branton Hills' Municipal Band." XIII I could go on for hours about this starting out of Nancy and Frank, but many civic affairs await us; for Julius Gadsby who has not got into this story up to now, had, from his constant poring through all kinds of books of information, built up a thorough insight into fossils; and you know that Kathlyn is way up in Biology; which brings in our awkward "bugs" again. Now bugs will burrow in soil, and always did, from History's birth; building catacombs which at last vanish through a piling up of rocks, sand or soil on that spot. Now Julius continually ran across accounts of important "finds" of such fossils, and with Kathlyn's aid was soon inaugurating popular clamor for a big Hall of Natural History. This, Julius and Kathlyn thought, would turn out as popular, in a way, as living animals out at our Zoo. But an appropriation for a Hall of Natural History is a hard thing to jam through a City Council; for though its occupants call for no food, you can't maintain such a building without human custody; "which," said Old Bill Simpkins, "is but a tricky way of saying CASH!!" But our Council was by now so familiar with calls from that famous "Organization", and, owing to its inborn faith in that grand body of hustling Youth, such a building was built; Julius and Kathlyn arranging all displays of fossil birds, plants, "bugs," footprints, raindrop marks, worms, skulls, parts of jaws, and so on. And what a crowd was on hand for that first public day! Julius and Kathlyn took visitors through various rooms, giving much data upon what was shown; and many a Branton Hills inhabitant found out a lot of facts about our vast past; about organisms living so far back in oblivion as to balk Man's brain to grasp. Kathlyn stood amongst groups of botanical fossilizations, with Gadsby not far away, as this studious young woman told school pupils how our common plants of today through various transitions in form, show a kinship with what now lay, in miraculously good condition, in this big Hall; and Julius told staring groups how this or that fossil did actually link such animals as our cow or walrus of today with original forms totally apart, both in looks and habits. And it was comforting to Gadsby to find pupils asking how long ago this was, and noting that amazing look as Julius had to say that nobody knows. Such a building is an addition to any city; for this big World is so old that human calculation cannot fathom it; and it will, in all probability, go on always. So it is improving a child's mind to visit such displays; for it will start a train of thoughts along a path not commonly sought if such institutions do not stand as attractions. Now, in any community a crank will bob up, who will, with loud acclaim and high-sounding words, avow that it "is a scandalous drain on public funds to put up such a building just to show a lot of rocks, animals' ribs and birds' skulls." But such loud bombasts only show up an "orator's" brain capacity (or lack of it), and actually bring studious folks to ask for just such data upon things which his ridiculing had run down. It is an old, old story, that if you want a city's population to go in strongly for anything, and you start a loud, bawling campaign against it, that public will turn to it for information as to its worth. So, just such a loud, bawling moron had to drift into our Hall on its inauguration day, and soon ran smack up against Kathlyn! That worthy girl, allowing him to "blow off" a bit, finally said:-- "I know you. You run a stock farm. All right. You want to know all you can about matching and crossing your stock, don't you? I thought so. But God did all that, long, oh, _so_ long ago; gradually producing such animals as you own today; and all you can do is to follow along, in your puny way, and try to avoid a poor quality of stock mixing with yours. This building contains thousands of God's first works. It won't do you a bit of harm to look through our rooms. Nothing will jump out at you!" At that that barking critic shut up! And Gadsby slid outdoors, chuckling:-- "That's _my_ girl talking!! That's my Kathlyn!!" It is curious why anybody should pooh-pooh a study of fossils or various forms of rocks or lava. Such things grant us our only vision into Natural History's big book; and it isn't a book in first-class condition. Far from it! Just a tiny scrap; a slip; or, possibly a big chunk is found, with nothing notifying us as to how it _got_ to that particular point, nor how long ago. Man can only look at it, lift it, rap it, cut into it, and squint at it through a magnifying glass. And,--_think_ about it. That's all; until a formal study brings accompanying thoughts from many minds; and, by such tactics, judging that in all probability such and such a rock or fossil footprint is about so old. Natural History holds you in its grasp through just this impossibility of finding actual facts; for it is thus causing you to _think_. Now, thinking is not only a voluntary function; it is an _acquisition_; an _art_. Plants do not think. Animals probably do, but in a primary way, such as an aid in knowing poisonous foods, and how to bring up an offspring with similar ability. But Man can, and _should_ think, and think hard and constantly. It is ridiculous to rush blindly into an action without looking forward to lay out a plan. Such an unthinking custom is almost a panic, and panic is but a mild form of insanity. So Kathlyn and Julius did a grand, good thing in having this Hall as an addition to Branton Hills' institutions. Now, in any city or town, or almost any small community, you will find a building, or possibly only a room, about which said city or town has nothing to say. It is that most important institution in which you put a stamp on your mail and drop it into a slot, knowing that it will find its way across city or country to that man or woman who is waiting for it. But how many young folks know _how_ this mail is put out so quickly, and with such guaranty against loss? Not many, I think, if you ask. So Gadsby, holding up Youth as a Nation's most important function in its coming history, thought that any act which would instruct a child in any way, was worthy. So, on a Saturday morning His Honor took a group of Grammar School pupils to a balcony in back of that all-hiding partition, and a postal official, showing all mail handling acts individually, said:-- "In this country, two things stand first in rank: your flag and your mail. You all know what honor you pay to your flag, but you should know, also, that your mail,--just that ordinary postal card--is also important. But a postal card, or any form of mail, is _not_ important, in that way, until you drop it through a slot in this building, and with a stamp on it, or into a mail box outdoors. Up to that instant it is but a common card, which anybody can pick up and carry off without committing a criminal act. But as soon as it is in back of this partition, or in a mail box, a magical transformation occurs; and anybody who _now_ should willfully purloin it, or obstruct its trip in any way, will find prison doors awaiting him. What a frail thing ordinary mail is! A baby could rip it apart, but no adult is so foolish as to do it. That small stamp which you stick on it, is, you might say, a postal official, going right along with it, having it always in his sight." A giggling girl was curious to know if that was why a man's photo is on it. "Possibly," said our official, laughing. "But wait a bit. Look downstairs. As your mail falls in through that slot, or is brought in by a mailman it is put through an ink-daubing apparatus--that's it, right down in front of you--which totally ruins its stamp. How about your man's photo, now?" A good laugh rang around, and our official said:-- "Now a man sorts it according to its inscription, puts it into a canvas bag and aboard a train, or possibly an aircraft. But that bag has mail going to points a long way apart, so a man in a mail car sorts it out, so that Chicago won't find mail in its bag which should go to California." At this point our giggling girl said:-- "Ooooo! I had a Christmas card for Missouri go way down to Mississippi!" "How did you mark it?" "I put M-i-s-s for Missouri." "Try M-o, and I wish you luck." As that laugh ran round, our official said:-- "Now you know that you can buy a long, narrow stamp which will hurry your mail along. So, as all mail in this building is put up in many a small bunch, all with such stamps attract a mailman, who will so wrap a bunch that that kind of a stamp will show up plainly. Upon its arrival at a distant point, a boy will grab it, and hurry it to its final goal. But that stamp will not hurry it as long as it is on that train." Our giggling girl, swinging in again, said:-- "What? With that stamp right on top?" "How can it?" said our official. "A train can only go just so fast, stamp or no stamp." "Oh." Our boys and girls got a big thrill from this visit in back of that partition, and told Gadsby so. On coming out of that building our party saw a big patrolman putting a small boy into a patrol wagon. That poor kid was but a bunch of rags, dirty, and in a fighting mood. Our boys got a big laugh out of it. Our girls, though, did _not_. Young Marian Hopkins, who had that fairy wand, you know, at our airport inauguration, said:-- "Oh, that poor child! Will that cop put him in jail, Mayor Gadsby?" At which His Honor instantly thought of a plan long in his mind. Branton Hills had a court room, a child's court, in fact, at which a kindly man looks out for just such young waifs--trying to find out why such tots commit unlawful acts. So Gadsby said:-- "I don't know, Marian, but I want you young folks to go on a visit, tonight, to our night court, to find out about just such wild boys. How many want to go?" To his satisfaction, all did; and so, that night that court room had rows of young folks, all agog with curiosity which a first visit to a court stirs up in a child. Just by luck, our young vagrant in rags was brought in first, shaking with childish doubt as to what was going to occur. But that kindly man sitting back of that big mahogany railing had no thought of scaring a child, and said calmly:-- "Now, boy, what did you do that you ought not to do; and why did you do it?" As our boys sat nudging and winking, but with our girls growing sad from sympathy, our young culprit said:-- "Aw! I grabs a bun, and dis big cop grabs my collar!" "But why did you grab that bun? It wasn't yours, you know." "_Gosh_, man!! I was _hungry!!_" "Hungry? Don't your folks look out for you?" "Naw; I do my own looking. And that's what I _was_ doing, too!" "What had you for food all day?" "Just that bun. And _say!!_ I only got _half_ of it! That big cop was so rough!" "Did that cop, as you call him, hurt you?" "_Hurt!!_ I should say _not!!_ I put up a good stiff scrap! I paid him back, blow for blow! No big gas-bag of a cop is going to wallop _this_ kid and not pay for it!" "But, boy, don't your folks bring you up to know that it is wrong to rob anybody?" "Naw! My Dad robs folks, and just got six months for it. So why shouldn't I? It's all right to do what your Dad will do, isn't it?" "Not always, boy," and our girls in row two and our boys in row four sat sad and glum at this portrayal of youthful sin. Finally that big kindly man, thoughtfully rubbing his chin, said:-- "Whom did your Dad rob?" "I dunno. It was a Ford car. Nobody wasn't in it, so why not grab it? That's what Dad said. You can pick up a bit of cash for a car, you know, boss. And say, if a car brung only six months, how long will I squat in jail for swiping this half bun? Aw! Go slow, boss! I ain't no bad kid! Only just a hungry mutt. Gosh!! _How_ I wish I had a glass of milk!" From row two a young, vigorous girlish form shot out, dashing for a doorway; and as that big kindly man was still rubbing his chin, Marian burst in again, rushing, sobbingly, to that sad bunch of rags, holding out a pint of milk and two hot biscuits. A quick snatch by two horribly dirty young hands, a limp flop on a mat at that big mahogany railing, and a truly hungry child was oblivious to all around him. And I'll say that our boys, in row four, had lumpy throats. But finally that big kindly man said:-- "Though taking things unlawfully is wrong, conditions can occur in which so young a culprit is not at fault. This young chap has had no bringing up, but has run wild. A child will not know right from wrong if not taught; and, as it is a primary animal instinct to obtain food in any way, I will simply put this boy in a school which Branton Hills maintains for just such youths." At this both row two and row four burst out in such a storm of hand-clapping that Gadsby found that this visit had shown his young folks, from actual contact with a child without training, how important child-raising is; and how proud a city is of such as act according to law. XIV In almost any big town, around Autumn, you will annually run across that famous agricultural show known as a County Fair; and, as Branton Hills had a big park, which you know all about, right in front of Nancy's and Frank's small bungalow, it was a most natural spot for holding it. And so, as this happy pair's third Autumn got around, stirring activity in that big park also got a-going; for railings for stockyards don't grow all built; yards and yards of brown canvas don't just blow into a park; nor do "hot dog" and popcorn stands jump up from nothing. And Nancy, rocking on that bungalow porch, could watch all this work going on. And rocking was about all that Nancy could, or, I should say, _should_ do, just now. What a sight it was! Trucks; small cars; wagons; a gang with a tractor plowing up hard spots; a gang picking up rocks, grading humpy spots, and laying out ground plans. Masons building walls, and all kinds of goods arriving, by tons. But out of all that confusion and ado a canvas town will grow, strung from top to bottom with gaily flapping flags and hanging bunting, and that customary "mid-way" with its long rows of gaudy billboards, in front of which circus ballyhoo artists will continuously bawl and shout out claims about sword-swallowing, tattooing, hula-hula dancing, boa constrictor charming, or a Punch and Judy show. At a County Fair two things stand out as most important: farm stock and that oval track around which swiftly trotting colts will thrill thousands; and, I'll say, shrink a bank account or two! But, of all sights, I don't know of any with such drawing ability for kids as just such a carnival lot. So, daily, as soon as school was out, throngs of happy, shouting, hopping, jumping boys and girls would dash for that big park; looking, pointing, and climbing up on auto tops, into lofty oaks, onto tall rocks, or a pal's back; for if anything is difficult for a boy to obtain a sight of, nothing in climbing that an orang-outang can do, will balk him! So Nancy sat calmly rocking, rocking, rocking, and,--but, pardon! I'll go on with this story. All I know is that Frank, arriving from work at Radio Station KBH, wouldn't so much as look at that big carnival lot, but would rush in, in a most loving, solicitous way which always brought a kiss and a blush from Nancy. Now if I don't quit talking about this young pair you won't know anything about that big show going up in front of that happy bungalow. Almost daily Lady Gadsby would drop in on Nancy, bringing all sorts of dainty foods; and His Honor, with Kathlyn, Julius and Bill, paid customary visits. "But that fair!" you say. "How about that fair?" Ah! It _was_ a fair, I'll say! What mobs on that first day! And what a din!! Bands playing, ballyhoos shouting, popcorn a-popping, "hot dogs" a-sizzling, ducks squawking, cows lowing, pigs grunting, an occasional baby squalling; and 'midst it all, a choking cloud of dust, a hot Autumn wind, panting, fanning matrons, cussing husbands; all working toward that big oval track at which all had a flimsy possibility of winning a million or two (or a dollar or two!). Oh, you County Fairs! You bloom in your canvas glory, annually. You draw vast crowds; you show high quality farm stock, gigantic pumpkins, thousands of poultry, including our "Thanksgiving National Bird". You fill coops with fancy squabs, fat rabbits, and day-old chicks. You show many forms of incubators, churns, farming apparatus, pumps, plows, lighting plants for small farms, windmills, "bug" poisons, and poultry foods. And you always add a big balloon, which you anchor, so that kids may soar aloft until a windlass pulls it down. You fill us with food that would kill a wild goat, but you still last! And may you always do so; for, within your flapping, bulging canvas walls, city man rubs against town man, rich and poor girls bump, snobs attain no right of way, and a proud, happy boy or girl shows a "First Class" satin ribbon which a lovingly brought-up calf or poultry brood has won. Only a satin ribbon, but, displaying it to a group of admiring young pals brings to a child that natural thrill from accomplishing anything worthy of public acclaim. Such thrills will not crowd in as Maturity supplants Youth; and so I say, "a trio of our customary huzzas" for any child who can carry away a satin ribbon from a County Fair. But what about our good Mayor during all this circus hullabaloo? Did important thoughts for still improving Branton Hills pass through his busy mind? Not just now; but fond, anxious thoughts did; for his mind was constantly on Nancy; tiny, darling Nancy, his baby girl. For, during that noisy carnival, folks saw (or _thought_ so, you know), a big bird with long shanks and a monstrous bill, circling round and round that small bungalow's roof, plainly looking for a spot to land on. Lady Gadsby and old Doctor Wilkins saw it, too, and told Nancy that that big hospital which our old Organization had built, was holding a room for instant occupancy; and, as that big bird daily swung down, down, down, almost grazing that small roof, Frank, poor chap, as shaky as at his church ritual, thirty months ago, staid away from Radio Station KBH, and stuck to that small bungalow as a fly sticks around a sugar bowl. Finally, on a crisp Autumn night, that soaring bird shot straight down with such an assuring swoop, that old Doc Wilkins, indoors with Nancy, saw it and said, quickly:-- "On your way, Nancy girl!!" and that part of Branton Hills saw his car racing hospitalwards, with Lady Gadsby fondly patting Nancy's tiny, cold hands, and saying just such loving things as a woman would, naturally, to a young girl on such a trip. But Gadsby and Frank? Ah! Poor, half-crazy things! No car would do at all! _No, sir!!_ A car was far too slow! And so, across lots, down into many a man's yard, and jumping high walls, shot two shadowy forms, arriving at that big hospital, badly blown, just as Lady Gadsby and old Doc Wilkins took Nancy's arms, and got slowly to that big door with its waiting rolling chair. Now this stork's visit is nothing out of ordinary in World affairs. Millions and billions of visits has it, and its kind, flown--to king's mansion or a black Zulu woman's hut. But _this_ flight was poor Frank's initiation to that awful hour of blank panic, during which a young husband is boiling hot or icy cold in turn. God!! How still a hospital corridor is!! How doctors and assistants do float past without as much sound as falling snow! Oh! _How_ long Frank and His Honor sat, stood, or trod up and down, watching that room door!! What was going on? Was Nancy all right? Oh!! Why this prolonging of agonizing inactivity? Can't anybody say anything? _Isn't anybody around, at all?_ But hospital doctors and nursing staffs, though pitying a young chap, must pass him up for that tiny lady, who now was but a tool in God's hands; in God's magic laboratory. And so---- _Ah!!_ Doctor Wilkins is coming--_and smiling!!_ "A baby girl--and with a ripping good pair of lungs!" but has to jump quick to catch Frank, who has sunk in a swoon. And Mayor Gadsby's collar is as limp as a dish-rag! Ah! Man, man, man! and woman, woman, woman! Just you two! God's only parts in His mighty plan for living actuality. Not only with Man and animals, but also down,--way, _way_ down amongst plants. Just two parts. Only two!! And Baby, you tiny bunch of wriggling, gurgling humanity, by that slowly ticking clock is _your_ turn in this mighty World, unavoidably arriving. Mama, Papa, and all of us will go on, for a bit, growing old and gray, but you, now so young and frail, will stand sturdily, and willingly, in our vacancy; and carry on God's will! XV As this is a history of a city I must not stay around any part too long. So, as it was almost "a small morning hour," Nina Adams, a widow, was sitting up; for Virginia, a High School girl, was still out; and, around two-thirty, was brought back in a fast car; two youths actually _dumping_ an unconscious form on Nina's front porch, and dashing madly away. But Nina Adams saw it; and, calling for aid in carrying Virginia indoors, put in a frantic call for old Doc Wilkins, an old, long-ago school pal, who found Nina frantic from not knowing Virginia's condition, nor why the pair of youths shot madly away without calling anybody. But it only took Doctor Wilkins an instant to find out what was wrong; and Nina, noting his tight lips and growing scowl was in an agony of doubt. "What _is_ it, Tom? _Quick!!_ I'm almost crazy!!" Dr. Wilkins, standing by Virginia's couch, said, slowly:-- "It's nothing to worry about, Nina. Virginia will pull through all right, by morning." But that didn't satisfy Nina Adams, _not for an instant_, and Dr. Wilkins, knowing that ironclad spirit of school days which would stand for no obstructions in its path, saw that a "blow-up" was coming; but, through a kindly thought for this woman's comfort, did not say what his diagnosis was, until Nina, now actually livid with worry, said:-- "Tom Wilkins! _Doctor_ Wilkins, if you wish,--I claim a natural right to know why my child is unconscious! And you, a physician, cannot, by law, withhold such information!!" But Wilkins, trying to find a way out of a most unhappy condition of affairs, said:-- "Now, Nina, you know I wouldn't hold anything from you if Virginia was critically ill, but that is not so. If you'll only wait until morning you'll find that I am right." But this only built obstruction upon obstruction to Nina's strong will, until Dr. Wilkins, noticing coming total prostration, had to say:-- "Nina, Virginia is _drunk_; _horribly_ drunk." "_Drunk!!_" Widow Adams had to grab wildly at a chair, sinking into it; at first as limp as a rag, but instantly springing up, blood surging to a throbbing brow. "_Drunk!_ _Drunk!!_ _My_ baby drunk!! Tom, I thank you for trying to ward off this shock; but I'll say right now, _with my hand on high_, that I am going to start a rumpus about this atrocity that will rock Branton Hills to its foundations! Who _got_ this young school-girl drunk? I know that Virginia wouldn't drink that stuff willingly. How _could_ it occur? I pay through taxation for a patrolman in this district; in fact in _all_ districts of this city. What is a patrolman for, if not to watch for just such abominations as this, pray?" Dr. Wilkins didn't say, though probably thinking of a rumor that had run around town for a month or two. At this point Virginia, partly conscious, was murmuring:-- "Oh, Norman! _Don't!!_ I _can't_ drink it! Oh! I'm _so_ sick!!" This brought forth all of Nina Adams' fury instantly. "_Aha! Aha! Norman!_ So _that's_ it! That's Norman Antor, that low-down, good-for-nothing night-owl! Son of our big Councilman Antor. So!! It's 'Norman! I can't drink it'! Tom Wilkins, this thing is going to _court!!_" * * * * * About noon of that day, our good doctor, walking sadly along, ran across Mayor Gadsby, in front of City Hall; and did His Honor "_burn_" at such an abomination? "_What?_ High School boys _forcing_ young girls to drink? And right in our glorious Branton Hills? Oh, but, Doc! This can't pass without a trial!" "That's all right, John; but a thorn sticks out, right in plain sight." "Thorn? Thorn? What kind of a thorn?" and our Mayor was flushing hard, as no kind of wild thoughts would point to any kind of thorns. "That thorn," said Wilkins, "is young Norman Antor; son of----" "_Not of Councilman Antor?_" "I am sorry to say that it is so," and Wilkins told of Virginia's half-conscious murmurings. "And Nina wants to know why, with a patrolman in all parts of town, it isn't known that all this drinking is going on. I didn't say what I thought, but you know that a patrolman don't go into dancing pavilions and night clubs until conditions sanction it." "Who is supplying this liquor?" "Councilman Antor; but without knowing it." All His Honor could say was to gasp:-- "How do you know that, Doc?" and Wilkins told of four calls for him in four days, to young girls, similarly drunk. "And my _first_ call was to young Mary--Antor's tiny Grammar School kid, who was as drunk as Virginia; but, on coming out of it, told of robbing Antor's pantry, in which liquor was always on hand for his political pals, you know; that poor kid taking it to various affairs and giving it to boys; and winning 'popularity' that way." "So," said Gadsby, "Councilman Antor's boy and girl, brought up in a family with liquor always handy, now, with ignorant, childish braggadocio, bring Councilman Antor into this mix-up! I'm sorry for Antor; but his pantry is in for an official visit." It wasn't so long from this day that Court got around to this rumpus. To say that that big room was _full_, would put it mildly. Although, according to an old saying, "a cat is only as big as its skin," that room's walls almost burst, as groups of church organizations and law abiding inhabitants almost fought for admission; until standing room was nothing but a suffocating jam. As Gadsby and Doc Wilkins sat watching that sight, Gadsby said:-- "It's an outpouring of rightful wrath by a proud city's population; who, having put out good, hard work in bringing it to its high standing as a community, today, will not stand for anything that will put a blot on its municipal flag, which is, right now, proudly flying on City Hall." As Wilkins was about to say so, a rising murmur was rolling in from out back, for Norman Antor was coming in, in custody of a big patrolman, and with four youths, all looking, not only anxious, but plainly showing humiliation at such an abomination against trusting young girlhood. Scowls and angry rumblings told that high official, way up in back of that mahogany railing, that but a spark would start a riot. So, in a calm, almost uncanny way, this first trial of its kind in Branton Hills got along to a court official calling, loudly:-- "Virginia Adams!!" If you think that you know what a totally still room is, by no kink of your imagination could you possibly know such an awful, frightful _hush_ as struck that crowd dumb, as Virginia, a tall, dark, willowy, stylish girl quickly took that chair, from which Truth, in all its purity, is customarily brought out. But Virginia was not a bit shaky nor anxious, nor doubtful of an ability to go through with this ugly task. Gadsby and Doc Wilkins sat watching Nina; Gadsby with profound sympathy, but Wilkins with an old school-pal's intuition, watching for a blow-up. But Nina didn't blow up, that is, not visibly; but that famous rigid will was boiling, full tilt; boiling up to a point for landing, "tooth and claw" on our pompous Councilman's son, if things didn't turn out satisfactorily. Virginia didn't occupy that stand long; it was only a half-sobbing account of a night at a dancing pavilion; and with a sob or two from a woman or girl in that vast crowd. All Virginia said was:-- "Norman Antor said I was a cry-baby if I wouldn't drink with him. But I said, 'All right; I _am_ a cry-baby! And I always _will_ turn 'cry-baby' if anybody insists that I drink that stuff.'" (Just a short lull, a valiant fight for control, and)--"But I _had_ to drink!! Norman was tipping my chair back and John Allison was forcing that glass into my mouth! I got so sick I couldn't stand up, and didn't know a thing until I found I was on a couch in my own parlor." A court official said, kindly:-- "That will do, Miss Adams." During this, Nina was glaring at Norman; but Virginia's bringing Allison into it, also, was too much. But Wilkins, watching narrowly, said, snappingly:-- "_Nina!_ This is a _court room_." Now this trial was too long to go into, word for word; so I'll say that not only Norman Antor and Allison, but also our big, pompous Councilman Antor, according to our popular slang, "got in bad"; and Branton Hills' dancing and night spots got word to prohibit liquor or shut up shop. Young Mary Antor was shown that liquor, in dancing pavilions or in a family pantry was not good for young girls; and soon this most disgusting affair was a part of Branton Hills' history. And what vast variations a city's history contains! What valorous acts by far-thinking officials! What dark daubs of filth by avaricious crooks! What an array of past Mayors; what financial ups and downs; what growth in population. But, as I am this particular city's historian, _with strict orthography controlling it_, this history will not rank, in volubility, with any by an author who can sow, broadcast, all handy, common words which _continuously_ try to jump into it! XVI Branton Hills, now an up-to-today city, coming to that point of motorizing all city apparatus, had just a last, solitary company of that class which an inhabitant frantically calls to a burning building--Company Four, in our big shopping district; all apparatus of which was still animal drawn; four big, husky chaps: two blacks and two roans. Any thought of backing in any sort of motor apparatus onto this floor, upon which this loyal four had, during many months, stood, champing at bits, pawing and whinnying to start out that big door, in daylight or night-gloom, calm or storm,--was mighty tough for old Dowd and Clancy. A man living day and night with such glorious, vivacious animals, grows to look upon such as almost human. Bright, brainy, sparkling colts can win a strong hold on a man, you know. And now!! What form of disposal was awaiting "Big Four", as Clancy and Dowd took a fond joy in dubbing this pair of blacks and two roans? Clancy and Dowd didn't know anything but that a mass of cogs, piping, brass railings, an intricacy of knobs, buttons, spark-plugs, forward clutch and so forth was coming tomorrow. "_Aw!!_" said Dowd, moaningly, "you know, Clancy, that good old light shifting about and that light 'stomping' in that row of stalls, at night; you know, old man, that happy crunching of corn; that occasional cough; that tail-swatting at a fly or crazy zigzagging moth; that grand animal odor from that back part of this floor." "I do," said Clancy. "And _now_ what? A loud whizz of a motor! A suffocating blast of gas! and a dom thing a-standin' on this floor, wid no brain; wid nothin' lovin' about it. Wid no soul." "Um-m-m," said Dowd, "I dunno about an animal havin' a soul, but it's got a thing not so dom far _from_ it." As Clancy sat worrying about various forms of disposal for Big Four, an official phoning from City Hall, said just an ordinary, common word, which had Clancy hopping up and down, _furiously mad_. "What's all this? What's all this?" Dowd sang out, coming from a stall, in which a good rubbing down of a shiny coat, and continuous loving pats had brought snuggling and nosing. "_Auction!!_" said Clancy, wildly, and sitting down with a thud. "Auction? Auction for Big Four? _What?_ Put up on a block as you would a Jap urn or a phony diamond?" "Uh-huh; that's what City Hall says." An awful calm slunk insidiously onto that big smooth floor, as Dowd and Clancy, chins on hands, sat,--just thinking! Finally Clancy burst out with:-- "Aw! If an alarm would _only_ ring in, right now, to stop my brain from cracking! _Auction! Bah!!_" * * * * * A big crowd stood in City Park, including His Honor, many a Councilman, and, naturally, Old Bill Simpkins, who was always bound to know what was going on. A loud, fast-talking man, on a high stand, was shouting:-- "All right, you guys! How much? How much for this big black? A mountain of muscular ability! Young, kind, willing, smart! How much? How much?" Bids abominably low at first, but slowly crawling up; crawling slowly, as a boa constrictor crawls up on its victim. But, _without fail_, as a bid was sung out from that surging, gawking, chin-lifting mob, a woman, way in back, would surpass it! And that woman hung on, as no boa constrictor could! Gadsby, way down in front, couldn't fathom it, at all. Why should a woman want Big Four? A solitary animal, possibly, but _four!_ So His Honor, turning and making his way toward that back row, ran smack into Nancy. "Daddy! Lady Standish is outbidding all this crowd!" "Oho! So _that's_ it!" So Gadsby, pushing his way again through that jam, and coming to that most worthy woman, said:-- "By golly, Sally! It's plain that you want Big Four." "John Gadsby, you ought to _know_ that I do. Why! A man might buy that big pair of roans to hitch up to a plow! Or hook a big black onto an ash cart!" "I know that, Sally, but that small back yard of yours is----" "_John!!_ Do your Municipal occupations knock all past days' doings out of your skull? You _know_ that I own a grand, big patch of land out in our suburbs, half as big as Branton Hills. So this Big Four will just run around, jump, roll, kick, and loaf until doomsday, if I can _wallop_ this mob out of bidding." As Lady Standish was long known as standing first in valuation on Branton Hills' tax list, nobody in that crowd was so foolish as to hang on, in a war of bidding, against _that_ bankroll. So Gadsby shook hands, put an arm about Nancy, walking happily away, as a roar of plaudits shot out from that crowd, for that loud, fast-talking man was announcing:-- "_Sold! All four to Lady Standish!!_" As Gadsby and Nancy ran across Old Bill Simpkins, Gadsby said:-- "Bill, _you_ know that grand old day. Look! A building is burning! A patrolman has put in an alarm! And _now_ look! Coming down Broadway! Two big blacks, and following on, two big roans! What grand, mighty animals! Nostrils dilating; big hoofs pounding; gigantic flanks bulging; mighty lungs snorting; monstrous backs straining; thick, full tails standing straight out. Coming, sir! Coming, sir!! Just as fast as brain and brawn can! And that gong-clanging, air-splitting, whistling, shining, sizzling, smoking four tons of apparatus roars past, grinding and banging on Broadway's paving! _You_ saw all that, Bill." "Uh-huh," said Simpkins, "but a motor don't hurt our paving so much." As Nancy took His Honor's arm again, Gadsby said:-- "Poor, cranky old Bill! Always running things down." But how about Clancy and Dowd? On moving out from that big park, that happy pair, if Knighthood was in bloom today, would bow low, and kiss fair Lady Standish's hand. XVII Oh, hum. Now that Nancy's baby is gurgling or squalling, according to a full tummy, or tooth conditions; and Nancy is looking, as Gadsby says, "as good as a million dollars," I find that that busy young son-of-a-gun, Dan Cupid, is still snooping around Branton Hills. And _now_ who do you think is hit? Try to think of a lot of girls in Gadsby's old Organization of Youth. No, it's not Sarah Young, nor Lucy Donaldson, nor Virginia Adams. It was brought to your historian in this way:-- Lady Gadsby and His Honor sat around his parlor lamp, His Honor noticing that Lady G. was smiling, finally saying:-- "John." "Uh-huh." "Kathlyn and John Smith,----" "What?" "I said that Kathlyn and John Smith want to----" "Oho! Aha!! I'll call up Pastor Brown to start right off dolling up his big church!" "No, no! Not now! Wait about six months. This is only a troth. Folks don't jump into matrimony, that way." "Hm-m-m! I don't know about that," said Gadsby, laughing; and thinking way back to that captivating lasso! John Smith was Branton Hills' famous church organist; and, at a small, dainty lunch, Kathlyn told of this troth. In a day or two about all Branton Hills' young girlhood had, on rushing in, told Kathlyn what a grand chap John was; and all that town's young manhood had told John similar things about Kathlyn. So, as this is a jumpy sort of a story, anyway, why not skip months of happy ardor, and find how this tying of an additional knot in our Mayor's family will turn out? You know that Kathlyn don't think much of pomp or show, and such a big church ritual as Nancy had is all right if you want it, but Kathlyn had fond thoughts of just a small, parlor affair, with only a group of old chums; and _no_ throwing of old boots, and "sharp food-grains," which work downward, to scratch your back, or stick in your hair as stubbornly as burrs. "Such crazy doings," said Kathlyn, "always look foolish. It's odd how anybody can follow up such antiquarian customs." As Kathlyn's big night was drawing nigh, Lady Gadsby and Nancy had constantly thought of a word synonymous with "woman", and that word is "scrub." Which is saying that Gadsby's mansion was about to submit to a gigantic scrubbing, painting, dusting, and so forth, so that Kathlyn should start out on that ship of matrimony from a spic-span wharf. Just why a woman thinks that a grain of dust in a totally inconspicuous spot is such a catastrophic abnormality is hard to say; but if you simply broach a thought that a grain of it _might_ lurk in back of a piano, or up back of an oil painting, a flood of soap-suds will instantly burst forth; and any man who can find any of his things for four days is a clairvoyant, or a magician! As Gadsby sat watching all this his thoughts took this form:-- "Isn't it surprising what an array of things a woman can drag forth, burrowing into attics, rooms and nooks! Things long out of mind; an _old_ thing; a worn-out thing; but it has lain in that room, nook or bag until just such a riot of soap and scrubbing brush brings it out. And, as I think of it, a human mind could, and should go through just such a ransacking, occasionally; for you don't know _half_ of what an accumulation of rubbish is kicking about, in its dark, musty corridors. Old fashions in thoughts; bigotry; vanity; all lying stagnant. So why not drag out and sort all that stuff, discarding all which is of no valuation? About half of us will find, in our minds, a room, having on its door a card, saying: "It Was Not So In My Day." Go _at_ that room, right off. That "My Day" is long past. "Today" is boss, now. If that "My Day" could crawl up on "Today," what a mix-up in World affairs would occur! Ox cart against aircraft; oil lamps against arc lights! Slow, mail information against radio! But, as all this stuff is laid out, what will you do with it? Nobody wants it. So I say, burn it, and tomorrow morning, how happy you will find that musty old mind!" But His Honor's mansion finally got back to normal as clouds of dust and swats and slaps from dusting cloths had shown Lady Gadsby and Kathlyn that "that parlor was simply awful" though Gadsby, Julius and Bill always had thought that "It looks all right," causing Kathlyn to say:-- "A man thinks all dust stays outdoors." Though marrying off a girl in church is a big proposition, it can't discount, in important data, doing a similar act in a parlor; for, as a parlor is a mighty small room in comparison with a church, you can't point to an inch of it that won't do its small part on such an occasion; so a woman will find about a thousand spots in which to put tacks from which to run strings holding floral chains, sprays, or small lights. So Gadsby, Bill and Julius, with armfuls of string and mouthfuls of tacks, not only put in hours at pounding said tacks, but an occasional vigorous word told that a thumb was substituting! But what man wouldn't gladly bang his thumb, or bark his shins on a wobbly stool, to aid so charming a girl as Kathlyn? And, on that most romantically important of all days!! Anyway, that day's night finally cast its soft shadows on Branton Hills. Night, with its twinkling stars, its lightning-bugs, and its call for girls' most glorious wraps; and youths' "swallowtails", and tall silk hats,--is Cupid's own; lacking but organ music to turn it into Utopia. And was Gadsby's mansion lit up from porch to roof? No. Only that parlor and a room or two upstairs, for wraps, mascara, a final hair-quirk, a dab of lip-stick; for Kathlyn, against all forms of "vain display," said:-- "I'm only going to marry a man; not put on a circus for all Branton Hills." "All right, darling," said Gadsby, "you shall marry in a pitch dark room if you wish; for, as you say, a small, parlor affair is just as binding as a big church display. It's only your vows that count." So but a small group stood lovingly in Gadsby's parlor, as Parson Brown brought into unity Kathlyn and John. Kathlyn was _radiantly_ happy; and John, our famous organist, was as happy with only charming Sarah Young at an upright piano, as any organist in a big choir loft. But to Lady Gadsby and His Honor, this was, in a way, a sad affair; for that big mansion now had lost two of its inhabitants; and, as many old folks know, a vast gap, or chasm thus forms, backward across which flit happy visions of laughing, romping, happy girlhood; happy hours around a sitting room lamp; and loving trips in night's small hours to a room or two, just to know that a small girl was all right, or that a big girl was not in a draft. But, though marrying off a girl _will_ bring such a vacancy, that happy start out into a world throbbing with vitality and joy, can allay a bit of that void in a big mansion, or a small cabin. A birth, a tooth, a growth, a mating; and, again a birth, a tooth, and so on. Such is that mighty Law, which was laid down on that first of all days; and which will control Man, animal, and plant until that last of all nights. So it was first Nancy, and now Kathlyn; and Branton Hills' gossips thought of Bill and Julius, with whom many a young, romantic maid would gladly sit in a wistaria-drooping arbor on a warm, moon-lit night; flighty maids with Bill, adoring his high class social gossip; studious maids with Julius, finding much to think about in his practical talks on physics, zoology, and natural history. But Bill and Julius had shown no liability of biting at any alluring bait on any matrimonial hook; and Gadsby, winking knowingly, would say:-- "Bill is too frivolous, just now; and Julius too busy at our Hall of Natural History. But just wait until Dan Cupid starts shooting again, and watch things whiz!" XVIII Sarah, walking along past City Park on a raw, cold night, found a tiny,--oh so tiny,--puppy, whining, shaking and crying with cold. Picking up that small bunch of babyhood, Sarah was in quandary as just what to do; but Priscilla Standish, coming along, said:-- "Oh! Poor baby!! Who owns him, Sarah?" "I don't know; but say! Wouldn't your Ma----" "My Ma _would!!_ Bring him along, and wrap your cloak around him. It's awfully cold for so young a puppy." So Lady Standish, with that "back-yard zoo" soon had his quaking babyship lapping good warm milk, and a stumpy tail wagging as only a tiny puppy's stumpy tail _can_ wag. Along towards six o'clock a vigorous pounding on Lady Standish's front door brought Priscilla, to find Old Bill Simpkins with a tiny, wildly sobbing girl of about four. Walking into Lady Standish's parlor, Simpkins said:-- "This kid has lost a-a-a-crittur; I think it was a pup, wasn't it, kid?" A vigorous up and down bobbing of a small shock of auburn hair. "So," said Simpkins, "I thought it might show up in your back-yard gang." "It has, Bill, you _old grouch!!_" for Lady Standish, as about all of Branton Hills' grown-ups, was in school with Bill. "It's all right, now, and warm and cuddly. Don't cry, Mary darling. Priscilla will bring in your puppy." As that happy baby sat crooning to that puppy, also a baby, Old Bill had to snort out:-- "Huh! A lot of fuss about a pup, I'll say!" "Oh, _pooh-pooh_, Bill Simpkins!" said Lady S. "Why _shouldn't_ a child croon to a puppy? Folks bring all kinds of animals to my back yard, if sick or hurt. Want to walk around my zoo?" "_No!!_ No zoos for Councilman Simpkins! Animals ain't worth so much fuss!" "Pshaw, Bill! You talk ridiculously! I wish you could know of about half of my works. I want to show you a big Angora cat. A dog bit its foot so I put a balm on it and wound it with cotton----" "You put _balm_ on a _cat's_ foot!! _Bah!_" But Lady Standish didn't mind Old Bill's ravings having known him so long; so said:-- "Oh, how's that old corn of yours? Can't I put a balm----" "_No!_ You cannot! Mary, bring your pup; I'm going along." As a happy tot was passing out that big, kindly front door, Sarah said:-- "Was Councilman Simpkins always so grouchy, Lady Standish?" "No. Not until John Gadsby 'cut him out' and won Lady Gadsby." "Aha!! And a Ho, Ho!!" said Sarah, laughing gayly. "So folks had what you call 'affairs' way back, just as today!" and also laughing inwardly, at what Lucy had said about this kindly Lady Standish and His Honor. Ah! That good old schoolday, now so long past! How it bobs up, now-a-days, if you watch a young lad and a happy, giggling lass holding hands or laughing uproariously at youthful witticisms. And how diaphanous and almost imaginary that far-back day looks, if that girl with whom you stood up and said "I do," laughs, if you try a bit of romantic kissing, and says:-- "Why, John! How silly! You act actually childish!!" * * * * * And now it won't do any harm to hark back a bit on this history, to find how our big Night School is doing. Following that first graduation day, many and many a child, and adult, too, had put in hours on various nights; and if you visit it you will find almost as many forms of instruction going on as you will find pupils; for thousands of folks today know of topics which, with a bit of study, could turn out profitably. Now Branton Hills had, as you know, built this school for public instruction; and, as with all such institutions, visiting days occur. And _what_ a display of goods and workmanship! And what bright, happy pupils, standing proudly back of it! For mankind knows hardly a joy which will surpass that of approval of his work. Gadsby's party first took in a wood-working shop; finding small stands which fit so happily into many a living room nook; book racks for walls or floor; moth-proof bins, smoking stands, many with fancy uprights or inlaid tops; high chairs for tiny tots; arm chairs for old folks; cribs, tobacco humidors, stools, porch and lawn swings, ballbats, rolling pins, mixing boards; in fact about anything that a man can fashion from wood. As an indication of practical utility coming from such public instruction, a man told Gadsby:-- "I didn't know much about wood-working tools until I got into this class. This thing I am making would cost about thirty dollars to buy, but all it cost, so far, is two dollars and a half, for wood and glass," which Gadsby thought was worth knowing about; as so many of his Council had put forth so many complaints against starting such a school without charging for instruction. In an adjoining room His Honor's party found boys banging and pounding happily; and, if you should ask,--noisily,--on brasswork: making bowls, trays, lamp standards, photograph stands, book supports and similar artistic things. Across from that was a blacksmith shop, with its customary flying sparks and sizzling cooling-vats. But, by going upstairs, away from all this din, Gadsby, humming happily, found Sarah and Lucy, Nancy and Kathlyn amidst a roomful of girls doing dainty fancy-work. And what astonishing ability most of that group _did_ show! Nancy bought a baby-cap which was on a par with anything in Branton Hills' shops; and though Kathlyn said it was "just too cunning for anything", John Smith's bungalow didn't contain anybody (just now!) whom it would fit. But Lady Gadsby, with a party of Branton Hills matrons, was calling for Gadsby to hurry down a long corridor to a loom-room, saying that such dainty rugs, mats and scarfs of cotton and silk hung all around on walls or racks, it was truly astonishing that girls could do such first-class work, having had long hours of labor in Broadway's shops all day. Although most of our standard occupations found room for activity, an occasional oddity was run across. So His Honor's party found two boys and two girls working at that always fascinating art of glass-blowing. And what a dainty trick it is! And what an opportunity to burn a thumb or two, if you don't wait for things to cool! Things of charming form _and_ fragility, grow as by a magician's wand, from small glass tubings of various colors. Birds with glorious wings, ships of crystal sailing on dark billows, tiny buildings in a thick glass ball which upon agitation, stirs up a snowstorm which softly lands on pink roof-tops; many a fancy drinking glass and bowl, oil lamps, ash trays, and gaudy strings of tiny crystal balls for adorning party gowns. And did Nancy want to buy out this shop? And did Frank doubt his ability to do so? And did Kathlyn ask: "How about it, Johnny?" and did John Smith say: "Nothing doing"? It was just that. But it only shows that good old Branton Hills' inclination for aiding anything which looks worthy; and such a school I know you will admit, looks that way. Tramping upstairs, still again, Gadsby and party found a class so varying from all downstairs as to bring forth murmurs of joy, for this was known as "Music Floor"; upon which was taught all forms of that most charming of all arts--from solo work to community singing, from solitary violin pupil to a full brass band. On our party's arrival, Lucy, Doris and Virginia, hurrying from classrooms, sang, in trio, that soft, slow Italian song, "O Solo Mio;" and, as Gadsby proudly said, "Not for many a day had such _music_ rung out in Branton Hills;" for most girls, if in training with a practical vocalist, _can_ sing; and most charmingly, too. In a far room was a big string outfit of banjos, mandolins and guitars, happily strumming out a smart, throbbing Spanish fandango, until His Honor could not avoid a swinging of body and tapping of foot; causing Lady Gadsby to laugh, saying:-- "Rhythm has a mighty grip on Zulus, I am told." To which our swaying Mayor said:-- "Anyway, a Zulu has a lot of fun out of it. If singing, playing and dancing could only crowd out sitting around and moping, folks would find that a Zulu can hand us a tip or two on happy living." But all music is not of string form; so, in a big auditorium, our party found a full brass band of about fifty boys, with a man from Branton Hills' Municipal Band as instructor. Now as Gadsby was, as you boys say, "not at all bad" on a big bass horn in his youthful days, this band instructor, thinking of it, was asking him to "sit it" and play. So, as Lady Gadsby, two girls, and two sons-in-law sat smiling and giggling in a front row, and as fifty boys could hardly play, from laughing, that big horn got such a blasting that it was practically a horn solo! And Nancy, doubling up from giggling, said:-- "D-d-daddy! If-f-f-f B-b-b-barnum's circus hits town, you must join its cl-cl-clown band!" But I had to rush this happy party out of that building, as an awful thing was occurring but a block from it; which told its own story by a lurid light, flashing through windows; clanging gongs, shrilling horns and running, shouting crowds; for an old, long-vacant factory building just across from City Hall, was blazing furiously. Rushing along Broadway was that "motor thing," with Clancy and Dowd clinging wildly on a running board. Pulling up at a hydrant, Clancy said to His Honor:-- "As I was a-hangin' onto this dom thing, a-thinkin' it was going to bang into a big jam at two crossroads, I says, By Gorra! that big pair of blacks wouldn't bang into _nuthin'!_ But this currazy contraption! It ain't got no brain--no nuthin', no soul--nuthin' but halitosis!!" As Gadsby took a long look at Clancy's "dom thing," a vision was wafting through his mind of a calm, sunny patch of land, way out in Branton Hills' suburbs, on which day by day, two big blacks and two big roans could--anyway, taking all things into account, a big conflagration, with its din, rush and panic, is no spot for such animals as "Big Four." As for Old Bill's squawk about animals "ruining our paving," Gadsby thought that was but small talk, for paving, anyway, can't last for long. But, that _is_ a glorious spot, way out amongst our hills! Gadsby took his party to a room in City Hall from which that burning factory was in plain sight; and as Nancy and Kathlyn stood watching that awful sight a big wall, crashing down, had a crowd rushing to that spot. A man's form was brought out to a patrol wagon; and a boy, rushing past City Hall, sang out to Gadsby:-- "It's Old Man Donaldson!!" Tiny Nancy, almost swooning, said:-- "Donaldson? Oh, Kathy! That's Lucy's Dad, of Company Two, you know!" and Frank and John Smith shot wildly downstairs to find out about it. In an instant a sobbing girlish form was dashing madly from that Night School building towards our Municipal Hospital. It was Lucy; bright, always laughing Lucy; but half an hour ago singing so happily in that girls' trio. As that big factory was still blazing furiously, Frank and John, coming in, said:-- "It was only a scalp wound, and a sprung wrist. Lucy is coming upstairs, now." Lucy, coming in, badly blown from running and fright, said:-- "That wall caught Daddy; but it was so old and thin it didn't crush him. Oh! _How_ I worry if that alarm rings!" "But," put in Nancy, "it's _man's_ work. Pshaw!! What good am _I_? Why, I couldn't do a thing around that factory, right now! Look at my arm! About as big as a ball bat!" and as Frank took that sad, tiny form in his arms, Gadsby said:-- "All throughout Natural History, Nancy, you will find man built big and strong, and woman small and frail. That is so that man can obtain food for his family, and that woman may nourish his offspring. But today, I am sorry to say, you'll find girls working hard, in gymnasiums, fondly hoping to attain man's muscular parity. How silly!! It's going straight against all natural laws. Girls _can_ find a lot of bodily good in gymnasiums, I'll admit! but _not_ that much. And as for your 'ball-bat' arm, as you call it, what of it? You'd look grand, now wouldn't you, with Frank's big oak-branch arms hanging way down to your shins. But that ball-bat arm can curl around your tiny baby as softly as a down pillow. Aw, darling! _Don't_ say you can't do anything; for _I_ know you can. How about our old Organization of Youth days? You,----" And Nancy, now laughing, said, gaily:-- "Oho! Our old Organization! What fun it was! But, Daddy, I don't know of any young crowd following us up." "No. Our young folks of today think such things too much work;" and, as that old factory was but a mass of ruins now, and midnight was approaching, Gadsby's family was soon in that mythical Land of Nod, in which no horns blow, no sparks fall; only occasionally a soft gurgling from a crib in Nancy's bungalow. XIX It is an odd kink of humanity which cannot find any valuation in spots of natural glory. But such kinks do run riot in Man's mind, occasionally, and Branton Hills ran up against such, on a Council night; for a bill was brought up by Old Bill Simpkins for disposal of City Park to a land company, for building lots! At first word of such a thought, Gadsby was totally dumb, from an actual impossibility of thinking that any man, bringing up such a bill, wasn't plumb crazy! "_What!_ Our main Park; including our Zoo?" "Just that," said Simpkins. "Just a big patch of land, and a foolish batch of animals that do nobody any good. You can't hitch a lion up to a city dump cart, you know; nor a hippopotamus to a patrol wagon. What good is that bunch of hair and horns, anyway? And that park! _Bah!!_ Just grass, grass, grass! Branton Hills pays for planting that grass, pays for sprinkling it, pays for cutting it--and _throws it away!_ So I say, put it into building lots, and draw good, solid cash from it." An Italian Councilman, Tony Bandamita, was actually boiling during this outburst; and, in a flash, as Simpkins quit, was up, shouting:-- "I gotta four bambinos. My bambinos playa in thatta park: run, jumpa and rolla. Grow bigga an' strong. My woman say no coulda do thatta if playa all day on bricka walks. I say no buncha land sharks buya thatta Park!! How many you guys go to it, anyway? Huh? Notta many! But _go!!_ Walk around; sniffa its blossoms; look at grand busha; sit on softa grass! You do thatta, an' _I_ know you not stick no building on it!!" So, at Mayor Gadsby's instigation, Council did not ballot on Simpkins' bill; and said it would go, as Tony thought only right, and "look atta gooda busha." In a day or two this pompous body of solons was strolling about that big park. No man with half a mind could fail to thrill at its vistas of shrubs, ponds, lawns, arbors, fancy fowl, small pavilions and curving shady pathways. As Gadsby was "takinga his owna looka," Old Bill Simpkins, coming a-snorting and a-fussing along, sang out, gruffly:-- "All right; this is it! This is that grand patch of grass that pays Branton Hills no tax!" But Gadsby was thinking--and thinking hard, too. Finally saying:-- "Bill, supposing that any day you should walk along that big Pathway known in Sunday School as 'Our Straight But Narrow Way.' You would find coming towards you, all sorts of folks: a king, roaring past in his big chariot, a capitalist with his hands full of bonds, an old, old lady, on a crutch. Such passings would bring to you various thoughts. But, supposing it was a possibility that you saw _Bill Simpkins_ coming your way. Aha! What an opportunity to watch that grouchy old--" "That _what_?" "I'll say it again: that grouchy old crab. How you _would_ gawk at him, that most important of all folks, to you. How you would look at his clothing, his hat, his boots! That individual would pass an inquiry such as you had not thought it a possibility to put a man up against. Bill, I think that if you _should_ pass Councilman Simpkins on that Big Pathway, you would say: 'What a grouchy old crittur that was!'" Old Bill stood calmly during this oration, and, looking around that big park, said:-- "John, you know how to talk, all right, all right. I'll admit that things you say do do a lot of good around this town. But if I should run across this guy you talk about, on that vaporous highway, or 'boardwalk', as _I_ should call it,--I'd say, right out good and loud: Hi! You!! Hurry back to Branton Hills and put up a block of buildings in that silly park!" and Gadsby, walking away, saw that an inborn grouch is as hard to dig out as a wisdom tooth. Now this Council's visit on this particular day, was a sly plan of Gadsby's, for His Honor is, you know, Youth's Champion, and having known many an occasion on which Youth has won out against Council opposition. So, our big City officials, strolling around that park, soon saw a smooth lawn upon which sat, stood, or ran, almost a thousand small tots of from four to six. In dainty, flimsy outfits, many carrying fairy wands, it was a sight so charming as to thaw out a brass idol! Amidst this happy party stood a tall shaft, or mast, having hanging from its top a thick bunch of long ribbons, of pink, lilac, gray, and similar dainty colors; and around it stood thirty tots--thirty tiny fists all agog to grasp thirty gay ribbons. Old Bill took a look, and said, growlingly, to His Honor:-- "What's all this stuff, anyway?" "Bill, and Branton Hills' Council," said Gadsby, "today is May Day--that day so symbolic of budding blossoms, mating birds and sunny sky. You all know, or _ought_ to, of that charming custom of childhood of toddling round and round a tall mast in and out, in and out,--thus winding gay ribbons about it in a spiral. That is but a small part of what this Park can do for Branton Hills. But it is an important part; for happy childhood grows up into happy adults, and happy adults"--looking right at Councilman Simpkins--"_can_ form a happy City Council." Now a kid is always a kid; and a kid knows just how any sport should go. So, just by luck, a tot who was to hold a gay ribbon didn't show up; and that big ring stood waiting, for that round-and-round march _just couldn't_ start with a ribbon hanging down! But a kid's mind is mighty quick and sharp; and a small tot of four had that kind of mind, saying:-- "Oh! That last ribbon! Isn't anybody going to hold it?" Now historians shouldn't laugh. Historians should only put down what occurs. But I, _your_ historian of Branton Hills, not only had to laugh, but to _roar_; for this tot, worrying about that hanging ribbon, saw our big pompous Council group looking on. Now a Council is nothing to a tot of four; just a man or two, standing around. So, trotting up and grasping Old Bill's hand, this tot said: "_You'll_ hold it, won't you?" "_What!!_" and Simpkins was all colors on throat and brow as Branton Hills' Council stood, grinning. But that baby chin was straining up, and a pair of baby arms was pulling, oh, _so_ hard; and, in a sort of coma, big, pompous, grouchy Councilman Simpkins took that hanging ribbon! A band struck up a quick march, and round and round trod that happy, singing ring, with Old Bill looming up as big as a mountain amongst its foothills! Laugh? I thought His Honor would _burst!_ As that ribbon spiral got wound, Simpkins, coming back, said, with a growl:-- "I was afraid I would tramp on a kid or two in that silly stunt." "It wasn't silly, Bill," said Gadsby. "It was _grand!_" And Tony Bandamita sang out:-- "Gooda work, Councilmanna! My four bambinos walka right in fronta you, and twista ribbons!" Simpkins, though, would only snort, and pass on. XX On a warm Sunday, Kathlyn and Julius, poking around in Branton Hills' suburbs, occasionally found an odd formation of fossilization, installing it amidst our Hall of Natural History's displays. Shortly following such an installation, a famous savant on volcanic activity noting a most propitious rock formation amongst Julius' groups, thought of cutting into it; for ordinary, most prosaic rocks _may_ contain surprising information; and, upon arriving at Branton Hills' railway station, ran across old Pat Ryan, czar of its trunk room. "Ah, my man! I want to find a lapidary." "A what?" "It isn't a 'what,' it's a lapidary." "Lapidary, is it? Lapidary, lapidary, lapi--lapi--la--. No, I----" Now this savant was in a hurry, and said, snappily:-- "But a city as big as Branton Hills _has_ a lapidary, I trust!" "Oh, Branton Hills has a lot of things. But, wait a bit! It ain't a lavatory what you want, is it?" But at this instant, to old Pat's salvation, Kathlyn, passing by, said:-- "All right, Pat. I know about this;" and, both taking a taxi, old Pat walking round and round, scratching his bald crown, was murmuring: "Lapid----Aho! I got it! It's probably a crittur up at that zoo! I ain't forgot that hop, skip and jump, walloping Australian tornado! And now His Honor has put in a lapidary!! I think I'll go up with that old canvas bag! But why all sich high-brow stuff in naming critturs? This lapidary thing might turn out only a rat, or a goofy bug!" But that _fairy_ bug, Dan Cupid, goofy or not, as you wish, was buzzing around again; and, though this story is not of wild, romantic infatuations, in which rival villains fight for a fair lady's hand, I am bound to say that Cupid has put on an act varying _much_ from his works in Gadsby's mansion; for _this_ arrow from his bow caught two young folks to whom a dollar bill was as long, broad and high as City Hall. Both had to work for a living; but by saving a bit, off and on, Sarah Young, who, you know, with Priscilla Standish first thought of our Night School, and Paul Johnson, who did odd jobs around town, such as caring for lawns, painting and "man-of-all-work," had put by a small bank account. Paul was an orphan, as was Sarah, who had grown up with a kindly old man, Tom Young; his "old woman," dying at about Sarah's fourth birthday. (That word "old woman," is common amongst Irish folks, and is not at all ungracious. It _had_ to crawl into this story, through orthographical taboos, you know.) But Sarah, now a grown young lady, had that natural longing for a spot in which a woman might find that joy of living, in having "things to do for just us two" if bound by Cupid's gift--matrimony. Many a day in passing that big church of Nancy's grand display, or Gadsby's rich mansion, Sarah had thought fondly about such things; for, as with any girl, marrying amidst blossoms, glamour and organ music was a goal, to attain which was actual bliss. But such rituals call for cash; and lots of it, too. Also, Old Tom Young had no room in any way fit for such an occasion. So Sarah would walk past, possibly a bit sad, but looking forward to a coming happy day. And it wasn't so far off. My, no! As Nancy had thought April was "a million months long," Sarah's days swung past in a dizzy whirl; during which, in company with Paul on Saturday nights, a small thing or two was happily bought for that "Cupid's Coop," as both found a lot of fun in calling it. But Sarah naturally had girl chums, just as Nancy and Kathlyn had; for most of that old Organization was still in town; and many a gift found its way to this girl who, though poor in worldly goods, was as rich as old King Midas in a bright, happy disposition; for anybody who didn't know that magic captivation of Sarah Young's laugh, that rich crown of light, fluffy hair, or that grand, proud, upright walk, wasn't amongst Branton Hills' population. Paul, scratching around shady paths, a potato patch or two, front yards, back yards, and city parks, was known to many an old family man; who upon knowing of his coming variation in living conditions, thought way, way back to his own romantic youth; so Paul, going to Sarah at night, brought small but practical gifts for that "coop." As Sarah and Paul stood in front of City Hall on a hot July night, Sarah scanning Branton Hills' "Post" for "vacant rooms," who should walk up but His Honor! And that kindly hand shot out with:-- "Aha! If it isn't Paul and Sarah! What's Sarah hunting for, Paul?" "Sarah is looking for a room for us, sir." "_Us_? Did you say 'us'? Oho! H-mmm! I'm on! How soon will you want it?" "Oh," said Sarah, blushing, "not for about a month." "But," said His Honor, "you shouldn't start out in _a_ room. You would want from four to six I should think." Sarah, still ogling that "rooms" column said, softly:-- "Four to six rooms? That's just grand if you can afford such. But,----" "Wait!" said Gadsby, who, taking Paul's and Sarah's arms, and strolling along, told of a small six-room bungalow of his, just around from Nancy's. "And you two will pay just nothing a month for it. It's yours, from front porch to roof top, as a gift to two of my most loyal pals." And instantly a copy of Branton Hills' "Post" was blowing across Broadway in a fluky July wind! Now, as this young pair was to start out frugally, it wouldn't do to lay out too much for, as Sarah said, "about forty words by a pastor, and a kiss." So only Priscilla stood up with Sarah; and Bill Gadsby, in all his sartorial glory, with Paul, in Parson Brown's small study; both girls in dainty morning clothing; Sarah carrying a bunch of gay nasturtiums, claiming that such warm, bright colorings would add as much charm to that short occasion as a thousand dollars' worth of orchids. Now, such girls as Sarah, with that capacity for finding satisfaction so simply, don't grow as abundantly as hollyhocks--and Paul found that Gadsby's old Organization was a group knowing what a dollar is: just a dollar. XXI Occasionally a sight bobs up without warning in a city, which starts a train of thought, sad or gay, according to how you look at it. And so, Lucy, Priscilla, and Virginia Adams, walking along Broadway, saw a crowd around a lamp post, upon which was a patrol-box; and, though our girls don't customarily follow up such sights, Lucy saw a man's form sprawling flat up against that post, as limp as a rag. Priscilla said, in disgust:-- "_Ugh!!_ It's Norman Antor! Drunk again!!" and Virginia, hastily grasping both girls' arms and hurrying past, said:-- "So!! His vacation in jail didn't do him any good! But, still, it's too bad. Norman is a good looking, manly lad, with a good mind and a thorough schooling. And _now_ look at him! A _common drunk!!_" Priscilla was sad, too, saying:-- "Awful! Awful for so young a chap. What is his Dad doing now?" "Still in jail," was all Virginia could say; adding sadly: "I do pity poor young Mary, who sold Antor's liquor, you know. Doris says that lots of school-girls snub that kid. Now that's not right. It's downright _horrid!_ Mary was brought up in what you almost might call a pool of liquor, and I don't call it fair to snub a child for that; for you know that, not only 'Past' Councilman Antor, but also _Madam_ Antor, got what our boys call 'lit-up' on many public occasions. Antor's pantry was _full_ of it! Which way could that poor kid look without finding it? You know Mary is not so old as most of us; and I'm just going to _go_ to that child and try to bring a ray of comfort into that young mind. That rum-guzzling Antor family!! _Ugh!!_" * * * * * But a city also has amusing sights; and our trio ran plump into that kind, just around a turn; for, standing on a soap box, shouting a high-sounding jargon of rapidly shot words, was Arthur Rankin, an original Organization lad; a crowd of boys, a man or two, and a woman hanging laughingly around. Our trio's first inkling as to what it was all about was Arthur's hail to Priscilla:-- "Aha! Branton Hills' fair womanhood is now approaching!!" Now if our trio didn't know Arthur so thoroughly, such girls might balk at this publicity. But Priscilla and Arthur had had many a "slapping match" long ago, arising from childhood's spats; Priscilla originally living on an adjoining lot, and was Arthur's "first girl;" which according to his old Aunt Anna, "was just silly puppy stuff!" So nobody thought anything of this public hail and Arthur was raving on about "which puts an instant stop to all pain; will rid you of anything from dandruff to ingrowing nails; will build up a strong body from a puny runt; will grow hair on a billiard-ball scalp, and _taboo_ it on a lady's chin; will put a glamorous gloss on tooth or nail; stop stomach growls; oil up kinky joints, and bring you to happy, smiling days of Utopian bliss! How many, Priscilla? Only a dollar a box; two for dollar-sixty!" Priscilla, laughing, said:-- "Not any today, thank you, Art! All I want is a pair of juicy lamb chops--a dish of onions--a dish of squash--a dish of carrots--a pint of milk--potato-chips--hot biscuits--cold slaw--custard pudding--nuts--raisins----" "_Whoa_, Priscilla! Hop right up on this box! I know that word-slinging ability of old" and as that crowd was fading away, Priscilla said:-- "This is odd work for you, Arthur; _you_ so good a draughtsman. What's up?" And Arthur, a happy, rollicking boy, having always had all such things as most boys had, with a Dad making good pay as a railroad conductor, told sadly of an awful railway smash-up which took "Dad" away from four small Rankin orphans, whom Arthur was now supporting; and a scarcity of jobs in Branton Hills and of trips to surrounding towns, always finding that old sign out: "No Work Today." Of this soap box opportunity bobbing up, which was now bringing in good cash. So our girls found that our Branton Hills boys didn't shirk work of any kind, if brought right up against want. XXII But what about Branton Hills' municipal affairs, right now? In two months it was to ballot on who should sit in past-Councilman Antor's chair; and a campaign was on which was actually sizzling. And in what a contrast to our city's start! For it has grown rapidly; and, in comparison to that day upon which a thousand ballots was a big out-pouring of popular clamor now many politicians had City Hall aspirations. And _who_ do you think was running for Council, now? William Gadsby! Popularly known as Bill! Bill, Branton Hills' famous dandy; Bill, that consummation of all Branton Hills girls' most romantic wish; Bill, that "outdoor part" of Branton Hills' most aristocratic tailor shop! Naturally, opposing groups fought for that vacancy; part of our population clamoring loudly for Bill, but with many just as strongly against him. So it was:-- "Put Bill Gadsby in!! Bill has all our Mayor's good points! Bill will work for all that is upright and good!" And also:-- "_What!_ Bill Gadsby? Is this town plumb crazy? Say! If you put that fop in City Hall you'll find all its railings flapping with pink satin ribbons; a janitor at its main door, squirting vanilla on all who go in; and its front lawn will turn into a pansy farm! Put a _man_ in City Hall, not a sissy who thinks out 'upsy-downsy, insy-outsy' camping suits for girls!" But though this didn't annoy Bill, it _did_ stir up Nancy, with:-- "Oh! That's just an abomination! _Such_ talk about so grand a young chap! But I just saw a billboard with a sign saying: 'Bill Gadsby for Council;' so, probably I shouldn't worry, for Bill is as good as in." "Baby," said Gadsby, kindly, "that's only a billboard, and billboards don't put a man in City Hall. It's _ballots_, darling; _thousands_ of ballots, that fill Council chairs." "But, Daddy, I'm going to root for Bill. I'll stand up on a stump, or in a tip-cart, or----" "Whoa! Wait a bit!" and Gadsby sat down by his "baby girl," saying: "You can't go on a stumping campaign without knowing a lot about municipal affairs; which you don't. Any antagonist who knows about such things would out-talk you without half trying. No, darling, this political stuff is too big for you. You just look out for things in that small bungalow of yours, and allow Branton Hills to fight to put Bill in. You know my old slogan:--'Man at a city's front; woman at a cabin door.'" And Nancy, fondly stroking his hand, said: "Man at a city's front! What a grand post for a man! A city, a big, rushing, dashing, slamming, banging, boiling mass of humanity! A city; with its bright, happy, sunny parks; and its sad, dark slums; its rich mansions and its shanty-town shacks; its shops, inns, shows, courts, airports, railway stations, hospitals, schools, church groups, social clubs, and,--and,--_Oh!_ _What_ a magic visualization of human thought it is! But it is as a small child. It looks for a strong arm to support its first toddlings; for adult minds to pilot it around many pitfalls; and onward, _onward!!_ To a shining goal!!" and Nancy's crown of rich brown hair sank lovingly in Gadsby's lap. During this outburst Gadsby had sat dumb; but finally saying, proudly:-- "So, ho! My baby girl has grown up! Dolls and sand-digging tools don't call, as of old. And small, dirty paws, and a tiny smudgy chin, transform, almost in a twinkling into charming hands and a chin of maturity. My, my! It was but a month or two ago that you, in pig-tails and gingham----" "No, Daddy! It was a _mighty long_ month or two ago; and it's not pig-tails and gingham, now, but a husband and a baby." "All right, kid; but as you grow old, you'll find that, in glancing backwards, months look mighty short; and small tots grow up, almost in a night. A month _from now_ looks awfully far off; but _last month_? Pff! That was only last night!" Thus did Nancy and His Honor talk, until a vigorous honking at his curb told of Frank, "looking for a cook," for it was six o'clock. XXIII Any man with so kindly a disposition toward Youth as has brought our Mayor forward in Branton Hills' history, may, without warning, run across an occasion which holds an opportunity for adding a bit of joy in living. So, as Gadsby stood, on a chilly fall day, in front of that big glass building which was built for a city florist, admiring a charming display of blossoming plants, a small girl, still in Grammar School, said, shyly:-- "Hulloa." "Hulloa, you. School out?" "On Saturdays, school is always out." "That's so; it _is_ Saturday, isn't it? Going in?" "_In!!_ My, no! _I_ can't go into that fairyland!" "No? Why not, pray?" "Aw! I dunno; but nobody has took kids in." "Took? Took? Say, young lady, you must study your grammar book. Branton Hills schools don't----" "Uh-huh; I know. But a kid just can't--" "By golly! A kid _can!_ Grab my hand." Now, many a fairy book has told, in glowing words, of childhood's joys and thrills at amazing sights; but _no_ fairy book _could_ show, in cold print, what Gadsby ran up against as that big door shut, and a child stood stock still--and _dumb!_ Two small arms hung limply down, against a poor, oh, _so_ poor skirt; and two big staring brown orbs took in that vision of floral glory, which is found in just that kind of a big glass building on a cold, raw autumn day. Gadsby said not a word; slowly strolling down a path amidst thousands of gladioli; around a turn, and up a path, along which stood pots and pots of fuchsias, salvias and cannas; and to a cross-path, down which was a big flat pansy patch, tubs of blossoming lilacs, and stiff, straight carnations. Not a word from Gadsby, for his mind was on that small bunch of rapturous joy just in front of him. But, finally, just to pry a bit into that baby mind, His Honor said:-- "Looks kind of good, don't it?" A tiny form shrunk down about an inch; and an also tiny bosom, rising and falling in a thralldom of bliss, finally put forth a long, long,-- "_O-h-h-h-h!!_" It was so long that Gadsby was in a quandary as to how such small lungs could hold it. Now in watching this tot thrilling at its first visit to such a world of floral glory, Gadsby got what boys call "a hunch;" and said:-- "You don't find blossoms in your yard this month, _do_ you?" If you know childhood you know that thrills don't last long without a call for information. And Gadsby got such a call, with:-- "No, sir. Is this God's parlor?" Now Gadsby wouldn't, for anything, spoil a childish thought; so said, kindly:-- "It's part of it. God's parlor is awfully big, you know." "_My_ parlor is awfully _small_; and not any bloss---- Oh! Wouldn't God----?" Gadsby's hunch was now working, full tilt; and so, as this loving family man, having had four kids of his own, and this tot from a poor family with its "awfully small" parlor,--had trod this big glass building's paths again and again; round and round, an almost monstrous sigh from an almost bursting tiny bosom, said:-- "I'll think of God's parlor, always and always and _always!!_" and Gadsby, on glancing upwards, saw a distinct drooping and curving of many stalks; which is a plant's way of bowing to a child. And, at Branton Hills' following Council night a motion was---- But I said Gadsby had a hunch. So, not only _this_ schoolgirl's awfully small parlor, but many such throughout Branton Hills' poor districts, soon found a "big girl" from Gadsby's original Organization of Youth at its front door with plants from that big glass building, in which our City Florist works in God's parlor. (P.S. _Go_ with a child to _your_ City Florist's big glass building. It's a _duty!_) XXIV I am now going back to my saying that a city has all kinds of goings-on; both sad and gay. So, as His Honor sat on his porch on a warm spring day, a paragraph in Branton Hills' "Post" brought forth such a vigorous "_Huh!_" that Lady Gadsby was curious, asking:-- "What is it?" So Gadsby said:--"What do you think of _this_? It says:--'In a wild swaying dash down Broadway last night at midnight, past-Councilman Antor's car hit a hydrant, killing him and Madam Antor instantly. Highway Patrolman Harry Grant, who was chasing that car in from our suburbs, says both horribly drunk, Antor grazing four cars, Madam shouting and singing wildly, with Grant arriving too tardily to ward off that final crash.'" Now Lady Gadsby was, first of all, a woman; and so got up quickly, saying:-- "Oh!! I must go down to poor young Mary, _right off!_" and Gadsby sat tapping his foot, saying:-- "So Antor's pantry probably still holds that stuff. Too bad. But, oh, that darling Mary! Just got into High School! Not long ago Lucy told us of girls snubbing that kid; but I trust that, from this horror, our Branton Hills girls will turn from snubbing to pity. This account says that Madam Antor also was drunk. A _woman_ drunk!! And riding with a rum-sot man at a car's controls! _Woman!_ From History's dawn, Man's soft, fond, loving pal! _Woman!_ For whom wars of blood and agony cut Man down as you would mow a lawn! _Woman!_ To whom infancy and childhood look for all that is upright and good! It's too bad; too bad!" As in all such affairs you will always find two factions talking. Talking about what? Just now, about _Norman_ Antor. What would this wiping out of his folks do to him? Norman was now living with Mary and two aunts who, coming from out of town, would try to plan for our two orphans; try to plan for Norman; Norman, brought up in a pool of liquor! Norman: tall, dark and manly and with a most ingratiating disposition----if not drunk. But nobody could say. A group would claim that "this fatality will bring him out of it;" but his antagonists thought that "That guy will always drink." A day or two from that crash, Nancy, coming into Gadsby's parlor, found Lucy talking with Lady Gadsby, Lucy asking:-- "Nancy, who is with young Mary Antor now? That pair of aunts wouldn't stay, with all that liquor around." "I just found out," said Nancy. "Mary is living with Old Lady Flanagan" and Lucy, though sad, had to laugh just a bit, saying:-- "Ha, ha! Old Lady Flanagan! What a _circus_ I had trying to pry a zoo donation from that poor soul's skimpy funds! But, Nancy, Mary is in mighty good hands. That loving old Irish lady is a trump!" XXV Along in April, Gadsby sat finishing his morning toast as a boy, rushing in, put a "Post" on his lap with a wild, boyish gasp of:--"_My gosh_, Mayor Gadsby, _Look!!_" and Gadsby saw a word about a foot high. It was W--A--R. Lady Gadsby saw it also, slowly sinking into a chair. At that instant both Nancy and Kathlyn burst frantically in, Nancy lugging Baby Lillian, now almost two, and a big load for so small a woman, Nancy gasping out:-- "Daddy!! Must Bill and Julius and Frank and John,----" Gadsby put down his "Post" and, pulling Nancy down onto his lap, said:-- "Nancy darling, Bill and Julius and Frank and John must. Old Glory is calling, baby, and no Branton Hills boy will balk at _that_ call. It's awful, but it's a fact, now." Lady Gadsby said nothing, but Nancy and Kathlyn saw an ashy pallor on that matronly brow; and Gadsby going out without waiting for his customary kiss. For what you might call an instant, Branton Hills, in blank, black gloom, stood stock still. But not for long. Days got to flashing past, with that awful sight of girls, out to lunch, saying:-- "Four from our shop; and that big cotton mill has _forty-six_ who will go." With Virginia saying:-- "About all that our boys talk about is uniforms, pay, transportation, army corps, divisions, naval squadrons, and so on." An occasional Branton Hills politician thought that it "might blow out in a month or two;" but your Historian knows that it didn't; all of that "blowing" consisting of blasts from that military clarion, calling for mobilization. * * * * * Days! Days! Days! Finally, on May Fourth, that day of tiny Nancy's big church ritual, you know; that day, upon which any woman would look back with romantic joy, Nancy, with Kathlyn, Lady Gadsby and His Honor, stood at Branton Hills' big railway station, at which our Municipal Band was drawn up; in back of which stood, in solid ranks, this city's grand young manhood, Bill, Julius, Frank, John, Paul and Norman standing just as straight and rigid as any. As that long, long troop train got its signal to start,--but you know all about such sights, going on daily, from our Pacific coast to Atlantic docks. As it shot around a turn, and Gadsby was walking sadly toward City Hall, a Grammar School boy hurrying up to him said:-- "_Wow!!_ I wish _I_ could go to war!" "Hi!" said Gadsby. "If it isn't Kid Banks!" "Aw! Cut that kid stuff! I'm _Allan_ Banks! Son of _Councilman_ Banks!" "Oh, pardon. But you don't want to go to war, boy." "_Aw! I do too!!_" "But young boys _can't_ go to war." "I know that; and I wish this will last until I grow so I _can_ go. It's just grand! A big cannon says _Boom! Boom!_ and,--" "Sit down on this wall, boy. I want to talk to you." "All right. Shoot!" "Now look, Allan. If this war should last until you grow up, just think of how many _thousands_ of troops it would kill. How many grand, good lads it would put right out of this world." "Gosh! That's so, ain't it! I didn't think of guys dyin'." "But a man _has_ to think of that, Allan. And _you_ will, as you grow up. My two big sons just put off on that big troop train. I don't know _how_ long Bill and Julius will stay away. Your big cannon might go _Boom!_ and hit Bill or Julius. Do you know Frank Morgan, Paul Johnson and John Smith? All right; that big cannon might hit that trio, too. Nobody can say _who_ a cannon will hit, Allan. Now, you go right on through Grammar School, and grow up into a big strong man, and don't think about war;" and Gadsby, standing and gazing far off to Branton Hills' charming hill district, thought: "I think _that_ will bust up a wild young ambition!" But that kid, turning back, sang out:-- "Say!! If this scrap stops, and a _big_ war starts,--_Aha_, boy! You just watch Allan Banks! Son of Councilman Banks!!" and a small fist was pounding viciously on an also small bosom. "By golly!" said Gadsby, walking away, "that's Tomorrow talking!" * * * * * So now this history will drift along; along through days and months; days and months of that awful gnawing doubt; actually a paradox, for it was a "conscious coma;" mornings on which Branton Hills' icy blood shrank from looking at our city's "Post," for its casualty list was rapidly--too rapidly,--growing. Days and days of our girlhood and womanhood rolling thousands of long, narrow cotton strips; packing loving gifts from many a pantry; Nancy and Kathlyn thinking constantly of Frank and John; Lucy almost down and out from worrying about Paul; Kathlyn knowing just how Julius is missing his Hall of Natural History, and how its staff is praying for him; Nancy's radio shut down _tight_, for so much as a thought of Station KBH was as a thrust of a sword. Days. Days. Days of shouting orators, blaring bands, troops from far away pausing at our big railway station, as girls, going through long trains of cars, took doughnuts and hot drinks. In Gadsby's parlor window hung that famous "World War flag" of nothing but stars; nobody knowing at what instant a _gold_ star would show upon it. A star for Bill; a star for Julius. Ah, Bill! Branton Hills' fop! Bill Gadsby now in an ill-fitting and un-stylish khaki uniform. Gadby's mansion had no brilliant night lights, now; just his parlor lamp and a small light or two in hallways or on stairways. Only our Mayor and his Lady, now worrying, worrying, worrying; but both of good, staunch old Colonial stock; and "carrying on" with good old Plymouth Rock stability; and Nancy's baby, Lillian, too young to ask why Grandma "wasn't hungry," now; and didn't laugh so much. Kathlyn got into our big hospital, this studious young lady's famous biological and microscopic ability holding out an opportunity for most practical work; for Branton Hills' shot-torn boys would soon start drifting in. And thus it was; with Lucy, Sarah and Virginia inspiring Branton Hills' womanhood to knit, knit, knit! You saw knitting on many a porch; knitting in railway trains; knitting during band music in City Park; knitting in shady arbors out at our big zoo; at many a woman's club,--and,--_actually_, knitting _in church!!_ Finally a big factory, down by our railway station, put out a call for "anybody, man or woman, who wants to work on munitions;" and many a dainty Branton Hills girl sat at big, unfamiliar stamping, punching, grinding, or polishing outfits; tiring frail young backs and straining soft young hands; knowing that this factory's output might,--and probably would,--rob a woman across that big Atlantic of a husband or son,--but, still, it is war! Gadsby, smoking on his ivy-clad porch, as his Lady was industriously knitting, said, in a sort of soliloquy:-- "War! That awful condition which a famous military man in command of a division, long ago, said was synonymous with Satan and all his cohorts! War! That awful condition of human minds coming down from way, _way_ back of all history; that vast void during which sympathy was not known; during which animals fought with tooth, claw or horn; that vast void during which wounds had no soothing balm, until thirst, agony or a final swoon laid low a gigantic mammoth, or a tiny, gasping fawn! But now, again, in this grand day of Man's magically growing brain, this day of kindly crooning to infants in cribs; kindly talks to boys and girls in school; and blood-tingling orations from thousands of pulpits upon that Holy Command: 'Thou Shalt Not Kill,' now, _again_, Man is out to kill his own kind." And Lady Gadsby could only sigh. XXVI As this story has shown, _Youth_, if adults will only admit that it has any brains at all, will stand out, today, in a most promising light. Philosophically, Youth is Wisdom in formation, and with many thoughts startling to adult minds; and, industrially, this vast World's coming stability is now, _today_, in its hands; growing slowly, as a blossom grows from its bud. If you will furnish him with a thorough schooling, you can plank down your dollar that Youth, _starting out_ from this miraculous day, will not lag nor shirk on that coming day in which old joints, rusty and crackling, must slow down; and, calling for an oil can, you will find that Youth _only_, is that lubrication which can run Tomorrow's World. But Youth must not go thinking that all its plans will turn out all right; and young Marian Hopkins found this out. Marian, you know, took part in our airport initiation. But Marian, only a kid at that day, has grown up--or half-way up, anyway, and just graduating from Grammar School; upon which big day a child "knows" as much as any famous savant of antiquity! But, as this story runs in skips and jumps, strict chronological continuity is not a possibility. So, Marian is now half grown-up. Now that big airport, as you also know, was just back of Marian's back yard; and as that yard was much too big for anything that Marian's Dad could do with it, it was put up for disposal. But nobody would go to look at it; to say nothing of buying it. But Old Bill Simpkins, past antagonist of Gadsby's Organization of Youth, did go out to look at it; but said, with his customary growl:-- "Too many aircraft always roaring and zooming. Too far out of town. And you ask too much for it, anyway." But Marian thought that Branton Hills, as a municipality, should own it; figuring that that airport would grow, and that yard was practically a part of it, anyway. So Marian, going to His Honor, as about anybody in town did, without an instant's dallying, "told him," (!) what his Council should do. "But," said Gadsby, "what a City Council should do, and what it _will_ do, don't always match up." "Can't I go and talk to it?" "_What!_ To our Council? No; that is, not as a body. But if you can run across a Councilman out of City Hall you can say what you wish. A Councilman is just an ordinary man, you know." But a Councilman out of City Hall was a hard man to find; and a child couldn't go to a man's mansion to "talk him around." But, by grand luck in a month or so, Marian did find, and _win_, all but Simpkins. On Council night, Simpkins took up a good,--or I should say, bad--half hour against Branton Hills "buying any old dump or scrap land that is put up. What was this city coming to?" and so on, and so on. And Marian's back yard wasn't bought. Now Youth is all right if you rub its fur in a way which suits it; but, man!! hold on to your hat, if you don't!! And Marian's fur was all lumpy. _Boy! was that kid MAD!!_ Now, just by luck, March thirty-first, coming along as days do, you know, found Marian in front of a toy shop window, in which, way down front, was a box of cigars, with a card saying: "This Brand Will Start His Blood Tingling." And Marian, as boys say, was "on" in an instant; and bought a cigar. Not a box, not a bunch, but just _a_ cigar. Coming out Marian saw His Honor and Simpkins passing; Simpkins saying:-- "All right. I'll drop around, tonight." And was Marian happy? Wait a bit. That night as Gadsby and Simpkins sat talking in His Honor's parlor, who would, "just by luck," (??) walk in, but Marian; saying, oh, _so_ shyly:-- "Just thought I'd drop in to chat with Nancy," and, on passing a couch, slyly laid that cigar on it. Now Simpkins, in addition to his famous grouch, was a parsimonious old crab; who, though drawing good pay as Councilman, couldn't pass up anything that cost nothing; and, in gazing around, saw that cigar; and, with a big apologizing yawn, and slinking onto that couch as a cat slinks up on a bird, and, oh, _so_ nonchalantly lighting a match, was soon puffing away and raving about Branton Hills politics. Out in a back parlor sat Marian and Nancy on a big divan, hugging tightly up, arm in arm, and almost suffocating from holding back youthful anticipations, as Simpkins said:-- "... and that Hopkins back yard stunt! Ridiculous! Why, his kid was out, trying to find all of our Council to talk it into buying. Bah! And _did_ I block it? I'll say I did! You don't find kids today laughing at Councilman Simpkins." An actual _spasm_ of giggling in that back parlor had Gadsby looking around, inquiringly. "No, sir!" Simpkins said. "No kid can fool Coun----" _BANG!!_ Gadsby, jumping up saw only a frazzly cigar stump in Old Bill's mouth, as that palpitating individual was vigorously brushing off falling sparks as His Honor's rugs got a rain of tobacco scraps! Gadsby was "on" in an instant, noticing Marian and Nancy rolling and tumbling around on that big divan, and doubling up in a giggling fit, _way_ out of control. Finally Simpkins angrily got up, viciously jamming on his tall silk hat; and Marian, fighting that giggling fit, just _had_ to call out:-- "_April Fool_, Councilman Simpkins!!" (And Mayor Gadsby, on a following Council night, got Marian's land bill through; many a Councilman holding his hand in front of his grinning mouth, in voting for bright, vitalic Youth.) XXVII Widow Adams was sitting up again, for it was way past midnight, and Virginia was out. Many months ago Virginia was also out, and was brought back, unconscious. So now Nina was again sitting up, for Virginia was not a night-owl sort of a girl. Finally, around two o'clock, Nina couldn't stand it, and had to call in a passing patrolman. Now this patrolman was an original Organization of Youth boy, and had always known Nina and Virginia; and said:-- "Oh, now! I wouldn't worry so. Possibly a bus had a blowout; or--" "But Virginia said nothing _about_ going on a bus! Oh!! _How_ could that child vanish so?" Naturally, all that that patrolman could do was to call his station; and Nina, almost all in, lay down, until, just about dawn a jangling ringing brought this half wild woman to a front hall, shouting:-- "This is Nina Adams talking! Who? _What?_ Virginia, is that you? What's wrong? What! You and Harold Thompson? Our aviator? You did what? Took his aircraft to _what_ city? Why, that's so far you can't----" but Virginia had hung up. So Nina also hung up, and sat down with a big, long sigh:-- "My Virginia, not _running_ away, but _flying_ away, to marry! Oh, this Youth of today!" * * * * * Around six o'clock that night, Virginia and Harold stood arm in arm in Nina's parlor, as a big bus was groaning noisily away. "But, Mama," said Virginia, sobbing pitifully, "I didn't think you would----" "That's just it, Virginia, you _didn't_ think!! But you _should!_ How could I know what was going on? That's just you young folks of today. You think of nothing but your own silly, foolish doings, and you allow us old _good-for-nothings_ to go crazy with worry!!" and Nina sank in a gasping swoon onto a sofa. But old Doc Wilkins, arriving at Virginia's frantic call, knowing Nina's iron constitution from childhood, soon had that limp form back to normal; and, with a dark, disapproving scowl at Virginia, said:-- "Bring in a good batch of hot food, and your Ma will turn out all right," and going out, with a snort of disgust, and banging viciously that big front door! XXVIII Awful tidings in our Branton Hills' "Post," had so wrought up our ordinarily happy, laughing Sarah, who, with Paul abroad, was back, living again with old Tom Young, that Sarah, sitting on a low stool by old Tom's rocking chair was so still that Tom put down his "Post," saying:-- "Gift of gab all run out, kid?" But Sarah had an odd, thoughtful look. Sarah's bosom was rising and falling abnormally; but, finally, looking quickly up at old Tom, Sarah said:-- "Daddy, I want to go to war." "_Do what?_" If Sarah had said anything about jumping out of a balloon, or of buying a gorilla to play with, Tom Young wouldn't know any such astounding doubt as brought his rocking chair to a quick standstill. "_War?_ What kind of talk is this? A girl going to war? What for? How? _Say!!_ Who _put_ this crazy stunt into your brain, anyway?" As you know, Sarah was not only charming in ways, but also in build; and, with that glorious crown of brownish-gold hair, that always smiling mouth and that soft, plump girlishly-girlish form, no man, Tom Young nor anybody, could think of Sarah and war in a solitary thought. So Sarah said, softly:-- "Last night, our Night School trio thought that our boys, so far away, must miss us, and Branton Hills sights; and Doris said, 'Branton Hills sounds.' And so, why couldn't our trio join that big group of musicians which is sailing soon? And, Daddy, you know Paul is in that army. I don't know that I could find him, but--but--but I want to try. And Kathlyn is talking of going as biologist with a big hospital unit; so possibly I could stay with it." Tom Young was _dumb!_ His "Post" actually _had_ told of such a musical outfit about to sail; but it was a man's organization. So, now it has got around to _this!_ Our girls, our dainty, loving girls, brimful of both sympathy and patriotism, wanting to go into that tough, laborious work of singing in army camps; in huts; in hospitals; singing from trucks rolling along country roads along which sat platoons and battalions of troops, waiting for word which might bring to this or that boy his last long gun-toting tramp. Singing in-- "Aw, darling! Your trio was fooling, wasn't it? Now, girls don't----" "Daddy, girls _do!_ So, if our folks don't put up too much of a--" "_Aha!!_ _Now_ you said a mouthful; _if_ your folks _don't!_ Darling, I'll say just two words as my part in this crazy stunt: '_Nothing doing!!_' Kathlyn's work is mighty important; singing isn't." Sarah had not grown up from infancy in kindly Tom's cabin without knowing that his "no" was a "_no!!_" and not a flimsy, hollow word which a whining, or a sniffling, or a bawling child could switch around into: "Oh, all right, if you want to." So Sarah still sat on that low stool; or, to turn it around almost backwards,--Sarah sat on that stool,--still. _So_ still that Tom's old tin clock on its wall hooks was soon dominating that small room with its rhythmic ticking, as a conductor's baton controls a brass band's pianissimos. Finally Sarah said softly, slowly, sadly and with a big, big sigh:-- "I _did_ so want to go." And that small clock was ticking, ticking, ticking ... For a full hour Sarah and old Tom sat talking and rocking, until Sarah, phoning to Doris, said:-- "My Dad says no." And Doris, phoning back to Sarah, said:-- "So did my Dad." And, as Virginia Adams was that trio's third part; and as Sarah and Doris had always known Nina Adams' strong will; and as,--Oh, hum! It was a happy fascination until adult minds got hold of it! XXIX Gadsby was walking back from a visit down in Branton Hills' manufacturing district on a Saturday night. A busy day's traffic had had its noisy run; and with not many folks in sight, His Honor got along without having to stop to grasp a hand, or talk; for a Mayor out of City Hall is a shining mark for any politician. And so, coming to Broadway, a booming bass drum and sounds of singing, told of a small Salvation Army unit carrying on amidst Broadway's night shopping crowds. Gadsby, walking toward that group, saw a young girl, back towards him, just finishing a long, soulful oration, saying:-- "... and I can say this to you, for I know what I am talking about; for I was brought up _in a pool of liquor!!_" As that army group was starting to march on, with this girl turning towards Gadsby, His Honor had to gasp, astonishingly:-- "Why! Mary Antor!!" "Oh! If it isn't Mayor Gadsby! I don't run across you much, now-a-days. How is Lady Gadsby holding up during this awful war?" All such family gossip passing quickly, Gadsby said:-- "But this Salvation Army work, Mary? How long----" Mary and His Honor had to walk along, as that big drum was now pounding a block away. During that walk Gadsby found out all about that vast void in Mary's bungalow following that fatal auto crash; and all about "two old maid aunts" as Mary said, who had all that pantry's liquor thrown down a drain and got out, also, a day or two following; all about living now at Old Lady Flanagan's. "... for I just _couldn't_ stay in that bungalow, with nobody around, you know." And all about loving companionship in that grand old lady's arms; and of Mary's finding that Flanagan, who got such a "wallop" from Antor's killing, wasn't drinking so much, now; which put it into Mary's mind that many a man would, with kindly coaching, turn from it. "And I think that my nightly talks against liquor, hit; and hit _hard_, too; for almost nightly a poor down-and-out will follow along with our band, promising to cut it out and go straight. _Oh, why_ didn't I try to stop Norman's drinking?" "Probably," said Gadsby, "you did, in your girlish way; but you know boys don't think that small girls know anything. I'd put up any amount that Norman, in that far-away camp, is thinking of you, constantly." "Oh-h-h-h! If I could only _know_ that!" and a look of almost sanctity, and a big, long-drawn sigh told what a turmoil was going on in this young girl's mind. "But I'm going on, and on and on with this night talking until Norman is back again. Possibly a plan will turn up toward both of us living down our past,----and our sorrow." And Gadsby, slowly plodding along towards his dimly lit mansion, thought of a slight transposition of that scriptural quotation: "And your sins, you adults, shall fall upon your offspring, unto your third and fourth--" "Oh, if a man would only think of his offspring having to carry on, long past his last day! And of how hard it is for a boy or girl to stand up and proudly (?) claim that so-and-so 'was my Dad,' if all Branton Hills knows of that Dad's inglorious past. Poor kids!" for you know that Gadsby said, in this story's start, that "a man should so carry on his daily affairs as to bring no word of admonition from anybody;" for a man's doings should put a stain upon no soul but his own. But, _aha!!_ As His Honor got to his parlor, his sad mind found a happy, smiling Lady awaiting him; crying joyously:-- "Look! Look, John! Word from William! From Bill, in Paris!" Bill's first communication said:-- "Darling Folks: Julius and I just got into this town from a month of hard marching, ditch-digging and fighting. I am all right, and so is Julius. Ran across Frank, who is on duty at our Commissary. Lucky guy! Lots of food always around! Paul is growing fat. Looks mighty good. Oh, how all of us do miss you and good old Branton Hills! I can't find a solitary suit in this town that I would put on to go to a dog fight! _Such fashion!_" and so on; just a natural outpouring from a boy, away on his first trip from his Dad's kindly roof. "Ha, ha!" said Gadsby, laughing jovially; "That's our Bill, all right! Always thinking of dolling up!" and Lady Gadsby, rising quickly, said:-- "Oh, I must call up Nancy, Kathlyn and Sarah!" and, in a trio of small bungalows, joy, _wild_ joy, found its way into girlish minds! As Gadsby sat, going through this good word again and again, a mirthful chuckling had Lady Gadsby asking:-- "What's so funny about it?" "Nothing; only if I didn't know that Frank is such a grand, good lad, I'd think Bill was hiding a bit from us; for that 'on duty at Commissary' _might_ amount only to potato paring!" XXX Priscilla Standish was waiting at our big railroad station, on a warm Spring day, for a train to pull out, so that cross-track traffic could start again. It was just an ordinary train such as stop hourly at Branton Hills, but Priscilla saw that a group was hurrying toward a combination-car, way up forward. Now Priscilla was not a girl who found morbid curiosity in any such a public spot; but, still, an odd, uncanny sort of thrill,--almost a chill, in fact,--was urging, urging a slow walk toward that car. Just why, Priscilla didn't know; but such things do occur in a human mind. So Priscilla soon was standing on a trunk truck, gazing down into that group which now was slowly moving back, forming room for taking out a young man in khaki uniform, on a hospital cot. With a gasp of horror, Priscilla was instantly down from that truck, pushing through that group, and crying out, wildly:-- "_Arthur!_ Arthur Rankin! Oh! Oh! What is it, darling?" and looking up at a hospital assistant, "Is it bad?" "Don't know, right now, lady," said that snowy clad official. "Unconscious. But our big hospital will do all it can for him." Arthur Rankin! Arthur, with whom Priscilla had had many a childhood spat! Arthur who had shown that "puppy stuff" for Priscilla, that his old aunt was always so disapprovingly sniffing at! And now, unconscious on a,---- With a murmuring of sympathy from that sorrowing public, now dissolving, as all crowds do, Priscilla had a quick, comforting thought: "Kathlyn is working at that hospital!" Kathlyn had known Arthur as long as Priscilla had; and Kathlyn's famous ability would---- So our panting and worrying girl was hurrying along through Broadway's turning and inquiring crowds to that big hospital which our Organization of Youth had had built. And now Arthur was going, for not long, possibly, but, still possibly for---- * * * * * It was midnight in that big still building. Old Doctor Wilkins stood by Arthur's cot; Priscilla, sobbing pitifully, was waiting in a corridor, with Lady Standish giving what comfort a woman could. Lady Standish, who took in dogs, cats, rabbits or any living thing that was hurt, sick or lost; Lady Standish, donor of four thousand dollars for our big Zoo; Lady Standish, kindly savior of Clancy's and Dowd's "Big Four," now waiting, without ability to aid a _human_ animal. Finally, Doctor Wilkins, coming out, said:-- "Kathlyn says no sign of blood contamination, but vitality low; _badly_ low; sinking, I think. Railroad trip almost too much for him. Looks bad." But, at this instant, an assistant, calling Wilkins, said Arthur was coming out of his coma; and was murmuring "about a woman known as Priscilla. Do you know anybody by----?" With a racking sob, Priscilla shot through that door, Lady Standish quickly following. Arthur, picking up, a bit, from Priscilla's soft, oh, _so_ soft and loving crooning and patting, took that fond hand and--sank back! Doctor Wilkins, looking knowingly at Priscilla, said:-- "If it is as I think, you two had had thoughts of--" A vigorous nod from Priscilla, and an approving look from Lady Standish, and Doctor Wilkins said:-- "Hm-m-m! It should occur _right now!_ Or,----" As quick as a flash that snowy-clad assistant was phoning; and, _astonishingly_ soon, our good Pastor Brown stood by that cot; and, with Arthur in a most surprising pick-up, holding Priscilla's hot, shaking hand, through that still hospital room was wafting Priscilla's soft, low words:-- "... you for my lawful husband, until ..." * * * * * Doctor Wilkins, going out with Priscilla, now trying, oh, _so_ hard for control; with grand, charming, loving Kathlyn, arm in arm, said:-- "That joy will pull him through. Boys, at war, so far away, will naturally droop, both in body and mind, from lack of a particular girl's snuggling and cuddling. So just wait until Kathlyn finds out all about his condition; and good food, with this happy culmination of a childhood infatuation, will put him in first-class condition, if no complications show up." Ah! What an important part of a city's institutions a hospital is! What a comfort to all, to know that, should injury or any ailing condition of man, woman or child occur without warning, anybody can, simply through phoning find quick transportation at his door; and, with angrily clanging gongs, or high-pitch whistlings obtaining a "right of way" through all traffic, that institution's doors will swing apart, assistants will quickly surround that cot, and an ability for doing anything that Man _can_ do is at hand. You know, almost daily, of capitalists of philanthropic mold, donating vast sums to a town or an association; but, in your historian's mind, no donation can do so much good as that which builds, or maintains hospitalization for all. A library, a school, a boys' or girls' club, a vacation facility, a "chair" of this or that in an institution of instruction,--all do much to build up a community. Both doctoring as a study for a young man, and nursing for a girl form most important parts of Mankind's activity. And so, just four months from that awful, but also happy day, Arthur Rankin sat in a hammock with Priscilla, on Lady Standish's porch, with four small Rankins playing around; or was walking around that back yard full of cats, dogs, rabbits, and so on, with no thought of soap box orations in his mind. XXXI On a grand autumn morning Branton Hills' "Post" boys ran shouting down Broadway, showing in half-foot wording: "FIGHTING STOPS!! HISTORY'S MOST DISASTROUS WAR IS HISTORY NOW!!!" and again, Branton Hills stood stock still. But only for an instant; for soon, it was, in all minds:-- "Thank God!! Oh, _ring_ your loud church clarions! _Blow_ your factory blasts! Shout! Cry! Sing! _Play_, you bands! Burst your drums! Crack your cymbals!" Ah, what a sight on Broadway! Shop girls pouring out! Shop janitors boarding up big glass windows against a surging mob! And, (sh-h-h-h) many a church having in its still sanctity a woman or girl at its altar rail. Months, months, months! Branton Hills was again at its big railroad station, its Municipal Band playing our grand National air, as a long troop train, a solid mass of bunting, was snorting noisily in. And, amidst that outpouring flood of Branton Hills boys, Lady Gadsby, Nancy, Kathlyn and His Honor found Bill, Julius, Frank and John. Sarah was just "going all apart" in Paul's arms, with Virginia swooning in Harold's. On old Lady Flanagan's porch sat Mary Antor; for, having had no word from Norman for months, this grand young Salvation Army lass was in sad, sad doubt. But soon, as that shouting mob was drifting away, and happy family groups walking citywards, a khaki-clad lad, hurrying to old Lady Flanagan's cabin, and jumping that low, ivy-clad wall, had Mary, sobbing and laughing, in his arms. No. It wasn't Norman. XXXII A crowd was standing around in City Park, for a baby was missing. Patrol cars roaring around Branton Hills; many a woman hunting around through sympathy; kidnapping rumors flying around. His Honor was out of town; but on landing at our railroad station, and finding patrol cars drawn up at City Park, saw, in that crowd's midst, a tiny girl, of about six, with a bunch of big shouting patrol officers, asking:-- "Who took that baby?" "Did you do it?" "Which way did it go?" "How long ago did you miss it?" "Say, kiddo!! _Why don't you talk?_" An adult brain can stand a lot of such shouting, but a baby's is not in that class; so, totally dumb, and shaking with fright, this tot stood, thumb in mouth, and two big brown baby orbs just starting to grow moist, as His Honor, pushing in, said: "Wait a bit!!" and that bunch in uniform, knowing him, got up and Gadsby sat down on a rock, saying:-- "You can't find out a _thing_ from a young child by such hard, gruff ways. This tiny lady is almost in a slump. Now, just start this crowd moving. I know a bit about Youth." "That's right," said a big, husky patrolman. "If anybody living knows kids, it's you, sir." So, as things got around to normal, His Honor, now sitting flat on City Park's smooth lawn, said, jovially:-- "Hulloa." A big gulping sob in a tiny bosom--didn't gulp; and a grin ran around a small mouth, as our young lady said:-- "_So_ many big cops! O-o-o! I got afraid!" "I know, darling; but no big cops will shout at you now. _I_ don't shout at tiny girls, do I?" "No, sir; but if folks do shout, I go all woozy." "Woozy? Woozy? Ha, ha! I'll look that up in a big book. But what's all this fuss about? Is it about a baby?" A vigorous nodding of a bunch of brown curls. "What? Fussing about a baby? A baby is too small to fuss about." "O-o-o-o! It _isn't!!_" "No?" "No, sir. I fuss about my dolly, an' it's not half so big as a baby." "That's so. Girls do fuss about dolls. My girls did." "How many dolls has your girls got?" "Ha, ha! Not any, now. My girls all got grown up and big." During this calm, happy talk, a patrolman, coming up, said:-- "Shall I stick around, Your Honor? Any kidnapping facts?" "I don't know, just now. Wait around about an hour, and drop in again." So His Honor, Mayor of Branton Hills, and Childhood sat on that grassy lawn; a tiny tot making daisy chains, grass rings, and thrilling at Gadsby's story of how a boy, known as Jack, had to climb a big, big tall stalk to kill an awfully ugly giant. Finally Gadsby said:-- "I thought you had a baby playing with you." "I did." "Huh, it isn't playing now. Did it fly away?" "Oho! No! A baby can't fly!" "No. That's right. But how _could_ a baby go away from you without your knowing it?" "It didn't. I did know it." Now, many may think that His Honor would thrill at this information; but Gadsby didn't. So, "playing around" for a bit, His Honor finally said:-- "I wish _I_ had a baby to play with, right now!" "You can." "Can I? How?" With a tiny hand on baby lips, our small lady said:-- "Go look in that lilac arbor; but _go soft!_ I think it's snoozing." And Gadsby, going to that arbor, got a frightful shock; for it was Lillian, Nancy's baby! Not having known of this "kidnapping" as his family couldn't find him by phoning, it _was_ a shock; for His Honor was thinking of that young woman collapsing. So, upon that patrolman coming back, as told, Gadsby said:-- "Go and call up your station, _quickly!_ Say that I want your Captain to notify my folks that Lillian is all right." "Good gosh, Your Honor!! Is this tot your grandchild?" "Grandchild or no grandchild, _you dash to that box!!_" And so, again, John Gadsby, Champion of Youth, had shown officialdom that a child's brain and that of an adult vary as do a gigantic oak and its tiny acorn. XXXIII Most of Gadsby's old Organization of Youth was still in town, though, as you know, grown up. So, on a Spring day, all of its forty boys and as many girls got most mystifying cards, saying:-- "Kindly go to Lilac Hill on May sixth, at four o'clock. IMPORTANT! IMPORTANT! IMPORTANT!!" That was all. Not a word to show its origin. No handwriting. Just a small, plain card in ordinary printing. Not only that old Organization, but His Honor, Lady Gadsby, Old Tom Young, Tom Donaldson, Nina Adams, Lady Standish and Old Lady Flanagan got that odd card. "Arrah! Phwat's this, anny way?" sang out that good old lady. "Is it court summons, a picnic, or a land auction? By gorry, it looks phony!" Old Tom Young, in his rocking chair, said: "A card to go to Lilac Hill. It says 'important.' Ah! This Youth of today! I'll put up a dollar that I can sniff a rat in this. But _my_ girl is all right, so I'll go." And so it was, all around town. Nobody could fathom it. Lilac Hill was as charming a spot as any that our big City Park could boast. Though known as a hill, it was but a slight knoll with surroundings of lilac shrubs, which, in May would always show a riot of bloom; this knoll sloping down to a pond, with islands, boats and aquatic plants. Lilac Hill had known many a picnic and similar outings; for Branton Hills folks, living for six days amidst bricks and asphalt, just _had_ to go out on Sundays to this dainty knoll, living for an hour or so amongst its birds, blossoms and calm surroundings. City traffic was far away, only a faint rumbling coming to this natural sanctuary; and many a mind, and many a worn body had found a balm in its charms. But that mystifying card! From whom was it? What was it? _Why_ was it? "Oh, hum! Why rack brains by digging into it?" was Branton Hills' popular thought. "But,--go and find out!" That, also, was our Organization's thought as May sixth was approaching. "My gracious!" said Nancy. "It sounds actually spooky!" But calm, practical Kathlyn said:-- "Spooks don't hop around in daylight." May sixth had just that warm and balmy air that allows girls to put on flimsy, dainty things, and youths to don sports outfits; and His Honor, as that mystifying day was not far off, said:-- "This, I think, is a trick by a kid or two, to show us old ducks that an 'incog' can hold out, right up to its actual consummation. I don't know a thing about what's going on; but, by golly! I'll show up; and if any fun is afloat, I'll join in, full blast." But!!---- As our Organization boys and girls, and Branton Hills folks got to Lilac Hill, _not a thing was found_ giving any indication that anything out of ordinary was to occur! Just that calm, charming knoll, with its lilacs, oaks, and happy vista out across Branton Hills' hill districts! What _is_ this, anyway? A hoax? But all sat down, talking in a big group, until, at just four o'clock,--_look!_ A stir, out back of that island boat landing! What? On that _pond_? This card said Lilac _Hill!_ But I said that a stir was occurring in back of that boat landing, with its small shack for storing oars and such. If our big crowd was laughing and talking up to now, it _quit!_ And quit mighty quickly, too! If you want to hold a crowd, just mystify it. Old Lady Flanagan was starting to shout about "this phony stuff," but Old Man Flanagan said:-- "Shut up! You ain't part of this show!" Nancy was actually hopping up and down, but Kathlyn stood calmly watching; for this studious girl, way up in an "ology" or two, knows that, by slow, thoughtful watching, you can gain much, as against working up a wild, panicky condition. Lady Gadsby said again and again: "What _is_ going on?" but Nina Adams said: "You ought to know that today, anything can----" But _look again!!_ From in back of that boat landing, a big fairy float is coming! Slowly,--slowly--slowly; a cabin amidships, just _dripping_ with lilacs, as still and noncommittal as old Gibraltar. Slowly, on and on it is coming; finally stopping right at that spot upon which our group is standing; forty boys, forty girls, and a big mob, all as still as a church. What _is_ it, anyway? Is anybody in it? Not a sign of it. But wait! Aha! It _has_ an occupant, for, coming out of that lilac glory is----_Parson Brown!!_ Parson Brown? _What_ was Parson Brown in that cabin for? Aha!! A lilac spray is moving; and, as our groups stand stock still, _look!_ Lucy Donaldson is coming out! Oh! _What_ a vision of girlish joy and glory!! And--and--and, ah! That lilac spray is moving again! Hulloa! Bill Gadsby is coming out!! A Spring sun was slowly approaching its horizonward droop, shooting rays of gold down onto our gasping crowd, as Parson Brown said:-- "William Gadsby, do you...?" William, but shortly back from abroad, you know, standing with grand, military rigidity, said: "I do." "And Lucy Donaldson, do you...?" It didn't last long. Just a word or two; a burst of music of a famous march by John Smith, Branton Hills' organist, in that cabin with a small piano; just a---- But that crowd couldn't wait for that! With a whoop His Honor sprang into that pond, wading swiftly to board that fairy craft; and in an instant Nancy was following him, splashing frantically along, and scrambling aboard to almost floor Bill with a gigantic hug as His Honor shook Bill's hand, with a loving arm about Lucy. Old Lady Flanagan was shouting wildly:-- "Whoops! Whoops! By gorra! This young gang of today is a smart boonch!" and His Honor said:-- "Ha, ha! I didn't know a thing about this! Bill's a smart chap!" And Old Tom Donaldson, grabbing happy, laughing, blushing, palpitating Lucy as soon as that young lady was on dry land, said:-- "Say! You sly young chick! Why didn't you notify your old Dad?" "Why, Daddy! That would spoil all my fun!" XXXIV Gadsby, Clancy and Dowd "just had" to, according to unanimous opinion, go out to Lady Standish's suburban plot of ground to visit "Big Four;" Gadsby, owing to an inborn liking for all animals; Clancy and Dowd from fond association with this particular group. It was a glorious spot; high, rolling land, with a patch of cool, shady woods, and a grand vista across hill and plain, with shining ponds and rich farm lands. And did "Big Four" _know_ Clancy and Dowd? I'll say so! And soon, with much happy whinnying and "acting up," with two big roans poking inquiring snouts in Clancy's hands, and two big blacks snuggling Gadsby and Dowd, as happy a group of Man and animals as you could wish for, was soon accompanying Lady Standish around that vast patch. Anything that such animals could want was at hand. A bright, sparkling brook was gabbling and gurgling through a stony gully, or dropping, with many brilliant rainbows, down a tiny fall. "Sally," said Gadsby, "you do a grand work in maintaining this spot. If Mankind, as a body, would only think as you do, that an animal has a brain, and knows good living conditions, you wouldn't find so many poor, scraggly old Dobbins plodding around our towns, dragging a cart far too big; and with a man totally without sympathy on it." And Lady Standish said:-- "I just _can't_ think of anybody abusing an animal; nor of allowing it to stay around, sick, hurt or hungry. I think that an animal is but a point short of human; and, having a skin varying but slightly from our own, will know as much pain from a whipping as would a human child. A blow upon _any_ animal, if I am within sight, is almost as a blow upon my own body. You would think that, with that vast gap which Mankind is continually placing back of him in his onward march in improving this big world, Man would think, a bit, of his pals of hoof, horn and claw. But I am glad to say that, in this country, laws in many a community admit that an animal has rights. Oh, how an animal that is hurt looks up at you, John! An animal's actions can inform you if it is in pain. It don't hop and jump around as usual. No. You find a sad, crouching, cringing, small bunch of fur or hair, whining, and plainly asking you to aid it. It isn't hard to find out what is wrong, John; any man or woman who would pass by such a sight, just isn't worth knowing. I just can't withstand it! Why, I think that not only animals, but plants can know pain. I carry a drink to many a poor, thirsty growing thing; or, if it is torn up I put it kindly back, and fix its soil up as comfortably as I can. _Anything_ that is living, John, is worthy of Man's aid." XXXV Poor old Bill Simpkins! Nothing in this world was worth anything; nobody was right; all wrong, all wrong! Simpkins had no kin; and, not marrying, was "just plodding along," living in a small room, with no fun, no constant company, no social goal to which to look forward; and had, thus, grown into what boys call "a big, old grouch." But it wasn't all Simpkins' fault. A human mind was built for contact with similar minds. It should,--in fact,--it _must_ think about what is going on around it; for, if it is shut up in a thick, dark, bony box of a skull, it will always stay in that condition known as "status quo;" and grow up, antagonistic to all surroundings. But Simpkins didn't _want_ to growl and grunt. It was practically as annoying to him as to folks around him. But, as soon as that shut-up, solitary mind found anybody wanting it to do anything in confirmation of public opinion,--no! that mind would contract, as a snail in its spiral armor--and balk. Lady Gadsby and His Honor, in talking about this, had thought of improving such a condition; but Simpkins was not a man to whom you could broach such a thought. It would only bring forth an outburst of sarcasm about "trying it on your own brain, first." So Branton Hills' Council always had so to word a "motion" as to, in a way, blind Simpkins as to its import. Many such a motion had a hard fight showing him its valuation as a municipal law; such as our big Hall of Natural History, our Zoo, and so on. Now nothing can so light up such a mind as a good laugh. Start a man laughing, good, long and loud, and his mind's grimy windows will slowly inch upward; snappy, invigorating air will rush in, and--lo! that old snarling, ugly grouch will vanish as hoar-frost in a warm Spring thaw! And so it got around, on a bright Spring day, to Old Bill sitting on Gadsby's front porch; outwardly calm, and smoking a good cigar (which didn't blow up!), but, inwardly just full of snarls and growls about Branton Hills' Youth. "Silly half-grown young animals, found out that two plus two is four, and thinking that _all_ things will fit, just that way!" Now that small girl, "of about six," who had had Nancy's baby out in City Park, was passing Gadsby's mansion, and saw Old Bill. A kid of six has, as you probably know, no formally laid-out plan for its daily activity; anything bobbing up will attract. So, with this childish instability of thought, this tiny miss ran up onto Gadsby's porch and stood in front of Old Bill, looking up at him, but saying not a word. "Huh!" Bill just _had_ to snort. "Looking at anything?" "No, sir." "_What!!_ Oh, that is, you think 'not much,' probably. What do you want, anyway?" "I want to play." "All right; run along and play." "No; I want to play with _you_." "_Pooh!!_ That's silly. I'm an old man. An old man can't play." "Can, too. My Grandpa can." "But I'm not your Grandpa, thank my lucky stars. Run along now; I'm thinking." "So am I." "You? Huh! A kid can't think." "Ooo-o! _I_ can!" "About what?" "About playing with you." Now Simpkins saw that this was a condition which wouldn't pass with scowling or growling, but didn't know what to do about it. Play with a kid? _What?_ Councilman Simpkins pl---- But into that shut-up mind, through a partially,--_only_ partially,--rising window, was wafting a back thought of May Day in City Park; and that happy, singing, marching ring of tots around that ribbon-wound mast. Councilman Simpkins was in that ring. So this thought got to tramping round and round many a musty corridor in his mind; throwing up a window, "busting in" a door, and shoving a lot of dust and rubbish down a back stairway. Round and round it ran, until, (!!) Old Bill, slowly and surprisingly softly, said:-- "What do you want to play?" Oh! Oh! what a victory for that tot!! What a victory for _Youth!!_ And what a _fall_ for grouchy, snarling Maturity!! I think that Simpkins, right at that instant, _saw_ that bright sunlight coming in through that rising window; rising by baby hands; and from that "bust in" door. I think that Old Bill cast off, in that instant, that hard, gloomy coating of dissatisfaction which was gripping his shut-up mind. And I think,--in fact, I _know_,--that Old Bill Simpkins was now,--that is, was--was--was, oh, just plain _happy!_ "What do you want to play?" "This is a lady, a-going to town." "Play _what_?" "My!! Don't you know how to play that? All right; I'll show you. Now just stick out your foot. That's it. Now I'll sit on it, so. Now you bump it up and down. Ha, ha! Ho, ho! That's it! This is a lady, a-going to town, a-going to town, a-going to town!" and as that tiny lady sang that baby song gaily and happily, Old Bill was actually laughing; and laughing _uproariously_, too! As this sight was occurring, His Honor and Lady Gadsby, looking out from a parlor window, Gadsby said, happily:-- "A lady physician is working on Old Bill," causing Lady Gadsby to add:-- "And a mighty good doctor, too." XXXVI It was night again. That small Salvation Army group was parading and singing. A young girl would soon start a long oration against drink. Now boys, gawking as boys always do, saw a shadowy form of a man slinking along from doorway to doorway, plainly watching this marching group, but also, plainly trying to stay out of sight. A halt, a song or two, and Mary Antor was soon walking towards Old Lady Flanagan's cabin. But!! In passing big, dark City Park, a man, rushing wildly up, wrapping that frail form in a cast-iron grip, planting kiss upon kiss upon Mary's lips, finally unwound that grip and stood stiffly in military saluting position. Mary, naturally in a bad fright, took a short, anxious, inquiring look, and instantly, all that part of City Park actually _rang_ with a wild girlish cry:-- "_Norman!!!_" "Hulloa, kiddo! Just got in, half an hour ago, on a small troop train; and, by luck, saw you marching in that group. _Wow!!_ But you do look _grand!_" "And you look grand, too, Norman; but--but--but--not drunk?" "No, sis! Not for many a day now. Saw too much of it in camp. Big, grand, corking good chaps down and out from it. Days and days in jail, military jail, you know, and finally finding a 'bad conduct' stamp on Company books. No, sir; I'm off it, _for good!_" * * * * * On old Lady Flanagan's porch Mary sat way past midnight with, no, not with Norman, only, but with _two_ khaki-clad boys; and it was miraculous that that small, loving childish bosom could hold so much joy! Old Lady Flanagan in nightgown and cap, looking down a front stairway, (and Old Man Flanagan, also in nightgown and cap, and also looking down), said:-- "Arrah!! Go _wan_ oop stairs, you snoopin' varmit!" "_Who's_ a snoopin' varmint? Not _you_, of----" "Go wan oop, I say! By golly! That darlin' girl has found a mountain of gold wid Norman an'----" "Who's that wid Norman? That guy's around, nights, now, as--" "Say, you!! Do you go oop? Or do I swat you?" XXXVII Bill Gadsby, going abroad, naturally wasn't on that ballot for Councilman Antor's chair; but this history shows that that mouthy antagonist who had had so much to say about "pink satin ribbons" and "vanilla sprays," didn't win. No. A first class man got that position; old Tom Young, Sarah's Dad, as good an old soul as any in all Branton Hills. And was Sarah happy! Oh, my! And was Sarah proud! Two "oh, mys!" Tiny Nancy, loyal as always to Bill, said:-- "Bill was as good as in, for nobody, knowing my Bill would ballot against him; and Bill would hold that honor now, but for 'Old Glory's' calling." That's right, Nancy darling, you stick up for Bill; for, though Bill didn't know it until many months, a citation "for outstanding and valorous conduct in action" was soon to go through our National Printing Plant! For a "city fop" or an "outdoor part of a tailor shop" is not always a boob, you know. Gadsby's mansion was again brightly aglow that night, that "World War flag" not hanging in his window now. And so, on Labor Day night, Lady Gadsby and His Honor, sitting in his parlor, thought that a light footfall was sounding out on his porch. As Gadsby got up to find out about it, Julius, coming in with a young girl, stood looking, grinningly, at Lady Gadsby; who, jumping up, said, happily:-- "Why! Mary Antor!!" "No, Ma," said Julius. "This is not Mary Antor." "Not Mary Antor? Why, Julius, I think I know M----" "Not Mary Antor, Ma, but Mary Gadsby!" "Oh! Oh! My _darling_ girl!!" and half crying and half laughing, Mary was snuggling in Lady Gadsby's arms; and His Honor, coming in, saying:-- "By golly! That young cuss, Cupid, is mighty busy around this town! Why, I can hardly walk two blocks along Broadway, without a young girl, who has 'grown up in a night,' stopping, and saying: 'Mayor Gadsby, this is my husband.' But I'll say that Cupid's markmanship has always brought about happy matings. And, Mary, you darling kid, your sad, dark shadows will gradually pass; and Lady Gadsby and I will try to bring you loads and loads of comfort. But, say, you, Julius! I didn't know that you and Mary----" "Ho, ho" said Mary, laughing. "Didn't you know that Julius and Norman and I sat out nights on old Lady Flanagan's porch?" "Why, no; how should I? I don't go snooping around anybody's porch." "Ha, ha, Dad," said Julius; "no snooping would find _that_ out. Mary and I had had this plan so long ago that I didn't know a World War was coming!" XXXVIII As a small boy, your historian was told that "A king was in his counting room, a-counting out his cash," or similar words, which told, practically, of his taking account of stock. So, also, Gadsby was on his thinking-porch, a-thinking of his past. (A mighty good thing to do, too; if anybody should ask you!) "If," said His Honor, "you can't find any fun during childhood, you naturally won't look for it as you grow up to maturity. You will grow 'hard,' and look upon fun as foolish. Also, if you don't furnish fun for a child, don't look for it to grow up bright, happy and loving. So, always put in a child's path an opportunity to watch, talk about, and know, as many good things as you can." Lady Gadsby, from a parlor window, said: "Practicing for a stumping tour, or a political pow-wow?" "Ha, ha! No. Just thinking out loud." So, as thinking cannot hurt anybody, His Honor was soon going on:-- "Affairs which look small or absurd to a full-grown man may loom up as big as a mountain to a child; and you shouldn't allow a fact that you saw a thing 'so much that I am sick of it,' to turn you away from an inquiring child. _You_ wasn't sick of it, on that far-past day on which you first saw it. I always look back, happily and proudly, to taking a small girl to our City Florist's big glass building; to a group at our Night Court; a group finding out about dispatching our mail; and our circus! Boy! That _was_ fun! Our awarding diplomas at City Hall; tiny Marian at our airport's inauguration; our Manual Training School graduation. _All_ that did a big lot toward showing Youth that this big world is 'not half bad,' if adults will but watch, aid, and coach. And I _will not_ stand anybody's snapping at a child! Particularly a tiny tot. If you think that you _must_ snap, snap at a child so big as to snap back. I don't sanction 'talking back' to adults, but, ha, ha! I _did_ find a grand, big _wallop_ in Marian's April Fool cigar! Woo! _Did_ Old Bill jump!! But that did no harm, and a sad young mind found a way to 'match things up' with an antagonist. Now, just stand a child up against your body. How tall is it? Possibly only up to your hip. Still, a man,--or an animal _thinking_ that it is a man--will slap, whip, or viciously _yank_ an arm of so frail, so soft a tiny body! _That_ is what _I_ call a _coward!!_ By golly! almost a _criminal!_ If a tot is what you call naughty, (and no child voluntarily is,) why not lift that young body up onto your lap, and talk--_don't shout_--about what it just did? Shouting gains nothing with a tot. Man can shout at Man, at dogs, and at farm animals; but a man who shouts at a child is, at that instant, _sinking in his own muck of bullyism_; and bullyism is a sin, if anything in this world is. Ah! _Youth!_ You glorious dawn of Mankind! You bright, happy, glowing morning Sun; not at full brilliancy of noon, I know, but unavoidably on your way! _Youth!_ How I do thrill at taking your warm, soft hand; walking with you; talking with you; but, most important of all, _laughing_ with you! _That_ is Man's pathway to glory. A man who drops blossoms in passing, will carry joy to folks along his way; a man who drops crumbs will also do a kindly act; but a man who drops kind words to a sobbing child will find his joy continuing for many a day; for blossoms will dry up; crumbs may blow away; but a kind word to a child may start a blossom growing in that young mind, which will so far surpass what an _un_kindly man might drop, as an orchid will surpass a wisp of grass. Just stop a bit and look back at your footprints along your past pathway. Did you put many humps in that soil which a small child might trip on? Did you angrily slam a door, which might so jolt a high-strung tot as to bring on nights and nights of insomnia? Did you so constantly snarl at it that it don't want you around? In fact, did you put _anything_ in that back-path of yours which could bring sorrow to a child? Or start its distrust of you, as its rightful _guardian_? If so, _go back_ right now, man, and _fix_ up such spots by kindly acts from now on. Or, _jump into a pond, and don't crawl out again!!_ For nobody wants you around!" Lady Gadsby, as this oration was wafting off amongst lilac shrubs, and across soft, warm lawns, had sat, also thinking; finally coming out onto that ivy-bound porch, and sitting down by His Honor, saying:-- "That was just grand, John, but I was thinking along a path varying a bit from that. You know that Man's brain is _actually_ all of him. All parts of his body, as you follow down from his brain, act simply as aids to it. His nostrils bring him air; his mouth is for masticating his food; his hands and limbs furnish ability for manipulation and locomotion; and his lungs, stomach and all inward organs function _only_ for that brain. If you look at a crowd you say that you saw lots of folks: but if you look at a man bathing in a pond; and if that man sank until only that part from his brow upward was in sight, you might say that you saw nobody; only a man's scalp. But you actually saw a _man_, for a man is only as big as that part still in sight. Now a child's skull, naturally, is not so big as a man's; so its brain has no room for all that vast mass of thoughts which adult brains contain. It is, so to say, in a small room. But, as days and months go by, that room will push its walls outward, and that young brain gradually fill up all that additional room. So, looking for calm, cool thinking in a child is as silly as looking for big, juicy plums amongst frail spring blossoms. Why, oh, _why_ don't folks think of that? _You_ know what foolish sounding things Julius was always asking, as a child. 'How can just rubbing a match light it?' 'Why is it dark at night?' 'Why can't a baby talk?' But, you and I, John, didn't laugh at him. No, not for an instant. And _now_ look at our Julius and our Kathlyn; both famous, just through all that asking; and our aid. John, God _could_ put Man into this world, full-grown. But God don't do so; for God knows that, without a tiny hand to hold, a tiny foot to pat, tiny lips to kiss, and a tiny, warm, wriggling body to hug, Man would know nothing but work." Gadsby sat smoking for a bit, finally saying:-- "Darling, that pair of robins up in that big oak with four young, and you and I in this big building, also with four, know all about what you just said; and, and,--hmmm! It's almost midnight." And His Honor's mansion was soon dark; bathing in soft moonlight. XXXIX Practically all Branton Hills was talking about Councilman Simpkins; for Councilman Simpkins just didn't look natural; and Councilman Simpkins didn't _act_ natural. In fact, Councilman Simpkins was crawling out of his old cocoon; and, though an ugly, snarling _dowdy_ worm had lain for so long, shut up in that tight mass of wrappings around his brain, _now_ a gay, smiling moth was coming out; for Councilman Simpkins was "dolling up!" If Bill Gadsby was known as a "tailor-shop's outdoor part," Old Bill was not _a_ part. No, Old Bill _was_ that tailor shop--outdoor, indoor, or without a door. In fact, Councilman Simpkins now had "_it_," such as our films talk about so much today. But Simpkins' outfit was not flashy or "loud." Suits of good cloth, hats of stylish form, always a bright carnation "just south of his chin," boots always glossy, and a smart, springy walk, had all Broadway gasping as this Apollo-vision swung jauntily along. Nancy, happy, giggling Nancy, was "all of a grin" about this magic transformation; and, with that old, inborn instinct of womanhood, told Lucy:-- "You just watch, and mark my word. A woman is in this pudding! Old Bill just couldn't boom out in such a way without having a goal in sight; and I'll put up a dollar on it." And Lucy, also a woman, said smilingly:-- "And I'll put up a dollar and a half!" But His Honor and Lady Gadsby, at such talk would look skyward, cough, and say:-- "Possibly a woman; and a mighty young woman, at that." Now, if anything will "warm up" a public, it is gossip; particularly if it is about mystifying actions of a public man; and this had soon grown to a point at which a particularly curious man or woman thought of going to Old Bill and boldly asking: "Who is it?" But, as I said, what Councilman Simpkins would say to such "butting in" was known to all Branton Hills. No. Councilman Simpkins could doll up and trot around all that that portly Solon might wish; but, so to say, a sign was always hanging from his coat front, saying:-- "HANDS OFF!!" * * * * * Nina Adams and Virginia sat on Gadsby's porch with Nancy and Kathlyn; and Old Bill was up as a topic. Virginia, constantly smiling and inwardly chuckling, hadn't much to say about our frisky Councilman; and Nancy and Kathlyn couldn't fathom why. But Nina, not so backward, said: "Pffft! If a man wants to throw old clothing away and buy stylish outfits, what affair is it, but his own? It isn't right so to pick out a man, and turn him into a laughing stock of a city. Old Bill isn't a bad sort; possibly born grouchy; but if a grouchy man or woman, (and I know a _bunch_ of that class in this town!) _can_ pull out of it, and laugh, and find a bit of joy in living, _I_ think it is an occasion for congratulations, _not_ booing." "Oh," said Kathlyn, "I don't think anybody is booing Councilman Simpkins. But you know that any showing of such an innovation is apt to start gossip. Just why, I don't know. It, though, is a trait of Mankind only. Animals don't 'bloom' out so abruptly. You can hunt through Biology, Zoology or any similar study, and find but slow,--awfully slow,--adaptations toward any form of variation. Hurrying was not known until Man got around." "My!" said Nancy, gasping, and not giggling now, "I wish that _I_ could know all that you know, Kathy. As our slang puts it, 'I don't know nothin'.'" "But, you could," said Kathlyn, "if you would only study. All through our young days, you know, with you and Bill out at a card or dancing party, you in flimsy frills, and Bill swishing around in sartorial glory, _I_ was upstairs, studying. And so was Julius." "That's right," said Nina. "I wish Virginia would study." "Oh, I _am!_" said Virginia, all aglow. "You? Studying _what_?" "Aviation! Harold is going to show--" "Now, Virginia, Harold is _not!_" and Nina Adams' foot was _down!_ "It's not so bad for a man to fly, but a girl--" "But, Mama, lots of girls fly, nowadays." "I know that, _and_ I also know _a_ girl who _won't!_ and, just as Lucy has always known that Old Tom Young's 'no' _was_ a no, just so had Nina Adams brought up Virginia." "But," said Kathlyn, "this sky-shooting talk isn't finding out anything about Councilman Simpkins;" and Virginia said:-- "Possibly Old Bill wants to 'fly high.' I think I'll ask Harold about taking him up for a jaunt." This, bringing a happy laugh all around, Nina said:-- "Now don't jolly poor Bill too much. I don't know what, or who, got him to 'going social.'" And Nancy, giggling, said:-- "I put up a dollar, with Lucy's dollar-fifty that it's a woman." "Oh, I don't know, now," said Nina. "A man isn't always trotting around on a woman's apron strings," and, as it was growing dark, Nina and Virginia got up to go. Passing down Gadsby's front walk, a soft night wind brought back to that porch:-- "Now, Virginia, _quit_ this! You will stay _on solid ground!_" "Aw, Ma! Harold says----" But a big bus, roaring by, cut it short. * * * * * Just a month from this, His Honor, sitting on his porch with his "Morning Post" ran across a short bit, just two rows of print, which had him calling "Hi!" which Lady Gadsby took as a signal for a quick trip to that porch. "All right, Your Honor! On duty! What's up?" Gadsby, folding his "Post" into a narrow column, and handing it to that waiting lady, said nothing. As that good woman saw that paragraph, Gadsby saw first a gasp, following that, a grin, and finally:-- "_Why!_ Of all things! So _that's_ Nina--" That row of print said, simply:-- "By Pastor Brown, on Saturday night, in Pastor's study, Nina Adams and Councilman Simpkins." "Why!" said Lady Gadsby, laughing, "Nina sat on this porch only last month, talking about Old Bill, but saying nothing about this! I'm going right around to hug that darling woman; for _that_ is what I call _tact_." So, as Nina and our Lady sat talking, Nina said: "You know that Bill and I, growing up from kids in school, always got along grandly; no childhood spats; but, still it was no 'crush' such as Youth falls into. As Bill got out of high school, I still had two rooms to go through. You also know that I wasn't a 'Miss' for long from graduation day. But Irving Adams was lost in that awful 'Titanic' calamity, and I brought up my baby in my widowhood. Bill was always sympathizing and patronizing, though all Branton Hills thought him a cast-iron grouch. But a public man is not always stiff and hard in his off hours; and Bill and I, slowly but gradually finding many a happy hour could-- "All right, you grand, luscious thing!!" and Lady Gadsby and Nina sat laughing on a couch, as in old, old school days. "And," said Nina, happily; "poor Bill's upstairs, now, putting his things around to suit him. Living for so long in a small lodging all his things staid in a trunk. A lodging-room always has various folks around, you know, and a man don't lay his things out as in his _own_ room. So--" "Nina," said Lady Gadsby; "do you know what brought him out of his old shut-in way of looking at things?" "From just a word or two Bill drops, occasionally, I think that a child is--" And Lady Gadsby, said; "You know our Good Book's saying about: 'And a tiny child shall----'" XL Six months from that day upon which old Mars, God of War, had angrily thrown down his cannons, tanks, gas-bombs and so on, fuming at Man's inability to "stand up to it," Gadsby's mansion was dark again. Not totally dark; just his parlor lamp, and a light or two in halls and on stairways. And so this history found Nancy and Kathlyn out on that moon-lit porch; Nancy sobbing, fighting it off, and sobbing again. Tall, studious, loving Kathlyn, sitting fondly by Nancy's tiny form, said;-- "Now, sis; I wouldn't cry so much, for I don't think that conditions, just now, call for it." "B-b-b-but I'd stop if I could, wouldn't I?" and poor Nancy was sobbing again. "Now, _wait!_" and Kathlyn, uncommonly cross, vigorously shook Nancy's arm. "You can't gain a _thing_ this way. Mama is probably all right. Oh, is that you, Daddy?" His Honor sat down by his two girls. Gadsby was not looking good. Black rings around his always laughing orbs; a hard cast to that jovial mouth; a gray hair or two, cropping up amongst his wavy brown. But Gadsby was not old. Oh, no; far from it. Still, that stoop in walking; that odd, limp slump in sitting; that toning down in joviality, had, for six months past, had all Branton Hills sympathizing with its popular Mayor. * * * * * Days; days; days! And, oh! that _tough_ part,--nights, nights, nights! Nights of two young chaps, in full clothing, only just napping on a parlor couch. Nights of two girls nodding in chairs in a dimly,--oh, _so_ dimly a lit room. It got around almost to Christmas, only a fortnight to that happy day; but,--happy in Gadsby's mansion? Finally Frank took a hand:-- "Now, kid, _do_ try to stop this crying! You know I'm not scolding you, darling, but, you _just can't_ go on this way; and _that's that!_" "I'm trying _so_ hard, hubby!" Now Nancy was of that good, sturdy old Colonial stock of His Honor and Lady Gadsby; and so, as Christmas was approaching, and many a bunch of holly hung in Broadway's big windows, and as many a Salvation Army Santa Claus stood at its curbs, Nancy's constitution won out; but a badly worn young lady was in and out of Gadsby's mansion daily; bringing baby Lillian to kiss Grandma, and riding back with Frank at about six o'clock. * * * * * Old Doctor Wilkins, coming in on a cool, sharp night, found His Honor, Nancy, Kathlyn, Bill, Julius, Lucy, Mary, Frank and John all in that big parlor. "Now, you bunch, it's up to you. Lady Gadsby will pull through all right," (Nancy rushing wildly to kiss him!) "it hangs now upon good nursing; and I know you will furnish that. And I will say without a wisp of a doubt, that a calm, happy room; not too many around; and--and--hmmm!! Julius, can't you hunt around in our woods that you and Kathlyn know so thoroughly, and find a tall, straight young fir; cut it down, rig it up with lights and a lot of shiny stuff; stand it up in your Ma's room, and----" * * * * * 'Tis a night, almost Christmas, And all through that room A warm joy is stirring; No sign of a gloom. And "Ma," sitting up, In gay gown, and cap, No, no! Will _not_ start On a long wintry nap! For, out on that lawn A group of girls stand; A group singing carols With part of our Band. And that moon, in full vigor, Was lustrous; and lo! _Our Lady is singing!_ Aha, _now_ I know That Nancy and Kathlyn And Julius and Bill And also His Honor, Will sing with a will! And Old Doctor Wilkins Amidst it all stands; Smiling and nodding, And rubbing his hands; And, sliding out, slyly; Calls back at that sight:-- "Happy Christmas to all; And to all a Good Night!" Along about midnight a happy group sat around Gadsby's parlor lamp, as Dr. Wilkins was saying;-- "Stopping a war; that is, stopping actual military combat, is not stopping a war in _all_ its factors. During continuous hard strain a human mind can hold up; and it is truly amazing how much it can stand. Day by day, with that war-strain of worry pulling it down, it staunchly holds aloof, as a mighty oak in facing a storm. But it has a limit!! With too much and too long strain, it will _snap_; just as that mighty oak will fall, in a long fight. Lady Gadsby will avoid such a snap though it is by a narrow margin." As this group sat in that holly-hung parlor, with that big cloth sign in big gold capitals; HAPPY CHRISTMAS, across its back wall; with horns tooting outdoors; with many a window around town aglow with tiny, dancing tallow-dip lights; with baby Lillian "all snuggling--so warm in a cot; as vision of sugar plums"--(and why _shouldn't_ a baby think of sugar plums on that night, almost Christmas?); as, I say, this happy group sat around Gadsby's lamp, Mars, that grim old war tyrant, was far, far away. Upstairs, calmly snoozing on a big downy pillow, Lady Gadsby was now rapidly coming back again to that buxom, happy-go-lucky First Lady of Branton Hills. XLI Christmas, gay and happy in Gadsby's mansion, was soon far, far back. A robin or two was hopping about on His Honor's lawn, looking for a squirming lunch; Lady was taking short walks with Nancy; Kathlyn having to go back to work in our big hospital. Lilac, syringa, narcissus, tulips, hyacinths burst out in a riot of bloom; and a bright warm Sun brought joy to all. And so this history found His Honor on his porch with his "Post" as a young lad, coming up, said;--"Good morning, sir. I'm soliciting funds for a big stadium for Branton Hills, which will furnish an opportunity for football, polo,----" "Whoa!" said Gadsby, putting down his "Post" and looking critically at his young visitor. "You look a bit familiar, boy. Oho! If it isn't kid Banks; oh, pardon!--_Allan_ Banks; son of Councilman Banks! You young folks grow up so fast I don't know half of you. Now what about this soliciting. Who is back of you?" "Branton Hills' Organization of Youth; Part Two, sir." "Branton Hills Org----Ha, ha! Upon my word! Who is starting this group?" Mary, coming out from His Honor's parlor, said:-- "Oh, I forgot to notify you of this. Norman has got about fifty kids from Grammar School boys and girls, anxious to follow in _your_ Organization's foot-prints." Was Gadsby happy? Did Gadsby thrill? Did that long-past, happy day float in glowing colors through his mind? It did. And now that old, hard-working bunch of kids, grown up, now, and with kids of its own; that loyal bunch of young sprouts was taking root; was born again! Oh, _how_ Youth crawls up on you! How a tiny girl "almost instantly" shoots up into a tall, charming young woman! _How_ a top-spinning, ball-tossing, racing, shouting boy looms up into a manly young chap in Military School uniform! Gadsby _was_ happy; for, wasn't this a tonic for his spinal column? So His Honor said;-- "Allan, I think Branton Hills will officially aid this stadium plan. I'll put it up to Council." But, Allan Banks, _not_ Kid Banks now, was just so old as to know a thing or two about Council bills; and, out as a solicitor, naturally sought a good showing on donations won, so said;-- "A Council donation will fit in grand, sir; but how about grouchy old Bill Simpk----" "Trot along, Allan." "But how about this stadium? I'm doubting Old B--" "Trot along, Allan." * * * * * What Mary had said was a fact. Norman Antor had not only fought a military war; Norman Antor had also fought an _inward_ war. A war, which fought him with gallon jugs, small phials, spoons, mixing apparatus, and--a stumbling, mumbling _stupor!_ Norman had fought with about two million lads in that military war; but now, with no aid but a strain of good blood, starting way back of his carousing Dad (but, as such traits may, skipping a notch or two, and implanting in this young lad just a grain of its old nobility of mind), was fighting again; and, just as any solitary young chap amongst that two million loyally did his part, just so was this tiny grain now doing _its_ part; fighting valiantly in his brain. It was giving him torturing thoughts in army night-camps, of a darling, loving young girl, a part of his own family, growing up "in a pool of liquor;" thoughts in night-camps of Branton Hills' patrol-wagon trips to jail; and _Darn_ that thought of Virginia! Virginia _drunk_ by his own hand! Ugh!! _Why not chop that stinking hand off?_ And, on coming back to Branton Hills, watching that darling Mary in Salvation Army uniform, tramping, talking, praying for just such low-down "liquor hounds" as----. Oh! It was an awful fight! A long, brain-racking onslaught against a villain shut in by walls of iron! But though Norman Antor's night-camp fights with Norman Antor had "put a big kick" in his wish to "lay off that stuff," just a final blow, just an awful brain-crashing _blast_ was still missing, so that that big right hand might point skyward, to clinch that vow. And that blast was waiting for Norman! To anybody standing around, it wasn't much of a blast; but it _was!_ It was a mighty concussion of T.N.T., coming as Mary, young, loving, praying Mary, said, as his arms unwound from around that frail form:-- "Why, Norman! _Not drunk?_" _God!!_ What flashing, shooting, sizzling sparks shot through his brain!! Up, out, in; all kinds of ways!! _What_ crashing bombs!! And, that first calm night on Old Lady Flanagan's porch; that moonlit night of bliss, with soft, cuddling, snuggling, laughing, crying darling Mary! "I say," Norman was shouting, inwardly; "that night of bliss _was_ a night of bliss and _don't anybody try to say that it wasn't!_" For it was a night on which a young man's Soul was _back_; back in its own Mind, now full of God's incomparably grand _purity!_ * * * * * Lady Gadsby was visiting Nina, sitting in that big front parlor; Virginia sitting calmly rocking; (and, hmmm! That was about all Virginia _ought_ to do, just now!) A young High School girl, coming in, said;-- "Good morning! I'm soliciting for funds for a stadium for----" "_Marian!_" sang out Virginia, "_What's_ all this? _You_, soliciting?" "Why not?" said Marian, brightly. "Norman Antor's Organization of Youth; Part Two, is soli--" "Norman Antor's _what_?" and Virginia was all agog in an instant, as Marian Hopkins told all about it; and, with childish flippancy, forgot all about soliciting, saying:-- "I was told that Harold is giving flying instructions. Don't _you_ want to fly? My! _I_ do!" "I _did_," said Virginia, softly; "but,--not now;" and Marian was a bit too young to know why Lady Gadsby was smiling at Nina! As Nancy found out about this, on Lady Gadsby's coming back to lunch, that "old Branton Hills matron," as Gadsby found a lot of fun calling "his baby girl," now-a-days, said, giggling:-- "No! Virginia! You'll _stay on solid ground!_" XLII Lady Gadsby and His Honor sat in Branton Hills' First Church, on a hot July Sunday. Out-doors, twitting birds, lacy clouds, and gay blossoms, told of happy hours in this long, bright month. Pastor Brown, announcing a hymn, said:-- "This is a charming hymn. Our choir always sings it without company; but today, I want _all_ you good folks to join in. Just pour forth your joy and sing it, good and strongly." That hymn had six stanzas; and Gadsby, noting an actually _grand_ bass singing just back of him, thought of turning around, from curiosity; and as that fifth stanza was starting, said to Lady Gadsby:-- "Do you know who that is, singing that grand bass part?" Lady Gadsby didn't; but Lady Gadsby was a woman; and, from Noah's Ark to Branton Hills' First Church, woman, as a branch of Mankind, was curious. So a slow casual turning brought a dig in His Honor's ribs:-- "It's Norman Antor!" Pastor Brown, standing at that big church door as folks, filing out would stop for a word or two, said to Gadsby:-- "Young Antor is invariably in church, now-a-days. I may add to my choir, and am thinking of putting him in it. I'm so glad to find out about that boy winning his fight. I always _thought_ Norman would turn out all right." Pastor Brown was right; and two Branton Hills girls, a Salvation Army lady, and a tiny tot of six had won crowns of Glory, from throwing rays of light into two badly stagnant Minds. XLIII Thirty-six months. That's not so long a run in daily affairs, and this Branton Hills history finds Thanksgiving Day dawning. In Branton Hill's locality it is not, customarily, what you would call a cold day. Many a Thanksgiving has had warm, balmy air, and without snow; though, also, without all that vast army of tiny chirping, singing, buzzing things on lawn or branch. But contrast has its own valuation; for, through it, common sights, vanishing annually, show up with a happy joy, upon coming back. Ah! That first faint coloring of grass, in Spring! That baby bud, on shrub or plant, shyly asking our loving South Wind if it's all right to pop out, now. That sprouting of big brown limbs on oak and birch; that first "blush of Spring" in orchards; that first furry, fuzzy, cuddly spray of pussy willows! Spring and Fall; two big points in your trip along your Pathway. Fall with its rubbish from months of labor: cornstalks, brown, dry grass, old twigs lying around, wilting plants; bright colorings blazing in distant woodlands; chill winds crawling in through windows, at night. And Spring! Pick-up, paint-up, wash-up Spring!! So, as I said, Branton Hills got around to Thanksgiving Day; that day on which as many of a family as possibly can should sit around a common board; coming from afar, or from only a door or two away. Gadsby's dining-room was not big; it had always sat but six in his family. But, on _this_ Thanksgiving Day,--hmmm! "Wait, now--uh-huh, that's it. Just run that pair of sliding doors back, put that parlor lamp upstairs; and that piano? Why not roll it out into my front hall? I know it will look odd, but you can't go through a Thanksgiving 'soup to nuts' standing up. _Got_ to jam in chairs, any old way!" But who is all this mob that will turn His Honor's dining-room into a thirty-foot hall? I'll look around, as our happy, laughing, singing, clapping group sits down to Gadsby's Thanksgiving party. I find _two_ "posts of honor;" (My gracious! _so_ far apart!); His Honor, with carving tools filling dish, dish, and dish. "Atta boy! Atta girl! Pass up your chow-dish! This bird has but two drum-sticks, but six of his cousins wait, out in our cook-shop! Lots of grub! What's that, Julius? A bit of dark? Want any gravy?" At Post Two sits "Ma;" again in that good old buxom condition, so familiar to all Branton Hills:-- "Right this way, folks, for potato, squash, onions, carrots and turnip!!" _What_ a happy bunch! Following around from Gadsby, sit Bill, Lucy and Addison. But whoa! Who's this Addison? Oh, pardon; I forgot all about it. Lucy's baby; and his first Thanksgiving. Hi, you! Tut-tut! Mustn't grab raisins! Naughty, naughty! On Lucy's right sit Mary, Julius and Norman; following along, I find Nancy, Frank and Baby Lillian, Kathlyn, John, Lady Standish, Priscilla and Hubby Arthur Rankin; Nina Adams,--Oh! A _thousand_ pardons!!--Nina _Simpkins!_ and Old Bill. Say! You wouldn't know Bill! Bright, happy, laughing, singing, and tapping a cup with his spoon; spick-span suit, and that now famous "Broadway carnation." Hulloa, Bill; you old sport!! Glad to find you looking so happy! _What?_ _Two_ whacks at that bird? Why Bill!! On Bill's right sits Pastor Brown, old Doctor Wilkins, Harold, Virginia, and Patricia. Oh, pardon again! Patricia, Virgina's baby; just six months old, today, and valiantly trying to swallow a half-pound candy cow! Following around I find Old Tom Young, Sarah, and Paul. No, I don't find a high-chair by Sarah; but Sarah sits just rocking, rocking, rocking, now-a-days. Following on, again, is Old Tom Donaldson, Clancy Dowd, _and_--Old Lady Flanagan, with "this dom thing I calls hoosband!" And lastly, Marian and old Pat Ryan from our railway station's trunk room. So it was just laugh, talk, "stuff," and-- * * * * * Oh, hum! Folks can't stay all night, you know; so, finally, groups and pairs, drifting out, all had happy words for His Honor and Lady Gadsby; and His Honor, a word or two; for you know Gadsby _can_ talk? So it was:-- "Good night, Nina; good luck, Old Bill! Oh! say, Bill; will _that_ cigar blow up? Good night, Virginia; and ta-ta Patricia; and Virginia, you mind your Ma and stay down on solid ground! Aha, Clancy! You old motor-pump fan! No; that's wrong; _animal-drawn_ pump! Good night, Pastor Brown; so glad you put Norman in your choir. And now Old Tom and Sarah! Tom, you look as young as on that day on which you brought Sarah, just a tiny, squalling, fist-waving bunch, to this porch to ask about adoption! And I know Sarah has always had a kind, loving Dad. Paul, you young sprout! As _you_ turn into a daddy, soon now, you'll find that, on marrying, a man and woman start actually living. It's miraculous, Paul, that's just what it is." And so it was; pairs and groups shaking hands and laughing, until finally a big buxom woman sang out:-- "_Whoops!!_ It was a _wow_ of a grub-lay-out! It _was_ thot! But this dom thing I calls hoosband. Say! You grub-stuffin' varmint! Phwat's that in your hat? A droom-stick, is it? Do you want His Honor to think I don't cook nuthin' for you? Goodnight, all! I'm thot full I'm almost a-bustin'!" As Lady Standish shook hands, that worthy woman said:-- "John, what you did for Branton Hills should go into our National Library at Washington, in plain sight." "Sally, _Youth's_ part was paramount in all that work. All I did was to boss;" and Old Doc Wilkins, coming out, nibbling a bunch of raisins, said:-- "Uh-huh; but a boss must know his job!" "That's all right," said Gadsby; "but it was _young hands and young minds_ that did my work! Don't disqualify Youth for it will fool you, if you do!" * * * * * A glorious full moon sails across a sky without a cloud. A crisp night air has folks turning up coat collars and kids hopping up and down for warmth. And that giant star, Sirius, winking slyly, knows that soon, now, that light up in His Honor's room window will go out. Fttt! It _is_ out! So, as Sirius and Luna hold an all-night vigil, I'll say a soft "Good-night" to all our happy bunch, and to John Gadsby--Youth's Champion. FINIS Note: Not a word containing the letter "E" has appeared in this story of over 50,000 words. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Did any "e"s survive the publishing process? Yes, three "the"s, and one "officers"--all have been retained as published. Use of quotation marks has been standardised; otherwise punctuation, spelling, hyphenated words and grammar have been retained as they appear in the original publication except as follows: Page 61 pavilion, lunch rooms; and parkings for as many _changed to_ pavilion, lunch rooms; and parking for as many Page 61 all this with happy satisfication _changed to_ all this with happy satisfaction Page 90 thought back about that lassoo _changed to_ thought back about that lasso Page 128 on hand for his politicial _changed to_ on hand for his political Page 139 back to that captivating lassoo _changed to_ back to that captivating lasso Page 142 two upstairs, for wraps, mascarra _changed to_ two upstairs, for wraps, mascara Page 152 If-f-f-f B-b-b-barnum's circut _changed to_ If-f-f-f B-b-b-barnum's circus Page 155 around your tiny baby as softy _changed to_ around your tiny baby as softly Page 181 talking. Taking about what? _changed to_ talking. Talking about what? Page 195 Nina coudn't stand it _changed to_ Nina couldn't stand it Page 195 known Nina and Virgina _changed to_ known Nina and Virginia Page 255 Organizations's foot-prints _changed to_ Organization's foot-prints 
46069	----	provided by the Internet Archive VANISHED HALLS AND CATHEDRALS OF FRANCE By George Warton Edwards Illustrated with 32 Plates in full Color and Monotone. 1917 [Illustration: 0001] [Illustration: 0010] [Illustration: 0013] VANISHED HALLS AND CATHEDRALS OF FRANCE FOREWORD Quis funera faudo Explicet, aut possit lacrymis aequare Labores? Urbs antiqua ruit, fnultos dominât a per annos; Plurima perque vias sternuntur inertia passim. Corpora, perque domos, et religiosa deorum Limina! (Virgil, Æneid, II. v. 361.) Surviving the ancient wars and revolutions in this, "the Cockpit of Europe," the great examples of architecture of the early days of France remained for our delight. The corroding fingers of time, it is true, were much more merciful to them, but certainly the destroyers of old never ventured to commit the crimes upon them now charged against the legions of the present invader. These fair towns of Picardy and Champagne are sacked, pillaged and burned even as were the beautiful Flemish towns of Ypres, Malines, Termonde, Dixmude, and Dinant on the Meuse.... Never again shall we enjoy them: the chalices are broken and the perfume forever vanished.... The catastrophe is so unbelievable that one cannot realize it. The Seven Churches of Soissons, Senlis, Noyon, Laon, Meaux, Rheims, St. Remi; these such as man probably never again can match, are either razed to the foundations, or so shattered that it will be impossible to restore them. It is said that the Imperial Government has promised to rebuild these Gothic masterpieces.... One cannot trust one's self to comment upon this announcement. Imagine these sacred ruins.... Rheims!... Rheims can never be restored to what it was before the bombardment. Let it rest thus.... A sacred ruin--the scarred, pierced heart of France! Likewise "these fair sweet towns" of the middle ages; these wonderful little streets and byways, filled with the gray old timbered houses, "old in Shakespeare's day." Up to the outbreak of the war there were many of these throughout France, in spite of the wave of modernity which resulted in so much so called town improvement. In Arras the two old Squares, the Grand Place and the Petit Place, survived until destroyed by bombs in 1914. Those double rows of Ancient Flemish gables, and the beautiful lace like tower of the Town Hall cannot be forgotten, although they are now but calcined beams and ashes. Between the Seine and the Flemish frontier lay a veritable storehouse of incomparable architectural monuments. Of these Rouen, with its famous Cathedral, is happily out of reach of the guns of the invader, and one hopes out of danger. Beauvais likewise has not yet suffered, nor Chalons, with its great church of St. Loup and St. Jean, but the Cathedral and the town of Noyon have been leveled, and the gray walls of incomparable coucy-le-Château, "that greatest of the castles of the Middle Ages," whose lords arrogantly proclaimed "Roi ne suys, ne prince, ne duc, ne conte aussi; je suys le Sire de Coucy," have vanished forever from the heights under the wanton fire of the invaders' shells, and twenty thousand pounds of powder placed in the walls and exploded in revenge on the day of the retreat (April 1917). Amiens, for some reason, has been spared, but it too may yet receive its baptism of fire, even as Rheims. Amiens and Rheims! Never were there such miracles of art as shown in these temples! Rheims is now a ragged ruin of roofless leaning walls. So Amiens, miraculously preserved, is now the greatest existing example of Christian architecture in the world. In the following chapters I have quoted extracts from accounts written by eyewitnesses of acts committed by the invader in the devastated towns of France. I am not responsible for these statements, nor can I vouch absolutely for their truth, or correctness. I give them for what they are worth as part of the setting--the frame work of the pictures I have made of the noble, now vanished monuments which can never be replaced.... If I have betrayed bitter feeling it is because of their destruction by whomsoever accomplished. "Woe be unto him from whom offense cometh." The Author. Greenwich, Conn. May 1917. [Illustration: 0027] ARRAS |It was half-past six o'clock on a summer's morning, and a deep-toned bell in the cathedral sounded over the quaint gables of this really Flemish city of Arras. Although we were in France, little difference either in the people, costumes or architecture could be noted, so mingled here were the characteristics of the French and the Belgians. The sun was well up and gleamed hotly upon the old roof tops of the town, old many of them in Shakespeare's day, and flooded with golden light the quaint market place, now filled with swarming peasants. There were great heaps of flowers here and there, among the booths containing varied merchandise, and some of the market people were taking their morning bowls of hot _café au lait_, made fresh in green and yellow earthenware "biggins," over small iron braziers containing burning charcoal. The odor was inviting, and as the people are always kindly disposed towards the traveler who has _savoir faire_, one may enjoy a fragrant and nourishing bowl with them in profitable and friendly commune, for almost whatever he chooses to offer, and not rarely free of any fee whatever save a "thank you," which is always received with a gracious smile and a murmured "_N'pas d'quoi, M'sieu_," or an "_Au plaisir_." It was perchance a market morning in Arras, and the long open square lined on either hand with strangely gabled Flemish houses, and closed at the upper end by the admirable lofty towered Town Hall, was filling fast with arrivals from the country round about. Town Hall Arras [Illustration: 0031] Everything was fresh and clean from the late rains, and the air was laden with the mingled perfume of flowers; with butter and cheese. Country carts of extravagant design and painted green were unloading, and the farmer's boys were fitting together the booths for the sale of their varied commodities. Here and there were active dark complexioned Hebraic looking men and women, hard faced and sinister, who presided over stalls for the sale of cloth, shoes and the trinkets of small value calculated to tempt the peasantry. A cinematograph booth, resplendent with gilding, mirrors, and red and white paint, towered over the canvas covered booths, and a "merry go round," somewhat shabby by contrast, stood near it, its motive power, a small fat horse, contentedly eating his breakfast out of a brass hooped pail. The shops were opening one by one, displaying agricultural tools, and useful articles desired by the peasants. One heard bargaining going on, sometimes in the Flemish tongue, proving how near we were to Flanders, and sometimes in Walloon. Both tongues are used here, and the costumes partake of their characteristics, the women in neat if coarse stuffs, and the men in stiff blue blouses, usually in wooden shoes, too. This was remarkable, for the wooden shoe was fast vanishing from the towns. We noted too, that women were abandoning the snowy white lace trimmed caps once forming such a quaint feature of market day gatherings. Now various hideous forms of black and purple bonnets, decked out with beads and upstanding feathers disfigured them, but with what pride they were worn! This market place at Arras was a sight worth a long journey to witness, if but to see the display of animals, chickens, and flowers on a bright sunny morning in the square beneath the tower of the Town Hall. The fowls squawked and flapped their wings; dogs barked; horses neighed; and hoarse voiced vendors called out their bargains. Here and there the fowl were killed on the spot for the buyer, and carried off by rosy cheeked unsentimental housewives, carried off, too, often hidden in bunches of bright flowers. Did I write unsentimental?--An error. Nowhere were the common people more given to sentiment. Does not one remember the large room that la belle madame at the 'Couronne d'or provided for the traveling painter, who occupied it for two weeks, and during the season too, and when he discovered on the morning of departure that it was not included in the bill, on pointing out the omission to madame, did she not, and with the most charming smile imaginable say, with a wave of her shapely brown hands--"One could not charge for a room used as M'sieur's studio. The honor is sufficient to the 'Couronne d'or." And how to repay such kindness? In an hour the noise and chattering of a market morning was in full sway. And over all sounded the great bell of the Cathedral: other church bells joined in the clamor, and at once began an accompaniment of clattering wooden shoes over the rough cobbles towards the church doors. Following these people up the street, we entered the dim pillared nave of the old church. On Sundays and market days the interior formed a picture not to be forgotten, and one especially full of human interest. The nave was freer of modern "improvements" than most of the churches, and there was much quiet dignity in the service. A large number of confessional cabinets, some of very quaint and others of most exquisitely carved details, were set against the walls. Some of these had heavy green baize curtains to screen them instead of doors, and some of the cabinets were in use, for the skirt of a dress was visible below one of the curtains. The women before the altar knelt on the rush seats of small chairs, resting their clasped hands, holding rosaries, on the back, furnished with a narrow shelf between the uprights. They wore dark blue or brown stuff dresses, and small plaid shawls. We noted that not one of these wore wooden shoes or sabots. All on the contrary wore neat leather shoes. The women, especially the older ones, all turned their heads and curiously examined us as we tip-toed about, without, however, interrupting their incessant prayers for an instant. And they did not seem to resent our presence in the church, or regard it as an intrusion. In the subdued colored light from the painted windows, with the clouds of incense rising, the proportions of the columns and the lancet arches and windows were most impressive, and together with the kneeling peasants made a very fine effect. While there was little to be found in Arras that was really remarkable, for the town was given over to the traffic in grain and the townspeople were all very commercial, there were bits of the town corners and side streets worthy of recording. Near the dominating Town Hall were many types of ancient Flemish gabled houses, of which we shall not find better examples even in Flanders itself. Arras was as noisy as any Belgian market town where soldiers are stationed. There was the passing of heavy military carts through the ill-paved streets; the clatter of feet; the sounds of bugle and rolling of drum at sundown. The closing of the cafés at midnight ended the day, while at dawn in the morning the din of arriving and passing market wagons commenced again, followed by the workmen and women going to their daily tasks at the factories. "Do these people never rest?" asked Lady Anne, whose morning nap was thus rudely interrupted. Ma-dame's answer came: "Ah, indeed, yes. But not in the summer. Mark you, in the dark short days of winter, there is little going on in Arras. Then we are very quiet." Urselines Tower: Arras [Illustration: 0039] The old town was old, very old. There were of course some modern looking white houses of stucco in which we were told some rich people live, and there were large blank walled factories with tall chimneys, from which heavy black smoke poured the livelong day. There were plate glass windows here and there, too, in some of the shops, with _articles de Paris_ exposed for sale, and there were occasionally smooth pavements to be found, but mainly there were quaint old corners, high old yellow fronted, narrow windowed houses, and old, old men and older women passing to and fro in the narrow by streets. In one corner of the market place sat an ancient dame in a wonderful lace cap, who presided over a huge pile of pale green earthenware pots of various sizes and fine shapes, who all unconsciously made for me a picture in sunlight and shadow; brown wrinkled hands busy with knitting; brown wrinkled face and bright shrewd greeny blue eyes, twinkling below the flaps of her lace cap; all against a worn, old, rusty-hinged green door! I could not resist the opportunity. So in a convenient doorway I paused to make a note of it without attracting much attention from the passers-by. Entering the wide "place" (there were two of these) one was confronted by an astonishing vista of quaintly gabled Flemish houses on either hand, all built mainly after one model but presenting some variations of minor detail. These led to the Hotel de Ville. The houses were furnished with arcades below supported by monolithic sandstone columns. The Hotel de Ville, built in the sixteenth century (not a vestige of which remains at this writing, April, 1917), was one of the most ornate in France. Its fine Gothic façade rose upon seven quaintly different arcades, in the elaborate Renaissance style, pierced by ornate windows with Gothic tracery in the best of taste and workmanship. Overhead rose the graceful Belfry, terminating in a gilded ducal crown at the height of some two hundred and fifty feet. The weekly market fair was in full progress, and the old Grand' Place was swarming with carts, animals, booths, and chattering peasants. Before the Revolution, the Chapelle des Ardents and the spire of La Sainte-Chapelle on the Petit' Place commemorated the deliverance of Arras in the twelfth century from the plague called the "_mal des ardents_," when the Virgin is believed to have given a candle to two fiddlers, declaring that "water into which a drop of its holy wax had fallen would save all who drank it." * Behind the dominating tower of the Hotel de Ville was the modern Cathedral, formerly the abbey church of St. Vaast, with an unfinished tower of 1735. We found in the Chapel of the Virgin the tomb of Cardinal de la Tour d' Auvergne-Lauraguais, and the twelfth century tombs of an abbot, of Philippe de Torcy, a governor of Arras, and his wife. The treasury is said to have contained the blood-stained "_rochet_" worn by Thomas à Becket when he was murdered, but the sacristan refused to show it unless he was first paid a fee of two francs, which we thought exorbitant. * Hare's "Northeastern France." Arras was the capital of the Gallic tribe "Atrebates," and even in the dim fourth century was famous for the manufacture of woolen cloth, dyed with the madder which grows luxuriously in the neighborhood. The wearing of tapestry hangings gave Arras a high reputation, and examples are preserved in the museums of France and England, where the name of the town is used to identify them. The art has long since ceased to exist, needless to say. Briefly, the town followed the fortunes of the Pays d' Artois, of which it was the capital, passing by marriage from the house of France to Burgundy, Flanders, Burgundy again, Germany and Spain. After the battle of Agincourt, the English and French signed the treaty of peace at Arras. The town was finally incorporated with France in 1640. According to legend one of the ancient gates, of which no trace now remains, bore the proud distich= ```"Quand les souris prendront les chats, ```Le roi sera seigneur d'Arras."= which is said to have so enraged Louis of France that he expelled the whole population, abolishing even the name of Arras, which he changed to that of Franchise. Here was born the great Robespierre, but we were unable to find the house, or even the street in which it was situated, nor could any of the ecclesiastics to whom we applied for information enlighten us in regard to the matter. The Cathedral, a romanesque structure, at an angle of the abbey buildings, and approached by high stone steps broken by a platform, was built in 1755. Perhaps if we had not seen it after having feasted our eyes upon the exquisite details of the Hotel de Ville, it might have seemed more impressive and interesting. It contained some good pictures, including a "Descent from the Cross," and "The Entombment," attributed to Rubens and Van Dyck respectively. The high altar enshrined a notable bas-relief in gilt bronze. The Abbatial buildings were occupied by the 'Evéche, Seminary, Library, and the Musée, the latter containing a lot of modern paintings, badly hung, and seemingly indifferent in quality. In the cloisters, however, were rooms containing an archaeological collection of sculptures and architectural fragments, and a small collection of Flemish pictures by "Velvet" Breughel, Heemskerk, N. Maes and others, and upstairs, a fine model of an antique ship, "offered" by the States of Artois to the American Colonies in the War of Independence. One wonders why it was never sent. At the end of a quiet street which crossed the busy and crowded Rue St. Aubert, we came upon the remains of a remarkable old town gate, and the remains, too, of the ancient fortified walls, and farther on, the dismantled citadel constructed by the great Vauban in 1670, and called "La Belle Inutile." Here in this region, called the "cockpit of Europe," for ages incessant wars have been waged, covering the land with such a network of evidences of bitterly fought rivalries as no other portion of the earth can show, and when no foreign foe had to be baffled or beaten off, then the internecine wars of clan against clan have flooded the fair land with gore and ruin. But all was peaceful here about this old town this bright morning in July, 1910. There was no evidence of the red waves of the wars which had rolled over and eddied about this very spot, save the old dismantled Vauban tower and the remains of the ancient wall, in which we were only mildly interested. It was the present day's wanderings which interested us more; the lives of the peasants, their customs and their daily occupations. Time seemed to stand still here without any consciousness of backwardness. Nothing hurried at Arras, and change for the sake of change had no attraction for it. The ways of the fathers were good enough for the children. There was a newspaper here, of course, but yet the town crier held his own,--a strange looking old man in a long crinkly blue blouse, balloon like trousers of velveteen corduroy, wooden shoes and a broad brimmed felt hat. A drum hung suspended from his shoulder by a leather strap. He was followed by a small procession of boys and girls. He stopped and beat a vigorous tattoo on the drum; windows above and doors below were filled with heads as if by magic. He produced a folded paper from his pocket, glanced about him proudly conscious of the importance of the occasion, and read in a loud voice some local news of interest, and then announced the loss of something or other, with notice to hand whatever it was to the commissaire de Police, and then marched off down the street to repeat the performance at the next corner. The heads vanished from the windows like the cuckoos of German clocks, and the street was quiet again. Who could have believed that such a custom could have survived in the days of telegraph and telephone, and in a city of, say, thirty thousand inhabitants? The old streets and highways about the town were indescribably attractive, and beyond in the country, the shaded ways beneath large trees offered charming vistas, and shelter from the sun. The people seemed to have an intuitive feeling for harmony, and little or nothing in or about the cottages, save an occasional odoriferous pig sty, offended one. Colors melted into half tones in the most seductive fashion, and there was, too, an insistent harmony in the costumes of the peasants, the stain of time on the buildings or the grayish greens of the landscape. But of all this the peasant was most certainly unconscious. The glories of nature and her marvelous harmonies were no more to him than to the beast of the field. He was hard of heart, brutal of tongue and mean of habit. Balzac has well described him in his "Sons of the Soil." Money was his god, and greed his pursuit. Yet all about him nature bloomed and fructified, while he toiled and schemed, his eyes ever bent earthwards. The peasant had no sentiment. It was best therefore to view him superficially, and as part of the picturesqueness of the country, like the roofs and gables of the old town, say, without seeking out secrets of the "menage" behind the walls. We were interested in the various occupations of these semi-Flemish peasants, and the cries of the vendors in the streets in the early morning. Most of these cries were unintelligible to us because of the mixed patois, but it amused us to identify the cry of the vendor of eels, which was most lugubrious--a veritable wail of distress, seemingly. And when we saw her in the street below our windows, laden with two heavy baskets containing her commodity, her fat rosy face lifted to the sky, her appearance so belied the agonizing wail that we laughed aloud--and then--she heard us! What vituperation did she not address to us? Such a vocabulary, too! although we did not understand more than a few words she made it very plain that she regarded us as most contemptible beings. "_Miserable espece de Mathieux_" she called up to us again and again. Whatever that meant, whatever depths of infamy it denoted, we did not know, nor did we ever find out. We were much more careful thereafter, and kept away from the window, for setting down her baskets she planted herself on the curb opposite and there presiding over the curious group of market people whom she had collected about her, she raged and stormed with uplifted fat red arms gesticulating at our windows, until the crowd, wearying of her eloquence, gradually melted away. We never saw her again. There was also the seller of snails, whose cry was a series of ludicrous barks and cackles. I don't know how else to describe the extraordinary sounds he made. They quite fascinated us, for he varied them from time to time, taking seemingly much enjoyment in the ingenuity of his performance. His baskets, which hung by brass chains from a green painted yoke on his shoulders, contained a collection of very large snails, all, as he said, freshly boiled, and each shell being closed by a seal of fresh yellow butter, sprinkled, I think, with parsley (I never tasted them), and prettily reposing upon a bed of crisp pale green lettuce leaves. These seem to be highly esteemed by the people. Our chief search in Arras, after valuing the ancient halls and the limited treasures of the museum, was for some examples of the wonderful tapestries known far and near by the name of "Arras." In vain we sought a specimen; there was none in the museum, nor in the town hall either. Those whom we thought might be able to assist us in our search professed ignorance of any such article, and the priest whom we met in the cathedral, directed us to the local furniture shop for what he called "_belle tapis_" So we gave it up, most reluctantly, however. It is strange that not one example could be found in the town of this most renowned tapestry, for this ancient town enjoyed a reputation second to none in the low countries for art work of the loom. Cloth and all manner of woolen stuffs were the principal articles of Flemish production, but it was chiefly from England that Flanders drew her supply of wool, the raw material of her industry, and England was her great market as early as the middle of the twelfth century. There was a great guild established in London called the Flemish "Hanse," to which the merchants sent their manufacture. It was governed by a burgher of Bruges who was styled "Count of the Hanse." "The merchants of Arras became so prosperous and powerful, that (says a chronicler), Marguerite II, called The Black, countess of Flanders and Hainault, 1244 to 1280, was extremely rich, not only in lands but furniture, jewels, and money; and, as is not customary with women, she was right liberal and right sumptuous, not alone in her largesses, but in her entertainments and whole manner of living; insomuch that she kept up the state of a queen rather than a countess." (Kervyn de Lettenhove, Histoire d' Flandre, t, ii. p. 300.) To Arras, in common with the neighboring towns, came for exchange the produce of the North and the South, the riches collected in the pilgrimages to Novogorod, and those brought over by caravans from Samarcand and Bagdad,--the pitch of Norway and oils of Andalusia, the furs of Russia and dates from the Atlas, the metals from Hungary and Bohemia, the figs of Granada, the honey of Portugal, the wax of Morocco and the spices from Egypt: "Whereby" says the ancient manuscript, "no land is to be compared in merchandise to this land." And so, even if the guide books do dismiss Arras at the end of a few curt details with the words "The Town is now given over to various manufactures, and its few attractions may be exhausted between trains," Arras certainly did offer to the curious tourist many quaint vistas, a Town Hall of great architectural individuality, and in her two picturesque squares, the "Grand' Place" and the "Petit' Place," a picture of antiquity not surpassed by any other town in Northern France. Saint Jean Baptiste: Arras [Illustration: 0053] Quoting that eminent architect, Mr. Ralph Adams Cram, "We may pause in spirit in Arras (it would not be well to be there now in body, unless one were a soldier in the army of the Allies, when it would be perilous, but touched with glory), for sight of an old, old city that gave a vision, better than almost any other in France, of what cities were in this region at the high-tide of the Renaissance. It is gone now, utterly, irremediably, and the ill work begun in the revolution and continued under the empire, when the great and splendid Gothic Cathedral was sold and destroyed, has been finished by Prussian shells. "Capital of Artois, it had a vivid and eventful history, continuing under Baldwin of the Iron Arm, who became the first Count of Arras; then being halved between the Count of Flanders and the King of France; given by St. Louis to his brother Robert, passing to the Counts of Burgundy, reverting to Louis de Male, of Flemish fame, abandoned to the Emperor, won back by France;... coming now to its end at the hands of the German hosts. "What Arras must have been before the Revolution we can only guess, but its glorious Cathedral, its Chappelle des Ardents, and its 'Pyramid of the Holy Candle' added to its surviving Town Hall, with its fantastically beautiful spire, and its miraculously preserved streets and squares lined with fancifully gabled and arcaded houses, it must have been a sanctuary of old delights. The Cathedral was of all styles from the twelfth to the sixteenth century, while the Chapel and the Pyramid were models of medieval art in its richest state. Both were destroyed by one Lebon, a human demon and an apostate priest, who organised a 'terror' of his own in his city, and has gone down to infamy for his pestilential crime. Both the destroyed monuments were votive offerings in gratitude to Our Lady for her miraculous intervention in the case of the fearful plague in the twelfth century, the instrument of preservation being a certain holy candle, the melted wax from which was effective in preserving the life of all it touched. The Pyramid was a slender Gothic tabernacle and spire, ninety feet high, standing in the 'Petit' Place,' a masterpiece of carved and gilded sculpture, unique of its kind. Every vestige has vanished,--Berlin has just announced that it has been completely and intentionally destroyed by gun-fire. "The fine vigor of the Renaissance and its life were gone with the color and gold of the carved and painted shrines and houses, the fanciful costumes, the alert civic life.--Wantonly destroyed!" Madeline Wartelle, a voluntary nurse, who was in Arras during the great bombardment in July, 1915, wrote in the volume "Les Cites Meurtries" the following account of her experiences during the destruction of the Cathedral and the other noble buildings. "On July 2d, about six o'clock in the evening several shells fell upon the Cathedral. Then followed a calm for two hours. At half past eight, a bomb dropped from above, set fire to the house of M. Daquin in the rue de' l'Arsenal, and in a few moments the flames were mounting to a great height. When the firemen (_pompiers_) arrived, the fire had already spread to the house of Mme. Cornnan, and could not be confined even to the neighboring ones. During and following this catastrophe, at one o'clock in the morning, an avalanche of great bombs, those called 'Marmites,' fell all over this quarter of the town. This time, alas, we had no trouble in getting all the details of the happening, for our house collapsed, being struck by the second bomb dropped by the 'Taube,' which went through the roof to the cellar. Luckily, we had gone to R--s when the fire broke out, and thus we all escaped. "Forced to leave (Arras) we did not see the demolishment of the Cathedral and the Palace of St. Vaast on Monday, July 5th, but I set down here what I have learned from the lips of a witness of the deplorable 'aneantisment.' "From six o'clock on that date, the gun-fire of the 'Huns' was especially directed at the Cathedral, and the fire which ensued spread to the end of the Palace of St. Vaast, which contained the archives of the town, and which was entirely consumed, and spreading further likewise destroyed the Library and the Museum of the Seminary. The fire department did what it could to save the books and sacred objects, but their efforts were in vain, such was the rain of projectiles from the 'Taubes' above, and the shells from the great guns miles away. So the order to evacuate was given by the authorities. "At one o'clock the following morning the smouldering fire in the Cathedral was fanned by a high wind which sprang up, and soon enveloped the whole interior; the two great organs, the large pulpit, and the Bishop's stalls were entirely consumed. The fire in the Cathedral burned two whole days, watched by a mourning throng of the townspeople, who thus braved death by the falling bombs. All was consumed but the great door on the rue des Charriottes, which did not fall until the week following. On the twelfth day, at five in the morning, the fire demolished the Bishopric, and the Chapel of the great Seminary. Nothing is now left but a heap of smoking cinders and ashes, from which some charred beams protrude. The treasured Chateau d'Eau is gone!" Château, d'Eau: Arras [Illustration: 0061] "Happily, the 'Descent from the Cross' by Rubens, which decorated the Cathedral was removed from its place some hours before the fire, when the first of the great shells fell upon the town, and secreted by the priests. Also two 'triptychs' by Jean Bellegambe were saved by M. Levoy, who buried them in the cellar of the Chateau of the Counte de Hauteclocque. Curiously enough, some little time after they were thus secreted, a shell penetrated this cellar, but it is said that the damage to the pictures is small and may easily be repaired. "The Abbe Miseron, Vicar of the Cathedral, himself, at the peril of his life saved some of the most precious objects in the Treasury. He says (happily) that the great tombs of the Bishops, though buried beneath the ashes of the Cathedral, have suffered small damage. "Of the four colossal statues of the Evangelists, not a trace remains; they are entirely pulverized by the great shells exploding before them. "Of the Library, too, not a trace remains! Some of the archives have, I hear, been saved, together with a number of paintings, and M. Dalimeir, under secretary of Beaux Arts has decided to send them to Paris. All the rest has vanished. A fragment of the plan in relief of the old town of Arras, formerly in the Invalides was saved, but nothing remains of the Roman antiquities which were discovered in the caves beneath the town, nor of the old tapestries, nor the faience, nor of the objects which filled the galleries of Natural History in the museum.--All is gone! "In eleven months since the bombardment began, one hundred and seventy-five of our citizens have been killed in the streets and in their houses, and the number of wounded is more than double that number. After the demolition of our charming home, we found shelter for three nights in the cellar of a kind neighbor, but on the fifth of July, in the early morning, we had to take in our turn 'le chemin d' 'Exil.' For nine months now we have had to retreat from place to place, each filled with possible dangers, and certain discomfort, but with hearts filled too with profound emotion, and the hope that we may soon return to our beloved town and to our charming old home, our house so beloved--so peaceful once in those happy days, when the pigeons cooed on the eaves in the warm sunlight, the swallows darting to their nests on the chimney--all the cherished souvenirs of those past days--my tears--"... Our poor town"--(_ville Meurtrie_). "Around about Arras, the villages, once so smiling and prosperous, are now all in ruins.--Later on when glorious peace breaks upon the land of France, each hamlet shall be starred upon the pages of the golden book of history. And this black page of war once closed, that Arras-la-Morte shall rise from her ruins and ashes, more beautiful than ever, is my prayer." (Signed) Madeline Wartelle. July, 1915. In the _Journal Officiel_, of Paris, is the following:= ````Ministère de la Guerre. ```Citation à l' ordre de l' Armée.= Wartelle (Madeleine), Infirmière volontaire à l' ambulance 1/10 du Saint Sacrement: N'a cessé de prodiguer des Soins aux blessés et de fournir aux médicins la plus précieuse collaboration; a contribué par une action personnelle, lors du bombardment du 25 Juin, à sauver les blessés en les mettant hors d'atteinte des projectiles ennemis (27 Septembre 1915).= ````Ministère de l'Intérieur.= Le Gouvernement porte la connaissance du pays la belle conduite de Mlle. Wartelle (Madeleine): a fait preuve, dans des circonstances tragiques, du plus grand courage. Alors que l'ambulance du Saint-Sacrement à Arras, où elle était infirmière voluntaire, venait d' etre violemment bombardée, que des soldats et des religieuses etaient tués, elle est demeurée résolument à son poste, ardent à descendre à la cave les blessés, prodignant à tous ses soins empressés. (28 Novembre 1915.) LILLE |OUR fruitless search in Arras for some examples of the ancient tapestries somewhat dampened the ardor of our tour at the very beginning. But in the train on our way to Lille we Had a charming view of suburban Arras lying basking in the sun, all girt by its verdant belt of dense dark green trees. From the window of the railway carriage we saw the horizon expand, and hill after hill unroll, covered with waving corn, and realized that France s great northern granary lay spread before our eyes, the fields like cabochon emeralds set royally in virgin gold. Approaching Lille one got the impression of a region in which the commonweal formed the keynote, so to speak, and after the beauties surrounding quaint Arras, it seemed somewhat sordid. The embossed fair green hills were replaced by level plains; the smiling cornfields vanished before barren brown moors. The wealth of the earth here lay far below the plains, and man was busied in bringing it to the surface. Ceres gave way to Vulcan: Prosperous picturesque farmsteads were displaced by high black and ugly furnaces from which tremendous volumes of pitch black smoke issued the live-long day, and maybe the night as well. The stacks of grimy chimneys were seemingly as high as the spires of churches, and ashes and dust covered all. Lille is in the coal region. Somehow as we approached it we thought of our own Pittsburgh. The latter is no whit dirtier, but it is not so picturesque as was Lille. Roubaix, on the horizon, is even dirtier, so a traveling companion informed us, and gave us other information which kept us away from that Flemish town. Lille was said to be the administrative factor of northern France, in point of industry. The town had upwards of one hundred and thirty thousand inhabitants, among whom there were some possessed of great fortunes. These built for themselves houses of magnificent proportions on both sides of boulevards leading nowhere. In this region we found a café restaurant of princely aspect "as good as any in Paris," the townspeople proudly said, with a huge mansard roof, and a tower which did not fit it. On the river bank, lined with barges, were two fine promenades, brand new, and at the end of one was an artificial waterfall with plenty of water falling over artificial rocks in doubtful taste, of which the Lilleois were so pathetically proud that we could only smilingly agree to their extravagant joy in it as a work of art. Here we found American made tram cars running through the rather commonplace streets, which however were teeming with life and "business." In response to a question, a "cabby" urged as the greatest attraction a ride out to the hydraulic works situated on a plain, where a great engine pumped drinking water from a deep well inclosed in brick work. The whole atmosphere of the place was like unto that of one of our own Yankee towns. But there were, of course, some notable and picturesque buildings in Lille. There was the Exchange, the chief architectural ornament of the city, and really it was impossible to see it without pausing in admiration of its characteristics. Occupying, as it did, the great Market Place, I know of no other building like it save perhaps the Exchange in Antwerp, that lovely semi-Moorish hall with its shield-emblazoned frieze, and its lofty glass ceiling. This one at Lille was, of course, smaller, but it had the great advantage of being free from encroaching buildings, and standing quite alone, being visible from all four sides. Then, too, it was a genuine example of its order of architecture, a beautifully preserved specimen of the ancient Spanish style, with an added touch here and there of Italian Renaissance which blended charmingly. The walls were of Flemish red brick, while the Atrium, open to the sky, and serving as an inner court, was pure Italian. Here was a fine bronze statue of Napoléon I, all clad in imperial robes, about which the busy, bustling merchants of Lille transacted some of their business in the afternoons. In the mornings we found most delightful solitude here in this court, which then by contrast seemed liker unto the cloisters of some abbey than the busy commercial center it was later in the day. Emblazoned here upon marble slabs one could read of the records of famous citizens of the town whose deeds were esteemed as precious and noteworthy. It is said that it was at either Lille or Tournai that Napoleon found the golden bees which he adopted for the Imperial insignia, these being taken from the tomb of a Frankish king. We were further reminded of the Palais Royal in Paris, in the small shops, most brilliantly lighted at night, which formed the outer ring of the building. Here were displayed _bijoux-or-et-argent_, and also more or less exquisitely made robes for Madame de Lille. The upper part of the building, which was two-storied, had dormer windows, and a quadrant of beautifully designed and executed interlaced stonework with a profusion of caryatides, pilasters, and bands of carved stone fruit and garlands of flowers, all of the greatest richness, within an astonishingly small space. Nowhere could we find the name of the architect, but it is said that the foundation was laid in 1652 by the Spanish. Workmen were busy cleaning a small turret of most graceful design which rose from above the walls of this quaint old Hispano-Flemish monument, and I noted the care with which the work was being done, a pleasing testimonial to the love of the people of Lille for their ancient work of art. The Rihour Palace was far greater in size than the Exchange, but it did not match it in importance. The greater part of it was modern, for it was almost destroyed in the eighteenth century. Used as a town hall in the time of Louis Philippe, it became a sort of academy of art, wherein was displayed, and very well, too, a princely collection of paintings of Flemish and Dutch schools, and also the great collection of drawings known as the "Wicar Legacy," representing the Italian school, and containing a piece of sculpture of which all the museums of Europe envied that of Lille. This in the catalogue was described as, "A waxen head of Raphael's time, titled thus by the hand of Wicar himself when in 1834 he drew up in Rome the inventory of the old Italian art collection." * Huet regards this as a marvel that one should not miss seeing. He says, "In truth, one fancies himself to be looking at the transparent, softly tinted face of one of Raphael's Madonnas. Innocence and gentleness dispute each other the palm in the expression of the features, they have settled on the pure brow, they play tranquilly and somewhat sadly around the mouth, they are crowned by the plaits of the fair tresses." We admired the head and treasured Wicar's description of it. * "The Land of Rubens," C. B. Huet. Enumeration of the treasures contained in the Palais des Beaux Arts would take a volume in itself. Suffice it to say here that the collection contained in this edifice was among the most important in all France. Rumors have appeared in print during the last two years, that this whole collection has been carefully packed and sent to Berlin. At this date of writing (May, 1917) Lille has not yet been evacuated by the Germans, and we are told that none of the buildings has been destroyed save some unimportant ones near the railway station. Just what will be the fate of the town may be conjectured when one reflects upon what happened to Noyon, to Rheims, to Soissons, and to St. Quentin, when the invaders were no longer able to hold them. Let us pray that the Musée Wicar may be spared, by some happy chance. Wicar was an artist who died in 1834, who made a great deal of money by his work, and whose real hobby was the collection of the drawings by great masters, including nearly two hundred and fifty drawings by Michelangelo, sixty-eight by Raphael, and a large number by Francia, Titian and others, besides endless examples of the Renaissance. Statue of Jeanne d'Arc: Rheims [Illustration: 0077] Wandering about in Lille one came upon some handsome buildings behind the Hôtel de Ville in the Rue du Palais, which proved to be those of the Military Hospital, formerly a Jewish college. Here was an ancient chapel of the seventeenth century, containing a remarkable altar, and some huge dark paintings which may have been good, but the light was so dim, and they were hung so high that it was impossible to examine them. Continuing the wandering one reached the fine old town gate, the ancient Porte de la Barre, in a good state of preservation. There were a number of these gates. The old Porte de Paris was part of the fortifications, and built in the form of a sort of triumphal arch to the honor of Louis XVI. Some quaint streets as yet untouched by the march of commercialism, led from here into busy thoroughfares teeming with life and activity. One, running eastwards from the Porte de Paris, passed between a square and the old Hôtel du Génie, and this led one to the Gothic church of St. Sauveur, noteworthy for its double aisles, and most elaborate white marble high altar, carved in the Gothic style and with a bewildering detail and accompaniment of statues and alto-reliefs. There was also the great church of St. Maurice in the Flamboyant style, with a most notable west portal, most carefully restored in very good taste. An open-work spire of stone rose above it, all of admirable character. The interior proved to be distinguished by the width of the nave and the double aisles all of the same height, and by the richness of the effect lent by the remarkable lightness of the columns. The handsomest streets of the old town were the Rue Esquermoise and the Rue Royale. Near the entrance to the latter was the ancient church of St. Catherine, founded in the twelfth century, and rebuilt in its present style in the sixteenth, and restored again in the eighteenth century. Here above the altar was a fine "Martyrdom of St. Catherine," by Rubens. In common with the other Flemish cities of Douai, Cambrai, and Valenciennes, Lille suffered regularly from sieges and sackings, invasions and conquests from its very beginnings. "In June, 1297, Philip the Handsome, in person, laid siege to Lille, and on the 13th of August, Robert, Count of Artois, at the head of the French chivalry, gained at Furnes, over the Flemish army a victory which decided the campaign. Lille capitulated." "The English reinforcements arrived too late and served no other purpose but that of inducing Philip to grant the Flemings a truce for two years. A fruitless attempt was made with the help of Pope Boniface VIII, to change the truce into a lasting peace. The very day on which it expired, Charles, Count of Valois, and brother of Philip the Handsome, entered Flanders with a powerful army, surprised Douai,... gave a reception to its magistrates who came and offered him the keys. 'The burghers of the towns of Flanders,' says a chronicler of the age, 'were all bribed by gifts or promises from the King of France, who would never have dared to invade their frontier had they been faithful to their Count.' The Flemish communes desired the peace necessary for the prosperity of their commerce; but patriotic anxieties wrested with material interests.... "In the spring of 1304 the cry of war resounded everywhere. Philip had laid an import extraordinary upon all real property in his kingdom; regulars and reserves had been summoned to Arras to attack the Flemings by land and sea. He had taken into his pay a Genoese fleet commanded by Regnier de Grimaldi, a celebrated Italian admiral; and it arrived in the North Sea, blockaded Zierickzee, a maritime town of Zealand.... The Flemish fleet was beaten. A great battle took place on the 17th of August between the two great land armies at Mons-en-Puelle, or Mont-en-Pévèle, according to the true local spelling, near Lille. The action was for some time indecisive, and even after it was over both sides hesitated about claiming a victory; but when the Flemings saw their camp swept off and rifled, and when they no longer found in it 'their fine stuffs of Bruges and Ypres, their wines of Rochelle, their beers of Cambrai, and their cheeses of Bethune,' they declared that they would return to their hearths; and their leaders, unable to restrain them, were obliged to shut themselves up in Lille, whither Philip, who had himself retired to Arras, came to besiege them. When the first days of downheartedness were over, and the danger which threatened Lille, and the remains of the Flemish army became evident, all Flanders rushed to arms. "The labors of the workshop and the field were everywhere suspended; the women kept guard in the towns; you might traverse the country without meeting a single man, for they were all in the camp at Courtrai, to the number of twelve hundred thousand (!) according to popular exaggeration, swearing to one another that they would rather die fighting than live in slavery. Philip was astounded. "'I thought the Flemings were destroyed,' said he, 'but they seem to rain from heaven.' "The burghers of Bruges had made themselves a new seal whereon the old symbol of the bridge of their city on the river Reye was replaced by the Lion of Flanders, wearing the crown and armed with the cross, with this inscription: 'The Lion hath roared and burst his fetters' (Rugiit leo, Vincula fregit). "During ten years, from 1305 to 1314, there was between France and Flanders a continual alternation of reciprocal concessions and retractions, of treaties concluded and of renewed insurrections without decisive and ascertained results. It was neither peace nor war; and after the death of Philip the Handsome, his successors were destined for a long time to come to find again and again amongst the Flemish communes deadly enmities and grievous perils." * * Guizot's "History of France." What wonder then that Lille retains so few remarkable public monuments. Perhaps of all the Flemish towns she suffered most from pillage and fire. Farther on in the Rue Royale, beyond the statue of General Négrier, was the eighteenth century church of St. André, once belonging to the "Carmes déchaussés," where there were some good paintings by a native artist, Arnould de Vuez, who enjoyed considerable celebrity. Following the attractive quays along the river front, which was teeming with life and movement, one reached the small square of St. Martin, where was the church of "Notre Dame de la Trielle," which is said to have occupied the site of the ancient moated Chateau du Buc, which formed the origin of the city of Lille, and which the Flemish to this day call Ryssel. A fortress of the first class, Lille's citadel is said to have been Vauban's masterpiece, and perhaps this is one of the reasons why the invaders of 1914 surrounded it with the network of concrete trenches and galleries which formed the angle of the famous Hinden-burg line after the disastrous retreat from Arras in April, 1917. So far Lille has not suffered very much from the bombardment of this present year, but it is safe to say now that the invader will not spare it in retreat. AMIENS |THERE was no better way of realizing the great bulk and height of the Cathedral than by proceeding to the banks of the river Somme northward, and from this point appraising its architectural wonder rising above the large and small old gray houses, tier above tier, misted in the soft clouds of gray smoke from their myriad chimneys, capped with red dots of chimney pots, "a giant in repose." In approaching Amiens the traveler was offered no "coup d'oeil" like that of other cathedral towns; here "this largest church in the world except St. Peter's, at Rome," was hidden from view as one entered the town, and followed the Rue des Trois Cailloux, along what was formerly the boundaries of the ancient walls. It was difficult to obtain a good view of the façade, that of the west point was seen from a parvis, which qualified the difference in level between the east and west ends, and here was the central porch which took its name, "Porche de le Beau Dieu d'Amiens," from the figure of the Savior on its central pillar, and of which Ruskin wrote, "at the time of its erection, it was beyond all that had then been reached of sculptured tenderness." It is not known at this time of writing (May, 1917) whether Amiens has suffered greatly at the hands of the Germans. Perhaps without its destruction there have been sufficient crimes committed against the church in the name of military necessity, and it thus has been spared. For some reason or other Ruskin was not overenthusiastic over Amiens. He described the beautiful "flèche," which rose so gracefully from the great bulk against the sky, as "merely the caprice of a village carpenter," and he further declared that the Cathedral of Amiens is "in dignity inferior to Chartres, in sublimity to Beauvais, in decorative splendor to Rheims, and in loveliness of figure sculpture to Bourges." On the other hand, the great Viollet-le-Duc called it the "Parthenon of Gothic Architecture." Of the two authorities, one may safely pin one's faith to the opinion of the eminent Frenchman, who spent his life in restoring great works rather than in abusing them. Whewell says: "The mind is filled and elevated by the enormous height of the building (140 feet), its lofty and many colored clerestory, its grand proportions, its noble simplicity. The proportion of height to breadth is almost double that to which we are accustomed in English cathedrals; the lofty solid piers, which bear up this height, are far more massive in their plan than the light and graceful clusters of our English churches, each of them being a cylinder with four engaged columns. The polygonal E apse is a feature which we seldom see, and nowhere so exhibited, and on such a scale; and the peculiar French arrangement which puts the walls at the outside edge of the buttresses, and thus forms interior chapels all around, in addition to the aisles, gives a vast multiplicity of perspective below, which fills out the idea produced by the gigantic height of the center. Such terms will not be extravagant when it is recollected that the roof is half as high again as Westminster Abbey." Indeed this great height is only surpassed by that of one cathedral in all of France--Beauvais. The vast arches here rose to nearly half the height of the structure, and then above these the architect placed a lovely band or frieze of carved foliage; then the triforium, and above this the glorious windows, separated from each other only by tall slender pillars springing gracefully from heavier ones. Nearly all the original painted glass was destroyed in the thirteenth century, but that which replaced it was of a certainty entirely satisfying. Between two immense pillars at the entrance to the nave were the heavily ornamented gilded brass tombs of the Bishops who founded the Cathedral. That on the left was Geoffroi d'Eu, who died in 1236, and on the right was that of Evrard de Fouilloy, who died in 1223. Each shows a recumbent figure in full robes inclosed in Gothic canopies with pointed arches, and sustained by lions. The great organ loft was beneath the magnificent "rose de mer" window which was filled with the arms of the house of Firmin de Coquerel. In the choir were one hundred and ten carved stalls, said to have been designed and made by local artists of Amiens, and these alone would have made any cathedral noteworthy. According to that eminent authority, Mr. Francis Bond, the height of the nave and the aisles is three times their span, and this feature gave the effect for which the architect worked, that is, a splendid blaze of luminosity shining down into gloomy and most mysterious shadow. This blaze of light and color came not only from the clerestory, but also from the triforium, in which the superb blue glass shone with celestial splendor. The meaning of the word "triforium" is perhaps somewhat obscure to all save architects. Herbert Marshall * defines the word as "Applied to the ambulatory or passage, screened by an arcade, which runs between the pier arches and clerestory windows and is considered to refer to the three openings, or spaces, 'trinae fores,' into which the arcading was sometimes divided. It probably has nothing to do with openings in multiples of three, nor with a Latinised form of 'thoroughfare' as suggested by Parker's Glossary, although the main idea is a passage running round the inside of a church, either as at Westminster, in the form of an ambulatory chamber, or of a gallery pierced through the main walls, from whence the structure may be inspected without the trouble of using ladders. M. Enlart in his 'Manuel d'Archéologie Française' derives the word from a French adjective, 'trifore,' or 'trifoire,' through the Latin 'transforatus,' a passage pierced through the thickness of the wall; and this idea of a passageway is certainly suggested by an old writer, Gervase, who, in his description of the new cathedral of Canterbury, rebuilt after the fire, alludes to the increased number of passages round the church under the word 'triforia.' 'Ibi triforium unum, hie duo in Choro, et in alâ ecclesiae tercium.'" * "Gothic Architecture in England." Ruskin wrote in his diary under date of May 11th, 1857: "I had a happy walk here (Amiens) this afternoon, down among the branching currents of the Somme: it divides into five or six, shallow, green and not over-wholesome; some quite narrow and foul, running beneath clusters of fearful houses, reeling masses of rotten timber; and a few mere stumps of pollard willow sticking out of the banks of soft mud, only retained in shape of bank by being shored up with timbers; and boats like paper boats, nearly as thin at least, for costermongers to paddle about in among the weeds, the water soaking through the lath bottoms, and floating the dead leaves from the vegetable baskets with which they were loaded. Miserable little back yards, opening to the water, with steep stone steps down to it, and little platforms for the ducks; and separate duck staircases, composed of a sloping board with cross bits of wood leading to the ducks' doors; and sometimes a flower pot or two on them, or even a flower--one group of wall flowers and geraniums curiously vivid, being seen against the darkness of a dyer's backyard, who had been dyeing black, and all was black in his yard but the flowers, and they fiery and pure; the water by no means so, but still working its way steadily over the weeds, until it narrowed into a current strong enough to turn two or three 'wind mills,' (!) one working against the side of an old Flamboyant Gothic church, whose richly traceried buttresses sloped down into the filthy stream; all exquisitely picturesque, and no less miserable. (! ) We delight in seeing the figures in these boats, pushing them about the bits of blue water, in Prout's drawings; but as I looked to-day at the unhealthy face and melancholy mien of the man in the boat pushing his load of peat along the ditch, and of the people, men as well as women, who sat spinning gloomily at cottage doors, I could not help feeling how many persons must pay for my picturesque subject and happy walk." The reader will probably exclaim: "Well, if this is Ruskin's idea of a 'happy walk,' what then would be his description of a gloomy one?" We did not find the view of the town so squalid as this. Rising against the golden glow of the evening sky, the great bulk of the Cathedral massed itself in purple mist, its slender needle-like center tower and spire piercing the sky. Below lay the dull reds and slaty grays of the houses, concealed here and there by the massive foliage of the trees that lined the river bank. Barges of picturesque shape were tied up to the banks here and there, with lines of pink, white and blue freshly washed clothes strung along the decks, where children played, and there were brightly painted cabin deck houses, all white and green, from the chimney pipes of which ascended long pale lines of smoke from the galley stoves, showing that the evening meal was being cooked. On the decks of these barges nervous shaggy dogs ran up and down barking furiously at one thing or another; over all seemed to rest the air of well being and sweet content. If there were stagnant pools of filthy water, as Ruskin claimed, we saw them not, nor did the peasants seem unhealthy or miserable to our eyes. Amiens was delightful to look upon, and we drove back to the hotel quite satisfied with our first view of it. Day by day afterwards we haunted the great Cathedral, studying it from every viewpoint. Again and again we returned to the choir to gloat over the one hundred and ten magnificent stalls, carved as fluently as if modeled in clay, the forms so flowing and graceful as to suggest living branches, pinnacle crowning pinnacle, and detail of grace of design so exquisite as to be almost painful to follow--"Imperishable, fuller of leafage than any forest, and fuller of story than any book." (Ruskin.) The outside wall of the choir was quite concealed by the most richly Flamboyant Gothic archwork. In these arches were quantities of figures of saints, all emblazoned with gold and crimson and blue. These groups have been described by Lubke so well that I can do no better than quote him: "St. John is shown when he sees Christ and points him out to the multitude; then St. John preaching in the wilderness, and the Baptism of Christ, which is arranged with peculiar beauty and simplicity; lastly St. John as a preacher of repentance when the listening multitude is depicted with life. Then there are four scenes: the Apprehension of St. John; the Banquet, at which Herodias asks for the head of the Preacher of Repentance--a scene executed with genre-like style, the figures appearing in the costume of the period; the 'Beheading of St. John'; and, lastly, another banquet scene, in which the severed head appears on the table, and Herodias puts out the eyes, at which her daughter sinks in a swoon, and is caught up by a young man, while a page in horror runs away with the dish. Below these larger representations, in the one case in ten, in the other in five medallions, scenes from the youth of St. John are depicted. The relief is more shallow, and with simple arrangement is very attractive in expression." The great blazing rose windows of the transept were named "Fire" and "Water," but which was which we never quite discovered, because of a difference of opinion held by those whom we questioned, but this did not in the least affect our opinion of their great artistic value, or interfere with our admiration. In the south transept we readily found the gravestone in memory of the Spanish Captain Hernando Tiello, who captured Amiens in 1597, and just opposite, the great stone sarcophagus of the Canon Claude Pierre, who must have been a canon of great importance, to have been so favored and placed. In the Chapel of Notre Dame de Puy were a great number of marble tablets emblazoned with the names of the Fraternity of Puy, and bore reliefs in marble, showing scenes in the life of the Virgin Mary. Here there was much intricate Flamboyant tracery framing some scenes in the life of St. James the Great, of the sixteenth century style, presented by Canon Guillaume Aucouteaux. The north transept contained the fine monument of the Canon Jehan Wyts, who died in 1523. This showed the temple at Jerusalem, in four scenes depicting the "Sanctum," the "Atrium," the "Tabernaculum," and "Sanctum-Sanctorum." In this transept was buried the remains of the comic poet "Gresset," who flourished in the eighteenth century, and a great shrine for the head of John the Baptist, said to be incased here, and to have been brought from the Holy Land and presented with imposing ceremonies, by the Crusader Wallon de Sarton, who was likewise Canon of Picquigny. Singularly enough there were several other heads incased in magnificent jeweled reliquaries which were to be seen in other churches, notably in the south of France, and in Genoa, each one claiming, with much documentary proof, to be the sole and only authentic head of the Great Preacher of Repentance. In one of the chapels in the left aisle of the nave, that of St. Saulve, was a remarkable crucifix, which enjoyed great repute, for it was gravely alleged to have bowed its head upon the occasion of the installment of the sacred relics of St. Honoré. Inside the great open porches the whole space was filled with the most delicate fourteenth century lacework in stone. The principal one showed on its frontal a statue of St. Michael conquering the dragon. The fine ironwork of the doors was made in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries by natives of Amiens, whose names are forgotten. Walter Pater ("Miscellaneous Studies") says: "The builders of the church seem to have projected no very noticeable towers; though it is conventional to regret their absence, especially with visitors from England, where indeed cathedral and other towers are apt to be good and really make their mark.... The great western towers are lost in the west front, the grandest, perhaps the earliest, of its species--three profound sculptured portals; a double gallery above, the upper gallery carrying colossal images of twenty-two kings of the house of Judah, ancestors of our Lady; then the great rose; above it the Singers' Gallery, half marking the gable of the nave, and uniting at their topmost stories the twin, but not exactly equal or similar towers, oddly oblong in plan as if meant to carry pyramids or spires. In most cases these early Pointed churches are entangled, here and there, by the construction of the old round-arched style, the heavy Norman or other, Romanesque chapel or aisle, side by side, though in strange contrast, with the soaring new Gothic nave or transept. But of the older manner of the round arch, the 'plein-cintre,' Amiens has nowhere, or almost nowhere, a trace. The Pointed style, fully pronounced, but in all the purity of its first period, found here its completest expression." Amiens, the ancient capital of Picardy, was one of the greatest of the manufacturing towns of France. There were many large factories engaged in the production of cashmere, velvet, linen, and woolens, and in the early morning, and again at night, thousands of the employees filled the streets of the town on their way to and from work. It was called by the Ambiani, before it was captured by Cæsar, Samarobriva, and was their chief town. Christianity was introduced by St. Firmin in the year 301, which perhaps is as far back as any one cares to go in the matter. And history farther cautions the reader not to confound this St. Firmin with that other St. Firmin, who was only a "Confessor" or something of the sort. The Normans seem to have had a strong desire to put an end to the town, for they regularly pillaged and burned it. The place was ceded to the Duke of Burgundy in 1435, but was recovered in 1463 by Louis XI. The Spaniards conquered it in 1597, but Henry IV retook it from them. The Peace of Amiens between France, Great Britain, Spain and Holland was signed here in 1802. The battle of Amiens, in the Franco-Prussian War, resulted in the entry of the Germans in November, 1870. Its present fate is problematical, but it would seem, in view of the retirement of the invader northward of Arras and Lens, that the great and noble monuments of the ancient town are now safe. Heinrich Heine long ago wrote the following prophetic words: "Christianity--and this is its highest merit--has in some degree softened, but it could not destroy, the brutal German joy of battle. When once the taming talisman, the Cross, breaks in two, the savagery of the old fighters, the senseless Berserker fury, of which the Northern poets sing and say so much, will gush up anew. That talisman is decayed, and the day will come when it will piteously collapse. Then the old stone gods will rise from the silent ruins, and rub the dust of a thousand years from their eyes. Thor, with his giant's hammer, will at last spring up, and shatter to bits the Gothic Cathedrals." PÉRONNE |THE delightful banks of the river Somme are imprinted on one's memory among those "sweet places" where it would seem as though man could not but choose to be happy, so liberally had nature decked them with her gifts. Yet all of this region formerly known as Flanders, has from time immemorial been war's favorite playground, "the Cockpit of Europe." Even in the intervals of wars, strife equally bitter, if less bloody, has raged here,--the struggle of industry against adequate reward. One could never forget the sight of women laboring early and late in the fields, or harnessed together at the end of long tow lines, painfully dragging barges against the current of the river, or in the factory yards, trampling with bare feet a mixture of coal dust and clay which, molded into briquettes, was used as fuel. Strangely enough, these women and girls, some of them of tender age, seemed happy and content with their work. The sound of their singing as they labored could be heard for a long distance. As the barges passed on the river bank, with these women bending forward, straining at the yoked ends of the tow rope, moving slowly step by step, we noted that not seldom they were quite handsome of face, and of good figure. Invariably they saluted us good humoredly with smiles, but when I removed my hat in response, I could see that this courtesy struck them as unusual, and did not leave the impression I desired. Thereafter I modified the salutation. At the inn in Péronne a young "commis-voyageur" with whom I made conversation, and related this incident, told me that I had better beware of offering such civilities in future, since these Amazons had been known to seize strangers for fancied offenses, and after giving them rough treatment, cast them into the river. He called upon the proprietor of the inn to substantiate his warning, and the latter satisfied me as to its truth, giving details which need not be set down here, and which quite decided the matter. Péronne as an historic and notable town was second to none in all Picardy. Here the early kings had a great palace given to them by Clovis II. Hotel de Ville: Péroinne [Illustration: 0107] Erchinold, the Mayor, erected a monastery near by for Scotch monks, presided over by St. Fursy. Not a trace of this now remains. It is said to have contained the tomb of Charles the Simple, who died of famine at the hands of Hubert in a dungeon. When Philip d'Alsace, Count of Vermandois, was killed in the Crusades (1199) the towns of Péronne and St. Quentin were united to the crown of France, and so remained. Charles V, in 1536 unsuccessfully besieged Péronne, and during this siege a young woman named Marie Fourré performed prodigious deeds of heroism which history records. The great Ligue of 1577 was proclaimed here, following its announcement at Paris. Until the Duke of Wellington captured it on his way to Paris' after the battle of Waterloo, Péronne-la-Pucelle had never been taken by an enemy. In the Franco-Prussian War, 1870-71, Péronne was sacked and burned after a most memorable siege, in which many of the remarkable old buildings were destroyed, but in 1910 the town, when I last saw it, was one of the quaintest in all Picardy. There was a remarkable old church here, that of St. Jean, which dated from the sixteenth century, which had a portal of three Gothic arches and arcades surmounted by a great flamboyant rose-window, the glass of which, though modern, was of fine quality and workmanship. It had a tower flanked by a "tourelle" of beautiful proportions, and in the interior the vaulting, pulpit, and the stained glass windows were pronounced by experts to be well-nigh faultless. This church, and the most singular and picturesque Hôtel de Ville (sixteenth century), a sketch of which I made in 1910, the invaders took great pains entirely to destroy in April, 1917, when they made their celebrated "victorious retreat." The latest accounts say that not a trace of these two remarkable monuments now exists, that for a week or more before the retreat, the German engineers used tons of explosives to destroy them. The gray old square before the Hôtel de Ville is now a yawning pit, bordered by shapeless piles of stone and ashes. At this time we know not what other mischief the invader has committed in this neighborhood. There are endless opportunities for destruction and pillage, and we may be fully prepared for irreparable damage and losses in all of this region before the Iconoclasts are driven back to their last line of defenses. All of Champagne, of Picardy,--all of Flanders were filled with exquisite villages, towns, and cities, each of which was unique in works of art and antiquity. These have shriveled like a garden of flowers before a heavy frost. This great catastrophe has so stunned humanity, that we are only beginning to realize what it means. The invader says contemptuously that no cathedral is worth the life of one German soldier. So Rheims has been destroyed; so St. Peter's of Louvain; so--but why enumerate here?--The list is recorded in letters of fire. CAMBRAI, and the SMALL TOWNS |THE "Cameracum" of ancient days of Roman occupation, holding this name up to the twelfth century, Cambrai, at the outbreak of the war in 1914, was entirely satisfying to the seeker of the charms of picturesqueness, as well as the historian. After what is known as the period of the Antonine Itinerary, it became the capital of a petty episcopal arrondisement, under the protection of the Dukes of Burgundy who, unable to hold it, gave it over "for privileges" to the German emperors, who thereafter retained it under the title of "Châtelains," as it was a fortified stronghold. Situated on a hillside on the right bank of the river Scheldt, it was a busy and prosperous commercial town, with a semi-Flemish population of about twenty-five thousand. Its history in thumbnail form is as follows: In 1508 the Emperor Maximilian, Pope Julius II, Ferdinand of Aragon, and Louis XII of France formed here the celebrated League of Cambrai, which was directed against Venice. In 1529 the so-called Paix de Dames was signed by Louise of Savoy and Margaret of Austria, who negotiated its provisions in the castle on the hill, for Francis I and Charles V. However, by the treaty of Nimwegen, Louis XV recovered it, and it was thus held by France until captured by the Duke of Wellington in 1815. Many celebrated men were born at Cambrai, or became identified with the town, such as the chronicler, Enguer-rand de Monstrelet, who died in 1453. The great Fénelon was Archbishop of Cambrai, as was also Cardinal Dubois, who served as minister for Louis XV, and then follows an array of names that lent glory to the annals of Flanders. Perhaps few know that the town gave name to that fine linen which was produced here in the fifteenth century, the invention of a native named Baptiste. The English named the cloth "Cambric," but to the Flemish and French it was known, and is still for that matter, as "Ba'tiste" after the inventor. At the outbreak of the war this linen cloth was the chief product of the town. Entrance to the town was through the gate called "Porte Robert," near which was the citadel. There was a large and impressive square called the "Esplanade," where statues had been raised to "Batiste" and the historian "Enguerrand de Monstrelet." Then followed the "Place aux Bois," lined with handsome trees, and large "Place d'Arms," on which was the "Hôtel de Ville," which, while of comparatively modern construction and rebuilt in the last century, was sufficiently interesting even to a student of ancient Flemish architecture. Its most elaborate façade was sculptured by one Hiolle of Valenciennes. The tower bore two gigantic statues, much venerated by the townspeople, named respectively "Martin" and "Martine," but curiously enough there was a wide difference of opinion as to which was which, some saying that the left hand giant was Martin, and others protesting the contrary. The figures dated from the time of Charles V, and were presented by him to the town in 1510. On the square at the opening of the Rue St. Martin was a fine Gothic belfry dated 1447, and attached to the church of that name. This contained a notable chime of bells, a carillon, the work of the Hemonys. * In the Rue de Noyon was the Cathedral of "Notre Dame," part of which had been rebuilt since a fire which consumed it about sixty years ago. The interior contained notably the fine marble and bronze monument of Fénelon, and a statue to this celebrity, the work of David d'Angers, all worth a considerable journey to see. The body of the church was of the eighteenth century and while of purity in detail, offered no very striking features. There were eight very large mural paintings "en grisaille" after the works of Rubens, by Geeraerts, a modern artist of Antwerp, but these, despite the obvious merit of the work, seemed somehow out of key with the interior. * See "Vanished Towers and Chimes of Flanders," for chapter on bell founding. Wandering about, we came upon a small street in which we found a remarkable collection of paintings of the Netherlands School owned by a private collector, who was pleased to show them, and delighted by our enthusiasm over their qualities. This gentleman insisted upon becoming our guide about the town, and showed us so many attentions that my Lady Anne became bored with him, and this led to our leaving Cambrai before the time we had set--but we left a letter of appreciation and thanks addressed to him. He it was who brought us to the church of St. Géry in the Place Fénelon, on the site of one founded by St. Vaast in 520. This had a remarkable dome which was upheld by four very slender columns, of very unusual character, and there was also a magnificent renaissance "jube," or altar screen, of colored marble, and a transept containing a large painting of the "Entombment," attributed to Rubens. The "Episcopal Palace of Fénelon" was just across the street, or at least a fragment of the original building, with a very richly decorated triple portal in the Renaissance style. It was this palace that Fénelon opened to the fugitives of the battle of Malplaquet, who thronged the town of Cambrai for protection and food. History states that every corner of the building was filled with the hapless people, and their small belongings hastily gathered together in the flight. The gardens and courts were crowded with cows, calves, and pigs, and the scene is said to have been indescribable. Emanuel de Broglie, who wrote the account ("Fénelon a Cambrai," de Broglie), says, "Officers to the number of one hundred and fifty, both French and prisoners of war, were received by Fénelon at his house, and seated at his table at one time." "God will help us," said the Archbishop; "Providence hath infinite resources on which I can confidently rely. Only let us give all we have: it is my duty and my pleasure." Over the side doors were inscriptions on "banderoles"--"A Clare Justitia" on one, and on the other "A gladio pax." The fine "Chateau de Selles," on the banks of the Scheldt River, was built in the fifteenth century. The beautiful reliefs of its gables, its statues, and the wrought iron grills of its balconies were still perfect, and the view from its green terrace was most enjoyable. There was a curious sort of penthouse shown to us, near a building called "Vieux Château" of which pillars with rudely sculptured capitals remained. Near this was a well with some ancient rusty ironwork, and a stone which our quondam guide said had served in ages long ago as a block in executions. Somehow we thought that he lied, and with considerable skill withal, but we dismissed him with payment of a franc for his pains. He did not go, however, but followed us about at a distance muttering to himself and occasionally waving his hands in a most absurd manner, until at length we happily lost him. There was a curious small building called the Grange aux Dimes, divided into two parts, one subterranean, the other on the level of the soil. Two staircases, one inside, the other outside, led to a hall on the first floor. This was divided by two ranges of pillars, with ornate capitals of foliage. The door to the subterranean passage was unfastened and we ventured down into the darkness and must for a short distance. I am convinced that we might have had some adventures below had we explored the tunnel. Near this was "Le Puits," supposed to be the entrance to other vast vaults, a subterranean town extending beneath the hill for miles, and formerly used for many purposes in the Middle Ages. These vaults were to be found in many of the towns hereabouts, and during the occupancy of the country by the Germans since the invasion of 1914, the soldiers have used them to store away ammunition and supplies. Over these small towns for three years now have raged battles the like of which for fierceness and bloody loss the world has never seen. The small town of Marcoing, about five miles from Cambrai, had one of these wonderful caverns of refuge dating from the Middle Ages, and there were others at Villers-Guizlain and at Honnecourt, where there were the ruins of a Roman town, and an immense church with a porch of the eleventh century. This was said to have been a famous place of pilgrimage in the twelfth century. Tradition has it that in that century three brothers of the family of Courcy le Marchais were taken prisoners during the crusades. In the power of the Sultan they languished, until at length he bethought him to send his young daughter to their dungeon, where they lay in chains, thinking that she might by the power of her beauty and eloquence bring them to the faith of the Mussulmans. But strange to relate, she it was who succumbed to the arguments of the three fair-haired brothers, and finally promised to become a Christian provided that they show her an image of the Holy Virgin of whom they had so eloquently told her. Now the three brothers had no image of the Virgin, everything having been taken from them when they were cast into the dungeon. But all at once, says the Chronicle, the image of the Virgin bathed in golden Celestial light appeared miraculously before them in a niche on the wall, so the Sultan's daughter, thus convinced, not only set the three fair-haired brothers free, but accompanied them, bearing in her bosom the sacred image, which henceforth was enshrined here on the altar and venerated. The three brothers then built a church in the twelfth century, on the site of which this present one of the fourteenth century was erected. Its portal was fifteenth century, and at the cross was a spire with quaintly formed pinnacles. Inside, a remarkably rich "jube," or altar screen, divided the nave from the choir, almost hiding the sanctuary containing a singular coal black doll-like sort of image, and a large collection of "Ex-votos," with some other offerings most tawdry in character. North of Valenciennes and very near the Flemish border was the old town of St. Amand-les-Eaux, famous for its mud baths for the cure of rheumatism and gout since the time of the Romans. The town was situated at the confluence of the rivers Elnon and Scarpe, and is said to have grown up around an abbey built by St. Amand in the seventh century. Save for the portal and the façade of the church nothing remained of the original structure. A tower containing a fine carillon of bells by Flemmish founders, perhaps the Van den Gheyns of Malines, is said to have been designed by Peter Paul Rubens. From the summit of the tower a wonderful view of the surrounding country was had, and for this reason the Germans blew it up in April, 1917, before their retreat. Maison du Provost: Valenciennes [Illustration: 0123] There was here a quaint Hôtel de Ville in the Flemish-Renaissance style, much floriated in parts. Let us hope that this has been spared. The site of the ancient abbey had been most charmingly covered with a blooming garden of brilliant flowers, and here children and nurses played, while "invalides" dozed on the benches in the sunlight. From the baths a very wild and beautiful park stretched across the country to the forest of Raismes through the forest of St. Amand. Epehy is another small town now held by the Germans because of its strategical value. It is on the ancient Roman road, or "Chaussée Brunehaut," which runs from Arras to Rheims. Under the great church are subterranean galleries, which, it is said, stretch for unknown distances in every direction; indeed, it seems as if the whole country hereabouts were undermined by these ancient galleries, many of which were unexplored, and in some instances shunned by the peasants as haunted by evil spirits, and many and fantastic were the tales told of some of these caverns, during the summer days when wanderings about the countryside held us here in happy durance. It was delightful to watch the grave old men of the village playing bowls or skittles, and their pride over the skill which enabled one of them, a patriarch, to account for six pins at one shot. His cannoning was the very poetry of statics. As a foil the unskillful efforts of the present writer were not altogether unsuccessful, for they brought to the stolid faces of the players smiles not unkindly, but of considerable latitude. In the little "estaminet" (Spanish estamento) at the foot of the hill, cutlets, broiled young chicken, and a rough and cheap but good sparkling wine, all graced by the good humor of the proprietor, raised our content to enthusiasm, so we saw and studied the locality, socially and mythologically, to the end of its possibilities. We found that these peasants, seemingly so phlegmatic and commonplace, were really chimerical, and their tales and conversation skirted the borderland of fact and fancy. The two were so melted down and run into one mold as to be impossible of separation. I have listened to some of these tales with interest, until the splashes of golden light were gone from the valleys and a vast canopy of rose-shot lilac emblazoned the setting of the sun. In the woods hereabouts, as in other parts of this region of caverns, thin mysterious sounds were often audible at night to those who had ears to hear: the noise of a distant hunt, the sound of winding horns, the confused shouts of a troop of hunters, and the chime of hounds in full cry. Pious and superstitious peasants, listening indoors, crossed themselves, those who were abroad in the lanes hastened their steps, not glancing in the direction from which the sounds came. It was the Wild Chasseur. This is the story: St. Amand, Count of the Palatinate, lived hereabouts in the tenth century, in a great castle of which even the foundations have long since disappeared. He was known as a mighty hunter, but was a profane prince, caring naught for the worship of the Lord, nor the chant of the priest, but following ever the wild creatures, rather than the ways of truth and righteousness. There came one day in the autumn, and it was Sunday, long before the coming dawn disclosed the distant dome of the Cathedral. When this reckless count mounted his great horse, and at the head of an equally reckless band of merry hunters, started out on the chase, the great dim forests rang with the loud blasts of the horn, and the loud shouts of the young men broke the calm stillness of the holy day and scandalized the good priests, and the pious people of the neighborhood. Out came the noisy cavalcade into the open where four roads met. To them, one from the North and one from the South, and galloping furiously, came two horsemen; the one from the North was young, blonde and handsome, with an air of distinction, all clad in bright new cloak and bonnet of golden yellow. The cavalier from the South seemed a man of temper, and was of sinister visage, bestriding a great horse of a temper to match that of its rider. His costume was of black velveteen save for his headpiece of scarlet cloth, which flowed scalloped down his back. The Count at the head of his troop saluted these two strangers courteously and invited them bear him company in the chase. "My lord," answered the rider from the North, removing his bonnet, and showing his fair hair in a golden mass about his shoulders, "the Sabbath bells are ringing in your church for the service in praise of our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, for'tis the hour in which the voices of men in holy canticle are sent on high asking forgiveness of our sins and iniquities. This day is sanctified to Him above. I do bid you now accompany me unto the throne of Grace, on bended knee, in all humility.--For upon the offender shall descend the vengeance of the Most High, forever and ever." "In Satan's name, Sir Golden Locks!" answered St. Amand scornfully, "thou hast a tongue like a ranting priest. What right hast thou to wear a sword, pray?--I have no mind for canticles to-day!" Loud laughed the troop of cavaliers at this, and then was heard the voice of the rider in black from the South, whose great horse champed the bit and tossed its head restlessly. "Come, let us away, St. Amand! What care have we for monastery bells and sniveling priests!--Let us to the noble chase for mass, with sound of the winding horn for organ note!" "Well said, Sir Red Crest," replied St. Amand, with a loud laugh and a wave of his gauntleted hand. "_Ventre son gris!_ Let us away then!" The whole troop sprang forward at the word. Over the hills, through the ravines and deep ditches, and into the dark woods, ever rode the strangers, one at the right and one at the left of St. Amand. On the right, the fair young golden haired knight, and on the left, the black clad sinister man with the crimson hood. All at once appeared among the great trunks of the beech trees an antlered deer white as the driven snow, which after one startled look at the furiously riding troop of men, sped away like the wind. With winding horn the hunters pursued it over the green meadows and up and down the hills, trampling corn fields and peasant gardens under foot all unmindful of what ill they did. Naught counted for these men but the chase, and ever St. Amand headed the band, and on his right rode the fair young blonde rider from the North and on his left the swarthy knight from the South. Finally, with trembling limbs the antlered deer slackened its speed before the open door of a chapel in the midst of the wildwood. Here stood the frightened animal, its fur flicked with bloody foam, unable to stir a step further. From the open door of the chapel stepped a holy friar, who placed a sheltering arm about the panting animal's neck, and stood with uplifted arm warning back the band of hunters. In vain did the fairhaired stranger plead with Amand to spare the deer, for the jeering voice of the knight of the scarlet hood urged him on, and dismounting from his horse Count St. Amand pushed aside the monk and was about to run the animal through with his hunting knife, when there came a burst of thunder sound that shook the earth as though the heavens had fallen. The Count was stunned: When he came to himself he was alone in a clear space in the forest; the chapel, the deer, the monk, all his band, including the two strangers, had vanished as though they had never been. Over all was a terrible silence. When St. Amand attempted to call, no sound came from his parched lips. Then came a blinding flash of lightning, which split the darkness, and on the wings of the rushing wind he heard a terrible voice in judgment.--"Even as thou hast flouted and mocked at the Lord thy God, and have had no compassion upon man nor beast, so shalt thou fly before the wrath of the Most High! Pass on then, thou accursed Knight, forever be thou the hunted by evil spirits until the end of the world!" "And so," continues the legend, "since that day the wraith of that sinful Count St. Amand has haunted these hills and dales by night, and these great caverns underneath by day, the fiends of hell at his heels. After him fly these hideous fiends, driving him ever on towards the judgment that waits him on the last day." As may be surmised, with such tales as this to hold over the youth of the valleys, the people hereabouts were most devout and God fearing. Here in this region have raged battles innumerable from the earliest days of history, with fire, famine and pestilence. It was all prosperous, when I last saw it, and charming to look upon. But now the beautiful orchards have been cut down by the invader, the homesteads have been burned, and the once happy peasants transported to hard labor in another country. ST. QUENTIN |UGLY and down at the heel," were the uncomplimentary terms used by an æsthetic fellow traveler to describe this prosperous manufacturing town situated rather picturesquely on a hill rising above the banks of the river Somme. And while it may be admitted that St. Quentin is not very clean looking when viewed from the railway station, certainly a later and more intimate inspection revealed charms which repaid leisurely investigation on our part, and even our first view of the gray walls and gables of the houses, and the quaint pinnacles of the town hall, and the tower of the church rising against the golden glow of the sunset sky was quite satisfying. The road to the town on the hill was by way of the Rue de l'lsle, which brought us to the small square on which was the flamboyant Gothic Hôtel de Ville. It had a most charming and unusual pent roof, over which rose a slender tower with large clock face shining in the sunlight. On the ground floor of the façade was an open arcaded gallery above which were richly ornamented flamboyant Gothic windows divided by niches. The upper story had a quaint and ornate balustrade and three gables. From the central gable the campanile rose gracefully. This much we were able to see on our way to the Hôtel du Cygne, the landlady of which gave us more comfort than our quondam traveling companion had led us to expect. This individual quite abandoned us to our fate thereafter, as impossible Yankees who gloated over picturesqueness and gables, and meekly ate whatever was set before them--even of an omelette which he scorned, and fussed about at the table d'hôte. He listened with a sarcastic grin to our admiring comment on the furnishings of the dining-room, with its paneled walls in the Flemish fashion, on which hung brass placques and some good old china plates, and after lighting a cigarette, noisily kicked back his chair, shrugged his shoulders, and vanished from our ken forever. Madame told us that he was a "commis-voyageur" in the woolen trade, from Brussels, and "bien difficile." St. Quentin was the ancient capital of the Gaulish Veromanduens, and took its present name from Caius Quintinus, a priest who came here to preach Christianity in the third century, and for his pains was martyred by the Prefect Rictius Varus. Honor to his remains was encouraged by St. Eloi in the time of Dagobert. Whilst here we may recall that the building of the Escurial was due to a vow which Philip II of Spain made in case of success, when he was besieging St. Quentin in 1557. The town was given back to France in 1589, and in the following year was bestowed as a dowry upon Mary Stuart, who possessed its revenues till her death. On January 19, 1871, a great victory was gained near St. Quentin by the Prussian General Goeben over the French army of the north, * under Faidherbe. * Hare's "Northeastern France." In the "Place du Huit Octobre" was a very good monument by Barrias, symbolizing the successful defense of the town against the first attack by the Germans on October 8, 1870. We found that the Hôtel de Ville contained a most unusual "Salle du conseil," a large well proportioned room, the roof of which rested upon two circular wooden vaults. This was furnished with a most elaborate mantel or chimney piece in the mixed Gothic and Renaissance styles, and of remarkable workmanship. In the great German retreat of April, 1917, this noble building was blown up with bombs. Perhaps they placed upon it, as they did upon other shattered structures, a sign bearing the inscription: "Nicht Argern, nur Wundern." There was a noble "Collegiate Church of St. Quentin" near this Hôtel de Ville, considered by architects to be a splendid example of French Gothic of the twelfth to the fifteenth centuries. This was unfortunately so shut in by small buildings as to make a study of it difficult. Its choir, nave, and portal, and its really vast height, formed unusual features, and added to these wonders were the beautiful triforium and terminal windows of the principal transept (there were two of these, "very rare in a Gothic church," says Hare). The oldest part of the church was easily discovered between these transepts. There were seven absidal chapels; in that of St. Roch was the incised tombstone of "Mahaus Patrelatte," dated 1272. Under the choir were crypts said to have been of the ninth century, and in one of these was a stone sarcophagus of St. Quentin and SS. Victorious and Gentianus, who were St. Quentin's companions in martyrdom. The west portal of the church was formerly adorned with a large number of statues, vestiges of which were plainly visible. A statue of Quentin Delatour, a famous draftsman in crayon of the eighteenth century, a native of the town, stood before the church; it was by Lauglet the sculptor, and of considerable merit. A collection of Delatour's crayon drawings were in the small museum in the rue du Petit-Origny.... Unfortunate St. Quentin, now once more in ashes, and this time so completely obliterated that nothing remains on the hill but some blackened ragged piles of masonry, was besieged by Philip II in 1558, when war broke out between Picardy and Flanders. "Philip II had landed there with an army of forty-seven thousand men, of whom seven thousand were English. Never did any great sovereign and great politician provoke and maintain for long such important wars without conducting them in some other fashion than from the recesses of his cabinet and without ever having exposed his life on the field of battle. The Spanish army was under the orders of Emmanuel-Philibert, Duke of Savoy, a young warrior of thirty, who had won the confidence of Charles V. He led it to the siege of St. Quentin, a place considered one of the bulwarks of the kingdom. "Philip II remained at some leagues' distance in the environs. Henry II was ill prepared for so serious an attack; his army, which was scarcely 20,000 strong, mustered near Laon under orders of the Duke of Nevers, Governor of Champagne; at the end of July, 1557, it hurried into Picardy, under the command of the Constable de Montmorency, who was supported by Admiral de Coligny, his nephew, by the Duke of Enghien, by the Prince of Condé, by the Duke of Montpensier, and by nearly all the great lords and the valiant warriors of France. They soon saw that St. Quentin was in a deplorable state of defense; the fortifications were old and badly kept up; soldiers and munitions of war, as well as victuals were all equally deficient. Coligny did not hesitate, however; he threw himself into the place on the 2nd of August during the night with a small corps of 700 men and Saint Remy, a skillful engineer, who had already distinguished himself in the defense of Metz. The Admiral packed off the useless mouths, repaired the walls at the points principally threatened, and reanimated the failing courage of the inhabitants. "The Constable and his army came within hail of the place; and d'Andelot, Coligny's brother, managed with great difficulty to get 450 men into it. "On the 10th of August the battle was begun between the two armies. The Constable affected to despise the Duke of Savoy's youth: 'I will soon show him,' said he, 'a move of an old soldier.' "The French army, being very inferior in numbers, was for a moment on the point of being surrounded. The Prince of Condë sent the Constable warning. 'I was serving in the field,' answered Montmorency, 'before the Prince of Condé came into the world; I have good hopes of still giving him lessons in the art of war for some years to come.' "The valor of the Constable and his comrades-in-arms could not save them from the consequences of their stubborn recklessness, and their numerical inferiority; the battalions of Gascon infantry closed their ranks, with pikes to the front, and made a heroic resistance, but all in vain, against repeated charges of the Spanish cavalry; and the defeat was total. "More than 3,000 men were killed; the number of prisoners amounted to double this figure; and the Constable, left upon the field with his thigh shattered by a cannon ball, fell into the hands of the Spaniards, as was also the case with the Dukes of Longueville and Montpensier, la Rochefoucauld, d'Aubigné, etc.... The Duke of Enghien, Viscount de Turenne and a multitude of others, many great names amidst a host of obscure, fell in the fight. The Duke of Nevers and the Prince of Condé, sword in hand, reached La Fère with the remnants of their army. Coligny remained alone at St. Quentin with those who survived of his little garrison, and a hundred and twenty arquebusiers whom the Duke of Nevers threw into the place at a loss of three times as many. Coligny held out for a fortnight longer, behind walls that were in ruins and were assailed by a victorious army. At length, on the 27th of August, the enemy entered St. Quentin in shoals. "The Admiral, who was still going about the streets with a few men to make head against them, found himself hemmed in on all sides, and did what he could to fall into the hands of a Spaniard, preferring rather to await on the spot the common fate than to incur by flight any shame or reproach. They took him prisoner, after having set him to rest a while at the foot of the ramparts, and took him away to their camp, where as he entered, he met Captain Alonzo de Cazieres, commandant of the old bands of Spanish infantry; when up came the Duke of Savoy, who ordered the said Cazieres to take the Admiral to his tent." * * Commentaire de François de Rabutin sur les Guerres entre Henri II., roi de France, et Charles Quint, empereur. Vol. I, p. 95, in the Petitot Collection. "D'Andelot, the Admiral's brother, succeeded in escaping across the marshes. Being thus master of St. Quentin, Philip II, after having attempted to put a stop to the carnage and plunder, expelled from the town, which was half in ashes, the inhabitants who had survived, and the small adjacent fortresses of Ham and Catalet did not hesitate long before surrendering. Five years later, in 1557, after the battle and capture of St. Quentin, France was in a fit of stupor; Paris believed the enemy to be already beneath her walls; many of the burgesses were packing up and flying--some to Orleans, some to Bourges, some still further." * And now once more history repeats itself in the sacking and burning of this quaint town, in the retreat of the invader of 1914-5 after three years of agony endured by its people. "God makes no account of centuries, and a great deal is required before the most certain and most salutary truths get their place and their rights in the minds and communities of men," says Guizot, quaintly, and thus dismisses the record of Henry II: "On the 29th of June, 1559, a brilliant tournament was celebrated in lists erected at the end of the street of Saint Antoine, almost at the foot of the Bastile. Henry II, the Queen, and the whole court had been present at it for three days." * Guizot's "Histoire de France." Vol. Ill, p. 204. "The entertainment was drawing to a close. The King, who had run several tilts 'like a sturdy and skillful Cavalier,' wished to break yet another lance, and bade the Count de Montgomery, captain of the guards, to run against him. Montgomery excused himself; but the King insisted. The tilt took place. The two jousters, on meeting, broke their lances skilfully; but Montgomery forgot to drop at once, according to usage, the fragment remaining in his hand; he unintentionally struck the King's helmet and raised the visor, and a splinter of wood entered Henry's eye; he fell forward upon his horse's neck." All the appliances of art were useless; the brain had been pierced. Henry II languished for eleven days and expired on the tenth of July, 1559, aged forty years and some months. "An insignificant man and a reign without splendor, though fraught with facts pregnant of grave consequences," concludes the historian. The fame of Henry Martin, noted as an historian, who died in 1883, was commemorated by a bronze statue "such as the chimes and the great bell of the Collegiate erected before the Lycée," a rather handsome building in the Rue du Palais de Justice. Before leaving St. Quentin in April, 1917, the invaders shipped this statue to Germany, it is announced in the German press, and melted it up at the gun works with other scrap metal, "such as the chimes and the great bell of the Collegiate Church of St. Quentin." A few miles to the northeast on the river Oise was the small town of Guise, most picturesquely situated, and commanded by an ancient castle, or chateau, as these ruins are sometimes styled, which dated from the sixteenth century, and was occupied by a few soldiers as a sort of garrison. In this château in troublous times the nuns of the Guise, and those of the neighboring nunneries as well, took refuge. There was here, too, a most famous chapter of monks, but the nuns were of greater renown. These threw off the severe rules of St. Benedict in the twelfth century, and becoming "chanoinesses," lived apart with the utmost comfort, their abbess bearing a scepter rather than a cross. Endowed by successive ducal rulers, this chapter became one of the most illustrious of the province. "Its abbess, always chosen from a family of the most exalted rank, exercised almost sovereign authority over the domain, and furthermore in virtue of a document from the Emperor Rudolph (1290), bore the title of Princess of the Holy Empire. She was elected only by the united voice of the chapter, and went to Rome to receive consecration from the Pope himself in the Lateran. To him she is said to have offered in sign of homage, every three years, a white horse and a piece of purple velvet; and when after many years the Pope remitted this tax, she bore, in all solemn processions, a red silk banner sprinkled with gold and silver buds in remembrance of it. A double handed sword was carried before her in processions. She had the right of granting liberty to prisoners. In the choir of the cathedral she sat upon a throne placed upon a carpet of crimson velvet ornamented with gold leaves, and upon fête days she held 'grand-couvert,' as was the custom with sovereigns. The chapter counted sixty-four abbesses, of whom the last in line was Louise-Adelaide de Bourbon-Condé." * * Brantôme, Paris, 1822. Vol. I. Considering its part in history, it is surprising how little interest was taken in Guise of late years. In 1339 the English, under John of Hainault, burned the town, but were unable to conquer the castle, owing to the courageous resistance of the small body of warriors who were commanded by the noble lady of its absent lord, the daughter of John of Hainault himself. In the curious old crypt were the tombs of several abbesses, and the shrine contained the relics of SS. Romaric, Arnat, and Idulphe, which the nuns brought with them in the tenth century from the old church on the hill. On one of the streets were ancient houses with stone arcades. Guise was the birthplace of Camille Desmoulins, the revolutionary. Near the town, which was busy and prosperous, with a population of eight thousand or so, there was a sort of workmen's colony upon the communistic plan, and included a "phalanstère," or common dwelling place for the members, upon the Fourier plan, founded by some philanthropist. As far as we could judge superficially it was successful, and it is said the chance visitor was always welcomed most cordially by the members who happened to be present. These inoffensive people have been shipped away, no one now seems to be able to say just where, and the little town, gutted by fire, has ceased to exist save in the memory of those who once knew its charm. A few miles southwest of St. Quentin, on the river Somme, was a small town named Ham, which had, however, nothing in common with that excellent viand. Here was a famous château of the tenth century, of the Comtes de Vermondais. In 1374 it passed to the Coucy family, and then to the Comtes of St. Pol, from whom it came by marriage to the house of Bourbon-Vendôme. This great stronghold had a donjon, the walls of which were thirty-five feet thick, and the room inside it was one hundred and ten feet broad, and the same number of feet high. In shape it was a rectangle, flanked at each corner by a round tower, and with square towers on the north and west. Rising from a canal on the northeast angle was a huge round tower, named the Tour de Connétable, built by Louis de Luxembourg in 1490. Emblazoned on the stone over the portal was the motto of the founder: "Mon Myeulx" (My Best). The walls of this tower were said to have been of enormous thickness. The figures varied so much that I omit all of them, but from the appearance of the tower one might believe even the most exaggerated statements. Its lower apartment was a vast hall of hexagonal shape, the vaulting of which was Gothic in style, and we were shown some curious arched spaces, said to be intended for furnaces or magazines to be blown up and thus destroy the castle in case of its capture. There was a great "Salle de Gardes," where the soldiers slept and ate in time of siege, and this contained an enormous fireplace, a well of considerable depth, and an oven where bread had been baked. Above this vast room was the "Chambre de Conseil," lighted by a single large window, and furnished with stone benches below it. Here Jeanne d'Arc was imprisoned by Jean of Luxembourg, and many other notables languished in the dungeons from the time of the Revolution down to the time of the capture of Prince Louis Napoléon, in August, 1840, at Boulogne, and from which he escaped disguised as a workman on the morning of May 22, 1846. He took refuge at St. Quentin, went thence to Belgium, and finally reached England. Like all of the other great castles in the region occupied by the invaders, Ham was blown up before the German army "victoriously" retreated to the now celebrated "Hindenburg" line, in April, 1917. VALLENCIENNES |THE town of lace," wrote William of Orange to the Estates on the 13th of April, 1677, "is lost to us. We are very sorry to be obliged to tell your High Mightinesses that it has not pleased God to bless on this occasion the arms of the State under our guidance." And then fell also to the troops of Louis XIV the towns of Cambrai, St. Omer, and the defense of Lorraine. But there is now no lace made in Valenciennes. The larger part of the population of twenty-eight thousand worked in the iron foundries and the great machine shops surrounding the town, from which clouds of soft coal smoke rose, reminding one of our own Pittsburgh, but with the addition of much quaint antiquity, which was now (1910) unhappily rapidly disappearing through lack of interest on the part of not only the inhabitants but the authorities, whom one would think alive to their value as an attraction to the town. Formerly strongly fortified and most powerful, this quaint semi-Flemish town, which was now given over thus to prosaic manufacture, was situated at the junction of the rivers Scheldt and Rhondelle. There were huge, ugly sugar factories as well as iron mills, indeed,'tis said that nearly all the sugar used in France was produced here. Like all Flemish towns, Valenciennes had a good deal of drunkenness to contend with on the part of its working people, but I must confess I saw little of it. It is said that Valentinian I, Roman Emperor, gave name to the town, which was at first the capital of a small independent principality. Later it passed into the hands of the Counts of Hainault; suffered and resisted sieges by Margaret of Hainault in 1254; by Louis XI, in 1477; by Turenne, in 1656; and by the Spaniards in the seventeenth century; and by Scherer in 1794. Since the treaty of Nymegen in 1678 it has belonged to France. A great many celebrated men were born at Valenciennes, and all about the statue of Froissart their effigies are arranged in a series of medallions. Among these are Antoine, Louis and François Watteau, Pujol, the painters, Lemaire and Carpeaux, the sculptors, and Charles, Sire de Lannoy and Viceroy of Naples--all natives of the little town. Madame d'Epinay, the author, also was born here. Valenciennes had a most attractive and picturesque square, which occupied the former glacis of the ancient fortifications demolished about twenty years ago, and there was a handsome street, called the Rue de Ferrand, upon which was the "Lycée," formerly a Jesuit college, and the Ecole des Beaux Arts, in which was a museum of natural history, containing a fine collection of minerals of which the townspeople were inordinately proud. They quite ignored the value of a splendid collection of MSS., numbering nearly a thousand examples of mediaeval workmanship, contained in the Municipal Library, occupying part of the old Jesuit college. The custode wrung his hands in despair at the indifference of the authorities to its importance, and became positively and alarmingly affectionate over me when I showed enthusiasm for some of the specimens, so that I had to place myself behind one of the cases where he could not well reach me while I examined the illuminations. There was a fine statue of Antoine Watteau, the painter, by the sculptor Carpeaux, with four figures grouped about it representing Italian comedy. (This statue, I am informed, was shipped to Germany by the invaders in 1916, to be melted up and cast into cannon. An irreparable loss, as it was considered one of the finest examples of the work of Carpeaux.) In the Square was the ancient Church of St. Géry, a remarkable example of Gothic workmanship dating from the thirteenth century, and much studied and valued by architects. In its choir were fine wood carvings illustrating events in the life of St. Norbert, who was the founder of the Præmonstratensian order. The handsome and noteworthy Place d'Armes contained some most quaint and ancient timber dwellings, which were dated variously during the seventeenth century, and in an astonishingly fine state of preservation. But by far the most interesting building in Valenciennes was the Hôtel de Ville, which though lately restored (1868), dated from the seventeenth century, the period of the Spanish occupation. The façade was quite imposing, consisting of a row of Doric columns, upholding a row of Ionic columns, which supported a number of caryatides and a sort of open gallery above. Carpeaux designed the sculptures ornamenting the pediment, which represented the Defense of Valenciennes. Corner of Grand' Place: Valenciennes [Illustration: 0157] This building was occupied by the Musée of Paintings and Sculpture, which was really one of the most important and extensive collections in France of examples of the Flemish school of painting. Here I saw in 1910 a large number of beautiful original drawings, and a collection of Flemish tapestries of incalculable value. There were nine or ten rooms devoted to the Flemish masters, and to mention only a few of the treasures they contained, I note here: "Hell-fire"; Breughel, Toil Devoured by Usury; Jordaens, Twelfth Night; Van Balen, Rope of Europa; P. A. da Cortona, Herodias; Seghers, St. Eloi and the Virgin; Neets, the younger, Church Interior; Vinckboons, Forest; Van Aelst, Still Life; Van Mieris, Pan and Syrinx; Al. Adriensis, Fish Merchant; Van Goyen, Landscape; "Velvet" Breughel, Landscape; Van de Velde, Sea Piece; Van Oost, Adoration of the Shepherds; Pourbus (younger), Marie de Medicis; Brouwer, Tavern Scene; Wouverman, Hunters; Teniers, Interior of Grotto; Rubens, Descent from the Cross; Guido (?), St. Peter; Metsys, Banker and His Wife. The fate of this remarkable collection of Flemish and Spanish paintings is at present shrouded in mystery. It is said, and denied variously, that they were removed to Paris before the German army arrived. I understand from reports in the newspapers, which may or may not be authentic, that this old Hôtel de Ville was entirely destroyed by British shells early in the war, and that the venerable Maison du Prévost, built during the Spanish invasion, and the old timbered and slated houses at the corner of the Grand' Place, one of them occupied by the "Café Modeste," have been entirely destroyed. But at present (May, 1917) Valenciennes is behind the curtain of mystery drawn over its miseries by the Germans. This little town played a small part in the peace of Cambrai, called the "Ladies' peace," in honor of the Princesses who while at Valenciennes had negotiated it there between Charles V and Francis I. "Two women, Francis I's mother and Charles V's aunt, Louise of Savoy, and Margaret of Austria, had the real negotiation of it; they had both of them acquired the good sense and the moderation which come from experience of affairs and from the difficulties in life; they did not seek to give one another mutual surprises and to play off one another reciprocally. They resided in two contiguous houses, between which they caused a communication to be made from the inside, and they conducted the negotiation with so much discretion that the petty Italian princes who were interested in it did not know the results of it until peace was concluded on the 5th of August, 1529.... These women, though morally different and of very unequal social status, both had minds of a rare order, trained to recognize political necessities and not to attempt any but possible successes. They did not long survive their work; Margaret of Austria died on the 1st of December, 1530, and Louise of Savoy on the 22nd of September, 1531." * * Guizot's "France," Vol. Ill, p. 94. This peace lasted until 1536; incessantly troubled, however, by far from pacific symptoms, proceedings and preparations, but it was certainly a monument to the skill of these two princesses. Charles V, on his way through the kingdom, after passing a week at Paris, pushed on to Valenciennes, the first town in his Flemish dominions, where he rested in state. When his eyes rested upon all the wealth and cheerful industry that surrounded him here, he said (according to Brantôme), "There is not in this world any greatness such as that of a King of France." Valenciennes, when I saw it before the outbreak of the great war in 1914, was a rather sleepy little town given over to most prosaic manufactures. There was little evident picturesqueness; most of the ancient buildings had given way to stupid looking stucco covered houses. In vain did my Lady Anne seek the lace makers; they were not to be found--if they existed. There were no bric-a-brac or antique shops, either, wherein one might browse, but there was a quaint and most comfortable hotel, presided over by a garrulous landlord whose (artful) innocence and unworldliness quite took us in, and whose bill, when presented, proved to be fifty per cent more than we had reckoned upon. Valenciennes should have been an economical town to live in, but it was not so; at least in the delightful hotel, which was so well kept and apparently so clean. The day following our arrival two charwomen started at the top of the house with buckets of water and scrubbing brushes. The buckets, by the way, were not the ordinary iron ones, but immense affairs of rough earthenware of a rich buff color outside, and a most delicious bright green enamel inside. The women scrubbed the floors from attic to back door--except the parquet floors--ignoring the corners, for cleanliness comes evidently very near to godliness in these semi-Flemish towns of Northern France; they are not very thorough. Following these bare-armed amazons came the housemaid with a great cake of beeswax, which was fixed into a fork of wood at the end of the handle as long and thick as a broomstick. With this beeswax she rubbed the floor most energetically until the grain of the old oak floor came out clearly. Then followed the polisher with a large, thick, flat brush made in the form of a sort of sandal which was fastened to one foot by a wide strap of leather, the brushless foot was kept stationary; the other with deft slides backwards and forwards produced a most beautiful polish like varnish. There were few carpets to be found anywhere, and in the summer one did not miss them, but I should imagine that the houses would be very damp and cold in the winter, when there is little provision made for heating these old drafty rooms, and (if one might consider expense) wood for the grate fires is charged for at the rate of "F. 1.25 per basket of nine sticks." (Per published tariff.) We were told that the proper way to study this part of the country is to take a small house for the summer. One could furnish cheaply here, it was urged, in the country style, no carpets, and with the furniture made hereabouts. My Lady Anne was quite taken with the idea. The furniture was in good taste, stained a dark brown; it made a charming foil for the bright yellows and pale greens of the crockery. The bedrooms had alcoves for the beds, with a curious little door cut out of the wooden partition wall at the back of the bed: this was for the convenience of the housemaid, as it saved the necessity of pulling out the bed to get behind it. These walls were almost always made of boards, and thus the doors were easily cut, so that covered with wall paper one scarcely ever noticed them. My Lady Anne discovered that the clothing sent to be washed was, unless otherwise ordered, sent home rough dried! Ironing is special. Following the custom here there was no weekly washing day, but washing was done once a month or even two months, and this is the reason why there were so many of the really fine oak or chestnut armoirs to be found. Some of these were most beautiful, made of polished wood, and had often unique brass hinges and locks. Every household had one or more, in spite of the fact that the dealers were on the quest for them. The peasants who lived off the beaten track of travel willingly parted with them for comparatively small prices. We thought it rather extraordinary to find in a poor laborer's cottage a specimen of these fine chests fit for the hall of a millionaire collector. There were also fine wardrobes to be found, with handsomely carved chestnut or applewood panels polished like glass, and with brass knobs and locks worn bright with the use of many generations. Occasionally one could find the old fashioned double decked bed made of dark oak, and the long heavy Norman table, which was the household larder, for in its long and deep drawer were generally stored the household provisions of ham, bacon, or dried fish; never the bread, though, for this was kept overhead upon a well polished board, in the older houses, hung from the ceiling, well out of the way of the rats, the torment of the peasant. In these houses the clothes were hung on ropes high up against the sloping roofs to prevent these pests from gnawing them. The broken necks of bottles were fastened at the ends of these cords or ropes, and on these the rats jumped from the rafters and went spinning over onto the floor far beneath. In all the villages there were public washing pools, a feature of the country. No washing was done in the cottages. Hundreds of peasant women washed the clothes, kneeling in long lines at the sides of the streams, keeping up all the time a chattering and laughing that could be heard from a distance. Sometimes there were shelters overhead for their protection from sun and rain, sometimes not. They washed the clothes on flat boards, and beat them when lathered with a flat wooden sort of paddle. The washing was well done too, surprising to tell, but although they say not, one would think that the process was rather hard upon the clothes. These quaint customs quite charmed us, and we were inclined to shut our eyes to certain evidences of drunkenness and its accompanying sins among the lower classes which could not be concealed, and which perhaps need not be entered into here. Valenciennes was a manufacturing town, and the condition of the artisan classes was said to be even worse than that in Belgium just over the border. The hours of labor were long--unquestionably too long--and said to be as a rule fixed by the employer. Children of tender age were employed in factory and warehouse, and this perhaps explains the stunted appearance of the poor people. The law says that no child under sixteen can be kept at work for more than twelve hours a day, but it is understood that this law was easily evaded. The result was inevitable. If the child could be kept at work for twelve hours a day, then it will be understood that an adult was assumed to be able to do more. Of course the man did not really work as hard as our own men do, and that he did piece work, and also that a considerable portion of his time must be deducted for shirking, for gossip and for rest. Still, at the foundries the hours and the labor were both excessive. The thought had not occurred to these manufacturers and proprietors that a man might do more in sixty hours a week than he will do in seventy. The terrible "Borinage" district of the mines of Belgium, which extends as far west as Quevrain on the border, really runs over the line, and some of its conditions existed at Blanc Misseron, Fresnes, and at Bruay. The name "Borinage" signifies the place of boring. Here was to be found a state of society that does not exist in any other part of the country, and the miners and their wretched families were a type quite distinct from all the rest of their countrymen. By the character of their work and by the deficiencies or lack of education, supplemented by the poisonous effects of the fiery and deleterious potato brandy and other decoctions which they freely imbibe, they had sunk into a state of both physical and mental decay. "A visit to these places is not a pleasant experience, and the closer the acquaintance made with the life of the mining population the less attractive does it appear. The employment of children of tender years lies at the root of the ignorance of the people of the province.... To the proprietors, with rare exceptions, the miners are mere beasts of burden, in whom they do not feel the least interest. No steps whatever are taken to improve the lot of the miners, to elevate their ideas, or even to provide them with amusement or recreations.... The only places of resort are the 'Estaminets' and cabarets that are to be found in every third or fourth house.... It is scarcely going too far to say that morality does not exist in the Borinage; but the great curse in this community is the large number of immature mothers, and the consequent inseparable deterioration of the whole race.... Ignorance and immorality explain the low condition to which the mining population has sunk, but even these causes would not have produced such an appalling result if they had not been supplemented by the prevalence of drunkenness. As there is no restriction upon the sale of drink, every house may retail intoxicating liquors, and in many places where it is procurable there is no external appearance of the place being a drinking shop. The room of the cottage will contain a few chairs and benches, besides a table, and the liquor comes from a cupboard or an inner room. In warm weather the table and chairs are placed outside, and on Sundays and feast days there is not one of these houses which will not be crowded with visitors. The only amusement known to these people is to drink and to get drunk.... The beer drinkers are the more reasonable drunkards of the two. Having soaked themselves with 'faro' (a thin sour beer) they sleep it off. Not so the spirit drinkers, for when they have finished their orgies they are half mad with the poisonous alcohol which they have imbibed. "The true explanation of the evils that follow this spirit drinking is to be found in the character of the spirit itself. In name it is gin or 'genievre,' but it bears little or no trace of that origin. What it is, no one outside the place of manufacture--which appears to be unknown--can correctly declare, but by the smell it would seem to be mainly composed of paraffin oil. This beverage is called 'Schnick' and is the favorite spirit of the miners. It is sold for ten centimes (1 penny) for a large wine glass, and five centimes (1/2 penny) for a small, and official statistics show that a large majority of the miners drink a pint of this stuff every day of their lives, while it is computed that there are no fewer than fifty thousand who drink a quart.... Lest the reader should imagine that there is some exaggeration in the figures just given, it may be mentioned that the total consumption of spirits per head of the population (of Belgium) exceeds fifty quarts." * * "Belgian Life in Town and Country." Demetrius C. Boulger, p. 76. This is, of course, written of Belgium, but as this mining country extends beyond the border into France, as I have said, these conditions exist in the neighboring villages to the north and east of Valenciennes. It is a relief to turn from this terrible picture to the vistas southwards, but it is only just to add that the Belgian Government was doing its best to cleanse this region when the war broke out and put a stop to the work. How could the people who dwell in this terrible spot be other than debased? Conditions were all against them. World welfare demands the product of the mines; so workers are automatically produced to supply it, and thus across this fair land stretches this great black belt, like a vast unhealed wound, that extends from the western boundaries of Picardy, far beyond the German Westphalian province, and digs deep into the bowels of the earth, its presence being detected from afar by the heavy clouds of pungent, evil smelling black and brown smoke of the furnaces, as one approaches, and by the great heaps of clay and ashes along the railway lines. This is the territory coveted by the "war lord." This is the road to the Channel, and over this strip by day and by night fall the shells of the invaders and defenders alike. Gone now are the peaceful farmsteads; the quaint old villages clustered about the gray towers of the churches and monasteries, and the many towered, white walled châteaux in the vine clad gardens. The quiet towns and villages which we explored in those memorable summer days of 1910 are swept from the face of the earth, and there are now long level wide roads stretching towards and into the horizon, upon which the whole day and night, two mighty lines of silent armed men linking together heavy wagons and immense shapeless masses of heavy guns and tractors, to and from the fighting lines, form endless processions. The God of Efficiency in destruction now reigns where once peaceful thrift was enthroned. SOISSONS |BOTH Abelard and Thomas à Becket are identified with this venerable fortress town, which was lately noted for its haricot-beans, and whose people, steeped in trade with Paris, were entirely oblivious to the value and beauty of the great cathedral of Notre Dame, SS. Gervais and Protais, the equal of which was perhaps not in all France. Here Abelard was imprisoned in a tower which was shown, to those who sought it out, by a lame old priest. This tower was surmounted by a small chapel; it contained nothing, however, which was identified with the prisoner. There was also to be seen the ancient Abbey of St. Jean des Vignes, in which Thomas à Becket "spent nine years." The chief and most interesting part of this was the west façade or "portail," in the style of the thirteenth century, and flanked by a great tower more than 200 feet high, some say 225 feet, which could be seen from a great distance. The approach to the town by way of the river bank was all that could be desired for picturesqueness, and above the trees and the quaint red tiled roofs of the many gabled houses, the great tower of the venerable cathedral lifted its heavy gray mass against a fleecy sky. The river was full of quaintly fashioned barges, and heavily built boats with huge rudders painted with stripes of vivid green and red, something like those on the Maas in Holland. Here and there a small black steamer belched forth pungent sooty smoke, and there seemed to be a great deal of business going on all about, and an air of prosperity and alertness, entirely out of keeping in so venerable a town, and which one could not decide to be quite as it should be or not. There were modern shops also with windows dressed quite _à la Paris_, and a good hostelry, the _Lion Rouge_, where one was made extraordinarily comfortable for a rather small sum. The streets were filled with quaint and unusual characters, and now and again we saw costumes and some headdresses on the peasant women that we had not seen elsewhere. An old traveler writing of Soissons said: "At a small inn, 'Des Trois Pucelles,' I had a noble salmon, that still excites emotions in me when I think of it. I have never met with its like since--and there was also venison, a whole haunch brought to table, and claret the like of which would grace the king's table." I looked for "Des Trois Pucelles," but alas, it had been pulled down long since. Cathedral: Soissons [Illustration: 0177] In this pleasant town, one might have lingered indefinitely and not lacked entertainment. Soissons was called Augusta Suessionum under the early Empire. The town has great notoriety among historians for the great number of sieges it has undergone, down to the Franco-Prussian War of 1870, when for three days it resisted all attempts to take it. Here Pépin le Bref was proclaimed King, and Louis le Débonnaire's undutiful sons imprisoned him in the Abbey of S. Medard. From the beginning of the eleventh century to the middle of the fourteenth century, Soissons was ruled by its hereditary counts, but one of these, Louis de Chatil-lon, who fell at the battle of Crécy, being imprisoned in England, to pay his ransom, sold his countship to En-guerrand VII de Coucy in 1367, and with all the rest of the appanage of Coucy, it was taken by the crown of Louis XII. From Cæsar to Napoleon its importance from a military point of view has been of the greatest value from its splendid position on the banks of the river Aisne. For centuries it had to defend itself from continued attacks, and in these, although many times successful, the stronghold seems to have worn down to its walls and towers. It has been called by historians "The City of Sieges," and certainly few towns seem to have suffered more. Doubtless its magnificent strategic position on the river Aisne has been the reason for the successive attacks upon it. It was also a favorite seat of royalty, and the capital of a Roman king, Syagrius. Architects have pronounced the Cathedral's interior even more impressive than that of Rheims, and say that "the beautiful proportions of the nave, the simplicity and purity of the carved capitals, the splendid glass, rendered it one of the most beautiful cathedrals of France." ("Cathedral Cities of France," Herbert Marshall.) It was a splendid example of mixed Romanesque and Gothic of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The west façade had three beautiful doors, and a great rose window of Gothic design containing glass, the equal of which cannot, in the writer's opinion, be found in all France. There is a great square tower on the south side, terminating in an apse. Inside, I saw some tapestry of the fifteenth century in good condition, and the sacristan showed an "Adoration of the Shepherds," which he attributed to Rubens, but it was so badly lighted that little of the detail could be seen. Soissons suffered much at the hands of the Germans during the Franco-Prussian War of 1870, when it was besieged by a force under the command of the Duke of Mecklenburg, whose soldiers burned and destroyed to their hearts' content. Even as late as 1910, when I visited the town, the sacristan of the Cathedral, in response to a question as to his knowledge of the siege, became quite incoherent in his denunciations of the enemy. One wonders what has become of this cultured and delightful old man, who was at once priest and patriot. The south transept is said to have been the oldest part of the Cathedral, and here was the sacristy (dated the end of the twelfth century). The sacristan showed us the choir (1212) which was surrounded by eight square, and the apse by five chapels of polygonal form. Of these "Fergusson" says, "Nothing can exceed the justness of the proportions of the center and side aisles, both in themselves and to one another." Kneeling statues of the abbesses, Marie de la Rochefoucauld and Henriette de Lorraine d'Elbeuf were placed at either side of the west portal. These were from the royal abbey of Notre Dame, but the sacristan could not, or at any rate did not, give me any other information concerning them. In the west end was a lovely little chapel, in what is called the "Salle capit-ulaire," entrance to which is through an early Gothic cloister with graceful vaulting supported by two beautiful columns. Very little remained of the once magnificent Abbey of St. Jean des Vignes, except two spires, and a ruined façade, and this is on an eminence near the station. In the bombardment of the town during the Franco-Prus-sian War these were greatly damaged, but not destroyed. Here Thomas à Becket lived in 1170. Some of the remaining buildings were being used as a military prison in 1910. The beautiful remains of the royal abbey of Notre Dame were given over to the authorities as a soldiers' barracks, and admission to the premises was refused us at the gate by a sentry. Behind the Cathedral was the Hôtel de Ville, which contained the Library and the Museum, neither of which was impressive. Near the royal abbey of Notre Dame was the old Tour Lardier, in which, according to legend, Satan was put in chains and confined by St. Vaast. Outside the town, to the north, was the ruined church of St. Crepin-en-Chaye, where in an abbey built in the eleventh century, the Saints Crepinien were burned at the stake as martyrs. The abbots of old were certainly militant personages, and their castles were strongholds. We saw the remains of the abbey of St. Medard, which is said to have been founded in 560 by Clotaire I. Here the Kings Clotaire and Sigebert were buried, and here Childeric III was deposed; Pépin of Heristal received his crown, and Louis le Débonnaire imprisoned by his heartless sons in 833. Abelard, condemned at the Council of Soissons, was confined here for years. Cathedral: Noyon [Illustration: 0185] The monastery was one of the richest in France, holding an appanage of two hundred and fifty villages, including manor houses and farmsteads. A warrior abbot headed one hundred and fifty armed vassals at the Battle of Bouvines. Of the seven churches of St. Medard nothing remained, and the site was occupied by some nondescript buildings used as some sort of charitable institution. In a crypt under the chapel of the abbey church we were shown a large stone coffin, alleged to be that of Clotaire, and a small vault contains a cell in which the unfortunate Louis le Débonnaire languished. There is an inscription supporting this as follows:= ```"Hélas, je suys bons prins des douleurs `````que j'endure! ````Mourir mieux me vaudrait: `````la peine me tient dure." `````(Fourteenth Century.)= Of the genuineness of this inscription some authorities are doubtful, but I include it here, nevertheless. This whole region is now hidden behind the mask of smoke and mystery of the present infernal war. Just what ruin lies behind this dropped curtain is uncertain. It has been reported that Soissons is in ashes, burned and sacked in revenge for the failure of the Verdun attack. At any rate its inhabitants are confined within the limits of the town, and it is understood that they are compelled to toil unceasingly for the invaders. The vast farmsteads and fields are understood to be worked to the utmost by the townspeople in regular "gangs" under the eyes of German officers, and that the crops have been regularly gathered and distributed under the remarkable system for which the Germans are noted. Other than these no details have been allowed to creep forth from this unfortunate town. That this sanctuary of architecture may perchance escape entire destruction at the hands of these barbarians is not too much to hope for, but that the Cathedral should be spared is inconceivable, when one remembers the fate of Rheims, Ypres, Louvain, Arras, Malines and Noyon, to mention but a few of the incomparable treasures that have vanished before their onslaught. Soissons' magnificent monuments are now probably heaps of calcined stone and charred beams. Those marvels of painted glass will live henceforth only in the memory of those whose good fortune it was to have seen and valued them. As I write this the Cathedral of Lâon is reported to be a wreck, and is thus added to the list. Words fail me. These "murdered cities" are glorified forever more.... How one's imagination responds to their very names: Verdun, Amiens, Soissons, Rheims, Arras, Valenciennes!--and those others of Flanders: Bruges, Ghent, Louvain, Malines, Lille and Ypres--how full are these of grace and fancy. What ring of shield!--What clang of arms! For forty years these towns have enjoyed peace and fancied security, while that once great power, with hypocritical words of good will towards all men, even while sending delegates to the conferences at The Hague, was deliberately planning the destruction of sleeping nations whose lands are now invaded; whose young manhood is disappearing in a storm of blood and iron; whose architectural treasures are now but smoldering heaps of ashes! Rheims Cathedral, it is urged, was a landmark; a menace to the invader;--and this is true. It was a landmark, most certainly, and therefore it was a menace to the army of the invader, and was destroyed. This fact established, there followed the destruction of the other cathedrals, and it may be that before the invader is beaten off and pushed back over his own boundary line, those other great works of art still untouched will vanish under the rain of fire and shell--and none remain. Such a catastrophe is appalling, and it may be realized before the war is over, for there is small reason why all should not suffer the fate of great St. Martin's at Ypres, and Rheims, at the hands of the descendants of the Huns and the Allemanni. As it is now six great cathedral towns lie inclosed within their iron clad battle lines--Soissons, Lâon, Senlis, Amiens, Noyon and Rheims; of these Rheims, Soissons, Noyon and Senlis have been ruined; Amiens remains (so we are told) intact. No such assurance is given of Lâon, with its wonderful square ended choir, the only one in France, and the remarkable effigies of oxen, carved in stone, on the tops of the twin towers. NOYON |NOYON is really a most beautiful little town asleep amid surrounding heavy verdure and, with its dominating cathedral towers of Notre Dame, half Romanesque, half Gothic, which architects pronounce one of the best specimens of the transition period in France, is a veritable storehouse of interest." (I find this in my notebook, dated July, 1910.) It was named by the Romans "Noviodunam Veroman-duorum" and was notable as the residence of the great Bishops SS. Medard and Eloi. Here Charlemagne was crowned King of the Franks in 768. Jacques Sarrazin was born here in 1592, and a monument to him by the sculptor Mohlknecht was placed on the promenade in 1851. Just what the invaders have done to this sleepy, peaceful, little town, can not at this writing be ascertained, but it is reported that the great towers of the cathedral have been shot away, and that most of the town is a mass of shapeless debris. Mr. Ralph Adams Cram, the eminent architect who has made a study of the cathedral, says in his scholarly and informing book ("The Heart of Europe," p. 99), "The ancient cathedral was burned in 1131, and the present work begun shortly after, though it is hard to believe that much of the existing structure antedates the year 1150. The crossing and transepts date from about 1170, and the nave ten years later, while the west front and towers are of the early part of the next century. The certainty and calm assurance of the work is remarkable. Paris, which is later, is full of tentative experiments, but there is no halting here, rather a severe certainty of touch that is perfectly convincing.... In 1293 the whole town was destroyed by fire, and the cathedral wrecked; but it was immediately reconstructed, however; and at this time the sexpartite gave place to the quadripartite vaulting, while the west front with its great towers, very noble in their proportions and their powerful buttressing, was completed." From the earliest days Noyon in common with its neighboring towns seems to have had a hard time of it, whether in war or peace. The communes constantly fought with each other, the ancient burghers of Noyon being at daily loggerheads with the established metropolitan clergy. A certain Baudri de Larchainville, a native of Artois who had the title of chaplain of the bishopric, "a man of wise and reflecting mind" who did not share the violent aversion felt by most of his order for the existing institutions of communes, realized that sooner or later all would have to bow to authority, and that it was better to surrender to the wishes of the citizens than to shed blood in order to postpone an unavoidable revolution. Elected Bishop of Noyon in 1098, he found this town in the same state of unrest and insurrection as Cambrai. The registers of the church contained a host of documents entitled "Peace Made between Us and the Burghers of Noyon." But no reconciliation was lasting. "The truce was soon broken either by the clergy or by the citizens, who were the more touchy in that they had less security for their persons and their property." The new bishop believed that the establishment of a commune sworn to by both the rival parties might become a sort of compact of alliance between them, and he set about realizing this noble idea before the word commune had served at Noyon as the rallying cry of popular insurrection. "Of his own mere motion he convoked in assembly all the inhabitants of the town, clergy, knights, traders, and craftsmen. He presented them with a charter which constituted the body of burghers, an association forever under magistrates called _Jurymen_, like those of Cambrai. 'Whosoever,' said the charter, 'shall desire to enter this commune shall not be able to be received as a member of it by a single individual, but only in the presence of the Jurymen. The sum of money he shall then give shall be employed for the benefit of the town, and not for the private advantage of any one whatsoever. If the commune be outraged, all those who have sworn to it shall be bound to march to its defense, and none shall be empowered to remain at home unless he be infirm or sick, or so poor that he must needs be himself the watcher of his own wife and children lying sick. If any one have wounded or slain any one on the territory of the commune, the Jurymen shall take vengeance therefor.'" The other articles guarantee to the members of the commune of Noyon the complete ownership of their property, and the right of not being handed over to justice save before their own municipal magistrates. The bishop first swore to this charter, and the inhabitants of every condition took the same oath after him. In virtue of his pontifical authority he pronounced the anathema, and all the curses of the Old and New Testament, against whoever should in time to come try to dissolve the commune or infringe its regulations. Furthermore, in order to give this new pact a stronger warranty, Baudri requested the King of France, Louis the Fat, to corroborate it, as they used to say at the time, by his approbation and by the great seal of the Crown. The King consented to this request of the bishop, and that was all the part taken by Louis the Fat in the establishment of the Commune of Noyon. Fifteenth Century House: Noyon [Illustration: 0199] The King's Charter is not preserved but, under the date of 1108, there is extant one of the bishop's own, which may serve to substantiate the account given. "Baudri, by the grace of God, bishop of Noyon, to all those who do persevere and go on in the faith: "Most dear brethren, we learn by the example and words of the holy Fathers, that all good things ought to be committed to writing for fear lest hereafter they come to be forgotten. "Know then all Christians present and to come, that I have formed at Noyon a commune, constituted by the council and in an assembly of clergy, knights and burghers; that I have confirmed it by oath, by pontifical authority and by the bond of anathema, and that I have prevailed upon our lord King Louis to grant this commune and corroborate it with the King's Seal. This establishment formed by me, sworn to by a great number of persons, and granted by the King, let none be so bold as to destroy or alter; I give warning thereof, on behalf of God and myself, and I forbid it in the name of Pontifical Authority. "Whosoever shall transgress and violate the present law, be subjected to excommunication; and whosoever, on the contrary, shall faithfully keep it, be preserved forever amongst those who dwell in the house of the Lord." Thus was formed the Commune of Noyon in the year of our Lord 1108. At the end of the eleventh century the town had become one of the most important in the kingdom, filled with rich and industrious inhabitants; thither came, as to Lâon, the neighboring people for provisions or diversion; and such concourse led to many disturbances. Thierry says, "The nobles and their servitors, sword in hand, committed robbery upon the burghers; the streets of the town were not safe by night or even by day, and none could go out without running a risk of being stopped and robbed or killed." "Let me give as example," says Guibert of Nogent, "a single fact, which had it taken place amongst the Barbarians or Scythians, would assuredly have been considered the height of wickedness, in the judgment even of those who recognize no law. On Saturday the inhabitants of the country places used to leave their fields, and come from all sides to get provisions at the market. The townsfolk used then to go round the place carrying in baskets or bowls or otherwise, samples of vegetables or grain or any other article, as if they wished to sell. They would offer them to the first peasant who was in search of such things to buy; he would promise to pay the price agreed upon; then the seller would say to the buyer, 'Come with me to my house to see and examine the whole of the articles I am selling you.' The other would go; and then when they came to the bin containing the goods, the _honest_ seller would take off and hold up the lid, saying to the buyer, 'Step hither and put your head or arms into the bin to make quite sure that it is exactly the same goods as I showed you outside.' And then when the other unsuspecting, jumping on to the edge of the bin, remained leaning on his belly, with his head and shoulders hanging down, the worthy seller, who kept in the rear, would hoist up the thoughtless rustic by the feet, push him suddenly into the bin, and clapping down the lid as he fell, keep him shut up in this safe prison until he _bought_ himself out." This story, told of the Commune of Lâon, formed in imitation of that at Noyon, was typical of all such communities. Lâon elected one Gaudri, a Norman by birth, referendary of Henry I, King of England, and one of those churchmen who according to Thierry's expression, "had gone in the train of William the Bastard to seek their fortunes amongst the English by seizing the property of the vanquished." Of scarcely edifying life, he had the tastes and habits of a soldier; was hasty and arrogant; a fighter and also something of a glutton. He met at Langres Pope Pascal II, come to France to keep the festival of Christmas at the Abbey of Cluny. The Pope had heard of his reputation, for afterwards he asked the ecclesiastics who accompanied Gaudri, "why they had chosen a man unknown to them." "The question being asked in Latin, none of the priests knew even the rudiments of the tongue, so they could not answer," (says Guibert de Nogent, who records the matter). Gaudri certainly was scantily fitted for the bishopric, as the town soon discovered. "Scarcely had he been installed when he committed strange outrages. He had a man's eyes put out on suspicion of connivance with his enemies; and he tolerated the murder of another in the metropolitan church. In imitation of rich crusaders on their return from the East, he kept a black slave, whom he employed upon his deeds of vengeance. The burghers began to be disquieted and to wax wroth. So a commune was resolved upon like that at Noyon, and was speedily set up and proclaimed, to the manifest wrath of Gaudri, who for days abstained from entering the town. But the burghers, craftily acting upon his cupidity and avariciousness, 'offered him so large a sum of money as to appease the tempest of his words,' so he accepted the commune and swore to respect it. "For the space of three years all went well, and the burghers were happy and proud of the liberty they enjoyed, but when in 1112 the Bishop had spent the money thus received, he meditated over and keenly regretted the power thus bartered away, and resolved to return the townspeople to the old condition of serfdom. Consulting with King Louis the Fat, he won his consent to the plan he had in mind, by promising him untold sums of money." The Charter, sealed with the King's Seal, was annulled; and on the part of the King and the Bishop an order was issued to all the magistrates of the commune to cease from their functions, to give up the seal and the banner of the town, to ring no longer the belfry chimes which rang out the opening and closing of their audiences. But at this proclamation, so violent was the uproar in the town, that the King, who had hitherto lodged in a private hotel, thought it prudent to leave, and go to pass the night in the Episcopal Palace, which was surrounded by high walls. Not content with this precaution, and probably a little ashamed of what he had done, he left the next morning at daybreak with all his train, without waiting for the celebration of the festival of Easter for which he had undertaken the journey. Such troubles and disorders marked the rise and fall of all the communes. Those who are interested in such history of the struggles of the people for liberty of person and action may read further the accounts of the communes in Guizot's admirable History of France, from which these are extracts. Suffice it to say here that all the towns of Cambrai, Beauvais, Amiens, Soissons, Rheims and several others displayed at this period a vast deal of energy and perseverance in bringing their lords to recognize the most natural and the most necessary rights of every human creature and community. From this brief account some idea may be had of the ancient conditions. Let us now turn to the terrible state of affairs under which the unfortunate inhabitants of these quaint towns of Northern France are suffering. In the book of Octave Beauchamp, "Le Tour de France aux Cités Meurtries," is the following letter (which I translate roughly) of Leonie Godfroy, a nurse, known as "Schwester" God-froy: "During the night of the 28th to the 29th of August, the Mayor of Noyon advised the people, that as the situation had become critical because of the approach of the German army, all those who could do so should leave the town to escape the terrors of the invasion." L' Ancien Eveche: Noyon [Illustration: 0209] "In one of my school books, I remember a picture which, when I first saw it, filled me with horror. It represented the Exodus of the Gauls at the approach of the Huns, and was drawn, I think, by Gustav Doré,--the women half naked, dragged away by the savage soldiers; the terrified and crying children; the old men and women hurrying away, some empty-handed, others laden with all manner of objects which at any other time, or under different conditions would have seemed ridiculous, but which coupled with their terror, became pathetic. This picture now was enacted by my unfortunate fellow townspeople in their attempt to escape from the dangers of the bombardment and acts of the invaders. Crowds were running towards the railway depot, not realizing that the cars were already crowded to suffocation with half fainting women and terrified children. Others sat beside the ways, wailing and wringing their hands; here and there sat groups silent, staring as if they had lost their senses! "The forests outside the town were filled with hiding, terrified women, and here the Uhlans gathered on the morning of the 30th, after the invasion and occupation of Noyon. During this flight from town many women became mothers by the roadside, and lay there helpless until attended to by the German Ambulance Corps. The Germans arrived on the 30th of August. They entered Noyon after having fired three great shells into the city, which met with no response. The silence of death was over the town, save for the howling here and there of an abandoned dog, shut indoors. "We, the staff at the hospital, gathered about the president of our committee, with clasped hands, vowed solemnly that come what would, we should remain at our post, to do our duty to the end. With us stayed some courageous young women nurses, and several of the attendants. "Some hours before we had received at the hospital some dozen or so wounded English soldiers from the front. We were in the midst of our work with these, when there came the sound of violent banging on the front door. Two Uhlans burst in past the attendant and entered the court. "Catching sight of us ranged about the cot of a wounded soldier, these pushed us aside, examined the condition of the wounded men in the room and without saying one word to any of us, hurriedly took their departure. "From this instant our wounded were prisoners of war, and must resign themselves to all the circumstances of such state. The smallest resistance (of course there could be no resistance whatever on their part, wounded unto death as they were) would be visited upon us all; we would be shot in groups, and the hospital burned. Shortly after this a 'section' (so-called) entered the hospital without any formality, pistols in hand. The officers at once commandeered the autos in the court, and demanded our entire supply of gasolene. "Behind these advance soldiers, the German troops began to defile past the windows in plain sight. Then came weary men covered with dust and grime of the march, demanding food and drink. Some of these threw themselves upon the cots beside the lesser wounded, and seemed instantly to fall asleep. "We were soon unable to reply satisfactorily to the questions of the officers. They asked us, Frenchmen, how we found the French; if the English were numerous; if they had burned the bridges. We answered as well as we could, and as briefly as possible without giving them offense. The rooms being full, we placed foot tubs in the court, and attended to them. For the most part they impressed us filled with a great anxiety, even fear...." (Here follow allegations that are untranslatable--ignoble--they are omitted.) "We saw from the windows regiments of men in gray passing in great disorder, the men covered with dust and grime, and not always keeping step. Great army wagons passed, the drivers of which slept nodding on the seats. Some we saw fall as the wagons lurched. The horses seemed spent, and only kept going because of heavy blows and prods from bayonets. "This army of invasion resembles more an army in retreat. Imagine the state of affairs in this little city of Noyon, once so happy and peaceful, now resounding with the noise of the great guns of the Germans both day and night--nights of terror! "All the grocery shops are pillaged and gutted, so also the pharmacies and the bazaars. "Many of the houses are turned into something like shops for the barter of objects stolen by the soldiers in the town. In these furniture, silver, objects of art and linen are exchanged and packed up to be sent to Germany. The inhabitants are commanded to deposit with the 'Kommandantur' not only all firearms, but also all photographic cameras and telephone instruments in their possession. All pigeons in the town have been killed to prevent their being employed as messengers by the people. In occupying Noyon, the Germans have attempted to strip the place thoroughly of everything of value. Their hospital ambulances, called 'lazarets,' are used to gather in the proceeds of their thefts. "There is one at the theater, and others in the most important establishments. Here all that is collected by the soldiers each day is taken. The wine cellars have been emptied, it is said, and large quantities shipped to Germany. It has for days now been impossible for us to get a bottle of wine for our patients." Retable in the Cathedral: Noyon [Illustration: 0217] "In the great bombardment now going on of Noyon by the French endeavoring to drive out the enemy, the _faubourgs_ have suffered greatly; that of d'Amiens, the boulevards and the Rue d'Oroire particularly. The gas works and the depot are both destroyed, as well as the military casernes. I have heard the officers say how much they admire the French cannon, and the artillery corps. They frequently repeat in our hearing the ancient 'blague'--the Germans and the French should be friends--they will be sooner or later--they should unite for the good of humanity and for the downfall of England!--From officer to soldier this is the shibboleth. It does not ring true! Now and then there are visits from princes and dignitaries, accompanied by tremendous excitement and troops blazing with color, bands of music, and all intended to impress and encourage the dusty, dirty troops of soldiers who are continually coming from and going to the front, and lend a factitious animation to the town. Each day the German 'Etat Major' sends out the 'communiqués,' which are placarded all over town. The people of Noyon who remain pay little attention to them. "They do, however, study and commit to memory the rules of circulation. For instance, it is dangerous for one to pass twice on any given day in the same street; to stand talking with a friend without plausible reason, or to go to the railway station or walk upon a public promenade without permission. In the evening all are ordered to be in the house by four o'clock. The town is plunged in inky darkness at night, for the gas house and works are destroyed. Those who must have light use candles, but the price of these has risen beyond all belief. All lights at night are carefully hidden by blinds and heavy curtains, for at the least ray of light seen by the German patrol, suspicion is cast upon the inmates, and a 'crime' of this sort invariably brings arrest and a night in confinement under guard at the 'post' or even the risk of being sent to Germany. I have seen young and old, a priest and a sacristan thus sent away. "Often even a gesture misunderstood by a patrol results in the banishment of the offender over the border into Germany. "The Mayor of Noyon has carried on the difficult tasks entrusted to him with great skill and remarkable courage. Many times his administrations have placed him in grave danger, but so far he has not suffered for his demands for justice towards his unfortunate fellow townsmen. "Every Sunday mass is celebrated in the untouched part of the Cathedral. A Protestant service also is given following it. The troops attend in two detachments, and the sight of these two bodies at once in the Cathedral is sufficiently curious, and certainly most unusual. "In the afternoon the officers arrange a sort of concert, at which artists who are unlucky enough to be here are expected to perform. These are usually melancholy affairs. "When the town was first occupied by the Germans, in September, 1914, it was to the Cathedral that they sent their prisoners for confinement. The inhabitants were ordered to bring provisions for them, but were not allowed access to them. It was necessary to intrust the food they brought to the sentinels, and no one knows whether the food reached the poor prisoners or not. "As for the Cathedral, I can say truly that the two great towers were constantly used by the German soldiers as posts of observation. Our glorious dead have been laid at rest at the foot of an immense cross erected outside the town. "The Germans have prepared for their dead a large 'fosse' in the middle of a field. An armed picket guard assists at the interments of both French and Germans, at which military honors are scrupulously observed and given. These ceremonies, often under the heavy fire of the great guns of the French, have made an impression upon me that I shall never forget. "The morning of the 17th of October, as I was engaged in renewing the dressing of a lieutenant s wounds, two German policemen brusquely entered, and called out 'Schwester Godfroy!' "Hearing my name I turned and prepared to follow the two men, but these rough men, deeming my movements not quick enough, seized me by the arms and pushed me towards the stairs leading to my chamber. In the hallway I perceived my companions, each grasped by a 'gendarme.' An officer and five men pushed me with them into my chamber and locked the door; then these men, with a brutality impossible here to describe, ransacked my bed, ripped open the mattress and pillows, after which they turned the contents of my valise out on the floor, threw my clothing about; even breaking off the legs of my '_table de nuit_' to see if I had not letters or papers hidden therein. I kept my temper, remaining quiet. "Seeing me so calm seemed to render them furious at finding nothing to incriminate me. My trunk in a corner of the room attracted their attention, and they roughly ordered me to open it. I made them understand that there was no key to it. One of them wrenched off the lid with his saber, to discover that the trunk was empty. They then questioned me minutely, after eyeing suspiciously several German newspapers lying on the table. "'You speak German, and you refuse to admit it; but do not mistake--you and the others--we know you to be Belgians, and if you can get to Paris, it is not for the purpose of caring for the wounded...' "This seemed so foolish to me that I refused to answer. "For at least ten minutes they bent over my poor papers, my little souvenirs, and a piece of paper money which they examined minutely, thinking to find state secrets, I suppose. "Afterwards, when they returned my money, they kept five or six letters which I had preserved and kept by me as dear relics, precious letters from my mother and sisters... Their gross impoliteness made no outward impression upon me, but the instant their attention was attracted from me, and they turned their heads in another direction, I threw adroitly in a corner of my valise, which remained open beside me, a small packet which I carried in the waist of my dress. In this I had written a sort of diary of my experiences since the beginning of the war, together with accounts given me by wounded Frenchmen of their personal impressions of the combats in which they had been wounded; a few sketches and such matters, all innocent of any military value, but which, if found upon me, would have but one quick result... I pushed the valise farther under the table with a stealthy movement of my foot. The men then left the room, shutting the door behind them. Almost instantly two horrible 'Schwestern' entered without knocking, and proceeded to undress me, examining even the lining of my clothes for concealed papers--Of course they found none. My companions suffered the same indignities at the hands of these horrible creatures, who seemed to us more brutes than women. When they had gone, and I was sure that no one observed, I again concealed the packet of papers in the waist of my dress as before." Of her further adventures I can give no more here. She was taken away from Noyon shortly after the experience just related and sent to a detention camp of Holzminden in Germany with her companion nurses. Her experiences there were remarkable, and after serving with faithfulness until the following April, she was sent to Rastadt, the fortress, from which she obtained permission to leave, and return to Noyon by way of Switzerland. She finishes by writing: "Now, after more than a year has passed, I am once more in our dear little cottage, among those whom I had thought and feared never to see again. Alas--the war continues. Certainly I dreamed that war was very different from what I found it to be, and if my health returns to me, as I hope, I shall resume my work. I have seen the soldiers in the midst of battle at the front; I have attended them in the ambulances with undreamed of wounds; I have listened to and received their agonized confidences, and attended them to the end. They are all heroes to me... I have known them in captivity, famished for food, insulted, brutalized by their captors. Our brave boys! "Their courage, the grandeur of their souls, their indifference to pain in the face of duty, imparts to me something of their courage which inspires me. "A country defended by such an army has no right to doubt final victory. "(Signed) Leonie Godfroy." Hotel de Ville: Noyon [Illustration: 0227] One revolts at these terrible pictures and accounts of the ravages of war in this former peaceful town, now so ravaged by the German army. Its picturesque town hall with the emblazoned coat of arms below the turret, where those flocks of white pigeons paraded the coping, cooing in the sunshine--now a mass of blackened ruin, behind a vast hole in the ground in what was once the town square, marking where one of the great shells fell and burst; and the shattered towers of the gray old Cathedral, the roof of which is gone, leaving the debris filled interior open to the rainy gray cloudy sky. Where now are the throngs of happy, apparently care-free peasants who thronged the "place" before the flag-hung old Town Hall that morning we last saw it in September, 1910?... The Patron Saints' day--a day dear to the peasants. This festival which takes place but once a year, is an event in the peasant's life. On this day he invites his friends and his relatives to his house, each in turn. In such communities throughout France, where the church still preserves authority, the priest earnestly endeavors to protect the peasants from the wiles and temptations of sin--this is one of the few days when dancing is allowed. Thus in each section of the country or province the occasion is given a different name, although the circumstances of its celebration do not differ greatly. In the North of France the day is known under the name of "La Dricasse," in the East as "La Rapport," in Savoy as the "Vogue"; in Touraine as the "Assemblée"; as the "Ballade" in Poitou; as the "Frairie" in Angoumois; and as the "Pardon" in Brittany. The day before the fête, long lines of wagons with peddlers and mountebanks arrived in the "place" and each took up its station upon a position marked out with white stones, according to whatever license has been allotted to the showman at the Town Hall. There was no disorder whatever, no dispute with the _Sergeant de Ville_, whose word is law. The wagons were unpacked in the light of flaring naphtha torches under the excited eyes of the gamins who formed a wondering, pushing ring about the workmen until driven away by the police. One may believe that during that night the peasants slept lightly for thinking of the joys of the feasting and dancing of the morrow. At dawn of day the chimes in the cathedral awakened them. Soon they thronged the streets, the men dressed in new blouses, or treasured wedding coats, the girls all in unaccustomed finery of stiff skirts and Sunday headdress. All go to mass on a day of this sort as a sacred duty. The old Cathedral was crowded to the doors with the people; sitting and standing. Late comers fared badly and remained at the porch. Even there, they knelt piously at their devotions. But it seemed to us that the whole congregation was nervously excited and impatient to be gone. We could not hear the words of the priest's sermon, but undoubtedly he counseled them to keep sober and to beware of the attractiveness of sin. When the Amen was chanted how quickly the peasants left the old church! How they hastened to the square, where already flags were flying all about, and where the mountebanks were shouting out the attractions of their tented shows; where the booths displayed their attractive collections of brassy jewelry; and the firemen were gathered bravely in their brazen horsehair-plumed helmets, all ranged about the absurd diminutive fire pump, two feet in height and mounted on four twelve-inch scarlet wheels. How innocent, even pathetically ludicrous it seemed, yet what a charm it all had for us. Everything was calculated to attract and excite the desires of these simple people, who know nothing of the luxuries to which free born Americans are so accustomed. Here in the open square sharp-eyed Semitic merchants from Paris unpacked their paniers and heavy cases of cheap clothing, gaudy ribbons and flimsy varnished furniture, over which the women and girls crowded and pushed excitedly, fingering their lean purses, containing their hard earned "francs," and eagerly bargaining for the usually worthless articles. The "barkers" called out loudly the merits of the shows, before which, on elevated board platforms, hard faced girls in tights and motley clad buffoons paraded. Tinsel and glitter never failed to attract the peasant, and the clashing cymbal and the loudly beaten drum gives him delight. Here, before the old Town Hall, built three centuries ago, a modern moving picture tent was set up, with a large sign over it reading thus: "Cinema--Américain. Phonograph--Edison. Entree f. 1.50"--but the peasants did not yet know what this meant and they seemed dubious about it. The fortune teller, however, was highly successful, and his long green canvas covered wagon was surrounded by an eager waiting crowd of women; the men did not seem to care for it. An itinerant quack dentist, in a magnificently varnished open carriage hung with flags and diplomas from the "Crowned Heads of Europe," was extracting "an aching tooth," from the mouth of a frightened boy, who leaped away from the carriage, as the quack held up the offending tooth in a glittering forceps before the astonished eyes of the peasants. Spitting out blood, the boy, holding his jaw in his hands, and surrounded by other admiring "gamins," went away behind the back of a cart; following him I was just in time to see him display a bright new one franc piece to the others who were grouped about him. They all jumped away at my approach. "Did your teeth ache badly?" I asked him. "No, M'sieur, not at all, but he offered me one good silver franc for it, and _Mère de Dieu_, what would you?--a franc is a franc--and I have plenty of teeth left!" In the gorgeous carriage stood the loud mouthed "quack" flourishing the teeth in the silver plated forceps, and calling for "amateurs" to come forward and have their teeth out. There were booths filled with sweets about which the children lingered most longingly, and others where "fritters" were cooked in evil smelling grease, which were eagerly bought and consumed in large quantities by the young fellows and their girls. The various small inns and drinking-places were filled to suffocation the whole day long. From the open windows and doors came the sounds of loud singing, mingled with the raucous tones of barrel organs, and the jingling of glasses and bottles. There was much shouting and laughing on the part of the peasants, who on ordinary occasions are serious enough, if not morose. That night the festival was in full swing. The two large "merry-go-rounds" with their gaudily painted wooden lions, tigers, and horses, were whirling about in blazing circles laden with excited boys and screaming girls, to the groaning strains of large barrel organs, filling the air with noise. These merry-go-rounds were ornamented thickly with squares and diamonds of mirror glass, and these made a magnificent whirling show in the square. There was, too, the town orchestra vainly endeavoring to play the popular music, and finally there were some sputtering fireworks, followed by a speech by the Mayor, and a "retraite aux Flambeaux," consisting of a dozen firemen with oil lamps, which, preceded by a drum corps, made the round of the adjacent streets. After seeing this we returned to our little Hôtel du Nord, for it was near to midnight, but all night long the festivities went on in the square, and in the small dancing halls. We thought it all most quaint, even somewhat pathetic then. But the act of the aggressor which has swept away this pretty little town, leaving nothing but blackened, fire-eaten walls, and driving a simple innocent people into exile is nothing short of a crime against humanity. Of the ruin wrought in the neighborhood of Noyon and Lassigny by the Teutons before they abandoned this part of their line a correspondent (_Le Matin_, Paris) states that it is difficult to speak without entering into details of the most sordid character. What were once charming streets in Lassigny are now covered with masses of rubbish discarded by the Germans when they plundered the city. The beautiful old fifteenth century church, which was the Mecca for thousands of sightseers in times before the war, has been reduced to a heap of stones. Along the road from Lassigny to Noyon the spectacle of ruin is the same. Suzoy and many small villages were too far from the French lines to be damaged by the heavy artillery fire, but they bear, nevertheless, many traces of the barbarian rage. All furniture that could not be carried off by the Germans was battered and broken to prevent its use even for firewood. Much of it was piled in heaps along the road and burned to ashes. In some parts of the road the French found carts loaded with household furniture which the Germans in their haste were unable to move or burn. Farm implements, curtains, carpets and most of the household goods of the villages were smashed and in some cases covered with offal. At Noyon the houses have suffered comparatively little damage. The most noticeable wreckage was done in the vicinity of the bridges which had been blown up to prevent and delay pursuit. At some places the Germans exploded bombs and mines in the middle of the roadway, causing immense holes and ridges. The Cathedral is ruined; likewise the notable and remarkable old Town Hall, but the quaint old fountain in the Square has by some good fortune escaped damage. In March, 1917, on their departure from Noyon, the Germans delegated a staff of officers to visit the different banks in the town. Several prominent citizens were brought along to accelerate the work of pillage, and the officers compelled the opening of all safes. Even the minute objects whose chief value lay in sentimental attachment were taken by the Germans. Securities, jewelry and silver in the banks, amounting to $500,000 approximately, were taken before the town was evacuated. M. Poiret, mayor of the village of Pimpres, who was separated from his family two years ago, and compelled to remain at Noyon, says of his treatment by the Germans: "The humiliations we had to put up with are indescribable. During the last few weeks our physical discomforts became unbearable. There was neither meat, nor coal, nor vegetables, nor fat. In addition the Germans cut all the mains, so that we had no gas. They were constantly requisitioning what little we had. They took even the bells from the ruins of the Cathedral, and the old Town Hall, and last week the great organ in the church (Sainte Chapelle of the old Bishop's Palace) was removed. "We were joyous when we heard that the Germans were preparing to leave on Friday night. We were told to remain indoors on penalty of being shot if we stirred outdoors. "During the night the Germans blew up mines in the streets and dammed up the river Verse so as to flood the town. The evacuation began the following night (Saturday) and was finished by daybreak. "On Sunday at 11 o'clock the sight of French cavalry coming up the street toward my house was the most 'gorgeous' spectacle I have seen for more than two years." During the nights of March 16 and 17, two companies of German infantry arrived at the village of Ham, where there was a famous château (tenth century) of the Counts of Vermandois and later of the family of Coucy. The infantry remained until the following day, pillaging systematically, under orders of their officers, everything in the neighborhood. The ancient Château of Coucy furnished them with considerable valuable booty, and here four officers burned and broke up all the furniture they could not carry away. The château was in the form of a rectangle flanked at each corner by a round tower, and with great square towers on the north and east. The round tower at the northeast angle which rose from the canal was the work of Louis de Luxembourg in 1490. and was called the "Tour du Connetable," and bore above the portal the motto of its founder, "Mon Myeul." Its walls were of tremendous thickness and strength. The whole lower story was an immense hall of hexagonal form, and it had a number of strange pits, called furnaces, which were to be used to blow up the castle in case of capture. In this château many notable personages had been confined; for instance, Jeanne d'Arc; Condé, the Huguenot leader; Jacques Cassard of Nantes; and Prince Napoleon, after his failure and capture at Boulogne in 1840. This great and historical château they wantonly destroyed; after sacking it they blew it up with cases of explosives placed in the walls. The officers took away from their sleeping quarters in the town all chairs, bed clothing and even the smallest toilet articles. Some of the soldiers excused their acts to the townspeople by informing them that all this was done "by order of the Emperor." General von Fleck, commanding officer of the army corps stationed at Ham, took everything in the house he occupied from the cellar to the roof, using a wagon to carry away the objects. "After the wagon had gone with the last chair in the house, the general found himself in need of one on which to write a letter, so an orderly was dispatched to get one at the Mairie." MEAUX |THE little town of Meaux on the banks of the Marne is only thirty miles or so from Paris, and was remarkable for its old mills on the bridge over the river bed, behind the Hôtel de Ville, as well as for the beautiful cathedral of St. Etienne. The beauties of the town could best be appreciated from the shady walk along the river side. Here were great shade trees overhanging the roadway, through the branches of which one got glimpses of the cream colored tower of the old cathedral, above the red tiled roofs of the town, all against a summer sky of pale blue. Upon reaching the town, there were the two bridges over the Marne, both of them covered with some old mills with high wooden walls and quaint buttresses; almost theatrical and unbelievable in these practical days. The town had about twelve or thirteen thousand inhabitants, and was busied with a trade in grain. Some rather handsome boulevards seemed entirely out of key with the rest of the town, but there were the remains of an ancient chateau of the Counts of Flanders, built during the thirteenth, or maybe the twelfth century, accounts differ, which seemed much more in keeping with the place, and a most delightful little hotel called the "_Trois Rois_" from which it was hard to get away, so ideal were its comforts, and so moderate its charges. Meaux, says history, was the refuge of the noble ladies of France in the Jacquerie revolts of the thirteenth century, when the horrors of the rebel persecutions at Beauvais commenced. Once having reached the shelter of its walls, they dared not leave, and remained prisoners until the terror ended. Here remained the Duchesses of Orléans and Normandy among others no less famous and prominent, so that intrepid warrior, the Captai de Buch, accompanied by the Earl of Foix, gathered together a force of armed men for their rescue. All the roads leading to the town, from Paris, from Beauvoisie, from Valois, were filled with bands of peasantry, all bound for the town, which they had heard contained great treasure. Arriving at Meaux, de Buch and Foix were welcomed with great joy, for the peasants had begun to pillage wherever they could. Then ensued a great slaughter in which the marauding peasants were rounded up and killed like rats by the armed warriors. "They flung them in great heaps into the river. In short, they killed upwards of seven thousand; not one would have escaped if they had chosen to pursue them." Meaux, too, is famous for a great siege during the wars of Henry V, when he camped before the town walls in 1421. Monstrelet says, "The King of England was indefatigable in the siege of Meaux, and having destroyed many parts of the walls of the market place, he summoned the garrison to surrender themselves to the King of France and himself, or he would storm the place. To this summons they replied that it was not yet time to surrender, on which the King ordered the place to be stormed. The assault continued for seven or eight hours, in the most bloody manner; nevertheless, the besieged made a most obstinate defense, in spite of the great numbers that were attacking them. Their lances had been almost all broken, but in their stead they made use of spits, and fought back with such courage that the English were driven back from the ditches, which encouraged them much." Eventually, however, not receiving help from the Dauphin, upon which they had counted, they capitulated to Henry's soldiers. Under the treaty which followed, they agreed: "On the 11th day May, the market place, and all Meaux was to be surrendered into the hands of the Kings of France and England." As a warning to the people against further insurrection the leader, one Vauras, "the bastard," who had in his career killed many English and Burgundians, was hanged, drawn, and quartered before the walls of the town. After this, King Henry, who was very proud of his victory, entered the town in great pomp and splendor, remaining for some days with his princes and attendants, and left after giving orders that the town walls should be rebuilt and all other damages repaired. The ancient building called the "Evêché" near the cathedral was the residence of Bossuet, the famous preacher, in 1681. He was nicknamed the "Aigle de Meaux," and renowned for his eloquence, even at a time when France was rich in such genius. Bossuet stood head and shoulders even above such contemporaries as Mas-silon and Bourdaloue, Arnauld, Fleury, and Fénelon. It was really he who established the privileges and liberty of the Gallican church. Here in the little green garden behind the gray walls of the "Evêché," he sat, mused, and wrote his essays upon the encroachments of Papacy, which destroyed the remnants of Pope Innocent's power in France. In his later years he remained in seclusion here at Meaux, leading the life of a simple parish priest, and here he died "full of honors and beloved by all," and was buried in the church in 1704. A handsome statue by Ruxtiel was erected in his honor on the south side of the choir. Old Mills: Meaux [Illustration: 0249] Here, too, was a fine kneeling statue of Philip of Castile, dated 1627. But the great point of attraction for the stranger at Meaux was the bridge and the old timbered mills which overhung it, and the curious greeny water of the river Marne. I could not ascertain what gave the water its green color; it did not seem natural, yet there were apparently no dye works near at hand--none of the inhabitants whom I questioned seemed able to answer my question; they had never noticed it, they said. The morning upon which I made my sketches of the ancient mills and the old bridges, there were two of them over the river, the sky suddenly darkened, and a heavy shower of rain fell. I took refuge in the open doorway of one of the old mills, and sat on the lower step of a ruinous dusty steep stairway leading upwards into mysterious deep shadows. Somewhere in the interior sounded the rhythmic beating of heavy machinery, but save for this, the "drumming fingers of the rain," and an occasional tinkle of a bell high up in the tower of the cathedral, there were no signs or sounds of life. Meaux is not a large town, neither is it a very lively one, but it is charmingly situated. Were it farther away from Paris, I doubt not that it might attract the tourist, for it has a most delightful public promenade along the river Marne which is entered immediately before the railway station. But up to the time of the outbreak of the great world war, Meaux was comparatively unknown to the foreigner tourist, and were it not for the old mills of which I had heard, I should not have stopped there. The cathedral treasury possessed copies of nine of Raphaël's cartoons, and included two of the three "lost" ones, described as "Martyrdom of St. Stephen and Conversion of St. Paul." There were also copies of frescoes by Guido Reni and Dominichino, an "Adoration of the Magi" after Champaigne and an "Annunciation" after Stella. I had made notes concerning these in my pocket diary and as I sat on the step in the old doorway of the dusty mill, I mused over the pages while the raindrops fell outside. All at once the door swung to slowly, and when I tried to open it, I found that it was fast and would not yield. There was no sort of knob visible in the gloom, nor was there any aperture in the door through which light could come. There seemed to be light somewhere above, so I mounted the steps, which stopped abruptly before another closed door which, however, was not fastened, for it yielded at once to my touch. There was a small window here of four panes thick with dust, through which some feeble light came. More steep steps led upward, and I continued to mount, judging that I should soon come to some sort of room where there were men at work. But at the top of these stairs was a similar door and more steps, and still another flight brought me into an immense empty room with an uneven floor, the planks of which were loose here and there and gave alarmingly to my weight. Overhead huge beams crossed and recrossed the dimness, and on these beams perched countless numbers of rooks, who uneasily regarded my intrusion. The windows--there were five of them--I could not reach from the floor, nor could I by jumping up, try as I might, reach the sills, so that I might see out. Backwards and forwards I passed, and then along the blank wall which I judged adjoined the neighboring mill, seeking a doorway. I could find none. Finally I found a small door, not more than three feet from the floor in the blank wall. This was fastened by a hasp and opened readily. I got down on my hands and knees in the dust which lay thickly, and crept through it into a second large dim room, almost the counterpart of that which I had just left, save that it was lighted by only one window and this without glass. It, too, was high up in the wall like the others. In the very middle of the uneven floor was an unguarded opening through which the heavy ropes of a pulley hung. I lost no time in feeling my way carefully down the steps at one side which were without any rail to hold on to. I found that there was a ladder here by which I might descend, which I did at once, but with some misgivings as to where it might land me. Now I heard voices from below and, reassured, I put foot to the ladder. In a few moments I was on the floor below, but as I was about to walk away from the ladder in the darkness towards an opening on the farther end, I bethought me to put out a foot carefully to try the floor. To my horror there was no floor there, and retreating I lighted a match and threw it before me. The feeble flame was enough to show a great black chasm where I had thought to step a moment before, and the hair on my scalp rose in fright at my escape. I shouted aloud for help--I heard running footsteps--and right beside me a door opened letting in a flood of daylight and the figure of one of the millers, who regarded me with openmouthed astonishment, as well he might. When I had explained my predicament, he and the other men who gathered about were loud in their expressions of wonder at my escape from a terrible death, for had I but stepped a foot farther, I had fallen forty or fifty feet into a sluiceway from which they vowed I never could have escaped alive. I invited all hands over to the café, and there I gave offerings to Bacchus in honor of my escape which were eagerly consumed by the millers of Meaux. Cathedral: Meaux [Illustration: 0257] M. Georges Montorgueil, writing in "La Cités Meurtries, 1916," his account of the early days of terror in Meaux, gives a picture of the old priest who so devotedly and courageously shepherded his little flock of women and children, helpless before the invasion and destruction of the town by the Germans: "Where, meanwhile, was the venerable priest, an old man of seventy-five years, the Abbé Fossin, whose age and gray hairs was no protection, to him, nor the eighteen unfortunates who were seized with him by the Germans and thrown into jail, under the most atrocious circumstances, not matched by any of its most ancient barbarities when the Germans were known as 'Huns.' "The Abbé Fossin kept a Journal of events during the tragic hours preceding his arrest: "'5th of September, 1914. Saturday. "'I read my breviary. An aéroplane passed above my head. The bodies of two pilots killed by a bomb were taken to the cemetery. A group of captured French soldiers are passing. "L'église en ambulance." The prisoners of Guerard have gone. All the electric lights in the town are out. "'6th September. Sunday. "'A bad night. Impossible to say Mass or hold funeral of the two aviators in the cemetery because of the falling shells. The cannonade began at nine o'clock and lasted until five o'clock without interruption. We are under a very rain of fire! The batteries of the Germans, placed behind the presbytery, have been located by the English. I believe my last hour has arrived. The din is frightful! I have thanked God that I am protected. "'7th September. Monday. "'The battle has recommenced. Still impossible to say the Holy Mass. I paid a visit to the Germans in the Church. These are the most terribly wounded. They gave me their hands. They are badly off. I cannot give them bread; all I had, all the fruits of my garden have disappeared! I have nothing left!--' "The diary ends here. Here was a holy man of venerable years of known truth and great charity, visiting his enemies to give them what he had, his prayers. He had nothing else to give. He was fatigued for lack of sleep. He was hungry, but he had nothing to eat. All he had in his meager house and small garden had been either taken away or destroyed. Witness now his recompense: less than an hour after he had written those last notes in his diary, the Germans had seized and dragged him before a wrathful German officer. "He was charged with having climbed the tower of the cathedral to signal to the British lines. He who so suffered from rheumatism that he could hardly walk from his doorway to the church, a few paces away, by the aid of a cane. He was insulted by the officer, the soldiers who held him up before his questioner spat in his face. At length his shoes and clothes were stripped from him, and with great brutality he was thrown into a cellar, where he spent the night, with some potato bags to cover him. In the morning the door above was flung open, and a number of captives were thrown down the steep steps of the cellar way. These were Milliardet, Jourdin, Vapaille, Therré, Croix, Eugene Leriche, Lacour, Jules Denis, Berthelemy Denis, Merillon, Combes, Mesnil, Liévin, Faure and his son, aged fifteen, who was baker's boy in the village of Vareddes, and known under the nickname of 'Marmiton.' "To this group the Germans added later in the day Paul Lebel and Vincent Denis, arrested because the latter called out to a German soldier, 'Eh, well, old man, you are not yet at Paris!' "On Saturday, without feeding them or allowing any one to visit them, all these unfortunates were divided into several groups, and surrounded by soldiers, hustled along the road to Lizy-sur-Ourcy, where they were halted. "They numbered now fifteen in all, not counting the old priest, the Abbé Fossin. "Père Leriche, who was himself seventy-four years old, relates that the Abbé, who lay prostrate on the ground beside him, said to him in a low voice, 'I believe that they are going to shoot me--take my watch and breviary, and try and get them to my family.' When the march was resumed the Abbé could not walk fast enough to suit the soldiers. He was pushed and struck by them, his soutane was torn to ribbons. Finally they threw him into a wagon which they seized on the road. In this he lay groaning. He died a short time later, and was left beside the road. The heat was atrocious; thus they marched, the younger ones sustaining the elders, through the long hours to the rear, without water or food, insulted and beaten constantly by their captors. "At Coulomb, Père Jourdain fell in the road, unable to continue the march. He was immediately dispatched by a revolver shot. "At Chézy-en-Orxois, another old man, Milliardet, eighty years old, was similarly disposed of. Any complaint was the signal of death. Both Terry and Croix were shot for whistling. "Old Eugene Menie, who halted on the edge of a deep ditch, was struck by the butt of a gun in the hands of one of the soldiers, and his neck broken--they threw him into the ditch and went on. "Père Liévin, aged sixty-one, who had heart disease, could not keep step with the others; he was purple in the face, and his eyes stuck out so comically that it amused the soldiers, who finally shot him and left his body at the cemetery gate in Chauny." These are only haphazard extracts from the records of that terrible month of September, 1914, when unfortunate Meaux was the very center of affairs. Elsewhere we read of the aspects of the streets after each successive bombardment, the telegraph hanging in festoons on the footways, the trunks of huge trees felled by cannon barring the way; the carcasses of animals lying about amid strange débris, such as heavy leather shoes, broken guns, sticks and barrels, empty tin cans, torn and ragged clothing clotted with blood, strange piles of still smoking ashes containing small bones, and over all the odor of burning petroleum. The houses with wide open doors and sashless window frames; gardens uprooted and despoiled; walls thrown down, and strewn about an immense quantity of broken glass bottles. These were the streets of Meaux, which I had explored on that peaceful morning in August, 1910, and made the sketches of the old bridge with its clustered mills, the fire blackened beams now hanging in grotesque ruins over the water of the little green river. The bombardment began on Monday, the 7th of September, 1914. The first of the German shells fell upon the town at eleven in the morning, in the direction of the fauburg St.-Nicholas, then in the fauburg St.-Faron. The bombardment followed the line of the railway. In the cemetery the ancient tombs were scattered in all directions; ten shells destroyed the hospital. The Grand Seminary fell next. Of the one hundred and twenty shells which on this Monday fell in the town, the first five did the greatest damage. Whole lines of houses were thrown down and set on fire. This lasted until six in the afternoon. The next day shells began to fall again in the early morning. The cathedral was encircled by shells, which did great damage, but by a special Providence with the exception of an enormous hole in the roof, and the destruction of the venerable cloisters, the ancient cathedral escaped the fate of its neighbors. This is the chronology: Wednesday, September 2, the exodus; Thursday, the town lay deserted and helpless; Friday, the organization of all the available defensive forces; Saturday and Sunday, the battle; Monday, the bombardment; Tuesday, the enemy driven off, and the town saved. SENLIS |FROM the railway station one could see the towers of the cathedral and the old church of St. Pierre, above the heavy trees of a short avenue which led to that part of the town, where formerly stood the old ramparts--and to the Porte Royale. The best and most picturesque part of the town, of interest to the antiquary, was the western end, and here were tortuous and delightful crooked narrow streets, quaint little gabled houses, old mossy walls surrounding luxuriant gardens, and some remains of the remarkable chateaux of a bygone period. Ancient stronghold in past centuries, it had become a little old sleepy town given over to churches and the priesthood. Of the ancient Gallo-Roman fortifications there were still to be seen, up to the outbreak of the war in 1914, sixteen of the Roman towers in a fair state of preservation. A small river, the Nonette, passes through it, winding most exquisitely. Situated some thirty-five miles from Paris, and on the edge of the Champagne district, its character could be best appraised from the charming public promenade along the river's bank, lined with fine trees and offering vistas of great picturesqueness. The old cathedral dates back to the early days of the thirteenth century; its lace-like gray tower, covered with exquisite Gothic ornamentation, was a source of delight to artists and antiquarians. Usually covered with scaffolding, the tower was in a constant state of repair, but the spidery scaffolding seemed not at all to detract from the charm of its lines. One of the architects in charge explained that the vaulting and the first stage of the choir, the "triform ambulatory" had been removed because of cracks developing in the masonry, but this alteration did not seem to have resulted in any loss to the interior artistically. Indeed, as it stood in 1910, the choir elevation was a most exquisite example of thirteenth century construction and design. Ancient Ramparts: Senlis [Illustration: 0271] Lying in the midst of the great forest lands of Chantilly and Hallette, Senlis, until the dissolution of the Carlo-vingian Empire, was the place of royal residence, and even thereafter, to the time of Henry of Navarre, the kings of France preferred it to all others. The Castle was built upon the site of the Roman Prætorium, the ruins of which were pointed out to tourists. The ancient Roman ramparts which still in part surrounded the town were also shown, and the walls were said to be thirteen feet thick. "They enclosed an area, oval in form, one thousand and twenty feet long from east to west and seven hundred and ninety-four feet wide from north to south. At each of the angles formed by the broken lines of which the circuit of two thousand seven hundred and fifty-six feet is composed, stands or stood a tower; numbering twenty-eight and now only sixteen, they are semicircular in plan, and up to the height of the wall are unpierced. The Roman city had only two gates; the present number is five." The old cathedral was both curious and fascinating, as well as of great beauty. Begun in 1154 on really enormous lines, its original plan was never carried out for want of funds. Century after century it had been rebuilt, altered, extended and replanned, until it had become, as an American architect of renown styled it, "an epitome of French architecture from the middle of the twelfth to the middle of the fifteenth century." Its companion unfinished, the great southwest tower is of the thirteenth century, and is said to be "unsurpassed by no other spire in France for subtlety of composition and perfection of detail." One of its beautiful "crocketed" pinnacles was shot away in the bombardment by the Germans in 1915, and the loss left the world poor indeed. It is certainly a strange sensation for us to watch from a distance the continuous destruction of the great works of art of the world, powerless to prevent it. For us all this loss is personal, poignant, unexampled; a horror that nothing can palliate nor time soften. The ancient Renaissance tower of St. Pierre had been used as a public market, and also as a cavalry barrack because of its ruinous state. In form it was most curious, being very short and too wide for proportion. While the prevailing style was flamboyant, it contained a certain amount of early Gothic work of considerable interest and value. I regret that I did not make a sketch of it when I was there, for the scene at early morning with the crowds of market people, and the vegetable stalls all about, and rising above them the bare gray walls of the nave and the choir, formed a picture of much quaintness. The glory of the old cathedral of "Notre Dame" was the beautiful spire upon the southwest tower. Of infinite grace and lightness with its detached pillars, it rose from an octagonal base which supported a sort of canopy in pyramidal form, the whole adorned with a wealth of delicate carving and tracery, and pierced by high dormer lancet shaped windows, about which flew clouds of ravens or starlings. The great door in the west front reminded one of that at Chartres, and was adorned with figures of Our Lord and the Virgin, some of the figures of the angels being of remarkable character and grace. Inside in the ambulatory, behind the altar, are some of the twelfth century Romanesque capitals, and elsewhere are found other evidences of Roman influence. All accounts agree that this beautiful edifice has now been entirely destroyed by the invader (1917). Former wars have swept the little town from time to time in the past, but the cathedral remained practically untouched until the present day. Whatever the former causes, or however violent the onslaught of the opposing forces, these priceless records of art were spared by common consent, save perhaps when the Revolution swept over the cloisters, and even then the havoc wrought was reparable, but now comes one calling himself the anointed representative of God, and annihilates an innocent people and destroys the treasures of a land which he cannot conquer. Just what remains at this time of Senlis cannot be ascertained, but all accounts agree that the huge gray Romanesque tower can no longer be seen upon the horizon, and that the bombardment of the ruins continues. Baron André de Maricourt has written a most complete monograph of Senlis. (Senlis. Baron André de Maricourt, ancien élève de l'école des Chartes. "Les Cités Meurtries." Paris. Librarie de l'Eclair.) "Hidden away among the heavy trees which surround it upon all sides, lies the little town of Senlis, almost a suburb of Paris." According to the old proverb, "To live happily is to remain hidden." So Senlis remained comparatively forgotten. The very names of its streets were strange to modern ears and evoked smiles from the stranger, and its old houses, dating from the days of "la reine Berthe," enchanted the antiquary. This little town of seven thousand inhabitants was indeed one of the capitals of ancient France during the times of the Capets, and in the royal château which sheltered the chiefs of the Merovingians, and royalties down to the days of Henry IV, were written many pages of the history of France. One recalls the days of Charles le Chauve, of d'Hugues Capet and St. Louis, the quarrel of the Armagnaces and the Bourguignons, recalled by the strange picture by Melingue, "Les Otages de Senlis," which was in the Hôtel de Ville up to the time of the bombardment by the Germans. Also may be recalled the passage of Jeanne d'Arc through the town, and then the wars of the "Ligue,"--all proving the importance of Senlis of the past. In the eighteenth century, Louis XV, in order to render the town more accessible, constructed a fine roadway from Paris to the royal residence, and Senlis emerged from its quietude, amazed at the lines of gilded equipages and the prancing horses urged on the gallop by gorgeously dressed lackeys which daily thronged the way. Cathedral: Senlis [Illustration: 0279] This roadway, called formerly the "Rue Neuve de Paris," was the principal artery of the little old city, under the twenty-year-old name of "Rue de la République." Sung by poets, such as Gérard de Nerval, and Maurice Barrés, M. André Haileys described Senlis as "tortueuse, taciturne et charmante," and dwelt lovingly upon its "mossy terraces," its ancient walls bathed in sunlight, and its grand old tower whose perfect bells sounded over the golden green fields. In the early summer days of 1914, the Society of Amateurs held their celebration at Senlis, says Baron de Maricourt, "a few months ago, months which seem years now. The ceremony was to celebrate the Victory of Bouvignes. In the St. Rieul Hall, Madame la duchesse de Vendôme sat beside M. Odent, the mayor of the town, who spoke feelingly of ancient France, and of Flanders.... "One month later the Hall was occupied by cavalry; our own cavalry of France.... On the horizon lay the German army.... "Three weeks later M. Odent, the mayor, was killed in the bombardment; the Hall of Saint-Rieul was a hospital; the brother of the princess had become 'Albert le Brave,' the plain of Bouvignes was bathed in blood; Senlis was burning; the inhabitants had fled." It would appear that Senlis was burned and sacked to inspire Paris with terror, and as an example of the fate that awaited her. Nearly all the inhabitants fled when the news came that the Germans had crossed the border. A few of the citizens resolved to remain to support the mayor and magistrates in keeping the peace, to patrol the town to prevent looting, and to watch for fires. Some pieces of heavy artillery had been arranged before the Hôtel de Ville and under the towers of the Cathedral, but there was neither ammunition for these nor soldiers in the town to use them. The town was silent, the factories empty, the streets almost deserted. In the town hall, the few faithful ones remained on watch day and night grouped about the mayor. In some of the rooms were refugees from neighboring towns, old men and women with young children who had nowhere else to go. In the hospitals the nuns and nurses cared for the wounded who had been brought to the town in large numbers. There were no soldiers hereabouts. This is the truth (affirms the Baron de Maricourt). The Germans understood and saw a different picture, so they say. They heard the movement of vast bodies of armed men; they saw the "franc tireurs" in the trees firing upon them, they saw cannon protruding from the windows of the towers of the old cathedral.... So the knell of Louvain sounded for Senlis.... So wrote the Baron de Maricourt of Senlis, who remained in the town during the occupation by the Germans, who suffered at their hands all the indignities they could devise; who remained calm and heroic through all the terrors of the bombardment and destruction of his beloved town. "The first German body of troops which entered the town carried with them a corps of incendiaries in regular formation upon bicycles, armed with tubes of metal containing, as was afterwards ascertained, picric acid, and others a kind of wick of cotton charged with gasoline or petroleum. Some of the men carried hand grenades strung around their waists or over their shoulders, and these they threw into open windows and doorways of designated houses. By midnight the sky was illuminated by fires in every quarter of the town." It commenced in the faubourg St.-Martin. It is said that the soldiers warned the occupants of houses designated to leave before they set fire to them. "Let us be just to the German soldiers," says M. de Maricourt. "In the evening of the day of occupation, the Archdeacon was brought to the Hôtel du Grand-Cerf, by the concierge Boullay. He was paraded before the officers, but was not mistreated, except that he was compelled to stand, and no one addressed him. Finally he was ordered to return to his quarters, but hardly had he arrived there, before another order came for him to return at once to the Grand-Cerf. Already towards the south end of the town the houses were in flames, and he saw the soldiers carrying lighted torches. He was brought before an officer who spoke French and whose manner was not discourteous:-- "'Monsieur,' said he, 'attend to me,'--and he read from a paper charges that the priest had allowed citizens to fire upon the entering German troops. "'It is not true,' replied the Archdeacon, 'I was alone in the church, and the keys were in my pocket.' "The officer read upon the face of the priest the evident sincerity of his words. "'Poor priest! Poor town!' he said pityingly, 'I believe you, but I must obey orders.' "'How so?' "'Because I am ordered to treat Senlis as was Louvain; by to-morrow there will remain not one stone upon another.' "M. Douvlent pleaded eloquently for his parishioners, whose innocence he vouched for. The officer seemed impressed. "'You are a Catholic priest, but alas, war is cruel, and orders are not to be ignored. This town merits chastisement.' "'Take me before the General,' urged the priest, 'I am your prisoner, and I have the right to plead the cause of my innocent parishioners.' "'No, sir,' retorted the officer frowningly, 'nothing of the sort; do you not realize that you are in great danger?' "'Danger?' ejaculated the priest, 'I fear no danger, I have made my sacrifice; I have faced it all this morning.' "'Very well,' said the officer, somewhat more gently, 'but I think it will be best for you to return to your house. If necessary I will call you.' "A short time after this conversation, I saw the priest, with the few who remained of his household, standing in the Square. I saw them again at about one in the morning; they were still standing in the Square beneath the lamp which shone upon their anxious faces. A dozen or so German soldiers stood about. Two sentries paced up and down, one at each crossing. No one returned to their houses. The curtain had risen upon the drama of Senlis.... "At the end of this day, Thursday, M. Odent (the mayor of Senlis), left the Hôtel de Grand-Cerf accompanied by an officer, and entering a covered automobile was driven rapidly away, followed by five cavalrymen. "They stopped at a place called 'le Poteari,' situated between Senlis and Chamont; there they found six captives whom the Germans had taken at hazard on the route. "One of these, named Delacroix, had been arrested in company with two workmen named Quentin and Reck, the latter a mason by trade, at the corner of the Rue de Bordeaux and la République, at the moment when the firing was the hottest in that quarter. Reck had been hit in the jaw and in the arm. The German soldiers entering the town found him bleeding in the road and with the singular, the unexplainable attitude of the German, at one moment cruel to the last degree, at the next of lamblike gentleness, these soldiers conducted the wounded man Reck to the 'prefecture,' _where his wounds were tenderly dressed by a German Major!_ "Quentin and Delacroix were taken at Chamont with revolvers in their hands, together with a stranger who was visiting the house of his sister, and two others, Benoit Decrens, a domestic servant, and Boullet, a laborer. "Up to eleven o'clock in the evening these unhappy captives were marched up and down the various streets and alleys of the village by their captors, until at length near the Bon Secours woods in a secluded spot, an officer ordered the mayor and the six captives to lie down on the grass. When this was done, he ordered the mayor, M. Odent, to rise and advance three paces. "The soldiers presented arms. "'You are the Mayor Odent?' called out the officer brusquely. "'Yes.' "'You have fired on our men?' "'No.' "'You have fired on our men,' insisted the ferocious voice, 'you are to be shot!' "M. Odent handed his papers to Benoit and shook hands with his companions. He then clasped his hands in prayer, after which he stood with eyes calmly fixed upon the officer. The officer raised his hands, motioning to the soldiers. "They shot the mayor with their revolvers.... "Afterwards, the officer made a little speech to the terrified men. "'War is as sad for us as it is for you. It is France and your Poincaré that you must blame--they would have it. We Germans do not make war upon civilians, but those who fire upon us will be promptly shot.' "These men were then used as guides by the officers, during their occupancy of the town. When no longer of use, _they disappeared._ "There were others, too; I do not know how many. There was little Gabanel, the son of the butcher, a merry little chap, known throughout the neighborhood, he disappeared with his father's old white horse and the red, two-wheeled wagon. He was never heard of again... and there was the baker's boy Jaudin, whose mutilated body was found in a field at Villers-St. Frambourg.... There was the hunchback Cottreau, aged seventeen, a harmless cripple who was found hanging in the attic of an inn.... "Arthur Rigault, the stone cutter, Elisée Pommier, aged 67 years.... "Jean Barbier, wagon driver.... "Pierre Dewart, chauffeur. "None of these can ever relate their terrible stories. We shall never know what happened to them." THE CHATEAU OF GÈRBÉVILLER |THE château and the Chapel Palatine of Gèrbéviller were unique in many respects. Dating from the thirteenth century, the chateau served as appanage to the Cadets of Lorraine, to whom they were given by Charles the Bold, and transmitted in 1486 to Huet du Châtelet, whose illustrious family founded the _Maison des Cannes_. In 1641 it came into the hands of Charles-Emmanuel de la Tornielle, step-brother of Christian du Châtelet of the powerful Tornielle family, thence it descended successively to the Lombartyes, in whose possession it remained until it was seized and sold by the state in the troublous times of 1796. The chapel was restored, almost reconstructed and consecrated on the nineteenth of July, 1865, by Monsignor Lavigerie with great splendor and pomp in the presence of the Lombartye family and a score of dignitaries of the state. The château itself, constructed in the eighteenth century, was possessed of what the French call "grand air," and was certainly imposing in size from a distance, shining among the dark green of the heavy foliage which surrounded it. Its façade on the road was somewhat marred by the narrowness of the approach. But the façade on the parkway, through which a small brook called the "Montagne" meandered most delightfully, was most impressive. The sketch which I made of it will serve to show the character of the great house better than many pages of written description. The reputation enjoyed by this great typical château of France was not by any means confined to the country. It was known throughout Europe, and for this reason, I suppose, was a shining mark for the Teutons. At the side of the château was the grand entrance, used only upon state occasions. This entrance was flanked by two immense "vasques" or vases of dark gray marble, a little too monumental, perhaps architects might think, but taken together with the "grand air" of the château entirely in keeping, to my mind. These it is claimed still stand unharmed amid the ruins all about. Chapel of the Château: Gèrbéviller [Illustration: 0295] The Chapel Palatine architecturally, perhaps, does not merit extended eulogy. Its towers are shot away, and some blackened calcined walls are all that remain. But the treasures which it contained, now either destroyed or carried off to Berlin, who shall say if they can ever be replaced? I am told that the family of Lombartye, and notably its last representative, who restored it in 1865, was long a resident of Rome, and being very wealthy had collected a vast store of most valuable objects of art of all kinds, including statuary and paintings, and these he had installed not only in the château, but had so enriched the chapel that it was a veritable storehouse of precious objects--even more than a museum, because most of them related to the history of the ancient families who had occupied Gèrbéviller. Here then in this small chapel was a collection of marvels of decorative art, tapestries of Arras, examples of the jeweler's craft, illuminations upon vellum, a hundred or more priceless volumes, and notably a collection of funerary urns, containing the ashes of most illustrious personages, including some of the Saints. Among the treasures in this small chapel was a series of the tapestries of Gobelin, another of Beauvais, and a third complete pictorial set made in Antwerp after the cartoons of Nicolas Memling. These last, just before the destruction of Gèrbéviller, were presented to the Cathedral of Nancy. The others are among the ashes of the ruins. The Master altar of the chapel was covered by a magnificent "ciborium," raised upon three columns of black marble, ornamented by "tears" of silver of twelfth century workmanship. The great candelabra, called "Flambeaux," were of Flemish work, and had twenty-four lusters; these were destroyed. There were splendid tombs on all sides; one was a reproduction of that of Henry I, Count of Champagne, and of St. Etienne of Troyes; the tomb of Lombartye, of de la Vieufville, of Rochechourt-la-Rochefoucauld, of du Caylar, of Vieuville, of Gouy d'Arsy, and that of Père Jandel the Dominican. All these are mutilated and broken. Of the funeral urns, one contained the ashes of St. Auguste, the martyr; another of what is called "cipollin," the ashes of Ste Victoire; a red marble one those of St. Vital; a "chasse" held a portion of the petrified bones of Candide, presented by the Bishop of Nancy. Another one contained the bones of St. Felix Romain. A great tall "ciborium" contained the "relique" of Tarcisius, the young martyr of the Eucharist. These, contained in a wonderful chest covered with vermilion enamel, bore an epitaph composed by Pope Damase, and were brought from Rome by the Dominicans. Overjoyed in the possession of such a treasure, the Marquis of Lombartye, sought an artist of renown who could make a fitting monument to contain it. His choice fell upon Fal-guière the sculptor. He it was who fashioned the exquisite statue in the Luxembourg. But it is not generally known that this is a replica of the original which was in the Chapel of Gèrbéviller, and which is now entirely destroyed. I understand that in searching the ruins, certain fragments of precious objects have been found and removed to Paris. M. Pigot in his report claims that the head of Fal-guière's statue of St. Tarcisius was found among the ashes, and, placed in a strong oaken box, has been given into the hands of M. le Sous-Préfet of Lunéville. But the remarkable paintings which the chapel contained are of course entirely consumed in the fire caused by the bombs and shells which fell upon the chapel for days at a time. There was the painting by Lippo Lippi; a portrait of Prosper Lambartini (Pope Benoit XIV); a triptych by Fra Angelico; one by Sandro Botticelli; The Virgin, the infant and two angels; a copy of the "_Femme Adultéré_" by Titian; a Benozzo Gozzoli; a canvas by a pupil of Ferrare, and various others. There was a splendid statue of the Virgin in terra cotta of the sixteenth century; a life size St. Joseph by Lizier-Richie; and two statues of Christ and John the Baptist in bronze by Dubois. Of these the statue of Christ remains (says M. Pigot in his report) "unharmed." The little town of Gèrbéviller itself is entirely destroyed, and the wretched inhabitants are scattered to the four winds. And for what good was all this, one asks? M. Georges Goyan, writing in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, of the heroic work performed by the nuns of France, relates a touching story of a Sister Julia of Gèrbéviller, who, when the village was in flames and a German officer was about to give the order to burn the Red Cross pavilion, stepped before the lieutenant and with the most superb courage defied him to commit the sacrilege. The officer, a Bavarian, taken aback for the moment, bowed his head, and the pavilion was spared. Sister Gabriela of the little town of Clermont-en-Ar-gonne was no less courageous. She advanced to meet the army of the Crown Prince when it arrived, saying, "We will care for your wounded, if you will spare the town." She received a promise, which was not kept, however. Again, she sought the Colonel, and bravely said, "I see now that the word of a German officer is not to be relied on." Ashamed, he ordered the work of destruction stopped, and thus the town was spared. Twenty-five wounded French prisoners owed their lives to this devoted nun, who in April, 1916, received the decoration of the war medal. Goyan quotes verbatim from the report of the nun, "The Major made his congratulatory speech while I was completing the bandage of my poor 'poilu,' whose head rested on my lap." Château: Gèrbéviller [Illustration: 0303] Waldeck-Rousseau, the former Premier of France, in a speech before the French senate in 1903 stated that "Catholicism survives in France, if not as a religious law, faithfully observed by everybody, at least as a social statute respected by the vast majority." M. Goyan declares that the French church is indeed a moral power to be reckoned with, "and when the war-tocsin had rung throughout the land, when the hour of death had been welcomed as an old dear friend, all misunderstandings of the past melted away, and now for fully twenty-eight months the church could again place itself at the disposal of France." With emotion and gratitude he relates the patriotic sacrifices made by the Protestant churches and the synagogues of France. Out of four hundred and ninety pastors of the Lutheran and Reformed churches, "one hundred and eighty are in the trenches: all students of the Paris Rabbinical Seminary and more than three-fifths of the officiating rabbis of the Republic left for the front; two of them were killed, one was missing. "When after this war is over, our sister churches will write their own martyrology, Catholic witnesses will rise to glorify their dead. The whole Catholic press rendered a well deserved homage to Chief Rabbi Bloch of Lyons, who was mortally wounded by a German bullet while he attended a dying Catholic soldier, holding the cross to his livid lips." After these prefatory remarks the author traces in his inimitable style a picture of the life and activity of the Catholic church from the unforgettable July days of 1914, to date. One-third of its priesthood followed the call of their country. * * The Literary Digest, Feb. 17, 1917. The Paris diocese alone has already buried forty-five of its members. The Cardinal-Archbishop of Lyons had to enlist laymen to fill the gaps in his decimated clergy. Bishops have become again parish priests. "Eleven young French monks, surprised by the German invasion in their monastery in the grand duchy of Luxembourg, disguised themselves, walking stealthily into Belgium, and from there to France, immediately joining their barracks. Dominicans and Jesuits vie with each other in patriotic devotion. The Church, cheerfully accepting the abrogation of its time honored immunities, with a noble gesture commanded the young priests to shoulder their rifles: 'Your parish,' explained the Cardinal Archbishop of Rheims, Monseigneur Luçon, to his priests, is henceforth your regiment, your trench, your hospital. Love it as you have loved your church. Perhaps you will be buried on the battlefield. What of it? Why should we priests not give our blood?' Thus, the priest is no longer isolated from the people; he has become an integral part of it. The Dominican sergeants and Jesuit lieutenants have built the bridge. And who, on the other hand, would have believed, a short three years ago, that a company of French soldiers, educated in the godless school of the Republic, should, before preparing for assault, receive absolution on their knees? "A parallel case to this kneeling company receiving absolution is the scene in the Bois d'Argonne, of March 7, 1916, when 'the successive waves of a regiment, marching to the attack, bowed themselves before the representative of God, de Chabrol, Chaplain of the division, whose hand, while the guns were thundering, made the sign of the redemption.'" (Quoted textually from an order of the day, by the commanding general.) Fifty-nine priests and seminarists of the Paris diocese received crosses while practically under fire. "The natural love of the soil and the love of the church combined, produce heroic souls of a peculiarly noble blending. The olden days when bishops were the supreme lords of towns and countries were revived, if only for a short time, at Meaux, and elsewhere, shortly before the battle of the Marne. On September 3, 1914, the armies of von Kluck were expected any moment and the civil authorities fled. Bishop Marbeaux took possession of the City Hall, and with a rare skill organized the various municipal services. Generals Joffre and Galliéni had stopped the triumphal onslaught of the German troops. On September 9, the civil authorities returned to Meaux and Mayor Mar-beaux gave in his resignation. Similar was the situation in Soissons and Chalons-sur-Marne; the cathedrals again became civic centers. "But our priests (continues M. Goyan) in the midst of the brutal butchery, are not unmindful of the Saviour's advice to love even our enemies--above all, if the latter are in great stress themselves. Thus Rev. Landrieux of the cathedral of Rheims, while the church was burning, saved from its ruins at the risk of his life a group of wounded German soldiers. The enraged population was about to lynch them. 'You will have to kill me first,' said the courageous priest. Words fail to describe as they deserve the deeds of Bishop Lobbedeye of Arras and his clergy. "The tradition of the catacombs revived; a cellar was transformed into a church (while the town was under bombardment) and here the Bishop read his mass. The priests threw off their 'soutanes' to become police and firemen, moving men and grave diggers. One of them, de Bonnieres, of noble birth, went every morning, braving the bullets which whistled about his ears, into the suburbs begging the soldiers for the scraps, left over from their meals, to distribute these pittances among the starving poor of Arras." Church: Gèrbéviller [Illustration: 0311] "Thus, before the enemy the old union of church and state had been effected. The same population, the same government, which before had adopted the slogan, The priest's place is in the church,' requested the cooperation of the clergy. And the church obeyed the call. Everything was forgotten. 'Who cares now,' exclaimed Cardinal Savin, 'for the religious misunderstandings, political quarrels, and personal rivalries of the past! France first! United by the common danger, we learned to know and respect one the other, and after the war we will solve the grave problems which had separated us before the war. Our victory will be our main ally in this future work of pacification.' "Forever memorable will remain that great religious manifestation at Paris during the week of the Battle of the Marne, in honor of St. Geneviève, the patron of the French capital. She and Joan of Arc became again the divine protectors of France. "The people of Paris fell on their knees on the famous heights of Montmartre, the mountains of the Saint-Martyrs of the past, a place historical in the annals of France. Even the skeptics thanked the church for its resuscitation of the religious spirit. France again remembered that she had once been 'the eldest daughter of the Church.'" (Georges Goyan.) A HEROINE |WHEN the history of the war is written at least three names of women will be enshrined forever in the annals: Sister Julie, the fearless nun of Gèrbéviller; that heroic woman who took the place of and acted as mayor of Soissons when von Kluck's legions occupied and ravaged that unfortunate little city; and Marcelle Semmer, a young girl of eighteen, who showed such bravery and extraordinary fortitude in aid of France as to win encomiums from both the British and French officers, who recommended that she be decorated. She has just received both the ribbon of the Legion of Honor, and the War Cross as reward. M. L. L. Klotz, Deputy from the war-ravaged department of the Somme, has told in glowing words the story of how at the outbreak of the war, these noble women, left defenseless and at the mercy of the invaders, proudly faced these savages and really defied them. He told of Marcelle Semmer, a young orphan girl of eighteen, living in the little village of Eclusier, near Frise on the river Somme, at the beginning of the war. This young girl who showed the most extraordinary bravery and fortitude in the service of France, is perhaps but one of many others whose stories may never be known to the world. She was acting as bookkeeper and clerk in a factory, producing phosphates, which had been founded by her father, an Alsatian refugee. The invaders, driving back the Allies at Charleroi, captured the town, taking many prisoners. The French fell back across a canal, near the home of Marcelle Sem-mer, where there was a drawbridge. The heroic girl, unmindful of her danger, succeeded in raising the drawbridge before the enemy came up, and threw the lever into, the canal. Without this lever the bridge could not be lowered again. The canal at this point was so deep that the invading army could not ford it, and seeing the fleeing figure of the girl, the soldiers fired volley after volley after her, without once hitting her. By this audacious act, Marcelle Semmer held back the advance of an entire German army corps until the following day, for the Germans had to await the arrival of their engineers before they were able to put a temporary bridge in place, and this they made of boats, and pontoons hastily constructed, thus consuming hours which were of great value in enabling the hard-pressed French to escape from the hordes which far outnumbered them. In spite of the danger of detection, the young girl insisted upon remaining in the village during its occupation by the Germans; happily they did not recognize her as the girl who raised the drawbridge against them or she would have been shot at once. Near the factory where she worked was a shed covering a subterranean passage leading to the phosphate mine. She succeeded in concealing the entrance trap to this passage by means of some large tuns and bagging. During the night she managed to conceal in this passage no less than seventeen French soldiers who had been somehow left in the retreat from the towns of Mons and Charleroi. Not only did she succeed in keeping these men hidden, but she managed to secure for them both food and peasant clothing, and aided them to get away to the French lines to the south. Sixteen of these men succeeded in getting away, but one dark night in a furious rainstorm while she was piloting the seventeenth to a cross-country lane, she was detected by a sentry, who dragged both of them before the German lieutenant. In the examination before the Commandant at headquarters she defiantly confessed to having aided the French soldiers to escape, crying out, "Yes, I did it for France, and I shall do it again and again, if I am able. Do with me what you will. I am an orphan, I have but one mother, France! For her, my life!" The Commandant promptly sentenced her to be shot. She was taken out of the room into the courtyard, where they placed her against the wall facing the firing squad, her arms tied behind her. Suddenly French artillery opened upon the German lines at Eclusier. Before the officer could give the word to fire upon the brave girl, a shell fell in the courtyard, and in the confusion, wonderful to relate, she escaped. While she had been assisting her fellow countrymen to escape the French had crept up, and routed the invaders from their position in the little town. So Marcelle once more fled to the subterranean passage, and there took up her quarters, rendering great service to the army, through her knowledge of the surrounding country. Between the lines of the opposing armies lay the river Somme, which here in the vicinity of Eclusier and Frise spreads out into a pond with marshy banks, and innumerable pitfalls and bogs. In these the soldiers frequently lost their way, and here Marcelle found a way to help France by her knowledge of the safe paths. Again and again she faced death; finally she was captured while leading a squad of men across the bogs to a trench at Frise. She was brought by the Germans to the village of Frise, and there confined in the parish church, now, alas, a mass of ruin. Once more her never departing good fortune was her salvation. Almost before the door of her prison was fastened upon her, the French artillery began a lively bombardment of Frise. One of the shells blew a great hole in the wall of the little church, and out of this hole, unperceived by her captors, Marcelle escaped, over the marshes and through the tangled roads into the French lines. Enabled to give most valuable information as to the numbers and guns of the enemy, Marcelle's fame soon spread through the ranks. She was mentioned in the dispatches, and received the Cross of the Legion of Honor, and later, before the drawn up soldiers of the corps, she received the War Cross. She was so useful in this region of the Somme that she asked to be allowed to remain at Frise to work for France, and so for a year and a half, despite the turn of the war, she stayed on, taking care of the wounded men, and protecting as far as possible women and children. So beloved did she become that an English general ordered his soldiers to salute her on passing, and to refrain from addressing her unless she required it. Everywhere she went the soldiers both admired and honored this young girl. The loss of her brothers, who died fighting for France, and the strain of her work told upon her health, and the doctors ordered her to Paris. Here she asked to be allowed to work at the nurses' school and to aid the wounded soldiers. To this the authorities assented, as she was thus enabled to earn a livelihood, for all that she had was lost at Eclusier when the mill was destroyed. In the great hall of the Sorbonne at Paris, a short time ago Deputy Klotz (of the Somme) eulogizing this young girl, suddenly stretched out his arms in dramatic gesture, electrifying the great audience with these words: "This little heroine of Picardy, this admirable girl; this incarnation of the qualities of the women of France; this girl of simple origin, flawless dignity, of serious mind and gentle ways; this girl of indomitable will power is here, ladies and gentlemen, here among you, in this room! "And I feel that I am the spokesman for every one of you when I now extend to her the expression of our respect, our gratitude, our admiration!" The vast audience, every man and woman of them, leaped to their feet, in enthusiasm, craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the heroine. Through the great Hall of the Sorbonne, where the most famous men of the world had been honored by France, swept a storm of cheers; a reward more splendid than the Cross of the Legion of Honor, than the War Cross, than the salutes of the soldiers at the front, had come to Marcelle Semmer, of Eclusier. LÂON |MOST travelers from Paris to Geneva will recall the brief stop of the train at the station, and a glimpse perhaps of the gaunt gray towers on the top of the great hill against the evening sky, looking much more like a fortress than a cathedral from the viewpoint below. Called the "Rock of Lâon," it was in ancient days the Celtic Laudunam, and was known to the Romans as Lug-dunam Clavatum. "Lâon is the very pride of that class of town which out of Gaulish hill forts grew into Roman and Mediaeval cities. None stands so proudly on its height; none has kept its ancient character so little changed to our own day" (says Marshall). It was here that Louis, or Lodo-wig, who was the famous son of Count Eudes, established an illustrious court, presided over by the "brave" Duchess Gerberga, and here afterwards Charles, their son, maintained a successfully defended siege against the onslaught by Hugues Capet on this stronghold. The treachery of Asceline the Bishop resulted in the capture of the town, and as a reward, Capet made him "the second Ecclesiastical Peer of France." Henceforth the city was famed as the seat of the Capetian dynasty, whose bishops ruled it until it was captured by the Prussians in 1814, when it served as the headquarters of Blucher, in his operations against Napoleon I. After the Battle of Waterloo the French troops attempted to reform their shattered lines under its walls. Lâon was the birthplace of the mother of Charlemagne, Lothaire, Louis IV, and Louis V. Crowning royally the great hill which dominated the town and the plain, the remarkable Cathedral of Notre Dame with its many beautiful towers formed a picturesque feature that once seen could not be forgotten. One can only compare it to the towers of Mont St. Michel of La Manche, with its encircling battlemented walls, but Lâon in point of architecture was infinitely the finer of the two. It is said to have been the work of Bishop Gauthier II (de Montagne) of the twelfth century, and built upon the site of a previous structure which had been burnt during an uprising in the early part of that century. Originally there were four great towers, one at each of the angles. Of these two remained lacking the spires. The façade was most remarkable for its extremely deep portals. The two towers, which were square at the base, terminated in octagonal belfries, and the angle buttresses supported light two-storied open-work turrets of most graceful design. The cathedral was remarkable for the square apse, and there was a tall lanthorn tower in the center of the church, which had two windows separated by buttresses. In the "chevet" a rose window was placed above three long openings, over which was a gallery between the turrets. The pulpit was from the Abbey of Val-St.-Pierre. From below, the cathedral, as I have already said, looked more like a fortress surmounted by a great chateau. Strange celebrations, seemingly lacking in religious character, were enacted in the cathedral, particularly those celebrated during the month of December. "This, the fête des Innocents, took place in the choir, when the children, wearing strange costumes with copes occupied the high carved stalls and chanted the £ offices' of the mass with every sort of buffoonery, to the great delight of the people. "Eight days after this comes the 'day of Fools,' during which the chaplain and choristers meet to elect a 'pope,' who is styled the Patriarch of Fools. Those who neglect to participate in this election are expected to pay a fine. After a procession the Patriarch is offered a repast of wine and bread with great solemnity, and he in turn gives to each chorister a present of corn in payment. The whole troop wear the most fantastic ornaments, and during the two following days the entire cathedral is given over to their buffoonery. After many cavalcades by the townspeople the fête terminates in a great procession of the 'rabardiaux.'" (Viollet le Duc.) This celebration degenerated into a simple custom of the giving wreaths of flowers following the celebration of mass on the Day of Epiphany. It is strange that these towns, explored by the present writer, should have been so neglected by the tourist. Of course, it is chiefly to the artist that they seemed so quaint, entrancing and profitable. No such exquisite arrangements of composition were found in other countries as here in France, and really at the doorway of Paris. Of course now and then there was trouble for me, because I made sketches of these charming localities; and even as late as 1910, when the sketches reproduced in this book were made, forty years after the Franco-Prussian War, when there seemed to be no possible danger of war in France, I was many times in danger of arrest for drawing a church or an old wall. Several times my portfolio had been seized by officers at the frontier towns, and I had been "detained" with more or less brusqueness until the superior officer could be summoned, but I must say that these occasions usually ended by profuse apologies on the part of M. le Commissaire, who deplored the activity of his men and offered his cigarette case most graciously, begging that I should forget the incident and wishing me "good luck." But it is perhaps now unnecessary to warn the artist abroad to keep away from fortifications, or to carry his passports with him. Lâon to-day is hidden behind a heavy black curtain of smoke from the great guns of the Germans. What has been the fate of that old gray town is problematical. It is said that the Germans have shot away the two great towers of the beloved old cathedral, and that the walls of the picturesque plateau upon which it rested have been razed. Beyond this nothing has been disclosed for the two years during which the invader has occupied it. Northeast of the cathedral was the thirteenth century Bishopric, used for a long time as the Hall of Justice. It was erected by Bishop Garnier in 1242. It was a rather dismal looking structure, and altogether lacking in architectural distinction. Whatever it may have been in former days, I ventured to say as much to an advocate with whom I chanced to converse at the table d'hôte, and I shall not soon forget the reproof my criticism called down upon me. I learned thereafter to govern my tongue, whatever my convictions. The Lâonaise bitterly resented adverse criticism of any one of their beloved monuments. Along the edge of the hill below there were unusually delightful promenades, shaded here and there by thick heavy foliage, through which charming vistas appeared. The long street on the ridge of the embattlemented hill wound along most delightfully, bringing the wanderer to the old church of St. Martin at the edge of the town. This, it is said, was once the appanage of a Premonstratensian Abbey of the twelfth century. It had two bays and a transept, and six small chapels of unique character. According to legend, the first bay was built to enclose the tomb of a Sire de Coucy, its benefactor. This Sire de Coucy had been excommunicated by the clergy, and being thus outside the pale of religion, he had been buried without ceremony outside the west door. This caused such remonstrance upon the part of the people, who loved him well for his great charities, if not for his sins, that the clergy relented, and it was necessary to enlarge the bay to accommodate his grave. The twin towers from the last bay are of the thirteenth century. Near the entrance were a number of tombs, some of them of remarkable richness of design, notably that of Jeanne de Flandre, widow of Enguerrand IV, Sire de Coucy, Abbess of Saviour-sous-Lâon in the fourteenth century, and said to have been the work of the Flemish sculptor, Pierre de Puez. If this work of art has been destroyed as reported, another unnecessary crime is added to the list. There was also the low relief figure of a knight in armor, evidently of the greatest antiquity, although it was dated twelve hundred and something, the first two figures being barely discernible. The ancient suburb of Vaux has been under bombardment for more than two years. Little is known to us of the extent of the damage it has suffered, but I remember a lovely old church of the eleventh century, with a most beautiful old choir of a little later period, where the old priest, who was considerable of an antiquary, by the way, showed me a fragment of tapestry, done in silk and wool, and of considerable value, as a specimen of workmanship. He plainly was anxious that I should admire it, and to oblige him I did so. He showed me also his books, some with good bindings, others worn by use. He seemed an innocent sort of man and lonely for companionship, telling me with simple dignity of his daily life in the quiet parish and the details of his office. The highest pay of a parish priest, he said, was fifteen hundred francs a year ($300); the lowest, eight hundred, of course in addition to his living quarters. He eked out his scanty income by the fees paid him at weddings, christenings, and burials. When I told him of the sums paid in America to ministers, his eyes bulged and his under lip bulged comically. Then he wagged his head, lifted his arms, shoulders and eyebrows, sighed heavily, and changed the subject. Poor old fellow, I wonder what has become of him in these terrible days. When I left him I gave him a pencil sketch of his church which I had made, embowered in heavy trees, as a souvenir. I neglected to make another, so I cannot picture it here, in this chapter, to my great regret. Château: Couey [Illustration: 0335] Perhaps the greatest, or at any rate the most indefensible piece of vandalism perpetrated by the retiring armies of the invader, was the total annihilation of the great castle of Coucy-le-Château in March of this year. Coucy castle, legend says, was built upon the site given to St. Remi by Clovis, in the fulfillment of a condition that the former should walk around it while the King enjoyed his noonday siesta. Afterwards it was part of the property of the Chapter of Rheims for upwards of two hundred years. In the year nine hundred and twenty-nine King Charles the Simple was imprisoned in its donjon by Herbert, Count of Vermandois. Enguerrand I, founder of the house of Coucy, received the castle in fief from the Archbishop of Rheims, and from it departed with his knights in quest of the Holy Grail and was distinguished in the Crusades. His descendant, Enguerrand III, who was surnamed the Great, rebuilt the castle, and when he flouted the authority of the Chapter of Rheims, and they laid the matter before the king, he answered with the words: "Je ne puis faire autre chose pour vous que de priere le Sire de Coucy de ne point vous inquiéter." In the subsequent quarrel with the Chapter of Lâon, Enguer-rand at the head of his cohort stormed the Cathedral and carried off the dean a prisoner to Coucy, where he languished at the pleasure of the fiery knight. The laws he promulgated and forced upon the barony were called "Le Coutume de Coucy." The battle of Bouvignes, in which he performed many acts of prowess and valor, and also his successes during the Albigensian war of 1209 added to his great fame as a warrior and caused the league of nobles to propose the dethronement of Louis IX, then a child, whose crown they offered to Enguerrand. So proud were his descendants that they abandoned their other titles and called themselves simple "de Coucy" and adopted the motto "Roi ne suys--ne prince, ne duc, ne compte aussi--je suys le Sire de Coucy." Descendants sold the Château, as it was called, and Jie Seigneurie de Coucy to Louis d'Orléans in 1400, who made it a duchy, and so amplified and decorated it that it became noteworthy throughout the realm. In 1411 it was besieged and captured by the royal army, and retained until 1419, when it was taken by the troops of the Duke of Orleans. In 1423 it was captured by the English, and again in 1652 by the royal army and dismantled by order of Mazarin. At the outbreak it was an "historical monument" kept up by the state as a museum. Coucy-le-Chateau was one of the greatest and most splendid relics of the thirteenth century. Nothing remains of it now. It has been utterly blasted away from the foundations. On the heights is only a series of great piles of crumpled masonry and pulverized rock. The oldest, the strongest, the largest and most historic of the castles of Europe is now only a memory. So enraged were the French at this piece of wanton destruction, that they refused to bombard the ruins, even though they knew that the invader had intrenched machine gunners behind and beneath it. Instead the infantry, unsupported by artillery, charged across a plain swept by gun fire and wrested the sacred ruin from the enemy. So terrific was the assault that the Germans could make no counter attack. Before they left the Germans boasted to the French villagers that more than thirty tons of explosives were used to destroy the castle. So great was the explosion, the peasants who witnessed it from a distance report that the great round tower, visible for miles around, seemed to rise in its vast bulk from the foundations, and slowly vanish in a cloud of whitish smoke. So fell Coucy. Another crime added to the already long list against the invader. The official explanation for its destruction coming from Berlin, is that "the Castle was not worth more than the life of one German soldier, and there are plenty of other such castles in southern Germany." The best view of the great chateau was that from the approach from the town of Lâon. My sketch shows the ruin in springtime, its battlements rising from the trees at its base, its magnificent pinkish gray mass against a sky of heavy white cumulous cloud just after a gentle rain. The small town nestled below it, and still had some vestiges of the old walls that formerly protected it. There was a small inn bearing the grandiose title: "Hotel des Trois Empereurs," whose landlady cooked for us the best omelette we ever tasted, and begged us to take her daughter to America with us as "maid for Madame." The daughter we never saw, by the way. She had gone to Lâon for the day and we left on the afternoon train before she returned, to the great chagrin of Madame. My sketch shows the château on the end of a promontory. This was approached by a steep and narrow roadway. The great outer court was of irregular form, with what is styled a "curtain wall," of remarkable thickness; more than twenty feet, authorities claim. Beneath it was a subterranean passageway, "so arranged as to be mine proof" (Viollet le Duc). The wall was supported by ten remarkable towers, three of them circular in form. There was a great dry moat between this wall and the keep proper, paved with rounded stones, and there was a drawbridge lifted by heavy chains which completely shut off the inner court of the castle when lifted. On the arch of the great portal over this drawbridge was a rude sculptured scene depicting a combat between one of the "Sires of Coucy" and a lion which, according to legend, took place in the nearby wood of Prémontré. Near it was a sort of stone table supported by three couchant lions upon which stood a lion passant. Here each year, according to a pretty custom, a young girl of the peasant class gave cakes and flowers to the townspeople, after which there was a parade by the local fire company, and in the evening a "retraite aux flambeaux," in which the young men carried lighted torches through the town, headed by a drum and fife. The tower of the chateau was more than one hundred and fifty feet high and three hundred feet in circumference. In the drawing by Viollet le Duc it is shown surmounted by a conical roof, and this must have made it quite two hundred feet in height. "The interior was divided into three floors, once covered by ribbed vaulting, which has now perished. The upper floors and the platform at the top were reached by a winding staircase in the thickness of the wall. In the center of each vault was an opening through which men in armor could be let down quickly. The two lower floors were apparently used for the arms and provisions of the garrison." (Hare's "Northeastern France.") The donjon, according to Viollet le Duc, was the finest specimen in Europe of mediaeval military architecture. "Compared with this giant," he says, "the largest towers known appear mere spindles." So vanished from the face of the earth a great architectural treasure destroyed simply for revenge. RHEIMS |INSTEAD of being in appearance "a most venerable and aged town," as one might be led to expect from the accounts in the various guides, Rheims, or Reims (so variously spelled) was (1910) nothing of the sort. Situated on the right bank of the river Vesle in the midst of a vast plain encompassed by vine-clad hills, a most ideal setting, it was the busy and chief center of the champagne trade, and also otherwise occupied in the manufacture of both woolen and other fabrics. Until recently one of the most picturesque towns in France, it was intersected by wide and handsome streets reminding one of the Parisian boulevards, which although convenient gave it quite another character. And this "Haussmanization" (if one may so style it) did away with its former quaint mediævalness. Formerly there was an ideally artistic approach to the great cathedral of "Notre Dame," in a quaint narrow street lined with strangely gabled houses and small shops shown in my sketch, but these have been demolished, and a wide straight street, lined with characterless buildings, now forms a very commonplace frame to hold one's first view of this noble and magnificent structure, the master work of the architects Rob. de Coucy and J. d'Orbais, which Fergusson justly names and qualifies as "perhaps the most beautiful structure produced in the middle ages." Far down this commonplace street one could see the exquisite recessed portals (there are three), with its rows of saints, surmounted by the great rose window, nearly forty feet in circumference, and above the forty-two exquisite lancets, each containing a colossal figure representing the Baptism of Clovis, and the Kings of France. All detail softened by distance, like unto carved tracery upon a jewel casket. The three portals, so exquisitely recessed, were adorned with some five hundred and fifty statues of various sizes, some of them of great antiquity, and many of them on close inspection proving to be much worn by the action of the elements, or having suffered mutilation in the wars. Without entering into a tiresome architectural description, which would be out of place in these pages, one may call attention to some of the remarkable details of the façade above the three portals pierced by large windows, which was so lavishly decorated with sculpture; to the left, Christ in the garb of a pilgrim; to the right, the Virgin, and the Apostles, David and Saul; and Goliath. Place du Marché: Rheims [Illustration: 0349] The twin towers, more than two hundred and fifty feet high, which were without spires, were none the less impressive. The north portal contained statues of the Bishops of Rheims from Clovis down, and there was here a doorway walled up containing a Gothic tympanum of the Last Judgment, the figures of which, however, with the exception of the Christ, were greatly mutilated. History states that Rheims was known at the time of the Roman invasion as _Durocortorum_. Briefly, about the year 352 a. d. the worthy SS. Sixte and Sinice came here to preach Christianity, and converted the consul Jovinus, whose cenotaph is in the archevêché. The Vandals arrived forty years later, and captured the town, murdering St. Nicaise on the very steps of the cathedral which he had founded. The See of Rheims was occupied for seventy-five years after the Conquest of Champagne, by Clovis, by St. Remi, or Remigius, who was already a bishop at the age of twenty-two. He it was who baptised Clovis in the cathedral, which act gave such renown to the place that thereafter the kings came to be consecrated with the oil, which according to tradition was brought by a snow white dove in a holy phial (ampoule) for the baptism of the first Christian king, and was thereafter preserved in the Abbey of St. Remi. Rheims was taken in 563 by Chilperic, and in 720 by Charles Martel, despite the great courage and resistance by the Bishop, St. Rigobert, who was exiled. Here took place, too, the interview of Pope Stephen III and Pepin, and Charlemagne and Leo III. Also the coronation of Louis le Debonnaire by Stephen IV in 816. In the following years the Archbishops of Rheims became world famous, for instance the Scholar Hincmar, and Gerbert, who was afterwards Pope Sylvester II, and who as a simple monk under the great Adalbéron attained great celebrity for his lectures. Until the fourteenth century Archbishops had temporal power over Rheims, coining their money and ruling as sovereigns. Calixtus II in 1119 held here a council to excommunicate the Emperor, Henry V. In 1429 Rheims was delivered from the English yoke by Jeanne d'Arc, who personally gave the keys of the town to Charles VII and assisted at his coronation in the Cathedral. Lubke, writing of the sculptural details of the Cathedral, says, "All the dignity and grace of the style here reaches a truly classical expression. Nevertheless, even here, in one of the master works of the time, we find a great variety in the mode of treatment. There are heavy stunted statues with clumsy heads and vacant expression, like the earlier works of Chartres; others are of the most refined beauty, full of nobility and tenderness, graceful in proportion, and with drapery which falls in stately folds, free in movement and with a gentle loveliness or sublime dignity of expression; others again are exaggerated in height, awkward in proportion, caricatured in expression, and affected in attitude." North Door of Cathedral: Rheims [Illustration: 0355] Strange that Lubke could not realize that the sculptor produced these contrasts with design, so that the ugly and grotesque of some might make the grace and beauty of the others the more telling; but such is the quality of the Teutonic mind. But he has written so appreciatively of the beauties of the figures, that we can overlook his shortcomings. He further says, "That different hands were employed on the same portal (the North Transept) may be seen in the forty-two small seated figures of bishops, saints and kings, which in three rows fill the hollows of the archi-volts. They are one and all of enchanting beauty, grace, and dignity; the little heads delightful; the attitudes most varied; the drapery nobly arranged, and so varied in conception that it would be impossible to conceive more ingenious variations." Of the smaller portal which contained the beautiful figure of Christ in benediction, known as the "_Beau Dieu_," he says: "This is a work of such beauty that it may be considered _the most solemn plastic creation of its time_. It shows perfect understanding and admirable execution of the whole form in its faultless proportions, and moreover there is such majesty in the mild, calm expression of the head, over which the hair falls in soft waves, that the divine seriousness of the sublime Teacher seems glorified by the truest grace. The right hand is uplifted, and the three forefingers stretched out; the left hand holds the orb, and, at the same time the mantle, which is drawn across the figure, and the noble folds of which are produced by the advancing position of the right foot. The following of nature in this masterly figure is in all its details so perfect that not merely the nails of the fingers, but the structure of the joints is characterized in the finest manner." Two years ago it was ablaze with all this sculptural splendor. Now the picture is replaced by a gray monotone of fire-swept portals empty of tracery; of gaping, blackened lancet window-panes destitute of glass; its perfectly designed Gothic arches laced with fantastically bent iron bars, and its nave buried in pulverized calcined heaps of ashes from which protrude here and there blackened, charred beams, while scattered about are the broken fragments of the great bronze bells which once pealed out pæons of sound in celebration of imperial coronations. Although many have attempted the task, it is difficult if not impossible to analyze Rheims, or even adequately to describe its vital exquisite quality, its stimulating originality, or to explain clearly the well nigh incredible competence, beauty and delicacy of even its minor details. One may dwell upon the glory of its sculpture in pages of description, which fail to picture it. Rheims Cathedral was what may be styled a great consistency, that placed it quite in a category by itself. It was quite completely without a fault. All other cathedrals of France form a chronicle of splendor. They record changing epochs, times, and architectural impulse. The varying personalities of their great designers were wrought out in their details; they present the thoughts of many men, each expressing his highest thought and ideals, and the result is magnificent agglomeration, covering many years of work. With Rheims however, which was begun in 1211, the case is different. For it was finished within the same century, to be exact, in fifty years, and in perfect accordance with the original plan and conception. To say that its sculpture ranked with that of ancient Greece does not magnify its importance. To urge that the splendor and artistry of its painteld glass was unrivaled, means little now, for its disappearance is too recent, too grievous and painful. Its eulogy must be written by an abler pen than mine--and in a day far hence, when time has softened the blow. (Paris, Jan. 10, 1917.) "Albert Dalimier, Under Secretary of Fine Arts, made a statement to-day regarding Rheims Cathedral, which, it has been reported, the Pope is anxious to have restored, having asked permission to this end from the German authorities." "Orders were given by the French Government for provisional repairs to the roofs of the Cathedral in autumn of 1914," said M. Dalimier, "but we were unable to begin work without an agreement with the military authorities, and they begged us to do nothing. They pointed out that the Cathedral was _still under German fire_, that from Nogent to La Bassée, where the batteries firing on the town were installed, everything that passed could be distinctly seen by the Germans, and that workmen on the Cathedral would therefore be sure to be observed and fired upon." The great interior was four hundred and sixty-six feet long and one hundred and twenty-one feet high. Both nave and transepts have aisles. Eight bays were in the nave, and each transept projected to the depth of a single bay. A triforium was above the aisles, and eight exquisite chapels radiated from the choir. Apse of Cathedral: Rheims [Illustration: 0363] The great capitals were covered with beautiful sculpture, beggaring description. Over the large west portal was shown the Martyrdom of St. Nicaise, and over the whole west wall was a multitude of small statues in niches ending in a display of the Massacre of the Innocents. A myriad of these statues filled the whole church. Adoring angels too adorned the buttresses of the choir chapels. Rich tapestries, fourteen in number, the gift of Robert de Lénoncourt in 1530, hung on the chapel walls, and there were two magnificent pieces given by Cardinal Lorraine in 1570, called the "Tapisseries du fort roi Clovis," and others from Archbishop Henri de Lorraine in 1633, called the "Perpersack." Some Gobelins, also, designed in 1848 by Raffaelle, were hung here. The large organ was dated 1481, and designed by Oudin Hestre, and in the chapel of St. Jean was the thirteenth century monument of Hugues Libergier, the architect of St. Nicaise.. (This is buried in the ashes, and is said to be uninjured.) The Treasury included many reliquaries and holy objects of priceless value, such as the reliquary of Sanson (twelfth century); that of SS. Peter and Paul (fourteenth century); of the Holy Sepulcher (sixteenth century) which was given by the King, Henry II, at his coronation; the vessel of St. Ursula, given by Henry III; the Chasuble of Thomas à Becket; the Chalice of St. Remi; the Reliquary of St. Ampoule, and an immense quantity of gold and silver objects given by Charles X. It is said that this treasure was removed to Paris when Rheims was first threatened with destruction, and that it is therefore intact, for which we may be thankful, but what of the incomparable shrine which held it? More than a year and a half (1915) ago the roof was consumed by fire, and was held by authorities to be irreparable, but since then, perhaps daily the bombardment has continued mercilessly, simply to destroy what remains. Even the latest news from the front in France does not claim that the invader and iconoclast has been driven back fast enough to ensure safety to Rheims. In one day (April, 1917) the Germans are said to have poured seventy-five hundred shells into the city. Just how much of the incomparable fabric of the Cathedral, from which all the statuary, all the wonderful glass and framework have been pulverized by the blasts from the great shells, survives, is not known outside of the town, or is concealed by the authorities; but for one thing we pray fervently, and that is, that no so-called restoration may be attempted or allowed. Let no imitations of stone, glass or marble caricature its vanished glories.... Let it remain, we pray, the living, standing record of an infamous crime. Consumed by fire, soaked in blood, Rheims, which crowned and sheltered a hundred kings, has passed; _deleta est Carthago_. ST. MIHIEL |AT the foot of a group of tall pointed limestone rocks, which seemed to be much higher than the seventy-five feet ascribed to them, nestled this most theatrical looking little town on the river Meuse, which winds in and out most charmingly through a district once covered with dense forests. All about were beautiful gorges between which the river rushed noisily, now following the base of a precipice of solid limestone, and again laving the roots of large trees growing luxuriantly on the slaty banks. Each of these valleys, each breach in the limestone wall, was overgrown with lush verdure, contrasting most strikingly with the dark brown or gray tones of the cliffs. Hereabouts small towns and hamlets, with scant room for the old houses and mills clinging to the steeps, thickly occupied the spaces between the rocks and the rushing stream. This small town of St. Mihiel, with its population of about eight thousand inhabitants, is said to have grown up around an ancient abbey dedicated to St. Michael, established here by some pious monks in the eighth century, but the landlord of the Hôtel du Cygne told me, with a shrug of the shoulders, that the abbey was not so old as all that; that M. le Père had informed him that the abbey had been built in the seventeenth century; the same year as the church; that he wished to set M. le Voyageur (myself) right in the matter; not that he cared how old or how new it was, but that he, the proprietor of the Hôtel du Cygne, was a truthful man, and no one, least of all, a gentleman who had made such a long journey as Monsieur the American from New York--"bien intendu," should receive any but the most truthful information from him, proprietor as he was of the Hôtel du Cygne. Which long speech he delivered with appropriate shrugs, gesticulations, and uplifted eyebrows. Mine host turned out to be an interesting personality. There were many such in these small towns on the banks of the Meuse. He was named Camille Robert Joseph Laroche, and not only was he a genial and valuable "raconteur," but he had a saint for a forebear. According to his tale, which I have no reason to discredit, more than three hundred years ago his ancestor bequeathed the entire family patrimony to the church, which in gratitude therefor promptly canonized him, insomuch that he now adorns the galaxy at St. Matthias Roche. For this great honor and distinction, said mine host, all the descendants had ever since been paying, for, deprived of their estates, they became "hoteliers" and "négociants," their only wealth being the good will and esteem of the countryside. Thus I had the high honor at St. Mihiel of lodging at an inn kept by the scion of a saint. It was pleasant to arrive at this pretty hill-embosomed town when evening was drawing on and the stars, like unto glimmering altar tapers in a vast cathedral space, were shining forth one by one. I sat before the inn door upon a bench with mine host» who had lapsed into silence, and watched the crystal disk of the moon over the "Falaise," shining, with that peculiar tint which has no name nor likeness on earth; that large mystic peace, the charm of a village at eventime, brooded in the air: Truly God is known in the breath of the still woods; a very frankincense. Some passing girls in groups who had come to see the arrivals by train, that puffing, cautiously moving train that had come from Verdun, with the mail, the writer, and a few "commis-voyageurs," several soldiers on leave, and three shovel-hatted priests lent some animation to the street. Each girl, chattering and laughing, was knitting industriously. Their eyes were bright and blue; their hair, gathered with gay ribbons into knots, was sunny: they seemed care-free. The great gray limestone pointed rocks stand sentry over St. Mihiel. Upon one stands a Calvary. There were fragmented castles round about. Each dominated a ridge, stretching away like a line of bulwarks for the nestling towns between. I found, in the days of exploration that followed my arrival, that facing beyond the thread of the river, an amphitheater of great beeches, tier upon tier, ensconced all. One might fancy a couchant lion on guard here, the old town lying snug between its outstretched paws, or to use another simile as if it had been cast down by giant hands and caught in the cleft. The town lay in somewhat the shape of a T, the head-stroke turned downwards on both sides; the upright formed by the long nestling town of the valley, the cross bar by the bowed overspread of habitations at the valley's mouth, one thronged crescent of river, road, and terraced verdancy. Just at the point of junction in the nailhead was a small convent garden, all scarlet, pink, white and dazzling emerald green. One would think this quiet, rident town, looking down upon it by morning light from the Calvary on the limestone pinnacle, a very sanctuary home of dreams. On the contrary, it was only a more or less prosaic manufacturing town to the inhabitants who lived among all this picturesqueness without realizing it. Listening from my perch at the foot of the Calvary on the "Falaise," I could hear the hum of looms. At the clang of the midday Angelus they stopped short for the brief hour of rest and repast. For a thousand years some of the old walls had lain much as I saw them, for St. Mihiel figures in territorial documents of a. d. 950. It is said that there was a time when the outstretched paws of the lion were joined by huge stone-turreted walls. These closed in the town and made a sanctuary. The Barons of St. Mihiel were greatly distinguished personages; they played a noble part in the Crusades. I found their records quaintly set forth upon tombs in archaic words, the meaning of which was often entirely puzzling and obscure. I made notes of these names and dates, but they were carelessly mislaid. Should one be curious about them, I doubt not that Froissart has recorded them in all their state and glory. St. Mihiel claimed the usual list of heroes and warriors, and her claim was granted without question. The old market place was graced by lime trees, and the ruined walls were overgrown with ivy and vine of luxuriant leafage, hiding crack and gap cunningly. The aged towers still cleaved to the rock by leave of the roots of beech and fir tree, whose spreading roots are more lenient foes to masonry, perhaps, than German mines. Imagine the great empty shell of the donjon, with a rugged façade, ivy grown and rook-haunted, a ruined chapel-apse with its suspended "piscina and aumbry," (thus named for me correctly by a scholarly architect friend, else I should not have known how to call them), its Gothic columns and arches; this sheer wall overhung the town perilously. There was a story told of the old bell's tolling at the death of a child. Within the donjon is the remains of the well, fifty feet deep. In olden days a young chatelaine threw herself down this well, her child in her arms, to escape the brutality of the besiegers, in the fourteenth--or was it the thirteenth?--century. There were twin brothers who did the same, in some remote period, after refusing to open the gates to Wenceslaus, or was it Baldwin of the Iron Arm*? There was a cavern at the bottom where the knights-proprietors hid their gains during the sieges. All these and many other tales of fear, blood and bravery were told at St. Mihiel. Some years ago, they said, a young maid drawing water from the well, discovered a golden bracelet at the bottom of the bucket; but beyond a few fragments of bone and some pieces of rusty iron that is all that has been discovered of treasure. It was said that the great hidden treasure is guarded by an immense serpent, which, when any one was so foolhardy as to attempt its recovery, blew out his candles and then devoured him at leisure. On the night before Maundy Thursday, at the hour of twelve, the master knight, clad all in his Templar's armor regalia, and bearing the scarlet cross upon his breast, rides the ruins with his cohort: but to no one save a true and devout Catholic was this vision vouchsafed, so it was said. St. Mihiel was unusually quaint in many ways. One did not find sheep grazing anywhere. When by some rare chance they were brought to town by a drover, the sensation produced was equal to that which might be caused by the appearance of an elephant or a camel. Children ran after the poor frightened dusty things, tugging at their wool, some trying to climb upon their backs, and the whole square was in an uproar. There were plenty of pigs about, and these, curiously, were in charge of a professional pig handler, who took them to pasture, and cared for them for a weekly wage. It was not uncommon on a morning ramble to come upon a drove of them occupying the whole road to the limit of space: a symphony in pink amid a cloud of dust. The little town was the residence of the great Cardinal de Retz, who is said to have written his memoirs here. The Rue Notre Dame, which led to the ancient abbey, and the church of St. Michael, had some very fine old fifteenth century houses, which were still (in 1910) in an excellent state of preservation. The great church dated in part from the seventeenth century, and contained a remarkable statue of the Madonna, attributed to Ligier Richier, a pupil of Michelangelo, who also carved the noted sepulchral monument of René de Châlons, Prince of Orange, in the church of St. Pierre at Bar-le-Duc. There was here too, a figure of a child surrounded by skulls, with two of which she was playing. Said to be by Jean Richier, this was a most beautiful piece of seventeenth century miniature work. The Madonna mentioned above was depicted as fainting in the arms of St. John, the pose being most remarkable. One of the curiosities of the old church was the remains of a stone rood loft, a structure said by architects to be very rarely met with. The ruined remains of the abbey at the east end of the church were found near some sort of public offices, which should have been cleared away so that they might be seen the better. In the Rue des Ingénieurs was the house of the sculptor, Ligier Richier, dated 1538. And in the church of St. Sepulcré was the famous tomb by this master, consisting of thirteen figures, showing the Virgin, Mary Cleopas and John, and some dice players, all of great realism and character. This whole region is filled with legend, related with such great circumstantial detail that one might not venture, on pain of giving offense, to show disbelief, no matter how fantastic the story. There was one curious old house which I saw in the Rue de la Vaux, which had a rude frieze of great animals below its roof, the effect being so singular as to be well nigh unbelievable. What its history or origin I was unable to discover. Indeed much mystery was made of it, when I inquired; much as if I had asked an indiscreet question. So I desisted. In the neighborhood were the most delightful walks and rambles, overgrown with verdure, leading past small farmsteads embosomed in thick forests, in a region filled with myth and legend. Following the course of the Meuse, dotted with small mills taking toll of her one by one, whose splashing mossy wheels she cheerfully spins; eddying here and there, bright gardens, one was led to a certain gushing fountain, under a shelving bay of ferny rock, and this was named "the Easter fountain." It would be strange indeed if a fountain in this region had not a story connected with it. This one was no exception, and here follows this story of the Easter fountain, as told by Brother Antoine of St. Mihiel. In the thirteenth century of our redemption Count Reni, in the castle on the heights, governed this region; at Commercy reigned Count Alan. A common sorrow bound the two to friendship: their young wives had faded in their first bloom. The châtelaine of Reni had left a boy of four years, and the Lady Elsa a girl baby at the cost of her life. This babe, sweet souvenir, was also named Elsa by her mourning, inconsolable father. All fêtes and celebrations were thenceforth banished from the two castles, the lords of which sought comfort only in the high and holy offices of the Church, and in mutual companionship. Pope Honoré, at the call of John of Brienne, King of Jerusalem, summoned all knights to the Holy Crusade. In this call the two bereft counts found the command of the Most High. Burying their grief in the forests of St. Mihiel, they set their affairs in order, gave over their domains to the care of overseers, and taking down shield and great cross hiked sword, ranged themselves "cap à pie" beneath the banner of their high and knightly leader, the Emperor Frederic. Count Reni leaves his little Elsa to the care of her godmother and the abbess under the protection of his faithful aged squire, Père Carol. So passes by the period of ten or more years, young boy and girl grow up even as brother and sister, ranging the paths of the scented wood, hand in hand; learning together the lore of God's wisdom of flower and bird, and with the pious help of the abbess, the wondrous stories of the lives of the saints in those great vellum bound, brass clasped office books of the altar. Occasionally to the castle comes a wandering singer, who teaches them in song the doughty deeds of the absent soldiers of the Cross, naming their fathers gloriously. To these songs the children, now grown tall in stature, listened with shining eyes and panting breath. Thus they dreamed of the brave fathers they had hardly known. Now that the young Count had come almost to man's estate, the old esquire thought of presenting him at the Court of Rheims. It was summertime, and the time had come for the parting. Elsa wandered alone through the wooded paths of the forest. But the once loved scenes of nature had lost half their charm for her. To pass the time she set about acts of devotion and mercy; visiting the poor huts of the woodsmen, dispensing tender charities to their families and teaching the children to pray to the saints and the Holy Fathers. So passed the long months of summer and then came autumn in a blaze of red and golden leaves. Now the young Count, learning at the Court of Rheims that the two Counts were shortly expected to return from the Crusades in the East, returned to the castle with his retinue, and passing a small cottage by the roadside on the river bank, caught a glimpse of his former playmate and companion, on her knees, binding up the wounds of a poor charcoal burner, who had been injured by the fall of a tree trunk. But, lo: there was something in the expression of her face that was all new to him. Dismounting from his horse, he knelt before her, as to a saint. She was to him, all at once, an aureoled angel; a burning reverence overcame him, surging from head to foot, and he knew in that instant that for him time had brought its fullness to him, and that henceforth they were to be inseparable. Entranced, he studied her face, so different to him from those which he had seen at court at Rheims, exquisite as those faces were. But this one! Ah, now it was clear to him that he had all his life never had a soul. Elsa had gazed into his eyes unable to speak, her hands clasped upon her bosom. Now she gave a cry of gladness, but stopped all at once, for a new and strange quickening in her heart: Young Alan is transfigured in her sight, like unto St. Michael. Alan seizes her hand, he calls her his sweet flower of innocence, and so swears to be her loyal knight even unto death; thus they remained hand in hand in ecstasy, while she prayed that the blessed mother watch over them forever more. At the castle the pair knelt before the good abbot, and then the old Esquire and the Abbess joined their hands and blessed them. When the news of the Count's arrival at the coast, and young Alan's home coming went forth, the whole region rejoiced, the bells rang in the churches, and the vassals assembled to greet the young seigneur. From her bower in the lofty tower of the castle Elsa watched the road along the river. It was eventide when the sounds of approaching cavalry broke the stillness. Soon the great drawbridge of the castle fell with a clang of chains, and young Alan was clasped in the arms of the returned Crusader. In the great banquet hall, hung with flags and trophies of the chase, the retainers thronged to welcome and acclaim their returned lord and master. Great flagons and cups of wine were passed, and the vaulted stone roof rang with the loyal shouts of "Long live Count Alan!" But, strange to say, all was not well with Alan the Crusader. A dark cloud sat upon his knitted brow, and his worn thin hand bent upon the knob of the great chair upon which he sat. Elsa, in a very heaven between the joys, plied him with questions which he answered vaguely, and finally bade the churls to bring the torches from the walls, and gave the word of dismissal to the throng. Much troubled, Elsa gave her white brow to her father's kiss, bade him good night; and very shortly the castle was in darkness, and silent save for the measured tread of the sentinels on the parapet. On the following day the Abbess told Elsa that the two counts, once so inseparable, had for certain reasons become enemies, that the young Count of Bré must never more be named within the hearing of her father; and that henceforth she must forget her love for Alan, which now was quite hopeless. Broken hearted but obedient, the young girl, bathed in tears, spent hours before the altar upon her knees, but devoted herself to her father whenever he would see her. Autumn came, and brought winter in its train. Young Alan she had not seen since the day of his return when they met at the charcoal burner's cottage in the wood. The fête of Noël came in with a great snow storm. The Count no more went forth, nor did he attend at chapel. The abbot had admonished him upon one occasion--"If ye from your hearts forgive not those who--" whereupon the Count had struck the rail with his hand, arose, and left the chapel. Affairs at the other castle were quite similar, and the lord had refused to offer his hand in friendship to his old friend Count Alan, swearing a terrible oath that he would wither away unshriven ere he did such a thing. Thus matters stood at the two castles, and two fond hearts were breaking, while pride held out. As to the young Alan, he had well-nigh lost his reason but for the kindly and wise advice of the old Abbot. Then one day the aged châtelaine lay upon her death bed, with Elsa bathed in tears beside her. "Call thee thy father, child," she said, "I have much to say to him before I go." Of the conversation between them nothing was ever known, but a marked change came over the old knight, after the chatelaine had been laid at rest beneath the altar in the chapel. He passed the whole night before the Stations of the Cross, and cried aloud for mercy, striking his breast with both hands. In the morning he called Elsa and told her that he was to set out upon a long journey, and she begging that he allow her to accompany him he at length consented, and so together, with an escort, the old knight and the tender maiden set out through the forest. It was the Holy Week of the Passion, and there were bands of pious pilgrims met upon the road, nearly all afoot, for that was the custom. Seeing this the old knight dismounted, and bidding the escort take the horses and return to the castle, they joined one of the processions, and continued on foot as far as the Calvary which was at the bend in the road toward St. Mihiel. Here they paused and let the procession proceed without them. It was fair spring time; the fairest flowers bloomed all about them, and wild birds in the trees hymned the Resurrection of God. Elsa's heart sang in unison with the birds. She suspected the object of the old knight's pilgrimage. When they were near the castle of Count Alan, all at once she saw on the road the Count and his son, arm in arm, approaching them. When they met there was an instant's silence, then cried out the old knight, "Alan! I come to thee!" "And I was coming to thee to ask thy forgiveness," replied Count Alan with shining eyes; and they embraced, retiring arm and arm beneath the great beech trees, leaving Elsa and young Alan face to face. Elsa's hands were clasped upon her heaving bosom, her brimming eyes raised to the sky; then she knelt down beside the cliff in the moss, and young Alan knelt beside her. All at once Elsa's voice burst forth in the holy canticle, "Benedicite, opera Domini, Domino--fontes benedicite," and as she uttered the last words of the canticle, there burst forth from the limestone rock, just where their united tears had dropped, a tiny stream of crystal clear water. Soon this grew larger, bubbling forth like pearls into the sunlight, and making a channel for itself, flowed onward, dancing and leaping as for joy. And thus kneeling there at the fountain of their united tears the knights found them.... And this is the story of the fountain of the lovers' tears at St. Mihiel, where broken friendships were said to be healed by one draft of the waters, partaken of by both be it understood. One wonders now as to the fate of St. Mihiel-on-the-Meuse; is that gray old church entirely destroyed by the rain of shells that has beaten upon it for more than two years? And what remains of the little town clustering against the two tall limestone peaks all clad with green verdure, where all was so prosperous and peaceful before the onslaught of the destroying legions? Chatel Gate: Verdun [Illustration: 0379] VERDUN |UPON well nigh every headland of any considerable size on the banks of the winding river Meuse, there glowered a vine clad castle in a more or less ruinous state, and usually at its foot slept a farmstead, a village, or a town. Over each stream-laved promontory and every high hill there have been fought great and small battles year in, year out, through the ages since the time of Charlemagne. One could not wander far here in any direction without lighting upon some shattered monument of human passion and pride. "Here might reigned supreme with fantastic honor as its handmaid; at ambition's footstool religion and right were vassals." One stands before one of these shattered, time-battered castle walls, and tries perchance to picture the siege of old, with the crowds of iron-armed men busily sapping the walls. Through the ragged breaches made by the great stone-hung rams, they discharged into the interior by quaint cumbrous machines large stones, blazing bundles of fagots, and even carrion, while from the besieged warriors on the battlemented walls above came streams of molten lead, and showers of heavy iron barbed bolts. The country about during these battles was considerably damaged, and there must have been an appalling noise over it all, but somehow one cannot picture any very great carnage as a result, at least nothing like that which took place here at Verdun in the great battle of 1916, nor any such destruction of property. This town of Verdun, now upon every one's lips, was the ancient Roman "Verodunam" and ever has held a most important place in European affairs and history. Captured by Charlemagne, in the dim days of a. d. 843, it was divided among his three grandsons, Charles the Bald, Lothaire, and Lewis the German. Thus divided, the members of the Empire, Teutonic and Gallic, were never again united. Until the year 1552 the town, once the seat of a powerful bishop, remained free, and in 1648 it was formally united to France after the peace of Westphalia, when Austria relinquished the three great bishoprics of Verdun, Toul, and Metz. Verdun fell to the Prussians after a fierce bombardment lasting only five hours, and a story is told of how a bevy of fair young girls appeared in the public square before the Hôtel de Ville, where the conquerors were drawn up, and made peace-offering to them of the "bon-bons" for which, even up to the outbreak of the great world war, and invasion of 1914, Verdun was famous. These bon-bons were known locally as "Dragées." Old House on the Meuse: Verdun [Illustration: 0397] After the battle of Valmy, the revolutionists recaptured the town and, it is said, sought out these same young maidens and put them to death. The town, which was rather attractive and picturesque, stood in a sort of plain, on the river Meuse, which divides here into several streams. It was surrounded by fortifications, considered impregnable, which were planted with large trees, and there was a very satisfying Mediaeval gateway flanked by two great towers, while an attractive street called the "Promenade de la Digne" followed the banks of the river. The sights of the town, however, were very soon exhausted. If one followed the Avenue de la Gare, one came to the Porte St. Paul, and just beyond it the Palais de Justice and a large new college building. Then there was the Porte Chaussée, which was very old and had two fine crenelated towers. There were several bridges crossing the river Meuse, and along its banks a collection of ancient many colored houses, all so battered, bewindowed, and balconied, as to be quite fascinating pictorially but certainly very dirty and "smelly." Ranged along the water washed walls of these quaint houses, were many barges and washing boats, painted in charming tones of green and brown, and these, reflected in the water, made delightful pictures for the painter and snap shots for tourists. A very good regimental band played in the square once a week, and this formed an excuse for a promenade of the townspeople, and a social gathering at the small cafés, for the post prandial "bock." There was a Hôtel de Ville of the seventeenth century, lacking however in character, in the courtyard of which were displayed some bronze cannon, given to Verdun by the government in recognition of its heroic resistance in the Franco-Prussian war of 1870. Near the cathedral were the remains of an ancient gate called the Porte Châtel. The Cathedral, the towers of which were high above the town, though lacking spires, was not unimpressive, but it had been so often rebuilt and changed, as to have few vestiges of the structure begun in the twelfth century. The two towers were square and topped by balustrades of little or no character. The buttresses of the apse were, however, of architectural value, and the apse had some curious and remarkable sculptures, while the triple nave was of noble proportions and had some Gothic vaulting. A curious bas relief representing the Assumption was shown in the transept; but beyond these features the Cathedral had little or nothing to offer, save a very beautiful fifteenth century cloister, which we nearly missed seeing, connecting die Cathedral with the grand séminaire. The great Citadel, renowned throughout Europe, upon which such high hopes centered in the beginning of the present war, and which resisted the efforts of the army of the Crown Prince, occupied the ancient site of the Abbey of St. Vannes, of the tenth century. It was so rigidly guarded that no one was permitted to enter it. From a roadway called the Promenade de la Roche one might idle away the hours appraising the picturesque valley of the Meuse. Alost of those who visited Verdun, and stopped at "des trois Maures or du Cog Hardi," which were the rival hostelries, usually started to explore the town after "dejeuner," and brought up at the Cathedral as a finish. But to him who stayed awhile, and rambled about aimlessly outside the town, there was no end of curious beauties, of small scenic and antique discoveries, of quaint nooks, and groupings and surprises! all about were flowers and vines, and long white winding roads, past small mills embosomed in verdure, and wayside shrines where old women seemed rooted telling their beads. And night beyond the town brought her own peculiar graces, when the mazy ravines lay hidden in the glimmering dusk, and the lights of Verdun twinkled across the valley, or answered to their images in the stream. In towns of this region one was impressed with the prevalence of Colonels and Generals. Each hotel seemed to be provided with an officer, looking, too, much like all the others. They were invariably somewhat red faced and "puffy," bored in manner, and while slow of speech, were not mentally active or entertaining. Invariably, too, they were anglers, displaying in sporting knee breeches stockinged calves of the shape of "ten pins." They seemed mysterious as to their families, but were undisguisedly gallant in their attentions to the fair sex, and invariably headed the "table d'hôte" at which universal deference was accorded them. Once, in a small town, I fancied that the spell was broken, and that no General or Colonel was in the hotel, but on the third day I learned that "M. le General was confined to his room with the gout." This room was on the floor above, and although the proprietor often assured us that "M. le General" would, in all probability, be able to come down on the morrow, and occupy his wonted seat at the head of the table, he did not come, and so we never saw him. All about Verdun were charming small villages, particularly along the river Meuse, and if one liked one could take a slow moving train, which went through a long black tunnel, and at length entered the valley of the Moselle--but that was another adventure which is not to be set down in this volume. Cathedral: Verdun [Illustration: 0405] For this summer end of 1910, the valley of the Meuse was to us all sufficient. Here, while dozing among these small towns and villages, bordering on the vine clad river's splash and sparkle, resting by night in quaint clean and generally well kept inns, the world beyond became a figment. Curious fortresses still were to be found among these old rocks; and on the plateau the antiquarian, the geologist, the botanist may find much food for wonder and study, if they searched. But if they did, at least I never met them there. Should tourist by chance pass that way, it was by train, or swiftly speeding automobile all begoggled of eyes, and mummied by greatcoat, mindful only of the smoothness of the winding road, or the consumption of gasoline. But from all such doth Dame Nature hide her soul. Then, tiring of this aloofness, one could always return to the bustle of Verdun, and find entertainment in the tortuous streets between the amorphous houses, with their aged carven doors surmounted by strange old trade-emblems, their overhanging gables; across the rough cobbled market place with the old town hall of pepperbox turret, its arcade, and its dusty hall where the "Échevins" held their courts of justice, and where the peasants chaffered their wares on market days, through the ancient gateways, and over the old bridges reflected in the eddying river. I like to think of Verdun, as we saw it "en fête" that late summer morning. The town was gay with wreaths and flags and streamers, the windows aflame with flowers. In the Cathedral since five o'clock there had been scarce space to kneel for the toll of masses unbroken at the altar. White clad priests came and went through the aisles. The air was tense and restless with murmured prayer and the incessancy of "sacring-bells." When the last "housel" had been taken, the last "Ite" said, thousands of people filled the streets, lining the narrow ways in thick serried ranks, crowding the doors and windows, and stretching in a double row across the bridge. Over all is a sense of waiting, as for a solemn thing about to happen, and this thrills the multitude. At the bridge end I could see the figure of a priest gesticulating, raised somewhat above the crowd, clad in a cope of gold and white, but I was too far away to hear his voice. Soon came a procession headed by a banner bearer, and I caught a glimpse of the scarlet of my lord the Archbishop, amid a cloud of filmy laced priestly cottas, and the violet surplices of chanting men, set in a great splash of white robes. Here and there a banner shone all red and gold, and at the end of the bridge was a great golden Crucifix. Here a short sermon was preached, and this being over there came a stir and a heave in the crowd, which fell back along the ways. Forward moved the cross, twelve banners escorting it; tapers of wax tall and thick blazed, and from upcast censers sprang misty spirals of fragrance, blue as the hills beyond the town. From a murmur which sweeps through the throng of people, a chant grows in volume until it is like the sound of a vast organ. All at once the gay burners, the smoking censers, and the gorgeously clad priests vanish around a turning in the street; the spell is broken; the crowd, before so orderly, swarms like bees in the hive, and here and there are couples dancing and jostling all unmindful of each other's proximity, but performing with stolid good humor. The spirit of the dance takes hold of the crowd, it spreads across the bridge, and sets of four, six and eight form in rows, holding one another at handkerchief length, eyes dancing with eyes to limbs' measure. There was little of passion but much of poetry in this dance, a sort of polka with three steps forward and two back, a serpentine swinging unison. Words are poor painters of the scene: like unto a moving wheatfield swept by two winds, or the sea surge whose oscillant ebb and flow is so fascinating. And so throughout the day, and far into the night the celebration continued, with meetings--rejoicings--and mild potations sacramental of reunited friendships; but not until long after the celebration ended and common events regained dominion over the streets and square, did one cease to see mentally the swinging sway of that dance, or hear the pounding, insistent, snarling drone on the barrel organs of that reiterated tune.... And this is how one likes to recall old, old Verdun, now so pathetically battered and shell torn, its cathedral towers ragged against the sky, and its Citadel dismantled. DOMREMY AND THE MAID |ALIGHTING from the ordinary train (none other stops here apparently) at the dismal little stucco station at Domremy-Maxey-sur-Meuse, in a downpour of rain, we asked the little roly-poly _chef de la Gare_, who wore a tall red cap ornamented with a band of gold lace, all a size too large for his round bullet head:--First, could we have a conveyance to Domremy?--Secondly, was there an inn there?--Thirdly, did he think that we could be accommodated there? To the first question he returned explosively,--"No, there was no conveyance; there had never been a conveyance there of any sort." To the second: "No, there was no inn there--but there was one at Domremy-la-Pucelle, 'toute en face,' near the church; no great thing, you understand--M'sieur and Madame--but not so bad, and clean of a surety." To the third: "Yes, possibly; stay, as it rains torrents, I shall go over there and enquire for M'sieur and Madame.'Tis but a short walk for me, and I have the paletot which resists the rain." And go he did, in the driving rain, too; in spite of our remonstrances he trudged out into the rain-soaked road, and we watched him out of sight down the footpath leading from the station towards the river. And this is but one of the instances of consideration and kindness that one received in this charming countryside. Briefly, we were well housed at Domremy among the poplars, and though the sheets were damp from the rainy weather, a huge wood fire lighted for us by Madame at the inn soon dried them, and a good supper revived our spirits. Here charming days may be spent among the scenes filled with memories of la Pucelle. There are two villages here, besides Vaucouleurs, which equipped Jeanne for her campaign, and whence she set forth aided by Baudricourt, the Governor. The larger is Gréoulx, perhaps half a mile away. The hamlet is probably much as it was during the time of Jeanne; a collection of small low white houses on either side of the roadway, squalid and odorous from the dung-hill before each doorway. Here sit Madame and the children, who play with the chickens and droves of small pink pigs running up and down in every direction, and in and out of the open doors. The street now widens into a sort of "place" before the church with a square, pinnacled tower in which is a clock. The interior with low vaulting is rich with festoons of drapery, wreaths and some very ornate silk banners, all displayed with much taste in honor of la Pucelle, the sainted Jeanne. To right is a fine monument, dated fifteenth century, embellished with figures of Jacob and Didier Tierselin, who were the sons of her godmother, who, it will be remembered, was a witness in her behalf at the trial. Here at Domremy the maid Jeanne is regarded and honored as a saint, and over the altar are large paintings of her representing her mission, and the events. One of them is of the appearance of the Archangel to the young girl. Outside the door is a bronze statue of the Maid of Orleans by E. Paul (1855) and farther on is a very ill-kept little square in which is a most absurd monument erected by some one who is nameless, in 1820. Just opposite a sort of court guarded from the droves of little pink pigs by an iron railing, is the quaint "lean to" sort of cottage in which Jeanne la Pucelle, called by the English Joan of Arc, was born in 1411. Above the arched door is displayed the emblazoned royal arms of France, together with those assigned to Jeanne and her family by the King, Louis XI. Above is a Gothic canopied niche in which is a kneeling figure of la Pucelle, reproduced, it is said, from the one inside the cottage, bearing the date of 1456. Here the principal room is the kitchen, in which, however, only the middle beam of the ceiling is original. It is said that the kneeling statue in armor was posed for by a niece of Jeanne. Behind the kitchen is a dark little closet, in which Jeanne is said to have slept. It is lighted by a tiny window high up in the wall, and here against the wall is a chest said to have been used by Jeanne. Domremy, in her honor, was, up to the time of the Revolution, exempted from any taxation. The hill where Jeanne heard the mysterious voices is about a mile farther on, and a sort of basilica was being built here to mark the spot, to be further enriched by a statue of the Maid by Allard. The house of Jeanne was cared for by the sisters of charity who conducted a school and a small shop where the pilgrims bought medals and souvenirs. On the other side of the railway line was a small chapel, to which it is said Jeanne made a pilgrimage once a week on Saturday, placing a lighted wax taper before the altar. House of Jeanne d'Arc: Domremy [Illustration: 0419] On the 6th of January, 1428, this young girl, the daughter of simple peasants, humble tillers of the soil, of good life and repute, she herself a good, simple, gentle girl, no idler, occupied in sewing and spinning with her mother, or driving afield her father's sheep, and sometimes even, when her father's turn came round, keeping for him the whole flock of the commune, was fulfilling her sixteenth year. ("Jeanne d'Arc," by M. Wallon, Vol. I, p. 32.) It was Joan of Arc, whom all the neighbors called Joannette. She was no recluse; she often went with her companions to sing and eat cakes beside the fountain by the gooseberry bush, under an old beech, which was called the fairy-tree; but dancing she did not like. She was constant at church, she delighted in the sound of the bells, she often went to confession and communion, and she blushed when her friends taxed her with being too religious. In 1421, when Joan was hardly nine, a band of Anglo-Burgundians penetrated into her country and transferred thither the ravages of war. The village of Domremy and the little town of Vaucouleurs were French and faithful to the French kingship; and Joan wept to see the lads of her parish returning bruised and bleeding from encounters with the enemy. Her relatives and neighbors were one day obliged to take flight, and at their return they found their houses burnt or devastated. Joan wondered whether it could possibly be that God permitted such excesses and disasters. In 1425, on a summer's day, at noon, she was in her father's little garden. She heard a voice calling her, at her father's right side, in the direction of the church, and a great brightness shone upon her at the same time in the same spot. At first she was frightened, but she recovered herself on finding that "it was a worthy voice"; and at the second call she perceived that it was the voice of angels. "I saw them with my bodily eyes," she said six years later to her judges at Rouen, "as plainly as I see you; when they departed from me I wept and would fain have had them take me with them." The apparitions came again, and exhorted her "to go to France for to deliver the kingdom." She became dreamy, wrapt in constant meditation. "I could endure no longer," said she at a later period, "and the time went heavily with me as with a woman in travail." She ended with telling everything to her father, who listened to her words anxiously at first, and afterwards wrathfully. He himself one night dreamed that his daughter had followed the King's men-at-arms to France, and from that moment he kept her under strict superintendence. "If I knew of your sister's going," he said to his sons, "I would bid you drown her; and, if you did not do it, I would drown her myself." Joan submitted: there was no leaven of pride in her sublimation, and she did not suppose that her intercourse with celestial voices relieved her from the duty of obeying her parents.. Attempts were made to distract her mind. A young man who courted her was induced to say that he had a promise of marriage from her and claim the fulfillment of it. Joan went before the ecclesiastical judge, made affirmation that she had given no promise and without difficulty gained her cause. Everybody believed her and respected her. In a village hard by Domremy she had an uncle whose wife was near her confinement; she got herself invited to go and nurse her aunt, and thereupon she opened her heart to her uncle, repeating a popular saying which had spread indeed throughout the country: "Is it not said that a woman shall ruin France and a young maid restore it?" She pressed him to take her to Vaucouleurs to Sire Robert de Baudricourt, captain of the bailiwick, for she wished to go to the dauphin and carry assistance to him. Her uncle gave way, and on the 13th of May, 1428, he did take her to Vaucouleurs. "I come on behalf of my Lord," she said to Sire de Baudricourt, "to bid you send word to the dauphin to keep himself well in hand and not to give battle to his foes, for my Lord will presently give him succor." "Who is thy Lord?" asked Baudricourt. "The King of Heaven," answered Joan. Baudricourt set her down and urged her uncle to take her back to her parents "with a good slap o' the face." In July, 1428, a fresh invasion of Burgundians occurred at Domremy, and redoubled the popular excitement there. Shortly afterwards the report touching the siege of Orleans arrived there. Joan, more and more passionately possessed with her idea, returned to Vau-couleurs. "I must go," said she to Sire de Baudricourt, "for to raise the siege of Orleans. I will go should I have to wear, off my legs to the knee." She returned to Vaucouleurs without taking leave of her parents. "Had I possessed," said she to her judges at Rouen, "a hundred fathers and a hundred mothers and had I been a king's daughter, I should have gone." Baudricourt, impressed without being convinced, did not oppose her remaining at Vaucouleurs, and sent an account of this singular young girl to Charles, Duke of Lorraine, at Nancy, and perhaps even, according to some chronicles, to the King's court. Joan lodged at Vaucouleurs in the house of a wheelwright, and passed three weeks there, spinning with her hostess and dividing her time between work and church. There was much talk in Vaucouleurs of her "visions" and her purpose. John of Metz (also called John of Novelomport), a knight serving with de Baudricourt, desired to see her, and went to the wheelwright's. "What do you here, my dear?" he said. "Must the King be driven from his kingdom and we become English?" "I am come hither," answered Joan, "to speak to Robert de Baudricourt, that he may be pleased to take me or have me taken to the King; but he pays no heed to me or my words. However, I must be with the King before the middle of Lent, for none in the world, nor kings, nor dukes, nor daughter of Scottish king can recover the Kingdom of France; there is no help but in me. Assuredly I would far rather be spinning beside my poor mother, for this other is not my condition; but I must go and do the work because my Lord wills that I should do it." "Who is your Lord?" "The Lord God." "By my faith," said the Knight, seizing Joan's hands, "I will take you to the King, God helping. When will you set out?" "Rather now than to-morrow; rather to-morrow than later." Vaucouleurs was full of the fame and sayings of Joan. Another knight, Bertrand de Poulengy, offered, as John of Metz had, to be her escort. Duke Charles of Lorraine wished to see her, and sent for her to Nancy. Old and ill as he was, he had deserted his duchess, a virtuous lady, and was leading anything but a regular life. He asked Joan's advice about his health. "I have no power to cure you," she said, "but go back to your wife and help me in that for which God ordains me." The Duke ordered her the sum of four golden crowns, and she returned to Vaucouleurs, thinking of nothing but her departure. There was no want of confidence and good will on the part of the inhabitants of Vaucouleurs in forwarding her preparations. John of Metz, the knight charged to accompany her, asked her if she intended to make the journey in her poor red rustic petticoats. "I should like to don man's clothes," answered Joan. Subscriptions were made to give her a suitable costume. She was supplied with a horse, a coat of mail, a lance, a sword, the complete equipment indeed of a man-at-arms; and a king's messenger and an archer formed her train. Baudricourt made them swear to escort her safely, and on the 25th of February, 1429, he bade her farewell, and all he said was: "Away then, Joan, and come what may." Charles VII was at that time at Chinon, in Touraine. In order to reach him Joan had nearly a hundred and fifty leagues to go, in a country occupied here and there by English and Burgundians and everywhere a theater of war. She took eleven days to do this journey, often marching by night, and never giving up man's dress, disquieted by no difficulty and no danger, and testifying no desire for a halt save to worship God. "Could we hear mass daily," said she to her companions, "we should do well." They consented only twice, first at the Abbey of St. Urban, and again in the principal church of Auxerre. As they were full of respect though at the same time also of doubt toward Joan, she never had to defend herself against familiarities, but she had constantly to dissipate their disquietude touching the reality or the character of her mission. "Fear nothing," she said to them; "God shows me the way I should go; for thereto I was born." On arriving at the village of St. Catherine-de-Fierbois, near Chinon, she heard three masses on the same day and had a letter written thence to the King to announce her coming and to ask to see him; she had gone, she said, a hundred and fifty leagues to come and tell him things which would be most useful to him. Charles VII and his councilors hesitated. The men of war did not like to believe that a little peasant girl of Lorraine was coming to bring the King a more effectual support than their own. Nevertheless, some, and the most heroic amongst them, Dunuois, La Hire, and Xaintrailles, were moved by what was told of this young girl. The letters of Sire de Bau-dricourt, though full of doubt, suffered a gleam of something like a serious impression to peep out; and why should not the King receive this young girl whom the Captain of Vaucouleurs had thought it a duty to send? It would soon be seen what she was and what she would do. The politicians and courtiers, especially the most trusted of them, George de la Tremoille, the King's favorite, shrugged their shoulders. What could be expected from the dreams of a young peasant girl of nineteen? Influences of a more private character and more disposed toward sympathy--Yolande of Arragon, for instance, Queen of Sicily, and mother-in-law of Charles VII, and perhaps also her daughter, the young queen, Mary of Anjou, were urgent for the King to reply to Joan that she might go to Chinon. She was authorized to do so, and on 6th March, 1429, she, with her comrades, arrived at the royal residence. At the very first moment two incidents occurred (says M. Wallon) still further to increase the curiosity of which she was the object. Quite close to Chinon some vagabonds had prepared an ambuscade for the purpose of despoiling her and her train. She passed close by them without the least obstacle. The rumor went that at her approach they were struck motionless, and had been unable to attempt their wicked purpose. Joan was rather tall, well shaped, dark, with a look of composure, animation and gentleness. A man-at-arms, who met her on the way, thought her pretty, and with an impious oath, expressed a coarse compliment. "Alas," said Joan, "thou blasphemest thy God, and thou art so near thy death!" He drowned himself, it is said, shortly after. Already popular feeling was surrounding her marvelous mission with the halo of instantaneous miracles. On her arrival at Chinon she first lodged with an honest family near the castle. For three days longer there was a deliberation in the council as to whether the King ought to receive her. But there was bad news from Orleans. There were no more troops to send thither, and there was no money forthcoming; the King's treasurer, it is said, had but four crowns in the chest. If Orleans was taken, the King would be perhaps reduced to seeking refuge in Spain or in Scotland. Joan promised to set Orleans free. The Orleanese themselves were clamorous for her; Dunois kept up their spirits with the expectation of this marvelous assistance. It was decided that the King should receive her. She had assigned to her for residence an apartment in the tower of the "Coudray," a block of quarters adjoining the royal mansion, and she was committed to the charge of William Bellier, an officer of the King's household, whose wife was a woman of great piety and excellent fame. On the 9th of March, 1429, Joan was at last introduced into the King's presence by the Count of Vendôme, high steward, in the great hall on the first story, a portion of the wall and fireplace being still visible in the present day. It was evening, candle light; and nearly three hundred knights were present. Charles kept himself a little aloof amidst a group of warriors and courtiers more richly dressed than he. According to some chroniclers, Joan demanded that "she should not be deceived, and should have pointed out to her him to whom she was to speak." Others affirm that she went straight to the King, whom she had never seen, "accosting him humbly and simply, like a poor shepherdess," says an eye-witness, and according to another account, "making the usual bends and reverences, as if she had been brought up at court." Whatever may have been her outward behavior, "Gentle dauphin," she said to the King (for she did not think it right to call him king, so long as he had not been crowned), "my name is Joan the maid; the King of Heaven sendeth you word by me that you shall be anointed and crowned in the city of Rheims, and shall be lieutenant of the King of Heaven, who is King of France. It is God's pleasure that our enemies, the English, should depart to their own country; if they depart not, evil will come to them, and the kingdom is sure to continue yours." Charles was impressed without being convinced, as so many others had been before, or were as he was on that very day. He saw Joan again several times. She did not delude herself as to the doubts he still entertained. Gentle dauphin, she said one day, "why do you not believe me? I say unto you that God hath compassion on you, your kingdom and your people; St. Louis and Charlemagne are kneeling before Him making prayer for you, a thing which will give you to understand that you ought to believe me." Charles gave her audience on this occasion in the presence of four witnesses, the most trusted of his intimates, who swore to reveal nothing, and according to others, completely alone. "What she said to him there is none who knows," wrote Allan Chartier a short time after (in July, 1429) "but it is quite certain that he was all radiant with joy thereat, as at a revelation from the Holy Spirit." M. Wallon continues this fascinating and intimate account of the Maid's mission with most minute detail through her early triumphs and ordeal, down to the days of her capture, confinement at Rouen, the capital of the English in France, and her trial and execution in that town. She arrived (in Rouen) on the 23rd of December, 1430. On the 3rd of January the following year, an order from Henry VI, King of England, placed her in the hands of the bishop of Beauvais, Peter Cauchon. Some days afterwards, Count John of Luxembourg accompanied by his brother, the English Chancellor, and his Esquire, the Earl of Warwick, and Humphrey, Earl of Stafford, the King of England's constable in France, entered the prison where Joan was confined. Had John of Luxembourg come out of sheer curiosity, or to relieve himself of certain scruples by offering Joan a chance for her life? "Joan," said he, "I am come hither to put you to ransom, and treat for the price of your deliverance; only give us your promise here no more to bear arms against us." "In God's name," answered Joan, "are you making a mock of me, Captain? Ransom me? You have neither the will nor the power; no, you have neither." The Count persisted. "I know well," said Joan, "that these English will put me to death; but, were they a hundred thousand more 'Goddams' than have already been in France, they shall never have the kingdom." "What is to be thought of her? What is to be thought of the poor shepherd girl from the hills and forests of Lorraine, that like the Hebrew shepherd boy from the hills and forests of Judea--rose suddenly out of the quiet, out of the safety, out of the religious inspiration, rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a station in the van of armies, and to the more perilous station at the right hand of kings? "The Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an _act_, by a victorious _act_, such as no man could deny. But so did the girl of Lorraine, if we read her story as it was read by those who saw her nearest. Adverse armies bore witness to the boy as no pretender; but so they did to the gentle girl. Judged by the voices of all who saw them _from a station of good will_, both were found true and loyal to any promises involved in their first acts. "Enemies it was that made the difference between their subsequent fortunes. The boy rose to a splendor and a noon-day prosperity, both personal and public, that rang through the records of his people, and became a byword amongst his posterity for a thousand years, until the scepter was departing from Judah. "The poor forsaken girl, on the contrary, drank not herself from that cup of rest which she had secured for France. She never sang together with the songs that rose in her native Domremy, as echoes to the departing steps of the invaders. She mingled not in the festal dances at Vaucouleurs which celebrated in rapture the redemption of France. No! for her voice was then silent; no! for her feet were dust. Pure, innocent, noble-hearted girl! Whom, from earliest youth, ever I believed in as full of truth and self-sacrifice, this was amongst the strongest pledges of thy truth, that never once--no, not for a moment of weakness--didst thou revel in the vision of coronets and honor from man. Coronets for thee! Oh, no! Honors if they come when all is over, are for those that share thy blood. Daughter of Domremy, when the gratitude of thy king shall awaken, thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. Call her, King of France, but she will not hear thee. Cite her by the apparitors to come and receive a robe of honor, but she will be found '_en Contumace_.' When the thunders of universal France, as even yet may happen, shall proclaim the grandeur of the poor shepherd girl that gave up all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd girl, will have been deaf for centuries. To suffer and to do, that was thy portion in this life; that was thy destiny; and not for a moment was it hidden from thyself. Life, thou saidst, is short; and the sleep which is in the grave is long; let me use that life, so transitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams destined to comfort the sleep which is long! "This pure creature--pure from every suspicion of even a visionary self interest; even as she was pure in senses more obvious--never once did this holy child, as she regarded herself, relax from her belief in the darkness that was traveling to meet her. She might not prefigure the very manner of her death; she saw not in vision the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, the spectators without end on every road pouring into Rouen as to a coronation, the surging smoke, the volleying flames, the hostile faces all around her, the pitying eye that lurked here and there until nature and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial restraints--these might not be apparent through the mists of the hurrying future. But the voice that called her to death, that she heard forever. "Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great was he that sat upon it; but well Joanna knew that not the throne nor he that sat upon it was for her; but on the contrary, that she was for them; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from the dust. "Gorgeous were the lilies of France, and for centuries had they privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until in another century the wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but well Joanna knew, early at Domremy she had read that bitter truth, that the lilies of France would decorate no garland for her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for her." (Thomas De Quincey.) And now comes in this, which is perhaps the final year of the great war, a strange story from a small town in the Loire region near Cholet, of another illiterate peasant girl named Clotilde Perchaud, seemingly the reincarnation of Jeanne, who likewise sees visions and hears voices. Brought up on one of the small farms on the edge of the hamlet of Puy-Saint-Bonnet, this girl, now about twenty years old, since the age of fourteen has been of a strange personality. Instead of following the fairs and dancing at the village festivals like the other young girls of the neighborhood, Clotilde has always kept aloof, avoiding the young men who would offer her attentions, and devoting herself to devotions at church, and prayers in her squalid room in the farmhouse granary, where she had constructed an altar. So strange were her actions at the village school that the good priest advised her parents to keep her at home, as she would not study her lessons, but preferred to sit with clasped hands, and her eyes fixed in a wrapt gaze at the ceiling, to the demoralization of the scholars, who at length came to believe her half witted, and ceased to consider her. Not so, however, the elders. Soon it became known that this strange girl was a clairvoyant, and the more credulous consulted her as to future events, but these became dissatisfied because all of the girl's prophecies had to do with events beyond the ken of the simple folk of the neighborhood; with kings and heavenly hosts, with saints in armor waving banners and leading armies on to victory. Thus passed the life of this young peasant girl during the peaceful years between fourteen and twenty, until the great war broke out and armed hosts led by princes indeed invaded her unhappy land. So in the field below the red tiled roofs of her village of Puy-St.-Bonnet, Clotilde Perchaud erected to the Virgin a rude altar of field stones, which she trimmed with green boughs, and here she passed all her spare time, praying and seeing visions in the sky, while upon the horizon mighty guns boomed, and at night the flashes could plainly be seen. Soon this altar became a rendezvous for the neighbors, and even for those of the more remote villages from which the young men had gone forth to fight for France, and to this young girl were brought pictures of the absent soldiers at the front in the trenches and written prayers for their safety. That she possessed some strange power was admitted by even the most skeptical, for her responses to those who had loved ones missing led to their being found in distant camps as prisoners, or wounded in hospitals in distant parts of the country. In some instances, it is reported, this strange girl was able to give the names in full of those long missing, and information so detailed and circumstantial as to be marvelous. These matters were brought to the attention of the priests, and were in turn reported by them to the heads of the church, finally reaching the ears of the Bishop of Angers, who had her brought to his palace. Here she confronted unabashed a conclave of priests. The Bishop is said to have dressed himself in the ordinary black cassock of a priest, in order to test the young girl's power of divination; an ordinary priest wearing the Bishop's robes, and being seated on the throne; but to the amazement of all in the room, the girl turned from him, and kneeling before the real Bishop, asked his blessing upon her and her mission. To him she announced, then, that a white robed angel had appeared to her above her altar in the fields, and to the strains of heavenly music charged that she had, as a pure and blameless maid, been selected to deliver their beloved France from the hands of the invader. She presented to the Bishop the book in which she had written the words spoken to her on many occasions by the "shining angel in white." This book, says the account from which this is taken, "is partly illegible and almost entirely illiterate; rudely illustrated in a sort of futurist style." Its contents are said to be most perplexing and wonderful. "Savants and students of religion who have examined the book assert that it shows a knowledge of the primal principles of theology, which indicates that the author has the clearest insight into the fundamentals of Roman Catholicism, but is apparently not gifted with the power to translate those ideas into fluent French. Throughout the work are passages in Latin, Greek and Hebrew, yet she apparently had less than the usual schooling of a French child." The Bishop of Angers was so impressed with her attitude and her evident earnestness that he sent her under escort by nuns, to the Archbishop-Cardinal Amette at Paris. To him she demanded that she be at once taken to the heights of Montmartre, so that she might see the sun rise there over Paris. In this she was humored, and standing with the nuns and priests before the Basilica of the Sacred Heart on Montmartre, at sunrise, as the first beam shone upon the great gilded cross on the tower, she recited in a loud voice the vow which she had taken to deliver France from the invader. Since this, it is said no one has been allowed to talk to Clotilde, and she is said to be at the convent in the Avenue Victor Hugo. Here she is under observation of the nuns, who each send reports of her prayers and prophecies to the Cardinal. A correspondent who was permitted to see her from a distance in the convent garden, where she walked, followed at a distance of several paces by the nuns, describes her as a rather tall girl, clad in somber baggy black robes, very light of step and walking with her head thrown back and her eyes directed heavenward. Her carriage reminded him of "Genee, Pavlowa, or some other dancer," and he speaks of her as having "a wealth of filmy hair, which because of its fineness, seemed to float about her like a cloud, and only partly covered by a religious headgear," and he could see, too, "her hands, which are lily white and tiny, and tender, as those of the most pampered lady, despite the fact that the girl has done chores which in peace times would belong to men even on the French farms where the women are accustomed to labor long and hard." A strange story; but then these are strange times, and who shall say that this is unworthy of credence? CONCLUSION |AESCITIS quâ horâ fur veniet" (Ye know not in what hour the despoiler cometh) were the words of an inscription carved on the capstone of a church porch in the fifteenth century by a monkish stonecutter, overlooking a smiling valley in Picardy. That valley is now a waste place; its once populous and peaceful villages are in ruins; its fruitful orchards are gone; its murmuring streams have overflown their banks, choked with the debris of war. No church towers are visible, nor are there any forests left in the blasted expanse of shell-torn earth. The joy felt by the people of this ravaged land over the retreat of the invader, is turned to bitterness by the sight of so much wanton destruction, for they realize that this once peaceful smiling land, the richest region of France, is now a great desert waste strewn with ruins of the priceless records of her glorious achievements in the world of art. And this loss of these irreplaceable monuments is especially bitter to a people so attuned to beauty. With a contemptuous disregard for the accumulated animosity of the whole world, the Imperial high command seems bent upon leaving its hall mark upon the evacuated country. Acknowledging its inability to hold Rheims any longer, it retires its great guns to a locality from which it sends hundreds of shells crashing into that hapless town, and these are mainly aimed at the ruins of the great Cathedral. "The ruin even of ruins," cries a correspondent of the _Tribune_; adding, "In so many of the military transactions of the Hun you may perceive the hatred of humanity that actuates him, his longing to glut upon some personal victim the passion for destruction that is in his soul." Philip Gibbs, perhaps the fairest and most moderate of war correspondents, in describing the retreat of March, 1917, deals with the aspect of the country beyond the tract of shell craters, the smashed barns and country houses and churches, the tattered tree trunks, and great belts of barbed wire: "Behind the trenches are two towns and villages in which they had their 'rest billets,' and it is in these places that one sees the spirit and temper of the men whom the British are fighting. "All through this war I have tried to be fair and just to the Germans, to give them credit for their courage and to pity them because the terror of war has branded them as it has branded the British. "But during these last days I have been sickened and saddened by the things I have seen, because they reveal cruelty which is beyond the inevitable villainy of war. They have spared nothing on the way of their retreat. They have destroyed every village in their abandonment with systematic and detailed destruction. Not only in (the towns of) Bapaume and Péronne have they blown up or burned all the houses which were untouched by shell-fire, but in scores of villages they laid waste the cottages of poor peasants, and all their little farms, and all their orchards. At Bethonvillers, to name only one village out of many, I saw how each house was marked with a white cross before it was gutted with fire. The Cross of Christ was used to mark the work of the devil, for truly this has been the devil's work. "Even if we grant that the destruction of houses in the wake of retreat is the recognized cruelty of war, there are other things which I have seen which are not pardonable, even of that damnable code of morality. In Baupaume and Péronne, in Roye and Neslé and Lian-court, and all these places over a wide area the German soldiers not only blew out the fronts of houses, but with picks and axes smashed mirrors and furniture and even picture frames.... There is nothing left in these towns. Family portraits have been kicked into the débris of the gutters. The black bonnets of old women who lived in these houses lie in the rubbish heaps, and by some strange pitiful freak these are almost the only signs left of the inhabitants who lived here before the soldiers wrecked their houses. "The ruins of houses are pitiful to see when done deliberately even when shell-fire spared them in the war-zone, but worse than that is the ruin of women and children and living flesh. "I saw that ruin to-day in Roye and Neslé. At first I was rejoiced to see how the inhabitants were liberated after being so long in hostile lines.... The women's faces were dead faces, shallow and mask-like and branded with the memories of great agonies. The children were white and thin, so thin that the cheek bones protruded, and many of them seemed to be idiot children. Hunger and fear had been with them too long." This is the reverse of the pictures I found, during those calm and beautiful summer days of 1910, in that sunny and prosperous land. Pictures framed with quaint customs; the simple pleasures of fête days enjoyed by a happy and prosperous peasantry, all unmindful of the terrible days so soon to come upon them. "Nescitis qua horâ fur veniet." How prophetic the warning words of that old monk inscribed upon the capstone of that little church overlooking the green plains of Picardy! And now what is left in place of the gray old churches, the quiet monasteries, the fruitful farms and flocks and the dense forests? Where now shall we look for the gleaming white walls of the turreted châteaux, the precious mossy towers of mediaeval ruined castles; the somnolent quaint towns with wandering streets filled with timbered, carved and strangely gabled houses of half forgotten periods; the sleepy deserted market places over which towered architectural treasures of town halls famed throughout the world. Where shall the artist seek the matchless châteaux gardens, which took centuries in the making? Where seek the still reaches of silent canals crossed here and there by arched stone bridges, all shaded by great trees casting cool shadows in midday, or the vast dim interiors of cathedrals marked with the skill of many ages,--filled with the aroma of incense, and the inspiration of centuries of prayer? "The old order changeth, giving place to new." But at least one may be thankful now to have been privileged to know and to have seen these wonderful and beautiful remains of that "old order." And this feeling of gratitude tempers somewhat one's fury at the result of this invasion and destruction. But one would not have these sacred remains disturbed; there must be no attempt at restoration of these matchless monuments, at the hands of well-meaning municipalities. Rheims, Arras, Soissons, Lâon, must be left mainly as they now lie prostrate, lasting memorials for future ages. Leave to Dame Nature the task of draping them with green clinging vines, and embossings of velvet moss. So let them remain in their solemn majesty, monuments to the failure of an imperial order unhampered by the love of mankind or the fear of God. THE END 
37249	----	domain material generously made available by the Google Books Library Project (http://books.google.com/) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 37249-h.htm or 37249-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/37249/37249-h/37249-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/37249/37249-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through the the Google Books Library Project. See http://books.google.com/books?id=AAgdAAAAMAAJ&printsec=titlepage THE CITY OF NUMBERED DAYS by FRANCIS LYNDE Illustrated by Arthur E. Becher Charles Scribner's Sons New York 1914 Copyright, 1914, by Charles Scribner's Sons Published August, 1914 TO MY WIFE [Illustration: "What would I do? A number of things." _Page 91_] CONTENTS I. THE HEPTADERM 1 II. J. WESLEY CROESUS 19 III. SANDS OF PACTOLUS 48 IV. A FIRE OF LITTLE STICKS 66 V. SYMPTOMATIC 79 VI. MIRAPOLIS 104 VII. THE SPEEDWAY 119 VIII. TABLE STAKES 130 IX. BEDLAM 145 X. EPOCHAL 151 XI. THE FEAST OF HURRAHS 178 XII. QUICKSANDS 196 XIII. FLOOD TIDE 208 XIV. THE ABYSS 232 XV. THE SETTING OF THE EBB 244 XVI. THE MAN ON THE BANK 263 XVII. THE CIRCEAN CUP 273 XVIII. LOVE'S CRUCIBLE 284 XIX. THE SUNSET GUN 301 XX. THE TERROR 322 ILLUSTRATIONS "What would I do? A number of things" _Frontispiece_ Brouillard had to look twice before he could attempt to classify her, and even then she baffled him 46 "It's all gone, little girl; it's all gone!" 242 Brouillard got between 342 The City of Numbered Days I The Heptaderm It was not characteristic of Brouillard--the Brouillard Grislow knew best--that he should suffer the purely technical talk of dams and reservoirs, bed-rock anchorages, and the latest word in concrete structural processes to languish and should drift into personal reminiscences over their first evening camp-fire in the Niquoia. Because the personalities were gratefully varying the monotonies, and also because he had a jocose respect for the unusual, Grislow was careful not to discourage the drift. There had been a benumbing surfeit of the technical talk dating from the day and hour when the orders had come from Washington giving Brouillard his step up and directing him to advance with his squad of Reclamation-Service pioneers upon the new work in the western Timanyonis. But, apart from this, the reminiscences had an experimental value. Grislow's one unamiable leaning manifested itself in a zest for cleverly turning the hidden facets of the human polygon up to the light; and if the facets chose to turn themselves of their own accord, as in Brouillard's case, why, so much the better. "As you were saying?" he prompted, stretching himself luxuriously upon the fragrant banking of freshly clipped spruce tips, with his feet to the blaze and his hands locked under his head. He felt that Brouillard was merely responding to the subtle influences of time, place, and encompassments and took no shame for being an analytical rather than a sympathetic listener. The hundred-odd men of the pioneer party, relaxing after the day-long march over the mountains, were smoking, yarning, or playing cards around the dozen or more camp-fires. The evening, with a half-grown moon silvering the inverted bowl of a firmament which seemed to shut down, lid-like, upon the mountain rim of the high-walled valley, was witchingly enchanting; and, to add the final touch, there was comradely isolation, Anson, Griffith, and Leshington, the three other members of the engineering staff, having gone to burn candles in the headquarters tent over blue-prints and field-notes. "I was saying that the present-day world slant is sanely skeptical--as it should be," Brouillard went on at the end of the thoughtful pause. "Being modern and reasonably sophisticated, we can smile at the signs and omens of the ages that had to get along without laboratories and testing plants. Just the same, every man has his little atavistic streak, if you can hit upon it. For example, you may throw flip-flaps and call it rank superstition if you like, but I have never been able to get rid of the notion that birthdays are like the equinoxes--turning-points in the small, self-centred system which we call life." "Poodle-dogs!" snorted the one whose attitude was both jocose and analytical, stuffing more of the spruce branches under his head to keep the pipe ashes from falling into his eyes. "I know; being my peculiar weakness instead of your own, it's tommy-rot to you," Brouillard rejoined good-naturedly. "As I said a few minutes ago, I am only burbling to hear the sound of my own voice. But the bottoming fact remains. You give a screw twist to a child's mind, and if the mind of the man doesn't exhibit the same helical curve----" "Suppose you climb down out of the high-browed altitudes and give it a plain, every-day name?" grumbled the staff authority on watersheds. "It's casting pearls before swine, but you're a pretty good sort of swine, Grizzy. If you'll promise to keep your feet out of the trough, I'll tell you. Away back in the porringer period, in which we are all like the pin-feathered dicky-birds, open-mouthed for anything anybody may drop into us, some one fed me with the number seven." "Succulent morsel!" chuckled Grislow. "Did it agree with you?" Brouillard sat back from the fire and clasped his hands over his bent knees. He was of a type rare enough to be noteworthy in a race which has drawn so heavily upon the Anglo-Saxon and Teutonic stocks for its build and coloring: a well-knit figure of a man, rather under than over the normal stature, but bulging athletically in the loose-fitting khaki of the engineer; dark of skin, even where the sun had not burned its rich mahogany into the olive, and owning a face which, with the upcurled mustaches, the brooding black eyes, and the pure Gallic outline of brow and jaw, might have served as a model for a Vierge study of a fighting _franc-tireur_. "I don't remember how early in the game the thing began," he resumed, ignoring Grislow's joking interruption, "but away back in the dimmest dawnings the number seven began to have a curious significance for me. From my earliest recollections things have been constantly associating themselves with seven or some multiple of it. You don't believe it, of course; but it is true." "Which means that you have been sitting up and taking notice when the coincidences hit, and have forgotten the millions of times when they didn't," scoffed the listener. "Probably," was the ready admission. "We all do that. But there is one set of 'coincidences,' as you call them, that can't be so easily turned down. Back in the pin-feather time that I mentioned somebody handed me a fact--the discovery of the physiologists about the waste and replacement that goes on in the human organism, bringing around a complete cellular change about once in every seven years. Are you asleep?" "Not yet; go on," said the hydrographer. "It was a long time ago, and I was only a little tad; but I surrounded the idea and took it in literally, in the sense of a sudden and sort of magical change coming at the end of each seven-year period and bound to occur at those particular fixed times. The notion stuck to me like a cockle-bur, and sometimes I wonder if it isn't still sticking." "Bugs!" ranted Grislow, in good-natured ridicule, and Brouillard laughed. "That is what I say to myself, Murray, every time the fatal period rolls around. And yet----" "There isn't any 'and yet,'" cut in the scoffer derisively. "This is merely your night for being batty. 'Fatal period'--suffering humanity!" "No, hold on: let me tell you, Murray--I'd like to get it out of my system if I can. Up to my seventh birthday I was a sickly child, puny and only about half alive. I recollect, as if it were only yesterday, how the neighbor women used to come in and condole with my mother, ignoring me, of course, as if I hadn't any ears. I can remember old Aunt Hetty Parsons saying, time and again: 'No, Mis' Brouillard; you'll never raise that boy the longest day you live!'" "I'm waiting for the 'and yet,'" put in Grislow, sitting up to relight his pipe with a blazing splinter from the fire. "It came--the change, I mean--when I was seven years old. That was the year of our removal to Vincennes from the country village where I was born. Since that time I haven't known what it means to be sick or even ailing." "Bully old change!" applauded Grislow. "Is that all?" "No. What the second period spent on my body it took out of my mind. I grew stouter and stronger every year and became more and more the stupidest blockhead that ever thumbed a school-book. I simply couldn't learn, Murray. My mother made excuses for me, as mothers will, but my father was in despair. He was an educated man, and I can imagine that my unconquerable doltishness went near to breaking his heart." "You are safely over that stage of it now, at all events," said the hydrographer in exaggerated sarcasm. "Any man who can stare into the fire and think out fetching little imaginations like these you are handing me----" "Sometimes I wish they were only imaginings, Grizzy. But let me finish. I was fourteen to a day when I squeezed through the final grammar grade; think of it--fourteen years old and still with the women teachers! I found out afterward that I got my dubiously given passport to the high school chiefly because my father was one of the best-known and best-loved men in the old home town. Perhaps it wasn't the magic seven that built me all over new that summer; perhaps it was only the change in schools and teachers. But from that year on, all the hard things were too easy. It was as if somebody or something had suddenly opened a closed door in my brain and let the daylight into all the dark corners at once." Grislow sat up and finished for him. "Yes; and since that time you have staved your way through the university, and butted into the Reclamation Service, and played skittles with every other man's chances of promotion until you have come out at the top of the heap in the Construction Division, all of which you're much too modest to brag about. But, say; we've skipped one of the seven-year flag-stations. What happened when you were twenty-one--or were you too busy just then chasing the elusive engineering degree to take notice?" Brouillard was staring out over the loom of the dozen camp-fires--out and across the valley at the massive bulk of Mount Chigringo rising like a huge barrier dark to the sky-line save for a single pin-prick of yellow light fixing the position of a solitary miner's cabin half-way between the valley level and the summit. When he spoke again the hydrographer had been given time to shave another pipe charge of tobacco from his pocket plug and to fill and light the brier. "When I was twenty-one my father died, and"--he stopped short and then went on in a tone which was more than half apologetic--"I don't mind telling you, Grislow; you're not the kind to pass it on where it would hurt. At twenty-one I was left with a back load that I am carrying to this good day; that I shall probably go on carrying through life." Grislow walked around the fire, kicked two or three of the charred log ends into the blaze, and growled when the resulting smoke rose up to choke and blind him. "Forget it, Victor," he said in blunt retraction. "I thought it was merely a little splashing match and I didn't mean to back you out into deep water. I know something about the load business myself; I'm trying to put a couple of kid brothers through college, right now." "Are you?" said Brouillard half-absently; and then, as one who would not be selfishly indifferent: "That is fine. I wish I were going to have something as substantial as that to show for my wood sawing." "Won't you?" "Not in a thousand years, Murray." "In less than a hundredth part of that time you'll be at the top of the Reclamation-Service pay-roll--won't that help out?" "No; not appreciably." Grislow gave it up at that and went back to the original contention. "We're dodging the main issue," he said. "What is the active principle of your 'sevens'--or haven't you figured it out?" "Change," was the prompt rejoinder; "always something different--radically different." "And what started you off into the memory woods, particularly, to-night?" "A small recurrence of the coincidences. It began with that hopelessly unreliable little clock that Anson persists in carrying around with him wherever he goes. While you were up on the hill cutting your spruce tips Anson pulled out and said he was going to unpack his camp kit. He went over to his tent and lighted up, and a few minutes afterward I heard the clock strike--seven. I looked at my watch and saw that it lacked a few minutes of eight, and the inference was that Anson had set the clock wrong, as he commonly does. Just as I was comfortably forgetting the significant reminder the clock went off again, striking slowly, as if the mechanism were nearly run down." "Another seven?" queried Grislow, growing interested in spite of a keen desire to lapse into ridicule again. "No; it struck four. I didn't imagine it, Murray; I counted: one--two--three--four." "Well?" was the bantering comment. "You couldn't conjure an omen out of that, could you? You say there was a light in the tent--I suppose Anson was there tinkering with his little tin god of a timepiece. It's a habit of his." "That was the natural inference; but I was curious enough to go and look. When I lifted the flap the tent was empty. The clock was ticking away on Anson's soap-box dressing-case, with a lighted candle beside it, and for a crazy half second I had a shock, Murray--the minute-hand was pointing to four and the hour-hand to seven!" "Still I don't see the miraculous significance," said the hydrographer. "Don't you? It was only another of the coincidences, of course. While I stood staring at the clock Anson came in with Griffith's tool kit. 'I've got to tinker her again,' he said. 'She's got so she keeps Pacific time with one hand and Eastern with the other.' Then I understood that he had been tinkering it and had merely gone over to Griffith's tent for the tools." "Well," said Grislow again, "what of it? The clock struck seven, you say; but it also struck four." Brouillard's smile tilted his curling mustaches to the sardonic angle. "The combination was what called the turn, Grizzy. To-day happens to be my twenty-eighth birthday--the end of the fourth cycle of seven." "By George!" ejaculated the hydrographer in mock perturbation, sitting up so suddenly that he dropped his pipe into the ashes of the fire. "In that case, according to what seems to be the well-established custom, something is due to fall in right now!" "I have been looking for it all day," returned Brouillard calmly, "which is considerably more ridiculous than anything else I have owned to, you will say. Let it go at that. We'll talk about something real if you'd rather--that auxiliary reservoir supply from the Apache Basin, for example. Were the field-notes in when you left Washington?" And from the abrupt break, the technicalities came to their own again; were still holding the centre of the stage after the groups around the mess fires had melted away into the bunk shelters and tents, and the fires themselves had died down into chastened pools of incandescence edged each with its beach line of silvered ashes. It was Murray Grislow who finally rang the curtain call on the prolonged shop-talk. "Say, man! do you know that it is after ten o'clock?" he demanded, holding the face of his watch down to the glow of the dying embers. "You may sit here all night, if you like, but it's me for the blankets and a few lines of 'tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy'--Now, what in the name of a guilty conscience is _that_?" As it chanced, they were both facing toward the lower end of the valley when the quotation-breaking apparition flashed into view. In the deepest of the shadows at the mouth of the gorge, where the torrenting Niquoia straightened itself momentarily before entering upon its plunging race through the mountain barrier, a beam of white light flickered unsteadily for a fraction of a second. Then it became a luminous pencil to trace a zigzag line up the winding course of the river, across to the foot-hill spur where the camp of the Reclamation-Service vanguard was pitched, and so on around to the base of Chigringo. For certain other seconds it remained quiescent, glowing balefully like the eye of some fabled monster searching for its prey. Then it was gone. Grislow's comment took the form of a half-startled exclamation. "By Jove! wouldn't that give you a fit of the creepies?--this far from civilization and a dynamo?" "It wasn't an electric," returned Brouillard thoughtfully, apparently taking Grislow's suggestion literally. "It was an acetylene." "Supposing it was--what's the difference? Aren't we just as far from a carbide shop as we are from the dynamo? What are you calling it?" "Your guess is as good as mine," was the half-absent reply. Brouillard was still staring fixedly at the distant gulf of blackness where the mysterious light had appeared and disappeared. "Then I'll make it and go to bed," said the hydrographer, rising and stretching his arms over his head. "If it had come a couple of hours ago we should have called it the 'spot-light,' turned on to mark the end of your fourth act and the beginning, auspicious or otherwise, of the fifth. Maybe it is, anyway; maybe the property-man was asleep or drunk and forgot to turn it on at the spectacular instant. How will that do?" Brouillard had got upon his feet and was buttoning his many-pocketed shooting-coat. "It will do to put you into the Balaam saddle-beast class, Grizzy," he said, almost morosely. Then he added: "I'm going to take a little hike down yonder for investigative purposes. Want to come along?" But the mapper of watersheds was yawning sleepily. "Not on your tintype," he refused. "I'm going to 'cork it orf in me 'ammick.' Wake me up when you come back and tell me what the fifth act is going to do to you. The more I think of it the more I'm convinced that it _was_ the spot-light, a little overdue, after all." And he turned away chuckling. It was only a short mile from the camp on the inward slopes of the eastern foot-hills to the mouth of the outlet gorge, across which Brouillard could already see, in mental prevision, the great gray wall of the projected Niquoia dam--his future work--curving majestically from the broken shoulder of Chigringo to the opposing steeps of Jack's Mountain. The half-grown moon, tilting now toward the sky-line of the western barrier, was leaving the canyon portal in deepest gloom. As Brouillard swung along he kept a watchful eye upon the gorge shadows, half expecting a return of the mysterious apparition. But when he finally reached the canyon portal and began to seek for the trail which roughly paralleled the left bank of the stream the mystery was still unexplained. From its upper portal in the valley's throat to the point where the river debouches among the low sand-hills of the Buckskin Desert the canyon of the Niquoia measures little more than a mile as the bird flies, though its crookings through the barrier mountains fairly double the distance. Beginning as a broken ravine at the valley outlet, the gorge narrows in its lower third to a cliff-walled raceway for the torrent, and the trail, leaving the bank of the stream, climbs the forested slope of a boundary spur to descend abruptly to the water's edge again at the desert gateway, where the Niquoia, leaping joyously from the last of its many hamperings, becomes a placid river of the plain. Picking his way judiciously because the trail was new to him, Brouillard came in due time to the descending path among the spruces and scrub-pines leading to the western outlook upon the desert swales and sand-hills. At the canyon portal, where the forest thinned away and left him standing at the head of the final descending plunge in the trail, he found himself looking down upon the explanation of the curious apparition. None the less, what he saw was in itself rather inexplicable. In the first desert looping of the river a camp-fire of piñon knots was blazing cheerfully, and beside it, with a picnic hamper for a table, sat a supper party of three--two men and a woman--in enveloping dust-coats, and a third man in chauffeur leather serving the sitters. Back of the group, and with its detachable search-light missing, stood a huge touring-car to account for the picnic hamper, the dust-coats, the man in leather, and, doubtless, for the apparitional eye which had appeared and disappeared at the mouth of the upper gorge. Also it accounted, in a purely physical sense, for the presence of the picnickers, though the whim which had led them to cross the desolate Buckskin Desert for the dubious pleasure of making an all-night bivouac on its eastern edge was not so readily apparent. Being himself a Bedouin of the desert, Brouillard's first impulse was hospitable. But when he remarked the ample proportions of the great touring-car and remembered the newness and rawness of his temporary camp he quickly decided that the young woman member of the party would probably fare better where she was. This being the case, the young engineer saw no reason why he should intrude upon the group at the cheerful camp-fire. On the contrary, he began speedily to find good and sufficient reasons why he should not. That the real restraining motive was a sudden attack of desert shyness he would not have admitted. But the fact remained. Good red blood with its quickenings of courage and self-reliance, and a manful ability to do and dare, are the desert's gifts; but the penalty the desert exacts in return for them is evenly proportioned. Four years in the Reclamation Service had made the good-looking young chief of construction a man-queller of quality. But each year of isolation had done something toward weakening the social ties. A loosened pebble turned the scale. When a bit of the coarse-grained sandstone of the trail rolled under Brouillard's foot and went clattering down to plunge into the stream the man in chauffeur leather reached for the search-light lantern and directed its beam upon the canyon portal. But by that time Brouillard had sought the shelter of the scrub-pines and was retracing his steps up the shoulder of the mountain. II J. Wesley Croesus Measured even by the rather exacting standards of the mining and cattle country, Brouillard was not what the West calls "jumpy." Four years of field-work, government or other, count for something; and the man who has proved powder-shy in any stage of his grapple with the Land of Short Notice is customarily a dead man. In spite of his training, however, the young chief of construction, making an early morning exploration of the site for the new dam at the mouth of the outlet gorge while the rank and file of the pioneer force were building the permanent camp half-way between the foot-hills and the river, winced handsomely when the shock of a distance-muffled explosion trembled upon the crisp morning air, coming, as it seemed, from some point near the lower end of the canyon. The dull rumble of the explosion and the little start for which it was accountable were disconcerting in more ways than one. As an industry captain busy with the preliminaries of what promised to be one of the greatest of the modern salvages of the waste places, Brouillard had been assuring himself that his work was large enough to fill all his horizons. But the detonating crash reminded him forcibly that the presence of the touring party was asserting itself as a disturbing element and that the incident of its discovery the night before had been dividing time pretty equally with his verification of the locating engineer's blue-print mappings and field-notes. This was the first thought, and it was pointedly irritating. But the rebound flung him quickly over into the field of the common humanities. The explosion was too heavy to figure as a gun-shot; and, besides, it was the closed season for game. Therefore, it must have been an accident of some sort--possibly the blowing up of the automobile. Brouillard had once seen the gasolene tank of a motor-car take fire and go up like a pyrotechnic set piece in a sham battle. Between this and a hurried weighting of the sheaf of blue-prints with his field-glass preparatory to a first-aid dash down the outlet gorge, there was no appreciable interval. But the humane impulse doubled back upon itself tumultuously when he came to his outlook halting place of the night before. There had been no accident. The big touring-car, yellow with the dust of the Buckskin, stood intact on the sand flat where it had been backed and turned and headed toward the desert. Wading in the shallows of the river with a linen dust robe for a seine, the two younger men of the party were gathering the choicest of the dead mountain trout with which the eddy was thickly dotted. Coming toward him on the upward trail and climbing laboriously to gain the easier path among the pines, were the two remaining members of the party--an elderly, pudgy, stockily built man with a gray face, stiff gray mustaches and sandy-gray eyes to match, and the young woman, booted, gauntleted, veiled, and bulked into shapelessness by her touring coat, and yet triumphing exuberantly over all of these handicaps in an ebullient excess of captivating beauty and attractiveness. Being a fisherman of mark and a true sportsman, Brouillard had a sudden rush of blood to the anger cells when he realized that the alarm which had brought him two hard-breathing miles out of his way had been the discharge of a stick of dynamite thrown into the Niquoia for the fish-killing purpose. In his code the dynamiting of a stream figured as a high crime. But the two on the trail had come up, and his protest was forestalled by the elderly man with the gray face and the sandy-gray eyes, whose explosive "Ha!" was as much a measure of his breathlessness as of his surprise. "I was just telling Van Bruce that his thundering fish cartridge would raise the neighbors," the trail climber went on with a stout man's chuckle. And then: "You're one of the Reclamation engineers? Great work the government is undertaking here--fine opportunity to demonstrate the lifting power of aggregated capital backed by science and energy and a whole heap of initiative. It's a high honor to be connected with it, and that's a fact. You _are_ connected with it, aren't you?" Brouillard's nod was for the man, but his words were for the young woman whose beauty refused to be quenched by the touring handicaps. "Yes, I am in charge of it," he said. "Ha!" said the stout man, and this time the exclamation was purely approbative. "Chief engineer, eh? That's fine, _fine_! You're young, and you've climbed pretty fast. But that's the way with you young men nowadays; you begin where we older fellows leave off. I'm glad we met you. My name is Cortwright--J. Wesley Cortwright, of Chicago. And yours is----?" Brouillard named himself in one word. Strangers usually found him bluntly unresponsive to anything like effusiveness, but he was finding it curiously difficult to resist the good-natured heartiness which seemed to exude from the talkative gentleman, overlaying him like the honeydew on the leaves in a droughty forest. If Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright's surprise on hearing the Brouillard surname was not genuine it was at least an excellent imitation. "Well, well, well--you don't say! Not of the Brouillards of Knox County, Indiana?--but, of course, you must be. There is only the one family that I ever heard of, and it is mighty good, old _voyageur_ stock, too, dating 'way back to the Revolutionary War, and further. I've bought hogs of the farmer Brouillards hundreds of times when I was in the packing business, and I want to tell you that no finer animals ever came into the Chicago market." "Yes?" said Brouillard, driving the word in edgewise. "I am sorry to say that I don't know many of the farmers. Our branch of the family settled near Vincennes, and my father was on the bench, when he wasn't in politics." "What? Not Judge Antoine! Why, my dear young man! Do you know that I once had the pleasure of introducing your good father to my bankers in Chicago? It was years ago, at a time when he was interested in floating a bond issue for some growing industry down on the Wabash. And to think that away out here in this howling wilderness, a thousand miles from nowhere, as you might say, I should meet his son!" Brouillard laughed and fell headlong into the pit of triteness. "The world isn't so very big when you come to surround it properly, Mr. Cortwright," he asserted. "That's a fact; and we're doing our level best nowadays to make and keep it little," buzzed the portly man cheerfully, with a wave of one pudgy arm toward the automobile. "It's about a hundred and twenty miles from this to El Gato, on the Grand Canyon, isn't it, Mr. Brouillard? Well, we did it in five hours yesterday afternoon, and we could have cut an hour out of that if Rickert hadn't mistaken the way across the Buckskin. Not that it made any special difference. We expected to spend one night out and came prepared." Brouillard admitted that the touring feat kept even pace with the quickening spirit of the age; but he did not add that the motive for the feat was not quite so apparent as it might be. This mystery, however, was immediately brushed aside by Mr. Cortwright, speaking in his character of universal ouster of mysteries. "You are wondering what fool notion chased us away out here in the desert when we had a comfortable hotel to stop at," he rattled on. "I'll tell you, Mr. Brouillard--in confidence. It was curiosity--raw, country curiosity. The papers and magazines have been full of this Buckskin reclamation scheme, and we wanted to see the place where all the wonderful miracles were going to get themselves wrought out. Have you got time to 'put us next'?" Brouillard, as the son of the man who had been introduced to the Chicago money gods in his hour of need, could scarcely do less than to take the time. The project, he explained, contemplated the building of a high dam across the upper end of the Niquoia Canyon and the converting of the inland valley above into a great storage reservoir. From this reservoir a series of distributing canals would lead the water out upon the arid lands of the Buckskin and the miracle would be a fact accomplished. "Sure, sure!" said the cheerful querist, feeling in the pockets of the automobile coat for a cigar. At the match-striking instant he remembered a thing neglected. "By George! you'll have to excuse me, Mr. Brouillard; I'm always forgetting the little social dewdabs. Let me present you to my daughter Genevieve. Gene, shake hands with the son of my good old friend Judge Antoine Brouillard, of Vincennes." It was rather awkwardly done, and somehow Brouillard could not help fancying that Mr. Cortwright could have done it better; that the roughly informal introduction was only one of the component parts of a studied brusquerie which Mr. Cortwright could put on and off at will, like a well-worn working coat. But when the unquenchable beauty stripped her gauntlet and gave him her hand, with a dazzling smile and a word of acknowledgment which was not borrowed from her father's effusive vocabulary, he straightway fell into another pit of triteness and his saving first impressions of Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright's character began to fade. "I'm immensely interested," was Miss Cortwright's comment on the outlining of the reclamation project. "Do you mean to say that real farms with green things growing on them can be made out of that frightful desert we drove over yesterday afternoon?" Brouillard smiled and plunged fatuously. "Oh, yes; the farms are already there. Nature made them, you know; she merely forgot to arrange for their watering." He was going on to tell about the exhaustive experiments the Department of Agriculture experts had been making upon the Buckskin soils when the gentleman whose name had once figured upon countless thousands of lard packages cut in. "Do you know what I'm thinking about, Mr. Brouillard? I'm saying it over soft and slow to myself that no young man in this world ever had such a magnificent fighting chance as you have right here," he averred, the sandy-gray eyes growing suddenly alert and shrewd. "If you don't come out of this with money enough to buy in all those bonds your father was placing that time in Chicago--but of course you will." "I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you mean, Mr. Cortwright," said Brouillard, with some inner monitor warning him that it would be better not to understand. The portly gentleman became suddenly facetious. "Hear him, Gene," he chuckled, sharing the joke with his daughter; "he says he doesn't understand!" Then to Brouillard: "Say, young man; you don't mean to tell me that your father's son needs a guardian, do you? You know exactly where these canals are going to run and all the choice spots they are going to irrigate; what's to prevent your getting in ahead of the rush and taking up a dozen or so of those prime quarter-sections--homesteads, town sites, and the like? Lack of money? Why, bless your soul, there are plenty of us who would fall all over ourselves running to back a proposition like that--any God's quantity of us who would fairly throw the working capital at you! For that matter, I don't know but I'd undertake to finance you alone." Brouillard's first impulse sprang full-grown out of honest anger. That any man who had known his father should make such a proposal to that father's son was a bald insult to the father's memory. But the calmer second thought turned wrath into amused tolerance. The costly touring-car, the idle, time-killing jaunt in the desert, the dynamiting of the river for the sake of taking a few fish--all these were the indices of a point of view limited strictly by a successful market for hog products. Why should he go out of his way to quarrel with it on high moral grounds? "You forget that I am first of all the government's hired man, Mr. Cortwright," he demurred. "My job of dam building will be fully big enough and strenuous enough to keep me busy. Aside from that, I fancy the department heads would take it rather hard if we fellows in the field went plum picking." "Let them!" retorted the potential backer of profitable side issues. "What's the odds if you go to it and bring back the money? I tell you, Mr. Brouillard, money--bunched money--is what talks. A good, healthy bank balance makes so much noise that you can't hear the knockers. If the Washington crowd had your chance--but never mind, that's your business and none of mine, and you'll take it as it's meant, as a good-natured hint to your father's son. How far is it up to where you are going to build your dam?" Brouillard gave the distance, and Mr. Cortwright measured the visible trail grades with a deprecatory eye. "Do you think my daughter could walk it?" he asked. Miss Genevieve answered for herself: "Of course I can walk it; can't I, Mr. Brouillard?" "I'll be glad to show you the way if you care to try," Brouillard offered; and the tentative invitation was promptly accepted. The transfer of view-points from the lower end of the canyon to the upper was effected without incident, save at its beginning, when the father would have called down to the young man who had waded ashore and was drying himself before the camp-fire. "Van Bruce won't care to go," the daughter hastened to say; and Brouillard, whose gift it was to be able to pick out and identify the human derelict at long range, understood perfectly well the reason for the young woman's hasty interruption. One result of the successfully marketed lard packages was very plainly evident in the dissipated face and hangdog attitude of the marketer's son. Conversation flagged, even to the discouragement of a voluble money king, on the climb from the Buckskin level to that of the reservoir valley. The trail was narrow, and Brouillard unconsciously set a pace which was almost inhospitable for a stockily built man whose tendency was toward increasing waist measures. But when they reached the pine-tree of the anchored blue-prints at the upper portal, Mr. Cortwright recovered his breath sufficiently to gasp his appreciation of the prospect and its possibilities. "Why, good goodness, Mr. Brouillard, it's practically all done for you!" he wheezed, taking in the level, mountain-enclosed valley with an appraisive eye-sweep. "Van Bruce and the chauffeur came up here last night, with one of the car lamps for a lantern, but of course they couldn't bring back any idea of the place. What will you do?--build your dam right here and take out your canal through the canyon? Is that the plan?" Brouillard nodded and went a little further into details, showing how the inward-arching barrier would be anchored into the two opposing mountain buttresses. "And the structure itself--how high is it to be?" "Two hundred feet above the spillway apron foot." The lard millionaire twisted his short, fat neck and guessed the distance up the precipitous slopes of Chigringo and Jack's Mountain. "That will be a whale of a chunk of masonry," he said. Then, with business-like directness: "What will you build it of?--concrete?" "Yes; concrete and steel." "Then you are going to need Portland cement--a whole world of it. Where will you get it? And how will you get it here?" Brouillard smiled inwardly at the pork packer's suddenly awakened interest in the technical ways and means. His four years in the desert had taken him out of touch with a money-making world, and this momentary contact with one of its successful devotees was illuminating. He had a growing conviction that the sordid atmosphere which appeared to be as the breath of life to Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright would presently begin to make things taste coppery, but the inextinguishable charm of the veiled princess was a compensation. It was partly for the sake of seeing her with the veil abolished that he recovered the paper-weighting field-glass and gave it to her, showing her how to focus it upon the upper reaches of the valley. "We are in luck on the cement proposition," he told the eager money-maker. "We shall probably manufacture our own supply right here on the ground. There is plenty of limestone and an excellent shale in those hills just beyond our camp; and for burning fuel there is a fairly good vein of bituminous coal underlying that farther range at the head of the valley." "H'm," said the millionaire; "a cement plant, eh? There's money in that anywhere on the face of the globe, just now. And over here, where there is no transportation--Gad! if you only had somebody to sell cement to, you could ask your own price. The materials have all been tested, I suppose?" "Oh, yes; we've had experts in here for more than a year. The material is all right." "And your labor?" "On the dam, you mean? One advantage of concrete work is that it does not require any great proportion of skilled labor, the crushing, mixing, and placing all being done by machinery. We shall work all the Indians we can get from the Navajo Reservation, forty-odd miles south of here; for the remainder we shall import men from the States, bringing them in over the Timanyoni High Line--the trail from Quesado on the Red Butte Western. At least, that is what we shall do for the present. Later on, the railroad will probably build an extension up the Barking Dog and over War Arrow Pass." Mr. Cortwright's calculating eye roved once more over the attractive prospect. "Fuel for your power plant?--wood I take it?" he surmised; and then: "Oh, I forgot; you say you have coal." "Yes; there is coal, of a sort; good enough for the cement kilns. But we sha'n't burn it for power. Neither shall we burn the timber, which can be put to much better use in building and in false- and form-work. There are no finer lumber forests this side of the Sierras. For power we shall utilize the river. There is another small canyon at the head of the valley where a temporary dam can be built which will deliver power enough to run anything--an entire manufacturing city, if we had one." Mr. Cortwright made a clucking noise with his tongue and blew his cheeks out like a swimmer gasping for breath. "Julius Cæsar!" he exploded. "You stand there and tell me calmly that the government has all these resources coopered up here in a barrel?--that nobody is going to get a chance to make any money out of them? It's a crime, Mr. Brouillard; that's just what it is--a crime!" "No; I didn't say that. The resources just happen to be here and we shall turn them to good account. But if there were any feasible transportation facilities I doubt if we should make use of these native raw materials. It is the policy of the department to go into the market like any other buyer where it can. But here there are no sellers, or, rather, no way in which the sellers can reach us." "No sellers and no chance for a man to get the thin edge of a wedge in anywhere," lamented the money-maker despairingly. Then his eye lighted upon the graybeard dump of a solitary mine high up on the face of Mount Chigringo. "What's that up there?" he demanded. "It is a mine," said Brouillard, showing Miss Cortwright how to adjust the field-glass for the shorter distance. "Two men named Massingale, father and son, are working it, I'm told." And then again to Miss Genevieve: "That is their cabin--on the trail a little to the right of the tunnel opening." "I see it quite plainly," she returned. "Two people are just leaving it to ride down the path--a man and a woman, I think, though the woman--if it is a woman--is riding on a man's saddle." Brouillard's eyebrows went up in a little arch of surprise. Harding, the topographical engineer who had made all the preliminary surveys and had spent the better part of the former summer in the Niquoia, had reported on the Massingales, father and son, and his report had conveyed a hint of possible antagonism on the part of the mine owners to the government project. But there had been no mention of a woman. "The Massingale mine, eh?" broke in the appraiser of values crisply. "They showed us some ore specimens from that property while we were stopping over in Red Butte. It's rich--good and plenty rich--if they have the quantity. And somebody told me they had the quantity, too; only it was too far from the railroad--couldn't jack-freight it profitably over the Timanyonis." "In which case it is one of many," Brouillard said, taking refuge in the generalities. But Mr. Cortwright was not to be so easily diverted from the pointed particulars--the particulars having to do with the pursuit of the market trail. "I'm beginning to get my feet on bottom, Brouillard," he said, dropping the courtesy prefix and shoving his fat hands deep into the pockets of the dust-coat. "There's a business proposition here, and it looks mighty good to me. That was a mere nursery notion I gave you a while back--about picking up homesteads and town sites in the Buckskin. The big thing is right here. I tell you, I can smell money in this valley of yours--scads of it." Brouillard laughed. "It is only the fragrance of future Reclamation-Service appropriations," he suggested. "There will be a good bit of money spent here before the Buckskin Desert gets its maiden wetting." "I don't mean that at all," was the impatient rejoinder. "Let me show you: you are going to have a population of some sort, if it's only the population that your big job will bring here. That's the basis. Then you're going to need material by the train load, not the raw stuff, which you say is right here on the ground, but the manufactured article--cement, lumber, and steel. You can ship this material in over the range at prices that will be pretty nearly prohibitory, or, as you suggest, it can be manufactured right here on the spot." "The cement and the lumber can be produced here, but not the steel," Brouillard corrected. "That's where you're off," snapped the millionaire. "There are fine ore beds in the Hophras and a pretty good quality of coking coal. Ten or twelve miles of a narrow-gauge railroad would dump the pig metal into the upper end of your valley, and there you are. With a small reduction plant you could tell the big steel people to go hang." Brouillard admitted the postulate without prejudice to a keen and growing wonder. How did it happen that this Chicago money king had taken the trouble to inform himself so accurately in regard to the natural resources of the Niquoia region? Had he not expressly declared that the object of the desert automobile trip was mere tourist curiosity? Given a little time, the engineer would have cornered the inquiry, making it yield some sort of a reasonable answer; but Mr. Cortwright was galloping on again. "There you are, then, with the three prime requisites in raw material: cement stock, timber, and pig metal. Fuel you've got, you say, and if it isn't good enough, your dummy railroad can supply you from the Hophra mines. Best of all, you've got power to burn--and that's the key to any manufacturing proposition. Well and good. Now, you know, and I know, that the government doesn't care to go into the manufacturing business when it can help it. Isn't that so?" "Unquestionably. But this is a case of can't-help-it," Brouillard argued. "You couldn't begin to interest private capital in any of these industries you speak of." "Why not?" was the curt demand. "Because of their impermanence--their dependence upon a market which will quit definitely when the dam is completed. What you are suggesting predicates a good, busy little city in this valley, behind the dam--since there is no other feasible place for it--and it would be strictly a city of numbered days. When the dam is completed and the spillway gates are closed, the Niqoyastcàdje and everything in it will go down under two hundred feet of water." "The--what?" queried Miss Cortwright, lowering the glass with which she had been following the progress of the two riders down the Buckskin trail from the high-pitched mine on Chigringo. "The Niqoyastcàdje--'Place-where-they-came-up,'" said Brouillard, elucidating for her. "That is the Navajo name for this valley. The Indians have a legend that this is the spot where their tribal ancestors came up from the underworld. Our map makers shortened it to 'Niquoia' and the cow-men of the Buckskin foot-hills have cut that to 'Nick-wire.'" This bit of explanatory place lore was entirely lost upon Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright. He was chewing the ends of his short mustaches and scowling thoughtfully out upon the possible site of the future industrial city of the plain. "Say, Brouillard," he cut in, "you get me the right to build that power dam, and give me the contracts for what material you'd rather buy than make, and I'll be switched if I don't take a shot at this drowning proposition myself. I tell you, it looks pretty good to me. What do you say?" "I'll say what I said a few minutes ago," laughed the young chief of construction--"that I'm only a hired man. You'll have to go a good few rounds higher up on the authority ladder to close a deal like that. I'm not sure it wouldn't require an act of Congress." "Well, by George, we might get even that if we have to," was the optimistic assertion. "You think about it." "I guess it isn't my think," said Brouillard, still inclined to take the retired pork packer's suggestion as the mere ravings of a money-mad promoter. "As the government engineer in charge of this work, I couldn't afford to be identified even as a friendly intermediary in any such scheme as the one you are proposing." "Of course, I suppose not," agreed the would-be promoter, sucking his under lip in a way ominously familiar to his antagonists in the wheat pit. Then he glanced at his watch and changed the subject abruptly. "We'll have to be straggling back to the chug-wagon. Much obliged to you, Mr. Brouillard. Will you come down and see us off?" Brouillard said "yes," for Miss Cortwright's sake, and took the field-glass she was returning to put it back upon the sheaf of blue-prints. She saw what he did with it and made instant acknowledgments. "It was good of you to neglect your work for us," she said, smiling level-eyed at him when he straightened up. He was frank enough to tell the truth--or part of it. "It was the dynamite that called me off. Doesn't your brother know that it is illegal to shoot a trout stream?" She waited until her father was out of ear-shot on the gorge trail before she answered: "He ought to know that it is caddish and unsportsmanlike. I didn't know what he and Rickert were doing or I should have stopped them." "In that event we shouldn't have met, and you would have missed your chance of seeing the Niqoyastcàdje and the site of the city that isn't to be--the city of numbered days," he jested, adding, less lightly: "You wouldn't have missed very much." "No?" she countered with a bright return of the alluring smile which he had first seen through the filmy gauze of the automobile veil. "Do you want me to say that I should have missed a great deal? You may consider it said if you wish." He made no reply to the bit of persiflage, and a little later felt the inward warmth of an upflash of resentment directed not at his companion but at himself for having been momentarily tempted to take the persiflage seriously. The temptation was another of the consequences of the four years of isolation which had cut him off from the world of women no less completely than from the world of money-getting. But it was rather humiliating, none the less. "What have I done to make you forget how to talk?" she wished to know, five minutes further on, when his silence was promising to outlast the canyon passage. "You? Nothing at all," he hastened to say. Then he took the first step in the fatal road of attempting to account for himself. "But I have forgotten, just the same. It has been years since I have had a chance to talk to a woman. Do you wonder that I have lost the knack?" "How dreadful!" she laughed. And afterward, with a return to the half-serious mood which had threatened to reopen the door so lately slammed in the face of temptation: "Perhaps we shall come back to Niqo--Niqoy--I simply _can't_ say it without sneezing--and then you might relearn some of the things you have forgotten. Wouldn't that be delightful?" This time he chose to ignore utterly the voice of the inward monitor, which was assuring him coldly that young women of Miss Cortwright's world plane were constrained by the accepted rules of their kind to play the game in season and out of season, and his half-laughing reply was at once a defiance and a counter-challenge. "I dare you to come!" he said brazenly. "Haven't you heard how the men of the desert camps kill each other for the chance to pick up a lady's handkerchief?" They were at the final descent in the trail, with the Buckskin blanknesses showing hotly beyond the curtaining of pines, and there was space only for a flash of the beautiful eyes and a beckoning word. "In that case, I hope you know how to shoot straight, Mr. Brouillard," she said quizzically; and then they passed at a step from romance to the crude realities. The realities were basing themselves upon the advent of two new-comers, riding down the Chigringo trail to the ford which had been the scene of the fish slaughtering; a sunburnt young man in goatskin "shaps," flannel shirt and a flapping Stetson, and a girl whose face reminded Brouillard of one of the Madonnas, whose name and painter he strove vainly to recall. Ten seconds farther along the horses of the pair were sniffing suspiciously at the automobile, and the young man under the flapping hat was telling Van Bruce Cortwright what he thought of cartridge fishermen in general, and of this present cartridge fisherman in particular. "Which the same, being translated into Buckskin English, hollers like this," he concluded. "Don't you tote any more fish ca'tridges into this here rese'vation; not no more, whatsoever. Who says so? Well, if anybody should ask, you might say it was Tig Smith, foreman o' the Tri'-Circ' outfit. No, I ain't no game warden, but what I say goes as she lays. _Savez?_" The chauffeur was adjusting something under the upturned bonnet of the touring-car and thus hiding his grin. Mr. Cortwright, who had maintained his lead on the descent to the desert level, was trying to come between his sullen-faced son and the irate cattleman, money in hand. Brouillard walked his companion down to the car and helped her to a seat in the tonneau. She repaid him with a nod and a smile, and when he saw that the crudities were not troubling her he stepped aside and unconsciously fell to comparing the two--the girl on horseback and his walking mate of the canyon passage. They had little enough in common, apart from their descent from Eve, he decided--and the decision itself was subconscious. The millionaire's daughter was a warm blonde, beautiful, queenly, a finished product of civilization and high-priced culture; a woman of the world, standing but a single remove from the generation of quick money-getting and yet able to make the money take its proper place as a means to an end. And the girl on horseback? Brouillard had to look twice before he could attempt to classify her, and even then she baffled him. A rather slight figure, suggestive of the flexible strength of a silken cord; a face winsome rather than beautiful; coils and masses of copper-brown hair escaping under the jaunty cow-boy hat; eyes ... it was her eyes that made Brouillard look the third time: they were blue, with a hint of violet in them; he made sure of this when she turned her head and met his gaze fearlessly and with a certain calm serenity that made him feel suddenly uncomfortable and half embarrassed. Nevertheless, he would not look aside; and he caught himself wondering if her cow-boy lover--he had already jumped to the sentimental conclusion--had ever been able to look into those steadfast eyes and trifle with the truth. So far the young chief of construction had travelled on the road reflective while the fish-slaughtering matter was getting itself threshed out at the river's edge. When it was finally settled--not by the tender of money that Mr. Cortwright had made--the man Smith and his pretty riding mate galloped through the ford and disappeared among the barren hills, and the chauffeur was at liberty to start the motor. "_Au revoir_, Mr. Brouillard," said the princess, as the big car righted itself for the southward flight into the desert. Then, when the wheels began to churn in the loose sand of the halting place, she leaned out to give him a woman's leave-taking. "If I were you I shouldn't fall in love with the calm-eyed goddess who rides like a man. Mr. Tri'-Circ' Smith might object, you know; and you haven't yet told me whether or not you can shoot straight." There was something almost heart-warming in the bit of parting badinage; something to make the young engineer feel figuratively for the knife with which he had resolutely cut around himself to the dividing of all hindrances, sentimental or other, on a certain wretched day years before when he had shouldered his life back-load. [Illustration: Brouillard had to look twice before he could attempt to classify her, and even then she baffled him.] But the warmth might have given place to a disconcerting chill if he could have heard Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright's remark to his seat companion, made when the canyon portal of the Niquoia and the man climbing the path beside it were hazy mirage distortions in the backward distances. "He isn't going to be the dead easy mark I hoped to find in the son of the old bankrupt hair-splitter, Genie, girl. But he'll come down and hook himself all right if the bait is well covered with his particular brand of sugar. Don't you forget it." III Sands of Pactolus If Victor Brouillard had been disposed to speculate curiously upon the possibilities suggested by Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright on the occasion of the capitalist's brief visit to the Niquoia, or had been tempted to dwell sentimentally upon the idyllic crossing of orbits--Miss Genevieve's and his own--on the desert's rim, there was little leisure for either indulgence during the strenuous early summer weeks which followed the Cortwright invasion. Popular belief to the contrary notwithstanding, it is not precisely true that all government undertakings are dilatory industrial imitations, designed, primarily, to promote the even-handed cutting of some appropriation pie, and, secondarily, to provide easy sinecures for placemen and political heelers. Holding no brief for the government, one may still say without fear of contradiction that _laissez-faire_ has seldom been justly charged against the Reclamation Service. Fairly confronting his problem, Brouillard did not find himself hampered by departmental inertia. While he was rapidly organizing his force for the constructive attack, the equipment and preliminary material for the building of the great dam were piling up by the train load on the side-tracks at Quesado; and at once the man- and beast-killing task of rushing the excavating outfit of machinery, teams, scrapers, rock-drilling installations, steam-shovels, and the like, over the War Arrow trail was begun. During the weeks which followed, the same trail, and a little later that from the Navajo Reservation on the south, were strung with ant-like processions of laborers pouring into the shut-in valley at the foot of Mount Chigringo. Almost as if by magic a populous camp of tents, shelter shacks, and Indian tepees sprang up in the level bed-bottom of the future lake; camp-fires gave place to mess kitchens; the commissary became a busy department store stocked with everything that thrifty or thriftless labor might wish to purchase; and daily the great foundation scorings in the buttressing shoulders of Jack's Mountain and Chigringo grew deeper and wider under the churning of the air-drills, the crashings of the dynamite, and the rattle and chug of the steam-shovels. Magically, too, the life of the isolated working camp sprang into being. From the beginning its speech was a curious polyglot; the hissings and bubblings of the melting-pot out of which a new citizenry is poured. Poles and Slovaks, men from the slopes of the Carpathians, the terraces of the Apennines, and the passes of the Balkans; Scandinavians from the pineries of the north, and a colony of railroad-grading Greeks, fresh from the building of a great transcontinental line; all these and more were spilled into the melting-pot, and a new Babel resulted. Only the Indians held aloof. Careful from the first for these wards of the nation, Brouillard had made laws of Draconian severity. The Navajos were isolated upon a small reservation of their own on the Jack's Mountain side of the Niquoia, a full half mile from the many-tongued camp in the open valley; and for the man caught "boot-legging" among the Indians there were penalties swift and merciless. It was after the huge task of foundation digging was well under way and the work of constructing the small power dam in the upper canyon had been begun that the young chief of construction, busy with a thousand details, had his first forcible reminder of the continued existence of Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright. It came in the form of a communication from Washington, forwarded by special post-rider service from Quesado, and it called a halt upon the up-river power project. In accordance with its settled policy, the Reclamation Service would refrain, in the Niquoia as elsewhere, from entering into competition with private citizens; would do nothing to discourage the investment of private capital. A company had been formed to take over the power production and to establish a plant for the manufacture of cement, and Brouillard was instructed to govern himself accordingly. For his information, the department letter-writer went on to say, it was to be understood that the company was duly organized under the provisions of an act of Congress; that it had bound itself to furnish power and material at prices satisfactory to the Service; and that the relations between it and the government field-staff on the ground were to be entirely friendly. "It's a graft--a pull-down with a profit in it for some bunch of money leeches a little higher up!" was the young chief's angry comment when he had given Grislow the letter to read. "Without knowing any more of the details than that letter gives, I'd be willing to bet a month's pay that this is the fine Italian hand of Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright!" Grislow's eyebrows went up in doubtful interrogation. "Ought I to know the gentleman?" he queried mildly. "I don't seem to recall the name." Brouillard got up from his desk to go and stand at one of the little square windows of the log-built office quarters. For some reason which he had not taken the trouble to define, even to himself, he had carefully refrained from telling the hydrographer anything about the early morning meeting with the automobilists at the edge of the desert basin; of that and of the subsequent visit of two of them to the site of the dam. "No; you don't know him," he said, turning back to the worker at the mapping table. "It was his motor party that was camping at the Buckskin ford the night we broke in here--the night when we saw the search-light." "And you met him? I thought you told me you merely went down and took a look--didn't butt in?" "I didn't--that night. But the next morning----" The hydrographer's smile was a jocose grimace. "I recollect now; you said that one of the motorists was a young woman." Brouillard resented the implication irritably. "Don't be an ass, Murray," he snapped; and then he went on, with the frown of impatience still wrinkling between his eyes. "The young woman was the daughter. There was a cub of a son, and he fired a stick of dynamite in the river to kill a mess of trout. I heard the explosion and thought it might be the gasolene tank of the car." "Naturally," said Grislow guilelessly. "And, quite as naturally, you went down to see. I'm not sure that I shouldn't have done it myself." "Of course you would," was the touchy retort. "When I got there and found out what had happened, I meant to make a second drop-out; but Cortwright and his daughter were coming up the trail, and he hailed me. After that I couldn't do less than the decent thing. They wanted to see the valley, and I showed them the way in. Cortwright is the multimillionaire pork packer of Chicago, and he went up into the air like a lunatic over the money-making chances there were going to be in this job. I didn't pay much attention to his chortlings at the time. It didn't seem remotely credible that anybody with real money to invest would plant it in the bottom of the Niquoia reservoir." "But now you think he is going to make his bluff good?" "That looks very much like it," said Brouillard sourly, pointing to the letter from Washington. "That scheme is going to change the whole face of Nature for us up here, Grislow. It will spell trouble right from the jump." "Oh, I don't know," was the deprecatory rejoinder. "It will relieve us of a lot of side-issue industries--cut 'em out and bury 'em, so far as we are concerned." "That part of it is all right, of course; but it won't end there; not by a hundred miles. We've started in here to be a law to ourselves--as we've got to be to handle this mixed multitude of brigands and ditch diggers. But when this new company gets on the ground it will be different. There will be pull-hauling and scrapping and liquor selling, and we can't go in and straighten things out with a club as we do now. Jobson says in that letter that the relations have got to be friendly! I'll bet anything you like that I'll have to go and read the riot act to those people before they've been twenty-four hours on their job!" Grislow was trying the point of his mapping-pen on his thumb nail. "Curious that this particular fly should drop into your pot of ointment on your birthday, wasn't it?" he remarked. "O suffering Jehu!" gritted Brouillard ragefully. "Are you never going to forget that senseless bit of twaddle?" "You're not giving me a chance to forget it," said the map-maker soberly. "You told me that night that the seven-year characteristic was change; and you're a changed man, Victor, if ever there was one. Moreover, it began that very night--or the next morning." "Oh, damn!" "Certainly, if you wish it. But that is only another proof of what I am saying. It's getting on your nerves now. Do you know what the men have named you? They call you 'Hell's-Fire.' That has come to be your word when you light into them for something they've done or haven't done. No longer ago than this morning you were swearing at Griffith, as if you'd forgotten that the boy is only a year out of college and can't be supposed to know as much as Leshington or Anson. Where is your sense of humor?" Brouillard laughed, if only to prove that his sense of humor was still unimpaired. "They are a fearful lot of dubs, Grizzy," he said, meaning the laborers; "the worst we've ever drawn, and that is saying a good deal. Three drunken brawls last night, and a man killed in Haley's Place. And I can't keep liquor out of the camp to save my soul--not if I should sit up nights to invent new regulations. The Navajos are the best of the bunch and we've managed to keep the fire from spreading over on their side of the Niquoia, thus far. But if the whiskey ever gets hold in the tepees, we'll have orders to shoot Chief Nicagee's people back to their reservation in a holy minute." Grislow nodded. "Niqoyastcàdje--'Place-where-they-came-up.' It will be 'Place-where-they-go-down' if the tin-horns and boot-leggers get an inning." "We'll all go to the devil on a toboggan-slide and there is the order for it," declared the chief morosely, again indicating the letter from Washington. "That means more human scum--a new town--an element that we can neither chase out nor control. Cortwright and his associates, whoever they are, won't care a rotten hang. They'll be here to sweat money out of the job; to sweat it in any and every way that offers, and to do it quick. All of which is bad enough, you'd say, Murray; but it isn't the worst of it. I've just run up against another thing that is threatening to raise merry hell in this valley." "I know," said the hydrographer slowly. "You've been having a _séance_ with Steve Massingale. Leshington told me about it." "What did he tell you?" Brouillard demanded half-angrily. "Oh, nothing much; nothing to make you hot at him. He happened to be in the other room when Massingale was here, and the door was open. He said he gathered the notion that the young sorehead was trying to bully you." "He was," was the brittle admission. "See here, Grizzy." The thing to be seen was a small buckskin bag which, when opened, gave up a paper packet folded like a medicine powder. The paper contained a spoonful of dust and pellets of metal of a dull yellow lustre. The hydrographer drew a long breath and fingered the nuggets. "Gold--placer gold!" he exclaimed, and Brouillard nodded and went on to tell how he had come by the bag and its contents. "Massingale had an axe to grind, of course. You may remember that Harding talked loosely about the Massingale opposition to the building of the dam. There was nothing in it. The opposition was purely personal and it was directed against Harding himself, with Amy Massingale for the exciting cause." "That girl?--the elemental brute!" Grislow broke in warmly. He knew the miner's daughter fairly well by this time and, in common with every other man on the staff, not excepting the staff's chief, would have fought for her in any cause. Brouillard nodded. "I don't know what Harding did, but Smith, the Triangle-Circle foreman, tells me that Steve was on the war-path; he told Harding when he left, last summer, that if he ever came back to the Niquoia, he'd come to stay--and stay dead." "I never did like Harding's sex attitude any too well," was the hydrographer's definitive comment; and Brouillard went back to the matter of the morning's _séance_ and its golden outcome. "That is only a little side issue. Steve Massingale came to me this morning with a proposal that was about as cold-blooded as a slap in the face. Naturally, for good business reasons of their own, the Massingales want to see the railroad built over War Arrow Pass and into the Niquoia. In some way Steve has found out that I stand in pretty well with President Ford and the Pacific Southwestern people. His first break was to offer to incorporate the 'Little Susan' and to give me a block of the stock if I'd pull Ford's leg on the Extension proposition." "Well?" queried Grislow. "The railroad over War Arrow Pass would be the biggest thing that ever happened for our job here. If it did nothing else, it would make us independent of these boomers that are coming in to sell us material at their own prices." "Exactly. But my hands are tied; and, besides, Massingale's offer was a rank bribe. You can imagine what I told him--that I could neither accept stock in his mine nor say anything to influence the railroad people; that my position as chief engineer for the government cut me out both ways. Then he began to bully and pulled the club on me." Again Grislow's smile was jocose. "You haven't been tumbling into the ditch with Leshington and Griffith and the rest of us and making love to the little sister, have you?" he jested. "Don't be a fool if you can help it," was the curt rejoinder. "And don't give yourself leave to say things like that about Amy Massingale. She is too good and sweet and clean-hearted to be dragged into this mix-up, even by implication. Do you get that, Murray?" "Oh, yes; it's only another way of saying that I'm one of the fools. Go on with the Stephen end of it." "Well, when I turned him down, young Massingale began to bluster and to say that I'd have to boost the railroad deal, whether I wanted to or not. I told him he couldn't prove it, and he said he would show me, if I'd take half an hour's walk up the valley with him. I humored him, more to get quit of him than for any other reason, and on the way past the camp he borrowed a frying-pan at one of the cook shacks. You know that long, narrow sand-bar in the river just below the mouth of the upper canyon?" Grislow nodded. "That is where we went for the proof. Massingale dipped up a panful of the bar sand, which he asked me to wash out for myself. I did it, and you have the results there in that paper. That bar is comparatively rich placer dirt." "Good Lord!" ejaculated the map-maker. "Comparatively rich, you say?--and you washed this spoonful out of a single pan?" "Keep your head," said Brouillard coolly. "Massingale explained that I had happened to make a ten-strike; that the bar wasn't any such bonanza as that first result would indicate. I proved that, too, by washing some more of it without getting any more than a few 'colors.' But the fact remains: it's placer ground." It was at this point that the larger aspect of the fact launched itself upon the hydrographer. "A gold strike!" he gasped. "And we--we're planning to drown it under two hundred feet of a lake!" Brouillard's laugh was harsh. "Don't let the fever get hold of you, Grislow. Don't forget that we are here to carry out the plans of the Reclamation Service--which are more far-reaching and of a good bit greater consequence than a dozen placer-mines. Not that it didn't make me grab for hand-holds for a minute or two, mind you. I wasn't quite as cold about it as I'm asking you to be, and I guess Massingale had calculated pretty carefully on the dramatic effect of his little shock. Anyway, he drove the peg down good and hard. If I would jump in and pull every possible string to hurry the railroad over the range, and keep on pulling them, the secret of the placer bar would remain a secret. Otherwise he, Stephen Massingale, would give it away, publish it, advertise it to the world. You know what that would mean for us, Murray." "My Lord! I should say so! We'd have Boomtown-on-the-pike right now, with all the variations! Every white man in the camp would chuck his job in the hollow half of a minute and go to gravel washing!" "That's it precisely," Brouillard acquiesced gloomily. "Massingale is a young tough, but he is shrewd enough, when he is sober. He had me dead to rights, and he knew it. 'You don't want any gold camp starting up here in the bottom of your reservoir,' he said; and I had to admit it." Grislow had found a magnifying-glass in the drawer of the mapping table, and he was holding it in focus over the small collection of grain gold and nuggets. In the midst of the eager examination he looked up suddenly to say: "Hold on a minute. Why is Steve proposing to give this thing away? Why isn't he working the bar himself?" "He explained that phase of it, after a fashion--said that placer-mining was always more or less of a gamble and that they had a sure thing of it in the 'Little Susan.' Of course, if the thing had to be given away, he and his father would avail themselves of their rights as discoverers and take their chance with the crowd for the sake of the ready money they might get out of it. Otherwise they'd be content to let it alone and stick to their legitimate business, which is quartz-mining." "And to do that successfully they've got to have the railroad. Say, Victor, I'm beginning to acquire a great and growing respect for Mr. Stephen Massingale. This field is too small for him; altogether too small. He ought to get a job with some of the malefactors of great wealth. How did you settle it finally?" "Massingale was too shrewd to try to push me over the edge while there seemed to be a fairly good chance that I would walk over of my own accord. He told me to take a week or two and think about it. We dropped the matter by common consent after we left the bar in the Quadjenàï bend, and on the way down the valley Massingale pitched in a bit of information out of what seemed to be sheer good-will. It seems that he and his father have done a lot of test drilling up and down the side of Chigringo at one time and another, and he told me that there is a bed of micaceous shale under our south anchorage, cautioning me not to let the excavation stop until we had gone through it." "Well! That was pretty decent of him." "Yes; and it shows that Harding was lying when he said that the Massingales were opposing the reclamation project. They are frankly in favor of it. Irrigation in the Buckskin means population; and population will bring the railroad, sooner or later. In the matter of hurrying the track-laying, Massingale is only adopting modern business methods. He has a club and he is using it." Grislow was biting the end of his penholder thoughtfully. "What are you going to do about it, Victor?" he asked at length. "We can't stand for any more chaos than the gods have already doped out for us, can we?" Brouillard took another long minute at the office window before he said: "What would you do if you were in my place, Murray?" But at this the map-maker put up his hands as if to ward off a blow. "No, you don't!" he laughed. "I can at least refuse to be that kind of a fool. Go and hunt you a professional conscience keeper; I went out of that business for keeps in my sophomore year. But I'll venture a small prophecy: We'll have the railroad--and you'll pull for it. And then, whether Massingale tells or doesn't tell, the golden secret will leak out. And after that, the deluge." IV A Fire of Little Sticks Two days after the arrival of the letter from Washington announcing the approaching invasion of private capital, Brouillard, returning from a horseback trip into the Buckskin, where Anson and Griffith were setting grade stakes for the canal diggers, found a visitor awaiting him in the camp headquarters office. One glance at the thick-bodied, heavy-faced man chewing an extinct cigar while he made himself comfortable in the only approach to a lounging chair that the office afforded was sufficient to awaken an alert antagonism. Quick to found friendships or enmities upon the intuitive first impression, Brouillard's acknowledgment was curt and business-brusque when the big man introduced himself without taking the trouble to get out of his chair. "My name is Hosford and I represent the Niquoia Improvement Company as its manager and resident engineer," said the lounger, shifting the dead cigar from one corner of his hard-bitted mouth to the other. "You're Brillard, the government man, I take it?" "Brouillard, if you please," was the crisp correction. And then with a careful effacement of the final saving trace of hospitality in tone or manner: "What can we do for you, Mr. Hosford?" "A good many things, first and last. I'm two or three days ahead of my outfit, and you can put me up somewhere until I get a camp of my own. You've got some sort of an engineers' mess, I take it?" "We have," said Brouillard briefly. With Anson and Griffith absent on the field-work, there were two vacancies in the staff mess. Moreover, the law of the desert prescribes that not even an enemy shall be refused bread and bed. "You'll make yourself at home with us, of course," he added, and he tried to say it without making it sound too much like a challenge. "All right; so much for that part of it," said the self-invited guest. "Now for the business end of the deal--why don't you sit down?" Brouillard planted himself behind his desk and began to fill his blackened office pipe, coldly refusing Hosford's tender of a cigar. "You were speaking of the business matter," he suggested bluntly. "Yes. I'd like to go over your plans for the power dam in the upper canyon. If they look good to me I'll adopt them." Brouillard paused to light his pipe before he replied. "Perhaps we'd better clear away the underbrush before we begin on the standing timber, Mr. Hosford," he said, when the tobacco was glowing militantly in the pipe bowl. "Have you been given to understand that this office is in any sense a tail to your Improvement Company's kite?" "I haven't been 'given to understand' anything," was the gruff rejoinder. "Our company has acquired certain rights in this valley, and I'm taking it for granted that you've had the situation doped out to you. It won't be worth your while to quarrel with us, Mr. Brouillard." "I am very far from wishing to quarrel with anybody," said Brouillard, but his tone belied the words. "At the same time, if you think that we are going to do your engineering work, or any part of it, for you, you are pretty severely mistaken. Our own job is fully big enough to keep us busy." "You're off," said the big man coolly. "Somebody has bungled in giving you the dope. You want to keep your job, don't you?" "That is neither here nor there. What we are discussing at present is the department's attitude toward your enterprise. I shall be exceeding my instructions if I make that attitude friendly to the detriment of my own work." The new resident manager sat back in his chair and chewed his cigar reflectively, staring up at the log beaming of the office ceiling. When he began again he did not seem to think it worth while to shift his gaze from the abstractions. "You're just like all the other government men I've ever had to do business with, Brouillard; pig-headed, obstinate, blind as bats to their own interests. I didn't especially want to begin by knocking you into line, but I guess it'll have to be done. In the first place, let me tell you that there are all kinds of big money behind this little sky-rocket of ours here in the Niquoia: ten millions, twenty millions, thirty millions, if they're needed." Brouillard shook his head. "I can't count beyond a hundred, Mr. Hosford." "All right; then I'll get you on the other side. Suppose I should tell you that practically all of your bosses are in with us; what then?" "Your stockholders' listings concern me even less than your capitalization. We are miles apart yet." Again the representative of Niquoia Improvement took time to shift the extinct cigar. "I guess the best way to get you is to send a little wire to Washington," he said reflectively. "How does that strike you?" "I haven't the slightest interest in what you may do or fail to do," said Brouillard. "At the same time, as I have already said, I don't wish to quarrel with you or with your company." "Ah! that touched you, didn't it?" "Not in the sense you are imagining; no. Send your wire if you like. You may have the use of the government telegraph. The office is in the second shack north of this." "Still you say you don't want to scrap?" "Certainly not. As you have intimated, we shall have to do business together as buyer and seller. I merely wished to make it plain that the Reclamation Service doesn't put its engineering department at the disposal of the Niquoia Improvement Company." "But you have made the plans for this power plant, haven't you?" "Yes; and they are the property of the department. If you want them, I'll turn them over to you upon a proper order from headquarters." "That's a little more like it. Where did you say I'd find your wire office?" Brouillard gave the information a second time, and as Hosford went out, Grislow came in and took his place at the mapping table. "Glad you got back in time to save my life," he remarked pointedly, with a sly glance at his chief. "He's been ploughing furrows up and down my little potato patch all day." "Humph! Digging for information, I suppose?" grunted Brouillard. "Just that; and he's been getting it, too. Not out of me, particularly, but out of everybody. Also, he was willing to impart a little. We're in for the time of our lives, Victor." "I know it," was the crabbed rejoinder. "You don't know the tenth part of it," asserted the hydrographer slowly. "It's a modest name, 'The Niquoia Improvement Company,' but it is going to be like charity--covering a multitude of sins. Do you know what that plank-faced organizer has got up his sleeve? He is going to build us a neat, up-to-date little city right here in the middle of our midst. If I hadn't made him believe that I was only a draughtsman, he would have had me out with a transit, running the lines for the streets." "A city?--in this reservoir bottom? I guess not. He was only stringing you to kill time, Grizzy." "Don't you fool yourself!" exclaimed the map-maker. "He's got the plans in his grip. We're going to be on a little reservation set apart for us by the grace of God and the kindness of these promoters. The remainder of the valley is laid off into cute little squares and streets, with everything named and numbered, ready to be listed in the brokers' offices. You may not be aware of it, but this palatial office building of ours fronts on Chigringo Avenue." "Stuff!" said Brouillard. "What has all this bubble blowing got to do with the building of a temporary power dam and the setting up of a couple of cement kilns?" Grislow laid his pen aside and whirled around on his working-stool. "Don't you make any easy-going mistake, Victor," he said earnestly. "The cement and power proposition is only a side issue. These new people are going to take over the sawmills, open up quarries, build a stub railroad to the Hophra mines, grade a practicable stage road over the range to Quesado, and put on a fast-mule freight line to serve until the railroad builds in. Wouldn't that set your teeth on edge?" "I can't believe it, Murray. It's a leaf out of the book of Bedlam! Take a fair shot at it and see where the bullet lands: this entire crazy fake is built upon one solitary, lonesome fact--the fact that we're here, with a job on our hands big enough to create an active, present-moment market for labor and material. There is absolutely nothing else behind the bubble blowing; if we were not here the Niquoia Improvement Company would never have been heard of!" Grislow laughed. "Your arguing that twice two makes four doesn't change the iridescent hue of the bubble," he volunteered. "If big money has seen a chance to skin somebody, the mere fact that the end of the world is due to come along down the pike some day isn't going to cut any obstructing figure. We'll all be buying and selling corner lots in Hosford's new city before we're a month older. Don't you believe it?" "I'll believe it when I see it," was Brouillard's reply; and with this the matter rested for the moment. It was later in the day, an hour or so after the serving of the hearty supper in the engineers' mess tent, that Brouillard was given to see another and still less tolerable side of his temporary guest. Hosford had come into the office to plant himself solidly in the makeshift easy-chair for the smoking of a big, black, after-supper cigar. "I've been looking over your rules and regulations, Brouillard," he began, after an interval of silence which Brouillard had been careful not to break. "You're making a capital mistake in trying to transplant the old Connecticut blue laws out here. Your working-men ought to have the right to spend their money in any way that suits 'em." Brouillard was pointedly occupying himself at his desk, but he looked up long enough to say: "Whiskey, you mean?" "That and other things. They tell me that you don't allow any open gambling, or any women here outside of the families of the workmen." "We don't," was the short rejoinder. "That won't hold water after we get things fairly in motion." "It will have to hold water, so far as we are concerned, if I have to build a stockade around the camp," snapped Brouillard. Hosford's heavy face wrinkled itself in a mirthless smile. "You're nutty," he remarked. "When I find a man bearing down hard on all the little vices, it always makes me wonder what's the name of the corking big one he is trying to cover up." Since there was obviously no peaceful reply to be made to this, Brouillard bent lower over his work and said nothing. At every fresh step in the forced acquaintance the new-comer was painstakingly developing new antagonisms. Sooner or later, Brouillard knew, it would come to an open rupture, but he was hoping that the actual hostilities could be postponed until after Hosford had worn out his temporary welcome as a guest in the engineers' mess. For a time the big man in the easy-chair smoked on in silence. Then he began again: "Say, Brouillard, I saw one little girl to-day that didn't belong to your workmen's-family outfit, and she's a peach; came riding down the trail with her brother from that mine up on the south mountain--Massingale's, isn't it? By Jove! she fairly made my mouth water!" Inasmuch as no man can read field-notes when the page has suddenly become a red blur, Brouillard looked up. "You are my guest, in a way, Mr. Hosford; for that reason I can't very well tell you what I think of you." So much he was able to say quietly. Then the control mechanism burned out in a flash of fiery rage and he cursed the guest fluently and comprehensively, winding up with a crude and savage threat of dissection and dismemberment if he should ever venture so much as to name Miss Massingale again in the threatener's hearing. Hosford sat up slowly, and his big face turned darkly red. "Well, I'll be damned!" he broke out. "So you're _that_ kind of a fire-eater, are you? Lord, Lord! I didn't suppose anything like that ever happened outside of the ten-cent shockers. Wake up, man; this is the twentieth century we're living in. Don't look at me that way!" But the wave of insane wrath was already subsiding, and Brouillard, half ashamed of the momentary lapse into savagery, was once more scowling down at the pages of his note-book. Further along, when the succeeding silence had been undisturbed for five full minutes, he began to realize that the hot Brouillard temper, which he had heretofore been able to keep within prudent bounds, had latterly been growing more and more rebellious. He could no longer be sure of what he would say or do under sudden provocation. True, he argued, the provocation in the present instance had been sufficiently maddening; but there had been other upflashings of the murderous inner fire with less to excuse them. Hosford finished his cigar, and when he tossed the butt out through the opened window, Brouillard hoped he was going. But the promoter-manager made no move other than to take a fresh cigar from his pocket case and light it. Brouillard worked on silently, ignoring the big figure in the easy-chair by the window, and striving to regain his lost equilibrium. To have shown Hosford the weakness of the control barriers was bad enough, but to have pointed out the exact spot at which they were most easily assailable was worse. He thought it would be singular if Hosford should not remember how and where to strike when the real conflict should begin, and he was properly humiliated by the reflection that he had rashly given the enemy an advantage. He was calling Hosford "the enemy" now and making no ameliorating reservations. That the plans of the boomers would speedily breed chaos, and bring the blight of disorder and lawlessness upon the Niquoia project and everything connected with it, he made no manner of doubt. How was he to hold a camp of several hundred men in decent subjection if the temptations and allurements of a boomers' city were to be brought in and set down within arm's reach of the work on the dam? It seemed blankly incredible that the department heads in Washington should sanction such an invasion if they knew the full meaning of it. The "if" gave him an idea. What if the boomers were taking an unauthorized ell for their authorized inch? He had taken a telegraph pad from the desk stationery rack and was composing his message of inquiry when the door opened and Quinlan, the operator, came in with a communication fresh from the Washington wire. The message was an indirect reply to Hosford's telegraphed appeal to the higher powers. Brouillard read it, stuck it upon the file, and took a roll of blue-prints from the bottom drawer of his desk. "Here are the drawings for your power installation, Mr. Hosford," he said, handing the roll to the man in the chair. And a little later he went out to smoke a pipe in the open air, leaving the message of inquiry unwritten. V Symptomatic For some few minutes after the gray-bearded, absent-eyed old man who had been working at the mine forge had disappeared in the depths of the tunnel upon finishing his job of drill pointing, the two on the cabin porch made no attempt to resume the talk which had been broken by the blacksmithing. But when the rumbling thunder of the ore-car which the elder Massingale was pushing ahead of him into the mine had died away in the subterranean distances Brouillard began again. "I do get your point of view--sometimes," he said. "Or perhaps it would be nearer the truth to say that I have had it now and then in times past. Civilization, or what stands for it, does have a way of shrinking into littleness, not to say cheapness, when one can get the proper perspective. And your life up here on Chigringo has given you the needful detached point of view." The trouble shadows in the eyes of the young woman who was sitting in the fish-net hammock gave place to a smile of gentle derision. "Do you call _that_ civilization?" she demanded, indicating the straggling new town spreading itself, map-like, in the valley below. "I suppose it is--one form of it. At least it is civilization in the making. Everything has to have some sort of a beginning." Miss Massingale acquiesced in a little uptilt of her perfectly rounded chin. "Just the same, you don't pretend to say that you are enjoying it," she said in manifest deprecation. "Oh, I don't know. My work is down there, and a camp is a necessary factor in it. You'd say that the more civilized the surroundings become, the less need there would be for me to sit up nights to keep the lid on. That would be the reasonable conclusion, wouldn't it?" "If you were really trying to make the fact fit the theory--which you are not--it would be a sheer, self-centred eye-shutting to all the greater things that may be involved," she continued. "Don't you ever get beyond that?" "I did at first. When I learned a few weeks ago that the boomers had taken hold of us in earnest and that we were due to acquire a real town with all the trimmings, I was righteously hot. Apart from the added trouble a wide-open town would be likely to give us in maintaining order in the camp, it seemed so crudely unnecessary to start a pigeon-plucking match at this distance from Wall Street." "But now," she queried--"now, I suppose, you have become reconciled?" "I am growing more philosophical, let us say. There are just about so many pigeons to be plucked, anyway; they'd moult if they weren't plucked. And it may as well be done here as on the Stock Exchange, when you come to think of it." "I like you least when you talk that way," said the young woman in the hammock, with open-eyed frankness. "Do you do it as other men do?--just to hear how it sounds?" Brouillard, sitting on the top step of the porch, leaned his head against the porch post and laughed. "You know too much--a lot too much for a person of your tender years," he asserted. "Which names one more of the charming collection of contradictions which your father or mother or somebody had the temerity to label 'Amy,' sweetest and most seraphic of diminutives." "If you don't like my name--" she began, and then she went off at another tangent. "Please tell me why I am a 'collection of contradictions.' Tig never says anything like that to me." "'Tig,'" said Brouillard, "'Tig' Smith. Speaking of names, I've often wondered how on earth our breezy friend of the Tri'-Circ' ever got such a handle as that." "It's his own name--or a part of it. His father was a country preacher back in Tennessee, and I imagine he had the Smith feeling that the surname wasn't very distinctive. So he named the poor boy Tiglath-Pileser. Just the same, it is not to laugh," she went on in friendly loyalty. "Tig can't help his name, and, anyway, he's the vastest possible improvement on those old Assyrian gentlemen who were the first to wear it." Brouillard's gaze went past the shapely little figure in the string hammock to lose itself in the far Timanyoni distances. "You are a bundle of surprises," he said, letting the musing thought slip into speech. "What can you possibly know about the Assyrians?" She made a funny little grimace at him. "It was 'contradictions' a moment ago and now it is 'surprises.' Which reminds me, you haven't told me why I am a 'collection.'" "I think you know well enough," he retorted. "The first time I saw you--down at the Nick-wire ford with Tig, you remember--I tried to recall which Madonna it is that has your mouth and eyes." "Well, did you succeed in placing the lady?" "No. Somehow, I haven't cared to since I've come to know you. You're different--always different, and then--oh, well, comparisons are such hopelessly inadequate things, anyway," he finished lamely. "You are not getting on very well with the 'contradictions,'" she demurred. "Oh, I can catalogue them if you push me to it. One minute you are the Madonna lady that I can't recall, calm, reposeful, truthful, and all that, you know--so truthful that those childlike eyes of yours would make a stuttering imbecile of the man who should come to you with a lie in his mouth." "And the next minute?" she prompted. "The next minute you are a witch, laughing at the man's little weaknesses, putting your finger on them as accurately as if you could read his soul, holding them up to your ridicule and--what's much worse--to his own. At such times your insight, or whatever you choose to call it, is enough to give a man a fit of 'seeing things.'" Her laugh was like a school-girl's, light-hearted, ringing, deliciously unrestrained. "What a picture!" she commented. And then: "I can draw a better one of you, Monsieur Victor de Brouillard." "Do it," he dared. "It'll hurt your vanity." "I haven't any." "Oh, but you have! Don't you know that it is only the very vainest people who say that?" "Never mind; go on and draw your picture." "Even if it should give you another attack of the 'seeing things'?" "Yes; I'll chance even that." "Very well, then: once upon a time--it was a good while ago, I'm afraid--you were a very upright young man, and your uprightness made you just a little bit austere--for yourself, if not for others. At that time you were busy whittling out heroic little ideals and making idols of them; and I am quite sure you were spelling duty with a capital 'D' and that you would have been properly horrified if a sister of yours had permitted an unchaperoned acquaintance like--well, like ours." "Go on," he said, neither affirming nor denying. "Also, at that time you thought that a man's work in the world was the biggest thing that ever existed, the largest possible order that could be given, and the work and everything about it had to be transparently honest and openly aboveboard. You would cheerfully have died for a principle in those days, and you would have allowed the enemy to cut you up into cunning little inch cubes before you would have admitted that any pigeon was ever made to be plucked." He was smiling mirthlessly, with the black mustaches taking the sardonic upcurve. "Then what happened?" "One of two things, or maybe both of them. You were pushed out into the life race with some sort of a handicap. I don't know what it was--or is. Is that true?" "Yes." "Then I'll hazard the other guess. You discovered that there were women in the world and that there was something in you, or about you, that was sufficiently attractive to make them sit up and be nice to you. For some reason--perhaps it was the handicap--you thought you'd be safer in the unwomaned wilderness and so you came out here to the 'wild and woolly.' But even here you're not safe. There is a passable trail over War Arrow Pass and at a pinch an automobile can cross the Buckskin." When she stopped he nodded gravely. "It is all true enough. You haven't added anything more than a graceful little touch here and there. Who has been telling you all these things about me?" She clapped her hands in delighted self-applause. "You don't deny them?" "I wouldn't be so impolite." In the turning of a leaf her mood changed and the wide-open, fearless eyes were challenging him soberly. "You _can't_ deny them." He tried to break away from the level-eyed, accusing gaze--tried and found it impossible. "I asked you who has been gossiping about me; not Grizzy?" "No, not Murray Grislow; it was the man you think you know best in all the world--who is also the one you probably know the least--yourself." "Good Heavens! am I really such a transparent egoist as all that?" "All men are egoists," she answered calmly. "In some the ego is sound and clear-eyed and strong; in others it is weak--in the same way that passion is weak; it will sacrifice all it has or hopes to have in some sudden fury of self-assertion." She sat up and put her hands to her hair, and he was free to look away, down upon the great ditch where the endless chain of concrete buckets linked itself to the overhead carrier like a string of mechanical insects, each with its pinch of material to add to the deep and wide-spread foundations of the dam. Across the river a group of hidden sawmills sent their raucous song like the high-pitched shrilling of distant locusts to tremble upon the still air of the afternoon. In the middle distance the camp-town city, growing now by leaps and bounds, spread its roughly indicated streets over the valley level, the yellow shingled roofs of the new structures figuring as patches of vivid paint under the slanting rays of the sun. Far away to the right the dark-green liftings of the Quadjenàï Hills cut across from mountain to river; at the foot of the ridge the tall chimney-stacks of the new cement plant were rising, and from the quarries beyond the plant the dull thunder of the blasts drifted up to the Chigringo heights like a sign from the mysterious underworld of Navajo legend. This was not Brouillard's first visit to the cabin on the Massingale claim by many. In the earliest stages of the valley activities Smith, the Buckskin cattleman, had been Amy Massingale's escort to the reclamation camp--"just a couple o' lookers," in Smith's phrase--and the unconventional altitudes had done the rest. From that day forward the young woman had hospitably opened her door to Brouillard and his assistants, and any member of the corps, from Leshington the morose, who commonly came to sit in solemn silence on the porch step, to Griffith, who had lost his youthful heart to Miss Massingale on his first visit, was welcome. Of the five original members of the staff and the three later additions to it, in the persons of the paymaster, the cost-keeper, and young Altwein, who had come in as Grislow's field assistant, Brouillard was the one who climbed oftenest up the mountain-side trail from the camp--a trail which was becoming by this time quite well defined. He knew he went oftener than any of the others, and yet he felt that he knew Amy Massingale less intimately and was far and away more hopelessly entangled than--well, than Grislow, for example, whose visits to the mine cabin came next in the scale of frequency and whose ready wit and gentle cynicism were his passports in any company. For himself, Brouillard had not been pointedly analytical as yet. From the moment when Amy and Smith had reined up at the door of his office shack and he had welcomed them both, it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to fall under the spell of enchantment. He knew next to nothing of the young woman's life story; he had not cared to know. It had not occurred to him to wonder how the daughter of a man who drilled and shot the holes in his own mine should have the gifts and belongings--when she chose to display them--of a woman of a much wider world. It was enough for him that she was piquantly attractive in any character and that he found her marvellously stimulating and uplifting. On the days when the devil of moroseness and irritability possessed and maddened him he could climb to the cabin on high Chigringo and find sanity. It was a keen joy to be with her, and up to the present this had sufficed. "Egoism is merely another name for the expression of a vital need," he said, after the divagating pause, defining the word more for his own satisfaction than in self-defense. "You may put it in that way if you please," she returned gravely. "What is your need?" He stated it concisely. "Money--a lot of it." "How singular!" she laughed. "I need money, too--a lot of it." "You?" "Yes, I." "What would you do with it? Buy corner lots in Niqoyastcàdjeburg?" "No, indeed; I'd buy a farm in the Blue-grass--two of them, maybe." "What an ambition for a girl! Have you ever been in the Blue-grass country?" She got out of the hammock and came to lean, with her hands behind her, against the opposite porch post. "That was meant to humiliate me, and I sha'n't forget it. You know well enough that I have never been east of the Mississippi." "I didn't know it. You never tell me anything about yourself." Again the mood shutter clicked and her smile was the calm mask of discerning wisdom. "Persons with well-developed egos don't care to listen to folk-stories," she rejoined, evading the tentative invitation openly. "But tell me, what would you do with your pot of rainbow gold--if you should find it?" Brouillard rose and straightened himself with his arms over his head like an athlete testing his muscles for the record-breaking event. "What would I do? A number of things. But first of all, I think, I'd buy the privilege of telling some woman that I love her." This time her laugh was frankly disparaging. "As if you could!" she said, with a lip curl that set his blood afire--"as if any woman worth while would care two pins for your wretched pot of gold!" "Oh, I didn't mean it quite that way," he hastened to explain. "I said: 'Buy the privilege.' If you knew the conditions you would understand me when I say that the money must come first." She was silent for so long a time that he looked at his watch and thought of going. But at the deciding instant she held him with a low-spoken question. "Does it date back to the handicap? You needn't tell me if you don't want to." "It does. And there is no reason why I shouldn't tell you the simple fact. When my father died he left me a debt--a debt of honor; and it must be paid. Until it is paid--but I am sure you understand." "Quite fully," she responded quickly, and now there was no trace of levity in the sweetly serious tone. "Is it much?--so much that you can't----" He nodded and sat down again on the porch step. "Yes, it is big enough to go in a class by itself--in round numbers, a hundred thousand dollars." "Horrors!" she gasped. "And you are carrying that millstone? Must you carry it?" "If you knew the circumstances you would be the first to say that I must carry it, and go on carrying it to the end of the chapter." "But--but you'll _never_ be free!" "Not on a government salary," he admitted. "As a matter of fact, it takes more than half of the salary to pay the premiums on--pshaw! I'm boring you shamelessly for the sake of proving up on my definition of the eternal ego. You ought not to have encouraged me. It's quite hopeless--the handicap business--unless some good angel should come along with a miracle or two. Let's drop it." She was looking beyond him and her voice was quick with womanly sympathy when she said: "If you could drop it--but you can't. And it changes everything for you, distorts everything, colors your entire life. It's heart-breaking!" This was dangerous ground for him and he knew it. Sympathy applied to a rankling wound may figure either as the healing oil or the maddening wine. It was the one thing he had hitherto avoided, resolutely, half-fearfully, as a good general going into battle marches around a kennel of sleeping dogs. But now the under-depths were stirring to a new awakening. In the ardor of young manhood he had taken up the vicarious burden dutifully, and at that time his renunciation of the things that other men strove for seemed the lightest of the many fetterings. But now love for a woman was threatening to make the renunciation too grievous to be borne. "How did you know?" he queried curiously. "It does change things; it has changed them fiercely in the past few weeks. We smile at the old fable of a man selling his soul for a ready-money consideration, but there are times when I'd sell anything I've got, save one, for a chance at the freedom that other men have--and don't value." "What is the one thing you wouldn't sell?" she questioned, and Brouillard chose to discover a gently quickened interest in the clear-seeing eyes. "My love for the--for some woman. I'm saving that, you know. It is the only capital I'll have when the big debt is paid." "Do you want me to be frivolous or serious?" she asked, looking down at him with the grimacing little smile that always reminded him of a caress. "A little while ago you said 'some woman,' and now you say it again, making it cautiously impersonal. That is nice of you--not to particularize; but I have been wondering whether she is or isn't worth the effort--and the reservation you make. Because it is all in that, you know. You can do and be what you want to do and be if you only want to hard enough." He looked up quickly. "Do you really believe that? What about a man's natural limitations?" "Poof!" she said, blowing the word away as if it were a bit of thistle-down. "It is only the woman's limitations that count, not the man's. The only question is this: Is the one only and incomparable she worth the effort? Would you give a hundred thousand dollars for the privilege of being able to say to her: 'Come, dear, let's go and get married'?" He was looking down, chiefly because he dared not look up, when he answered soberly: "She is worth it many times over; her price is above rubies. Money, much or little, wouldn't be in it." "That is better--much better. Now we may go on to the ways and means; they are all in the man, not in the things, 'not none whatsoever,' as Tig would say. Let me show you what I mean. Three times within my recollection my father has been worth considerably more than you owe, and three time she has--well, it's gone. And now he is going to make good again when the railroad comes." Brouillard got up, thrust his hands into the pockets of his working-coat, and faced about as if he had suddenly remembered that he was wasting the government's time. "I must be going back down the hill," he said. And then, without warning: "What if I should tell you that the railroad is not coming to the Niquoia, Amy?" To his utter amazement the blue eyes filled suddenly. But the owner of the eyes was winking the tears away and laughing before he could put the amazement into words. "You shouldn't hit out like that when one isn't looking; it's wicked," she protested. "Besides, the railroad _is_ coming; it's got to come." "It is still undecided," he told her mechanically. "Mr. Ford is coming over with the engineers to have a conference on the ground with--with the Cortwright people. I am expecting him any day." "The Cortwright people want the road, don't they?" she asked. "Yes, indeed; they are turning heaven and earth over to get it." "And the government?" "The department is holding entirely aloof, as it should. Every one in the Reclamation Service knows that no good can possibly come of any effort to force the region ahead of its normal and natural development. And, besides, none of us here in the valley want to help blow the Cortwright bubble any bigger than it has to be." "Then you will advise against the building of the Extension?" Instead of answering her question he asked one of his own. "What does it mean to you--to you, personally, and apart from the money your father might make out of it, Amy?" She hesitated a moment and then met the shrewd scrutiny of his gaze with open candor. "The money is only a means to an end--as yours will be. You know very well what I meant when I told you that three times we have been obliged to come back to the mountains to--to try again. I dreaded the coming of your camp; I dread a thousand times more the other changes that are coming--the temptations that a mushroom city will offer. This time father has promised me that when he can make his stake he will go back to Kentucky and settle down; and he will keep his promise. More than that, Stevie has promised me that he will go, too, if he can have a stock-farm and raise fine horses--his one healthy ambition. Now you know it all." He reached up from the lower step where he was standing and took her hand. "Yes; and I know more than that: I know that you are a mighty brave little girl and that your load is heavier than mine--worlds heavier. But you're going to win out; if not to-day or to-morrow, why, then, the day after. It's written in the book." She returned his hand-grip of encouragement impulsively and smiled down upon him through quick-springing tears. "You'll win out, too, Victor, because it's in you to do it. I'm sure of it--I _know_ it. There is only one thing that scares me." "Name it," he said. "I'm taking everything that comes to-day--from you." "You are a strong man; you have a reserve of strength that is greater than most men's full gift; you can cut and slash your way to the thing you really want, and nothing can stop you. But--you'll forgive me for being plain, won't you?--there is a little, just the least little, bit of desperation in the present point of view, and----" "Say it," he commanded when she hesitated. "I hardly know how to say it. It's just a little shudder--inside, you know--as you might have when you see a railroad train rushing down the mountain and think what would happen if one single, inconsequent wheel should climb the rail. There were ideals in the beginning; you admitted it, didn't you? And they are not as distinct now as they used to be. You didn't say that, but I know.... Stand them up again, Victor; don't let them fall down in the dust or in the--in the mud. It's got to be clean money, you know; the money that is going to give you the chance to say: 'Come, girl, let's go and get married.' You won't forget that, will you?" He relinquished the hand of encouragement because he dared not hold it any longer, and turned away to stare absently at the timbered tunnel mouth whence a faint clinking of hammer upon steel issued with monotonous regularity. "I wish you hadn't said that, Amy--about the ideals." "Why shouldn't I say it? I _had_ to say it." "I can't afford to play with too many fine distinctions. I have accepted the one great handicap. I may owe it to myself--and to some others--not to take on any more." "I don't know what you mean now," she said simply. "Perhaps it is just as well that you don't. Let's talk about something else; about the railroad. I told you that President Ford is coming over to have a wrestle with the Cortwright people, but I didn't tell you that he has already had his talk with Mr. Cortwright in person--in Chicago. He hasn't decided; he won't decide until he has looked the ground over and had a chance to confer with me." She bridged all the gaps with swift intuition. "He means to give you the casting vote? He will build the Extension if you advise it?" "It is something like that, I fancy; yes." "And you think--you feel----" "It is a matter of absolute indifference to me, officially. But in any event, Ford would ask for nothing more than a friendly opinion." "Then it will lie in your hand to make us rich or to keep us poor," she laughed. "Be a good god-in-the-car, please, and your petitioners will ever pray." Then, with an instant return to seriousness: "But you mustn't think of that--of course, you won't--with so many other and greater things to consider." "On the contrary, I shall think very pointedly of that; pointedly and regretfully--because your brother has made it practically impossible for me to help." "My brother?" with a little gasp. "Yes. He offered to buy my vote with a block of 'Little Susan' stock. That wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't talked about it--told other people what he was going to do. But he did that, as well." He felt rather than saw that she had turned quickly to face the porch post, that she was hiding her face in the crooking of an arm. It melted him at once. "Don't cry; I was a brute to say such a thing as that to you," he began, but she stopped him. "No," she denied bravely. "The truth may hurt--it _does_ hurt awfully; but it can't be brutal. And you are right. Stevie _has_ made it impossible." An awkward little silence supervened and once more Brouillard dragged his watch from its pocket. "I'm like the awkward country boy," he said with quizzical humor. "I really must go and I don't know how to break away." Then he went back to the closed topic. "I guess the other thing was brutal, too--what I said about your brother's having made it impossible. Other things being equal----" Again she stopped him. "When Mr. Ford comes, you must forget what Stevie said and what I have said. Good-by." * * * * * An hour later, when the afternoon shadow of Jack's Mountain was lying all across the shut-in valley and pointing like the angle of a huge gnomon to the Quadjenàï Hills, Brouillard was closeted in his log-built office quarters with a big, fair-faced man, whose rough tweeds and unbrushed, soft hat proclaimed him fresh from the dust-dry reaches of the Quesado trail. "It is your own opinion that I want, Victor," the fair-faced man was saying, "not the government engineer's. Can we make the road pay if we bring it here? That is a question which you can answer better than any other living man. You are here on the ground and you've been here from the first." "You've had it out with Cortwright?" Brouillard asked. And then: "Where is he now? in Chicago?" "No. He is on his way to the Niquoia, coming over in his car from El Gato. Says he made it that way once before and is willing to bet that it is easier than climbing War Arrow. But never mind J. Wesley. You are the man I came to see." "I can give you the facts," was the quiet rejoinder. "While the Cortwright boom lasts there will be plenty of incoming business--and some outgoing. When the bubble bursts--as it will have to when the dam is completed, if it doesn't before--you'll quit until the Buckskin fills up with settlers who can give you crops to move. That is the situation in a nutshell, all but one little item. There is a mine up on Chigringo--Massingale's--with a good few thousand tons of pay ore on the dump. Where there is one mine there may be more, later on; and I don't suppose that even such crazy boomers as the Cortwright crowd will care to put in a gold reduction plant. So you would have the ore to haul to the Red Butte smelters." A smile wrinkled at the corners of the big man's eyes. "You are dodging the issue, Victor, and you know it," he objected. "What I want is your personal notion. If you were the executive committee of the Pacific Southwestern, would you, or would you not, build the Extension? That's the point I'm trying to make." Brouillard got up and went to the window. The gnomon shadow of Jack's Mountain had spread over the entire valley, and its southern limb had crept up Chigringo until its sharply defined line was resting upon the Massingale cabin. When he turned back to the man at the desk he was frowning thoughtfully, and his eyes were the eyes of one who sees only the clearly etched lines of a picture which obscures all outward and visual objects ... the picture he saw was of a sweet-faced young woman, laughing through her tears and saying: "Besides, the railroad _is_ coming; it's _got_ to come." "If you put it that way," he said to the man who was waiting, "if you insist on pulling my private opinion out by the roots, you may have it. _I'd_ build the Extension." VI Mirapolis During the strenuous weeks when Camp Niquoia's straggling street was acquiring plank sidewalks and getting itself transformed into Chigringo Avenue, with a double row of false-fronted "emporiums" to supplant the shack shelters, Monsieur Poudrecaulx Bongras, late of the San Francisco tenderloin, opened the camp's first counter-grill. Finding monsieur's name impossible in both halves of it, the camp grinned and rechristened him "Poodles." Later, discovering his dual gift of past mastership in potato frying and coffee making, the camp gave him vogue. Out of the vogue sprang in swift succession a café with side-tables, a restaurant with private dining-rooms, and presently a commodious hotel, where the food was excellent, the appointments luxurious, and where Jack--clothed and in his right mind and with money in his hand--was as good as his master. It was in one of Bongras's private dining-rooms that Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright was entertaining Brouillard, with Miss Genevieve to make a harmonizing third at the circular table up to the removal of the cloth and the serving of the cigars and a second cold bottle. The little dinner had been a gustatory triumph; Miss Genevieve had added the charm of lightness at moments when her father threatened to let the money clink become painfully audible; and the cigars were gold-banded. Nevertheless, when Miss Cortwright had gone up-stairs, and the waiter would have refilled his glass, Brouillard shook his head. If the millionaire saw the refusal he was too wise to remark it. Altogether, Brouillard was finding his first impressions of Mr. Cortwright readjusting themselves with somewhat confusing rapidity. It was not that there was any change in the man. Charactering the genial host like a bachelor of hospitality, he was still the frank, outspoken money-maker, hot upon the trail of the nimble dollar. Yet there was a change of some kind. Brouillard had marked it on the day, a fortnight earlier, when (after assuring himself morosely that he would not) he had gone down to the lower canyon portal to see the Cortwright touring-car finish its second race across the desert from El Gato. "Of course, I was quite prepared to have you stand off and throw stones at our little cob house of a venture, Brouillard," the host allowed at the lighting of the gold-banded cigars. "You're the government engineer and the builder of the big dam; it's only natural that your horizons should be filled with government-report pictures and half-tones of what's going to be when you get your dam done. But you can't build your dam in one day, or in two, and the interval is ours. I tell you, we're going to make Mirapolis a buzz-hummer while the daylight lasts. Don't you forget that." "'Mirapolis'?" queried Brouillard. "Is that the new name?" Cortwright laughed and nodded. "It's Gene's name--'Miracle City.' Fits like the glove on a pretty girl's arm, doesn't it?" "It does. But the miracle is that there should be any money daring enough to invest itself in the Niquoia." "There you go again, with your ingrained engineering ideas that to be profitable a scheme must necessarily have rock-bottom foundations and a time-defying superstructure," chuckled the host. "Why, bless your workaday heart, Brouillard, nothing is permanent in this shuffling, growing, progressive world of ours--absolutely nothing. Some of the biggest and costliest buildings in New York and Chicago are built on ground leases. Our ground lease will merely be a little shorter in the factor of time." "So much shorter that the parallel won't hold," argued Brouillard. "The parallel does hold; that is precisely the point. Every ground-lease investment is a gamble. The investor simply bets that he can make the turn within the time limit." "Yes; but a long term of years----" "There you are," cut in the financier. "Now you've got it down to the hard-pan basis: long time, small profits and a slow return; short time, big profits and a quick return. You've eaten here before; what do you pay Bongras for a reasonably good dinner?" Brouillard laughed. "Oh, Poodles. He cinches us, all right; four or five times as much as it's worth--or would cost anywhere else." "That's it. He knows he has to make good on all these little luxuries he gives you--cash in every day, as you might say, and come out whole before you stop the creek and drown him. Let me tell you something, Brouillard; San Francisco brags about being the cheapest city in the country; they'll tell you over there that you can buy more for your money than you can anywhere else on earth. Well, Mirapolis is going to take the trophy at the other end of the speedway. When we get in motion we're going to have Alaska faded to a frazzle on prices--and you'll see everybody paying them joyfully." "And in the end somebody, or the final series of somebodies, will be left to hold the bag," finished Brouillard. "That's a future. What is it the Good Book says? 'Let us eat, drink and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' That's philosophy, and it's good business, too. Not that I'm admitting your pessimistic conclusions for a single minute; don't mistake me on that point. There needn't be any bag holders, Brouillard. Let me put it in a nutshell: we're building a cement plant, and we shall sell you the output--at a good, round price, I promise you, but still at a lower figure than you're paying for the imported article now, or than you will pay even after the railroad gets in. When our government orders are filled we can afford to wreck the plant for what it will bring as junk. We'll be out of it whole, with a nice little profit." "That is only one instance," objected the guest. "Well, Bongras, here, is one more," laughed the host. "He gets a piece of his investment back every time anybody looks over his _menu_ card. And our power plant is another. You made your little kick on that to Washington--you thought the government ought to control its own power. That was all right, from your point of view, but we beat you to it. Now the Reclamation Service gets all the power it needs at a nominal price, and we're going to sell enough more to make us all feel happy." "Sell it? To whom?" Mr. Cortwright leaned back in his chair and the sandy-gray eyes seemed to be searching the inner recesses of the querying soul. "That's inside information, but I don't mind taking you in on it," he said between leisurely puffs at his cigar. "We've just concluded a few contracts: one with Massingale--he's going to put in power drills, electric ore-cars, and a modern equipment generally and shove the development of the 'Little Susan'; one with a new mining syndicate which will begin operations at once on half a dozen prospects on Jack's Mountain; and one with a lumber combination that has just taken over the sawmills, and will install others, with a planing-mill and sash factory." Brouillard nodded. The gray eyes were slowly hypnotizing him. "But that isn't all," continued the promoter. "We are about to reincorporate the power plant as the Niquoia Electric Power, Lighting, and Traction Company. Within a fortnight we'll be lighting Mirapolis, and within a month after the railroad gets in we'll be operating trolley-cars." The enthusiast paused to let the information sink in, also to note the effect upon the subject. The noting was apparently satisfactory, since he went on with the steady assurance of one who sees his way clearly. "That brings us down to business, Brouillard. I don't mind admitting that I had an object in asking you to dine with me this evening. It's this: we feel that in the reorganization of the power company the government, which will always be the largest consumer, should be represented in some effective way; that its interests should be carefully safeguarded. It is not so easy as it might seem. We can't exactly make the government a stockholder." "No," said Brouillard mechanically. The under-depths were stirring again, heaving as if from a mighty ground-swell that threatened a tidal wave of overturnings. "We discussed that phase of it in the directors' meeting this morning," continued the hypnotist smoothly, "and I made a suggestion which, as president of the company, I was immediately authorized to carry out. What we need, and what the government needs, is a man right here on the ground who will be absolutely loyal to the government's interests and who can be, at the same time, broad enough and honorable enough to be fair to us." Brouillard roused himself by a palpable effort. "You have found your man, Mr. Cortwright?" A genial smile twinkled in the little gray eyes. "I didn't have very far to go. You see, I knew your father and I'm not afraid to trust his son. We are going to make you the government director, with full power to investigate and to act. And we're not going to be mean about it, either. The capital stock of the company is ten millions, with shares of a par value of one hundred dollars each, full paid and non-assessable. Don't gasp; we'll cut a nice little melon on that capitalization every thirty days, or my name isn't Cortwright." "But I have no money to invest," was the only form the younger man's protest took. "We don't need your money," cut in the financier with curt good nature. "What we do need is a consulting engineer, a man who, while he is one of us and identified with us, will see to it that we're not tempted to gouge our good Uncle Samuel. It will be no sinecure, I warn you. We're all pretty keen after the dollar, and you'll have to hold us down good and hard. Of course, a director and a consulting officer must be a stockholder, but we'll take care of that." Brouillard smoked in silence for a full minute before he said: "You know as well as I do, Mr. Cortwright, that it is an unwritten law of the Service that a civilian employee of the government shall not engage in any other business." "No, I don't," was the blunt reply. "That rule may be good enough to apply to senators and representatives--and it ought to; outside jobs for them might influence legislation. But in your case it would not only be unjust to apply it; it would be absurd and contradictory. Supposing your father had left you a hundred thousand dollars to invest instead of a debt of that amount--you see, I know what a load your keen sense of honor is making you carry--suppose you had this money to invest, would your position in the Reclamation Service compel you to lock it up in a safety vault?" "Certainly not. But----" "Very good. Your objection to taking part in our project would be that a man can't be strictly impartial when he has a stake in the game; some men couldn't, Mr. Brouillard, but you can; you know you can, and I know it. Otherwise you wouldn't be putting half of your salary and more into life-insurance premiums to secure a debt that isn't even constructively yours." "Yes; but if the department should learn that I am a stockholder in a company from which it buys its power----" "There wouldn't be a word said--not one single word. They know you in Washington, Brouillard, better, perhaps, than you think they do. They know you would exact a square deal for the department even if it cost you personal money. But this is all academic. The practical facts are that you'll come in as consulting engineer and that you'll hold us strictly up to the mark on the government power contract. It's your duty and part of your job as chief of construction. And we'll leave the money consideration entirely out of it if you like. You'll get a stock-certificate, which you may keep or tear up and throw into the waste-basket, just as you please. If you keep it and want to realize on it at any time before you begin to put the finishing forms on the dam, I'll do this: I'll agree to market it for you at par. Now let's quit and go and find Gene. She'll think we've tippled ourselves under the table." "One moment," said Brouillard. "You have a way of taking a man off his feet, Mr. Cortwright; a rather pleasant way I'm bound to admit. But in this thing which you are proposing there are issues involved which----" "You want time to think it over? Take it, man; take all the time you need. There's no special hurry." Brouillard felt that in accepting the condition he was potentially committing himself. It was a measure of the distance he had already travelled that he interposed a purely personal obstacle. "I couldn't serve as your engineer, Mr. Cortwright, not even in a consulting capacity. Call it prejudice or anything you please, but I simply couldn't do business in an associate relation with your man Hosford." Cortwright had risen, and he took his guest confidentially by the buttonhole. "Do you know, Brouillard, Hosford gets on my nerves, too? Don't let that influence you. We'll let Hosford go. We needed him at first to sort of knock things into shape; it takes a man of his calibre in the early stages of a project like ours, you know. But he has outlived his usefulness and we'll drop him. Let's go up-stairs." It was quite late in the evening when Brouillard, a little light-headed from an after-dinner hour of purely social wit-matching with Miss Genevieve, passed out through the café of the Metropole on his way to his quarters. There were a few late diners at the tables, and Bongras, smug and complacent in evening regalia, was waddling about among them like a glorified head waiter, his stiffly roached hair and Napoleonic mustaches striving for a dignity and fierceness which was cruelly negatived by a round, full-fed face and an obese little body. "Ze dinnare--she was h-all right, M'sieu' Brouillard?" he inquired, holding the engineer for a moment at the street door. "As right as the price you're going to charge Mr. Cortwright for it," joked Brouillard. "_Sacré!_" swore the amiable one, spreading his hands, "if you could h-only know 'ow eet is cost to bring dose dinnare on dis place! Two dollare de 'undred pounds dat mule-freightare is charge me for bringing dose chip-pest wine from Quesado! Sommtime ve get de railroad, _n'est-ce pas_, M'sieu' Brouillard? Den ve make dose dinnare moz risson-able." "Yes, you will!" Brouillard scoffed jocosely. "You'll be adding something then for the uniqueness--for the benefit of the tourists. It'll be a great ad, 'The Hotel Metropole, the Delmonico's of the Lake Bottom. Sit in and dine with us before the heavens open and the floods come.'" "I'll been wanting to h-ask you," whispered the Frenchman with a quick-flung glance for the diners at the nearest of the tables, "doze flood--when she is coming, M'sieu' Brouillard?" "When we get the dam completed." "You'll bet money h-on dat?--h-all de money you got?" "It's a sure thing, if that's what you're driving at. You can bet on it if you want to." "I make my bet on de price of de dinnare," smiled Bongras. "_Mais_, I like to know for sure." "Why should you doubt it?" "_Moi_, I don't doubt nottings; I make de grass to be cut w'ile de sun is shine. But I'll been hearing somebody say dat maybe-so dis town she grow so fas' and so beeg dat de gover'ment is not going drown her." "Who said that?" "I don't know; it is _bruit_--what you call rumaire. You hear it h-on de Avenue, in de café, h-anyw'eres you go." Brouillard laughed again, this time with his hand on the door-latch. "Don't lower your prices on the strength of any such rumor as that, Poodles. The dam will be built, and the Niquoia will be turned into a lake, with the Hotel Metropole comfortably anchored in the deepest part of it--that is, if it doesn't get gay enough to float." "Dat's juz what I'll been thinking," smiled the little man, and he sped the parting guest with a bow that would have graced the antechamber of a _Louis le Grand_. Out in the crisp night air, with the stars shining clear in the velvet sky and the vast bulks of the ramparting mountains to give solidity and definiteness to the scheme of things, Brouillard was a little better able to get his feet upon the stable earth. But the major impulse was still levitant, almost exultant. When all was said, it was Mr. Cortwright's rose-colored view of the immediate future that persisted. "Mirapolis!" It was certainly a name to conjure with; an inspiration on the part of the young woman who had chosen it. Brouillard saw the projected streets pointing away into the four quarters of the night. It asked for little effort of the imagination to picture them as the streets of a city--lighted, paved, and busy with traffic. Would the miracle be wrought? And if it should be, was there any possibility that in time the building of the great dam and the reclamation of the Buckskin Desert would become secondary in importance to the preservation of Mirapolis? It seemed highly incredible; before the little dinner and the social evening Brouillard would have said it was blankly impossible. But it is only fools and dead men who cannot admit a changing angle in the point of view. At first Brouillard laid it to the champagne, forgetting that he had permitted but a single refilling of his glass. Not then, nor for many days, did he suspect that it was his first deep draught of a far headier wine that sent the blood laughing through his veins as he strode down Chigringo Avenue to his darkened office quarters--the wine of the vintner whose name is Graft. VII The Speedway It was in the days after he had found on his desk a long envelope enclosing a certificate for a thousand shares of stock in the Niquoia Electric Power, Lighting, and Traction Company that Brouillard began to lose his nickname of "Hell's-Fire" among his workmen, with the promise of attaining, in due time, to the more affectionate title of "the Little Big Boss." At the envelope-opening moment, however, he was threatened with an attack of heart failure. That Mr. Cortwright and his fellow promoters should make a present of one hundred thousand dollars of the capital stock of the reorganized company to a mere government watch-dog who could presumably neither help nor hinder in the money-making plans of the close corporation, was scarcely believable. But a hastily sought interview with the company's president cleared the air of all the incredibilities. "Why, my dear Brouillard! what in Sam Hill do you take us for?" was the genial retort when the young engineer had made his deprecatory protest. "Did you think we were going to cut the melon and hand you out a piece of the rind? Not so, my dear boy; we are not built on any such narrow-gauge lines. But seriously, we're getting you at a bargain-counter price. One of the things we're up against is the building of another dam higher in the canyon for an auxiliary plant. In taking you in, we've retained the best dam builder in the country to tell us where and how to build it." "That won't go, Mr. Cortwright," laughed Brouillard, finding the great man's humor pleasantly infectious. "You know you can hire engineers by the dozen at the usual rates." "All right, blot that out; say that I wanted to do the right thing by the son of good old Judge Antoine; just imagine, for the sake of argument, that I wanted to pose as the long-lost uncle of the fairy-stories to a fine young fellow who hasn't been able to draw a full breath since his father died. You can do it now, Victor, my boy. Any old time the trusteeship debt your father didn't really owe gets too heavy, you can unload on me and wipe it out. Isn't it worth something to realize that?" "I guess it will be, if I am ever able to get down to the solid fact of realizing it. But I can't earn a hundred thousand dollars of the company's stock, Mr. Cortwright." "Of course you can. That's what we are willing to pay for a good, reliable government brake. It's going to be your business to see to it that the Reclamation Service gets exactly what its contract calls for, kilowatt for kilowatt." "I'd do that, anyhow, as chief of construction on the dam." "You mean you would try to do it. As an officer of the power company, you can do it; as an official kicker on the outside, you couldn't feaze us a particle. What? You'd put us out of business? Not much, you wouldn't; we'd play politics with you and get a man for your job who wouldn't kick." "Well," said the inheritor of sudden wealth, still matching the promoter's mood, "you won't get me fired now, that's one comfort. When will you want my expert opinion on your auxiliary dam?" "On _our_ dam, you mean. Oh, any time soon; say to-morrow or Friday--or Saturday if that hurries you too much. We sha'n't want to go to work on it before Monday." Being himself an exponent of the modern theory that the way to do things is to do them now, Brouillard accepted the hurry order without comment. Celerity, swiftness of accomplishment that was almost magical, had become the Mirapolitan order of the day. Plans conceived over-night leaped to their expositions in things done as if the determination to do them had been all that was necessary to their realization. "You shall have the report to-morrow," said the newly created consulting engineer, "but you can't go to work Monday. The labor market is empty, and I'm taking it for granted that you're not going to stampede my shovellers and concrete men." "Oh, no," conceded the city builder, "we sha'n't do that. You'll admit--in your capacity of government watch-dog--that we have played fair in that game. We have imported every workman we've needed, and we shall import more. That's one thing none of us can afford to do--bull the labor market. And it won't be necessary; we have a train load of Italians and Bulgarians on the way to Quesado to-day, and they ought to be here by Monday." "You are a wonder, Mr. Cortwright," was Brouillard's tribute to the worker of modern miracles, and he went his way to ride to the upper end of the valley for the exploring purpose. On the Monday, as President Cortwright had so confidently predicted, the train load of laborers had marched in over the War Arrow trail and the work on the auxiliary power dam was begun. On the Tuesday a small army of linemen arrived to set the poles and to string the wires for the lighting of the town. On the Wednesday there were fresh accessions to the army of builders, and the freighters on the Quesado trail reported a steady stream of artisans pouring in to rush the city making. On the Thursday the grading and paving of Chigringo Avenue was begun, and, true to his promise, Mr. Cortwright was leaving a right of way in the street for the future trolley tracks. And it was during this eventful week that the distant thunder of the dynamite brought the welcome tidings of the pushing of the railroad grade over the mountain barrier. Also--but this was an item of minor importance--it was on the Saturday of this week that the second tier of forms was erected on the great dam and the stripped first section of the massive gray foot-wall of concrete raised itself in mute but eloquent protest against the feverish activities of the miracle-workers. If the protest were a threat, it was far removed. Many things might happen before the gray wall should rise high enough to cast its shadow, and the shadow of the coming end, over the miraculous city of the plain. It was Brouillard himself who put this thought into words on the Sunday when he and Grislow were looking over the work of form raising and finding it good. "Catching you, too, is it, Victor?" queried the hydrographer, dropping easily into his attitude of affable cynicism. "I thought it would. But tell me, what are some of the things that may happen?" "It's easy to predict two of them: some people will make a pot of money and some will lose out." Grislow nodded. "Of course you don't take any stock in the rumor that the government will call a halt?" "You wouldn't suppose it could be possible." "No. Yet the rumor persists. Hosford hinted to me the other day that there might be a Congressional investigation a little further along to determine whether the true _pro bono publico_ lay in the reclamation of a piece of yellow desert or in the preservation of an exceedingly promising and rapidly growing young city." "Hosford is almost as good a boomer as Mr. Cortwright. Everybody knows that." "Yes. I guess Mirapolis will have to grow a good bit more before Congress can be made to take notice," was the hydrographer's dictum. "Isn't that your notion?" Brouillard was shaking his head slowly. "I don't pretend to have opinions any more, Grizzy. I'm living from day to day. If the tail should get big enough to wag the dog----" They were in the middle of the high staging upon which the puddlers worked while filling the forms and Grislow stopped short. "What's come over you, lately, Victor? I won't say you're half-hearted, but you're certainly not the same driver you were a few weeks ago, before the men quit calling you 'Hell's-Fire.'" Brouillard smiled grimly. "It's going to be a long job, Grizzy. Perhaps I saw that I couldn't hope to keep keyed up to concert pitch all the way through. Call it that, anyway. I've promised to motor Miss Cortwright to the upper dam this afternoon, and it's time to go and do it." It was not until they were climbing down from the staging at the Jack's Mountain approach that Grislow acquired the ultimate courage of his convictions. "Going motoring, you said--with Miss Genevieve. That's another change. I'm beginning to believe in your seven-year hypothesis. You are no longer a woman-hater." "I never was one. There isn't any such thing." "You used to make believe there was and you posed that way last summer. Think I don't remember how you were always ranting about the dignity of a man's work and quoting Kipling at me? Now you've taken to mixing and mingling like a social reformer." "Well, what of it?" half-absently. "Oh, nothing; only it's interesting from a purely academic point of view. I've been wondering how far you are responsible; how much you really do, yourself, and how much is done for you." Brouillard's laugh was skeptical. "That's another leaf out of your psychological book, I suppose. It's rot." "Is it so? But the fact remains." "What fact?" "The fact that your subconscious self has got hold of the pilot-wheel; that your reasoning self is asleep, or taking a vacation, or something of that sort." "Oh, bally! There are times when you make me feel as if I had eaten too much dinner, Grizzy! This is one of them. Put it in words; get it out of your system." "It needs only three words: you are hypnotized." "That is what you say; it is up to you to prove it," scoffed Brouillard. "I could easily prove it to the part of you that is off on a vacation. A month ago this city-building fake looked as crazy to you as it still does to those of us who haven't been invited to sit down and take a hand in Mr. Cortwright's little game. You hooted at it, preached a little about the gross immorality of it, swore a good bit about the effect it was going to have on our working force. It was a crazy object-lesson in modern greed, and all that." "Well?" "Now you seem to have gone over to the other side. You hobnob with Cortwright and do office work for him. You know his fake is a fake; and yet I overheard you boosting it the other night in Poodles's dining-room to a tableful of money maniacs as if Cortwright were giving you a rake-off." Brouillard stiffened himself with a jerk as he paced beside his accuser, but he kept his temper. "You're an old friend, Grizzy, and a mighty good one--as I have had occasion to prove. It is your privilege to ease your mind. Is that all?" "No. You are letting Genevieve Cortwright make a fool of you. If you were only half sane you'd see that she is a confirmed trophy hunter. Why, she even gets down to young Griffith--and uses him to dig out information about you. She----" "Hold on, Murray; there's a limit, and you'll bear with me if I say that you are working up to it now." Brouillard's jaw was set and the lines between his eyes were deepening. "I don't know what you are driving at, but you'd better call it off. I can take care of myself." "If I thought you could--if I only thought you could," said Grislow musingly. "But the indications all lean the other way. It would be all right if you wanted to marry her and she wanted you to; but you don't--and she doesn't. And, besides, there's Amy; you owe her something, don't you?--or don't you? You needn't grit your teeth that way. You are only getting a part of what is coming to you. 'Faithful are the wounds of a friend,' you know." "Yes. And when the Psalmist had admitted that, he immediately asked the Lord not to let their precious balms break his head. You're all right, Grizzy, but I'll pull through." Then, with a determined wrenching aside of the subject: "Are you going up on Chigringo this afternoon?" "I thought I would--yes. What shall I tell Miss Massingale when she asks about you?" "You will probably tell her the first idiotic thing that comes into the back part of your head. And if you tell her anything pifflous about me I'll lay for you some dark night with a pick handle." Grislow laughed reminiscently. "She won't ask," he said. "Why not?" "Because the last time she did it I told her your scalp was dangling at Miss Genevieve's belt." They had reached the door of the log-built quarters and Brouillard spun the jester around with a shoulder grip that was only half playful. "If I believed you said any such thing as that I'd murder you!" he exploded. "Perhaps you'll go and tell her that--you red-headed blastoderm!" "Sure," said the blastoderm, and they went apart, each to his dunnage kit. VIII Table Stakes There were a dozen business blocks under construction in Mirapolis, with a proportional number of dwellings and suburban villas at various stages in the race toward completion, when it began to dawn upon the collective consciousness of a daily increasing citizenry that something was missing. Garner, the real-estate plunger from Kansas City, first gave the missing quantity its name. The distant thunder of the blasts heralding the approach of the railroad had ceased between two days. There was no panic; there was only the psychoplasmic moment for one. Thus far there had been no waning of the fever of enthusiasm, no slackening of the furious pace in the race for growth, and, in a way, no lack of business. With money plentiful and credit unimpaired, with an army of workmen to spend its weekly wage, and a still larger army of government employees to pour a monthly flood into the strictly limited pool of circulation, traffic throve, and in token thereof the saloons and dance-halls never closed. Up to the period of the silenced dynamite thunderings new industries were projected daily, and investors, tolled in over the high mountain trails or across the Buckskin in dust-encrusted automobiles by methods best known to a gray-mustached adept in the art of promotion, thronged the lobby of the Hotel Metropole and bought and sold Mirapolis "corners" or "insides" on a steadily ascending scale of prices. Not yet had the time arrived for selling before sunset that which had been bought since sunrise. On the contrary, a strange mania for holding on, for permanency, seemed to have become epidemic. Many of the working-men were securing homes on the instalment plan. A good few of the villas could boast parquetry floors and tiled bath-rooms. One coterie of Chicagoans refused an advance of fifty per cent on a quarter square of business earth and the next day decided to build a six-storied office-building, with a ground-floor corner for the Niquoia National Bank, commodious suites for the city offices of the power company, the cement company, the lumber syndicate, and the water company, and an entire floor to be set apart for the government engineers and accountants. And it was quite in harmony with the spirit of the moment that the building should be planned with modern conveniences and that the chosen building material should be nothing less permanent than monolithic concrete. In harmony with the same spirit was the enterprise which cut great gashes across the shoulder of Jack's Mountain in the search for precious metal. Here the newly incorporated Buckskin Gold Mining and Milling Company had discarded the old and slow method of prospecting with pick and shovel, and power-driven machines ploughed deep furrows to bed-rock across and back until the face of the mountain was zigzagged and scarred like a veteran of many battles. In keeping, again, was the energy with which Mr. Cortwright and his municipal colleagues laid water-mains, strung electric wires, drove the paving contractors, and pushed the trolley-line to the stage at which it lacked only the rails and the cars awaiting shipment by the railroad. Under other conditions it is conceivable that an impatient committee of construction would have had the rails freighted in across the desert, would have had the cars taken to pieces and shipped by mule-train express from Quesado. But with the railroad grade already in sight on the bare shoulders of the Hophra Hills and the thunder-blasts playing the presto march of promise the committee could afford to wait. This was the situation on the day when Garner, sharp-eared listener at the keyhole of Opportunity, missing the dynamite rumblings, sent a cipher wire of inquiry to the East, got a "rush" reply, and began warily to unload his Mirapolitan holdings. Being a man of business, he ducked to cover first and talked afterward; but by the time his hint had grown to rumor size Mr. Cortwright had sent for Brouillard. "Pull up a chair and have a cigar," said the great man when Brouillard had penetrated to the nerve-centre of the Mirapolitan activities in the Metropole suite and the two stenographers had been curtly dismissed. "Have you heard the talk of the street? There is a rumor that the railroad grading has been stopped." Brouillard, busy with the work of setting the third series of forms on his great wall, had heard nothing. "I've noticed that they haven't been blasting for two or three days. But that may mean nothing more than a delayed shipment of dynamite," was his rejoinder. "It looks bad--devilish bad." The promoter was planted heavily in his pivot-chair, and the sandy-gray eyes dwindled to pin-points. "Three days ago the blasting stopped, and Garner--you know him, the little Kansas City shark across the street--got busy with the wire. The next thing we knew he was unloading, quietly and without making any fuss about it, but at prices that would have set us afire if he'd had enough stuff in his pack to amount to anything." Brouillard tried to remember that he was the Reclamation Service construction chief, that the pricking of the Mirapolitan bubble early or late concerned him not at all,--tried it and failed. "I am afraid you are right," he said thoughtfully. "We've had a good many applications from men hunting work in the past two days, more than would be accounted for by the usual drift from the railroad camps." "You saw President Ford after I did; what did he say when he was over here?" "He said very little to me," replied Brouillard guardedly. "From that little I gathered that the members of his executive committee were not unanimously in favor of building the Extension." "Well, we are up against it, that's all. Read that," and the promoter handed a telegram across the desk. The wire was from Chicago, was signed "Ackerman," and was still damp from the receiving operator's copying-press. It read: "Work on P. S-W.'s Buckskin Extension has been suspended for the present. Reason assigned, shrinkage in securities and uncertainty of business outlook in Niquoia." Brouillard's first emotion was that of the engineer and the economist. "What a bunch of blanked fools!" he broke out. "They've spent a clean million as it stands, and they are figuring to leave it tied up and idle!" Mr. Cortwright's frown figured as a fleshly mask of irritability. "I'm not losing any sleep over the P. S-W. treasury. It's our own basket of eggs here that I'm worrying about. Let it once get out that the railroad people don't believe in the future of Mirapolis and we're done." Brouillard's retort was the expression of an upflash of sanity. "Mirapolis has no future; it has only an exceedingly precarious present." For a moment the sandy-gray eyes became inscrutable. Then the mask of irritation slid aside, revealing the face which Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright ordinarily presented to his world--the face of imperturbable good nature. "You're right, Brouillard; Mirapolis is only a good joke, after all. Sometimes I get bamfoozled into the idea that it isn't--that it's the real thing. That's bad for the nerves. But about this railroad fizzle; I don't relish the notion of having our little joke sprung on us before we're ready to laugh, do you? What do you think?" Brouillard shook himself as one who casts a burden. "It is not my turn to think, Mr. Cortwright." "Oh, yes, it is; very pointedly. You're one of us, to a certain extent; and if you were not you would still be interested. A smash just now would hamper the Reclamation Service like the mischief; the entire works shut down; no cement, no lumber, no power; everything tied up in the courts until the last creditor quits taking appeals. Oh, no, Brouillard; you don't want to see the end of the world come before it's due." It was the consulting engineer of the power company rather than the Reclamation Service chief who rose and went to the window to look down upon the morning briskness of Chigringo Avenue. And it was the man who saw one hundred thousand dollars, the price of freedom, slipping away from him who turned after a minute or two of the absent street gazing and said: "What do you want me to do, Mr. Cortwright? I did put my shoulder to the wheel when Ford was here. I told him if I were in his place I'd take the long chance and build the Extension." "Did you?--and before you had a stake in the game? That was a white man's boost, right! Have another cigar. They're 'Poodles's Pride,' and they're not half bad when you get used to the near-Havana filler. Think you could manage to get Ford on the wire and encourage him a little more?" "It isn't Ford; it is the New York bankers. You can read that between the lines in your man Ackerman's telegram." The stocky gentleman in the pivot-chair thrust out his jaw and tilted his freshly lighted cigar to the aggressive angle. "Say, Brouillard, we've got to throw a fresh piece of bait into the cage, something that will make the railroad crowd sit up and take notice. By George, if those gold hunters up on Jack's Mountain would only stumble across something big enough to advertise----" Brouillard started as if the wishful musing had been a blow. Like a hot wave from a furnace mouth it swept over him--the sudden realization that the means, the one all-powerful, earth-moving lever the promoter was so anxiously seeking, lay in his hands. "The Buckskin people, yes," he said, making talk as the rifleman digs a pit to hold his own on the firing-line. "If they should happen to uncover a gold reef just now it would simplify matters immensely for Mirapolis, wouldn't it? The railroad would come on, then, without a shadow of doubt. All the bankers in New York couldn't hold it back." Now came Mr. Cortwright's turn to get up and walk the floor, and he took it, tramping solidly back and forth in the clear space behind the table-topped desk. It was not until he had extended the meditative stump-and-go to one of the windows that he stopped short and came out of the inventive trance with a jerk. "Come here," he called curtly, with a quick finger crook for the engineer, and when Brouillard joined him: "Can you size up that little caucus over yonder?" The "caucus" was a knot of excited men blocking the sidewalk in front of Garner's real-estate office on the opposite side of the street. The purpose of the excited ones was not difficult to divine. They were all trying to crowd into the Kansas City man's place of business at once. "It looks like a run on a bank," said Brouillard. "It is," was the crisp reply. "Garner has beaten everybody else to the home plate, but he couldn't keep his mouth shut. He's been talking, and every man in that mob is a potential panic breeder. That thing has got to be nipped in the bud, right now!" "Yes," Brouillard agreed. He was still wrestling with his own besetment--the prompting which involved a deliberate plunge where up to the present crisis he had been merely wading in the shallows. A little thing stung him alive to the imperative call of the moment--the sight of Amy Massingale walking down the street with Tig Smith, the Triangle-Circle foreman. It was of the death of her hopes that he was thinking when he said coolly: "You have sized it up precisely, Mr. Cortwright; that is a panic in the making, and the bubble won't stand for very much pricking. Give me a free hand with your check-book for a few minutes and I'll try to stop it." It spoke volumes for the millionaire promoter's quick discernment and decision that he asked no questions. "Do it," he snapped. "I'll cover you for whatever it takes. Don't wait; that crowd is getting bigger every minute." Brouillard ran down-stairs and across the street. It was no part of his intention to stop and speak to Amy Massingale and the ranchman, but he did it, and even walked a little way with them before he turned back to elbow his way through the sidewalk throng and into Garner's dingy little office. "You are selling Mirapolis holdings short to-day, Garner?" he asked when he had pushed through the crowd to the speculator's desk. And when Garner laughed and said there were no takers he placed his order promptly. "You may bid in for me, at yesterday's prices, anything within the city limits--not options, you understand, but the real thing. Bring your papers over to my office after banking hours and we'll close for whatever you've been able to pick up." He said it quietly, but there could be no privacy at such a time and in such a place. "What's that, Mr. Brouillard?" demanded one in the counter jam. "You're giving Garner a blank card to buy for your account? Say, that's plenty good enough for me. Garner, cancel my order to sell, will you? When the chief engineer of the government water-works believes in Mirapolis futures and bets his money on 'em, I'm not selling." The excitement was already dying down and the crowd was melting away from Garner's sidewalk when Brouillard rejoined Mr. Cortwright in the second-floor room across the street. "Well, it's done," he announced shortly, adding: "It's only a stop-gap. To make the bluff good, you've got to have the railroad." "That's the talk," said the promoter, relighting the cigar which the few minutes of crucial suspense had extinguished. And then, without warning: "You're carrying something up your sleeve, Brouillard. What is it?" "It is the one thing you need, Mr. Cortwright. If I could get my own consent to use it I could bring the railroad here in spite of those New Yorkers who seem to have an attack of cold feet." Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright's hesitation was so brief as to be almost imperceptible. "I suppose that is your way of saying that your share in the table stakes isn't big enough. All right; the game can't stop in the middle of a bet. How much is it going to cost us to stay in?" "The cost isn't precisely in the kind of figures that you understand best, Mr. Cortwright. And as to my share in the profits ... well, we needn't mince matters; you may remember that you were at some considerable pains to ascertain my price before you made the original bid--and the bid was accepted. You've just been given a proof that I'm trying to earn my money. No other man in Mirapolis could have served your turn over there at Garner's as I did a few minutes ago. You know that." "Good Lord, man, I'm not kicking! But we are all in the same boat. If the railroad work doesn't start up again within the next few days we are all due to go to pot. If you've got the odd ace up your sleeve and don't play it, you stand to lose out with the rest of us." The door was open into the anteroom where the stenographers' desks were, and Brouillard was staring gloomily into the farther vacancies. "I wonder if you know how little I care?" he said half musingly. Then, with sudden vehemence: "It is altogether a question of motive with me, Mr. Cortwright; of a motive which you couldn't understand in a thousand years. If that motive prevails, you get your railroad and a little longer lease of life. If it doesn't, Mirapolis will go to the devil some few weeks or months ahead of its schedule--and I'll take my punishment with the remainder of the fools--and the knaves." He was on his feet and moving toward the door of exit when the promoter got his breath. "Here, hold on, Brouillard--for Heaven's sake, don't go off and leave it up in the air that way!" he protested. But the corridor door had opened and closed and Brouillard was gone. Two hours later Mirapolis the frenetic had a new thrill, a shock so electrifying that the rumor of the railroad's halting decision sank into insignificance and was forgotten. The suddenly evoked excitement focussed in a crowd besieging the window of the principal jewelry shop--focussed more definitely upon a square of white paper in the window in the centre of which was displayed a little heap of virgin gold in small nuggets and coarse grains. While the crowds in the street were still struggling and fighting to get near enough to read the labelling placard, the _Daily Spot-Light_ came out with an extra which was all head-lines, the telegraph-wires to the East were buzzing, and the town had gone mad. The gold specimen--so said the placard and the news extra--had been washed from one of the bars in the Niquoia. By three o'clock the madness had culminated in the complete stoppage of all work among the town builders and on the great dam as well, and gold-crazed mobs were frantically digging and panning on every bar in the river from the valley outlet to the power dam five miles away. IX Bedlam It was between two and three o'clock in the afternoon of the day in which Mirapolis went placer mad when word came to the Reclamation-Service headquarters that the power was cut off and that there were no longer men enough at the mixers and on the forms to keep the work going if the power should come on again. Handley, the new fourth assistant, brought the news, dropping heavily into a chair and shoving his hat to the back of his head to mop his seamed and sun-browned face. "Why the devil didn't you fellows turn out?" he demanded savagely of Leshington, Anson, and Grislow, who were lounging in the office and very pointedly waiting for the lightning to strike. "Gassman and I have done everything but commit cold-blooded murder to hold the men on the job. Where's the boss?" Nobody knew, and Grislow, at least, was visibly disturbed at the question. It was Anson who seemed to have the latest information about Brouillard. "He came in about eleven o'clock, rummaged for a minute or two in that drawer you've got your foot on, Grizzy, and then went out again. Anybody seen him since?" There was a silence to answer the query, and the hydrographer righted his chair abruptly and closed the opened drawer he had been utilizing for a foot-rest. He had a long memory for trifles, and at the mention of the drawer a disquieting picture had flashed itself upon the mental screen. There were two figures in the picture, Brouillard and himself, and Brouillard was tossing the little buckskin sack of gold nuggets into the drawer, where it had lain undisturbed ever since--until now. Moreover, Grislow's news of Brouillard, if he had seen fit to publish it, was later than Anson's. At one o'clock, or thereabout, the chief had come into the mapping room for a glance at the letters on his desk. One of the letters--a note in a square envelope--he had thrust into his pocket before going out. "It looks as if the chief had gone with the crowd," said Leshington when the silence had grown almost portentous, "though that wouldn't be like him. Has anybody found out yet who touched off the gold-mounted sky-rocket?" Grislow came out of his brown study with a start. "Levy won't tell who gave him those nuggets to put in his window. I tried him. All he will say is that the man who left the sample is perfectly reliable and that he dictated the exact wording of the placard that did the business." "I saw Harlan, of the _Spot-Light_, half an hour ago," cut in Anson. "He's plumb raving crazy, like everybody else, but there is something faintly resembling method in his madness. He figures it that we government people are out of a job permanently; that with the discovery of these placers--or, rather, with the practically certain rediscovery of them by the mob--Mirapolis will jump to the front rank as a gold camp, and the Reclamation Service will have to call a halt on the Buckskin project." Leshington's long, plain-song face grew wooden. "You say 'practically certain.' The question is: Will they be rediscovered? Bet any of you a box of Poodles's Flor de near Havanas that it's some new kind of a flip-flap invented by J. Wesley and his boomers. What do you say?" "Good Lord!" growled Handley. "They didn't need any new stunts. They had the world by the ear, as it was." "That's all right," returned Leshington; "maybe they didn't. I heard a thing or two over at Bongras's last night that set me guessing. There was a piece of gossip coming up the pike about the railroad pulling out of the game, or, rather, that it had already pulled out." Once more silence fell upon the group in the mapping room, and this time it was Grislow who broke it. "I suppose Harlan is getting ready to exploit the new sensation right?" he suggested, and Anson nodded. "You can trust Harlan for that. He's got the valley wire subsidized, and he is waiting for the first man to come in with the news of the sure thing and the location of it. When he gets the facts he'll touch off the fireworks, and the world will be invited to take a running jump for the new Tonopah." Then, with sudden anxiety: "I wish to goodness Brouillard would turn up and get busy on his job. It's something hideous to be stranded this way in the thick of a storm!" "It's time somebody was getting busy," snarled Handley. "There are a hundred tons of fresh concrete lying in the forms, just as they were dumped--with no puddlers--to say nothing of half as much more freezing to solid rock right now in the mixers and on the telphers." Grislow got up and reached for his coat and hat. "I'm going out to hunt for the boss," he said, "and you fellows had better do the same. If this is one of Cortwright's flip-flaps, and Brouillard happened to be in the way, I wouldn't put it beyond J. Wesley to work some kind of a disappearing racket on the human obstacle." The suggestion was carried out immediately by the three to whom it was made, but for a reason of his own the hydrographer contrived to be the last to leave the mapping room. When he found himself alone he returned hastily to the desk and pulled out the drawer of portents, rummaging in it until he was fully convinced that the little buckskin bag of nuggets was gone. Then, instead of following the others, he took a field-glass from its case on the wall and went to the south window to focus it upon the Massingale cabin, standing out clear-cut and distinct in the afternoon sunlight on its high, shelf-like bench. The powerful glass brought out two figures on the cabin porch, a woman and a man. The woman was standing and the man was sitting on the step. Grislow lowered the glass and slid the telescoping sun tubes home with a snap. "Good God!" he mused, "it's unbelievable! He deliberately turns this thing loose on us down here and then takes an afternoon off to go and make love to a girl! He's crazy; it's the seven-year devil he talks about. And nobody can help him; nobody--unless Amy can. Lord, Lord!" X Epochal At the other extremity of the trajectory of Grislow's telltale field-glass Brouillard was sunning himself luxuriously on the porch step at the Massingale house and making up for lost time--counting all time lost when it spelled absence from the woman he loved. But Miss Massingale was in a charmingly frivolous frame of mind. "That is the fourth different excuse you have invented for cutting me out of your visiting list, not counting the repetitions," she gibed, when he had finally fallen back upon the time demands of his work to account for his late neglect of her. "If I wanted to be hateful I might insist that you haven't given the true reason yet." "Perhaps I will give it before I go," he parried. "But just now I'd much rather talk about something else. Tell me about yourself. What have you been doing all these days when I haven't been able to keep tab on you?" "Flirting--flirting desperately with Tig, with Lord Falkland, with Mr. Anson, and Mr. Grislow, and that nice boy of yours, Herbert Griffith, and with--no, _not_ with Mr. Leshington; he scares me--makes a face like a wooden image and says: 'Little girl, you need a mother--or a husband; I haven't made up my mind which.' When he _does_ make up his mind I'm going to shriek and run away." "Who is Lord Falkland?" demanded Brouillard, ignoring the rank and file. "O-o-h! Haven't you met him? He is Tig's boss. He isn't a real lord; he is only a 'younger son.' But we call him Lord Falkland because he has no sense of humor and is always trying to explain. 'Beg pawdon, my _deah_ Miss Massingale, but I'm _not_ Lord Falkland, don't y' know. The--er--title goes with the--er--entail. I'm only the Honorable Pawcy Grammont Penbawthy Trevawnnion.'" Her mimicry of the Englishman was delicious, and Brouillard laughed like a man without a care in the world. "Where does the Honorable All-the-rest keep himself?" he wished to know. "He stays out at the ranch in the Buckskin with Tig and the range-riders most of the time, I think. It's his ranch, you know, and he is immensely proud of it. He never tires of telling me about the cattle on a thousand hills, or the thousand cattle on one hill, I forget which it is." "And you flirt with this--this alphabetical monstrosity!" he protested reproachfully. "Honestly, Victor, I don't; that was only an amiable little figure of speech. You simply _can't_ flirt with a somebody who is almost as brilliant as a lump of Cornish tin ore and, oh, ever so many times as dense." "Exit Lord Falkland, who isn't Lord Falkland," said Brouillard. "Now tell me about the 'Little Susan'; is the Blue-grass farm looming up comfortably on the eastern edge of things?" In a twinkling her frivolous mood vanished. "Oh, we are prosperous, desperately prosperous. We have power drills, and electric ore-cars, and a crib, and a chute, and a hoist, and an aerial tramway down to the place where the railroad yard is going to be--all the improvements you can see and a lot more that you can't see. And our pay-roll--it fairly frightens me when I make it up on the Saturdays." "I see," he nodded. "All going out and nothing coming in. But the money is all here, safely stacked up in the ore bins. You'll get it all out when the railroad comes." "That is another thing--a thing I haven't dared tell father and Stevie. When I was in Mirapolis this morning I heard that the railroad wasn't coming, after all; or, rather, Tig had heard it and he told me. We were digging for facts when you met us on Chigringo Avenue--trying to find out if the rumor were true." "Did you find out?" he asked. "Not positively. That is why I left the note at your office begging you to come up if you could spare the time. I felt sure you would know." "It means a great deal to you, doesn't it?" he said evasively. "It means everything--a thousand times more now than it did before." His quick glance up into the suddenly sobered eyes of the girl standing on the step above him was a voiceless query and she answered it. "We had no working capital, as I think you must have known. Once a month father or Stevie would make up a few pack-saddle loads of the richest ore and freight them over the mountains to Red Butte. That was how we got along. But when you sent me word by Tig that the railroad company had decided to build the Extension, there was--there was--a chance----" "Yes," he encouraged. "A chance that the day of little things was past and the day of big things was come. Mr. Cortwright and some of his associates had been trying to buy an interest in the 'Little Susan.' Father let them in on some sort of a stock arrangement that I don't understand and then made himself personally responsible for a dreadful lot of borrowed money." "Borrowed of Mr. Cortwright?" queried Brouillard. "No; of the bank. Neither Stevie nor I knew about it until after it was done, and even then father wouldn't explain. He has been like a man out of his mind since Mr. Cortwright got hold of him--everything is rose-colored; we are going to be immensely rich the minute the railroad builds its track to the mine dump. The ore is growing richer every day--which is true--and the railroad will let us into the smelters with train loads of it. He is crazy to build more cribs and put on night shifts of miners. But you see how it all depends upon the railroad." "Not so much upon the railroad now as upon some other things," said Brouillard enigmatically. "You say your father has borrowed of the bank--is Mr. Cortwright mixed up in the loan in any way?" "Yes; he arranged it in some way for father--I don't know just how. All I know is that father is responsible, and that if the railroad doesn't come he will lose everything." Brouillard gave a low whistle. "I don't wonder that the quitting rumor made you nervous." "It was, and is, positively terrifying. Father has taken one of the new houses in town and we are to move down next week in spite of all I can do or say. That means more expense and more temptations. I can't tell you how I hate and dread Mirapolis. It isn't like any other place I have ever known; it is cynical, vicious, wicked!" "It is," he agreed soberly. "It couldn't well be otherwise. You tell a dozen men they've got a certain definite time to live, and the chances are that two or three of them will begin to prepare to get ready to be sorry for their sins. The other nine or ten will speed up and burn the candle right down into the socket. We shall see worse things in Mirapolis before we see better. But I think I can lift one of your burdens. What you heard in town this morning is a fact: the railroad people have stopped work on the Buckskin Extension. Don't faint--they are going to begin again right away." "Oh!" she gasped. "Are you sure? How _can_ you be sure?" "I've given the order," he said gravely. "An order they can't disregard. Let's go back a bit and I'll explain. Do you remember my telling you that your brother had tried to bribe me to use my influence with Mr. Ford?" "As if I should ever be able to forget it!" she protested. "Well, that wasn't all that he did--he threatened me--took me to one of the bars in the Niquoia, and let me prove for myself that it was tolerably rich placer ground. The threat was a curious one. If I'd say the right thing to President Ford, well and good; if not, your brother would disarrange things for the government by giving away the secret of the gold placers. It was ingenious, and effective. To turn the valley into a placer camp would be to disorganize our working force, temporarily at least, and in the end it might even stop or definitely postpone the building of the dam." She was listening eagerly, but there was a nameless fear in the steadfast eyes--a shadow which he either missed or disregarded. "Naturally, I saw, or thought I saw, a good reason why he should hesitate to carry out his threat," Brouillard went on. "The placer find, with whatever profit might be got out of it, was his only so long as he kept the secret. But he covered that point at once; he said that the 'Little Susan'--with the railroad--was worth more to him and to your father than a chance at the placer-diggings. The ore dump with its known values was a sure thing, while the sluice mining was always a gamble." "And you--you believed all this?" she asked faintly. "I was compelled to believe it. He let me pan out the proof for myself; a heaping spoonful of nuggets and grain gold in a few panfuls of the sand. It pretty nearly turned my head, Amy; would have turned it, I'm afraid, if Steve hadn't explained that the bar, as a whole, wouldn't run as rich as the sample." "It is dreadful--dreadful!" she murmured. "You believed him, and for that reason you used your influence with Mr. Ford?" "No." "But you did advise Mr. Ford to build the Extension?" "Yes." "Believing that it was for the best interests of the railroad to come here?" "No; doubting it very much, indeed." "Then why did you do it? I _must_ know; it is my right to know." He got up and took her in his arms, and she suffered him. "A few days ago, little girl, I couldn't have told you. But now I can. I am a free man--or I can be whenever I choose to say the word. You ask me why I pulled for the railroad; I did it for love's sake." She was pushing him away, and the great horror in her eyes was unmistakable now. "Oh!" she panted, "is love a thing to be cheapened like that--to be sinned for?" "Why, Amy, girl! What do you mean? I don't understand----" "That is it, Victor; _you don't understand_. You deliberately sacrificed your convictions; you have admitted it. And you did it in the sacred name of love! And your freedom--how have you made a hundred thousand dollars in these few weeks? Oh, Victor, is it clean money?" He was abashed, confounded; and at the bottom of the tangle of conflicting emotions there was a dull glow of resentment. "The 'sacrifice,' as you call it, was made for you," he said, ignoring her question about the money. "I merely told Mr. Ford what I should do if the decision lay wholly with me. That is what he asked for--my personal opinion. And he got it." "Yes; but when you gave it ... did you say: 'Mr. Ford, there is a girl up at the "Little Susan" mine on Chigringo Mountain who needs your railroad to help her out of her troubles. Because I love the girl'----" "Of course I didn't say any such suicidal thing as that! But it is too late to raise the question of culpability in the matter of giving Ford what he asked for. I did it, as I say--for love of you, Amy; and now I have done a much more serious thing--for the same good reason." "Tell me," she said, with a quick catching of her breath. "Your brother put a weapon in my hands, and I have used it. There was one sure way to make the railroad people get busy again. They couldn't sit still if all the world were trying to get to a new gold camp, to which they already have a line graded and nearly ready for the steel." "And you have----?" He nodded. "I had Levy put the spoonful of nuggets in his window, with a placard stating that it was taken out of a bar in the Niquoia. When I left the office to come up here the whole town was blocking the street in front of Levy's." She had retreated to take her former position, leaning against the porch post, with her hands behind her, and she had grown suddenly calm. "You did this deliberately, Victor, weighing all the consequences? Mirapolis is already a city of frenzied knaves and dupes; did you realize that you were taking the chance of turning it into a wicked pandemonium? Oh, I can't believe you did!" "Don't look at me that way, Amy," he pleaded. Then he went on, with curious little pauses between the words: "Perhaps I didn't think--didn't care; you wanted something--and I wanted to give it to you. That was all--as God hears me, it was all. There was another thing that might have weighed, but I didn't let it weigh; I stood to lose the money that will set me free--I could have lost it without wincing--I told Cortwright so. You believe that, Amy? It will break my heart if you don't believe it." She shook her head sadly. "You have thrown down another of the ideals, and this time it was mine. You don't understand, and I can't make you understand--that is the keen misery of it. If this ruthless thing you tried to do had succeeded, I should be the most wretched woman in the world." "If it had succeeded? It has succeeded. Didn't I say just now that the town was crazy with excitement when I left to come up here?" The girl was shaking her head again. "God sometimes saves us in spite of ourselves," she said gravely. "The excitement will die out. There are no placers in the Niquoia. The bars have been prospected again and again." "They have been?----" Brouillard turned on his heel and choked back the sudden malediction that rose to his lips. She had called Mirapolis a city of knaves and dupes; surely, he himself was the simplest of the dupes. "I see--after so long a time," he went on. "Your brother merely 'salted' a few shovelfuls of sand for my especial benefit. Great Heavens, but I was an easy mark!" "Don't!" she cried, and the tears in her voice cut him to the heart--"don't make it harder for me than it has to be. I have told you only what I've heard my father say, time and again: that there is no gold in the Niquoia River. And you mustn't ask me to despise my brother. He fights his way to his ends without caring much for the consequences to others; but tell me--haven't you been doing the same thing?" "I have," he confessed stubbornly. "My love isn't measured by a fear of consequences--to myself or others." "That is the hopeless part of it," she returned drearily. "Yet you condone in your brother what you condemn in me," he complained. "My brother is my brother; and you are--Let me tell you something, Victor: God helping me, I shall be no man's evil genius, and yours least of all. You broke down the barriers a few minutes ago and you know what is in my heart. But I can take it out of my heart if the man who put it there is not true to himself." Brouillard was silent for a little space, and when he spoke again it was as one awaking from a troubled dream. "I know what you would do and say; you would take me by the hand and tell me to come up higher.... There was a time, Amy, when you wouldn't have had to say it twice--a time when the best there was in me would have leaped to climb to any height you pointed to. The time is past, and I can't recall it, try as I may; there is a change; it goes back to that day when I first saw you--down at the lower ford in the desert's edge. I loved you then, though I wouldn't admit it even to myself. But that wasn't the change; it was something different. Do you believe in Freiborg's theory of the multiple personality? I saw his book in your hammock one day when I was up here." "No," she said quite definitely. "I am I, and I am always I. For the purposes of the comedy we call life, we play many parts, perhaps; but back of the part-playing there is always the same soul person, I think--and believe." "I know; that is common sense and sanity. And yet Freiborg's speculations are most plausible. He merely carries the idea of the dual personality--the Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde notion--a step farther along. You may remember how he compares the human being to a ship changing commanders at every port. One captain makes her a merchantman; another makes her a tramp; a third turns her into a slaver or a pirate; under a fourth she becomes a derelict." "That is a terribly dangerous theory, if you take it seriously," was her comment. "I don't want to take it seriously. But facts are stubborn things. I am not the same man I was a few years or even a few months ago. I have lost something; I have not the same promptings; things that I used to loathe no longer shock me. New and unsuspected pitfalls open for me every day. For example, I am not naturally hot-headed--or rather, I should say, I am quick-tempered but have always been able to control myself. Yet in the past few months I have learned what it means to fly into a rage that fairly makes me see red. And there is no cause. Nothing different has broken into my life save the best of all things--a great love. And you tell me that the love is unworthy." "No, I didn't say that; I only meant that you had misconceived it. Love is the truest, finest thing we know. It can never be the tool of evil, much less the hand that guides the tool. Given a free field, it always makes for the wider horizons, the higher planes of thought and action; it may even breathe new life into the benumbed conscience. I don't say that it can't be dragged down and trampled in the dust and the mire; it can be, and then there is nothing more pitiful in a world of misconceptions." Again a silence came and sat between them; and, as before, it was the man who broke it. "You lead me to a conclusion that I refuse to accept, Amy; that I am dominated by some influence which is stronger than love." "You are," she said simply. "What is it?" "Environment." "That is the most humiliating thing you have said to-day. Is a man a mere bit of driftwood, to be tossed about in the froth of any wave that happens to come along, as Freiborg says he is?" "Not always; perhaps not often. And never, I think, in the best part of him--the soul ego. Yet there is a mighty power in the wave, in the mere drift. However much others may be deluded, I am sure you can see Mirapolis in its true light. It is frankly, baldly, the money-making scheme of a few unscrupulous men. It has no future--it can have none. And because it is what it is, the very air you breathe down there is poisoned. The taint is in the blood. Mr. Cortwright and his fellow bandits call it the 'Miracle City,' but the poor wretches on lower Chigringo Avenue laugh and call it Gomorrah." "Just at the present moment it is a city of fools--and I, the king of the fools, have made it so," said Brouillard gloomily. From his seat on the porch step he was frowning down upon the outspread scene in the valley, where the triangular shadow of Jack's Mountain was creeping slowly across to the foot of Chigringo. Something in the measured eye-sweep brought him to his feet with a hasty exclamation: "Good Lord! the machinery has stopped! They've knocked off work on the dam!" "Why not?" she said. "Did you imagine that your workmen were any less human than other people?" "No, of course not; that is, I--but I haven't any time to go into that now. Is your telephone line up here in operation?" "No, not yet." "Then I must burn the wind getting down there. By Jove! if those unspeakable idiots have gone off and left the concrete to freeze wherever it happens to be----" "One moment," she pleaded, while he was reaching for his hat. "This new madness will have spent itself by nightfall--it must. And yet I have the queerest shivery feeling, as if something dreadful were going to happen. Can't you contrive to get word to me, some way--after it is all over? I wish you could." "I'll do it," he promised. "I'll come up after supper." "No, don't do that. You will be needed at the dam. There will be trouble, with a town full of disappointed gold-hunters, and liquor to be had. Wait a minute." She ran into the house and came out with two little paper-covered cylinders with fuses projecting. "Take these, they are Bengal lights--some of the fireworks that Tig bought in Red Butte for the Fourth. Light the blue one when you are ready to send me my message of cheer. I shall be watching for it." "And the other?" he asked. "It is a red light, the signal of war and tumults and danger. If you light it, I shall know----" He nodded, dropped the paper cylinders into his pocket, and a moment later was racing down the trail to take his place at the helm of the abandoned ship of the industries. There was need for a commander; for a cool head to bring order out of chaos, and for the rare faculty which is able to accomplish Herculean tasks with whatever means lie at hand. Brouillard descended upon his disheartened subordinates like a whirlwind of invincible energy, electrifying everybody into instant action. Gassman was told off to bring the Indians, who alone were loyally indifferent to the gold craze, down from the crushers. Anson was despatched to impress the waiters and bell-boys from the Metropole; Leshington was sent to the shops and the bank to turn out the clerks; Grislow and Handley were ordered to take charge of the makeshift concrete handlers as fast as they materialized, squadding them and driving the work of wreck clearing for every man and minute they could command, with Gassman and Bender to act as foremen. For himself, Brouillard reserved the most hazardous of the recruiting expedients. The lower Avenue had already become a double rank of dives, saloons, and gambling dens; here, if anywhere in the craze-depopulated town, men might be found, and for once in their lives they should be shown how other men earned money. "Shove it for every minute of daylight there is left," he ordered, snapping out his commands to his staff while he was filling the magazine of his Winchester. "Puddle what material there is in the forms, dump the telpher buckets where they stand, and clean out the mixers; that's the size of the job, and it's got to be done. Jump to it, Grizzy, you and Handley, and we'll try to fill your gangs the best way we can. Leshington, don't you take any refusal from the shopkeepers and the bank people; if they kick, you tell them that not another dollar of government money will be spent in this town--we'll run a free commissary first. Anson, you make Bongras turn out every man in his feeding place; he'll do it. Griffith, you chase Mr. Cortwright, and don't quit till you find him. Tell him from me that we've got to have every man he can give us, at whatever cost." "You'll be up on the stagings yourself, won't you?" asked Grislow, struggling into his working-coat. "After a bit. I'm going down to the lower Avenue to turn out the crooks and diamond wearers. It's time they were learning how to earn an honest dollar." "You'll get yourself killed up," grumbled Leshington. "Work is the one thing you won't get out of that crowd." "Watch me," rasped the chief, and he was gone as soon as he had said it. Strange things and strenuous happened in the lower end of the Niquoia valley during the few hours of daylight that remained. First, climbing nervously to the puddlers' staging on the great dam, and led by near-Napoleon Poodles himself, came the Metropole quota of waiters, scullions, cooks, and porters, willing but skilless. After them, and herded by Leshington, came a dapper crew of office men and clerks to snatch up the puddling spades and to soil their clothes and blister their hands in emptying the concrete buckets. Mr. Cortwright's contribution came as a dropping fire; a handful of tree-cutters from the sawmills, a few men picked up here and there in the deserted town, an automobile load of power-company employees shot down from the generating plant at racing speed. Last, but by no means least in numbers, came the human derelicts from the lower Avenue; men in frock-coats; men in cow-boy jeans taking it as a huge joke; men with foreign faces and lowering brows and with strange oaths in their mouths; and behind the motley throng and marshalling it to a quickstep, Brouillard and Tig Smith. It was hot work and heavy for the strangely assorted crew, and Brouillard drove it to the limit, bribing, cajoling, or threatening, patrolling the long line of staging to encourage the awkward puddlers, or side-stepping swiftly to the mixers to bring back a detachment of skulkers at the rifle's muzzle. And by nightfall the thing was done, with the loss reduced to a minimum and the makeshift laborers dropping out in squads and groups, some laughing, some swearing, and all too weary and toil-worn to be dangerous. "Give us a job if we come back to-morrow, Mr. Brouillard?" called out the king of the gamblers in passing; and the cry was taken up by others in grim jest. "Thus endeth the first lesson," said Grislow, when the engineering corps was reassembling at the headquarters preparatory to a descent upon the supper-table. But Brouillard was dumb and haggard, and when he had hung rifle and cartridge-belt on their pegs behind his desk, he went out, leaving unbroken the silence which had greeted his entrance. "The boss is taking it pretty hard," said young Griffith to no one in particular, and it was Leshington who took him up savagely and invited him to hold his tongue. "The least said is the soonest mended--at a funeral," was the form the first assistant's rebuke took. "You take my advice and don't mess or meddle with the chief until he's had time to work this thing out of his system." Brouillard was working it out in his own way, tramping the streets, hanging on the outskirts of arguing groups of newsmongers, or listening to the bonanza talk of the loungers in the Metropole lobby. Soon after dark the gold-seekers began to drop in, by twos and threes and in squads, all with the same story of disappointment. By nine o'clock the town was full of them, and since the liquor was flowing freely across many bars, the mutterings of disappointment soon swelled to a thunder roar of drunken rage, with the unknown exhibitor of the specimen nuggets for its object. From threats of vengeance upon the man who had hoaxed an entire town to a frenzied search for the man was but a step, and when Brouillard finally left the Metropole and crossed over to his office quarters, the mob was hunting riotously for the jeweller Levy and promising to hang him--when found--to the nearest wire pole if he should not confess the name and standing of his gold-bug. The shouts of the mob were ringing in Brouillard's ears when he strode dejectedly into the deserted map room, and the cries were rising with a new note and in fresher frenzies a little later when Grislow came in. The hydrographer's blue eyes were hard and his voice had a tang of bitterness in it when he said: "Well, you've done it. Three men have just come in with a double handful of nuggets, and Mirapolis makes its bow to the world at large as the newest and richest of the gold camps." Brouillard had been humped over his desk, and he sprang up with a cry like that of a wounded animal. "It can't be; Grizzy, I tell you it can't be! Steve Massingale planted that gold that I washed out--played me for a fool to get me to work for the railroad. I didn't know it until--until----" "Until Amy Massingale told you about it this afternoon," cut in the map-maker shrewdly. "That's all right. The bar Steve took you to was barren enough; they tell me that every cubic foot of it has been washed over in dish pans and skillets in the past few hours. But you know the big bend opposite the Quadjenàï Hills; the river has built that bend out of its own washings, and the bulletin over at the _Spot-Light_ office says that the entire peninsula is one huge bank of gold-bearing gravel." At the word Brouillard staggered as from the impact of a bullet. Then he crossed the room slowly, groping his way toward the peg where the coat he had worn in the afternoon was hanging. Grislow saw him take something out of the pocket of the coat, and the next moment the door opened and closed and the hydrographer was left alone. Having been planned before there was a city to be considered, the government buildings enclosed three sides of a small open square, facing toward the great dam. In the middle of this open space Brouillard stopped, kicked up a little mound of earth, and stood the two paper cylinders on it, side by side. The tempered glow from the city electrics made a soft twilight in the little plaza; he could see the wrapper colors of the two signal-fires quite well. A sharp attack of indecision had prompted him to place both of them on the tiny mound. With the match in his hand, he was still undecided. Amy Massingale's words came back to him as he hesitated: "Light the blue one when you are ready to send me my message of cheer...." On the lips of another woman the words might have taken a materialistic meaning; the miraculous gold discovery would bring the railroad, and the railroad would rescue the Massingale mine and restore the Massingale fortunes. He looked up at the dark bulk of Chigringo, unrelieved even by the tiny fleck of lamplight which he had so often called his guiding star. "Take me out of your mind and heart and say which you will have, little girl," he whispered, sending the words out into the void of night. But only the din and clamor of a city gone wild with enthusiasm came to answer him. Somewhere on the Avenue a band was playing; men were shouting themselves hoarse in excitement, and above the shouting came the staccato crackling of pistols and guns fired in air. He struck the match and stooped over the blue cylinder. "This is your message of cheer, whether you take it that way or not," he went on, whispering again to the silent void. But when the fuse of the blue light was fairly fizzing, he suddenly pinched it out and held the match to the other. * * * * * Up on the high bench of the great mountain Amy Massingale was pacing to and fro on the puncheon-floored porch of the home cabin. Her father had gone to bed, and somewhere down among the electric lights starring the valley her brother was mingling with the excited mobs whose shoutings and gun-firings floated up, distance-softened, on the still, thin air of the summer night. Though there was no pause in the monotonous pacing back and forth, the girl's gaze never wandered far from a dark area in the western edge of the town--the semicircle cut into the dotting lights and marking the site of the government reservation. It was when a tiny stream of sparks shot up in the centre of the dark area that she stopped and held her breath. Then, when a blinding flare followed to prick out the headquarters, the commissary, and the mess house, she sank in a despairing little heap on the floor, with her face hidden in her hands and the quick sobs shaking her like an ague chill. It was Brouillard's signal, but it was not the signal of peace; it was the blood-red token of revolution and strife and turmoil. XI The Feast of Hurrahs Mirapolis the marvellous was a hustling, roaring, wide-open mining-camp of twenty thousand souls by the time the railroad, straining every nerve and crowding three shifts into the twenty-four-hour day, pushed its rails along the foot-hill bench of Chigringo, tossed up its temporary station buildings, and signalled its opening for business by running a mammoth excursion from the cities of the immediate East. Busy as it was, the city took time to celebrate fittingly the event which linked it to the outer world. By proclamation Mayor Cortwright declared a holiday. There were lavish displays of bunting, an impromptu trades parade, speeches from the plaza band-stand, free lunches and free liquor--a day of boisterous, hilarious triumphings, with, incidentally, much buying and selling and many transfers of the precious "front foot" or choice "corner." Yielding to pressure, which was no less imperative from below than from above, Brouillard had consented to suspend work on the great dam during the day of triumphs, and the Reclamation-Service force, smaller now than at any time since the beginning of the undertaking, went to swell the crowds in Chigringo Avenue. Of the engineering staff Grislow alone held aloof. Early in the morning he trudged away with rod and trout-basket for the upper waters of the Niquoia and was seen no more. But the other members of the staff, following the example set by the chief, took part in the hilarities, serving on committees, conducting crowds of sightseers through the government reservation and up to the mixers and stagings, and otherwise identifying themselves so closely with the civic celebration as to give the impression, often commented upon by the visitors, that the building of the great dam figured only as another expression of the Mirapolitan activities. For himself, Brouillard vaguely envied Grislow the solitudes of the upper Niquoia. But Mr. Cortwright had been inexorable. It was right and fitting that the chief executive of the Reclamation Service should have a part in the rejoicings, and Brouillard found himself discomfortingly emphasized as chairman of the civic reception committee. Expostulation was useless. Mr. Cortwright insisted genially, and Miss Genevieve added her word. And there had been only Grislow to smile cynically when the printed programmes appeared with the chief of the Buckskin reclamation project down for an address on "Modern City Building." It was after his part of the speechmaking, and while the plaza crowds were still bellowing their approval of the modest forensic effort, that he went to sit beside Miss Cortwright in the temporary grand-stand, mopping his face and otherwise exhibiting the after effects of the unfamiliar strain. "I didn't know you could be so convincing," was Miss Genevieve's comment. "It was splendid! Nobody will ever believe that you are going to go on building your dam and threatening to drown us, after this." "What did I say?" queried Brouillard, having, at the moment, only the haziest possible idea of what he had said. "As if you didn't know!" she laughed. "You congratulated everybody: us Mirapolitans upon our near-city, the miners on their gold output, the manufacturers on their display in the parade, the railroad on its energy and progressive spirit, and the visitors on their perspicuity and good sense in coming to see the latest of the seven wonders of the modern world. And the funny thing about it is that you didn't say a single word about the Niquoia dam." "Didn't I? That shows how completely your father has converted me, how helplessly I am carried along on the torrent of events." "But you are not," she said accusingly. "Deep down in your inner consciousness you don't believe a little bit in Mirapolis. You are only playing the game with the rest of us, Mr. Brouillard. Sometimes I am puzzled to know why." Brouillard's smile was rather grim. "Your father would probably tell you that I have a stake in the game--as everybody else has." "Not Mr. Grislow?" she said, laying her finger inerrantly upon the single exception. "No, not Grizzy; I forgot him." "Doesn't he want to make money?" she asked, with exactly the proper shade of disinterest. "No; yes, I guess he does, too. But he is--er--well, I suppose you might call him a man of one idea." "Meaning that he is too uncompromisingly honest to be one of us? I think you are right." Gorman, Mr. Cortwright's ablest trumpeter in the real-estate booming, was holding the plaza crowd spellbound with his enthusiastic periods, rising upon his toes and lifting his hands in angel gestures to high heaven in confirmation of his prophetic outlining of the Mirapolitan future. In the middle distance, and backgrounding the buildings on the opposite side of the plaza, rose the false work of the great dam--a standing forest of sawed timbers, whose afternoon shadows were already pointing like a many-fingered fate toward the city of the plain. But, though the face of the speaker was toward the shadowing forest, his words ignored it. "The snow-capped Timanyonis," "the mighty Chigringo," and "the golden-veined slopes of Jack's Mountain" all came in for eulogistic mention; but the massive wall of concrete, with its bristling parapet of timbers, had no part in the orator's flamboyant descriptive. Brouillard broke the spell of the grandiloquent rantings, and came back to what Miss Genevieve was saying. "Yes, Murray is stubbornly honest," he agreed; adding: "He is too good for this world, or rather for this little cross-section of Pandemonium named Mirapolis." "Which, inasmuch as we are making Mirapolis what it is, is more than can be said for most of us," laughed Miss Cortwright. Then, with a purposeful changing of the subject: "Where is Miss Massingale? As the original 'daughter of the Niquoia' she ought to have a place on the band-stand." "She was with Tig Smith and Lord Falkland when the parade formed," rejoined the engineer. "I saw them on the balcony of the Metropole." "Since you are the chairman of the reception committee, I think you ought to go and find her," said Miss Genevieve pointedly, so pointedly that Brouillard rose laughing and said: "Thank you for telling me; whom shall I send to take my place here?" "Oh, anybody--Lord Falkland will do. By the way, did you know that he _is_ Lord Falkland now? His elder brother died a few weeks ago." "No, I hadn't heard it. I should think he would want to go home." "He does. But he, too, has contracted Mirapolitis. He has been investing any number of pounds sterling. If you find him send him to me. I want to see how the real, simon-pure American brand of oratory affects a British title." Brouillard went, not altogether unwillingly. Loving Amy Massingale with a passion which, however blind it might be on the side of the higher moralities, was still keen-sighted enough to assure him that every plunge he made in the Mirapolitan whirlpool was sweeping him farther away from her; he found himself drifting irresistibly into the inner circle of attraction of which Genevieve Cortwright was the centre. Whether Miss Cortwright's influence was for good or for evil, in his own case, or was entirely disinterested, he could never quite determine. There were times, like this present instant of blatant rejoicings, when she was brightly cynical, flinging a mocking jest at all things Mirapolitan. But at other times he had a haunting conviction that she was at heart her father's open-eyed ally and abettor, taking up as she might the burden of filial loyalty thrown down by her brother Van Bruce, who, in his short summer of Mirapolitan citizenship, had been illustrating all the various methods by which a spoiled son of fortune may go to the dogs. Brouillard faced the impossible brother and the almost equally impossible father when he thought of Genevieve Cortwright. But latterly the barriers on that side had been crumbling more and more. Once, and once only, had he mentioned the trusteeship debt to Genevieve, and on that occasion she had laughed lightly at what she had called his strained sense of honor. The laugh had come at a critical moment. It was in the height of the madness following the discovery of the placers, in an hour when Brouillard would have given his right hand to undo the love-prompted disloyalty to his service, that Cortwright, whose finger was on everybody's pulse, had offered to buy in the thousand shares of power company's stock at par. Brouillard had seen freedom in a stroke of the millionaire's pen; but it was a distinct downward step that by this time he was coming to look upon the payment of his father's honor debt as a hard necessity. He meant to pay it, but there was room for the grim determination that the payment should forever sever him from the handicapped past. He had transferred the stock, minus a single share to cover his official standing on the power company's board, to Cortwright and had received the millionaire's check in payment. It was in the evening of the same eventful day, he remembered, that Genevieve Cortwright had laughed, and the letter, which was already written to the treasurer of a certain Indianapolis trust company, was not mailed. Instead of mailing it he had opened an account at the Niquoia National, and the ninety-nine thousand nine hundred dollars had since grown by speculative accretions to the rounded first eighth of a million which all financiers agree in calling the stepping-stone to fortune. He had regarded this money--was still regarding it--as a loan; his lever with which to pry out something which he could really call his own. But more and more possession and use were dulling the keen edge of accountability and there were moments of insight when the grim irony of taking the price of honor to pay an honor debt forced itself upon him. At such moments he plunged more recklessly, in one of them taking stock in a gold-dredge company which was to wash nuggets by the wholesale out of the Quadjenàï bend, in another buying yet other options in the newest suburb of Mirapolis. What was to come of all this he would not suffer himself to inquire; but two results were thrusting themselves into the foreground. Every added step in the way he had chosen was taking him farther from the ideals of an ennobling love and nearer to a possibility which precluded all ideals. Notwithstanding Grislow's characterization of her as a trophy hunter, Genevieve Cortwright was, after all, a woman, and as a woman she was to be won. With the naïve conceit of a man who has broken into the heart of one woman, Brouillard admitted no insurmountable obstacles other than those which the hard condition of being himself madly in love with another woman might interpose; and there were times when, to the least worthy part of him, the possibility was alluring. Miss Cortwright's distinctive beauty, her keen and ready wit, the assurance that she would never press the ideals beyond the purely conventional limits; in the course of time these might happily smother the masterful passion which had thus far been only a blind force driving him to do evil that good might ensue. Some such duel of motives was fighting itself to an indecisive conclusion in the young engineer's thoughts when he plunged into the sidewalk throngs in search of the Englishman, and it was not until after he had found Falkland and had delivered Miss Genevieve's summons that the duel paused and immediate and more disquieting impressions began to record themselves. With the waning of the day of celebrations the temper of the street throngs was changing. It is only the people of the Latinized cities who can take the carnival spirit lightly; in other blood liberty grows to license and the thin veneer of civilized restraints quickly disappears. From early dawn the saloons and dives had been adding fuel to the flames, and light-heartedness and good-natured horse-play were giving way to sardonic humor and brutality. In the short faring through the crowded street from the plaza to the Metropole corner Brouillard saw and heard things to make his blood boil. Women, those who were not a part of the unrestrained mob, were disappearing from the streets, and it was well for them if they could find shelter near at hand. Twice before he reached Bongras's café entrance the engineer shouldered his way to the rescue of some badgered nucleus of excursionists, and in each instance there were frightened women to be hurriedly spirited away to the nearest place of seclusion and safety. It was in front of Bongras's that Brouillard came upon the Reverend Hugh Castner, the hot-hearted young zealot who had been flung into Mirapolis on the crest of the tidal wave of mining excitement. Though Hosford--who had not been effaced, as Mr. Cortwright had promised he should be--and the men of his clique called the young missionary a meddlesome visionary, he stood in the stature of a man, and lower Chigringo Avenue loved him and swore by him; and sent for him now and then when some poor soul, hastily summoned, was to be eased off into eternity. When Brouillard caught sight of him Castner was looking out over the seething street caldron from his commanding height of six feet of athletic man stature, his strong face a mask of bitter humiliation and concern. "Brouillard, this is simply hideous!" he exclaimed. "If this devils' carnival goes on until nightfall we shall have a revival of the old Roman Saturnalia at its worst!" Then, with a swift blow at the heart of the matter: "You're the man I've been wanting to see; you are pretty close in with the Cortwright junta--is it true that free whiskey has been dealt out to the crowd over the bar in the Niquoia Building?" Brouillard said that he did not know, which was true, and that he could not believe it possible, which was not true. "The Cortwright people are as anxious to have the celebration pass off peaceably as even you can be," he assured the young missionary, trying to buttress the thing which was not true. "When riot comes in at the door, business flies out at the window; and, after all, this feast of hurrahs is merely another bid for business." But Castner was shaking his head. "I can't answer for Mr. Cortwright personally. He and Handley and Schermerhorn and a few of the others seem to stand for respectability of a sort. But, Mr. Brouillard, I want to tell you this: somebody in authority is grafting upon the vice of this community, not only to-day but all the time." "The community is certainly vicious enough to warrant any charge you can make," admitted Brouillard. Then he changed the topic abruptly. "Have you seen Miss Massingale since noon?" "Yes; I saw her with Smith, the cattleman, at the other end of the Avenue about an hour ago." "Heavens!" gritted the engineer. "Didn't Smith know better than to take her down there at such a time as this?" The young missionary was frowning thoughtfully. "I think it was the other way about. Her brother has been drinking again, and I took it for granted that she and Smith were looking for him." Brouillard buttoned his coat and pulled his soft hat over his eyes. "I'm going to look for her," he said. "Will you come along?" Castner nodded, and together they put their shoulders to the crowd. The slow progress northward was nearly a battle. The excursion trains returning to Red Butte and Brewster were scheduled to leave early, and the stream of blatant, uproarious humanity was setting strongly toward the temporary railroad station. Again and again the engineer and his companion had to intervene by word and blow to protect the helpless in the half-drunken, gibe-flinging crush, and in these sallies Castner bore his part like a man, expostulating first and hitting out afterward in a fashion that left no doubt in the mind of his antagonist of the moment. So, struggling, they came finally to the open square of the plaza. Here the speechmaking was concluded and the crowd was thinning a little. There was a clamorous demonstration of some sort going on around the band-stand, but they left it behind and pushed on into the less noisy but more dangerous region of the lower Avenue. In one of the saloons, as they passed, a sudden crackling of pistol-shots began, and a mob of terrorized Reclamation-Service workmen poured into the street, sweeping all obstacles before it in a mad rush for safety. "It was little less than a crime to turn your laborers loose on the town on such an occasion as this," said Castner, dealing out his words as frankly and openly as he did his blows. Brouillard shrugged. "If I hadn't given them the day they would have taken it without leave. You'll have to pass the responsibility on to some one higher up." The militant one accepted the challenge promptly. "It lies ultimately at the door of those whose insatiate greed has built this new Gomorrah in the shadow of your dam." He wheeled suddenly and flung a long arm toward the half-finished structure filling the gap between the western shoulders of Chigringo and Jack's Mountain. "There stands the proof of God's wisdom in hiding the future from mankind, Mr. Brouillard. Because a little section of humanity here behind that great wall knows the end of its hopes, and the manner and time of that end, it becomes demon-ridden, irreclaimable!" At another time the engineer might have felt the force of the tersely eloquent summing up of the accusation against the Mirapolitan attitude. But now he was looking anxiously for Amy Massingale or her escort, or both of them. "Surely Smith wouldn't let her stay down here a minute longer than it took to get her away," he said impatiently as a pair of drunken Cornishmen reeled out of Haley's Place and usurped the sidewalk. "Where was it you saw them, Castner?" "They were in front of 'Pegleg John's', in the next block. Miss Massingale was waiting for Smith, who was just coming out of Pegleg's den shaking his head. I put two and two together and guessed they were looking for Stephen." "If they went there Miss Amy had her reasons. Let's try it," said Brouillard, and he was half-way across the street when Castner overtook him. There was a dance-hall next door to Pegleg John's barrel-house and gambling rooms, and, though the daylight was still strong enough to make the electrics garishly unnecessary, the orgy was in full swing, the raucous clanging of a piano and the shuffle and stamp of many feet drowning the monotonous cries of the sidewalk "barker," who was inviting all and sundry to enter and join the dancers. Castner would have stopped to question the "barker"--was, in fact, trying to make himself heard--when the sharp crash of a pistol-shot dominated the clamor of the piano and the stamping feet. Brouillard made a quick dash for the open door of the neighboring barrel-house, and Castner was so good a second that they burst in as one man. The dingy interior of Pegleg John's, which was merely a barrel-lined vestibule leading to the gambling rooms beyond, staged a tragedy. A handsome young giant, out of whose face sudden agony had driven the brooding passion of intoxication, lay, loose-flung, on the sawdust-covered floor, with Amy Massingale kneeling in stricken, tearless misery beside him. Almost within arm's-reach Van Bruce Cortwright, the slayer, was wrestling stubbornly with Tig Smith and the fat-armed barkeeper, who were trying to disarm him, his heavy face a mask of irresponsible rage and his lips bubbling imprecations. "Turn me loose," he gritted. "I'll fix him so he won't give the governor's snap away! He'll pipe the story of the Coronida Grant off to the papers?--not if I kill him till he's too dead to bury, I guess." Castner ignored the wrestling three and dropped quickly on his knees beside Stephen Massingale, bracing the misery-stricken girl with the needed word of hope and directing her in low tones how to help him search for the wound. But Brouillard hurled himself with an oath upon young Cortwright, and it was he, and neither the cattleman nor the fat-armed barkeeper, who wrenched the weapon out of Cortwright's grasp and with it menaced the babbling murderer into silence. XII Quicksands A short week after the Reclamation Service headquarters had been moved from the log-built offices on the government reservation to the commodious and airy suite on the sixth floor of the Niquoia Building Brouillard received the summons which he had been expecting ever since the night of rioting and lawlessness which had marked the close of the railroad celebration. "Mr. Cortwright would like to see you in his rooms at the Metropole," was the message the office boy brought, and Brouillard closed his desk with a snap and followed the boy to Bongras's. The shrewd-eyed tyrant of Mirapolis was in his shirt-sleeves, busily dictating to two stenographers alternately, when the engineer entered the third room of the series; but the work was suspended and the stenographers were sent away as soon as Brouillard was announced. "Well," was the millionaire's greeting, "you waited to be sent for, didn't you?" "Why not?" said Brouillard shortly. "I have my work to do and you have yours." "And the two jobs are at opposite ends of the string, you'd say. Never mind; we can't afford to throw each other down, and just now you can tell me a few things that I want to know. How is young Massingale getting along?" "As well as could be expected. Carruthers--the doctor--says he is out of danger." "H'm. It has been handed in to me two or three times lately that the old man is out gunning for Van Bruce or for me. Any truth in that?" "I think not. Massingale is a Kentuckian, and I fancy he is quite capable of potting either one or both of you for the attack on his son. But so far he has done nothing--has hardly left Steve's bedside." Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright flung himself back in his luxurious swing chair and clasped his pudgy hands over the top of his head where the reddish-gray hair was thinning reluctantly. "I've been putting it off to see which way the cat was going to jump," he admitted. "If young Massingale is out of danger, it is time to get action. What was the quarrel about, between him and Van Bruce?" "Why do you ask me?" queried Brouillard. "Because you are pretty thick with the Massingales, and you probably know," was the blunt accounting for the question. "It occurs to me that your son would be a better source of information," said Brouillard, still evading. "Van Bruce has told me all he remembers--which isn't much, owing to his own beastly condition at the time. He says young Massingale was threatening something--something in connection with the Coronida Grant--and that he got the insane idea into his head that the only way to stop the threat was by killing Massingale." The sandy-gray eyes of the millionaire promoter were shifting while he spoke, but Brouillard fixed and held them before he said: "Why should Massingale threaten your son, Mr. Cortwright?" "I don't know," denied the promoter, and he said it without flinching a hair's-breadth. "Then I can tell you," was the equally steady rejoinder. "Some time ago you lent David Massingale, through the bank, a pretty large sum of money for development expenses on the 'Little Susan,' taking a mortgage on everything in sight to cover the loan." "I did." "Massingale's obligation was in short-time, bankable paper, which he expected to take up when the railroad should come in and give him a market for the ore which he has already taken out of the mine." "Yes." "But when the railroad was an assured fact he learned that the Red Butte smelters wouldn't take his ore, giving some technical reason which he knew to be a mere excuse." Mr. Cortwright nodded. "So far you might be reading it out of a book." "In consequence of these successive happenings, David Massingale finds himself in a fair way to become a broken man by the simplest of commercial processes. The bank holds his notes, which will presently have to be paid. If he can't pay, the bank comes back on you as his indorser, and you fall back on your mortgage and take the mine. Isn't that about the size of it?" "It is exactly the size of it." Brouillard laughed quietly. "And yet you said a moment ago that you didn't know why young Massingale should threaten your son." "And I don't know yet," blustered the magnate. "Is it my fault that Massingale can't pay his debts?" The engineer had stopped laughing when he said definitely and decidedly: "It is." It was the promoter's turn to laugh. "What sort of a bug have you got in your cosmos this morning, Brouillard? Why, man, you're crazy!" Brouillard rose and relighted his cigar. "If that is your last word, Mr. Cortwright, I may as well go back to my office. You don't need me." "Oh, hold on; don't go off in a huff. You're too thin-skinned for any common kind of use. I was only trying you to see how far you'd carry it. Let it stand. Assume, for the sake of argument, that I _do_ want the 'Little Susan' and that I've got a good friend or two in the Red Butte smelters who will help me get it. Now, then, does that stand the band-wagon upon its wheels again?" Brouillard's black eyes were snapping, but his voice was quite steady when he said: "Thank you; now we shall go on better. You want the 'Little Susan,' and Massingale naturally thinks you're taking an unfair advantage of him to get it. Quite as naturally he is going to make reprisals if he can. That brings us down to the mention of the Coronida Grant and Stephen Massingale's threat--which your son can't remember." "Right-o," said Mr. Cortwright, still with predetermined geniality. "What was the threat?" "I don't know, but the guessing list is open to everybody. There was once a grant of many square miles of mountain and desert somewhere in this region made to one Don Estacio de Montarriba Coronida. Like those of most of the great Spanish land grants, the boundaries of this one were loosely described and----" Mr. Cortwright held up a fat hand. "I know what you're going to say. But we went into all that at Washington before we ever invested a single dollar in this valley. As you may or may not know, the Reclamation Service bureau tried to choke us off. But when it came down to brass tacks, they lacked a witness. We may be in the bed of your proposed lake, but we're safely on Coronida land." "So you say," said Brouillard quietly, "and on the strength of that you have been guaranteeing titles." "Oh, no," protested the millionaire. "We have merely referred purchasers to the record. There is a clause in every deed." "But you have caused it to be believed that your title was good, that the government's claim to the land will not hold." "It won't hold if we're on Coronida land." "Ah! Just there is where Massingale comes in, I imagine. He has spent twenty years or more in this region, and he knows every landmark in it. What if he should be able to put a lighted match to your pile of kindling, Mr. Cortwright?" The promoter pulled himself erect with a grip on either arm of the chair. "Brouillard, do you know what you are talking about?" he demanded. "No; it is only a guess. But as matters stand--with your son indictable for an attempted murder ... if I were you, Mr. Cortwright, I believe I'd give David Massingale a chance to pay those notes at the bank." "And let him blackmail me? Not in a month of Sundays, Brouillard! Let him sell his ore and pay the notes if he can. If he can't, I'll take the mine." "All right," said the visitor placably. "You asked, and I've answered. Now let's come to something more vital to both of us. There is a pretty persistent rumor on the street that you and your associates succeeded in getting a resolution through both houses of Congress at the last session, appointing a committee to investigate this Coronida claim right here on the ground. Nobody seems to have any definite details, and it possibly hasn't occurred to any one that Congress hasn't been in session since Mirapolis was born. But that doesn't matter. The committee is coming: you have engaged rooms for it here in Bongras's. You are expecting the private-car special next week." "Well?" said the magnate. "You're a pretty good kindergartner. But what of it?" "Oh, nothing. Only I think you might have taken me in on the little side play. What if I had gone about town contradicting the rumor?" "Why should you? It's true. The Congressional party will be here next week, and nobody has made any secret of it." "Still, I might have been taken in," persisted Brouillard suavely. "You'll surely want to give me my instructions a little beforehand, won't you? Just think how easily things might get tangled. Suppose I should say to somebody--to Garner, for example--that the town was hugely mistaken; that no Congressional committee had ever been appointed; that these gentlemen who are about to visit us are mere complaisant friends of yours, coming as your guests, on a junketing trip at your expense. Wouldn't that be rather awkward?" The mayor of Mirapolis brought his hands together, fist in palm, and for a flitting instant the young engineer saw in the face of the father the same expression that he had seen in the face of the son when Van Bruce Cortwright was struggling for a second chance to kill a man. "Damn you!" said the magnate savagely; "you always know too much! You're bargaining with me!" "Well, you have bargained with me, first, last, and all the time," was the cool retort. "On each occasion I have had my price, and you have paid it. Now you are going to pay it again. Shall I go over to the _Spot-Light_ office and tell Harlan what I know?" "You can't bluff me that way, Brouillard, and you ought to sense it by this time. Do you suppose I don't know how you are fixed?--that you've got money--money that you used to say you owed somebody else--tied up in Mirapolis investments?" Brouillard rose and buttoned his coat. "There is one weak link in your chain, Mr. Cortwright," he said evenly; "you don't know men. Put on your coat and come over to Harlan's office with me. It will take just about two minutes to satisfy you that I'm not bluffing." For a moment it appeared that the offer was to be accepted. But when he had one arm in a coat sleeve, Brouillard's antagonist in the game of hardihood changed his tactics. "Forget it," he growled morosely. "What do you want this time?" "I want you to send a wire to Red Butte telling the smelter people that you will be glad to have them handle the 'Little Susan' ore." "And if I do?" "If you do, two things otherwise due to happen adversely will go over to your side of the market. I'll agree to keep out of the way of the sham Washington delegation, and I think I can promise that Harlan won't make a scare-head of the facts concerning the Coronida land titles." Mr. Cortwright thrust the other arm into the remaining coat sleeve and scowled. But the rebound to the norm of brusque good-nature came almost immediately. "You are improving wonderfully, Brouillard, and that's no joke. I have a large respect for a man who can outbid me in my own corner. You ought to be in business--and you will be, some time. I'll send the wire, but I warn you in advance that I can't make the smelter people take Massingale's ore if they don't want to. All I can do is to give the old man a free field." "That is all he will ask--all I'll ask, except one small personal favor: don't rub your masquerading Washington delegation into me too hard. A fine quality of non-interference is about all you are buying from me, and----" The interruption came in the form of a tap at the door opening into the hotel corridor, and Brouillard, at a sign from the master of the precincts, turned the knob. It was Miss Genevieve who entered, bringing the sweet breeziness and audacity of youth and beauty and health with her. "How fortunate!" she exclaimed, with the charming smile that accorded so perfectly with her fresh, early-morning radiance. And while the hand of greeting still lay in Brouillard's: "I have just been up to your office, and they told me they hadn't the smallest idea where you could be found. Are you going to be _very_ busy this afternoon?" Brouillard gave the required denial, and she explained her quest of him. There was to be an auto party to the newly opened casino at the upper power dam. Would he go, if he might have the post of honor behind the pilot-wheel of the new sixty-horse, seven-passenger flyer? _Please!_ Mr. Cortwright leaned heavily upon his desk while the asking and answering went on, and the shrewd, gray eyes were busy. When his daughter went out and Brouillard was about to follow her, the genial web spinner stopped him. "Tell me one thing, Brouillard: what is your stake in the Massingale game? Are you a silent partner in the 'Little Susan'?" "No." "Then why are you so anxious to make old David a rich man at my expense? Are you going to marry the girl?" The engineer did not resent the question as he would have resented it a few weeks earlier. Instead he smiled and said: "A little while ago, Mr. Cortwright, I told you that you didn't know men; now I'll add that you don't know women." "I know Gene," said the web spinner cryptically, and this was the word that Brouillard took with him when he went back to his offices in the Niquoia Building. XIII Flood Tide Public opinion, skilfully formed upon models fashioned in Mayor Cortwright's municipal laboratory, dealt handsomely with the little group of widely heralded visitors--the "Congressional committee"--penetrating to the Wonder City, not by special train, to be sure, but still with creditable circumstance in President Ford's private car "Nadia," attached to the regular express from Brewster. For example, when it was whispered about, some days before the auspicious arrival, that the visiting lawmakers wished for no public demonstration of welcome, it was resolved, both in the city council and in the Commercial Club, that the wish should be rigidly respected. Later, when there filtered out from the same secret source of information a hint to the effect that the committee of investigation, for the better forming of an unbiassed opinion, desired to be regarded merely as a body of representative citizens and the guests of Mayor Cortwright, and not as national legislators, this desire, too, was respected; and even Harlan, itching to his finger-tips for something definite to print in the _Spot-Light_, denied himself the bare, journalistic, bread-and-butter necessity of interviewing the lawmakers. Safeguarded, then, by the loyal incuriosity of an entire city, the visitors went about freely, were fêted, dined, banqueted, and entertained as distinguished citizens of the Greater America; were personally conducted over the government work, and were autoed to the Quadjenàï placers, to the upper valley, and to the canal diggers' camps in the Buckskin, all without prejudice to the official incognito which it was understood they wished to preserve. Hence, after the farewell banquet at the Commercial Club, at which even the toasts had ignored the official mission of Mayor Cortwright's guests, when the "Nadia," reprovisioned and tastefully draped with the national colors, was coupled to the outgoing train in the Chigringo yards, tingling curiosity still restrained itself, said nothing and did nothing until the train had stormed out on the beginning of its steep climb to War Arrow Pass. Then the barriers went down. In less than half an hour after the departure of the visitors, the _Spot-Light_ office was besieged by eager tip hunters, and the Metropole café and lobby were thronged and buzzing like the compartments of an anxious beehive. Harlan stood the pressure at the newspaper office as long as he could. Then he slipped out the back way and prevailed upon Bongras to smuggle him up to Mr. Cortwright's rooms. Here there was another anxious deputation in waiting, but Harlan's card was honored at once. "News!" gasped the editor, when he had broken into the privacies. "They're about to mob us over at the office, and the town will go crazy if it can't be given at least a hint of what the committee's report is likely to be. I tell you, Mr. Cortwright, it's panic, or the biggest boom we ever dreamed of!" "Sit down, Harlan," said the great man calmly, pushing the open box of cigars across the desk to the editor; "sit down and get a fresh grip on your nerves. There will be no panic; of that you can be absolutely certain. But, on the other hand, we mustn't kick the fat into the fire when everything is going our way. Naturally, I am under bonds to keep my mouth shut until after the committee has made its report. I can't even give you the hint you want. But I will say this--and you can put it in an interview if you like: I'm not refusing anything in the shape of Mirapolis realty at ruling prices. That's all I can say at present." Harlan was hustled out, as he had been hustled in, half dazed and wholly in despair. There was a light in Brouillard's office on the sixth floor of the Niquoia Building, and thither he went, hoping against hope, for latterly the chief of the Reclamation Service had been more than usually reticent. "What do you know, Brouillard?" was the form his demand took when, finding that the elevator had stopped, he had dragged himself up the five flights of stairs. "I'm up against it good and hard if I can't print something in to-morrow's paper." "Go to Cortwright," suggested the engineer. "He's your man." "Just come from him, and I couldn't get a thing there except his admission that he is buying instead of selling." "Well, what more do you want? Haven't you any imagination?" "Plenty of it, and, by Gad, I'm going to use it unless you put it to sleep! Tell me a few correlative things, Brouillard, and I'll make a noise like going away. Is it true that you've had orders from Washington within the past few days to cut your force on the dam one half?" The engineer was playing with the paper-knife, absently marking little circles and ellipses on his desk blotter, and the ash on his cigar grew a full quarter of an inch before he replied: "Not for publication, Harlan, I'm sorry to say." "But you have the order?" "Yes." "Do you know the reason why it was given?" "I do." "Is it a good reason?" "It is a very excellent reason, indeed." "Does the order cover more than the work on the dam?" "Yes; it extends to the canal diggers in the Buckskin." "Good. Then I'll ask only one more question, and if you answer it at all I know you'll tell me the truth: are you, individually, buying or selling on the Real Estate Exchange? Take your time, Brouillard, but, for God's sake, don't turn me down." Brouillard did take time, plenty of it. Over and over the point of the paper-knife traced the creased circles and ellipses, and the ash on the slowly burning cigar grew longer. Harlan was a student of men, but his present excitement was against him. Otherwise he could not have stared so long and so intently at Brouillard's face without reading therein the record of the soul struggle his final question had evoked. And if he had read, he would have interpreted differently the quick flinging down of the paper-cutter, and the sudden hardening of the jaw muscles when Brouillard spoke. "I'm buying, Harlan; when I sell it is only to buy again." The newspaper man rose and held out his hand. "You're a man and a brother, Brouillard, and I'm your friend for life. With only a fraction of your chance at inside information, I've stayed on the up-hill side, straight through, myself. And I'll tell you why. I've banked on you. I've said to myself that it was safe for me to wade around in the edges if you could plunge out in the sure-enough swimming-hole. I'm going to stay until you give me the high sign to crawl out on the bank. Is that asking too much?" "No. If the time ever comes when I have anything to say, I'll say it to you. But don't lose sight of the 'if,' and don't lean too hard on me. I'm a mighty uncertain quantity these days, Harlan, and that's the truest thing I've told you since you butted in. Good-night." Mirapolis awoke to a full sense of its opportunities on the morning following the departure of its distinguished guests. Though the _Spot-Light_ was unable to say anything conclusively definite, Harlan had made the most of what he had; and, trickling in from a dozen independent sources, as it seemed, came jubilant confirmation of the _Spot-Light's_ optimistic editorials. In such a crisis all men are liars. Now that the visiting delegation was gone, there were scores of witnesses willing to testify that the Honorable Tom, Dick, or Harry had dropped the life-giving word; and though each fictionist knew that his own story was a fabrication, it was only human to believe that of the man with whom he exchanged the whispered confidence. To the lies and the exaggerations was presently added a most convincing truth. By ten o'clock it was the talk of the lobbies, the club, and the exchanges that the Reclamation Service was already abandoning the work on the great dam. One half of the workmen were to be discharged at once, and doubtless the other half would follow as soon as the orders could come from Washington. Appealed to by a mob of anxious inquirers, Brouillard did not deny the fact of the discharges, and thereupon the city went mad in a furor of speculative excitement in comparison with which the orgy of the gold discoverers paled into insignificance. "Curb" exchanges sprang into being in the Metropole lobby, in the court of the Niquoia Building, and at a dozen street corners on the Avenue. Word went to the placers, and by noon the miners had left their sluice-boxes and were pouring into town to buy options at prices that would have staggered the wildest plunger otherwhere, or at any other time. Brouillard closed his desk at one o'clock and went to fight his way through the street pandemonium to Bongras's. At a table in the rear room he found David Massingale, his long, white beard tucked into the closely buttoned miner's coat to be out of the way of the flying knife and fork, while he gave a lifelike imitation of a man begrudging every second of time wasted in stopping the hunger gap. Brouillard took the opposite chair and was grimly amused at the length of time that elapsed before Massingale realized his presence. "Pity a man has to stop to eat on a day like this, isn't it, Mr. Massingale?" he laughed; and then: "I wouldn't hurry. There's another day coming; or if there isn't, we'll all be in the same boat. How is Steve?" Massingale nodded. "The boy's comin' along all right now; he allows to be out in another week 'r two." Then the inevitable question: "They're sayin' on the street that you're lettin' out half o' your men--that so?" Brouillard laughed again. "I've heard it so often that I've come to believe it myself," he admitted, adding: "Yes, it's true." After which he asked a question of his own: "Have you been doing something in real estate this morning, Mr. Massingale?" "All I could," mumbled the old man between mouthfuls. "But I cayn't do much. If it ain't one thing, it's another. 'Bout as soon as I got that tangle with the Red Butte smelter straightened out, the railroad hit me." "How was that?" queried Brouillard, with quickening interest coming alive at a bound. "Same old song, no cars; try and get 'em to-morruh, and to-morruh it'll be next day, and next day it'll be the day after. Looks like they don't _want_ to haul any freight _out_ o' here." "I see," said Brouillard, and truly he saw much more than David Massingale did. Then: "No shipments means no money for you, and more delay; and delay happens to be the one thing you can't stand. When do those notes of yours fall due?" "Huh?" said Massingale. He was a close-mouthed man, by breeding and by habit, and he was quite sure he had never mentioned the "Little Susan" entanglement to the young engineer. Brouillard became more explicit. "The notes covering your indebtedness to the bank for the money you've been putting into development work and improvements--I asked when they would become due." The old man's heavy white eyebrows bent themselves in a perplexed frown. "Amy hadn't ort to talk so much," he objected. "Business is business." Brouillard's smile was a tacit denial of the implication. "You forget that there were several other parties to the transaction and that any man's business is every man's in this crazy town," he suggested. "But you haven't answered my question about the due date. I didn't ask it out of idle curiosity, I assure you." Massingale was troubled, and his fine old face showed it plainly. "I ain't much of a man to holler when I've set the woods afire myself," he answered slowly. "But I don't know why I shouldn't yip a little to you if I feel like it. To-day is the last day on them notes, and I'd about made up my mind that I was goin' up the spout on a sure thing for the fourth time since I hit the mount'ins, when this here new excitement broke out." "Go on," said Brouillard. "I saw a chance--about a one-to-a-hundred shot. I'd been to see Hardwick at the bank, and he gave me the ultimaytum good and cold; if I couldn't lift the paper, the bank'd have to go back on my indorser, John Wes. I had a little over five thousand left out o' the borray, and I took it and broke for the Real Estate Exchange. Been there for three solid hours, turnin' my little stake over like a flapjack on a hot griddle; but it ain't any use, I cayn't turn it fast enough, 'r often enough, betwixt now and three o'clock." One of Bongras's rear-room luxuries was a portable telephone for every group of tables. Brouillard made a sign to the waiter, and the desk set was brought to him. If David Massingale recognized the number asked for, he paid no attention; and, since a man may spend his life digging holes in the ground and still retain the instincts of a gentleman--if he happens to have been born with them--he was equally oblivious to the disjointed half of the telephone conversation he might have listened to. "Hello! Is that Boyer--Niquoia National?... This is Brouillard. Can you give me my present figure?... Not more than that?... Oh, yes; you say the Hillman check is in; I had overlooked it. All right, thank you." When the waiter had removed the desk set, the engineer leaned toward his table companion: "Mr. Massingale, I'm going to ask you to tell me frankly what kind of a deal it was you made with Cortwright and the bank people." "It was the biggest tom-fool razzle that any livin' live man out of a lunatic 'sylum ever went into," confessed the prisoner of fate. "I was to stock the 'Susan' for half a million--oh, she's worth it, every dollar of it; you might say the ore's in sight for it right now"--this in deference to Brouillard's brow-lifting of surprise. "They was to put in a hundred thousand cash, and I was to put in the mine and the ore on the dump, just as she stood." The engineer nodded and Massingale went on. "I was to have two thirds of the stock and they was to have one third. The hundred thousand for development we'd get at the bank, on my notes, because I was president and the biggest stockholder, with John Wes. as indorser. Then, to protect the bank accordin' to law, they said, we'd put the whole bunch o' stock--mine and their'n--into escrow in the hands of Judge Williams. When the notes was paid, the judge'd hand the stock back to us." "Just a moment," interrupted Brouillard. "Did you sign those notes personally, or as president of the new company?" "That's where they laid for me," said the old man shamefacedly. "We made the money turn before we _was_ a company--while we was waitin' for the charter." "Of course," commented Brouillard. "And they rushed you into it on the plea of saving time. But you say the stock was to be released when the notes were paid--what was to happen if they were not paid?" "Right there is where John Wes.'s ten-dollar-a-bottle sody-pop stuff we was soppin' up must 'a' foolished me plumb silly; I don't just rightly recollect _what_ the judge was to do with the stock if I fell down. I know it was talked all 'round Robin Hood's barn, up one side and down the other, and they made it look like I couldn't slip up if I tried to. And they made the borray at the bank look fair enough, too." "Well, why wasn't it fair?" Brouillard wanted to know. "Why, sufferin' Moses! don't you see? It hadn't ort to 've been needed. _They_ was to put in a hundred thousand, and they wasn't doin' it. It figgered out this-a-way in the talk: they said, what's the use o' takin' the money out o' one pocket and puttin' it into the other? Let the bank carry the development loan and let the mine pay it. Then we could even up when it come to the dividends." "So it amounts to this: you have given them a clean third of the 'Susan' for the mere privilege of borrowing one hundred thousand dollars on your own paper. And if you don't pay, you lose the remaining two thirds as well." "That's about the way it stacks up to a sober man. Looks like I needed a janitor to look after my upper story, don't it? And I reckon mebby I do." "One thing more," pressed the relentless querist. "Did you really handle the hundred-thousand-dollar development fund yourself, Mr. Massingale?" "Well, no; not exactly. Ten thousand dollars of what they called a 'contingent fund' was put in my name; but the treasurer handled most of it--nachurly, we bein' a stock company." "Who is your treasurer?" "Feller with just one share o' stock--Parker Jackson." "Humph! Cortwright's private secretary. And he has spent ninety thousand dollars on the 'Little Susan' in sixty days? Not much! What has your pay-roll been?" "'Bout five hundred a week." "That is to say between three and four thousand dollars for the two months--call it five thousand. Now, let's see--" Brouillard took out his pencil and began to make figures on the back of the _menu_ card. He knew the equipment of the "Little Susan," and his specialty was the making of estimates. Hence he was able to say, after a minute or two of figuring: "Thirty thousand dollars will amply cover your new equipment: power drills, electric transfers, and the cheap telpherage plant. Have you ever seen any vouchers for the money spent?" "No. Had I ort to?" "Well, rather--as president of the company." Massingale tucked the long white beard still farther into the buttoned coat. "I been tellin' you I need a mule-driver to knock a little sense into me," he offered. "It's a bad business any way you attack it," said Brouillard after a reflective pause. "What you have really got for yourself out of the deal is the ten-thousand-dollar deposit to your personal account, and nothing more; and they'll probably try to make you a debtor for that. Taking that amount and a fair estimate of the company's expenditures to date--say thirty-five thousand in round numbers, which is fairly chargeable to the company's assets as a whole--they still owe you about fifty-five thousand of the original hundred thousand they were to put in. If there were time--but you say this is the last day?" "The last half o' the last day," Massingale amended. "I was going to say, if there were time, this thing wouldn't stand the light of day for a minute, Mr. Massingale. They wouldn't go within a hundred miles of a court of law with it. Can't you get an extension on the notes?--but of course you can't; that is just the one thing Cortwright doesn't want you to have--more time." "No; you bet he don't." "That being the case, there is no help for it; you'll have to take your medicine and pay the notes. Do that, take an iron-clad receipt from the bank--I'll write it out for you--and get the stock released. After that, we'll give them a whirl for the thirty-three and a third per cent they have practically stolen from you." The old man's face, remindful now of his daughter's, was a picture of dismayed incertitude. "I reckon you're forgettin' that I hain't got money enough to lift one edge o' them notes," he said gently. Brouillard had found a piece of blank paper in his pocket and was rapidly writing the "iron-clad" receipt. "No, I hadn't forgotten. I have something over a hundred thousand dollars lying idle in the bank. You'll take it and pay the notes." It was a bolt out of a clear sky for the old man tottering on the brink of his fourth pit of disaster, and he evinced his emotion--and the tense strain of keyed-up nerves--by dropping his lifted coffee-cup with a crash into his plate. The little accident was helpful in its way,--it made a diversion,--and by the time the wreck was repaired speech was possible. "Are you--are you _plumb_ sure you can spare it?" asked the debtor huskily. And then: "I cayn't seem to sort o' surround it--all in a bunch, that way. I knowed J. Wesley had me down; knowed it in less 'n a week after he sprung his trap. He wanted the 'Little Sue,' wanted it worse 'n a little yaller dog ever wanted his supper. Do you know why? I can tell you. After you get your dam done, and every dollar of the make-believe money this cussed town's built on has gone to the bottom o' the Dead Sea, the 'Susan' will still be joggin' along, forty dollars to the ton. It's the only piece o' real money in this whole blamed free-for-all, and J. Wes. knows it." Brouillard looked at his watch. "When you're through we'll go around to the bank and fix it up. There's no hurry. I've got to ride down to the Buckskin camps, but I don't care to start much before two." Massingale nodded, but his appetite was gone, and speech with it, the one grateful outburst having apparently drained the well. But after they had made their way through the excited sidewalk exchanges to the bank, and Brouillard had written his check, the old man suddenly found his voice again. "You say you're goin' down to the Buckskin right away? How 'm I goin' to secure you for this?" "We can talk about that later on, after I come back. The thing to do now is to get those notes cancelled and that stock released before bank-closing time." Still David Massingale, with the miraculously sent bit of rescue paper in his hand, hesitated. "There's one other thing--and I've got to spit it out before it's everlastedly too late. See here, Victor Brouillard--Amy likes you--thinks a heap of you; a plumb blind man could see that. But say, that little girl o' mine has just natchurly _got_ to have a free hand when it comes to pairin' up, and she won't never have if she finds out about this. You ain't allowin' to use it on her, Victor?" Brouillard laughed. "I'll make a hedging bet and break even with you, Mr. Massingale," he said. "That check is drawn to my order, and I have indorsed it. Let me have it again and I'll get the cash for you. In that way only the two of us need know anything about the transaction; and if I promise to keep the secret from Miss Amy, you must promise to keep it from Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright. Will you saw it off with me that way?--until you've made the turn on the ore sales?" David Massingale shook hands on it with more gratitude, colored this time with a hearty imprecation. "Dad burn you, Victor Brouillard, you're a man--ever' single mill-run of you!" he burst out. But Brouillard shook his head gravely. "No, Mr. Massingale, I'm the little yellow dog you mentioned a while back," he asserted, and then he went to get the money. The check cashed and the transfer of the money made, Brouillard did not wait to see Massingale astonish the Niquoia National cashier. Nor did he remark the curious change that came into the old man's face at the pocketing of the thick sheaf of bank-notes. But he added a word of comment and another of advice before leaving the bank. "The day fits us like a glove," was the comment. "With all the money that is changing hands in the street, Hardwick won't wonder at your sudden raise or at my check." Then he put in the word of warning: "I suppose you'll be dabbling a little in Mirapolis options after you get this note business out of the way? It's all right--I'd probably do it myself if I didn't have to leave town. But just one word in your ear, Mr. Massingale: buy and _sell--don't hold_. That's all. Good-by, and good luck to you." Left alone in the small retiring room of the bank where the business had been transacted, David Massingale took the sheaf of bank-notes from his pocket with trembling hands, fondling it as a miser might. The bills were in large denominations, and they were new and stiff. He thumbed the end of the thick packet as one runs the leaves of a book, and the flying succession of big figures seemed to dazzle him. There was an outer door to the customers' room giving upon the side street; it was the one through which Brouillard had passed. Twice the old man made as if he would turn toward the door of egress, and the light in his gray-blue eyes was the rekindling flame of a passion long denied. But in the end he thrust the tempting sheaf back into the inner pocket and went resolutely to the cashier's counter window. Expecting to have to do with Hardwick, the brusque and business-like cashier, Massingale was jarred a little aside from his own predetermined attitude by finding Schermerhorn, the president, sitting at the cashier's desk. But from the banker's first word the change seemed to be altogether for the better. "How are you, Mr. Massingale? Glad to see you. How is the boy getting along? First rate, I hope?" Massingale was looking from side to side, like a gray old hawk disappointed in its swoop. It would have been some satisfaction to buffet the exacting Hardwick with the fistful of money. But with Schermerhorn the note lifting would figure as a mere bit of routine. "I've come to take up them notes o' mine with John Wes.'s name on 'em," Massingale began, pulling out the thick sheaf of redemption money. "Oh, yes; let me see; are they due to-day?" said the president, running over the note portfolio. Massingale nodded. "H'm, yes, here they are. Brought the cash, did you? The 'Little Susan' has begun to pan out, has it? I didn't know you had commenced shipping ore yet." "We haven't." David Massingale made the admission and regretted it in one and the same breath. "You've borrowed to meet these notes?" queried the president, looking up quickly. "That won't do, Mr. Massingale; that won't do at all. We can't afford to lose an old customer that way. What's the matter with our money? Doesn't it look good to you any more?" Massingale stammered out something about Cashier Hardwick's peremptory demand of a few hours earlier, but he was not permitted to finish. "Of course, that is all right from Hardwick's point of view. He was merely looking out for the maturing paper. How much more time will you need to enable you to get returns from your shipments? Sixty days? All right, you needn't make out new notes; I'll indorse the extension on the back of these, and I'll undertake to get Cortwright's approval myself. No; not a word, Mr. Massingale. As long as you're borrowing, you must be loyal and borrow of us. Good afternoon. Come again when we can help you out." David Massingale turned away, dazed and confused beyond the power of speech. When the mists of astoundment cleared he found himself in the street with the thick wad of bank-notes still in his pocket. Suddenly, out of the limbo into which two years of laborious discipline and self-denial had pushed it stalked the demon of the ruling passion, mighty, overpowering, unconquerable. The familiar street sights danced before Massingale's eyes, and there was a drumming in his ears like the fall of many waters. But above the clamor rose the insistent voice of the tempter, and the voice was at once a command and an entreaty, a gnawing hunger and a parching thirst. "By Gash! I'd like to try that old system o' mine jest one more time!" he muttered. "All it takes is money enough to foller it up and _stay_. And I've _got_ the money. Besides, didn't Brouillard say I was to get an extension if I could?" He grabbed at his coat to be sure that the packet was still there, took two steps toward the bank, stopped, turned as if in the grasp of an invisible but irresistible captor, and moved away, like a man walking in his sleep, toward the lower Avenue. It was the doorway of Haley's Place, the Monte Carlo of the Niquoia, that finally halted him. Here the struggle was so fierce that the bartender, who knew him, named it sickness and led the stricken one to a card-table in the public bar-room and fetched him a drink. A single swallow of whiskey turned the scale. Massingale rose, tossed a coin to the bar, and passed quickly to the rear, where a pair of baize doors opened silently and engulfed him. XIV The Abyss It was at early candle-lighting in the evening of the day of renewed and unbridled speculation in Mirapolis "front feet" that Brouillard, riding the piebald range pony on which he had been making an inspection round of the nearer Buckskin ditchers' camps, topped the hill in the new, high-pitched road over the Chigringo shoulder and looked down upon the valley electrics. The immediate return to Mirapolis was no part of the plan he had struck out when he had closed his office in the Niquoia Building at one o'clock and had gone over to Bongras's to fall into the chance encounter with David Massingale. He had intended making a complete round of all the ditch camps, a ride which would have taken at least three days, and after parting from Massingale at the bank he had left town at once, taking the new road which began on the bench of the railroad yard. But almost immediately a singular thing had happened. Before he had gone a mile a strange reluctance had begun to beset him. At first it was merely a haunting feeling of loss, as if he had left something behind, forgetting when he should have remembered; a thing of sufficient importance to make him turn and ride back if he could only recall what it was. Farther along the feeling became a vague premonition of impending disaster, growing with every added mile of the Buckskin gallopings until, at Overton's Camp, a few miles short of the Triangle-Circle Ranch headquarters, he had yielded and had set out for the return. If the curious premonition had been a drag on the outward journey it became a spur to quicken the eastward faring. Even the piebald pony seemed to share the urgency, needing only a loose rein and an encouraging word. Across the yellow sands of the desert, through the lower ford of the Niquoia, and up the outlet gorge the willing little horse tossed the miles to the rear, and at the hill-topping moment, when the electric lights spread themselves in the valley foreground like stars set to illuminate the chess-board squares of the Wonder City, a record gallop had been made from Overton's. Brouillard let the pony set its own pace on the down-hill lap to the finish, and it was fast enough to have jolted fresh road weariness into a less seasoned rider than the young engineer. Most curiously, the premonition with its nagging urgency seemed to vanish completely as soon as the city's streets were under hoof. Brouillard left the horse at the reservation stables, freshened himself at his rooms in the Niquoia Building, and went to the Metropole to eat his dinner, all without any recurrence of the singular symptoms. Further, when he found himself at a table with Murray Grislow as his _vis-à-vis_, and had invented a plausible excuse for his sudden return, he was able to enjoy his dinner with a healthy wayfarer's appetite and to talk over the events of the exciting day with the hydrographer with few or none of the abstracted mental digressions. Afterward, however, the symptoms returned, manifesting themselves this time in the form of a vague and undefined restlessness. The buzzing throngs in the Metropole café and lobby annoyed him, and even Grislow's quiet sarcasm as applied to the day's bubble-blowing failed to clear the air. At the club there was the same atmosphere of unrest; an exacerbating overcharge of the suppressed activities impatiently waiting for another day of excitement and opportunity. Corner lots and the astounding prices they had commanded filled the air in the lounge, the billiard room, and the buffet, and after a few minutes Brouillard turned his back on the hubbub and sought the quiet of the darkened building on the opposite side of the street. He was alone in his office on the sixth floor and was trying, half absently, to submerge himself in a sea of desk-work when the disturbing over-thought suddenly climaxed in an occurrence bordering on the supernatural. As distinctly as if she were present and at his elbow, he heard, or seemed to hear, Amy Massingale say: "Victor, you said you would come if I needed you: I need you now." Without a moment's hesitation he got up and made ready to go out. Skeptical to the derisive degree of other men's superstitions, it did not occur to him to doubt the reality of the mysterious summons, or to question in any way his own broad admission of the supernatural in the prompt obedience. The Massingale town house was one of a row of stuccoed villas fronting on the main residence street, which beyond the city limits became the highroad to the Quadjenàï bend and the upper valley. Brouillard took a cab at the Metropole, dismissed it at the villa gate, and walked briskly up the path to the house, which was dark save for one lighted room on the second floor--the room in which Stephen Massingale was recovering from the effects of Van Bruce Cortwright's pistol-shot. Amy Massingale was on the porch--waiting for him, as he fully believed until her greeting sufficiently proved her surprise at seeing him. "You, Victor?" she said, coming quickly to meet him. "Murray Grislow said you had gone down to the Buckskin camps and wouldn't be back for two or three days!" "Grizzy told the truth--as it stood a few hours ago," he admitted. "But I changed my mind and came back. How is Steve this evening?" "He is quite comfortable, more comfortable than he has been at all since the wound began to heal. I have been reading him to sleep, and when the night nurse came I ran down to get a breath of fresh air in the open." "No, you didn't come down for that reason," Brouillard amended gravely. "You came to meet me." "Did I?" she asked. "What makes you think that?" "I don't think; I _know_. You called me, and I heard you and came at once." "How absurd!" she protested. "I knew, or thought I knew, that you were miles away, over in the Buckskin; and how could I call you?" Brouillard pulled out his watch and scanned its face by the light of the roadway electric. "It is exactly twenty minutes since I left my office. What were you doing twenty minutes ago?" "As if I could tell! I don't believe I have looked at a clock or a watch all evening. After Stevie had his supper I read to him--one of the creepy Kipling stories that he is so fond of. You would say that 'Bimi' would be just about the last thing in the world to put anybody to sleep, wouldn't you? But Stevie dropped off, and I think I must have lost myself for a minute or two, because the next thing I knew the nurse was in the room." "I know what happened," said Brouillard, speaking as soberly as if he were stating a mathematical certainty. "You left that room up-stairs and came to me. I didn't see you, but I heard you as plainly as I can hear you now. You spoke to me and called me by name." "What did I say? Can you remember the words?" "Indeed I can. The room was perfectly still, and I was working at my desk. Suddenly, and without any warning, I heard your voice saying: 'Victor, you said you would come if I needed you: I need you now.'" She shook her head, laughing lightly. "You have been overwrought about something, or maybe you are just plain tired. I didn't say or even think anything like that; or if I did, it must have been the other I, or one of the others, that Herr Freiborg writes about--and I don't believe in. This I that you are talking to doesn't remember anything about it." "You are standing me off," he declared. "You are in trouble of some sort, and you are trying to hide it from me." "No, not exactly trouble; only a little worry." "All right, call it worry if you like and share it with me. What is it?" "I think you know without being told--or you will know when I say that to-day was the day when the big debt to the bank became due. I am afraid we have finally lost the 'Little Susan.' That is one of the worries and the other I've been trying to call silly. I don't know what has become of father--as if he weren't old enough to go and come without telling me every move he makes!" "Your father isn't at home?" gasped Brouillard. "No; he hasn't been here since nine o'clock this morning. Murray Grislow saw him going into the Metropole about one o'clock, but nobody that I have been able to reach by 'phone seems to have seen him after that." "I can bring the record down to two o'clock," was the quick reply. "He ate with me at Bongras's, and afterward I walked with him as far as the bank. And I can cure part of the first worry--all of it, in fact; he had the money to take up the Cortwright notes, and when I left him he was on his way to Hardwick's window to do it." "_He had the money?_ Where did he get it?" Brouillard put his back against a porch post, a change of position which kept the light of the street electric from shining squarely upon his face. "It has been another of the get-rich-quick days in Mirapolis," he said evasively. "Somebody told me that the corner opposite Poodles's was bought and sold three times within a single hour and that each time the price was doubled." "And you are trying to tell me that father made a hundred thousand dollars just in those few hours by buying and selling Mirapolis lots? You don't know him, Victor. He is totally lacking the trading gift. He has often said that he couldn't stand on a street corner and sell twenty-dollar gold pieces at nineteen dollars apiece--nobody would buy of him." "Nevertheless, I am telling you that he had the money to take up those notes," Brouillard insisted. "I saw it in his hands." She left him abruptly and began to pace back and forth on the porch, with her hands behind her, an imitative trait unconsciously copying her father in his moments of stress. When she stopped she stood fairly in the beam of the street light. The violet eyes were misty, and in the low voice there was a note of deeper trouble. "You say you saw the money in father's hands; tell me, Victor, did you see him pay it into the bank?" "Why, no; not the final detail. But, as I say, when I left him he was on his way to Hardwick's window." Again she turned away, but this time it was to dart into the house. A minute later she had rejoined him, and the minute had sufficed for the donning of a coat and the pinning on of the quaint cow-boy riding-hat. "I must go and find him," she said with quiet resolution. "Will you go with me, Victor? Perhaps that is why I--the subconscious I--called you a little while ago. Let's not wait for the Quadjenàï car. I'd rather walk, and we'll save time." They set out together, walking rapidly townward, and there was no word to go with the brisk footing. Brouillard respected his companion's silence. That the thing unspeakable, or at least unspoken, was something more than a woman's undefined fears was obvious; but until she should see fit to tell him what it was, he would not question her. From the moment of outsetting the young woman's purpose seemed clearly defined. By the shortest way she indicated the course to the Avenue, and at the Metropole corner she turned unhesitatingly to the northward--toward the region of degradation. As was to be expected after the day of frantic speculation and quick money changing, the lower Avenue was ablaze with light, the sidewalks were passes of peril, and the saloons and dives were reaping a rich harvest. Luckily, Brouillard was well known, and his position as chief of the great army of government workmen purchased something like immunity for himself and his companion. But more than once he was on the point of begging the young woman to turn back for her own sake. The quest ended unerringly at the door of Haley's Place, and when David Massingale's daughter made as if she would go in, Brouillard protested quickly. "No, Amy," he said firmly. "You mustn't go in there. Let me take you around to the Metropole, and then I'll come back alone." "I have been in worse places," she returned in low tones. And then, with her voice breaking tremulously: "Be my good friend just a little longer, Victor!" He took her arm and walked her into the garishly lighted bar-room, bracing himself militantly for what might happen. But nothing happened. Dissipation of the Western variety seldom sinks below the level of a certain rude gallantry, quick to recognize the good and pure in womankind. Instantly a hush fell upon the place. The quartets at the card-tables held their hands, and a group of men drinking at the bar put down their glasses. One, a Tri'-Circ' cow-boy with his back turned, let slip an oath, and in a single swift motion his nearest comrade garroted him with a hairy arm, strangling him to silence. [Illustration: "It's all gone, little girl; it's all gone!"] As if guided by the same unerring instinct which had made her choose Haley's out of a dozen similar hells, Amy Massingale led Brouillard swiftly to the green baize doors at the rear of the bar-room. At her touch the swinging doors gave inward, and her goal was reached. Three faro games, each with its inlaid table, its impassive dealer, its armed "lookout," and its ring of silent players, lay beyond the baize doors. At the nearest of the tables there was a stir, and the dealer stopped running the cards. Somebody said, "Let him get out," and then an old man, bearded, white-haired, wild-eyed, and haggard almost beyond recognition, pushed his chair away from the table and stumbled to his feet, his hands clutching the air like those of a swimmer sinking for the last time. With a low cry the girl darted across the intervening space to clasp the staggering old man in her arms and draw him away. Brouillard stood aside as they came slowly toward the doors which he was holding open for them. He saw the distorted face-mask of a soul in torment and heard the mumbling repetition of the despairing words, "It's all gone, little girl; it's all gone!" and then he removed himself quickly beyond the range of the staring, unseeing eyes. For in the lightning flash of revealment he realized that once again the good he would have done had turned to hideous evil in the doing, and that this time the sword thrust of the blind-passion impulse had gone straight to the heart of love itself. XV The Setting of the Ebb Contrary to the most sanguine expectations of the speculators--contrary, perhaps, even to those of Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright--the upward surge in Mirapolis values, following the visit of the "distinguished citizens," proved to be more than a tidal wave: it was a series of them. The time was fully ripe for the breaking down of the final barriers of prudence and common-place sanity. Day after day the "curb" markets were reopened, with prices mounting skyward; and when the news of how fortunes could be made in a day in the Miracle City of the Niquoia got abroad in the press despatches there was a fresh influx of mad money hunters from the East, and the merry game of buying and selling that which, inferentially at least, had no legal existence, went on with ever-increasing activity and an utterly reckless disregard of values considered as a basis for future returns on the investment. Now, if never before, the croaker was wrathfully shouted down and silenced. No one admitted, or seemed to admit, the possible impermanence of the city. So far from it, the boast was made openly that Mirapolis had fairly out-stripped the Reclamation Service in the race for supremacy, and that among the first acts passed by Congress on its reassembling would be one definitely annulling the Buckskin Desert project, or, at any rate, so much of it as might be threatening the existence of the great gold camp in the Niquoia Valley. To the observer, anxious or casual, there appeared to be reasonable grounds for the optimistic assertion. It was an indubitable fact that Brouillard's force had been cut down, first to one half, and later to barely enough men to keep the crushers and mixers moving and to add fresh layers of concrete to the huge wall of sufficient quantities to prevent the material--in technical phrase--from "dying." True, in the new furor of buying and selling and booming it was not remarked that the discharged government employees uniformly disappeared from the city and the valley as soon as they were stricken from the time rolls. True, also, was the fact that Brouillard said nothing for publication, and little otherwise, regarding the successive reductions in his working force. But in such periods of insanity it is only the favorable indications which are marked and emphasized. The work on the great dam was languishing visibly, as every one could see. The Navajos had been sent home to their reservation, the tepees were gone, and two thirds of the camp shacks were empty. Past these material facts, plainly to be seen and weighed and measured by any who would take the time to consider them, there was a strictly human argument which was even more significant. It was known to everybody in the frenzied marketplace that Brouillard himself was, according to his means, one of the most reckless of the plungers, buying, borrowing, and buying again as if the future held no threat of a possible _débâcle_. It was an object-lesson for the timid. Those who did not themselves know certainly argued that there must be a few who did know, and among these few the chief of the Reclamation Service must be in the very foremost rank. "You just keep your eye on Brouillard and steer your own boat accordingly," was the way Editor Harlan put it to one of the timid ones. "He knows it all, backward and forward, and from the middle both ways; you can bet your final dollar on that. And you mustn't expect him to talk. In his position he can't talk; one of the things he is drawing his salary for is to keep his mouth shut. Besides, what a man may say doesn't necessarily count for much. It is what he does." Thus Harlan, speaking, as it were, in his capacity of a public dispenser of the facts. But for himself he was admitting a growing curiosity about the disappearing workmen, and this curiosity broke ground one evening when he chanced to meet Brouillard at the club. "Somebody was telling me that you let out another batch of your Buckskin ditch diggers to-day, Brouillard," he began. And then, without any bush beating, the critical question was fired point-blank: "What becomes of all these fellows you are dropping? They don't stay in town or go to the mines--not one of them." "Don't they?" said Brouillard with discouraging brevity. "You know mighty well they don't. And they don't even drift out like other people; they go in bunches." "Anything else remarkable up your sleeve?" was the careless query. "Yes; Conlan, the railroad ticket agent, started to tell me yesterday that they were going out on government transportation--that they didn't buy tickets like ordinary folks; started to tell me, I say, because he immediately took it back and fell all over himself trying to renege." "You are a born gossip, Harlan, but I suppose you can't help it. Did no one ever tell you that a part of the government contract with these laborers includes transportation back to civilization when they are discharged?" "No, not by a jugful!" retorted the newspaper man. "And you're not telling me so now. For some purpose of your own you are asking me to believe it without being told. I refuse. This is the closed season, and the fish are not biting." Brouillard laughed easily. "You are trying mighty hard to make a mountain out of a mole-hill. You say the men clear out when they are discharged--isn't that about what you'd do if you were out of a job?" "Not with such unfailing unanimity if there were several hundred of me. Mirapolis isn't such an infernally good place to go away from--not yet." Brouillard's smile matched the easy-going laugh which had been its forerunner. "You are a most persistent gadfly, Harlan. If I tell you one small, trifling, and safely uninflammable fact, can I trust you not to turn it into a house afire in the columns of the _Spot-Light_?" "You know well enough you can!" was the eager protest. "When have I ever bleated when I should have kept still?" "Well, then, the fact is this: the men leaving the Niquoia are not discharged from the service. They are merely transferred to the Escalante project, which the department is trying to push through to completion before the northern winter sets in and freezes the concrete in the mixers." "Ah!" said Harlan with a quick indrawing of his breath. "That brings on more talk--about a thousand miles of it, doesn't it?" "For example?" suggested the engineer. "To put it baldly, is the government really quitting on the Niquoia project, or is it merely transferring its force from a job that can wait to one that can't wait?" Brouillard smiled again. "You see," he said; "it is second nature for you pencil-pushers to try to make two facts grow where only one grew before. Honestly, now, Harlan, what do you think about it yourself? You don't need any kindergartner of a construction man to help you solve a little problem like that, do you?" "I'm doing a little sum in simple equations," was the thoughtful answer--"putting this bit of information which you have just given me against what I have been believing to be a pretty straight tip from Washington." "What is your tip?" "It's this: that Congress does really propose to interfere in behalf of Mirapolis." "How can any one predict that when Congress is not in session?" "The tip asserts that the string-pulling is all done. It will be a quiet bit of special legislation smuggled through, I suppose, like the bills for private relief. All it will need will be the recommendation and backing of a handful of Western members and senators. Nobody else is very vitally interested, outside of your own department, and there are always plenty of clubs at hand for killing off department opposition--threats of cutting down the appropriations and so on. Properly engineered, the Mirapolis bill will go through like a greased pig under a gate. You know it will." "You say nobody else is vitally interested--that's a mistake big enough to be called a crime," said Brouillard with emphasis. "The reclamation of the Buckskin Desert is a matter of moment to the entire nation. Its failure would be a public disaster." Harlan laughed derisively. "You are talking through your hat now--the salaried government engineer's hat. Let your topographers go out and find some other stream to dam up. Let them hunt up some other desert to reclaim. The supply of arid lands isn't exhausted yet by a good bit." Brouillard appeared to be silenced even if he were not fully convinced. After a time, however, he dropped in another query. "How straight is your tip, Harlan?" "So straight that I'd print it in to-morrow's _Spot-Light_ if I wasn't afraid of queering the deal by being too previous. The necessary backing has been secured, and the bill is already prepared. If you don't believe it, ask your own big bosses in Washington." "You are certain that your information didn't originate right here in Mirapolis--in Mr. Cortwright's office, to locate it more exactly?" "It didn't; it came from a purely personal source and direct from Washington." "And the source couldn't possibly have become contaminated by the Cortwright germs?" Harlan's smile was the face-wrinkling of seasoned wisdom. "You are pushing me too hard," he protested. "I know that there are wheels within wheels. You'd say it would be a foxy move to have the local newspaper in Mirapolis get such a tip from a strictly unprejudiced source. I'll have to admit that myself." Brouillard looked at his watch and reached for his hat. "It's all right, Harlan," he said at the leave-taking. "Believe as much as you like, but take my advice in just one small matter. Don't buy Mirapolis dirt to hold; buy it to sell--and sell the minute you see your profit. I told you I'd give you a pointer if I didn't forget; you've got it." For the better part of a fortnight the tidal waves of prosperity, as evinced by increasing speculative values, kept on rolling in, each one apparently a little higher than its immediate predecessor. Then the flood began to subside, though so slowly that at first it was only by a careful comparison of the daily transfers that the recession could be measured. Causes and consequences extraneous to the city itself contributed to the almost imperceptible reactionary tendency. For one, the Buckskin Mining and Milling Company reluctantly abandoned its pastime of ploughing barren furrows on Jack's Mountain, and a little later went into liquidation, as the phrase ran, though the Eastern bondholders probably called it bankruptcy. About the same time the great cement plant, deprived of the government market by the slackening of the work on the dam, reduced its output to less than one fourth of its full capacity. Most portentous of all, perhaps, was the rumor that the placers at Quadjenàï were beginning to show signs of exhaustion. It was even whispered about that the two huge gold dredges recently installed were not paying the expenses of operating them. Quite naturally, the pulse of the Wonder City beat sensitive to all these depressive rumors and incidents, responding slowly at first but a little later in accelerated throbbings which could no longer be ignored by the most optimistic bidder at the "curb" exchanges. Still there was no panic. As the activities in local sales fell off and the Mirapolitans themselves were no longer crowding the curbs or standing in line at the real estate offices for their turn at the listings, the prudent ones, with Mr. Cortwright and his chosen associates far in advance of the field, were placing Mirapolis holdings temptingly on view in distant markets; placing them and selling them with a blazonry of advertising worthy of the envy of those who have called themselves the suburb builders of Greater New York. It was after this invasion of the distant market was fully in train that Cortwright once more sent for Brouillard, receiving the engineer this time in the newest offices of the power company, on the many-times-bought-and-sold corner opposite Bongras's. "Hello, Brouillard!" said the magnate jocosely, indicating a chair and the never-absent open box of cigars in the same gesture. "You're getting to be as much of a stranger as a man might wish his worst enemy to be. Gene says you are neglecting her shamefully, but she seems to be making a pretty good Jack-at-a-pinch of the English lord." "You sent for me?" Brouillard broke in tersely. More and more he was coming to acknowledge a dull rage when he heard the call of his master. "Yes. What about the dam? Is your work going to start up again? Or is it going off for good?" Brouillard bit his lip to keep back the exclamation of astoundment that the blunt inquiry threatened to evoke. To assume that Mr. Cortwright did not know all there was to be known was to credit the incredible. "I told you a good while ago that I was only the government's hired man," he replied. "You doubtless have much better information than any I can give you." "You can tell me what your orders are--that's what I want to know." The young chief of construction frowned first, then he laughed. "What has given you the impression that you own me, Mr. Cortwright? I have often wondered." "Well, I might say that I have made you what you are, and----" "That's true; the truest thing you ever said," snapped Brouillard. "And, I was going to add, I can unmake you just as easily. But I don't want to be savage with you. All I'm asking is a little information first, and a little judicious help afterward. What are your orders from the department?" Brouillard got up and stood over the stocky man in the office chair, with the black eyes blazing. "Mr. Cortwright, I said a moment ago that you have made me what I am, and you have. I am infinitely a worse man than you are, because I know better and you don't. It is no excuse for me that I have had a motive which I haven't explained to you, because, as I once told you, you couldn't understand it in a thousand years. The evil has been done and the consequences, to you, to me, and to every one in this cursed valley are certain. Facing them as I am obliged to face them, I am telling you--but what's the use? You can't make a tool of me any longer--that's all. You must cook your meat over your own fire. I'm out of it." "I can smash you," said the man in the chair, quite without heat. "No, you can't even do that," was the equally cool retort. "No man's fate is in another man's hands. If you choose to set in motion the machinery which will grind me to a small-sized villain of the county-jail variety, it is I myself who will furnish every foot-pound of the power that is applied." He was moving toward the door, but Cortwright stopped him. "One more word before you go, Brouillard. It is to be war between us from this on?" "I don't say that: It would be awkward for Miss Genevieve. Let it be armed neutrality if you like. Don't interfere with me and I won't interfere with you." "Ah!" said the millionaire. "Now you have brought it around to the point I was trying to reach. You don't want to have anything more to do with me, but you are not quite ready to cash in and pull out of the game. How much money have you got?" The cool impudence of the question brought a dull flush to the younger man's face, but he would give the enemy no advantage in the matter of superior self-control. "That is scarcely a fair question--even between armed neutrals," he objected. "Why do you want to know?" "I'm asking because you have just proposed the non-interference policy, and I'd like to know how fairly you mean to live up to it. A little while back you interfered in a small business matter of mine very pointedly. What became of the one hundred thousand dollars you gave old David Massingale?" "How do you know I gave him a hundred thousand dollars?" "That's dead easy," laughed the man in the pivot chair, once more the genial buccaneer. "You drew a check for that amount and cashed it, and a few minutes later Massingale, whose account had been drawn down to nothing, bobs up at Schermerhorn's window with exactly the same amount in loose cash. What did he do with it--gamble it?" "That is his own affair," Brouillard countered briefly. "Well, the future--next month's future--is my affair. If you've got money enough to interfere again--don't. You'll lose it, the same as you did before. And perhaps I sha'n't take the second interference as good-naturedly as I did the first." "Is that all you have to say?" Brouillard asked impatiently. "Not quite. I don't believe you were altogether in earnest a minute ago when you expressed your desire to call it all off. You don't want the Mirapolis well to go dry right now, not one bit more than I do." "I have been trying pretty hard to make you understand that it is a matter of utter indifference to me." "But you haven't succeeded very well; it isn't at all a matter of indifference to you," the magnate insisted persuasively. "As things are shaping themselves up at the present speaking, you stand to lose, not only the hundred thousand you squandered on old David, but all you've made besides. I keep in touch--it's my business to keep in touch. You've been buying bargains and you are holding them--for the simple reason that with the present slowing-down tendency in the saddle you can't sell and make any money." "Well?" "I've got a proposition to make that ought to look good to you. What we need just now in this town is a little more activity--something doing. You can relieve the situation if you feel like it." "How?" "If I tell you, you mustn't go and use it against me. That would be a low-down welcher's trick. But you won't. See here, your bureau at Washington is pretty well scared up over the prospect here. It is known in the capital that when Congress convenes there is going to be a dead-open-and-shut fight to kill this Buckskin reclamation project. Very well; the way for you fellows to win out is to hurry--finish your dam and finish it quick, before Congress or anybody else can get action." For a single instant Brouillard was puzzled. Then he began to understand. "Go on," he said. "What I was going to suggest is this: you prod your people at Washington with a hot wire; tell 'em now's the time to strike and strike hard. They'll see the point, and if you ask for an increase of a thousand men you'll get it. Make it two thousand, just for the dramatic effect. We'll work right along with you and make things hum again. We'll start up the cement plant, and I don't know but what we might give the Buckskin M. & M. folks a small hypodermic that would keep 'em alive while we are taking a few snapshot pictures of Mirapolis on the jump again." "Let me get it straight," said Brouillard, putting his back against the door. "You fully believe you've got us down; that eventually, and before the water is turned on, Congress will pass a bill killing the Niquoia project. But in the meantime, to make things lively, you'd like to have the Reclamation Service go ahead and spend another million or so in wages that can be turned loose in Mirapolis. Is that it?" "You've surrounded it very neatly," laughed the promoter. "Once, some little time ago, I might have felt the necessity of convincing your scruples, but you've cut away all that foolishness. It's a little tough on our good old Uncle Samuel, I'll admit, but it'll be only a pin-prick or so in comparison to the money that is thrown away every time Congress passes an appropriation bill. And, putting it upon the dead practical basis, Brouillard, it's your one and only salvation--personally, I mean. You've _got_ to unload or go broke, and you can't unload on a falling market. You think about it and then get quick action with the wire. There is no time to lose." Brouillard was looking past Cortwright and out through the plate-glass window which commanded a view of the great dam and its network of forms and stagings. "It is a gambler's bet and a rather desperate one," he said slowly. "You stand to win all or to lose all in making it, Mr. Cortwright. The town is balancing on the knife-edge of a panic at this moment. Would it go up, or down, with a sudden resumption of work on the dam?" "The careless thinker would say that it would yell 'Fire!' and go up into the air so far that it could never climb down," was the prompt reply. "But we'll have the medicine dropper handy. In the first place, everybody can afford to stay and boost while Uncle Sam is spending his million or so right here in the middle of things. Nobody will want to pull out and leave that cow unmilked. In the second place, we've got a mighty good antidote to use in any sure-enough case of hydrophobia your quick dam building may start." "You could let it leak out that, in spite of all the hurrah and rush on the dam, Congress is really going to interfere before we are ready to turn the water on," said Brouillard musingly and as if it were only his thought slipping into unconscious speech. "Precisely. We could make that prop hold if you were actually putting the top course on your wall and making preparations to drop the stop-gate in your spillway." "I see," was the rejoinder, and it was made in the same half-absent monotone. "But while we are still on the knife-blade edge ... a little push.... Mr. Cortwright, if there were one solitary righteous man left in Mirapolis----" "There isn't," chuckled the promoter, turning back to his desk while the engineer was groping for the door-knob--"at least, nobody with that particular brand of righteousness backed by the needful inside information. You go ahead and do your part and we'll do the rest." XVI The Man on the Bank Brouillard, walking out of Mr. Cortwright's new offices with his thoughts afar, wondered if it were by pure coincidence that he found Castner apparently waiting for him on the sidewalk. "Once more you are just the man I have been wanting to see," the young missionary began, promptly making use of the chance meeting. "May I break in with a bit of bad news?" "There is no such thing as good news in this God-forsaken valley, Castner. What's your grief?" "There is trouble threatening for the Cortwrights. Stephen Massingale is out and about again, and I was told this morning that he was filling himself up with bad whiskey and looking for the man who shot him." Brouillard nodded unsympathetically. "You will find that there is always likely to be a second chapter in a book of that sort--if the first one isn't conclusive." "But there mustn't be this time," Castner insisted warmly. "We must stop it; it is our business to stop it." "Your business, maybe; it falls right in your line, doesn't it?" "No more in mine than in yours," was the quick retort. "Am I my brother's keeper?" said the engineer pointlessly, catching step with the long-legged stride of the athletic young shepherd of souls. "Not if you claim kinship with Cain, who was the originator of that very badly outworn query," came the answer shot-like. Then: "What has come over you lately, Brouillard? You are a friend of the Massingales; I've had good proof of that. Why don't you care?" "Great Heavens, Castner, I do care! But if you had a cut finger you wouldn't go to a man in hell to get it tied up, would you?" "You mean that I have brought my cut finger to you?" "Yes, I meant that, and the rest of it, too. I'm no fit company for a decent man to-day, Castner. You'd better edge off and leave me alone." Castner did not take the blunt intimation. For the little distance intervening between the power company's new offices and the Niquoia Building he tramped beside the young engineer in silence. But at the entrance to the Niquoia he would have gone his way if Brouillard had not said abruptly: "I gave you fair warning; I'm not looking for a chance to play the Good Samaritan to anybody--not even to Stephen Massingale, much less Van Bruce Cortwright. The reason is because I have a pretty decent back-load of my own to carry. Come up to my rooms if you can spare a few minutes. I want to talk to a man who hasn't parted with his soul for a money equivalent--if there is such a man left in this bottomless pit of a town." Castner accepted the implied challenge soberly, and together they ascended to Brouillard's offices. Once behind the closed door, Brouillard struck out viciously. "You fellows claim to hold the keys of the conscience shop; suppose you open up and dole out a little of the precious commodity to me, Castner. Is it ever justifiable to do evil that good may come?" "No." There was no hesitation in the denial. Brouillard's laugh was harshly derisive. "I thought you'd say that. No qualifications asked for, no judicial weighing of the pros and cons--the evil of the evil, or the goodness of the good--just a plain, bigoted 'No.'" Castner ran a hand through his thick shock of dark hair and looked away from the scoffer. "Extenuating circumstances--is that what you mean? There are no such things in the court of conscience--the enlightened conscience. Right is right and wrong is wrong. There is no middle ground of accommodation between the two. You know that as well as I do, Brouillard." "Well, then, how about the choice between two evils? You'll admit that there are times----" Castner was shaking his head. "That is a lying proverb. No man is ever compelled to make that choice. He only thinks he is." "That is all you know about it!" was the bitter retort. "What can you, or any man who sets himself apart as you do, know about the troubles and besetments of ordinary people? You sit on the bank of the river and see the water go by; what do you know about the agonies of the fellow who is fighting for breath and life out in the middle of the stream?" "That is a fallacy, too," was the calm reply. "I am a man as other men, Brouillard. My coat makes no difference, as you have allowed at other times when we have been thrown together. Moreover, nobody sits on the bank in these days. What are your two evils?" Brouillard tilted back in his chair and pointedly ignored the direct question. "Theories," he said half contemptuously. "And they never fit. See here, Castner; suppose it was clearly your duty, as a man and a Christian and to subserve some good end, to plant a thousand pounds of dynamite in the basement of this building and fire it. Would you do it?" "The case isn't supposable." "There you are!" Brouillard broke out impatiently. "I told you you were sitting on the bank. The case is not only supposable; it exists as an actual fact. And the building the man ought to blow to high heaven contains not only a number of measurably innocent people but one in particular for whose life and happiness the man would barter his immortal soul--if he has one." The young missionary left his chair and began to walk back and forth on his side of the office desk. "You want counsel and you are not willing to buy it with the coin of confidence," he said at length, adding: "It is just as well, perhaps. I doubt very much if I am the person to give it to you." "Why do you doubt it? Isn't it a part of your job?" "Not always. I am not your conscience keeper, Brouillard. Don't misunderstand me. I may have lived a year or so longer than you have, but you have lived more--a great deal more. That fact might be set aside, but there is another: in the life of every man there is some one person who knows, who understands, whose word for that man is the one only fitting word of inspiration. That is what I mean when I say that I am not your conscience keeper. Do I make it clear?" "Granting your premises--yes. Go on." "I will. We'll paste that leaf down and turn another. Though I can't counsel you, I can still be your faithful accuser. You have committed a great sin, Brouillard, and you are still committing it. If you haven't been the leader in the mad scramble for riches here in this abandoned city, you have been only a step behind the leaders. And you were the one man who should have been like Cæsar's wife, the one whose example counted for most." Brouillard got up and thrust out his hand across the desk. "You are a man, Castner--and that is better than being a priest," he asserted soberly. "I'll take back all the spiteful things I've been saying. I'm down under the hoofs of the horses, and it's only human nature to want to pull somebody else down. You are one of the few men in Mirapolis whose presence has been a blessing instead of a curse--who hasn't had a purely selfish greed to satisfy." Again Castner shook his head. "There hasn't been much that I could do. Brouillard, it is simply dreadful--the hard, reckless, half-demoniac spirit of this place! There is nothing to appeal to; there is no room or time for anything but the mad money chase or the still madder dissipation in which the poor wretches seek to forget. I can only try here and there to drag some poor soul out of the fire at the last moment, and it makes me sick--sick at heart!" "You mustn't look at it that way," said Brouillard, suddenly turning comforter. "You have been doing good work and a lot of it--more than any three ordinary men could stand up under. I haven't got beyond seeing and appreciating, Castner; truly I have not. And I'll say this: if I had only half your courage... but it's no use, I'm in too deep. I can't see any farther ahead than a man born blind. There is one end for which I have been striving from the very first, and it is still unattained. I'm past help now. I have reached a point at which I'd pull the whole world down in ruins to see that end accomplished." The young missionary took another turn up and down the room and then came back to the desk for his hat. At the leave-taking he said the only helpful word he could think of. "Go to your confessor, Brouillard--your real confessor--and go all the more readily if that one happens to be a good woman--whom you love and trust. They often see more clearly than we do--the good women. Try it; and let me help where a man can help." For a long hour after Castner went away Brouillard sat at his desk, fighting as those fight who see the cause lost, and who know they only make the ruin more complete by struggling on. Cortwright's guess had found its mark. He was loaded to break with "front feet" and options and "corners." In the latest speculative period he had bought and mortgaged and bought again, plunging recklessly with the sole object of wringing another hundred thousand out of the drying sponge against the time when David Massingale should need it. There seemed to be no other hope. It had become plainly evident after a little time that Cortwright's extorted promise to lift the smelting embargo from the "Little Susan" ore had been kept only in the letter; that he had removed one obstacle only to interpose another. The new obstacle was in the transportation field. Protests and beseechings, letters to traffic officials, and telegrams to railroad headquarters were of no avail. In spite of all that had been done, there was never an ore-car to come over the range at War Arrow, and the side-track to the mine was as yet uncompleted. Brouillard had seen little of Massingale, but that little had shown him that the old miner was in despair. It was this hopeless situation which had made Brouillard bend his back to a second lifting of the "Little Susan's" enormous burden. At first the undertaking seemed easily possible. But with the drying of the speculative sponge it became increasingly difficult. More and more he had been compelled to buy and hold, until now the bare attempt to unload would have started the panic which was only waiting for some hedging seller to fire the train. Sitting in the silence of the sixth-floor office he saw that Cortwright had shown him the one way out. Beyond doubt, the resumption in full force of the work on the dam would galvanize new life into Mirapolis, temporarily, at least. After that, a cautious selling campaign, conducted under cover through the brokers, might save the day for David Massingale. But the cost--the heaping dishonor, the disloyalty of putting his service into the breach and wrecking and ruining to gain the one personal end.... The sweat stood out in great drops on his forehead when he finally drew a pad of telegraph blanks under his hand and began to write a message. Painstakingly he composed it, referring often to the notes in his field-book, and printing the words neatly in his accurate, clearly defined handwriting. When it was finished he translated it laboriously into the department code. But after the copy was made and signed he did not ring at once for a messenger. Instead, he put the two, the original and the cipher, under a paper-weight and sat glooming at them, as if they had been his own death-warrant--was still so sitting when a light tap at the door was followed by a soft swishing of silken skirts, a faint odor of crushed violets, and Genevieve Cortwright stood beside him. XVII The Circean Cup While one might count ten the silence of the upper room remained unbroken, and neither the man nor the woman spoke. It was not the first time by many that Genevieve Cortwright had come to stand beside the engineer's desk, holding him with smiling eyes and a charming audacity while she laid her commands upon him for the afternoon's motoring or the evening's bridge party or what other social diversion she might have in view. But now there was a difference. Brouillard felt it instinctively--and in the momentary silence saw it in a certain hard brilliance of the beautiful eyes, in the curving of the ripe lips, half scornful, half pathetic, though the pathos may have been only a touch of self-pity born of the knowledge that the world of the luxury-lapped has so little to offer once the cold finger of satiety has been laid upon the throbbing pulse of fruition. "You have been quarrelling with father again," she said, with an abruptness that was altogether foreign to her habitual attitude toward him. "I have come to try to make peace. Won't you ask me to sit down?" He recalled himself with a start from his abstracted study of the faultless contour of cheek and chin and rounded throat and placed a chair for her, apologizing for the momentary aberration and slipping easily from apology into explanation. "It was good of you to try to bring the wine and oil," he said. "But it was scarcely a quarrel; the king doesn't quarrel with his subjects." "Now you are making impossible all the things I came to say," she protested, with a note of earnestness in her voice that he had rarely heard. "Tell me what it was about." "I am afraid it wouldn't interest you in the least," he returned evasively. "I suppose you are punishing me now for the 'giddy butterfly' pose which you once said was mine. Isn't there a possibility, just the least little shadow of a possibility, that I don't deserve to be punished?" He had sat down facing her and his thought was quite alien to the words when he tried again. "You wouldn't understand. It was merely a disagreement in a matter of--a matter of business." "Perhaps I can understand more than you give me credit for," she countered, with an upflash of the captivating eyes. "Perhaps I can be hurt where you have been thinking that the armor of frivolity, or ignorance, or indifference is the thickest." "No, you wouldn't be hurt," he denied, in sober finality. "How can you tell? Can you read minds and hearts as you do your maps and drawings? Must I be set down as hopelessly and irreclaimably frivolous just because I have chosen to laugh when possibly another woman might have cried?" "Oh, no," he denied again. Then he tried to meet her fairly on the new ground. "You mustn't accuse yourself. You are of your own world and you can't very well help being of it. Besides, it is a pleasant world." "But an exceedingly shallow one, you would say. But why not, Mr. Brouillard? What do we get out of life more than the day's dole of--well, of whatever we care most for? I suppose one ought to be properly shocked at the big electric sign Monsieur Bongras has put up over the entrance to his café; 'Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die.' He meant it as a cynical gibe at the expense of Mirapolis, of course; but do you know it appeals to me--it makes me think." "I'm listening," said Brouillard. "Convert me if you can." "Oh, I don't know how to say it, or perhaps even how to think it. But when I see Monsieur Bongras's cynical little fling I wonder if it isn't the real philosophy, after all. Why should we be always looking forward and striving and trying foolishly to climb to some high plane where the air is sure to be so rare that we couldn't possibly breathe it?" Brouillard's smile was a mere eye-lifting of grave reminiscence when he said: "Some of us have quit looking forward--quit trying to climb--and that without even the poor hope of reaping the reward that Poodles's quotation offers." Miss Cortwright left her chair and began to make an aimless circuit of the room, passing the blue-prints on the walls in slow review, and coming finally to the window looking out over the city and across to the gray, timber-crowned wall of the mighty structure spanning the gap between the Niquoia's two sentinel mountains. "You haven't told me yet what your disagreement with father was about," she reminded him at length; and before he could speak: "You needn't, because I know. You have been getting in his way--financially, and he has been getting in your way--ethically. You are both in the wrong." "Yes?" said Brouillard, neither agreeing nor denying. "Yes. Father thinks too much of making money--a great deal too much; and you----" "Well?" he prompted, when the pause threatened to become a break. "I am waiting to hear my indictment." "You puzzle me," she acknowledged frankly. "At first I thought you were going to be a thirsty money hunter like all the others. And--and I couldn't quite understand why you should be. Now I know, or partly know. You had an object that was different from that of the others. You wanted to buy some one thing--not everything, as most people do. But there is something missing, and that is what puzzles me. I don't know what it is that you want to buy." "There have been two things," he broke in. "One of them you know, because I spoke of it to you long ago. The other----" "The other is connected in some way with the Massingales; so much I have been able to gather from what father said." "Since you know part, you may know all," he went on. "David Massingale owes your father--technically, at least--one hundred thousand dollars, which he can't pay; which your father isn't going to let him pay, if he can help it. And if Massingale doesn't pay he will lose his mine." "You interested yourself? Would you mind telling me just why?" she asked. "That is one of the things you couldn't understand." She turned a calmly smiling face toward him. "Oh, you are mistaken, greatly mistaken. I can understand it very well, indeed. You are in love with David Massingale's daughter." Once more he neither denied nor affirmed, and she had turned to face the window again when she went on in the same unmoved tone: "It was fine. I can appreciate such devotion even if I can't fully sympathize with it. Everybody should be in love like that--once. Every woman demands that kind of love--once. But afterward, you know--if one should be content to take the good the gods provide...." When she began again at the end of the eloquent little pause there was a new note in her voice, a note soothingly suggestive of swaying poppies in sunlit fields, of ease and peace and the ideal heights receding, of rose-strewn paths pleasant to the feet of the weary wayfarer. "Why shouldn't we take to-day, the only day we can be sure of having, and use and enjoy it while it is ours? Money?--there is money enough in the world, God knows; enough and to spare for anything that is worth the buying. I have money, if that is all--money of my own. And, if I should ask him, father would give me the 'Little Susan' outright, to do with it as I pleased." Brouillard was leaning back in his chair studying her faultless profile as she talked, and the full meaning of what she was saying did not come to him at once. But when it did he sprang up and went to stand beside her. And all the honesty and manhood the evil days had spared went into what he said to her. "I was a coward a moment ago, Miss Genevieve, when you spoke of the motive which had prompted me to help David Massingale. But you knew and you said the words for me. When you love as I do you will understand that there is an ecstasy in the very madness of it that is more precious than all the joys of a gold-mounted paradise without it. I must go on as I have begun." "You will marry her?" she asked softly. "There has never been any hope of that, I think; not from the very beginning. While I remained an honest man there was the insurmountable obstacle I once told you of--the honor debt my father left me. And when I became a thief and a grafter for love's sake I put myself out of the running, definitely and hopelessly." "Has she told you so?" "Not in so many words; there was no need. There can be no fellowship between light and darkness." Miss Cortwright's beautiful eyes mirrored well-bred incredulity, and there was the faintest possible suggestion of lenient scorn in her smile. "What a pedestal you have built for her!" she said. "Has it never occurred to you that she may be just a woman--like other women? Tell me, Mr. Brouillard, have you asked her to marry you?" "You know very well that I haven't." "Then, if you value your peace of mind, don't. She would probably say 'yes' and you would be miserable forever after. Ideals are exceedingly fragile things, you know. They are made to be looked up to, not handled." "Possibly they are," he said, as one who would rather concede than dispute. The reaction was setting in, bringing a discomforting conviction that he had opened the door of an inner sanctuary to unsympathetic eyes. Followed a little pause, which was threatening to become awkward when Miss Cortwright broke it and went back to the beginning of things. "I came to tender my good offices in the--the disagreement, as you call it, between you and father. Can't you be complaisant for once, in a way, Mr. Brouillard?" Brouillard's laugh came because it was summoned, but there was no mirth in it. "I have never been anything else but complaisant in the little set-tos with your father, Miss Genevieve. He has always carried too many guns for me. You may tell him that I am acting upon his suggestion, if you please--that the telegram to Washington is written. He will understand." "And about this Massingale affair--you will not interfere again?" Brouillard's jaw muscles began to set in the fighting lines. "Does he make that a command?" he asked. "Oh, I fancy not; at least, I didn't hear him say anything like that. I am merely speaking as your friend. You will not be allowed to do as you wish to do. I know my father better than you do, Mr. Brouillard." "What he has done, and what he proposes to do, in Massingale's affair, is little short of highway robbery, Miss Genevieve." "From your point of view, you mean. He will call it 'business' and cite you a thousand precedents in every-day life. But let it go. I've talked so much about business that I'm tired. Let me see, what was the other thing I came up here for?--oh, yes, I remember now. We are making up a party to motor down to the Tri'-Circ' Ranch for a cow-boy supper with Lord Falkland. There is a place in our car for you, and I know Sophie Schermerhorn would be delighted if you should call her up and tell her you are going." She had turned toward the door and he went to open it for her. "I am afraid I shall have to offer my regrets to you, and to Miss Schermerhorn as well, if she needs them," he said, with the proper outward show of disappointment. "Is it business?" she laughed. "Yes, it is business." "Good-by, then. I'm sorry you have to work so hard. If Miss Massingale were only rich--but I forgot, the ideals would still be in the way. No, don't come to the elevator. I can at least do that much for myself, if I am a 'giddy butterfly.'" After she had gone Brouillard went back to the window and stood with his hands behind him looking out at the great dam with its stagings and runways almost deserted. But when the westering sun was beginning to emphasize the staging timbers whose shadow fingers would presently be reaching out toward the city he went around to his chair and sat down to take the Washington telegram from beneath its paper-weight. Nothing vital, nothing in any manner changeful of the hard conditions, had happened since he had signed his name to the cipher at the end of the former struggle. Notwithstanding, the struggle was instantly renewed, and once more he found himself battling hopelessly with the undertow in the tide-way of indecision. XVIII Love's Crucible For half an hour after the motor-cars of the Falkland supper party had rolled away from the side entrance of the Hotel Metropole, Brouillard sat at his desk in the empty office with the momentous telegram before him, searching blindly for some alternative to the final act of treachery which would be consummated in the sending of the wire. Since, by reason of Cortwright's tamperings with the smelter people and the railroad, the "Little Susan" had become a locked treasure vault, the engineer, acting upon his own initiative, had tried the law. As soon as he had ascertained that David Massingale had been given sixty days longer to live, solely because the buccaneers chose to take his mine rather than his money, Brouillard had submitted the facts in the case to a trusted lawyer friend in the East. This hope had pulled in two like a frayed cord. Massingale must pay the bank or lose all. Until he had obtained possession of the promissory notes there would be no crevice in which to drive any legal wedge. And even then, unless some pressure could be brought to bear upon the grafters to make them disgorge, there was no chance of Massingale's recovering more than his allotted two thirds of the stock; in other words, he would still stand committed to the agreement by which he had bound himself to make the grafters a present, in fee simple, of one third of his mine. Brouillard had written one more letter to the lawyer. In it he had asked how David Massingale could be unassailably reinstated in his rights as the sole owner of the "Little Susan." The answer had come promptly and it was explicit. "Only by the repayment of such sums as had been actually expended in the reorganization and on the betterments--for the modernizing machinery and improvements--and the voluntary surrender, by the other parties to the agreement, of the stock in dispute," the lawyer had written; and Brouillard had smiled at the thought of Cortwright voluntarily surrendering anything which was once well within the grasp of his pudgy hands. Failing to start the legal wedge, Brouillard had dipped--also without consulting Massingale--into the matter of land titles. The "Little Susan" was legally patented under the land laws, and Massingale's title, if the mine were located upon government land, was without a flaw. But on a former reclamation project Brouillard had been brought in contact with some of the curious title litigation growing out of the old Spanish grants; and in at least one instance he had seen a government patent invalidated thereby. As a man in reasonably close touch with his superiors in Washington, the chief of construction knew that there was a Spanish-grant involvement which had at one time threatened to at least delay the Niquoia project. How it had been settled finally he did not know; but after the legal failure he had written to a man--a college classmate of his own--in the bureau of land statistics, asking for data which would enable him to locate exactly the Niquoia-touching boundaries of the great Coronida Grant. To this letter no reply had as yet been received. Brouillard had cause to know with what slowness a simple matter of information can ooze out of a department bureau. The letter--which, after all, might contain nothing helpful--lingered on the way, and the crisis, the turning-point beyond which there could be no redemption in a revival of the speculative craze, had arrived. Brouillard took up the draught of the Washington telegram and read it over. He was cooler now, and he saw that it was only as it came from the hand of a traitor, who could and would deliberately wreck the train of events it might set in motion, that it became a betrayal. Writing as the commanding officer in the field, he had restated the facts--facts doubtless well known in the department--the probability that Congress would intervene and the hold the opposition was gaining by the suspension of the work on the dam. If the work could be pushed energetically and at once, there was a possibility that the opposition would become discouraged and voluntarily withdraw. Would the department place the men and the means instantly at his disposal? "If I were the honest man I am supposed to be, that is precisely the message I ought to send," he mused reflectively. "It is only as the crooked devil in possession of me will drive me to nullify the effort and make it of no effect that it becomes a crime; that and the fact that I can never be sure that the Cortwright gang hasn't the inside track and will not win out in spite of all efforts. That is the touchstone of the whole degrading business. I'm afraid Cortwright has the inside track. If I could only get a little clear-sighted daylight on the damnable tangle!" Obeying a sudden impulse, he thrust the two copies of the telegram under the paper-weight again, sprang up, put on his hat, and left the building. A few minutes later he was on the porch of the stuccoed villa in the Quadjenàï road and was saying gravely to the young woman who had been reading in the hammock: "You are staying too closely at home. Get your coat and hat and walk with me up to the 'Little Susan.' It will do you good." The afternoon was waning and the sun, dipping to the horizon, hung like a huge golden ball over the yellow immensities of the distant Buckskin as they topped the final ascent in the steep trail and went to sit on the steps of the deserted home cabin at the mine. For a time neither spoke, and the stillness of the air contributed something to the high-mountain silence, which was almost oppressive. Work had been stopped in the mine at the end of the previous week, Massingale declaring, morosely, that until he knew whose ore he was digging he would dig no more. Presumably there was a watchman, but if so he was invisible to the two on the cabin step, and the high view-point was theirs alone. "How did you know that I have been wanting to come up here once more before everything is changed?" said the girl at length, patting the roughly hewn log step as if it were a sentient thing to feel the caress. "I didn't know it," Brouillard denied. "I only knew that I wanted to get out of Gomorrah for a little while, to come up here with you and get the reek of the pit out of my nostrils." "I know," she rejoined, with the quick comprehension which never failed him. "It is good to be out of it, to be up here where we can look down upon it and see it in its true perspective--as a mere little impertinent blot on the landscape. It's only that, after all, Victor. See how the great dam--your work--overshadows it." "That is one of the things I hoped I might be able to see if I came here with you," he returned slowly. "But I can't get your point of view, Amy. I shall never be able to get it again." "You did have it once," she asserted. "Or rather, you had a better one of your own. Has Gomorrah changed it?" "No, not Gomorrah. I could shut the waste-gates and drown the place to-morrow for all that Mirapolis, or anything in it, means to me. But something has changed the point of view for me past mending, since that first day when we sat here together and looked down upon the beginnings of the Reclamation construction camp--before Gomorrah was ever thought of." "I know," she said again. "But that dreadful city is responsible. It has robbed us all, Victor; but you more than any, I'm afraid." "No," he objected. "Mirapolis has been only a means to an end. The thing that has changed my point of view--my entire life--is love, as I have told you once before." "Oh, no," she protested gently, rising to take her old place, with her back to the porch post and her hands behind her. And then, still more gently: "That is almost like sacrilege, Victor, for love is sacred." "I can't help it. Love has made a great scoundrel of me, Amy; a criminal, if man's laws were as closely meshed as God's." "I can't believe that," she dissented loyally. "It is true. I have betrayed my trust. Cortwright will make good in all of his despicable schemes. Congress will intervene and the Niquoia project will be abandoned." "No," she insisted. "Take a good, deep breath of this pure, clean, high-mountain air and think again. Mirapolis is dying, even now, though nobody dares admit it. But it is. Tig Smith hears everything, and he told father last night that the rumor about the Quadjenàï placers is true. They are worked out, and already the men have begun to move up the river in search of new ground. Tig said that in another week there wouldn't be a dozen sluice-boxes working." "I have known about the Quadjenàï failure for the past two weeks," Brouillard put in. "For at least that length of time the two steam dredges have been handling absolutely barren gravel, and the men in charge of them have had orders to go on dredging and say nothing. Mirapolis is no longer a gold camp; but, nevertheless, it will boom again--long enough to let Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright and his fellow buccaneers loot it and get away." "How can you know that?" she asked curiously. "I know it because I am going to bring it to pass." "You?" "Yes, I. It is the final act in the play. And my part in this act is the Judas part--as it has been in the others." She was looking down at him with wide-open eyes. "If any one else had said that of you ... but I can't believe it! I know you, Victor; I think I must have known you in the other world--the one before this--and there we climbed the heights, in the clear sunlight, together." "There was one thing you didn't learn about me--in that other world you speak of," he said, falling in with her allegory. "You didn't discover that I could become a wretched cheat and a traitor for love of you. Perhaps it wasn't necessary--there." "Tell me," she begged briefly; and, since he was staring fixedly at the scored slopes of Jack's Mountain, he did not see that she caught her lip between her teeth to stop its trembling. "Part of it you know: how I did what I could to bring the railroad, and how your brother's teaspoonful of nuggets was made to work a devil's miracle to hurry things along when the railroad work was stopped. But that wasn't the worst. As you know, I had a debt to pay before I could say: 'Come, little girl, let's go and get married.' So I became a stockholder in Cortwright's power company, knowing perfectly well when I consented that the hundred thousand dollars' worth of stock he gave me was a bribe--the price of my silence and non-interference with his greedy schemes." "But you didn't mean to keep it; you knew you _couldn't_ keep it!" she broke in; and now he did not need to look to know that her lips were trembling piteously. "I did keep it. And when the time was fully ripe I sold it back to Cortwright, or, rather, I suppose, sold it through him to some one of his wretched gulls. I meant to pay my father's debt with the money. I had the letter written and ready to mail. Then the tempter whispered that there was no hurry, that I might at least keep the money long enough to make it earn something for myself. Also, it struck me that this same devil was laughing at the spectacle of a man so completely lost to a decent sense of the fitness of things as to be planning to pay an honor debt with graft money. And so I kept it for a while." She dropped quickly on the step beside him and a sympathetic hand crept into his. "You kept it until the unhappy day when you gave it to my father, and he--and he threw it away." She was crying softly, but his attempt to comfort her was almost mechanical. "Don't cry about the money. It had the devil's thumb-prints on it, and he merely claimed his own and got it." Then he went on as one determined to leave nothing untold. "Cortwright had bought me, and I served him as only a man in my position could serve him. I became a promoter, a 'booster,' with the others. There have been times when a word from me would have pricked the bubble. I haven't said the word; I am not saying it now. If I should say it I'd lose at a single stroke all that I have been fighting for. And I am not a good loser, Amy." For once the keen, apprehending perception failed. "I don't understand," she said, speaking as if she were groping in thick darkness. "I mean I don't understand the motive that could----" He turned to her in dumb astonishment. "I thought I had been making it plain as I went along. There has been but the one motive--a mad passion to give, give, never counting the cost. Love, as it has come to me, seems to have neither conscience nor any scruples. Nothing is too precious to be dragged to the sacrifice. You wanted something--you needed it--therefore it must be purchased for you. And the curious part of the besetment is that I have known all along that I was killing your love for me. If it wasn't quite dead before, it will die now--now that I have told you how I am flinging the last vestiges of uprightness and honor to the winds." "But how?" she queried. "You haven't told me." "You said a few minutes ago that Mirapolis is dying. That is true; and it is dying a little too soon to suit the purposes of the Cortwright gang. It must be revived, and I am to revive it by persuading the department to rush the work on the dam. You would say that this would only hasten the death of the city. But the plot provides for all the contingencies. Mirapolis needs the money that would be spent here in the rushing of the government work. That was the real life-blood of the boom at first, and it could be made to serve again. Am I making it plain?" She nodded in speechless disheartenment, and he went on: "With the dam completed before Congress could intervene, Mirapolis would, of course, be quite dead and ready for its funeral. But if the Cortwright people industriously insist that the spending of another million or two of government money is only another plum for the city and its merchants and industries, that, notwithstanding the renewed activities, the work will still stop short of completion and the city will be saved by legislative enactment, the innocent sheep may be made to bleed again and the wolves will escape." She shuddered and drew a little apart from him on the log step. "But your part in this horrible plot, Victor?" she asked. "It is as simple as it is despicable. In the first place, I am to set the situation before the department in such a light as to make it clearly a matter of public policy to take advantage of the present Mirapolitan crisis by pushing the work vigorously to a conclusion. After thus turning on the spigot of plenty, I am expected to crowd the pay-rolls and at the same time to hold back on the actual progress of the work. That is all--except that I am to keep my mouth shut." "But you can't, you _can't_!" she cried. Then, in a passionate outburst: "If you should do such a thing as that, it wouldn't kill my love--I can't say that any more; but it would kill me--I shouldn't want to live!" He looked around at her curiously, as if he were holding her at arm's length. "Shall I do what you would have me do, Amy? Or shall I do what is best for you?" The opposing queries were as impersonal as the arm's-length gaze. "Perhaps I might be able to patch up the ideals and stand them on their feet again--and you would pay the penalty all your life in poverty and privation, in hopes wrecked and ruined, and I with my hands tied. That is one horn of the dilemma, and the other is ... let me tell you, Amy, it is worse than your worst fears. They will strip your father of the last thing he has on earth and bring him out in debt to them. There is one chance, and only one, so far as I can see. Let me go on as I have begun and I can pull him out." The tears had burned out of the steadfast eyes which were resting, with the shining soul looking out through them, upon the crimsoning snow peaks of the distant Timanyonis. "How little you know the real love!" she said slowly. "It neither weighs nor measures, nor needs to; it writes its own law in the heart, and that law can make no compromise with evil. It has but one requirement--the best good of the beloved. If the way to that end lies through sacrifice--if it asks for the life itself--so let it be. If you knew this, Victor, you would know that I would gladly lose all--the mine, my father's chance of his reward for the years of toil, even my brother's better chance for reformation--and count myself happy in having found a love that was too great to do evil that good might come." He got up stiffly and helped her to her feet and together they stood looking down upon the city of the plain, lying now under the curved, sunset shadow cast by the mighty, inbending sweep of the great dam. "I don't know," he said after a time. "Once, as I told you a few weeks ago, the best there was in me would have leaped up to climb the heights with you. But I've gone far since the going began. I am not sure that I could find my way back if I should try. Let's go down. I mustn't keep you out on the mountain after dark. I haven't happened to meet her, but I suppose there is a Mrs. Grundy, even in Gomorrah." She acquiesced in silence and they made the descent of the steep trail and walked across in the growing dusk from the foot of Chigringo to the stuccoed villa in the suburb, misers of speech, since there were no deeper depths to which the spoken word could plunge. But at the villa steps Brouillard took the girl in his arms and kissed her. "Put me out of your mind and heart if you can," he said tenderly, repeating the words which he had once sent across the distances to her in another moment of despair, and before she could answer he was gone. * * * * * Monsieur Poudrecaulx Bongras, rotund, smiling, and roached and waxed to a broad burlesque of Second-Empire fierceness, looked in vain among his dinner guests that evening for the chief of the Reclamation Service, and Brouillard's absence held a small disappointment for the Frenchman. Rumor, the rumor which was never quiet and which could never be traced conclusively to its source, was again busy with exciting hints of a new era of prosperity about to dawn, and Bongras had hoped to drop his own little plummet of inquiry into the Reclamation Service chief. The chance did not materialize. The lights in a certain upper office in the Niquoia Building were still turned on long after M. Poudrecaulx had given up the hope of the deep-sea sounding for that night. Some time after the lobby crowd had melted, and before the lower avenue had begun to order small-hour suppers of Bongras, the two high windows in the Niquoia Building went dark and a few minutes later the man who had spent half the night tramping the floor or sitting with his head in his hands at the desk in the upper room came out of the street archway and walked briskly to the telegraph office across the plaza. "How is the line to-night, Sanford--pretty clear?" he asked of the night manager, killing time while the sleepy night receiving clerk was making his third attempt to count the words in the closely written, two-page government cipher. "Nothing doing; a little A. P. stuff drizzling in now and then," said the manager; adding: "But that's like the poor--always with us." "All right; there is no particular rush about this matter of mine, just so it is sure to be in the secretary's hands at the opening of business in the morning. But be careful that it goes straight--you'd better have it checked back before it is put on the through wire from Denver." "Sure, Mr. Brouillard. What you say in this little old shack goes as it lays. We'll look out and not bull your message. Good-night." XIX The Sunset Gun Notwithstanding the preliminary rumors which Bongras and many others had sought so anxiously to verify, the Mirapolitan awakening to a realization that once more the tide had turned to bring new billows of prosperity tumbling into the valley of the Niquoia came with a sudden and triumphant shock. The first of the quickening waves fell upon the government reservation. Between sunrise and nightfall, on a day when the cloud of depression had grown black with panic threatenings, the apathy which had lately characterized the work on the great dam disappeared as if by magic. The city found its bill-boards posted with loud calls for labor; the idle mixers were put in commission; the quarries and crushers began to thunder again; and the stagings once more shook and trembled under the feet of a busy army of puddlers. While the revival was as yet only in the embryonic period, fresh labor began to come in gangs and in car loads and presently by special trains. Swarming colonies of Greeks, Italians, and Bulgarians were dumped upon the city through the gate of the railroad station, and once more Chigringo Avenue at night became a cheerful Midway answering to the speech of all nations. Change, revivification, reanimation instantly became the new order of the day; and again Mirapolis flung itself joyously into the fray, reaping where it had not sown and sowing only where the quickest crop could be gathered. For now the dullest of the reapers saw that the government work was really the Mirapolitan breath of life. Neither the quickening of the city's industries nor the restarting of the gold dredges in the Quadjenàï canals, the reopening of the Real Estate Exchange nor the Buckskin Company's sudden resumption of the profitless prospecting on Jack's Mountain served to obscure the principal fact--that without the money the Reclamation Service was disbursing the new prosperity structure would collapse like a house of cards. This new and never-mentioned conviction wrought an eager change in men and in methods. Credit vanished and spot cash was tacitly acknowledged to be the only way to do business in a live community. Fortunes changed hands swiftly, as before, but now there was little bargaining and, with hot haste for the foreword, little time for it. To the Western motto of "Go to it and get the money" was added: "And don't come back without it." It was said with a laugh, but behind the laugh there was a menace. Among the individual transformations wrought by the new conditions, the young chief of the Reclamation Service afforded the most striking example. From the morning when he had summarily cancelled the lease for the offices in the Niquoia Building and had returned his headquarters to the old log buildings on the government reservation and thence had issued his first series of orders for the resumption of full-force work on the dam and canals, those who had known him best discovered that they had not known him at all. Even to Grislow and the men of his staff he was curt, crisply mandatory, almost brutal. For one and all there was rarely anything beyond the shot-like sentence: "Drive it, men; drive it; that's what you're here for--_drive it_!" The time he took to eat his hurried meals at Bongras's could be measured in minutes, and what hours he gave to sleep no man knew, since he was the last to leave the headquarters at night and the first on the work in the morning. Twice, after the renewed activities on the great wall had become a well-ordered race against time, and the concrete was pouring into the high forms in steady streams from the ranked batteries of mixers, Mr. Cortwright had sent for Brouillard, and on each occasion the messenger had gone back with the brief word: "Too busy during working hours." And when a third messenger came to inquire what Mr. Brouillard's working hours were, the equally blunt answer returned was: "All the time." In the face of such discouragements Mr. Cortwright was constrained to pocket his dignity as mayor, as the potentate of the exchanges, and as the unquestionable master of the surly young industry captain who refused to come when he was called, and to go in person. Choosing the evening hour when he had been assured that he was likely to find Brouillard alone and at work, he crossed the boundaries of the sacred reservation and made his way to the door of the log-built mapping room. "I came around to see what is eating you these days," was the pudgy tyrant's greeting for the young man sitting under the shaded desk lamp. "Why don't you drop in once in a while and give me the run of things?" "I gave your clerk the reason," said Brouillard laconically. "I'm too busy." "The devil you are!" snapped the great man, finding the only arm chair in the room and dropping heavily into it. "Since when?" "Since the first time you sent for me--and before." Mr. Cortwright recovered his working geniality only with a palpable effort. "See here, Brouillard, you know you never make any money by being short with me. Let's drop it and get down to business. What I wanted to say is that you are overdoing it; you are putting on too much steam. You've brought the boom, all right, but at the pace you're setting it won't last long enough. Are you catching on?" "I'm listening," was the non-committal reply. "Well, enough's enough, and too much of a good thing scalds the hog before you're ready to dress it and cut it up. It's all right for you to run men in here by the train load and scatter 'em out over your scaffolding--the more the merrier, and it's good for the town--but you needn't sweat the last shovelful of hurry out of them the way you're doing. It won't do to get your job finished too soon." "Before Congress convenes, you mean?" suggested Brouillard. "That's just what I mean. String it out. Make it last." Brouillard sat back in his pivot chair and began to play with the paper-knife. "And if I don't choose to 'string it out'--if I even confess that I am straining every nerve to do this thing that you don't want me to do--what then, Mr. Cortwright?" The quiet retort jolted the stocky man in the arm chair as if it had been a blow. But he recovered quickly. "I've been looking for that," he said with a nervous twinkling of the little gray eyes. "You've no business being out of business, Brouillard. If you'd quit puddling sand and cement and little rocks together and strike your gait right in ten years you'd be the richest man this side of the mountains. I'll be open-handed with you: this time you've got us where we can't wiggle. We've _got_ to have more time. How much is it going to cost us?" Brouillard shook his head slowly. "Odd as it may seem to you, I'm out of your market this time, Mr. Cortwright--quite out of it." "Oh, no, you're not. You've got property to sell--a good bit of it. We can turn it for you at a figure that will----" "No; you are mistaken," was the quick reply. "I have no property in Mirapolis. I am merely a squatter on government land, like every one else in the Niquoia valley." "For Heaven's sake!" the promoter burst out. "What's got into you? Don't you go around trying to stand that corpse on its feet; it's a dead one, I tell you! The Coronida titles are all right!" "There are no Coronida titles. You have known it all along, and I know it--now. I have it straight from the bureau of land statistics, in a letter from a man who knows. The nearest boundary of the old Spanish grant is Latigo Peak, ten miles south of Chigringo. The department knows this and is prepared to prove it. And in the very beginning you and your associates were warned that you could not acquire homestead or other rights in the Niquoia." "Let it go!" snapped the gray-eyed king of the pack. "We've got to get out alive and we're going to get out alive. What's your price?" "I have answered that question once, but I'll make it a little plainer if you wish. It is beyond your reach; if you should turn your money-coining soul into cash you couldn't pay it this time, Mr. Cortwright." "That's guff--boy-talk--play-ranting! You want something--is it that damned Massingale business again? I don't own the railroad, but if you think I do, I'll sign anything you want to write to the traffic people. Let Massingale sell his ore and get the money for it. He'll go gamble it as he did yours." Brouillard looked up under the shaded electric globe and his handsome face wrinkled in a sour smile. "You are ready to let go, are you?" he said. "You are too late. Mr. Ford returned from Europe a week ago, and I have a wire saying that to-night's through freight from Brewster is chiefly made up of empty ore-cars for the 'Little Susan.'" The sandy-gray eyes blinked at this, but Mr. Cortwright was of those who die hard. "What I said still holds good. Massingale or his son, or both of them, will gamble the money. And if they don't, we've got 'em tied up in a hard knot on the stock proposition." "I was coming to that," said Brouillard quietly. "For a long time you have been telling me what I should do and I have done it. Now I'll take my turn. You must notify your associates that the 'Little Susan' deal is off. There will be a called meeting of the directors here in this room to-morrow evening at eight o'clock, and----" "Who calls it?" interrupted the tyrant. "The president." "President nothing!" was the snorted comment. "An old, drunken gambler who hasn't got sense enough to go in when it rains! Say, Brouillard, I'll cut that pie so there'll be enough to go around the table. Just leave Massingale out of it and make up your mind that you're going to sit in with us. We've bought the mine and paid for it. I've got the stock put away where it's safe. Massingale can't touch a share of it, or vote it, either." Brouillard shook his head. "You are stubbornly hard to convince, Mr. Cortwright, but I'll try one more time. You will come here to-morrow evening, with your confederates in the deal, prepared to take the money you have actually spent in betterments and prepared to release the stock. If you fail to do so you will get nothing. Is that explicit enough?" "You're crazy!" shouted the promoter. "You talk as if there wasn't any law in this country!" "There isn't--for such men as you; you and your kind put yourselves above the law. But that is neither here nor there. You don't want to go into court with this conspiracy which you have cooked up to beat David Massingale out of his property. It's the last thing on earth you want to do. So you'd better do the other thing--while you can." Mr. Cortwright sat back in his chair, and once more Brouillard saw in the sandy-gray eyes the look which had been in the son's eyes when the derelict fought for freedom to finish killing Stephen Massingale. "It's a pretty dangerous thing to try to hold a man up unless you've got the drop on him, Brouillard," he said significantly. "I've got you covered from my pocket; I've had you covered that way ever since you began to buck and rear on me a couple of months ago. One little wire word to Washington fixes you for good and all. If I say the word, you'll stay on your job just as long as it will take another man to get here to supersede you." Brouillard laughed. "The pocket drop is never very safe, Mr. Cortwright. You are likely to lose too much time feeling for the proper range. Then, too, you can never be sure that you won't miss. Also, your assumption that I'm taking an unarmed man's chance is wrong. I can kill you before you can pull the trigger of the pocket gun you speak of--kill you so dead that you won't need anything but a coroner's jury and a coffin. How long would it take you to get action in the Washington matter, do you think?" "I've told you; you'd have just about a week longer to live, at the furthest." "I can better that," was the cool reply. "I have asked you to do a certain thing to-morrow night. If you don't do it, the _Spot-Light_ will print, on the following morning, that letter I spoke of--the letter from my friend in the bureau of land statistics. When that letter is printed everybody in Mirapolis will know that you and your accomplices are plain swindlers, amenable to the criminal law, and from that moment there will never be another real-estate transfer in the Niquoia valley." The promoter rose slowly out of his chair and stood leaning heavily with his fat hands, palms downward, on the flat-topped desk. His cheeks were puffed out and the bitten mustaches bristled like the whiskers of a gray old leader of the timber-wolves. "Brouillard," he grated huskily, "does this mean that you're breaking with us, once for all?" "It means more than that; it means that I have reached a point at which I am ashamed to admit that there was ever anything to break." "Then listen: you've helped this thing along as much as, or more than, anybody else in this town; and there are men right here in Mirapolis--plenty of 'em--who will kill you like a rat in a hole if you go back on them as you are threatening to. Don't you know that?" The younger man was balancing the paper-cutter across his finger. "That is the least of my worries," he answered, speaking slowly. "I am all sorts of a moral coward, I suppose; I've proved that often enough in the past few months, God knows. But I'm not the other kind, Mr. Cortwright." "Then I'll take a hand!" snarled the tyrant at bay. "I'll spend a million dollars, if I have to, blacklisting you from one end of this country to the other! I'll fix it so you'll never build anything bigger than a hog-pen again as long as you live! I'll publish your record wherever there is a newspaper to print it!" He pounded on the desk with his fist--"I'll do it--money can do it! More than that, you'll never get a smell of that Chigringo mine--you nor Dave Massingale!" Brouillard tossed the paper-knife into a half-opened drawer and squared himself at the blotting-pad. "That is your challenge, is it?" he said curtly. "So be it. Start your machinery. You will doubtless get me, not because you have money, but because for a time I was weak enough and wicked enough to climb down and stand on your level. But if you don't hurry, Mr. Cortwright, I'll get you first. Are you going? One thing more--and it's a kindness; get your son out of town before this Massingale matter comes up for adjustment. It will be safer." "Is that all you have to say?" "Pretty nearly all, except to tell you that your time is growing short, and you and those who are in with you had better begin to set your houses in order. If you'll come over here at eight o'clock to-morrow night prepared to do the square thing by David Massingale, I'll withhold the publication of that letter which will stamp you and your associates as criminals before the law; but that is the only concession I shall make." "You've got to make at least one more!" stormed the outgoing magnate. "You don't have to set any dates or anything of that kind for your damned drowning act!" "In justice to a good many people who are measurably innocent, I shall have to do that very thing," returned the engineer firmly. "The notice will appear in to-morrow's _Spot-Light_." It was the final straw in the stocky promoter's crushing wrath burden. His fat face turned purple, and for a second or two he clawed the air, gasping for breath. Brouillard sat back in his chair, waiting for the volcanic upheaval. But it did not come. When he had regained a measure of self-control, Mr. Cortwright turned slowly and went out without a word, stumbling over the threshold and slamming the door heavily as he disappeared. For a time after the promoter's wordless departure Brouillard sat at his desk writing steadily. When the last of the memorandum sheets was filled he found his hat and street coat and left the office. Ten minutes later he had penetrated to the dusty den on the second floor of the _Spot-Light_ office where Harlan was grinding copy for his paper. Brouillard took a chair at the desk end and laid the sheets of pencilled government paper under the editor's eyes. Harlan's lean, fine-lined face was a study in changing emotions as he read. But at the end there was an aggrieved look in his eyes, mirroring the poignant regret of a newsman who has found a priceless story which he dares not use. "It's ripping," he sighed, "the biggest piece of fireworks a poor devil of a newspaper man ever had a chance to touch off. But, of course, I can't print it." "Why 'of course'?" "For the same reason that a sane man doesn't peek down the muzzle of a loaded gun when he is monkeying with the trigger. I want to live a little while longer." Brouillard looked relieved. "I thought, perhaps, it was on account of your investments," he said. "Not at the present writing," amended Harlan with a grin. "I got a case of cold feet when we had that little let-up a while back, and when the market opened I cleaned up and sent the sure-enough little round dollars home to Ohio." "And still you won't print this?" "I'd like to; you don't know how much I'd like to. But they'd hang me and sack the shop. I shouldn't blame 'em. If what you have said here ever gets into cold type, it's good-by Mirapolis. Why, Brouillard, the whole United States would rise up and tell us to get off the map. You've made us look like thirty cents trying to block the wheels of a million dollars--and that is about the real size of it, I guess." "Then it is your opinion that if this were printed it would do the business?" "There isn't the slightest doubt about it." "Thank you, Harlan, that is what I wanted to find out--if I had made it strong enough. It'll be printed. I'll put it on the wires to the Associated Press. I was merely giving you the first hack at it." "Gee--gosh! hold on a minute!" exclaimed the newsman, jumping up and snapping his fingers. "If I weren't such a dod-gasted coward! Let me run in a few 'It is alleged's', and I'll chance it." "No; it goes as it lies. There are no allegations. It is merely a string of cold facts, as you very well know. Print it if you like, and I'll see to it that they don't hang you or loot the office. I have two hundred of the safest men on my force under arms to-night, and we'll take care of you. I'm in this thing for blood, Harlan, and when I get through, this little obstruction in the way of progress that Cortwright and his crowd planned, and that you and I and a lot of other fools and knaves helped to build, will be cooling itself under two hundred feet of water." "Good Lord!" said the editor, still unable to compass the barbaric suddenness of it. Then he ran his eye over the scratch sheets again. "Does this formal notice that the waste-gates will be closed three weeks from to-morrow go as it stands?" he inquired. "It does. I have the department's authority. You know as well as I do that unless a fixed day is set there will be no move made. We are all trespassers here, and we've been warned off. That's all there is to it. And if we can't get our little belongings up into the hills in three weeks it's our loss; we had no business bringing them here." The editor looked up with the light of a new discovery in his eyes. "You say 'we' and 'our.' That reminds me; Garner told me no longer ago than this afternoon that you are on record for something like a hundred thousand dollars' worth of choice Mirapolis front feet. How about that?" Brouillard's smile was quite heart-whole. "I've kept my salary in a separate pocket, Harlan. Besides that--well, I came here with nothing and I shall go away with nothing. The rest of it was all stage money." "Say--by hen!" ejaculated the owner of the _Spot-Light_. Then, smiting the desk: "You ought to let me print that. I'd run it in red head-lines across the top of the front page. But, of course, you won't.... Well, here goes for the fireworks and a chance of a soaped rope." And he pushed the bell button for the copy boy. Late as it was when he left the _Spot-Light_ office, Brouillard waited on the corner for a Quadjenàï car, and, catching one, he was presently whisked out to the ornate villa in the eastern suburb. There was a light in the hall and another in a room to the rear, and it was Amy who answered his touch of the bell-push. "No, I can't stay," he said, when she asked him in. "But I had to come, if it was only for a minute. The deed is done. I've had my next-to-the-last round-up with Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright, and to-morrow's _Spot-Light_ will fire the sunset gun for Mirapolis. Is your father here?" "No. He and Stevie are up at the mine. I am looking for them on every car." "When they come, tell your father it's time to hike. Are you all packed?" She nodded. "Everything is ready." "All right. Three of my teams will be here by midnight, at the latest. The drivers and helpers will be good men and you can trust them. Don't let anything interfere with your getting safely up to the mountain to-night. There'll be warm times in Gomorrah from this on and I want a free hand--which I shouldn't have with you here." "Oh, I'm glad, glad!--and I'm just as scared as I can be!" she gasped with true feminine inconsistency. "They will single you out first; what if I am sending you to your death, Victor! Oh, please don't go and break my heart the other way across by getting killed!" He drew a deep breath and laughed. "You don't know how good it sounds to hear you say that--and say it in that way. I sha'n't be reckless. But I'm going to bring J. Wesley and his crowd to book--they've got to go, and they've got to turn the 'Little Susan' loose." "They will never do that," she said sadly. "I'll make them; you wait and see." She looked up with the violet eyes kindling. "I told you once that you could do anything you wanted to--if you only wanted to hard enough. I believed it then; I believe it now." "No," he denied with a smile that was half sorrowful, "I can't make two hills without a valley between them. I've chased down the back track like a little man,--for love's sake, Amy,--and I've burned all the bridges behind me as I ran; namely, the sham deeds to the pieces of reservoir bottom I'd been buying. But when it is all over I shall be just where I was when we began--exactly one hundred thousand dollars short of being able to say: 'Come, girl, let's go and get married.'" "But father owes you a hundred thousand dollars," she said quickly. "Not in a hundred thousand years, O most inconsistent of women! Didn't we agree that that money was poisoned? It was the purchase price of an immortal soul, and I wouldn't touch it with a pair of tongs. That is why your father couldn't use it; it belonged to the devil and the devil wanted it back." "Father won't take that view of it," she protested. "Then you'll have to help me to bully him, that's all. But I must go and relieve Grizzy, who is doing guard duty at the mixers.... Tell your father--no, that isn't what I meant to say, it's this--" and his arms went suddenly across the hundred-thousand-dollar chasm. * * * * * A little deeper in the night, when he was tramping back through the sleeping town and up to the mixers on the high bench of Jack's Mountain, Brouillard knew well enough that he was walking over a thin-crusted crater of volcanic possibilities. But to a man in the seventh heaven of love acknowledged without shame, and equally without shame returned,--nay, with the first passionate kiss of the love still tingling on his lips,--volcanic possibilities, or even the volcanoes themselves, figure lightly, indeed. XX The Terror In the Yellowstone National Park there is an apparently bottomless pit which can be instantly transformed into a spouting, roaring Vesuvius of boiling water by the simple expedient of dropping a bar of soap into it. The _Spot-Light_ went to press at three o'clock. By the earliest graying of dawn, and long before the sun had shown itself above the eastern Timanyonis, Brouillard's bar of soap was melting and the Mirapolitan under-depths were beginning to heave. Like wild-fire, the news spread from lip to lip and street to street, and by sunrise the geyser was retching and vomiting, belching débris of cries and maledictions, and pouring excited and riotous crowds into Chigringo Avenue. Most naturally, the _Spot-Light_ office was the first point of attack, and Harlan suffered loss, though it was inconsiderable. At the battering down of the doors the angry mob found itself confronting the young Reclamation Service chief and four members of his staff, all armed. Brouillard spoke briefly and to the point. "I am the man who wrote that article you've been reading, and Mr. Harlan printed it as a matter of news. If you have anything to say to me you know where to find me. Now, move on and let Mr. Harlan's property alone or somebody will get hurt." Nobody stayed to press the argument at the moment. An early-morning mob is proverbially incoherent and incohesive; and, besides, loaded Winchesters in the hands of five determined men are apt to have an eloquence which is more or less convincing. But with the opening of business the geyser spouted again. The exchanges were mobbed by eager sellers, each frenzied struggler hoping against hope that he might find some one simple enough to buy. At ten o'clock the bank closed--"Temporarily," the placard notice said. But there were plenty to believe that it would never open again. By noon the trading panic had exhausted itself a little, though the lobby and café of the Metropole were crowded, and anxious groups quickly formed around any nucleus of rumor or gossip in the streets. Between one and two o'clock, while Brouillard, Leshington, and Anson were hastily eating a luncheon sent over to the mapping room from Bongras's, Harlan drifted in. "Spill your news," commanded Leshington gruffly. "What's doing, and who's doing it?" "Nobody, and nothing much," said Harlan, answering the two queries as one. "The town is falling apart like a bunch of sand and the get-away has set in. Two full trains went east this forenoon, and two more are scheduled for this afternoon if the railroad people can get the cars here." "'Good-by, little girl, good-by,'" hummed Grislow, entering in time to hear the report of the flight. But Leshington was shaking his big head moodily. "Laugh about it if you can, but it's no joke," he growled. "When the froth is blown away and the bubbles quit rising, there are going to be some mighty bitter settlings left in the bottom of the stein." "You're right, Leshington," said Harlan, gravely. "What we're seeing now is only the shocked surprise of it--as when a man says 'Ouch!' before he realizes that the dog which has bitten him has a well-developed case of rabies. We'll come to the hydrophobic stage later on." By nightfall of this first day the editor's ominous prophecy seemed about to reach its fulfilment. The Avenue was crowded again and the din and clamor was the roar of a mob infuriated. Brouillard and Leshington had just returned from posting a company of the workmen guard at the mixers and crushers, when Grislow, who had been scouting on the Avenue, came in. "Harmless enough, yet," he reported. "It's only some more of the get-away that Harlan was describing. Just the same, it's something awful. People are fairly climbing over one another on the road up the hill to the station--with no possible hope of getting a train before some time to-morrow. Teamsters are charging twenty-five dollars a load for moving stuff that won't find cars for a week, and they're scarce at the price." Leshington, who was not normally a profane man, opened his mouth and said things. "If the Cortwright crowd had one man in it with a single idea beyond saving his own miserable stake!" he stormed. "What are the spellbinders doing, Grizzy?" The hydrographer grinned. "Cortwright and a chosen few left this afternoon, hotfoot, for Washington, to get the government to interfere. That's the story they'd like to have the people believe. But the fact is, they ran away from Judge Lynch." "Yes; I think I see 'em coming back--not!" snorted the first assistant. Then to Brouillard: "That puts it up to us from this out. Is there anything we can do?" Brouillard shook his head. "I don't want to stop the retreat. I've heard from President Ford. The entire Western Division will hustle the business of emptying the town, and the quicker it is done the sooner it will be over." For a tumultuous week the flight from the doomed city went on, and the overtaxed single-track railroad wrought miracles of transportation. Not until the second week did the idea of material salvage take root, but, once started, it grew like Jonah's gourd. Hundreds of wrecking crews were formed. Plants were emptied, and the machinery was shipped as it stood. Houses and business blocks were gutted of everything that could be carried off and crowded into freight-cars. And, most wonderful of all, cars were found and furnished almost as fast as they could be loaded. But the second week was not without incidents of another sort. Twice Brouillard had been shot at--once in the dark as he was entering the mapping room, and again in broad day when he was crossing the Avenue to Bongras's. The second attempt was made by the broker Garner, whom excitement or loss, or both, had driven crazy. The young engineer did nothing in either case save to see to it that Garner was sent to his friends in Kansas City. But when, two nights later, an attempt was made to dynamite the great dam, he covered the bill-boards with warning posters. Outsiders found within the Reclamation Service picket-lines after dark would be held as intentional criminals and dealt with accordingly. "It begins to look a little better," said Anson on the day in the third week when the army of government laborers began to strip the final forms from the top of the great wall which now united the two mountain shoulders and completely overshadowed and dominated the dismantled town. "If the Avenue would only take its hunch and go, the agony would be over." But Brouillard was dubious. The Avenue, more particularly the lower Avenue, constituted the dregs. Bongras, whom Brouillard had promised to indemnify, stayed; some of the shopkeepers stayed for the chance of squeezing the final trading dollar out of the government employees; the saloon-keepers stayed to a man, and the dives were still running full blast--chiefly now on the wages of the government force. "It will be worse before it is better," was the young chiefs prediction, and the foreboding verified itself that night. Looting of a more or less brazen sort had been going on from the first, and by nine o'clock of the night of prediction a loosely organized mob of drink-maddened terrorists was drifting from street to street, and there were violence and incendiarism to follow. Though the property destruction mattered little, the anarchy it was breeding had to be controlled. Brouillard and Leshington got out their reserve force and did what they could to restore some semblance of order. It was little enough; and by ten o'clock the amateur policing of the city had reduced itself to a double guarding of the dam and the machinery, and a cordoning of the Metropole, the Reclamation Service buildings, and the _Spot-Light_ office. For Harlan, the dash of sporting blood in his veins asserting itself, still stayed on and continued to issue his paper. "I said I wanted to be in at the death, and for a few minutes to-night I thought I was going to be," he told Brouillard, when the engineer had posted his guards and had climbed the stair to the editorial office. Then he asked a question: "When is this little hell-on-earth going to be finally extinguished, Victor?" Instead of answering, Brouillard put a question of his own: "Did you know that Cortwright and Schermerhorn and Judge Williams came back this evening, Harlan?" "I did," said the newspaper man. "They are registered at the Metropole as large as life. And Miss Genevieve and Lord Falkland and Cortwright's ugly duckling of a son came with them. What's up?" "That is what I'd like to know. There's a bunch of strangers at the Metropole, too, a sheriff's posse, Poodles thinks; at least, there is a deputy from Red Butte with the crowd." Harlan tilted back in his chair and scanned the ceiling reflectively. "This thing is getting on my nerve, old man. I wish we could clean the slate and all go home." "It is going to be cleaned. Notices will be posted to-morrow warning everybody that the waste-gates will be closed promptly on the date advertised." "When is it? Things have been revolving too rapidly to let me remember such a trivial item as a date." "It is the day after to-morrow, at noon." The owner of the _Spot-Light_ nodded. "Let her go, Gallagher. I've got everything on skids, even the presses. _Au revoir_--or perhaps one should say, _Au reservoir_." Fresh shoutings and a crackling of pistols arose in the direction of the plaza, and Brouillard got up and went to a window. The red glow of other house burnings loomed against the sombre background of Jack's Mountain. "Senseless savages!" he muttered, and then went back to the editor. "I don't like this Cortwright reappearance, Harlan. I wish I knew what it means." "Let's see," said the newsman thoughtfully; "what is there worth taking that they didn't take in the _sauve qui peut_? By Jove--say! Did old David Massingale get out of J. Wesley's clutches before the lightning struck?" "I wish I could say 'Yes', and be sure of it," was the sober reply. "You knew about the thieving stock deal, or what you didn't know I told you. Well, I had Massingale, as president, call a meeting of directors--which never met. Afterward, acting under legal advice, he went on working the mine, and he's been working it ever since, shipping a good bit of ore now and then, when he could squeeze it in between the get-away trains. Of course, there is bound to be a future of some sort; but that is the present condition of affairs." "How about those notes in the bank? Wasn't Massingale personally involved in some way?" Brouillard bounded out of his chair as if the question had been a point-blank pistol-shot. "Great Heavens!" he exclaimed. "To-day's the day! In the hustle I had forgotten it, and I'll bet old David has--if he hasn't simply ignored it. That accounts for the reunion at the Metropole!" "Don't worry," said Harlan easily. "The bank has gone, vanished, shut up shop. At the end of the ends, I suppose, they can make David pay; but they can't very well cinch him for not meeting his notes on the dot." "Massingale doesn't really owe them anything that he can't pay," Brouillard asserted. "By wiring and writing and digging up figures, we found that the capitalizing stockholders, otherwise J. Wesley Cortwright, and possibly Schermerhorn, have actually invested fifty-two thousand dollars, or, rather, that amount of Massingale's loan has been expended in equipment and pay-rolls. Three weeks ago the old man got the smelter superintendent over here from Red Butte, and arranged for an advance of fifty-two thousand dollars on the ore in stock, the money to be paid when the first train of ore-cars should be on the way in. It was paid promptly in New York exchange, and Massingale indorsed the draft over to me to be used in the directors' meeting, which was never held." "Well?" said the editor. Brouillard took a pacing turn up the long, narrow room, and when he came back he said: "I guess I'm only half reformed, after all, Harlan. I'd give a year or so out of my natural life if I had a grip on Cortwright that would enable me to go across to Bongras's and choke a little justice out of him." "Go over and flash Massingale's fifty-two thousand dollars at 'em. They'll turn loose. I'll bet a yellow cur worth fifteen cents that they're wishing there was a train out of this little section of Sheol right now. Hear that!" The crash of an explosion rattled the windows, and the red loom on the Jack's Mountain side of the town leaped up and became a momentary glare. The fell spirit of destruction, of objectless wreck and ruin, was abroad, and Brouillard turned to the stairway door. "I'll have to be making the rounds again," he said. "The Greeks and Italians are too excitable to stand much of this. Take care of yourself; I'll leave Grif and a dozen of the trusties to look after the shop." When he reached the sidewalk the upper Avenue was practically deserted. But in the eastern residence district, and well around to the north, new storm-centres were marked by the increasing number of fires. Brouillard stopped and faced toward the distant and invisible Timanyonis. A chill autumn breeze was sweeping down from the heights and the blockading wall of the great dam turned it into eddies and dust-pillared whirls dancing in the empty street. Young Griffith sauntered up with his Winchester in the hollow of his arm. "Anything new?" he asked. "No," said Brouillard. "I was just thinking that a little wind would go a long way to-night, with these crazy house-burners loose on the town." Then he turned and walked rapidly to the government headquarters, passed the sentry at the door of the mapping room; and out of the fire-proof vault where the drawings and blue-print duplicates were kept took a small tin despatch-box. He had opened the box and had transferred a slip of paper from it to the leather-covered pocket field book which served him for a wallet, when there was a stir at the door and Castner hurried in, looking less the clergyman than the hard-working peace-officer. "More bedlam," he announced. "I want Gassman or Handley and twenty or thirty good men. The mob has gone from wrecking and burning to murdering. 'Pegleg' John was beaten to death in front of his saloon a few minutes ago. It is working this way. There were three fires in the plaza as I came through." "See Grislow at the commissary and tell him I sent you," said the chief. "I'd go with you, but I'm due at the Metropole." "Good. Then Miss Amy got word to you? I was just about to deliver her message." "Miss Massingale? Where is she, and what was the message?" demanded Brouillard. "Then you haven't heard? The 'Little Susan' is in the hands of a sheriff's posse, and David Massingale is under arrest on some trumped-up charge--selling ore for his individual account, or something of that sort. Miss Amy didn't go into particulars, but she told me that she had heard the sheriff say it was a penitentiary offence." "But where is she now?" stormed Brouillard. "Over at the hotel. I supposed you knew; you said you were going there." Brouillard snatched up the despatch-box and flung it into the fire-proof. While he was locking the door Castner went in search of Grislow, and when Brouillard faced about, another man stood in the missionary's place by the mapping table. It was Mr. J. Wesley Cortwright. The gray-faced promoter had lost something of his old-time jaunty assurance, and he was evidently well shaken and unnerved by the sights and sounds of the night of terror. The sandy-gray eyes advertised it as well as the fat hands, which would not keep still. "I didn't think I'd have to ask a favor of you again, Brouillard, but needs must when the devil drives," he began, with an attempted assumption of the former manner. "We didn't know--the newspapers didn't tell us anything about this frightful state of affairs, and----" Brouillard had suddenly lost his desire to hurry. "Sit down, Mr. Cortwright," he said. "I was just coming over to see you--to congratulate you and Mr. Schermerhorn on your return to Mirapolis. We have certainly missed the mayor, not to mention the president of the common council." "Of course--yes," was the hurried rejoinder. "But that's all over. You said you'd get us, and you did. I don't bear malice. If you had given me one more day I'd have got you; the stuff that would have broken your neck with the Washington people was all written and ready to put on the wires. But that's past and gone, and the next thing is something else. There is a lot of money and securities locked up in the Niquoia Bank vault. We've come to clean up, and we brought a few peace officers along from Red Butte for a guard. The miserable scoundrels are scared stiff; they won't stir out of the hotel. Bongras tells me you've got your force organized and armed--can't you lend us fifty or a hundred huskies to keep the mob off while we open that bank vault?" Brouillard's black eyes snapped, and the blood danced in his veins. The opportunity for which he would have bartered Ormus treasure had come to him--was begging him to use it. "I certainly can," he admitted, answering the eager question and emphasizing the potentiality. "But will you? that's the point. We'll make it worth your while. For God's sake, don't say no, Brouillard! There's pretty well up to a million in that vault, counting odds and ends and left-overs. Schermerhorn oughtn't to have left it. I thought he had sense enough to stay and see it taken care of. But now----" "But now the mob is very likely to wreck the building and dynamite the vault, you were going to say. I think it is more than likely, Mr. Cortwright, and I wonder that it hasn't been done before this. It would have been done if the rioters had had any idea that you'd left anything worth taking. And it would probably wreck you and Mr. Schermerhorn if it should get hold of you; you've both been burned in effigy half a dozen times since you ran away." "Oh, good Lord!" shuddered the magnate. "Make it two hundred of your men, and let's hurry. You won't turn us down on this, Brouillard?" "No. It is no part of our duty to go and keep the mob off while you save your stealings, but we'll do it. And from the noise they are making down that way, I think you are wise in suggesting haste. But first there is a question of common justice to be settled. An hour ago, or such a matter, you sent a part of your sheriff's posse up to seize the 'Little Susan' and to arrest David Massingale----" "It's--it's a lie!" stammered Cortwright. "Somebody has been trying to backcap me to you!" Brouillard looked up, frowning. "You are a good bit older man than I am, Mr. Cortwright, and I sha'n't punch your head. But you'll know why I ought to when I tell you that my informant is Miss Amy Massingale. What have you done with old David?" The man who had lost his knack of bluffing came down and stayed down. "He--he's over at the hotel," he stammered. "Under guard?" "Well--y-yes." Brouillard pointed to the telephone on the wall. "Go and call up your crowd and get it here. Tell Judge Williams to bring the stock he is holding, and Schermerhorn to bring the Massingale notes, and your man Jackson to bring the stock-book. We'll have that directors' meeting that was called, and wasn't held, three weeks ago." "Oh, good Heavens!" protested the millionaire, "put it off--for God's sake, put it off! It will be wasting time that may be worth a thousand dollars a minute!" "You are wasting some of the thousand-dollar minutes right now," was the cool reply, and the engineer turned to his desk and squared himself as if he were going to work on a bunch of foremen's reports. It was a crude little expedient, but it sufficed. Cortwright tramped to the 'phone and cursed and swore at it until he had his man at the other end of the wire. The man was the lawyer, as it appeared, and Cortwright abused him spitefully. "You've balled it--balled it beautifully!" he shouted. "Come over here to Brouillard's office and bring Schermerhorn and the stock and the notes and Jackson and the secretary's books and Massingale and your infernal self! Get a move, and get it quick! We stand to lose the whole loaf because you had to butt in and sweep up the crumbs first!" When the procession arrived, as it did in an incredibly short time, Brouillard laid down the law. "We don't need these," he said curtly, indicating the two deputies who came to bring David Massingale. And when they were gone: "Now, gentlemen, get to work and do business, and the less time you waste the better chance there will be for your bank salvage. Three requirements I make: you will turn over the stock, putting Mr. Massingale in possession of his mine, without encumbrance; you will cancel and surrender his notes to the bank; and you will give him a document, signed by all of you, acknowledging the payment in full of all claims, past or pending. While you are straightening things out, I'll ring up the yards and rally your guard." Cortwright turned on the lawyer. "You hear what Brouillard says; fix it, and do it suddenly." It was done almost before Brouillard had made Leshington, in charge at the yards, understand what was wanted. "Now a note to your man at the mine to make him let go without putting us to the trouble of throwing him over the dump," said the engineer, when he had looked over the stock transfers, examined the cancelled notes, and read and witnessed the signatures on the receipt in full. Cortwright nodded to the lawyer, and when Williams began to write again the king of the promoters turned upon Brouillard with a savage sneer. "Once more you've had your price," he snarled bitterly. "You and the old man have bilked us out of what we spent on the mine. But we'll call it an even break if you'll hurry that gang of huskies." "We'll call it an even break when it is one," retorted Brouillard; and after he had gathered up the papers he took the New York check from his pocketbook, indorsed it, and handed it to Cortwright. "That is what was spent out of the hundred thousand dollars you had Mr. Massingale charged with, as nearly as we can ascertain. Take it and take care of it; it's real money." He had turned again to the telephone to hurry Leshington, had rung the call, and was chuckling grimly over the collapse of the four men at the end of the mapping table as they fingered the slip of money paper. Suddenly it was borne in upon him that there was trouble of some sort at the door--there were curses, a blow, a mad rush; then.... It was Stephen Massingale who had fought his way past the door-guarding sentry and stood blinking at the group at the far end of the mapping board. "You're the houn' dog I'm lookin' for!" he raged, singling out Cortwright when the dazzle of the electrics permitted him to see. "You'll rob an old man first, and then call him a thief and set the sheriff on him, will you----?" Massingale's pistol was dropping to the firing level when Brouillard flung away the telephone ear-piece and got between. Afterward there was a crash like a collision of worlds, a whirling, dancing medley of colored lights fading to gray and then to darkness, and the engineer went down with the avenger of wrongs tightly locked in his arms. * * * * * After the period of darkness had passed and Brouillard opened his eyes again upon the world of things as they are, he had a confused idea that he had overslept shamefully and that the indulgence had given him a bad headache. The next thought was that the headache was responsible for a set of singular hallucinations. His blanket bunk in the sleeping shack seemed to have transformed itself into a white bed with pillows and snowy sheets, and the bed was drawn up beside an open window through which he could look out, or seem to look out, upon a vast sea dimpling in the breeze and reflecting the sunshine so brightly that it made his headache a darting agony. When he turned his face to escape the blinding glare of the sun on the sea the hallucinations became soothingly comforting, not to say ecstatic. Some one was sitting on the edge of the bed; a cool hand was laid on his forehead; and when he could again see straight he found himself looking up into a pair of violet eyes in which the tears were trembling. [Illustration: Brouillard got between.] "You are Amy--and this is that other world you used to talk about, isn't it?" he asked feebly. The cool hand slipped from his forehead to his lips, as if to warn him that he must not talk, and he went through the motions of kissing it. When it was withdrawn he broke the silent prohibition promptly. "The way to keep me from talking is to do it all yourself; what happened to me last night?" She shook her head sorrowfully. "The 'last night' you mean was three weeks ago. Stevie was trying to shoot Mr. Cortwright in your office and you got between them. Do you remember that?" "Perfectly," he said. "But it still seems as if it were only last night. Where am I now?--not that it makes any difference, so long as I'm with you." "You are at home--our home; at the 'Little Susan.' Mr. Leshington had the men carry you up here, and Mr. Ford ran a special train all the way from Denver with the doctors. Stevie's bullet struck you in the head, and--and we all thought you were going to die." "I'm not," he asserted, in feebly desperate determination. "I'm going to live and get to work and earn a hundred thousand dollars, so I can say: 'Come, little girl----'" Again the restraining hand was laid upon his lips, and again he went through the motions of kissing it. "You _mustn't_ talk!" she insisted. "You said you'd let me." And when he made the sign of acquiescence, she went on: "At first the doctors wouldn't give us any hope at all; they said you might live, but you'd--you'd never--never remember--never have your reason again. But yesterday----" "Please!" he pleaded. "That's more than enough about me. I want to know what happened." "That night, you mean? All the things that you had planned for. Father got the mine back, and Mr. Leshington and the others got the riot quelled after about half of the city was burned." "But Cortwright and Schermerhorn--I promised them----" "Mr. Leshington carried out your promise and helped them get the money out of the bank vault before the mob sacked the Niquoia Building and dynamited it. But at the hotel they were arrested on the order of the bank examiner, and everything was taken away from them. We haven't heard yet what is going to be done with them." "And Gomorrah?" he asked. She slipped an arm under his shoulders and raised him so he could look out upon the mountain-girt sea dimpling under the morning breeze. "There is where it was," she said soberly, "where it was, and is not, and never will be again, thank God! Mr. Leshington waited until everybody had escaped, and then he shut the waste-way gates." Brouillard sank back upon the pillows of comfort and closed his eyes. "Then it's all up to me and the hundred thousand," he whispered. "And I'll get it ... honestly, this time." The violet eyes were smiling when he looked into them again. "Is she--the one incomparable she--worth it, Victor?" "Her price is above rubies, as I told you once a long time ago." "You wouldn't let pride--a false pride--stand in the way of her happiness?" "I haven't any; her love has made me very humble and--and good, Amy, dear. Don't laugh: it's the only word; I'm just hungering and thirsting after righteousness enough to be half-way worthy of her." "Then I'll tell you something else that has happened. Father and Stevie have reorganized the 'Little Susan' Mining Company, dividing the stock into four equal parts--one for each of us. You must take your share, Victor. It will break father's heart if you don't. He says you got it back for him after it was hopelessly lost, and that is true." He had closed his eyes again, and what he said seemed totally irrelevant. "'And after the man had climbed the fourth mountain through all its seven stages, he saw a bright light, and it blinded him so that he stumbled and fell, and a great darkness rose up to make the light seem far beyond his reach. Then the light came near, and he saw that it was Love, and that the darkness was in his own soul.' ... Kiss me, Amy, girl, and then go and tell your father that he is a simple-hearted old spendthrift, and I love him. And if you could wire Castner, and tell him to bring a license along----" "O boy--foolish boy!" she said. "Wait: when you are well and strong again...." But she did not make him wait for the first of the askings; and after a healing silence had fallen to show the needlessness of speech between those who have come through darkness into light, he fell asleep again, perhaps to dream that the quieting hand upon his forehead was the touch of Love, angel of the bright and shining way, summoning him to rise up and go forward as a soul set free to meet the dawning day of fruition. THE END * * * * * BOOKS BY FRANCIS LYNDE PUBLISHED BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS The City of Numbered Days. Illus. 12mo _net_ $1.35 The Honorable Senator Sage-brush. 12mo _net_ $1.30 Scientific Sprague. Illus. 12mo _net_ $1.25 The Price. 12mo _net_ $1.30 The Taming of Red Butte Western. Illus. 12mo _net_ $1.35 The King of Arcadia. Illus. 12mo _net_ $1.35 A Romance In Transit. 16mo _net_ .75 
46251	----	[Some typographical errors have been corrected; a list follows the text.] (etext transcriber's note) _OLD CONTINENTAL TOWNS_ [Illustration] * * * * * _Uniform with this Volume_ (_All very fully Illustrated_) _The Cathedrals of England and Wales_ _By T. Francis Bumpus_ (_3 vols._) 6_s._ _net each_ _The Cathedrals of Northern France_ _By T. Francis Bumpus_ 6_s._ _net_ _The Cathedrals of Northern Germany and the Rhine_ _By T. Francis Bumpus_ 6_s._ _net_ _The Cathedrals of Northern Spain_ _By Charles Rudy_ 6_s._ _net_ _The Cathedrals and Churches of Northern Italy_ _By T. Francis Bumpus_ (9×6-1/2. 16_s._ _net_) _The Cathedrals of Central Italy_ _By T. Francis Bumpus_ 6_s._ _net_ _London Churches Ancient and Modern_ _By T. Francis Bumpus_ (_2 vols._) 6_s._ _net each_ _The Abbeys of Great Britain_ By H. Claiborne Dixon 6_s._ _net_ _The English Castles_ By Edmond B. d'Auvergne 6_s._ _net_ _A History of English Cathedral Music_ _By John S. Bumpus_ (_2 vols._) 6_s._ _net each_ _The Cathedrals of Norway, Sweden and Denmark_ _By T. Francis Bumpus_ (9×6-1/2. 16_s._ _net_) _Old English Towns_ (_First Series_) _By William Andrews_ 6_s._ _net_ _Old English Towns_ (_Second Series_) _By Elsie Lang_ 6_s._ _net_ _The Cathedrals and Churches of Belgium_ _By T. Francis Bumpus_ 6_s._ _net_ * * * * * [Illustration: ROUEN, 1822. A STREET SHOWING THE TOWER OF THE CATHEDRAL.] OLD CONTINENTAL TOWNS BY WALTER M. GALLICHAN _Author of "The Story of Seville," "Fishing and Travel in Spain," "Cheshire," etc._ [Illustration] LONDON T. WERNER LAURIE CLIFFORD'S INN CONTENTS PAGE ROME 1 ASSISI 21 VENICE 30 PERUGIA 52 FLORENCE 57 VERONA 72 SEVILLE 79 CORDOVA 97 TOLEDO 120 GRANADA 135 OPORTO 152 POITIERS 164 ROUEN 170 CHARTRES 179 RHEIMS 186 BRUGES 192 GHENT 201 ANTWERP 211 AMSTERDAM 220 COLOGNE 229 HEIDELBERG 236 NUREMBERG 241 WITTENBERG 249 PRAGUE 259 ATHENS 266 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Rouen. A Street showing the Tower of the Cathedral, 1822 _Frontispiece_ Rome. The Bridge and Castle of St Angelo, 1831 _To face page_ 2 Venice. The Grand Canal, 1831 " 30 Florence. Ponte Santa Trinita, 1832 " 58 Verona. 1830 " 72 Seville. Plaza Real and Procession of the Corpus Christi, 1836 " 80 Cordova. The Prison of the Inquisition, 1836 " 98 Toledo. 1837 " 120 Oporto. From the Quay of Villa Nova, 1832 " 152 Poitiers. The Church of Notre Dame, 1845 " 164 Ghent. 1832 " 202 Antwerp. The Cathedral, 1832 " 212 Cologne. St Martin's Church, 1826 " 230 Nuremberg. 1832 " 242 Prague. The City and Bridge, 1832 " 260 Athens. A supposed appearance if restored, 1824 " 266 OLD CONTINENTAL TOWNS ROME The story of Rome is a mighty chronicle of such deep importance towards an understanding of the growth of Europe, that a feeling almost of helplessness assails me as I essay to set down in this limited space an account of the city's ancient grandeur and of its monuments. It is with a sense of awe that one enters Rome. The scene gives birth to so much reflection, the pulse quickens, the imagination is stirred by the annals of Pompey and Cæsar, and the mighty names that resound in the history of the wonderful capital; while the ruins of the days of power and pomp are as solemn tokens of the fate of all great civilisations. The surroundings of Rome, the vast silent Campagna, that rolling tract of wild country, may be likened to an upland district of Wales. Here are scattered relics of the resplendent days, in a desert where the sirocco breathes hotly; where flocks of sheep and goats wander, and foxes prowl close to the ancient gates. Eastward stand the great natural ramparts of purple mountains, whence the Tiber rolls swiftly, and washing Rome, winds on through lonely valleys. Dim are the early records of the city. Myth and legend long passed as history in the chronicles of the founding of Rome. We learn now from the etymologists and modern historians that the name of Rome was not derived from Roma, the mother of Romulus, nor from _ruma_, but, according to Niebuhr, from the Greek _rhoma_, signifying strength; while Michelet tells us that city was called after the River Rumo, the ancient name of the Tiber. [Illustration: ROME, 1831. THE BRIDGE AND CASTLE OF ST. ANGELO.] Romulus, the legendary founder, was supposed to have lived B.C. 752. The growth of the community on the Seven Hills began, according to the old annalists, with a settlement of shepherds. We are told that after the death of Romulus, the first king, the city was ruled by Numa Pompilius. This sovereign instituted nine guilds of industry, and united the mixed population. Tarquinius Superbus, the despotic king, reigned with fanatical religious austerity, and after his banishment Rome became a republic. The first system of rule was sacerdotal, the second aristocratic, and the third a state of liberty for the plebeians. Then came the Gauls who burned the city to the ground and harried the whole country. Hannibal and Scipio arose, and we enter upon the period of the great Punic Wars, followed by the stirring epoch of Cæsar and Pompey. How shall we separate myth and simple tradition from the veracious chronicles of the Roman people? What were the causes of the downfall of their proud city, and the decadence of the great race that invaded all quarters of Europe? These are the questions which fill the mind as we wander to-day in Rome. We are reminded of the menace of wealth, the insecurity of prosperity, and the devastating influence of militarism and the lust of conquest. We meditate, too, on the spirit of persecution that flourished here, the love of ferocity, and the cruelty that characterised the recreations of the city under the emperors. With all its eminence in art and industry, in spite of its high distinction in the science of warfare, and its elaborate jurisprudence and codes, Rome, at one time terrorised by Nero, at another humanely governed by Aurelius, was in its last state a melancholy symbol of decrepitude and failure. The final stage of degradation was worse than the primitive period of barbarism and superstition. In the Middle Ages, at the time when most of the wealth went to the Popes of Avignon, the city had fallen into pitiful decay. The majestic St Peter's was threatened by destruction through lack of repair; the Capitol was described as on a level with "a town of cowherds." The monarchy of Rome is said to have endured for about two hundred and forty years. The city extended then over a wide area, and was protected by walls and towers. The Coliseum, the Pantheon, and the Forum were built as Rome grew in might and magnificence, and the Roman style of architecture became a model for the world. Happily these structures have survived. The Rome of pagan days and the Rome of the Renaissance are mingled here strangely, and the pomp and affluence of former times contrasts with the poverty of to-day that meets us in the streets. Note the faces of the people; here are features stern and regular, recalling often old prints of the Romans of history. The dress of the poorer women is ancient, while that of the upper classes is as modern as the costumes of Paris, Berlin, or London. On days of fête it is interesting to watch these people at play, all animated with a southern gaiety which the northerner may envy. The life of Rome is outdoor; folk loiter and congregate in the streets; there is much traffic of vehicles used for pleasure. Over the city stretches "the Italian sky," ardently blue--the sky that we know from paintings before we have visited Rome--and upon the white buildings shines a hot sun from which we shrink in midsummer noons. It is hard to decide which appeals to us the more strongly in Rome--the relics of Cæsar's empire or the art of the Middle Ages. The Coliseum brings to mind "the grandeur that was Rome," in the days of the pagan majesty, while St Peter's, with its wealth of gorgeous decoration and great paintings, reminds us of the supreme power of the city under the popes. In the Coliseum there is social history written in stone. We look upon the tiers rising one above the other, and picture them in all the splendour of a day of cruel carnival. We may see traces of the lifts that brought the beasts to the arena from the dens below. _Ad leones!_ The trumpet blares, and a victim of the heretical creed is led into the amphitheatre to encounter the lions. How often has this soil been drenched in blood. How often have the walls echoed with the plaudits of the Roman populace, gloating upon a spectacle of torture, or aroused to ecstasy by the combats of gladiators. Silence broods in the arena, and in every interstice the maidenhair fern grows rife among the decaying stones. The glory has departed, but the shell of the Flavian amphitheatre remains as a monument of Rome's imperial days. Here were held the chariot races, the competitions of athletes, the tournaments on horseback, the baiting of savage brutes, the wrestling bouts, throwing the spear, and the fights of martyrs with animals. Luxury and cruelty rioted here on Roman holidays. For a comprehensive view of the Coliseum, you should climb the Palatine Hill. The hundreds of arches and windows admit the sunlight, and the building glows, "a monstrous mountain of stone," as Michelet describes it. Tons of the masonry have been removed by vandals. The fountain in which the combatants washed their wounds remains, and the walls of the circus rise to a height of a hundred-and-fifty-seven feet. In yonder "monument of murder" there died ten thousand victims in a hundred days during the reign of Trajan. The triumph of Christianity is symbolised in St Peter's. An impartial chronicler cannot close his eyes to the truth written in the great cathedral. Both pagans and Christians persecuted in turn to the glory of their deities. Force was worshipped alike by emperor and pope. Pagans tortured martyrs in the arena; the Christians burned them in the square. In 1600 Giordano Bruno was tied to the stake, and consumed in the flames, by decree of the Church, after two years of imprisonment. His offence was the writing of treatises attempting to prove that the earth is not flat, and that God is "the All in All." He also dared to opine that there may be other inhabited worlds besides our own. Bruno's last words have echoed through the ages: "Perhaps it is with greater fear that you pass the sentence upon me than I receive it." Under Innocent IV. the Inquisition was established as a special tribunal against heretics. Men of science soon came under its penalties. Copernicus was a teacher of mathematics in Rome, when he conceived his theory, "The Revolutions of the Heavenly Bodies," which he dedicated to Pope Paul. Fearing the awful penalties of the Holy Office, he withheld publication of the work for many years, only seeing a copy of the printed volume in his last hours. The book was condemned by the Inquisition and placed on the index. About a century later, Galileo wrote his "System of the World," an exposition and defence of the theories of Copernicus. The Inquisition dragged him before its tribunal at Rome, where he was charged with heresy and compelled to recant or die. We know that he chose recantation, or the fate of Bruno would have been his. For ten years Galileo pined in the dungeon, and his body was flung into a dishonoured grave. Not a man in Rome was safe from the Inquisition. Its courts travestied justice; its terrified witnesses lied, and the accusers were intimidated. Suspicion alone was sufficient to compel arrest and trial, and there was no possible appeal, and no hope of pity or leniency. The Church urged that while unbelief existed, the Inquisition was a necessity, and the chief means of stamping out heretical doctrine. And yet, a few years ago, an International Free-thought Congress was held under the shadow of St Peter's. How truly, "it moves!" The Renaissance, with its mighty intellectual impetus, its reverence for the arts and culture, and its resistance against the absolutism of the Papacy came as the salvation of Rome from the terrors and the stagnation of the dark days. The birth of Michael Angelo, in 1474, came with a new era of enlightenment. Angelo, painter, sculptor, poet, and philosopher, was commissioned by Pope Julius II. to carve a great work in Rome, and to adorn the Sistine Chapel with frescoes. Three years were spent on these superb paintings. This is the most wonderful ceiling painting in the world. In the centre are pictures of scenes of the Creation and Fall; in compartments are the prophets, and other portions represent the ancestors of the Virgin Mary and historical characters. The figures are colossal, and wonderful in their anatomy, revealing the artist's richness of imagination, as well as his unsurpassed technical skill. To see to advantage the frescoes of the roof, it is necessary to lie flat on the back, and gaze upwards. The human figure is superbly imaged in "The Temptation, Fall and Expulsion." The largest figures in the whole composition are among the prophets and sibyls. "Here, at last, here indeed for the first time," writes Mr Arthur Symons, in his "Cities," "is all that can be meant by sublimity; a sublimity which attains its pre-eminence through no sacrifice of other qualities; a sublimity which (let us say it frankly) is amusing. I find the magnificent and extreme life of these figures as touching, intimate, and direct in its appeal, as the most vivid and gracious realism of any easel picture." The vast picture of "The Last Judgment," on the wall of the Sistine Chapel, was painted by Michael Angelo when he was growing old. The work occupied about seven years. It is full of figures in every kind of action, and most of them are nude. Their nakedness affronted Paul IV., who commanded Da Volterra, a pupil of Angelo, to paint clothing on some of the forms, thus marring the beauty of the work. In the Pauline Chapel of the Vatican are two mural paintings by Michael Angelo, "The Crucifixion of St Peter," and "The Conversion of St Paul." "I could only see and wonder," writes Goethe, referring to the works of Angelo in a letter from Rome. The mental confidence and boldness of the master, and his grandeur of conception, are beyond all expression. Sir Joshua Reynolds spent some time in Rome, in 1750, and recorded the result of his study of the work of Raphael and Michael Angelo. It was in the cold chambers of the Vatican that Reynolds caught the chill which brought about his deafness. He made many copies of parts of the paintings of Angelo. "The Adonis" of Titian in the Colonna Palace, the "Leda," by Coreggio, and the works of Raphael, were closely studied by the English painter. Before he left Rome he declared that the art of Angelo represented the highest perfection. Many critics affirm that St Peter's is somewhat disappointing, architecturally considered, while some critics maintain that it is one of the finest churches in the world. The colonnades, with their gallery of sculptured images, are stately and impressive. It is the huge façade that disappoints. Nevertheless, St Peter's is a stupendous temple, with a dignity and majesty of its own. The interior is garish; we miss the dim religious light and the atmosphere of sober piety so manifest in the cathedrals of Spain. As a repository of masterpieces St Peter's is world-famous. Here is "The Virgin and Dead Christ," the finest of Michael Angelo's early statues. Angelo spent various periods in Rome, after his first stay of five years. He was in the city at the age of sixty, and much of his work was executed when he was growing old. It was in the evening of his days that he became the close friend of Vittoria Colonna, the inspirer of his poetry, and after her death, in 1547, he entered upon a spell of ill-health and sadness. But his activities were marvellous, even in old age. In 1564 he planned the Farnese Palace for Paul III., and directed the building of the Church of Santa Maria. Immensity is the chief impression of the interior of St Peter's. Even the figures of cherubs are gigantic. The great nave with its marble pavement and huge pillars, is long-drawn from the portal to the altar, and the space within the great dome is bewildering in its vastness. The bronze statue of St Peter, whose foot is kissed yearly by thousands of devotees, is noted here among the numerous images. At the altar we shall see Canova's statue of Pius VI., the chair of St Peter, and tombs of the Popes Urban and Paul. Michael Angelo designed the beautiful Capello Gregoriana. His lovely "Pieta" is the Cappella della Pieta, and this is the most splendid work within the building. Tombs of popes are seen in the various chapels. In the resplendent choir chapel is Thorvaldsen's statue of Pius VII. The Vatican is a great museum of statuary, the finest collection in existence to-day. On the site of the building once stood a Roman emperor's palace, which was reconstructed as a residence for Pope Innocent III. Besides the statues in the Vatican and the cathedral, there are many remarkable works of sculpture in the Villa Albani and the Capitoline. In the Capitoline Museum are, the "Dying Gladiator," the "Resting Faun," and the "Venus." Days may be spent in inspecting the minor churches of Rome. Perhaps the most interesting is San Giovanni Laterano, built on the site of a Roman imperial palace, and dating from the fourteenth century. The front is by Galileo, very highly decorated. Within, the chapels of the double aisles are especially interesting for their lavish embellishment. The apse is a very old part of the structure, and the Gothic cloister has grace and dignity, with most admirable carved columns. It is a debated question whether the ceiling of this church was painted by Michael Angelo or Della Porta. The Lateran Palace, close to San Giovanni, has a small decorated chapel at the head of a sacred staircase, said to have been trodden by Christ when he appeared before Pilate, and brought here from Jerusalem. The Churches of San Clemente, Santi Giovanni Paolo, Santa Maria in Ara Coeli are among the other churches of note. The memorials of pagan and Christian times stand side by side in Rome, and in roaming the city it is difficult to direct one's steps on a formal plan. Turning away from an arch or a temple of Roman origin, you note a Renaissance church, and are tempted to enter it. If I fail to point out here many buildings which the visitor should see, it is because the number is so great. The part of the city between the Regia and the Palatine Hill is very rich in antiquities. It is said that Michael Angelo carried away a great mass of stone from the Temple of Vesta to build a part of St Peter's; but I do not know upon what authority this is stated. A few blocks of stone are, however, all that remain of the buildings sacred to the vestals. The tall columns seen as we walk to the Palatine Hill, are relics of the temple of Castor and Pollux. Behind the Regia is the temple of Julius Cæsar, built by Augustus; and here Mark Antony delivered his splendid oration. Near to this temple is the Forum, with traces of basilicas, and a few standing columns. The whole way to the Capitoline abounds in ancient stones of rich historical interest. Here are the walls of the Plutei, with reliefs representing the life of Trajan, the grand arch of Septimus Severus, the columns of the Temple of Saturn. The Palatine Hill is crowned with the ruins of the Palace of the Cæsars. Mural decorations still remain on the walls of an apartment. Here will be seen relics of a school, a temple dedicated to Jupiter, and portions of the famous wall of the mythical Romulus. These are but a few of the antiquities of the Palatine, whence the eye surveys Rome and the rolling Campagna. In the quarter of the Coliseum are ancient baths, once sumptuously fitted and adorned with images, now removed to the museum of the city. Trajan's Column towers here to about one hundred-and-fifty feet. Then there is the Pantheon, a classic building wonderfully preserved. All these are but a few of the ancient edifices of Rome. Among the more important museums and picture galleries are the splendid Vatican, at which we have glanced, the Capitol Museum, the Palazzo del Senatore, with works by Velazquez, Van Dyck, Titian, and other masters, the National Museum, the Villa Borghese, the Dorian Palace, and the Kircheriano. The art annals of the Rome of Christian times are of supreme interest. The greatest of the painters who came to study in Rome was Velazquez, who was offered the hospitality of Cardinal Barberini in the Vatican. He stayed, however, in a quieter lodging, at the Villa Medici, and afterwards in the house of the Spanish ambassador. Velazquez paid a second visit to Rome in 1649, where he met Poussin, and Salvator Rosa. To Rosa he remarked, "It is Titian that bears the palm." The Spanish painter was made a member of the Roman Academy; and at this time he painted the portrait of Innocent X., which occupies a position of honour in the Dorian Palace. Reynolds described this as "the finest piece of portrait-painting in Rome." Velazquez' portrait of himself is in the Capitoline Museum in the city. The art records of Rome are so many that I cannot attempt to refer to more than a small number of them. Literary associations, too, crowd into the mind as we walk the lava-paved streets of the glowing capital. Goethe sojourned long in Rome, and wrote many pages of his impressions. In 1787 he writes of the amazing loveliness of a walk through the historic streets by moonlight, of the solemnity of the Coliseum by night, and the grandeur of the portico of St Peter's. He praises the climate in spring, the delight of long sunny days, with noons "almost too warm"; and the sky "like a bright blue taffeta in the sunshine." In the Capitoline Museum he admired the nude "Venus" as one of the finest statues in Rome. "My imagination, my memory," he writes, "is storing itself full with endlessly beautiful subjects.... I am in the land of the arts." Full of rapture are the letters of Shelley from Rome: "Since I last wrote to you," he says to Peacock, "I have seen the ruins of Rome, the Vatican, St Peter's, and all the miracles of ancient and modern art contained in that majestic city. The impression of it exceeds anything I have ever experienced in my travels.... We visited the Forum, and the ruins of the Coliseum every day. The Coliseum is unlike any work of human hands I ever saw before. It is of enormous height and circuit, and the arches, built of massy stones, are piled on one another, and jut into the blue air, shattered into the forms of overhanging rocks." Shelley was entranced by the arch of Constantine. "It is exquisitely beautiful and perfect." In March 1819, he writes: "Come to Rome. It is a scene by which expression is overpowered, which words cannot convey." The Cathedral scarcely appealed to Shelley; he thought it inferior externally to St Paul's, though he admired the façade and colonnade. More satisfying to the poet's æsthetic taste was the Pantheon, with its handsome fluted columns of yellow marble, and the beauty of the proportions in the structure. The Pantheon is generally admitted to be the most noble of the ancient edifices of the city. It was erected by Agrippa 27 B.C., and sumptuously adorned with fine marbles. The dome is vast and nobly planned, and the building truly merits Shelley's designation, "sublime." Keats was buried in the Protestant cemetery in Rome, in a tomb bearing the inscription: "Here lies one whose name was writ in water." His loyal and admiring friend, Shelley, wrote a truer memorial of the young poet: "Go thou to Rome--at once the paradise, The grave, the city, and the wilderness; And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise, And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress The bones of desolation's nakedness Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead Thy footsteps to a slope of green access, Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread." In 1850 Robert Browning and his wife were in Rome, and it was then that Browning wrote the beautiful love poem, "Two in the Campagna," telling of the joy of roaming in: "The champaign with its endless fleece Of feathery grasses everywhere! Silence and passion, joy and peace An everlasting wash of air----" Poets and painters have through the centuries drawn inspiration from this wondrous city of splendid monuments and ancient grandeur. How true was Goethe's statement that wherever you turn in Rome there is an object of beauty and arresting interest. The appeal of the city is strong, the variety bewildering, whether you elect to muse upon the remains of the imperial days, or to study the Renaissance art of the Christian churches. It is well, if possible, to make a survey of the antiquities in chronological order, beginning with an inspection of the ruins of the Romulean wall and the traces of the oldest gates. Then the Forum should be visited in its valley, and the art of the temple of Saturn, the Basilica Julia, and the Arch of Fabius examined. The Temple of Vespasian, the Palace of Caligula, Trajan's Column, and the numerous arches will all arouse memories of the emperors and the splendid purple days. The Campagna is not only a wilderness, but it is rich in historic memories. Here lived the cultured Cynthia, the friend of Catullus, the poet, and of Quintilius Varus. Numerous villas dotted the Campagna in the days of the emperors, and here, during the summer heats, retired many of the wealthy citizens of Rome. Valuable antiquities, vases, urns, and figures, have been unearthed from this classic soil. ASSISI "There was a man in the city of Assisi, by name Francis, whose memory is blessed, for that God, graciously presenting him with blessings of goodness, delivered him in His mercy from the perils of this present life, and abundantly filled him with the gifts of heavenly grace." So speaks Saint Bonaventura of the noble character of the holy man of Assisi, whose figure arises before us as we tread the streets of the town of his birth. For Assisi is a place of pilgrimage, filled with fragrant memories of that saint of whom even the heterodox speak with loving reverence. St Francis stands distinct in an age of fanatic religious zeal, as an example of tolerance, a lover of mercy, and a practical follower of the teaching of Christian benevolence. At the beginning of the thirteenth century, Pope Innocent III. offered indulgences to the faithful who would unite in a crusade against the Albigensian heretics of Languedoc. For twenty years blood was shed plentifully in this war upon heresy; for twenty years the hounds of persecution were let loose on the hated enemies of papal absolutism. "Kill all; God will know," was the answer of the Pope's legate during this massacre, when asked by the crusaders how they could recognise the heretics. While Languedoc and Provence were ravaged by the truculent persecutors, and fires were lighted to burn the bodies of men, women and children, St Francis lived in Assisi, preaching humanity and good will. There is no testimony that he protested expressly against the Albigensian crusades; but we know from his life and his writings that he detested cruelty and violence, and never directly counselled persecution. In "The Golden Legend" we read that "Francis, servant and friend of Almighty God, was born in the city of Assisi, and was made a merchant in the twenty-fifth year of his age, and wasted his time by living vainly, whom our Lord corrected by the scourge of sickness, and suddenly changed him into another man, so that he began to shine by the spirit of prophecy." Putting on the rags of a beggar, St Francis went to Rome, where he sat among the mendicants before St Peter's. Then began the miraculous cures of lepers whose hands he kissed, and his many works of charity and healing. He extolled "holy poverty," and called poverty his "lady." When he saw a worm lying on the path, the compassionate saint removed it, so that it should not be trodden on by passers-by. The birds he called his brothers and sisters; he fed them, bade them sing or keep silence, and they obeyed him. All birds and beasts loved him; and he taught the birds to sing praises to their creator. St Francis was perhaps the first eminent Christian who showed pity and love for the lower animals. In the morass of Venice, he came upon a great company of singing-birds, and entering among them, caused them to sing lauds to the Almighty. St Francis taught asceticism to his followers, but it was the asceticism of joy rather than of grief and pain. The saint had in him the qualities of poet and artist as well as of pious mystic. He lived for a time the life of the luxurious, and found it profitless and hollow; he passed through the ordeal of the temptations that beset a young man born of wealthy parents. "The more thou art assailed by temptations, the more do I love thee," said the blessed St Francis to his friend Leo. "Verily I say unto thee that no man should deem himself a true friend of God, save in so far as he hath passed through many temptations and tribulations." Flung into the prison of Perugia, he rejoiced and sang, and when the vulgar threw dirt upon him and his friars, he did not resent their rudeness. Trudging bare-footed through Umbria, scantily clothed, and subsisting upon crusts offered by the charitable, St Francis set an example of the holiness of poverty which impressed the peasants and excited their veneration for the preacher and his gospel. He worked as a mason, repairing the decayed Church of St Damian, and preached a doctrine of labour and industry, forsaking all that he had so that he might reap the ample harvest of Divine blessing. In winter the saint would plunge into a ditch of snow, that he might check the promptings of carnal desire. He refused to live under a roof at Assisi, preferring a mere shelter of boughs, with the company of Brother Giles and Brother Bernard. A cell of wood was too sumptuous for him. As St Francis grew in holiness there appeared in him the stigmata of Christ's martyrdom. In his side there was the wound of the spear; in his hands and feet were the marks of the nails. St Bonaventura relates that after his death, the flesh of the saint was so soft that he seemed to have become a child again, and that the wound in the side was like a lovely rose. He died, according to this historian, in 1226, on the fourth day of October. His remains were interred in Assisi, and afterwards removed to "the Church built in his honour," in 1230. After the canonisation of the holy St Francis many miracles happened in Italy. In the church of his name in Assisi, when the Bishop of Ostia was preaching, a huge stone fell on the head of a devout woman. It was thought that she was dead, but being before the altar of St Francis, and having "committed herself in faith" to him, she escaped without any hurt. Many persons were cured of disease by calling upon the blessed name of the Saint of Assisi, and mariners were often saved from wrecks through his intervention. St Francis lived when the fourth Lateran Council gave a new impetus to persecution, by increasing the scope and power of the inquisition. This gentlest of all the saints was surrounded by a host of influences that made for religious rancour, and yet he preached a doctrine of love, and was, so far as we can learn, quite untouched by the persecuting zeal that characterised so many of his sainted contemporaries. It is with relief, after the contemplation of the cruelty of his age, that we greet the tattered ascetic of Assisi, as, in imagination, we see him pass up the steps of the house wherein Brother Bernard was a witness of his ecstasy. The little city of Assisi stands on a hill; a mediæval town of a somewhat stern character meets the eye as we approach it. Outside the town is a sixteenth-century church, Santa Maria degli Angeli, which will interest by reason of the Portinucula, a little chapel repaired by St Francis. It was around this church that the first followers of the saint lived in hovels with wattled roofs. Here was the garden in which the holy brother delighted to wander, and to watch his kindred the birds, and here are the rose bushes without thorns, that grew from the saint's blood. Entering Assisi, we soon reach the Church of San Francisco, in which is the reputed tomb of St Francis. This is not a striking edifice, but its charm is in the pictures of Giotto. Poverty, Chastity, and Obedience are the subjects of these frescoes. Ruskin copied the Poverty, and made a long study of these works. The picture symbolises the Lady of Poverty, the bride of St Francis, who is given to him by Christ. This is one of Giotto's chief pictures. Chastity is a young woman in a castle; she is worshipped by angels, and the walls of the fortress are surrounded by men in armour. In another fresco St Francis is dressed in canonical garb, attended by angels, who sing praise to him. It is said that Dante suggested this subject to Giotto. The frescoes of Simone, in a chapel of the lower church, are of much interest to the art student. They are richly coloured and very decorative, and have been considered by some authorities as equal to the works of Giotto at Assisi. Simone was a painter of the Sienese School, and according to Vasari, he was taught by Giotto. His "Annunciation" is a rich work, preserved in the Uffizi Palace at Florence. The twenty-eight scenes in the history of St Francis are in the upper church, and in these we see again Giotto's noblest art in the harmonious grouping and the fluidity of his colour. The Cathedral of San Rufino is a handsome church. Here St Francis was baptised, and in this edifice he preached. The father of the saint was a woollen merchant, and his shop was in the Via Portica. The house still stands, and may be recognised by its highly decorated portal. This was not the birthplace of St Francis, for the Chiesa Nuova, built in 1615, covers the site of the house. In the Church of St Clare you are shown the "remains" of Saint Clare, in a crypt, lying in a glass case. When Goethe was in Assisi, the building that interested him more than any other was the Temple of Minerva, built in the time of Augustus. "At last we reached what is properly the old town, and behold before my eyes stood the noble edifice, the first complete memorial of antiquity that I had ever seen.... Looking at the façade, I could not sufficiently admire the genius-like identity of design which the architects have here as elsewhere maintained. The order is Corinthian, the inter-columnar spaces being somewhat above the two modules. The bases of the columns, and the plinths seem to rest on pedestals, but it is only an appearance." Goethe concludes his description: "The impression which the sight of this edifice left upon me is not to be expressed, and will bring forth imperishable fruits." VENICE The very name breathes romance and spells beauty. Poets, artists, and historians without number have revealed to us the glories of this city. Dull indeed must be the perception of loveliness of form and colour in the mind of the man who is not deeply moved by the contemplation of the Stones of Venice. Yet it seems to me that no city is so difficult to describe; everything has been said, every scene painted by master hands. One's impression must read inevitably like that which has been written over and over again. And in a brief enumeration of the buildings to be seen by the visitor, how can the unhappy writer avoid the charge of baldness and inefficiency? [Illustration: VENICE, 1831. THE GRAND CANAL.] Well, then, to say that Venice is supremely beautiful among the towns of Italy is to set down a commonplace. It is a town in which the matter-of-fact man realises the meaning of romance and poetry; a town where the phlegmatic become sentimental, and the poetic are stirred to ecstasies. George Borrow wept at beholding the beauty of Seville by the Guadalquivir in the evening light. "Tears of rapture" would have filled his eyes as he gazed upon the splendours of the Grand Canal. Some of the many writers upon Venice have found the scene "theatrical"; others assert that the influence of Venice is sad, while others again declare that the city provokes hilarity of spirits in a magical way. Whatever the nature of the spell, it is strong, and few escape it. Ruskin, Byron, the Brownings, and Henry James, are among the souls to whom Venice has appealed with the force of a personality. The spirit of Venice has been felt by thousands of travellers. Its pictures--for every street is a picture--remain deeply graven on the mind's tablet. Perhaps there is nothing made by man to float upon the waters more graceful in its lines than a gondola. To think of Venice, is to recall these gliding, swan-like, silent craft, that ply upon the innumerable waterways. Like ghosts by night they steal along in the deep shadows of the palaces, impelled by boatmen whose every attitude is a study in lissome grace. To lie in a gondola, while the attendant noiselessly propels the stately skiff with his pliant oar, is to realise romance and the perfection of leisurely locomotion. What can be said of the sunsets, the almost garish colouring of sea and sky, and the witchery of reflection upon tower and roof? What can be written for the thousandth time of the resplendent churches, the rich gilding, the noble façades, the hundred picturesque windings of the canals between houses, each one of them a subject for the artist's brush? Is there any other city that grips us in every sense like Venice? The eyes and the mind grow dazed and bewildered with the beauty and the colour, till the scene seems almost unreal, a fantasy of the brain under the influence of a drug. The student of life and the philosopher will find here matter for cogitation, tinged maybe with seriousness, even sadness. Venetian history is not all glorious, and the city to-day has its social evils, like every other populous place on the globe. There are beggars, many of them, artistic beggars, no doubt; but they are often diseased and always unclean. Yet even the dirty faces of the alleys, in this city of loveliness, have, according to artists, a value and a harmony. There is the same obvious, sordid poverty here as in London or Manchester. But the dress of the people, even if ragged, is bright, and the faces, even though wrinkled and haggard, fit the scene and the setting in the estimate of the painter. If your habit is analytic and critical, you will find defects in the modern life of Venice that cannot be hidden. The city is not prosperous in our British sense of the word. There is an air of decayed grandeur, an impression that existence in this town of exquisite art is not happiness for the swarm of indigents that live in the historic purlieus. On the other hand, there is the climate, a soft, sleepy climate, not very healthy perhaps, but usually kindly. The sun is generous, the sky rarely frowns. Life passes lazily, dreamily, on the oily waters of the canals, in the piazza, and in those tall tumble-down houses built on piles. No one appears to hurry about the business of money-getting; no one apparently is eager to work, except perhaps the unfortunate mendicants and the persuasive hawkers, who do indeed toil hard at their occupations. When the evening breeze bears the interesting malodours of the canals, with other indescribable and characteristic smells, and the sun sinks in crimson in a flaming sky, and music sounds from the piazza and the water, and the gondolas glide and pass, and beautiful women smile and stroll in streets bathed in gold, you will think only of the loveliness of Venice, and forget the terrors of its history and the misery of to-day. And it is well, for one cannot always grapple with the problems of life; there must be hours of sensuous pleasure. Sensuous seems to me the right word to convey the influence of Venice upon a summer evening, when, a little wearied by the heat of the day, you loll upon a bridge, smoking a cigar, and drinking in languidly the beauty of the scene, while a grateful breeze comes from the darkening sea. Go to the Via Garibaldi, if you wish to lounge and to study the Venetians of "the people." Here the natives come and go and saunter. The women are small, like the women of Spain, dark in complexion, and in manner animated. They are very feminine; often they are lovely. You will be struck with the gaiety of the people, a sheer lightheartedness more evident and exuberant than the gaiety of Spanish folk. Perhaps the struggle for existence is less keen than it seems among the inhabitants of the more lowly quarters of the city. At anyrate, the Venetians are lovers of song and laughter. A flower delights a woman, a cigarette is a gift for a man. They are able to divert themselves in Venice without sport, and with very few places of amusement. "The place is as changeable as a nervous woman," writes Mr Henry James, "and you know it only when you know all the aspects of its beauty. It has high spirits or low, it is pale or red, grey or pink, cold or warm, fresh or wan, according to the weather or the hour." Having given a faint presentment of the beauties of Venice, I will refer to some of the chief episodes of its great history. In the earliest years of its making, we are upon insecure ground in attempting to write accurately upon Venetia. The city probably existed when the Goths swept down upon Italy, about 420, and it fell a century later into the hands of the fierce Lombards. Under the Doges (dukes) the land was wrested here and there from the waves, the mudbanks protected with piles and fences, and the great buildings began to arise from a foundation of apparent instability. The ingenuity of the architect and the builder in constructing this city is nothing short of marvellous. In the sixth century the town was no doubt a collection of huts on sandbanks, intersected by tidal streams. There were meadows and gardens by the verge of the sea, and the inhabitants made the most of every yard of firm soil. St Mark's Cathedral was built in the tenth century, to serve as a resting-place for the bones of the saint. Under the wise rule of Pietro Tribuno, Venice withstood the attack of a Hungarian horde. The city was walled in and fortified, and the natives gathered at Rialto. The resistance was successful. The Doge who saved the city was one of the most honoured of all the rulers of Venice as a brave general and a man of scholarly parts. Genoa and Pisa, formed into a powerful republic, warred with Venice in the eleventh century; but the Venetians won in the protracted warfare. Wars in Italy and wars in the East followed, and internal trouble reigned intermittently in the city. The discovery of America by Columbus, and the opening up of trade with Hindustan, affected Venice injuriously. Until then the city had held a monopoly as a market for the products of the Orient. Her great power and wealth were imperilled by the discoveries of Columbus, the Genoese voyager, and by the rounding of Cape Horn by the Portuguese adventurers. Spain and Portugal were reaping the splendid golden harvest while Venice was impoverished. Consternation filled the minds of the citizens. The great Republic had reached the height of its glory in the fifteenth century, but from the falling off of her commerce she never recovered. It is curious that in the period of decline, Venice expended much wealth in works of art, and in the embellishment of the buildings and palaces. Several of the city's greatest painters flourished at this time. The Doge's Palace, often burned down, was rebuilt in its present grandeur. St Mark's was constantly repaired, decorations were added, and internal parts reconstructed. The palaces of the rich sprang up by the waterways of this city in the sea. Printing was already an art and industry in Venice. John of Spires used movable type, and succeeding him were many distinguished printers, whose presses supplied the civilised world with books. A terrible plague devastated the city in 1575. Among the victims were the great painter, Titian, then nearly a hundred years of age. The epidemic spread all over Venice. When Pope Paul V. endeavoured to bring the citizens under his autocratic rule, they resisted with much firmness. One of the causes of offence was that the Venetians favoured the principle of toleration in religious beliefs, and permitted the heretical to worship according to their consciences. The Pope, after fruitless negotiations, excommunicated Venice, sending his agents with the documents. With all vigilance, the government of the city forbade the exposure of any papal decree in the streets, while the Doge stoutly asserted that the people of Venice regarded the bull with contempt. Nearly all Europe sided with Venice in this conflict between Pope and Doge. England was prepared to ally herself with France, and to assist Venice. Months passed without developments. Venice remained Catholic, but refused to become a vassal of the Pope of Rome. Paul was enraged and humiliated. One cannot admire his action; yet pity for the proud, sincere, and baffled Pontiff tinges one's view of the struggle. Venice even refused to request the abolition of the ban. She remained quietly indifferent to the thunderings of the See, and haughtily criticised the overtures of reconciliation offered through the French cardinals. Finally, with dignity and yet a touch of farce, the Senate handed over to the Pope's emissaries certain offenders, "without prejudice," to be held by the King of France. Paolo Sarpi, the priest and born diplomat, was the hero of Venice during this quarrel with Rome. Sarpi was a man of unassailable virtue and integrity, a tactful leader of men, and possessed of intrepidity. He was, not unnaturally, detested by the adherents of the Pope for his defence of Venetian rights and privileges. One night, crossing a bridge, Brother Paolo was attacked by ruffians, and stabbed with daggers. The assailants had been sent from Rome to kill the obnoxious priest. But the scheme failed, for Paolo Sarpi recovered from his wounds, and the attempt upon his life endeared him still more deeply to the hearts of the Venetians. Some years after he died in his bed, lamented by high and low in the city. Before the Church of Santa Fosca stands a memorial to this brave citizen. The Venice of the eighteenth century was a decaying city, with an enervated, apathetic population, given to gaming, and improvident in their lives. Many of the noble families sank into penury. Still the people sang and danced and held revelry; nothing could quench their passion for enjoyment. The Republic was now the prey of the great imperialist Napoleon, who adroitly acquired Venice by threats of war followed by promises of democratic rule. A few shots were fired by the French; then the Doge offered terms, which gave the city to the Emperor, while the citizens held rejoicings at the advent of a new government. A few months later Venice was given to Austria by the Treaty of Campoformio. Between the French and the Austrians the city passed through a troublous period of many years. Venice was now a fallen state. But what a memorial it is! The city is like a huge volume of history, and we linger over its enchanting pages. Let us now look upon the monuments that reveal to us the soul and genius of Venice of the olden times. Several of the most important buildings in Venice border the fine square of San Marco, a favourite evening gathering-place of the Venetians. Dominating the piazza is the Cathedral of San Marco, with its magnificent front, a bewildering array of portals, decorated arches, carvings in relief, surmounted by graceful towers and steeples. The style is Byzantine, and partly Roman, designed after St Sophia at Constantinople. In shape the edifice is cruciform, with a dome to each arm of the cross. High above the cathedral roof rises the noble Campanile. Over the chief portal are four bronze horses, brought here in 1204 from Byzantium. The steeds are beautifully modelled, and the work is ascribed to Lysippos, a sculptor of Corinth. Napoleon took the horses to Paris, but they were restored to Venice in 1815. The mosaic designs of the façade represent "The Last Judgment," among other Scriptural subjects, while one of the mosaics depicts San Marco as it was in the early days. A number of reliefs and images adorn the arches of each of the five doorways of the main entrance. Within the decorations are exquisite. Ruskin writes: "The church is lost in a deep twilight, to which the eye must be accustomed for some moments before the form of the building can be traced; and then there opens before us a vast cave, hewn out into the form of a cross, and divided into shadowy aisles by many pillars. Round the domes of its roof the light enters only through narrow apertures like large stars; and here and there a ray or two from some far-away casement wanders into the darkness, and casts a narrow phosphoric stream upon the waves of marble that heave and fall in a thousand colours along the floor. What else there is of light is from torches or silver lamps, burning ceaselessly in the recesses of the chapels; the roof sheeted with gold, and the polished walls covered with alabaster, give back at every curve and angle some feeble gleaming to the flames, and the glories round the heads of the sculptured saints flash out upon us as we pass them, and sink again into the gloom." In the vestibule of the cathedral, the mosaic decoration depicts Old Testament scenes. In the apse are represented a figure of the Lord, with St Mark, and the acts of St Peter and St Mark. The mosaics of the east dome represent Jesus and the prophets. Tintoretto's design is in an adjoining archway, and in the centre dome is "The Ascension." The western dome has "The Descent of the Holy Ghost," and an arch here is decorated with "The Last Judgment." There are more mosaics in the aisles, illustrating "The Acts of the Apostles." The high altar is a superb example of sculpture. The roof is supported by marble columns, carved with scenes from the lives of Christ and the Virgin Mary. The figures date from the eleventh century. A magnificent altarpiece of gold-workers' design is shown for a fee. The upper part is the older, and it was executed in Constantinople. The lower portion is the work of Venetian artists of the twelfth century. The baptistery contains early mosaics, a monument of one of the Doges of Venice; and the stone upon which John the Baptist is stated to have been beheaded is kept here. "The Legend of San Marco" is the design in the Cappella Zen, adjoining the baptistery. Here are the tomb of Cardinal Zen, a Renaissance work in bronze, and a handsome altar. In his rapturous description of the interior of San Marco, Ruskin continues: "The mazes of interwoven lines and changeful pictures lead always and at last to the Cross, lifted and carved in every place and upon every stone; sometimes with the serpent of eternity wrapt round it, sometimes with doves beneath its arms, and sweet herbage growing forth from its feet." Venetian architecture has a character of its own. We find the Oriental influence in most of the buildings of Venice; the ogee arch is commonly used, and the square billet ornament is a distinguishing mark. The first Church of San Marco was built in 830. The Palace of the Doge is in the Piazza. Its architecture has been variously described and classified. It has strong traces of Moorish influence, while in many respects it is Gothic. The decorated columns of the arcades are very beautifully designed. Archangels and figures of Justice, Temperance, and Obedience adorn the building, and there is an ancient front on the south side. Enter through the Porta della Carta, and you will find a court of wonderful interest, with rich façades and the great staircase, which is celebrated as the crowning-place of the Doges. The architecture of the interior of the palace is of a later date than that of the exterior. In the big entrance hall are Tintoretto's portraits of legislators of Venice. From here enter the next apartment, which contains a magnificent painting of "Faith" by Titian. In another hall are four more of Tintoretto's works, and one by Paolo Veronese. The Sala del Collegio is one of the principal chambers of the palace and its ceiling was painted by Veronese. Here is the Doge's throne. Tintoretto and Palma were the artists who executed the paintings in the Hall of the Senators. The adjoining chapel is decorated with another of Tintoretto's pictures. Pass to the Hall of the Council of Ten, where the rulers of the city sat, and note the gorgeous ceiling by Paolo Veronese. A staircase leads to the Hall of the Great Council below. From the window there is an inspiriting view. The walls are hung with portraits, but the glory of this hall is Tintoretto's "Paradise," an immense painting. Before leaving the Palace of the Doges, I will devote a few lines to the Schools of Venice of the sixteenth century. Unfortunately most of the works of Giorgione, the most characteristic painter of Venice, have disappeared. He was the founder of a tradition, and the teacher of many painters, including Palma, while his work influenced a number of his contemporaries. Titian, born in 1477, was one of Giorgione's admirers, and his early work shows his influence. The pictures of the great Venetian master are one of the glories of the city. Some of his paintings are in the Academy, in the Church of Santa Maria dei Friari--where there is a monument to the artist--in the Church of Santa Maria della Salute, and in the private galleries of the city. In the Academy collection, in a large building in the square of St Mark's, are Titian's much-restored "Presentation" and the "Pieta," among the finest specimens of the Venetian School of painters. The celebrated "Assumption" has been also restored. "There are many princes; there is but one Titian," said Charles V. of Spain, who declared that through the magic of the Venetian painter's pencil, he "thrice received immortality." Forty-three examples of the art of Titian are in the Prado Gallery of Madrid. Sanchez Coello, Court artist to Philip II. was one of the students of the Italian master; indeed several of the great painters of Spain were influenced by Titian, and none of them revered him more than Velazquez. Tintoretto's "Miracle of St Mark" and "Adam and Eve" are two instances of his genius for colour, in the Academy, calling for special study, and another of his works is to be seen in Santa Maria della Salute. We have just looked at a number of this painter's pictures in the Doge's Palace. It has been said that Tintoretto inspired El Greco, whose pictures we shall see in Toledo. Tintoretto was a pupil of Titian, basing his drawing on the work of Michael Angelo, and finding inspiration for his colour in the painting of Titian. He was a most industrious and prolific artist. Paolo Veronese, though not a native of Venice, was one of the school of that city. He surpassed even Tintoretto in the use of colour, and adorned many ceilings and altars, besides painting canvases. The "Rape of Europa" and others of Paolo's mythical subjects display his gift of colour and richness of imagination. Among the later Venetian painters, Giovanni Battista Tiepolo is perhaps the most remarkable. His conceptions were bizarre, and his fanciful style is manifest in his picture of the "Way to Calvary," preserved in Venice. Canaletto may be mentioned as the last of the historic painters of Venice. The work of Bellini must on no account be forgotten before we leave the subject of Venetian art. His "Madonna Enthroned" is in the Academy, among other of the masterpieces of his brush; and one of his most exquisite paintings is in the Church of the Friari. Let us also remember the splendid treasures of the art of Carpaccio, as seen in the picture of "Saint Ursula" in the Academy, and in the delightful paintings of San Giorgio, which moved Ruskin to rapture. The many churches of Venice contain pictures of supreme interest. Most of them are in a poor light, and can only be examined with difficulty. San Zanipolo is a church of Gothic design, built by the Dominicans, abounding in tombs and monuments. San Zaccaria has Bellini's altarpiece "The Madonna and Child." Many of the palaces, especially those of the Grand Canal, are exceedingly beautiful in design, whether the style is Renaissance or Byzantine-Romanesque. Among the oldest are the Palazzo Venier, the Palazzo Dona, and the Palazzo Mesto; while for elegance the following are notable: Dario, the three Foscari palaces, the Pesaro, the Turchi, and Ca d' Oro, and the Loredan. Some of these historic houses are associated with men of genius of modern times. Wagner lived in the Palazzo Vendramin Calergi. In 1818 Byron resided in the Palazzo Mocenigo, and Browning occupied the Palazzo Rezzonico. Robert Browning and his wife had a passionate love for Venice. As a young man the poet visited the city, and returned to England thrilled by his impressions. Mrs Bridell Fox, his friend, says that: "He used to illustrate his glowing descriptions of its beauties--the palaces, the sunsets, the moonrises, by a most original kind of etching. Taking up a bit of stray notepaper, he would hold it over a lighted candle, moving the paper about gently till it was cloudily smoked over, and then utilising the darker smears for clouds, shadows, water, or what not, would etch with a dry pen the forms of lights on cloud and palace, on bridge or gondola, on the vague and dreamy surface he had produced." William Sharp--from whose "Life of Browning" I cull the passage just quoted--tells us that his friend selected the palace on the Grand Canal as a corner for his old age. Browning was "never happier, more sanguine, more joyous than here. He worked for three or four hours each morning, walked daily for about two hours, crossed occasionally to the Lido with his sister, and in the evenings visited friends or went to the opera." In 1889 Robert Browning died in Venice, on a December night, as "the great bell of San Marco struck ten." He had just received news of the success of his "Asolando." The poet was honoured in the city by a splendid and solemn funeral procession of black-draped gondolas, following the boat that held his body. Would he not have chosen to die in the Venice that he loved with such intense fervour? Among the statuary in the streets is the image of Bartolomeo Colleoni on horseback, "I do not believe that there is a more glorious work of sculpture existing in the world," writes Ruskin of this statue, which stands in front of SS. Giovanni e Paolo. In the Piazzetta by the Palace of the Doges are the two columns, which everyone associates with Venice, bearing images of the flying lion of St Mark, and of St Theodore treading upon a crocodile. One other public building must be seen by the visitor. This is the beautiful library opposite the Doge's Palace, an edifice that John Addington Symonds praises as one of the chief achievements of Venetian artists. The cathedral, the ducal palace, the library, and the Academy of Arts are certainly four impressive and splendid buildings. If you have seen the old roofed bridge that spans the river at the head of the Lake of Lucerne, you will have an impression of the famous Rialto of Venice. The historic bridge is charged with memories of the days when "Venice sate in state throned on her hundred isles," and citizens asked of one another, in the words of Solanio, in _The Merchant of Venice_. "Now, what news on the Rialto?" The bridge is mediæval in aspect, and romantic in its associations. You cannot lounge there without an apparition of Shylock, raving at the loss of the diamond that cost him two thousand ducats in Frankfort. All around this "Queen of Cities" are places of supreme interest to the student of architecture and the lover of natural beauty. Padua, and Vicenza, with its rare monuments of Palladio, Murano, Torcello, and other towns and villages with histories are within access of Venice. But do not hasten from Venezia. It is a town in which one should roam and loiter for long days. PERUGIA A white town, perched high on a bleak hill, is one's first impression of Perugia. The position of the capital of Umbria is menacing, and without any confirmation of history, one surmises that this was once a Roman fortified town. After being built and held by the Etruscans, Perugia was taken by the Roman host, and called Augusta Perusia. For centuries the town was the terror of Umbria. Its citizens appear to have been a superior order of bold banditti, continually making raids on the surrounding towns and villages, and returning with spoil. Mediæval traditions of Perugia are a romance of battle within and without the town. At one time one faction held sway, at another a rival faction gained the upper hand, and the natives spent much time and energy in endeavouring to kill one another. The story is perhaps more melodramatic than tragic. It reads almost like a novel of sensational episodes, related by a fertile and imaginative writer in order to thrill his readers. Pope Paul III. was the subduer of Perugia. He dominated the town with a citadel, now destroyed, and broke the power of its martial inhabitants with the sword and the chain. The surroundings of the town are bare, except for the olive groves which give a cold green to a landscape somewhat devoid of warm colouring. You either climb tediously up a long hill to the city, or ascend in an incongruous electric tramcar. Entering the place, the chances are that your sense of smell will be affronted somewhat rudely, for Perugia is not very modern in its sanitary system. Assisi is seen in the distance, bleached on its slope, and there are far-off prospects of high mountains. The Prefeturra terrace is over sixteen hundred feet above the sea, and is a fine view-point. The setting of Perugia makes no appeal to the lover of sylvan charms. It stands on an arid height, constantly attacked by the wind, and in dry weather the town is very dusty. But there is hardly a narrow street nor a corner without quaintness and beauty for the eye that can appreciate them. Almost everywhere are glimpses of elegant spires and tall belfries. The cathedral, dedicated to San Lorenzo, is a fourteenth-century edifice, with an aged aspect, and not much beauty in its decorations. In the Chapel of San Bernardino is "The Descent from the Cross," by Baroccio. This artist was a follower of Coreggio, fervent in his piety, and devoted to his art. He was born in Urbino, and painted several pictures in Rome. The example in the cathedral is one of his best-known paintings. Signorelli designed an altarpiece for this church. Three popes were buried here, Innocent III., Urban IV., and Martin IV. Close to San Lorenzo is the Canonica, a palace of the popes, a huge, heavy building. The fortress-like Palazzo Pubblico is still used as the town hall. Its history is stirring. Many trials have been held in its halls, and we read that culprits were sometimes hurled to death from one of the windows. The upper part of the Palazzo is a gallery of paintings, the works representing the Umbrian School. Here we may study Perugino, Fiorenzo di Lorenzo, Bonfigli, and other masters of the fifteenth century. Perugino instituted a school of painting in the town. In the Sistine Chapel, in Florence, we may see some of his frescoes. We shall see presently examples of his works in other buildings in Perugia. Fiorenzo di Lorenzo, Bonfigli, and Pinturicchio are represented in the secular buildings and churches of the town. An altarpiece by Giannicola, one of Perugino's pupils, should be noticed. But perhaps the most important of the paintings are Fra Angelico's "Madonna and Saints," "Miracles of San Nicholas," and "The Annunciation." Perugino's frescoes in the Exchange (Collegio del Cambio) are very beautiful, depicting the virtues of illustrious Greeks and Romans. "Perugino's landscape backgrounds," writes Mr Robert Clermont Witt, in "How to look at Pictures," "with their steep blue slopes and winding valleys are as truly representative of the hill country about Perugia as are Constable's leafy lanes and homesteads of his beloved eastern counties." In the museum of the University, we shall find a number of antiquities of pre-Roman and Roman times. The Church of San Severo must be visited, for it contains a priceless early work by Raphael. The Piazzi del Municipio was the scene of many conflicts in the troublous days of Perugia. Here the austere Bernardino used to preach, and here were held the pageants of the popes upon their visits to the town. Around this piazzi is a network of narrow, ancient thoroughfares, with many curious houses. The Piazzi Sopramuro is one of the oldest parts of the town. In this vicinity is the ornate, massive Church of San Domenico, with a magnificent window, and the Decorated monument of Benedict XI. Passing through the Porta San Pietro, we approach the Church of San Pietro, considered to be the oldest sacred building in the town. It has a splendidly ornamented choir, and in the sacristy are some remarkable works of Perugino. The belfry of this church is of very graceful design. About three miles from Perugia, towards Assisi, are some Etruscan tombs, with buried chambers, a vestibule, and several statues. This monument is of deep interest. It is a family cemetery of great antiquity, and the carvings are of exquisite art. FLORENCE _Firenze la bella_, the pride of its natives, the dream of poet and painter and the delight of a multitude of travellers, lies amid graceful hills, clothed with olive gardens and dotted with white villas. In the clear distance are the splendid Apennines. Climb to the terrace of San Miniato, and you will gain a wide general view of this great and beautiful city of culture and the arts. The wonderful campanile of Giotto rises above the surrounding buildings, rivalling the height of the cathedral; the sunlight glows on dome and tower, and the valleys and glens lie in deep shadow, stretching away to the slopes of the mountains. Very lovely, too, is the prospect from the Boboli Gardens, and finer still the outlook from Fiesole, whence the eye surveys the Cathedral, the Baptistery, the Campanile, the noble churches of Bruneschi, the Pitti Palace, and many fair buildings of the Middle Ages. Gazing over Florence from one of the elevations of the environs, a vast pageant of history seems revealed, and men of illustrious name pass in long procession in the vision of the mind. How numerous are the great thinkers and artists associated with the city from Savonarola to the Brownings! We recall Dante, Giotto, Boccaccio, Michael Angelo--the roll seems inexhaustible. Almost all the famous men of Italy are connected with the culture-history and the political annals of Florence. The city inspires and holds us with a spell; we are impelled to wander day after day in the narrow streets, to linger in the fragrant gardens, to roam in the luxuriant valleys of the surrounding country, and to climb the hill of classic Fiesole. Rich and beautiful is the scenery between Florence and Bologna, with its glimpses of the savage Apennines. The glen of Vallombrosa is one of the loveliest spots in the vicinity, where the old monastery broods amid beech and chestnut-trees. It was this scene that Milton recalled when he wrote the lines: "Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks In Vallombrosa...." [Illustration: FLORENCE. PONTE SANTA TRINITA, 1832.] The history of the city is of abundant interest. Florence was probably an important station in the days of the Roman Triumviri. Totila the Goth besieged and destroyed the town, and Charlemagne restored it two hundred and fifty years later. Machiavelli states that from 1215 Florence was the seat of the ruling power in Italy, the descendants of Charles the Great governing here until the time of the German emperors. In the struggle between the Church and the State, the city took sides with the popular party for the time being. There were, however, constant factions within Florence, due to the quarrels of the Buondelmonti and Uberti families. Frederick II. favoured the Uberti cause, and with his help, the Buondelmontis were expelled. Then came the remarkable period of the Guelfs and the Ghibellines, the former standing for the Pope, and the latter siding with the Emperor. Florence favoured the Guelfs, and the Ghibellines resolved to destroy the city; but the Guelf party again won ascendancy in Florence. The trouble was, however, not at an end. For years Florence was disturbed by the conflicting aims of these intriguing parties. Grandees and commoners warred in Florence in the fourteenth century, and efforts were made by the aristocratic rulers to curtail the liberties of the people. This was frustrated by the commoners, and the government was reformed on a more democratic basis. Peace followed during a period of about ten years, but calamity befell Florence in the form of the pestilence described by Boccaccio. Ninety-six thousand persons are said to have died from the ravages of this plague. As early as the twelfth century there were many signs in Florence of intellectual liberty. The doctrine of the eternity of matter was openly discussed, and on to the days of Savonarola civilising forces were at work in this centre of culture. Girolamo Savonarola arose at the end of the fifteenth century, and his reforming influence soon spread through Italy. "The church is shaken to its foundations," he cries. "No more are the prophets remembered, the apostles are no longer reverenced, the columns of the church strew the ground because the foundations are destroyed--in other words because the evangelists are rejected." Such heresy as this brought Savonarola to the stake. Greater among the mighty of Florence was Dante, born in a memorable age of art and invention. "The Vita Nuova," inspired by the gentle damsel, Beatrice, was written when Dante had met his divinity at a May feast given by her father, Folco Portinari, one of the chief citizens of Florence. Beatrice died in 1290 at the age of twenty-four. Boccaccio states that the poet married Gemma Donati about a year after the death of Beatrice. Dante died in 1321, and was buried in Ravenna. For me the chief appeal in Seville, Antwerp, or any old Continental town is in the human associations. In Florence, roaming in the ancient quarters, the figure of Dante, made so familiar by many paintings, arises with but little effort of the imagination, for the streets have not greatly changed in aspect since his day. The atmosphere remains mediæval. Can we not see the moody poet, driven from his high estate by the quarrels of the ruling houses, pacing the alleys, repeating to himself: "How hard is the path!" Can we not picture him in company with Petrarch, who, after the merry-making in the palace, remarked that the wise poet was quite eclipsed by the mountebanks who capered before the guests? And do we not hear Dante's muttered "Like to like!" Two great English poets, Chaucer and Milton, made journeys to Florence. Giovanni Boccaccio was born in 1313, in Certaldo, a small town some leagues from Florence. He spent a few years in France and in the south of Italy, returning to Florence at the age of twenty-eight. Boccaccio was the close friend and the biographer of Dante, and a contemporary of Petrarch. In the time of Lorenzo de Medici, Florence was a prosperous city and a seat of learning. Machiavelli writes of Lorenzo: "The chief aim of his policy was to maintain the city in ease, the people united, and the nobles honoured. He had a marvellous liking for every man who excelled in any branch of art. He favoured the learned, as Messer Agnola da Montepulciano, Messer Cristofano Landini, and Messer Demetrio; the Greek can bear sure testimony whence it came that the Count Giovanni della Mirandola, a man almost divine, withdrew himself from all the other countries of Europe through which he had travelled, and attracted by the munificence of Lorenzo, took up his abode in Florence. In architecture, music, and poetry, he took extraordinary delight.... Never was there any man, not in Florence merely, but in all Italy, who died with such a name for prudence, or whose loss was so much mourned by his country." Machiavelli, the Florentine historian, lived for a while in retirement in the outskirts of Florence. We may gain a little insight into his character and tastes from a passage in one of his letters in which he mentions that it was his custom to repair to the tavern every afternoon, clad in rustic garments, where he played cards with a miller, a butcher and a lime-maker. In the evening he dressed himself in the clothes that he wore in town and at court, and communed with the spirits of the "illustrious dead" in the volumes of his library. Over the entrance to the Casa Guidi is the inscription: "Here wrote and died Elizabeth Barrett Browning, who, in the heart of a woman, combined the learning of a scholar and the genius of a poet. By her verse she wrought a golden ring connecting Italy and England. Grateful Florence erected this memorial in 1861." Mrs Browning passed away in the Casa Guidi just before dawn, in June 1861. Her remains lie in the beautiful grounds of the Protestant cemetery. Fierce old Walter Savage Landor lived for a time in Florence, and for a longer period in Fiesole, where the Brownings often visited him. Swinburne came just before Landor's death to see the poet. Shelley was in Florence in 1819. A son was born to him here, and he records the event in a letter to Leigh Hunt. The poet writes of the Cascine Gardens, where he loved to walk and to gaze upon the Arno. Florence seems to have impressed Shelley almost as powerfully as Rome. "Florence itself," he writes upon a first visit, "that is the Lung Arno (for I have seen no more) I think is the most beautiful city I have yet seen." With this tribute from the poet, we will begin our survey of Florence. In a magnificent square stands the cathedral, the baptistery, and the belfry. The oldest of the edifices is the baptistery, reared on the ground whereon stood a temple of Mars. Parts of the building are said to date from the seventh century. The glories of the baptistery are many, but perhaps the most appealing of the external decorations are the reliefs of the bronze door, which Michael Angelo so greatly admired. They illustrate scenes from the life of John the Baptist. The exterior of the Duomo or cathedral is the work of several great artists, including Giotto and Andrea Pisano. A modern façade was added in 1875-1887. The Porta della Mandoria, one of the most beautiful doorways in existence, is surmounted by a mosaic of Ghirlandaio, "The Annunciation." There is not much to claim attention within the cathedral, except Michael Angelo's incomplete and last work, the "Pieta," behind the chief altar, a statue of Boniface VIII., and a painting of Dante reading his "Divina Commedia," by Michelino. Savonarola preached in this church. The triumph of Giotto, the famed Campanile, adjoins the duomo. The work was begun in 1335, and the structure and its decorations are a superb achievement of Giotto's genius. Ruskin has written a glowing passage upon this wonderful example of "Power and Beauty" in decorative architecture. The edifice is of variously coloured marbles, adorned with splendid bas-reliefs, depicting the growth of industry and art in many ages. Another set of bas-reliefs represent Scriptural scenes. The statues are the work of Rosso and Donatello. Giotto was born in the neighbourhood of Florence, and died in the city. He was the friend of Dante, who wrote an eulogy upon his supremacy as a painter. The bell-tower of Florence is his finest work in architecture and the most treasured of all the monuments in the city. Fra Angelico is intimately associated with Florence, and many of his pictures are preserved in the city. He was born in the vicinity of Florence, near the birthplace of Giotto. Vasari says: "Fra Giovanni was a man of simple and blameless life. He shunned the world, with all its temptations, and during his pure and simple life was such a friend to the poor that I think his soul must now be in heaven. He painted incessantly, but would never represent any other than a sacred subject. He might have been rich, but he scorned it, saying that true riches consisted in being content to be poor." The Academy of Arts in Florence contains many of Fra Angelico's masterpieces. There are six of his paintings in the Uffizi Palace, and several in the Convent of San Marco. In this collection of pictures are numerous works of the fourteenth and fifteenth century painters, all claiming diligent study. The Uffizi Palace and the Pitti Palace are rich storehouses of some of the most famous of the world's pictures, and of several great statues. The chief pictures cannot even be enumerated. Let me only mention Raphael's "Madonna and Child," Michael Angelo's "Holy Family," Titian's "Venus," Durer's "Adoration of the Magi," Andrea del Sarto's "Assumption," Ruben's "Terrors of Wars," and Velazquez's "Philip IV." These are but few indeed of the treasures of these two noble palaces of art. The wonderful Venus de Medici, one of the greatest of classic works of art, is in this collection. In the seventeenth century the statue was unearthed in the villa of Hadrian, near Tivoli. It was in eleven pieces, and it was repaired and set up in the Medici Palace at Rome. In 1680 Cosmo III. had the treasure removed to the Imperial Palace at Florence. In the north-eastern part of the city there are three buildings of historical interest. One is the Church of Santissima Annunziata, founded in the thirteenth century, but restored in modern times. Here will be seen sacred pictures by Andrea del Sarto, in the court, while in the cloisters is the "Madonna del Sacco." The tomb of Benvenuto Cellini is here. San Marco is now a repository of works of art. It was the monastery of Savonarola, and the edifice is haunted with the spirit of the zealous reformer. The fine frescoes by Fra Angelico adorn the cloisters, and in the chapter house is his "Crucifixion," one of the largest of the friar's pictures. Three of the cells were inhabited at different times by Savonarola, and contain memorials of the pious ascetic, a coat of penance, a crucifix, and religious volumes. Sir Martin Conway writes, in "Early Tuscan Art": "In Savonarola's cell there hangs a relic of no small interest--the handiwork of Fra Angelico himself. It is stowed away in so dark a corner that one can hardly see it. Eyes accustomed to the gloom discover a small picture of the crucified Christ, painted on a simple piece of white stuff. When the great preacher mounted the pulpit, this banner was borne before him. In those impassioned appeals of his, that electrified for a time the people of Florence, collected in crowded silence within the vast area of the newly finished cathedral, it was to this very symbol of his faith that he was wont to point, whereon are written the now faded words, _Nos predicamus Christum crucifixum_." In the church of San Marco are the tombs of Sant Antonino and the learned Pico della Mirandola. Among the other churches of note is Santa Trinita, originally an example of the art of Niccolo Pisano, but it has been modernised. It contains a monument by Luca della Robbia, and some splendid mural paintings, depicting the career of St Francis, by Ghirlando. There are more paintings by this master in the Franciscan church of Ognissanti. Santa Croce is a great burial-place, rich in monuments of illustrious Florentines. Michael Angelo's tomb is here, and near to it is the resting-place of Galileo. A monument to Dante, the tomb of Alfieri, by Canova, the memorials of Machiavelli, Aretino, Cherubino, and many others are in this building. My necessarily scanty description of the splendours of this church are offered with an apology for want of fuller space to describe them. Donatello's "Crucifixion" is in the north transept, and the Capella Peruzzi and the Capella Bardi are decorated with frescoes by Giotto. Agnolo Gaddi's paintings are in the choir. Reluctantly, one leaves this great treasure-house. A mere catalogue of its works of art would fill pages. We have glanced at two of the palaces. Let us now visit the stern Palazzo Vecchio, once the Senate House of the city. The building dates from the thirteenth century, and was the home of the Medici. Verrochio's fountain beautifies one of the courts. Inside the palazzo are mural paintings by Ghirlando. Another of the interesting buildings is the Bargello, an important museum. Michael Angelo's "Dying Adonis" and "Victory" are in the court, and there are more works of the great artist within. Dante lectured in one of the halls of the Bargello. Benvenuto Cellini's design for "Perseus" is in one of the rooms, and there are reliefs by Della Robbia. The Riccardi Palace is redolent with memories of Lorenzo. It stands in the Piazza San Lorenzo, and in the same square is the church named after him, containing some very beautiful monuments. Donatello was buried here, and a stone marks the grave of Cosimo de Medici. Lippo Lippi's "Annunciation," and Michael Angelo's works are the glories of this church. The New Sacristy contains Angelo's "Day and Night" over the tomb of Giuliano Medici, and that of Lorenzo de Medici adorned with statues of "Dawn and Twilight." These are among the most magnificent examples of Michael Angelo's statuary. Near to the railway station is the Church of Santa Maria Novella, a glorious specimen of Gothic architecture, with a fine façade. In this church are paintings by Orcagna, Lippi, Cimabue Ghirlando, and other artists. The frescoes in the Strozzi Chapel, and the Spanish Chapel of this Dominican church are of great interest. Orcagna's paintings in the Strozzi Chapel are of the fourteenth century. The chapel was dedicated to St Thomas Aquinas, who was greatly honoured by the Dominican order. Modern Florence is a bright populous city, with wide main streets, squares, and pleasant gardens. VERONA Amid surroundings of great beauty, in a northern corner of Italy, with a huge mountain barrier in the rear, and not far from the Lake of Garda, is the old city of Verona. Shakespeare called the place "fair Verona," and made it the scene of _Romeo and Juliet_, while the city is again the background of drama in _The Two Gentlemen of Verona_. [Illustration: VERONA, 1830.] Shall we not see, leaning from one of the old balconies, the lovely Juliet? Do Romeo, Mercutio, and Benvolio no longer roam these twisted ancient streets? And where shall we find Julia and Lucetta, and Valentine, and smile at the pleasantries of Launce, with his dog, Crab, on a leash? Shakespeare has peopled these courts and cloisters for us with characters that we knew when we were young. We resent the bare hint that there never were in Verona a fervent youth named Romeo and a gentle maid called Juliet. Verona is the home of _Romeo and Juliet_, and for this we have known the town since we first turned the magic pages of Shakespeare. One wishes that there were a better word than "picturesque." How hackneyed seem adjectives and phrases in describing these old towns. Verona then is very beautiful; it is certainly one of the loveliest cities of Europe, both in its surroundings and within its confines. You will not soon tire of the Piazza della Erbe, with the flying lion on its column, the charming fountain, and the stately Municipio. Here you will watch the life of Verona of to-day, and reflect that it has not wholly changed since the time of the Scaligers, the mighty rulers of the city. There is, of course, the modern note. But the old buildings stand, and in their shade people in the dress of olden days pass continually. It is inspiring and a trifle unreal when the moon lights the square, and the silence of night lends mystery to the scene. In Verona everyone strives to live and work in the open air. The streets are thronged on days of market, stalls are set up in the narrow lanes and in the piazzas, vegetables and fruit come in great store. The eternal garlic scents the street, but we learn to love its odour. In Spain a market is quiet and solemn; here the scene is gay and noisy. Voices are raised, and there is lively bartering of wares. There are subjects at every turn for the brush of the painter--stern old buildings, winding alleys, and groups of garishly dressed peasants. Diocletian's glorious amphitheatre is the chief wonder of Verona. Few Roman monuments are so well preserved; the lower arches are almost perfect, and the stonework has been restored. Great gladiators fought here during hundreds of centuries. The tiers had thousands of seats for spectators of all classes; and in later times the knights of chivalry contended in the circus. There is a fine view from the highest tier, overlooking the city and the varied landscape. The structure is of a dull red marble, and signs of decay have been removed by repeated restoration, for the people of Verona take great pride in this monument. "The amphitheatre," writes Goethe, "is the first important monument of the old times that I have seen--and how well it is preserved!" Fra Giaconda designed the Palazza del Consiglio, and his fine arches and statuary deserve close inspection. The Tribunale and the Palazza della Ragione, both interesting, should be visited; the tombs of Scaligers in the Tribunale are Gothic work of great beauty. There are several important churches in the city. The cathedral was begun in the twelfth century, and is adorned with a number of exterior images and reliefs. One of the chief works of the interior is Titian's "Assumption." San Zeno Maggiore has a beautiful façade, with Theodoric the Goth as one of the carvings, and a doorway of noble decorations. The interior of this church is very impressive. The Church of Sant Anastasia dates from the thirteenth century, and is one of the most striking buildings in Verona. In the Cavilli Chapel are some old frescoes, and there is a splendid statue of the last of the Scaliger rulers, Cortesia Sarega, on horseback. San Giorgio has some famous paintings. Let us inspect first the great picture of Paolo Veronese, "The Martyrdom of St George." Paolo Caliari, born in 1528, was a native of Verona, and came to be known as "The Veronese." His model was Titian, and he excelled in colour effects, and in the brilliance of his scenes. Several of his chief works are in Venice, but the example in this church is considered one of his greatest achievements. More of his pictures will be seen in the gallery of the Pompeii Palace. The art of Paolo Veronese appealed strongly to Goethe, who admired more than all his work in portraiture. Jacopo Robusti, called Tintoretto, was the founder of the Venetian School. Like Veronese, he followed the method of Titian. He was a prolific painter. Venice abounds in his works, and there are several of his paintings in Verona. In San Giorgio is "The Baptism of Christ," and Goethe refers to one of this artist's pictures, called "A Paradise," in the Bevilague Palace. One of the finest works of Mantegna is in Verona. This is the altarpiece "The Madonna with Angels and Saints," in the Church of San Zeno. The figures and features of the Virgin are very beautifully presented. Mantegna was by birth a Paduan, but he worked chiefly in Mantua. His magnificent cartoons, painted for a palace at Mantua, are now in the Hampton Court Gallery, England. In the Church of Santa Maria in Organo there are some fresco paintings by Morone, depicting a Madonna accompanied by St Augustine and St Thomas Aquinas. Dr Kugler, in his "History of Painting," says that there is a "Madonna" by that painter in a house beyond the Ponta delle Navi in Verona. Fra Giovanni designed the choir stalls in this church, and executed other decorations during his sojourn in the monastery of Verona. From Santa Maria we may turn into the beautiful old Giusti Gardens, with their shady walks, their wealth of verdure, and ancient cypress-trees. Besides the pictures in the churches, there is a collection of paintings in the picture gallery of the Palazzo Pompei. Here will be found examples of Paolo Veronese and other notable artists of his day. One of the Veronese School here represented is Girolomo dai Libri, who was a follower of Mantegna. His work is of a deeply religious character, and merits careful study. The Church of San Fermo Maggiore should be seen for its handsome Gothic architecture, both in the exterior and interior. There are one or two relics of the Roman period in the history of Verona, besides the splendid amphitheatre. The most noteworthy are the two gateways, the Arco dei Leoni, and the Porta dei Borsari. A. E. Freeman, the historian, has admirably described the variety of interest in this old town: "There is the classic Verona, the Verona of Catullus and Pliny; there is the Verona of the Nibelungen, the Bern of Theodoric; there is the mediæval Verona, the Verona of commonwealths and tyrants; the Verona of Eccelius and Can Grande; and there is the Verona of later times, under Venetian, French, and Austrian bondage, the Verona of congresses and fortifications." SEVILLE A house in Seville is the reward of those beloved by the gods. In Toledo you are made reflective, perchance a little melancholy, while in Granada you are infected by the spirit of a past long dead. But in fair, sunlit Seville you live in the present as well as in the past; and your heart is made light by the pervasive gaiety of the people and the cheerfulness of the streets and plazas. Climb the beautiful Giralda--the brown tower of the Moors that rises above the cathedral dome--and look around upon the vegas, and away to the blue mountains of the horizon, and you will know why Borrow was moved to shed "tears of rapture," when he gazed upon this delightful land of the Blessed Virgin and the happy city, with its minarets, its palm-shaded squares, its luxuriant gardens, and broad stream, winding between green banks to the distant marshes, where rice and cotton grow, and the flamingo and heron fly over sparkling lagoons amid a tropical jungle. Seville in spring is gay to hilarity. The great fair and the Easter ceremonials and _fêtes_ attract thousands to the capital of Andalusia at the season when the banks of the Guadalquivir are white with the bloom of the orange-trees, and hundreds of nightingales make the evening breezes melodious; when the heat is bearable, the sky a deep azure, and the whole town festive, and bright with the costumes of many provinces. No blight of east wind depresses in early spring, and rarely indeed is the promise of roses and fruit threatened by frost in this region of perennial mildness and sunlight. "Only once have I seen ice in Seville," said to me a middle-aged native of the place. It is only the winter floods, those great _avenidas_, that are dreaded in Seville; for now and then the river swells out of normal bounds, and spreads into the streets and alleys. [Illustration: SEVILLE, 1836. PLAZA REAL AND PROCESSION OF THE CORPUS CHRISTI.] Seville is a white city in most of its modern parts. Lime-wash is used profusely everywhere, and the effect is cool and cleanly; but we wish sometimes that the natural colour of the stonework had been left free from the _brocha del blanquedor_, or the whitewasher's brush. Nevertheless, this whiteness hides dirt and dinginess. There are no squalid slums in Seville. The poor are there in swarms, but their poverty is not ugly and obvious, and for the greater part they are clad in cotton that is often washed. This is the town of beautiful southern doñas: the true types of Andalusian loveliness may be seen here in the park, on the promenade, and at the services in the cathedral--women with black or white mantillas, olive or pale in complexion, with full, dark eyes, copious raven hair, short and rather plump in form, but always charming in their carriage. More picturesque and often more lovely in features are the working girls, those vivacious, intelligent daughters of the people, whose dark hair is adorned with a carnation or a rose. The lightheartedness of Seville has expression in music, dancing, and merry forgatherings each evening in the _patios_, when the guitar murmurs sweetly, and the click of the castanets sets the blood tingling. Everyone in Seville dances. The children dance almost as soon as they learn to toddle. In the _cafés_ you will see the nimblest dancers of Spain, and follow the intricate movements of the bolero, as well as the curious swaying and posturings of the older Moorish dances. These strange dramatic dances must be seen, and to witness them you should visit the Novedades at the end of Calle de las Sierpes. Fashionable Seville delights in driving, and some of the wealthiest residents drive a team of gaily-decked, sleek-coated mules, with bells jangling on their bridles. Beautiful horses with Arab blood may be seen here. Even the asses are well-bred and big. But one sees also many ill-fed and sadly over-driven horses and mules. These people, so affectionate in their family life, so kindly in their entertainment of foreigners, and so graciously good-natured, have not yet learned one of the last lessons of humane civilisation--compassion for the animals that serve them. Society in Seville takes its pleasure seriously, but the seriousness is not the dullness that attends the Englishman's attempts at hilarity. The Spaniard is less demonstrative than the Frenchman, less mercurial than the Italian. Notwithstanding, the crowd at the races, at the battle of flowers, or watching the religious processions, or at the opera, is happy in its quiet intentness. The enthusiasm for bullfighting is perhaps the strongest visible emotion in Seville, the Alma Mater of the champions of the arena. At the _corrida_ the Sevillian allows himself to become excited. He loses his restraint, he shouts himself hoarse, waves his hat, and thrashes the wooden seats with his cane in the ecstasy of his delight, when a great performer plunges his sword into the vital spot of the furious bull that tears the earth with its foot, and prepares for a charge. Bullfights, gorgeous ecclesiastic spectacles, and dancing--these are the recreations of rich and poor alike in Seville to-day. In this city of pleasure you will see the _majo_, the Andalusian dandy, as he struts up and down the Sierpes--the only busy street of shops--spruce, self-conscious, casting fervent glances at the señoras accompanied by their duennas. Go into the meaner alleys and market streets, and you will see the very vagrants that Murillo painted, tattered wastrels who address one another as Señor, and hold licences to beg. Cross the Bridge of Isabella to the suburb of Triana, and you will find a mixed and curious population of mendicants, thieves, desperadoes, and a colony of Gitanos, who live by clipping horses, hawking, fortune-telling, dancing and begging. Peep through the delicate trellises of the Moorish gates of the patios, and you will see fountains, and flowers, and palms, and the slender columns supporting galleries, as in the Alhambra and other ancient buildings. Very delightful are these cool courtyards, with their canvas screens, ensuring shade at noonday, their splash of water, and their scent of roses clustering on columns and clothing walls. Some of these courtyards are open to the visitor, and one of the finest is the Casa de Pilatos in the Plaza de Pilatos. A pleasant garden within a court is that of my friend, Don J. Lopez-Cepero, who lives in the old house of Murillo, and allows the stranger to see his fine collection of pictures. Here Murillo died, in 1682, and some of his paintings are treasured in the gallery. The house is Number Seven, Plaza de Alfaro. We will now survey the Seville of olden days. No traces remain of Seville's earliest epochs. The Phoenician traditions are vague, and we know little indeed of the Hispolo of the Greeks, a town which was supposed to have stood on this ground. The Romans came here, and called the town Julia Romula, and the remains of that age, if scanty, are deeply interesting. Italica, five miles from the city, is a Roman amphitheatre, with corridors, dens for the lions, and some defined tiers of seats. At this great Roman station, Trajan, Hadrian, and Theodosius were born. For other vestiges of the Roman rule, we must visit the Museo Provincial, where there are capitals, statues, and busts. The Pillars of Hercules in the Alaméda are other monuments of this period of the history of Seville. Vandals and Goths ravaged the Roman city. Then came Musâ, the Moor, who besieged Seville, and captured it, afterwards marrying the widow of the Gothic monarch. A succession of Moorish rulers governed the city for several hundred years. One of the greatest was Motamid II., under whose sway Seville became a prosperous and wealthy capital, with a vast population. The Christians took the city in 1248, and expelled thousands of the Mohammedans. Under the Spanish kings, Seville remained, for a considerable spell, a royal city; and one of the most renowned of its Christian sovereigns was Pedro the Cruel, who, while democratic in some respects, was, on the other hand, a truculent tyrant. In administration he was jealous and energetic, and though called "The Cruel," he has also been named "The Just." Pedro lived in the Alcázar, the old palace which we shall presently visit. The monuments of the Moors in Seville are numerous. In the Alcázar are courts of resplendent beauty, gilded and coloured in hundreds of fantastic designs; arcades with horseshoe arches and graceful columns, marble floors, fountains, and richly decorated doorways. The Giralda, which is seen from many open spaces in the city, is a magnificent specimen of the minaret, dating from 1184; and this tower, and the adjoining Court of the Oranges, are parts of an ancient mosque. The lower portion of the Golden Tower, by the Guadalquivir, was built by the Moors. Many of the churches are built in the Mudéjar, or late Moorish style, and most of them have elegant minarets, arched windows, and interior decorations of an Oriental character. The power of Seville diminished under the domination of the Catholic kings, until the discovery of America by Cristoforo Colombo (Columbus), who sailed from the city on his bold expedition, and was welcomed with fervour upon his triumphal return. We think of the explorer setting forth for a second voyage, with vessels equipped at the cost of Isabella the Catholic, who profited so liberally by the conquest of the New World, and we picture him in the days of neglect, when he suffered the lot of those who put their trust in the promises of princes. It was Columbus who made the Seville of the fifteenth century. The commercial importance of the city, after the expulsion of the Moors, was re-established through the great trade opened with America. The fortunes of Seville at this period were bound up with those of the revered Queen Isabel. Shakespeare styled her "queen of earthly queens," and Sir Francis Bacon praised her. She was tall, fair, and of most amiable bearing, and she possessed many of the qualities of one born to command. Unfortunately for Seville, the young queen was under the domination of Cardinal Mendoza, and of Torquemada. It was Torquemada who urged her to purify Spain from her heresy by means of torture and the flame. Let it be said that Isabel did not comply willingly, and that she strove more than once to check the cruelties of the Holy Office. The first to suffer from the Inquisition in Seville were the Jews; then followed a long and bitter persecution of heretics of the Protestant faith, and a reign of terror among men of learning. The Chapel of the Alcázar was built in the time of Isabel, and her bedroom is still to be seen. Charles V. loved the retirement of the Alcázar, and his marriage with Isabella of Portugal was celebrated in the gorgeous Hall of the Ambassadors. He made several additions to the palace, and directed the planning of the exquisite gardens. Philip V. lived here for a time, and he also caused alterations, and added to the curious mixture of buildings within the walls of the Moorish palace. There are so few signs of commercialism in the city that we gain an impression that Seville only lives to amuse itself, and to entertain its host of visitors. There are, however, industries of many kinds, and a considerable export trade in various ores, in olive oil, fruit, wine, and wool. The population is over one-hundred-and-fifty thousand. There are several factories, and many craftsmen working in their homes. The illustrious natives are numerous. Velazquez, the greatest painter of Spain, if not of the world, was born here in 1599. Murillo was a Sevillian, and so were the artists Pacheco, Herrera, and Roelas, and the sculptor, Montañez. Lope de Rueda, one of the earliest Spanish dramatists, lived here. Cervantes spent a part of his life in Seville, and described the characters of the Macarena Quarter in his shorter tales. The house of the gifted Dean Pacheco, in Seville, was the resort of many artists and notable men. This painter and cleric is chiefly remembered as the teacher of Velazquez. He wrote discourses on the art of painting, and trained a number of the Sevillian artists. The art of Murillo was influenced by Juan del Castillo, who also taught Alonso Cano. Castillo was born in Seville. Francisco Herrera, born in 1622, studied in Rome, and upon his return to Spain painted many pictures in Madrid. The Cordovan painter, Juan Valdés Leal, lived for many years in Seville, and worked with Murillo to establish an academy of painting in the city. There are many specimens of his art in Seville. Juan de las Roelas was a Sevillian by birth (1558-1625) and his "Santiago destroying the Moors" is in the chapter of the cathedral, while many of the churches contain his pictures. The Provincial Museum has an instructive collection of paintings of the Andalusian School as well as the works of many artists of other traditions. Murillo is represented by several paintings. There are some fine examples of the art of Zurbaran, a sombre and realistic artist whose work conveys the mediæval spirit of Spain, and is esteemed by many students as more sincere than the art of Murillo. His finest pictures are, perhaps, "San Hugo visiting the Monks," "The Virgin of Las Cuevas," and "St Bruno conversing with Urban II." In the Museo is a portrait by El Greco, supposed erroneously to be the painter himself. This is often appraised as the chief treasure of the collection. Among the most admirable of the Spanish primitive painters is Alejo Fernandez, whose work is to be seen in the cathedral, in the churches of Seville and Triana. Fernandez is scarcely known out of Spain, but art students will delight in his work, and everyone should see the beautiful "Madonna and Child" in the Church of Santa Ana in Triana, and the large altarpiece in San Julian. The sculpture of Montañez merits very careful attention. His figure of "St Bruno" stands in the Museo Provincial, and "St Dominic" is in the south transept. "The Virgin and Child" and "John the Baptist" are in this collection. In the sacristy of the cathedral is Montañez' "Statue of the Virgin." This artist died in 1649, after a busy life. He carved many images for the Church, and founded a school of wood-carving. Among his pupils was the gifted Alonso Cano. The single figures by Montañez are considered finer art than his groups. Most of his effigies are lavishly coloured. The cathedral is a magnificent building, the largest in Spain, and greater than St Paul's in London. Gautier said that "Notre Dame de Paris might walk erect in the middle nave." There are seven naves with monstrous columns, the loftiness of the interior conveying a sense of vastness which has been often described by travellers. More than a hundred years were spent in the building of this great church, and several architects planned the various parts during that period. Ruiz and Rodriguez designed the greater portion, and the last of the architects was Juan Gil de Houtañon, who planned the cathedral of Salamanca. The chief front is finely decorated, and has three portals, with statue groups and reliefs. There is so much of beauty and interest in the interior that I can only write briefly of a few of the most notable objects. The stained windows number over seventy, and they are chiefly by Aleman, a German, and by Flemish artists of the sixteenth century. The choir altar has pictures, and a handsome plateresque screen. There are splendidly carved stalls, and a notable lectern. The sacristy is near the chief façade, with a high dome, several chapels, and some interesting statues. The retablo is by Roldan, a follower of Montañez. Murillo's "Vision of the Holy Child" is in the Capella del Bautisterio. In the Royal Chapel, which is interesting Renaissance work, richly ornamented, there are the tomb of Alfonso the Wise, and an old figure of the Virgin. Pedro Campaña's altarpiece, in the Capilla del Mariscal, should be seen. In the south transept is the noted "La Gamba," a painting by Luis de Vargas. The ornate Sala Capitular has the "Conception," by Murillo, and a painting by Pablo de Céspedes, who was a sculptor, poet, and painter, born at Cordova, and made a canon of the cathedral in that city. Céspedes was a fine portrait painter, and has been described as "one of the best colourists of Spain." The Sacristy de las Calices of the Capilla de Nuestra Senora de las Dolores contains Goya's well-known painting of Saints Justa and Rufina, the potter-girls who were martyred by the Romans. Here also will be seen a picture by Zurbaran; "The Trinity," by El Greco, the crucifix carved by Montañez, and a "Guardian Angel," by Murillo. The Capilla de Santiago has paintings by the early artists Valdés Leal and Juan de las Roelas. Close to the cathedral is the semi-Moorish Alcázar, with its strangely mingled styles of architecture. The buildings are in part a fortress, while within the walls are portions of a palace of the sultans and a residence of Christian kings. The rich frontage of Pedro's palace is composite, and probably only the gate is purely Moorish. In the Court of the Maidens there is much gorgeous decoration. As in the Alhambra, we see the characteristic gallery with delicate columns, and arches with ornamental inscriptions. The Hall of the Ambassadors is the pride of the Alcázar. Here again we shall notice several orders of architecture, but the effect is impressive. The portals are sumptuous, and the whole place and decorations suggest the opulence and might of the early Catholic kings. I like the old gardens of the Alcázar, with their tiled walks, their clustering roses, their alcoves and arbours, and quaint fountains, all enclosed by an ancient wall. Here sultans dreamed, and kings retired from the cares of government, to breathe the scented air of evening. Quiet reigns in these flowery courts, only the voices of birds are heard among the orange-trees and tangled roses. There are many beautifully adorned chambers in this palace of delight. Alfonso, Pedro, Isabel, Charles, and Philip all reconstructed or added to the wonderful pile first erected by Yusuf. The old buildings once stretched to the river, the Golden Tower forming one of the defences. Before the Moors came to Seville, a Roman prætorium stood on this ground, and it was in 1181 that the Morisco architects began to plan the Alcázar. Much of the present building is of Mudéjar, or late Moorish, origin. The details that should be studied are the pillared windows, the marble columns, the fine stalactite frieze, the arches, the azulejos of dazzling colour, the choice decoration of the doors, the marble pavements, and the half-orange domes--all representative of the art of the Mudéjares. We must now inspect some more of the monuments of Seville. King Pedro's Church, Omnium Sanctorium, is an example of mixed Christian and Mohammedan architecture, with a minaret and three portals. The Ayuntamiento is an exceedingly flamboyant building in the Plaza de la Constitucion, with two façades, one of them fronting the Plaza de San Fernando. The older and finer front was designed by Riaño. The Archbishop's Palace, which dates from the seventeenth century, is not a good example of the plateresque style. The only picture in Seville by Velazquez, a much restored canvas, is in the palace. The Lonja (Exchange) was built by Philip II., and finished about 1598. It is a square, imposing structure, but scarcely beautiful in form or decoration. A splendid doorway, very luxuriantly decorated, is that of the Palace of San Telmo, where there are very lovely gardens. The modern life of Seville concentrates in the two principal plazas, in the Calle de las Sierpes, and in the Park of Maria Luisa. Very pleasant are the palm-shaded squares and the walks by the Guadalquivir. In the tortuous white alleys you come unexpectedly upon charming wrought-iron gates, through which you catch glimpses of cheerful patios. Some of these lanes are so narrow that a pannier-mule almost bars your road. And above this fair city the sun shines almost perpetually, while the smokeless air has a wonderful clarity. CORDOVA Cordova, like Seville and Granada, is a memorial of the Moors. It is a city that sleeps, living in the memory of its past. Its history since the last of the sultans in Spain is comparatively uneventful, its glorious days were before the expulsion of the Morisco inhabitants, when the city was a seat of learning, a great centre of art and industry, and the place of residence of illustrious caliphs. The somnolence of Cordova is like an eternal siesta. You wander in ancient streets, with houses guarded from the ardent rays of the sun, and marvel how the people live, for there is no outward sign, as in Seville, of commercial activity. Yet the inhabitants who saunter in the Paseo del Gran Capitan, under the orange-trees, and flock to the bullfights, do not appear so "dull and ill-provided," as O'Shea found them in 1868. There is even an air of prosperity among the residents, despite the long centuries of slumber. Nor does the aspect of the city convey an impression of neglect. The houses are white and clean, the streets brighter than the thoroughfares of sombre Toledo, and the charming courtyards inviting and pleasant, with clustering roses and spreading palms. There is colour everywhere, Cordova is a painter's paradise. In summer the heat is extreme. The glare of the whitened houses reflects the brilliant sapphire of the sky, and becomes painful to the eyes; the city is in a plain, exposed to every ray of the Andalusian sun. To escape the enervating heat of summer, the wealthier inhabitants migrate to the uplands and the beautiful sierras, at whose base the city lies. The country around Cordova is fertile. Olives, vines, and many fruit-trees flourished in the valley of the Guadalquivir, and on the foothills, and there are large tracts of pasture-land. Vegetables are grown in profusion. Before the time of the Moors, Cordova had repute for its succulent artichokes. On the grassy plains the Moorish settlers led great flocks of cattle, and here grazed the splendid horses of Arab breed, which were long famous throughout Spain. [Illustration: CORDOVA, 1836. THE PRISON OF THE INQUISITION.] But the immediate surroundings of the city are almost treeless. Here and there a slope is clothed with olive-trees, and the broad _paseos_ are shaded by young trees, newly planted; but the Spanish peasant, dreading the harbourage that woods afford to birds, ruthlessly fells and stubs up trees. For league upon league stretches a monotonous tract of grass, watered by sluggish yellow streams, upon whose banks grows the cold grey cactus. Most English travellers reach Cordova by rail from Madrid or Seville. The journey from Madrid is by way of Alcazar and Linares, passing the wine-growing districts of Manzanares and Valdepeña, and crossing the waste territory of La Mancha, in which Don Quixote roamed in quest of knightly adventure. From Seville the rail journey occupies about four hours, and the line runs through a fairly cultivated track of Andalusia, following the Guadalquivir for the greater part of its course. To the north of Cordova, some leagues away, stretch the grey-blue heights of the Sierra Morena, whence wild winds sweep the plain in winter. Between this range and the Sierra Nevada there are fertile districts, watered by the Genil and other streams. At Cordova the Guadalquivir is a wide, somewhat turgid stream, washing the southern side of the town, around which it sweeps in a mighty circle. The rushing water is spanned by a great bridge of many arches, whose gateway, the _Puerta del Puente_, a Doric triumphal arch, erected by Philip II. on the site of the Moorish _Bâb al-Kantara_, gives entrance to the city. The bridge, with its sixteen arches, is Moorish, and stands on Roman foundations. This is one of the best points from which to view the city. The great mosque is seen well from here, and the city stretching away from the water's edge, white-gleaming in the blaze of the sun, is beautiful and strangely suggestive. The rugged heights of the Sierra de Cordoba rise in the far distance; the water of the river tumbles and eddies in its wide bed. A little way up the stream are the Moorish mills that have stood unchanged through the centuries. This is the spot to learn the peace of sleeping Cordova. The history of Cordova dates back to the pre-Christian era: Corduba was the most important of the ancient Iberian cities. It was made a Roman settlement about 200 B.C., and later the city was extended, and under the name of Colonia Patricia was made the capital of Southern Spain. Always the history of the city has been a record of struggle and the shedding of blood. There was a great massacre of the people in the time of Cæsar, through their allegiance to Pompey. Cordova has been ruled by many masters. After the Romans, the city came into the possession of Goths, and from them it was captured by the Moors. Roderick the Goth was defeated by Tarik in 711, on the Guadelete River, and the valiant Mughith, one of Tarik's commanders, was sent to Cordova with a force of horsemen. In a heavy hail shower, Mughith rode into Cordova, taking the natives by surprise, and capturing the town without resistance. Ruled later by the caliphs of Damascus, Cordova became the centre of the Moorish dominion in Spain. In the tenth century, the city was in the height of its splendour and renown. For three centuries the Omeyyads held sway, and these rulers, descendants of the sovereign family of Damascus, vied with one another in enlarging and adorning the city. The three caliphs of the name of Abderahman were distinguished for their courage in their administrative capacity, and their love of the arts, and of learning. The last of the trio of great rulers, though brave, was described as "the mildest and most enlightened sovereign that ever ruled a country." Abderahman III. was, in every sense, a potent monarch. None of the caliphs who succeeded him equalled this wise and tactful Moor. Intrigues, factions, and treachery marked the reigns of his successors. For a time Almanzor, the unconquerable minister, saved Cordova. The career of this man is witness to the romance which meets us so often in Spain; beginning his life as a professional letter-writer, he ended as sole ruler of an empire. Almanzor died in 1002, and from this time Cordova's history is a monotonous record of revolt and disorder. Hisham III. was imprisoned in the great vault of the mosque, and the rule of the Omeyyads was at an end. Caliph after caliph was set up. Arabs, Moors, and Spaniards fought for the city. Once for four days Cordova was turned into a shamble, when "the Berber butchers" ransacked the city, slaying the people, and burning its splendid buildings. Az-Zahra, the summer palace, with all its exquisite treasures of art, was left a heap of charred ruins. Afterwards Yusuf, the Berber, founded the dynasty of the Almoravides. But his rule was brief. In 1235 Cordova fell. Fernando had pledged himself to recover Spain for the Christians. The king advanced into Andalusia, with a mighty army of fervent crusaders, and the splendid city of the Moors was seized by the warriors of the Cross. A host of the Morisco natives quitted the city for Africa; many were killed, and a proportion remained as "reconciled" Spanish subjects. Fernando's victory was a triumph for Catholicism; but it brought about the slow decay of Cordova. The population dwindled, the arts and crafts were neglected, the fields untilled. Learning was discountenanced, libraries of precious volumes burned; and in their zeal for cleansing Cordova from all traces of the Moslem, the reformers even destroyed the baths. To read of the Cordova of the Moors is like reading a chapter of Oriental romance. But the story is not legendary. This marvellous city, equal in grandeur to Baghdad, was a great beacon-light of culture for three hundred years. Its mosques, its schools, and its hospitals were famous throughout the world. Sages, poets, artists found here every scope and assistance for the development of their philosophy and their art. There were no ignorant natives, and no class living in penury and squalor. The Moors were almost perfect masters of the art of civilisation. They esteemed education; they taught tolerance; they inculcated a love of beauty in daily life, and lived cleanly, and on the whole, sanely. The life was jocund, but sober, for the Moors abstained from wine. "The City of Cities," "The Bride of Andalus," are the names bestowed on the beautiful city of Cordova by the Moorish writers of that age. In the twelfth century Abu Mohammed wrote of Cordova as "the Cupola of Islam, the convocation of scholars, the court of the sultans of the family of Omeyyah, and the residence of the most illustrious tribes of Yemen. Students from all parts of the world flocked thither at all times to learn the sciences of which Cordova was the most noble repository, and to derive knowledge from the mouths of the doctors and ulemas who flourished in its cultured life. Cordova was 'to Andalus what the head is to the body.'" The city once boasted of fifty thousand resplendent palaces, and a hundred thousand inferior houses. Its mosques numbered seven hundred, and the cleanly Moors built nine hundred public baths. The city stretched for ten miles along the banks of the Guadalquivir, flanked with walls, battlements, and towers, and approached by guarded gates. Throughout the world men spoke in veneration of its four great wonders--the immense and gorgeous mosque, the bridge over the Guadalquivir, the suburb city of Az-Zahra, and the sciences which were studied in the colleges. Abderahman III. built a palace a few miles from the city, called Medinat-az-Zahra. It was named after the beautiful Zahra, one of the sultan's mistresses. A figure of Zahra was carved over the chief gateway of this fairy city. Medinat-az-Zahra was a town rather than a royal residence. There was a splendid mosque upon the site; the suburb had colleges, baths and marts. Forty years were spent in building this retreat for the caliph and his favourite. Upon the decoration of its buildings Abderahman spent large sums of money. El Makkari, the Arab historian, states that the columns of the buildings came from the east, and that the marble walls of the palace were shining with gold. The caliph even proposed to remove the dark background of hills, but instead the slopes were planted with fruit-trees. This palace, one of the four great glories of the city, has vanished. The savage host of Berbers, in 1010, attacked Medinat-az-Zahra and burned it to the ground. The natives were slaughtered with fearful cruelty, even within the precincts of the mosque the pursuers cut them down. It is said that portions of the caliph's palace were afterwards used in erecting the Convent of San Jerónimo, to the north-west of the city. At this time Cordova was assailed, its buildings burnt, much of its treasure was despoiled or carried away by the troops of Abd-l-Jabbar, the Berber leader. There is one wonder that conquest has left unspoiled to Cordova, and one cannot survey the imperishable mosque of the caliph without veneration for the race that set an example to the world in virtue, culture, and the joy of beautiful living. It is to see this wonder of Moorish art that the stranger visits Cordova. The way to the mosque (mezquita) is readily discovered, for every stranger is recognised by the street urchins who are eager in offering directions. The first religious edifice upon this site was a Roman temple. In 786 the building of the Moorish mezquita was begun by the first Abderahman. The work was carried on by the next sultan, Hishem, and by Abderahman III. For more than two centuries the mosque grew in size and splendour, as each succeeding caliph added some new beauty. The mosque is a magnificent example of Moorish architecture. Vast, massive, bewildering, and beautiful are not extravagant terms to use in describing this edifice. It is worth while to walk round the outside of the building to gain an impression of its vast size and the strength of its structure. Like all Moorish buildings the exterior is plain, with the fine primitive severity of Byzantine work. The interior structure is enclosed by walls of about fifty feet in height, buttressed, and very stout, with numerous towers. The bronze doors are of finest Moorish work. There is a handsome portal on the north side, built in the time of Hakam between 988 and 1000. The Gate of Pardon which gives entrance to the Court of Oranges has a horseshoe arch, surmounted by three smaller arches, and which are decorated with paintings of no value. This gateway is not Moorish, but a later addition built by the Christians in imitation of the gate at Seville Cathedral. The Court of Oranges was used by the Moslems for ablution before entering the mosque. It is a wide space, with palms, orange-trees, and fountains, and a colonnade. It is the most beautiful spot in Cordova, cool and gracefully shaded, and when the orange-trees are in flower a fragrance pervades the place. Once there were nineteen beautiful gateways leading into the court, and these were uniform with the nineteen aisles. The famous fountain of Abderahman stands in the centre of the court. Here all day the women of Cordova are gathered. They come one by one, or in groups together. Each carries her red-brown pitcher for water. It is the meeting-place where the day's gossip is exchanged. Always there is the sound of laughter and gay chattering. All the Cordovese appear to be happy. We enter the mosque by the Puerta de las Palmas; the eyes are dazed by the endless columns and profusion of arches, numbering nearly nine hundred. Nowhere are there such columns and arches as these. Every stone has its history. Marble, porphyry, and jasper are the material, and the arches are painted red and white. The effect is indescribable. I believe that there are not two columns alike in point of decorative detail. Some of the arches are of horseshoe shape, and some are round. But symmetry is retained; the whole interior gives a delightful impression of grace and elegance. Look up at the wondrous ceiling. Its wealth of colour is dazzling. When the thousands of lamps were lit, the ceiling shone with gold and brilliant colours. In some parts the ceilings of the mosque are embellished with paintings, and a number of cufic inscriptions are seen among the decorative designs. De Amicis, writing of the Mosque of Cordova, says: "Imagine a forest, fancy yourself in the densest part of it, and that you can see nothing but the trunks of trees. So in this mosque, on whatever side you look, the eye loses itself among the columns. It is a forest of marble, whose confines one cannot discover. You follow with your eye, one by one, the very long rows of columns that interlace at every step with numberless other rows, and you reach a semi-obscure background, in which other columns seem to be gleaming. There are nineteen aisles, which extend from north to south, traversed by thirty-three others, supported, among them all by more than nine hundred columns of prophyry, jasper, breccia, and marbles of every colour." The walls and ceiling of parts of the building are in marvellous preservation. They gleam with an infinite opulence of colour; they are elaborately embellished with almost every conceivable form of arabesques, bas-reliefs, and Moorish designs, painted in wonderful hues and rich in gilt. The Mihrâb is the prime glory of the building. It was first erected and adorned by Abderahman I., and a second prayer-recess was constructed by the second Abderaham. The third Mihrâb dates from 961, and was erected in the time of the Caliph Hakam II. It is one of the finest specimens of Moorish art extant. Here the Koran was kept, and the most solemn rites were performed in the days of the great caliphs. The cupola of this superb sanctuary is carved in the shape of a pine-apple, decorated with shell-like ornaments, and painted lavishly in gold, blue, and red. There are delicate pillars of marble, with gold capitals. The niches of the dome are beautifully painted, and the chief arch is decorated with mosaics. Over the arch is an inscription in gold on a ground of blue. The slender pillars and graceful double arches of the entrance to the vestibule of the Mihrâb are examples of Moorish architecture in its finest manifestation. Very gorgeous and intricate is the design of the façade of the Mihrâb. The portal is a horseshoe arch, handsomely ornamented, and above runs a tier of smaller horseshoe arches. This is surmounted by other arches, gracefully interlaced, and adorned with a profusion of mosaics and decorations in colour. When the mosque was converted into a Christian cathedral under the name of Santa Maria, the side aisles were divided into about forty chapels. The variety of the architectural styles in this great building range from the Moorish to the baroque and the plateresque. Charles V. was partly responsible for the choir, which gives a strange note of discord to the harmony of the Moorish temple. But the emperor lamented having granted leave to the Chapter to build the Coro, for upon seeing the structure, he exclaimed: "You have built what you or others might have built anywhere, but you have destroyed something that was unique in the world." To construct the choir, a part of the beautiful Morisco ceiling was destroyed, and commonplace vaulting took its place. None of the Christian chapels are of especial interest, except perhaps the Chapel of Villaviciosa which is Morisco in design. In the Capilla de la Cena is a painting by Céspedes, who was buried in the cathedral. The choir of the Christian church is very ornate, and of sixteenth-century date. Lope de Rueda, the dramatist, was buried here. The stalls are by Cornejo, a celebrated carver, who also designed the beautiful silleria. The massive chandelier is of silver. Over the altar is a painting by Palomino. The Sala Capitular contains a statue of Santa Teresa by Alonso Cano, and images of saints by J. de Mora. The Bell Tower is a substitute for the elegant minaret of Abderahman III. This tower resembled the Giralda of Seville in design, having lilies and golden balls at its summit. This minaret was despoiled after the capture of Cordova by the Spanish, and the present tower is the work of Ruiz. It is surmounted with a figure of Saint Raphael. Architecturally considered, the Campanario or Belfry of Cordova is an anomaly. Apart from its mosque, Cordova contains few buildings of interest to the stranger. Gautier speaks of the city, once famed for its wonderful beauty as "le squelette blanché et calcin." The churches demand the visitor's inspection alone for their instructive evidence of the decline of architectural taste. San Hipolito is the burial-place of the historian, Ambrosia de Morales, and the original building dates from the fourteenth century. San Jacinto has a somewhat handsome doorway, and Santa Marina is externally ancient. San Nicolas has a pseudo-Moorish tower. There are one or two Christian buildings of interest. The bishop's palace was built originally in the fifteenth century. The Ayuntamiento or town hall is not a very impressive edifice. Some of the old residences of the city are in the Mudéjar style, and many have charming courtyards, with delicate ironwork gates, through which one may peep at a fountain set among pillars upon which roses twine. The Renaissance doors of the house of Don Jeronimo Paez and that of the Foundling Hospital are handsomely decorated; and in the House of Don Luque, in the Plaza de la Campania, there are some ancient mosaics. It is worth while to inspect the walls, which have survived a number of severe sieges, and are still standing, though often repaired. The Gate of Almodovar and the Tower of Mala Muerte are in good preservation, and there are instructive examples of Moorish fortification in the turrets and battlements. The old Alcazar of the Moors was a noble building of great extent. Very little of the original structure remains to-day, but one or two towers, a conduit, and a bath still exist. Alfonso XI. built a modern Alcazar. On this site stood a Gothic palace, and this was reconstructed by the caliphs. Historians have described the old Alcazar as a sumptuous palace, with courts of marble, verdant gardens decked with fountains, and wonderful apartments, adorned with mosaics and gems. The palace was heated in winter, and kept temperate in summer with scented air from the gardens. Here the caliphs surrounded themselves with luxury. Lovely women resided in the harem, musicians composed and played their melodies on string instruments; writers recounted romances amid the palms, roses, and orange-trees, and philosophers discoursed in the courts of marble and jasper. The decline of trade in Cordova that followed upon the ravages of Berber and Christian aroused the dread of the inhabitants that disaster would result. The citizens who had clamoured for the expulsion of the Moors, now begged that a few Morisco artisans might be permitted to remain in the city. All the chief industries of Cordova were decaying. In 1797 De Bourgoanne writes: "In so fine a climate, in the midst of so many sources of prosperity, it (Cordova) contains no more than 35,000 inhabitants. Formerly celebrated for its manufactories of silks, fine cloths, etc. it has now no other industrious occupations but a few manufactories of ribbons, galoons, hats, and baize." What a contrast this account affords from that of the Arabian historians. In the days of Abderahman III. there were fifty thousand palaces in Cordova, and three hundred mosques of noble architecture. A palace on arches was built across the river. There were academies, schools, and libraries in the city of the Ommeyads. To-day there are thousands of illiterate persons in Spain. But the Cordovese do not appear to ponder upon time's changes. They concern themselves with other things--the affairs of the house--and regard their city with its history and wonderful mosques as a valuable asset which brings the stranger to their impoverished city. The Cordovese are a contented people. On bullfight days Cordova is _en fête_, and all classes of the inhabitants throng the Plaza de Torres, the hidalgo and the peasant showing the same enthusiasm for the national sport. Formerly bull-baiting took place in the Corredera, now used as a market. There is now a large bull-ring in Cordova, in the Ronda de los Tejares. Near to the amphitheatre are the public gardens. There is a theatre in the city, but few other places of amusement. Cordova is rich in its record of great men. Seneca was born here under the Roman dominion, and so was Lucan. In the twelfth century, Averroes, the greatest philosopher of Islamism, was born. His doctrine pervaded Europe, inciting the fury of the Dominicans, who regarded Averroes as an arch-blasphemer and infidel. In Paris and in the north of Italy, however, the Franciscans accepted the philosophy of the learned Cordovan. But Averroes, the detestation of the Dominican order, is often depicted in the frescoes of contemporary painters, as a heretic and a victim of the burning pit. Notwithstanding, Averroism was a fashionable cult in Venice. Among the authors of Cordova the poet Gongora must be remembered. He was born here in 1561, and educated at the college of Salamanca, where he studied law. Showing little capacity for the law, he turned his attention to verse, writing satires and lyrics. In later life Gongora's poetry became stilted and pompous to the point of absurdity. Lope de Vega, however, held that Luis de Gongora was as great as Seneca or Lucan. At the age of forty-five Gongora left his native town, and entered the Church. In Madrid he was the favourite of Philip III. and of the nobles of the city. He returned to Cordova when he was sixty-five, and there he died in 1627. Gonsalvo, "the Great Captain," was a native of the city, "nursed amid the din of battle." In the esteem of Spaniards he ranks next to the Cid in valour and high integrity as a general. Gonsalvo's manners were described as amiable and conciliatory. He was cool in action, courageous, and firm. More than once the great captain's life was imperilled in battle, especially at Granada, where his horse was killed beneath him. Fernandez Gonsalvo was in the height of his military fame about the year 1495. Four painters of note are associated with Cordova. The first in chronological order was Pedro de Cordova, who executed "the Annunciation," which is in the Capilla del Santo Cristo of the cathedral. The picture is in poor preservation. It is interesting as an example of Gothic art. Cordova was early a centre of painting in the days of the Christian recovery of the city. The eminent Pablo de Céspedes was born here in 1538, and became a canon of the cathedral. He studied the Italian artists, and painted mural pictures in Rome. In the mosque are three of his works. They are notable for their seriousness and power. Céspedes was very skilful in colouring. The remarkable Juan de Valdés Leal, born in 1630, spent most of his life in Seville, where he was a contemporary of Murillo. In the Church of the Carmen at Cordova is a retablo representing the "Life of Elijah," painted by Valdés Leal. Many of this painter's pictures are in Seville. The fourth painter of Cordova is Antonio de Castillo, born in 1603, who was an early exponent of the art of landscape painting in Spain. Some of his pictures are in the museo of the city. Castillo was said to be an imitator of Murillo. He died in 1667. The Picture Gallery of Cordova, in the School of Fine Arts, is not a very important collection of paintings. There are, however, some of the works of Ribera, Céspedes, and Castillo, which should be seen. In the museo are a few Moorish antiquities. The ancient tiles are good examples of the exquisite Moorish art. TOLEDO Since visiting Toledo I have read that masterly novel by Blasco de Ibañez, "The Cathedral," a work of genius, which has brought the city vividly to my recollection. I see the old dun-coloured houses on the slopes, the gorge of the yellow Tagus, and the commanding steeple of the cathedral, and I recall the Oriental landscape, viewed from the walls, under a blue, burning sky in June. I know that the goats still wander forth to their feeding-grounds in the early morning, returning at dusk, with softly tinkling bells, that the guitar sounds melodious and low outside the barred window when it is dark, that beggars, wrapped in tattered cloaks, solicit alms "For the Love of God," and that the voice of the watchman rings clear at midnight, as he goes his rounds with his lantern and keys, and a sword at his side. [Illustration: TOLEDO, 1837.] "Romantic" is the word that describes Toledo; the setting of the city, its labyrinthine alleys, its guarded houses, its Moorish fortress, and its dreaming mood make appeal to the most apathetic of strangers. The aspect of the city is hardly beautiful. It is too stern, too sombre, even in sunlight, and it lacks the colour and gaiety of the Andalusian towns. And yet Toledo is one of the most fascinating cities in Europe, holding you with a strong spell, a grim, irresistible invitation to remain within its gates. There is so much to behold, so much to think upon, in this old Moorish place. The cathedral alone claims long days of your sojourn, for it is a great monument, haunted with memories, and richly stored with treasures of art. Many legends surround the making of Toledo, one of them relating that Tubal, grandson of Noah, built the city, and another that it was reared by Jews driven from Jerusalem by Nebuchadnezzar. We know, however, that Toledo was chiefly noted as the stronghold of the Catholic faith in Spain, that it was in existence in the time of the Romans, held by the Moors, wrested from them, and restored to the Spanish after many bloody conflicts, and that it is now the seat of the primate. For four centuries the Moors held sway here, and everywhere in the city they have left their traces. Before the Moors, King Roderick the Goth sat on his throne in the strongly fortified town, and thither came Tarik and his hordes, coveting the rich capital. Later, the great Abd-er-Rahman advanced upon Toledo, and laid siege, establishing a mighty camp on the hillside facing the city, where he waited until famine compelled the courageous natives to surrender. In the days of its might Toledo could boast of nearly two hundred thousand inhabitants. The city lost power when the capital of Spain was transferred to Valladolid. It is now scarcely more than a museum and resort of tourists and students of art. The streets are silent and unfrequented; there is but little evidence of commerce, and the manners and customs of the people have escaped the influences of to-day. Toledo is indeed old-world, a veritable relic of antiquity, in spite of its railway station and large hotel, often thronged with Americans. The history of Toledo under the Moors is constantly recalled by the gates, defences, and buildings that remain. We enter Toledo by two arches and a bridge, over the swirling Tagus, and immediately we are, as it were, projected into the period of the Moorish conquest. This bridge, the Puente de Alcantara, was first built by the conquerors, but the present structure, though Moorish in design, was made in the thirteenth century. Older is the Puerta del Sol, a work of the Mudéjares, with the typical horseshoe arches and towers. The arch of the Zocodover, the bridge of San Martin, and the Church of Santa Maria la Blanca each show the Moorish spirit in their architecture. In the Casa de Mesa is a room in the design of the Mudéjares, the reconciled Moors, who remained and followed their crafts in Spain, after the reconquest of the country by the Spaniards. The ceiling is a fine specimen of Arabian art. At the School of Infantry are further traces of the Moors, while in the Church of El Transito will be found treasures of the east. Many of the churches have Morisco towers, such as San Roman, Santo Tomé, San Miguel, and San Servando. Santo Tomé was once a mosque; it is now a Gothic church. The interior of El Cristo de la Luz is typically Moorish. The magnificent cathedral stands on the site of an earlier church which the Moors shattered, erecting in its place a mosque. In 1227 Fernando laid the stone of the present edifice; and over two hundred years were spent in the labour of erecting and adorning it, while vast wealth was employed in the work, and thousands of artists, craftsmen and labourers employed. Under Mendoza and other prelates, Flemish artists worked in the cathedral. The architecture is Gothic, with many traces of Baroque and Mudéjar art. There is a very lofty and beautiful tower, with a steeple surmounting it. The flying buttresses are exceedingly graceful; the eight doorways of great beauty. A splendid façade, with a wealth of statues, faces the west. It has three portals and a fine rose window, and is flanked by towers. The Puerta de los Leones is noble Renaissance work, splendidly sculptured with rich ornaments. Entering the cathedral we are impressed by its vastness and the simplicity of the aisles. But the numerous chapels are highly ornamented in a bewildering variety of styles. The hand of the artist has been lavish. We are dazzled, astonished, by the wealth of decoration, the carving, the metal work, the jewels, the colouring. The choir stalls are very beautifully carved work by Borgoña and Berruguéte. The choir, with its jasper columns and decorations, is impressive. The carving of the stalls is superb. How shall the visitor know where to turn for those objects that appeal to him, amid such a wealth of treasures? There are twenty-seven side chapels besides the chief chapel, and in all of them are works of art that will repay inspection. The retablo of the principal chapel is a gorgeous piece of work upon which many artists expended their labour and skill. Cardinal de Mendoza was buried here in 1495. The Capilla de Santiago is Gothic, and splendidly decorated. There is a superb retablo in this chapel. In the Capilla Mozarabe there is a painting by Juan de Borgoña. This was the chapel built for Cardinal Ximénez, and it is handsomely ornamented. Another of Borgoña's works will be seen in the Capella de San Eugénio, an altarpiece representing scenes in the life of Christ. In the Sacristia is a notable work painted by El Greco, whose paintings we shall presently see in the gallery. The subject of this picture is "Casting Lots for the Raiment of the Saviour." "The Betrayal of Christ," by Goya, is another important painting in the Sacristia. In the cloisters we shall find some frescoes by Bayeu, representing incidents in the lives of several saints. Francisco Bayeu (1734-1795), who so often worked with Maella, was not a great artist, though he was commissioned to paint mural pictures in many parts of Spain. The City Hall (Ayuntamiento) was first erected in the fifteenth century, and has an ornate frontage. The portraits of Charles II. and Marianne within the hall were painted by Carreño, a pupil of Velazquez. Proudly perched above the city is the Alcazar, a stout fortress of the Goths, the residence of the mighty Cid, and afterwards a palace of kings. The old building was almost destroyed during the war of 1710, but was restored some years later. It was attacked and damaged in the wars with France, and little of the pristine edifice remains except the eastern façade. Toledo was the scene of fierce persecution during the Inquisition. In 1560 there was a burning of heretics in the city, a display arranged for the entertainment of the young queen, Elizabeth de Valois. Several Lutherans were committed to the flames on this occasion. In the days of ecclesiastic splendour, the wealth of the cathedral of Toledo was enormous. There were six hundred clerics in the city, and the revenues of the high dignitaries were said to amount to a hundred thousand pounds. The first archbishop was Don Bernardo, who broke faith with the Moors by desecrating the sacred objects which they were permitted to retain in their mosque. The excellence of the sword blades of Toledan steel were known all over Europe. To-day the sword-making industry is scarcely flourishing, and Théophile Gautier was unable during his visit to purchase a weapon as a memento. "There are no more swords at Toledo," he writes, "than leather at Cordova, lace at Mechlin, oysters at Ostend, or _pâtés de foie gras_ at Strasburg." According to Henry O'Shea, in his "Guide to Spain," sword blades were made in Toledo in his day, but he states that the quality of the steel had deteriorated. One of the most illustrious of the world's painters, Dominico Theotocupuli, called El Greco (the Greek), worked for years in the city. Mystery encompasses the strange character of El Greco; we know not when he was born, but we learn that he died in Toledo, in 1614, and that he was a native of Crete. While a youth he was a pupil of Titian; but he was chiefly influenced in his art by Tintoretto. About the year 1576, Theotocupuli came to Toledo, where he was employed in adorning the church of Santo Domingo, securing one thousand ducats for his eight pictures over the altars. In character El Greco was independent to the point of obstinacy. His mind was sombre and pietistic, and his imagination bizarre and vivid. Men said that he was mad, but his alleged madness was the originality of genius. "His nature was extravagant like his painting," wrote a contemporary, Guiseppe Martinez. "He had few disciples as none cared to follow his capricious and extravagant style, which was only suitable for himself." We read that El Greco loved luxury, and that he hired musicians to play to him while he took his meals. He was, however, retiring, almost morbid in his desire for quietude; and there are many matters concerning his life and his personality that will always remain enigmas. For a very long period the work of El Greco was scarcely known beyond the borders of Spain, and indeed his rare merit was hardly recognised in that country except by a few students. His name now arouses interest among the cultured in every part of Europe, and there are admirers of his art who would place him on the highest pedestal. But the more temperate discern in El Greco a powerfully intellectual painter, not without defects and mannerisms, a master of colour, with a curiously modern method in portraiture. In the Provincial Museum at Toledo there are several paintings by "The Greek." The portraits of Antonio Covarrubias and of Juan de Avila give example of El Greco's capacity for seizing the characteristics of his sitters. Covarrubias has a fine, rugged, thoughtful face. The canvas seems alive. Very strange are the pictures of "Our Saviour," "St Paul," "St Peter," and other saints in this collection. The figures in many of the artist's paintings are curiously lean and attenuated, the faces long and pinched. In the picture of "Our Saviour" the hands are large, the fingers remarkably thin and pointed. The most fantastic of El Greco's pictures is "The Assumption" in San Vicente at Toledo, in which the ascending figure seems literally flying in the air. "The Burial of Gonzalo Ruiz," in the Church of Santo Tomé, is another splendid composition, revealing amazing skill in portraiture, for each of the figures in the row of Castilian caballeros was drawn from life. The sixth figure, from the right-hand side, is the artist himself. There are technical faults in the picture; there are mannerisms and extravagances; but the work is strongly individual, and we may echo the words of Ponz, the historian, who states that "the city has never tired of admiring it, visiting it continually, always finding new beauties in it." "The Expolio," in the cathedral, we have already seen. If the work of El Greco begins to arouse a desire to study more of his paintings, a day may be spent in visiting the gallery and the churches that contain examples of his different periods. "San José and the Child Jesus" is in the Parish Church of St Magdalen. "Jesus and St John" in St John; portrait of Tavera, in the Hospital of St John; In Santo Domingo there are four pictures by El Greco. The museum has twenty paintings from his brush. "Very few paintings interest me so much as those of El Greco," writes Théophile Gautier, "for his very worst have always something unexpected, something that exceeds the bounds of possibility, that causes astonishment, and affords matter for reflection." Toledo expresses Castile, as Seville reflects Andalusia. For, like its stern surroundings of rocky sierras, the city is austere, even gloomy. Heavy iron gates protect the courtyards, bars screen the windows of the ancient houses, high, stout walls and towers guard the frowning town. The natives are reserved, a little proud in their demeanour, but not inhospitable to the strangers who come and go constantly, and lose their way in the tortuous streets, in spite of plans and guide-books. Persistent beggars hang about the cathedral, and squat, blinking in the sun, along the ramparts. The children pursue the visitor, uttering a few words of broken English, French, and German, asking for a copper in the English tongue, and thanking you for it in French or Spanish. I must not forget that there is another Toledan more widely known than El Greco, and that is Lope de Vega, the dramatist, the most prolific writer of Spain, for it is said that he wrote three thousand plays. We are told that the playwright would compose a comedy in one night. His plays were often topical, and many of them must be regarded as ephemeral and poor; but De Vega's stage-craft was excellent, though few of his works are great in a literary sense. Cervantes styled the dramatist "a monster of nature," and envied him as "sole monarch of the stage." Lope de Vega probably wrote for a space of fifty-two years, for he died at the age of seventy-two, and during that period he produced not only plays, but epic poems and twenty-one volumes of miscellaneous writings. Cervantes, by the way, spent some time in Toledo, where he lodged in an inn, and wrote industriously. Some historians have claimed Cervantes as a Toledan, but his birthplace was Alcala de Henares. Berruguéte, the great sculptor, the favourite of Charles V., worked long in Toledo, where he died, in the Hospital of St John the Baptist. There are many of this artist's work in Toledo. The fine portal of the hospital, and the monument within, to Juan de Tavéra, were designed by him. Alonso Berruguéte was born at Valladolid about 1480. He was a pupil of Michael Angelo, and studied the arts of architecture, painting and sculpture in Italy. Professor Carl Justi refers to the Italian influence and the "Raphaelesque forms" in Berruguéte's pictures. But it was as a sculptor that he excelled. Writing of Toledo in the eighteenth century, the Chevalier de Bourguanne describes the city in these words: "Houses out of repair, fine edifices going to ruin, few or no manufactures, a population reduced from two hundred thousand to twenty-five thousand persons, and the most barren environs are all that now offer themselves to the sight of the traveller drawn thither by the reputation of the famous city. Under the present reign some successful efforts have been made to recover it from the universal decay into which it is fallen." About the time when the chevalier wrote this, the Alcazar was being restored, and the silk industry in the city was reviving; but Toledo, even to-day, is not a flourishing mart. It is a place of dreams and memories, set upon a rock among savage hills. The Tagus, which rushes through its rough gorge, was once made navigable between Lisbon and Toledo, and in last century small boats sailed now and then from the city to the sea. There are many fish in the upper Tagus, and its tributaries provide trout for the markets. The surrounding country is bare, and in many districts, savage and unfrequented, the hills affording sparse pasturage for sheep and goats. These desolate uplands were formerly haunted by bands of the most bloodthirsty bandits in all Spain. GRANADA That which is lacking in sober Toledo is evident everywhere in glowing Granada. The fiery Andalusian sun gilds and colours the city, and the whitened houses cast a deep blue shade in the narrow streets. No forbidding portals bar the way to the flowing patios, those courtyards that are to-day one of the chief charms of the Andalusian towns. The climate is soft and languorous; the air laden with the scent of blossoms and roses, and the people gayer in their garb and bearing than the natives of Castile. On twin outlying hills stands Granada, divided into two parts by the deep ravine of the Darro River, whose waters flow into the Genil at the base of an eminence crowned by the noble Alhambra Palace and the old mosque. Around stretches a territory of singular fertility, where fruits of many kinds are plentiful, and the earth yields lavish crops of grain, with scarcely any period of inactivity. Grapevines and olive-trees flourish here, and the orange, lemon, and pomegranate thrive. In the distance gleam the snow-capped peaks and blue ridges of the Sierra Nevada, a savage range, with foothills here and there under cultivation, glens of exceeding beauty, and rocky streamlets that swell to torrents when the snows melt. The vegas (plains) are dotted with hamlets and farms; vineyards clothe the lower slopes; the ferruginous soil is well watered by innumerable runnels from the hills, and so made richly productive. Christianised Granada remains Moorish in aspect to this day, and so it will remain until the end, a mighty "living ruin." We cannot escape in modern Granada from signs of the Moslem influence; the architecture, the decorations of the houses within, the utensils of daily use--everything recalls the Moors. Before the coming of the North African hordes to Spain, there was probably a city on the banks of the Darro and Genil, called Illiberis, which was seized by the invaders. Rival tribes of Moslems strove for Granada for centuries until Al Ahmar, a doughty general and ruler, became the sovereign. It was he who began the building of the splendid palace during his long sway. Al Ahmar was succeeded by Mohammed, his son, in 1273, who, like his father, was cultured, and an encourager of learning and the arts. Another great monarch of Granada, who added to the Alhambra, was Yusuf I. He was murdered in the palace by a fanatic, and following him came a line of Mohammedan rulers, all more or less distinguished in arms and in the art of governing. Granada was the last stronghold of the Moorish sovereigns in Spain; and hither, in 1491, came the Christian host, led by the zealous Queen Isabel, who camped within a few miles of the walls. No succour came during the long siege for the imprisoned Moors, who at last besought their leaders to make a sortie on the foe. This course was, however, disapproved by Boabdil, the leader, and a treaty was made with the Christians, in which it was enjoined that the city should yield within two months. But the starving populace preferred to surrender at once, and the last of the sultans in Spain went forth to bend the knee to Fernando, the Christian king. The capitulation of Granada broke the last link of the Moorish chain of dominion in southern Spain. A Christian governor was appointed, and soon the "reconciled" Moors learned that their conquerors were faithless in their promises of toleration. Libraries of Arabian literature were destroyed, and force was used in imposing the rites of the Christian Church on the subdued Mohammedans. "There was crying in Granada when the sun was going down, Some calling on the Trinity--some calling on Mahoun." To quell the Moorish malcontents, Cardinal Ximenes was sent to Granada, with the royal permission to enforce baptism or to compel exile. The Cardinal carried terror into the city. There was no more clemency for the heretics and "heathen"; their temples were desecrated, and they were coerced into acceptance of the Catholic religion. "The Knights of Granada, gentlemen, though Moors," as the Spanish poets had written of them, were treated with callous cruelty. Some fled to the fortresses of the Alpujarras; others remained in ignominy in the city of their birth, exposed to harsh exactions. It was the humane Archbishop Talavera of Granada who opposed, with all his courage and energy, the importation of the Inquisition into Spain. Let it be clearly remembered that this tyrannous institution was resisted by all the enlightened Spaniards, and that the mass of the people regarded its introduction with horror. Many of the chief Inquisitors went in fear of their lives through the hatred which they aroused in the people. Ximenes was of a very different cast from Talavera. He was sufficiently powerful to have contested the establishment of the tribunal, but he was, on the contrary, responsible for many of its worst excesses of persecution. The Moors in Granada, after the reconquest by Fernando, were commanded to wear the garb of Christians, to speak the Castilian language, and to abandon their ritual of cleanliness. Philip II. even destroyed the baths of the Alhambra, to prevent the ablutions of the "infidels." The beautiful Morisco painting and decorative work were plastered over with whitewash. Christian vandalism ran riot in the fair city of the art-loving sultans. The Moors who sought refuge in the glens of the mountains soon began to till the land, and to transform the wilderness into a garden. After a spell of peace, and a recovery of some measure of wealth, the community of refugees rebelled. Terrible is the tale of reprisal. Christians were driven to bay and slaughtered ruthlessly. The Moors gained sway over the district until their leader was slain by one of his own race. Then came the final routing by the Christian soldiery by means of the sword and firebrand, and Moorish might was for ever crushed in Andalusia. For what counted all this bloodshed? The answer is written in the history of Spain after the expulsion of the intelligent, industrious Moriscoes. The lesson is plain. The fall of Granada was the beginning of the decline of Spain, and not, as the Spaniards thought, the dawn of a golden epoch. With the Moors went their culture, the arts and industry; and only traditions in craftsmanship remained among the Spanish artisans. The half million inhabitants at the time of the surrender of Granada very quickly dwindled under the Catholic kings. To-day there is scarcely a sign of industrial and commercial energy in this city of the past. The population seem to subsist principally upon providing for the continual influx of visitors, while there are hundreds of beggars in the place. The Alhambra was considerably marred by Charles V., who used it as a residence. Philip V. and his consort were the last of the sovereigns of Spain who sojourned in Granada. In the wars of 1810-1812, the French troops were quartered in the Alhambra, and they are responsible for the destruction of the mosque built in the fourteenth century. The architecture of the Alhambra is of a late Morisco order. If we enter by the Puerta de Judiciaria we shall see the inscription of Yusuf I., who built the gateways and the towers. There are two arches to this entrance, the inner one is smaller than the outer, and both are of horseshoe design, with decorations above the curves. The inner side of this portal is an extremely beautiful example of Moorish art. The several buildings enclosed within the walls form the Alhambra, the palace itself being only a comparatively small part of the whole. Towers guard the walls, and starting from the eastern side of the puerta, before which we now stand, we come to the Prisoner's Tower. The next tower is known as Siete Suelos, and the others, in their order, are Agua, Las Infantas, Cantivá, Candil, Picos, Comares, Puñales, Homenage, De-las Armas, Vela Guardia, and Polvora. The Palace of Charles V. was reared in the midst of these Morisco surroundings, and to the injury of the Alhambra. It is, however, a fine quadrangular building, with richly decorated puertas. Around the centre court are a number of apartments. At the back of the palace is the fish pond, overshadowed by the imposing Comares Tower, and from here we enter the Court of the Lions, so called from the twelve lions supporting the fountain in the centre. This beautiful court dates from the time of Mohammed V. It is surrounded by an arcade with very delicate columns and horseshoe arches. Writing of the lions, in "The Soul of Spain," my friend Havelock Ellis says: "I delight in the Byzantine lions who stand in a ring in the midst of the court which bears their name. No photograph does justice to these delicious beasts. They are models of a deliberately conventional art, which yet never becomes extravagant or grotesque. They are quite unreal, and yet have a real life of their own." The Sala de los Mocarabes is approached from this court. Its walls are decorated in the vivid colours used by the Moors, and it has a ceiling of later Gothic style. The Hall of the Abencerrages has fine stalactite arches, and a bewildering wealth of decoration. The wooden doors are beautifully ornamented, and the whole effect is fairylike and enchanting. A fountain plays in the centre of the chamber. The Hall of Justice has been likened to a grotto. It is one of the most wonderful of these apartments, approached by a range of exquisite arches from the Court of the Lions. The pictures on the walls are said to be portraits of the sovereigns of Granada. There is a brilliant centre painting on the ceiling, with quaint Moorish figures, and the gilding and colouring of the arches and alcoves are gorgeous. The Apartment of the Two Sisters has a marvellous roof of honeycomb pattern, the walls are decorated with blue tiles, and the floor is of marble. This was the room occupied by the brides of the kings of Granada. The inscriptions in this chamber are numerous, and I quote two specimens: "Look upon this wonderful cupola, at sight of whose perfection all other domes must pale and disappear." "How many delightful prospects I enfold! Prospects, in the contemplation of which a mind enlightened finds the gratification of its desire." The Hall of the Ambassadors was built by Yusuf. It is domed, and the roof is exquisitely carved, while the decorations here surpass those of any apartment in the Alhambra, and are of an infinite variety of design. From the windows there are fine views of Granada. Many of the patterns on the walls of the palace are really inscriptions ingeniously employed as decorations. The reproduction of animal forms in the adornment of buildings was prohibited by Mohammedan law. The Council Chamber (the Mexuar) has been restored. The palace proper contains, besides the apartments described, the Bath Court, the Court of the Reja, and the Court of Daxara, a very charming patio, shaded by trees, with apartments surrounding it. The mosque was reconsecrated by Charles V. and used as a Christian chapel. There is a fine carved roof, and superb colouring on the walls, with an inscription, extolling the power of Allah. An oratory adjoins the chapel. The court of the mosque is elaborately embellished, and has graceful columns and arches. Several of the towers are provided with chambers, and those of Las Infantas were occupied by the princesses of the Moorish rulers. This tower was erected in the time of Mohammed VII. Within, Las Infantas Tower is delightfully decorated. The interior of the Torre de la Cautiva is even more brilliantly adorned. The Generalife, the "Palace of Recreation," or, as other authorities have it, "the Garden of the Architects," was originally an observation tower, and was used afterwards by the sultans as a villa. This summer residence is separated from the Alhambra by a gorge, and approached by a path through a garden. The Acequia Court is one of the most beautiful of the patios in the buildings comprising the Alhambra. A gallery surrounds it, supported by tall pillars and arches, most richly ornamented. We look between the slender columns upon a lovely Oriental garden, with a series of fountains playing in jets. The gardens of the Generalife are delightful; the trees are luxuriant from the moisture of the soil, and the flowers grow in riotous profusion. Here the very trees are aged, for the cypresses were planted in the days of the sultans. There is an expansive and impressive view from the belvedere adjoining. Unfortunately most of the internal beauties of the Generalife have suffered decay, and the brush of the whitewasher has coated the walls. But the cypress court, the curious gardens, the fountains, and the beautiful arches and pillars must be seen. The Darro that flows beneath the hill of the Alhambra contains gold, and it is said that when Charles V. came with his empress, the inhabitants presented him with a crown made from the precious grains collected from the bed of the stream. A little silver has been found in the Genil into which the Darro flows. Looking back at the magnificent Alhambra on its proud summit, we can imagine the distress of the Moors when their city was captured by the army of Fernando. We leave this monument behind, and, as we descend to the Cathedral, our thought turns to the period of Christian domination, and of the triumph of the old faith of Spain. The first architect was Diego de Siloe, and the work was continued by his pupils, and by the renowned Alonso Cano, who designed the west front. As a specimen of Renaissance work, the Cathedral of Granada is one of the most splendid churches of Spain. The dome is vast and magnificent, there are five naves and many side chapels, all containing splendid works of art. Over the principal doorway are relief carvings, dating from the eighteenth century. But a finer portal is that of Del Perdon, where we shall see some of Siloe's characteristic decoration. Alonso Cano, painter and sculptor, was buried in the choir. This artist was a native of the city, and the only great painter that Granada produced. Before his day, the artists of Spain painted with an intensity of religious seriousness, to the end of leading men to worship God and the Virgin. Their work was sombre and dramatic. Alonso Cano struck a secular note; he had a relish of the life of this world, and his fervent temperament found expression in depicting love episodes, and portraying the women of his day in the guise of saints and madonnas. His "Virgin and Child," in the Saville Cathedral, expresses his emotional art. Cano has been called "the least Spanish of all the painters of Spain." He was born in 1601, and the register of the Church of St Ildefonso records his baptism. In his sixty-sixth year he died. As a lad he studied painting in Seville, in the studio of Pacheco, at the time when Velazquez was a student, and afterwards he learned the methods of Juan del Castillo. He was patronised by Philip IV., and he painted many pictures for the cathedrals of his country, among others at Madrid, Toledo, and Granada. Alonso Cano was made a priest, and afterwards a prebendary of Granada, where an apartment was assigned to him in the cathedral. In the Capella Mayor the frescoes of the cupola are by Cano, depicting episodes in the life of the Virgin. The paintings are joyous in temper, and brilliant in colouring. "The Purisima," one of his most finished statues, is in the sacristy, and among other examples of his carving are the wooden painted figures of "Adam and Eve"; and "The Virgin and Child with St Anna" is most probably the work of Cano. "St Paul," in the Chapel of our Lady of Carmen, is also one of his pieces. The pictures in Granada from Cano's brush are in the Capella Mayor, the Church of the Trinity, the altar of San Miguel, and in the Chapel of Jesus Nazareno. His carved work is seen in the lectern of the choir, the west façade, and the doors of the sacristy. El Greco, whose work we have seen in Toledo, is represented by a picture over the altar of St Jesus Nazareno, "St Francis." The other pictures are by Ribera. Montañez designed the crucifix in the sacristy. In the Chapel Royal we trace late Gothic work. There is a beautiful reja here (lattice or grating) by Bartolomé, and the altar is adorned with statues of Ferdinand and Isabella. The ornate memorial of these sovereigns is by an Italian, Fancelli. These are but a few of the objects of art in the cathedral. There are still many churches and historic places to visit in the city, and I must perforce hurry in my descriptions. Siloe's architecture is seen in the Church of Santa Ana, and other churches should be inspected, though few of them are important. The Charterhouse or Cartuja stands on the site of a monastery, and the church is a very resplendent example of later Gothic decoration, the effects being gained within by a lavish use of pearl, ebony, tortoise-shell, and marble. The Audencia is a handsome building with a gorgeous façade. In the Church of San Geronimo is the burial-place of El Gran Capitan, whose effigy and that of his wife are at the altar. If we wish to see the types of Andalusian character among the poorer class--such as Murillo painted--we must stroll in the Albaicin Quarter. This is a district of picturesque squalor, and not over-sweet are the odours that may assail sensitive nostrils. But the Albaicin must be seen. It was the resort of the Moors who remained after the taking of Granada by Fernando, and it is now largely populated by gypsies such as George Borrow describes in "The Bible in Spain." The city has been a haunt of Gitanos for about three hundred years, and many of the swarthy tribe live in caves, which they have delved in the hillsides. For a "consideration," the gypsies will perform one of their curious symbolic dances. "One of the most enchanting prospects I ever beheld," writes the Chevalier de Bourgoanne, in the eighteenth century, after his visit to Granada. Travellers of all nationalities since that time have praised the wonderful spell of the city. Washington Irving, Ford, O'Shea, and many others have depicted its beauties with the pen, while a large gallery could be filled with the pictures painted here by artists from all parts of Europe. There are quaint Moorish-looking towns and villages within reach of Granada, some within walking distance. "In Granada God gives all the necessaries of life to those by whom He is beloved." So runs a local proverb, and it seems a justifiable statement from the evidence of plenty that delights the gaze of the traveller through the richly fertile province. The vega that lies betwixt the city and Cadiz is screened by mountains, and thoroughly irrigated by hundreds of rivulets. Here the cactas is grown for the sake of the cochineal insect. The vegetation is marvellous; the earth is so generous that lucerne can be cut from ten to twelve times in the year. No wonder that Romans and Moors craved this sunny land of plenty. OPORTO When Bacchus and Lusus came to the Peninsula, sundered from Italy by the Mediterranean Sea, they discovered a delightful region of mountains and glens, well-watered and fertile, which they called Lusitania. Between the rivers Minho and Douro is a glowing tract of country, not unlike the finest parts of North Wales, with a varied sea coast, bright little villages nestling among the hills, and well-tilled fields, vineyards, and gay gardens. Mountains screen this district on the north and east, and the vast Atlantic washes it on the west. Here is the chief wine-growing quarter of Portugal, a land appropriately colonised by Bacchus; and in the centre of the wine-making and exporting industry is Porto, the capital of the province of Entre-Douro-e-Minho. [Illustration: OPORTO, 1832. FROM THE QUAY OF VILLA NOVA.] "Oporto the Proud" is a very old city and seaport on the right bank of the impetuous Douro, and within a few miles of the coast. The river is tidal and broad, and big ships come to the busy quays below the great suspension bridge. At the mouth of the Douro is a bar, much dreaded by sailors, for it is rocky at this point, and generally a rough sea breaks and foams at the outlet. Oporto is one of the most beautiful cities in Europe. I visited it in June, when the terraces and gardens were aglow with flowers, the streets steeped in perpetual sunshine, the sky a deep blue, and the sunsets gorgeous. It is a bright city, seen from the opposite bank, with houses rising one above the other on slopes that are almost precipitous. Here and there the rock juts out among the villas that overhang the river, while verdure shows on the high banks. In parts of the gorge the cliffs rise to three hundred feet. Oporto is a city of squares. There are several of these open spaces, all planted with trees, well-paved, and surrounded by tall buildings which lend a Moorish atmosphere to the towns. It is a centre of craftsmen. In one thoroughfare you will find harness-makers and hatters busily employed; in another goldsmiths and jewellers ply their trade. The markets are thronged with peasants from the vineyards, the women dressed in the gaudiest garments, with huge earrings and great gold brooches. Perhaps nowhere in Europe can so many prosperous and cheerful country-folk be seen assembled as in the streets of Oporto on a market day. Ox carts come laden with barrels; the river is dotted with the curiously shaped _barcos_ that bring the wine from the rustic presses far up the valley; and up the steep alleys clamber the pannier-donkeys, with fruit heaped in the baskets. The yoked oxen, led by sedate men--with large sallow faces, their loose limbs clothed in short jackets, and wearing the ancient hats of the district--the mule carts and the pack-donkeys appear mediæval and strangely out of accord with the modern motor cars of the fashionable citizens. Oporto is both old and new. Paris and London fashions in dress may be seen in the shopping quarters. There is a large colony of English people in the city, and many French and German merchants. Here you will see a native of the hills in his national garb; there a lady clad in the newest Parisian apparel; here an English sailor, and there a Spaniard. All is movement, animation, colour, when the streets are gay and crowded on a holiday. The climate of Oporto is pleasant and healthy. In the height of summer the heat is tempered by breezes from the Atlantic, and from the mountains on the east. There is a high average of sunshine. During the winter there is a considerable rainfall, and occasional snow. Around the city is a delightfully varied country of hills and valleys, watered by clear streams, and highly cultivated in the straths. On the slopes are roads of oak, chestnut, and birch. In the sheltered vales oranges, figs, lemons, and many other fruits thrive excellently. Strawberries are large in size and abundant. Vegetables grow with but little culture in this fertile land, and there are flower gardens with an opulence of colour. On the south bank of the Douro there was probably an early Roman settlement. The Vandals swept down upon Lusitania when the power of the Romans waned, and after them came other Teuton hordes--the Suevi and the fierce Visigoths. About the middle of the eighth century the Moors conquered Portugal, and held it for three centuries. The Asturians of northern Spain appear to have reconquered this part of Portugal in the time of Ferdinand I. of Castile. After the subduing of the Moors, Alfonso I. was proclaimed king of Portugal. Until about 1380 the House of Burgundy held the throne, and from that date the country rose in power, and became commercially prosperous. John I. of Portugal married the daughter of John of Gaunt, and became a staunch ally of England, receiving the Order of the Garter. This was a stirring period in the history of the country, a time of strenuous warfare with Castile, and the last remnant of the Moors. In the reign of Juan of Castile, Portugal became one of the chief exploring nations of Europe. Henry, third son of the king, was studious, and learned in astronomy and geography. He obtained royal subsidies, and gathered about him travellers and seamen whom he inspired to set forth on voyages of discovery. Two vessels were sent by the prince to round the southernmost point of Africa, with the object of reaching the East Indies. In 1418 the voyagers discovered Madeira, which was made a Portuguese settlement; but they dreaded the rounding of the south Cape of Africa, a point greatly dreaded by all mariners in those days. The Canary Islands passed at this time into the hands of a French adventurer, De Bethancourt, whose heirs afterwards sold the colony to Henry of Portugal. Vasco de Gama's famous expedition to India was undertaken in 1497, and this bold explorer, unlike his predecessors, doubled the Cape of Good Hope, and travelled as far as Mozambique, where he found pilots who offered to direct his course to India. The pilots, however, proved treacherous. Eventually, after many delays, a trustworthy pilot was found at Melinda, and De Gama reached India, where he opened trading relations with the natives. At the end of two years the discoverer returned to Portugal and was received with great honour. The prosperity of Oporto was largely due to the maritime enterprises of this period. Cabral discovered Brazil in 1500, and De Cortereal is said to have reached Greenland. The sea-rovers were the makers of modern Portugal. The great empire of Brazil was colonised by Juan III. in 1531; and the Portuguese claimed great territories in the East, which yielded splendid revenues. This was the most illustrious epoch in the history of Portugal. Parts of India and China were colonised. Art and learning flourished in the time of Manuel I., and the architectural style known as the Arte Manoelina was developed. This style is a flamboyant Gothic, with Indian and Morisco influence, full of fantasy and often extravagant. The colonisers attempted to convert the people of India to Christianity, and the zealous St Francis Xavier conducted a mission to that country in the reign of Juan III. Trade with Japan was opened at this time. After a long spell of fortune, disaster fell upon Portugal. Philip II. of Spain envied the western strip of the Peninsula, and in 1580 he seized Portugal and annexed it to Spain. It was not until 1640 that the Portuguese regained their territory, and placed the Duke of Braganza on the throne. During the Peninsular War, the city of Oporto was the scene of severe fighting, when the troops of Marshal Soult were surprised and routed by the force of Wellington. In 1832 the Miguelites besieged the city, and were defeated, with much loss, by the Pedroites. Civil disturbances have frequently shaken the town. In 1838 the powerful Oporto Wine Company was re-established. The port wine, for which Oporto is famed throughout the globe, is the staple product of the district. There is little doubt that the port of our grandfathers was a light wine without much "body," and this kind of port is consumed in the country districts of Portugal. The tipplers who could consume three or four bottles of port, in the days of the Georges, probably drank this light wine, which was imported new, and was not a keeping wine. The prowess of our ancestors, "the six-bottle men," has been overrated. Old port cannot be drunk in such quantities. The export trade in wine is enormous, and the chief trade is with England and the United States. Besides port, Oporto sends to foreign markets cattle, mineral ores, fruits, and olive oil. The population of the city in 1900 was 167,950. In his account of his travels in Portugal and Galicia, the Earl of Carnarvon writes of the city, in 1848: "At length I reached Oporto, an ancient and very picturesque town; the streets with a few noble exceptions, are narrow, and the houses high and ornamented with handsome balconies. That part of the city which overhangs the Douro is strikingly beautiful; the river itself is fine and clear, and the banks bold and partially wooded." Since this was written new and wider thoroughfares have been made in Oporto. The city has been modernised in many respects, but it still retains a savour of the eastern influence. Many of the houses are faced with striped tiles, painted blue. These tiles, or ajuléjos, are one of the staple manufactures of Portugal, and are Moorish in origin. The cathedral, or the Sé, stands in a dominating position on the crest of a hill. It is in the pointed Gothic style, built of granite. There is an imposing tower, and a fine rose window. In the cloisters there are interesting specimens of ajuléjo work, and highly ornamented pillars. The mosaics represent "The Song of Solomon," and are well worth attention. The cathedral is in the form of a cross, with a wide nave, and several chapels. There is a marble floor. The interior is without any impressive objects of art, and much of it is modern. Close to the Cathedral is the Bishop's Palace, with an interesting staircase. Some of the churches of Oporto are notable for their lavish internal decoration. San Francisco dates from the early fifteenth century, and has a rose window of great beauty. The wood carving within is very interesting, and there is a gorgeous memorial to Pereira. The Bolsa is a striking building close to this church. São Pedro is another old church which should be seen. The Renaissance Church of the Convent of Nossa Senhora de Serra do Pilar has beautiful cloisters, and a remarkable dome. The bridge is one of the wonders of Oporto. It connects the banks of the Douro with a single arch, over five hundred feet in length, and is nearly as long as the Cernavoda Bridge across the Danube. At both ends are towers. The bridge is immensely strong, and though of iron, elegant in design. It is crossed by an upper and a lower roadway, and from the higher road there is a magnificent view up and down the swirling river. In the busiest part of the city is the space known as the Praça de Dom Pedro from which several streets radiate. A modern city hall is on one side. In the middle of the square is a bronze statue of Pedro IV. on horseback, the work of Calmels. The Torre dos Clerigos, close to the Praça, is a splendid outlook point, with a bird's-eye view of the city, the gorge of the Douro, and the shimmering Atlantic in the distance. For a riotous wealth of flowers the visitor should see the Jardim da Cordoaria. The grounds of the Crystal Palace are also very lovely. The gardens are on the slopes descending to the Douro, and the mingling of natural beauty with cultivation is charming. Nowhere have I seen such splendid roses. The winding paths afford many delightful glimpses of the river and the ocean. One of the quaintest parts of Oporto, where there are still many ancient houses, is the Rua Cima do Muro. But in all the old quarters of the city there are interesting streets and corners. The markets should be visited by travellers interested in the customs of the people. They are bright and animated on market days. The Picture Gallery will disappoint the student who expects to see a representative collection of Portuguese art. In the Largo de Viriato is the Museum, endowed by Allen, an Englishman, and given to the city. The pictures preserved here are not of much interest, except the few works ascribed to Rubens and Van Dyck. There is a collection of natural history specimens in the museum. The public library has a large collection of volumes, numbering many thousands, and is an excellent institution. It was founded by Pedro IV. and stands on the site of a convent near the Garden of São Lázaro. For art-work in gold, visit the Rua das Flores, the street of goldsmiths. The windows contain highly interesting gold ornaments of infinite variety of design, in filigree, and enamelled. Huge earrings, worn by the women of the vineyards, are displayed here in lavish array. A pleasant excursion may be made to São João da Foz, a favourite Sunday and holiday resort of the Oporto people in summer time. The road runs by the Douro, and upon approaching the mouth of the river, the dangerous bar will be seen. The seaside village, with the difficult name, has fine sands and an interesting coast stretching northwards. The Atlantic thunders along this shore in stormy weather, but the bathing is safe. At Mattosinhos, to the north of Foz, there is a wonderful crucifix, said to have been picked up from the sea after floating from the Holy Land. It is an object of great veneration among the peasantry and working-class. Another excursion may be made to Villa de Feira, where there is an ancient castle. POITIERS A study in grey and green is the impression left upon my mind by a first view of the old town of Poitiers. There is a sternness in the aspect of the place as you approach it by rail through the pastures of Vienne. But peace now rests upon Poitiers; the town dreams in this quiet French landscape, and the chronicles of arms are old and faded memories. Crécy and Poitiers! Every English school-boy remembers the names of these great battlefields, and thrills at the story of the Black Prince and his encounters with King John of France. Poitiers sets the reflective visitor musing upon martial valour, and the vast futile exercise of the bellicose instincts of the French and British nations in the time of the Hundred Years' War. Fighting was then the proper and exclusive occupation of gentlemen. The age that gave birth to Chaucer was the age of vainglorious warfare with Scotland and France, followed by intellectual stagnation, and all the bitter fruitage of battle. [Illustration: POITIERS. THE CHURCH OF NOTRE DAME, 1845.] In 1355 the Black Prince, at the head of an army, advanced from Bordeaux towards Poitiers, laying waste the fertile regions of the south, where no war had ever been waged until this aggression. Aided by the turbulent Gascons, the English prince came on 19th September 1356 to some vineyards and fields about four miles from Poitiers. The French host, sixty thousand strong, awaited him. Hedgerows and vines formed cover for the English bowmen; the warriors in armour held a point where a narrow lane led to the encampment. Up this lane the French soldiers, in their heavy mail, charged to the attack, meeting a terrific rain of arrows from men in ambush. Very soon the narrow roadway was choked with the wounded and the dying. The French were arrayed in three strong divisions, and probably outnumbered the troops of the Black Prince by seven to one. But their position was open and exposed, whereas the English had entrenched themselves and made a barricade of waggons. Moreover, the French were worn with long marches. A sally of English archers, under Captal de Buch, wrought havoc among the French on the left flank of their force, and from that moment the enemy wavered. A great and final charge was led by the Black Prince and Sir Denis de Morbecque, a knight of Artois. The French drew back, routed, and in disorder, to the gates of Poitiers. After a valiant stand, King John was taken captive. The victory was complete for England; the vanquished king was a prisoner, his troops lay in thousands on the field. Eleven thousand of the flower of French chivalry perished in this fierce carnage. Petrarch gives us a picture of the harvest of this strife: "I could not believe that this was the same France which I had seen so rich and flourishing. Nothing presented itself to my eyes but a fearful solitude, an utter poverty, land uncultivated, houses in ruin." The Black Prince treated his royal captive with courtesy, entertaining him at his own table, and praising his bravery. In May 1357 the French king was brought to England, and, seated on a charger, he rode side by side with his victor through the streets of London. As a first residence, King John was given the Savoy Palace, and afterwards he and his son spent some time in Windsor Castle. Watered on three sides by the Rivers Boivre and Clain, and standing on rising ground, Poitiers was chosen as the site of a Roman settlement. Not far from the town are the ruins of a Roman burial-place, and antiquities that have been discovered may be seen in the interesting Museum of Antiquaries de l'Ouest. In 1569 the Count du Lude valiantly defended Poitiers against the seven weeks' siege of troops led by Coligny, finally repulsing the enemy, and retaining the town. Protestantism seems to have gained ground in Poitiers, for we read that in the days of Calvin there were many "conversions" among the inhabitants. In September 1559 the justices of the city published a proscription of religious gatherings, and bade all strangers to quit the place in twenty-four hours. No preaching was permitted, the inhabitants were enjoined not to give necessities of life to the pastors under penalty of punishment for sedition. This persecution, directed against the Lutherans, was the result of the edict of Villars-Cotteret, and of an order made in Blois, which decreed that all the attenders at religious assemblies should be put to death, "without hope of pardon or mitigation." France was at this time the scene of the fierce religious intolerance which led to the Massacre of St Bartholomew. Gaspard de Coligny, Admiral of France, who led the siege of Poitiers, was a convert to the teaching of Calvin, and the leader of the reformed party. Touched with fanaticism, he was a valorous soldier, and was never daunted by his reverses. After a long conflict with the Church, the admiral was murdered brutally, and his body mutilated, and dragged through the streets of Paris by a rabble. The oldest church in the town is St Jean. A basilica once stood where St Peter's massive bulk overshadows the houses around. The towers of this church date from the thirteenth century. There are some very old stained-glass windows; in one of them are portraits of Henry II. and Eleanor of England. Portions of the Church of St Radegonde are probably of the eleventh century. St Porchaine is another ancient church worth visiting. The Dukes of Aquitaine lived in the city, and their palace is now a court of law. One of the halls has a fine vaulted wooden roof. Poitiers has many winding, narrow lanes of curious old houses. It is not a busy commercial city, but it does not lack an air of comfort and prosperity. The town has to-day a population of over thirty thousand souls. ROUEN The fascination of this ancient city of Normandy consists not only in its historical associations and its splendid cathedral, but in the fine setting, colour, and aspect of the place. Rouen should be approached, if possible, by boat on the Seine. The steamboat journey from the mouth of the river is very delightful, and there is no better way of gaining an impression of one of the most beautiful of the provinces of France. Hills, with frowning rocks, begirt the Seine in its tortuous course. Woods and tilled fields alternate with primitive, untamed ravines, watered by rivulets, and old sombre-hued houses and churches peer among woods. Parts of the valley recall Wales or Scotland in their ruggedness; while here and there we are reminded of the softer scenes of southern England. The Rouen of obscure days of antiquity was probably a colony of the tribe of the Roths-magi. Many place-names in Normandy suggest that the Danes held this district, and they, rather than Norwegians, were the early conquerors. From Rouen we derive our word "roan" for a horse of a reddish colour, for the first imported Norman horses were known as "Rouens." In the eighth century this was a city of ecclesiastics, who erected many churches and convents. A long line of celebrated bishops ruled here, and the first church of St Ouen was probably built at this period. The Normans harried the country in 912, under the valiant Rollo, and Rouen was then made the capital of Normandy. In the days of Duke William of Normandy, our gallant conqueror, Caen was of greater importance than Rouen, and at the first city the sovereigns built their palaces. William the Conqueror died in Rouen, but his body was taken to Caen for burial. Rufus invaded the territory in 1091, and obtained possession of all the chief forts on the Seine, up to Rouen. The attempt to recover Normandy, under Henry of England, is a stirring chronicle of battle. The city of Rouen was at this time stoutly fortified, while it was famed for its wealth and power. Led by the brave Alan Blanchard, the people of Rouen made a fierce defence. But Henry had cut off approach from the sea; he held, too, the roads to Paris. He encompassed the walls of Rouen with his army; he brought boats up the river, constructed a floating bridge, and dug trenches for his troops. The soldiers and citizens within the city resisted for six terrible months. Many were the victims of famine, and those who strove to escape were at once struck down by the besiegers. "Fire, blood and famine" were Henry's handmaids of war, and he declared that he had chosen "the meekest maid of the three" to subdue Rouen. At length the starving and desperate citizens resolved to burn the city, and to fling themselves on the English. This threat caused Henry to offer terms of pacification. Blanchard, the valorous defender of Rouen, was, however, killed by order of the English monarch. The immortal Joan of Arc appears later on the scene. We cannot follow the strange and inspiring page of her career. Betrayed at length, and given into the hands of the English, she was imprisoned in Rouen, where a charge of heresy was made against her. To escape from the military to the ecclesiastic prison Joan pleaded guilty to the accusation of heresy. The story of her martyrdom is not a theme upon which one cares to dwell. The English cause was lost, though Joan of Arc was burned. "Oh, Rouen, Rouen, I have great fear lest you suffer for my death. Yes! my voices were of God; they have never deceived me." And as the maid dropped in the writhing flames, the soldiers cried: "We are lost! We have burned a saint!" "No longer on St Denis will we cry, But Joan la Pucelle shall be France's saint." The French recaptured Rouen in 1499. There is now no trace of the proud castle built by Henry V. of England. The prophetic cry of the soldiers had been fulfilled. Before the end of the thirteenth century a cathedral was built in the city, and by the sixteenth century the stupendous edifice was finished. Notre Dame has a splendid west front, and very ornamental entrances to the transepts. The decorated rose windows are exceedingly fine. The choir has thirteenth-century stained windows, which must be seen in the sunlight. Here, too, are the monuments of Henry II. and Richard I. Unfortunately, much of the external decoration of Notre Dame has been disfigured by weathering, and some of the images have disappeared. But the rose windows are very celebrated, and the tower of the sixteenth century is richly ornamented. The Lady Chapel contains the tomb of two cardinals, with beautifully sculptured figures, and carvings of exquisite craftsmanship. The tomb of the Duke of Brézé is attributed to Jean Goujon, and the images are true works of genius. Saint-Owen is perhaps more interesting than the cathedral. It is an immense building, and though so huge, finely proportioned. The south portal is rich and exquisite in its decoration. For an example of Goujon's work, you must inspect the remarkably decorated door of the Church of St Madou. There are other notable churches in Rouen; and the fine stained-glass windows of St Godard must not be overlooked. Among other buildings of interest is the Palace of Justice, with a stately frontage. In Rouen was born Corneille, and upon a bridge over the Seine you will find his statue. Fontenelle was also one of the illustrious natives of the city. Readers of Gustave Flaubert will remember his pictures of the country around Rouen, in "Madame Bovary." Charles Bovary was sent to school in the city. "His mother selected a room for him, on a fourth floor, overlooking the Eau-de-Robec, in the house of a dyer she was acquainted with." It was in Yonville-L'Abbage, "a large village about twenty miles from Rouen," that Charles and Emma Bovary settled after their marriage. "The river which runs through it," writes Flaubert, "seems to have imparted to it two distinct characters. On the right bank it is all grass-land, whilst on the left it is all arable. The meadow-land spreads at the foot of some high-lying ground until it meets the pastures of Bray on the other side; on the east the gently rising ground loses itself in the distance in fields of golden wheat. The water running through the grass-land divides the colours of the meadows and of the furrows by a white streak, and so the landscape looks like a great unfolded cloak, with a green velvet collar bordered with silver." Such is the country that the genius of Flaubert has peopled with his types of provincial character. Municipal enterprise has "improved and beautified" Rouen in modern times. The new, broad thoroughfares are undoubtedly admirable, according to the standard of to-day; but the reconstruction of many streets has meant the destruction of a large number of those old gabled houses that delighted the travellers of sixty years ago. Fortunately, a few charming ancient corners remain, and the authorities of the city have preserved some of these weather-worn buildings as monuments of mediæval Rouen. Jean Goujon, the most notable sculptor of his period, is associated with Rouen, but it has not been proved that he was a native of the city. Mystery surrounds the life of this genius. We do not even know the date of his birth. His sculpture is imaginative and powerful art, and he is very successful in presenting nude figures. It is supposed that Goujon was one of the victims of the Massacre of St Bartholomew. A picture of the monastic life of Normandy, in the thirteenth century, has been drawn in the remarkable _Regestrum Visitationum_ of Eude Rigaud, Archbishop of Rouen. This wonderful diary has over five hundred pages, and covers a period of about twenty years. In 1248, Rigaud was appointed Archbishop of Rouen by Innocent IV. He proved a zealot for reforms in the Church; he undertook periodic inspection of the monasteries and nunneries, and his journals contain much "sensational" reading. The archbishop records that the rule in many of the convents was exceedingly lax, and that fasts and penances were not duly observed. He found that a number of the clergy were addicted to tippling, and he made clerical drunkenness an offence punishable by the deprivation of a living. Incontinence was very common among the monks. In the convents, Rigaud discovered "great disorders." But the archbishop relates that the offenders were so numerous that had he expelled them all, no priests would have been left in the diocese. When wandering in the streets of Rouen, we remember that Saint-Amant was born here in 1594. The life of this wine-loving poet is full of rare adventure and colour. He was a scholar, wit, soldier, statesman, and man of business by turn. Saint-Amant visited England, went to Rome with the fleet, and afterwards to Spain. He also started a glass factory, and was for a period a diplomat in Poland. His career is a long romance. Saint-Amant's name in full was Marc Antoine de Gérard, Sieur de Saint Amant. The name by which he is best known was taken from the abbey of Saint-Amant. He was one of the greatest of good livers, with an unquenchable thirst, and an infinite capacity for absorbing liquor. It is said that he and his boon companions often sat for twenty-four hours over their bottles. In those days of tavern revelry, the poet was respected as a master of deep-drinking and a model for the bibulous. Théophile Gautier wrote of the poet of Rouen: "Saint-Amant is assuredly a very great and very original poet, worthy to be named among the best of whom France can boast." This exquisite singer and devoted worshipper of Bacchus died in Paris in 1661. CHARTRES The city of Chartres stands on a bold hill, rising from a wide plain on the south-west of Paris, watered by the River Eure, a tributary of the Seine. This commanding position was favourable for a fortified town, and long before the Romans came to Gaul, kings had a stronghold here of great importance. Chartres is dominated by its ancient cathedral towers, that rise grey and massive, forming an outstanding landmark for leagues around. The old low-built houses of the city are dwarfed by this mighty church, which overshadows a number of twisting, narrow alleys of mediæval aspect. Many of the houses in Chartres are weather-worn, and give an impression of extreme age, and sometimes of decay. Parts of the town, it is true, have been rebuilt and made modern; but one's recollection is of an aged, somnolent place, dreaming of its past, though it strives to advance in line with progressive ideas of municipal improvement. According to Mr Henry James, it is not so long ago that sedan-chairs were used in Chartres; and during his visit in 1876, he saw only two vehicles--the omnibuses of the rival hotels. For the student of early Gothic architecture in France, Chartres is a most profitable field. The older forms of the arch, the foliated window-circles, the boldly decorated doorways, the twelfth-century decorative details, and the massive, as well as the light, buttress can be seen here in perfection. Few, if any, cathedral portals in Europe can excel in richness those of Chartres. Here is to be seen the noblest examples of twelfth-century sculpture. After the Romans, the city was ruled by Christian princes up to the day of Charlemagne. Before the tenth century, the first Christian church in Chartres was burned down, and very little of the pristine fabric was spared by the flames. The pious Saint Bernard preached here, and many illustrious bishops presided over the see. Henry V. of England came to the city; and so did Mary of Scotland. There have been two or three notable sieges, and the city was a scene of slaughter during the great Revolution. The legends surrounding the first building consecrated to the Christian faith in Chartres are numerous. Saint Aventin was probably the first bishop of the see. Fulbert, who received tribute from a number of monarchs, was the founder of the new cathedral, after the wreckage by fire about the year 1021. There were two or three attacks from fire, for Fulbert's structure was seriously damaged in the twelfth century. The crypt is part of a very early building. In the chapels are bare traces of the old mural paintings, and several remarkable remains of the more ancient edifice. The crypt forms a church in itself, for it contains no less than fourteen chapels. There are several points of difference between the early Gothic styles of England and France, and height is a characteristic of the French cathedrals; the architects delighted in lofty vaultings, and seemed to vie with one another in attaining great height. Double aisles and double flying buttresses are other features of the French Gothic churches, distinguishing them from the churches of England of the same date. The French pillars are heavy, and not so highly ornamented as those of England. In the windows we find chiefly in France the lancet; and the circle, with trefoils and quatre-foils, is a common form. Specimens of round windows may be studied to advantage in the Cathedral of Chartres. The most beautiful examples of early French Gothic architecture, in detail, are the ornate portals, especially of the western façades, the spires, the imposing towers, the rose windows, and the high vaulting. The west front at Chartres is early twelfth-century work. Few façades present such a bewildering wealth of decoration and of impressive height. The windows are enormous, and the central rose window is remarkably rich in design. Each of the three doorways is full of most interesting statuary, with luxuriant decorations. The north portal was once gilded and coloured, but this embellishment has disappeared. Many figures adorn this doorway, and every one of them will repay close inspection. The central door on this side is exquisite. Another impressive front is on the south. Here are the statues of Christ trampling on the lion, and of Christ as Judge. Innumerable figures cluster on this porch. Every façade and doorway of the Cathedral of Chartres is a gallery of statuary. Very noble are the two huge towers. The north tower is the more majestic of the two, and dates from the sixteenth century. It is literally covered with delicious ornament and mediæval statuary. The south tower is massive, but plainer, rising to a height of about three hundred and fifty feet. It is adorned with some quaint symbolic figures. There were once two immense bells within this tower. The interior of the cathedral impresses by its vastness and height. A wider nave is not to be found among the cathedrals of France, and the aisles are proportionate in width. The eye ranges upwards to the wonderful roof, with its opulent decoration, to the beautiful triforium, and the tall, narrow windows of the clerestory. The magnificent choir screen is finely sculptured. Among the host of figures are the Virgin, Saint Joachim, and the Adoration of Wise Men. Several groups, representing scenes from Scripture, deck the screen. The effigies are far too numerous to describe in detail. There is a monument within the choir, "The Assumption," by Bridan. The pavement is of variegated marble. In the south aisle of the choir is a tall stained-glass window of an early date. Several of the painted windows were executed before the fourteenth century, and these are to be seen in the nave, the clerestory, and the transcepts. The chapels have several interesting stained windows, fine roof decorations, and handsome portals. In the sacristy there is a notable window; and in the ambulatory will be seen the clothed figure of the Virgin Mary, one of the chief treasures of the cathedral. The sixteenth-century Church of Saint Aignan ranks next to the cathedral in interest. It has a fine, but somewhat worn, front, still rich in examples of Renaissance art. More than once fire has ravaged this church, and during the Revolution the edifice was despoiled and damaged. Saint Aignan is the burial-place of the bishop whose name it bears. There are many stained windows in the church. The interior is in other respects somewhat plain. There are some interesting old churches in Chartres. In the Church of San Pierre there are dazzling stained windows which should be seen by the visitor, as they are among the finest examples in Chartres. There is an old portal on the north side, and the great buttresses should be noted. Many of the decorations of the interior were destroyed by the Revolution. There are some old houses of historical and architectural interest in Chartres, and one will be seen near Saint Aignan's. The Museum is in the town hall. Among the objects of interest collected here are some examples of tapestry that were formerly in the cathedral. There are also many relics of the Roman days. In the library are several old missals. Chartres is the birthplace of two poets, Desportes and Mathurin Regnier, his nephew. Desportes, born in 1546, travelled in Italy and Poland, and was court bard to Henri III. He died in 1606. Mathurin Regnier was a poet of a higher order. He composed a number of fine satires and many lyrical poems. A general impression of Chartres is gained by following the tree-shaded walk which surrounds the old town, a promenade that gives many delightful glimpses of the plain and of narrow ancient streets, with here and there a trace of the crumbling walls. RHEIMS By the side of the River Vesle, in the province of Marne, and on the verge of a famous champagne producing country, is one of the oldest towns of France. Rheims, with its ancient gates, its memorials of Roman times, and monuments of illustrious kings of Gaul, has a history of much interest. Its cathedral ranks with the finest ecclesiastic buildings of the world, and is celebrated as the scene of many great pageants of the coronations of French sovereigns. The Romans captured a city here, and called it Durocortorum, and in Cæsar's day this was an important station. It is recorded that Attila, the fierce conqueror, ravaged the town with fire. The Consul, Jovinus of Rheims, was an early convert to Christianity, which was preached here by two missionaries from Rome in the fourth century. The marble cenotaph of the Christian consul is to be seen in the city. Then came the Vandals, who seized the town, and murdered the bishop at the door of the first cathedral. When King Clovis conquered the fair territory of Champagne, St Rémi was made bishop of Rheims, and henceforward the kings of France were crowned here. Many famous prelates lived in the city during the succeeding centuries; one, the most celebrated, Gerbert, became pope. Joan of Arc is an important figure in the drama of Rheims during the great war with England. The peasant's daughter, born on the borders of Champagne, at Domremy, a hamlet which is now a shrine, reached the height of her triumph in 1429, when she led a vast army to the gates of Rheims. "O gentle king, the pleasure of God is done," cried the white maid, as she knelt before Charles VII. after his coronation in the gorgeous cathedral. A yearning for home and the old tranquil life was in the heart of Joan; she wished to leave the tented field, and to return to her sheep-folds and pastures. But, at the battle of Compiegne, she fell into the hands of the treacherous Bastard of Vendôme, and about a year later Joan la Pucelle was burned to death. The focus of interest in Rheims is the cathedral. Notre Dame was built on the situation of a Roman basilica. Parts of the present building were first constructed in 1231, but the façade is of the fourteenth century. This magnificent front has a gorgeous portal, with pointed arches of great grace, rising to a large and handsome rose window. There are two towers over two hundred and fifty feet high, very finely decorated. A number of statues adorn this façade, on the portals and in the arch of the rose window. The figure of the Virgin is over the principal doorway, bending to receive the crown from the hands of Christ. "The three great doorways," writes Mr Henry James, in "Portraits of Places," "are in themselves a museum of imagery, disposed in each case in five close tiers, the statues in each of the tiers packed perpendicularly against their comrades. The effect of these great hollowed and chiselled recesses is extremely striking; they are a proper vestibule to the dusky richness of the interior. The cathedral of Rheims, more fortunate than many of its companions, appears not to have suffered from the iconoclasts of the Revolution; I noticed no absent heads nor broken noses." The rose windows of the transepts are exceedingly lovely, and attention should be paid to the design of the buttresses, and the very remarkable gargoyles. One of the towers contains an enormous bell. In the exterior of the south transept are several good statues. An immense nave stretches for nearly five hundred feet. This part of the edifice was repeatedly extended to make space for the great crowds that attended the imposing coronation ceremonies. Around the choir are several chapels. In numerous niches and corners are statues of interest. "The long sweep of the nave, from the threshold to the point where the coloured light-shafts of the choir lose themselves in the grey distance, is a triumph of perpendicular perspective," writes Mr Henry James. Perhaps the greatest treasures preserved in Notre Dame are the tapestries. There are pieces representing the life of the Virgin, while several depict scenes in the life of Christ. The Canticles form the subject of other examples. Two pieces of Gobelins, after designs by Raphael, represent the life of St Paul. These tapestries are exceptionally fine specimens of this art. During the coronation celebrations, the sovereigns occupied the archbishop's palace, which is close to the cathedral. The building was begun about 1499. In the museum of the palace is the famous cenotaph of Jovinius, adorned with sculpture. A large hall contains portraits of kings. Among the churches of importance in Rheims are St Jacques, St André, and St Thomas. The Church of St Rémi, named after the great bishop, dates from the eleventh century. During the Revolution this church was terribly damaged; many of the splendid relics and statues were destroyed, and but a few images were spared. The tomb of St Rémi is modern, except the images that decorate it. There are some rich tapestries in the church. The doorway of the south transept is handsome, and there are beautiful windows of an early date. The cloister of the abbey is now enclosed by a hotel. In the seventeenth century the present Town Hall was erected. It contains a gallery of paintings and a museum. The chief Roman monument in the town is the great arch of triumph, the Porte de Mars. This structure was probably erected by Agrippa on the occasion of the opening of the highways leading to the city. Near to the arch stood a temple of Mars. The Gate of Mars is over a hundred feet long, and over forty feet high. There are several figures under the archways. Parts of a Roman pavement are near the triumphal arch. These are the only memorials of Roman times, but it may be noted that the gates of the city still retain their original names. Rheims was fortified after the Franco-Prussian War; and in recent years many of the streets have been widened and modernised. Henry James notes "a prosperous, modern, mercantile air" in the Rheims of to-day. Considerable business is transacted in the city. It is a centre of the woollen industry, and there are several weaving and spinning works, and a large trade in flannel and blankets. The chief ancient charm of Rheims is in the great cathedral, with its highly interesting architecture, the old church of St Rémi, and the Roman arch. The streets are clean and bright, and the town has its tramcars among other tokens of modernity. There are not many statues of importance. The monument to Louis XV. stands in the Place Royale. BRUGES The air of prosperity which is so apparent in Amsterdam and Antwerp is missing in Bruges, once populated by a busy multitude of craftsmen and weavers. Early in the seventh century, the city contained as many as fifty thousand weavers, and this was probably the period of its greatest splendour. For several centuries, however, Bruges held its position as a trading town, and in the fourteenth century, under the rule of the dukes of Burgundy, its market was known throughout Europe, and was visited by the wealthy merchants of Italy and Greece. If the greatness of the industrial power has long since declined, Bruges can still boast of its ancient monuments, which invite visitors from all parts of the world. The town is much visited by strangers. It is easily reached from England by way of Ostend, and ships of five hundred tons can sail up to Bruges on its wide artificial waterway. For the causes of the decay of the town, we must refer to the early wars that disturbed the country, to the penalty which the natives suffered for rebellion against the Archduke Maximilian in 1488, when the trade was transferred to Antwerp, and finally to the ravages of the Duke of Alva's army. Peter Titelmann harried the burghers in the days of religious strife to such an extent that the Catholic burgomasters and senators of the town petitioned the Duchess Regent to protect them. They complained that the Inquisitor of the Faith brought before them men and women, and forced them to confess; and that, without warrant, he dragged his victims from the church itself. In 1583 the French, under Captain Chamois, having seized Ostend and other towns, came to the gates of Bruges. The burgomaster refused to admit the fifteen hundred troops, and rallying the townsmen, he made a stand against the invading force, compelling Chamois to retire. The city was famed for its workers in tapestry, an art known early in the Netherlands, and probably borrowed from the Saracens. In 1606 Flemish artists, invited by Henri IV., introduced the working of tapestry into France, and a few years later the industry was established in England. Philip the Good, of Burgundy, who died in 1467, was scarcely worthy of his title of virtue. He was, however, in spite of his adroitness in deception, an encourager of industry and commerce, and a protector of the arts. He invited the brothers, John and Hubert Van Eyck, to Bruges, and he patronised men of science and scholars. "Lord of so many opulent cities and fruitful provinces, he felt himself equal to the kings of Europe." Upon his marriage with Isabella of Portugal, he founded at Bruges the celebrated order of the "Golden Fleece." This Order played a great part in Flemish history. The symbol of the Golden Fleece was both religious and industrial, and the Lamb of God, hung upon the breast of the twenty-five knights, represented not only devotion, but also the woollen trade of the country. Motley gives the number of the knights as twenty-five, but another authority states that it numbered thirty-one, and that the members of the Order wore a distinguishing cloak, lined with ermine, and the cipher of the Duke of Burgundy in the form of a B, with flints striking fire. The motto was: _Aute ferit, quam flamma micat._ The memorials of the days of splendour are many in this city of the past. The cathedral is not of the finest Gothic work externally, but it is rich in monuments, and lavishly decorated within. Its earlier portions date from the twelfth century, the fine nave is of a later period. The pictures are not of much importance. Notre Dame has a lofty spire, and many interesting details will be found in its architecture of the early and the later Gothic periods. One of the chapels contains the tombs of Charles, Duke of Burgundy, and his daughter, Mary. The images are in copper, and recumbent on marble. Memories of Charles the Bold crowd into the mind as we stand before his effigy. His vast ambition led him into rash adventures, and his career, if brilliant, was also tragic in its failures. Charles would have made Burgundy a kingdom, but he lacked the essentials of a conqueror, in spite of his courage. His rapacity was a drain on the resources of the Netherlands; his love of power made him an oppressor, and caused discontent and rebellion. Through his want of the true kingly qualities he brought disaster upon the country, and destroyed the peace of the small republics. In his forty-fourth year, in 1477, he died, leaving his people impoverished, and the industries decaying. His realm was given into the charge of his daughter, Mary, who married the Emperor Maximilian. The monument of Mary of Burgundy is an example of the work of De Beckere, an eminent sculptor. A painting by Porbus of "The Crucifixion and Last Supper" is in this church. The carved pulpit is a good specimen of this Flemish craft. The Town Hall and Palace of Justice contain several important pictures, and both buildings are architecturally instinctive; the former is very highly decorated Gothic, with a fine façade, and several statues of the Flemish counts. There is a library in the town hall with a beautiful roof. Here are some missals and manuscripts, and a large collection of books. The Palace of Justice has been restored, but parts of the older building remain. It has a spacious hall, and an elaborate fireplace, with statues of some of the rulers of Burgundy. La Chapelle du Saint Sang is finely decorated, and has an ancient crypt, containing early treasures. We must now visit the academy of painting, and inspect the pictures, though not without regret that there are so few works of the illustrious artists of Bruges, the brothers Van Eyck, in the collection. There is, however, one of J. Van Eyck's greatest pictures in the academy. This is the famous "Portrait of his Wife," a rarely finished piece of work, with a singular history, for it was found in one of the markets of Bruges, thickly coated with filth. The permanent quality of the colour used by the Flemish artists of this period is instanced in the case of this portrait, which has been most successfully cleaned. The tints are in splendid preservation. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the art of Flanders flourished, and the brothers Van Eyck were the pioneers of oil painting. Many painters had tried oil as a medium, but none succeeded till Hubert and Jan Van Eyck discovered a suitable oil. Working with this new medium, they produced wonderfully durable pictures. It is supposed that the medium was a mixture of oils and resin, which dried rapidly. The colours of our modern artists cannot compare with those of the old Flemish school in respect to durability, which is seen in some of the works of the Victorian period in England. The other paintings by Jan Van Eyck are "The Virgin and Child, with St George and St Donatus," and "A Head of Christ," dated 1440. Of these two pictures, the former is by far the more representative of the painter's genius. J. Van Eyck died, and was buried in Bruges, in a church which the French destroyed. There is a poor statue of the painter on the ground whereon the church stood. Memling's altarpiece is in the collection, a much restored painting of "St Christopher and the Infant Jesus." For other works of this artist, we must visit the Hospital of St John, which stands near to Notre Dame. The pictures are very remarkable and marvellously preserved. "The Adoration of the Magi," "The Virgin and Child," "The Head of Zambetha," "The Virgin," and other examples are in this collection. Memling and his school used landscape, as seen through windows, in many of their portrait works, and his architectural backgrounds were painted from the houses in Bruges. We may still see houses that recall his period. Hans Memling was probably born in 1425, and appears to have lived in the town until 1495. His statue is in the Place du Vieux Bourg. Among the old houses of the town is the Prissenhof, though now it is only a ruined memorial of its past grandeur. Here Charles the Bold wedded Margaret of York, and here lived several of the counts of Flanders. An idea of the fortifications of the town in the Middle Ages is gained by a walk around the ramparts which enclose Bruges. The many canals, that intersect the city, lend beauty to Bruges. Besides the great waterway to Ostend there are a canal to Ghent and other streams. Lace-making is one of the industries of Bruges, and there is a trade in linen and woollen goods and pottery. The city to-day is not a bustling, commercial place, as in mediæval times, and to some visitors it may savour of sadness. Mr Harry Quilter is a traveller who finds the Gothic towns "more than ordinarily depressing," by reason of their monotony. "Perhaps it is the effect of the angular roofs and windows, wearying to the eye as the diagrams in a book of Euclid. Perhaps it is the low-browed shops, the irregularly paved streets, the dull unrelieved brown and grey of the houses. But for whatever reason, the effect is certainly dreary." If we do not find Bruges a town of dull aspect it is due to personal temperament and taste. There may be greyness in these old Gothic towns, there may be a suggestion of decay in Bruges; but there is also a strong fascination, a charm that appeals to those whose eyes have grown weary of modern streets with their regular outlines and monotonous architecture. These tortuous lanes of Belgium and Holland, the gables, and the tall irregular houses, are steeped in an old-world atmosphere, and every corner suggests a subject for the painter's brush. Certainly, the term "picturesque" may be used in speaking of Bruges. It is still a large town, with a big population; but the thoroughfares seem rarely thronged, and there is slumber in the by-lanes. There appears to be no demand for new houses, and no indication that Bruges will grow. Its hotels prosper through the number of strangers that visit the city. Few tourists in Belgium neglect to visit this old town. GHENT From Bruges to Ghent the distance is about twenty-eight miles. The railroad runs by the side of a placid canal, with banks planted with rows of tall trees--such as Hobbema painted--and traverses a fertile country, a verdant district of West Flanders, famous for its gardens and orchards. Though an inland town, Ghent can be approached by large vessels, by way of the Schelde and a big canal draining from the river. From the top of the belfry tower the eye wanders over the countless spires and towers of the city, and a vague, distant expanse of flat country. There are few city views in Europe to be compared with this. The prospect is vast and impressive; the town below presents a curious scene, partly old-world, and yet bustling and modern in many aspects; for Ghent, with over one hundred and sixty thousand inhabitants, is one of the largest centres of Belgian commerce, and was once the capital of Flanders. In the fourteenth century it was said that over seventy thousand of its citizens were trained to arms, while the industrial population was large and thriving. Prince John, third son of Edward III. of England, was born here, and took the name of John of Ghent. The Emperor Charles V. was also born in Ghent, in the old palace that has disappeared. The history of this city, which was probably founded in the days of the Nervii, is nebulous until the tenth century, but in 1297 the town was strong enough to resist a big English army, and the prosperity of Ghent was envied by the rest of Europe. Its busy looms gave employment to many thousands of weavers, and most of the wool used was supplied by England. Edward III. invited Flemish weavers to his country, and kept up friendly relations with Flanders. English wool was, however, still the chief supply of Bruges and Ghent, and the trade in one year enriched the coffers of Edward III. with £30,000 in duties. [Illustration: GHENT, 1832.] Erasmus declared that there was no other town in Christendom that could be compared with Ghent, in "size, power, political constitution, or the culture of its inhabitants." The city was practically a republic, ruled by representatives, elected yearly by fifty-two guilds of manufacturers and thirty-two corporations of weavers, and by a principal senate selected from all classes. It appears that these legislative authorities were often at strife, for outbreaks of factions within the walls of the town were frequent. When Charles V. was in need of money to conduct a war against France, he made a very heavy claim upon Ghent. The natives rebelled at the extortion; they even offered to fight with Francis against the emperor. Francis I. was, however, not disposed to ally himself with the people of Ghent, and he communicated with Charles, telling him of the defection of the burghers. Hurrying from Spain, through the territory of the enemy, Charles V. advanced on Flanders, and on 14th February 1540 he appeared unexpectedly at the walls of Ghent. Surrounded by his great army of lancers, archers, halberd-men and musketeers, and attended by prelates and barons, with many of the knights of the Golden Fleece, the emperor marched into the rebellious city. The inhabitants were awed by this pomp and display. As a punishment, the Duke of Alva proposed to destroy Ghent; but Charles was too cultured and rational to allow such destruction of a noble city. Calling the leaders of the revolt before him, the emperor commanded that they should be executed, and he humiliated the chiefs of the trade guilds by causing them to bend before him, with halters tied around their necks, and to ask his leniency. All the privileges and charters of the city were made null, and the rents and revenues confiscated; while the subsidy demanded for the war was to be rendered in full. A fine was also levied, to be paid annually. This was how Charles V. punished Ghent for its show of independence, and from that day the city suffered in prosperity. The republican form of government was banished; in its stead the emperor gave the town into the despotic control of the supreme court of Mechlin. Nine miles of walls encompassed Ghent in this day. It was a well-armed city, protected on all sides, and furnished with drawbridges over the streams that flowed through it. The population in the height of its glory was probably two hundred thousand. In 1376 a great congress was held in Ghent, to draw up a document of pacification, in order to end the great struggle between the adherents of the old faith and the reformed religion. All the edicts of Alva were withdrawn; all prisoners were to be freed, and compensation paid for confiscated property. Saint Aldegonde, with several commissioners, signed the treaty at Ghent on 8th November. Thus ended the Inquisition in Flanders. The publication of the treaty was received with the utmost joy throughout the land. Hymns of praise were sung, cannons boomed the news, and beacon fires were lighted. A year later there was trouble in Ghent, through the appointment of the Duke of Aerschot as governor of Flanders. The duke was an ardent Roman Catholic, and the city abounded with converts to Protestantism. A grand ceremony was witnessed when the new ruler, attended by several companies of infantry and three hundred horse soldiers, came to Ghent. Aerschot was regarded as an emissary of Romanism by a large part of the inhabitants, and by the rest he was distrusted. A young noble named Ryhove vowed that he would deliver Ghent from the duke; so he went to William of Orange with a plan for carrying out the extinction of Aerschot's power. He stated that he was prepared to lead a cause which would result in the expulsion of "the Duke with his bishops, councillors, lords, and the whole nest of them." On the day following Ryhove's interview with the prince, he was visited by Saint Aldegonde, who informed him that the Prince of Orange did not strongly discountenance his plan, nor did he strongly approve of it. Meanwhile, Imbize, another young aristocrat of the city, had confronted Aerschot, and the governor had threatened the rebellious citizens with a rope for their necks. When Ryhove arrived, he called on the citizens to make a fight for their old charters and rights, and to banish for ever all vestiges of the Spanish Inquisition. Incited by the ardent Ryhove, the burghers arose and rushed through the streets to the house of Aerschot, demanding admission. Refused by the guards, they threatened to burn down the residence. But the duke surrendered in time, and Ryhove protected him from the violence of the crowd, at the same time commanding that he should be taken prisoner. Half naked, the governor was conveyed to the house of Ryhove. So began an anti-Catholic campaign, which shattered the supremacy of the older form of religion. Aerschot was released. The Prince of Orange came to Ghent, and strove to restore peace in the city. He was received with honour, pageants were arranged, a spectacular drama was displayed, and the prince was entertained generously. In 1579 Imbize again led the inhabitants in revolt, and incited them to attack and plunder the Catholics. William of Orange successfully stemmed the conflict for a time, but Imbize put himself at the head of a regiment, and actually arrested the magistrates of the city and other dignitaries, and established a board of rulers. William the Silent again intervened. He came to Ghent, reprimanded the riotous burghers, and had Imbize brought before him. With his customary clemency, the prince pardoned the young man, after chiding him for his intolerance and folly. We read again of the fanatical Puritan, Imbize, in 1584, when he allied himself with the Catholic party, and plotted against his country. His scheme was, however, discovered; he was charged with treason, and brought to the gallows. Ghent was early a stronghold of powerful trade guilds, and one of the meeting-places of these unions was in the Market Square. These organisations of craftsmen were probably established first by the Flemish weavers to protect the woollen industry. All over Europe the guilds were instituted by artisans working in walled towns during the Middle Ages. Chaucer mentions them in England in his day. The guilds had their masters or wardens, who exercised an almost despotic sway over the members, and watched their interests zealously. The election of the wardens was made a pompous ceremony, accompanied by a religious service which was attended by the mayor and corporation, and followed by a banquet. No doubt the Market Square of Ghent saw many of these ceremonies in days of old. The power of the merchants and manufacturers of Ghent was great in the time of the city's affluence. We gain an idea of their sumptuous houses and their costly apparel from many paintings of the Dutch School. Often the merchant was wealthier than the feudal baron, and kings were known to borrow from them. Jacques Van Artevelde, "the brewer" of Ghent, was an important burgher in his day, though he was not, strictly speaking, a brewer, but a patrician who joined the Brewer's Guild, and headed a riotous faction against a rival guild. A fierce fight broke out in the square, and several hundreds of the combatants were slain. Van Artevelde was a staunch friend of Edward III. of England. He was killed by the populace for plotting to make Edward ruler of Flanders. Such, briefly, are some of the main historical events of this old town of martial and industrial renown. Let us now inspect some of the works of art preserved in the Cathedral of St Bavon. Perhaps the masterpiece here is "The Adoration of the Lamb," the marvellous altar-picture painted by Jan and Hubert Van Eyck. The colour is glowing, though the picture was painted in 1432. The Lamb is attended by angels, and worshipped by a company of the devout. There are hundreds of heads in the composition, which has several compartments. The landscape is exquisitely rendered, both in the effect of distance and in the flowers of the foreground. Parts of the altarpiece are elsewhere, in Berlin and Brussels, and the whole was carried away by the French, only a portion being restored. Portraits of the brothers Van Eyck are among the Just Judges in the picture. Among other paintings in the cathedral are works of Roose, Jansen, Porbus, and a Rubens, highly praised by Sir Joshua Reynolds. There are several monuments, notably the statue of St Bavon by Verbruggen, and the effigies of bishops of Ghent. In the crypt is the tomb of Hubert Van Eyck. In the Academy the pictures chiefly claiming inspection are "St Francis," by Rubens, some works by Grayer, and Jordaen's "Woman taken in Adultery." St Michael's Church contains a painting by Vandyk, "The Crucifixion," which is in poor preservation, and several modern pictures by Flemish artists. The Hotel de Ville and the University of Ghent are both fine buildings; the first has highly decorated frontages on two sides, that on the north showing the greater wealth of detail and ornament. A more modern, but very noble, structure is the university, containing a museum and library. ANTWERP Three centuries ago the city of Antwerp had in Europe scarcely a rival in commerce and affluence. To-day Antwerp remains one of the most populous commercial cities of Belgium, although the period of its greatest splendour passed with the Spanish persecution under the Duke of Alva. Not only as a busy port and mart is the city on the Schelde famous. It has renown as a centre of the arts, as the home of several of the most illustrious painters of the Flemish school, and as the birthplace of one of the first academies of painting. As a fortified town, it has always been of first importance in the defence of Belgium. The traveller from England, as the Harwich boat steams up Goldsmith's "lazy Scheld" at daybreak, in summer-time, sees long grey vistas, on either side of the estuary, of flat pastures and fertile fields of grain, spreading away to Bruges to the south, and across the island of Walcheren, to the north. Flushing comes into sight, its roofs and spires lit by the rising sun, which quickly lends colour to the landscape, and reveals a picturesque town, intersected by canals, lined with vessels. Past islets and sandbanks, upon which sea-birds congregate, the steamer follows the line of buoys and beacons, until the river, though still tidal, becomes narrower, and in sixty odd miles from its mouth, washes the quays of Antwerp. During this approach to the city by the Schelde an impression is formed in the mind of the voyager of the ingenious methods of dyke-making, canal construction, and damming which have so greatly aided in the prosperity of Holland and Belgium. Antwerp owes its wealth as much to the toil of the engineer and the agriculturist as to the merchant and craftsman. Rural Belgium is well populated, except in some parts of the Ardennes; the farms are tilled with science, the towns and villages of the Schelde-side are bright and clean, and inhabited by industrious, thrifty people. [Illustration: ANTWERP, 1832. THE CATHEDRAL.] Antwerp probably derives its name from "an t' werf," "on the wharf." Its position on a deep navigable river was one of the principal causes of the early commercial supremacy of the city. When Venice, Nuremberg, and Bruges were declining, the port on the Schelde was in the height of its repute, and second to Paris in the number of its inhabitants, among whom but few were poor. In education Antwerp excelled in these fortunate days, for the schools were admirable, and every burgher's child could benefit by the teaching provided by the senate. Philip II. of Spain, who despised the Flemings and Walloons, and disliked their loquacity, was received joyously in Antwerp, as hereditary sovereign of the seventeen Netherlands. The city was gay with triumphant arches and splendid banners; a gorgeous assemblage of dignitaries and their servants, with a great troop of soldiers, met the Spanish sovereign without the gates. His coldness and reserve disturbed the minds of the citizens. After Philip came the Duke of Alva with his reign of tyranny, the setting up of the Inquisition in Antwerp, the ruin of the silk trade, and the vast emigration of the oppressed workers to other countries, especially to England. In 1566, William of Orange was in Antwerp, and two years later, as soon as the prince had left the city, the natives bent to the rule of the oppressor. The Spaniards, defeated at Brussels, prepared some years after for an attack upon Antwerp, then the richest city of Belgium. On a grey wintry morning, the enemy encompassed the walls of the city, the besieged having been reinforced by an army of Walloons. The fight was one of the most desperate ever recorded in history. Gaining entrance, the Spaniards swept up the chief thoroughfares; "the confused mob of fugitives and conquerors, Spaniards, Walloons, Germans, burghers," writes Motley, "struggling, shouting, striking, cursing, dying, swayed hither and thither like a stormy sea." A frightful massacre followed upon the conquest of Antwerp, no less than eight thousand men, women, and children were put to death by the ferocious victors. Merchants were tortured in order to extort from them the hiding-places of their gold; the poor were killed because they had no store for the plunderer; and a young bride was torn from the arms of the bridegroom, and conveyed to a dungeon, where she tried to strangle herself with her long gold chain. She was stripped of her jewels and dress, beaten, and flung into the streets, to meet death at the hands of a rabble of soldiers. Such were the horrors of the capture of Antwerp, to be followed by the "Spanish Fury," in which more persons were slain than in the terrible massacre of St Bartholomew. The siege of 1830, on 27th October, was one of the most sanguinary conflicts in modern warfare. Attacked by the implacable General Chassé, the inhabitants had to face a terrible cannonade. The cathedral was damaged, the arsenal fired, and the townsfolk crouched in terror in vaults and cellars, while many of them fled into the open country. Again in the revolution of 1830, and in 1832, Antwerp was the scene of battle. From such records of carnage and cruelty, it is a relief to turn the pages of history till we read of the arts that flourished for so long in Antwerp. Not only were the wealthy classes of the city cultivated beyond the standard of many countries of Europe, but the artisans also shared in the general culture, and cherished respect for art. Quentin Matsys, whose pictures may be studied in the museum, was one of the early painters of Antwerp. Rubens and Teniers were both associated with the city, and their statues stand in the streets. Vandyk is another famous artist upon the roll of honour of Antwerp, and his image in marble is in the Rue des Fagots. Peter Paul Rubens was born in 1577, in Siegen. He was the pupil of Verhaecht and Van Nort, and afterwards of Otto Van Veen, whom he assisted in the decoration of Antwerp at the time of the visit of Albert and Isabella. Rubens travelled in Italy, where he pursued his art studies, afterwards settling in Antwerp at the beginning of the twelve years' truce. Here he painted most of his chief pictures. The works in the cathedral were finished in 1614. Under the patronage of Charles I. Rubens visited England, and was commissioned to embellish the banqueting hall in Whitehall. His fame also reached Spain, and his "Metamorphoses of Ovid" was painted for the royal hunting seat of that country. Sir Joshua Reynolds, though a somewhat prejudiced critic of Dutch and Belgian painting, visited the Low Countries more than once, and brought back art treasures to England. In 1781, he wrote to Burke from Antwerp, where he inspected the pictures in the churches. The Museum contains some of the masterpieces of Rubens, and notable examples of the work of Vandyk, Teniers, Rembrandt, and Van Eyck. Here is the great work of Quentin Matsys, "The Descent from the Cross." For the best-known painting by Rubens, "The Descent from the Cross," we must visit the Cathedral of Notre Dame. It has been said that the painting of the picture was suggested to Rubens by an Italian engraving, for there are traces in it of Italian influence. Parts of the painting have been restored and cleaned. It is seen to good advantage from a short distance, for the painting was planned for a large building. "The Elevation of the Cross" is another of the treasures in the cathedral. This, in the opinion of Sir Joshua Reynolds, is one of the chief pictures by Rubens. "The Assumption of the Virgin" was painted rapidly, and decorates the choir. The cathedral is Gothic, and one of the finest in Europe. The interior is impressive, with its wide nave and aisles. The choir stalls are beautifully carved, and should be carefully examined as examples of Gothic art. The pulpit is also carved, but the work is indifferent. The steeple, one of the highest in Christendom, is very exquisite, like lace work rather than stone and metal. In the tower are the many tuneful bells that ring out chimes, and one huge bell with a sonorous note. In the churches of St Paul and St Jacques, and of the Augustines, are paintings of great interest by Rubens, Vandyk, and Teniers. A ramble around the fortifications will show how strong are the defences of the city, which have been constructed since the last siege in 1832. Walls and citadels, well provided with points of vantage for artillery fire, begirt Antwerp to-day. The forts and barriers cost an enormous sum. Guns and ammunition are made in the city, which is the chief fortress of the country, and an important military centre. In the Grande Place stands the town hall, a florid building, containing several paintings, though none of remarkable note, except some frescoes by Leys, one of the most eminent of modern Belgian painters. Our tour of the city must include a visit to the house of Rubens, in the street named after him. The archway is from the designs of the painter, whose studio was in the grounds. The first Exchange was erected in 1531, and destroyed by fire in 1858. It was from this building that the plan of the London Royal Exchange was taken. The modern Bourse is in the Rue de la Bourse. Antwerp is architecturally a handsome city, with several fine squares, wide promenades, and well-planned streets. The docks are extensive, and the long quays stretch thence to the old fort on the south side. There is a triangular park with sheets of water, beyond the great Boulevard, and in the zoological garden is a fairly representative collection of animals. In the Rue Leopold is the botanic garden. The Plantin Museum, containing relics and volumes of one famous printer, is one of the public institutions that must be visited. Such are the chief monuments and objects of interest in the old city of Antwerp, where the ancient and the modern are both represented side by side in odd contrast. AMSTERDAM A horn of flatland, bounded by the North Sea and the Zuyder Zee, juts northward, with Haarlem and Amsterdam at its base. Sundered by a channel from the point of the horn is Texel, the biggest of the curious line of islands that stretches along the coast to Friesland. This Helder, or "Hell's Door," the tidal channel leading to the broad inlet of the Zuyder Zee, runs like a mill-race, and the passage is deep enough to admit large vessels travelling to the port of Amsterdam. The capital of Holland is built upon logs driven into the firm earth through morass and silt. It is a city of canals and dykes, spanned by hundreds of bridges, a northern Venice, dependent for its safety upon the proper control of sluices. The devouring sea is kept at bay by a mighty dam. Truly, Amsterdam is one of the wonders of men's ingenuity. The plan of its streets is remarkable; the thoroughfares are a series of semi-circles with their points to the Zuyder Zee. The flow of the canals and waterways that wind about the city is impelled by artificial means. The number of the piles upon which the palace of Amsterdam stands is reckoned at nearly fourteen thousand. About the thirteenth century, the building of the city began around the castle of Amstel, on a tidal marsh. During the siege of Haarlem by the Spanish, Amsterdam depended upon its waterway for food supplies. The Duke of Alva wrote: "Since I came into the world, I have never been in such anxiety. If they should succeed in cutting off the communications along the dykes, we should have to raise the siege of Haarlem, to surrender, hands crossed, or to starve." In 1787 when the King of Prussia brought his troops to Holland, in favour of the stadtholder, Amsterdam surrendered its garrison. And in 1795 the French entered the city without the resistance of the inhabitants. Sir Thomas Overbury, who wrote in 1609, describes Amsterdam as surpassing "Seville, Lisbon, and any other mart-town in Christendom." The city maintained a great fleet of vessels trading to the East Indies, the German ports, and the towns of the Baltic Sea. The historian relates that the people were not "much wicked," though disposed to drink; they were hard bargainers, but just, thrifty, hardworking, and shrewd in commerce. To-day the natives of Amsterdam are assuredly "inventive in manufactures," and eminently capable in all affairs of trading and finance. The fishing industry has declined seriously, but the export trade of Amsterdam is enormous, the products being chiefly butter, cheese, cotton goods, glass manufactures, leather goods, bread, stuffs, and gin. In 1900 the population of the city was 523,558. Amsterdam is still a metropolis of capitalists, many of whom are of the Jewish race, while it is a principal European centre of the diamond trade. The famous banking system, established under guarantee of the city, in 1609, is described at length by Adam Smith in his "Wealth of Nations." "Public utility," he writes, "and not revenue was the original object of this institution. Its object was to relieve the merchants from the inconvenience of a disadvantageous exchange." The bank was under the control of four reigning burgomasters, who were changed every year. The opulence of Amsterdam is apparent to the stranger who roams its streets to-day. Factories abound, artificers are numerous, and everywhere there are evidences of a prosperity that recalls the day when most of the business of Europe was transacted in these narrow, twisted streets, and a large fleet of vessels traded with the Indies. Here several renowned printers set up their presses in the seventeenth century, and many famous books were printed in the city. During the following century Amsterdam still remained the great commercial capital of Europe. The immigration of Spanish and Portuguese Jews into Holland brought to the city a fresh class of artisans, and gave an impulse to several crafts. In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries there was a vigorous intellectual development in Amsterdam. Several notable men were natives. Spinoza was born here, in 1632, after the routing of the Spanish forces. His parents were traders, Jewish fugitives from Spain. Baruch, or Bendictus, Spinoza excelled even his tutors at the age of fourteen, and the Rabbin Saul Levi Morteira was astounded by the boy's capacity for learning. A troubled, but resplendent life lay before this dark-eyed Hebrew youth. He was of the order of reformers, and shared the griefs and the trials of all who strive to benefit humanity. Persecution pursued Spinoza from the day when he conflicted with Morteira in the synagogue, uttering opinions which were regarded as dire heresy. We read of attempts upon his life, of excommunication, and of ostracism. The philosopher supported himself by polishing lenses for telescopes and optical instruments, until he was able to leave Amsterdam for the University of Leyden. Later came recognition with the publication of the great "Tractatus." When offered a pension by the King of France, the philosopher refused it, fearing that if he became a slave of the State, he might sacrifice his liberty of thought. Spinoza lived in extreme simplicity, it is said that he spent only twopence-farthing a day on his needs. His temper was equable. "Reason is my delight," he declared. "A virtuous life is not a sad and gloomy one." Strange that this noble and tolerant thinker should have been described as an enemy of humanity. "The God-intoxicated man," as Novalis said of Spinoza, was accused of atheism in a day when philosophic doubt was synonymous with crime. It was only such thinkers as Hegel, Lessing, Goethe and Schelling who were able to appraise Spinoza at his true value. For the uncultured he remained for generations an enemy of virtue. In Amsterdam Spinoza formed at least a measure of toleration among the citizens. He writes: "In the midst of this flourishing republic, this great city, men of all nations and all sects live together in the most perfect harmony." A monument to Spinoza was unveiled by Renan at the Hague, in 1877. Amsterdam abounds in memories of Rembrandt, though many of his paintings are distributed in the galleries of other cities. The rich capital of Holland encouraged painters, poets, and men of science; and in the year when Spinoza was born, Rembrandt settled in Amsterdam, and soon became noted as a painter of portraits. His house is in the Breestraat. In his day, it was beautifully adorned with works of art, and he owned a large collection of engravings. Like many great artists, Rembrandt lived absorbed in his labours, seldom frequenting society. After a spell of reverses he went to live on the Rozengracht, and in this house on the quay he spent his last days. We think of Rembrandt, in the busy Amsterdam of his day, writing to a friend: "In this great town wherein I am, there being no man, save me, who does not pursue commerce; everyone is so attentive to his own profit that I might remain here all my life unseen of any." Here, leading a life of strenuous simplicity, content with his labour, a piece of cheese and a crust, Rembrandt painted many memorable pictures. He soon became one of the most respected of Amsterdam's citizens. His pupils were many, and they paid high fees for their tuition. But Rembrandt remained almost a recluse, and seldom forsook his studio for festive company. In the Fodor Museum in Amsterdam may be seen the "Tribute Money," some portrait drawings, and "Mars and Venus in the Net." Several of Rembrandt's works are in private collections in the city. The picture gallery also contains some of the painter's famous pictures. For a glimpse of the business life of Amsterdam, we must stroll in the Kalver Straat, an interesting thoroughfare, running from the palace to the sea, and then along the harbour and the quay. The great dyke encloses a number of docks, all thronged with ships, and the fish market should be seen. Herring-curing, by the way, was the invention of a native of the Low Countries. Among the public buildings that will repay inspection, are the Town Hall, the Bourse, and two churches, the old church and the new church. The older church dates from about 1300. Its beautiful stained windows were painted at a later date. There are some tombs here of illustrious naval conquerors, and these, and the magnificent organ, in its very ornate gallery, are the chief objects of interest. The new church is scarcely "new," for it was built in 1408. This is a fine edifice, with a number of monuments, an interesting carved pulpit, and metal-work screen. Admiral De Ruyter lived here, the great adversary of Blake, and the gallant commander who held us at bay off the coast of Suffolk, and did such damage to our ships in the Medway. The pictures in the Museum are representative of the Dutch school, and the collection includes many masterpieces; the chief artists represented are Teniers, Rembrandt, Paul Potter, Gerard Douw, and Vandyk. The situation of Amsterdam, on a salt marsh, with a stratum of mud below its houses, would seem dangerous to the health of the city. It is, however, a very healthy capital, and the inhabitants do not apparently suffer from the specific diseases that are said to flourish in low, wet lands. Amsterdam leaves a picture in the mind of mediæval lanes and alleys, with curious turrets and gables, shadowing slow canals; of sunlight and vivid colour; of ships coming and going, and bustling quays, and streets with old and new houses quaintly jumbled. COLOGNE In the days of Roman dominion, a city called Civitas Ubiorum was built by the Rhine upon the site where now stands the fortified mediæval town of Cologne. Remains of the Roman occupation are still to be traced in the city in the bases of walls, but the amphitheatre was demolished long ago. Agrippina was born here, and Trajan ruled in the fortress. In the Middle Ages Cologne was a prosperous city, with a wide trading repute, and celebrated for its arts and learning. William Caxton came here to learn printing, an industry which he introduced into England. Militarism and clerical domination appear to have been the chief causes of the long spell of misfortune that fell later upon Cologne. Persecution was one of the principal occupations of a number of the people at this period; and much zeal was expended in expelling heretics, Jews and Protestants from the city. Cologne also suffered decline through the closing of the Rhine as a navigable waterway by the Dutch, and it was not until 1837 that the river was re-opened to trading vessels plying to foreign ports. To-day the city is an important commercial and industrial centre. Perhaps the best general view of Cologne is from the opposite bank of the Rhine. The city is a forest of spires and towers; there were at one time over two thousand clerics within the walls, and religious buildings were more numerous then than to-day. The wide river is spanned by two bridges; the more important is a wonderful structure, over thirteen hundred feet in length, and made of iron. The Cathedral was begun in the thirteenth century, but it remained for a considerable time in an unfinished state, and portions fell into decay. Frederick William III. restored the building, and added to it; and since this time the work has been continued in several parts of the edifice. Externally the Cathedral is a stately building with its flying buttresses, host of pinnacles, and splendid south doorway. The architecture is French--rather German--Gothic. [Illustration: COLOGNE. ST. MARTIN'S CHURCH, 1826.] In the choir are very brilliant stained windows, some mural pictures, and numerous statues of Scriptural characters. The painted windows here, and in the aisles, are extremely gorgeous examples of this art. Among the objects of interest in the chapels are memorials of the archbishops of the city, and an early painting, known as the Dombild, depicting the saints of Cologne. The Church of St Ursula and of the Eleven Thousand Virgins is remarkable for its treasury of the bones of the adventurous virgins of the famous legend. These relics are embedded in the walls of the choir. There are a few pictures, but none of note, in this church. St Maria Himmelfahrt, the church of the Jesuits, is highly flamboyant in its embellishments. Amongst its treasures are the rosary of St Ignatius and the crozier of St Francis Xavier. In St Gereon's Church is a collection of the bones of the martyrs killed during the persecution by the Romans. Architecturally, this church deserves careful attention for it has ancient portions, and presents several styles. The baptistery and sacristy are very ornate in design. One of the works of Rubens is in St Peter's Church. This is the well-known altar picture of "The Crucifixion of St Peter." Sir Joshua Reynolds and Wilkie have both recorded their impressions of this great work. Rubens esteemed this as the best picture that he ever painted; but Reynolds thought the drawing feeble, and surmised that it was finished by one of the pupils of Rubens, after the master's death. The Church of Santa Maria is on the site of the Roman capital, and on the same ground stood a palace at a later date. It is interesting for its decorated choir, and the old doorways. There are several other churches in Cologne that should be visited. In the museum there are many pictures, including one by Durer, "St Francis," by Rubens, "A Madonna," by Titian, and a work by Vandyk. The paintings of the Cologne school are numerous, and demand attention, as they represent the art of the period when painting began to flourish in Germany. Some of the pictures were painted as early as the thirteenth century. There are many modern paintings in the museum. A number of Roman antiquities, statuary, and pottery, are also preserved here. Among the secular buildings of note are the Rathaus, with varied architectural styles, and the Kaufhaus, where the Imperial councils were held in former days. The noble historic stream upon which the city stands, "Father Rhine," flows through its finest scenery above Cologne, among the Siebengebirge heights. "Beneath these battlements, within those walls Power dwelt amidst her passions; in proud state Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, Doing his evil will, nor less elate Than mightier heroes of a longer date. What want these outlaws conquerors should have? But history's purchas'd page to call them great? A wider space and ornamented grave? Their hopes were not less warm, their souls were full as brave." So wrote Byron in his verses upon the majestic river, whose "castle crags," and wooded glens have been described again and again by poets of many nations. The Rhine has a life and a population of its own. On its banks are the homesteads of vine-growers and farmers, while fishermen ply their craft in its prolific waters. Upon the river itself float the voyagers in sea vessels, and the enormous timber-rafts, which are one of the curious sights of the Rhine. A steamboat trip on the river will delight the tourist, but he should leave the boat at Bonn, for below that old town the stream flows through a tame, featureless country. I must not forget the celebrated perfume for which Cologne is famous. The spirit known as Eau de Cologne was the invention of Farina in the seventeenth century. It is still manufactured in the city, and provides an industry for a large number of people. George Meredith's novel, "Farina," comes to mind as we wander in Cologne, and note the name of the discoverer of the world-famous scent. Every visitor to the city should read "Farina," for its vivid description of the life there, "in those lusty ages when the Kaisers lifted high the golden goblet of Aachen, and drank, elbow upward, the green-eyed wine of old romance." Here is Meredith's picture of Cologne, on the eve of battle: "The market-places were crowded with buyers and sellers, mixed with a loitering swarm of soldiery, for whose thirsty natures wine-stalls had been tumbled up. Barons and knights of the empire, bravely mounted and thickly followed, poured hourly into Cologne from South Germany and North. Here staring Suabians, and red-featured warriors of the East Kingdom, swaggered up and down, patting what horses came across them, for lack of occupation for their hands. Yonder huge Pomeranians, with bosks of beard stiffened out square from the chin, hurtled mountainous among the peaceable inhabitants." HEIDELBERG To think of Heidelberg is to think of learning. One of the first of European universities was established in this town by the Elector Rupert; and here culture has flourished for centuries, in spite of repeated sieges and a long history of disasters. What a grim story is that of yonder old grey castle that frowns upon Heidelberg across the River Neckar. Wars and rumours of wars form the chief chronicles of this ancient town from the days of the Electors Palatine of the Rhine to the invasion of the French. Besieged by Tully after a protracted siege, held by the Imperialists, seized by the Swedish troops, burnt by the French, who ravaged it again a few years later--Heidelberg has been the scene of many calamities and much bloodshed. Again and again has the castle been bombarded and fired. The last catastrophe happened in 1764, when the fortress-palace was struck by lightning, set on fire, and almost destroyed. It is now a great ruin; the part least injured dates from the sixteenth century. The massive tower, with walls over twenty feet thick, was hurled down by the French in their last assault. Such architectural details as remain are of great interest. The chief gateway has parts of the old portcullis; there are some statues of the sixteenth century, and a triumphal arch. From whatever point of view the Castle of Heidelberg is seen, it is a striking red pile, proudly dominating the surrounding country, and overshadowing the Neckar. A part of the castle is known as the English Palace. Here lived Elizabeth Stuart, daughter of James I. and grand-daughter of Mary Queen of Scots, who was united to the Elector Frederick V. This palace was built in 1607, and the garden was made about this time for the enjoyment of the young bride. The celebrated great Tun of Heidelberg is in one of the cellars of the castle. This prodigious cask was originally made in the fourteenth century, and contained twenty-one pipes of Rhenish wine. A second tun was constructed in 1664, and this held six hundred hogsheads. The French emptied this, and demolished it. A third cask was made to hold eight hundred hogsheads, and when filled, the citizens held a dance upon a stage erected on its top. Viewed as a work of architecture, the University is not an inspiring structure. It stands in a small square about the middle of the town. In the library are missals and a large collection of books. Attached are the botanic gardens of the college. The vandal Tully, during his campaign, ravaged the university, and destroyed a number of valuable volumes and manuscripts. One of the greatest names associated with the University of Heidelberg is the philosopher George Frederick William Hegel, born in 1770. He was a native of Stuttgart, and at eighteen years of age he entered the University of Tübingen. There Hegel met Schelling, for whom he had a deep admiration. After a time of struggle as a tutor, the philosopher came to Heidelberg, in 1816, as professor. His theses do not seem to have attracted the students of that date, for we read that only four persons attended his opening courses of lectures. Hegel found time during two years in Heidelberg to write a part of his "Encylopædia of Philosophical Science," a great work, which obtained for the author a chair at the University of Berlin, where he lectured for about thirteen years. He died of cholera, in 1831, at the age of sixty-one. Another illustrious man of Heidelberg was the poet Viktor Von Scheffel, to whose memory a monument stands in the terrace of the castle. The castle and the university are the two historic buildings in Heidelberg that attract the traveller. One does not easily tire of the view from the hill three hundred feet above the ruins of the castle, nor of the beauties of the environs, and the banks of the Neckar. The city is made cheerful by its law and medical students, who drink their lager beer with gusto, sing their staves, and keep up the old university traditions and customs. There are bright clean streets, and many shops that prosper through the college and the host of summer visitors. Two fine bridges span the Neckar. The older bridge was constructed in 1788, and the new bridge was built about a hundred years later. It connects Heidelberg with Neuenheim. The old town is curiously elongated, stretching along the riverside. Modern suburbs are extending to-day, to provide for a population numbering about forty thousand. Unfortunately, very little of old Heidelberg has survived the devastation of wars and conflagrations. Even the churches were despoiled of their monuments by the French soldiery, and scarcely one of the ancient houses remains as a memorial of the Middle Ages. Climb the hill of Anlagen, and you will reach the church associated with Jerome of Prague, the contemporary of Huss. To the door of this church Jerome affixed his heretical affirmations, and in the graveyard he preached to a vast crowd. Olympia Morata is buried here. This beautiful and cultured Italian woman was a second Hypatia, who, however, escaped the too common fate of innovating philosophers. She married a German doctor, after a flight from her native land, and lived in Heidelberg, where her lectures were attended by the learned of the town. NUREMBERG Few towns in Europe have preserved so much of the spirit of the Middle Ages as Nuremberg. Its history is pregnant with romance, and its annals of mediæval art are of marked interest. Amsterdam recalls Rembrandt; Antwerp calls to mind Rubens, and with the town of Nuremberg, the student of painting associates its illustrious native, Albert Durer. The craftsmen of this town were among the most skilful of any European nation during mediæval times. Goldworkers, armourers, clock-makers, and artists in stained glass worked here in the days of the trade guilds. Brass was founded in this city at an early date. Nuremberg was famed, too, for its metalworkers and goldsmiths. It is still a town of industrious artificers. The architecture of the churches is of the highest Gothic order; the façade of the Rathaus is a noble specimen of late Renaissance work; and the castle and fortifications are feudal structures of much historical interest. There are few towns that can compare with Nuremberg in the charm and variety of its memorials of the past. We cannot be certain concerning the date of the founding of the town, but probably it was in existence in the tenth century. In the reign of Henry II., Nuremberg was already a place of some importance, and its prosperity advanced until it became one of the chief markets of Europe. The castle was the residence of many rulers of the country, and it was one of the favourite palaces of Henry IV. In the thirteenth century, Nuremberg had a large number of Jews among its population, who enjoyed all the rights of citizens. But under Karl IV. a policy of oppression was adopted, and at a later period, the Jewish inhabitants were bitterly persecuted. [Illustration: NUREMBERG. 1832.] John Huss was received here by an enthusiastic populace; but when the reformer's army laid waste the country, the people of Nuremberg valiantly withstood the enemy. When the wave of the Reformation swept the land, Nuremberg gave a welcome to Martin Luther, and his revised ritual of worship was used in the churches. Melanchthon also came to the town, and established a school there, though the institution was not successful. A statue of the "gentle" reformer was set up in Nuremberg. Civil strife disturbed the town in 1552, but a period of peace followed, and a few years later saw the founding of the university. The Thirty Years' War brought disaster upon Nuremberg. The army of Wallenstein attacked the ancient walls, and the outer entrenchments which had been constructed by the inhabitants upon the rumour of war. Led by Gustavus, the soldiers and people of the town opposed the vast forces of Wallenstein that encompassed the fortifications in a series of camps. Hunger and plague assailed the besieged within the gates, while without the foe cut off escape, and barred the entrance of food supplies. For weeks the siege endured. Thousands died from disease, thousands were slain by the enemy. In a valiant sally, Gustavus led his troops to the attack. The battle raged for hours, and both sides suffered terrible losses. Nuremberg might have fallen had Wallenstein been able to rally his hungry soldiers, but, as it was, he withdrew his force. Let us now review the peaceful arts of the city. The record of Albert Durer's life shows the character of a deeply religious man, devoted to his faith, and absorbed by his art. He was reared in Nuremberg, and was the son of a working goldsmith. Born in 1471, Durer was apprenticed at an early age to his father's craft, in which, however, he did not excel, for his heart was set upon following the profession of a painter. His first master in the art was Wolgemut, whose portrait is one of Durer's finest works. The young artist spent some time in Italy, studying, among other paintings, the work of Mantegna, and, on returning to his native town, he applied himself most industriously to his art. Albert Durer's pictures are scattered among the galleries of the world. Durer, in painting landscape, showed a singular modern feeling. In his portraits he was a realist, analytical in the use of his brush, and especially painstaking in painting fine hair, for which he used ordinary brushes with extreme dexterity, much to the amazement of Bellini. In the Germanic Museum at Nuremberg there are five pictures by the master, and some copies of his works. The bulk of his paintings are in other galleries at Munich, Berlin, London, and elsewhere. An interesting memorial of Albert Durer is the old gabled house in which he lived and worked. Here he toiled with the brush and the graver's tools, and received as his guests the cultured men of the city. His life was simple and industrious, and his nature gentle and retiring. Durer had several pupils at Nuremberg, who carried on his tradition in painting and copper and wood engraving. The art treasures of the churches are very numerous. St Sebald's Church is a splendid Gothic pile, with many architectural triumphs, such as the highly decorated bride's door, with its finely carved effigies, the high pillars, Krafft's statuary and reliefs, and the crucifix by Stoss. The splendid western door of the Frauenkirche must be seen by the visitor, for it is an instructive example of Gothic work of the richest design. St Lawrence has two figures, Adam and Eve, on its chief doorway; and some Scriptural reliefs adorn the entrance. The windows are beautifully painted. There is a notable picture of "Christ and Mary" in the Imhoff Gallery. There are several other churches in Nuremberg containing works of art, and offering study for the lover of architecture and painting. The work of the craftsmen of the Middle Ages is seen everywhere in these buildings, and a detailed description would fill a volume. The Museum is in an ancient monastery, and in its numerous rooms will be found Roman antiquities, old metal work, pottery, furniture of the Middle Ages, weapons, a collection of books, some of them illustrated by Durer, and an array of paintings of the German school. A full and excellent catalogue is issued. The castle, with its stirring chronicle, is a feudal fortress dominating the plain, and forming the chief rampart of the town's defences. Walls and towers protect Nuremberg on every side, as in the ancient days of peril. The view from the towers is very remarkable, and from one of these points of outlook, one gains a long-remembered impression of the old town, with its towers and steeples, and the surrounding country, watered by the Pegnitz and clothed with forests. The fortifications were finished in the fifteenth century, and provided a strong protection to the town in time of siege. Among the buildings of this "quaint old town of art and song," as Longfellow describes it, the Rathaus must be visited. The west façade is very handsome Renaissance work by the Brothers Wolf, with three towers, and three ornate entrances. The fresco paintings within are the work of Durer and his pupils, but they are in poor preservation. There is a beautiful ceiling, by Beheim, in the council chamber. A fountain, with a statue of Apollo, by Peter Vischer, is in one of the courtyards. The god is splendidly modelled, and graceful, and the pedestal of the statue has several mythological figures. The most pleasing quarters of the town for the lover of antiquity are below the Fleischbrücke, where the ancient houses overhanging the stream are exceedingly quaint, the narrow alleys surrounding the Rathaus, and the castle and its environs. The fountain in the fruit market, Albert Durer's house, the churches, and the Imhoff house should all be inspected if you wish to gain a comprehensive recollection of old and new Nuremberg. Nuremberg was celebrated for its sculpture, an art that awakened here and in Würzburg at the Renaissance. While Donatello was living, Stoss, Krafft and Vischer were gaining repute as image-makers in stone, wood, and bronze. A volume has been published lately in France, "Peter Vischer et la Sculpture Franconienne," by Louis Réan, which tells the story of the rise of the Nuremberg craftsmen. Adam Krafft was no doubt an influence in the work of Albert Durer. The South Kensington Museum contains several examples of the work of these German artists. We must not quit Nuremberg without recalling the great poet, Wolfram, who was born at Eschenbach, a village near the city. It was to Wolfram that Wagner owed the subjects for his two great works, "Parsifal" and "Lohengrin." Nuremberg stands high, on the verge of an ancient forest, long famous for its hunting. Its river is the Pegnitz, which flows through the town about its centre, and is crossed by several fine bridges. Besides its rambling lanes and main thoroughfares, there are several open spaces and squares; but the houses retain, for the greater part, their mediæval air and irregularity of structure, with carved balconies, gables, and turrets. It is the second important town of Bavaria in point of population. WITTENBERG To the south-west of Berlin, between that city and Leipzig, is the old town of Wittenberg. The rolling Elbe, which rises in the wild range of the Erz Gebirge, and crosses Germany on its long course to Hamburg and the sea, flows by the town, and spreads itself into a wide stream. Saxony, the third in importance of the kingdoms of Germany, is a fertile land, cultivated from an early date, and famed as a granary and orchard. It is noted, too, for its minerals--coal, tin, cobalt, iron, lead, and marble. The town is still fortified, and bears a somewhat grim aspect. It was much damaged by the Austrian artillery in 1760, and has suffered the ravages of war before, and since the Electors of Saxony lived in the mediæval castle. Here was founded an important university, afterwards removed to Halle. It was at the University of Wittenberg that Martin Luther taught as professor of theology. The supreme interest of these rambling streets are the associations with the great Protestant reformer. Wittenberg is a place of pious pilgrimage for those who revere the memory of Luther and Melanchthon. The Schloss Kirche contains the ashes of the two preachers of the reformed faith; and it was on the door of this church that Luther nailed his bold indictment of papal corruption. The town abounds with memories of that stupendous battle for religious liberty which spread into all parts of Christendom. How vast were the issues in the balance when Martin Luther defied the power of Rome! Long before the theologian of Wittenberg, several reformers had uttered protests against the sale of indulgences by the Church of Rome. Huss, Jerome of Prague, John of Wessel, John of Goch, all raised their fervent voices upon the evils of the system. The Bible was now coming into the hands of the laity; Wicliff's versions were in use in England, and in Germany, Reuchlin and others had made Hebrew the study of the educated. Erasmus, too, had satirised the vicious lives of the monks. The way was prepared for a popular reformer, such as the ardent priest and theologian of Wittenberg. Archbishop Albert of Mayence and Magdeburg was indebted to Pope Leo X. for his investiture, and was unable to raise the money. The Pope was in need of funds. He therefore gave permission to the archbishop to establish a wide sale of indulgences in Germany. The bulk of the people, reared in obedience to Rome, made no complaint of the practice, and were quite ready to purchase absolution for their sins. But Luther contended that indulgences only brought the remission of penalties, and refused to offer complete pardon for indulgences alone. Tetzel, the agent of Leo X., was naturally enraged. He thundered anathemas upon the presumptuous Luther. The reformer met his denunciations by affixing his defiant propositions to the door of the Schloss Kirche. So began the historic struggle between Catholics and Protestants. Luther merely impeached the sale of indulgences; he was still loyal to the papal authority. The Pope was, however, headstrong and tyrannous. He showed neither tact nor diplomacy, but issued a bill of excommunication against the unruly priest. The document was burned in contempt by Martin Luther. Let us glance at the character of this doughty heretic. The birthplace of Luther was Eisleben, in Saxony, and he was born in 1483. His first school was at Magdeburg, and he was educated for the law. But the early trend of his mind was pietistic; he aspired to become a teacher of religion. He joined the Augustine Order, and observed devoutly all the canons of the Catholic creed. We read that Luther was appointed professor at the University of Wittenberg; that he taught many students, and discoursed eloquently. Luther's temperament was hostile to asceticism. He had a capacity for enjoying life; he delighted in music, and sang daily. He was not opposed to the custom of drinking wine with company. More than all, he impeached, by precept and example, the teaching of the virtue of celibacy. He said that true manhood finds joy in womanhood; and he married an ex-nun, Catherine de Bora, who bore him children. This sane indictment of the unnatural practice of celibacy was accounted one of Martin Luther's most enormous iniquities. His clerical opponents arose and denounced him. He was described as a man of immoral life; it was circulated that he drank wine to excess, and wrote hymns praising drunkenness. He was labelled an atheist, a blasphemer, and a charlatan, who did not believe in the doctrines that he taught. But Martin Luther soon gathered about him a band of zealous followers, and his fame went forth to the farther ends of Europe. Philip Melanchthon, a man in some respects more admirable than Luther, joined in the crusade of reform. "The gentle Melanchthon" had studied in Heidelberg and Tubingen. He was the author of many religious volumes, and it was he who composed the "Augsburg Confession." The effect of Luther's teaching was not without its evils. Guided by their own reading of the Bible, zealots found authority for violence and persecution. There were risings of peasants, which Luther denounced, even urging their suppression with the extremity of force. This brave assailant of Rome was unwisely aggressive in his attitude towards those sects that differed from him in their beliefs. He was a bitter enemy of the followers of Zwingli, the reformer of Zurich. The sectaries were sundered and torn with dissensions and quarrels. Melanchthon died rejoicing that he was leaving a world made hideous by the hatreds of the pious disputants. For the Jews Luther had no toleration. He detested the spirit of science, which was spreading even among the Catholics; and declared that the study of Aristotle was "useless." He described the great Athenian as "a devil, a horrid calumniator, a wicked sycophant, a prince of darkness, a real Apollyon, a beast, a most horrid impostor on mankind, and a professed liar." This contempt for the discoveries of science was a mark of the ignorance that led Luther to prescribe that a "possessed" child should be thrown into the water to sink or be restored to sanity. The extortionate demands of the popes were no doubt the chief cause of that enthusiasm that burst like a flame when Luther withstood the exactions of Rome. Germany had long been bled to fill the coffers. The country was prepared for revolt. Leo X. was one of the most extravagant of the sovereign pontiffs, and it was said that he wasted as much as the revenue of three popes. He created thousands of new livings, which he sold. The office of cardinal was purchasable. But none of the wealth of the Curia found its way to Germany; on the contrary, that nation was constantly called upon to contribute heavily to the funds of the church. In Wittenberg, the flame of revolt burst forth, and all Germany soon rallied to the support of Luther, who showed himself a born leader of men. The propaganda spread even to Spain, that ancient stronghold of Catholicism. In 1519 a number of tracts by Luther were sent into that country from Basle, where they were printed in Latin. These disquisitions fell into the hands of the learned. Valdes, secretary to Charles V., sent to Spain an account of Luther's proclamation against indulgences, together with an acknowledgment that reform was needed in the Church. As soon as the discovery was made that Lutheran literature was entering Spain, the inquisitors diligently sought for those who had copies of the proscribed tracts. Valdes, the emperor's secretary, though then a staunch Catholic, was brought before the holy office because he had discoursed with Melanchthon. It was well for Luther that he was defended by Frederick, the Elector of Saxony. We wonder that the rebellious monk, who raised such venomous hatred, escaped with his life. But even the tribunal of the Diet of Worms could not daunt Luther. He flatly refused to retract. Nothing was left but to banish him from the town; and under the protection of the Elector of Saxony, he was kept in the Wartburg. In England the Lutheran heresy had been checked by Henry VIII., who wrote against it, and won the esteem of the Pope for his defence of the faith. Cardinal Wolsey's efforts were of no avail in stemming the tide of reformation; and the King, enraged with the Pope for refusing a divorce from Catherine, suppressed his anti-Lutheran scruples of conscience without difficulty. The flame kindled in Wittenberg spread over England. Monasteries were suppressed; the new creed, first the religion of the poorer educated classes, was soon adopted by all classes. The story of the Reformation is of strangely absorbing interest. In Wittenberg, the annals of the historic conflict are recalled as we stand before the church door upon which Luther nailed his ninety-five theses, and read the inscriptions on bronze that his Protestant successors have set there. Martin Luther was the man for his age, and whatever were his faults, he served humanity. Little did he anticipate the terrible wars and the fierce religious persecution that followed upon his challenge to Leo X., and the burning of the bull of excommunication outside the walls of Wittenberg. The memorials of the vast struggle arising from the resistance of Luther to be seen in the town are first the Schloss Kirche, and then the house of the reformer in the old buildings of the University. In the house, which has been little altered since the death of Luther in 1546, are a few relics, a chair and table, some utensils, and the portraits by Kranach. A tree marks the spot where Luther burned the bull of excommunication in 1520. In the market place is the statue in bronze of the founder of Protestantism. The house of Melanchthon is also to be seen. His statue was set up about forty years ago. The tombs of Luther and Melanchthon in the Schloss Kirche are marked by tablets. In this church is the grave of the Elector Frederick, the trusty friend of Luther, adorned with a magnificent monument by Peter Vischer. This is one of the notable works of that artist. There is also a relief by Vischer in the church. In the Stadt Kirche Luther preached. There are some pictures here ascribed to Kranach. One of them represents Melanchthon performing baptism, and another, Martin Luther preaching to his converts. Kranach's works will interest students of painting. Some more of his portraits of Luther and Melanchthon will be found in the Rathaus. This artist was court painter to the Elector Frederick. He was one of the most gifted of Bavarian painters, and his son inherited his talent. The elder Kranach was born in Kranach, the town after which he is named. He was a friend of Luther and Melanchthon. His death occurred in 1553. Such are the chief mementoes of Luther and his colleague in Wittenberg, "The Protestant Mecca." PRAGUE In the valley of the Moldau, a beautiful tributary of the Elbe, in a setting of hills clothed with pines, lies the old capital of Bohemia. Great mountain barriers enclose an undulating and wild tract, with Prague in its centre. In the valleys there is verdure, and the fields are well tilled. The river flows through the heart of the city, broad and powerful, yet navigable. Very delightful and inviting are the banks of the Moldau on a summer's evening when Prague gives itself to music and idling. Handsome bridges span the stream, and through their arches glide the great rafts of timber and the fishermen's boats. Viewed from one of the hills of the environs, the city is a scene of colour, with spires and mediæval gables, green open spaces, and narrow lanes. Prague is one of the most historically interesting cities in Europe, and its aspect to-day still suggests the Middle Ages, though in spirit its natives are progressive. The atmosphere of olden days remains. There are many buildings here with romantic histories, and instructive works of art are stored within them, though Prague is not rich in pictures. Let me compress some of the history of the town into a few lines before we inspect the monuments. One of the first rulers of Bohemia was a woman, Libussa, who probably built a city on the Hradcany Hill in the eighth century. Under the pious King Wenceslas the city became a stronghold of the Christian faith, and in his time the first cathedral was built. When Charles IV. was made ruler of Bohemia, the city of Prague was enlarged and strongly fortified. The university was then instituted, and there were many guilds of craftsmen within the walls. The prosperity of Prague at this period seems to have brought about those conditions which aroused the reforming zeal of Huss, who found the people addicted to pleasure and demoralised by luxury. Attacks had been made upon the Roman Catholic creed by Mathew of Cracow, and other reformers before Huss and Jerome of Prague, who were followers of Wicliff. [Illustration: PRAGUE, 1832. THE CITY AND BRIDGE.] Huss was an ardent nationalist, and a hater of Germany; and there is no doubt that his martyrdom was the result of his political sympathies, as well as of his indictment of the corruption of religion. This great preacher lived in Prague, and thundered his monitions from the pulpit of a chapel. His teaching was a defence of Wicliff, and the reform of the Church, and for this he was excommunicated. Wicliff's works were thrown into the flames. Huss was forced to fly from Prague, taking shelter in the house of one of his followers in the country. Through a treacherous invitation to Constance, the reformer fell into a snare prepared for him. He was cast into prison, and before long he was taken to the stake, and burnt to death for his heresies. The execution of the reformer of Prague aroused the deepest resentment among the citizens. This indignation was the first spark of the great flame that spread through the land, causing a religious war, and the siege of Prague by Sigismund. This king favoured the papal authority, and so rendered himself unpopular among the citizens during his brief reign. One of the monarchs of Bohemia who aided in the extension and the adornment of Prague was Rudolph. He was an encourager of learning and the arts, and a dabbler in science. Rudolph was succeeded by Matthias, whose reign was greatly disturbed by religious strife in the city. During the Thirty Years' War, Prague was besieged by a Swedish force, and a part of the city fell into the hands of the invaders. The history of the city is largely a chronicle of combats, for it was constantly assailed by armies and disturbed within. Protestantism received its deathblow in Prague, in 1621, after the great battle of the White Mountain. The Austrian War of Succession was scarcely at an end before the outbreak of the Seven Years' War of Frederick the Great, when the famous "Battle of Prague" was fought. We now enter upon a more tranquil period of Bohemian history. Writing of the architects of Prague, in "Cities," Mr Arthur Symons asserts that "there is something in their way of building, fierce, violent, unrestrained, like the savagery of their fighting, of their fighting songs, of their fighting music." One of the most interesting of the sacred buildings is the Gothic Cathedral of St Vitus, designed by Petrlik. The decoration is still unfinished, but the edifice has beautiful slender spires, and an ornate tower. The chapels of the Cathedral contain several memorials of note, but there are no paintings of great artistic value. Several sovereigns and their consorts are buried here. The Tyn Church has a very fine front. Within is the grave of Tycho Brahe. A church of a later period is St Nicholas. The Strahov Monastery has been reconstructed repeatedly since the days when it was founded in the twelfth century. A "Madonna" by Albrecht Durer is one of the treasures of the monastery. There is a very richly painted and carved ceiling in the library. The Capuchin Monastery, and the Emaus Monastery, are both of historic importance, and the Church of St George is one of the handsomest in the city. Palaces abound in Prague, and one of the most characteristic is that of Count Clam-Gallas, with a noble gateway, decorated with statuary. On the Hradcany is the Castle, which was the residence of many of Bohemia's kings and queens. It is approached by two fine courts and an ancient doorway; the older part of the building dating from the period of Vladislav, whose magnificent hall is of great architectural interest. There are several more old palaces in Prague, such as the Kinsky and the Morzin, which all invite a lengthy inspection. All the bridges spanning the river are beautifully planned. One of the finest is the Karl Bridge, dating from the fourteenth century, and adorned by many images of saints and heroes. The Powder Gate (Prãsna Brana) was erected by Vladislav II. and served as a storehouse for ammunition. It is a strangely ornamented structure, with carved escutcheons, many effigies, and flamboyant decorations on each of its sides. The gate or tower is surmounted by a wedge-like steeple. The Bohemian Museum is a modern building, finely adorned with statuary. It contains a large collection of arms and armour, coins, books, and manuscripts of interest. Bohemia has a state theatre, and the building is one of the finest in modern Prague. I have had the pleasure of meeting the cultured director of the National Theatre, Herr M[)u]sek, from whom I learned how the Bohemian people subscribed, in a few hours, a sufficient sum for the rebuilding of the theatre after its destruction by fire. In Prague the drama is esteemed as a real educational force as well as a means of diversion. The actors are artists who regard their calling seriously, and the plays represented are by foreign and Bohemian authors. Bernard Shaw, Pinero, and John Galsworthy are among the contemporary English playwriters whose works have been performed in Prague. Ibsen's plays are frequently presented by the national company. There are occasional performances of grand opera, and the theatre has a large and excellent orchestra. The sum granted by government for the support of the theatre is about ten thousand pounds yearly. ATHENS The decay of a great civilisation causes in the reflective the reconsideration of many problems of human life. We who live in Great Britain, in security and prosperity, and boast of the power of our empire, should feel somewhat humbled by the contemplation of the ruins of Athens. The story of the rise and fall of ancient Greece abounds with lessons and warnings for those who ponder seriously upon the destiny of great nations. That little country jutting into the sea, and broken up by gulfs and inlets, at the southern extremity of Europe--with an area not so large as that of Portugal--once dominated wide territories in Persia and Egypt, tracts of Turkey and Asia Minor, parts of Italy, and the shores of the Black Sea. [Illustration: ATHENS, 1824. A SUPPOSED APPEARANCE IF RESTORED.] Attica and its capital covered a district that could be crossed to-day in its widest part, by a railway train in less than one hour. The capital of this small but powerful region was a city with a population less than that of Sheffield. Yet Athens stood for the whole of the civilised world as a token of might, wealth, and culture, united in a city of limited dimensions, situated in the midst of natural surroundings not wholly kindly for the development of tillage. The Athenians, descendants of tribes of the North, and of the old race of Pelasgians, were a vigorous, adventurous, and highly intelligent race when western Europe was inhabited by rude primitive tribes. Long before the introduction of Christianity in the East, Athens was a beacon-light of religious and ethical culture. Three hundred years before the birth of Christ, the Greeks had made Alexandria the chief seat of learning and refinement in the world, and "the birthplace of modern science." And while other states of Europe were ruled by autocrats and tyrants, the Athenians adopted an advanced republican form of government. The light of Athens shone dazzlingly for centuries. Its many splendid buildings, and the glorious Parthenon, were erected in the days of its proudest prosperity; in the days of gifted architects and sculptors, such as the world had never known, and in the days long before the apostles of Christianity had set foot on Attic soil. The light, and not too generous, soil of this limestone tract had been wrested from nature, irrigated, and tilled to perfection. Around Athens was a land of gardens and vineyards, with groves and pastures by pleasant streams. The Piraeus, on the Saronic Gulf, was connected with Athens by walls and roads, and used as a port for vessels of war and commerce. In the city were superb temples, theatres, halls of learning, and academies; while the open spaces were adorned with statues carved by Praxiteles and Phidias. During this period of magnificence, Socrates discoursed in the city, and the plays of Sophocles were performed in the vast theatre. We tread to-day on venerable ground as we wander amid the shattered pillars upon which Demosthenes and Aristotle gazed, and stand where Plato stood in contemplation. Athens is haunted in every corner with the spirits of mighty philosophers, poets, artists, and statesmen of eternal fame. The passionate admirer of Grecian civilisation sometimes fails to detect any imperfection in the Athenians of the immemorial epoch. But there were grave faults in the populace of Athens even in the days of its rarest enlightenment. The democracy showed at times the same irrationality then as to-day. The statesmen fell into our errors, and were often as prejudiced as our modern politicians. Miltiades was thrown into prison; Aristides was ostracised; and Thucydides and Herodotus were banished. Themistocles became unpopular, and had to fly from his country to Persia. Socrates was made to drink the bitter cup. Even in this era of culture and science, the reformer and the innovator of moral and social customs ran the risk of persecution. And then, as in our own time, the flippant scoffer, such as Aristophanes, was admired and applauded, while the serious thinker was exposed to the ingratitude and cruelty of the less earnest and educated. Although the cultured of Athens were rationalists in the main, the masses were prone to monstrous and hurtful superstitions. There were in Athens, as in modern cities to-day, a number of persons who lived upon the credulity of their neighbours. Seers, soothsayers, and charlatans preyed on the foolish, in spite of the ridicule of the philosophers. No wonder that Socrates was misunderstood by the mob! In their treatment of women, the Athenians were not entirely just and sensible. Aristotle held that women were "inferior beings," though he justly demanded the same measure of chastity for men as for their wives. Plato was one of the most "feminist" of the philosophers, as we may gather from his "Republic"; but Plutarch went further, and stated that women should be educated equally with men, a teaching directly opposed to that of Xenophon, who declared that young girls should know "as little as possible." We learn, however, that at one period the women of Greece were, in civic matters, on a level with their husbands, and could act without their consent in political affairs. The finest and most educated women were the courtesans. The Athenians bought and sold slaves, without the least consciousness of injustice. No doubt the serfs were treated fairly well, on the whole. But no Athenian appears to have recognised the moral evil of the system of slavery. Yet, despite these blemishes, what a resplendent state was that of Attica, and how wise and sane in many important respects were the laws, the home life, and the recreations of the people of Athens. Perhaps one cannot convey in a better manner an idea of the life of the city in its days of noblest fame than by giving a page or two out of the lives of a few of the heroes of war, the lawgivers, and the artists of the capital who were the makers of its glory. One of the famous victors in battle among the Athenians was Cimon, son of Miltiades, who passed a wild youth in the city, but became a great admiral. "In courage he was not inferior to Miltiades," writes Plutarch, "nor in prudence to Themistocles, and he was confessedly an honester man than either of them." Cimon was "tall and majestic," and had an abundance of hair which curled upon his shoulders. The Athenians admired the young and handsome man, and elected him a commander of battleships. One of his victories was over the invading Persian hosts, who harassed the Thracians. A picture of his daily life is given by Plutarch, who tells us how the admiral kept open house each night for his friends and any citizens who chose to join the repast. Cimon had a following of young men; and when walking out, if he met a poor man in meagre garments, he enjoined one of his friends to give him his clothes in exchange for the rags. "This was great and noble," says Plutarch. The admiral loved riches, but not from a passion for amassing money. It was his pleasure to distribute money to the needy. His naval skill and enterprise were the wonder of the inhabitants of Athens. In one engagement with the Persians, Cimon captured two hundred vessels. During the siege of Citium, the great warrior died, either from a wound, or from natural causes. His body was brought to Athens, where a monument was erected in memory of his prowess on land and sea. During the rule of Pericles, Athens was beautified by the building of a new Parthenon under the direction of Callicrates and Ictinus. At this time the walls of the city were extended, the Odeum, or music theatre, erected, and numerous statues set up in the buildings. Phidias was chosen by Pericles as superintendent of all public buildings in Athens. The name of Phidias is spoken with reverence by every student of sculpture. He was a supreme artist of varied parts; he carved in marble, made images of ivory and gold, and cast effigies in bronze, besides exercising the art of the painter. Some of his matchless statuary has been happily preserved for us in the British Museum. It was the chisel of Phidias that adorned the frieze of the Parthenon. It was this genius who made the famous statue of Minerva, and the image of Athene in ivory, thirty feet high, for the Erechtheum. Unfortunately, the Minerva image was the cause of the undoing of Phidias. A man so eminent was sure to evoke envy among his contemporaries. First he was falsely charged with theft; then his work was condemned on the score that he had introduced his own image upon the shield of Minerva. For this breach of convention, in representing a modern figure in a historical subject, the sculptor was deemed disloyal to the ancient fame of Athens. He was sent to prison, where he died. "Some say poison was given to him," writes Plutarch. Praxiteles, another mighty image-maker of Athens, lived over a hundred years before the days of Phidias. He carved the youthful figure with surpassing delicacy and grace. His Aphrodite was one of the world's masterpieces; and among his finest works were statues of Hermes and Niobe and her children. We must now glance at an Attic social phenomenon of much importance. The power of the courtesan among the cultured Athenians is instanced in the life of Pericles. We can learn but little of the Grecian social life, without inquiring into the status of the hetæræ at this period in the history of Athens. Xenophon and Socrates were the visitors of Aspasia, the friend and adviser of Pericles. The influence of this clever woman was almost unbounded. Philosophers, soldiers, and poets were of her court; she was one of the causes of the Median faction, and her sway over Pericles was supreme. "The business that supported her was neither honourable nor decent," writes Plutarch. She was, indeed, of Mrs Warren's profession. Pericles never set out upon important affairs, nor returned from them, without waiting upon this fascinating mistress, who combined beauty of body with much wit and skill in conversation. At the advice of Aspasia, the ruler of Athens proclaimed war against the Samians, in which memorable conflict battering-rams were first used by the Greeks. And it was through the intervention of Pericles that Aspasia was acquitted of the charge of impiety, adduced by Hermippus, a comic rhymer. In the court Pericles "shed many tears" for the woman he loved, and thus obtained her pardon. Alcibiades, "the versatile Athenian," friend of Socrates, was another of the makers of Athens. He was a model of manly beauty, with a vigorous frame, and active in exercises. His lisping speech gave a charm to his oratory. He was ambitious, variable, passionate, and withal lovable. Socrates was one of the first to discover his virtues of character, and his rare qualities of mind. Like Pericles he was the companion of courtesans, and his excesses provoked his wife Hippareté, who left him on that account and went to the house of her brother. When Hippareté appeared before the archon, with a bill of divorce, Alcibiades rushed forward, seized her in his arms, and carried her home, where she remained apparently contented until her death. Alcibiades was the most eloquent orator of his day. His versatility was great. He bred fine horses, which ran in the competitions at the Olympic Games, and often won prizes for their owner. He loved display and handsome apparel; he invented a luxurious hanging bed. In warfare he distinguished himself by immense courage and a knowledge of tactics. Timanda, daughter of the famous Lais, was the mistress of Alcibiades, and near her house he was assassinated by hirelings, sent by his political enemies. Such are a few pages culled from the annals of some of the illustrious natives of Athens in the days of its grandeur. They may serve to throw a slight reflection of the temper and the lives of the people of this ancient republic. Anyone who treads the streets of Athens, even if only superficially acquainted with Grecian history, will find a host of memories crowding the brain. War was an occupation and a trade with the Greeks, and the Athenians were not often at peace with neighbouring countries. Thrice at least was Athens besieged. When Xerxes came to Greece, the citizens consulted the oracle of Delphi, who counselled that they should find security "in walls of wood." Led by Themistocles, the citizens manned the vessels, after sending the old, the infirm, and the women and children to Troezene. But the counsel of the oracle proved futile. The Persians entered Athens, killed the few remaining soldiers, and burnt the splendid city to ruins. Upon these ruins grew a second Athens. Then came Lysander and laid siege for eight months, until the citizens yielded. Harshly ruled for a time by the Spartan victors, Athens regained liberty through the valour of a small force collected by Lysias. In the third siege the city was assailed by the Roman Sylla, who strove to expel Archelaus, King of Pontus, who had entered Athens by strategy and deception, and usurped government. Sylla's attack on the walls of Athens, the tremendous bulwarks erected by Pericles, was terrific. The general employed thousands of mules in working the powerful battering-rams. Often the defenders rushed out of the city to combat with their assailants in the open. The conflict was deadly and hand-to-hand. Sylla's soldiers endeavoured to fire the city, the Athenians still resisted, and the troops withdrew for a spell, while their leader reconsidered his plans. Worn out with famine, the people within the city begged that their ruler would surrender. His answer was cruel punishment to the deputies. The inhabitants were now actually feeding upon human flesh. Sylla finally captured Athens, secured the port, and became the ruler of the proud and fallen city. So came about the conquest of Attica by the Romans. From that day her glory faded. One after another came the invaders, and her liberty was no more the envy of the civilised world, for she became the vassal of Turkey, and later of Venice. It was the Venetians who destroyed the noble Parthenon, leaving only two pediments standing. Siege, the ravages of time, and constant spoliation, have removed nearly all the great historic edifices from the Acropolis. But the pillars and stones that remain are picturesque, if mournful, memorials of Athens in the period of splendour. The city stands on the ground where in remote days the Phoenicians made a settlement. Acropolis, the upper town, or citadel, contains to-day several interesting vestiges of Attic art. From the plateau we survey mountains of about the height of Ben Lomond or Snowdon, the famed Hymettus, the Parnes, and the Corydallus. The inferior Hill of Mars, where St Paul preached, is dwarfed by these heights. On this hill ruled the awful deities of Olympus, and upon it is a monument of Philopappus. Amid the waves in the distance are the isles of Salamis and Ægina. The scene is beautiful beneath the glowing southern sky. In Greece the atmosphere is very clear and bright and the sun shines ardently on the bleached ruins, the gleaming sea, and the roofs of the modern city. The rivers Ilissus and Cephissus lave the city. Away in the level country is the wood where Plato had his academy. The whole territory is classic soil. We stand in front of the site of the Erechtheum, burned by the Persians, and rebuilt by Pericles. It was an edifice of superb architecture, dedicated to the virgin goddess, the adored Athene. Within stood a figure of the goddess, and there hung a lamp that burned by day and night. The Athenians worshipped Erechtheus and Athene in this temple of majestic form. Athene was to them the inventress of the plough, the giver of the olive-tree, the goddess of war. She was the daughter of the mighty Zeus. The god who shared in her honour was the legendary ruler of Athens, and son of the earth by Hephæstus. The Parthenon was also sacred to Athene. The remains of this edifice are very impressive. Huge fluted columns support the roof, and parts of the frieze and metopes have survived. Five years were spent in the building of the temple. The style was Doric, and the whole structure was a splendid example of this imposing style of architecture. The porticoes and colonnades were constructed as promenades, sheltered from the sun and wind, and the columns were erected in double rows. Within was the Maiden's Chamber, beautifully embellished, and provided with altars. Everywhere the genius of Phidias was displayed in marble friezes, stone images, and bronze casts. The Elgin Marbles, in the British Museum, give an example of the elegance of the decorations of the frontages; and parts of the sculptured eastern frieze are to be seen in the Acropolis Museum, near to the temple. The carvings represented the war between gods and giants, the victory of the Athenians over the Amazons, the birth of the goddess Athene, the destruction of Troy, and other historical and mythical subjects. Among the relics of the Acropolis are grottoes dedicated to the gods, several traces of temples, and shrines of Pan, Apollo, and other deities. In the Acropolis Museum is a collection of treasures, portions of bas-reliefs and statuary rescued from the ruins of the old buildings. The remains of the Temple of Wingless Victory, and the monument of Lysiantes, are among the ancient stones of the Acropolis. Modern Athens preserves in a measure the spirit of antiquity; but it is not so ancient in aspect as many of the towns that we have visited. A wide thoroughfare, called Hermes, is the chief street of the city. There are several modern buildings of excellent design, such as the University, the Academy, and the National Museum. In the museum will be found a very fine collection of relics of the ancient buildings, statues, and utensils. Schools for the study of Hellenic art and culture have been established in Athens by the British, Americans, and French. Every endeavour is now made by the learned societies of the city to preserve the Acropolis monuments, those triumphs of the sculptor's art and mason's craft of which Plutarch wrote: "That which was the chief delight of the Athenians and the wonder of strangers, and which alone serves for a proof that the boasted power and opulence of ancient Greece is not an idle tale, was the magnificence of the temples and public edifices.... The different materials, such as stone, brass, ivory, gold, ebony, and cypress, furnished employment to carpenters, masons, brasiers, goldsmiths, painters, tanners, and other artificers.... Thus works were raised of an astonishing magnitude and inimitable beauty and perfection, every architect striving to surpass the magnificence of the design with the elegance of the execution, yet still the most wonderful circumstance was the expedition with which they were completed." The superb art of the Athenians set an example to the whole of Europe. Everywhere its influence was manifested in architecture and sculptured decoration. Artists with pencil and brush are inspired by the matchless line and form of Phidias. The great English painter, G. F. Watts, haunted the Greek corridors of the British Museum until he became steeped in the beauty of the Elgin Marbles. "The academy training taught him very little; the art of Phidias taught him how to produce great works." Albert Moore, another of our modern painters of genius, found his æsthetic ideal in the art of the Greeks. And so from the little nation of Attica came the mightiest influences of morality, wisdom, and art that the world has known. INDEX AMSTERDAM Alva, Duke of, 221 Banking system, 222 Canals, 221, 228 Churches, 227 Haarlem, siege of, 221 Helder, 220 Museum, 226 Pictures, 227 Rembrandt, 225 Ruyter, de, 227 Spinoza, 223-225 Town hall, 227 Trade, 222-223 Zuyder Zee, 220 ANTWERP Alva, Duke of, 211, 213 Cathedral, 217 Chassé, General, 215 Churches, 218 Forts, 218 Matsys, Quentin, 215 Museum, 216 Painters, 211, 215-216 Philip II., 213 Plantin, 219 Quays, 219 Reynolds, Sir J., 216 Schelde, 211 Siege of, 215 William of Orange, 213 Zoological Garden, 219 ASSISI Chiesa Nuova, 28 Dante, 27 Giotto, 26, 27 Goethe, 28, 29 Ruskin, 27 San Francisco, church of, 25, 26 San Rufino, cathedral of, 28 Santa Maria, church of, 26 Simone, 27 St Bonaventura, 21, 25 St Clare, church of, 28 St Damian, church of, 24 St Francis, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28 Via Portica, 28 Vasari, 27 Vespasian, temple of, 20 ATHENS Acropolis, 278, 280, 281 Ægea, isle of, 278 Alcibiades, 275, 276 Alexandria, 267 Archelaus, 277 Apollo, 280 Aristides, 269 Aristotle, 268 Aristophanes, 269 Aspasia, 274 Athene, 279 Attica, 266, 270, 277, 282 Callicrates, 272 Cephissus River, 279 Cimon, 271, 272 Delphi, oracle of, 276 Demosthenes, 268 Erechtheum, 273, 279 Hephæstus, 279 Hermes, street of, 281 Hermippus, 274 Herodotus, 269 Hippareté, 275 Hissus River, 279 Ictinus, 272 Lais, 276 Lysander, 276 Lysias, 277 Mars, Hill of, 278 Miltiades, 269, 271 Moore, Albert, 282 Museum, National, 281 Olympus, 278 Pan, 280 Parthenon, 267, 272, 273, 278, 279-280 Pelasgians, 267 Pericles, 272, 274, 275, 277, 279 Phidias, 268, 272, 273 Philopappus, 278 Piræus, 268 Plato, 268, 270, 279 Plutarch, 270, 271, 272, 273, 274 Praxiteles, 268, 273 Salamis, isle of, 278 Socrates, 268, 269, 274, 275 Sophocles, 268 Sylla, 277 Themistocles, 269, 271, 276 Timander, 275 Watts, G. F., 282 Xenophon, 270, 274 Xerxes, 276 Zeus, 279 BRUGES Alva, Duke of, 193 Canals, 192, 199 Cathedral, 195 Chamois, Captain, 193 Chapelle du St Sang, 196 Dukes of Burgundy, 192, 194 Forts, 199 "Golden Fleece," 194 Lace-making, 199 Market, 192 Mary of Burgundy, 196 Motley, 194 Memling, 198 Philip the Good, 194 Prissenhof, 199 Tapestry, 193 Titchmann, 193 Town hall, 196 Van Eyck brothers, 194, 197, 198 CHARTRES Aignan, St, 184 Bernard, St, 180 Bishops of, 181 Cathedral, 181-184 Charlemagne, 180 Churches, 184 Desportes, 185 Eure River, 179 Gothic art, 180, 181-183 Museum, 185 Pierre, St, 184 Regnier, Mathurin, 185 Romans, 179, 180, 185 COLOGNE Agrippina, 229 Bridges, 230 Caxton, 229 Cathedral, 230 Churches, 231, 232 Durer, 232 Eau de Cologne, 234 "Farina," 234 Museum, 232 Painters, 231, 232 Rathaus, 232 Rhine, 233 Romans, 229 Titian, 232 Trajan, 229 Vandyk, 232 CORDOVA Abderahman, 101, 105, 108, 112, 115 Abu Mohammed, 104 Alcazar, 114 Almanzor, 102 Averroes, 117 Az-Zahra, 102 Berbers, 102, 115 Bridge of, 100 Castillo, 119 Céspedes, 118 Charles V., 111 Climate, 98 Court of Oranges, 108 De Amicis, 109 Fernando, 103 Gate of Pardon, 107 Gongora, 117 Gran Capitan, 97, 117 Guadalquivir, 98, 99 Gautier, 113 Hakam, 107, 110 Hisham III., 102 Leal, Valdés, 118 Lucan, 116 Mihrâb, 110 Moors, 97, 98, 103 Mosque, 106-113 Picture Gallery, 119 Puerta de las Palmas, 108 Ribera, 119 Roderick, 101 Sala Capitular, 112 Seneca, 116 Villaviciosa Chapel, 112 Yusuf, 102. FLORENCE Angelo, Michael, 58, 64, 65, 70 Apennines, 57 Aquinas, Thomas, 71 Beatrice, 60 Bargello, 70 Boboli Gardens, 57 Boccaccio, 58, 60, 61 Browning, 58 Bruneschi Palace, 57 Buondelmonti, 59 Campanile, 57 Cellini, 67 Croce, 69 Dante, 58, 60, 65 Delia Robbia, 70 Donatello, 65, 69 Fiesole, 57, 58 Fra Angelico, 66, 67 Ghibellines, 59 Giotto, 57, 58, 65, 69 Guelfs, 59 Hunt, Leigh, 64 Lorenzo, 70 Machiavelli, 59 Marco, San, 67 Maria Santa, 70 Milton, 58, 61 Orcagna, 71 Petrarch, 61 Pisano, 69 Pitti Palace, 57, 66 Porta Mandoria, 65 Raphael, 67 Riccardi Palace, 70 San Miniato, 57 Savonarola, 58, 60, 67, 68 Shelley, 64 Strozzi Chapel, 71 Titian, 67 Totila the Goth, 59 Uberti, 59 Uffizi Palace, 66 Vallombrosa, 58 Vasari, 66 Vecchio Palace, 69 Velazquez, 67 GHENT Aldegonde, St, 205, 206 Aerschot, Duke, 205, 206 Alva, Duke of, 203, 205 Belfry, 201 Charles V., 203-204 Edward III., 202, 209 Erasmus, 202 "Golden Fleece," 203 Hotel de Ville, 210 Imbize, 206-207 John of Ghent, 202 Museum, 210 Pictures in, 210 Rubens, 210 Ryhove, 205 Trade guilds, 207 Walls, 204 Weaving, 203 University, 210 Van Artevelde, 208 Van Eyck brothers, 209 GRANADA Albaicin Quarter, 149, 150 Alhambra, 135, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146 -- baths, 139 -- Court of Lions, 142, 143 -- Council Chamber, 144 -- fish pond, 142 -- Hall of Ambassadors, 143 -- -- Abencerrages, 142 -- -- Justice, 142 -- palace of Charles V., 141, 142 -- Puerta de Judiciaria, 141 -- towers, 141, 142 Al-Ahmar, 136 Audencia, 149 Boabdil, 137 Borrow, George, 150 Bourgoanne, Chevalier de, 150 Cano, Alonso, 146, 147, 148 Cartuja, 149 Castillo, Juan del, 147 Cathedral, 146, 147, 148 Charles V., 140, 146 Darro River, 135, 136, 146 Fancelli, 149 Fernando, King, 137, 139 Ford, 150 Generalife, 145 Genil, 135, 136, 146 Gran Capitan, El, 149 Greco, El, 148 Isabel, Queen, 137 Irving, Washington, 150 Mohammed, 137 Montañez, 148 O'Shea, Henry, 150 Pacheco, 147 Philip IV., 147 Philip V., 141 Ribera, 148 San Geronimo, church of, 149 Sierra Nevada, 136 Siloe, Diego de, 146 St Ildefonso, church of, 147 Talavera, Cardinal, 138, 139 Yusuf I., 137 Ximenes, Cardinal, 138, 139 HEIDELBERG Anlagen, 240 Castle of, 237 Hegel, 238-239 Huss, 240 Jerome of Prague, 240 Mary of Scotland, 237 Morata, Olympia, 240 Neckar River, 236 Rupert, Elector, 236 Students, 239 Tully, 236, 238 Tun, great, 237 Wars, 240 NUREMBERG Bridges, 248 Churches, 241, 245 Craftsmen, 241 Durer, 244-245 Forts, 246 Gustavus, 243 Huss, 242 Imhoff Gallery, 245 Karl IV., 242 Krafft, 245 "Lohengrin," 248 Luther, 242 Melanchthon, 242 Old houses, 248 "Parsifal," 248 Pegnitz River, 246, 248 Rathaus, 247 Stoss, 248 Vischer, Peter, 247, 248 Wagner, 248 Wars, 243 Wolf-brothers, 247 Wolfram, 248 OPORTO Alfonso I., 155 Art, 157, 162, 163 Bridge, 161 Cathedral, 160 Churches, 160 Climate, 154-155 Douro, 152, 155, 159, 161, 162 English in, 154 Explorers of, 157 Exports, 159 Foz, 163 Gama, de, 157 Gardens, 161 John I., 156 Juan of Castile, 156 -- III., 157 Lusitania, 155 Manuel I., 157 Markets, 153 Mattosinhos, 163 Museum, 162 Pedro IV., 163 Pedroites, 158 Peninsular War, 158 Philip II., 158 Pictures in, 162 Port wine, 158 Romans, 155 Teutons, 155 Visigoths, 155 PERUGIA Baroccio, 54 Bernardino, 56 Bonfigli, 54, 55 Canonica, 54 Collegio del Cambio, 55 Coreggio, 54 Fra Angelico, 55 Fiorenzo di Lorengo, 54 Giannicola, 55 Palazzo Pubblico, 54 Paul III., Pope, 53 Perugino, 54, 55, 56 Piazzi del Municipio, 56 Piazza Sopramuro, 56 Pinturicchio, 55 Prefeturra terrace, 53 Raphael, 55 San Domenico, church of, 56 San Lorenzo, cathedral of, 54 San Pietro, church of, 56 San Severo, church of, 55 POITIERS Battle of, 164-166 Black Prince, 164 Buch, Captal, 165 Coligny, 167, 168 Churches, 168 Dukes of Aquitaine, 168 John of France, 164 Lude, Count, 167 Morbecque, de, 166 Museum, 167 Petrarch, 166 Population, 169 Protestantism, 167 Romans, 167 PRAGUE Bridges, 259, 264 Capuchin Monastery, 263 Cathedral, 262 Charles IV., 260 Church, 263 Craftsmen, 260 Drama in, 264 Emaus Monastery, 263 Huss, 260 Libussa, 260 Mathew of Cracow, 260 Moldau River, 259 Museum, 264 National Theatre, 264-265 Palaces, 263 Petrlik, 262 Powder Gate, 264 Rudolph, King, 262 Siege of, 261 Sigismund, 261 Symons, Arthur, 262 Thirty Years' War, 262 Austrian War, 262 Vladislav, 263 Wenceslas, 260 Wicliff, 261 RHEIMS Cathedral, 187-190 Cæsar, 186 Churches, 190 Clovis, 187 Consul of, 186 Gate of Mars, 190 James, Henry, 188, 191 Joan of Arc, 187 Louis XV., 191 Museum, 190 Romans, 186, 190 St Remi, 187, 190 St Jacques, 190 St Thomas, 190 Tapestries, 189 Trade, 191 Vandals, 186 ROME Agrippa, 18 Albani, Villa, 13 Augustus, 15 Antony, Mark, 15 Aurelius, 4 Berbini, Cardinal, 16 Borghese, Villa, 16 Browning, Robert, 19 Bruno, Giordano, 7, 8 Cæsar, 3 Cæsar, Julius, temple of, 15 Cæsars, palace of, 15 Campagna 1, 15, 20 Canova, 12 Capitoline, 13, 15 Capitol Museum, 16, 17 Castor and Pollux, temple of, 15 Catullus, 20 Caligula, palace of, 20 Coliseum, 4, 5, 6, 15, 17, 18 Colonna Palace, 11 Colonna, Vittoria, 12 Constantine, arch of, 17 Copernicus, 17 Coreggio, 11 Cynthia, 20 Della Porta, 14 Dorian Palace, 16 Fabius, arch of, 20 Farnese Palace, 12 Forum 4, 15, 18, 20 Galileo, 8, 13 Gauls, 3 Goethe, 11, 17, 20 Hannibal, 3 Julia, Basilica, 20 Jupiter, 15 Keats, 19 Kircheriano, 16 Lateran Palace, 14 Medici, Villa, 16 Michael Angelo, 9, 10, 11, 12 Michelet, 2, 6 National Museum, 16 Nero, 4 Niebuhr, 2 Palatine Hill, 6, 14, 15 Pantheon, 4, 18 Pauline Chapel, 10 Plutei, walls of the, 15 Pompey, 1, 3 Pompelius, Numa, 2 Poussin, 16 Protestant cemetery, 19 Raphael, 11 Regia, 14, 15 Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 11, 17 Romulus, 2, 15 Rosa, Salvator, 16 San Clemente, 14 San Giovanni, 14 San Giovanni Laterno, 13 Santa Maria, 12, 14 Santi Giovanni Paolo, 14 Saturn, temple of, 15, 20 Scipio, 3 Senatore, Palazzo del, 16 Septimus Severus, arch of, 15 Shelley, 17, 18, 19 Sistine Chapel, 9, 10 St Peter's, 4, 5, 7, 9, 11, 12, 13, 14, 17, 18 Symons, Arthur, 10 Tarquinius Superbus, 2 Thorvaldsen, 13 Tiber, 2 Titian, 11, 16 Trajan, 7, 15 Trajan's Column, 16, 20 Van Dyck, 16 Varus, Quintilius, 20 Vatican, 13, 16 Velazquez, 16 Vespasian, temple of, 8 Vesta, temple of, 14 ROUEN Arc, Joan of, 172-173 Blanchard, Alan, 172 Bovary, Madame, 173 Cathedral, 173-174 Churches, 171, 174 Corneille, 174 Danes, 170 Flaubert, 175 Gautier, 178 Godard, St, 174 Goujon, 174 Henry V., 173 Rigaud, Bishop, 176 Roan horses, 171 Rollo, 171 St Amant, 177-178 William the Conqueror, 171 SEVILLE Alcazar, 86, 88, 93 Bolero, 81 Borrow, G., 79 Bullfighting, 82 Campaña, P., 92 Casa Pilatos, 84 Cathedral, 91-93 Charles V., 88 Climate, 80 Columbus, 86 Dancing, 81 Easter _fêtes_, 80 Gautier, 91 Giralda, 79, 86 Gitanos, 83 Golden Tower, 86 Greco, El, 93 Guadalquivir, 86, 95 Horses of, 82 Mendoza, 87 Moors, 85, 86, 94 Montañez, 90, 92 Murillo, 83, 90, 92 -- house of, 84 Pacheco, 89 Painters of, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93 Park, 95 Pedro the Cruel, 85, 93 Romans, 84, 94 Telmo Palace, 95 Torquemada, 87 Trajan, 85 Triana, 83 Velazquez, 88, 95 Women of, 81 Zurbaran, 93 TOLEDO Abd-er-Rahman, 122 Alcantara Bridge, 122 Alcazar, 126, 133 Ayuntamiento, 126 Bayeu, 125 Bernardo, Don, 127 Berruguéte, 124, 132, 133 Borgoña, 124, 125 Bourgoanne, Chevalier de, 133 Carreño, 126 Casa de Mesa, 123 Cathedral, 121, 124, 130 Cervantes, 132 Cid, 126 El Cristo de la Luz, church of, 123 El Transito, church of, 123 Elizabeth de Valois, 126 Gautier, 127, 130 Goya, 125 Greco, El, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131 Ibañez, Blasco de, 120 Infantry, school of, 123 Justi, Carl, 132 Martinez, Guiseppe, 128 Maella, 126 Mendoza, Cardinal, 124, 125 Museum, Provincial, 129 O'Shea, Henry, 127 Ponz, 130 Puerta de los Leones, 124 Puerta del Sol, 123 Roderick, King, 122 San José, church of, 130 San Juan, church of, 130 San Juan, hospital of, 130 San Martin, bridge of, 123 San Miguel, church of, 123 San Roman, church of, 123 San Sevando, church of, 123 San Vicente, church of, 129 Santa Maria la Blanca, church of, 123 Santo Domingo, church of, 130 Santo Tomé, church of, 123, 129 St Magdalen, church of, 130 Tagus, 122, 133 Tarik, 122 Tintoretto, 127 Tubal, 121 Vega, Lope de, 131, 132 Ximenes, Cardinal, 125 VENICE Academy of Arts, 46, 48, 51 Brownings, 49, 50 Byron, 49 Bellini, 47, 48 Borrow, George, 30 Canaletto, 47 Coello, Sanchez, 46 Columbus, 37 Doge, palace of, 37, 44, 45, 50, 51 Giorgione, 45 Grand Canal, 48, 49 Greco, El, 47 Goths, 35 James, Henry, 35 Lido, the, 50 Lysippos, 41 Murano, 51 Napoleon, 40, 41 Padua, 51 Palazzo Dario, 48 -- Dona, 48 -- Ca d'Oro, 48 -- Foscari, 48 -- Loredan, 48 -- Mesto, 48 -- Mocenigo, 49 -- Pesaro, 48 -- Rezzonico, 49 -- Vendramin, 49 -- Venier, 48 Palma, 45 Palladio, 51 Paul V., Pope, 38 Piazzetta, 50 Pietro Tribune, 36 Rialto, 36, 51 Ruskin, 31, 41, 43, 50 San Marco, cathedral of, 36, 37, 41, 51 San Marco, square of, 40 San Zaccaria, church of, 48 San Zanipolo, church of, 48 Santa Fosca, church of, 39 Santa Maria dei Friari, church of, 46 Santa Maria della Salute, church of, 46, 47 Sarpi, Paolo, 46, 47 Sharp, William, 49 Spires, John of, 37 Symonds, J. A., 50 Tiepolo, Giovanni Battista, 47 Tintoretto, 42, 44, 45, 46, 47 Titian, 44, 46 Torcella, 51 Veronese, Paolo, 45, 47 Via Garibaldi, 34 Vicenza, 51 Wagner, 49 VERONA Amphitheatre, 74 Anastasia Church, 75 Caliari, 75 Catullus, 78 Cavilli Chapel, 75 Consiglio Palace, 74 Diocletian, 74 Eccelius, 78 Fermo, San, 77 Freeman, A. E., 78 Garda, lake of, 72 Giaconda, 74 Giorgio, San, 75 Libri, dai, 77 Mantegna, 76, 77 Maria, Santa, 77 Municipio, 73 Piazza della Erbe, 73 Pliny, 78 Ragione Palace, 74 Roman period, 77 Romeo and Juliet, 72 Scaligers, 73, 75 Shakespeare, 72-73 Tribunale, 74 Veronese, 76, 77 Zeno, San, 76 WITTENBERG Augsburg Confession, 253 Bishop Albert, 250 Diet of Worms, 256 Elbe, 249 Frederick, Elector, 255, 257, 258 Henry VIII., 256 History of, 249 Kranach, 257, 258 Leo X., 251, 254 Luther, 250-257 Melanchthon, 253, 255, 257 Rathaus, 258 Reuchlin, 250 Schloss Kirche, 250, 251, 257 Stadt Kirche, 257 Tetzel, 251 Tubingen, 253 University, 249 Valdes, 255 Vischer, 257 Wicliff, 250 Zwingli, 253 * * * * * THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH A Catalogue of the Publications of T. Werner Laurie. ABBEYS OF GREAT BRITAIN, The (H. Clairborne Dixon and E. Ramsden). 6s. net. (Cathedral Series.) ABBEYS OF ENGLAND, The (Elsie M. Lang). Leather, 2s. 6d. net. (Leather Booklets.) ADAM (H. 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EVIL EYE, The (Daniel Woodroffe). 6s. * * * * * Typographical errors corrected by the etext transcriber: footseps=> footsteps {pg 19} degl Angeli=> degli Angeli {pg 26} Campofornio=> Campoformio {pg 40} Torcella=> Torcello {pg 51} they inculated=> they inculcated {pg 104} worderful beauty=> wonderful beauty {pg 113} philosoper=> philosopher {pg 116} his contemptoraries=> his contemporaries {pg 273} 
39482	----	MUSHROOM TOWN BY OLIVER ONIONS Author of "Gray Youth," "In Accordance with the Evidence," "Debit Account," etc., etc. GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY NEW YORK _Publishers in America for Hodder & Stoughton_ Copyright, 1914, BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY DEDICATION _In the following pages I have permitted myself to take a number of liberties--geographical, historical, etymological, and even geological--with a country for which I have conceived a strong affection; I trust I have taken none with its beauty nor with its hospitality. It will be useless to search for Llanyglo on any map. It is neither in North Carnarvonshire, in Merioneth, nor in Lleyn. Of certain features of existing places I have made a composite, which is the_ "MUSHROOM TOWN" _of this book._ _The kindnesses I have received in Wales during the past six years have been innumerable; indeed, much of my work has consisted of writing down (and not always improving) things told me by one of my hosts. For this and other reasons I should like to render him such acknowledgment as a Dedication may express._ "MUSHROOM TOWN" _is therefore inscribed, in gratitude and affection, to_ ARTHUR ASHLEY RUCK _Hampstead_, 1914 CONTENTS THE INVITATION 9 PART I I THE YEAR DOT 17 II ITS NONAGE 31 III THE MINDER 46 IV "_DIM_ SAESNEG" 52 V THE HAFOD UNOS 75 VI THE FOOT IN THE DOOR 86 VII THE MEMBER 98 VIII THELEMA 109 PART II I RAILHEAD 117 II THE CLERK OF THE WORKS 126 III THE CURTAIN RAISER 142 IV YNYS 168 PART III I THE HOLIDAY CAMP 179 II THE GIANT'S STRIDE 205 III THE BLANK CHEQUE 218 IV PAWB 233 PART IV I THE BLIND EYE 244 II JUNE 263 III DELYN 275 IV AN ORDINARY YOUNG MAN 297 V THE DWELLING OF A NIGHT 310 VI THE GLYN 323 PART V I THE WHEEL 335 II ADIEU 347 THE INVITATION "We'll take the little cable-tram, if you like, but it's not far to walk--twenty minutes or so--the Trwyn's seven hundred feet high. You'll see the whole of the town from the top. The sun will have made the grass a little slippery, but there are paths everywhere; the sheep began them, and then the visitors wore them bare. And we shall get the breeze.... * * * * * "There you are: Llanyglo. You see it from up here almost as the gulls and razorbills see it. The bay's a fine curve, isn't it?--rather like a strongly blown kite-string; and the Promenade's nearly two miles long. But as you see, the town doesn't go very far back. From the Imperial there to the railway station and the gasometers at the back isn't much more than half a mile; the town seems to press down to the front just as the horses draw the bathing-vans down to the tide. Shall we sit down? Here's a boulder. It's chipped all over with initials, of course; so are the benches, and even the turf; but you'd wonder that there was a bit of wood or stone or turf left at all if you saw the crowds that come here when the Wakes are on. It's odd that you should never see anybody actually cutting them. Some of them must have taken an hour or two with a hammer and chisel, but I've been up here countless times and never seen anybody at it yet. "Yes, that's Llanyglo; but look at the mountains first. This isn't the best time of the day for seeing them; the morning or the evening's the best time; the sun isn't far enough round yet. But sometimes, when the light's just right, they start out into folds and wrinkles almost as quickly as you could snap your fingers--it's quite dramatic. Foels and Moels and Pens and Mynedds, look--half the North Cambrian Range. You couldn't have a better centre for motor-cycle and char-à-banc tours than Llanyglo.... Then on the other side's the sea. That's only a tinny sort of glitter just now, but you should see the moon rise over it. People come out from the concerts on the pier-head just to have a look.... "The Pier looks tiny from up here? Yes, but it's three furlongs long for all that, and those two tart-tin-looking things at the end hold nearly a thousand people apiece. But, as you say, it is rather like one of those children's toy railways they sell on the stalls in Gardd Street for sixpence-halfpenny. And that always strikes me as rather a curious thing about Llanyglo. It's a big place now--nine thousand winter population; but somehow it has a smaller look than it had when it was just a score of cottages, all put together not much bigger than the Kursaal Gardens there. I don't know why the cottages should have seemed more in scale with the mountains than all this, but they did. I suppose it was because they didn't set up for anything, like the Kursaal and the Majestic and the Imperial.... But it doesn't do to tell the Llanyglo folk that. They look at it in quite another way. To them the sea and the mountains are so many adjuncts, something they can turn into money by dipping people at sixpence a time and motoring them round at four-and-sixpence the tour.... And sometimes you can't help thinking that it wouldn't take very much (a wind a bit stronger than usual or an extra heave of the sea, say) and all these hundreds of thousands of pounds' worth of stone and iron and paint and gilding would just disappear--be sponged out like the castles and hoof-marks on the sands when the tide comes in--or like a made-up face when you wipe the carmine and pencilling from it.... Eh?--No, I'm not saying they've spoiled the place--nor yet that they haven't. You mustn't come here if you want a couple of miles of beach to yourself. It all depends how you look at it. If Llanyglo's cheapjack in one way, perhaps it isn't in another. It's merely that I remember it as it used to be.... "Would it surprise you to learn that the whole place is only about thirty years old? That's all. It grew like a mushroom; there are people who were born here who don't know their way about their own town.... Mostly Welsh? Oh dear no, not by any means. I should say about half-and-half. I suppose you're thinking of the Welsh names of the streets? They don't mean very much. There's Gardd Street, for instance; 'gardd' is only the Welsh for 'garden,' and Edward Garden, John Willie Garden's father, built the greater part of it (for that matter, he built the greater part of Llanyglo). And if anybody called Wood (say) had put up a house here, he'd probably have called it 'Ty Coed.' And some of it, of course, is genuine Welsh. The Porth Neigr Road does go to Porth Neigr, and Sarn, over there, has always been Sarn. But people think they're getting better value for their money if they come away for a fortnight and see foreign names everywhere; they've a travelled sort of feeling; so they give the streets these names, and print all the placards in two columns, with 'Rhybudd' on one side and 'Notice' on the other. "And that's given rise to one rather amusing little mistake. As you know, this headland that we're on is called the Trwyn, and 'trwyn' simply means a nose or a promontory. But over past the Lighthouse there, there are the remains of an old Dinas, a British camp, and half these Lancashire trippers think the headland's called after that--'t'ruin'--'th' ruin'--you know how they talk.... "I'm interested in the place for several reasons (not money ones, I'm sorry to say). For one thing, I like to watch the Welsh and Lancashire folk together; that's been very amusing. And then, it's not often you get the chance of seeing a whole development quite so concisely epitomised as we've had it here. Llanyglo started from practically nothing, and it's grown to this before John Willie Garden has a single grey hair on his head (though, to be sure, that cowslip colour doesn't show grey very much). Then there's that curious essence--I don't know what you call it--the thing a town would still keep even though you cleared every brick away and built it all over again, and sent every inhabitant packing and re-peopled it. There's a field for speculation there, too, though perhaps not a very profitable one. But most of all I've been interested in seeing what various sets of people have given Llanyglo, and what it's given to them in return--how the stones and the people have taken colour from one another, if you understand me, and what colour--in fact (if it doesn't sound a little pompous) in Llanyglo as an expression of the life of our time. It's sometimes hard to believe that something almost human hasn't got into its stone and paint and mortar. The whole place, as it's spread out down there now--two-mile line of front, houses, hotels, railway, gasometers and all--has had almost a personal birth, and adolescence, and growing-pains, and sown its wild oats, and has its things that it tells and its things that it doesn't tell, in an extraordinary way--or else, as I say, it seems extraordinary, because you get it all into a single focus. There may even be a bit of me in Llanyglo. If you came half a dozen times there'd be a bit of you too. "I should like you to meet John Willie Garden. He's the man to go to if you want to know anything about these streets and hotels and the seaside and the stations on the front. Why not come to the Kursaal, on the Terrace, at about nine to-night?--Good. He's a capital chap; a Something or other on the Manchester Chamber of Commerce, adopted Conservative Free Trade candidate for his division (but a Protectionist in other countries) and probably worth a quarter of a million, a good deal of it out of Llanyglo. Not bad for a little turned forty, eh? He'll probably ask you to dinner. You can't see his house from here; it stands back from Gardd Street. It was the first house to go up in Llanyglo--no, I'm forgetting. There was one before it--just one before it, not counting the original cottages, of course.... "What do you say to a turn? We've time to have a look at the Dinas before we go down.... "It's British, and the _Sixpenny Guide_ will tell you all that's known about it--possibly more. Its foundations are said to have been sprinkled with the blood of Merlin. What's left of it's certainly sprinkled with these everlasting initials. The Trwyn Light's just behind, two reds and a white, and they're experimenting with the Rocket Apparatus, but I don't think that will come to much.--There's little Porth Neigr, look--and that point thirty miles away's Abercelyn.... "Now the mountains are beginning to show; there they are--Delyn on the left, then Moel Eryr, then Mynedd Mawr. That's Penyffestyn, with the great cavity in his side, and his shadow's right across Bwlch.... Yes, very fine, and a perfect evening for it. The posters at Euston don't overstate it, do they? Of course, you've seen that very familiar one, of a Welsh Giantess, shawl, apron, steeple hat and all the lot, holding a view of Llanyglo in her arms? Pink hotels, indigo mountains and chrome-yellow sands.... "There's the _Queen of the Waters_ coming in. If we wait a few minutes longer we shall see the town light up. Yes, electricity; the power-station was finished only last year; it's over there beyond the filter-beds; Llanyglo handles its own sewage.... Ah! There goes the Promenade lights; three jumps, and the two miles are lighted up from end to end; the kite-string's a necklace now; pretty, isn't it?... And there goes the Pier.... There'll be a glare behind us like a shout of light in a moment--the Trwyn Light.... "The mountains are dark now, but how the day lingers on the sea! To-night it's like ribbon-grass.... Hear the post-horns? Those are the chars-à-bancs coming in. The last tripper's running for the station now.... Now the light's dying on the sea; it's a new moon and a spring tide. Two or three riding-lights only--I say, it's solemn out there.... But they'll be dining at the Majestic presently. That long golden haze is Gardd Street, and that spangle at the end of it's the New Bazaar. There goes the Big Wheel in the Kursaal Gardens, with its advertisement on it. We might look in at the Dancing Hall to-night; that's rather a sight. They have firework displays in the grounds, too, and last year there was one out in the bay; they put bombs and flares and serpents on rafts, and laid them from boats, like mines. That was in honour of the Investiture of the Prince of Wales.... "We'd better take the tram down, I think; we might stumble and break our necks.... "The other turnstile.--That kiosk place? That's the visitors' bureau. They'll tell you quite a number of useful things there--cab fares, porters' charges, time and tide tables, excursions and so on; but John Willie Garden can tell you more interesting things than those. Don't forget you're to meet him to-night.... "You're sure you can't dine with me? Very well. The Kursaal, then, on the Terrace, at a quarter to nine...." PART ONE I THE YEAR DOT On a Friday afternoon in the June of the year 1880, a roomy old shandrydan, midway between a trap and a wagonette, moved slowly along the Porth Neigr and Llanyglo road. It had been built as a pair-horse vehicle for Squire Wynne, of Plas Neigr, but the door at the back of it now bore the words, "Royal Hotel, Porth Neigr," and its present or some intermediate owner had converted it to the use of a single horse. The shaky-kneed old brown animal at present between the shafts might have had a spirit-level inside him, so unerringly did he become aware when the road departed by as much as a fraction from the true horizontal. Taking the good with the bad, he was doing a fair five miles an hour. At each of its revolutions the off hind-wheel gave a dry squeak like a pair of boots that has not been paid for. The day was warm, and hay was cutting. Combings of hay striped the hedges where the carts had passed, and as the Royal Hotel conveyance was so wide that it had to draw in in order to allow anything else to pass it, wisps had lodged also in the cords of the great pile of boxes and brown tin trunks that occupied the forward part of it. Honeysuckle tangled the hedge-tops; the wild roses were out below; and in the ditches the paler scabious was of the colour of the sky, the deeper that of the mountains towards which the old horse lazily clop-clopped. The pile of trunks in front hid the driver and the two print-skirted and black-jacketed young women who sat beside him from those inside the vehicle. These two young women were two of Mrs. Garden's domestics, and they travelled far more comfortably than did their mistress. Packed up by her bustle behind, on her right by her seven-years-old daughter who slept with her head on her shoulders, on her left by the angle of the trap, and in front by the hamper, the three or four straw basses, the cardboard boxes, the hold-all of sticks and umbrellas, with a travelling-rug thrown in (all of which articles she strove to balance on her short, steep lap), she could only perspire. Her husband, who sat opposite, could see no more of her than the top of her hen's-tail, lavender bonnet. Even this he shut out when he took up, now his newspaper (every line of which he had read twice), and now his daughter's _Little Folks_ (for the inspection of which periodical, though the print was much bigger than that of the newspaper, he put on his gold-rimmed glasses). The smell of his excellent cigar mingled with the scents of the roses and hay, and trailed like an invisible wake a hundred yards behind. John Willie Garden, who was eleven, had travelled half the distance from Porth Neigr on the step of the trap. During the rest of the time, now falling behind and now running on ahead, now up a campion-grown bank and again lying down flat to drink at a brook, he had covered as much distance as a dog that is taken out for a walk. He wore a navy blue jersey, which, when peeled off over his head, had the double effect of wiping his short nose and causing his shock of gilded hair to stand up like flames, all in one movement. He carried a catapult in one hand. Both pockets of his moleskin knickers bulged with ammunition for this engine. In the heat of a catapult action, against hens or windows, he used his mouth as a magazine, discharging and loading again with great dexterity.--But, a mile or so back, his father, looking up over his paper, had called the Cease Firing. John Willie now plipped the catapult furtively, and without pebble. It was the chief drawback of the holiday from his point of view that it had to be taken in the company of his father. Among his brighter hopes was that Mr. Garden, having seen them installed, would return to Manchester on the Monday. Mr. Garden was head of the firm of Garden, Scharf and Garden, spinners, and, to judge from his attire, he might have stepped straight from the exchange. His square-crowned billycock hat, buttoned-up pepper-and-salt grey suit, and crossover bird's-eye tie with the pebble pin in it, were at odds with the slumbrous lanes and the scabious-blue mountains. He carried a wooden-sticked, horn-handled umbrella, wrapped in a protecting sheath, and from his heavy gold watch-chain depended a cluster of little silver emblems that he would not have exchanged for as many Balas rubies. All Manchester knew that he could have given up the dogcart in which he drove daily to business, and set up a carriage and a pair of horses in its stead, any day it had pleased him; and his opinions and judgments, when he saw fit to utter them, were quoted. But he rarely uttered them. When asked for his advice, say upon a letter, he would adjust his glasses, read the letter slowly through, turn back and read it all over again more slowly still, and then, when the person in difficulties was awaiting the weighty pronouncement, would look through the letter rapidly a third time, and at last, glancing over the top of his glasses, would mildly observe, "This seems to be a letter." Sometimes he would come to the very verge of committing himself by adding, "From So-and-So." The grey eyes that looked over those gold rims were remarkable. They seemed to serve less as appreciative organs of immediate vision than as passers-on of an infinite number of visual data, which would be accepted or rejected or laid for the present aside by some piece of mechanism hidden behind. He was forty-four, clean shaven, save for a pair of small mutton-chop whiskers already turning grey, darkish and rather delicate-looking, and only half the size of his stout, blonde wife. As long as Free Trade remained untouched, he had no politics, and he was an adherent of the lower forms of the Established Church. He was taking this journey on his daughter Minetta's account, who was not doing so well as she ought to be. He had bought a couple of the Llanyglo cottages, and judged that by this time they must be ready for occupation. The mountains drew nearer, and other pale colours began to show through the scabious blue. The pile of luggage continued to brush the hedges, and the off wheel to creak. Minetta snored lightly as she slept, and the black legs that issued from her pink check frock, trimmed with crimson braid, swung slackly with every jolt of the cart. Mrs. Garden's face glistened; Mr. Garden allowed _Little Folks_ to fall from his hand, and dozed; John Willie sought birds' nests and rabbits; and the old horse continued to change from lumpish trot to slow walk and from slow walk to lumpish trot, as if he had had a spirit-level inside him. After this fashion the Gardens jogged along the lanes where to-day the summer dust never settles for touring-cars, motor-cycles and the Llanyglo motor chars-à-bancs. "John Willie!" It was five o'clock, and they had arrived. Leaving the cluster of three or four farms that formed the land-ward part of Llanyglo, they had turned through a gateless gap in a thymy earth-wall, and all save Mrs. Garden and Minetta had descended. The cart-track had become less and less distinct, and had finally lost itself altogether in deep, sandy drifts in which their approach made no noise. There was a fresher feel in the air. And then, through a V in the sandhills, the sea had appeared, and the lazy crash of a breaker had been heard. The irregular row of thatched cottages was set perhaps a hundred yards back from high-water mark, and the intervening space was a waste of sand, coarse tussocks, and the glaucous blue sea-holly. Half-overblown rubbish strewed the beach--rusty tin pans and kettles, old kedge anchors, corks, a mass of potato-parings in which three or four hens scratched, and the skeletons of a couple of disused boats. The half-dozen serviceable boats were gathered a couple of hundred yards away about a short wooden jetty. A mile away in the other direction rose the Trwyn, bronze with sunny heather and purple with airy shadow, with the lighthouse and the Dinas on the top. A small herd of black cattle had wandered slowly out to it, and was wandering slowly back again at the edge of the tide. "John Willie!" The cottages were thatched and claywashed, and while some of them had a couple of strides of garden in front, others rose from little taluses of blown sand. Sand was everywhere. It lodged in the crevices, took the paint off the doors, and had blunted the angles of posts and palings until they were as smooth and rounded as the two or three ships' figure-heads that stood within them. Grey old oars leaned up in corners; umber nets, with cork floats like dangling fruit upon them, hung from hooks in the walls; and the squat chimneys had flat stones on the tops of them. The windows were provided with swing-back wooden shutters. Between the farming part and the fishing part of Llanyglo the family had passed three chapels. "John Willie!" Mrs. Garden had descended, and stood over her neat boot-tops in sand, wondering which of her cramped members it would be best to try to straighten first. Standing by her only half awake, Minetta rubbed her eyes. At a respectful distance, but a convenient nearness, half a dozen barefooted children described as it were rainbow-curves in the air with their hands from the foreheads downwards, and a little further away the maritime population of Llanyglo watched the Royal Hotel driver struggle with the luggage. They did not stand off from hostility, but from an excess of delicacy. Then, as a heavy trunk slipped and stuck, a young man with braces over his gansey gave a quick smile, started forward, and bore a hand. "John--Willie!" It was Mr. Garden who called. He had put his key into the door of the cottage where the house-leek grew like a turkey's neck on the claywashed gate-post, and he wanted John Willie to help carry in the smaller parcels. Now John Willie was neither deaf, nor did he feign deafness, but he had a fine sense of the defensive uses of stupidity. Question him directly (say about those apples or that broken window-pane), and he knew nothing whatever. Question him further, and he knew less than nothing. You might conceivably have questioned him to the extreme point when his unadmitting blue eyes would have said, as plain as speech, "What is an apple?" His primrose head could be seen at this moment fifty yards away down the beach. He was watching a fisherman scrape hooks with an old clasp-knife. He had just spoken to the man. "_Dim Saesneg_," the man had replied. John Willie was now watching him, not as a man who scraped hooks, but as the possessor of a new and admirable defence against questions. "John Wil----" But this time the summons was broken in two on Mr. Garden's lips. He had opened the cottage door, and was looking mildly within. The orders he had given for the preparation of the double cottage for his wife and children had included the lining of the interior with match-boarding, and he had understood that this had been finished a week and more ago. It was a month since he had had the advice-note from the timber merchant at Porth Neigr that the material had been delivered. And so it had. There it was. There, too, were the walls. But the matchboarding was not on the walls. It lay, tongued and grooved, with the scantling for fixing it, just where the timber merchant's men had deposited it--on the floor. It filled half the place. On the top of it, still in the sacking in which they had been sewn, were the articles of furniture that had been brought from Mr. Garden's Manchester attics and lumber-rooms. The rest of the furniture he had taken over from the previous tenants, whom some vicissitude of fortune had taken far away to South Wales. Mr. Garden removed his glasses, wiped them, replaced them, and then, looking over the top of them, spoke: "Where's Dafydd Dafis?" he said. But a cry from his wife, who had come up behind him, interrupted him. She fell back again, not mildly, but in consternation. "Nay, nay, Edward!--I never----" she gasped. "Where's Dafydd Dafis?" Mr. Garden asked again. "Of all the sights! If it isn't enough to--I thought you told me----" Mr. Garden blew his nose and slowly put his handkerchief away again. "Does anybody know where Dafydd Dafis is?" "--and us fit to drop for a cup of tea!" Mrs. Garden continued. "Up since five this morning, and come all that way, and not so much as a fire lighted nor a kettle on to boil----" Mr. Garden was looking about him again, as if he would have said, "These appear to be boards," when suddenly his wife broke energetically in. "Well, it's no good standing looking at it; we must all turn to, that's all.--Jane! Ellen!--Off with them jackets, and one of you make a fire while the other unpacks the groceries. The tea and things are in that box under the shawls--and to think we might have come in wet, and not even a winter-hedge to dry our things on!--There's no wood, you say? Wood enough, marry! I can see nothing else!--And the tea isn't there? Then run out and buy a quarter of a pound to be going on with; I won't have everything unpacked now, not in the middle of this joiner's shop!--Tell her where the grocer's is, Edward----" And she threw off her lavender dolman and bonnet, and bustled about, like the capable creature she was, as ready to turn to as if she had never had a day's help in her life. A little girl stood at the door, still describing rainbows from her forehead; but scarce had Ellen asked her where the grocer's was when there came up at a half run Howell Gruffydd himself, the keeper of the single shop of the place. He was in his shirt-sleeves, wore an old bowler hat, and wiped his hands on the coarse, white apron about his middle. Over his glasses Edward Garden watched his approach, but he did not speak. It was not anger that kept him silent. Already he had accepted _fait accompli_--or in this case _inaccompli_. Howell Gruffydd broke into sunny smiles of welcome. "How d'you do, Mr. Garden? So you have arrived? How d'you do, madam? How d'you do, miss? You had a pless-sant journey?" He beamed on each of them, and then beamed on them again. "Do you know where Dafydd Dafis is?" Mr. Garden asked once more. "Indeed I do not, Mr. Garden. Perhaps he maake fenss for Squire Wynne. Perhaps he fiss." Then Howell Gruffydd's eyes fell on the boards as if he had not noticed them before. He gave a heartfelt "Aw-w-w!" "It is not finiss! Dear me, dear me! Hwhat a pitt-ty!" Then he became cheerfully explanatory. "That will be old Mrs. Pritchard--Dafydd Dafis he that fond of her as if she wass his own fless and blood. She iss nine-ty, and for two weeks they have prayers for her in the chap-pil, and Doctor Williams, he come from Porth Neigr, and that is five s'illing, but the pains in her body was soa bad she not know hwhat to dooa!--And it was good fiss-ing these three weeks and more--and the man who bring the boards, he say they well season, but it do them no harm to wait a little while longer----" Mr. Garden's eyes were still looking over his glasses. "Then is he going to let them season for ever?" he said. Howell Gruffydd smiled soothingly.--"Naw-w-w! Not for ev-er, Mr. Garden!" "It's a good job he hasn't got to get his living in Manchester," Mr. Garden observed. At that Howell Gruffydd clasped his hands, as if he congratulated himself that an interesting rumour was confirmed. "Indeed, now," he said, "they do say that the pip-ple there is not the same as the pip-ple here!" At this point Mrs. Garden's voice was raised. She was on her knees by the boxes, and could not find the sugar for tea. At the word "tea," Howell Gruffydd broke out with eager hospitality. "Indeed it is cup of tea I came about," he said. "I say to Mrs. Gruffydd, 'They come all this way,' I say, 'and they will be want-ting cup of tea whatever.' It is all ready ... Eesaac Oliver!"--he called from the doorway--"run to your mother, and say we be there in one minnit! And do not answer me in Welss when there are pip-ple who do not understand it--where are your manners, indeed!" He turned to the new-comers again. "You s'all have cup of tea whatever, Mrs. Garden--it cost you noth-thing--and the young gentleman, he is down at the boats, but Eesaac Oliver s'all fetch him--come on----" Howell Gruffydd, the grocer, speaks rather better English to-day than he spoke then, but there is no more quickness and keenness in his black-lashed light-blue eyes, and no more persuasiveness in his purring voice. To the half-unpacked boxes of provisions on the floor he did not drop an eye. He led the way past half a dozen cottages to the little shop with showcards and paper packages in the diminutive window. He showed them in and round the counter, lifting the old curtain that shut off the parlour from the public part of the shop. Blodwen, his wife, in a clean apron that showed the knife-edged creases of its ironing, was curtsying as if she did not know how to stop. The parlour communicated with the inner side of the counter, and behind the counter, on the left, was the window. Bottles and canisters stood on the shelves, and below them were innumerable small drawers. The fire-place had a high mantelpiece with countless china objects upon it, and a large dresser with blue and white plates stood against the inner wall. Next to the dresser was a tall clock, with a ship sailing round the world on the dial. A gigantic black turnip of a kettle sent out a cloud of steam; cranpogs were keeping hot in a dish within the fender; and near them an enormous marmalade-coloured cat slept. The room smelt of pepper and soap and pickles and cheese, and Howell Gruffydd's guests filled it. He helped his wife to wait upon them, and in the intervals attended to the shop. A little girl came in for a pennyworth of bicarbonate of soda, and Howell, returning from serving her, again showed his white, but false, teeth. "It maake the tea last longer," he said, with a jerk of his head; "but there is no bi----" he smiled again apologetically, though he was perfectly well able to pronounce the word, "--there is none of that in this tea, Mrs. Garden. It is not tea like the fine pip-ple in Manchester drink, but we are simple pip-ple here. Blodwen, the cranpogs; make a good tea, Mr. Garden; indeed, you eat noth-thing; tut, tut, they taake up no room!--You say what is that, young gentleman? That is a Welss Bible. Aha, you cannot read that! Nor you cannot say, 'Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychyndrobwlantysiligogogoch!'--You try? I say it slowly----" Though Howell had repeated the jaw-breaker twenty times, John Willie Garden would still have maintained the silence of defence. "Ha, ha, ha! It is easy!... Well, I ask you riddle instead.--There was a young gentleman, and he have eight"--he held up his fingers--"eight--sisters. And every one of them has a brother. Now you tell me how many brothers and sisters there are!" He winked, but respectfully, at Mr. Garden. "Nine," said John Willie Garden contemptuously, with his mouth full of cranpogs and jam. Howell showed no discomfiture. He laughed. "Ha, ha, ha! He say nine! I ask him again.--There was a young gentleman ... but, dear me, there is the s'op again! We must earn our living, all of us. Business before pleas-sure--it is a good rule----" And he squeezed through to the counter again, while his wife boiled more eggs and spiked the cranpogs on a fork, five at a time. After tea Mrs. Garden was seen to be pulling up her skirt and to be feeling for her pocket in the folds of her petticoat; but with an imperceptible gesture her husband restrained her. He thanked Gruffydds, and they returned to their own cottage, Eesaac Oliver accompanying them to help to pile up the matchboards and to take the furniture from its sacking. The cottage was much like the other cottages of the place. Its ceiling consisted of tacked-up sheets, inside which spiders and dust and sand whispered and the wind rippled. The black mantelpiece had brass candlesticks and china ornaments, and on one side of the tall clock was a grocer's almanac-portrait of Mr. Gladstone, while on the other was one of Dr. Rees, the President of the Congregational Union of England and Wales. A sampler, rather difficult to see in the bad light, hung immediately within the door, and the window opened six inches, in which position it had to be propped with a short stick. There were geraniums on its sill, and a red sausage filled with sand kept out the draught when it was closed. The outer door of the second cottage was to be permanently fastened up when the match-boarding should be finished. The cottages adjoining belonged to fishermen, the one with a wife and children, the other a widower who kept his departed wife in mind by means of a number of framed and glazed cenotaphs, consisting of a black ground with white angels mourning over a tombstone, and, above, the words, "_Er Serchog Cof_----" This was Llanyglo when Minetta Garden was first brought there for the benefit of her health. The authors of the Itineraries had not thought it worth mentioning; Wyndham has nothing to say about it, Skrine did not visit it, Pennant passes it by. But you may find an excellent steel engraving of it, by Copley Fielding, full of accomplishment, elegance and taste, and published by the London Art Union. If Minetta did well there, it was Edward Garden's intention, so far as Edward Garden's intentions were ever known, to let or sell his cottage and to build a more convenient house of his own. There was stone to be had in abundance within three or four miles. Mutton was plentiful and delicious, beef not quite so plentiful nor quite so good. The larger grocery supplies could be sent direct from Manchester, the odds and ends purchased from Howell Gruffydd. Water was to fetch only a hundred yards, and lamp oil, etc., came twice a week in the cart from Porth Neigr. And soon--Edward Garden did not know yet, and if he did not know you may be sure nobody else did--Porth Neigr might be brought nearer to the rest of the world than ten miles' journey by road. For, besides being a spinner and a good many other things, Edward Garden was a Director of the Ratchet and Rawtonstall Railway, and, as is the compliment between railway and railway, those little silver trinkets that dangled from his gold watch-chain--little greyhounds and locomotives, winged orbs and other emblems of speed--were the tokens of his freedom at all times over other lines, and of his personal intimacy with men who open up land, not a field at a time with a plough, but by running a sinew of steel through it, with a nerve alongside that, touched at any point, quickens and thrills throughout its length. Nevertheless, it is quite true that he came to Llanyglo first of all for the benefit of his daughter's health. II ITS NONAGE At bottom, neither the good fishing nor the illness of ancient Mrs. Pritchard had been the real cause of Dafydd Dafis's procrastination in the matter of the match-boarding--any more than those greased cartridges were the real cause of the Mutiny. He was merely vindicating the claims of a temperament that kept him, and would always keep him, poor, yet a power. He was a day-labourer, whom anybody could hire to build a wall, mend a thatch or caulk a boat; but--and this was the secret of his influence--he had a harp in his cottage. In a glorious baritone voice he sang _Mentra Gwen_, _Y Deryn Pur_, and lorn songs of love and wild songs of battle. More than that, he sang _penillion_; and as _penillion_--which is an extempore form of song into which you may plunge at any point you please, provided you finish pat and triumphant with the double bar--as _penillion_ concerns itself mainly with two themes, namely, the loved mountains and lakes of Cambria, and quick and topical inventions of personal gossip, Dafydd Dafis held his hearers both by their deeper sentiments and their lighter foibles. He was a spare and roughly clad man of thirty, unmarried, with a kindling eye, a handsome nose, and a ragged dark moustache; and when his head was bowed by the side of his harp, all the life of him seemed to run out into the lean and roughened fingers on the strings. He came to see Edward Garden about that match-boarding on the Saturday morning, bringing a youth of eighteen with him. Edward Garden, who had had experience of the Welsh in Liverpool, which is the capital of Wales, received him with resignation. Fair and softly goes far in a day, and he knew that the luxury of chiding the bard of Llanyglo would prove a dear one did Mrs. Garden find her egg supply suddenly fail and the Llanyglo cows mysteriously cease to yield milk. His forbearance was rewarded. Before he departed for Manchester on the Monday morning he had the satisfaction of seeing Dafydd Dafis and the youth actually begin the job. No doubt it would be finished by the time divinely appointed for its finishing. But whether Dafydd Dafis sang much as he worked, or worked a little as he sang, remained an open question. Now in whatever other respects Llanyglo may have changed, its air then was the same air that the Guide Book so justly praises to-day. Minetta felt the benefit of it at once. During her illness she had had her dark hair close-cropped; for fear of taking cold, she still wore a red "pirate" cap, that is, a cone of knitted wool with a bob at the peak that fell on one side of her head: and for the same reason she wore black stockings pulled well up over the bamboo-like joints of her bony knees. She was a slight, dark pixy of a child, on whom so much care had been expended that she had begun to care for herself and to talk wisely about draughts and wet feet; and sometimes she consoled herself for the loss of her hair by repeating her mother's assurance, that it would grow the more strongly afterwards. But within a fortnight of the Gardens' settling at Llanyglo there was no further thought of taking her back home until the cold weather should come. Her doll's-house and paint-box were sent for. Her health continued to improve. By and by she was to be found squatted down by the sand-blown palings, surrounded by the Llanyglo children, keeping a shop, of which the commodities were shells, pebbles, starfish and the like. Her dolls and their house were neglected. But the other little girls, who had seen these wonders once, sometimes lingered wistfully about Mrs. Garden's door, looking within, and whispering, "There it is, Gwladys--see, by the cloch----" Long before the match-boarding of a single room was completed, John Willie Garden, whom at first his mother had not been able to drive out of doors, had lost interest in Dafydd Dafis, his sawing, his hammering, and his songs. He disappeared by the half-day together. It was a holiday time at the school by the Baptist Chapel, and, with Eesaac Oliver Gruffydd and other youngsters as his companions, he scrambled among the rocks at the base of the Trwyn, or climbed the headland itself, or digged for bait, or went out in the boats, or fished for crabs with split mussels off the jetty end (he stuffed his catch up underneath his blue jersey, where the animals crawled about on his friendly and naked skin). The rainbow curves of the children ceased when he or Minetta appeared, but they continued as a salute to Mrs. Garden. The weather continued superb: it rained scarcely at all. The mountains were never for two hours the same; the sea in the evenings was mother-of-pearl; and the rising moon seemed to stand up on it, like the lateen of a felucca of gold. Mrs. Garden sent to Manchester for her tricycle. Then the school by the Baptist Chapel re-opened, and for some days John Willie, hanging idly about and listening to the droning within, was undecided whether to give the insulting cry of liberty or to lament that he was left to his own devices. He himself would not have to go back to school till the middle of September. Then he still further enlarged his circle of acquaintance. He attached himself to a farmer's lad, who shot rabbits of an evening among the sandhills, and, after being allowed to fire the gun, gave his catapult away to a "kid." July passed. The match-boarding progressed by fits and starts. It was now Minetta who impeded its progress. Dafydd Dafis loved her as if she had been his own child, and told her stories of dragons and knights and enchantments and fairies, and sang _Mentra Gwen_ to her, all by the hour together, careless whether Edward Garden paid him for those same hours or not. With the passing of August, Llanyglo had made far more difference to the Gardens than the Gardens had to Llanyglo. Indeed, Llanyglo looked like absorbing them altogether, as animals not ultimately capable of domestication are sucked back into the feral state. In the matter of dress, for example, they had deteriorated alarmingly. Half his days John Willie spent in and out of the water without a stitch on him, and he no longer had a pair of sand-shoes to his name.--And Minetta? First she lost the bob from the peak of her red "pirate" cap, and then the cap itself was cast aside. From careful nightly brushings of her "new" pleated navy-blue frock with the white braid, she allowed the pleats to get full of sand, and, where the prints of her ribbed soles had been, now her bare feet patterned the beach. Her bamboo legs were brown as seaweed and barked up the shins; and when (with a totally abandoned display of knickers) she emptied her shoes of sand, she would sit down in a pool as soon as not.--And Mrs. Garden? Not for worlds would she have had anybody from Manchester see her as she returned on her tricycle from bathing among the Trwyn rocks, sessile on the saddle, a mackintosh over her voluminous bathing-dress, a towel cast across her shoulders, and her plump ivory legs rising and falling on the pedals like the twin cranks of a vertical human engine. Yes, the Gardens were slipping back into savagery. They were becoming part of Llanyglo. Manchester seemed, not so much a hundred miles, as a hundred years away. And when, on a Monday morning, it became necessary that Mrs. Garden should put on her garments of civilisation again and traverse those hundred miles, or years, in order to see how her other home was getting on, the whole population gathered about the Royal Hotel shandrydan that came to take her to Porth Neigr, and tears stood in eyes, and sobs choked throats, and shawls and hands and handkerchiefs were waved as the vehicle started off over the muffling sandhills, and as many promises were made that Minetta and John Willie should be well looked after as if she had been departing never to return, instead of coming back again on the Friday. Howell Gruffydd picked a tear from his eye with his little finger, and spoke of the mutability of human affairs. "The one is ta-a-ke, the other left," he said. "It is all change. Dear dear, it make me think of my cousin Evan Evans, of Carnarvon, and his three boys, as fine boys as ever you see, and so-a hap-py, all living under one roof, till Mary Evans die and wass buried, and the changes come, and where are those boys now? They are scatter. One is in Bangor, and one is in Menai Bridge, and one is in Pwllheli. Dear me! Dear me! Mrs. Garden was a very kind one. There was no kinder 'ooman. Al-ways the sa-a-me. She seem like one of ourselves. Well, well----" And he picked away another tear, as grief-stricken as if he had been reciting an epitaph "_Er Serchog Cof Am Amelia Garden_." Then, when on the Friday she duly returned, there was as much rejoicing as if she had been a sister, come back again from a long wandering. Mrs. Garden had brought back with her in the Royal Hotel conveyance wellnigh as much luggage as had laden the vehicle on their first coming; for it had been decided that Minetta's stay was to be still further prolonged. So warm clothing had been brought, and more blankets, and a screen for the door, and a small family medicine-chest, and Minetta's Compendium Box of Games. And that was bad news for John Willie Garden, for it brought the shadow of his own departure near; and yet it was good news too, for it seemed to promise a more sure establishment in the place, with perhaps another visit for himself during the Christmas holidays. He could not think how the summer days had slipped away, and grew doleful as he remembered how few of them now remained. Then, when September was a week or so old, he climbed the Trwyn in order to take his good-bye look at Llanyglo. A straggling row of cottages, a few paths over the sandhills, three Chapels, a school, and a few scattered farms: the rest, mountains, sea, and air. The tide was creaming over the short thumb of a jetty, and the herd of small black cows was patrolling the beach. Morgan's cottage, Roberts's cottage, their own cottage, not more than a dozen other cottages; and then Howell Gruffydd's shop: already the place was full of memories for John Willie Garden. That wide pool in the sands that reflected the sky had not been there a fortnight before--for the sea had now lost its summer look, and it changed the configuration of the shore at night. A puff of low-blown smoke showed where Dafydd Dafis was giving a boat a coat of tar. There was the small crack of a gun--John Willie's friend was shooting rabbits. On the top of Mrs. Roberts's chimney a new flat stone had been placed, and a new staple for the shutter had been driven into the wall. John Willie had still no stockings on, but he was sensible now of the wind on his legs. They were as brown as rope. His hands too were brown and grimy, and smelt pleasant. That morning he had been helping the men to get in the winter peat.... So he watched, and at tea-time he descended; but already he was making up the exultant tales he would tell the boys of his form, of the spanking place where his father had taken a cottage and might presently be building a house. He would boast over them in the Welsh words he had learned, and triumph no end that they did not understand him. Only to a few of his special friends would he confide the meanings of his expressions in English. Three days later he was doing even so, at Pannal School, near Harrogate, in Yorkshire. Mr. Garden came to Llanyglo once more, bringing a doctor with him this time in order that Minetta's health might be authoritatively reported upon, and again he departed. The cottages, which in summer had been places to live outside of, began to have a comfortable look as the afternoons drew in. Minetta wore her boots and stockings again now, and her maroon serge frock with the white collar, and Mrs. Garden put her tricycle away in the little lean-to behind the house, smothering the bright parts with vaseline and covering it up with sacking. The last--the very last--piece of match-board had been nailed in its place, and all had been pale oak-varnished, so that the sheen of the fire could be seen in the walls. The glowing peats were reflected too, in still red spots, in the black glass rolling-pin, the brass candlesticks, the windows of the dolls' house, the plates and lustre jugs, and the china sitting hen where they kept the eggs. The wind began to hoot in the throat of the chimney. Mrs. Garden's ears became accustomed to the louder falling of the breakers; soon the cessation of this noise would have been the arresting thing. October wore on. There was very little fishing now. Each of the three Chapels had a week-night service, and nearly everybody went to all three. Twice the schoolroom was thrown open for concerts; but most of the singing took place in the kitchen. Sometimes, on the edge of the dark, a fantastic irregular shape would be seen, rising and dipping and lurching as it approached over the sandhills; it was Dafydd Dafis, carrying on his back the wooden case that contained his harp. Save for these infrequent diversions, the winter was a dead time at Llanyglo. The hamlet rolled itself up and hibernated. Mrs. Garden sometimes sighed for a Hallé concert, or a dance, or "a few friends in the evening," but she bore up for the sake of the dry and sunny and exhilarating days and the good they did Minetta. Minetta got out her dolls, their house, and the Compendium Box of Games; and she and Gwladys Roberts and Morwenna Morgan and Mary Price, with the oil lamp on the table and the firelight glowing low on the ceiling, had spring-cleanings of the mimic dwelling (to which the Welsh children did not take with any great heartiness), and epidemics among the dolls (which were more interesting), and once a funeral (to which they gave themselves rapturously). They played Snap and Fishponds, and then Minetta set about the making of a picture screen, with coloured figures which she cut from the _Queen_ and _Lady's Pictorial_ and plain ones which she coloured with her paint-box. At Christmas Mr. Garden and John Willie came down, the former for a few days, John Willie for a fortnight. One of his days Mr. Garden spent in a visit to Squire Wynne, who lived at the Plas, three miles away. The sea was some days as black as iron, on others as white as ash with the tumult of the wind. There was snow on the mountains, but little at Llanyglo. Even John Willie did not want to bathe. In the daytime he tried to rig up a sail on his mother's tricycle, so that he might coast along the two miles of beach before the wind; at night he often walked down to the edge of the dimly creaming water, and stood looking out into the blackness, or else at the Trwyn Light, two reds and a white. Squire Wynne, the former owner of the Royal Hotel shandrydan, was the ground landlord of Llanyglo, and the reason of Edward Garden's Christmas call on him was--still quite simply and on Minetta's account--that he had decided to build and wanted certain land to build on. But this was not quite the simple matter it might have appeared to be. With this, that, and the other, the Squire floundered in a morass of mortgages, and, for the scraping together of his interest money, could scarce have re-papered the dilapidated walls of the Plas dining-room. He had other property also, thirty miles down the coast, which he had never the heart to go and see. It was there that the family fortunes had been sunk. A score of broken shaft-chimneys and heaps of fallen masonry on a promontory were all he had to show for the good Wynne money--these, and a deed-box full of scrip and warrants which you could have had for the price of the stamps on them. For that remote volcanic waste had been a happy hunting-ground for the prospectus-monger with hopeful views on paying quantities, and the Squire had granted more concessions than he could count. It was to be presumed that somebody had made money out of the concessions, if not out of the mines themselves. The last enterprise had been manganese. "Let me pour you out a glass of port first; it's the only thing I have that hasn't some sort of a charge on it," said the Squire. He was a heavy man of near sixty, the owner of a family pew in Porth Neigr Church, a stickler for rainbowing, and, in a feckless sort of way, something of an antiquary. His adherence to the three-bottle habit helped to make the fortunes of several quacks in our own day, who advertise infallible cures for the neuritis he and his kind have bequeathed to their descendants. The only sign the Squire himself showed of this was a slightly ochreous eye.--Then, when he had poured out the port, "It's you who have the money nowadays," he said, meaning by "you" Gladstonian Liberals. "Look at this ceiling of mine. There isn't a ceiling in Wales with a finer coffering, but look at the state it's in!--And that chandelier! It holds forty candles, but _I_ can't afford 'em! This is what _I_ use." He pointed to his father's old reservoir colza lamp on the table.--"And I'll show you the staircase presently.... Sell? It won't make sixpence difference to me one way or the other. Which piece is it you want?" Mr. Garden told him. "Well, you'd better see my man about it. Sheard, Porth Neigr, next to the corn-chandler's shop. Or I'll see him if you like. But if we do come to terms I should like to give you a piece of advice." "What is that?" Edward Garden asked. "I suppose you're not Welsh by any chance?" "No." "Well, I'm half Welsh, and things jog on well enough as long as I'm alive. There are all sorts of questions that simply don't arise. But they're a queer people here, and when you get to the bottom of it, practically the question of landowning resolves itself into keeping on the right side of Dafydd Dafis, if you see what I mean." It was not necessary to tell Edward Garden that, but he begged the Squire to go on. "For instance," the Squire continued, "I've a couple of mortgages foreclosing any time now--Sheard will tell you--I don't even know who the mortgagees are. But if they're Welsh, so much the better for them. I mean if they introduce changes, or go at things like a bull at a gate, they'll wish I'd gone on paying them interest. A smile does more than a smack here. If they inclose, for example----" "Ah, this new Act----" "Or any other Act There was a case at that No Man's Land of mine over there----" The Squire jerked his head in the direction of the shafts where the family fortunes had been sunk. "An Englishman came, and began to fence, and there was a Dafydd Dafis sort of fellow there, and this man Rodgers thought that because he wore strings round the knees of his corduroys he wasn't anybody of consequence ... and there you are. The only thing Edward the First could do with the bards was to destroy them, and they're the same breed yet.--So that's my advice. For the rest, you'd better see Sheard. Have another glass of port." And, after he had been shown the magnificent ruin of a staircase, and had noted without showing the grass on the Squire's paths and the moss in the Squire's grass, Edward Garden thanked the Squire for his advice and took his leave. He was able to come to terms with Sheard, and in the following spring a new house began to go up in Llanyglo. The site Edward Garden had selected for his house lay a little way behind the row of cottages, over the thatches of which it looked out to the sea. Rock cropped up there, amid a waste of bents and potentilla and sea-thrift and thyme, and a rill slipped over moss and, a little further on, disappeared into the sand, to emerge again down by the shore. From a stone quarry on the Porth Neigr road stone was still being got for the extension of Porth Neigr itself; and it would actually be nearer to bring it to Llanyglo. Sheard saw to that also, and Edward Garden, taking the Squire's advice, put Dafydd Dafis, match-boarder, in charge of the work. It would take time, but it would save time. And, so long as it was understood that it was Dafydd Dafis who might say to this man "Come," and he came, and to the other "Go," and he went, Edward Garden did not anticipate difficulties did he wish, later, to "stiffen" his supply of labour by importing a plumber, or a mason, or a carpenter or two from Manchester. So, in the spring, the rock was cleared and chisels began to clink; and John Willie Garden, away at school in Pannal, could scarce contain himself until the summer holidays should come. He sent, by letter, the most peremptory specifications. His room was to be thus and thus, and not otherwise. The letters also contained complaints to his mother that his health was seriously impaired by arduous study; so was the health of his friend Percy Briggs: indeed, all the fellows were remarking how greatly in need of a change of air he and Percy seemed. Mrs. Garden's chief preoccupation was that the new house should have water upstairs and a cupboard at every turn. And as that was the first building of their own that the folk of Llanyglo had ever seen, its progress became their daily talk. The farmers came from inland to look at it, and, as the weather grew milder, the fishermen no longer smoked of an evening under the shelter of their boats down by the jetty, but instead made a kind of club-house of the triangular pile of floor-boards that the Porth Neigr timber merchant presently delivered. They climbed inside this slatted prism, hung the interstices with sacking as a protection from the wind, and smoked and talked, while the stars peeped down on them. They talked of progress and innovation, and of how little they had ever thought they would live to see such a change as this on the face of their sandhills. "But it will not be as big as the Plas, whatever," one of them would remark, not so much as belittling Edward Garden's new house as in order to correct a certain tendency to wild and disproportionate talk. Indeed, they were proud of Llanyglo's growth. Only the building of another chapel could have made them prouder. "Aw-w-w, William Morgan, h-what a way to talk!" another would reply. "You talk like a great simpleton! You say next it is not so big as the railway station at Porth Neigr! Indeed, the Plas is big-ger, but it is di-lap-i-date, a pit-ty to see, and the staircase--aw-w-w dear! They do say Squire Wynne he go in lit-tle bedroom, not to fall through the floor!" "And the stables is lock up, all but one stall, and you shan't find a handful of corn there, no, not more than will feed one horse!" "There was sixteen horses there----" "And the Squire, he hunt----" "It all go to that Abercelyn in the mines--thousands of pounds!----" "There is land here to build stables if Mr. Garden wiss----" "Indeed, Hugh Roberts, if he build any more we be bigger than Porth Neigr, whatever!----" And this hyperbole always raised a laugh. Porth Neigr, besides being the head of the railway, had a market place, two banks, a stone quay, a court house, and an English Church. The house rose higher and higher, and by the time John Willie Garden came again, in July, it had reached the first floor. Long rows of roof slates were stacked under a temporary shed, and, as if he had not had lessons enough in the school by the Baptist Chapel, Eesaac Oliver Gruffydd did multiplication sums and Welsh-English exercises upon them. John Willie's eyes danced when they saw the scaffolding and ladders. He was six rungs up a ladder before you could have turned round. He was up that ladder and down a second and up a third almost as quickly, nor did he take breath until, short of swarming up the scaffold-poles, he had stood on the topmost point of the structure. Then, with the air of something accomplished, he condescended to the level ground again. Half of Dafydd Dafis's men lodged at one or other of the farms and cottages, to the tenants of which they were bound by ties of consanguinity; the others put up at the little alehouse half a mile out on the Porth Neigr road, which served also as a shop for the outlying farms. Dafydd paid their wages, and they had built a hearth near the mortar heap for the cooking of their dinners. John Willie dined daily with them. Never was such importance as that with which he came nigh to bursting. The rocks and the rabbits, the boats and the Trwyn, no longer called him; here was not only a house going up, but his house. In his father's absence he could give orders. He became knowing in limes and mortars, expert in the use of the plumb and level. He strutted about with a square, setting it carelessly against angles, and derided Eesaac Oliver and his slates and long-division sums. The eaves-level was reached; they began to get the roof-timbers up; the sandhills resounded with hammering and sawing; and the upper part of the house began to resemble a toast-rack against the sky. Only one stone remained to be set in position. This was the gable-stone with "E. G., 1882" upon it. John Willie warned Eesaac Oliver that the slates on which he ciphered would soon be required. As matters turned out, he was wrong in this. Already three men, a plumber, his mate, and a carpenter, had been down from Manchester, and fresh supplies of timber--sections of staircase and so on--had come in carts over the sound-deadening sandhills. But how all at once the work came to a sudden stop--how that toast-rack stood against the sky for another year without a slate upon it--and how Edward Garden, away in Manchester, had once more to accept the line of least resistance, while his son loitered disconsolately about the unfinished building until something even more exciting claimed his interest--to tell these things another chapter had better be begun. III THE MINDER The land on which, as Squire Wynne had told Edward Garden, other mortgages were being foreclosed, began a furlong or so behind the unfinished house, reaching to and including one of the farms--Fotty, John Pritchard's. It formed a three-hundred-yards-wide strip of bents and rough grazing, which spread out inland with Fotty in the middle of its base. The mortgagee was Squire Wynne's Liverpool wine-merchant, and he had accepted the mortgage partly because he did not wish to be at cross-purposes with such of Squire Wynne's friends as were good customers of his, and partly because he was not very likely to get anything else in settlement of a longish account. This account had been reckoned off the sum advanced, which, besides, was based on a low valuation; and, not wanting the land himself, he was ready enough to sell to any optimist who did. The land remained in the possession of the wine-merchant for exactly eleven weeks. At the end of that time he had found his optimist in the person of Terry Armfield. And who was Terry Armfield, that his affairs should thus become mixed up with those of Llanyglo? Well, the name of one of his grandfathers, which need not be mentioned, is to be found, in certain circumstances of notoriety, in Gomer Williams's _History of the Liverpool Privateers_; and that of his father is associated with the bright story of the tea-clippers. Thus a certain adventurousness in Terry may perhaps be accounted for. But whence the rest of him derived was a mystery. Belated young Tractarians who burn incense in their monastic bedrooms were no more common in Liverpool then than they are to-day. In appearance, Terry was an ill-adjusted compromise between an ascetic and a young man about town. He was tall and of a buoyant movement, excellently dressed, had burning and ecstatic brown eyes, and was possessed of an extraordinary power of impressing people as long as, and even a little longer than, he was actually in their presence. This was all very well as long as he spoke only of pictures that this self-made merchant ought to buy, or of books without which some shipper's newly formed library would be incomplete. He really knew a little about these things, as also he did about architecture and engravings, vestments and Ritualism and furniture. The trouble began when he went beyond them. Wealthy business men, looking up as Terry lounged into their offices, would put up their hands defensively, cry, "It's no good, Terry--I won't listen," but would presently find themselves listening none the less. It was not that Terry was plausible. Plausible was not the word. He persuaded you only because he was, for the time being, overwhelmingly persuaded himself. His capacity for enthusiasm was astonishing. Circumstances having driven him from his true vocation (the Church) into business, he traded as it were under Letters of Marque that had had an apostolic blessing. House-property, leases, patents, picture-exhibitions, concessions, bills for discount, Irish-harvester agencies, philanthropy on a paying basis, and a hundred even vaguer values--some idealistic strain in Terry so moved the dullard-on-the-make that he had a new light on business as a benison, and on money-making as something nobler than he had supposed. What such an one commonly lacked, Terry was full and running over with; and the end of the matter frequently was that it was judged to be worth a certain amount of risk to be on the side of Terry and the angels. Of course, Terry ought to have been locked up as a public danger. Anybody but Terry would have been locked up. But you cannot lock innocence and rapturous good faith up. Terry, if you had locked him up, would merely have sent for his crucifix, plunged into fresh scheming, and would have come out again as running over with piracies and the humanities as ever. So Terry Armfield, who hitherto had never heard of Llanyglo and of whom Llanyglo had never heard, took over Fotty and the strip of land that ran down to Edward Garden's unfinished house, with, as it happened, extremely notable results. For nobody who knew Terry ever supposed that he made purchases of real estate solely upon his own account. He represented others; and it is perhaps significant that the nickname by which he was known among the members of the Syndicate which made use of him was borrowed from the slang of the "swell mob." He was called "The Minder." Now the Minder, as you ought not to know, is the gentleman who makes himself charming to you while the others consult about how much you may be worth, and how you may most conveniently be made worth less. Often, like Terry, he himself is not in the real councils of his allies. They want his looks, his candours, his repute, his address, and in Terry's case they especially wanted his powers remarkable of persuasion. Until it should be decided what people were to be persuaded of, Terry minded. Little did John Pritchard, tenant-farmer of Fotty, dream of the solicitude with which his farm was regarded by a number of people who had never seen it and did not want ever to see it. Little did he think that that middling oat-bearing land was being minded and brooded upon. Little did he imagine what interest, what benevolence, what affectionate regard ... or, to put it in plain English, he had no notion whatever that, instead of having Squire Wynne for a landlord, he was now the tenant of a set of prospectus-vendors of whom two or three were the same men who had held those hopeful views on the paying-quantities of manganese that could be obtained from that other property of Squire Wynne's, the Abercelyn mines, thirty miles further down the coast. The Corporation did not insist on manganese or on anything else. On the contrary, it was accommodating in the extreme. You paid your money and took your choice what commodity you found on its properties; you could have had tin, iron, copper, lead, anything you happened to fancy. It merely wished to be able to show, in case of need, its indefeasible title to real land, at Llanyglo or anywhere else, but the further from civilisation the better. It would be safer, and really not much dearer, to buy Pritchard's farm, than it would be to have to confess in open Court that the tin or iron or lead shares of which it was trying to create the value, unfortunately happened to have Pritchard's farm sitting on the top of them. "No, we'd better get hold of a bit of real land from somewhere," the Syndicate had said. "Better have it in a new name too. All Abercelyn names exempt for three years. Who is there?... What about Armfield?" All had agreed that Terry would make an excellent Minder. When, in course of time, the Syndicate first heard from Terry (who heard it goodness knows where) that "glo" was the Welsh word for "coal," it was on the point of plumping for coal without further question. "What more do you want?" it asked itself. "'Glo'--'coal'; there you are. Place-name. Awful lot in a genuine place-name. Find it on an old map, to show that we didn't invent it, and the whole thing settles itself. There's bound to _be_ coal. Sure to be. They didn't call it that for nothing. All ground's got _some_thing in it. _I_ say coal. On the face of it. It seems to me Providential. (Shut up, Abercelyn; we're talking about Llanyglo now.) ... Who says coal, then?" ... But Llanyglo was not destined to be a colliery village. Latticed shaft-heads were not to rise under the Trwyn, nor men to descend in cages to the galleries deep under the sandhills. Edward Garden's house was not to become a mine-manager's residence, nor a coal-quay to be constructed where the wooden jetty stuck out like a stumpy thumb into the sea.--Nevertheless, it almost looked at one time as if it might have been so. The Syndicate's registered offices were within a hundred yards of Lime Street Station, and Terry, looking forth from an upper window, could see the august portico of St. George's Hall and the cabs and steam-trams running to and fro past it. He sat day by day at a high sloping desk, perched on a tall stool. A small pile of letters lay by his side, weighted with a surveyor's reel-tape, and on a shelf above the press with the dumb-bell arm, thrust among directories and files, were _Stones of Venice_ and _The Christian Year_. There was a green cardboard shade on the double-elbowed gas-bracket, and on the wall near it hung an ebony-edged T-square and a number of French curves. There was a second stool for callers, and in a small outer office a youth of sixteen read _The Boys of London and New York_ and chewed root-liquorice. The place was shabby, as befitted a hole-in-corner enterprise, but Terry saw not that shabbiness. He had splendour enough in his own visions. He did not look very busy, but he was. A dozen inspired and half-baked schemes fermented in his head, and besides these, he was minding Llanyglo--the thyme and wild pansies and butterflies of its sandhills, the glaucous blue sea-holly of its shore, its heathery Trwyn, its coal or what-not underfoot, and its crystal air overhead--especially its crystal air overhead.... IV "DIM SAESNEG" On the forenoon of that day on which work on Edward Garden's house suddenly ceased, Dafydd Dafis, sitting astride of a coping, was singing as he drove heavy cut nails into a beam. His song was martial, and it almost made his joinering warlike. The burden of it was that Cambria's foes (here a bang with the hammer) should fall beneath the sword (another bang) as the pine falls when the levin (bang) flashes from the cloud that hides the head of Arenig (bang, and a nail well home). John Willie Garden, who had heard somewhere that coins of the current mintage were placed in cavities in foundation stones, was chipping a hollow in the bedding of the "E.G." stone for the reception of a well-brightened sixpence and a document in his own handwriting, that should tell future ages how one John Willie Garden had lived and had done thus and thus. The sun was hot; the new timbers were as bright as John Willie's own primrose-coloured hair against the intense blue; and the workmen below seemed to stand on their shadows as lead soldiers stand on their little bases of metal. John Willie finished his cavity, and then clambered up to the ridge-tree. There, putting his hands behind his head, he lay on his back, his dangling legs balancing him below. He blinked up at the sky, and from time to time called across to Dafydd Dafis, "Peth a elwir (whatever the English word might be) yn Cymraeg, Dafydd?" Then Dafydd would give him the Welsh, and he would practise it softly. It was just on the stroke of midday when Dafydd abruptly broke off his singing in the middle of a word. John Willie, blinking up at the blue, waited for him to resume; as he did not do so, John Willie turned his head. Dafydd was looking away over the sandhills in the direction of John Pritchard's farm. John Willie sat up. "Who is it?" he asked. Dafydd continued to look under his hand.--"Indeed, it look like Mr. Sheard," he muttered, "but he have strangers with him. It is Mr. Sheard's carr-adge, whatever.... Hugh Roberts!" He called to the men down below, who were making ready for their midday meal. He said something in Welsh to them, and they too looked. Mr. Sheard's governess-cart was drawn up by the earth-wall half a mile away, and from it three figures had descended. They climbed over the wall and began to cross the sandhills. One of them walked slowly and somewhat after the manner of a clock-work toy, as if he was pacing a distance; and another, after looking this way and that about him, moved off to the right, apparently also pacing. He stopped and held up his hand, and then returned, laying out along the ground as he went, something that made a little glitter in the sun. They came together again, and seemed to confer. Then over the earth-wall John Pritchard climbed, and William Sheard went to meet him. After that they all pointed, in various directions. Dafydd Dafis, from the top of the pale yellow toast-rack, called something else in Welsh, too quick for John Willie to hear. Then he gazed again. Something else was coming along the Porth Neigr road. Dafydd, who had the eyes of a river-poacher, knew both the cart and the two men who rode on the load. It drew nearer. Sheard and the two men seemed to be explaining something to John Pritchard. After a time John Pritchard walked away. Dafydd Dafis descended from the roof, followed by John Willie Garden. He had put his hammer into his pocket; his little heap of cut nails remained on the coping. The men had gathered into a cluster, but none went over the sandhills to see what was happening. Then a frequently repeated word struck John Willie's ear. He turned to Dafydd Dafis. "Peth a elwir 'adwydd' yn Saesneg, Dafydd?" he asked. Dafydd Dafis looked as if he had never sung in his life. "Post--hedgestake," he replied. Slowly they got out their dinner. As they did so Howell Gruffydd came up from the beach. Formerly, he had rebuked Eesaac Oliver for speaking Welsh in the presence of those who did not understand it; now, John Willie Garden's presence was entirely disregarded. He did not understand six words of the low, rapid conversation. Then in the middle of it a light sound came over the sandhills, and the talk suddenly ceased. They waited. The sound came again. Hedgestakes were being flung from the cart down by the side of the road. The workmen continued to sit after dinner, but not a ladder was mounted again that day. John Pritchard was big and sickly and consumptive, and his farm kitchen was also the Llanyglo Post Office. There John Willie went at six o'clock that evening to post a letter for his mother. Nominally, John's mother, ancient Mrs. Pritchard, whom Dafydd Dafis so greatly loved, was the postmistress, but actually Miss Nancy Pritchard, the schoolmistress, did most of the work. She was sealing the letter-bag from a saucer of melted wax when John Willie entered. The postman's cart waited at the door, and beyond it, past the gate, could be seen the hedgestakes that had been shot down on the opposite side of the road. The postman was explaining something to John Pritchard, and Dafydd Dafis and his labourers listened in silence. In her chair by the fire sat ancient Mrs. Pritchard, seeming old as the Dinas itself, her face a skull with a membrane stretched over it, a black gophered snood surrounding it, her hands anatomies, and her mouth from time to time making a sort of weak baa-ing. Of the hushed and rapid conversation at the door, John Willie caught this time a phrase or two he understood. "Wait and see, whatever," he heard them say; "let them drive them in ... adwydd ... perhaps it be on Thursday ... Saesneg...." He approached the group. "Peth a elwir----" he began. But the men who formerly had made much of him now took no notice of him at all. The next day two strangers from Porth Neigr appeared at Llanyglo, and began to stake out and to enclose a belt of land that extended, roughly, from the Porth Neigr road on both sides of John Pritchard's farm nearly as far as Edward Garden's house. John Willie watched these two men at work with their pawls, measuring and driving, but the curious thing was that nobody else did so. Save for the Porth Neigr men, the blue and sulphur butterflies and the rabbits, the sandhills were extraordinarily deserted. John Willie wandered here and there in search of somebody to talk to, and by and by found himself in Howell Gruffydd's shop. The grocer showed his false teeth in a smile, and then continued to weigh sugar. "Well, John Willie Garden, can you say 'Llanfairpwllgwyngyll----' yet?" he asked, his eyes gleaming as brightly as the bright scoop in his hand. "Where's everybody?" John Willie demanded. "You look for Eesaac Oliver?" Howell asked. "He go errand for me, to the lighthouse. You meet him coming back if you go." "Where are all the men?" John Willie demanded again, and Howell made a quick and mocking gesture. "Indeed, one hide behind that cur-tain--quick, look see!... Ha, ha, ha!" he laughed when John Willie involuntarily turned in the direction in which he had pointed. "I cat-ss you that time, John Willie Garden! You think there's a man behind that lit-tle cur-tain, hardly so big as my apron! Your sister, she s'arper than that, whatever!... You go find Eesaac Oliver. He fetch eggs from the lighthouse. Perhaps you meet all the men there too----" And that was as much as John Willie could get out of him. It was plain that something extraordinary was toward. It was a habit of John Willie Garden's to look in at Pritchard's farm of an evening, and there to pass the news with John Pritchard and to watch his ancient mother, bent doublefold over her Bible, running a rush-light along line after line so close to the page that the book was scored across with bars of smoky brown. He went as usual that evening. But he had hardly opened the door when it was closed again upon him. "We go to bed," said John Pritchard, and packed John Willie off without his customary "Nos da." But John Willie knew that they were not going to bed. The door had not been closed so quickly but that he had seen a dozen men crowding the kitchen, and Dafydd Dafis's eyes, hollower than ever in the light of the candle that stood at his elbow, with a sentimental and knife-like gleam in them as they turned. The next morning, every stake that those two Porth Neigr men had driven in had been uprooted again, and a board with "Rhybudd" on it lay down the beach, already lapped by the rising tide. * * * * * It was once told to the writer of _The Visitors' Sixpenny Guide to Llanyglo and Neighbourhood_--a young man with so little regard for his bread and butter that he made a labour of love of a job that brought him in exactly ten pounds--it was once told to this over-conscientious author, by a man who had known Squire Wynne very well, that the Squire, finding himself one day in Liverpool, and taking a walk to the docks with an acquaintance in the Royal Engineers, pointed down the Mersey past New Brighton, and said, "Do you know, I've sometimes had the idea that if this country was ever invaded the enemy would come up there?"--"But surely," exclaimed his friend, "it's a difficult piece of navigation?"--"Yes," the Squire replied, "but half the pilots are Welshmen." No doubt the Squire said it without accepting too much responsibility for it. No doubt, too, he would not have allowed anybody else to suggest that Wales might slyly open a back-door into England. But that there was something, much or little, in it, the famous Llanyglo Inclosures Dispute, that now began, lasted off and on for three years, and then came to an end in as fantastic a manner as you could conceive, seemed to show. For that dispute would not have been so obstinate and envenomed had it been simply a question of grazing, turbary, and right-of-way. True, there might still have been the fence-destruction and gate-burning that presently filled John Willie Garden's heart with a fearful joy; but--and this is what made the difference--Owen Glyndwr and his triumph over Mortimer would not have been dragged in, nor Taliesin and his prophecy, nor Howell Dda, nor Gruffydd ap Rhys, nor Llewelyn ap Iorwerth, nor a hundred other grey and valiant and unforgotten ghosts of princes and saints and bards whose names string (as it were) all Wales, from Braich-y-Pwll to St. David's Head, making of it one Western Harp in which the wind of sentiment is never still. For these fences on the Llanyglo sandhills were not fences--they were Saxon fences. They were not notice-boards and gates--they were the insulting tokens of invasion and rapine and defeat. The Welshman says of himself that he is able to keep only that which he has lost, and, in Dafydd Dafis's view of it, at all events, not a piratical Liverpool Syndicate, but a marauding Saesneg king had come again. On the evening of the day on which those fences were laid flat again, John Willie went once more to Pritchard's farm, and this time was not refused admittance. Perhaps nobody either saw or heard him enter. As if it had been put there for a signal, a single candle in a flat tin stick stood among the geraniums in the little square window-recess, and, save for a dull glow from the shell of peats on the hearth, that was the only light in the room. Again seven or eight men were gathered there, some sitting on the hard old horsehair sofa, two on the table, and others crouched or standing in corners; and the candle-light rested here on a bit of lustre-ware, there on a chair knob, and elsewhere on a cheekbone or the knuckles of a hand. It barely reached Dafydd Dafis, who sat in the farthest corner, with his cap on his head and his head resting against a Post Office proclamation that hung on the wall. No sound could be heard save the loud tock-tocking of the tall clock with the in-turned scrolls on the top and the gilt pippin between them. John Willie thought it would be more grown-up to accept their silence and to share their motionlessness. He set his elbows on the dresser and sank his neck between his shoulders. The shadow of great John Pritchard, who sat on the sofa's end, covered John Willie and half the wall behind him as well, and John Willie's eyes only discovered Dafydd Dafis in the farther corner when Dafydd moved. As he moved, a bit of gilt fluting dipped forward out of the gloom of the chimney-corner. Dafydd had his harp. The next moment a single thrumming note had broken out. It was followed by a soft chord of three or four more.... "_Mae hen wlad fy Nhadau yn anwyl i mi, Gwlad beirdd a chantorion, enwogion o fri_----" It is the commonest air you will hear in Wales--_Land of my Fathers_. Quarrymen sing it as they work by their trucks, slate-splitters whistle it as they tap in their wedges, farmers' lads tss-tss it between their teeth as they clump along the road, sitting sideways on their horses. You would think it had died an age ago of familiarity and repetition. Had it been _God Save the King_, played at an English theatre, there would have been a single line of it, half lost in the reaching for shawls and cloaks and fans, and here and there a man would have stood with an interval of an inch between his hat and his head, and already the attendants would have been getting out the sheeting for the stalls--so long is it since we knew adversity. But here, it needed but a stake driven into a foreshore that would hardly have pastured a donkey, and that was enough--so much adversity have they seen.... Then, as John Willie craned his neck, a man moved from in front of the candle among the geraniums, and Dafydd Dafis's hands could be seen. They seemed not so much hands as multiple things, assemblies of members each one of which was possessed of an independent life and will. There was not a finger that did not lurk, stiffen, clutch, and then start back from the throbbing string as if each note had been a poignant deed done, an old and secret vow redeemed. For the images that were evoked were cruel images. Those fingers of Dafydd's might have been choosing, not among strings of wire and gut, but among the living nerves of an enemy whose moans of suffering were transmuted into music. Know, that this--not the languid wrist nor the caressing hand, not the swans-neck forearm nor the coquetry of the foot on the pedal--not these, but the hook, the claw, the distortion, and the wreaking and the more than human and yet somehow less than human love--this is the harping of Wales.... "_Gwlad! Gwlad!_----" Dafydd's head against the Post Office notice did not move, but his twisted hand might have wrenched the sinews from their shoulder-blade of a frame---- "_Pleidiol wyf i'm Gwlad!_----" He did not sing the words, but the words that sang themselves in the ear of every man there meant that he was so enwrapped in his country that an alien stake in her soil was a stake in his heart also.... Within a week of that harping of _Hen Wlad_, Terry Armfield had more to mind than he had ever reckoned for. There was no doubt that the flame was fanned largely by the Chapels. These were, respectively, of the three denominations most common in Wales, namely, Baptist, Calvinistic Methodist, and Independent; and Terry Armfield, coming down presently to see for himself what all the trouble was about, gave one affrighted look at their architecture, gasped, "Shade of Pugin!" and fled. The Baptist Chapel was a plain slate-roofed Noah's Ark of stone that, with the day-school adjoining it, stood alone in the middle of the sandhills. At one end of its roof-ridge was a small structure in which a bell swung, and the building had this further peculiarity, that, good stone being cheaper at Llanyglo than common bricks, the latter material had been used wherever an embellishment had been desired. The Independent Chapel was also of stone, with zinc ventilators like those of a weaving-shed; these looked over the fishermen's cottages out to sea not far from Edward Garden's house. And the third Chapel, that of the Methodists, of which body Howell Gruffydd was the principal pillar, lay behind the farms. It was of corrugated iron and wood, painted inside with a skirting of chocolate brown and upper walls of a peculiarly sickly light blue. On the walls were stencilled ribbons with V-shaped ends, and these bore texts in Welsh. Architecturally all these were hideous, but, to those whose grandfathers had worshipped in the fields and in clefts of the barren mountains and on the wide seashore, they had the beauty of a thing that has been ardently desired, and long suffered for, and passionately loved. For from these three Chapels came not only the impulse of the spiritual life of Llanyglo, but its local politics of dissent also. Education, the Poor Law, matters of Local Government, Temperance, Tenure, the Eisteddfod, and the nursing of Nationalism--if these things were not actually Llanyglo's religion, they were hardly divisible from it. And this welding of Faith with secular works was helped by two other circumstances. The first circumstance was that no language was heard in the chapels but Welsh; and the second was that, as a result of the local-preacher system, three times out of four the Welsh issued from the same mouths--from Howell Gruffydd's mouth at the Methodist Chapel, from big John Pritchard at the Baptists', and from Owen Morgan's among the Independents. None of these went quite so far as openly to incite to the destruction of fences. They merely prayed to be delivered from the situation in which they found themselves. Whereupon, like Drake's men, heartened by prayer, they rose from their knees again to take another pull on the rope. So three times in six weeks those fences were set up and laid flat again; and then it was that Terry Armfield came down, saw the Chapels (as above mentioned), gasped "Shade of Pugin!" and straightway sought Squire Wynne. But before ever he set eyes on the Squire he had already almost forgotten the errand that had brought him. As the servant showed him to the dining-room he saw that noble ruin of a staircase, and his eyes became illumined. Then, in the dining-room, those same eyes rested on the coffered ceiling and the portraits and the wide mullioned lattice. By the time the Squire entered he was adoring the stately stone fireplace. He swung round, hearing the Squire's step. "Magnificent, magnificent!" he cried. "Show me over the house--I beg you to show me over the house!----" The Squire, who had had this kind of visitor before (though none with quite that perilous smoulder in his eye that Terry had) naturally concluded that a fellow-antiquary, finding himself in the neighbourhood, had permitted himself to beg for a sight of the faded glories of the Plas. "I'll show you over part of the house with pleasure," said the Squire; and he did so. "Magnificent!" Terry cried again, when they were once more back in the dining-room. "And oh, that rood-screen--early sixteenth--and those sedilia--in your Church over there! I spent an hour there as I came along." "Oh, you came Porth Neigr way, did you?" said the Squire. As if he had previously written the Squire a letter setting forth his business in detail, which therefore he need not repeat, Terry leaped light-heartedly ahead. "Yes, sir--and then, after that, to come upon those incredible Chapels! (That's a misnomer, by the way, unless they contain relics.) ... Of course, after that I'm not surprised at anything these people do--fences or anything else----" The Squire was reaching port from the sideboard.--"Eh?" he said, not quite understanding. "_Those_ places an expression of religious emotion!" Terry cried, throwing up his hands. "Of course, what's happened was a perfectly natural result! Commit such an outrage on the æsthetic sense as that and--and _no_ fence is safe! If I'd seen those Chapels first I'd as soon have bought a volcano as that land! They ought to have been mentioned by the vendors--flagrant _suppressio veri_--deliberate concealment of a material fact--an action ought to lie--by Jove, I've a good mind to take advice about it!----" "I beg your pardon?" said the puzzled Squire. A very few questions served to enlighten him. His mouth twitched as he filled his harebrained visitor's glass. "Well," he said, "I don't quite follow your processes, but your result seems all right. If you mean there's some connection between the Chapels and your fences being pulled down, I dare say you're not very far wrong. The places of worship do settle a good many things indirectly here. But our own Establishment's been called a branch of the Civil Service, so I don't see how we can complain if some of their activities are a little secular too." "'A little secular!'" echoed Terry. "Pulling down fences 'a little secular!' ... Now I'm anxious not to go to extreme lengths----" "Eh?" said the Squire rather quickly. He gave Terry a longish look.... "Do you know Wales?" he asked politely. "I do not. But I've not heard that it's outside the Law. I was going to say, that I don't want to issue summonses if it can be avoided----" Thereupon the Squire, who was inclined to like this half-mystical zany of a guest, gave him the same advice he had given to Edward Garden. "Oh, avoid it if you possibly can!" he said good-humouredly. "There's nothing these people won't do for you if you go the right way about it, but it must be the right way. A new neighbour of yours seems to be getting along with them quite successfully, a man called Garden. Quite an opportunist, I should say--takes things just as he finds them--settles every question strictly on its merits and has a good deal of audacity up his sleeve for use at the right moment, I don't doubt. Can't you take a leaf out of his book?" "Do they pull down his fences?" Terry demanded over his shoulder; he had been looking at that marvellous fireplace again. "I don't think so. As a matter of fact they're building his house for him.--By the way--Sheard's told me very little about it--have you bought your land to build on?" Terry, remembering his Syndicate, had a momentary check.--"I don't know yet," he confessed. "Because if you have," the Squire continued, "and find them employment--spend money in the place--and use a certain amount of tact--you might hit it off with them. But do try to overlook their Chapels. A soul's sometimes saved under a tin roof, you know." Terry looked as if he would far rather have his soul damned under a Gothic nave.--"That's simply buying 'em off," he said. He would have preferred to burn them, each at one of the stakes they had uprooted. "Well.... I'm afraid it's all the advice I can give you.--And now I shall have to ask you to excuse me. I'll show you a rather fine carved kingpost before you go if you like----" And Terry presently departed for Porth Neigr again, where he took the taste of the Chapels out of his mouth in a further ecstatic contemplation of the early sixteenth-century rood-screen. The fences were set up again. John Willie Garden could never be sufficiently grateful to his stars that what happened next came before he departed for school again. He had gone to bed that night, but was lying awake, thinking of the suspended building. He knew that the resumption of that building was not irremediably involved in the fencing dispute; Edward Garden had established a serviceable goodwill in Llanyglo; and that very night, standing by Pritchard's manure-heap, Dafydd Dafis had all but told John Willie that when Llanyglo had settled with the intruder it would have time to spare for the child of its adoption again. He had told him this, and had then ruffled up John Willie's fair hair with his hand and had added that it was ten o'clock and time he was in bed. His little window, as well as that of the next room, where his mother slept, overlooked the sandhills, and John Willie, lying awake, did not at first notice the change in its colour. Neither did his ears hear at first a low muffled cracking that had been going on for some time. But suddenly he sat up. The muslin curtains and the claywashed embrasure of the window had a rusty glow, which reached the counterpane of the bed in which John Willie lay. The moment he saw this John Willie was out of bed. Then, within thirty seconds, he had plunged into his jersey, tucked his nightgown hastily into his knickers, and, making as little noise as possible, had tiptoed down the stairs and out of the cottage. The bright glow over the sandhills guided him, and he ran as fast as he could through the muffling sand. The continuous cracks were like pistols, and a deep roaring could be heard, which became louder. Then, mounting a hillock, John Willie saw the beautiful blaze. It was as high as a cottage, and the twisting, upstreaming column of sparks above it rose fifty feet into the night. It illumined the sandhills far and wide. The Baptist Chapel and schoolhouse looked as if they were cut out of red cardboard against the night. Even the zinc ventilators of the Independent Chapel, down by the sea, showed faintly. Then all became grey again as a dozen fresh stakes were piled on. By the time John Willie Garden got there these too had caught, with volleys of cracks. Every man in Llanyglo was there, and, farther off, groups of women also. The heat was intense, so that the men and lads who ran in to throw back half-consumed ends did so with their faces averted. "Why didn't you tell me?" said John Willie to Dafydd Dafis reproachfully. Dafydd was watching this beautiful Red Dragon of a flame that was burning Saxon stakes. His eyes blinked rapidly. Then he leant over John Willie, and his forefinger tapped two or three times on the boy's heart. "You wass tell me you go to bed," he whispered. "You wass tell me that, at ten o'clock, at John Pritchard's. There iss two men over there----" suddenly he straightened himself again and pointed, "--you can tell them the same whatever." A hundred and fifty yards away two men watched. They were the men from Porth Neigr who had set up the fences. They put up at a wayside cottage two miles away, and probably they were not surprised at what was happening. They did not approach any nearer. Then there was a call of "John Willie!" and Mrs. Garden's terrified face could be seen in the outer ring of light. John Willie was haled off, in a rage that was nearer to tears than he would have admitted. Four days later summonses were served on Dafydd Dafis and two other men. The serving of those summonses had an instant and very remarkable effect. This effect was, that three of the inhabitants of Llanyglo straightway lost all recollection of the English language. And not only did they, the summoned ones, lose it, but every witness called from Llanyglo fell into an ignorance as blank. This happened at Sessions, before Squire Wynne himself, who, in the days before this visitation of forgetfulness, had talked English to all of them. The gloomy magistrates' Court opposite Porth Neigr railway station was crowded. Terry Armfield, at whose instance the summonses had been issued, thought he had never seen such a set of pigjobbers as stood against the perspiring walls or sat with their chins on their outspread forearms, their caps in their hands or in the pockets of their corduroys. The two men who had put up the fences sat in the well of the Court. They were brothers, and their name was Kerr. The skylight shone on the baldish head of the elder of them, and both had given their evidence in a strong Lancashire accent. They had been watching on the sandhills, they said, expecting something of the sort, and knew that it had taken place at exactly ten o'clock, because they had both looked at their watches.... So "Dim Saesneg," said man after man; and the Squire could only make dots with his pen on the blotting-paper before him, keep his eyes from Terry Armfield, and call for an interpreter. Now interpretation takes time, during which time the person with most to gain can be thinking of the tale he will tell next. So the prosecuting solicitor stood up before Dafydd Dafis, and this kind of thing began: "Were you on this land at ten o'clock that night?" ("_Oeddych chi ar y tir yma am ddeg o'r gloch y noson hono, Dafydd Dafis?_" This from the interpreter.) A rapid denial from Dafydd, not a hair of his shaggy moustache moving. "Ask him where he was." "_Lle r'oeddych chi, Dafydd Dafis?_" The harpist, his fingers twisting his cap, answered that he had been at Pritchard's farm, and this also was translated. "Have you any witnesses?" ("_Oes genych chi dystion, Dafydd Dafis?_") "Eh?" "_Oes genych chi dystion?_" "_R'oeddwn efo John Willie Garden._" ("He says he can call the son of the man who is building a house there, sir.") ... And so it went on, hour after hour, with the English evidence likewise translated for the benefit of the defendants. At the end of the first day the case was adjourned, but it came on again on the morrow, and again on the day after that. It began to dam all other business. As a block in traffic causes an accumulation behind, so other cases began to collect--drunks, dog-licences, drivings without lights, and innumerable other petty disputes. There was no question that the fences had been burned; the only question was whether they had got hold of the right men. The Bench could not understand the obstinacy with which the two Lancashire witnesses persisted that the outrage had occurred at exactly ten o'clock. "But mightn't it have been half-past ten, or eleven, or even half-past eleven?" they were asked again and again. "Ah, it might," they admitted open-mindedly. "But it wasn't," they added unshakably. Dafydd Dafis wanted to know what they said. "Oh, translate it," the Squire sighed, and for the fortieth time it was translated. "_R'oeddwn efo John Willie Garden_," said Dafydd once more.... And that was great glory for John Willie, for he was called, asked whether he knew the nature of an oath, was sworn, and raised a general laugh by varying the formula with which the Court was not so drearily familiar, and saying, in Welsh, "_Dim Cymraeg._" He stood to it that at ten o'clock Dafydd Dafis had been talking to him by Pritchard's manure-heap. "Oh, for God's sake settle it or do something!" the Squire said impatiently to Terry Armfield, as he crossed the road to the Station Hotel for lunch. "You can't say I didn't warn you." "I doubt whether my own witnesses would let me now," Terry replied. "They're as cranky in their way as your own Fenians. Besides, as I told you, I'm acting for others." "Well, if I bind 'em over they'll only do it again," sighed the Squire. Terry himself began to weary. After all, he had other things to mind than a piece of beggarly waste land dotted with Chapels that were a blasphemy of the name of beauty. As the Squire ate his chop in the coffee-room, the two witnesses from Lancashire sat each on a tall stool in the sawdusted tap round the corner. Thick imperial pint glasses of mild ale stood on the counter before them. The elder and baldish one was a man of three or four and forty, a hard, handy little man, with a curious dip and slope about his right shoulder. This slight lopsidedness he had acquired during the years in which he had wandered North Wales buying and felling alders for clog-soles. Any time this last twenty years you might have come across him in his little canvas hut in the middle of a wood, with a pile of split alder-billets on one side of him which, plying his hinged knife on its solid base with marvellous dexterity, he shaped roughly into the clog-soles which he cast on a pile on his other side, while his brother felled. He would buy all the alders in a wood, at so much a foot over all; the rough-dressed soles went off to Manchester; and no doubt a good many of them found their way into Edward Garden's spinning-sheds. In the course of his travels he had picked up from the gentry and their stewards volumes of gossip of families and their vicissitudes, of wills, boundaries, timber-news, and customs and tenures rapidly becoming obsolete; and his coat, a brown check with wide pockets, had probably been made a dozen years before in Conduit Street. He wore a tie, but no collar. As the Court had assumed on its own responsibility that he spoke no Welsh, he had not considered it his business to correct the mistake, but had allowed them to translate for him also--perhaps for reasons not fundamentally different from those of Dafydd Dafis himself. He had half a week's stubble on his chin and thin upper lip; he spat with great accuracy; and he turned to humour things not generally accounted humorous, such as scaffold accidents, fights, and deaths from dropsy. His brother, save that he wore a collar and no tie, was a younger edition of him. They drank from the thick glasses in silence, and then the elder of them drew out a short clay pipe with a dottle in the bottom of the bowl, struck a match on the side of it, and lighted up. The dottle made a noise like frying. His brother also drew out his pipe, a clay shaped like a cowboy's head. He gave an indescribably short jerk of his head in the direction of the other's waistcoat pocket, then, when the stub of cake was thrown over to him, cut it with a knife with a curved blade. He stuffed these brains of black tobacco into the cowboy's head, and made another minute gesture. This was a request for a match. Then, bringing out sixpence from his pocket, he knocked once with the heavy glass on the counter. "Two more cups o' tea," he said to the young woman who approached. They smoked again in silence. It was the elder brother who spoke first. "I'm capped about them watches, an' right!" he mused. The other took a pull at his beer, and replaced the cowboy pipe in his mouth. "I cannot think th' bairn wor telling 'em lies," the elder one mused again. "Gi'e me another match," said his brother. The alder-buyer's wrinkled eyes were peering sideways at an auction announcement pinned to the wall. He shifted his feet in the legs of the tall stool. By and by he spoke again. "Let's see. Let's study it out.... We com' home at tea-time that day, didn't we?" "Ay." "Then we went out into th' yard and washed we'rsens at th' bucket." "Ay." A pause, and then, the speaker's eyes on his hearer's face like two prickers: "Did yet tak' your waistcoat off?" "I cannot tell ye." "I did mine. I threw it down on a chair i' t' kitchen." This time the younger brother shifted his feet. "Happen I did mine an' all." "Wor your watch i' your pocket?" "Ay, it wad be." "So wor mine." They drank thoughtfully and simultaneously, and again the silence fell. Then, more slowly still, the elder Kerr resumed. "D'ye remember a chap coming in, a thin chap, 'at spoke Welsh to t' Missis?" "Ay." "He com' to fetch a pair o' boots to mend." "Ay." "Think ye----" again the look as of prickers, "--think ye there wor owt?" "How, owt?" "'At he wanted to know what time it wor, or owt?" "There wor t' clock." "Ay...." There were minutes of silence this time. Evidently the younger brother occupied them by taking, in thought, a considerable journey. He spoke as if in objection to some far-fetched surmise. "But they'd ha' to be set forrard again," he grunted. "Ay, I'm bothered wi' that," the elder admitted, "--wi'out t' Missis herself----" "Aw!... Think ye?..." They knocked for two more cups of tea. "And we've been swearing to ten o'clock." "So ye think there wor summat?" "I cannot think t' lad wor telling 'em lies," said the alder-buyer. This time they both peered reflectively at the auction announcement on the wall, smoking and spitting as they peered. V THE HAFOD UNOS "Then," said Terry's Syndicate, or such of its members as lounged in Terry's office, looking down on the Lime Street and St. George's Hall pavements as if they had been so many fishermen selecting a likely spot for the casting of a fly, "what about going back to the old idea--coal?" "Hm!----" (a very dubious "Hm!").--"Far better have another shot at manganese--especially after what's happened----" What had happened had started remotely enough from Llanyglo. It had started, to be exact, in the Balkans. Much manganese comes from the Balkans; a war there had suddenly made the supply a mere trickle, so that prices had whooped up; and--wonder of wonders--those old workings of Squire Wynne's, farther along the coast, actually looked like paying. Terry's Company, unhappily, had just transferred its rights, and was rather sore about it. "Wouldn't that be a little too--timely?" a timid member suggested. "Not if you--er--put it properly. It's only thirty miles away----" The speaker paused from delicacy. "From the real manganese" was understood. "Might send a geologist down--one we could trust----" A very young member of the Syndicate hazarded a remark.--"But wouldn't burnt mine-works come dearer than burnt fences?" They smiled indulgently at him. He was merely suffering from a slight confusion of ideas. Nobody had said anything about mine-works. Then they turned to Terry. "What do you say, Armfield?" ... It was now winter, and the dispute was still dragging on. There had been no further fence-burning, but the Member for the constituency had been memorialised, a joint meeting had been held in the Llanyglo schoolroom, and he had promised to come down and see for himself how matters stood. Until he should do so the disputants glared, so to speak, at one another. A certain element of contempt, that looked at first like tolerance, had even entered into the quarrel. Thus, a section of fence on a portion of the sandhills that it would have been a positive inconvenience to visit was allowed to stand. Llanyglo preferred to reserve its strength. But elsewhere the stakes lay half buried in the sand, and John Willie Garden now and then wondered what sort of a raft they would make. "The whole thing looks like being a damned bad spec," the Syndicate grumbled. That opinion seemed to be gaming strength. There seemed to be more than a chance that Llanyglo, its heathery Trwyn and its purple mountains, its unproductive sandhills and its non dividend-paying sea, would be written off by Terry's Syndicate as a total loss. Then, all in a night, something astonishing happened at Llanyglo. The words "all in a night" are to be understood in their very plainest sense. Granted that it was a winter's night, and therefore a long one, with the darkness setting in soon after four and the sun not coming up behind the mountains again until nearly eight; none the less the fact remained that Llanyglo went to bed as usual, and woke up to rub its eyes, unable to believe what it so plainly saw. What had happened was this: With Edward Garden's house-roof still a toast-rack against the wintry sky, and his slates just as they had been left after Eesaac Oliver's last long-division sum, and only half the staircase yet fitted, and the little socket John Willie had scooped out under the date-stone still awaiting its sixpence--with all this arrested as life and growth and motion were arrested in the Enchanted Palace, the first new house had gone up in Llanyglo. Where had been nothing the night before, there it now was, staring at them when the sun rose, a house, with smoke coming out of its chimney. * * * * * That same friend of Squire Wynne's who repeated to the author of the _Sixpenny Guide_ the Squire's remark about invasion _viâ_ the Mersey, told him also what a Welsh "Hafod Unos" is. "You know what the words mean," he said. "Strictly speaking, it's the summer-house--pavilion--shelter--of a night. The essentials are that it must be built on common land, and in a single night. Then they can't eject you. At least that's the idea. Don't ask me how it stands in Law. It may be a kind of squatter's right, or anything else, or it may have no standing at all. Probably it hasn't. But that's neither here nor there. They have their notions about it, and those at any rate are immemorial. Look here: you're pottering about this country just now; just count how many houses you find with the name 'Hafod Unos.' You'll find quite a lot. There's a very big one Bangor way, that probably took some years to build, but probably one of these places was its foundation.... And a house 'within the meaning of the Act,' so to speak, means that smoke must have gone up the chimney. Cook your breakfast there, and--well, after that you're a sort of tolerated freeholder. It might be worth putting into your Guide Book. You'd better add a footnote, though, that the 'f' in 'hafod' is a 'v,' and 'unos' is pronounced 'innos.' ... Not at all; you're welcome to any help I can give you----" * * * * * Llanyglo, snugly in bed, had heard the sounds across the sandhills during the night, but they had been set down to the newest development of the fencing dispute. This development was that, a week or so before, several cartloads of undressed stone had been shot down by the side of the sandy gully that ran from Pritchard's gap down to the shore. And Llanyglo had smiled. Aha! They were going to build a walled enclosure, were they? Something that wouldn't burn, whatever? Well, well, if it amused them to build walls on winter nights when everybody else was warm in bed, they might. They would only lose their labour in the end. Mr. Tudor Williams, of Ponteglwys, was going to ask a question in the House of Commons, yes, and he was coming down to speak at the Chapel and to see for himself. It was a cold night for building walls, whatever---- So they stayed in bed, and only the revolving Trwyn light, two reds and a white, saw the planting of the thorn in Llanyglo's side. The two Kerrs did not do it alone. It took four of them--"a Kerr to each corner," as Howell Gruffydd afterwards said. The two other brothers had been sent for from Ratchet, where one of them worked in an asbestos factory and the other was a builder's labourer; and if these imported ones lacked that spur of conviction that their watches had been tampered with by tricky Welshmen, they had another and a double incentive--the sense of family unity, and of the honour of the gradeliest county on earth, Lancashire. No Kerr, no lad from Lancashire whomsoever, could thole to be bested by a Welshman. Lancashire was the place for which Johnnie Briggs played cricket, the place where the Waterloo Cup Meeting was held. They danced in clogs there, clogs with soles of Welsh alder, and laaked at quoits and knurr and spell, and knew a bit about homing pigeons, not to speak of cocks, the game kind. They were lads, and right, in Lancashire.--Wales? Wales produced nothing but alders and oats and goats and Chapels. The idea had been that of Ned, the eldest brother, and it was part of the miscellaneous general information he had picked up on his alder-prospecting through Merionethshire and Montgomery and Carnarvon and Denbigh and Flint. He had seen a way of convicting Llanyglo out of its own mouth. They threw down fences on the grounds that the land was common land; very well, if it was common, as they claimed, it was a proper site for a Hafod Unos. Sauce for the goose, sauce for the gander; and merely as a poke in the eye for watch-tinkering Welshmen, and a vindication of Lancashire's superior wit and malice, it would be worth a night's work to see their faces in the morning. So to work in the dark the four brothers got. They helped themselves to a modest slice of Llanyglo earth, plotted it out with stakes and string, and then began to dig. The night was moonless, and they worked by the light of four lanterns. These illumined little enough of the waste; the moving, straddling shadows they cast hardly began before they were lost in the darkness again. Knitting-needles of light came and went again on the polished handles of the rising and falling spades, and faintly, regularly, and as if a spirit passed high overhead in the night, the intermittent Trwyn beam swung--red, red, white--red, red, white---- They had not to dig deep; there is much volcanic rock under the Llanyglo sand; and they had not set up fences half a dozen times without having a notion where it was. "Here we are," Harry, the builder's labourer grunted as his spade gave a clink and a jump in his hand. "I thowt it wadn't be far off.--Is t' barril there, Tommy?" Across a mound of thrown-up sand one of the lanterns cast a short parabola of shadow. It was the shadow of a nine-gallon barrel of beer. "Nay, we mun do a bit first," Tommy replied, spitting on his hands and driving in his spade again. Their house already existed, complete in their practical heads, before ever a spade was lifted. They had seen through its entire anatomy in the taproom of the Station Hotel, with beer to solve all difficulties. Nothing was done twice, and brother did not get in brother's way. Even as Howell Gruffydd said, they took a corner of their plan apiece and dry-walled, all save Tommy, who went to and fro with a hand-cart, fetching stone, not too much at a time, because of the dead softness of the sand. For the general design Ned's word was law; for details, each used his own gumption. They worked and grunted, and worked and grunted, and worked. By the time Sirius appeared over faraway Delyn, and Orion balanced himself on Mynedd Mawr, they had a serviceable first course laid. Then they put on their coats again, for it was a bitter night and they perspired, and with a single blow Tommy neatly tapped the barrel. They drank, threw off their coats again, and set to work once more. "Never heed that, Sam," Ned said once, seeing his brother elaborating the stark essential plan that had been agreed upon in the taproom of the Station Hotel. "T' corners, t' beams, and t' roof; we haven't time to paint it and put a pot o' geraniums i' t' window." By one o'clock the lanterns showed four irregular angles of masonry, shoulder-high, as rough as you please, but true by plumb and level. This might be a joke against Llanyglo, but it was a workmanlike one. Only two of the brothers now walled, for they had only two ladders; Sam helped Tom to lift and carry beams. By three o'clock only two of the beams were laid, but they were the principal ones, and Ned seemed well content. "That's t' main o' t' work," he said, with satisfaction. "How's t' barril going on, Tom?" "True by t' level yet," Tom replied. "Shall we start on th' bread and cheese?----" "Did ye think on to bring some pickled onions?" "Ay." "Then we'll ha' we're nooning." They took their nooning, with Sirius now over Mynedd Mawr, and Orion soaring like a kite. They took it at their leisure; they were "lads from a reight place," setting about a job as if they meant to finish it, not Welshmen matchboarding. A mountain of sand filled the space within their four corners, and they lay on their backs on it, smoking, and watching the red and white spokes of the light high over their heads, twenty-mile spokes, of a wheel that had no circumference but its sweep through the night. Now and then Sam gave a low chuckle; but Ned smoked, spat, and was silent, save that he said from time to time, "Did ye number and letter them chamfers, Harry?" or some similar question. You would have said they had a month before them. Certainly the Kerrs, when there was a surprise to be prepared for foreigners who meddled with their watches, were members one of another. At half-past three they set to work again. By four Ned had climbed up above, and was sitting astride a beam with the light of a lantern shining up on his streaming face. "Give us another inch, Sam," he grunted, "--a bit more--a bit more--_whoa!_ Tom, that quoin--no, th' one wi' th' bolt--this is th' chimney end--and get them three strutts ready, accordinglie to th' letters.... How are ye down there, Harry?" The mason brother was building the chimney. It was an outside one, massive as a buttress, and Harry was building it well and truly, for it was the essential of the house. Smoke must go up it before dawn, the hearth-smoke of civilised man, the lowly and secular and beautiful token that he has made himself an abiding-place on a spot of earth, and becomes part of that spot, and it part of him, so that to deracinate him is to thrust him back again into the bestial state and to make the land as desert as the sea. By all prognostication, Edward Garden's smoke should have been the first to add itself to that of the cluster of humble dwellings between the mountains and the waves that was Llanyglo; but of that lawn of lightsome blue that veils Llanyglo to-day the breakfast-smoke of the Kerrs was the fore-runner. At half-past four they were shovelling out the mountain of sand and making the hearth for it. By six Tommy had brought in the bundle of dry twigs and faggots he had carefully hidden away. Harry was filling in the space between the main beam and the transom of the door; when Tom asked him for a match he sprang down, and Ned and Sam also descended from the roof. "What time is it?" Tom asked. Ned gave a glance round, and smiled for the first time that night as he drew out his watch. "Five past six," he said, and added, with indescribable dryness, "--unless som'b'dy's been meddling wi' my watch." "Here goes," said Tommy, striking a match.... They exchanged glances that were near to winks as they watched the flames. It was their equivalent of a cheer. The night paled; the Trwyn light went out; and off the headland a seal disported itself in the icy sea. The day stole across Delyn, but Mynedd Mawr still remained an awful precipice of ink--the shadow of the morning bank lay over him. Then came the first glitter on the waves, and, as if with light all other faculties awake, folk became conscious of the crowing of cocks and the falling of the breakers on the shore. Howell Gruffydd got up and began to rekindle his fire. A bolt was shot back at Pritchard's farm. Dafydd Dafis packed his breakfast in his tin and set out for his day's work--a little reslating of the roof of the Baptist Chapel. But on his way across the sandhills he suddenly changed, not only his direction, but his gait also. He advanced cautiously, skirted certain mounds of sand that he did not remember to have seen before, and then as suddenly drew back. Then, instead of advancing again, he returned by a circuitous route, dropped into a sunken sandy way, and then ran as fast as his legs would carry him down to the cottages. There he thrust his head into Morgan's cottage and said something, and ran to the next one--or rather to the next but two, for Edward Garden's double cottage had been locked up since October. Then Howell Gruffydd came to his shop door, and Dafydd called him. Five minutes later half Llanyglo was out on the sandhills staring through a gap at something that lay beyond. It was an extraordinary house they saw, and then went round to the back to look at from another point of view. It appeared to consist of a living-room and a scullery, with a patch under the skeleton of a sort of penthouse at the back. It was not even on the land that had been fenced and unfenced and fenced again. Of roof it had none--for you could hardly call the three or four tarpaulins, that lifted as the wind got under them and were kept down by stones, a roof. Parts of the walls were solidly constructed; other parts had been battened up with hedgestakes, filled in with sods and peats, stuffed up with coats, anything. It had an old door that had been used somewhere else, and appeared to be propped up with stones. Over one window-opening hung an old brown coat, the other frame was empty. A bright glow shone on the rubble within, and smoke and sparks came merrily from the chimney. The fire crackled loudly, and there was a pleasant smell of cooking bacon. All about the cavity in the sand lay stones big and little, timbers, stakes, loops of rope. There was a hand-cart too, with its handle making a T in the air. A scraping sound was heard, as of somebody cleaning out a pan, and then came a low "Wouf" and flare of fat in the chimney. Then somebody spoke. "Squeeze t' barril, Tom, and see if there's another cup o' tea." "Nay, we've supped t' lot." "Blow down t' vent-hole...." As if those walls vanished again even more quickly than they had sprung up, Llanyglo could see a picture vividly in its fancy--a picture of a tilted barrel, with the cheeks of one man distended over the spigot-hole while another caught a muddy trickle in a thick glass---- Then their vision fled, and they were staring at that unimaginable house again---- Slowly, and without a word, they moved off through the soft sand in the direction of the Baptist Chapel. VI THE FOOT IN THE DOOR IT was a Saturday, a day on which the school did not assemble, and the door of the schoolhouse was locked. Eesaac Oliver Gruffydd was sent off in haste for the key. They waited for him to come back, twenty of them, men and women, with others hurrying over the sandhills to join them. Eesaac Oliver ran panting up again, and they entered the schoolhouse. This was a large, yellow-washed room with beams making triangles overhead and hot-water pipes running round the walls below. A small squad of desks stood upright behind, and a number of smaller benches knelt, as it were, in front of them. These faced the raised desk of Miss Nancy Pritchard, the schoolmistress. A yellow chair or two, a couple of glass-fronted cupboards, a row of hooks for caps and cloaks at the back, and a harmonium, completed the furniture. A short covered way near Miss Pritchard's desk gave access to the adjoining Chapel. A door at the side of this led to the little stone outhouse where the water for the pipes both of school and Chapel was heated. Their astonished exclamations had broken out now. As something legendary and dear and native to their land, it was in their hearts to defend the Hafod Unos; but for a stranger to set one up! "Look you, it can-not be legal!" exclaimed Hugh Morgan, a little tubby man with semicircular brows and a round bald forehead. "It iss not even finiss; there iss holes in the walls so-a big I put my head through them! And that iss not a roof--it iss only rick-covers----" "It is wonderful how they did it, whatever!" said little restless-eyed Mrs. Gruffydd. Those predatory eyes in Blodwen Gruffydd's pale face could see a sixpence a mile away, and, having seen it, would not leave it again until it had been safely dropped through the slot of the money-box into which the savings for Eesaac Oliver's education went. Eesaac Oliver was not to serve packets of tea and pennyworths of bicarbonate of soda over a grocer's counter. He was to go to Aberystwith College, and to become a preacher, and wear a black chip straw hat. Howell Gruffydd, who had been as thunderstruck as the rest of them, now affected to take a jocular view of the matter. "De-ar me, first Mr. Garden's house, and now Ty Kerr! Well, it make trade. Indeed, I need a bigger s'op presently--I think I start a Limited Company----" But big consumptive John Pritchard spoke in deep tones. More vividly than any of them, John had seen, as if in a camera obscura, that vision of a Kerr blowing into the vent-hole of a barrel, while another Kerr anxiously watched the tap.--"We need a bigger public-house, I think," he said grimly. "Indeed you are right, John Pritchard," Hugh Morgan struck eagerly in, the curves of his brows all marred with anxiety. "They sit in the Sta-tion Hotel Porth Neigr, and do noth-thing but drinking all day--it set a s'ock-king example, whatever." "And they call it 'ano-ther cup of tea,'" said a third. "They very smart ones----" Again John Pritchard's deep voice came in.--"They're very deep ones." Little Hugh Morgan spoke excitedly. "Indeed you are right again, John Pritchard! John Williams Porth Neigr, he say to me it would not surprise him if that Ned Kerr speak Welss so well as nobody if he wiss!" A shocked "_Aw-w-w!_" broke out. "And he say in the Court, 'No Welss!'" "Tut-tut-tut--de-ar me!" They were silent for a moment, contemplating this duplicity. "And there iss four of them now," one resumed. "They send into England for two more." "We soon have large population," said Howell Gruffydd again.... John Pritchard had sat down on one of the yellow chairs with his knees a yard apart. His brows seemed knitted. "But there is noth-thing for them to do here," he said. "No work, no wages--only building fences." "Perhaps they have lot of money. Their bacon smell very good, whatever." "They finiss their breakfast--I heard them wipe the frying-pan out as plain as if I see it with my eyes!" Again John Pritchard's heavy voice: "Finiss their breakfast indeed! They finiss a whole barrel of beer!" "And it is right what Hugh Morgan says," another struck in. "That Ned Kerr, he know Wales as well as I know my two hands! I have let-ter from my cousin Thomas Thomas in Towyn, and he say they buy lot-t of alders up the Dysynni two years ago of Mr. Llewelyn Jones of Abergynolwyn, and set up a hut in the 'ood, and make their clog soles, and pay six-pence a foot for the trees." "He set up more than a hut at Llanyglo, whatever!" "Indeed they do no such thing! The Hafod Unos belong to the old days. There iss no new Hafod Unos I don't know this how many years!" "All the old things was new things once, Hugh Morgan." Then, as if all at once they saw anew that house so magically sprung up out of the sand, there fell a silence. Howell Gruffydd might make his jests about taking a larger shop and forming a Limited Company, but the hard fact remained, that aliens had squatted down at Llanyglo while they had slept, and, by force or process of law, might be difficult to turn out again. Howell's jocosity subsided; among the children's forms and benches they took counsel together; and when, at half-past ten, John Pritchard's eldest lad came in with the news that one of the Kerrs had departed along the Porth Neigr road, while the other three kept guard over what they had won, they drew closer together still, and spoke in low tones of boycott. Then suddenly somebody asked what Mr. Tudor Williams of Ponteglwys would say, and the quick little outburst of "Yes, indeed," "Well said," "Mr. Tudor Williams have some-thing to say," showed how pertinent the observation was considered. For Mr. Tudor Williams, the Member, would be able to tell them, if anybody could, whether the Hafod Unos was countenanced by the Law, and whether the intruders could be served with notice to quit. His promised visit now took on an added urgency. "It is a pit-ty Mr. Williams fall out with Squire Wynne," Hugh Morgan remarked. "It will be the Squire who will have to give them notice, whatever." "They quarrel one day outside the Court at Porth Neigr." "But indeed, Howell Gruffydd, Mr. Tudor Williams wass in the right--it was about the Tithes, and the Tithe iss a wick-ked system----" "Aw-w-w, but the Welss Members they alter all that very soon!" "But the Squire and the Bis-sop of St. Asaph is great friends----" "Indeed that Bis-sop of St. Asaph he look at a Chap-pil like as if it wass not worth his eyesight!" Dafydd Dafis, who sat on a child's bench, looking moodily at the floor, had not spoken yet. He gave a quick glance up, and then looked down again. "The Church iss a great robber," he muttered within his moustache.... They discussed questions of ecclesiastical polity.... "It iss a great robber," said Dafydd Dafis, again resuming his former attitude. Then Howell Gruffydd rose, and one or two others followed his example. There was the day's work to be done. Soon all moved to the door, but before going about their businesses they went to take another look at that astonishing house. But they looked only from a distance. If they had assumed that the Kerrs, having worked all night, would now be sleeping, they were wrong. They could see them, three of them, still busily walling, filling, shovelling out sand. "They try to finiss before Sunday," Hugh Morgan said. But big John Pritchard glared sternly at him. "They care noth-thing for Sunday, those ones," he said. "That other one will have gone for more beer." And he added, in solemn tones, "It iss a den of li-ons!" The fencing dispute had now sunk into insignificance. It quickly appeared, even as John Pritchard had said, that the Kerrs cared nothing for Sunday. At a quarter to ten on the morning of that day, Howell Gruffydd, in his tight black frock-coat and bowler hat, passing up the sandy gully on his way to the Methodist Chapel, heard sounds of carousing. He turned aside to look. The door of the Hafod stood open, and a second barrel of beer, together with provisions and some sticks of furniture, had been fetched during the night. Tommy, the youngest of the Kerrs, was already drunk and singing. The eldest of them, seeing Howell Gruffydd, gave him an insolently familiar nod, as if he had as much right to be there as anybody else. "Cold mornin'," he said. "Are ye coming in to hev' a tot?" Howell turned away. After service, Howell encountered John Pritchard. John, too, had heard that godless levity from afar. Others gathered round them by the gap in the thymy earth-wall, and John raised his voice on high. It shook with bitter zeal. "We hear them in the Chap-pil, in the mid-dle of prayers, singing!" he cried. "On a Sunday morning they sing; they sing '_Thomas, make Room for your Uncle_!' I said it was a den of li-ons, but indeed no li-ons ever behave so s'ock-kingly! They sing '_Thomas, make Room for your Uncle_,' in the mid-dle of prayers, like if it was out of the belly of hell!" Dafydd Dafis, whose head for a day and a half had drooped like a wet head of corn, gave a quick gleaming glance. "They not build it any more quick than it can be pulled down again," he said quickly. "They come out of the house sometime to work, I think. They not gentry with lot of money, whatever." And that was true. The Kerrs could hardly earn their living by drinking beer and having continually to mount guard over the house they had made. "There will be no peace in Llanyglo now till Mr. Tudor Williams has been." Dafydd Dafis's head drooped again. "Indeed we do not need Mr. Tudor Williams for this," he muttered under his breath. And the Kerrs themselves? Did they suppose they could plant themselves thus in the enemy's midst and not meet with hostile entertainment? For this we may perhaps go once more to the gentleman without whose friendly help the _Llanyglo Guide_ would have been done quite as well as it needed to be, and in half the time. "It's difficult to say, for two reasons," this gentleman said. "In the first place, the humour of some of these Lancashire fellows is such an incalculable thing; you never know how far they will carry it, nor how soon it will end in black eyes and bloody noses. And in the second place, there was that humanitarian scatterbrain, Armfield. I believe myself that probably Armfield had already told Ned Kerr that there _would_ be work presently.... "Of course, you've heard what Armfield's scheme was. The Syndicate had decided not to rectify any more errors of Providence about the disposition of coal and manganese; they only wanted to clear out altogether, leaving somebody else 'holding the baby'--I believe that's the expression. Their idea was simplicity itself: to buy land at a shilling and sell it again at ten; but they didn't express it quite so nakedly. That was where Terry Armfield came in--to dress the enterprise up and make it attractive. As long as he enabled them to cut their loss they didn't care what he did with Llanyglo. "And there was nothing really wrong with the scheme, except that Terry was twenty years before his time, and naturally had to suffer for it. I think he called it '_The Thelema Estate Development Company_,' and nowadays it would be called a Garden City. And if Terry hadn't Edward Garden's sense of the line of least resistance, you must remember that he hadn't Edward Garden's 'inside' information either. He had nothing but that ecstatic power of persuading people. And he did persuade them. I doubt if half a dozen of the people he sold to ever saw the place. Two of them did, though, two brothers, in the produce line. They went down, and came back again, and quietly sold out, keeping strictly to Terry's representations; and I believe they warned Terry then that if he wasn't careful he'd be getting into trouble. I asked them what they'd been thinking of to let themselves be persuaded by a hare-brained enthusiast like that. They told me it was all very well for me to talk _now_. They knew perfectly well all the time that it was only one of Terry's dreams of a better and a brighter world, but they bought for all that, and so did crowds of others. Terry didn't admit a single difficulty. He talked about angels and the higher life. He talked about Pugin and the soul's need for seasons of contemplation and repose. He talked about the air and the sea and the mountains and the Trwyn, and he made it out to be Llanyglo's chief merit that it took a whole day to get there.... And so on. To cut it short, they were to do their own building, but Terry, as vendor, undertook the rest--laying out certain roads, draining and lighting them, I believe the building of a sort of public hall, and so forth. I don't think he said anything about the Chapels. "And that (to get back where we started from) is probably the reason the Kerrs stood by." * * * * * Whether Dafydd Dafis would have watched the Kerrs out of the Hafod, or, failing that, whether he would have pulled it down over their heads, is hardly worth debating; for, as it happened, that very Sunday night there befell something that for the time being had all the effect of a declared truce between the hamlet and its invaders. Something deeper and more solemn than the machinations of man took a hand in the making of Llanyglo. This was the wind. It began to get up at about three o'clock that afternoon; all day there had been a swell; and Dafydd Dafis and others, returning from Howell Gruffydd's house (where a second letter to Mr. Tudor Williams Ponteglwys had been written, as urgent as Eesaac Oliver's pen could make it), saw all four of the brothers on the roof, trying to secure the tarpaulin in which the wind volleyed; their roof-slates were not expected till the following Wednesday. The ground was a blurr of flying sand; the sea resembled a tossing fleece as far as the eye could see; and from moment to moment the waves, breaking over the Trwyn, rose in slow, gigantic fountains, fell again, and then came the roar. The four men clung like limpets to the roof, crouching until the worst gusts were past and then resuming their hammering. They were trying to nail the covering down, using pieces of wood as washers to prevent the material from ripping. Suddenly Dafydd Dafis, looking up under his brows, saw Ned Kerr pause with his hammer lifted and peer out to sea. Then, without moving his head, Ned put up his hand and appeared to be shouting something to the others. All four looked, and so did the men of Llanyglo, but from the ground below they could see nothing. Then, all in a moment, Ned Kerr gave a scramble and a spring, came down like a bundle into a mound of soft sand, and was followed tumblingwise by the others. There was a rip and a crack, and the released tarpaulin was a hundred yards away, flapping grotesquely over the sandhills. Ned was up again in an instant, and as he passed Dafydd Dafis at a run he shouted a single word in Welsh: "_Llongddrylliad!_" It was a wreck. The boats by the short thumb of a jetty had not been used for a week, and lay high up the beach. Could they have got them through that boiling of white sea and brown sand there was a towering ridge to be seen beyond, maned with spray, that rushed forward and burst only to show another in the same place. No more than one at a time could be seen. The boats were open boats, and night was coming on. Small wonder there seemed little to do but pray. But Ned Kerr shouted another word.--"_Bâd!_" From the top of the Hafod he had seen a ship's boat. The next moment he and Dafydd Dafis had each a shoulder to Hugh Morgan's boat, and William Morgan, the three remaining Kerrs, and another man, were hauling. All save the youngest Kerr continued to tumble aboard as the boat lifted. He tried to struggle after it, but was overturned, and they dragged him out and turned him upside down to pour the water out of him. They have a lifeboat now at Llanyglo, _The Ratchet_, presented and maintained by the town of that name; but that night the men of Lancashire and the men of Llanyglo went out in one of the half-dozen open boats. They put her into the brown, and a moment later the water had slipped from under her and she sat down on the sand, with every plank started. They got ashore again as best they could, and raced for another boat and more oars. They put out again. They dare not use the wooden jetty, of which only the beginning could be seen. The first boat was already matchwood. A sea crawled up the Trwyn almost as far as the Light. They inspected its ravage the next day. It stood as a record for many years. Then the boat passed the brown, and stood out to that pale wall smoking with spray. The wall came on and broke with a crash that shook the shore. A woman gave a shrill scream ... then they saw the boat again---- It seemed madness to think that that open boat would be safer out beyond---- After that, though they watched, they saw nothing. Then the Trwyn Light opened its eye, two reds and a white. All Llanyglo was gathered on the beach, and none thought of going to Chapel. Night fell; the sky became clear as black ice; the dim seas resembled a lair of white bears at play. Seven o'clock passed, and eight.... Already in folks' minds the grim thought was born; it might have been worse. They had dragged Hugh Morgan back as the second boat had pushed off, and none of the Llanyglo men was married. Whether the three Kerrs were married or not nobody knew. Nine o'clock came.... Blodwen Gruffydd saw the return first, if, indeed, that vague speck lost in the grey combings were they. Again the wave came on, and another hideous range lifted its grey ridge.... By a miracle, it boiled far away to right and left, but rolled, a grey-dappled dead weight, under the boat. Already half a dozen men with a rope were waist-deep in the water.... Then, as the boat crawled on its oars like an insect, another crest rose, tilted them so that man fell on man, and a man came out.... They at the rope were swept out by the backwash to meet them.... And after all, they had come back empty-handed. They had seen neither ship nor boat. But (and this, in this tale of Llanyglo and of those who made it and were made by it, is the point), an hour later Dafydd Dafis, opening his eyes for the first time since he had been hauled out of the water, said something in Welsh to John Pritchard, who bent over him. Translated it ran: "I would not pull that one's house down." Then he closed his eyes again. As far as the Hafod Unos was concerned, Mr. Tudor Williams's visit now seemed superfluous. VII THE MEMBER Ostensibly, Mr. Tudor Williams came to Llanyglo to assist at a Sasiwn, which is a gathering very much like the Love Feasts of other parts of the country (indeed, if memory serves, Mr. Wesley gave these assemblies for prayer and mutual consolation the latter name as far north in Wales as Builth--but then Mr. Wesley did not speak Welsh). Neither the fencing dispute nor the question of the Hafod Unos had taken nominal precedence of this. But Mr. Tudor Williams's visit was also something more. He was a Member returning to his own constituency--exalted, yet their servant, familiar with the great ones of the land, yet by their favour. For that reason they liked him to bring the evidences of his greatness back with him. Mr. Tudor Williams did so, and handsomely. He was a small nimble man with black brows and a ragged silvery moustache, and a very erect and conscious carriage of the head. He wore a silk hat, a turned-down collar with a flat black bow, a frockcoat with voluminous lapels of watered silk, grey trousers, and new black kid gloves. He drove from Porth Neigr in the carriage that had been lent him by a political supporter, and alighted at the gap opposite John Pritchard's farm. They would have run forward to greet him, but a certain awe of his clothes and equipage combined with their own dignity as makers and unmakers of such as he to keep them where they stood, in a semicircle across the road. But if they were at one and the same time a little intimidated and filled out with pride in him, Mr. Tudor Williams knew no hesitation. He sprang down from the carriage, grasped John Pritchard by the hand, and then, not content with that, patted him all up the arm as far as the shoulder and across the breast with the other hand, as if he conferred invisible decorations on him. His eyes were moist, but glad greetings flowed from his tongue, in an accent that would have put the most diffident speaker of English at his ease. "Well, John Pritchard! Well, well! Indeed you have not grown any less! A lit-tle man like me, I hardly reach up to your shoulder! Aw-w-w, you look splen-did! I was spik-king of you a few days ago to the Member for Carnarvon Boroughs--but dear me, here am I neglecting the ladies--I tell you presently--How are you, Mrs. Gruffydd? This young man is never Eesaac Oliver! Aw-w-w, how he grows! Did you write the let-ter to me, Eesaac Oliver? That's the style! Education, knowledge--it is a grand thing!--Now, Dafydd Dafis! And how is the harp? You sing me _Y Gadlys_ by and by: '_Mae cynhwrf yn y ceunant, Ar derfyn dydd y gad_----' --dear, dear, you have to go away before you can come home again! There is nothing like this over there; there is not the sym-pathy; as I was saying to the Member for Caermarthen, Mr. Hughes Caegwynion, not three, four days ago, 'You get no sym-pathy from England and the Englishman'--and indeed you do not.--Here comes Howell Gruffydd, run-ning (indeed he runs like a deer, Mrs. Gruffydd!).--Now, Howell Gruffydd, you miss the train if you don't look sharp (he's making so much money he cannot leave the shop for a min-nit!).--Now, my old friend William Morgan! How is the rheumatics?--How are you, Hugh?--Is this your youngest, Mrs. Roberts? Hwhat! Another since! Aw-w-w--and you more like an elder sister than a mother!... And there is the Trwyn, just the same----" He was staying the night with John Pritchard, and the two moved away to the house, the others following a yard or two behind. Mr. Tudor Williams advanced to ancient Mrs. Pritchard's chair, took the hand that resembled a dead bird's foot, and shouted in her ear: "You see I do not lose a min-nit before I come to see you, Mrs. Pritchard!" he cried in Welsh. ("Indeed she is a wonderful old 'ooman!)--How many grandchildren have you now, Mrs. Pritchard?" (The old woman nodded her aged head.) "Great-grandchildren! _No-o-o!_ Think of that! But I think you all live for ever at Llanyglo. It is not like London. If I could take bagsfull of this air back with me I make my for-tune!--Now, Miss Pritchard, I think I must have offended you, you are so long in spik-king to me! And how is all in school? I tell you press-ently something straight from the Board of Ed-u-ca-tion for you to try. You whisper a subject in the scholar's ear as he comes in at the door, and he walk straight to the middle of the room, no time for think-king, and speak for five minutes about it! That will make them ready speakers, hwhat? That will accustom them to public life and speaking in the Chapel? But I tell you later.--Now, my old friend John, if I could wash my hands before sitting down to a cup of tea--then we will talk----" He was shown into the best bedroom, with the cork-framed funeral-cards and the cardboard watch-pockets on the walls, and the sound of his moving about and pouring out water and spluttering as he washed his face could be heard by those who waited below. Then he descended again and sat down. "Well," he said by and by, from his place where he sat at the table alone, they respectfully yet proprietorially watching him eat and drink his tea, "now tell me about those matters in the letter you wrote.... I mean the other matters...." But let us, before we pass to the other matters, look at the company that watched Mr. Tudor Williams eat. First there was John Pritchard, sitting on the other side of the table with his hands upon his knees, and now and then turning his body a little aside and bowing his back to cough. There was John, stern religionist, believing in God and Disendowment; obstinate, dull, just, unsmiling; as ready for the Day of Judgment as if it had been the audit-day of the accounts he kept as principal trustee of the Baptist Chapel. For all that he was so rooted in Llanyglo that he had never travelled farther than Porth Neigr in the whole of his life, he was as ardent a supporter of Missionary Endeavour abroad as his voice was powerful at the Sasiwn at home. He watched Mr. Tudor Williams's plate, and with his thumb made signs for his daughter to replenish it. Next, there was Howell Gruffydd, with his pale and studious son, Eesaac Oliver. You might have been sure even then that, should Llanyglo ever grow, Howell Gruffydd's fortune would grow with it. Howell considered a good penny worth the putting into his pocket, and, as if his apron (which, however, he had now left behind at the shop) had made half a housewife of him, he cared nothing, so it brought in money, whether he did a man's labour or washed up the dishes or black-leaded the grate. He could not read, but if at Porth Neigr a stranger chanced to ask him the way, he would smile and reply, "There is the signpost," allowing it to be understood that his questioner might read as well as he himself. Howell had his inner dream. It was of a shop with two large windows, and a bell inside the door, and brightly varnished showcards, and pyramids of tinned salmon, and peas within the window that should suggest the noses of children flattened against the pane, and handbills distributed in the streets, and two assistants, and a son at College, who should read for two, and perhaps--who knew?--sit while his constituents watched him eat his tea--Mr. Eesaac Oliver Gruffydd, M.P. Then, with his cap in his hands and his feet shifting nervously, there was Dafydd Dafis, next to Eesaac Oliver, on the sofa. Should purchases and rumoured purchases of land prove to be a portent, Dafydd had all to lose and nothing to gain by change. With that soft cruelty of his of which the hard and more profoundly sentimental Englishman knows nothing, Dafydd was at least disinterested. The Kerrs he had forborne to harm, but he only hated them the more on that account. He himself would not have killed one of the blue and primrose butterflies that in the summer hovered over the Llanyglo buffets of wild thyme, and he could not understand a country that said it was fond of animals and yet, like these Lancashire men, hunted rats with terriers and coursed hares with dogs. Alone of that nation he had for a time loved delicate little Minetta Garden, and had told her stories of fairies and had sung _Serch Hudol_ and _Mentra Gwen_ to her; but Minetta had gone. All the things for which Dafydd Dafis cared had gone, or were going, and Dafydd was lonely. He told his harp so, with those warped and stealing fingers, and the harp made music of his pain. All that Dafydd would gain by change would be memories that became ever the more poignant the more they were attenuated, and the less the world cared for him and his unprofitable life. Passing constantly between Mr. Tudor Williams and the saucepan where the eggs boiled, or the plate in the fender where the lightcakes kept hot, was Miss Nancy (_née_ Nansi) Pritchard, schoolmistress and virtual custodian of the Post Office. The development of Llanyglo, did that ever come to pass, would be a good thing for Nancy, for otherwise there was none in Llanyglo to marry her, and to domestic service elsewhere she could not have stooped. She was tall and plump and ruddy, with black hair and black-lashed blue eyes, and in her conversation she gave the preference to the longer words. She had been to school in Bangor, wore the longest skirts in Llanyglo, and between her and her father's guest was the bond of their common superiority to everybody else there. She was a _partie_, for John Pritchard was well-to-do; but for whom? Apparently for nobody whom Llanyglo had yet seen. The remaining spectators, with the exception of old Mrs. Pritchard, who resembled a mummy rather than a spectator, partook in varying degrees of these same characteristics; and there at the table sat Mr. Tudor Williams, M.P., of Ponteglwys, one of his eyes aflow with tears of sensibility while the other was glued to the main chance; Baptist, nationalist, and arguer by metaphor and analogy; an elocutionist, and a maker of elocutionists by that process of education that consists of giving a scholar a subject and bidding him straightway speak for five minutes upon it; and, above all, ever and again suggesting, by slight gesture or quick glance, that his secret thought was that there, in cap or corduroys, but for the Grace of God, went Mr. Tudor Williams of Ponteglwys.... At last he put up his hand, refusing to eat more. "No more, no more indeed! It is the best bread and but-ter I have tasted since I was here before, but I should be ill in my stomach.--Dear me, John Pritchard, the happy hours I have spent in this room! '_Mid Pleas-sures and Palaces_'--indeed there is tears in my eyes when I see the dres-ser with the plates on it, and the jugs, and Mrs. Prit-chard's Bible in the window, just the same as when I was a boy!--Well, I have had a splen-did tea at all events, and if you will excuse me a min-nit I will return thanks for it.... Now, my friends!----" Five minutes later, Mr. Tudor Williams, not so near to the Kerrs' Hafod that he had the appearance of specially watching it, nor yet so far from it but that he could see Ned Kerr and his brother Sam setting a rough window-sash into position, was once more shaking hands and patting shoulders and exchanging greetings with such of the men and women and children of Llanyglo as he had not yet seen. And now that they had got him there they hardly knew what they wanted of him. That building exploit of the Kerrs having thrust the Inclosures Dispute a good deal into the background, and Dafydd Dafis's honourable if sullen refusal to injure men who had risked their lives with him having given that exploit itself a kind of condonation, it seemed as if their Member had merely come to a Sasiwn after all. But land had changed hands: they had a vague sense of impending change and of the discomfort of change; and, as they answered their Member's questions, the very presence in their midst of this man who moved behind the scenes of the drama of large events accentuated this feeling. "What is he like, this one?" Mr. Tudor Williams asked, gently yet absent-mindedly patting big John Pritchard's back as he stooped to cough. They had been speaking of Terry Armfield. They described Terry as he had appeared to them in the Court at Porth Neigr. "Is he taking over any other land?" ... You would not have supposed, from the way in which Mr. Tudor Williams, M.P., asked the question that he merely sought to know how much _they_ knew. And it had not occurred to Llanyglo that these transfers of land might be, not an end, but only a beginning. Yet Mr. Tudor Williams had good, if private reasons, for knowing that this very land might soon be more than merely worth acquiring.... He was not deceiving them. It pleased them to think that their Member was the repository of weighty secrets, and he was merely indulging this simple and legitimate liking. But already he intended to go to Liverpool in order to find out what this Syndicate's plans really were. He wanted to know whether the Syndicate, in its turn, was aware of something else, something still very secret indeed, so secret that five minutes at certain keyholes might have been worth many thousands of pounds.... "And this Hafod Unos--on whose land is it erected?" he next asked. He made a little grimace when they told him, on Squire Wynne's. "Then perhaps he will let it stand; he is cracked in his head about old customs, and antiquities, and suchlike foolishness, when there is great work wait-ing to be done. It is not our business if he likes to let these people squat upon his land." But here John Pritchard interposed heavily. "But it is our business if they sing '_Thomas, make Room for your Uncle_' in the middle of prayers," he said. "No-o-o!" exclaimed Mr. Tudor Williams, shocked. Perhaps also he wished to gain a little time; he had no wish to call upon Squire Wynne, either about this or anything else. "Don't tell me they did that!" he added. "Indeed, they did," said John quickly. "Aw-w-w!--But it is a Liberal maxim, John, and Radical, too, that force is no remedy. In my opinion our friend Dafydd here----" he put his arm affectionately about Dafydd Dafis's waist, "--was a lit-tle headstrong about burning the fences." "I will not burn their house," said Dafydd sullenly. (By the way, had the case been altered, it is doubtful whether the Kerrs would have done as much for him.) "Well--we can always take what the doc-tor told the man who wanted information for noth-thing to take--advice," said Mr. Tudor Williams. "It would be better to see Mr. Wynne first," said John Pritchard. "If one comes others may come, and indeed I never saw such behaviour, no, not in a den of li-ons!" They continued to discuss the matter, while, before their eyes, the Kerrs fitted their window-sash. Yet it was curious to note how, within the bond of their passionate, if loquacious nationalism, each man was jealously for himself. It was not that their democracy was more conspicuously lacking in democrats than are other democracies; perhaps it was rather that the Welshman recognises two ties and two ties only--the tie of unity against the foreigner, and the private claim of his strong family affections. Between these two things is his void and vulnerable place. He has not set up for himself the Englishman's stiff and serviceable and systematised falsity of Compromise, that has no justification save that it works. He has his age-long tradition, but no daily rule that can (and indeed must) be applied without question. Each of his acts is his first act, and so a retail act. Because his hypocrisy lacks the magnificent scope of that of the Saxon, he bears the odium of a personal stealthiness. Thus, perhaps, it comes about that while too strict an adherence to the letter is the Englishman's ever-present danger, for his brother Celt the spirit slayeth. Noble dreams, petty acts; and here, if a little obscurely, may be hidden the reason why, when he seeks his fortune in London, his greatest successes are the minor successes of drapery and milk.... "Well," said Mr. Tudor Williams at last, "Wynne is a man of no ideas. He is only a pettifogging country Squire, whose views on the Land Question are ob-solete in _tot-to_. But if he harbours men that are a nuisance, as John Pritchard says, perhaps it would be better if I went to see him----" Nevertheless, he had no intention whatever of doing so. The truth was that the Squire's views on the Land Question were too obsolete altogether. They were so obsolete that he had sold when (as first Edward Garden had known, and now Mr. Tudor Williams, M.P., knew) he ought to have held; and it was for Mr. Tudor Williams to profit by his error if he could, rather than to call his attention to it. He was very far from being a wealthy man. VIII THELEMA Because Terry Armfield, believing in his idea, would not have abated one jot of it for all the money in Liverpool, therefore he got all the money he wanted. This--alas!--is not optimism, nor a hardy belief that merit infallibly meets with its deserts in this world; it merely means that a number of businessmen with rudimentary consciences were willing to pay a kind of hedging-premium on the off-chance of being, after all, on the side of Terry and the angels. It is astonishing how often your visionary can get money out of your man of affairs when another man of affairs would fail. And, even as the man who chatted to the author of the _Sixpenny Guide_ said, Terry was only a few years before his time. The things he dreamed of have not come to pass yet, but they are confidently promised to-morrow. As happy as the day was long, he was merely setting up the City that is not built with hands, and lighting it with the Light that never was. And if the "_Thelema Estate Development Company_" had done nothing else, it did, at any rate, put an end to that dispute that had begun when Dafydd Dafis had pulled down fences and burned them in his beautiful Red Dragon of a bonfire. But, over and above that, it did leave its little mark on Llanyglo--a fleeting mark, laughable, bathetic, sad, hauntingly vacant, and lunatic (as Mr. Tudor Williams would have said) "_in tot-to_." Come to that little office near St. George's Hall, Liverpool, and see Terry Armfield in the closing stages of his minding of Llanyglo. He not only conceived his Thelema; he drew the plans of it as well. He drew them on drawing-paper, on tracing-paper, on note-paper and bill-heads and the backs of envelopes. A paper-weight, with a knob in the shape of a clenched fist grasping a short staff, kept half a hundred of his hasty drafts from flying off again into the air that gave them birth. And he added to them day by day, almost hour by hour.... Forty or forty-five or fifty houses, say, each with its little plot for private meditation and repose, yet sharing in common among them a spacious pleasaunce where friend should meet friend and none but friends should come--that was the idea. A fair wide Way, with the mountains looking down its perspective to where gentle steps led down to the tawny sand--that was the idea. A wall all about it, or a ha-ha perhaps, not as against trespass, but as a symbol that here was an Isle that the tides of the care and of the trouble of the world did not invade--a shining and galleried chamber where light and happy laughter should rise to the groining of the roof (dim blue with gilt stars), and should echo and linger there as if the fane itself whispered--that was the idea. None of it existed, none of it was ever likely to exist; but without some such dreaming our life on earth is little worth. The people who put up the real money for it laughed at it, and laughed at Terry when he had gone, but humoured him while he was there as a nuisance, but a gentle one. If they lost their money there would, at any rate, be a good many of them in company, the land was exceedingly cheap, and they need not begin to build upon it till they pleased. Besides, by taking shares in his Thelema they had bought Terry off. When he came with his other wild and beautiful schemes they could say, "No, no, Terry, we'll see how Thelema turns out first," and pass him on to somebody else. That alone was worth the money. Then there came to Terry one day a man who not only did not laugh at him, but grasped him by the hand, patted him all up the arm and across the breast as if he conferred invisible decorations upon him, gave Thelema his blessing, and said, in moved tones, "Indeed it is splen-did--splen-did--without vis-ion the people perish-eth." He told Terry that his name was Tudor Williams, and that he was the parliamentary representative of the constituency a portion of which Terry and the gods on high were developing. He did not ask outright for anything. He told Terry that, while he himself was a good Radical, believing that God made the land for the people, nevertheless, in this imperfect world things had to be done a lit-tle at a time, and his principal objection to the (temporary) private ownership of land was that it was too often in the wrong hands. If it could be put into the right hands much of the ini-quit-ty would disappear, whatever. Then, when he came to inform Terry that in his opinion he could be of great use to the Estate, he told him also that he was far from being a wealthy man, and that his usefulness must be set off as against the cost of any interest Terry might think fit to confer upon him.... "Look you," he said, "the conditions of labour are peculiar, and things that would be easy for me you might find a lit-tle diff-fi-cult. I do not say you would, and indeed I am a good democrat, and do not believe in one law for the ritss and another for the poor; but nowadays, when every man has his rights and his vote ... well, without a word here and a word there it might be a lit-tle diff-fi-cult...." And Terry, who was quite acute enough to see this, asked Mr. Tudor Williams to come again. When Mr. Tudor Williams came to see Terry for the third time, Terry pressed him to accept a seat on the Board. But Mr. Tudor Williams put up a deprecating hand. "Aw-w-w, no!" he said. "Indeed it is very good of you, and I am very pleased you show so much confidence in me, but it would not do. There is my public position to consider. Indeed I would rather have a nominee. It is hard to make people understand a proper motive. If the time was ripe for it I would nationalise all land, yes indeed I would, but if it must be privately owned for a lit-tle while longer it is better that it should be in the trust of men like you and me for the public good. There is as many different kinds of landowning as there is of landowners. That pet-ti-fog-ging country squire, Wynne, he is repre-sen-ta-tive of all that is worst in a vic-ious sys-tem; he has no more vis-ion than that chair you sit on now; but we are not like that. I have not often found a sym-pathy like yours; indeed there has been tears in my eyes while you have talked.... But I will have a nominee. It will be better. And I will see you get your labour. There is John Jones, Contractor, Porth Neigr. He may even be willing to pay a lit-tle commission. We shall not quarrel about that.--But I am bet-ter off the Board." Very curiously, he was not the only one who seemed a little shy about being put on the Board. Others displayed an equal bashfulness. This puzzled Terry. But it never puzzled him for long at a time. Always a fresh inspiration sent him off into his cloudland again. It was about that time that he acquired his second slice of Llanyglo, a tract adjoining the first and running down to that shore that Copley Fielding depicted with such accomplishment, elegance, and taste. And he took with that second piece of land a responsibility greater than that he had assumed when he had merely cajoled money out of the pockets of men who had known his tea-clipping father and whose fathers had known his privateering great-grandfather. Briefly, by enlarging his enterprise, Terry threw away the immediate advantage of his personal idealism and charm. The thing went to allotment shorn of his peculiar magnetism. He received money that would not, merely on the score that they liked him, be indulgently written off by those who would see that money no more. His Prospectus is extant. Edward Garden's unfinished house came into it, and an affiliated interest, "_Porth Neigr Omnibuses, Ltd._," about which Mr. Tudor Williams knew something. There were great swathes about the natural beauties of the situation, and lesser ones (the Syndicate pruned them down behind Terry's back) about the Thelema Idea. And there were a number of other things that are impossible, yet facts in the amazing History of Flotation. It is no good saying these things cannot happen when they happen daily. Had you or I bought shares in the "_Thelema Estate Development Company, Limited_," we should merely have bought, you and I, shares in that moonshine that poor, gentle, rapturous, cat's-paw Terry Armfield drew with freehand and French curves on his bits of paper and presently spread out in such a lunatic fashion over the sandhills of Llanyglo. Come, before we leave this dim chapter of the twilight of Llanyglo's forebeing, and see what Terry did. Starting at right angles from the Porth Neigr road, a couple of hundred yards short of John Pritchard's farm, there runs straight down to the shore a street of rather more than a quarter of a mile in length. Crossing this street in the middle runs another street, not so long, but unfinished. These two streets intersect in an open space or circus perhaps a hundred yards in diameter. The first street is called Delyn Avenue, because of the mountain that commands it. The second one is called Trwyn Way. The central circus is called by the names of the four Crescents it comprises. Farther back from the intersecting points are other streets. They also are named. But do not suppose that these streets and Crescents and Avenues and Ways are streets in any ordinary sense. They are twenty-two and thirty-five foot roads, metalled, crowned, drained, and with a good stone kerb running parallel on either side. But there are no houses. There is not even a pavement, no, not a vestige of one, flagged, macadamed, cobbled, nor of any other description. There are no standards for gas or electric light; there are no standards even for the names of the thoroughfares--for you can hardly call those things standards--those low wooden boards, rather like the "_Please Keep off the Grass_" notices in a public park, that inform you that this is Delyn Avenue or that that is Trwyn Way. Exactly as it was all drawn on Terry Armfield's tracing-paper and envelopes and memo-heads, so it is now drawn on the Llanyglo sandhills, with strips of stone kerbing for pencil lines and the wind-blown sand where his india-rubber has passed. Lie down on the sandhills with your eyes at the level of the kerbs, and, save for those eighteen-inch-high street name-boards, all disappears. Or if you care to climb the Trwyn you can see it all rather well from there.... There you are. Just a little patch of strapwork in the middle of the waste. Or like a rather large gridiron somebody has thrown away. And, if you are capable of seeing what Terry saw, namely all the things that are not there and that never will be there, then that little grid of laid-down and abandoned streets has a curiously mocking effect. You imagine the ghosts of Terry's Thelemites moving noiselessly there, passing to and from their non-existent habitations. They are going, friendly ghost taking friendly ghost by the hand, to that groined and lofty chamber of Terry's dream, where the faint echoes of laughter linger in the roof of dim blue with gilt stars. They are going to walk in Terry's closes and courts and arbours, happy in that the sorrows and pains and substantialities of the world touch them not in their retreat. They are going down Delyn Avenue, to where the broad and gentle steps descend to the yellow shore. And all about them, but only to be seen if you can see what Terry saw (otherwise you will see only the sand and the wild thyme and the sulphur butterflies and the blue), are Calaer and Anatole, Crière and Hesperia, Mesembrine and Arctic, which are the six towers of that Place with the great gate where bigots and hypocrites and defrauded and whining shareholders enter not, nor the violent Huns of the world of business nor the cruel Ostrogoths of commerce, but only the spruce and noble devotees of the Best, the Terrys before their time. But when the wind gets up, then the sand blows over it all, and John Pritchard or somebody else, catching his foot against the unseen kerb, comes down his length into the middle of Terry's lovely and desired Place. But the men and women of Llanyglo are beginning to know their way about this phantom town, and none other, save the Gardens (whose house is now finished), and a friend or so of the Gardens' in the summer, ever comes there. The Kerrs, however, still have their Hafod, which they inhabit together when they are not away buying and cutting alders and shaping them into clog-soles with the free-hinged knife in the little canvas hut. And among the businessmen of Liverpool the whole thing is still a rich joke.--"Well, have you started building that house of yours in Wales yet?" a man who has not bought will ask a man who did; and this one will reply, "Oh, I'm thinking about it," or, "You must come down there and stop with me," or some other put-off. And it was rich in the extreme when, one day, the man at whose expense the joke was made took the jester by the button, smiled, and whispered something confidential.... "What!" gasped the jester. "You've _sold_!... Wherever did you find him? In Manchester? Ha, ha, ha! Splendid! That's a dig in the ribs for Manchester!--I should like to see his face when he sees it!... A pity about poor Armfield, though--he'll catch snuff----" For Terry had been refused bail. PART TWO I RAILHEAD But something was coming to Llanyglo. As Edward Garden might have said, looking at this something under his glasses and over his glasses as it crept slowly up out of the east--as Edward Garden might have said, looking at it again and yet again, and then gazing mildly and mistrustfully through the glasses at you, it appeared to be a railway. At any rate, if it was not coming to Llanyglo it was coming within three miles of it. As if a snail should leave behind it a track, not of slime, but of new iron, grey at first, then red with rust, but soon to be bright again, so it came on; and in other respects also it resembled a snail. It carried, for example, its lodging with it. And it put forward sensitive and intelligent antennæ as it sought its food thirty miles away down the coast--manganese. It left the junction half a mile beyond Porth Neigr, and it was going to Abercelyn. The lodging that the snail carried with it was called Railhead. Seen from a distance of a couple of miles it resembled a small excoriation on the face of the land; seen nearer it resolved itself into a town of wood and corrugated iron, with stockades of creosoted sleepers and trenches of earth and ramparts of ballast and metal for the laying of the permanent way. There were superintendents' offices and the sheds of clerks of works; there were forges and stables and strings of waggons and a telegraph cabin; there were huts and pumping-stations and cranes, stationary and travelling, and a gas-plant; and there were watchmen's boxes and the temporary dwellings of hundreds of men. By day these could be seen, spread out on the level or clustering about the embankments as the flies clustered about the treacled strings and fly-papers Howell Gruffydd hung up in his shop in Llanyglo; at night the oncoming snail seemed phosphorescent, its phosphorescence the flares and fires and lamps in cabin-windows and red eyes for danger that appeared when the other shift took over the work from the men of the day. Whistle of construction-engine and roar of dynamite cartridge; hiss of steam and clang of hammers as they fished the joints; rattle of road-metal as it was shot from the carts, and thud of the paviors' rammers; clank of couplings and agonised scream of a circular saw; purr of telephone-bells and the "Hallo!" as the clerk took down the receiver; sough of pumps and bubbling of cauldrons of tar; cries to horses, slish and slap of mortar and the clinking of the trowels; spitting of dinners cooking over the firebaskets, sounds of singing at night; with these and a hundred other noises the snail crept on with a spirit-level inside him--the level that kept him true to the line that had been laid down by staff and chain and theodolite a couple of years before. And in some respects that something that looked so very much like a railway resembled not so much a snail as a snake. Did you ever see the great python that died lately at the Zoo climb his ragged staff of a tree? Not a joint or section of him but seemed to have that separate life of each of Dafydd Dafis's fingers when he mourned over his harp. A yard, two yards of the gorgeous waist-thick creature would ripple and flow and roll upwards to the crutch of the stump; another yard would follow, piling ever up and up; and you would wait for the toppling over of the great golden reticulated cable. And then all motion in that portion of the great fake would suddenly cease. Beyond the stump you would become aware that another glittering section was a-crawl, balancing, making fast, ever continuing the ascent.... Even so, before and behind Railhead, the work progressed. At a point the construction-engine stopped, the regiment of red and blue shirts and wondrous forearms and corduroy would move off, and presently all the life of the line would be five miles ahead, where they dug and built and drained and by and by passed back the word that all was well. So they moved, between the finished and tested line at one point and the warning bell and the dynamite stick at the other; and there was an end of much gorse and heath and of many banks of flowering campion and hassocks of wild thyme. And, for all this snail with its iron slime was not passing within three miles of Llanyglo, it was bringing the hamlet's appointed destiny with it. It was bringing (though, to be sure, not for some years yet) a passenger-junction where yet only irises and bog-cotton grew and frogs boomed out over the marsh at night. It was bringing sidings where John Pritchard's farthest field of oats now rippled silver-green in the wind. It was bringing a goods-yard and signal-bridges, and sheds and platforms and turntables and a cabrank in front and rows of railwaymen's dwellings behind. It was bringing a different breed of men, a breed that so far Llanyglo knows only in the persons of the four Kerrs. More than this, it was bringing progress, and sophistication, and wealth for some but nothing for others, and jollity, and vice, and some knowledge that was good and some that Llanyglo would have been no worse without, and always loads, loads, trainloads of white-faced people from the smoky towns. And most of all it was bringing to that vague yet unmistakable town-soul of Llanyglo growth and experience, growth that it could not escape and experience that it must square with those numbered days of its idyllic nonage as best it can. Through growing-pains and wild-oats, through revulsions of young remorse and impossible panaceas of repentance, through shrugging worldliness and cynicism and the forgetfulness that lies in laughter, Llanyglo must pass before it becomes--whatever it is to be. One thing only is certain: it can never again be as it was when Edward Garden first went there. Its wild thyme will remain only in patches on its Trwyn, and its sandhills will be glaucous with the blue sea-holly no more. The black cattle have not much longer in which to pace its shore, and Terry Armfield's gridiron will be forgotten--no _Sixpenny Guide_ will point the way down Delyn Avenue nor past his immaterial Crescents along Trwyn Way. Railhead is creeping on. Two of the Kerrs are already working there, the other two have just bought the last of Squire Wynne's alders. Squire Wynne has now no land except that occupied by the Plas and its tangled and mossy and grassy and neglected gardens. "_Porth Neigr Omnibuses, Limited_," is already a serious undertaking, for it will ply between Llanyglo and the nearest point of the line. Howell Gruffydd has an option on the two original cottages that Edward Garden had had matchboarded--he may soon be requiring a larger shop. Compensations will be paid right and left. And there will soon be a larger assortment of young men for Miss Nancy Pritchard to choose a husband from.... For something is coming to Llanyglo. * * * * * Mr. Tudor Williams Ponteglwys had been clever enough in the matter of the Omnibuses, Limited, nor, for the matter of that, had his cleverness stopped there; but for astuteness he could not hold a candle to Edward Garden. Edward Garden was not a Member of Parliament. As he musingly said when people asked him why he was not, it was out of his line. Therefore, he and his friends had left to others the promotion of the Bill, its steering through Select Committees of both Houses, and the whole conduct of the negotiations that, in their different way, were no less complicated than that concentration of various forces by virtue of which Railhead crept ever slowly forward. To a regiment of lawyers had likewise been left the adjustments under the general Acts to which, on the passing of the Bill, the enterprise had become subject. Members and lawyers alike, those drest in a little brief obedience to the commands of the party whips, these as often as not Members themselves, were virtually the nominees of Edward Garden and his friends. Politics Edward Garden's "line"?... To all outward appearances he had no "line" at all. He merely added another emblem to that little cluster of Mercuries and Greyhounds and Winged Orbs that formed the pendant of his watch-chain. It was only when others, full of plans and hope and secrecy, sought "lines" for themselves that they discovered that he had been beforehand with them. To give an instance: When Mr. Tudor Williams, M.P., apparently as representing somebody else, had come forward with an offer to take up the remnants of poor Terry's Thelema, he had found there were no remnants to take up. To give another instance: When, by carefully engineered good offices and intermediaries, Mr. Tudor Williams had sought a reconciliation with Squire Wynne, and presently had gone to see him, he had found that he had pocketed his pride for nothing--the Squire no longer had a yard of land to sell. In a word, before ever whispers of the Bill had begun to circulate in the lobbies of the House of Commons, the sandhills and oat-fields of Llanyglo had been cut up like a jigsaw puzzle, raffled, dealt in, apportioned, and owned; and, save for his small holding in Thelema, between the Omnibuses at Porth Neigr and manganese at Abercelyn, there were very few pickings for Mr. Tudor Williams of Ponteglwys. Therefore he returned with an enthusiasm more ardent than ever to his original crusade against the private ownership of the land that God made for the people, and took his constituents by the button-holes, and spoke darkly of other Acts--Acts which by and by should give the Local Authority powers of compulsory purchase. And all this time the eye still saw nothing to purchase but bents and blown sand, blue and lemon butterflies, nodding harebells, a few tidemarks of black seaweed, a wooden jetty, a cluster of thatched kerb, the three Chapels, Edward Garden's house, and Ty Kerr. But something was coming to Llanyglo. * * * * * On the whole they did not talk very much about it. Each had his reason for reticence, or brooding, or resentment, or calculation, as the case might be. Nevertheless, with Railhead still many miles away, they began to become accustomed to the coming and going of strangers. They came, these strangers, to Edward Garden's house, sleeping either there or else at the double cottage down by the beach; Edward Garden himself, with a lantern in his hand, saw them hospitably over the sandhills to bed. They were surveyors and architects, accountants, geologists, prospectors, men in control of the snail that left the track of iron and grey ballast and upturned clay across the land, lawyers, conveyancers, the directors of the stone-quarries along the Porth Neigr road, and others at whose business Llanyglo could only guess. And Mr. Tudor Williams also went there, perhaps to talk about compulsory powers. These and others wandered in groups along the straggling lines of seaweed, and up the Trwyn, and far inland behind John Pritchard's farm, pointing, pacing, discussing, exactly as those minions of the Liverpool Syndicate had done that morning when work had suddenly ceased on Edward Garden's new house; but there was no talk of fence-burning now. Even Dafydd Dafis saw the hopelessness of it, and once more went about with his head bowed like a head of corn heavy with rain. Already men were widening and levelling the Porth Neigr road. One week-end in July, after an unusually large gathering at Edward Garden's house, a new waggonette from Porth Neigr came to take them back in a body. It had a pair of horses, and it took the hills in style. Dafydd Dafis, whom the vehicle overtook on his ten miles' trudge into the town, was offered a seat, but he appeared not to hear, and the vehicle drove on, enveloping him in its dust. Half-way to Porth Neigr he came upon a squad of men setting up a telegraph pole. One of them spoke to him, in English. "Dim Saesneg," he muttered, and then perhaps wondered why he had done so. It might be "Dim Cymraeg" presently. A little farther on the waggonette passed him again, once more hiding him in its dust. No doubt it had turned aside up the rough road that led to the stone-quarries. Dafydd continued his trudge. But in the household of Howell Gruffydd the grocer, a suppressed excitement reigned. This, when Dafydd Dafis happened to be there, showed only as resignation and a bowing to the inevitable; but at other times it seemed to confer a more frequent glitter to Howell's teeth, a new impulse to his jocularity, and a sparkle and sharpness to his wife's eyes. Cases and canisters the like of which he had never handled before were delivered at his door by the Porth Neigr carrier; these were for the consumption of Edward Garden and his guests; and he waited in person upon Mrs. Garden every Monday morning. He thought of having a Christmas almanack with his own name printed upon it. Blodwen, his wife, made him, in anticipation, a pair of linen half-sleeves that drew up over his forearms. Eesaac Oliver was forbidden any longer to fetch the eggs from the light-keeper's wife up the Trwyn; one of Hugh Morgan's boys might do this. As a preparation for Aberystwith, Eesaac Oliver was packed off to a second cousin of Blodwen's at Porth Neigr, there to attend an excellent endowed school. With the railway passing so near it would be a simple matter for him to spend his week-ends at Llanyglo. And big consumptive John Pritchard rarely said a word about that onward-creeping snail that left its double thread of permanent track behind it, but he thought exaltedly and powerfully. Stories had already reached him of drunkenness at Railhead, and fights, and singing at nights, and other godless orgies, and his brow was sternly set. When he preached at the Baptist Chapel about such as loved darkness and the evil paths in which they walked, it was known that he was thinking of Railhead. Men were now plotting their levels almost within sight of Llanyglo. They turned their surveying instruments on the hamlet as if they had been guns, and laid out their chains as if they had been enslaving the soil itself. Then an advance gang approached, and, even while John knew that the end was near (but not so near as all that), that end came. Eight men marched one evening into Llanyglo, bawling a bawdy chorus, with Sam Kerr showing the way. They had bottles and piggins and stone jars of beer, and, slung with joined-up leather belts between two of them, swung a barrel. They stumbled through the loose sand towards the Hafod Unos, hiccoughing and polluting the peaceful evening. Ned Kerr had evidently been advised of their coming; he stood at the door of the Hafod to receive them; and the carousing began.... It lasted half the night, and then each clay-stained navvy and tattooed platelayer slept and snored where he fell. John Pritchard did not sleep. Faintly he could hear their singing where he lay. The red and white of the Trwyn light dyed the darkness overhead. John remembered his own words: "It is a den of li-ons----" Something had already come to Llanyglo. II THE CLERK OF THE WORKS John Willie Garden was by this time at the age when he occasionally washed himself without being told. This he probably did, not out of any great love of cleanliness, but because by washing unbidden he acquired the right to retort, when the order to wash came, "I have--there!" Did one of the maids give the order he might add the word "Sucks!" This word he withheld when the command came from his mother. He was still at school at Pannal, but ardently longed to leave. It was intended that sooner or later he should go into business with his father, and during the past Christmas vacation, which the Gardens had spent at home in Manchester, he had had the run of the offices and spinning-sheds. His real education, as distinct from his scholastic one, had been immensely advanced thereby. This real advance had taken place principally after working hours. In such cases there is usually a young clerk or market-man ready to take the son of the firm into his charge, and a certain Jack Webster had had the bringing of John Willie out. This he had done at football matches, in the dressing-rooms where the titans clad themselves for the fray, and at their sing-songs and smokers afterwards. Therefore, John Willie esteemed himself a boy of the world, and already the day seemed far distant when he had shot the Llanyglo rabbits with his bow and arrow, and had buried a sixpence beneath the date-stone of his father's house. To Llanyglo John Willie went again that summer, as the snail crept forward yard by yard to Abercelyn and the manganese. All things considered, you might have been pardoned had you supposed that, without John Willie, the work at Railhead must have come to a stop. Had you wished to know anything about that railway--its cost per mile, its contractors' time-limits and penalties, its wages bills, its estimated upkeep--you would have gone, not to those men who spent week-ends at Edward Garden's house, but to John Willie. Railhead was now to him what the building of the Llanyglo house had formerly been, and the fence-burning, and rugby football, and many another interest of the days when he had been a kid and immature. It was in the summer of 1884 that the snail's antennæ approached within sight of Llanyglo, and, rain or shine, permitted or forbidden, John Willie spent most of his waking hours among the masons and smiths and navvies and plate-layers who formed the population of that nomad town of wood and earth and sleepers and rolling stock and escaping steam and corrugated iron. He knew half the men by name. He joined them at dinner when the great buzzer told half a county that it was half-past twelve. He knitted his brows over the curling and thumb-marked plans in the foremen's cabins. He passed this section of work or that, and gave the other his imprimatur. He adapted his stride to the distance between sleeper and sleeper. He spat reflectively on heaps of clay and mortar. With his hands, not in his pockets, but thrust (in imitation of the labourers with the "drop-front" corduroys) deep into his waist-band, and his cap on the back of his yellow, thistle-down head, he gave off-hand nods of greeting and warning "Steadys." He was variously known as "t' gaffer," "t' ganger," "t' clerk o' t' works," and "t' foreman." And his friend, Percy Briggs, of Pannal School and Roundhay (where his father was an architect) accompanied him. Percy's father was one of Edward Garden's week-enders. He was making the plans of a second house, not far from where Terry Armfield's Thelemites were to have descended the shallow, marble steps to the golden shore. There was also some talk of an hotel. For by this time quite a number of people knew at least the name of Llanyglo, and there is very little doubt that, had the place but had houses, it might even then have been that within another three or four years it actually had become--a quiet but not inaccessible resort, with perhaps a dozen striped bathing-tents and a row or two of deck-chairs drawn up on its beach, a couple of comfortable hydros established and a large new hotel a-building, a few donkeys (but no niggers nor pierrots), a place for children and for such of their elders as sought a quiet not to be found at Blackpool nor the Isle of Man, a spot unvisited by trippers, "select," a little on the expensive side, where an acquaintance struck up between families might without too much risk be improved afterwards, where the nurses would be uniformed and the luggage would be sent on in advance, where a wealthy patron might even build a house of his own (if he could get the land), a "nice" place, a place you could afterwards tell _any_body you had been to, a place from which you would go back feeling well and not in need of another holiday, a place--in short, a place like So-and-So, or So-and-So, out of which we try to shut history and change by being a little jealously secret about them. Llanyglo might have been, and for a short time actually was, such a place; and Percy Briggs's father, with others to tell him what to do and what not to do, was even now in the act of planning how to make it so. In the meantime, Edward Garden's own house was a very different place from those two cottages that Dafydd Dafis had taken his own good time about matchboarding. That first lodging had been no more than a temporary camping-place for the summer. Any sagging old wicker-chairs or tables or chests of drawers from lumber-rooms had been good enough for it, and its crockery and kitchen appointments had been of the cheapest kind that Porth Neigr could supply. But not so with the new house. Everything about it spoke of permanence. The large plate-box was carried backwards and forwards at the beginning and end of the summer season, but not the Worcester dinner-service, nor the glass that filled its cupboards, nor the linen in its closets, nor the blankets nor the eiderdowns set by for winter, nor the few--the rather few--books. Mrs. Garden herself had told Howell Gruffydd that it was not likely that the place would be locked up for the winter months again. Edward Garden intended to spend more and more time there; indeed he must, unless by and by he would look musingly and a little ill-favouringly through his glasses at that sparse line of bathing-tents and that little knot of combination-saddled donkeys and say, "This does not appear to be much of a watering-place." Already he had made special arrangement for the delivery of his Manchester letters; upstairs on the first floor he had his office, with a deep window, the side bays of which looked, the one towards the sea, the other to the mighty deltoid-shaped outline of Mynedd Mawr; and where Edward Garden settled he liked to settle comfortably. In that quiet and rugged and curtained room he was once more following the line of least resistance. The chances were that he already foresaw the direction that line was likely to take. For Lancashire, which had been remote when folk had had to jog the ten miles from Porth Neigr behind a somnolent old brown horse, would be near when that snail had packed his lodging up and departed, leaving only its iron pathway behind it; and the Kerrs in their Hafod Unos would have been astonished to learn how much Edward Garden mused upon Lancashire and upon just such people as themselves. He mused upon the cost of living of such as they; and he mused upon their standard of living, which is a related thing, but not the same thing. He mused again as he saw the gradual change in that standard, and contrasted the things he saw with the things he remembered in his own early days. In those days, expressly taken holidays had been unheard-of things. Folk's excursions had reached little farther afield than their own legs could carry them. If John Pritchard, of Llanyglo, had never been to Porth Neigr, many and many a Manchester man of the days of Edward Garden's boyhood had never been to Liverpool. Many thousands had never seen the sea. It had been holiday enough in those days to meet in the streets, to play knurr and spell in the nearest field, to lean over walls and watch their pigs, and to tend their gardens. Slate Clubs and Goose Clubs and Holiday Clubs had not been invented. A shilling or half a crown a week painfully saved would not have been squandered again for the sake of that little superfluity that had now become the minimum itself. The mass of the people of his day would no more have dreamed of saving money in order that seaside lodging-house keepers should profit than they would have dreamed of taking the Grand Tour. But a generation seemed to have arisen, very different in some ways, yet exactly the same in others. They were different in that they refused to be exploited any longer according to the old familiar formulas, yet the same in that they were as subject as their fathers had been, and as their sons and grandsons will be, to the man who could devise a new one. All manner of circumstances contributed to their unuttered invitation (it was that in effect, and the only thing they did not utter) that somebody should bring to their exploitation the spice of variety. There were smoulderings everywhere--smoulderings at Durham and West Ham, at Ayr and Lanark and Swansea, at Sheffield and Manchester and Liverpool and Leeds and Hull. Over his glasses and under his glasses Edward Garden noted them, and inferred that the sum of it all was that folk intended to have a better time than they had been having. They were quite unmistakably resolved to have a much better time. Their grandfathers' idea of a Wakes Week, for example, might have been staying at home and timing the pigeons into the cote; but they meant to improve on that. They intended to doff their clogs and to put on their thinnest shoes, to draw extravagant sums from the Club, to take railway-tickets, and not to rest from their arduous relaxation as long as a penny remained unspent.... Manganese? The moment they showed signs of coming his way, Edward Garden was after richer returns than manganese would yield. He granted that without manganese there would have been no Railhead coming up out of the east, but what he had his eye on was the new generation's deadly resolve to be amused, the crammed coffers of its Holiday Clubs, the beginnings of those tens and scores and hundreds of thousands of pounds that to-day a single town will get rid of in a single fortnight by the sea. But _only_ if it came his way. He was no Terry. It was his business to take things as they were, not to try to make them something they were not. He had no theories, no criticisms, no impulses, no hesitations. He asked for nothing but uncoloured data. Therefore, and to that extent, Llanyglo's future was not entirely in his hands. It was still free, and always, always, save for a little rising of new stone here and there, just the same to look at--watched over by the Light on its noble Trwyn, guarded by the majestic mountain behind, and presenting to its diurnal tides the same shore that Copley Fielding drew. Now it befell towards the end of the July of that year that the Welshmen of Llanyglo held an open-air service for the young in one of the hollows of the sandhills. It was a blazing Sunday afternoon, with the sea like silk and the pale mountains seeming thrice their distance away. They had brought a small moveable platform and reading-desk from the Baptist Chapel, and first John Pritchard, and then Howell Gruffydd had mounted it. The sun beat on the bare heads and best bonnets and black-coated shoulders of parents; myriads of tiny hopping insects gave the surface of the sand the appearance of being in motion; and a buzzard sailed in great steady circles in the sky of larkspur blue, now standing out to sea, now a speck in the direction of Delyn or Mynedd Mawr. Howell was teaching the twelve or fourteen urchins a new hymn-tune, singing it now alone, now with them, now listening with little gestures of encouragement and nods of pleasure as their voices rose. His secular jocularity was not absent, but tempered to the occasion. "Louder, louder and quicker--it give you an appetite for your tea," he said, waving his arms and beating with his foot to the accelerated time. "You will not wake Mrs. Hughes at the lighthouse--now--'_Joyful, Joyful_----'" And, with Eesaac Oliver leading, they went through the tune again. That a special exhortation should be given to those of tenderer years had been deliberately resolved upon. Since that evening when the eight men from the line had rolled drunkenly over the sandhills to the Kerrs' house, a fear had weighed on the chapel-goers of Llanyglo. Until then, their children had known nothing of the wide and wicked world; but that ignorance could not now be maintained. They must be put on their guard, and for that job the ingratiating Howell was the man. The tune came to an end, and he put his leaflet of printed words into his pocket and shepherded the row of urchins into position with movements of his hands. "Move that way, John Roberts--I cannot see Olwen Morgan's face. Hugh Morgan, stop poking your foot into that rabbit-hole or you fall down it and we have to dig you out. Miss Pritchard, give Gwen Roberts her sunbonnet, if you please, or she catss a sunstroke. Ithel, where is your handkerchief? Your nose resem-bles a snail.... Now listen to me. If I see a boy or girl not pay atten-sson I stop till he do pay atten-sson----" And he began. He told them that soon, with the coming of the railway, there would come also all manner of pip-ple, some good pip-ple, some bad pip-ple. He told them that at Railhead were many bad pip-ple, who swore, and drank a great deal more than was good for them. He told them (discreetly, since he had no wish to preach a _jehad_ against customers so good as the Gardens) that while some boys might go to Railhead to play, boys like some he would not mention, who had lived in large towns, yet it would be bet-ter if they kept themselves to themselves.... He did not go the length of asserting that all good boys were Welsh and country boys, and that all bad ones were town-bred and English, but--but--well, things have to be put a little starkly to the young. They shuffled their feet in the hot loose sand as he talked. The buzzard sailed back from the mountains. The sandhoppers danced as if the ground had been a frying-pan. A holy peace brooded over the land. Away at Railhead men, those sinful men who drank and swore slept in rows, stretched face-downwards on the grass or the thrown-up banks of clay. Then the grocer began to promise the rewards of virtue. He turned with an interrogative smile to John Pritchard. "And now, Mr. Pritchard, do you think I might tell them that sec-ret? Indeed I think I get into trouble if I do! But yess, I will tell them.--Atten-sson now. Hugh Morgan, do not scratss your head. Now!--Can any boy or girl tell me what there iss to be in Mr. Pritchard's field next month?" They guessed at once, with one voice. Howell Gruffydd knew better than to ask an audience questions it could not answer. He held up his hands in admiring surprise. "Indeed they guess--they are every one right, Miss Pritchard! Astonissing! Dear me, I never saw such s'arp young men and women!--Yess, they are right. There is to be a Treat for the Sunday School scholars! There now! And there will be races, and prizes, and tea, and the books will be given for those who have had the largest num-ber of attendances and have not been late.--And now: who is giving this Treat?" "Mr. Tudor Williams!" they cried. "Right again--it is Mr. Tudor Williams, the Member of Parliament! And Mr. Williams is giv-ing something else too. He is giv-ing--I have seen them--new pictures--pictures of the construc-tion of flowers--(bot-tany I think it is called, Miss Pritchard?)--and an-i-mals--and fiss-sses----" He turned up his eyes, as if to the heavens from which these rewards of virtuous living descended. The croupy shrilling of a cock came from down by the beach. The bees droned, and the wheeling buzzard suddenly dropped like a plummet a hundred yards through the larkspur blue. It was then, in that very moment, that Howell Gruffydd's face was seen to change. He stopped, listening. Beyond the hot cuplike hollow in which they were assembled was another sunken way, and along this way somebody was approaching. Probably in complete unconsciousness that any hearer was at hand, this somebody was singing softly as he came. It was Tommy, the youngest of the Kerrs, and he was singing to himself, in very bad Welsh, _Glan Meddwdod Mwyn_. Now this song is one of the less reputable songs of Wales. The English drinking song usually contents itself with extolling the mere convivial act, drawing a decent veil over the lamentable effects of that act; but even in its title _Glan Meddwdod Mwyn_ (which words mean _Fair, Kind Drunkenness_) has no such reticence. It depicts ... but you can see the difference for yourself. No wonder it froze the words on Howell Gruffydd's lips. In the singer's complete unconsciousness that he was not alone lay the whole sting. The malice, the intent, the hateful Lancashire humour of the Kerrs they had had before, but not _this_ home-thrust with a weapon they themselves had provided! Tommy might just as well have climbed the hummock and told them that, since their language provided equally for these eventualities, they were no better than anyone else.... An English drunkard, to grub in the lees of their own language like this!---- And little Hugh Morgan had sniggered!---- The unseen Tommy and his (their) song passed on towards the Hafod Unos. Then Howell bestirred himself again. "There, now!" he said; "what had he just been tell-ing them? Indeed, that was opp-por-tune, whatever!" ... But, though he strove to hide it, there was a hollowness now in his exhortation. He felt as if he had been building a wall against a contagion that crept in upon the invisible air. If Thomas Kerr knew _Glan Meddwdod Mwyn_ he might also know viler ditties still; if little Hugh Morgan, whom he had thought pure, had sniggered at _Glan Meddwdod_ he might guffaw outright at the baser version of _Sospan Bach_.... It could only (Howell thought) be original sin.... It was at least a little balm to him to hear the fervour with which Eesaac Oliver once more led the singing of _Joyful, Joyful_. And, by the way (speaking of songs), Eesaac Oliver's choice of the narrow and difficult path had already involved him in a persecution in which song played a minor part. This persecution was at the hands of John Willie Garden. For, in an unguarded moment, Eesaac Oliver had confided to John Willie his plans for his career; and since then the unfeeling John Willie, on his way to Railhead and debauchery, had held over him the song that contains the lines:-- "_He wass go to Je-sus College For to try to get some knowledge---- Wass you ever see," etc. etc._ John Willie, itching to get away from Pannal, could not understand why anybody wanted to go to Jesus, Aberystwith, or any other College. "_I think it would be wiser For to stay with Sister Liza---- Wass you ever see," etc. etc._ he would hum softly and (alas) contemptuously; and, since it was part of his chosen career to do so, Eesaac Oliver would very expressly forgive John Willie, getting into quite a Christian heat about it. On the day after that homily on the Llanyglo sandhills, John Willie Garden went as usual to Railhead, and was enabled to delight his leather-belted and corduroyed friends there with a piece of information, hitherto secret, that he had from his father's table. This was that the line was to be opened in the following Spring by His Royal Highness the Duke of Snell. The announcement produced an astonishing effect. Not one in ten of the men either knew or cared what the enterprise was all about. They knew that the railway was a railway, but beyond that, none of its dividends being destined for their pockets, it was merely the job--"the" job, the job of the moment, the job not very different from the last job, and very, very like all the other jobs to come, until their living hands should become as stiff as the picks they plied, and the light of their eyes be extinguished as their own lanterns were extinguished at daybreak. But at the news that the Duke of Snell was to do his trick when they had finished theirs, they were innocently uplifted and delighted. _This_ would be something to tell their grandchildren in the years to come! They would spit on their hands and work better all the afternoon for _this_!... In the meantime they discussed it when the great buzzer called them to their beef and bacon sandwiches, their chops and pickles and bread and cheese. "So it's to be t' Dewk o' Snell!" one of them admired, with as much satisfaction as if he himself had had a tremendous leg-up in the world thereby; he was a West Riding navvy, whom twenty years of digging up the length and breadth of England had delocalised of everything save his powerful accent. "Well, now, I'd figgered it out 'at it'ld happen be t' Prince o' Wales mesen----" Here struck in a Cardiff man, so lean that you would not have got another pennyweight of fat off him if you had fried him in his own frying-pan. "Wass-n't it the Duke of Snell that mar-ried the Prin-cess Victorine?" "Noa. That wor t' Dewk o' Flint," the Yorkshire navvy replied, with authority. "T' Dewk o' Snell wed t' youngest, t' Princess Alix. I knaw all t' lot on 'em; t' missis hed all their pic'ters o' biscuit-boxes; they reached from one end o' t' chimley-piece to t'other; ye couldn't ha' got a finger in between." "Well, well," said the Cardiff man, an inquiring mind among many complacent ones, "it is curious, how lit-tle diff-ference it makes to us. The Prinss of Wales, say you? If I wait for the Prinss of Wales to give me ano-ther piece of this ba-con I wait a long time, whatever!... But prapss we get our in-vi-ta-tions soon," he added jocularly, taking an enormous bite of bread. "S'all you be there, John Willie?" John Willie answered, a little doubtfully, that he hoped to be present at the ceremony if he could get away from school. The Cardiff man wagged his head. There are few Welshmen who do not wag their heads at the sound of the word school. "Ah, school; it iss a gra-and thing," he said, still wagging. "I not be work-king here with my shirt wet-t on my back if I go to a prop-per school." "Oh, be dinged to that tale!" returned the Yorkshireman bluntly, cutting cheese on his leathery palm. "T' schools is all my backside! They learn 'em a lot o' newfangled stuff, but I remember 'at when tea wor eight shillin' a pund, an' they kept a penny nutmeg in a wood case as if it wor diamonds----" "Aw-w-w, there iss that Burkie, talk-king again!" said the Cardiff man. "It's reight, for all that----" And presently the talk had veered round to those very changes of standards and conditions, his careful study of which had led Edward Garden to the conclusion that a generation had arisen that intended thenceforward to have more of the world's good things than it had been having or know the reason why. As it happened, the work on the line had that day taken a new leap forward. Again all the life of the python had rolled on ahead, and John Willie, lunching with his friends, was doing so at a point actually beyond Llanyglo, two miles nearer to Abercelyn. From the Abercelyn end also the line was coming to meet them, and the two sections would meet at a place called Sarn. Sarn means Causeway, and there the sea showed, like a piece of bright piano-wire, across a waste of fleecy bog-cotton and bog-myrtle, sundew and flags and rushes. A siding was to be made there. Because of Sarn Church, a tiny little building with an odd Fifteenth-Century circular tower, Squire Wynne loved this region, and attended service there; but as that Service was held only once a year, the "Hough!" of the shunting-engines and the clanking of couplings would disturb it little. The Squire sighed to think that, among so many, many other changes, it would be only one change the more. His sales of land had provided him with just enough money to last his time out, and on the whole he thought he did not want to outlive his time. Perhaps he too had had his glimpse of that vision of Edward Garden's, though as it were in obverse; and, looking, he shrugged his shoulders. Who, in another twenty or thirty years, would care for the things he had cared for? Who would waste a thought on antiquity? Who would open his County History, or his books on Brasses or Church Plate, Memorials or Heraldry or Glass? Who would know each tree he came upon on his walks, as a country doctor knows his patients--its sickness, its health, its need of air, its treatment, its amputations? Who would repair the staircase at the Plas, and restore its magnificent ceilings, and set the merry smoke streaming up its chimneys once more?... Mr. Tudor Williams would probably do this last. He would no doubt convert the Plas into a Museum (as he would have converted Sarn Church itself into a Museum), and fill it with cases of ice-scratched pebbles, and diagrams of strata and flowers, for reluctant and educated urchins to gape at. The Squire was entirely in sympathy with John Willie Garden's corduroyed friend Burkie about these things. It seemed to him that the multitude, which after all had backbone enough to starve rather than go on the Parish, would not resist this organised pauperisation of its mind. It was time the Squire died, since he held that not everybody has the right to everything and no questions asked. Otherwise not an inhumane man, there were nevertheless abstractions which he loved more than he loved his fellow-being.... And who would drink what was left of that wondrous old port? Well, the Squire, sighing and smiling a little wistfully both at once, intended to see to that himself. III THE CURTAIN RAISER But while the march of events drove the aborigines of Llanyglo ever more and more closely together, as the reaping of a field of corn drives the mice and snakes and rabbits to the narrowing square in the centre, at the same time something of the opposite process went on. Two or three stood aloof, Welsh when it suited them to be Welsh, less Welsh at other times. One of these was Mr. Tudor Williams, the Member of Parliament. Another was Howell Gruffydd, the grocer. For thick as thieves now were Edward Garden and Tudor Williams, and to their frequent councils was admitted also Raymond Briggs, the architect, whose son had been John Willie's schoolfellow at Pannal. This Raymond Briggs was a Yorkshireman, from Hunslet, but you wouldn't have thought it to look at him. You saw at a glance that he was superfine, but you had no idea how superfine until he opened his mouth. He was tall, plumpish, very erect, numerously chinned and faultlessly dressed; and, having entered into culture by one of the noblest of its portals, architecture, it was small wonder that he wished to forget Hunslet, with its black canal, its serried weaving-sheds, its grimy warehouses, and its sooty brickfields. Certainly he had completely forgotten it in his speech. Over an alien mode he had acquired a really remarkable mastery; and had it not been for a trifling uncertainty about his vowels, particularly his "a's," you would have set him down as quite as much London as Leeds. And so more or less with everything else about Raymond.--But his wife haled you north again. To her, acquirements were like hot plates to the fingers, to be kept constantly in motion or else dropped altogether. Her husband was probably the most humourless man who ever came to Llanyglo; but Maud Briggs would use the homeliest of dialect-words in the most artificial of accents, and would tell you, even while she was mothering you with cool drinks in the most hospitable fashion, that the piece of ice she dropped with a clink into your glass was positively "the last piece in the hoil"--if you know your West Riding well enough to understand the peculiar significance of the word "hoil" as applied to a house. Her rings were dazzling, for Raymond's invaluable lack of humour had enabled him to make his mark on the world; the blue-and-white collapsible boat which their son Percy brought with him to Llanyglo had cost his father a cool twenty-five pounds in London; and it would not be for lack of money if Percy did not turn out a very superior silk purse indeed. So when the snail, his journey finished, rested and made the siding at Sarn and then returned to Porth Neigr again, and Railhead was dismantled, and grasses began to seed themselves about the upturned soil, Edward Garden and Raymond Briggs and Tudor Williams, M.P., had their heads frequently together; and no longer were the short days and long nights a season of hibernation for Llanyglo. Three years out of four the Llanyglo winters are mild; this particular winter was not so inclement that it stopped building-operations for more than a day or two at a time; and, with a sort of miniature Railhead strung out along the Porth Neigr road for his labour, Raymond's second house rose steadily course by course, and already they were draining and digging for the first hotel. If they were mainly Porth Neigr men Raymond employed, that did not mean that Dafydd Dafis or any other Llanyglo man who was so minded would not be taken on; indeed they were taken on; but it did mean that the centre of gravity of the labour-supply had shifted, and would never shift back again. Those temporary dwellings along the Porth Neigr road were a constant reminder that if the Llanyglo men did not like it they might lump it; and as they did neither, but while disliking it intensely, bore a hand and took their wages just the same, they appeared to be sufficiently quelled. Edward Garden, while making Llanyglo his headquarters, was again much away. A whisper was started that he was once more treating for land, but, as no further land appeared to be available, the rumour was derided as idle. Howell Gruffydd was already converting the two original matchboarded cottages to his own use. Something Departmental happened somewhere beyond Llanyglo's ken (probably Mr. Tudor Williams knew all about it), and the word came that the Post Office was to be transferred from John Pritchard's to Howell's new shop; and though the Post Office was on the whole more trouble than it was worth, for a little while Howell seemed likely to have a quarrel on his hands. But Howell had not definitely taken a part without knowing equally definitely how to bear himself in that part. _He_ did not intend to be herded into the gloomy company of a lot of beaten and sulking Welsh nationalists! As if already a vast spud had cut about Manchester or Liverpool, and an equally vast spade had taken either of these cities up bodily like a square of peat and had set it down again on the Llanyglo sandhills, so the idea of expansion had taken hold of Howell's mind. He even went a little preposterously beyond bounds, as others did later, when they learned that their old Welsh dressers and armchairs were a rarity and marketable, and proceeded to put ridiculous prices upon them. And probably Edward Garden had a use for Howell. Already it looked like it. The answer with which Howell appeased John Pritchard in the matter of the transference of the Post Office looked very much like it. Edward Garden himself could not so have reconciled John to all this innovation with a single whispered word. For "_Bazaars_," Howell said furtively to John, behind his hand; and the quick electric gleam in his eyes was instantly extinguished again.... You see. They had never had a bazaar at Llanyglo. There would have been little profit in passing their own money about among themselves. But _strangers'_ money.... That was the soul of good in things otherwise evil that Howell whispered to John Pritchard, and later it was so observingly distilled out for the benefit of the Baptist and other Chapels that for a time there was actually a danger lest the mulcting should keep folk away. And if even Mr. Tudor Williams himself now appeared a little absent-minded among his constituents, and hauled himself, as it were, out of remote fastnesses of thought to grasp them fervently (if indiscriminately) by the hand, and to inquire after their rheumatics and wives and other plagues, well, he was a busy, and not at all a wealthy man. At Llanyglo, as elsewhere, it was not only Welsh and English; it was also Get or Go Wanting. The early bird.... So (to push on) circular smears of white appeared on the windows of the second of Raymond Briggs's houses (it was finished by Christmas), and these gave it the appearance of a sudden new Argus, looking out on every side for other houses to join it; and the scaffold-poles began to rise about the new hotel like a larch-plantation. Raymond came and went, and Mr. Tudor Williams came and went, and short winter day followed short winter day. Then, with cat's-ice still glazing the ruts and pools but a feeling of Spring in the air, Porth Neigr, ten miles away, came bustlingly to life. An emissary of the Lord-Lieutenant of the County took up his quarters at the Royal Hotel, and there he was one day joined by the Lord-Lieutenant himself, with Sir Somebody Something, of the Office of Works. These summoned others, who in turn summoned others, and maps and plans were sent for and a line of route was chosen. Police were drafted in, and folk went up into their upper front rooms to see which bedstead or table-leg would best stand the strain of a rope across the street. The old station had been repainted to suit with the new extension, and masts rose at its entrance. To the residents in the principal streets the Council lent loyal emblems and devices. The sounds of bands practising could be heard. His Royal Highness the Duke of Snell was coming to open the line. Then on the appointed day, the town broke into a flutter of bunting. The March sun shone merrily on Royal Standard and Red Dragon, on Union Jack and ensign, on gold-fringed banners with "CROESAW" on one side and "WELCOME" on the other. On the new metals a Royal Salute of fog-signals was laid. Warning of the Approach passed along the line, on the red-druggeted platform officials great and small waited, and John Willie Garden's friends, whose picks and shovels had made the clay fly, would no doubt read all about it a few days later in the papers. So, with detonation of fog-signals, and some cheers, but more wide-eyed gazing, and bared heads and bowing backs, and an Address, and other circumstances of loyalty and fraternisation and joy, His Royal Highness and John Willie Garden between them declared the line open; but only the Duke rode on the footplate of the garlanded engine with the crossed flags on its belly. Probably intensely bored, he rode out about a mile towards Abercelyn, and then returned to luncheon at the Royal Hotel. An hour later, coming out again, he passed away to Lancashire. All was over. Folk might now take down their bunting as soon as they pleased. The trick was virtually done for Llanyglo. A loop at Sarn or a new junction, and a realisation on the part of those in authority that there were things that paid better than Abercelyn manganese, and Llanyglo would be "linked up" with rigid iron to the rest of the world. Nay, it is already linked up even more straitly. A few poles and a thread of wire, crossing the sandhills and ending at the Llanyglo Stores, have some weeks ago put an end to its isolation. It is the nerve that accompanies the sinew, and Howell Gruffydd now receives and despatches telegrams. All is over bar the shouting, and it will not be long before that begins. They are busy now, painting and papering the new hotel, and decorating and upholstering it. It reeks of new paint and varnish and furniture-polish and the plumbers' blowpipes. It resounds with all the doubly loud noises of a half-empty place--with hammering and tacking, clanking buckets, the "Whoas!" to the horses of the delivery-vans, the jolting of heavy things moved upstairs, the rasp of scrubbing-brushes, the squeak of window-cloths. It is spick-and-span, from the feathery new larches in front to the silvery new dustbins behind.... Wherefore, seeing that we shall only be in the way, with never a chair to sit down on yet, and nothing to eat in the place save what the charwoman and the green-aproned carters and carriers have brought for themselves, we may as well leave all these things to the folk whose business it is to attend to them, and take a nap for a month or two, secure that when we wake up again the scene will be set for Llanyglo's _lever de rideau_, that starched and polite and not quite real little piece that preludes the main action of our tale. There is heather and wild thyme up the Trwyn, very comfortable to doze on; suppose we have our nap up there?... _Ah-h-h-h!_--That was the July sun that woke us. It's a warm and brilliant morning. Stretch yourself first, and then have a look down.... That's a surprise, isn't it? You didn't quite expect that? Really not much changed, and yet it's entirely changed. Two new houses and an hotel (in this clean air they'll be new-looking for years yet), and that little border of deck-chairs and bathing-tents and slowly moving parasols, not a couple of hundred yards long altogether, and yet the whole appearance of the place is altered. After a moment you find it quite difficult to remember it as it was the last time we were up here. See that little puff of smoke over there? That's a shunting-engine at Sarn; you'll hear the sound in a moment; there!--Butterflies about us, like hovering pansies; you can see just one corner of poor old Terry's Thelema showing; and out there, where the sea changes colour, just where the gulls are rocking, that's a bank of sand a storm threw up three or four years ago. And that's the telegraph-wire I spoke of, running straight across to Howell Gruffydd's shop there. Yes, that links Llanyglo up.... Where did all these people come from? Well, it's hard to say, but no doubt Edward Garden's got them here for one reason and another. He may even have "packed" the place a little carefully; I don't know. At any rate, he's lent "_Sea View_" there (that's the newer of the two houses) to Gilbert Smythe. Who's Gilbert Smythe? Well, he's the Medical Officer for Brannewsome, Lancs., and a very clever and quite an honest man. But Gilbert's family's grown more quickly than his fortune, live as frugally as he will he's always in debt, and he isn't going to say "No" to the free offer of a well-built, roomy house, not three minutes from the sands where the children can play all day, and furnished from the potato-masher in the kitchen to the little square looking-glasses in the servants' attics. And of course Edward Garden asks nothing in return. But _if_ Gilbert cares to say that the Llanyglo water is abundant and pure, Edward won't object--it is excellent water. And _if_ Gilbert likes to praise its air and low rainfall (low for Wales), well, he'll be telling no more than the truth. And _if_ Gilbert (not bearing ancient Mrs. Pritchard too much in mind) finds the longevity at Llanyglo remarkable, what's the harm in that? As a matter of fact, there is a saying that the oldest inhabitant always dies first at Llanyglo, and the others follow in order of age, which would be a poor look-out for anybody setting up in the Insurance business here.... So if by and by Gilbert signs a statement to this general effect, you can hardly blame him. He has his way to make, and he is a wise man who allows the galleons of the Gardens of the world to give his skiff a tow. The others? Well, Edward Garden's a cleverer man than I, and you can hardly expect me to explain the workings of his mind to you in detail. But I think we may assume he knows what he is about. I needn't say they're all very well-to-do; you can see that even from here; but there's something else about them, something we saw in Raymond Briggs, that's a little difficult to describe--perhaps it's merely that they too intend (_mutatis mutandis_, of course) that their children shall have a better time than their parents have had--or perhaps we'd better say their grandparents had, for their parents do themselves very well, indeed. I don't think you can say more about them than that--it's just that dash of Raymond Briggs.... Squire Wynne wouldn't understand them in the least. The Squire's wasted too much time over antiquity. He doesn't know anything about these people who are coming on. Except in their clothes, and so on, he'd see very little difference between them and people Raymond Briggs would look at as if they weren't there. He wouldn't understand Philip Lacey, for example. (Do you see that orange-and-black striped blazer--there by the seaweed: he's pointing; that's Philip Lacey.) Philip is the big Liverpool florist, seedsman, and landscape-gardener; if he hasn't his "roots in the land" in exactly the sense the Squire understands, his plants have; and Philip distinctly does not intend that Euonyma and Wygelia, who are at present at school at Brighton, shall go into one of his fourteen or fifteen retail shops. Philip isn't spending all that money for that.... (Understand me, I think Philip's perfectly right; the only thing I don't quite see is why he should veneer good sound stuff with something that's an obvious sham.) Of his wife, frankly, I don't think very much. Her processes show too plainly. Philip has his business to attend to, but Mrs. Lacey never leaves her one idea, day or night.... There, Philip's stopped and spoken to Mr. Morrell. Mr. Morrell has just as many hopes and plans for Hilda as the Laceys have for Euonyma and Wygelia, but he knows that his "a's" are past praying for, so he makes rather a display of his native speech. I needn't tell you what a trial that is to Hilda.... And bear in mind that these are prosperous people, well-travelled people (though they mostly keep to the beaten tracks where they meet one another--it's Mrs. Briggs's chief recollection of Florence that she met some people she knew in Leeds there), people who put up at far better hotels than you or I do. And if these, who can afford it, can be shown the way to Llanyglo, the chances are that a crowd of other people, who certainly can't afford it but as certainly won't be out of it, will come in their wake. What do you say to our going down and having a closer look at them? We might take a stroll as far as Howell Gruffydd's shop--I beg its pardon, Stores. Sit still a moment though; here's Minetta Garden behind us. She's been sketching the Dinas, very likely. Minetta very much wants to be an artist, and you meet her with her sketching things all over the place. It may or may not be a passing fancy; she certainly has what Raymond Briggs calls a "Rossetti head"--enormous dark eyes, sharpish jaw, straight dark hair, and a disconcerting way of staring at people who are "putting it on" a little more thickly than usual (she stares pretty frequently at Raymond himself). Ah, she's taking the steep way down. We'll take the other way.... * * * * * Now we're on the level; better put your tie straight--or aren't you overpowered by these things? I confess I am; Raymond Briggs always chills me when he casts his eye over my front elevation. No thick-booted undergraduates' holiday-parties nor furry art-students with knickers and bare throats here. We're spruce at Llanyglo. Even on a week-day it's like a Church Parade, and on Sundays we go one better still. All the men have brightly coloured flannel blazers and gaudy cammerbands, and the women carry many-flounced parasols by a ring at the ferrule end, and wear toilettes straight out of the "Queen." Some of them will change for lunch; all of them will for _table d'hôte_ at seven. They protest that they vastly prefer dinner at seven, but what with the servants' dinners at midday, and husbands who prefer the old-fashioned hour, and one thing and another, they take their principal meal at one. There's no reason they shouldn't. There's no reason they should mention it at all. But they do, every day. If you're introduced to them, they'll all have told you within twenty-four hours. It's as if they didn't want there to be any mistake about something or other.... Here's where the donkeys turn. They have red and white housings, and their names across their foreheads--"_Tiny_," "_Prince_," and so on; the donkey-rides are a little offshoot of _Porth Neigr Omnibuses_. Kite-flying's popular here too--that's Mr. Morrell's, the big star-shaped one. The bathing-tents and deck-chairs are mostly hired from Howell Gruffydd, but there are no boats yet except Percy Briggs's twenty-five-pound collapsible one; those who want to go fishing have to use one of those old Copley Fielding things by the jetty there.... Now we're coming to the people. Here's Raymond Briggs with Mr. Lacey, Raymond in his orange-and-black blazer and a white Homburg hat, Philip in a blue blazer with white braid and a plain straw hat; both with perfect creamy rippling white trousers and spotless white doeskin boots. They're talking off-handedly about other holiday-places--Norway, the Highlands, the Riviera--and they're afraid of showing any enthusiasm or delight. Of every place they know they say that it has "gone off" since they first went there. There's a subtle undercurrent of contest about their conversation. Philip was at Hyères as recently as last winter, looking at the violets; but Raymond has been three times to Arles and Nimes. I suppose honours are easy. "Roman, I've heard?" Philip remarks. (You can hear him as you pass.) "Yes, Roman, with a Saracenic tower." "Ah, that tower's Saracenic, is it?" "Saracenic." "Wonderful people!" "Indeed yes!" "Curious how it takes you back into ancient times." "Yes, yes, it shortens history." "But the hotel accommodation!----" "Oh, bad in the extreme!" "What they want is entirely new and up-to-date management----" "Quite so----" "Can't say I thought much of their _bouillabaisse_." "An acquired taste, I suppose----" And they pass on. They'll talk like that the whole morning. They're not really interested in their subject. As I say, it makes you think of a sort of contest. Personally, I always want to applaud when somebody scores a good point. Perhaps the idea is that they're doing Llanyglo a favour by coming here-- There, stepping over the tent-ropes, are Mrs. Briggs and Mr. Ashton. Mr. Ashton is Edward Garden's chief London representative, a man of pleasure and of the world, and for all I know his function may be to keep these prosperous northerners up to the metropolitan mark. Mrs. Briggs, for example, who is very short and stout, and wears a lavender bonnet and pelisse, and certainly will not walk far on the sand in those heels, is on her mettle now. She is telling Mr. Ashton some London hotel experience or other. I like Mrs. Briggs. She's worth ten of Raymond. But I don't think she quite knows which is the paste and which the jewels in her speech. "----and so at the 'Metropole' they couldn't take Ray and I in; not that I was surprised in the very least, such frights as we looked after the voyage, and hardly any luggage; it hadn't come on from Paris, you see. So I says to Ray, 'It's no good making a noration here, for it's plain they don't want us. _I_'m glad they're doing so well they can afford to turn money away.' So I turns to the manager, who was staring at my slippers I'd put on for the railway-journey, and 'Don't if it hurts you,' I said, and with that we slammed our things together and drove off to the 'Grand'----" You can hear Mr. Ashton's sympathetic murmurs ... but that's Mrs. Lacey, with Mr. Morrell, just turning; she thinks that Euonyma and Wygelia have been quite long enough in the water. Mr. Morrell is in cool-looking cream alpaca; Mrs. Lacey, who is hook-nosed and pepper-and-salt haired and thin as a hop-pole, resembles a many-flounced hollyhock in her silvery battleship grey. "They'll tak' no harm, weather like this," Mr. Morrell is saying. "What's that I was going to ask you, now?... I have it. Is it right 'at Briggs is to build you a new house ovver yonder?" A foot or so over Mr. Morrell's head, Mrs. Lacey replies that Mr. Lacey hasn't decided yet.--"You see, with the girls at Brighton for another year yet, and then of course they'll have to go to Paris, it's early to say." "There's some talk of his making a Floral Valley, isn't there?" "I've not heard.--But I'm sure those girls----" "They're as right as rain wi' Mrs. Maynard----" But that is precisely where Mrs. Lacey thinks Mr. Morrell is mistaken. She has nothing whatever against Mrs. Maynard, who is a young widow, but she would like to know a little more about the late Mr. Maynard before admitting her to unreserved intimacy. Mrs. Maynard has not quite the figure a "Mrs." ought to have, and does more bathing than swimming (if you understand me). That's an accomplishment she learned at Ostend (for if Mr. Ashton, the London agent, is metropolitan, Mrs. Maynard brings quite a cosmopolitan air to Llanyglo). The misses Euonyma and Wygelia, on the other hand, learned to swim at Brighton, walking to the bathing-place in a crocodile. You see the difference. Brighton is not Ostend, any more than Llanyglo is either, and Mrs. Lacey considers that you can't be too careful.... That's Mrs. Maynard, with her back to the oncoming breaker. Her bathing-dress is quite complete, as complete as Mrs. Garden's, drying outside her tent there; but Mrs. Lacey disapproves of those twinkling scarlet ribbons. She considers them to be little points of attraction, that do all that is asked of them, and more. She prophesied that the red would "run" in the water, but it didn't, and that makes matters rather worse, for if Mrs. Maynard knows as well as that which red will run and which won't she is practised---- And those two graceful but rather skinned-rabbit-looking young shapes in the gleaming navy-blue costumes with the white braid are the girls. Now we're among the castles. Quite a horde of children, and very pretty children too, with their spades and buckets and their petticoats bunched up inside striped knickers (those too you get at Gruffydd's). That's Gilbert Smythe, the Medical Officer, the tall shaggy man carrying the bucket of water for the little boy's moat. He'll be giving Llanyglo its bathing testimonial too. Don't tread on that seaweed; it may be a castle garden, or a sea-serpent, or anything else in the child's imagination.... There are the boys trying to launch the collapsible boat. John Willie hasn't grown much; he won't be a tall man; but he's filling out. That minx Mrs. Maynard makes quite a lot of him, and says she likes the feel of his fine-spun hair. Whether John Willie likes her to feel it or not he does not betray. Now for Howell Gruffydd's.... * * * * * There you are. "THE LLANYGLO STORES," in big gold letters right across the front of the two cottages. What do you think of it? Yes in one way and another, there must be a largish sum sunk in "stock." Whether Howell's buying on credit or not I don't know, but he looks prosperous; he's had his beard trimmed, and he wears a new hat. Green butterfly-nets and brown and white and grey sandshoes--spades and buckets and balls and fishing-lines and toy ships--bottles of scent and the "Llanyglo Sunburn Cure" (made up for him by the chemist at Porth Neigr)--a new board with "Tricycles for Hire" on it (that's the shed at the back, and Eesaac Oliver, home for the holidays, books the hirings and does the repairs)--baskets and spirit-kettles and ironmongery, all in addition to the groceries.--Yes, Howell has quite a big business now. Let's go inside and buy something. "Good morning, Mr. Gruffydd; papers in yet? No? I thought I saw Hugh coming down the Sarn road half an hour ago. Yes, a lovely day. How's Eesaac Oliver? Still at Porth Neigr?... No, no, I know he's home for his holidays; I saw him driving Mr. Pritchard's hay-cart yesterday; I mean when is he going to Aberystwith?... Next year? Good! He'll make his mark in the world!--Mr. Garden been in this morning yet?... He's driving in the mountains? Well, there's always a breeze in the mountains.... No, serve Mrs. Roberts first. How are you, Mrs. Roberts?" Howell still sells Mrs. Roberts her pennyworth of bicarbonate of soda, and with the same smile as ever, but he could do without her custom now. Look round. Crates of eggs (the Trwyn hens can't keep pace with the demand now), great Elizabethan gables of tinned fruits and salmon, a newspaper counter, the Post Office behind the wire grating there, strings of things hanging from the ceiling, scarcely an inch of Edward Garden's matchboarding to be seen, and three assistants, all busily weighing, packing, checking, snipping the string off on the little knives on the wooden string-boxes, and passing the parcels to the boys with the hand-carts. But we ought to have been here a couple of hours ago. Mrs. Briggs and Mrs. Lacey and Mrs. Garden were giving their orders for the day then. They come every morning, rings on their fingers and bells on their toes, high heels and flounced parasols and all the lot, and Howell doesn't have it all his own way then, I can tell you. For this is where our ladies are really efficient. They may never dream of travelling otherwise than first-class, but they know the price of everything to a halfpenny and a farthing. There's no "If 'twill do 'twill do" about them when it comes to the management of a house. And when Hilda Morrell grows out of the stage of wishing her father would talk "like other people," the chances are that she'll discover too that this is her real strength, as it was her mother's. Mrs. Maynard comes in with them of a morning sometimes, and tells them how tre-_men_-dously clever she thinks them, to know the differences between things like that, and vows that _her_ tradesmen rob her right and left because she hasn't been properly brought up; and then Mrs. Briggs, putting down the egg she is holding to the light, cries, "Eh, it's nothing, love--I could learn you in a month!" But Mrs. Lacey detects a secret sarcasm in the phrase about the bringing-up. And the men will be in for their newspapers presently. Now a stroll to the hotel, and just a peep at them by and by as they have lunch.... * * * * * This is the hotel lounge. The varnish is quite dry, though it doesn't look it. A dozen little round tables, chairs heavily upholstered in crimson velvet, festoons of heavy gilt cord on the curtains, and that's the service-hatch in the corner. The waiters are rather melancholy; you see, it isn't a public-house; everything goes down on the residents' bills; and that means fewer tips. Tea is served here in the afternoon, but of course the ladies never dream of tipping. Those excellent purchasers work out everything at cost price, omit such items as interest on capital, insurance, depreciation, and so on, and find a shilling for two pennyworth of bread and butter, a twopenny cake, and a pinch of two-shilling tea with hot water thrown in, tip enough. "_Ting! Ting! Ting!_" It is Val Clayton, ordering another drink for himself and his two friends. He drinks vermouth, his friends bottles of beer. Val drinks vermouth because it is foreign (he runs over to Paris frequently, and travels to Egypt for Clayton Brothers and Clayton), and perhaps he makes love to Mrs. Maynard (if you can call it making love) because she too is almost a continental. Since Mrs. Maynard is to be seen in her red ribbons, you might expect to find Val on the beach instead of drinking vermouth in the hotel lounge; but that is far from being "in character" when you know Val. The world's pleasures a little in excess have already set their mark on Val. He will tell you that he would not miss his morning drink, "not for the best woman living." Others may fetch and carry for their hearts' mistresses, but not Val. In the afternoon, perhaps, if he feels a little less jaded, in a hollow of the sandhills and with the warm sun to help, Val may bestir himself a little, but in the meantime he wants another vermouth. "_Ting! Ting! Ting!_--They want to have French waiters here," Val grumbles. "I never mind tipping a waiter if I can get what I want when I want it. _Wai_--oh, you've come, have you? Well, since you are here, you may as well bring these again, and then see if the papers have come in yet----" "And bring me a box of Egyptian cigarettes." "No--hi!--don't bring those cigarettes.--You don't want to smoke the rubbish they sell here. Fill your case out of this--I've a thousand upstairs I brought from Cairo myself----" "Oh!... Thanks.--Well, as I was saying----" And the speaker (who might as well be in Manchester for all he sees of Llanyglo, at any rate in the mornings) resumes some narrative that the replenishing of the glasses has interrupted. Now the others are dropping in, those who like one _aperatif_ before lunch but not half a dozen. Their wives have gone upstairs to tittivate themselves. The velvet chairs fill; extra waiters appear; and a light haze ascends from cigars and cigarettes to the roof. Listen to the restrained hubbub. "Waiter! _Ting!_ Waiter!----" and then a slight gesture; the waiters are supposed to know the tastes of the real _habitués_ by this time; (it counts almost as a "score" if the waiter brings your refection without your having as much as opened your mouth to ask for it).--"The usual, sir--yes, sir--coming!" And again they are talking, not on subjects, but as if the act of talking were itself subject enough. Philip Lacey discusses with Mr. Ashton the improvement in the Harwich-Hook of Holland crossing, and Mr. Morrell exchanges views on Local Government with Raymond Briggs. "_Ting! ting!_ You haven't cassis? Then why haven't you cassis?"--"Very sorry, sir--coming, sir!"--"What's happened to the newspapers this morning?"--"Of course, if it goes to arbitration----"--"Nay, John, don't drown t' miller!" "Ten o'clock, first stop Willesden----" "Your very good health, Mr. Morrell----" "Debentures----" "New heating in both greenhouses----"--"Same again, Val?"--"_Ting!_"---- "BOO-O-O-OOM-M-MMMMM!" It is the luncheon gong. * * * * * Just a glance as they sit at table. Don't you think it's a pleasant room? Three tall windows looking out on the sea, noiseless carpet, ornaments on the sideboards rather like wooden broccoli, but the decorations straight from London. But those two large chandelier gas-brackets don't work yet; the plant isn't installed; that's why the red-shaded oil-lamps are placed at intervals down the T of tables. The older folk gather round the head of the T, and down the stalk stretch the children. These will rise before their parents, just as they go out of Church after the Second Lesson; they will break off just below John Willie Garden and the Misses Euonyma and Wygelia there--who, by the way, are more usually called June and Wy. The flowers are chosen to "last well," for Llanyglo is almost as short of flowers as it is of trees; but the linen and plate and other appointments are all good--these actors in Llanyglo's little fore-piece are not accustomed to roughing it, even on a holiday. As I told you they would, half the women have changed their frocks. Mrs. Lacey is a pink hollyhock now, of which her daughters seem cuttings, and her hat is a sort of pink straw _képi_, trimmed with flowers that resemble virginia stock. She sits at the end of one arm of the T, with her back to the window. Near her is Mrs. Briggs, in stamped electric-blue velvet--her forearms, on which bracelets shiver, are as uniform in contour from whatever point you look at them as if they had been turned in a lathe. The Misses June and Wy also wear bracelets, from which depend bundles of sixpences, a sixpence for each of their birthdays, sixteen for Wiggie, fourteen for June. John Willie is lunching with Percy Briggs to-day, who lunched with him yesterday. Next to his chair is an empty one. It is Mrs. Maynard's, who has not come down yet. Then comes Val Clayton. Over all, with his napkin tucked into his collar as if he had prepared, not for a lunch, but for a shave, Mr. Morrell presides. For some reason or other, lunch always begins a little stiffly; but they unbend as they go on. At present Raymond Briggs cannot get away from the subject of the newspapers and their unaccountable lateness. "Can't understand it," he says for the fifth or sixth time. "And they were late last Wednesday--no, Thursday--no, I was right, it was Wednesday." "Was it Wednesday?" "Yes, the day it looked like rain; you remember?" "Ah, yes; the day it cleared up again." "All but a drop or two--nothing to hurt----" A pause. "Well, I don't suppose there's anything in them." "Speaking for myself, I don't care a button. I don't want to see the newspapers. 'No letters, no newspapers,' I always say when I go away." "A real country holiday, eh?" "Change and rest--those are the great things." "You're right. Complete change. No trouble about how you dress nor what you eat. That's the best of this place." "Still, if the newspapers are coming we may as well know when they are coming." "They ought to have a man, not that young boy." "Hugh Morgan?" "Is that his name? There are so many Morgans." "Common Welsh name." "Met another boy, I expect." "Boys are all alike." "Not a pin to choose among 'em." "Wish I was behind him with a stick for all that." "Another glass of wine, Mr. Ashton?" ... Then there enters with a little commotion, and trips half running to the empty chair between John Willie Garden and Val Clayton, Mrs. Maynard. She wears a big black hat swathed in black tulle, and her dress is of black lace, with close sleeves that reach to the middle knuckles of her taper fingers. She shakes out the mitre of her napkin and breaks forth to Val as she settles in her chair. "My horrid hair!" she pouts; "it always takes me three-quarters of an hour! Really, I shall have to stop bathing, but I do love it so. It seems a kind of fate; I always have to give up the things I love!" Hereupon Val--or perhaps vermouth, since Val seems a little astonished at his own gallantry--suddenly replies that if he were like that he would have to give up Mrs. Maynard. If Mrs. Maynard also is a little surprised she covers it with great readiness. "Oh, now the dreadful man's beginning again!" she cries. "If you _will_ say those things, Mr. Clayton, I shall have to change places at table!" Mr. Clayton asks here what is wrong with her hair.--"I think it's champion," he adds. "Very nice indeed," he adds once more. "Oh, how _can_ you!" (As a matter of fact, Mrs. Maynard's hair is rather wonderful, dark, and so long that she can sit on it.) "No fish, thank you," she says, with a smile to the waiter. Then Mrs. Lacey's firm voice is heard. "Can anybody tell me whether there have been many wrecks on this coast?" The person best qualified to give this information is John Willie Garden, but Mrs. Maynard has turned to John Willie, and is asking him whether he does not think she swims rather nicely. Her tendril-like fingers are again stroking his hair. Mrs. Lacey considers Mrs. Maynard's tulle-swathed hat the ostentation of modesty and the coquetry of mourning (if she is in mourning), and, getting no answer to her question about the wrecks, invents a name for Mrs. Maynard: "Mrs. Maynard--as she calls herself." Plates are changed, corks pop, and from time to time a seltzogene gives a spurt and a cough. Raymond Briggs explains that he is fond of strawberries, but strawberries are not fond of him. The chatter grows louder. "I took her as a kitchen-maid, but she turned out quite a good plain cook----" "Oh, like a top--as Dr. Smythe says, it's the air." "Oh, I _prefer_ it rustic; like this!" "Quite so--the first tripper and I'm off!" "So I opened her box myself; and there they were, if you please--four silver spoons!----" "Now, June, you and Wy talk French--you haven't talked it for days----" "John's booked the rooms for next year already----" "Oh, _Mis_-ter Clayton! I never promised any such thing!" "They can talk it if they like, as fast as a mill----" "If I were you I should see Tudor Williams about it----" "You can put on your oldest things and there's nobody to see you----" "But really I'm almost ashamed to go about the fright I do!----" "But that's a new dress?----" "_New!_--Last year--but it's good enough for here----" "Can't manage those double-l's----" "Gutturals----" "Llan--Thlan--Lan----" "June, your legs are younger than mine--run and get Aunt May's letter out of my dressing-table drawer----" "Mrs. Smythe?... The best thing for the baby, of course, but I can't help thinking that not _quite_ so publicly----" "Oh, I always let Percy suck, whoever was there!----" "John will have his dinner in the middle of the day----" "Smythe? Oh, one of the nicest fellows, but no push, I'm afraid----" "That's his failing----" "Where he misses it----" "Extraordinary----" "Well, some men are born like that----" "Wait for things to come to them instead of going to fetch them----" "Up t' Trwyn? We'll talk about it after I've had my forty winks. I must have my forty winks after my dinner." "Lunch, William." "Lunch, then." "He _will_ call it his dinner----" "It _is_ my dinner----" Then Mr. Morrell makes a signal, the younger ones troop out, breaking into loud shouts the moment they are clear of the room. They are off to the beach again. Shall we follow them?... * * * * * What do the Welshmen think of it all? It suits Howell Gruffydd's book, as you see, and Howell has pacified John Pritchard with the promise of Bazaars; but the others? Dafydd Dafis, say? Again nothing is going right for Dafydd. He feels that another friend has changed towards him--Minetta, to whom he used to sing _Serch Hudol_, and tell his stories of fays and water-beings and knights, and make much of for her elfin looks and quick and un-Saxon ways. For Minetta is already displaying the artist's heartlessness, and does not see the sorrow in Dafydd's eyes, but only what sort of a "head" he has from her special point of view, and how he will "come" upon a piece of paper. She tried to draw Dafydd only the other day, and ordered him, half absently, to turn his head this way and that, and grew petulant when her drawing went all wrong, and suddenly cried "Don't look at me like that!" when Dafydd turned his eyes on her with a tear in the corner of each. Poor Dafydd! He, like the Squire, would be better out of all this swiftly oncoming change.... But Dafydd, who is of the phrase-making kind, has made out of his sadness a phrase that more or less represents the attitude of every Welshman in Llanyglo. He watched all these people coming in ones and twos and threes out of the hotel one morning and walking down to their deck-chairs and bathing-tents on the beach. He stood for a while, looking at the gay parterre of sun-shades and summer clothes, of kites and spades and buckets, and rings on fingers more carefully tended but of coarser stuff than his own. And he listened to the accents that even his alien ear told him were strained and affected and false. And he gave them a half contemptuous and half pitying look as he turned away. "_These summer things_," he said.... But Howell Gruffydd has Dafydd Dafis's measure also, and takes it, just as he took John Pritchard's, in a single word. "_Eisteddfodau_," he whispered to Dafydd behind his hand.... For they may by and by be advertising Llanyglo by means of an Eisteddfod, and, as long as he is allowed to play, Dafydd does not greatly care who he plays to nor whether they understand him or not. IV YNYS There came one day at about that time a Welsh gipsy fortune-teller to Llanyglo. Her name was Belle Lovell, she was a known character all over the countryside, and she was some sort of a connection of Dafydd Dafis's. There was always a packet of tobacco for her in the Squire's kitchen when she appeared, and her companion on her travels was her thirteen-years-old daughter Ynys.[1] Belle sold baskets and mended chairs, and Ynys drew the cart, which was no more than a large deal packing-case mounted on four perambulator wheels, and with two flat shafts roughly nailed to its sides. The mother's boots, which you might have hit with a hammer and not have dinted, resembled grey old wooden dug-outs; the child went barefooted and barelegged, and it would have been a stout thorn that could have pierced the calloused pads of her hardened soles. [Footnote 1: Pron. "Unnis."] These two appeared at Llanyglo at midday, ate their frugal meal on the doorstep of Dafydd's single-roomed cottage behind the Independent Chapel, and then, leaving the cart behind them, strolled down to have a look at that splendacious new caravan, Howell Gruffydd's shop. Belle, her greenish light brown eyes never for a moment still, gossiped with her old acquaintances; her daughter, whose head was as steadily held as if she balanced an invisible pitcher on it, stood looking at the green butterfly-nets and red-painted buckets, admiring, but no more desiring them than she would have desired anything else impossibly beyond her reach. Her mother joined a group about Mrs. Roberts's door; the visitors, who had lunched, began to descend to the beach again; and there approached down the path that led to the Hafod Unos Ned, the oldest of the Kerrs. Now Ned had run across Belle on many alder-expeditions, and, while the invasion of "summer things" had not driven Ned into naturalisation as a Welshman, it had, by emphasising the distinction between the well-to-do and the poor of the world, shown him how to jog along in peace with his neighbours. He gave Belle an intelligent grin, and jerked his head in the direction of the bathing-tents. "Well, mother," he said, "ye've dropped in at just about th' right time." "There iss no wrong time for seeing friends," Belle replied, in an up-and-down and very musical Welsh accent. "Nay, I wanna thinking-g o' that," Ned replied, strongly doubling the "g" that terminated the present participle. "I wor thinking-g of a bit o' fortune-telling. There's a lot ovver yonder wi' more brass nor sense, and it allus tickles 'em to talk about sweethearts an' sich." "Indeed Llanyglo has become grea-a-at big place, whatever," the gipsy replied, and continued her conversation with Mrs. Roberts. And presently, whether she took the hint or whether she had come precisely for that purpose, Belle's greenish-brown eyes roved again, she made a slight gesture to Ynys, who had turned from the butterfly-nets and was looking out to sea, and the pair of them made off along the beach in the direction of that bright plot of colour that made as it were a herbaceous border between the grey-green tussocks and the glittering sea. For a hundred yards Belle's dug-outs left behind her a heavy shuffling track in the sand, parallel with the light kidney-shaped prints of the child who walked as if she carried an invisible pitcher on her head; and then, with the cluster of tents and parasols still far ahead, they stopped. John Willie Garden and Percy Briggs, with Eesaac Oliver Gruffydd ready to bear a hand if called upon to do so, but otherwise a little fearful of intruding, were victualling the blue-and-white collapsible boat for a cruise. But it was not in order to tell the fortunes of the three boys that Belle stopped. She stopped for the same reason that the street-seller pulls out his rattle or his conjuring trick, while his quick-silver eyes dart this way and that in search of his crowd. The only difference was that Belle was her own conjuring-trick. The gesture with which she performed it was superbly negligent. She had a wonderful old mignonette-coloured shawl, which, when she had talked with the group about Mrs. Roberts's doorstep, had been drawn up over her head; and suddenly she allowed it to fall to her shoulders. The effect might well have carried twice the distance it was intended to carry. Out of the folds of the shawl her neck rose as erect as the pistil of an arum lily. Against it gleamed her heavy gold earrings. Her cheekbones and the nodule of her high nose gleamed like bronze, and about the whorl of the springing of her hair at the back of her head the sunshine made as it were a sun-dog on the lustrous blackness. Her silver wedding-ring, an old tweed jacket that might have belonged to her kinsman Dafydd Dafis, and a patched old indigo petticoat, completed the legerdemain. Ynys, clad to all appearances in a single garment only, watched the boys exactly as she had watched the balls and butterfly-nets and buckets outside Howell Gruffydd's shop. They too made a shining _coup d'oeil_. There was just swell enough to set the long breakers hurdling in, and wind enough to take the tops off them in rattling showers of brilliant spray. Indeed it was so merry a sea that, not half an hour before, Mrs. Maynard had declared to John Willie that she had come within an ace of drowning during her bathe that morning, and had asked him whether, had he seen her in difficulties, he would have come to her rescue. "Mmmmm, John Willie?" she had asked, curling his hair with her perfumed fingers; but John Willie, seeing Percy Briggs approaching, had jerked away his head. This had not been because he had been afraid of being laughed at by Percy. For that matter, Percy had confided to John Willie only a week before that he "liked their Minetta," and so was in no position to jeer at the softer relations. No; it had merely been that, as Llanyglo's curtain had risen, suddenly revealing a soft and alluring group of Euonymas and Wygelias and Hildas, not to speak of Mrs. Maynard herself, all temptingly set out like fruit upon a stall, the curtain of John Willie Garden's peculiar privacy had come down with a run. Mrs. Maynard was always trying to peep behind it, but probably there was nothing behind. Probably that was the reason it had come so sharply and closely down. No boy wants to show that he has nothing to show. Smack!--A bucketful of spray drenched the stores, and the wave ran hissing and creaming back under the counter of the blue-and-white boat. John Willie shouted rather crossly to Eesaac Oliver. "Pull her up a bit, can't you, instead of standing there doing nothing!" Eesaac Oliver started to life and obeyed. He was rather a fetcher and carrier for these more happily circumstanced boys, but privately he knew himself to be in some things their superior. To tell the truth, Eesaac Oliver knew just a lee-tle too much about what went on within himself, and communicated it just a lee-tle too readily to others. For he dropped no curtain; on the contrary, the windows of his soul were flung wide open. The experience of the world he had acquired at the school at Porth Neigr had already caused him to declare himself as being thenceforward powerfully on the side of the angels; and that ingenious educational exercise which consists of speaking extempore on any subject given only a moment ago had a lee-tle abnormally developed certain natural powers of expression which his race rarely lacks. Had Mrs. Maynard attempted to stroke Eesaac Oliver's hair (which was thick and black, and rose in a great lump in front, falling thence in a lappet over his pale forehead), he would either have cried "Apage!" or else, suffering the seduction, would have undergone torments of remorse afterwards. Therefore it was with a meek dignity that Eesaac Oliver bore a hand with the boat, and then fell back and a little enviously watched again. Then that crafty and stately piece of legerdemain of Belle's had its reward. In his rippling cream alpaca, there approached along the sands Mr. Morrell himself, and Belle's neck no longer resembled the pistil of an arum lily. She bent ingratiatingly forward; as if a key had clicked, a dazzling smile cut her face into two; and after a jocular word or two Mr. Morrell bore her off, Ynys following. Let us follow too. Do look at the contrast--those summer things, and the two wanderers in whom all the seasons are ingrained; carefully veiled and sunburn-cured complexions, and these other vagrants, brown as the upturned earth; the indefatigable maintenance of artificial attitudes even before one another, and the grave ease of the child, the deliberate gesture with which the mother looses as it were in the sheath the only weapon she has against the world.... Frith's "_Derby Day_?" Yes, it is a little like it; but listen. Mrs. Maynard, with a sparkling glance about her that says "Mum," has slipped off her wedding-ring, and Belle has taken her hand. It is slim as a glove that has never been put on, and Mrs. Maynard intends to trip Belle if she can. So, when Belle begins to promise Mrs. Maynard a husband who shall be such-and-such, there are winks and glances and nudges, as much as to say that now they are going to have some fun, and Mr. Morrell says, "Here, ho'd on a bit, mother--how do you know she isn't married?" If Belle shows the knife for a moment, she does it so delicately that nobody notices it. "If the prit-ty lady was married, her man he srink a ring upon her finger, red-hot, as they srink a tyre on a cart-wheel," Belle replies; and the reading of Mrs. Maynard's palm continues. Mrs. Lacey, a pale blue hollyhock, looks as if she pooh-poohed the whole thing; but inwardly she is a-tremble with eagerness to have the fortunes of her two daughters told. As it happens, no sooner is Mrs. Maynard's hand dropped than Mr. Morrell, who happens to be standing next to June, catches her by the arm. "Come on, June, and be told how to get a husband!" he cries, and he slips a shilling into Belle's hand. June will never be prettier than she is now. She is indeed very pretty--apple-blossom and cream, bright-haired, freshly starched, back straight and elbows well down, and as glossy from top to toe as the broad mauve ribbon of her sash. Soon she will be as tall as her mother; already she is taller than her father, the landscape-gardener; and the thought of whether she will marry or not, and whether brilliantly or otherwise, never enters her head. Of course she will marry, and of course her marriage will be a brilliant one. "Marriage" and "brilliant marriage" are one and the same thing. In this, as in most other things, Wygelia is of the same opinion as June. A close understanding, which has not yet outgrown the form of surreptitious kicks under the table, and private and abbreviated words, exists between the two sisters. Other things being equal, they would probably prefer to marry two brothers. "I tell the prit-ty miss a harder thing than that--I tell her how to keep her man when she has got him," Belle replied amid laughter; and she proceeds to describe June's husband. He is to come over the water (landing at Newhaven, Mrs. Lacey instantly concludes, and taking the first train to the Boarding School at Brighton), and he shall be devoted to her, and she shall have such-and-such a number of children. (Mrs. Lacey straightens her back; this is something like; her grandfather, whom she remembers quite well, was June's great-grandfather, and will have been the great-great-grandfather of June's boys and girls, which is getting on, especially when you remember the younger sons and grandsons of somebodies, who are estate-bailiffs and engine-drivers and carriers of milk-cans in the Colonies.) When June's fortune is finished all applaud her, as if she had performed some feat of skill, and then Mr. Morrell seizes Wy. "Come on, Wy--no hanging back--let's see what sort of a fist Wy's going to make of it----" And Wy also is haled forward, blushing and conscious and biting her lip, and is told that for her too somebody is languishing, and that presently he will drink out of her glass and thenceforward think her thoughts, which are already complex. And Hilda's palm is read, and little Victoria Smythe's fat one, and Val Clayton's, and others, and silver rains into Belle's palm. Chaffingly Mr. Morrell offers her a sovereign for her takings, uncounted, but is refused. Then Mrs. Briggs "wants the boys done," and somebody is despatched along the shore for Percy and John Willie, and as they arrive, bearing their bottles of milk and parcels of jam-sandwiches (for the blue-and-white boat had been paid off), there comes up also Minetta, carrying her sketching-kit. She stands peering at Ynys, more as seeing in her a subject than as at a fellow-being. So, idly and laughingly, an hour of the summer afternoon passes; and then an accident mars its harmony. John Willie and Percy, feeling the pangs of thirst, had drunk their milk and had then set up the bottle as a mark to throw stones at; and Ynys, walking down to the sea-marge, has set her foot upon a piece of the broken glass. Unconcernedly she bathes the cut in the salt water. But as the laughing group breaks up, and her mother calls her again, the blood wells out once more, dabbling with a dark stain those light kidney-shaped prints in the sand. Mrs. Garden and Mrs. Briggs see the child's plight simultaneously. It is a cruel gash, and the two ladies utter loud cries. "Nay, nay, whativver in the world!" cries Mrs. Briggs, all of her that is not pure mother suddenly becoming pure Hunslet. "Nay, nay! Come here, doy!----" She and Mrs. Garden kneel down before the gipsy child, and a dozen others gather round. Cries of sympathy break out. "T' poor bairn!----" "What a mess!" "How did she do it?" "John Willie, quick, run and get the kettle from the picnic-basket----" "Indeed, lady dear, it iss noth-thing----" "Quick, Ray, give me your handkercher too----" Ynys' foot is bathed in fresh water from the picnic-kettle, and bound up with Mrs. Briggs's tiny lace handkerchief, with Raymond's large one over it to secure it. The blood has already come through before the tying is finished. And you forget the false accents and the elaborate pretences of these "summer things" of Llanyglo's little preliminary piece, and remember only the better things that lie beneath them. They flatter Ynys, and encourage her with admiring words. "She's a very brave little girl, anyway!" "What did you say her name was?" "Ynys." "Well done, Ynys! Soon be well----" "John Willie, I've told you about throwing stones at bottles before--get you home till I come----" "And you too, Percy Briggs; and you dare to stir out till I tell you!" "Don't cry, little girl----" Ynys has no thought whatever of crying. She makes no more motion than a pine makes when it bleeds its gouts of resin in the spring. But they continue to comfort her. "She'll never be able to walk like that!" "Better fetch Gilbert Smythe." "June, you run----" "Here's half a crown for you, Ynys, for being a brave little girl." Then Minetta, who has been conferring with Belle, speaks.--"All right, mother, she's to come home with us; I'm going to paint her." "There, now, Ynys, you're going to be painted! Won't that be fun!" "And if she ever comes to Liverpool and asks for me," says Philip Lacey, "I'll see she's all right. Yes, I will. She shall sell flowers. That'll be better than going about barefoot and getting her poor little foot cut, won't it?" But at that, for the first time, the child seems to see and to hear. Her eyes, greenish-brown and deep like her mother's, look into Philip Lacey's small but kindly ones as if she had not seen him before. The half-crown Philip has given her is still tightly clasped in her hand, but then half-crowns are things that do sometimes visit people precisely like that. And she knows that they have some mystic power or virtue by means of which they can buy things--green butterfly-nets and red-painted buckets; but Ynys can not quite understand the people who can sell these wondrous things for mere half-crowns.... Then she realises again that somebody has just said something about selling flowers.... They are promising her that if she is a brave little girl and lets Doctor Smythe dress her foot she shall one day sell flowers.... Sometimes, meeting Belle Lovell and her daughter upon the road, the one with her loops of cane upon her back and the other drawing the cart made of the deal box mounted upon perambulator wheels, you will give them good-day and pass on; and then, five minutes or so afterwards perhaps, you will be conscious of an almost noiseless pattering behind you, and will turn. It is Ynys, holding out to you a little posy of hedge-flowers. She may not refuse your penny for them; indeed she will not; but you are not to suppose that it is for the penny that she has brought you the nosegay. The poor sticky little thing is unpurchasable. You would have got it just the same had you been as poor as herself. PART THREE I THE HOLIDAY CAMP The writer of the _Sixpenny Guide to Llanyglo and Neighbourhood_, in speaking of the rise of the town, made use of an obvious image which we will take leave to borrow from him. "Thenceforward," he wrote, "Llanyglo sprang up as if by magic out of the soil itself." Indeed it did something like it. Watching it, you would have thought of one of Philip Lacey's gardens in the short days before Spring had begun to warm the air. Neat, bare, brown, friable soil, with not yet a crocus or a snowdrop to be seen; here and there a stick with a tiny linen tab fluttering (reminding you of Terry Armfield's little "_Keep off the Grass_" board with "Delyn Avenue" written upon it); frames half open and inverted bells, dibbing-strings, sprinklings of lime, and a few whirligigs to keep the birds away; these, and the promise of the scent and colour to come--it did indeed resemble Llanyglo. Not all at once did the pea-sticks become builders' scaffold-poles, the lines of string the plotting-out of streets. As of Philip's gardens, you could not have said of Llanyglo on any particular day, "This has changed more than it was changing yesterday, more than it will be again changing to-morrow." But for all that, nothing remained any longer the same. Philip's men, working over the blindfold earth with clay and spittle, caused its lids to open; Edward Garden and his associates, similarly, with money for manure, labour to let in the air and light, and the gentle airs of advertisement already fanning an incipient repute, made a garden of stone and iron, with buds of stucco, flowers of paint and glass and gilding, and fruit after its kind to ripen by and by. Humanity was the soil he worked on, and his knowledge of it the force with which he did so. Its hopes and appetites, its need of noise and change and laughter, its stretching itself after fetters struck off and its resolve to have a better, a much better time than it had ever had before--out of these things came Edward Garden's beds and borders. He would grow flowers of pleasure for those of the towns to pick. And, since you do not advance the glory of July by neglecting to make the most of March, his crops also had their rotation. For this, in a manner of speaking, was Llanyglo's March, and what though it lasted two, three, four years? The Laceys and the Raymond Briggses were to be cultivated while they were yet there. Blooming and falling again, they would make an excellent preparation, and there was plenty to do in the meantime. There were other hotels to build, and a wet-weather pavilion for tea and talk and dancing, and a landing-stage for the twenty new boats, and this and that and the other--and always, always, the coming full summer to look forward to, the summer of ten, eleven, twelve years thence, the summer when, not the Laceys, but the employees of their fourteen or fifteen shops should talk of Llanyglo; the summer when Mr. Morrell should come no more, but his operatives should draw their thousands from the Clubs and rain them upon the town; the summer when all should be changed but the steadfast Trwyn, and all different save the mountains behind, and nothing the same save the still and watching sea. The Sarn-Porth Neigr Loop was constructed in 1886-7, and opened in the May of the last-named year. One of its earlier trains brought, in a first-class compartment, Philip and Mrs. Lacey and the Misses June and Wygelia, fresh from Paris; and in a third-class compartment it brought a family called Topham. Mr. Topham was head-clerk in a Liverpool Irish-bacon-importing concern, and Philip Lacey, meeting him once or twice at Philharmonic Promenade Concerts, had forgotten the golden rule that it is easier to get into conversation with a man than it is to shake him off again, and had fallen into the habit of nodding to him. In fact, a sort of acquaintanceship had been struck up. He had learned Topham's name, and Topham his. All this had been in Liverpool. But it was one thing to strike up an acquaintanceship in Liverpool, and quite another to continue that acquaintanceship elsewhere. Philip Lacey, seeing Barry Topham get into the train, had not doubted that the bacon-importer's clerk would be dropping off again after a few stations. But at Stockport, where Philip had descended to stretch his legs, Topham had met him on the platform and had informed him that he was going to Llanyglo. Now when Philip went away for a few weeks' change he liked that change to be a change. He didn't come to Llanyglo to meet casuals from Liverpool. He began to wonder whether Llanyglo was quite what it had been. And so did Mr. Morrell, who brought his daughter Hilda from Brighton that year. And so did Val Clayton, who also came that year, merely in order to see what sort of vermouth they sold at the other hotels. For soon there were three hotels, the original "Cambrian," the "Cardigan," and the "Montgomery." All these were on what by and by became the front, and between the "Cambrian" and the "Cardigan" was a space of perhaps a couple of hundred yards. Thence to the "Montgomery," however, was quite a walk for Val of a morning--a quarter of a mile or more on towards the Trwyn. Of the three hotels the "Montgomery" was the largest. It had sixty bedrooms. Its stabling (for there was now a landau-service up into the mountains) blocked up one of Terry's dream-avenues a hundred yards from where the easy marble steps were to have descended to the shore. A wide metalled road ran past the three hotels, but it reminded you of unexplored rivers on an ancient map, which are traced for a score or a hundred miles, and then dissipate in interrogative dots. Another road at right angles ran past the Kerrs' Hafod to the gap opposite Pritchard's farm, and there were yet other roads, if those widish alleys bounded by stakes and wire could properly be called roads. When the wind rose the sand still whistled everywhere, scouring paint, rounding wooden corners, stinging faces; but so far it had made very little impression on a large, black, tarred notice-board firmly stayed into the sand midway between the "Cardigan" and "Montgomery" hotels, a board bigger than the whole front of the Kerrs' Hafod, which bore a straggling plan upon it in white, and the words: LEASEHOLD! For 999 Years! Lots as Under: Apply----------- To tell the truth, Llanyglo was now rather a dreary-looking place. They had broken its sylvan eggs, but had hardly yet begun the making of its urban omelette. The above-mentioned announcement was not the only one of its kind; there was another halfway between the Kerrs' house and Pritchard's, and a third at Pritchard's corner. These, it was known, awoke faint and distant echoes in little paragraphs in Manchester and Liverpool papers. The Company so far was a private one; it hardly knew yet what powers it might presently expect to possess; but Mr. Tudor Williams and others were finding out. As a matter of fact, they were rather anxious about these powers. An Act of Parliament two years before had seemed to promise them certain things that might prove immensely to their advantage; but of the two great Local Government Acts (of 1888 and 1894), the first was still in a plastic state, and the second not yet thought of. Hitherto Porth Neigr had been the centre of administration; it was now being sought to shift that centre. And, with the cumbrous old machinery of Boards of Guardians and Poor Law Overseers out of the way, Howell Gruffydd, it was whispered, might before long become a Councillor. Indeed, who would make a better one? Edward Garden? Edward Garden preferred to depute powers of this kind. The Laceys and Briggses, on a property qualification? These had their own affairs to attend to, and were summer residents only. John Pritchard? Stern John, as unchallenged ruler of the Baptist Chapel, was already a Councillor in a deeper sense than that defined by any mundane Act. William Morgan? Not substantial enough. John Roberts? Dafydd Dafis? The Squire?--The claims of all of them paled before that of Howell Gruffydd the grocer.... The leases were being taken up too. The Llanyglo Pavilion, Limited, was incorporated before a spade was set in the sand. The great blackboard between the Kerrs' house and Pritchard's Corner bore a significant diagonal paper strip with four fifteen-inch letters in red upon it--SOLD. Negotiations were proceeding for the acquisition of the land at the Corner itself. And Edward Garden had completed that rumoured purchase of his far up in the mountains. It was a "catchment area" for water, and if, under the new distribution, the Council should find itself possessed of large borrowing-powers, it might possibly find the private ownership of those hundreds of acres far away up Delyn an awkward matter. And the excavation was already being made for the row of houses that later was known as "Ham-and-Egg Terrace"--a hundred and fifty yards of building that at first awed Llanyglo by its grandeur, but which they subsequently came to think a poor affair and did their best to conceal. It was only partly for a holiday that those first visitor-discoverers came to Llanyglo now. Considerations of business had begun to play a part in their coming. Mr. Morrell, for example, had sunk quite a lot of money in the place, and liked to keep an eye on his interests. Philip Lacey pored over a dozen sketch-drafts of his Floral Valley, a project for converting a coombe or dean that clove one portion of the Trwyn into an ornamental arrangement of flower-beds with a bandstand in the centre. And Raymond Briggs mused on houses and hotels, on hotels and more and yet more houses. For these Llanyglo was no longer simply a place "delightfully rural," a place "where you could dress as you liked," a place for "a real rustic holiday." It was the Tophams who made these discoveries and bestowed these encomiums now. Whether or not Barry Topham dressed as he liked, he certainly dressed as the Briggses and the Laceys disliked. At the Promenade Concerts his appearance had been just decently unremarkable; alas, it was so no longer! Now, in the country, he broke out into a loose tweed jacket, knickers made of a pair of long trousers of striped cashmere cut down, low shoes, a flannel shirt, no hat, and a tightly knotted red tie, this last as a voucher for the socialism that, Philip Lacey discovered to his horror, he talked in and out of season. He was a small, bearded, wiry man of forty-four or five, who gave you a curious impression of ferocity and mildness mingled. The mildness was perhaps due to his bolt-upright shock of frightened-looking sandy hair, the ferocity to the pince-nez marks on either side of his nose that gave his glance a concentrated look. His wife did not appear to dress (you cannot call mere concealment of the person "dressing") until four o'clock in the afternoon, and his two daughters, aged nineteen and twenty-one, were school-teachers, less buxom than Miss Nancy Pritchard, but more professionally eager, as if all the vital force in them had gone, not to the waste of mere pleasant flesh, but into the severer regions of the mind. This taking of Llanyglo at its word in the matter of dress was bad enough, but worse was to come. Scarcely were the Tophams installed at the "Montgomery" when it became known that, though they had appeared to come alone, they were merely an advance party. Two days later the main body arrived, and Llanyglo experienced its first social slump. The party called itself a Holiday Camp. It was a union of two semi-secular, semi-Nonconformist Institutions whose idea of having a better time than their fathers had had was to botanise, to geologise, to read, and to discuss these activities afterwards in whirlwinds of communal talk. Strictly speaking, they did not "camp" at all: they put up at the "Montgomery"; but they had camped, hoped to camp again, and called their more convivial gatherings, when studies were cast aside, Pow-Wows. They overran the place instantaneously. You met them with their brown canvas satchels and japanned tin specimen-cases, poking about up the Trwyn or groping in the boggy patches about Sarn. They were to be met in the lanes, carrying picnic paraphernalia. They lighted fires of driftwood on the shore, which coatless young men blew while the young women combed their hair out in the sun. And wherever they went a little red rash went with them, the rash of the small red-backed book, Sir Thomas More's _Utopia_, of which the contagion had raged among them. Not that they had not books of other hues also. They had Hugh Miller's _Old Red Sandstone_ in green, and _Selected Sayings_ of Marcus Aurelius in brown, and others in various colours; but it was the red that struck the eye at the greater distance. They and the books were inseparable. The unmarried ones, sharing a book between them, seemed already to be creating that sage community of intellectual interest that, as all the world knows, comes in so very handy when the first fires of love have become less devouringly hot; the married ones, with a book apiece, kept the calm connubial ideal before the maids' and bachelors' eyes.... And it was all exceedingly disquieting and difficult to understand. One hoped that the books were portals into high and fair and spacious places, but feared that they might be but pathetic posterns of escape from the world's weary drudgery that has got to be done and that therefore somebody must do. One had struggles of compunction and abasement and doubt, and the humiliating feeling that some clean and heathery and wind-swept place of the mind was being invaded to sadly, sadly little purpose. One tried, desperately tried, to tell oneself that if poor lame Harry Stone got one single half-hour's joy out of it all, nothing else mattered; and then one wondered whether even this was true. It is hard to be social over an anti-social thing.... So one bore, humble heart and arrogant heart alike, each his portion of Education's shame. The coming of the Montgomeryites acted instantaneously. Within an hour of their issuing from their sixty-bedroom hotel, the Cambrians and their deck-chairs and bathing-tents had drawn a little more compactly together on the sands. Certainly the Cambrians did not see why they should take, intellectually, a second place to these loftily and botanically thinking ones, merely because they chose to pay a little attention to appearances also. Moreover, the fact that the Reading Party had come to Llanyglo only for a fortnight filled the Briggses and the Laceys with a certain compassion. This was not compassion that the ecstacies with which a zoophyte was discovered, or the glad cries with which a bit of sundew was hailed, must be such transient joys. It was rather compassion that the Montgomeryites should find the place pristine. Llanyglo "pristine"--now!... "Ah," they thought, "they wouldn't think that if they'd known it as _we_ knew it--two houses and a single hotel only!" ... The thought opened a vista. Perhaps, in time to come, these Utopians would tell others how, when _they_ first set eyes on Llanyglo, the place had not begun to be spoiled, but had had three hotels only, a dozen or so houses, Ham-and-Egg Terrace, and a blackboard here and there that had emphasised rather than detracted from its virgin charm. And these others would pass it on to others still, and so it would go on, and so, in one sense, Llanyglo would never grow. There would always be somebody who had known it before somebody else, and would say, "Ah, yes, but you ought to have seen it _then_!" ... Well, thought the Cambrians, perhaps it was a good thing. To have inferiors is one of the great solaces of Life, and they supposed that the Tophams also had their inferiors. Perhaps some day a tripper would look even on Philip Lacey's Floral Valley with much the same shock of delight with which Eve opened her eyes on the dew of Eden.... A sorely tried man now was Philip. Sadly he lamented the evening that had taken him and Barry Topham to the same Philharmonic Concert in Liverpool. For the starched and hotpressed ones of the "Cambrian," though they did not openly say so, held him as in a manner responsible for this inferior spilling all over their idyllic place. They seemed to be trying to make out that the Tophams were Philip's chosen friends. Philip felt this to be unfair. It was an accident that might have happened to anybody, and Philip's views on culture and the multitude were every bit as sound as Raymond Briggs's own. And as Philip did not intend to be sat upon by Raymond Briggs or anybody, he acted well, nay, even nobly. He had recognised Topham; very well. He had not positively encouraged the fellow, but say that certain narrow-minded persons wished to make it appear that he had done so; well again. He would stand by what he had done. He would ask the Tophams to dinner at his hotel. He did so, and took the disastrous consequences. For the Tophams came, and, with the eyes of the whole "Cambrian" upon them, behaved for all the world as if they had been dining at their own inferior Liberty Hall of a "Montgomery." So at least it seemed to Philip, and bad enough surely that would have been; but Mrs. Lacey made it far, far worse. It was plain as plain could be (she said afterwards) that the Tophams' sprawls and freedoms were all put on, and that they had been like four fishes out of water every minute of the time--he ought to be ashamed of himself, showing them up before everybody's eyes like that!... "Come as you are," Philip Lacey had said, with the truest delicacy, since it was very unlikely that the Tophams had brought evening clothes to their Camps and Pow-Wows; and so nobody dressed. The "Cambrian's" tables were no longer arranged in the form of a T. With the installation of gas, numerous smaller tables, with a couple of large oval ones among them, had taken its place, and at one of the oval tables the four Laceys and the four Tophams sat. Mr. Lacey was at one end, with Mrs. Topham on his right, Mrs. Lacey was at the other end with Mr. Topham on her right. At the sides sat the younger ones, a Topham and a Lacey on either side. This was not the happiest of arrangements, since young ladies who have just "finished" in Paris usually think they have seen enough of school-teachers for some time to come, but it was the best that could be managed. Nor could Miss June kick Miss Wy under the table. The discord showed from the very first moment. The Laceys, as urbane hosts, would have kept to such light and frothy conversational matters as how the Tophams liked Llanyglo, whether they had been up into the mountains yet, and similar subjects; but not so the Tophams. Briefly, they went for the eternal verities like four steam-navvies. Before she had unfolded her napkin, Mrs. Topham had Philip Lacey helpless in the toils of More's _Utopia_, and by the time she had asked him half a dozen searching questions, looking mistrustfully at him as much as to say, "You _dare_ to lie to me, sir!" the unhappy man had to confess that it was some time since he had read the book, and that his textual memory was by no means as good as it had been. A second attack rendered him abject. The third was not delivered. Seeing him such a rank and pitiable outsider, Mrs. Topham contemptuously spared him. "And _this_ is the state of education to-day!" she said scornfully to her husband afterwards.... Mr. Topham, in the meantime, tackled Mrs. Lacey on certain problems of the Distribution of Wealth, with no happier results. Quite simply, Mrs. Lacey was unaware that such problems existed save insofar as they were included in the specific question of marriage-settlements for daughters. She scarcely troubled to answer Mr. Topham, but, glancing from June and Wy to the Misses Amy and Norah Topham, lost herself in the problems of the Distribution of Proposals instead. So she too, from the point of view of those who carried Mill and Smith in their pockets and read these inhuman authors in the shade of the crumbling Dinas, became an outsider. But worst of all fared the Misses June and Wy; for the Topham sisters had brought with them from Liverpool a holiday-pamphlet, which consisted of forty-two questions, three of which, daily for a fortnight, the holiday-maker was advised to ask himself. So: "As I came along the beach this afternoon," said Miss Amy to June, with a chatty note in her voice, but the enthusiasm for knowledge smouldering in her eyes, "I observed great quantities of seaweed. To what uses are seaweeds put?" And said Miss Norah to Wy, slightly puckering her shining and melon-like forehead: "One of the boatmen told me yesterday that in the Spring large masses of the vernal squill are to be found upon the hills near here. Why is this?" Then Miss Amy again: "There are fine examples of contorted strata on the other side of the Trwyn. Perhaps you or your sister can tell me the reason why these strata are contorted?" And again Miss Norah: "Who was Taliesin? When did he flourish? Tell me anything you know about him." Dearly would June and Wy have liked to reply, in the words of Mrs. Briggs when the hotel-manager had looked at her boots, "Don't if it hurts you!" Wiggie nicknamed Miss Norah Topham "The Vernal Squill" on the spot; June, a phanerogam herself, dubbed Miss Amy "The Club Moss." After that dinner, there was nothing for Philip Lacey to do but to live his indiscretion down. But if this was the "Cambrian's" attitude to the "Montgomery," it was not that of the Welshmen of Llanyglo. These were now more in number, for half the staffs of the three hotels were Welsh, and others also had scented prosperity in the air. Within a few hours friendly relations had been established between the natives and the readers of _Utopia_. A Welshman's eyes will always sparkle at the sight of a book or other piece of the apparatus of knowledge, and the Montgomeryites, friendly souls all and ready chatters with whomsoever they met, began to drop into Howell's shop of a morning. None too reluctantly, they suffered themselves to be drawn out by Howell on the subjects of their studies, and then it was that Howell became a proud man indeed. For he produced Eesaac Oliver, home once more from Aberystwith College. Without even having the titles given to him as he came in at the door that divided the shop from the dwelling-rooms behind, Eesaac Oliver swapped them book for book. Howell's breast swelled. "Blodwen--Blodwen--come quick!" he called. Then, with his eyes sparkling like bits of mica in a pebble and his small teeth gleaming like a double row of barley, he looked fondly on the assembly and murmured, "Dear me, I did not know till to-day there wass so-o-a many books written!" One morning Mrs. Briggs and Mrs. Garden came in in the very middle of one of these galas of the intellect. They were kept waiting for a minute and more. There were times when the Llanyglo Stores almost resembled a Debating Room. It was left to the Misses Euonyma and Wygelia Lacey to restore the balance that their father's luckless dinner-party had disturbed; and right well they laboured to that end. They brought all the resources of Brighton and Paris to bear upon those two amiable but indefatigable school-teachers, the sisters Topham. They did not avoid them; on the contrary, they put their heads together and then went out in search of them. Then, when they had met them, they asked them to tell them whether it was true that the guillemot laid its blunt-ended egg in order that it should not roll off ledges, and whether the person who said that serviceable knife-handles could be made of the stems of the Great Oar Weed had been correctly informed. And when they failed to come upon their unsuspecting victims, they cathechised one another. "As I was ascending the mountains the other day," June would suddenly break out in the Vernal Squill's raised and staccato voice, "I found myself walking upon grass. What is grass? State reasons for your answer." And Wiggie, assuming the _viva voce_ examination tones of the Club Moss, would ask her sister what a man was, and whether Eesaac Oliver Gruffydd could properly be classed as one. Failing the turning up of those two marriageable brothers, the Misses June and Wy were likely to be what Mrs. Briggs called "bad to suit." It was when the _Utopia_-readers had been at the "Montgomery" rather more than half their time that the first bruit went abroad of the jollification that presently made memorable the eve of their departure. Nor was this jollification to be confined to their own set. All (as afterwards at the Llanyglo P.S.A. Meetings) were to be welcome. The project was talked over, at first informally at the Llanyglo Stores, afterwards more seriously at the "Montgomery"; and a few days later the rumour was confirmed by print. Eesaac Oliver Gruffydd and Hugh Morgan distributed a number of handbills, thrusting them into folk's hands in the stake-and-wire-enclosed streets, pushing them under doors, and even entering that Reservation on the shore where the Cambrians sat stiffly, reading their novels, toying with their fancy-work, or dozing after lunch. Then, on the land-agents' blackboards and in the windows of the Llanyglo Stores, larger bills appeared. Large bills and small alike read as follows: _Llanyglo Holiday Camp, July, 1887._ THE AIGBURTH STREET AND CHOW BENT SQUARE UNITED READING CIRCLES beg to announce that a GRAND POW-WOW will be held in the Dinas, the Trwyn, Llanyglo, on Friday Evening, the 22nd, at 8.30 sharp. BRING YOUR REFRESHMENTS! BRING YOUR VOICE LOZENGES! BRING YOUR MUSIC! BRING YOUR LANTERNS! BRING YOUR FRIENDS! Visitors and Residents alike are Welcome! _Songs!! Recitations!!! Short Speeches!!!!_ LADIES SPECIALLY INVITED! _Grand Chief:_ _Deputy Grand Chief:_ BARRY TOPHAM, Esqr. HOWELL GRUFFYDD, Esqr. Committee: ................ ................ ................ The Proceedings will open with the singing of "_God Save the People_," and will close with "_Hen Wlad fy Nhadau_." * * * * * EDWARD JONES, PRINTER, PORTH NEIGR. 0616. "Boy!" called Raymond Briggs, as Eesaac Oliver, having distributed this announcement to the occupants of the Reservation, was passing on; and Eesaac Oliver turned. "Pick those papers up at once!" Raymond ordered, pointing to a litter of handbills where the wavelets lapped the marge of seaweed. Then, over his shoulder to Philip Lacey, who reclined almost horizontally in the next deck-chair: "Making a mess of the beach like that! Paper wherever you go; they're as bad as a lot of trippers! Can't make out what you see in that fellow Topham----" Philip, who was frowning over the handbill, spoke, also over his shoulder.--"You going to this?" Raymond gave a short laugh.--"Me?" It was almost as if he said, "I didn't ask them to dinner, my dear man! _I'm_ perfectly free to stop away!" "Good. We'll have a game of chess, then," Philip replied off-handedly. He could give Raymond pawn and move. Outside the Reservation, however, little but the Pow-Wow was talked of. Howell Gruffydd had looked the word up in his little English-Welsh Dictionary, and, though he had failed to find it, he was none the less set-up at the thought of being a Deputy Grand Chief. But he became thoughtful again when there arrived for him a bundle from Barry Topham, which, on being opened, was found to contain a pair of very much creased moccasins, a broad-striped blanket, and a head-dress of feathers similar to the one the Grand Chief himself was to wear. Howell had remembered Dafydd Dafis. Dafydd might not like him to bedeck himself thus, and what Dafydd might think always mattered a great deal in Llanyglo. Dafydd, his old corduroys notwithstanding, stood for the integrity of Nationalism, and even Howell, willing to be English, must be careful not to be too English--or, in the present case, too Indian. But the aliens themselves showed no such reserve. They had bracketed a Welsh name with an English one on their handbill, had placed _Hen Wlad_ by the side of _God Save the People_, and been otherwise hearty; and they did not know that even in their hospitality they were a little bustling, urgent, and compelling. As for differences of race, such things were presently about to be abolished. So they bade Llanyglo almost boisterously welcome to its own Trwyn, and Barry Topham, passing Dafydd Dafis on the afternoon of the day of the celebration, shouted cheerily over his shoulder, "Don't forget your harp, Davis. I'm not going to call you 'Dafis'--we'll make an Englishman of you before we've done with you! Eight-thirty sharp.... Eh?... Stuff and nonsense! Fiddlededee! What sort o' talk's that, man alive! Of course you're bringing your harp!" It was on a dullish summer evening, and none too warm up there, that the Montgomeryites, in threes and fours and sixes, began the ascent of the Trwyn. Some of them had already set match to their lanterns, though the Trwyn beam was not alight yet, and they carried with them more than one copy of _The Scottish Students' Song Book_. They tried their voices as they climbed, and called to one another, pointing out false easy ways and bursting into laughter when the misdirected ones had to return again; and the Trwyn sheep started up from before their feet and fled, baa-ing. The refreshments had gone on ahead, as also had the fuel for the camp-fire, but no Welshmen were to be seen yet. Perhaps, gruff heartiness notwithstanding, they felt that they were guests who should have been hosts. Perhaps they felt that here was not the urgency there had been on the only other occasion when they and the Saxon had rushed hurriedly and tumultuously together--that wild nightfall when Ned Kerr, from the roof of the new Hafod Unos, had seen something out in the lair of grey, and, with a cry of "_Llongddrylliad!_" Celt and new-comer had flung themselves into an open boat pell mell. But by and by they also began to move in a body slowly along the shore, sometimes over the dry, sometimes plodding over their own reflections in the ebb. There was no pointing out false ascents to them. Eesaac Oliver Gruffydd, who came first, had fetched eggs too often from the Trwyn light not to know every cranny of the promontory, and his father remembered the building of the lighthouse. Howell had seen them, as a boy, locking and dowelling the great blocks of masonry, shaped each like an intricate Chinese puzzle; and in thirty odd years the Light seemed to have become almost as much part of the headland as the ancient Dinas itself. That seemed to be the way with building. Even Edward Garden's house seemed a settled thing now. So, in another year or two, would the "Montgomery," the "Cardigan," Ham-and-Egg Terrace. And Howell reflected that stones meant grocery-orders. But that was not all. If he must be English, but not too English for Dafydd Dafis, he must still be careful to be the right sort of English. He made little out of these _Utopia_ readers. They simply came in under the "Montgomery's" contract. The Briggses and Laceys still provided the richer yield. Whether was the better--the "Montgomery," where one visitor would presently be creeping into a bed that his predecessor had left still warm, or these more prosperous ones, who, Howell knew, would presently come no more?... Moreover, he was already feeling the pressure of outside competition. Ellis, of Porth Neigr, was even now quoting cutting rates for the "Cardigan's" butter and cheese, and for a long time Llanyglo had had to depend on outsiders for its milk. The railway, that brought people, also brought their provender.... Oh, don't think for a moment that Howell was prospering without giving deep thought to things! They gained the Dinas, where already the fire was yellow and crackling, and stood smiling Good evenings, as if they waited to be asked inside. How long ago it was since the foundations of that Dinas had been sprinkled with the blood of Merlin--how long ago it was since the Red and White Dragons had contended about it, now one gaining the advantage, now the other--how long ago these things had been, not even Miss Amy Topham would have dared to ask June Lacey. Now it resembled a grey old heel of cheese, with a little scrabbling in one corner. This scrabbling was where Bert Stoy, one of the younger and most indefatigable of the Readers, had hoped he might find a British grave. "We thought you'd maybe changed your minds about coming," were the words with which Barry Topham welcomed them. He was an Indian, but a bearded one, and he bustled here and there, wanting to know where So-and-So was, and whether this requisite or that had been brought up, and seeing to this and the other. The goblin shadows of eighteen or twenty of the Readers danced on the ruined works, and the sky behind their illumined faces was of a sad and leaden lavender hue. The lanterns made little patches in the short grass; matches lighted faces momentarily; and then suddenly there broke out over the shoulder of the headland and continued thenceforward, the Light. Red, red, white--red, red, white--it was numbing, intolerable. It dyed the clouds that seemed to sag over the earth as the ceiling-sheets sagged in the cottages, and its glare was not lost high overhead now, as it had been on that night when the Kerrs had rested for their "nooning" in the midst of their building of their Hafod. The staggering blaze passed not twenty feet above them, seeming to stumble and trip over the cloud-folds, and driving the revellers to fresh places with their backs to it. You would have said that those ancient Red and White Dragons had come to life again and were chasing one another across the rafters of the night. Then Barry Topham, placing himself by a jagged tooth of rock, held up his hand for silence. He had motioned Howell Gruffydd to his side, and had pointed at somebody's cap. His fingers tweaked a tuning-fork; he set the vibrating prong against his teeth; he gave them a soft note--"Doh----" and then: "_When wilt Thou save the people, O God of Mercy, when?..._" Then when it was finished, Barry again stood with uplifted hand. Caps were put on again by such as wore them. "Not weft enough," was Barry's brief comment on the singing; the Welsh, unfamiliar with the air, had not sung. "Never mind; it might ha' been worse.--Now I'm just going to say a few words, and then we'll make a start." And he began. "Well, we've been here a fortnight now, and I think we've all enjoyed it. I have for one. Some of us has been up these grand mountains, finding out how they were made, and some of us has been improving ourselves among the rocks and on the shore. Some of us has botanised, and some's collected butterflies, and one and all we've read the books set down for us in the Syllabus. That's a job done, at all events. "But I think we shall one and all admit that we've a great deal to learn about Llanyglo yet. There'd still be something to learn if we were to come here six, ten, twenty times. That's the grand thing about knowledge--we need never be afraid we shall come to the end of it. When we've read fifty books there's always fifty more. Ay, and there'll be another fifty after that. "But we've got other things besides knowledge at Llanyglo. We've got health, health to keep us going for another year. And we've got friends, new friends. I think we can say," here he laid his hand on Howell's shoulder, "that we've all done the little bit that in us lies to break down prejudices and dislikes and racial differences. We've had our quarrels, us Welsh and English, in the past; no doubt there's been battles fought on this very spot; but that's all over, and, speaking as Grand Chief for the year, though unworthy to succeed Comrade Walker, who occupied this same position last year at our Holiday Camp at Keswick, I think I may say we've buried the hatchet now. So in the name of one and all I greet these friends of ours. I think it does us both good to come together like this. They're a bit--what shall I say?--on the poetical side, perhaps; more romantic than us; we're just plain, practical folk that has to tew for our livings; but what I mean is, it's a good thing for both of us to get to understand one another. We do understand one another now, and I'm sure we're all very glad to see them here." (Applause, and cries from the Lancashire men of "Good old Wales!") "You here that, Gruffydd--Comrade Gruffydd? That's hearty. That's Lancashire. No flowers o' speech, but we say a thing and mean it. And we mean it when we say we're very glad to see you indeed, and hope this won't be our last visit to Llanyglo.--And now I won't take up any more of your time. We've a long programme before us, and I see that the first item is----" he consulted a paper in his hand, "----is the old favourite, _There is a Tavern_. What's the key, Harry? C? (Doh, lah--lah, te, doh----)." And with the singing of _There is a Tavern in the Town_ the Pow-Wow began. Did they come to understand one another the better for it? Were they who took part in that Pow-Wow so "poetical and romantic" for the one part, so blunt and rough and practical for the other? Did a score or so of Saxons suddenly and miraculously cease that night to belong to the world's most sentimental race, and were the hearts of as many Celts as miraculously changed? No doubt it all seemed simple enough to Barry Topham. Hard-rinded himself, but not without a generous juice within, he would have found it hard to believe that pulpier fruits existed, with a stone inside he would but crack his teeth upon. Perhaps--perhaps--it was not so; and yet--what, after all, can the victor do to the vanquished more than vanquish him?... Barry saw their smiles only, and for every smile they received they gave three. The jovial Campers became ever bluffer and heartier and fonder of them as song followed song. Nor did the Welshmen refuse to sing. Enlightened Young Wales, in the person of Eesaac Oliver Gruffydd, was presently to be seen with his back to the intolerable Trwyn beam while the Dragons of the Light chased one another behind his head; and his voice was lifted up in _Vale of Llangollen_. Was the song a success? It was doubly a success. The blunt and genial aliens applauded him as a breaker of the ice, his compatriots applauded him as a stepper into the breach from which they themselves had hung back. Hardly had he sat down before he was beset with requests to hum the air all over again, in order that they might take it down in the Tonic Sol-fa notation.... Then, almost immediately, the clapping swelled again, and there were cries of "Harry! Harry!" Harry Stone, who had the voice of an angel, was allowed to sing as he sat, because of his lameness, and he could not be seen in his dim angle of masonry, but only the unhurrying but unceasing red and white spokes, that strode from afar over the sea, passed overhead, and were off on their wide circle again. Hearing his voice and not seeing him, you thought of a pure spring that gushes suddenly out of the dark and grudging earth.--_Cannibalee_, he sang---- It was poor enough stuff. Its words were a laborious parody, its harmonies exactly predicable; it was facetious or nothing, and it marred an original with a remote and deathly grace of its own; but these things were forgotten as Harry sang. To-morrow they were leaving Llanyglo. To-morrow they were filing back through that postern that had given them this, their fortnight's respite, from tasks too often ignoble, from cramped circumstances, from savourless lives. And it weighed on them, tenderly yet heavily. Next year seemed so sadly, sadly far away.... "_Her eyes were as fair as the star of the morn And her teeth were as sharp as the point of a thorn---- She was very fair to see!_----" Harry sang; and the hands of young men sought those of young women in the blackness of the Dinas's shadows, and the married ones drew a little closer together, and there was no parody at all in the little soft punctuations of the refrain, in which every voice joined: "_She was very fair to see---- (So she was!) She was very fair to see---- (So she was!)_----" Edward Garden was right---- "_Her eyes were as fair as the star of the morn And her teeth were as sharp as the point of a thorn---- My beautiful Cannibalee_----" Edward Garden was right. That tender but heavy weight, so tender, so heavy that it bore down the stupid expression of the song, lay even on the Welshmen too. He was admirably shrewd and right. It would not be yet awhile--it was too early yet--but presently, as an advertisement for Llanyglo, an Eisteddfod--an Eisteddfod, say, when the holiday season began in July, and a Brass Band Contest towards its close in September.... They were still singing when they came down again, at eleven o'clock. You might have thought, from the way in which Barry Topham clung to Howell Gruffydd's arm, that he was slightly drunk, but he was not; that was only brotherliness and exaltation. He still wore the gala-dress of the Grand Chief, but in that particular Howell thought that he had come out of his dilemma rather well. The feather head-dress he had tried on had proved too big for his head, and in trying to shorten the band he had torn off the button, thus rendering the adornment useless. As for the striped blanket about his shoulders--well, it was a coolish night, and there is no sense in taking a chill when there is a blanket to be had to keep you warm. Even Dafydd would see that. So Howell had worn it.... And looked at from below again, the Trwyn beam no longer appeared a hunt of raving red and white monsters, but a little lonely thing, familiar and disregarded, old, wise, minding its own business, and meanwhile quietly opening and shutting an eye. II THE GIANT'S STRIDE After that summer they began in earnest the building of Llanyglo. Come and see them at it. Whence came these stone-carts and timber-carts, these girders and castings, a single one only taking up a couple of trucks? Whence came these wains of floor-boards with their trailing tails bobbing up and down within an inch or two of the white road, these bastions of metal and ballast, these crawling and earth-shaking traction-engines with the little bellies and the monstrous wheels and the dotted line of lorries and trollies behind them? Whence these sawn planks, these massive frames with machinery parts on them so heavy that every rut threatens a standstill, these contractors' vans with absurd little trolley-wheels, these gatlings of drain-pipes, these wagons of plumbers' material, these vans of provisions, this army of men? Why do these now choke the roads that formerly were empty save for the passing of a wain of whispering hay, or the light market-cart that left a smell of raspberries and a stain of Welsh song behind, or Ned Kerr with his folding hut and clogging-knife, or Ynys Lovell with her packing-case cart and her mother with her loops of cane seeking chairs to mend? Where did they come from, and what are they doing here? The stone, of course, comes from the Porth Neigr quarry, where the blasts shake the rocks and the shooting of waste resounds throughout the day. And the castings come from Manchester and Middlesborough and Wigan and Leeds. And the sawn planks come from Russia and the Baltic, and the larches for scaffolding from the Merionethshire valleys. These things come from these places--if you look at it that way. But look at it the other way and they have an origin mystical indeed. They are conceived of fecund nods and looks, of the germination of writing and initials and signatures and contract-stamps. They are born of print and promotion and allotment, and the cord is cut when sums are paid on application, and more in three months' time. They thrive when Chairmen, standing up on platforms, say "the adoption of the Accounts has been moved and seconded----," and become lusty when more clerks have to be called in, and temporary premises have to be taken, to cope with the public rush for the splendid thing. You see their real origin on those blackboards that seem to set Llanyglo its new multiplication sum, and in those paragraphs in the Manchester and Liverpool and London papers. You see it again when the new Local Government Bill receives the Royal Assent. You see it once more when from the machines of printers in Nottingham and Harrow and Frome and Belfast there are turned out the posters that already overspread the northern hoardings, bidding Blackpool look to itself, warning Douglas that it has another competitor, elbowing Bridlington, shoving Yarmouth aside. There are half a dozen of these posters out already, and if they are not strictly speaking representations of Llanyglo, they are something more--they are prophecies, which you will do well to heed if you want to put your money on a good thing. There is one in Lime Street Station, Liverpool (you need not glance at that upper window; you'd have a job to find poor Terry Armfield's Trwyn Avenue now). It is the "Welsh Giantess" one. She is dressed in a black steeple hat with a white hood underneath it, red check shawl, striped petticoat, and has buckles on her shoes. She holds the town in a three-quarter circle in her arms, with children at play on the sands and super-Briggses and super-Laceys all spilling out in the foreground. The mountains are indigo, the hotels pink, the sands chrome yellow, and the name LLANYGLO sprawls across the sky as if the Trwyn Light had dropped it there in passing, a letter at a time.... The poster, of course, is a little grandiose: nobody cries stinking fish. The Pier, for example, isn't there yet. But it is somewhere, in somebody's desk-drawer, perhaps, or perhaps it has even got farther than that. Perhaps the caissons are already on the way; certainly a group of strangers has been busy on the shore any time this past twelve months. And the Promenade isn't ex-_act_-ly like that yet. It has railings not unlike those, but not yet that fine stretch of impregnable sea-wall. And so with the hotels.... But all in good time. These things will all be ready quite as soon as those posters have sunk into the perception of the public. We mustn't have a completely equipped town standing empty for a number of seasons while folk make up their minds whether they'll come or not. We have the money, the men, powers under the new Act ample as our hearts could wish, and the certainty of the coming reward. Llanyglo itself found it difficult to realise what was happening. It all came in such strides. Where the stake-and-wire-enclosed roads had been, a giant hoarding would rise, twenty, forty, fifty yards long. On this hoarding, by means of the railway posters, Llanyglo would be told all about itself--its climate, its mild winters, its accessibility from all parts, and its "unrivalled attractions." It read Gilbert Smythe's signature there. And among these were other bills curiously opposite, which told them that if they in their turn needed change, there were week-end tickets to be had to Liverpool and Belle Vue at specially reduced rates.--And while Llanyglo knew, as month succeeded month, that work was going on behind these hoardings, the effect was none the less magical when, on the day they were knocked to pieces again, the astounding frontage appeared. They had known nothing like it since that piece of witchcraft of the Kerrs, and now several times they had seen it happen. It had happened between the "Cambrian" and "Cardigan" hotels. It had happened at Pritchard's Corner. And now it was about to happen again, along a line that ran from a point just below the Kerrs' Hafod to the piece of land, not built on yet, where for three days one Spring a circus was set up, its cages and caravans and the guy-ropes of its tenting all mingled with the timber-stacks and mortar-engines and breastworks of stone setts and other dumpings of a dozen different contractors. Later, a temporary wooden shed occupied this space. This shed was town-hall, concert-hall, general purposes hall, and theatre thrown into one. That was the time Llanyglo began to discover that if one of its inhabitants wished to meet another he had better appoint a time and place to do so. To climb up the nearest sandhill and take a look round no longer served. And even these amazing unfoldings were as nothing compared with that which (it was already known) was to happen next--the construction of the sea-wall and the Pier. Philip Lacey's Floral Valley was already finished. Its gravelled walks, with steps every few yards, straggled up both sides of the ravine in the side of the Trwyn, and from the topmost of these you could look down on the octagonal roof of the bandstand that occupied the levelled plot in the middle. Sticking (as it were) the point of his compasses into the bandstand, Philip had described successions of eighth and quarter-circles, with radiating paths and variously shaped smaller beds in between; and of these he had made a piece of crewel-work of colour. Golden feather and London pride, lobelia and pinks and bachelors'-buttons, formed the borders; behind them, in ovals and stars and crown-shapes and monograms, mignonette and arabis and dwarf pansies and Virginia stock were set; and so he had brushed-and-combed and curled and scented the whole place. He had staked his professional reputation, too, that from the first crocus to the last Michaelmas daisy, the gaudy Catherine-wheel would never be for a single day out of bloom; and then he had departed, leaving the responsibility of upkeep to the delighted town. John Willie Garden, looking at the Valley's logical plan, wished that the town itself had had as fair, if severe, a start. For John Willie was Clerk of the Works now in a very different sense from that in which he had had charge of the coming of Railhead. He was now nineteen, and had no longer any wish to go into the business in Manchester. His father, noting his tastes and capacity, had judged it perfectly safe to depart, leaving John Willie to look after things in his stead; and as no contractor's foreman wished to quarrel with the son of the principal maker of the place, he had a fairly large authority. So John Willie occupied the house by the shore, with Minetta to make him comfortable. He spent his days in passing from this building to that, pushing at doors in hoardings marked "No Admittance," threading his way along the wheeling-planks, mounting ladders, looking down on the swarming men from the stagings, looking up through the groves of the scaffold-poles, looking out, not over the sandhills now, but over other houses built and building. The masts and spars of other scaffold-poles here and there might almost have made you think that a navigable river twisted through Llanyglo, and that these were the rigging of the vessels upon it. From one work to another he passed, approving, questioning, telephoning, making notes. There is scarce a room of that period of Llanyglo's up-springing but, even to-day, John Willie Garden can tell you the lie of its water-pipes, where its main-cocks are, where its drains, its gas-connections, the depth of its foundations, the branchings of its chimney-flues. He hasn't been into half of them since, but the present occupiers can tell him nothing about which cellars are on the rock and when the girders are due to be repainted. And he could talk to the men as well as to their bosses. He addressed them authoritatively, but he knew their football and their drinking, their jokes and songs, which dog belonged to which and which among them "subbed" or "liened" before his wage was due. John Willie Garden's boyhood lay behind him now. What was John Willie like to look at by this time, and what was his outlook on the world? You may meet his kind at six o'clock any morning, the sons of Alderman This or Sir John That, going to their fathers' engineering-shops in Leeds, or to Manchester spinning-sheds, or Rochdale factories, or dye-works, or rolling-mills, or drawing-offices, or electrical works. They wear greasy blue overalls and carry tin luncheon-cans, and use cotton-waste for handkerchiefs. They glory in the readiness of their repartee to their fathers' workmen, to be mistaken for one of whom gives them the keenest pleasure. Joyously they attack the blackest and greasiest of the work, honestly forgetting that they could leave this to others if they wished.--But see them in the evening! They have had tea and a "clean-up" by this time. Their heads have been soused and their hands pumiced, they have on their mahogany boots and their white collars, the hands that wielded crowbars or strained with the grip of spanners ply thin and expensive canes now, and you can see the radiance of their approach a quarter of a mile away. They are off to billiard-rooms and card-parties, theatre-boxes, or courting. They will be home fairly early, because of the five-o'clock alarum in the morning, but until then they are so evidently about to enjoy themselves that you sigh if you are unable to join them. Go one night and watch them when next the Pantomime comes. Sit in the second row of the stalls (you won't be able to get into the first row). If the leading lady is pretty, and John Willie and Percy Briggs are there, you won't consider your evening wasted. The show is sure to "go." That, more or less, was John Willie. He had rather a lot of money to spend, but nowhere much to spend it yet. His hair was a little less primrose coloured than it had been (pomatum does darken hair a little), but his eyes had not altered. They were still just as receptive or just as stupid as he cared to make them, blue as flax, and capable, if you happened to catch him at something he did not wish to be caught at, of a rather hard and prolonged stare. He was not tall--long ago it had been plain he would not be--but, looking at his shoulders, hung as it were from an apex at the back of his head, you would have wondered at the lightness of the pit-pat of his feet when he did a step-dance on the occasion of one of the men's "birthdays" (which have nothing to do with days of birth, by the way, but frequently much to do with an unfancied horse and a longish price). In a word, he was a nicish, powerful young rascal, with an expensive dressing-case and a trace of those Lancashire final "g's"; and he and his friends (of whom he had a good many down to Llanyglo) had their own corner in the "Cambrian" lounge, unless the evening's programme included cards or involved the use of a room with a piano in it. Yet, though the Llanyglo air might thrill with the clink-clink of chisels on stone, and vibrate with the jolting of the builders' carts, and resound with all the noises of the swift building, still, nobody who now came thought it ruined. On the contrary, exactly as the Briggses and the Laceys had predicted, it came to them with shocks of delight. For think of it: here was no twopenny ride on a clanging tram through naked, unshaded streets before they could reach the sea. Here was no two-miles plod back again over the burning asphalt, slackening every nerve that had been braced up by the bathe. Here was no Brighton nor Scarborough nor Blackpool yet, with nettings of electric wires overhead and perspective of rails below. No: from any part of the place, three minutes would take you, if not in every case to the beach itself, at any rate to an open space of thyme and harebells and hillocks of clean sand, where, if you got on the right side of the sandhill, you might not know that there was a crane or a scaffold within miles. And if the beach was ploughed and harrowed and tramped and trodden until it resembled a dirty batter-pudding, half a day and a tide, and the sands were smooth and shining again, and the wet stretches seemed as much sky as land, and passing birds were reflected in their depths. The sea tidied up the shore again as the housemaids took up the crumbs from the hotel carpets.--And there were dozens of boats now, in which you could push out a few hundred yards and find yourself in spots that man can never sully. Five minutes' tugging at the oars and you could rock and gaze up at the sky, or look over the boat's side at the translucent green reflection of its curving boards below, and past that into glassy clear depths, and so past that again to where the water began to show you, not its depths, but the broken mirroring of the sky again. The boating was one of the "unrivalled attractions." By nine o'clock every morning a row of boatmen leaned against the railings between the "Cambrian" and the jetty, smoking, scanning the front, showing you fresh bait, and offering boats by the hour, the morning, or the day. Foremost among them, as likely as not, would be Tommy, the youngest of the Kerrs. He wore a blue gausey with a diamond woven across the breast, touched the peak of his dirty old petty-officer's cap constantly, and told folk it was "a gradely morning for fishing." Though the youngest, he was the least reputable of the Kerrs. Ned, the eldest, Llanyglo counted part of itself; the two middle ones were both contractors' foremen, and respected citizens; but Tommy had become the scandal of Llanyglo. You were well advised to allow him double time or more if you gave him a bag to carry anywhere and there was the temptation of beer on the way; and you might catch him sober if you engaged him and his boat soon after breakfast, but your chance of doing so became ever less as the day wore on. Who were these people who strolled among the droning bees of the sandhills or pushed out from the shore in boats? Well, they were of more kinds than one or two now. The charges at the "Cambrian" were still stiffish; a week there cost as much as a fortnight at the "Cardigan," or a month at the "Montgomery"; and so we still exhibit the social degrees. There has even been a certain amount of "feeling" about this. Of two Rochdale men, say, with little to choose between them in point of income, one will be seen on the "Cambrian's" balcony in the evening after dinner, his heart-shaped dinner-shirt one of a number of heart-shaped dinner-shirts, the bosom and neck and head of the lady he is chatting with rising out of her lacy corsage as a bouquet rises from the paper frill that encloses and bedecks it. He will be seen there, with the red-shaded lamps of the empty dining-room behind him and the moonlight making his sunburnt face very dark. But the other's face is sunburnt too, and at half the cost. He too could attitudinise like this were he so minded. And he reflects that Jones or Jackson may cut a dash among strangers, but he mustn't try it on with people who know him at home. As for himself, he's thankful to say that he's just the same wherever he is, at home or away on a holiday.... In fact Jones or Jackson is precisely the man Edward Garden more than half expected--the man who can't quite afford it, but will.... But this, it is hardly necessary to observe, is to take the "Cambrian" at less than its average and the "Cardigan" at rather more. The "Montgomery" is actually outclassed by the better "Private Hotels" and one or two of the superior "Boarding Establishments." Indeed, of these last the "Cadwallader" almost ranks with the "Cambrian" itself. And so we come by degrees down to Ham-and-Egg Terrace.--But enough of these _nuances_ of difference of a fortnight's duration. Who, taken by-and-large, are these people, and where do they come from? You have only to ask yourself, "Who else should they be?" and your question is half answered. Remember the smallness of these Islands, and the scores of pulsing, radiating, almost radio-active centres within them, every one swarming with folk who intend to have a better time than their fathers have had. Could the East Coast be pushed out beyond the North Sea, and Lancashire be stretched until it took in Galway, St. George's Channel and all, there might be room enough on England's shores for every parliamentary voter to have a few acres of Trwyn foreshore of his own and a black cow walking up and down them, seeking coolness and food hock-deep in the glistening ebb; but, as things are, the littoral is by much too small. True, scores and fifties of miles of it remain practically unvisited; but no snail has snuffled out its manganese there, and they are not within a few hours and a thirty-shilling circular fare of the human ant-heaps of the land, where King's Ransoms of Holiday Club money are put by. There was no wonder about the growth of Llanyglo. Geographically situated as it was, the marvel would have been had it not grown. With a few posters and similar devices to advertise it, it would presently continue to advertise itself. Therefore the folk who flocked there were of every kind, short of the grey and overwhelming multitude itself. _Because_ it was only partly built, _because_ it had not yet shaken down to a definite character and physiognomy and personality, it spread its net the wider. Did you want to dress for dinner, and to have your luggage carried by a man in a red jacket? There was the "Cambrian." Did you want everything that the Cambrians had, barring only the luxury of being seen lounging in one of the wicker-chairs about its portals, and still to keep your money in your pocket? There was the "Cardigan." Did you want to read or to idle, to botanise or merely to forget your cares for a fortnight, to picnic up the Trwyn or to have your meals in bed? They asked no questions at the "Montgomery." From Philip Lacey's piece of Floral Geometry to the nooks on the farther side of the Trwyn where you could spend a whole morning undisturbed, there was something for every taste. And they actually had to turn people away who had been so ill-advised as to come with their luggage without having first secured their lodging. And now it had come to this: that while these came to Llanyglo for a change of air, John Willie Garden, who spent his days among lime and mortar and wheeling-planks and newly dressed stone, frequently turned his back on Llanyglo for precisely the same reason. Once a week or so he was seen to drive past Pritchard's Corner in a light yellow trap at nine o'clock in the morning. He was off to see to another of his father's interests--that "catchment area" far away up in the mountains. He drove eight miles, put up at an inn past which a trout-stream brawled (hardly yet settled from its precipitous plunging cataracts), and then set out on foot up a road that rose one-in-five under a whispering wood, to see the skyline of which you had to throw your head back. It took him an hour of walking to get to his destination--a solitary wooden cabin where the agent lived. The agent had on the whole an easy time of it, for hardly a hundred yards from his cabin door, above the woods now, lay Llyn Delyn, pure looking-glass in the mile long crook of the mountain. An old boat was moored among the sedges at one end, the launching of which on the unbroken surface of that lovely water always seemed to invoke vague judgments, penalties perhaps forborne, but none the less incurred. Here the agent, whose name was Sharpe, fished. John Willie fished with him. Fishing was a good enough way of passing the time, for they were not really doing anything up there. They were merely waiting--waiting for more people to come to Llanyglo, for the Town Hall to rise, for the seat of local administration to be shifted from Porth Neigr, and then for the Waterworks Scheme. They had the water as fast as prevision and Law could make it. They would not drive too hard a bargain with the town. In the meantime they fished, speaking little, noting whether it was the gnat or the cochybondhu that killed, casting so lightly that the boat scarcely rocked. Sometimes, when the amber evening light was clear behind them, so impeccable was the profound mirror below that, while their tweed-clad forms could hardly be distinguished from the hues of the mountain behind, the upside-down shapes beneath them were sharp and dark as the silhouettes in your grandmother's little oval frames. III THE BLANK CHEQUE Death took a hand that winter in Llanyglo's making. They were getting well up with the Town Hall, in what is now Gardd Street; still the flag floated at the polehead, in token that they had got thus far without serious mishap; and then it had to be run down to the half-mast. It was a common scaffold accident. Harry Kerr, on one of the upper stages, stepped back upon empty air; Sam sprang forward to save him; and they picked them both up from among the debris below. A few remembered the launching of that open boat on that wild night seven years before, and said that it seemed out of nature that these comparatively young men should go off before ancient Mrs. Pritchard; and Mrs. Pritchard herself baa-ed, and said that there would be more room now in the Hafod Unos whatever. But most of the residents were new-comers now, who knew more of Tommy Kerr's present delinquencies than of the history of his brothers, and they could hardly be expected to grieve. They buried them both at Sarn, under the shadow of that pepper-caster of a fifteenth-century church tower, and the problem of however the Hafod had held them all became a thing of the past. The Town Hall was the outward and visible sign that Llanyglo had not only caught up with Porth Neigr, but had outstripped it. It had special conveniences for a centre of administration, which it forthwith became; and at the election that Autumn Howell Gruffydd was made a Councillor. He had two branch shops now, one at Porth Neigr and the other at Sarn, and to his newspaper counter he had added a Library of books bought at Mudies' clearance sales. He charged fourpence a week for the loan of each book, which was twopence more than the old stationer's library at Porth Neigr had charged; but there was the railway-fare to take into account if you considered the charge extortionate. Later, a good deal later, when the picture postcard was invented, Howell did rather well out of that too. He praised your amateur snapshot of the Trwyn or the Promenade of the façade of the Town Hall, and made you what no doubt seemed to him a fair offer; namely to give you a dozen prints in exchange for your film. He then proceeded to fill a revolving stand with other prints, which he sold at seven for sixpence, or, highly glazed, at twopence apiece. With pennies and twopences accumulated in this and similar ways he bought certain house-property behind Ham-and-Egg Terrace, paying a ground-rent to Edward Garden. He had by this time acquired a little personal habit of Mr. Tudor Williams's--the habit of shaking hands with one hand, while the other affectionately kneaded and patted his interlocutor's right arm from the wrist up to the shoulder. Hitherto the developments of Llanyglo had lain in a few hands only--the hands of Edward Garden and his shareholders, of one or two others who had forgotten they had a holding in Terry Armfield's Thelema, but remember it now with joy and thanksgiving, of Mr. Tudor Williams, and of not very many more. But now a more ponderous machine began to rumble into motion. This was the machine of which the Railway Companies and a couple of Pleasure Packet Services were the visible active parts. Rumours now began to fly about of developments long since planned and now imminent, developments astounding and gigantic. These rumours began with hotels. Hitherto the "Cambrian" had been thought to be rather more than so-so, but of course nobody would have dreamed of comparing it with the "Grands" and "Majesties" which "_Lancashire Hotels, Limited_" possessed in the great centres of the North. These had half a dozen tennis-courts in front, palm-courts and winter-gardens behind, and five and six and seven hundred bedrooms. But now the rumour ran that, not one of these, but two, owned by opposing Syndicates, were to be set up in Llanyglo. The sites on which they were to be built varied according to the version of the tale. Some said that the "Montgomery" was to be pulled down again, some that the whole row of fishermen's cottages was to be demolished, some that a terrace was to be dug out of the side of the Trwyn itself and a funicular railway constructed. However it might be, it was known that there were prolonged meetings of the Council about it, and that at one point the whole thing, whatever it might be, seemed likely to fall through. And that, as they now knew, would be their death-blow. They would do anything, anything rather than that these immense reservoirs of capital, already partly opened, should be shut up again. They would hold out the town itself as security, a twopenny rate, promises, accommodations, anything. It was said that Sheard, the Porth Neigr solicitor, who had moved to new premises opposite the Llanyglo Town Hall, sat up five nights in the week, making actuarial calculations, estimating yields, measuring margins, and balancing all with the possibility of the town's bankruptcy. Edward Garden was once more at Llanyglo, and closeted frequently with Mr. Tudor Williams and Howell Gruffydd.... Even the two projected hotels were not much more than a detail as matters now stood; the whole town must now be given a tremendous upward heave or collapse with a crash. Even those hotels could go up now only on one condition--namely, that the base of the visiting population, that foundation of which innumerable units are the strength, should at once be immensely broadened. For every individual who could afford to put up at a palace, they must rake in scores, hundreds of people who could not. The real foundation of the hotels must be row on row, acre on acre, of Ham-and-Egg Terraces. For the rest, a place that must live through the year on the takings of three months must be big, as those places of entertainment must be big that are full on Saturdays only and empty during the rest of the week. Nothing smaller would tempt the Railway Companies. (This, by the way, was not altogether good news for Raymond Briggs. Architecture is not needed for that broadened base. Any working master-builder can run up houses that are good enough. The pattern of one is the pattern of all, and Raymond would have small chance in competition with the bigger men of his profession.) Nor would it suffice merely to house and feed the people who came. Other watering-places were awake to the new menace now, so that the rival announcements on the hoardings resembled a desperate grapple for the possession of those sixpences and shillings and half-crowns that were poured without ceasing into the coffers of the Holiday Clubs. Not one in five hundred of those who contributed those shillings and half-crowns stopped to think that Wales herself has no Holiday Clubs--that Wales does not go abroad with a year's savings in her pocket of which it is black shame to bring as much as a single penny back again. They wanted amusement. The Resort or Spa that could provide the most amusement would get the lion's share. Amusements were a more urgent necessity than chairs and tables and roofs. So it was that, between this place and that, the people who intended to have a better time than their fathers had had were in some danger of being pampered. The project for the Llanyglo Big Wheel was set a-going. The promise that Howell Gruffydd had made behind his hand to John Pritchard had already begun to be redeemed. The Town Hall was not three months old before a Grand Bazaar was held there in aid of the Llanyglo Joint Chapels. On the first of the four days during which the Bazaar lasted the proceedings were opened by Tudor Williams, Esquire, M.P. On the second day they were opened by Edward Garden, Esquire. On the third Mrs. Howell Gruffydd opened them, in heliotrope satin; and on the fourth day Raymond Briggs, Esquire, who scented Chapel-building in the air, performed the ceremony. Raymond guessed that at least three new Chapels were certain presently to go up in the stead of those buildings of tin and boards and sickly blue paint that had so outraged Terry Armfield's Oxford Movement susceptibilities. As a matter of fact, five went up, and have debts on them to this day, in spite of the long series of Bazaars, two a season at least, at which the Saxon veins were opened.... For the money poured in. It rained into the square collecting-sheets that were placed at intervals along all the principal streets. It clattered into the slots of the wooden boxes that were rattled under the nose of the passer-by. It was minted in the Bran Tubs from which, paying your threepence, you drew forth a penny toy. It multiplied with every flower Miss Nancy Pritchard, with twenty other young women in Welsh national costume, sold. It made heavy the pockets of the stall-holders, who had never any change. It made little cylinders of silver and copper, three and four and five inches high, on the tables folk had to pass before they were admitted to the Concerts.... Believe it, the Chapel-goers of Llanyglo, seeing all that money to be had for little more than the asking, opened their eyes, and sat up, and took notice. If _this_ was the Saxon invasion, why had they not welcomed it long ago? A few bales of hired bunting, a few pounds for evergreens and velvet banners with texts on them, a few paid assistants and a not unreasonable printers' bill, and--_these_ splendid results! As big as John Pritchard himself said, putting on his spectacles to see whether the astonishing total could really be true, "They must be very rit-ss, whatever!" But the Bazaars had not this golden harvest to themselves. They found competition, which they a little resented. Secular amusements more than held their own. Gigantic castings had begun to arrive for the Big Wheel; under the booth-awnings of Gardd Street (recently christened) penny articles could be had for a penny; and a long row of automatic machines--Wheels of Fortune, little iron men who kicked footballs, Sibyls of Fate and Try-your-Grip machines--had sprung up along the railings of the sea-front. A few stage-gipsies with green parrakeets had made the town their summer home. There was a rifle-range on the farther sandhills--you could hear the "plunk" of the bullets on the iron targets. Near it was a travelling Merry-go-Round. Photographers had their "pitches" on the sands, with humourous canvas flats with oval holes in them, through which you put your face, so that you could have your portrait taken as "_He Won't be Happy till He Gets It_" or in the act of embracing a two-dimensional young woman, whichever was to your liking. And there were niggers. These danced and sang and played the banjo on a raised platform, dressed in wide turned-down schoolboy collars and pink striped trousers; the concentric rings of green chairs about them resembled the spread of a large symmetrical thistle plant; and outside this ring one or other of the troupe constantly moved, shaking a sort of jellybag under your nose (as the Chapel-goers had shaken the collecting-boxes) and blinking the pink lids in his burnt-cork face. A little farther on was the men's bathing-place. They had wooden machines now, into which youths entered four at a time--no more the trim and private striped tents of the Laceys and the Raymond Briggses. The ladies' bathing-place was farther on still--a boat stood off between the two lest the sexes should not keep their distance. And a hundred yards past that, beyond a great scabrous groyne of loose stone, clay-coloured at the shore end but slimy with green as it ran down to the sea, with red flags and notice-boards along the top and a moveable rope-barrier at its base where two men walked on sentry-go, they were at work upon the Pier. By this time there was one question which, more than others, was beginning to disturb Llanyglo. This was the question of drink. In the old days, when the old brown horse who had walked as carefully as if he had had a spirit-level inside him had first brought the Gardens and their luggage so softly over the sandhills, there had been no inn nearer than Porth Neigr. Save on market-days, scarce a drop of alcohol passed a Llanyglo man's lips from year's end to year's end. If John Pritchard had preached occasionally against drunkenness, it had been conventionally only, with little more bearing on Llanyglo's own habits than if he had preached against cannibalism. Then Railhead had crawled across the land; Howell Gruffydd had found it necessary to warn the young against contamination; and with the building of the "Cambrian" had come Llanyglo's first licence. But for long enough after that there had been no public-houses. The travelling army of labourers had had their own canteens, and even when a necessary beer-licence or two had been applied for at Sessions, the applications had been granted as it were behind the hand, and the affair had been got over as quickly as possible. No: Tommy Kerr's unconscious soft carolling of _Glan Meddwdod Mwyn_ as he had crossed the sandhills on that torrid Sunday afternoon had held no real personal reproach for Llanyglo. For Porth Neigr, perhaps yes; for other places, yes; but not for Llanyglo. But since then things had changed. Things had changed since they had been able to tell themselves that what went on in the "Cambrian" lounge was no concern of theirs. They had begun to change when Llanyglo had been no longer able to shut its eyes to the beer-drinking of the navvies and bricklayers and the brothers Kerr. Then for a time a convenient connection had been established between drunkenness and rough trousers tied about the knees with string. For cases such as these, the little Station at the extreme end of Gardd Street, with "Police" over the door and geraniums in the windows, had ample powers. The half-dozen constables must exercise discretion, that was all. But it became a not uncommon sight to see a tipsy reveller singing himself unsteadily home on one side of the street, while the officer, watching him from the other side, stood questioning his discretion until the delinquent had passed out of sight. For a time Tommy Kerr, who had been twice run in, had served as a scapegoat, but that was little permanent help. It began to be seen that the real problem was, that if they would get folk with money to spend into the town, they must accept these folk, within reason, as they were, tipplers and teetotalers alike. For some reason or other, convivial drinking also seemed to come under the head of amusements. Blackpool provided liquor; Douglas was in an exceptional position for the provision of liquor; and more and more it appeared that Llanyglo must open the Bazaar doors with one hand and the doors of inns and taverns with the other. Meanwhile, the "Lancashire Rose," on one side of Gardd Street, and the "Trafford" on the other, were quickly becoming notorious. These were both fully licenced houses, with Tap and Saloon entrances, and it was idle to pretend to think that all the scandal originated in the humbler compartments. Heady young men with full pockets, respectable fathers of families, and others whom they could by no means lock up as they could lock up Tommy Kerr, went into these places in broad daylight, sometimes coming out again obviously affected: and it was almost certain that not all their stomachs were so innocent and unaccustomed that a single glass of the poison had produced this result. Dolefully they wished that a sober Lancashire would come to Llanyglo; but--a Lancashire of some sort they _must_ have. Why else were they doing all they could to win its favour? What else was their Big Wheel for, of which four mammoth standards of plate and lattice-girder had already risen thirty feet above the sandhills, where they were stepped and anchored into the oldest rocks of earth? Why else were they toiling day and night at their Pier, and at the building, section by section, of the sea-wall? Why else were they setting up gasometers beyond Pritchard's, and discussing a Sewage Scheme, and--most urgent of all--gnawing their fingers anxiously until some arrangement should be come to with Edward Garden's lawyers about that water far away up Delyn? The supply was becoming terrifyingly insufficient. For want of mere water the growth of the town might come to a stop as plants shrivel and fall again in an arid bed.... And, save to get Lancashire folk there, drunk or sober, why did they solemnly discuss this inanity of an amusement or that--Big Wheels and Switchbacks, Scenic Railways, Toboggan Slides, Panoramas, Fat Women, Dancing Halls, Floral Valleys and Concerts and Town Bands? There was no going back now. They had spent money that they would never, never see again if they persisted in being visionaries in business and irreconcilables on mere minor points of demeanour.... "They spend more when they are ... like that," said Howell Gruffydd one day to the Council assembled. He said it a little shamefacedly, his fingers fiddling with the green cloth of the Council-table. Nobody spoke. "I--saw--a--man," Howell continued, "a respectable man, with good clothes on his back and a new hat, all spoiled--it was a pity to see it--I saw him knock over row of bot-tles at John Parry's in Gardd Street, just for amusement, and he laugh, and say 'How mut-ss?' like it wass noth-thing, he was so-a drunk----" "It is a pit-ty they make such a noise sometimes," somebody said, in a curiously aggrieved voice.... Evan Pugh, the landlord of the "Trafford," was of precisely the same opinion. They escaped their dilemma by means of a noteworthy bit of government by minority. There was a small section of the Council, easily outvotable at ordinary times, which urged that, after all, things were _as_ they were, that you must live and let live in this world, and that even good things could be pushed to extremes when they became no longer good. And, as these began to speak, one stern bazaar-promoter after another began to look at his watch and to mutter "Dear me--I had no idea it wass so late--indeed I not catss him if I not go now----" They left. This, or else a tactful absenteeism, became their custom whenever licencing matters came up to be discussed. But cases of conscience are cases of conscience all the world over. The sum that Edward Garden proposed as a fair price for that catchment-area up Delyn was two hundred thousand pounds--this for about two thousand acres; and on the day when his lawyers named the figure it was a wonder that the whole Council did not take in a body to their beds. Two hundred thousand pounds! They could not believe their ears. Nor could they believe their eyes either when they got it in writing, words first, and the figures in brackets afterwards. If they had written the single word "_Fancy!_" across that document and sent it straightway back to the lawyers they would no doubt have followed their first impulse; but somebody, less hard hit in the wind than the rest, managed to gasp out the proposal that they should sleep on it, and sleep on it they did. But the night did not alter it. In the morning it was still two hundred thousand pounds (£200,000). News of the rapacity of the demand had leaked out almost immediately. Ordinarily, anybody who had stopped Howell Gruffydd in the street and had asked him a Council secret would have been met with the smiling facer he deserved, but this was extraordinary altogether. On the morning after they had slept on it, William Morgan saw Howell on the Promenade, came up to him, and, making no bones about it whatever, asked him whether it was true. "Who told you, William Morgan?" Howell began ... but he really had not the heart to go on. He took off his hat, wiped the lining of it with his handkerchief, and the bright sunlight showed his brows lined with anxiety and sick fear, crumpled and embossed like one of his own pats of butter. He replaced his hat and blew his nose violently. "Is it true?" demanded William Morgan again. Howell became grim.--"It was an e-vil day for this town when that man came here," he said, forgetting how little town there had been when that old brown horse had first brought the Gardens softly jolting across the sandhills. "Then it is true?" said William Morgan once again. "It is true that a man sometimes asks one thing, and finiss by getting something very diff-ferent from what he ask," Howell replied, and walked abruptly away. He crossed the Promenade and turned into Pontnewydd Street. There he stood, irresolutely plucking his lip and gazing into a stationer's window. Dafydd Dafis's voice in his ear caused him to start almost violently. "H-what is this, Howell Gruffydd?" Dafydd demanded without preface, his eyes burningly and truculently on the Chairman's face. He wore his everyday corduroys, but his air was that of a monarch in banishment. Howell turned. "Ah, how are you, Dafydd? Indeed you look well! They do say the smell of road-tar is a very healthy smell----" "H-what is this we hear, Howell Gruffydd?" Dafydd repeated. Howell tried to smile.--"Indeed, how can I answer a question like that, 'What is this we hear?'----" "H-what is this about Delyn and the Water?" There was a dangerous quickness in Dafydd's voice. Involuntarily Howell gave a little hiccough of emotion, which answered Dafydd sufficiently. His eyes were like the windows of a burning house. "He sell us two thousand acres, of our own land, for how mut-ss?" "Two--hundred--thou-sand--pounds," sobbed Howell. "Of our own mountains--Delyn, that belong to us--he sell us Delyn, this Saxon?----" "Indeed, indeed, Dafydd, do not excite yourself--it will have to go to arbi-tra-tion----" "It will go to Hell, with his soul!" Dafydd replied fiercely. "He sell us Delyn--he sell us Delyn water--he sell us our own moun-tains!--It iss not for this we make you Chairman of the Council, Howell Gruffydd!" Howell trembled, but put up a soothing hand. "Aw-w-w, you wait and see, Dafydd Dafis! A prof-fit is a prof-fit, but this is wick-ed, and preposterous, and out of all reason! You wait and see! We have a meeting this morning, and p'rapss we show Mister Edward Garden he is not so clever as he think he is! He think he put his Saxon pistol to our heads like this? Indeed he make a great mistake! You wait and see, Dafydd. There iss a saying, 'He laughs best who laughs last'--you wait and see!" He patted Dafydd's shoulder and arm reassuringly, and perhaps felt heartened by his own words. "You wait and see!" he said once more, almost cheerily now. "We not pay it--never fear! I see you later----" And he hurried away, leaving Dafydd standing on the pavement. But the Council Meeting that morning settled nothing, and neither did the next Meeting nor the next after that. They wrote to Mr. Tudor Williams, but it almost looked as if Mr. Tudor Williams was taking a leaf out of their own book: if they had pressing private affairs when questions of ales and wines and spirits appeared on the agenda, so Mr. Tudor Williams pleaded a multiplicity of urgent engagements now that it was a question of water. The meeting adjourned, reassembled, adjourned again, and met again. Days passed, weeks passed. Legal opinions were taken, but no action. They fetched Mr. Tudor Williams down almost by force, and he proffered his good offices, but deprecated the serving of notices of compulsory arbitration. He advised an amicable settlement if one could possibly be arrived at. Llanyglo's anger died away, and blank despair began to take its place. Then one day Edward Garden's lawyers hinted that in the event of an arrangement being come to within a given time they were in a position to enter into certain pledges on behalf of the Railway Companies. They hinted also that they were equally in a position to do the other thing. Surely, they said, Llanyglo saw that this was a matter of its life or its death; and surely, they added, it was plain that it would not really be _they_ who were paying! Nothing of the sort! Lancashire would pay. Yorkshire would pay. The Midlands would help to pay, and perhaps also the West and South. Whoever footed his bill at hotel or boarding-establishment would be contributing--they must see that he did contribute--his portion. What though visitors grumbled and talked about extortion? They forgot all about it the next day. What though residents groaned under the burden of the rates? They must submit to conditions, like everybody else. Llanyglo must pay, and pass it on. In short, all the people who intended to have a better time than their fathers had had were to be shaven and shorn exactly as their fathers had been. Llanyglo saw it, sighed, and acquiesced. There was nothing else to do. And if Parry, of the "Lancashire Rose," or Pugh, of the "Trafford," reaped too rich a harvest by making people drunk, they must be assessed higher and higher still, and still higher, that was all. IV PAWB This question of assessment had already raised another question, which at first seemed a small one, but swelled afterwards into ominous proportions. When the rumours of those two towering new hotels had first begun to circulate, it had been a gentle and stimulating mental exercise to place, in fancy, these palaces on this spot or that. Among other suggestions, the vacant plot of land adjacent to the Kerrs' Hafod Unos had been mentioned as a fitting site for one of them. Hereupon folk had begun to ask one another: What about the Kerrs' title? Hitherto they had not thought of this. The four brothers had planted themselves there when all about had been a waste of sand, had since taken firm root, and there two of them still remained. But between such a squatting eight or nine years ago, and a sitting tight now that everything had gone up a hundredfold in value, was an immense difference. To this difference, moreover, was now added the evil repute in which Tommy Kerr lived. Ned, the alder-cutter, they would have accepted; they could live with Ned; but his brother, besides being in his unpleasant person a public nuisance, was beginning to appear a setter-back of the fingers of History's clock, a mongrel in their fine new manger, a thorn in the side of that lusty young Welsh Giantess whose figure was now one of the familiar sights on a thousand hoardings in the North. The invisible odour of stale beer-fumes in which he moved poisoned the air of the Promenade, and, though he certainly did his best to remedy this as far as the staleness was concerned (invariably beginning the day with pints and ending it with quarts), that did not improve matters in the long run. As long as Tommy Kerr was merely locked up once in a while for drunkenness, he himself paid no heed to the whispers that had begun to gather about him. He could sleep as heavily and happily in a cell as in his own Hafod. Nor were his eyes at once opened even when an inspector appeared at the Hafod and began to ask questions about its sanitation--which, by the way, was of a low order. But his brother Ned began to "study," as he called it, and the result of his studying was that he said one day to Tommy, "They'll be wanting to be shut o' you and me, Tommy." Tommy was in the act of wiping out a greasy frying-pan with a piece of old newspaper. He stopped suddenly. After a pause, "Eh?" he said.... "D'ye mean purr us out?" "We're a bit i' t' road to my way o' thinking," Ned replied, sinking back into his arm-chair again and closing his eyes. He had taken badly to heart the deaths of his brothers Harry and Sam; indeed he had not been the same man since. He frequently walked over to Sarn churchyard, sat on a flat tombstone near his brothers' grave, and smoked and spat; he was "studying" about a stone for them. Intermittently he talked about carving this with his own hands, but he delayed to do so. All the work he now did was to doze in a street-watch-man's hut, with a two-days-old newspaper on his knee and a firebasket in front of him set sideways on the wind. He was no longer the beer-drinker he had been. "Think ye?" said Tommy, after another silence. "But we donnot want to be purred out," he added resuming the wiping of the frying-pan, though more slowly. And as it seemed to be a condition of their remaining in their Hafod unmolested that they should make a show of satisfying the sanitary inspector's demands, they overhauled their drainage system and gave it the minimum of attention it demanded. Then one day an offer was made them, which was also an admission. It was an offer of compensation and of another dwelling elsewhere, and the admission apparently was that their title was a good one. Ned was for accepting the offer, and accepted it would probably have been but for a circumstance that Tommy discovered only in a roundabout way. He was congratulated one morning in the "Marine" Tap on having escaped ejectment. This was the first he had heard of ejectment. He asked a few questions, and soon after went out for a walk. Ejectment! Apparently they had been considering his ejectment, had found it for some reason or other not to be feasible, and had substituted the offer of compensation.... Then, while this offer was still neither accepted nor rejected, something else came to Tommy Kerr's ears. This was that the sites, not of one, but of both the new hotels, were at last decided on. As a matter of fact, this choice was now almost a foregone conclusion. Next to Gardd Street, which ran parallel with the shore, Pontnewydd Street, in which lay the Hafod, was becoming the principal street of the town. It ran from the shore to Pritchard's Corner, was prolonged past that to the new station, and was the main thoroughfare for landaus and wagonettes off to the mountains. The hotels were to be built one on either side of the Hafod, not actually adjoining it, but not more than a couple of strides away. Already in Tommy Kerr's suspicious mind the mischief was done. Howell Gruffydd, all blandishments to his face, had been making secret inquiries behind his back, had he? He had been talking about compensation and whispering with attorneys and such-like, had he? Very well. That settled it. Tommy would go when he was purred out, and not before. As for that snuffling Howell Gruffydd.... "So that's it, Mister Treacle-Tongue, is it?" he had muttered. "Reight. As long as we know where we are. I'm off out to buy a ha'porth o' thread----" And with the ha'porth of thread he had sewn a large button on each of his pocket-flaps, and thenceforward meeting Howell Gruffydd in the street, had ostentatiously buttoned every pocket up before answering the prosperous grocer's smiling "Good morning." They began to dig the foundations of those glittering hotels. They did so, as it happened, in the early part of that same summer that saw Edward Garden's ingenious advertisements put into execution--the summer of the Eisteddfod and the Brass Band Contest. Llanyglo was packed with people. Two days before the Eisteddfod, there began to troop into the town from all parts bards and singers, poets and harpers and minstrels and the members of a chorus five hundred voices strong. They came in their everyday clothes, moustached like vikings, bearded and maned like lions, and instantly with their coming the Saxon took a back seat. Shopkeepers left their counters, publicans clapped down the half-filled glasses, and ran to their doors as this honoured singer or that famous bard passed their windows. They walked with stately slow walk and stately slow head-turnings, and happy was the Welshman who got a motion of the hand or a benign smile from them. The Gorsedd had been publicly proclaimed; the temporary dancing hall behind Gardd Street, big enough for a regiment to drill in, had been made ready; the insignia in the Town Hall were as jealously watched and guarded as are the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London; and he was a prudent visitor who had realised that for three whole days he was likely to get but negligent attention from those who at other times were his humble servitors. For, fleer as aliens would, this was the Awakening of the Red Dragon. Their reproach that he was but a pasteboard Dragon fell to the ground. The Dragon was what the Dragon was, and if his service was theatrical, theatricalism is ennobled when its boards are the soil itself and each of its actors an Antæus, strong because his foot is upon the ground that bred him. In England, behind his smile, the Welshman is an enigma of reserve; but see him at his Eisteddfod, with money waiting to be taken at his closed shop-doors.... With the ceremony of the Gorsedd on the opening day Dafydd Dafis's spellbound and uplifted hours began. At the sounding of the trumpets his head flew proudly up; at the Drawing of the Sword and the solemn question, "Is there Peace in the land?" his voice joined in the reply, like a thunder-clap, "There is Peace"--for that was before the year when, for three whole days, the blade remained naked and bright, while far over the seas brave Englishmen and brave Welshmen fell and died together. It was the single victory of Dafydd's life. On ordinary days he now drove a road-engine--Howell Gruffydd had got him the job under the Council; but he was a Lord of Song now. He had put his name down for the "penillion" contest; should he prove successful, not he himself only, but Llanyglo also, the place of his birth, would be forever famous. He sat behind the semicircle of white-robed and oak-crowned and druid-like figures that occupied the front part of the platform, looking down on the vast oblong of faces, Saxon and Welsh, that resembled a packed bed of London Pride; he was in the tenor wedge of the chorus; and as the five hundred voices pealed together you thought of the roof and of that singer whose voice had shivered vessels of glass.... Coming out of the hall again at the end of the first day, Dafydd was still in his trance. As he walked along the street past the "Trafford" Tap, Tommy Kerr, who sat within drinking, hailed him and called for a song, while one of his boon companions crying "Nay, we don't ask nobody to sing for nowt!" cast a couple of pennies on the ground; but Dafydd seemed neither to see nor to hear. At the break-up after the last chorus an august hand had been placed on Dafydd's shoulder, and an archangelic voice had spoken to him, saying that he, he the great one, had heard of Dafydd Dafis; and what, after that, did pot-house insults matter? He passed on, his eyes still flashing and his face shining like the Silver Chair itself.... Two days later he was proclaimed the victor in the "penillion" contest, and on the day after that, still drunk with song, he drove his road-engine again. And so passed Llanyglo's first Eisteddfod. The Brass Band Contest five weeks later was a triumph in a different way. The impression now was one, not of unity, but of the keen spirit of faction. The "_Besses o' th' Barn_" were at the crest of their fame, but the "_Black Dike_" ran them close, and not far behind came "_Wyke Temperance_" and "_Meltham Mills_"; and had these been, not Bands, but football teams, local rivalry could not have run higher. True, underneath the sporting interest lay the musical. This performer's "lipping" and the "triple-tonguing" of the other were matters of endless debate among the expert; nuances of ensemble and attack were hotly argued in strong Lancashire and Yorkshire accents; and the devotees were ready to fight with their fists over the fame of the conductors of their fancy. But, without unity, the Contest proved, for all save the Brass-band-maniacs, a little wearisome. The ear began to revolt against the reiterated "test-piece," and one pitied the judge hidden away in his carefully guarded cubicle. Fewer Welsh attended the Contest than had English the Eisteddfod, and a day was judged sufficient for it. After a sensational replay with the "_Besses_," "_Black Dike_" took pride of place, with "_Meltham Mills_" third. The strains of _Zampa_ and _The Bronze Horse_ sounded once more only, when they massed the Bands in the evening in the Floral Valley; and (the Council having sanctioned a charge of sixpence as the fee for entrance) the sum of £115 was taken at the temporary barriers. So passed the Brass Band Contest also. By the June of that year the understructure of the Pier was finished, and the rest was advancing with the speed of paper-hanging. The contractors were under time-penalties to be ready for the formal opening on the forthcoming August Bank Holiday. All through the night the sounds of the planking could be heard, and pavilion-parts, lettered and numbered and ready gilded and painted, were rushed along in haste. At the same time the Big Wheel began to resemble the largest circle of the Floral Valley set up on end; it was wonderful to stand beneath it and to gaze up through the intricacy of tie and strut and lattice at the sky. Immense hoardings filled a large part of Pontnewydd Street; by and by they would be taken down again, and the façades of those magnificent new hotels would appear; but Llanyglo would scarcely turn its head to look at them. They were getting used to this now. Besides, they had plenty else to do. The town was so full that they were turning away money into its nearest place of overflow--Porth Neigr. Then, in the beginning of August, a hundred portents were fulfilled. There began to run into the station train after train, with three or four faces at each window. Doors opened almost before the engines had begun to slow down, and (as if the trains had been veins and somebody had suddenly slit them up, spilling out the life within) the platforms were suddenly black and overrun with people. They carried bags, baskets, hampers, parcels, stools, pillows, babies. Inside the carriages they left crumpled newspapers, trodden sandwiches, bottles, nuts, corks, the heads and tails of shrimps. Their tickets had been taken miles back--no collecting-staff could have coped for a moment with the emptying of those wheeled and windowed veins of impoverished blood. Parents carrying babies stood prudently aside from that first mad rush to the entrance. Many of them had been up since half-past four that morning; they had spent seven hours in the train, twelve and thirteen and fourteen in a carriage, standing, sitting on one another's knees, lying on the rows of feet; and now they made straight for air. Certain trains had been told off for week-end travellers; others were labelled "_Special_" or "_Day Excursion Only_." Those who had come by these would have seven hours in Llanyglo, and at the end of that time they would squeeze into the trains again for seven, eight, ten hours more--for on the return journey they must attend the convenience of every other wheel on the line, and a stand of an hour or so at two o'clock in the morning would be but an incident. During that short space in which they would breathe the wonderful Llanyglo air they would eat the meals they had brought with them, or else besiege the inns and eating-houses and tea-rooms and confectioners'-shops. They were the first trippers--spinning operatives, weavers, twisters, warp-dressers, mechanics, asbestos-hands, stokers, clerks, shopkeepers, the grey and unnumbered multitude itself. Some would enjoy themselves, some would vow they enjoyed themselves, and some would declare it "a toil of a pleasure," and would drag about on hot and swollen and weary feet, repeating at intervals, "Niver again--niver as long as I live!" And the lagging children's arms would be almost wrenched off at the shoulders, and some would fall asleep with the sticky paint of the penny toys dyeing their hands, and the platforms would begin to fill up again three hours before the time of departure of the train, for the sake of the chances of corner seats, or indeed of seats at all, and also because, on that horrible arduous day, the station itself would seem almost like a home.... Yes, as the Laceys and Briggses had followed Edward Garden, and those who could not (but would) afford it had followed the Briggses and Laceys, and the _Utopia_ readers these, and the fortnight and ten-days' people these, and all sorts and conditions of people for varying lengths of time these again, so now the unnumbered rest had come.... "The first tripper, and I'm off," the Briggses and the Laceys had said; and which of us is not a Briggs or a Lacey in this? Which of us can say without misgiving that he would have remained in Llanyglo? Could we have endured the sight of our kind in this bulk--or could we have endured to think, either, that if they were not there for that dreadful day they would still be elsewhere? Can we, in the unshared solitude of our hearts, bear to think of this rank and damp and steaming human undergrowth at all? Would the Squire, seeing these, still have thought as much of his books on Church Plate and Brasses, still have defended the integrity of something not for all? Would Minetta Garden have looked on them with a sort of incurious interest as so many "types"? Or would we all, Minetta, the Squire, you, I, have felt meanly and skulkingly relieved when the last tail-light had died away in the night again? There is neither "Yes" nor "No" to be answered. I may rant of brotherhood and humanity, but you--you may remember that cart jolting without noise over the sandhills, the blue and primrose petals of those butterflies, the amethyst-tufts of wild thyme, the milkwort, the harebells, and then, of a sudden, that V with the sea beyond. I, choosing to shoulder all the responsibility of a world in the making of which I was not consulted, may moisten that human peat with my tears, but you--you, passionate for beauty's sake, may mourn a loveliness deflowered and a simplicity destroyed. It is no virtue in me, no harshness in you. We both are what we are and do what we can. Llanyglo also was what it had become and did what it could. And Llanyglo, after all, had a solace that we lack. It was an inferior one, but better than nothing. Their beach might be littered, their streets made pitiful; their lodging-house keepers might put every loose jug or china dog or ornament away, and replace them again only after these had gone; strange accents might grate upon their ears, different and disliked minds frame the thoughts those accents expressed; yet balm remained. There was not a tripper, no, not the poorest of them, but spent his three, four, or five shillings in the town. PART FOUR I THE BLIND EYE Drub-drub--drub-drub-drub--drub-drub---- It was the sound of heels on the Pier. From one end of it to the other they walked, past the recesses and lamp-standards and the bright kiosks where tobacco and confectionery and walking-sticks and picture-postcards and souvenirs were sold, and then they turned and walked back. After a time the drub-drubbing became curiously hypnotising. At moments it conformed almost to a regular rhythm; then it broke up again into mere confusion, out of which another metrical beat would rise for a second or so and then become lost again. For long spaces the ear would become accustomed and cease to hear it, and would take in instead the lighter registers of tittering, soft laughter, the striking of matches and an occasional scuffle and call; but the groundwork of sound would break through again, like a muffled drum tapped by many performers at once, monotonous, reverberating, dead---- Drub-drub-drub--drub-drub--drub-drub---- It was half-past eight of a July night. Crowded as the Pier was, it would become still more so when the Concert Hall just within the turnstiles, and the Pavilion at the pier-head, turned out their audiences again. There would hardly be space to move them. The Promenade was a sweep of brilliants; Gardd Street lay unseen behind it under a golden haze; behind that again the lighted rosette of the Big Wheel turned slowly high in the sky; and the great hotels of the front were squared and mascled with window-lights. All this dance of gold and silver made an already blue evening intensely blue, and the Pier was so long that, even with quick walking, several minutes passed between your losing the rattle of hand-clapping outside the Concert Hall at one end of it, and your picking up the strains of the Pavilion orchestra at the other. Drub-drub-drub--drub-drub-drub--drub-drub---- There was hardly a bed to be had in Llanyglo. Visitors who had rashly chosen to take their chance commonly passed their first night in the waiting-rooms of the railway station. Servant-girls lay in their clothes under kitchen tables, while their own garrets were let for half a sovereign a night. Dozens slept on sofas, chairs, hearthrugs, billiard-tables, on the Promenade benches, under the tarpaulins of wagonettes and chars-à-bancs, or curled up in the boats on the shore. They Boxed-and-coxed it as they could, and the police did not trouble to shake the slumberers on whom they turned their bull's-eyes in the nooks and arbours of the Floral Valley. Drub-drub-drub--drub--drub---- And who were they now, they whose heels wore down the Pier timbers and made the brain drowsy with their ceaseless tramp? It was a curious and a rather arresting change. To all appearances, Llanyglo had now got a "better class of visitor" than it had had since the Briggses and Laceys had shaken the dust of the place from their feet. Even in this puzzle of gold and silver light and deep mysterious blue, it could be seen that there was not much Holiday Club money there. In another fortnight or so those coffers would burst over the town, drenching it with gold; but in the meantime who were these others, and what were they doing at Llanyglo? Let us ask the author of the _Sixpenny Guide_. * * * * * "When did you arrive? Only last night? And you're stopping at the 'Majestic'? Well, you've somebody there who can tell you more about it than I can--Big Annie the head-chambermaid on the first floor. There are a good many things about Llanyglo now that I've had to keep out of my _Guide_, you see. But I'll tell you what I can. "And I don't want to give you any false impression. Don't forget that scores and hundreds of families come here and bathe, and picnic, and dance, and go for drives, and enjoy themselves, and go away again without a notion that everybody here isn't exactly like themselves. And there's no harm in the Wakes people either. The worst you can say of them is that now and then one of them gets violently or torpidly drunk, as the case may be, and that all of them make a most hideous and infernal noise. So don't think I'm talking disproportionately, and that this is the only place of its kind I was ever in. "But I do mean this: that somehow or other we've now acquired a very peculiar kind of notoriety. You can deny it, disprove it, show that it isn't there at all, and--there it remains all the time. For one thing, you'll see if you look round that the place is very much less northern in character than it was, and as it happens that's very significant. For it might conceivably happen that a northerner--or a southerner, or anybody else--might have his reasons for avoiding a place that was full of other northerners, many of whom might know him (they have an expression in the North for the kind of thing I mean; they call it 'making mucky doorstones'). So you'll find lots and lots of Londoners here now, and midlanders, and easterners and westerners. They come here, where nobody's ever seen them before and will never see them again perhaps, for much the same reason that some Englishmen are said to go to Paris. "I don't want to make them out more in number than they are. Spread out over the whole country they'd only be a fractional percentage, and you'd never notice them; but when they're brought together here they're quite enough to give the place a character. They aren't the open and reckless kind. Furtiveness--complete disappearance if possible--is the whole point. They're the men who arrange for somebody to post their letters home from the place they're supposed to be really at, and the women who, as the Bible says, eat and wipe their lips and say they haven't eaten. They want to dodge, not only everybody else, but themselves also, something they're perhaps afraid of in themselves, for a fortnight, three weeks, a month. You see, they've persuaded themselves (and Llanyglo's done too well out of them to undeceive them) that things done here somehow 'don't count.' If you want to do something you'd never dare to do in a place where you were known, you come to Llanyglo to do it. If you can imagine the oasis in the desert with exactly the contrary meaning--that's us. We're an asylum for those who've lost their moral memories. "And it isn't that wedding-rings are juggled off and on, and false names entered in hotel registers, nor anything of that kind. That goes on more or less everywhere, and we haven't become notorious merely for that. And as usual, it's easier to say what it isn't than what it is. It isn't the Trwyn, for example, though that does twitter so with kisses from morning till night that you'd think it was the grasshoppers. And it isn't the almost open displays you see at certain hours wherever you go. It isn't any one fact, not even the worst. It's a faint attar of some _abandonment_, some bottomlessness, that you can't name. It may be my imagination, but I've fancied I've actually smelt it with my nostrils, coming into it from a mile out of the town. They relinquish even appearances. Most of us have the grace to cover up our sins with a decent and saving hypocrisy, but these know and understand one another so horribly well. They seem to find a comfort that they're all in the same boat. As they say themselves, 'Heaven for climate but Hell for company.' Give them your name on your visiting-card and they'll ask you by and by what your _real_ name is. Until then, neither your name nor anything else about you is their business. They haven't any business. For a week, or a fortnight, or a month, they've turned their backs on that tremendous common business that keeps the world going. It's the blind eye, and Llanyglo provides the blinkers.... "But go and talk to Big Annie. She's really a rather remarkable woman. At stated hours she sits on point duty on the landing of her floor of eighty bedrooms, just where everybody's got to pass her, and if you look like making--er--a mistake (and your hotel's quite an easy place to get lost in) she sets you right without a quiver of her face. Yes, she's rather an alarming person. There's a swiftness about her way of summing up people from a single glance at their faces. Oh, you don't take Annie in with a wedding-ring and a 'darling' or so--especially when the lady asks the darling whether he takes sugar in his early morning cup of tea.... "Yes, you go and see Annie." * * * * * Drub-drub--drub-drub-drub---- After a time that stupor of the ear became a stupor of the eye also. Even when a match glowed before a face for a moment, the stage-like lighting gave you no physiognomical information. The lamps shone on the crowns of the passing hats, but the faces beneath them were lost; all cats were grey. Any one of them might have been a giggling flapper with her eyes still sealed to Life, or one of those others mentioned by the too-curious author of the _Guide_, who would be dead to sight and thought for a space that didn't count. Light frocks and darker hues, bare heads and plaits and shawls and hooded dominoes, shop-girl and high-school girl, caps and straws and panamas, pipes and cigarettes, youths thoughtless and youths predatory--you paid your threepence at the turnstiles and watched them pass and repass. Drub-drub-drub.... And if you sat long enough, changes began to be perceptible. The flappers who were evidently high-school girls began to be fewer, and others took their places--for most of the shops of Llanyglo closed at nine or half-past, and the released waitresses and assistants who had been on their feet all day were still not too weary to add to the drub-drubbing. It was difficult to say in what particular these were distinguishable. It was not their dress--the universal attainment of a certain standard of dressing is one of our modern miracles. You would not have had it from their own lips--you would have been tactless in the extreme not to have assumed that they also were visitors (as a matter of fact, they would calmly make appointments for four o'clock of the next day, knowing perfectly well that at that hour they would be giving change in a cash-desk or hurrying hither and thither with piles of bread and butter and trays awash with spilt tea). Perhaps it was the young men they greeted and their way of greeting them. They didn't come out for these last hours of the day to gossip with those to whom they had called "Sign!" all the afternoon, their own foremen, companions, or the tradesmen of the shop opposite. Drub-drub--drub-drub---- There passed through the Season Ticket turnstile two young men. Both wore dark suits and conventional collars and ties (as if they, at any rate, had no need to don their coloured jackets and flannel trousers while they could), and the attendant at the turnstile had touched his cap as they had passed. One of them, the taller of the two, wore his straw hat halo-wise at the back of his head, filled his pipe as he walked, and looked cheerfully and unobservingly about him; the other's straw was well down, and the eyes beneath its brim sought somebody or something, and would apparently be satisfied with nothing less. The first was Percy Briggs, and everybody in Llanyglo knew Percy Briggs--Percy Briggs, who strolled casually into Hotel Cosies towards midday, nodded to the more favoured ones, said to the barmaid "So and So been in yet?" and, getting a bright "No, Mr. Briggs, not yet" for an answer, lounged out again without having had a drink--a sufficient gage of privilege and familiarity with the place. The other was John Willie Garden, who knew Llanyglo, knew which faces had been there last year and the year before, and was now looking for a face he had seen yesterday evening for one moment only and had then lost again. The Pier was an old, old story to him now. Between seasons, on winter nights, the drub-drub of a few months before seemed sometimes still faintly to echo in his ears--this when the grey skies came, and in the hotels a few rooms only were kept open for unprofitable commercial travellers, and the Promenade was empty, and the Pleasure Packet Service laid up, and a walk to the end of the Pier and back seemed a long way to feet that had covered the distance twenty times on a summer's evening, and the colourless sea seemed to give to the red and white blink of the Trwyn Light a sudden and nearer significance. He knew every hour of Llanyglo's day--the hours of departure of the pleasure-boats to Rhyl and Llandudno and round Anglesey, the bathing-hours in the morning, the high-school parade at midday, the second bathing relay in the afternoon, the tea-hour, the walk of parents and children to see the boats come in again in the early evening, and then, as the evening wore on, the successive appearances and droppings out of this kind or that, the emptying of the Pavilions, the inflow of the shop-girls and waitresses, the rush for the public-houses half an hour before the Pier lights went out, the thinning numbers who beat the Promenade, the parties of the Alsatians who sat up in one another's hotels long after every public drinking-place had been closed. He had nothing further to learn about it all, and it bored him. Only his search for that girl had brought him on the Pier to-night. He had been almost certain he knew her, but where he had seen her face before he could not for the life of him remember. Perhaps he did not know her after all; indeed, when he came to think of it, no memory of a voice seemed to go with the face, so that the probability was that if he had seen her before he had never spoken to her. She had been standing, in that blue twilight, clear of the throng, under the single crimson pier-head light, looking out over the water that seemed still to reflect a light that had faded from the sky, and for a moment John Willie had wondered what she was looking at. The next moment he had seen--and so, confound it, had twenty others. A yellow spot, like a riding-light, had risen out of the sea; almost as quickly as the second-hand of a watch moves, it had become a tip; and then the lookers-in at the glass sides of the Pavilion had run to see the rising of the bloated, refraction-magnified, burning yellow horn. In that little running of people he had lost her. Twice, thrice he had walked the whole length of the Pier, but without seeing her again. All of her that he could now remember was the carriage of her head and her plain black dress, and he knew that dress, in this extraordinary raising of the standard of dressing which implies the possession by almost everybody of two dresses at least, was an uncertain guide. Another rattle of hand-clapping broke out as Percy Briggs and John Willie passed the turnstiles. "Any good looking in there?" Percy asked, nodding towards the Concert Hall, but John Willie made no reply. He was as cross as a bear with a sore head. Twice already he had rounded on Percy, who had proposed drinks at this place or that, and had snapped "You go if you want--I'm not keeping you;" but Percy had replied good-naturedly, "Oh, all right, keep your hair on." The sounds of two more pairs of heels were added to the drub-drubbing on the planks of the Pier. It seemed idle to seek, but John Willie stood looking in at the glass sides of the Pavilion at the pier-head, searching the bright and crowded interior. His mind was as obstinately set as that of a mule. It seemed to him idiotic that all those rows and rows of people should clap the inanities of the young man in knee-breeched evening-dress who strutted and made painted eyes over the top of a flattened opera-hat, or encore Miss Sal Volatile, all spidery black silk stockings below and cocksfeather boa and enormous black halfmoon hat above. John Willie turned away to the low-burning crimson pier-light. He stood there for some moments, and then began to stride back the length of the Pier again. "Chucking it?" said Percy, half sympathetic, half "getting at" John Willie. "Come on to the Kursaal," John Willie grunted. The Kursaal lay behind the two frontages of Gardd and Pontnewydd Streets, and it could be reached from either thoroughfare. From Gardd Street, up another short street, the great lighted semicircle of what was then its Main Entrance could be seen; and if the minor entrance from Pontnewydd Street was at that time less resplendent, that was because the Kerrs' Hafod stood in the way of opening it up. With its grounds and theatre and vast dancing-hall, the Kursaal covered getting on for an eighth of a square mile; but a third or more of that was still in progress of being laid out and planted--once more by Philip Lacey. Crossing the Promenade to the less crowded pavement beyond, John Willie and Percy strode the half-mile to the Kursaal. There was a queue about the turnstiles, but John Willie made a sign to an attendant, who flung up the Exit Only barrier. They passed under trees with many-coloured electric lights among the branches, and the slowly turning Big Wheel, which made a quarter-arch of lights over the tower of the Central Hall, dipped behind it again as they reached the steps that led to the vestibule. For size alone, apart from any other consideration, the dancing-hall of the Llanyglo Kursaal is one of the wonders of the North. It cost a hundred thousand pounds to build, and since it can dance a thousand couples, to seek anybody there without going up into the balconies is like looking for a needle in a bottle of hay. The band was not playing at the moment when Percy and John Willie entered; but before they had reached the top of an empty half-lighted series of staircases the distant strains of a Barn Dance had broken out. Then, with the pushing at a door, it burst loudly upon them. John Willie strode down the shallow gallery steps, made for a front seat whence he could see the whole length of the vast oblong below, spread out his elbows and set his chin on his wrists, and, once more muttering "You go and get your drink if you want," began to search the hall with gloomy blue eyes, very much as a boy flashes a bit of looking-glass hither and thither in the sun. Now when the Wakes people come to Llanyglo, and the pleasant family parties yield place a little, and drive in the mountains more frequently, and leave the Pier and Promenade a little earlier, and gather more often at one another's hotels--even then that dancing-hall is so vast that twenty different elements can be accommodated there without mixing or encroachment. But that series of precipitations had not yet taken place. That night all was homogeneous. Perhaps here and there other contacts had sparsely "crossed," as it were, that fresh blooming, as the white hawthorn takes on faintly the hue of the pink in the spring, but that was probably rare. John Willie, had he had eyes for it, looked down upon a wonderful sight. The hall was a creamy gold, with bow after bow along its balcony tiers; without its other innumerable clusters of lights, the eight arc-lamps in its high roof would have lighted it no better than a railway station is lighted; and the mirrors on the walls were hardly more polished than its satiny floor. A fully appointed stage half-way down one of the sides held an orchestra of thirty performers; walking across that wonderfully swung floor you felt something almost alive under your feet; and four thousand feet moved upon it that night. It was beautiful. The band was playing, slowly, as is the dancing-fashion of the North, that Barn Dance; and almost every girl was in white. The whites were the whites of flowers--the greenish white of guelder-roses, the yellow white of elder or of meadow-sweet, the pinkish white of the faintest dog-rose, the dead white of narcissi, but little that was not white. And because of all that soft whiteness, faces caught by the sun were browner, and hair that the wind had blown through all day glossier, and eyes brighter, and perhaps blushes quicker and more readily seen. And to the whole bright spectacle was added the impressiveness of unfaltering rhythm and simultaneousness of movement. The Colour on the Horse Guards' Parade is not honoured with greater precision of physical movement than these disciplined feet, these turning bodies; the pulsing floor itself answered to the delicate dip of the conductor's stick. For two bars ... but look at them as they pour towards you down the left side of the room. Every face is towards you, forty abreast, and forty following those, and more forties, columns and squadrons of them, coming forward as grain comes down a channel, as graded fruit pours down a shoot. You do not see where they come from--their turn is far away under the pillars there; you do not see where they go to--they pass away out of sight again beneath you. They do not seem the same over and over again, but all the youths and maidens of the world, coming on and on, and new, always new.... Then you look to the right, and instantly your eyes are sensible of a darker ensemble. That is because you see, not faces now, but the backs of heads; not gaily striped shirts and bright ties, but plain shoulders only. And they pass away as they came, all the youths and maidens of the world with their backs to you. Not one turns for a look at you, not one nods you farewell. It is like your own youth leaving you.... And then magically all alters. Two more bars and, as if some strange and all-potent and instantaneously acting element had been dropped into the setting and returning human fluid, of a sudden it all breaks up. It effervesces. Every couple is seen to be waltzing. Two by two they turn, and your youth is no longer coming to you nor departing from you, but stops and plays. It stops and plays--for two bars--and lo, the other again. Once more they troop towards you with their faces seen, once more troop away with faces averted. The illusion becomes a spell. Coming, going, all different, all the same, parallel legions with faces to the future and faces to the grave--it is a little like Llanyglo itself. Suddenly you find yourself drawn a little closer to John Willie Garden. You do not want to look down from a balcony on all the young manhood and young womanhood of the world. One, one only, will suffice you, and with her you will come brightly down, all eyes and rosiness and laughter, and with her go in a soberer livery away again.... But luckier you than John Willie if you find that one. His eyes, practised as they were in scanning the Kursaal throng, did not see her. The _coda_ came; the vast oblong well lighted up for a moment as a poplar lights up when the wind blows upon it--it was the slightly wider swing of skirts seen from above as the dance quickened to its finale; and then, as if something else potent and inimical had been dropped into the solution, there was a break for the sides, and the shining floor was seen again. "Damn!" muttered John Willie Garden. Percy, relishing the spectacle of John Willie on the hunt, was in no hurry. "The arbours?" he suggested laconically as John Willie rose; but again John Willie did not reply. For one thing, it was a little difficult to see into those dark nooks among Philip Lacey's barrows and planks and new larches and heaps of upturned earth; for another, he had an assurance that she he sought would not be there. "Come on," he grunted. "Ah!" said Percy, with an exaggerated shake of himself. "Has the moment at last arrived when we quaff?" But already John Willie had stridden on ahead. They took a known short cut through dark and obstructed windings, and presently reached the side-door of the adjoining hotel. It had certain rooms where ladies unaccompanied might get a drink, but into these they barely glanced. Percy grinned. Should John Willie find the object of his search in one of the other rooms, then there was reasonable hope of a row. He had never before seen John Willie so persistently asking for trouble. The door at which they paused showed a room crowded, bright, and full of a lawn of tobacco-smoke. It was not a large room, but it must have held twenty men and as many women, and you could have seen their like on any summer Sunday at Tagg's Island, or any day in Regent Street, or on Brighton Front. They sat in chairs of saddlebag or leather, and the fingers of the men were poised over the large cigar-boxes the waiters held before them, or else made little circular gestures about the circumference of the little round tables, as much as to say "Same again" or "Mine." Little but champagne, liqueurs, or brandies-and-soda seemed to be to their taste, and John Pritchard might indeed have thought them "very ritss whatever"; gold seemed to come from them at a touch, notes at little more. Just within the door a very brown man sat with a plump little lady about whose short fingers gems seemed to have candied, as sugar candies about a string; and next to them another man admired as much of his companion's shoes as could be seen for the champagne cooler on the floor. There was not much noise. There was a good deal of whispering about horses. A ring was widened for the new-comers about one of the larger tables--"Arthur!" Percy called as he passed one of the waiters. "Bag o' beer, and Mr. P. Briggs's compliments to Miss Price and will she please come at once." They settled down. This was Percy's present humour--to drink pints of beer from a silver tankard that resembled a tun among the gem-like liqueur-glasses, and to make love to Miss Price, the fat and creasy and unapproachable hotel-manageress. Perhaps he intended to convey that few other new sensations remained to him at the end of his three-and-twenty hard-lived years. Sometimes John Willie laughed at this posture of his friend's, but to-night he thought it merely stupid and idiotic. He had come here because he had thought he might as well be having a drink as fruitlessly searching; now he thought he might as well be searching as having a drink he didn't want. Percy was ordering the drinks now--"Vermouth, Val? Cissie, your's is avocat, I know. Now, Johannes Guglielmus, what will you imbibe?" Presently John Willie sat glowering at a whiskey-and-soda. The girl on his left, whom Percy had addressed as Cissie, made an arch attempt to talk to him, and then gave up the laborious task and turned her back. Miss Price, the manageress, appeared, and Percy began his stupid and facetious love-making. John Willie wondered whether he had searched the Dancing-Hall thoroughly after all. The table grew noisy, and there were appreciative grins from other tables; Percy was trying to draw that disgustingly fat manageress on to his knee. And, with the pace thus set by Percy, the whole room woke up. The waiters began to move about more quickly and to call for assistance, and there was applause as somebody opened the lid of the piano.... John Willie sat before his untouched whiskey-and-soda. He was once more wondering whether it would be worth while to return to the Dancing-Hall, or whether she might not by this time be on the Pier. And again, and ever again, he wondered when and where he had seen her before.... Again Percy's silly joyous voice broke in. He was expostulating with Miss Price. "Look, Cissie's sitting on Val's----" "Let be, Mr. Briggs--indeed I will not be pulled about like that!----" "Then sit on Mr. Garden's--cheer him up--he's looking for Gertie, the Double-Blank from Blackburn, and can't find her----" "There, now, Mr. Briggs!--Now I shall have to go and get a needle and thread!----" Somebody interposed.--"Here, chuck it, Percy; somebody might come in.... Hallo, John Willie, you off?" For John Willie had pushed back his chair. He reached for his hat. "Leave us a lock of your hair for my mourning-brooch," Percy's muffled voice came after him, but he was off. Perhaps she would be at the Wheel.... But she was not at that immense tyre slung with upholstered coaches, nor yet to be seen at the side-shows round about. He left the Kursaal, and joined the dense throng that made a double stream under the Promenade lamps. He told himself he was a fool. She might have left Llanyglo within a few hours of his having seen her--might be back in any of the towns of England or Scotland or Wales by this time. But he did not cease to seek. He reached the Pier again. Drub-drub-drub-drub-drub-drub-drub. It was now solid with flesh, and indeed he had not walked half its length when the closing-bell clanged. The glow over the pier-head Pavilion went suddenly out, and so, a few moments later, did a hundred yards of the lamps on either side. He heard the usual cries of mock-terror. It was no good going up there now.... Nor would she be in the Floral Valley. In fact, he had better give it up. He had better clear out of Llanyglo for a bit. He was sick of this dusty dance of pleasure, and the Wakes crowds would be here in a few days.... He would go and fish up Delyn. The Water Scheme hadn't spoiled the lake; they had only built a quite small dam with locks at one end, and the grid of service-reservoirs was lower down. Sharpe had left the hut. He would go there for a few days and have his bread and mutton and cheese sent up from the inn in the valley below. He would tell Minetta to get somebody to stay with her, and would go in the morning.... He was passing the closed fancy-shop at the corner of Gardd Street when he came to this resolution; and suddenly he stopped dead. Minetta!... What was it that the thought of his sister, coming at this moment, reminded him of? It was odd, but it had certainly reminded him of something that had seemed to come near him only to escape him again immediately. Minetta!... He saw Minetta daily. There was nothing new about Minetta. She looked after the house, and if he wasn't going to be in for meals he mentioned the fact, or sometimes didn't, and beyond that, to tell the truth, he didn't very often think of Minetta. He didn't suppose she would ever marry--wasn't that kind. He remembered that years ago that genial idiot Percy Briggs had fancied himself "sweet" on her, but that sketching of hers---- _Ah!_ John Willie, who had been still standing at the corner, moved slowly forward again. He had got it. He _knew_ he'd been right! It was a little boast of his that he remembered faces rather well, and the thing that had perplexed him for two days was now clear. In a flash he saw in his mind the Llanyglo of the days of the Briggses and Laceys. He saw a bright diminutive picture of deck-chairs and bathing-tents on the shore, and June Lacey and Wiggie having their fortunes told. And he saw a gipsy child, with a head held as if it had borne an invisible pitcher, and then a foot cut by a piece of glass, and himself and Percy packed off home in disgrace, and Percy's mother washing the gashed foot with water from a picnic-basket and tying it up with a handkerchief. Then Minetta had come up, and had said that she was going to make a sketch of the child.... Ah! It was _she_ who had stood under the red pier-light, watching that cadmium horn of the moon that lifted itself out of the sea! II JUNE As it happened, John Willie did not go off fishing on the morrow. He expected that Minetta would be in bed when he got home, but as he passed up the path he saw a light burning high in the front of the house. It was in the room beneath that date-stone under which he had once put a sixpence, and that room, because of its high and uninterrupted view of the sea, was one of the guest-chambers. He wondered who had come. His supper was laid in the dining-room, but he did not want it, and so passed straight upstairs. As he turned along the landing to his own room he heard a door opened on the floor above, and his sister called "Is that you?" He answered, entered his bedroom, and began to undress. But he had scarcely got his boots unlaced when there came a tap at the door, and Minetta entered. Her dark hair was in plaits, she wore a wrap over her nightdress, and she carried on her hip a tray with two claret-stained glasses and a salver with a cut cake. Evidently there had been a girls' bedroom orgie. "Who's come?" John Willie asked, throwing aside his second boot. "June Lacey. You knew she was coming," Minetta answered accusingly. "No, I didn't--first I've heard of it." "You never hear anything when you're reading a newspaper. I told you at breakfast this morning, and that she was going to wire the time of the train. And you were out, and I had to leave everything and go and meet her myself." "Sorry," John Willie grunted. He remembered now. "I mean, I didn't gather it was to-day." "Well, I hope you'll manage to spare her an hour or two now that she's here," Minetta said a little crossly. "I did tell her to come just whenever she wished, and she didn't know the Wakes were coming on." "All right," John Willie yawned. "I was going fishing, that's all; but I won't if you don't want. How long's she staying?" "At least a fortnight. So don't say I haven't told you that. And do try to be in just occasionally. Have you had supper?" "I didn't want any, thanks. Sorry I forgot, Min. Say good night to June for me." Five minutes later he had turned out the gas and tumbled into bed. Except that she postponed his escape from ennui for a day or two, June's arrival was a matter of indifference to him. He had known her for so long that he regarded her almost as if she had been a split-off portion of Minetta herself, that happened to possess its own apparatus of speech and locomotion. He could no more have said whether she was pretty than he could have said whether Minetta was pretty. It was no trouble to talk to June. As much talk as was necessary came of itself. He had only to say "You remember so-and-so----" or "Like that time when----" and conversation sustained itself out of a hundred trifles desultorily familiar to both of them. That, at any rate, was a comfort. With anybody new he would have had to take a certain amount of trouble. With June it didn't matter. So, at breakfast the next morning, he did not actually read the newspaper as he ate, but he threw out a remark from time to time as it were over the edge of an imaginary newspaper, and then asked June what she would like to do that morning. When she replied that she wanted him to do just whatever he had intended to do, he even hoisted himself to the level of a little ceremoniousness, and told her that he had no plans at all save to amuse her--what about a bathe, the morning Concert in the Pavilion, a drive in the afternoon, and so on? By keeping to this beaten track of enjoyment, he could, at one and the same time, be entertaining June and keeping an eye open for that gipsy girl who haunted his imagination. "A bathe?" said June.... "Oh, of course! How stupid of me! I'd forgotten there was mixed bathing here now. What a change!... Wasn't there a frightful row about it?" There had been a row, but it had been short and sharp. Briefly, Blackpool and Douglas and Llandudno had settled the matter for them, and, after a protest for conscience's sake--and also a little more well-judged absenteeism--even Howell Gruffydd, now Chairman of the Council, and John Pritchard, a Councillor in his second year, had yielded. A portion of the shore had been set apart for this "playing with fire," but within a year even this had become a dead letter. The only thing that now distinguished this portion of the beach from the rest was a certain heightened jocundity in the advertisements on the sides of the bathing-machines at that spot. The virtues of Pills and Laxatives were a little more loudly announced there, and this heartiness and lack of false shame culminated in a long hoarding that was erected on one of the groynes, and bore on one side the legend "THE NAKED TRUTH" (which was that Somebody's Remedies were the Best), and on the other the words "TO THE PURE" (who were warned against Fraudulent Imitations). For the rest folk now bathed where they would. So, idly, John Willie told June of the town's struggle between its principles and its living, and then they rose from the table. When June heard that Minetta wasn't coming with them she wanted to stay behind and help; but Minetta persuaded her that she would only be in the way, and that anyway she couldn't help her with her painting; and presently, with towels and costumes, she and John Willie went forth and, after a casual discussion about its being rather soon after breakfast to bathe, descended to the beach. June was certainly a pretty enough girl for even a fastidious young man to be seen about with. No neater shoes than those that moved beneath the gypsophylla of her petticoats were to be seen on the whole Promenade, and she held her longish figure trimly, and was almost on the "fast" side with her little thin switch of a cane. She was an inch taller than John Willie, too, which was another inch of smartness to be seen walking with. He found her a bathing-machine and secured another for himself; and when, presently, they lay on their backs side by side a hundred yards farther out from the shore than anybody else, with the sun hot on their faces and their eyes blinking up at the intense blue, they continued to talk as they had talked before--of who had been to Llanyglo lately and who had not, and of what had become of Mrs. Maynard, and whether anybody had seen Hilda Morrell lately, and whether that London man--what was his name--Mr. Ashton--had been heard of since. John Willie, for his part, asked how Mrs. Lacey and Wiggie were, and told June what a lot was thought of her father's laying out of the Kursaal Gardens, and asked her when the work was expected to be finished. Then they came in again, dressed, and regained the Promenade. John Willie was surprised to find how quickly the morning went. The Concert was half over by the time they reached the Pavilion, and when the Concert was over and the drub-drub on the boards of the Pier became incessant, June said that, build as they would, it would be a long time before they built on the Trwyn. To that John Willie replied that he wasn't so sure, and told her of how at one time it had been a toss-up whether they wouldn't make a terrace there and build the "Imperial" on it; and June's reply was that she would never have thought it. Then John Willie looked at his watch, and at first thought it must have stopped, the time had flown so. They turned their faces to the Promenade again, and at a Booking Kiosk John Willie ordered a landau for half-past two. Minetta (he told June) would have finished her work by then, and the three of them could go either out Abercelyn way, or through Porth Neigr and round home, or along the Delyn road, just as June wished. June said that if she really had her choice, she would like the Abercelyn drive, because it was years since she had been there, and she would like to see how much it had altered. So out towards Abercelyn the three of them went that afternoon, and June's eyes opened wide at the Sarn manganese sidings, and John Willie told her to mind that gypsophylla of her petticoats against the coal-heaps and grease-boxes of the wagons. Then back in the landau again, he took a well-earned rest while Minetta and June talked. He leaned back against the hot leather, and smoked and watched them, and wondered, first, whether anybody would ever marry Minetta, and, next, whether anybody would ever marry June, and then all at once found himself wondering about the gipsy girl again. Suppose he should take seats for June and Minetta at some entertainment that evening, should see them comfortably settled, and should then go out for another look for her?... But, now that he knew who she was, he thought of her, somehow, ever so slightly differently. He was no less set on finding her; indeed he was more set; but part of the possible surprise and excitement had certainly gone. Had he apparently not been destined not to see her again, the thing would have been less of an adventure than he had at first supposed. There would have been far fewer discoveries to make. It might even have been difficult to talk to her. He could talk pleasantly to June and be thinking of something else all the time; but he could hardly have asked Ynys Lovell how her mother was getting on with her chair-mending and fortune-telling, or have told her that he had heard that her kinsman Dafydd Dafis had won the "penillion" contest at the Eisteddfod.... _Ah!_---- Again he had it, and, lying back on the hot leather of the hired landau, wondered that he had not had it sooner. Of course--Dafydd Dafis. If anybody knew where she was, Dafydd would know. _That_ was what he would do that evening while Minetta and June were at the Concert. He would take a stroll to Dafydd's house (which was no longer the single-roomed cottage near the old Independent Chapel, but a two-roomed one in Maengwyn Street), and he would sit down and have a smoke and ask Dafydd how all was with him.... At this point he became conscious that June was speaking to him. She was offering him a penny for his thoughts. Instantly he fell into the rut of easy conversation again. It took him hardly a moment to find a topic. "Eh?" he said.... "Oh!--You can have them for nothing. I was just thinking of that place of the Kerrs in Pontnewydd Street. I suppose you've heard all about that?" "No, I've not heard a word," June declared. "Do tell me!" After all, it was but a step from his real thought to the narrative he now told June. Between Dafydd Dafis and Tommy Kerr was now the association of an all but declared feud, which would break out into open enmity the moment anything happened to Tommy's brother Ned. More than any man in Llanyglo Dafydd had writhed at that wonderful building of the Hafod Unos, and since then he had remembered something else that had set him darkly flushing. It had been Tommy Kerr (or one of his boon companions--it came to the same thing) who, when Dafydd had returned rapt after the first day of the Eisteddfod, had cast two-pence on the ground and had drunkenly demanded a song. Yes, that remark, scarce heard at the time, had come back since. They had offered him, Dafydd, their dirty dross in exchange for Song, and had bidden him stoop to pick it up.... And that mortal insult had reminded Dafydd of an older memory still. This was, that of the four Kerrs, Tommy had been the only one who had not tumbled into that open boat when that chilling cry of "_Llongddrylliad!_" had sounded on that stormy night years and years before. That that had not been Tommy's fault mattered nothing; as soon as Dafydd had remembered this he had felt himself released from the last shadow of an obligation. It was another stick to beat Tommy with and "beating him" now meant, as everybody knew, waiting until his brother died and then "purring" him out of the Hafod, if not by fair means, then--well, purring him out none the less. And that stick Tommy was to be beaten with was only the latest of many. It was a whole history of sticks--of the Council's Sons of Belial set at Tommy, collectors, inspectors of this and that and the other, policemen to apprehend him for drunkenness, sergeants to warn publicans that if they harboured Tommy they might be made to feel it in other ways.... But lately they had withdrawn this last prohibition. Putting their heads together, they had judged it best that Tommy should drink all he could, and more.... He had done so, and did not seem a single penny the worse for it. Moreover, he had now openly declared himself an abominator of Welshmen and everything else Welsh. Nightly he zig-zagged home crying out against the whole smiling, thievish crew, their Kursaals and Pavilions and Dancing-Halls and Concerts Llanyglo. He lurched along Pontnewydd Street after everybody else had gone to bed, roaring "_Glan Meddwdod Mwyn_." How he had twenty times escaped breaking his neck when they had laid down the Pontnewydd Street tramlines nobody knew.... And whenever he remembered that they wanted his Hafod and would have it as soon as Ned died, he offered to _give_ it away to any Welshman who would repeat after him, word for word ... but his forms of words varied widely, and no more than the Amalekites could some of those against whom he railed pronounce his words that began with "sh." So John Willie, as the landau bowled homewards, had to tell June all this, and June was extraordinarily interested. Minetta watched them both, and, in her turn, wondered about John Willie and _his_ marrying. She liked to have June to visit her; she wasn't so sure that she wanted June as a standing ornamental dish. Indeed she rather thought she didn't, and, allowing for many large but still accidental differences, Minetta was not without a trace of the malicious humour of Tommy Kerr himself. In fairness she had to admit, however, that so far there were no signs that June was setting her cap at John Willie. That night again, however, John Willie had little luck of his searching, this time of Dafydd Dafis. He sought him at his home, he sought him abroad, but he failed to find him and he joined June and his sister again where they sat listening to The Lunas, those incomparable Drawing-Room Entertainers. He bought them chocolate and he bought them ices, and then, at the end of the performance, he proposed a walk along the Promenade before they turned in. Not to lose them, he passed an arm through either of theirs, his sister's arm and that of this tall and pretty and undisturbing extension of his sister. They set their faces towards the Pier that stretched like a sparkling finger out to sea. It was the hour of the ebb, and lately, at that hour, an odd and new activity had begun to make sharper that contrast between the bright and crowded and restless Promenade and the solemn void that pushed as it were its dark breast against that two-miles-long chain of gold and silver lamps, straining the slender fetter into a curve. Down below the railings, at three or four points, not more, an upturned face with tightly shut eyes was praying aloud. They looked like little floating, drowned, yet speaking masks. Each evangelist had his little knot of three or four companions, but these had come with him, and of hearers they had none. They stood on the trampled sand, just below the gas-lighted line of pebbles; a boat drawn up, or a yard or two of groyne, struggled between light and shadow beyond them; far out in the bay the twinkle of a solitary light could be seen; the rest was blackness and immensity. It made Infinity seem strangely weak. Here It was, striving to make Itself known to the finite, Its sole instrument a little oval mask and a voice that could not be heard five yards away; and never a head was turned. Calling and laughing, the babel of their voices like the rattle of the pebbles that roll back with the retiring wave, they passed and passed and passed. One would have said that some vast angelic skater had cut that sweeping outside-edge of light, and then, repulsed, had rushed away into the darkness again. And this was something else for John Willie to tell this pretty, unexigent June. It had only been going on about a fortnight, he said, but he didn't think they'd heard the last of it yet. There was a Revival or something coming slowly up the coast, he said, and--who did June think was doing it?--why, Eesaac Oliver Gruffydd! "Never!" June exclaimed. "Rather! You remember him, don't you? Howell Gruffydd the grocer's son; pale-faced chap, with a great lump of hair; and by Jove, he is stirring 'em up! He started at Aberystwith, and worked his way up through Aberdovey and Towyn and Barmouth and Portmadoc, with no end of crowds following him wherever he went. I expect he'll be here presently. If he comes when the Wakes are on there will be a shindy!... I say, aren't you feeling a bit cold? Better be getting along home. I'll take you as far as the corner, and then if you don't mind I'll leave you--I want to find a man if I can----" Five minutes later he had got rid of them, and stood in meditation. Was it worth while trying for Dafydd Dafis again? Or taking another stroll along the Pier? Perhaps it wasn't. He was rather tired, and this seemed a stupid kind of thing he had been doing for the last few days. He'd potter about with June for another day--perhaps he had rather neglected Minetta lately--and then for the fishing up Delyn. In that way he would be off just as the Wakes people arrived. Already the lodging-house keepers were getting ready for them, putting away their ornaments and so on. They would be here on Friday night; to-day was Wednesday; John Willie would be off on Friday morning. This time he kept to his decision. He walked about with the pretty and untroublesome June all the next morning, and in the afternoon Minetta joined them. She approved warmly of his fishing-plan, and said she was sure the change would do him good. He told them to keep away from the crowds and not to be out too late, and then, on the Friday morning set off. When, at nine o'clock the same night, he walked up the path again and appeared in the dining-room just as June and Minetta were thinking of going to bed, Minetta stared. She had thought him miles away. She stared still harder when he mumbled that he had "forgotten something," and intended to be off again in the morning. III DELYN He had not at first seen that black dress. Sharpe's old cottage was never locked, and he had walked straight in, had put down his little dressing-bag, and had begun to empty his pockets, setting his flask, his fly-book, his store of tobacco and certain provisions on the little deal table under the single window. At a first glance there was nothing to show that the place had been entered since he had last been there. The mattress of Sharpe's narrow pallet had been rolled up at the bed-head and a patchwork quilt spread over it; the two windsor chairs stood in their accustomed places; and the rods in their brown canvas covers stood as usual in the corner. Only Sharpe's photographs had gone from the walls, leaving the little black heads of nails and tacks, each over its slightly paler oblong of plain deal boarding. Had not John Willie thought that he had better drag the bedding on which he was to sleep out into the sun at once, he would not have found the frock. It had been thrown across the roll of mattress and covered with that old piece of patchwork. Nor, since it was folded in a square, did he even then recognise the thing for a frock. Only when he had picked it up and it had revealed itself had he stood, suddenly arrested, alternately gazing at it and then looking obliquely at the floor. Then, as he had slowly put it down again, at its full length this time, there had peeped at him from half under the roll of mattress, first a white linen collar with one of the little sham pearl studs that are given away with such things still in one of its button-holes, and next a pair of tiny cylindrical cuffs.... Perhaps already, deep within himself, he had known that she was not far away.... Then, slowly and methodically, he had begun to search the hut. His search had been productive of the following discoveries:-- Thrust under the bed: A newish oval brown tin box (which he had not opened), and a pair of black shoes. On the lower shelf of Sharpe's little provision-cupboard: a round narrow-brimmed black hat. On the upper shelf, among cups, plates, and other odds and ends: A seven-pound paper bag half full of flour, and a mug with some still fresh milk in it--he tasted it. Outside the hut: A stone or two in a little clearing in the fern, a stick-heap, the ashes of a recent fire, and a frying-pan. Then he had re-entered the hut. He had sat down in one of the windsor chairs. He had been filling his third or perhaps his fourth pipe when she herself had appeared in the doorway. All this had been the day before. * * * * * As he now walked up that one-in-seven slope under the firs he remembered again, for the fiftieth time in twenty hours, her appearance as she had stood there. She had worn an old red blouse which she had not troubled to tuck in at the waist, a petticoat of faded greenish-blue (no gypsophylla there), and her legs and feet had been bare. And at first he had thought she was going to run away. But she had only recoiled as a cat recoils, yielding ground without abandoning it. He himself had not moved. Move, and she might still be off as suddenly as a hare; sit still and say "Hallo, Ynys, not much in the chair-mending line up here, is there?" and she might stay.... And now, as he trudged up under the firs, he blamed Llanyglo that he had not heard that her mother was dead. Had Llanyglo remained a hamlet, or had it grown merely reasonably and within measure, the death even of Belle Lovell would have been an event; now, with towns in Lancashire half-emptied (he had seen it that morning, Llanyglo black and boiling like a cauldron of pitch with the people of the Wakes)--now such simple happenings passed unnoticed. Belle had died a year before, but that was not the reason Ynys wore black. She wore black because black was the livery of Philip Lacey's Liverpool flower-shop girls. Black showed up the flowers to better advantage. Ynys, after months of lonely wanderings and getting of her bread as best she could, had remembered Philip Lacey's promise when she had cut her foot that morning on the shore, had tramped to Liverpool, had asked for Philip at his principal establishment in Lord Street, and now sold stately blooms the poor hedgerow cousins of which she had formerly given away, pattering bare-foot after pedestrians on the road with them in her hand. She had been given a fortnight's holiday, and had come to Llanyglo to spend it. As the path under the firs grew steeper still, John Willie wondered whether she would have kept her word to him. He had made her welcome to the cottage of which she had already made free, but that, he knew, did not mean that she might not have packed up and fled the moment he had turned his back--no, not even though she had promised not to do so. He had seen enough of her yesterday to guess that her word given would be an empty and artificial thing the moment her inclination changed; nay, she might have given it with no intention whatever of keeping it, just to gain a little time. Even should he find her frock and her oval tin box still there, that would not necessarily mean that she would return. A box of matches was her luggage. Except as a depository for these things she had not used the hut. She had cooked her meals outside, and had slept on a litter of bracken. Nevertheless, John Willie had left the cottage to her, and, for fear a stray shepherd might gossip, had himself returned home rather than sleep at the inn a few miles below. He continued to climb, past rocks spotted with pennywort and trickling with rills, orange and whitey-green with lichen and tongued with polypodi, past crops of dead nettle and vistas of fronds, past dust of pine-needles and debris of cones. Now and then a flutter of wings broke the stillness of the aisles, but no song; and always he had the skyline almost overhead on his right, and on his left, beyond the little grid of reservoirs far below, the crisscrossing AAAA's of a mountain-side of larches. She had not taken advantage of his absence to fly. He saw her as he ceased to climb and gained the half-way fold that held Llyn Delyn in its crook. She was standing outside the hut, but she was not wearing the old unconfined red blouse of the day before now. The small spot he saw a quarter of a mile ahead was a black one. He waved his hand, but she did not respond. He saw her sit down with her back against the wall of the hut and cross her arms over her knees. Three minutes later he was standing beside her. And now that he had come he was not very clear in his mind why he had come. True, he could have given a dozen reasons--the bursting over the town of that flood of operatives he had seen that morning, his desire to fish, his wish (as he now suddenly and rather startlingly knew) to escape further attendance on June, and so forth; and these reasons would have been precisely a dozen too many. Had all Lancashire been drubbing on the Pier and she standing under the crimson light watching that strange and dhowlike sail of the moon glaring orange over the water, John Willie would not have been up Delyn. He had intended to fish, but fishing was now far from his thoughts. And already he was aware of another thing, namely, that while June had been no trouble at all to talk to, talk with Ynys was a heavy business. Yesterday, every sentence he had attempted had been as difficult as if it had been the first. Only by a series of almost violent extractions had he learned that her mother was dead and that she sold flowers (curious that they should have been June's father's flowers!) in Liverpool. He supposed he must begin to talk again now. He could hardly be with her and not talk. Well, if he must talk, he would. "I say, you're well out of it all to-day!" he exclaimed, with apparent heartiness. "They began to come in at eleven last evening, and they've been coming in all night. Whew, but I ran, I can tell you!" She had been looking in the direction of the lake, which, however, she could hardly have seen, so low did she sit; and he, as he stood, could see no more of her than the straight white parting of her hair and her tanned forearms and wrists about her knees. The black of her dress was a sooty black, but you would only have called her hair black because there was nothing else to call it. It was neither more nor less black than a bowl of black lustre is black; it had a surface, but it had also depths where you saw the sun again, and the sky lurked, and the green of the ferns that grew about the hut. Had John Willie put his hand near it it might have been dimly reflected, as it would have been reflected in a peat pool. The sound of his voice seemed almost to startle her, but she did not look up. "Hwhat do you say?" she said. She slightly overstressed the internal "h's," and her accent was Welsh, but uniquely soft. As she had not heard, he had to repeat his remark. "I mean those Wakes people. There are thousands of them there now." He made a little motion of his head behind him. "It's better up here." Then, as still she did not reply, he asked her a direct question. "You didn't stay long in Llanyglo, did you?" "I stay there one day," she answered. A scarcely perceptible movement of her forefinger accompanied the numeral. "Oh, then of course that was the day I saw you. Did you see me?" "No." "You were standing at the pier-head, watching the moon rise." Ynys did not deny this. Neither did she confirm it. "Then you disappeared," John Willie continued, "and I couldn't find you again." To this she replied after a moment.--"I went back to the house, and paid the Englishwoman, and then I came away. In the morning I arrive here." "Do you mean you walked all night?" "There is lit-tle night this time of the year." John Willie was silent. Only a week before he had left an evening party at the "Imperial" to find the sun already burning a hole in the edge of Mynedd Mawr. "And how much longer holiday have you?" John Willie asked presently. "Six days," answered the girl; and again the numeral was accompanied by a slight gesture of her fingers. "And then you go back to Liverpool?" Complete silence was all the answer he had to that question. Then, suddenly, Ynys moved. She stood up. For the first time her seaweed-coloured eyes looked straight into John Willie's. "You left that place early. You will be hungry. I caught some fis-s--_brithyll_. I think she cooked now." She disappeared round the corner of the hut. John Willie would have liked to ask her why she had put on the black dress and the black shoes, but something seemed to whisper to him not to do so. No doubt she had caught the trout with her hand, in one of the pools of a stream that slid and chattered under fern down the side of Delyn, and he feared that did he approach her too suddenly even by words she might be off, even as those trout would have vanished in a flash at the least disturbance of the water by her hand. She had cooked them on the wood; she had also made a cake of flour and water and no salt; and she served the fish in a tin platter by the little clearing she had made for the hearth. He sat now, and she stood; she brought also a mug of milk, from the surface of which she took a tiny caterpillar with the tip of a frond; and when he had eaten she cleaned the platter by scouring it with a handful of fern-rot and then setting it in a little stream with a stone upon it. Then they stood before one another again, he with his back to the hut, she in front of him, her head always superbly erect, but slowly turning from time to time, while her eyes sought the lake, the line of bracken against the sky where the mountain dropped, and his own eyes, indifferently. Then, unexpectedly, she asked a question. "You come to fis-s?" she asked. He said that he had thought of it. "There is wa-ter in the boat, but indeed I not touch it. I go and empty it," she said. But he stopped her.--"Oh, it's no good now--too bright," he said. "Might try in the evening. Sit down, won't you? I want to ask you some questions." She curled herself up in the bracken, and he set his back against the wall of the hut and began to fill his pipe. But instead of questioning her, John Willie had all the appearances of a man who was questioning himself. He sat a little behind Ynys, so that when she looked straight before her he lost her full profile; and he moved no more than she. He was suddenly thinking how thoroughly sick he was of Llanyglo. For if he had helped to make Llanyglo, and knew its lighting and its watering, its building and its leases and its subsoil, Llanyglo had also helped to make him. The drub-drub on the Pier, the inanities of his friend Percy Briggs, evening parties that began at midnight and ended with the sun high in the sky, complaints from his sister that she saw him only in the short intervals between a coming home and a setting out again--this had been pretty much the reaction of Llanyglo on John Willie Garden. He was a very ordinary young man.--But here was a world peopled only by sheep, the myriad insects that hopped and wove and chirruped in the tall fern, the kites and curlews overhead, and the trout far below the surface of the lake. His lashes made rainbows before his half-closed eyes, and those eyes, opening again, could gaze at the tips of the sunny fern against the deeps of the sky until the difference between them became almost as intensified as the difference between dark and bright. Spiders no bigger than freckles seemed to be doing important things under their bright green roofs--for only the under sides of the fronds were green and translucent: the fern on which the sun beat directly was no more green than Ynys's hair was black.... And the sunny parts of Ynys's arms were of the colour of a hayfield with much sorrel, while the round beneath was as cool as the under curve of a boat on the water.... It would have been part of the peace of that hot midday could he have dozed with his head in the crook of that arm. Of other desire to break its peace had he none. And Ynys? She had seen those fretted parasols of the fern, meshed and lacy and interpenetrating, a vast rug of whispering frondage--she had seen them, or their like, since they had been no more than tender, uncurling pastoral staffs, brown, with tiny inner crocketts not even green yet. She had watched them unfold their weak fingers--yes, from Lord Street, Liverpool, she had watched them unroll as a soft caterpillar unrolls. In a cool and darkened shop, with the floor always wet, she had seen, with those seaweed-coloured eyes, not the great queenly hydrangeas, nor the burning torches of the gladioli, nor the fat and scentless roses, nor the great half-pint pitchers of the arum lilies--she had seen, not these cold grandiflora, but the celandine and anemone of the hedge-bottoms, and the cool pennywort on the rocks, and the soft and imperceptible change, day by day, of those mountains many, many railway stations away. Those other great robed and wedding-dressed blooms? She had not considered them to be flowers. Flowers were the sappy bluebells she had pulled, white-stalked and squeaking, from the banks, receiving a penny for them--but not in exchange. She had sold the hydrangea-things without even seeing them. And her own weekly fifteen shillings of wages had not purchased a single glance of her eyes nor a single emotion of her heart. And her eyes had not distinguished less between magnificent bloom and magnificent bloom than they had between this and the other collar, tie, and bowler hat who, his purchase made, had lingered, and had tried to talk to her, and had come again. Young women who can see Delyn from Liverpool can hardly be expected so to distinguish. These young men had not even been, as the balls and buckets of Howell Gruffydd's shop-window had been, beyond her reach, she below theirs. She and they might breathe the same air, but they extracted different elements from it. Was that true also of herself and John Willie Garden, lying now among the fern of Delyn--John Willie, whose clothes (even) were what they were by a kind of artifice, and not, like Dafydd Dafis's, as if the cropped grasses themselves had by some natural alchemy become wool, and the wool clothing, that would be worn out by labour not far from the grasses again?... Because he did not know, John Willie lay there, and watched her cheek and arm, and forgot that he had said he was going to ask her questions. The silence lasted for so long that, when at last he spoke, she might (he thought) have supposed that he had had a nap in the meantime. He hoisted himself to his feet, stretched himself, yawned "Ah, that's better!" and then added, "I say, you might show me where you got those fish." Instantly, a gillie incongruously in a flower-seller's dress, she was on her feet and walking a little ahead. But he caught her up and kept abreast of her. They reached the boat, half in and half out of the gravelly shallow, but she went straight on across a swampy little stream that led to the upper margin of the lake. Presently it seemed to John Willie that they would have done better to take the boat, for they had to skirt a deep shaly spur the slope of which continued unbroken down under the water and gave under their feet the moment they tried to ascend it. At a point where she splashed a few yards ahead of him John Willie suggested that they should take their boots and stockings off, and he had a momentary fancy that the brown of her cheek deepened a little; but she made no reply, and they kept on. Then, after more hundreds of yards of walking and wading, they gained firm earth again. They were at the bottom of a V-shaped ravine into which all the trees and scrub of the mountain-sides seemed to have settled. It was known to a few shepherds as Glyn Iago, and the stream came down it over jagged stairs of purple slate and under dwarf-oak and birch, thorn and briar and mountain-ash. Again it would have been better to wade through the noisy shallows and round the boulders spongy with drenched moss, and again he suggested it; but perhaps the deep gurgle of the fall they were approaching drowned his voice. He went ahead, putting aside the worst of the brambles, and he knew without telling when they reached the pool. It was long enough to have plunged into, too wide to have leapt across even had the rocks afforded any take-off, and it deepened gradually to blackness, and then boiled pale and tumultuous again under the plunge of a twelve-foot fall. Over the pool itself the sunlight glowed in spots only through the leaves, but on one bank there was a sunny clearing of a few yards square. Then the trees began again, up and up and up to the sky, a cliff of leaves that shut the mountains out and the stream in. He let her sit down first. This she did where she could see the little plants and mosses at the water's edge endlessly a-quiver with the tumult of the fall. Then, sitting down beside her, he again felt that he must begin talking to her all over again. His mouth flickered for a moment as he thought of Percy Briggs on the Pier, and then he spoke. "If I were you I should move up here," he said. She was picking up a snail-shell to throw into the water. She turned, extraordinarily quickly, and in the seaweed eyes there was a hard and defensive look, instant, yet old. "It iss only my hat and my box," she said quickly. "Eh? Oh!----" He laughed. "I only mean there'll be brakes and wagonettes all over the place now, and anybody might come to the lake.--I say, you didn't think I meant to chuck you out, did you?" "I thought prapss you want to fiss," she replied, turning away and looking at the gasogene of black water again. He laughed again.--"Oh, no. I mean you don't sleep there, and nobody'd come here, and I could get you a lock and key so that your things would be safe. You could go there if it rained." She tossed the snail-shell into the water, neither accepting his offer nor rejecting it. "Besides," he went on, "I know that if anybody disturbed you you'd be off. Look here. I'll get you that lock and key. I'm off back to-night, and I'll bring 'em up to-morrow.--But you will be here won't you?" Again--he could not be sure--he fancied her colour deepened. "Hwhere should I go to?" she said over her shoulder. "Well--anywhere--Liverpool--anywhere." And again her reply was to gaze at the boiling of the air-bubbles at the foot of the fall. But John Willie no longer wondered that he should struggle thus with a conversation when there were rills and rivulets of talk waiting for him at home at Llanyglo. She was not mute; there were a thousand communications wrapped up in her very presence. She ran over with unspoken meanings, babbled for all her silence. Her hair, nearly all cool green now, as the black water was cool green; that unlearned balance of her head; the curve of her cheek; those lovely, despotic forearms--whether that least member of her whole sweet parliament, her tongue, moved or was still, there was more of approach in all of these than in June's "Fancy! Do tell me! And how's So-and-So getting on?" These were the weeds, the dusty groundsel of words; Ynys was her own vocabulary, every part of her a part of speech.... And the theme? The theme that every corpuscle of her announced as she sat there, listlessly tossing snail-shells and twigs and rolled-up leaves and blades of grass into the water? John Willie was a very ordinary young man. In Liverpool, his eyes would have seen very little but Liverpool. Perhaps that was why, in Glyn Iago, he had not the perfect freedom of sun and air, of growing and dying things, and things growing again, of moving water, of that essential speech with this creature at his side that at the last has no need of words. For, for good and ill mingled, they make shames and fears in the Liverpools of the land, and codes, and suppressions, and the apparatus of Conscience, and it is too late for you, too late for me, too late for John Willie, to unmake them. John Willie had begun by questioning Ynys; now, far more searchingly, Ynys was questioning him. And the end of her questioning of him was that he would have called himself a cur had he as much as thought of not doing "the decent thing...." Indeed it was precisely because he thought so resolutely and intently of doing that thing that by and by he rose. It was only half-past four; he could be home in two, or two-and-a-half hours; and for that matter he was not in any hurry to get home. He was in a hurry now only because Ynys spoke too much. She gave him no rest from her close inquisition. He must answer those questions that she so pressed home or take himself quickly off, to add (as he knew) the fuel of thought to that flame with which he already burned. Therefore, again standing by her, he asked her one more question only. "You will be here to-morrow?" he said, his eyes anxiously on her face. What his answer would have been had she said "No," or had he not believed that nod of her head, it is useless to ask. He left her still tossing the debris into the water. * * * * * He began to be aware of the change the Wakes people had wrought in Llanyglo before the trap had carried him a mile along the road. Twice in that distance he had to whip up to get through the dust of vehicles ahead. He had been right in saying that the landaus and brakes and wagonettes would be all over the place now. They were taking the family parties back to dinner at the hotels. Then, still five miles from Llanyglo, he began to allow the brakes and wagonettes to overtake him again. He had remembered that he was in no hurry. Hurry would only mean the crowd sooner, the noise sooner, and supper sooner, with the conversation of June and Minetta. At a place called Doll he turned aside into a narrow lane that would take him by a circuitous route into the Porth Neigr road near the stone quarries. Then, sitting sideways on the seat, with his head sunk and the whiplash trailing over the dashboard, he allowed the horse to take him at its own pace. Of course, he could marry Ynys; there was nothing to be said against that except that hitherto he had not thought of marriage. Marriage, in John Willie's observation of his married friends and acquaintances, was a quite definite and circumscribed thing, in which prospects played a part, and settlements, and houses of a certain kind, and certain well-marked changes in the bride's demeanour towards her still unmarried friends, and a certain tendency to stoutness and baldness on the part of the groom. Moreover, behind every suggested marriage there lurked the question whether it "would do." His father and mother, when he came to speak of marriage, would want to know whether it would "do"; Minetta would have her opinion about whether it would "do"; and if it did not "do," all his friends and acquaintances would by and by shake their heads and say that it had been plain all along how _that_ would turn out.... On the other hand, the case was complicated--not in principle (that was beastly clear)--but by allowances in practise. Llanyglo had for some time been far from exacting; it was now, in certain of its phases, at any rate, almost exacting in the opposite direction. As many social allowances were made for the young man who had something "on" as liberties were granted to properly affianced couples who had got their certificate that it would "do." Percy Briggs would have gone off alone, with his hat on the back of his head and cheerfully whistling, at the least hint that John Willie had something "on." ... But this that had come so suddenly and overmasteringly over John Willie was a different thing altogether. Here was not somebody who played a game of which the rules and forfeits were known. That game, under one veiling or another, might form the staple of the Lunas' Drawing-room Entertainment at the Palace, or of the songs of Miss Sal Volatile in the Pavilion on the Pier; but Ynys had not even known what she had turned her back on when she had stood under the raspberry-coloured light, looking out at the gathering darkness of sky and the still lingering gleam on the sea. Warned probably, not by hearing and sight, but by some apprehension more sensitive still, she had stayed to see that orange rising, and then, before it had become a setting again, had been far on the road to Delyn.... Suddenly John Willie sat up and shook the reins. "No, damn it," he said. He began to bowl more briskly along the hilly lanes. It was after eight o'clock when he reached the quarry, and then for a time he had to go carefully down the by-lane that the stone-carts had deeply scored. But on the Porth Neigr road he whipped up again. Hearing a sound behind him, he drew in; and when there had passed him a great brake hung all over with Chinese lanterns and full of people singing, the spell of silence under which he had lain all day was broken. Thereafter sound merely succeeded sound. As he took the railway bridge, a "special" roared past below, carrying more people to Llanyglo; and before its red tail-lights had mingled with the other rubies and emeralds of the line he had come upon the first couple turning at the limit of their walk. Then came a large board with "Imperial Hotel" on it, then a new horse-trough; then benches, then walls with placards on them. A mile ahead lay the golden corona of the town. This began to break up into single lights and groups of lights, and then, at a turn, he saw the Wheel and the jewelled finger of the Pier. He could hear the noise, an indistinguishable something in the air that was not the wind and not the sound of the sea; and then at the first roadside lamp it seemed suddenly to become night. More slowly he rounded Pritchard's Corner; at the tram terminus the belated shopkeepers made a press about the Promenade-Pontnewydd Street car; and from the open doors of the "Tudor Arms" was wafted the smell of beer. Delyn and Glyn Iago were part of the night behind him. He did not attempt to drive through the crowd that suddenly thickened about the middle of Pontnewydd Street, where half the road was being taken up. One of the "Imperial" ostlers took the horse's head, said "All right, Mr. Garden," and John Willie descended and walked. On the balconies of the "Grand" and "Imperial," people stood and watched the stream that descended to the Front. From the Kursaal Gardens came a noise that presently the ear ceased to hear, so steady and monotonous was it. Then, walking in the wake of a tram that moved slowly forward among the street barriers with an incessant clanging of its bell, John Willie reached the Promenade. It was thrice the width of Pontnewydd Street, and so there was more room; but for all that it was difficult to walk at more than the general pace. This, nevertheless, football-packs of young men attempted from time to time to do, breaking their way through. They played mouth-organs, and at moments, apparently without plan or premeditation, suddenly formed into rings, feet pattering in clog-steps, eyes fixedly on those same feet, their backs a fence to hold back the spectators, while in the middle a couple of young men or a young man and a young woman danced. Then, as suddenly as they had stopped, they were off again, arms linked in arms or locked about the waist in front, each figure a vertebra of a many-jointed onward-rushing snake. Under the Promenade lamps they advanced, everybody else yielding place as they came. The little rail-enclosed plots that lay between the pavements and the hotels were magpied with torn paper and strown with lying figures. They lay there, in meaningless embrace, moaning long harmonies in thirds, hats decorated with penny gauds, eating nuts and "rock" and chocolate, hardly moving when passers-by all but strode over them. Probably they were discussing nothing more than "So I said to her, straight to her face----" or the conduct of the shed-overlooker where they worked throughout the year together and if the passers-by almost trod on them, they, in return, half absently flirted the passing ankles with whisks and penny canes. But if these lay like bivalves, torpid and content, another and more active element had awoke in the throng. The Alsatians, had they required it, were put into countenance now. One felt that they veined and threaded the mass with something that worked as quietly and as rapidly as yeast. They fed on it, drawing from it at last an open and confirmed sanction for all those things they would not have dreamed of doing at home. One met them here and there in couples, or in couples of couples with the invisible link between each pair of couples drawing ever farther and farther out, the women with shawls and hoods and dominoes over their dinner attire, the men with restless eyes, quick to show by a touch of hand or elbow that avoidance was desirable or a glance of complicity no harm. Lamps showed these gestures of understanding between those who could not have sworn to one another's names. Of the two solitudes, that of the mountain-top and that of this press where ribs could hardly lift, they sought and found the second. Perhaps--who knows?--they were even grateful to those others who moaned those gummy thirds stretched on the lamplit grass.... And scarce two hundred yards away, under the railings of the sea-wall, here and there a mask, with struggling breast and tightly shut eyes and writhing lips, prayed.... As John Willie pushed at the garden gate, the door at the other end of the path opened and closed again behind Minetta and June. He met them in the middle of the path and asked them where they were going. When they said they were only going for a stroll he ordered them back. Minetta's "_Oh_--how you startled us!--why, we didn't know you were coming back----" suggested that she thought her brother might have spoken in another tone; but John Willie was not thinking of tones. He was thinking that perhaps after all he had no business to be spending days up Delyn just at present. A stroll with him to take care of them--well and good; but not two girls alone.... He said so, rather curtly, in the dining-room as Minetta got him some supper; but Minetta made no reply. Again she was thinking that June was a very nice girl, but it was odd that she should twice have brought her brother back from his fishing like this. John Willie, eating his supper almost savagely, had some ado to reply politely to June's rills of pretty speech. He wondered now why she should talk when she had nothing whatever to say. Only her tongue wagged, and he hardly heard his own tongue wagging in reply. _This_ was not speech; _this_ was not language!... "Not if I know it," he found himself suddenly thinking, as June asked him whether the Water Scheme had spoiled Delyn much, and said that she would like to go and see. But Minetta said little. She only asked John Willie one direct question. This was, Whether he had come back for good now. He replied that he didn't know, and added some futility about fishing-weather and the difference a night sometimes made. Minetta thought that the only extraordinary thing about his reappearance was that he should have troubled to go away at all. June had one piece of information to give him, however. It was two days old, she said, but there--if John Willie _would_ take himself off on his unsociable excursions like this he must expect to be a bit out of things. But she would forgive him, and tell him.--Ned Kerr was dead. It seemed (June said) that he had once given somebody in Porth Neigr a canary, and reports had reached him that the canary was not doing very well--had the pip or the croup or whatever it was canaries did have. He had worried a lot about the canary (June said), and, a week before, had been to Porth Neigr to see it. He had had a cold or something himself, June didn't know what; anyway, he had come back from seeing the canary and the next day hadn't got up. So his brother had sent for a doctor, and of course had told the doctor all about it--Ned, the canary, and all the lot. The doctor had said that _he_ could see nothing the matter with Ned (which was more than some of them admitted, going on sending bottles of coloured water and so on and then a bill coming in for pounds and pounds), but Ned hadn't said anything at all--he'd just died at two o'clock in the morning. He might just as well have _had_ something the matter with him, June said. And all about a stupid canary!---- Soon after that John Willie told them it was time they went to bed. He followed them upstairs himself a few minutes later. But it was long before he slept. Perhaps he knew already in his heart that if he really meant that "Damn it, no" he might as well stay at home now instead of leaving June and Minetta alone in the house. And he had meant it. He vowed he meant it still. The rusty light on his ceiling, cast from the corona outside, did not prevent his seeing the hut again--Glyn Iago--the black-dressed gillie who had tossed the snail-shells into the water; nor did the faint and harsh and ceaseless noise outside drown that powerful and wordless eloquence that he had heard with some faculty other than his bodily hearing.... Then the sounds grew thinner, yet louder also; fewer, but clearer in the growing silence of the night. He heard a long-drawn strain of tipsy song, the tinny thread of sound of a mouth-organ, and then a clock striking three.... But he must go up to Delyn on the morrow. It would be a rotten thing to tell a girl to be sure to be there and then not to turn up himself. And he would take her that lock and key. IV AN ORDINARY YOUNG MAN He began to spend his days up Delyn and his nights at Llanyglo. To avoid the shaly spur, he pulled across in the boat each morning from the beaching-place near the hut to the foot of Glyn Iago, and she had his breakfast ready for him when he arrived, which was between half-past ten and eleven o'clock. As if his suggestion had been a command, she had made her little encampment up the Glyn, fetching dry sticks from up the steep wood; her hat and her box only remained in the locked shed. He did not cast a fly. Minetta began to ask him, when he returned at night, first what sport he had had, and then why he always chose to fish in the middle of the day. Then one night he returned to find his sister showing June her sketches. For some minutes he affected not to be interested; then, with a highly elaborate yawn, he said, "Oh, I say, Min--what became of that sketch you once made of that gipsy kid--you remember--the one mother once took in with a cut foot?--Best thing she ever did," he added carelessly to June. "Oh, it got shoved away somewhere. Why?" said Minetta; but there was a little quick dropping look in her eyes. "Nothing. I just happened to remember it. It was better than some of these." The next morning the sketch, unearthed from some dusty heap or other, was on his plate when he came down to breakfast. Presently June and Minetta also came down. By that time he was able to say, quite composedly, "Oh, I see you found that thing. That's the sketch I was speaking of, June----" But he wondered whether Minetta also could by any chance have seen Ynys on that, her single night in Llanyglo. One rapidly advancing trouble was on his mind. He had not spoken to Ynys of the passing of her holiday, but he himself could almost hear its seconds ticking away. Soon two days only remained; the morrow, when he would see her on Delyn again, would be the eve of her departure. She had told him that she had taken a return ticket; already he seemed to hear the whistle of the train by which it was available. She could take that train either at Llanyglo or at Porth Neigr. On the morning of her last whole day he ascended the Glyn and found, as usual, his trout cooked for him and keeping hot between two plates. He ate it abstractedly. Again Minetta had remarked pointedly on his lack of fishing-luck, but it was not that that was troubling him. He was wondering, not for the first time, what explanation Ynys gave herself of his untouched rods and buckled fly-book, and whether she too thought it unusual that he should come so far merely to lie by the stream with her hour after hour, or else, with a "Shall we go up there?" to ascend the stream, skirt the wood, gain the open mountain-side, and toil for half an hour to the summit. He had substituted no other pretence for his first pretence of fishing. What did she think of it? Or did she not think of it at all? Again that morning, when she had scoured the plates and set them in a little rocky basin by the quivering moss, he proposed the mountain climb. In half an hour they were at the top. It was a plateau of volcanic rock, with scrubs of hazel, and bents and reeds and harebells ceaselessly stroked by the wind. Behind them, as they sat down under a rock, only Mynedd Mawr rose higher than they; below them Llyn Delyn lay like a bit of grey looking-glass set in its little mile-long cleft. They had raised other bits of looking-glass, too, in other far-off clefts. About them the mountains rolled as if invisible giants were being tossed in the visible blankets of the land. On the left only, far from Llanyglo, a scratch of silver showed that the sea was there. "So you're off to-morrow," he said, when they had lain long. He did not hide from himself the ache the words caused him. "My tick-ket say to-morrow," she answered, without emotion. He muttered something foolish about an extension.--"But I suppose they wouldn't keep your place open," he answered himself hopelessly. Her next words caused him a marvellous pang of lightness and hope. "I think-k I not go back," she said, the seaweed eyes looking at that far-off silver scratch that was the sea. Why did that pang at which he had winced instantly become another pang, at which he winced no less? What was it that the eyes of his spirit saw, far, far, farther off than her seaweed ones saw the sea? Her decision to stay, if she really meant that she would stay, should have meant the continuance of his happiness; what, then, should change it into something like an unhappiness and a fear? He did not know. He was only an ordinary young man. He only knew that over that moment, which should have been one of a care removed, a faint shadow of an irremovable care already impinged. He had sat up, and was looking at her.--"You mean--that you won't go back at all?" he said. "Indeed I think I cannot go back," she answered; and her imperfect speech left it uncertain whether indeed she meant that she was still unresolved, or whether to her, who had not been able to endure a night in Llanyglo, a return to Liverpool would be more than she could bear. "But--but--what would you do?" he asked. "I stay here lit-tle longer, and then I get wick-ker from Dafydd Dafis, and mend chairs, like my mother." "But--but----" It was so new to his experience. "You mean you'd just go from place to place?" "If I go to Liverpool I die," she answered. John Willie, torturing himself over this long afterwards, could never decide what that subtle yet essential change was that came over their relationship from that moment. It was quite contrary to any change that might have been expected. But for that sullen "No, damn it," he might have been conscious of hardier impulses as the term of her holiday approached; but very curiously, it was now that he learned that it had no term that he felt those hardier stirrings. It was exactly as if, with little time to spare, he had wasted time, and now, with time enough before him, he must lose no time. Perhaps it was also that growing wonder what she must think of fishing expeditions without fishing. Or--or--could it be that that sweet clamour of her person had all along shown patient intention, and that he, he only, had been dull?... But, more quickly than he had thought of charging her with this--(he was only an ordinary young man)--he had to acquit her again. Certainly she had not decided not to leave because, staying, she saw him daily. She merely dreaded towns and disliked those over-glorious waxen cenotaphs that were raised to the memory of the humble flowers she knew. And he was still sure that at an unguarded movement from him she would have fled days ago. At an unguarded movement she would fly now. He had what he had only on the condition that, by comparison with his hunger, it was and must remain nothing.... What then? Must he come, and still come, until the wraiths of the mists began to drive over a dead and sodden Delyn, and those tossing blankets of the mountains became hidden in rain, and the wood of Glyn Iago became brown and thin, and the stream an icy torrent, and Llanyglo itself as empty as a piece of old honeycomb? He did not know, nor did he know how, without risking all, to ascertain. Yet know he must; and in that moment, forgetting his "Damn it, no," he contrived as if by accident to touch her hand. But he was none the wiser for doing so. As his hand moved with intent, hers moved innocently; her fingers began to pull to pieces the little yellow flower she had plucked; and he had not the courage to essay it twice. Nor did he, his broodings notwithstanding, find that courage again that day. The sun crept round; tiny Llyn Delyn far below began to shine with an amethyst light; and a quietude filled the heavens above and the land beneath, so that the rolling mountains seemed to be no longer the tossing of giants, but rather as if the giants, their tumbling game ended, had crept under the blankets and had gathered them about their heads and shoulders for the night. The sea and sky became a shining golden bloom of air. They descended to the Glyn again. There they ate a packet of sandwiches which John Willie had brought, and then he rose and stood, irresolute. He must go, he must go.... She was setting her stick-heap in order; her plain black dress, that showed off Philip Lacey's superfatted flowers, was an anomaly by the side of the Delyn twigs.... "Nos da," he said. If the face she lifted had not been glorious, his thoughts of it would now have made it so. "Nos da," she replied.... If he still said "No," it was not with the sturdy expletive now. Chiefly he now feared to risk and fail. He left abruptly. He drove to Llanyglo that night with a brassy sunset on his left that sank to the colours of dying dahlias as mile succeeded mile; and this time he did not turn into the winding lanes that led to the quarry. From the main road to which he kept he could see Llanyglo's corona three miles away. But it moved him now, not to the revulsion and distaste of a week ago, but only to a careless contempt. Some aroma seemed to have passed away from his dreamings. For the first time, he felt himself to be an ordinary young man returning from the mountains where he had something "on." This new slight bitterness extended even to his thoughts about the perspicacious Minetta. Be hanged to Minetta. If Minetta overstepped the mark he would very quickly tell her to mind her own business. He had to pull himself out of his moroseness and to remind himself that she had not done so yet. As he passed along the Pontnewydd Street he did not at first notice the diminution in the number of people usually to be seen there at that hour. Nor, as he sank into his reverie again, did it immediately strike him that the greater number of the people on the Promenade were hurrying in one direction--the direction of the Trwyn. But he entered the dining-room at home in time to find June and Minetta scrambling hastily through their supper. All the dishes had been laid on the table at once, and their shawls were cast in readiness over the backs of chairs. This time he deemed it prudent not to raise any opposition to their plans, whatever these had been. Instead, he drew up his own chair. "Off out?" he remarked. "Well, I hurried back to take you somewhere. Just let me swallow something, and then I'll come with you. What's up?" In telling him what was "up" Minetta seemed to make the most of some advantage she apparently fancied herself to possess. If he had only glanced at the newspapers, she said, instead of rushing off the moment he'd bolted his breakfast, he'd have known what was "up." It had been "up" in Llanyglo that afternoon--such a crowd as never was, and Eesaac Oliver was to preach in the Floral Valley again that night. "Unless he changes his mind," Minetta added. "Of course it's part of it all that he doesn't make arrangements. He'll stop in the middle of a walk and begin to preach just where he is, and then at other times, when they've made all ready for him and everybody waiting, he's praying in his bedroom or something and nobody dares go near him. So they never really know till he begins. There's only one thing he won't do----" "Eesaac Oliver?" John Willie began, puzzled. "Wait a minute----" Then, as Minetta once more tossed her head, he remembered. Of course. The Revival.... And what he did not remember he did not, in the circumstances, choose to ask his sister. It would only be giving her another opportunity to comment on his remarkable absences. He remembered much. He remembered those rumours of the great spiritual thing that had broken out at Aberystwith, had then rolled tumultuously up the coast to Barmouth, and thence to Harlech and Portmadoc, and thence up the sky-high steeps of Ffestiniog, and through the folds of those tossed blankets west into Lleyn. He remembered--yes, he remembered now that his eyes were turned outward from himself and his own affairs again--the preachings of Eesaac Oliver on the bare mountain-sides, and his fastings among the rocks, and his baptisms in rivers, and his liftings-up of his voice on the outskirts of towns that had presently emptied to hear him, and his calling on folk to turn from the wickedness of their ways while there was yet time, for the Day of Judgment was at hand. He remembered these things because at the time he had thought them rather one in the eye for the Howell Gruffydds and the John Pritchards who, when the Council came to debate such delicate but profitable subjects as licencing and mixed bathing, had tactfully allowed themselves to be represented by the soft closing of the door behind them. He knew what that interrupted sentence of Minetta's meant, "There's only one thing he won't do----" The only thing that Eesaac Oliver would not do was to preach within the stone walls of their new Chapels. He held these bazaar-supported buildings to be defiled, their Baptist temples places out of which the traffickers in money and doves must be driven with scourges. It mattered not that John Pritchard was a pillar, Howell his own father. "He that loveth father and mother more than Me----" He would preach as the mighty Wesley preached, from wall-tops, from the boulders of the stony places, from the wheelbarrow, from the milking-stool, from the saddle. He would journey and preach, and journey and preach again, four, six times a day. There was a Door which, entering by it, gave his instant and flaming Theme--the Door open to Llanyglo itself unless it would sink, it and its Kursaals and its Big Wheels, its Lunas' Entertainments and its bivalves lying under the lighted lamps on the public grass-plots, its Alsatians and its greedy Chapel-goers, its harlotry and its cupidity and its bright sin and its blasphemy of the Name, into the pit where it must be destroyed. "Oh, _do_ hurry up!" said Minetta impatiently.... Ten minutes later they were hastening along the half-empty Promenade. The Floral Valley was no longer as it had been when Philip Lacey had plotted it out so neatly with his pair of compasses and coloured it with his geranium and lobelia and golden feather. At its upper end, a Switchback now humped itself like a multiple dromedary, and clear across it, from a staging on one side to a staging on the other, was swung the cabled apparatus known as an Aerial Flight. Philip's bandstand still occupied the middle, but the rest, save for a few outlying dusty beds, was as barren as a gravel playground. The Valley had held five thousand people on the occasion of the Brass Band Contest; that night it held and overflowed with thrice five thousand. Half-way up the ascending path that led to it John Willie Garden saw that there was no approach from that quarter; there was nothing for it but to take to the slippery grass and the darkness, avoiding the bivalves open and the bivalves shut, and struggling as best they could to the crest. There, with an arm about each of them, he led them through the slowly moving outer circle of people who struck matches and laughed and occasionally craned their necks forward to look over the dense mass in front. By degrees they gained the ring where, if little was to be seen, a word now and then could be heard; and thereafter, by losing no chance of wriggling forward, they reached a point from which they could see the bandstand. A ladder ran up to its roof, and up this ladder Eesaac Oliver and two other men had climbed. The bight of a rope had been passed about Eesaac Oliver's body, its ends running round the gilded spike that crowned the flat eight-sided pyramid; and the men who crouched on the slope varied the tether as Eesaac Oliver moved this way and that round the octagonal gutter. The trapeze of the Flight hung motionless in the air above him; the shrieking Switchback had stopped; and the slight white figure, so precariously perched, turned to all sides of the vast speckled bowl about him. "See who that is, at the right hand rope?" John Willie whispered to June. He still had an arm about either of their waists, and he fancied that June pressed a little closer to him. "No. Who?" she whispered back. "Tudor Williams. Expect he couldn't get out of it. He made a speech the other day, all about Young Wales, a regular dead set at them, and he'll sweep the poll after this. I don't know who the other is.--Listen, he's turning this way now----" Eesaac Oliver's voice came across the packed still basin. "Cry aloud--spare not--lift up your voice like a trumppp-pet! I say to you young men, and I say to you young women, that this cit-ty by the sea shall not be spared, no, no more than the cit-ties of the plain were spared! It smells of corrupp-tion; it is an offence in the nostrils of God! There is more sin packed into it than there is drops of blood in your bodies, and more wick-kedness, and more fornication, and more irreligion. And those who should help, do they help? Indeed they do not! They fill their pock-kets instead! I tell them, their own souls go, perhaps this night, into the pock-kets of Hell! Aw-w-w, their bazaars prof-fit them lit-tle there! Their new Chap-pils prof-fit them lit-tle there! Their funds, and their balance-sheets, and their foundation-stones with their names on them, prof-fit them lit-tle there!--But I say to you young men, and you young women, that the Wa-ter of Life is free. Come now, come now! Do not say, 'I will sin one more sin and then repent'--perhaps you be taken away before that sin iss commit-ted----" He turned again, and his voice became less clear. Perhaps John Willie and his charges were well where they were, high on the rim of the basin. Whether with the pressure of those behind, or with the swelling of their own emotion, many below were moaning softly, and one or two small and hushed commotions seemed to be centres of fainting. The inner ring, close to the bandstand, was hatless; the belt above them was packed so that it would have been impossible to remove a hat; and always about the uppermost circle matches twinkled in and out. Again Eesaac Oliver's voice was heard, as if borne upon a wind: "--he that loveth father and mother more than Me----" "Is his father here?" June whispered to John Willie.... * * * * * Howell was at his own home, surrounded by sympathetic neighbours. Sunk into his arm-chair, he sobbed. Big John Pritchard tried to console him, but he was inconsolable. He shook with his emotion. "My own fless and blood!" he sobbed. "To turn from his parents, that fed him, and clothed him, and sent him to the Coll-idge, and gave him allowance of twen-ty-six pounds a quarter, and bring him up in the fear of God! Oh, oh!--John Pritchard, give me a drink of water if you please.--And to call his father and mother sinful pip-ple! Indeed, Hugh Morgan, you are happy you have no children! They know bet-ter than you always; indeed the 'orld go on at a great rate, we get so wise! And the Chap-els burdened with debt! There is half a dozen Chap-els for him to preach in, but he say the highways and the hedges is his Chap-pil!... Look you, he not even come home. I meet him in the street, I, his father; and I say to him, 'Eesaac Oliver,' I say, 'if you will not preach in the Chap-pils, then you preach in that field on the Sarn road; you get crowds of pip-ple; it is a big field, and will hold crowds of pip-ple.' But he turn away, indeed he turn his back on his own father!... Look you: If he preached in that field, they find their way to that field, look you, all those pip-ple--they learn the way to that field as well as they learn the way to the sta-tion--and the Chap-el buy it cheap--oh, oh!... By and by that field be worth ten bazaars--oh, oh!... Blodwen, if the gas is lighted upstairs I think I go to bed--the things that were good enough for his father and mother are not good enough for him--this is a heavy day----" John Pritchard and Hugh Morgan helped him up the stairs to bed. * * * * * June, Minetta, and John Willie left the valley before Eesaac Oliver descended from the bandstand. As they walked along the now rather more crowded Promenade Minetta seemed to be in livelier spirits; she chattered with June; but John Willie was morose again. Again he was wondering what would have happened had Ynys not chanced to pick a flower at the moment when his hand had moved imperceptibly towards hers. He saw her again, bending over the stick-heap and looking up as she gave him that expressionless "Nos da." By this time she was probably asleep, asleep far away up that Glyn, with the deep plunge of the fall for her lullaby, the stars for her night-lights, and the sun over the wood-edge for her alarum in the morning. Before the noises of Llanyglo should awaken him, she would be lying flat on the bank, taking trout for his breakfast. And, again and ever again, he wondered whether, had that attempted touch of his not miscarried, she would have been off as the trout would have been off at the falling of her shadow on the water.... For one moment, just before he went to sleep, he seemed to hear Eesaac Oliver's voice again: "Do not say, 'I will sin one more sin and then repent'--perhaps you will be taken away before that sin is committed----" Then he slept, brokenly, waking at intervals to mutter "Damn it----" and to think of her again where she lay, far up Glyn Iago. V THE DWELLING OF A NIGHT John Willie began to spend his days up Delyn and his nights elsewhere than at Llanyglo. He too passed them under the night-lights of the stars--for if she could go to bed by those candles, so could he. On the first night on which he did not return to Llanyglo they peeped down on him where he lay, gazing at them, a mile and more over the head of Delyn, to the summit of which he had reascended after bidding her "Nos da" in the Glyn. On the second night he put another mile between herself and him, bathing in the morning in a brook the chilliness of which only a little refreshed him after his night's tossing; he slept for three hours that afternoon, with her keeping watch by his side. And on the third night he lay among the fern, in her own old place behind Sharpe's hut. She did not know that he did not return each night to that dusty town by the sea. And now once again he was muttering to himself, fiercely and frequently, "No--no----" June's stay began to draw to a close. Minetta suspected her of moping for John Willie, and told her that he often disappeared for days at a time like that. Sometimes, she added, he called it fishing. "But he'd be fearfully annoyed if we went to look for him," she said; and she turned away and smiled. She smiled again when one morning June had a letter from Wygelia, with a postscript for herself. "_A bit of gossip for Minetta_," the postscript ran. "_Ask her if she remembers a girl from Llanyglo father took into one of his shops. He's thinking of sending out search-parties for her. She went off for a holiday, and hasn't turned up again----_" etc., etc., etc. And so it was that John Willie, filled now with one thought only, came to miss quite a number of things that went down into the history of Llanyglo. He missed, for example, those first days of Revival in which the town, self-accused of sin, strove to purify itself. He missed that storm of impassioned evangelicalism in which Eesaac Oliver, walking one day on the Porth Neigr road, stopped at the foot of the lane that led to the quarries, suddenly threw up his hands, broke forth, and presently had the occupants of a dozen brakes and wagonettes listening to him in the great echoing excavation of the quarry itself. He missed, too, an odd little by-product of that gale of spiritual awakening--the black-faced group that one morning made its appearance on the beach, and resembled a troupe of ordinary seaside niggers until it broke, not into Plantation Melodies, but into hymns, one of which had a catchy pattering chorus that told over the names of the blest ones the redeemed would meet in Heaven: "_There'll be Timothy, Philip and Andrew, Peter, Paul and Barnabas, James the Great, James the Less And Bar-tholo-mew_----" He missed that other great storm of groans and fervour, when the pale young regenerator, mounting the railway embankment from a low-lying meadow near Porth Neigr, began to preach before sunset, preached until the stars came out, and then sent hysterical young women and overstrung young men home in couples along the benighted lanes together, to comfort and enhearten and uplift one another as they went.... And he missed, among these and a multitude of other things, a certain rather famous exploit of his compatriot, Tommy Kerr. He knew how Tommy had flouted and insulted Llanyglo, and how Llanyglo in return had long been looking for signs that Tommy was drinking himself to death. But neither John Willie Garden nor anybody else had thought of the alternative solution of the inconvenience of Tommy's presence in Llanyglo. This was, not that Tommy himself should fall one night and break his neck, but that something should happen to the house that, having been put up by the four brothers in a single night, was enjoyable by them as long as they or any of them should remain alive. During Ned's illness, if that listless state in which he had moved between the accident to Harry and Sam and the death of the canary had been an illness, the care of the Hafod had fallen to Tommy; and that was as much as to say that it had been cared for very little. Moreover, the fabric itself was perhaps by this time impaired. The digging of the foundations of the hotels on either side of it had done it no good, and the constant vibration of the Pontnewydd Street trams had done it even less. On a certain Sunday morning, some weeks before the sickening of the canary, Tommy had taken it into his head to make a thorough examination of the place, while Ned had dozed in his chair. That examination had given Tommy a bad fright. Mounting a short ladder and looking up into the roof-space above the single living-room, he had found the loft far lighter than it ought to have been; but it had not been the gap in the roof that had scared him so badly. It had been what he had seen through the gap--the chimney-stack all tottering, hooped out on one side like a barrel.... With boards and baulks, an old pole-mast and other timbers from the unsightly little backyard, it had taken him the greater part of the day to shore the chimney up again. Whew! He and Ned had been sleeping under _that_!---- It may be that there had been plotting against Tommy, too--or, if not actually plotting, a great deal of quiet watching to see what would happen, backed by a powerful desire that something should happen. Both Howell Gruffydd and John Pritchard were on the Roads Committee, and--well, it was obvious that Pontnewydd Street could not remain unrepaired merely because these Kerrs happened to live there. Orders had gone forth that its mains were to be seen to, pits had been dug in the street and barriers erected round them, and red flags set there by day and red lanterns by night. Nothing had happened. Then the excavations had been filled up again, and the road-metal carts had come. The surface was to be tackled.... So it had been that John Willie Garden returning one night from Delyn, had seen Dafydd Dafis's road-engine drawn up for the night opposite the Imperial Hotel. The engine had remained in Pontnewydd Street ever since. It shook the Hafod as if it had been brought there expressly for its destruction. During the very first hour of its slow and ponderous passing backwards and forwards, Tommy's newly cobbled chimney had given a not very loud crack, and, like a heavy sleeper, had settled down into a more comfortable shape. Tommy had come out, and had hailed the man who walked in front of the machine with a red flag. Nervously, almost politely, he had asked him how long they were likely to be. The man had replied that they had orders to "make a job of it." Then Tommy had seen Dafydd Dafis's face, watching him from the cab.... Half an hour later he had met Howell Gruffydd in the Marine Arcade. The Chairman of the Council had stopped. He had patted the shoulder of the common enemy gently with his hand, and his smile had been odiously affable. "Well, Thomas Kerr," he had said, "how are you? I hear there is improvements at Plas Kerr; you have a grand road to your house soon, whatever! I think we have to assess you higher. How are you, Thomas Kerr?" Kerr had hated the Welshman's fine, small, regular teeth. They were false, but by no means the falsest thing about his mouth. As he had made to move away Howell had continued. "I hope Dafydd Dafis does not incommode you with the road-engine, Thomas Kerr? He has orders not to be a nuis-ance to the town. 'Drive as gently as you can, Dafydd Dafis' is his orders.... You are off to the Marine Hotel now, Thomas Kerr? Dear me, it is a curious fas-cin-ation such places have for some pip-ple! Would it not be bet-ter to come to the Chap-pel on Sundays?... Thomas Kerr." (Tommy had been shuffling miserably away.) "Excuse me, Thomas Kerr, but you lose your handkerchief if you are not careful!" And at this reminder that he had intended to button up his pockets in the presence of his foe, Tommy had been wellnigh ready to weep. And then Ned had died.... There was a good deal of "edge," or vanity, or self-esteem, or conceit, or whatever you like to call it, about Tommy Kerr. He knew now that that road-engine would not be taken off as long as his crazy house stood, and he was stung and mortified that a few beggarly Welshmen, backed by a pettifogging Railway Company or two, with Kursaals Limited, a miserable District Council, a Pleasure Boats' Amalgamation, a few Hotel Syndicates and other such trifles, should be able to beat him. He felt very lonely without Ned. He would have liked to see Lancashire again, particularly Rochdale, his own town. He wanted to walk its hilly streets, and to see the Asbestos Factory again, and Hollingworth Lake. He would almost rather be found dead there than continue to live among these indigo mountains and pink hotels and chrome-yellow sands. And so he set about his exploit. At the very outset they tried once more to baulk him. For the thing that he intended to do certain timbers were necessary, and at six o'clock one night he passed, none too steadily, to a timber-merchant's, and gave an order to a clerk. The clerk smiled, and sent for his principal. Kerr pointed to various pieces in the yard. "Ye can send that--an' that--an' that t'other," he said thickly; "ye can get 'em out now--I'll fetch a cart." Then, looking at the builder's face, he saw that he too, like the clerk, was smiling.... There was no need of words. Howell Gruffydd had been beforehand with him again. If one builder refused to sell to him, so, he knew, would all the others. He was wasting precious time with builders. How many inns he had been to that day he could not have told, but he now felt the heart in him again. They thought they could dish Tommy Kerr like that, did they? Well, he would show them.... He lurched away to the "Lancashire Rose," in Gardd Street, and then crossed to the "Trafford." But at neither of them did he stay very long. He left the "Trafford" at a little after eight, three hours before he needed to have done so. He wanted those three hours. He also wanted all the hours he could get between then and sunrise. * * * * * No sober man would have dreamed of attempting it; but sobriety and large deeds do not always go hand in hand. Neither do large deeds and very clear thinking--which, stout hearts being commoner than unmuddled brains, is lucky for us. Through Kerr's bemused head ran one thought and one thought only, namely, that the Hafod had been built by himself and his three brothers in a night--built in a night--built in a night---- If it had been built in a night it could be rebuilt in a night---- It had taken four of them to build it, but the rebuilding ought not to be nearly so heavy a job---- He would show them he did not come from Lancashire for nothing! But before entering his dwelling that night he committed an act of theft. That damned road-engine had again been left drawn up opposite the Imperial Hotel, and Tommy, fumbling under the tarpaulin that covered it, stole something from the cab. He chuckled as he seemed to see again Dafydd Dafis's cat-like face looking at him round the fly-wheel. _He'd_ show Dafydd Dafis!---- He entered his house and locked the door behind him. He had formed no plan, but yet, somehow, he was conscious of a plan, and a reasonably clear one. Where it had come from he did not know; it was as if he heard again, somewhere in the air quite near, the voices of his brothers again, saying, in the loved Ratchet accents, "Never heed that, Sam--here's where th' strain comes--we'll do th' paperin' and put a pot o' geraniums i' th' window after." He saw these vital points and master-members of his plan as if they had been marked in his mind in red. He had not to stop to reason about them. He knew--dead Ned seemed to tell him--that the wall between the living-room and the scullery might stand. He knew--he seemed to have it from Sam--that the whole of the street-frontage was sound. The ends, near the two hotels, were the danger-points; most perilous of all was the main beam under the lately propped chimney. The chimney must be taken down first of all. "To lighten th' beam, ye see," Harry's voice seemed to sound; "nay, donnot fiddle wi' it--shove it ovver into th' alley--we're pushed for time----" So, whether you call it drink, or whatever you call it, Tommy did not set to work quite unassisted. At the very beginning he almost came to grief. This was over the chimney, that essential member of the dwelling up whose throat the comfortable smoke had passed on that far-off morning as a token of habitation before the eyes of astonished little Llanyglo. He had climbed out on to the perilous roof and had begun to "study" how best to take it down; then, as cautiously he had unlashed and removed the baulks and the pole-mast, the chimney had suddenly thrust out its stomach at him. His heart gave a jump, and in a twink he had set his back against it, grasping a rope to check his heave.... But the chimney would neither stand, nor yet fall as he wished it to fall, over the end of the Hafod into the side-alley. It wanted to fall inwards, over Tommy's head. He thought his agonised effort would never end.... But end it did. He felt the release of weight. The thing hung poised for a moment, and then.... He was once more down in his kitchen before the windows which had been flung up in the two hotels had closed again. No doubt they had been waiting for days for that crash. They did not know that the scandalous Tommy himself had caused it. The ghost of a malicious smile crossed his face. "Sucks," he muttered, "for Gruffydd." Then, at eleven o'clock at night, he fell to his house-breaking. * * * * * "Kerr?" said the author of the _Sixpenny Guide_, when asked about this. "I suppose you mean Tommy Kerr? Yes, I remember him.--His cottage? That Hafod Unos place?--Yes, it's perfectly true. He did pull it down or put it up again in one night, or at any rate something like it. An uncouth little animal he was; a drunken little beast; still, he did this. Made quite a job of it too.--How? That I can't tell you. But I saw the place the next morning, and it seems to me that at one time during the night both the ends and half the back must have been as open as an empty rick-shed. Of course the whole thing was altogether preposterous. Six men's work. I was staying a little farther up the road, and by daybreak there must have been a thousand people in Pontnewydd Street. Nobody lifted a finger. They just watched. He wasn't to be seen mostly; he was busy inside; but when he did come out he never turned his head.--Sober? Impossible to say. And of course he didn't quite finish the job. But you've heard the rest." The rest was as follows: * * * * * By three o'clock in the morning Tommy was neither drunk nor sober. He was a will and a piece of muscular apparatus, the two things quite separate, yet working together with never a jerk to mar the harmony. As a worn-out old machine will continue to run provided it is not interrupted, so Kerr worked, in a state to which the only fatal thing would have been to stop. The Tommy Kerr Llanyglo knew was a base thing, senseless as the lime and stone through which his chisel drove (with a fearful racket), obstinate as the beams under which he hammered his wedges; but this was another Tommy Kerr--somehow the name yet somehow another--a Kerr who might have been imagined to mutter, as he laboured, that it was a gradely night for a titanic act--that he came from Lancashire, where men did impossible things as a matter of course--and that if any Welshman would pocket his pride and ask him, he would pull down and put up again their whole blasted flashy town for them while he was about it. And perhaps he was not really patching up his tottering cottage at all that night. Perhaps he was rather doing one of those useless and splendid things that alone among man's contrivances do not crumble and fall. Perhaps he was doing in his ruined Hafod pretty much the same thing that Eesaac Oliver Gruffydd did from bandstands and railway embankments and rocks and bedroom windows--setting up an ideal, and bidding men remember, though they might never attain, to strive. Or perhaps he was working from the most religious motive known to man--to please himself, trusting that if he did so he might please Something greater than himself. If so, his idea might have had grandeur, but that grandeur was curiously expressed. For he did not cease to grunt from time to time, as his face became grimy and then washed clean again with perspiration: "Damned Treacle-tongue! I'll _sew_ my pockets up next time! Owd false-teeth--their road-engines--him an' his new brolly!----" By four o'clock twenty road-engines could not have shaken down the beam on the chimney side of the house, and without another look at it he turned to the other wall. It was Ned's remembered voice that bade him hasten. As he tackled the second beam he grew quite chatty with Ned. It was Ned who kept him to those red-marked crucial points, and told him that he needn't bother about the walls, for the ceiling-sheets would do to cram into the interstices, and that, if he made haste, the golden days would come again when he had mocked at all Welshmen, and had had on the hip the Railway Companies and Kursaals and Hotels and Steamboats that had done their utmost to get rid of him. It was soon after this that he became conscious of other whispers than Ned's. At last he had seen the crowd gathered in Pontnewydd Street. But by this time he had ripped his ceiling-cloth down, and the grey incoming day was suddenly darkened again as he ploughed across the talus of debris and made a wall of cloth, fastening it anywise from beam to beam. Ned said that that was quite good enough. You never caught wise old Ned napping. Tommy Kerr had been very fond of his brother Ned. He had gone ratting with him, and alder-cutting, and he remembered a whippet Ned had once had, a rare dog for nipping 'em as they turned, and a canary too.... Then Tommy Kerr's brain, which for more than seven hours had been as steady as a sleeping top, gave a little wobble. This was as he paused in the middle of the floor of his incredible house. There was something else he had to do; what was it?... _What_ was it, now?... He knew there was something else he had to do.... He would have done better to begin his work all over again than to stop and think. What ... ah yes, he remembered! He remembered and chuckled. Why, he had been on the point of forgetting the cream of the whole joke!---- He stooped by the rounded grey mound of lime and plaster that represented his bed, but his knees gave, and he came with a little thump to the floor. But he rolled over on his side, and his fingers found what they sought, and after a few minutes he rose again. In his hand was the red flag he had stolen from the cab of Dafydd Dafis's road-engine. That was to go up where his chimney had been, that chimney that had emitted that first smoke on that far-off first morning. The town, when it awoke, must on no account miss _that_. Tommy Kerr wanted to see the faces of Howell Gruffydd, John Pritchard, Dafydd Dafis and Co. when they saw that flag.... He tottered to the ladder that ran up into the loft. He fell twice from the lower rungs of it, but a foot of lime made his fall soft. He mounted to the top, and crawled on his belly across the open rafters of the loft. He did not know how he got out on to the roof; it seemed to him that he lay below for a long time, gazing up through a gap at the paling sky and wondering how it was to be done, and then miraculously found himself where he wished to be. Then he got on his feet. Then he saw them, the people in the street below. He had again forgotten they were there. So much the better; they should see him do it. Then he'd give a shout that should wake all Wales, and--and--by that time the pubs ought to be opening.... But the little hand-staff of the flag was not long enough to please him. He wanted a longer one, to make more of a show. It took a whole tree to carry the flag over the Kursaal Dancing Rooms there. It was stupid of Tommy not to have thought of that--not to have brought one up from below, where there were plenty--yes, plenty---- As it happened, he did not need the stick. It all came about very softly and gently. He was standing up, again looking about for a longer stick, when once more his brain gave a wobble. The watchers below saw him lean, as formerly his chimney had leaned, only now Tommy Kerr leaned the other way---- And so gently did he come over, and so comparatively short a distance had he to fall, that you would have sworn it did not hurt him very much. He stuck to the little square of red calico at the end of the short staff; it was still in his hand when they picked him up from the heap of chimney-bricks that choked the little alley where the principal entrance to the Kursaal Gardens now is. Ancient Mrs. Pritchard, when she heard of it, baa-ed, and said that folk came and went--came and went---- VI THE GLYN From sleeping badly, John Willie Garden had passed to sleeping hardly at all. From that same fear of startling her, he still did not appear in the Glyn much before his accustomed hour (though there had been times without number when he had resolved otherwise); instead, he wandered about, a mile, two miles away, sometimes setting himself a distant point to walk to, on his return from which it would surely be time he was seeking her. On the first two mornings of his absence from home he had not shaved; then he had decided that that would never do, and has sent somebody from the inn below to fetch him a bag. With the bag had come a short note from Minetta. It had merely said that June was leaving on the following Saturday, and that after that day she would be alone in the house. He now wished he had not asked Minetta to show June that sketch. She had put it on his breakfast-plate for all the world as if _he_ had wished to see it, instead of merely to show June how much better it was than the others. He didn't think that Minetta cared in the least how he spent his time, but she was so sharp, and queer as well as sharp. She watched things without taking any part in them. The more self-absorbed the actors showed themselves, the more keenly interested Minetta became. In many respects she took after her father. Edward Garden too had that habit of poking and prying into people's tastes and enjoyments and passions and desires, noting and understanding them while remaining himself inaccessible to such weaknesses. It wouldn't greatly have surprised John Willie to learn that Minetta guessed what he was about up Delyn. The curious thing was that, if that were so, he didn't think that Minetta would disapprove. She would look as it were over the tops of a pair of imaginary glasses, and under them, and finally through them, and her ironical glance would say as plainly as words, "This seems to be a love-affair." She would neither disapprove nor approve, or, if she did approve, it would be of his provision of entertainment for her. Her disapproval would appear only if John Willie involved her in something that would not "do." This brought John Willie straightway back face to face with his old and torturing dilemma, of having something "on"--but something that would not "do." A hundred times he had fought it out, and a hundred times he had come to the conclusion that, while Minetta might resemble her not quite human father, he, John Willie, was his mother's son. His mother would have been entirely for that "No" that a hundred times had gained the day. After each of these victories he had been on the point of turning his back on the mountains and of not returning as long as he knew her to be there. These impulses had now nothing to do with his fear of startling her. They were born of that stiff and indispensable code. He had only to thank her for a few breakfasts, to tell her he was going, to wish her well, and all would be over. He found rest in the thought. He might suffer an ache or two afterwards, but it would be the best way out. It had been his first impulse, and it had proved to be his last conclusion. He would consider it settled so. It would be much the best course to act like an ordinary young man. For several days he had said that. He said it again on the morning when he shaved off half a week's growth of beard. Once more he had slept within a stone's-throw of the hut. There had been light showers during the night, but hardly enough to call a break of the weather; the drops twinkled on fern and grass and spiders'-webs and tiny flowers, but the ground was still as dry as tinder. As he shaved, with the little mirror of his dressing-bag hung on a hazel, he reflected that it was only half-past seven, and that the Llyn ought to be a good colour for fishing. There would be plenty of time for a cast or two before saying good-bye. But his rod was in the locked hut, of which she had the key. No matter. Since he had now come to his decision, it would make no difference did he seek her in the Glyn a little earlier than usual. He would then be able to get away earlier in order to say good-bye to the neglected June. He was heartily glad it was all over. The only possible course seemed so plain that he wondered now what he had been tormenting himself about all this time. Smiling a little, he even thought of all the awkwardnesses and dissimulations and machinations and deceits he was by one stroke escaping. He _would_ have felt rather a brute had he come upon Dafydd Dafis one day, and asked him how he was getting on, and, casually, what had become of that little niece or cousin of his, whose name he would have had to make a lying pretence of having forgotten. It _would_ have been behaving rather off-handedly to June, to see her for the first two days only of her stay and then to let her go without as much as seeing her off. It _would_ be better that Minetta should not have to write home saying that John Willie was away (fishing) and she alone in the house, but she was quite all right. It _would_ be better to think of the things that would permanently "do"--altogether more comfortable and satisfactory not to have to call himself, in the waking hours of nights in the years ahead, or in the days to come when business claimed him, by a disquieting name. It was not as if there were not plenty of other things to think of. This particular aspect of life was far too much dwelt on. Percy Briggs dwelt on it too much, he himself had dwelt too much on it. He wasn't sure that he hadn't been getting even a little morbid about it. Not every lovely flower is picked because it is lovely and then thrown wilting away again. John Willie had come to his senses. It had taken him some time, but he was all right again now. He wondered how those people at the inn below had been looking after his horse. They'd probably let him get fat and lazy. Well, he would give him a twisting on the way home. Too much inaction is good for neither horse nor man.... He finished shaving, and began to whistle as he packed his tackle and strapped the case. He would leave the case where it was, and pick it up on his way back. He would take the boat, pull straight across, get it over, and then have a swinging walk down to the inn. Despite his moping wanderings, he felt the need of a really good hard walk. He strode down to the lake, unfastened the boat, dashed the waterdrops from the thwart with his cap, and pushed off. It was a brilliant, if broken, sky. Up the mountain-side the light mists were quickly evaporating, and a great crag of dazzling white cloud, shaped like the north of Scotland on a map, was perfectly reduplicated in the glassy Llyn. As if the surface of the water had had a tenuity without abating a jot of its crystal clearness, the smooth V from the bows seemed to shear through something that, even when the water settled to rest again, did not return; there fled at each stroke an intact perfection. He altered the boat's course, and the reflection of the edge of Delyn broke into long smooth stripes. He altered it again, and an invisible comb seemed to pass through the towering inverted cloud. His wake was a dancing of broken glittering facets. He stood in towards the shaly spur; a few more strong strokes and he grounded abruptly; and he gathered up his boots and stockings from the bottom of the boat, stepped out, and made fast at the bottom of the Glyn. The showers had swollen the stream a little, and mossy stones that had been dry the day before were lapped by the water, and pools came farther up his calf. But suddenly at a thought he stopped. In the new circumstances it was a new thought. She did not expect him for some hours yet; it might be better--in case of his coming upon her as she might not wish to be come upon--to give a call. On second thoughts he was sure that he ought to give a call. He opened his mouth---- But it was not necessary. Suddenly he saw her twenty yards ahead. She had probably been up for hours, and had got her bathe over long since. But even that glimpse of her through the leaves had been as it were two glimpses. In the first of them he had seen that she was there; in the second he had noted that her appearance was not her usual appearance. She was no longer wearing the black dress of Philip Lacey's flower-shop, but that old blouse, unconfined at the waist, and again, as on that day when she had started back from the door of the hut, her legs and feet were bare. Four trout lay on the grass beside her, one of them still fluttering. She was stroking the drops of water from her forearms, and wiping her hands on her old striped petticoat. He did not call, but all in a moment she looked round as quickly as if he had done so. At first he thought she was going to start to her feet and run, but she remained seated. Then a bough intervened. He put it aside behind him, threw his boots and stockings ashore, and climbed the bank. "Hallo, Ynys," he said, as he sat down beside her. "I'm a bit early, but I've got to get off soon. They want me down there. There are some people I must see before they go." Then he wondered whether, after all, he had not startled her. In her eyes was once more that look that had been there that other day, when she had fallen back, though no farther than a cat falls back. If that was so he must reassure her by going on talking. Without pausing, he continued. "Yes, I shall have to get off by eleven. I've not been home, you see. Couldn't stand going back to that place, so I just made myself comfortable by the hut there.--I say, I hope you didn't get wet with that rain in the night?" Simply, freely, naturally, and without a second thought, he put out his hand to feel whether her petticoat was dry. He supposed she slept in her petticoat, and that his early visit had not allowed her time to change. But she crouched back so swiftly that he also fell a little back, surprised. He forgot that his own words, "I'm a bit early," raised twenty questions--questions of why he was there at all, of how it had come to pass that a variation in his habit was a thing to be remarked on, of why his announcement that he must be off early seemed even to himself a breach of something that had never been established, but only tacitly allowed. He forgot these things, stared at her, and suddenly exclaimed, "Why, what's the matter?" Had she feared that he was about to put his hand upon her? One of her elbows had shot up as if she would have defended herself, and the frightened seaweed eyes looked at him over the guarding forearm. Her other hand, behind her on the grass, supported her. So they sat, she trembling, he covering her with an astonished stare. Then, as quickly as she had raised it, she dropped the defending arm. She made a swift clutch at her petticoats and scrambled a foot farther away from him. Her breast fluttered like that of the still living trout, and her hand was clasped betrayingly about one foot hidden in the short striped petticoat. And in a twink John Willie saw his mistake. It was not from his advanced hand that she had shrunk. It was from the resting of his eyes--those eyes that, even as she had drawn herself back, had already rested. Those eyes, of Scandinavian blue, had sought hers again, of the wet greenish brown of the seaweed of the shore. He spoke quietly. "Come here, Ynys," he said. She did not move. "Come here, Ynys," he said again. Her trembling became violent. "Come here, Ynys--I want----" He did not finish. His hand shot quickly forth. The next moment it held what she had striven to hide. He was gazing at the silver mark that ran round the outer edge of her foot near the little toe as a vein runs round a pebble. She had twisted her body so that her face lay on the grass, covered with her hands. She made one feeble movement to draw the foot from his hand, and then lay still. When, presently, he put it gently down, she made no further attempt to hide it; what was the good, since he had seen? It lay still now, a little crinkled brown sole with bits of vegetation pressed into it, and, running across it, that old thread, silver, like the wedding-ring of her mother--that hard little sole that had made the kidney-shaped footprints on the Llanyglo beach, that had pattered after pedestrians on the road, and that would take to the roads again rather than be pressed into a shoe and walk the pavements of a town. Yet, though he had seen the foot, she seemed determined he should not see her face too. Presently she was conscious that he was trying to do so, that he was gently trying to draw away the concealing hands. That she resisted. "Ynys! Ynys!" he was saying remorsefully in her ear. She lay quite still, and "Ynys! Ynys!" he continued to repeat, over and over again. At last he heard that uniquely soft voice of hers in reply. She spoke into the grass, not sobbingly, only a little dully. "I 'ould not show you," she begged him--movingly begged him--to believe. "Ynys--dear!----" "Indeed you ask me, one day, if I take off my boots and stock-kings, and I 'ould not----" "No, no----" he soothed her. "I not show nobody, in lot-t of years, never." She turned her face to him for a moment; the anger of a fury lurked there for him had he not believed her. "I not show nobody, if they kill me," she went on. "Lot-t of years I _hate_ it----" the vindictiveness of the single word died away, and he scarcely heard what came next, "--but I not hate it any more now----" His answer was to rise suddenly to his knees, to stoop again, and to kiss the foot he had innocently maimed. He was conscious as he did so of its quick little pressure against his mouth.... The next moment his arm was about her shoulder, and he was gently seeking to see her face again. "Cariad!" he murmured, his lips to her ear. And he knew that by no other means could it have come to pass. "Lot-t of years I hate it--but I not hate it any more." She had hated the foot for its disfigurement. She had loved it for him. There was no question of Yes or No as they ate their breakfast together; it was as it was, and neither guilt nor innocence had any part in it. From time to time, as they sat, he flung his arms about her shoulders as frankly as children embrace, and she suffered the crushing with lips parted and eyes immeasurably far away. The black pool was flecked with froth; it danced over the whitey-green ebullition at the foot of the swollen fall; and two dragon-flies, one blue as a scarab and the other like a darting twig of green metal, hovered and set and spun. There seemed to be no wind, but the great country of white cloud up aloft had advanced, and a soft gloom filled the Glyn. They did not wash up; impatiently John Willie tossed the platter they had shared aside; and they embraced again. Midday did not find John Willie on his way to Llanyglo, nor yet did he see June off by the three o'clock train. By three o'clock he was on the summit of Delyn again, under the same rock where he had tried, as if by accident, to touch her hand. She had put on her shoes, but not her stockings, for the climb, but he had drawn them off again, and once more she lay, luxuriating with her foot under his hand. Even now she did not talk very much. She had only one thing to say, with lovely monotony and very few words to say it in; she strayed no farther from her little store of English than to say, over and over again, "Boy bach!" with the greenish-brown eyes slavishly on his, and her parted lips hurrying out the diminutive before he crushed them again. She started from her dream once, as a stray sheep close behind them gave a call like a rich oboe; then she relapsed into it again. The shadows lay still and leagues long over the rumple of mountains, and she had not changed, and had promised that she would not again change, that unfastened bodice and short and faded old petticoat. So June steamed away, while Ynys's face was framed in John Willie's arm on the summit of Delyn. They descended to the Glyn again between the afternoon and the early evening, and with each step as they dropped down the mountain a silence grew and deepened on them. He knew its meaning, if she did not, and, back by the pool again, he first cleaned the forgotten platter (which she tried to prevent), and then stood before her as he had stood when once, with an abrupt, "Nos da," he had stridden away. And in that pause of gazing silence he knew how much was packed--his Yes, his No, hers too; all that lay behind them, all that lay before. For him, there lay enwrapped in it that slight black figure he had seen under the crimson pier-light; his searching for her; his finding her; his struggles, his decision, and then, even in the act of his relinquishment, his wonderful recovery of her. And her memory took a farther flight still. She saw herself, a little girl, sitting with a bandaged foot upon a chair, while a testy girl not two years older than herself drew her likeness. She remembered the unendurable length of those half-hours--unendurable, save that occasionally there looked in at the door or passed the window a cowslip-haired boy, with hard blue eyes that would stare down even his own conscience and none be the wiser, a conquering boy, of a race so habituated to conquest that it takes with the sword-hand and carelessly tosses twice as much back with the other. That was what it meant to her, that silver mark that ran round the edge of her foot as a vein runs round the edge of a pebble.... And for the future? His future might be anything, but hers could be one thing only. For the gipsy loves never but the once. In all but love, the waters of the world are not more unstable than she; in love, the rocks are not more irremovable. Therefore she has no past and no regrets. She has no regrets, for there is no scar upon her heart--how can there be a scar, when a scar is a healing, and this wound is never healed, but ever new, ever quivering? And she has no past--how can she have a past when all is a poignant and lovely present, that endures to the end?... There was so little for John Willie to do. He had only to go away without kissing her again. Kiss her, however, he must not--he was only an ordinary young man---- He knew it, and---- He passed his arms about her waist and drew her down by his side. It was dark in the Glyn long before the light had faded from the open hillside above. In Llyn Delyn not a fish rose to break that dark and intact perfection. The fall into the pool diminished a little in volume, and mossy cushions that had lately been covered began to rise out of the water again. And a heart was laid quiveringly open where formerly only a foot had been maimed. She was twice conquered, for she was Welsh and woman too. In the hearts of the men of her race the fame of their story still lives, and while it lives strife will not cease. As their own proverb says, what the sword took, the tongue will take back again. But the woman goes with the land. PART FIVE I THE WHEEL It was a summer nightfall in the Kursaal Gardens. The turnstiles of the new Main Entrance in Pontnewydd Street revolved ceaselessly, with a noise as of an unending rack and pinion. The lightly clad merrymakers poured under the trees that had electric globes for fruit; they moved towards the cream-coloured buildings that, with their illuminations, seemed no more than footlights to the solemn stage of the immeasurable blue beyond. Most of them were going to that Dancing-Hall where all the youths and maidens of the world seemed to dance together; the others hurried to keep appointments, to sit at the little tables where the waiters moved on the grass, to join the slowly moving circle about the bandstand, or to see the side-shows. The band played the "Lohengrin" Prelude; the soft sound of gravel crunching underfoot mingled with the music; and the great lighted circle of the Big Wheel rose against the sky. In the topmost coach of the Wheel sat John Willie Garden and June Lacey. They were alone in the bright upholstered compartment. June wore her Juniest frock and an engagement ring; John Willie, who had been walking, was in cap and knickers. They had been engaged since the Spring, and everybody had said how splendidly it would "do." They had played together (everybody had said) since childhood, knew exactly what to expect and what not to expect of one another, had (as they put it) the solid cake to cut at when the sugar and the almond-paste had begun to pall, and what could have been more romantic? "They'd be hard put to it to think of anything they're short of," everybody had said. From the windows of the car they could see the whole of Llanyglo. With the turning of the Wheel they had watched its lights rise slowly over the intervening roofs, and then slowly sink away again. Now, to see the grounds below, they had to step to the windows and to look almost vertically down, through the intricacy of girders and lattice and mammoth supporting piers. "It takes about twenty minutes to go round, doesn't it?" June asked. "About that," John Willie replied absently. "Look at the Trwyn light!" "Yes, dear." "We aren't as high as that, are we?" "Oh dear no." "I suppose we've stopped to take more passengers up?" "I expect so." Then, after a pause, June said, "Do you know, dear, I think I've finally decided about the drawing-room. I think I shall have it all white--every bit----" From her white gloves to her gypsophylla petticoats, she was a girl any young man would have been glad to spend his shillings on, and her house was going to be as smart and complete as herself. Her father was coming down very handsomely for her wedding, and in addition to his other gifts, was going to lay out the gardens and the greenhouse for them. Counting her silver, tapping her flower-pots to see which was in need of water, trimming bits of raffia with her scissors and putting drops of gum into her geraniums, June would be exactly in her right place. She was already attending a Cookery Class, and had all her household linen marked. And already they were promised any number of presents. "Presents are so useful," she had said to John Willie, "because then you have them, and so often they're the kind of thing you'd put off buying for yourself." It was all going to "do" very splendidly. "I say," said John Willie by and by, "we don't seem to be moving." "The Wheel?" June asked. "Yes. But it will go on in a minute, I expect." "I hope it won't stop long," June replied. John Willie also hoped it would not stop long, but for the life of him he couldn't have told you why he hoped so. Indeed he tried to smother the hope. He tried to smother it because he had an obscure feeling that--that--well, if a reason can smile, that his reason for not wishing to stay up there too long was quietly smiling at him. It seemed to tell him that he and everything about him were enviably all right--safe--thoroughly and entirely comfortable--need have no fears for the future--and that all would continue to be just as comfortable and safe and altogether all right until he should come to die, in a best bed, with eiderdowns, and frilled pillow-cases, and hot bottles, and the certainty of a handsomely appointed funeral a few days later. Few were as sure of their future as that. John Willie was one of the lucky ones.... He moved, not to the windows from which he could look down on the lights of the Promenade and Pier, but to those that were turned to the dark and unseen mountains. Somehow this reason he had for hoping that the car would not stop long seemed to come from there. He told himself that he would be better presently. He had these--bad humours, call them--sometimes. He hid them from June, but Minetta had noticed them, and he knew all about them himself. He turned to June again. "I wonder what's happened," he said. "It's--it's quite safe, isn't it?" June asked. "Oh, quite." His lips compressed a little. It was quite safe--neither more nor less safe than everything else in John Willie's life. That, somehow, was at the bottom of these ill-humours of his. "Dash it," he muttered.... "It is a nuisance," June agreed. "But I don't suppose Minetta will be anxious." "I wasn't thinking of Minetta," John Willie replied. Now when you are reluctant to enter into explanation, and there is something you badly want to do, you never (if you are an ordinary young man) look very far for a reason. The first that comes will serve your turn. If it is a flimsy one, no matter; you then get angry when its flimsiness is pointed out to you, and presently out of your anger and obstinacy you will have found a reason as good as another. John Willie did not at all like those interior smiling taunts of himself that took the form of congratulations on his neatly planned life and pillowed and feathered death to close it. If anybody of his own weight had taunted him thus he would have knocked that person down. But you cannot knock down a whisper that seems to come on the wind from the mountains through the night, making you, your ordered comfort notwithstanding, absolutely wretched. Again John Willie turned to June. "I say, June; this won't do, you know," he said. June looked enquiringly at him. "But we can't do anything but wait, dear, can we?" He did not answer. They waited. Half an hour passed. Then John Willie muttered again that, among so many other things that would "do" beautifully, this particular thing would not "do." June coloured a little. "But--but--it isn't our fault," she murmured, picking at the fingers of her gloves. He saw she understood. Again they waited. Then, suddenly, John Willie came shortly out with that reason that must serve in the stead of his real reason. He knew how lame it was. A score or two of other young couples were in precisely the same situation as they, and more that cheerfully resigned to their plight; but then they were not being goaded and taunted as John Willie was being goaded and taunted. They were not being told that their paths lay, so to speak, on flowers, while the paths of others were the stony road, that cut and blistered the foot, and tired the eyes, and bowed the back (but had no power, perhaps, thus to reproach the heart).... Anyway, John Willie was not disposed to stand it. "June," he said abruptly, "I can't stay up here all night with you." Her wail interrupted him.--"Oh-h-h!----" "It wouldn't do." "Oh-h-h--it isn't our fault----" "No, but that can't be helped. The woman I marry----" "Oh-h-h--but there isn't anything to do!" "Oh, yes there is. We needn't be together. I can get into another car or something. It will only be like walking along the footboard of a train." She gave a little shriek.--"Oh--if you do I shall throw myself out--I know I shall!----" "You won't do anything so silly. Get up, dear; I've quite made up my mind. I tell you it wouldn't do. The woman I marry...." With gentle force he picked her up and set her on the seat of the car. Then he approached the window. There was a bar across it, which it took him a minute to bend, but the chances were that where his head would pass the rest of his body might follow. June hid her face and moaned as he took off his coat; then he kissed her and thrust his head under the bar. He wriggled through, stood on the footboard, smiled again grimly through the window, and then looked down. At any rate, he had given a reason of sorts. Then he looked up. Instantly he saw that, unless head or wrist or finger should unexpectedly fail him, the most dangerous part of his exploit lay at the very beginning. There was no descent from the step on which he stood. The cars were slung from axles, and in order to get to the rim that held the axles themselves he must climb to the roof of the coach. He glanced at the roof of the coach twenty feet below and to his left. He saw that it had a curved rain-sill like that of the top of a railway carriage. Good; the coaches would be all alike. He set his knees in the window-frame once more. June was still lying with her face hidden on the seat. His fingers felt blindly for the rain-sill; they found it, and he moistened his other hand. He wished he could have glued it, for for some moments mere friction must be half his support. For an instant he thought calmly and abysmally; then he risked it.... It succeeded. He knelt on the roof, holding the sling and coupling that hung from the car-axle overhead. He glanced up at the axle to which he must swarm. The singing in the cars continued, and a babble of sound rose lightly from below. Evidently he had not been seen to get out of the car. But then, who would have thought of looking? * * * * * It was as he swarmed up the coupling that there first came over him the sense of the difference between the reason he had given, and the real reason that had brought him out from that brightly lighted and cushioned car in which he might far more easily have stopped. And the realisation of that difference brought with it, very strangely, the sense, not of bodily peril, but of inner peace. It was unaccountable, but there it was, not to be argued about. The only thing that disturbed this peace, and that but lightly, was that his venture had not a more profitable object. Folk did less dangerous things for far better reason--to save life, or property, or something else worth while. But this neck-risking of his was--could only be--bravado. He knew perfectly well that in the circumstances nobody would have thought a penny the worse of June. "The woman I marry----" he had known that to be an hypocrisy even when he had said it. No, he was merely idiotically showing-off, and that peace at his heart would presently prove to be an illusion.... It was quite suddenly, as he lay out along the Wheel's topmost car-axle, that the thought of Ynys came to him. He didn't know why it should come at that moment, unless it was born of his bodily isolation on the very top of that immense bracelet hung with trinkets of cars. But perhaps it was that; perhaps there was a connection, if only an idle and fanciful one. Save perhaps the keeper of the Trwyn light, nobody in Llanyglo was nearer the stars than he that night; and only Mynedd Mawr had been higher than he when he had lain on the rocky head of Delyn.... Or was it, not the isolation of his body at all, but his isolation of soul, that had brought that mysterious and inexplicable and probably fallacious peace. While not ceasing to keep his carefully calculating eyes open, and every motor-fold of his brain intent on the preservation of his balance, he began to think of Delyn. He had stayed many days up there; some weeks perhaps; he couldn't have told you how long. Its rain had soaked him, and its winds dried him again; its streams had fed him and its herbage furnished his litter at night; but the sun itself had not warmed him more than had her impulsive looks and surrendering gestures when he had but lifted up a hand. With another eye than that that now measured the distances between girders and axles and ties, he seemed to see the rocks again, and the lake shining in its morning intactness, and the drowned bubbles of the fall in the Glyn, and the thin wind stroking the short grass, and the mountain-ashes under which they had sat, their leaves like finger-prints against the sky. He could see again the trout she had cooked for him--her breast had fluttered as those dying silvery things had fluttered, silvery as that dry old scar he had kissed. He could smell the smoke of her morning fire again, her hair, her breast.... And he could hear again the shrill warning note in that unique voice of hers that had first set him wondering whether, after all, it would "do." ... That quarrel had not been on that heart-breaking morning of their parting. There had been no quarrel then. No; it had been at something unguarded he had said about his sister and her friends. Yes, he saw again the insensate jealous flame in those seaweed eyes, and heard the ugly passionate cracking of the voice in which she had cried, "They noth-thing, your fine miss-es! They mar-ry house without a man if they could--they take house in their arms--they make those eyes at house, and kiss house, and call it cariad! You no dif-ferent from them! You go to your miss and say, 'I have house'--she want-t you then!----" It had taken a whole morning before he had had her, humble and sobbing and remorseful and enslaved, in his arms again.... No, it wouldn't have done to marry a temper like that--and, temper altogether apart, it wouldn't have done. There are only a few years of this world and its companionships, and, though your friends may have their twists and crankinesses, they are still your friends, all you are likely to have. Better be in the stream with them while you are here. He would only have been sorry for it later, on her account as well as on his own. She had been quicker to see that than he, and had spoken of it in her soft and halting English. At first he had laughed and said "Kiss me" ... but she had been right.... But John Willie, with a Wheel to descend, must not let these things take him too far from the business in hand. He had reached a chain in a great guiding sprocket, but he thought of what at any moment a hand upon a lever in the power-house far below might do, and of one of his father's men who had once been carried round shafting. No moving parts for him.... He looked down through an iron-framed lozenge at the people below. The grounds resembled a tray of many-coloured moving beads. All Llanyglo seemed to have run to see the stopped Wheel. Probably the Pier itself was half empty. If so, all the more room for anybody who wanted to watch, not a Wheel, but the moon lift her gilded sacrificial horn out of the sea.... There had been far too much drub-drub-drubbing. John Willie was weary of it. It was time he settled down. And Llanyglo itself seemed to have come to much the same conclusion. It had begun to make a restriction here and a regulation there, as if it wished to purge itself of its evil name. There was no doubt that for a time it had been a very sinful place, and ... (here John Willie, with a slow steady pull, hoisted himself to where he wished to be, on the long curved upper plate of a massive H, rivet-studded like a boiler, that was knitted with iron lace to other H's--John Willie must not venture too far down that slope unless he should suddenly acquire a fly's faculty for walking upside-down) ... and perhaps the town had begun to get a little frightened, as sinful people, and perhaps sinful towns also, sometimes do. But that would be all right presently. Llanyglo was going, in a manner of speaking, to be married. It was turning over, had turned over, a new leaf. Soon it would be a churlish thing to reproach it for a past that it had lived down; it was becoming sadder and wiser, and better able to distinguish between the things that would "do" and the things that would not. The less talk ... (here John Willie began to realise that he was not a fly, and to collect his nerves for the turn-over to the under side of that H that a few yards away dropped over, with a little gleam, into nothing) ... the less talk the soonest mended. He did not intend to say--anything--to June. Indeed he intended ... (there: that was rather a jerk to his shoulder socket, but he was safely underneath) ... indeed he intended that his attitude to June about such matters should be rather severe. This was not because June's own thoughts were in the least degree lax (she erred, if anywhere, on the prudish side), but because women were very tender things. A whisper was fatal to them. That was why John Willie was clinging now to that enormous piece of knitting of iron and upholstered carriages and electric light. He had climbed out in order that nobody should be able to say, after that, that.... Then it was that he knew, once and for ever, that this was a lie. Then it was that he knew that he was not where he was, suspended between the stars of heaven and the lamps of earth, on June's account. He was there because a gipsy girl had called him. This was his service, not of the pretty and pleasant June he was presently going to marry, but of one whom he had not married, of one he had not feared to compromise, of one who had known nothing, cared nothing, save that she had been lost in a wild and tender and beautiful love. She, none other, had called him---- Then, too, it was that there rose to him from below a faint yet high and shuddering "A-a-a-ah!" that was followed by a sudden cessation of all sound whatever save only a distant throb and pulsing in the Dancing-Hall. It surprised him for a moment; then he remembered. Of course. He had been seen---- She, none other, had called him, and he knew now that so she would continue to call him, wherever he might be--from his labour by day and from his rest by night, from his laughter with his children and his clasping of his wife. She would continue to call him until softness and ease should have done their slow and fatal work, would continue to call him until that nerve, with her harping on it, should have become dull.... He seemed to hear the echoes of that voiceless calling, diminishing through the years to come. They would end in a silence that his wife's innocent garrulity would never, never be able to break---- The faint throb in the Dancing-Hall also ceased. The Kursaal Gardens were a bead mat of faces. There was not a whisper. Delyn was not stiller. Unconscious that already he was black and torn and bleeding, he looked down from his girder upon the bead mat. He knew what, presently, if he came down alive, every bead there would be singing--his daring and his quixotry and his devotion, and the possession by June of a husband who would do this rather than suffer the lightest breath upon the mirror of her name---- He looked at them as he clung, scarce bigger than a speck, high in that webbed diadem of the Wheel---- And as he hung there, with only the guardian of the Trwyn light higher than he, and the rest of the descent still to make, he still could not decide, of the two things that oppressed his heart, which was the atonement and which the sin. II ADIEU "You're leaving Llanyglo? Well, holidays must come to an end.--You'd like another walk up the Trwyn? Very well; but you've seen all there is to see.... "Here we are.... What's going on at the Light? Oh, that's the Board of Trade, experimenting with some new fog apparatus or other. By the way, the Light people are rather sore because of a new Regulation, that they mustn't have lodgers at the farm; and also because they'd like to grow roses up the look-out wall, and that's prohibited too; I suppose the authorities think they'd be spending the day looking at the roses instead of at the ships. They've moved the rocket apparatus farther along the coast; they found it wasn't much use here, and it's turned out very successfully at Abercelyn.--Eh? Yes, where the manganese comes from. They still get a certain quantity, but there's peace in the Balkans or wherever it is for the moment, so nobody's growing very rich out of the mines here.... "Hallo, that's rather a coincidence. Don't look round too quickly. You see that tallish man over there? I don't suppose you've even seen him before; as a matter of fact he hasn't been--er--to be seen. He got into trouble once; in plain English, they put him in prison. His name's Armfield, and his trouble was all about Llanyglo. Awkward things, meetings like these. I think Armfield's a capital chap, and I should like to go and talk to him; but prison's a cruel thing, and you never know how the poor fellow himself feels about it.... Ah! As I thought, he looks rather broken. If you don't mind we won't watch him. Come on to the Dinas and have a smoke.... * * * * * "How's John Willie Garden? Perfectly rosy, if beginning to get a bit fat. Lucky dog! Four children, two boys and two girls, quite an amiable chatter-box of a wife, and rich enough to buy almost anything he wants. Lucky, lucky dog!--Did I tell you he was the adopted Conservative Free Trade candidate for one of the Manchester divisions? Not that he cares a snap about Free Trade politically; economically it merely happens to be a good part of his bread and butter; but then you have to be careful about what you say on platforms, and so John Willie talks like the editor of the _Spectator_ himself. June Garden runs her two houses, one here and one in Manchester, like clockwork, and they go backwards and forwards between them in a really regal car. Every tramp and gipsy on the road knows that car. However fast he's driving, John Willie always pulls up and gives them a shilling. Just a foible of his. We all have 'em in one shape or form. "Llanyglo's going in heartily for these new proposals for advertising the town out of the rates. A young man called Ithel Williams is very keen on it; he's a son of Tudor Williams, the Tudor Williams who used to be M.P. for this division. Young Ithel's got rather a nice billet here, as Librarian or something for the Council, and if this new thing goes through he'll be quite in clover.--Jobbery? Well, I suppose that's the name for it, but personally I'm not altogether against it. It seems to me that the only alternative is putting these berths up for competitive examination, which in my opinion's failed all along the line, so find the right man and then job him in, I say.--The right man's so frequently a relative? Well ... there you are. That _is_ the weak spot. But there's always a crab somewhere.... * * * * * "I wonder if Armfield's gone yet? Let's have a look.... No, he's still there.... * * * * * "A good season? Yes, from all accounts it's been a very good season. There have been better from the purely money point of view, I should say, but after all everybody can't be everything, and every place can't get all there is. Llanyglo, like other places, has its natural limits of expansion. I don't think it will get any bigger yet awhile. There's no doubt the Wakes people were the people who flung the money about, and they've a little fallen off; but even if Llanyglo has to write down some of its obligations it will probably gain in the long run. A section of the Council's coming to see that, and is pressing for reconstruction (that's always rather wonderful to me, that they should construct things of solid materials and then reconstruct them by saying they cost less than they did); but that's the Council's business, or rather the powers behind the Council. Edward Garden isn't one of these any longer, at any rate not to the extent he was. He sits in Manchester and makes towns in Canada now. But he still looks at letters under his glasses, and over them, and backwards and forwards and upside down, and then looks mildly up at you and says the letter seems to be a letter.... "A last look at the place: there you are: bay, Promenade, Pier, the ring of mountains behind. It grew from a few fishermen's huts to over-capitalisation in a very few years. And there's Terry Armfield, still looking at it all, like a not very old Rip Van Winkle. I wonder what he's thinking! I suppose he couldn't keep away, but must come and remember it as it was and dream over it again as it was never, never to be.... Walk past quickly; he's sobbing, poor chap. His dream was of a place--I don't know how to describe it--all friendliness and loveliness and graciousness, fowl and flesh and good red-herring all in one, so to speak, what you might call a diaphanous sort of place, a jolly place to think of during those few minutes of the morning or evening when you're not quite asleep and not quite awake, but--hm!--I'm not so sure ... not in this imperfect world.... "Anyway, that down there is what he sees.... "I suppose the other wouldn't have done.... "Shall we go?" THE END * * * * * Transcriber's Note: Hyphen variations left as printed. 
40884	----	[Illustration: _From an etching by E. Horter_ MADISON SQUARE, NEW YORK] THE PERSONALITY OF AMERICAN CITIES BY EDWARD HUNGERFORD _Author of_ "_The Modern Railroad_," "_Gertrude_," _etc._ WITH FRONTISPIECE BY E. HORTER NEW YORK McBRIDE, NAST & COMPANY 1913 Copyright, 1913, by MCBRIDE, NAST & CO. Published November, 1913 TO MY LITTLE DAUGHTER ADRIENNE. PREFACE This book has been in preparation for nearly four years. In that time the author has been in each of the cities that he has set forth to describe herein. With the exception of Charleston, New Orleans and the three cities of the North Pacific, he has been in each city two or three or even four or five times. The task that he has essayed--placing in a single chapter even something of the flavor and personality of a typical American town--has not been an easy one, but he hopes that he has given it a measure of fidelity and accuracy if nothing more. Of course, he does not believe that he has included within these covers all of the American cities of distinctive personality. Such a list would include necessarily such clear-cut New England towns as Portland, Worcester, Springfield, Hartford and New Haven; it would give heed to the solid Dutch manors of Albany; the wonderful development of Detroit, builded into a great city by the development of the motor car; the distinctive features of Milwaukee; the southern charm of Indianapolis and Cincinnati and Louisville; the breezy western atmosphere of Omaha and of Kansas City. And in Canada, Winnipeg, already proclaiming herself as the "Chicago of the Dominion," Vancouver and Victoria demand attention. The author regrets that the lack of personal acquaintance with the charms of some of these cities, as well as the pressure of space, serves to prevent their being included within the pages of his book. It is quite possible, however, that some or all of them may be included within subsequent editions. The author bespeaks his thanks to the magazine editors who were gracious enough to permit him to include portions of his articles from their pages. He wishes particularly to thank for their generous assistance in the preparation of this book, R. C. Ellsworth, and Cromwell Childe of New York; C. Armand Miller, D.D., of Philadelphia; Nat Olds, formerly of Rochester; Edwin Baxter of Cleveland; and Victor Ross of Toronto. Without their aid it is conceivable that the book would not have come into its being. And having aided it, they must be content to be known as its foster fathers. E. H. Brooklyn, New York, September, 1913. CONTENTS PAGE 1. OUR ANCIENT HUB 1 2. AMERICA'S NEW YORK 17 3. ACROSS THE EAST RIVER 61 4. WILLIAM PENN'S TOWN 76 5. THE MONUMENTAL CITY 95 6. THE AMERICAN MECCA 108 7. THE CITY OF THE SEVEN HILLS 127 8. WHERE ROMANCE AND COURTESY DO NOT FORGET 135 9. ROCHESTER--AND HER NEIGHBORS 153 10. STEEL'S GREAT CAPITAL 171 11. THE SIXTH CITY 185 12. CHICAGO--AND THE CHICAGOANS 198 13. THE TWIN CITIES 212 14. THE GATEWAY OF THE SOUTHWEST 225 15. THE OLD FRENCH LADY BY THE RIVERBANK 236 16. THE CITY OF THE LITTLE SQUARES 256 17. THE AMERICAN PARIS 266 18. TWO RIVALS OF THE NORTH PACIFIC--AND A THIRD 280 19. SAN FRANCISCO--THE NEWEST PHOENIX 288 20. BELFAST IN AMERICA 307 21. WHERE FRENCH AND ENGLISH MEET 318 22. THE CITY THAT NEVER GROWS YOUNG 332 THE ILLUSTRATIONS Madison Square, New York _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE Tremont Street, Boston 2 Park Street, Boston 10 The Brooklyn Bridge 18 View of New York from a Skyscraper 30 Washington Square, New York 46 A Quiet Street on Brooklyn Heights 64 An old Brooklyn Homestead 72 City Hall Philadelphia 84 In Baltimore Harbor 96 Charles Street, Baltimore 102 The Union Station, Washington 114 The Capitol 122 St. Michael's Churchyard, Charleston 146 The Erie Canal, in Rochester 154 A Home in Rochester 160 Syracuse--the canal 168 The waterfront, Pittsburgh 180 One of Cleveland's broad avenues 192 Michigan Avenue and lake-front, Chicago 204 The River at St. Paul 220 Entrance to the University, St. Louis 226 A home in the newer St. Louis 232 Steamboat at the New Orleans levee 244 The big cathedral, San Antonio 256 San Juan Mission, San Antonio 262 The arch at 17th Street, Denver 270 Seattle, Puget Sound and the Olympics 282 Where the Pacific rolls up to San Francisco 294 The Mission Dolores, San Francisco 302 A Church parade in Montreal 320 Looking from the Terrace into Lower Quebec 334 Four Brethren upon the Terrace 340 THE PERSONALITY OF AMERICAN CITIES 1 OUR ANCIENT HUB There are more things forbidden in Boston than in Berlin--and that is saying much. You may be a citizen of a republic, but when you come to the old Bay State town you suddenly realize that you are being ruled. At each park entrance is posted a code of rules and regulations that would take a quarter of an hour to read and digest; in the elevated and trolley cars, in public institutions and churches, even in shops and hotels, the canons laid down for your conduct are sharp in detail and unvarying in command. You may not whistle in a public park, nor loiter within a subway station, nor pray aloud upon the Charlesbank. And for some reason, which seems delightfully unreasonable to a man without the pale, you may not take an elevated ticket from an elevated railroad station. It is to be immediately deposited within the chopping-box before you board your train. As to what might happen to a hapless human who emerged from a station with a ticket still in his possession, the Boston code does not distinctly state. And yet--like most tightly ruled principalities--Boston's attractiveness is keen even to the unregulated mind. The effect of many rules and sundry regulations seems to be law and order--to an extent hardly reached in any other city within the United States. The Bostonian is occasionally rude; these occasions are almost invariably upon his overcrowded streets and in the public places--until the stranger may begin to wonder if, after all, the street railroad employés have a monopoly of good manners--but he is always just. His mind is judicial. He treats you fairly. And if he knows you, knows your forbears as well, he is courtesy of the highest sort. And there is no hospitality in the land to be compared with Boston hospitality--once you have been admitted to its portals. [Illustration: Boston's _Via Sacre_--Tremont Street--and Park Street church] So we have come in this second decade of the twentieth century to speak of the inner cult of the Boston folk as Brahmins. The term is not new. But in the whole land there is not one better applied. For almost as the high caste of mystic India hold themselves aloof from even the mere sight of less favored humans, do these great, somber houses of Beacon street and the rest of the Back Bay close their doors tightly to the stranger. Make no mistake as to this very thing. You rarely read of Boston society--her Brahmin caste--in the columns of her newspapers. There are, of course, distinguished Boston folk whose names ring there many times--a young girl who through her athletic triumphs and her sane fashion of looking at life forms a good example for her sisters across the land; a brilliant broker, with an itching for printer's ink, who places small red devils upon his stationery; a society matron who must always sit in the same balcony seat at the Symphony concerts, and who houses in her eccentric Back Bay home perhaps the finest private art gallery in America. These folk and many others of their sort head the so-called "Society columns" of the Sunday newspapers. But the real Bostonese do not run to _outre_ stationery or other eccentricities. They live within the tight walls of their somber, simple, lovely old red-brick houses, and thank God that there were days that had the names of Winthrop or Cabot or Adams or Peabody spelled in tinted letters along the horizon. A. M. Howe, who knows his Boston thoroughly, once told of two old ladies there who always quarreled as to which should have the first look at the _Transcript_ each evening. "I want to see if anybody nice has died in the _Transcript_ this evening," the older sister would say as she would hear the thud of the paper against the stout outer door,--and after that the battle was on. We always had suspected Mr. Howe of going rather far in this, until we came to the facts. It seems that there were two old ladies in Cambridge, which--as every one ought to know, is a sort of scholastic annex to Boston--and that they never quarreled--save on the matter of the first possession of the _Transcript_. On that vexed question they never failed to disagree. The matter was brought to the attention of the owners of the newspaper--and they settled it by sending an extra copy of the _Transcript_ each evening, with their compliments. And that could not have happened anywhere else in this land save on the shores of Massachusetts Bay. Yet these old Bostonians the chance visitor to the city rarely, if ever, sees. They are conspicuous by their very absence. He will not find them lunching in the showy restaurants of the Touraine or in its newest competitor farther up Boylston street. They shrink. He may sometime catch a glimpse of a patrician New England countenance behind the window-glass of a carriage-door, or even see the Brahmins quietly walking home from church through the sacred streets of the Back Bay on a Sunday morning, but that is all. The doors of the old houses upon those streets are tightly closed upon him. But if one of those doors will open ever and ever so tiny a crack to him, it will open full-wide, with the generous width of New England hospitality, and bid him enter. We remember dining in one of these famous old houses two or three seasons ago. It was in the heart of winter--a Boston winter--and the night was capriciously changing from rain to sleet and sleet to rain again. The wind blew in from the sea with that piercing sharpness, so characteristic of Boston. It bent the bare branches of the old trees upon the Common, sent swinging overhead signs to creaking and shrieking in their misery, played sad havoc with unwary umbrellas, and shot the flares from the bracketed gas-lamps along the streets into all manner of fanciful forms. In such a storm we made our way through streets of solid brick houses up the hill to the famous Bulfinch State House and then down again through Mount Vernon street and Louisburg square--highways that once properly flattened might have been taken from Mayfair or Belgravia. Finally our path led to a little street, boasting but eight of the stolid brick houses and arranged in the form of a capital T. The shank of the T gave that little colony its sole access to the remainder of the world. To one of these eight old houses--an austere fellow and the product of an austere age--we were asked. When its solid door closed behind us, we were in another Boston. Not that the interior of the house belied its stolid front. It was as simple as yellow tintings and bare walls might ever be. But the few pieces of furniture that were scattered through the generous rooms were real furniture, mahogany of a sort that one rarely ever sees in shops or auction-rooms, the canvases that occasionally relieved those bare walls were paintings that would have graced even sizeable public collections. The dinner was simple--compared with New York standards--but the hospitality was generous, even still compared with the standards of New York. To that informal dinner had been bidden a group of Boston men and women fairly representative of the town, a Harvard professor of real renown, the editor of an influential daily newspaper, a barrister of national reputation, a sociologist whose heart has gone toward her work and made that work successful. These folk, exquisite in their poise because of their absolute simplicity, discussed the issues of the moment--the city's progress in the playground movement, the possibilities of minimum wage laws, the tragic devotion of Mrs. Pankhurst and her daughter to woman suffrage. In New York a similar group of folk similarly gathered would have discussed the newest and most elaborate of hotels or George M. Cohan's latest show. It is this very quality that makes Boston so different--and so delightful. She may look like a cleanly London, as she often boasts--with her sober streets of red brick--and yet she still remains, despite the great changes that have come to pass in the character of her people within the past dozen years--a really American town. A few hours of study of the faces upon the streets and in the public conveyances will confirm this. And perhaps it is this very fact that makes a certain, well-known resident of the Middle West come to Boston once or twice each year without any purpose than his own announced one of dwelling for a few days within a "really civilized community." * * * * * We well remember our first visit to Boston some--twenty years ago. We came over the Boston & Albany railroad down into the old station in Kneeland street. For it was before the day that those two mammoth and barnlike terminals, the North and the South stations, had been built. In those days the railroad stations of Boston expressed more than a little of her personality--even the dingy ark of the Boston & Maine which thrust itself out ahead of all its competitors along Causeway street and reached into Haymarket square. The Providence station in Park square and the Lowell and the Albany stations bespoke in pretentious architecture something of the importance and elegance of those three railroads, while as for the gray stone castellated station of the Fitchburg railroad--that sublimated passenger-house made timid travelers almost feel that they were gazing at the East portal of the Hoosic tunnel itself. It originally held a great hall--superimposed above the train-shed--and in that hall Jenny Lind sang when first she came to Boston. Afterwards it was decided that a concert hall over a noisy train-house was hardly a happy ingenuity and it was torn out. By that time, however, the Fitchburg station had taken its place in the annals of Boston. But the Fitchburg railroad, even in its palmiest days, was never to be compared with "the Albany." Even the railroad to Providence, with its forty-five miles of well-nigh perfect roadbed, over which the trains thundered in fifty-five minutes, even a half century ago, was not to be mentioned in the same breath with the Boston & Albany. There _was_ a railroad. And even if its charter did compel it to pay back to the commonwealth of Massachusetts every penny that it earned in excess of eight per cent. dividends upon its stock, that was not to be counted against it. It had never the least difficulty in earning more than that sum and, as far as we know, it never paid the state any money. But the commonwealth of Massachusetts did not lose. It gained a high-grade railroad--in the day when America hardly knew the meaning of such a term. The stations along "the Albany" were rare bits of architecture while the average railroad depot, even in good-sized towns, was a dingy, barnlike hole. It ripped out wooden and iron bridges by the dozens along its main line and branches and set the pace for the rest of the country by building stout stone-arch bridges--of the sort that last the centuries. These things, and many others, were typical of the road. The Boston & Albany was unique in the fact that each stockholder who lived along its lines received as a yearly perquisite a pass to the annual meeting in Boston. The annual meetings were always well attended. Staid college professors, remembering the joys of Boston book shops, old ladies wearing black bombazine, tiny bonnets and prim expressions--all these and many others, too, looked forward to the annual meeting of their railroad as a child looks forward to Christmas. This is not the time or place to discuss the vexatious railroad situation in New England, but it is worth while to note that when the New York Central railroad leased the Boston & Albany--a little more than a dozen years ago--and began blotting out the familiar name upon the engines and the cars, a wave of sentimental anger swept over Boston that it had hardly known since it had inflamed over slavery and laid the foundations for the greatest internecine conflict that the world has ever known. Boston held no quarrel with the owners of the New York Central--if they would only not disturb the traditions of its great railroad. But the owners of the New York Central did not understand. It was not them. It was that word "New York" being blazoned before Boston eyes that was making the trouble. The old town had seen the Boston & Providence and then, horror of horrors, the New England disappear before a railroad that called itself the New York, New Haven & Hartford. And after these the offense was being created against its pet railroad--the Boston & Albany. The other day the New York Central saw a great light. And in that mental brilliancy it gave back to Boston its old railroad. As this is being written "Boston & Albany" is reappearing upon whole brigades of engines and regiments of freight and passenger cars. A friendly sentiment, reared in traditions, has not been slow to show its appreciation of the act of the railroad in New York. And the men in charge of the great consolidation of the other railroads east of the Hudson river have not been slow to follow in their action. They have announced that they plan to build their railroads into one great system called the "New England Lines." It begins to look as if, after all these years, they have begun to read the Boston mind. * * * * * We have strayed far from our text--from our long ago early visit to Boston. Our first impression of the town then came from a policeman whom we saw in the old Kneeland street station. The policeman had white side-whiskers and he wore gold-bowed spectacles. We have never, either before or after our first arrival in Boston, seen a policeman adorned, either simultaneously or separately, with white "mutton-chops" or gold-bowed spectacles, and so it was that this Bostonian made a distinct impression. Boston, itself, made many impressions. Twenty years ago many of the institutions of the town that have since disappeared, still remained. True it is that the horse-cars were going from Tremont street, for the first of the diminutive subways that have kept the city years ahead of most American towns in the solution of her intra-urban transportation problems had been completed and was a nine-days' marvel to the land. The coldly gray "Christian Science Cathedral," with its wonderful Sunday congregations, could hardly have existed then, even as a dream in the mind of its founder. And the Boston Museum still existed. To be sure, many of its glories in the days of William Warren and Annie Clarke had disappeared and it was doomed a few months later to such attractions as the booking syndicates might allot it, but its row of exterior lamps still blazed in Tremont street: until in June, 1903, it rang down its green baize curtains and closed its historic doors for the last time. And yet Boston has not changed greatly in twenty years--not in outward appearance at least. When she builds anew she builds with reverent regard for her ideals and her past traditions. Her architects must be steeped in both. Nearly twenty years ago she builded her first skyscraper--a modest and dignified affair of but twelve stories--and was then so shocked at her own audacity that she promised to be very, very good for ever after and never to do anything of that sort again. So when she found that a new hotel going up near Copley Square had overstepped her modest limit of seven stories--or is it eight?--she showed that she could have firmness in her determination. She chopped the cornice and the upper story boldly off the new hotel, and so it stands today, as if someone had passed a giant slicing-knife cleanly over the structure. So it is that Boston still holds to her attractive sky-line, the exquisite composition of such distinctive thoroughfares as Park street from the fine old church at Tremont street up the hill to Beacon street, the pillared, yellow front of the old State House; still keeps her meeting-houses with their delicate belfried spires standing guard upon her many hilltops; maintains the rich traditions of her history in the infinite detail of her architecture--in some bit of wall or section of iron fence, in the paneling of a door, the set of a cupola, the thrust of a street-lamp, and even in the chimney-pots that thrust themselves on high to the attention of the man upon the pavement. She cherishes her memories. And when she builds anew she does not forget her ideals. She never forgets her ideals. And if at times they may lead her to regard herself a bit too seriously, they make for the old town one of the things that too many other American towns lack--a real and distinctive personality. For instance, take her public houses, her taverns and inns. They are notable in the fact that they are distinctive--and something more. In a day and age when the famous American hotels of other days and generations and the things for which they stood, have been rather forgotten in the strife to imitate a certain type of New York skyscraper hotel, the Boston hotels still stand distinctive. Not that the New York type of skyscraper is not excellent. It must have had its strong points to have been so copied across the land. But if all the hotels in every town, big and little, are to be fashioned in the essentials from the same mold what is to become of the zest for travel? You travel for variety's sake, otherwise you might as well go to the local skyscraper hotel in your own town and save railroad fare and other transportation expenses. But no matter what may be true of other towns, the Boston hotels are different. "I like the Quincy House for its sea-fud," said an old legislator from Sandisfield more than forty years ago, and as for the Tremont House, turn the pages of your "American Notes" and recall the praise that Charles Dickens gave that not-to-be-forgotten hostelry. It was one of the very few things in the earlier America that did not seem to excite his entire contempt. [Illustration: Up Park Street, past the Common to Boston's famous State House] The Tremont House has gone--it disappeared under the advance of modernity in the serpent-like guise of the first subway in America, creeping down in front of it. But other hotels of the old Boston remain a'plenty, the staid Revere House, Parker's, Young's, the Adams House,--ages seem to have mellowed but not lessened their comforts to the traveler. Where else can one find a catalogue of the hotel library hanging beside his dresser when he retires to the privacy of his room, not a library crammed with "best-sellers" like these itinerant institutions on the limited trains, but filled with real books of a far more solid sort--where else such wisdom on tap in a tavern--but Boston? And if the traveler fails to be schooled to such possibilities, we might ask where else in Christendom can he get boiled scrod, or Washington pie, or fish balls, or cod tongues with bacon, or that magna charta of the New England appetite, that Plymouth rock from which has come all the virtues of its sturdy folk, baked beans with brown bread? Eating in Boston is good. In these things it is superlative. And it is pleasing to know that Boston's newest hotel--the Copley-Plaza--perhaps the finest hotel in America, since it has discarded new-fashioned details for the old--observes the traditions of the town in which it truly earns its bread and butter. And if the traveler have magic sesame, the clubs of the old town may open to him, clubs with spotless integrity and matchless service, all the way from the stately Somerset and the Algonquin through to the democratic City Club--with its more than four thousand enthusiastic members. This last is perhaps the most representative of Boston clubs. Its old house--unfortunately soon to be vacated--stands in Beacon street, within a stone's throw of King's Chapel and Tremont street. It is a rare old house; two houses in fact, lending tenderly to the Boston traditions of delicate bow fronts and severity of ornament. Its rooms are broad and long and low, filled with hospitable tables and comfortable Windsor chairs. In its great fireplace hickory logs crackle and the New England tradition of an ash-bank is preserved to the minutest detail. Its dun-colored walls are lined with rare prints and old photographs--pictures for the most part of that old Boston which was and which never again can be. The dishes that come out from its kitchen are from the best of traditional New England recipes. And as your host leads you out from the dining-room he delves deep into a barrel and brings out two bright red apples. He hands you one. "We New England folk think that most of the real virtues of life are seated in red apples," he says--and there is something in his way of saying it that makes you believe that he is right. Another day and he may lead you to still another club--this one down under the roof of one of those solid old stone warehouses with steep-pitched roofs that thrust themselves abruptly out into the harbor-line. It is a yacht club, and its fortress-like windows, shaped like the port-holes of a ship, look direct to a brisk water highway to the open sea. Underneath those very windows is the rush and turmoil of one of the busiest fish markets in the land. There is nothing on either coast, no, not even down in the picturesque Gulf that can compare with this place, which reeks with the odors and where the fishermen handle the cod with huge forks and paint the decks of their staunch little vessels a distinctive color to show the nationality of the folk who man it. We remember that the Portuguese have a whimsical fancy for painting the decks of their little fishing schooners a most unusual blue. Of Boston harbor an entire book might easily be written--of the quaint craft that still tie to its wharves, the brave show of shipping that passes in and out each day, of Boston Light and that other silent, watchful sentinel which stands upon Minot's Ledge; of the Navy Yard over in Charlestown at which the _Constitution_, most famous of all fighting-ships, rusts out her fighting heart through the long years. And looking down upon that old Navy Yard from Boston itself is Copp's Hill burying-ground, a rich grubbing-place for the seekers of epitaphs and of genealogical lore. We remember once winning the heart of the keeper of the old cemetery and of being permitted to descend to the vault of one of the oldest of Boston families. In the dark place there were three little groups of bones and we knew that only three persons had been buried there. Above, the sunshine beat merrily down upon Copp's Hill, with its headstones arranged in neat rows along the tidy paths and the elevated trains in an encircling street fairly belying the bullets in the stones--shot there from Bunker Hill a century and a quarter before.... There are many other such burying-grounds in Boston--in the very heart of the city the Granary and King's Chapel burying-ground where a great owl sometimes comes at dusk and opens his eyes wide at the traffic of a great city encircling one of God's acres. And a soul that revels in these things will, perchance, journey to Salem, seventeen miles distant, and see the moldering seaport that once rivaled Boston in her prosperity and that sent her clipper ships sailing around the wide world. There are many delightful side-trips out from Boston--the sail across the tumbling bay to Provincetown, which still boasts a town crier, down to Plymouth or up to Gloucester, with its smart, seaside resorts nearby. And back from Boston there are other moldering towns, filled with fascination and romance. Some of them have hardly changed within the century. Even Boston does not change rapidly. Thank God for that! She keeps well to the old customs and the old traditions, holds tightly to her ideals. Only in the folk who walk her awkward streets can the discerning man see the new Boston. The old types of Brahmins are outclassed. Some of them still do amazingly well in the professions but these are few. Long ago the steady press of immigration at the port of Boston took political power away from them. Yet the old guard stands resolute. And the impress of its manners is not lost upon the Boston of to-day. For instance, take the vernacular of the town. Boston has a rather old-fashioned habit of speaking the English language. It came upon us rather suddenly one day as we journeyed out Huntington avenue to the smart new gray and red opera house. The very colorings of the _foyer_ of that house--soft and simple--bespoke the refinement of the Boston to-day. In the Metropolitan Opera House, New York, in every other one of the big opera houses that are springing up mushroom-fashion across the land, our ears would have been assailed by "Librettos! Get your librettos!" Not so in Boston. At the Boston Opera House the young woman back of the _foyer_ stand calmly announced at clock-like intervals: "Translations. Translations." And the head usher, whom the older Bostonians grasped by the hand and seemed to regard as a long-lost friend, did not sip out, "Checks, please." "Locations," he requested, as he condescended to the hand-grasps of the socially elect. "The nearer door for those stepping out," announces the guard upon the elevated train and as for the surface trolley-cars, those wonderful green perambulators laden down with more signs than nine ordinary trolley-cars would carry at one time, they do not speak of the newest type in Boston as "Pay-as-you-enter cars," after the fashion of less cultured communities. In the Hub they are known as Prepayment cars--its precision is unrelenting. All of these things make for the furthering of the charm of Boston. They are tangible assets and even folk from the newer parts of the land are not slow to realize them as such--remember that man from the Middle West who makes a journey once or twice each year to be in the very heart of civilization. There was another Westerner--this man a resident of Omaha, who sent his boy--already a graduate of a pretty well-known university near Chicago--to do some post-graduate work at Harvard. A few weeks later he had a letter from his son. It read something after this fashion: "It seems absurd, Dad, but Harvard does have some absurd regulations. In fine, they won't let me go out in a shell or boat of any sort upon the river without special written permission from you. Will you fix me up by return mail and we will both try to forget this fool undergraduate regulation, etc...." That regulation struck Daddy about as it had hit Sonny. But he hastened to comply with the request. When he had finished, he felt that he had turned out quite a document, one that would be enjoyed in the faculty and perhaps framed and hung up in some quiet nook. It read: "To all whom it may concern: This is to certify that my son, John Japson Jones, is hereby authorized and permitted to row, swim, dive or otherwise disport himself upon, above or under the waters of the Charles river, Massachusetts bay and waters adjacent to them until especially revoked. Given under my hand and seal at the city of Omaha in the state of Nebraska, on the ....th day of October, 19.... (Signed) JAMES JONES." Then James Jones awaited the consequences. It was not long after that the letter came from John Japson. "--How could you do it, Dad?" he demanded. "You don't know these folks. They're not our sort. They don't know humor. They're afraid of it. The only man I dared to show that awful thing to was the janitor and he stuck up his nose. 'Guess your pop must have been a little full,' was his comment." James Jones decided to come to Boston forthwith. He wanted to see for himself what sort of a community John Japson had strayed into. He did see Boston, Cambridge too, to his heart's content. Boston was his particular delight. Two of its citizens took the gentleman from Omaha well in hand. They showed him the Frog Pond--it was just before the season when they remove the Frog Pond for the season and put down the boardwalks in the Common--and they showed him the crookedest streets of any town upon the American continent. They filled him with beans and with codfish, tickled his palate with the finest Medford rum. He mingled and he browsed and before they were done with him his barbaric soul became enraptured. "Boston is great," he admitted, frankly. Then, in an afterthought, he added: "I think that I should like to call her the Omaha of the East." * * * * * The owl still comes on cloudy, troubled nights and sits in a high tree-limb above the quiet graves in the graveyard of King's Chapel. When he comes he sees the tardiest of the Boston men, carrying the green bags, that their daddies and their granddaddies before them carried, as they go slipping down the School street hill. He is a very old owl and he loves the old town--loves each of its austere meeting-houses with their belfried towers, loves the meeting places behind the rows of chimney-pots, the open reaches of the Common and the adjoining Public Gardens, where children paddle in the swan-boats all summer long. He loves the tang and mist of the nearby sea, but best of all he likes the tree-limb in the old graveyard, the part of Boston that stands changeless through the years--that thrusts itself into the very face of modernity with the grimy stone church at its corner and seems to say: "I am the Past. To the Past, Reverence." And in Boston Modernity halts many times to make obeisance to the Past. 2 AMERICA'S NEW YORK I Before the dawn, metropolitan New York is astir. As a matter of far more accurate fact she never sleeps. You may call her the City of the Sleepless Eye and hit right upon the mark. For at any time of the lonely hours of the night she is still a busy place. Elevated and subway trains and surface cars, although shortened and reduced in number, are upon their ways and are remarkably well filled. Regiments of men are engaged in getting out the morning papers--in a dozen different languages of the sons of men--and another regiment is coming on duty to lay the foundations of the earliest editions of the evening papers. There are workers here and there and everywhere in the City of the Sleepless Eye. But before the dawn, New York becomes actively astir. Lights flash into dull radiance in the rows of side-street tenement and apartment houses all the way from Brooklyn bridge to Bronx Park. New York is beginning to dress. Other lights flash into short brilliancy before the coming of the dawn. New York is beginning to eat its breakfast. And right afterwards the stations of the elevated and the subway, the corners where the speeding surface cars will sometimes hesitate, become the objects of attack of an army that is marching upon the town. Workaday New York is stretching its arms and settling down to business. Nor is the awakening city to be confined to the narrow strip of island between the North and East rivers. Over on Long island are Brooklyn, Long Island City, Flushing, Jamaica and a score of other important places now within the limits of Greater New York. Some folk find it more economical to live in these places than in the cramped confines of Manhattan, and so it is hardly dawn before the great bridges and the tubes over and under the East river are doing the work for which they were built--and doing it masterfully. The Brooklyn bridge is the oldest of these and yet it has been bending to its superhuman task for barely thirty years. In these thirty years it has been constantly reconstructed--but the best devices of the engineers, doubling and tripling the facilities of the original structure, can hardly keep pace with the growth of the communities and the traffic it has to serve. So within these thirty years other bridges and two sets of tunnels have come to span the East river. But the work of the first of all man's highways to conquer the mighty water highway has hardly lessened. The oldest of the bridges, and the most beautiful despite the ugliness of its approaches, still pours Brooklynites into Park Row, fifty, sixty, seventy thousand to the hour. [Illustration: The Brooklyn Bridge is the finest of transportation structures] The overloading of the Brooklyn bridge is repeated in the subway--that hidden giant of New York, which is the real backbone of the island of Manhattan. Built to carry four hundred thousand humans a day, that busy railroad has begun to carry more than a million each working day. How it is done, no one, not even the engineers of the company that operates it, really knows. The riders in the great tube who have to use it during the busiest of the rush hours are willing to hazard a guess, however. It is probable that in no other railroad of the sort would jamming and crowding of this sort be tolerated for more than a week. Yet the patrons of the subway not only tolerate but, after a fashion, they like it. You can ask a New Yorker about it half an hour after his trip down town, sardine-fashion, and he will only say: "The subway? It's the greatest ever. I can come down from Seventy-second street to Wall street in sixteen minutes, and in the old days it used to take me twenty-six or twenty-seven minutes by the elevated." There is your real New Yorker. He would be perfectly willing to be bound and gagged and shot through a pneumatic tube like a packet of letters, if he thought that he could save twenty minutes between the Battery and the Harlem river. No wonder then that he scorns a relatively greater degree of comfort in elevated trains and surface cars and hurries to the overcrowded subway. But New York astir in the morning is more even than Manhattan, the Bronx and the populous boroughs over on Long island. Upon its westerly edge runs the Hudson river--New Yorkers will always persist in calling it the North river--one of the masterly water highways of the land. The busy East river had been spanned by man twice before any man was bold enough to suggest a continuous railroad across the Hudson. Now there are several--the wonderful double tubes of the Pennsylvania railroad leading from its new terminal in the uptown heart of Manhattan--and two double sets of tunnels of a rapid-transit railroad leading from New Jersey both uptown and downtown in Manhattan. This rapid transit railroad--the Hudson & Manhattan, to use its legal name, although most New Yorkers speak of it as the McAdoo Tubes, because of the man who had the courage to build it--links workaday New York with a group of great railroad terminals that line the eastern rim of New Jersey all the way from Communipaw through Jersey City to Hoboken. And the railroads reach with more than twenty busy arms off across the Jersey marshes to rolling hills and incipient mountains. Upon those hills and mountains live nearly a hundred thousand New Yorkers--men whose business interests are closely bound up in the metropolis of the New World but whose social and home ties are laid in a neighboring state. These--together with their fellows from Westchester county, the southwestern corner of Connecticut and from the Long island suburban towns--measure a railroad journey of from ten to thirty miles in the morning, the same journey home at night, as but an incident in their day's work. They form the great brigade of commuters, as a rule the last of the working army of New York to come to business. The commuter has his own troubles--sometimes. By reason of his self-chosen isolation he may suffer certain deprivations. The servant question is not the least of these. And the extremes of a winter in New York come hard upon him. There are days when the Eight-twenty-two suddenly loses all that reputation for steadiness and sobriety that it has taken half a year to achieve, days when sleepy schooners laden with brick and claiming the holy right-of-way of the navigator get caught in the draw-bridges, days when the sharp unexpectedness of a miniature blizzard freezes terminal switches and signals and tangles traffic inexplicably--days, and nights as well, when the streets of his suburban village are well-nigh impassable. But these days are in a tremendous minority. And even upon the worst of them he can put the rush and turmoil of the city behind him--in the peace and silence of his country place he can forget the sorrows of Harlem yesteryear--with the noisy twins on the floor below and the mechanical piano right overhead. * * * * * For nearly four hours the steady rush toward work continues. You can gauge it by a variety of conditions--even by the newspapers that are being spread wide open the length of the cars. In the early morning the popular penny papers--the _American_ and the _World_ predominating, with a sprinkling of the _Press_ in between. Two hours later and while these popular penny papers are still being read--they seem to have a particular vogue with the little stenographers and the shopgirls--the more staid journals show themselves. Men who like the solid reading of the _Times_, with its law calendars and its market reports; men of the town who frankly confess to an affection for the flippancy of the _Sun_, or who have not lost the small-town spirit of their youth enough to carry them beyond the immensely personal tone of the _Herald_. And in between these, men who sniff at the mere mention of the name of Roosevelt, and who read the _Tribune_ because their daddies and their grand-daddies in their turn read it before them, or frankly business souls who are opening the day with a conscientious study of the _Journal of Commerce_ or the Wall street sheets. New York goes to work reading its newspaper. And before you have finished a Day of Days in the biggest city of the land you might also see that it goes to lunch with a newspaper in its hand, returns home tired with the fearful thoughts of business to delve comfortably into the gossip of the day in the favorite evening paper. Just as you stand at the portals of the business part of the town and measure the incoming throng by its favorite papers so can you sieve out the classes of the workers almost by the hours at which they report for duty. In the early morning, in the winter still by artificial light, come those patient souls who exist literally and almost bitterly by the labor of their hands and the sweat of their brows. With them are the cleaners and the elevator crews of the great office-buildings--those tremendous commercial towers that New York has been sending skyward for the past quarter of a century. On the heels of these the first of the workers in the office-buildings, office-boys, young clerks, girl stenographers whose wonderful attire is a reflection of the glories that we shall see upon Fifth avenue later in this day. It is pinching business, literally--the dressing of these young girls. But if their faces are suspiciously pinky or suspiciously chalky, if their pumps and thin silk stockings, their short skirts and their open-necked waists atrocious upon a chill and nasty morning, we shall know that they are but the reflection of their more comfortable sisters uptown. Not all of this rapidly increasing army of women workers in business New York is artificial. Not a bit of it. There are girls in downtown offices whose refinement of dress and deportment, whose exquisite poise, whose well-schooled voices might have come from the finest old New York houses. And these are the girls who revel in their Saturday afternoons uptown--all in the smartness of best bib and tucker--at the matinee or fussing with tea at Sherry's or the Plaza. An army of office workers pours itself into the business buildings that line Broadway and its important parallel streets all the way from Forty-second street to the Battery--that cluster with increasing discomfort in the narrow tip of Manhattan south of the City Hall. Clerks, stenographers, more clerks, more stenographers, now department heads and junior partners--finally the big fellows themselves, coming down democratically in the short-haul trains of the Sixth avenue elevated that start from Fifty-eighth street or even enduring the discomforts of the subway, for it takes a leisurely sort of a millionaire indeed who can afford to come in his motor car all the way downtown through the press and strain of Broadway traffic. After all these, the Wall street men. For the exchange opens at the stroke of ten of Trinity's clock and five brief and bitter hours of trading have begun. For four hours this flood of humans pouring out of the ferry-house and the railroad terminals, up from the subway kiosks and out from the narrow stairways of the elevated railroads. The narrow downtown streets congest, again and again. The sidewalks overflow and traffic takes to the middle of the streets. But the great office buildings absorb the major portion of the crowds. Their vertical railroads--eight or ten or twenty or thirty cars--are working to capacity and workaday New York is sifting itself to its task. By ten o'clock the office buildings are aglow with industry--the great machine of business starting below the level of the street and reaching high within the great commercial towers. II New York is the City of the Towers. Sometimes a well-traveled soul will arise in the majesty of contemplation and say that in the American metropolis he sees the shadowy ghost of some foreign one. Along Madison square, where the cabbies still stand in a long, gently-curving, expectant line he will draw his breath through his teeth, point with his walking stick through the tracery of spring-blossoming foliage at Diana on her tower-perch and whisper reverently: "It is Paris--Paris once again." And there is a lower corner of Central Park that makes him think of Berlin; a long row of red brick houses with white trimmings along the north shore of Washington square that is a resemblance to blocks of a similar sort in London. But he is quite mistaken. New York does not aim to be a replica of any foreign metropolis. She has her own personality, her own aggressive individualism; she is the City of the Towers as well as the City of the Sleepless Eye--and no mean city at that. Take some clever European traveler, a man who can find his way around any of the foreign capitals with his eyes shut, and let him come to New York for the first time; approach our own imperial city through her most impressive gateway--that narrow passage from the sea between the ramparts of the guarding fortresses. This man, this traveler, has heard of the towers of the great New World city--they have been baldly pictured to him as giant, top-heavy barracks, meaningless compositions of ugly blank walls, punctuated with an infinity of tiny windows. That is the typical libel that has gone forth about New York. He sees naught of such. He sees a great city, the height of its buildings simply conveying the impression from afar that it is builded upon a steep ridge. Here and there a building of still loftier height gives accent to the whole, emphasis to what might otherwise be a colorless mass; gives that mysterious tone and contrast which the artist is pleased to call "composition." Four of these towers already rise distinct from the giant skyscrapers of Manhattan. Each for this moment proclaims a victory of the American architect and the American builder over the most difficult problem ever placed before architect or builder. The European traveler will give praise to the sky-line of New York as he sees it from the steamer's deck. "It is the City of the Towers," he will say. * * * * * In this, your Day of Days in New York, come with us and see the making of a skyscraper. This skyscraper is the new Municipal Building. It is just behind the tree-filled park in which stands New York's oldest bit of successful architecture--its venerable City Hall. A long time before New York dreamed that she might become the City of the Towers they builded this old City Hall--upon what was then the northerly edge of the town. So sure were those old fellows that New York would never grow north of their fine town hall that they grew suddenly economical--the spirit of their Dutch forbears still dominated them--and builded the north wall of Virginia freestone instead of the white marble that was used for the facings of the other walls. "No one will ever see that side of the building," they argued. "We might as well use cheap stone for that wall." Today more than ninety-nine per cent. of the population of the immensely populated island of Manhattan lives north of the City Hall. That cheap north wall, hidden under countless coats of white paint, is the one acute reminder of the days that were when the Hall was new--when the gentle square in which it stood was surrounded by the suburban residences of prosperous New Yorkers and when the waters of the Collect Pond--where the New York boys use to skate in the bitterness of old-fashioned winters--lapped its northerly edge. There was no ugly Court House or even uglier Post Office to block the view from the Mayor's office up and down Broadway. New Yorkers were proud of their City Hall then--and good cause had they for their pride. It is one of the best bits of architecture in all America. And an even century of hard usage and countless "restorations" has only brought to it the charm of serene old age. But the City Hall long since was outgrown. The municipal government of New York is a vast and somewhat unwieldy machine that can hardly be housed within a dozen giant structures. To provide offices for the greater part of the city's official machinery, this towering Municipal Building has just been erected. And because it is so typical of the best form of the so-called skyscraper architecture, let us stop and take a look at it, listen to the story of its construction. In appearance the new Municipal Building is a gray-stone tower twenty-five stories in height and surmounted by a tower cupola an additional fifteen stories in height. In plan the structure is a sort of semi-octagon--a very shallow letter "U," if you please. But its most unusual feature comes from the fact that it squarely spans one of the busiest crosstown highways in the lower part of the city--Chambers street. The absorption of that busy thoroughfare is recognized by a great depressed bay upon the west front--the main _façade_ of the building. And incidentally that depressed bay makes interior courts within the structure absolutely unnecessary. So much for the architectural features, severe in its detail, save for some ornate and not entirely pleasing sculptures. You are interested in knowing how one of these giants--so typical of the new New York--are fabricated. This young man--hardly a dozen years out of a big technical school--can tell you. He has supervised the job. Sometimes he has slept on it--in a narrow cot in the temporary draughting-house. He knows its every detail, as he knows the fingers of his hands. "Just remember that we began by planning a railroad station in the basement with eight platform tracks for loading and unloading passengers." "A railroad station?" you interrupt. "Certainly," is his decisive reply. "Downstairs we will soon have the most important terminal of a brand new subway system crossing the Manhattan and the Williamsburgh bridges and reaching over Brooklyn like a giant gridiron." He goes on to the next matter--this one settled. "There was something more than that. We had to plant on that cellar a building towering forty stories in the air; its steel frame alone weighing twenty-six thousand tons--more than half the weight of the heaviest steel cantilever bridge in America--had to be firmly set." The young engineer explains--in some detail. To find a foothold for this building was no sinecure. Tests with the diamond drill had shown that solid rock rested at a depth of 145 feet below street level at the south end of the plat. At the north end, the rock sloped away rapidly and so that part of the building rests upon compact sand. The rock topography of Manhattan island is uncertain. There are broad areas where solid gneiss crops close to the street level, others where it falls a hundred feet or more below water level. There is a hidden valley at Broadway and Reade street, a deep bowl farther up Broadway. Similarly, the north extremity of the Municipal Building rests upon the edge of still another granite bowl--the sub-surface of that same Collect Pond upon which the New York boys used to skate a century or more ago. "That bothered some folks at first," laughs the engineer, "but we met it by sinking the caissons. We've more than a hundred piers down under this structure hanging on to Mother Earth. You don't realize the holding force of those piers," he continues. He turns quickly and points to a fourteen story building off over the trees of City Hall park. Out in one of the good-sized towns of the Middle West people would gasp a little at sight of it--in New York it is no longer even a tower. "Turn that fellow right upside down into the hole we dug for this building," says the engineer, "and the rim of his uppermost cornice would about reach the feet of our own little forest of buried concrete piers." That was one detail of the construction of the building. Here is another; the first six stories of the new structure involved elaborate masonry, giant stones, much carved. From the seventh story the plain walls of the exterior developing into an elaborate cornice were of simple construction. If the setting of these upper floors had waited until the first six stories of elaborate stonework had been made ready there would have been a delay of months in the construction work. So the contractor began building the walls--which in the modern steel skyscraper as you know form no part of the real structure but act rather as a stone envelope to keep out hard weather--from the seventh story upward. Eventually the masons working on the first six stories, working upwards all the time, reached and joined the lower edge of the masonry that had been set some weeks before. Time had been saved and you know that time _does_ count in New York. Remember the Wall street man who preferred to have his ribs crushed and his hat smashed down over his nose in the subway rather than lose ten minutes each day in the elevated. Now you stand with the young engineer at the topmost outlook of the tower in the Municipal Building and look down on the busy town. Before you is that mighty thoroughfare, Broadway--but so lined with towering buildings that you cannot see it, save for a brief space as it passes the greenery of the City Hall Park; behind you is that still mightier highway--the East river. Over that river you see the four bridges--the oldest of them landing at your very feet--and crawling things upon them, which a second glance shows to be trains and trolley-cars and automobiles and wagons in an unending succession. Beyond the East river and its bridges--the last of these far to the north and barely discernible--is Brooklyn, and beyond Brooklyn--this time to the south--is a shimmering slender horizon of silver that the man beside you tells you is the ocean. You let your gaze come back to the wonderful view which the building squarely faces. You look down upon the towers of New York--big towers and little towers--and you lift your eyes over the dingy mansard of the old Post Office and see the greatest of all the towers--the creamy white structure that a man has builded from his profits in the business of selling small articles at five and ten cents apiece. It is fifty-five stories in height--exquisitely beautiful in detail--and the owner will possess for a little time at least, the highest building in the world. You can see the towers in every vista, puffing little clouds of white smoke into the purest blue air that God ever gave a city in which to spin her fabrications. To the north, the south, the west, they show themselves in every infinite variety and here and there between them emerge up-shouldering rivals, steel-naked in their gaunt frames. If your ears are keen and the wind be favorable perhaps you can hear the clatter of the riveters and you can see over there the housesmiths riding aloft on the swinging girders with an utter and immensely professional indifference, threading the slender, dizzy floor-girders as easily as a cat might tread the narrow edge of a backyard fence. Off with your gaze again. Look uptown, catch the faint patch of dark green that is Central Park, the spires of the cathedral, the wonderful campanile at Madison square. Let your glance swing across the gentle Hudson, over into a New Jersey that is bounded by the ridges of the Orange mountains, then slowly south and even the great towers that thrust themselves into almost every buildable foot of Broadway below the City Hall cannot entirely block your view of the wonderful upper harbor of New York--of the great ships that bring to an imperial city the tribute that is rightfully hers. Now let your vision drop into the near foreground--into the tracery of trees about the jewel-box of a City Hall. Let it pause for a moment in the broad-paved street at your feet with the queer little openings through which humans are sweeping like a black stream into a funnel; others from which the human streams come crawling upward like black molasses and you are again reminded that some of the greatest highways of New York are those that are subterranean and unseen. The sidewalks grow a little blacker than before. "It's lunch-time," laughs the young engineer. Bless you, it is. The morning that you gave to one of the most typical of the towers has not been ill-spent. III Thirty minutes before the big bell of Trinity spire booms out noon-tide New York's busiest grub-time begins. A few early-breakfasting clerks and office-boys begin to find their way toward the shrines of the coffee-urns and the heaped-up piles of sandwiches. [Illustration: The view of New York from the lunch club in the skyscraper] Of course, in New York breakfast is an almost endless affair--generally a fearfully hurried one. But lunch is far more serious. Lunch is almost an institution. Fifteen minutes after it is fairly begun it is gaining rapid headway. Thin trails of stenographers and clerks are finding their ways, lunch-bound, through the canyon-like streets of lower Manhattan, streams that momentarily increase in volume. By the time that Trinity finally booms its twelve stout strokes down into Broadway there is congestion upon the sidewalks--the favorite stools at the counters, the better tables in the higher-priced places are being rapidly filled. At twelve-thirty it begins to be luck to get any sort of accommodations at the really popular places; before one o'clock the intensity of grubbing verges on panic and pandemonium. And at a little before three cashiers are totaling their receipts, cooks, donning their hats and coats to go uptown, and waiters and 'buses are upturning chairs and scrubbing floors with scant regard for belated lunchers who have to be content with the crumbs that are left after the ravishing and hungry army has been fed. Order after pandemonium--readiness for the two hours of gorge upon the morrow. The restaurants and lunch-rooms are as quiet as Trinity church-yard and something like three quarters of a million hungry souls have lunched in the business section of Manhattan south of Twenty-third street--at a total cost, according to the estimate of a shrewd restauranteur of a quarter of a million dollars. * * * * * You may pay your money and take your choice. The shrewd little newsboys and office-boys who find their way to the short block of Ann street between Park Row and Nassau--the real Grub street of New York--are proving themselves financiers of tomorrow by dickering for sandwiches--"two cents apiece; three for a nickel." They always buy them in lots of three. That is business and business is not to be scorned for a single instant. Or you can pay as high prices in the swagger restaurants downtown as you do in the swagger restaurants uptown--and that is saying much. When lunch-time comes you can suit the inclinations of your taste--and your pocket-book. But the average New Yorker seems to run quite strongly to the peculiar form of lunch-room in which you help yourself to what you want, compute from the markers the cost of your midday meal, announce that total to the cashier, who is perfectly content to take your word for it, pay the amount and walk out. It seems absurd--to any one who does not understand New Yorkers. The lunch-room owners do understand them. New York business men and business boys are honest, as a general thing--particularly honest in little matters of this sort. "It is all very simple," says the manager of one of these big lunch-rooms, who stands beside you for a moment at the entrance of one of his places--it boasts that it serves more than two thousand lunches each business day between eleven and three. "I've been through the whole mill. I've been check boy and oyster man, cashier--now I'm looking out for this particular beanery. Honor among New York business men? There's a lot of it." "And you don't run many risks?" you venture. "Not many here," he promptly replies. "But there was a man in here yesterday, who runs a cafeteria out in Chicago. I was telling him some of the rules of the game here--how when a customer comes in and throws his hat down in a chair before he goes over to the sandwich and coffee counters that chair is his, until he gets good and ready to go. My Chicago friend laughed at that. 'If we were to do that out in my neck-o'-the-woods,' says he, 'the customer would lose his hat.' And the uptown department stores don't take any chances, either. At one of the biggest of them they make the women decide what they will eat, but before they can start they must buy a check--pay in advance, you understand. They've tried the downtown way--and now they take no chances." The floor manager laughs nervously. "It's different with the girls downtown. We've started one quick buffet lunch on the honor plan, same dishes and prices and service as the men's places, but this one is for business girls. They said at first that we wouldn't make good with them--but we're ready to start another within the month. The business girls don't cheat--no matter what their uptown sisters may try to do." * * * * * As a matter of fact downtown business girls in New York eat very sensibly. Sweets are popular but not invariable. They prefer candy, with fruit as a second choice, to be eaten some time during the afternoon. In big offices, where many girls are employed, "candy pools" are often made, each girl contributing five cents and getting her pro rata, one member of the staff being delegated to make the purchases. Eaten in this way the candy acts as a stimulant during the late afternoon hours, in much the same way as the invariable tea of the business man in London. The business girl in New York takes her full hour for luncheon. It is seldom a minute more or a minute less. She is willing as a rule to stay overtime at night but she feels that she must have her sixty minutes in the middle of the day. A part of the lunch hour is always a stroll--unless there be a downpour. Certain downtown streets from twelve to one o'clock each day suggest the proximity of a nearby high school or seminary. There is much pairing off and quiet flirtation. This noon-day promenade of girls--for the most part astonishingly well-dressed girls and invariably in twos and threes--is one of the sights of downtown New York. Some of the girls gather in the old churchyards of Trinity and St. Paul's--in lower Broadway--on pleasant days. They sit down among the tombstones with their little packages of food and eat and chat and then stroll. No one molests them and the church authorities, although a little flustered when this first began, have seen that there is no harm in it and let the girls have their own way. There is always great decorousness and these big open-air spaces in the midst of the crowded street canyons are enjoyed by the women who appreciate the grass and winding paths after the hard pavements. All the business girls downtown are not content with sitting after lunch among the tombstones of St. Paul's churchyard or of Trinity. He was indeed a canny lunch-man who took note of all the girls strolling in the narrow streets of downtown Manhattan, who remembered that all New York, rich or poor, loves to dance and who then fitted up an unrentable third floor loft over his eating place as a dancing hall. Two violins and a piano--a gray-bearded sandwich man to patrol the streets with "DANCING" placarded fore and aft upon his boards--the trick was done. Mamie told Sadie and Sadie told Elinor and Elinor told Flossie and the lunch-man began to grow famous. He made further study of the psychology of his patrons. There were the young fellows--shipping and file clerks and even ambitious young office-boys to be considered. There were the after-lunch smokes of these young captains of industry to come into the reckoning. The lunch-man placed a row of chairs along one edge of his dancing-hall and over them "Smoking Permitted at This End of the Room." After that Mamie and Sadie and Elinor and Flossie had partners and the lunch-man was on the highway to a six-cylinder motor car. He has his imitators. If you were in business in lower New York and your stenographer began to hum the "Blue Danube" along about half an hour before noon you would very well know she was gathering steam for the blissful twenty minutes of dancing that was going to help her digest her lunch. * * * * * You, yourself, are going to lunch in still another sort of restaurant. It is characteristic of a type that has sprung up on the tip of Manhattan island within the past dozen years. You reach this grubbing-place by skirting the front doors of unspeakably dirty eating-houses in a mean street of the Syrian quarter. Finally you turn the corner of a dingy brick building, which was once the great house of one of the contemporaries of the first of the Vanderbilts and which has managed to escape destruction for three quarters of a century and face--the only skyscraper in congested New York which stands in a grass-platted yard--the whim of its wealthy owner. A fast elevator whisks you thirty stories to the top of the building and you step into the lobby of what looks, at first glance, to be the entrance hall of some fine restaurant in uptown's Fifth avenue. But this is a lunching-club--one of the newest in the town as well as one of the most elaborate. Elaborate did we say? This is the elaboration of perfect taste--unobtrusive rugs, hangings, lighting fixtures and furniture--great, broad rooms and from their windows there comes to you another of the spectacular views that lay below the man-made peaks of Manhattan. To the south--the smooth, blue surface of the upper bay--in the foreground a nine hundred foot ship coming to the new land, her funnels lazily breathing smoke at the first lull in her four-day race across the Atlantic; to the east, a mighty river and its bridges, Brooklyn again and on very clear days, visions of Long island; to the north the most wonderful building construction that man has ever attempted, Babylonic in its immensity; to the west the brisk waterway of the North river and beyond it, Jersey City, sandwiched in between the smoky spread of railroad yards. This is the sort of thing that Mr. Downtown Luncher may have--if he is willing to pay the price. On torrid summer days he may ascend to the roof-garden, may glance lazily below him at the activities of the busiest city in the world and sip up the cool breezes from the sea, while folk down in the bottom of the Broadway chasm are sweltering from heat and humidity. And in winter he will find a complete gymnasium in operation on another floor of the club, with a competent instructor in charge. The "doctor," as they call him, will lay out a course of work. And that course of work, calling for a half-hour of exercise each day just before lunch will make dyspeptic and paunchy old money-grubbers alike, keen as farmhands coming into dinner. And yet this club, typical of so many others in the downtown business heart of Manhattan, is but a cog in the mighty machine of the lunching of the workaday multitudes of downtown. Its doors are closed and lights are out at six o'clock in the evening, save on extraordinary occasions; while most of its hundred or more well-trained waiters go uptown to assist in the dinner and the late supper rushes of the fashionable restaurants in the theater and hotel district. Like most of its compeers, it is an outgrowth of the wonderfully comfortable old Lawyers' Club, which was completely destroyed in the great fire that burned the Equitable Building in January, 1912. From that organization, famed for its noon-day hospitality and for the quality of the folk you might meet between its walls, have sprung many other downtown lunch clubs--the Whitehall, the Hardware, the Manufacturers, the Downtown Association, the new Lawyers--many, many others; almost invariably occupying the upper floors of some skyscraper that has been planned especially for them. These clubs are not cheap. It costs from sixty to a hundred dollars to enter one of them and about as much more yearly in the form of dues. Their restaurant charges are far from low-priced. They are never very exclusive organizations and yet they give to the strain of the workaday New Yorker his last lingering trace of hospitality--the hospitality that has lingered around Bowling Green and Trinity and St. Paul's church-yards since colonial days and the coffee houses. * * * * * Even the hospitality of the genial host seems to end--with the ending of the lunch-hour. As he takes his last sip of _café noir_ he is tugging at his watch. "Bless me," he says, "It is going on three o'clock. I've got that railroad crowd due in my office in fifteen minutes." That is your dismissal. For ninety minutes he has given you his hospitality--his rare and unselfish self. He has put the perplexing details of his business out of his mind and given himself to whatever flow of talk might suit your fancy. Now the hour and a half of grace is over--and you are dismissed, courteously--but none the less dismissed. With your host you descend to the crowded noisome street. He sees you to the subway--gives you a fine warm grasp of his strong hand--and plunges back into the great and grinding machine of business. Lunch in your Day of Days within the City of the Towers is over. Three o'clock. Before the last echoes of Trinity's bell go ringing down through Wall street to halt the busy Exchange--the multitude has been fed. Miss Stenographer has had her salad and éclair, two waltzes and perhaps a "turkey trot" into the bargain, and is back at the keys of her typewriter. Mr. President has entertained that Certain Party at the club and has made him promise to sign that mighty important contract. And the certain Party and Mr. President rode for half an hour on the mechanical horses in the gymnasium. What fun, too, for those old boys? Three o'clock! The cashiers are totaling their receipts, the waiters and the 'buses are upturning chairs and tables to make way for the scrub-women, some are already beginning to don their overcoats to go uptown; but the three-quarters of a million of hungry mouths have been fed. New York has caught its breath in mid-day relaxation and once more is hard at work--putting in the last of its hours of the business day with renewed and feverish energy. IV You had planned at first to walk up Broadway. You wanted to see once again the church-yards around Trinity and St. Paul's, perhaps make a side excursion down toward Fraunces' Tavern--just now come back into its own again. Some of the old landmarks that are still hidden around downtown New York seemed to appeal to you. But your host at luncheon laughed at you. "If you want to spend your time that way, all right," he said, "but the only really old things you will find in New York are the faces of the young men. You can find those anywhere in the town." And there was another reckoning to be figured. Three o'clock means the day well advanced and there is a _vis-à-vis_ awaiting you uptown. Of course, there is a Her to enjoy your Day of Days with you. And just for convenience alone we will call her Katherine. It is a pretty name for a woman, and it will do here and now quite as well as any other. Katherine is waiting for you in the Fourteenth street station of the subway. She is prompt--after the fashion of most New York girls. And it is a relief to come out of the overcrowded tube and find her there at the entrance that leads up to sunshine and fresh air. She knows her New York thoroughly and as a prelude to the trip uptown she leads you over to Fifth avenue--to the upper deck of one of those big green peregrinating omnibuses. "It's a shame that we could not have started at Washington square," she apologizes. "When you sweep around and north through the great arch it almost seems as if you were passing through the portals of New York. It is one of the few parts of the town that are not changing rapidly." For Fifth avenue--only a few blocks north of that stately arch--has begun to disintegrate and decay. Not in the ordinary sense of those terms. But to those who remember the stately street of fifteen or twenty years ago--lined with the simple and dignified homes of the town--its change into a business thoroughfare brings keen regrets. Katherine remembers that she read in a book that there are today more factory workers employed in Fifth avenue or close to it, than in such great mill cities as Lowell or Lawrence or Fall River, and when you ask her the reason why she will tell you how these great buildings went soaring up as office-buildings, without office tenants to fill them. They represent speculation, and speculation is New Yorkish. But speculation in wholesale cannot afford to lose, and that is why the garment manufacturers and many others of their sort came flocking to the great retail shopping district between Fourth and Seventh avenues and Fourteenth and Thirty-fourth streets, and sent the shops soaring further to the north. It has been expensive business throughout, doubly expensive, because absolutely unnecessary. Some of the great retail houses of New York built modern and elaborate structures south of Thirty-fourth street within the past twenty years in the firm belief that the retail shopping section had been fixed for the next half century. But the new stores had hardly been opened before the deluge of manufacturing came upon them. Shoppers simply would not mix with factory hands upon lower Fifth avenue and the side streets leading from it. And so the shop-keepers have had to move north and build anew. And just what a tax such moving has been upon the consumer no one has ever had the audacity to estimate. "They should have known that nothing ever stays fixed in New York," says Katherine. "We are a restless folk, who make a restless city. Stay fixed? Did you notice the station at which you entered today?" Of course you did. The new Grand Central, with its marvelous blue ceiling capping a waiting-room so large that the New York City Hall, cupola, wings and all could be set within it, can hardly escape the attention of any traveler who passes within its portals. "It is the greatest railroad station in the world," she continues, "and yet I have read in the newspapers that Commodore Vanderbilt built on that very plat of ground in 1871 the largest station in the world for the accommodation of his railroads. He thought that it would last for all time. In forty years the wreckers were pulling it down. It was outgrown, utterly outgrown and they were carting it off piece by piece to the rubbish heaps." She turns suddenly upon you. "That is typical of our restless, lovely city," she tells you. And you, yourself, have heard that only two years ago they tore down a nineteen story building at Wall and Nassau streets so that they might replace it by another of the towers--this one thirty stories in height. * * * * * The conductor of the green omnibus thrusts his green fare-box under your nose. You find two dimes and drop it into the contrivance. "You can get more value for less money and less value for much money in New York than in any other large city in the world," says Katherine. She is right--and you know that she is right. You can have a glorious ride up the street, that even in its days of social decadence is still the finest highway in the land--a ride that continues across the town and up its parked rim for long miles--for a mere ten cents of Uncle Sam's currency and as for the reverse--well you are going to dinner in a smart hotel with Katherine in a little while. You swing across Broadway and up the west edge of Madison square, catch a single, wondering close-at-hand glimpse of the white campanile of the Metropolitan tower which dominates that open place and so all but replaces Diana on her perch above Madison Square Garden--a landmark of the New York of a quarter of a century ago and which is apt to come into the hands of the wreckers almost any day now. Now you are at the south edge of the new shopping district, although some of the ultra places below Thirty-fourth street have begun to move into that portion of the avenue just south of Central Park. In a little while they may be stealing up the loveliest portion of the avenue--from Fifty-ninth street north. The great shops dominate the avenue. And if you look with sharp eyes as the green bus bears you up this _via sacre_, you may see that one of the greatest ones--a huge department store encased in architecturally superb white marble--bears no sign or token of its ownership or trade. An oversight, you think. Not a bit of it. Four blocks farther up the avenue is another great store in white marble--a jewelry shop of international reputation. You will have to scan its broad _façade_ closely indeed before you find the name of the firm in tiny letters upon the face of its clock. Oversight? Not a bit of it. It is the ultra of shop-keeping in New York--the assumption that the shop is so well known that it need not be placarded to the vulgar world. And if strangers from other points fail to identify it--well that is because of their lack of knowledge and the shopkeeper may secretly rejoice. But, after all, it is the little shops that mark the character of Fifth avenue--not its great emporiums. It is the little millinery shops where an engaging creature in black and white simpers toward you and calls you, if you are of the eternal feminine, "my dear;" the jewelry shops where the lapidary rises from his lathe and offers a bit of craftsmanship; the rare galleries that run from old masters to modern etchers; specialty shops, filled top to bottom with toys or Persian rugs, or women's sweaters, or foreign magazines and books, that render to Fifth avenue its tremendous cosmopolitanism. These little shops make for personality. There is something in the personal contact between the proprietor and the customer that makes mere barter possess a real fascination. And if you do pay two or three times the real value in the little shop you have just so much more fun out of the shopping. And there are times when real treasures may come out of their stores. "Look at the cornices," interrupts Katherine. "Mr. Arnold Bennett says that they are the most wonderful things in all New York." Katherine may strain her neck, looking at cornices if she so wills. As for you, the folk who promenade the broad sidewalks are more worth your while. There are more of them upon the west walk than upon the east--for some strange reason that has long since brought about a similar phenomenon upon Broadway and sent west side rents high above those upon the east. Fifth avenue thrusts its cosmopolitanism upon you, not alone in her shops, with their wonderfully varied offerings, but in the very humans who tread her pavements. The New York girl may not always be beautiful but she is rarely anything but impeccable. And if in the one instance she is extreme in her styles, in the next she is apt to be severe in her simplicity of dress. And it is difficult to tell to which ordinary preference should go. These girls--girls in a broad sense all the way from trim children in charge of maid or governess to girls whose pinkness of skin defies the graying of their locks--a sprinkling of men, not always so faultless in dress or manner as their sisters--and you have the Fifth avenue crowd. Then between these two quick moving files of pedestrians--set at all times in the rapid _tempo_ of New York--a quadruple file of carriages; the greater part of them motor driven. Traffic in Fifth avenue, like traffic almost everywhere else in New York is a problem increasing in perplexity. A little while ago the situation was met and for a time improved by slicing off the fronts of the buildings--perhaps the most expensive shave that the town has ever known--and setting back the sidewalks six or eight feet. But the benefits then gained have already been over-reached and the traffic policeman at the street corners all the way up the avenue must possess rare wit and diplomacy--while their fellows at such corners as Thirty-fourth and Forty-second are hardly less than field generals. And with all the _finesse_ of their work the traffic moves like molasses. Long double and triple files of touring cars and limousines, the combined cost of which would render statistics such as would gladden the heart of a Sunday editor, make their way up and down the great street tediously. If a man is in a hurry he has no business even to essay the Avenue. And occasionally the whole tangle is double-tangled. The shriek of a fire-engine up a side street or the clang of an ambulance demanding a clear right-of-way makes the traffic question no easier. Yet the policemen at the street corners are not caught unawares. With the shrill commands of their own whistles they maneuver trucks and automobiles and even some old-fashioned hansom cabs, pedestrians, all the rest--as coolly and as evenly as if it had been rehearsed for whole weeks. * * * * * New York is wonderful, the traffic of its chief show street--for Fifth avenue can now be fairly said to have usurped Broadway as the main highway of the upper city--tremendous. You begin to compute what must be the rental values upon this proud section of Fifth avenue, as it climbs Murray Hill from Thirty-fourth street to Forty-second street, when Katherine interrupts you once again. She knows her New York thoroughly indeed. "Do you notice that house?" she demands. You follow her glance to a very simple brick house, upon the corner of an inconsequential side street. Beside it on Fifth avenue is an open lot--of perhaps fifty feet frontage, giving to the avenue but a plain brown wooden fence. "A corking building lot," you venture, "Why don't they--" "I expected you to say that," she laughs. "They have wanted to build upon that lot--time and time again. But when they approach the owner he laughs at them and declines to consider any offer. 'My daughter has a little dog,' he says politely, 'It must have a place for exercise.' We New Yorkers are an odd lot," she laughs. "You know that the Goelets kept a cow in the lawn of their big house at Broadway and Nineteenth street until almost twenty years ago--until there was not a square foot of grass outside of a park within five miles. And in New York the man who can do the odd thing successfully is apt to be applauded. You could not imagine such a thing in Boston or Baltimore or Philadelphia, could you?" You admit that your imagination would fall short of such heights and ask Katherine if you are going up to the far end of the 'bus run--to that great group of buildings--university, cathedral, hospital, divinity school--that have been gathered just beyond the northwestern corner of Central Park. "No, I think not," she quickly decides, "You know that Columbia is not to New York as Harvard is to Boston. Harvard dominates Boston, Columbia is but a peg in the educational system of New York. The best families here do not bow to its fetich. They are quite as apt to send their boys to Yale or Princeton--even Harvard." "Then there's the cathedral and the Drive," you venture. "We have a cathedral right here on Fifth avenue that is finished and, in its way, quite as beautiful. And as for the Drive--it is merely a rim of top-heavy and expensive apartment houses. The West Side is no longer extremely smart. The truth of the matter is that we must pause for afternoon tea." You ignore that horrifying truth for an instant. "What has happened to the poor West Side?" you demand. Katherine all but lowers her voice to a whisper. "Twenty years ago and it had every promise of success. It looked as if Riverside Drive would surpass the Avenue as a street of fine residences. The side streets were preëminently nice. Then came the subway--and with it the apartment houses. After that the very nice folk began moving to the side streets in the upper Fifties, the Sixties and the Seventies between Park and Fifth avenues." "Suppose that the apartment houses should begin to drift in there--in any numbers?" you demand. "Lord knows," says Katherine, and with due reverence adds: "There is the last stand of the prosperous New Yorker with an old-fashioned notion that he and his would like to live in a detached house. The Park binds him in on the West, the tenement district and Lexington avenue on the East--to the North Harlem and the equally impossible Bronx. The old guard is standing together." "There is Brooklyn?" you venture. "No New Yorker," says Katherine, with withering scorn, "ever goes publicly to Brooklyn unless he is being buried in Greenwood cemetery." * * * * * Tea for you is being served in a large mausoleum of a white hotel--excessively white from a profuse use of porcelain tiles which can be washed occasionally--of most extraordinary architecture. Some day some one is going to attempt an analysis of hotel architecture in New York and elsewhere in the U.S.A. but this is not the time and place. Suffice it to say here and now that you finally found a door entering the white porcelain mausoleum. What a feast awaited your eyes--as well as your stomach--within. Rooms of rose pink and rooms of silver gray, Persian rooms, Japanese rooms, French rooms in the several varieties of Louis, Greek rooms--Europe, the ancients and the Orient, have been ransacked for the furnishing of this tavern. And in the center of them all is a great glass-enclosed garden, filled with giant palms and tiny tables, tremendous waiters and infinitesimal chairs. A large bland-faced employé--who is a sort of sublimated edition of the narrow lean hat-boys who we shall find in the eating places of the Broadway theater districts--divests you of your outer wraps. You elbow past a band and arrive at the winter garden. A head waiter in an instant glance of steel-blue eyes decides that you are fit and finds the tiniest of the tiny tables for you. It is so far in the shade of the sheltering palm that you have to bend almost double to drink your tea--and the orchestra is rather uncomfortably near. [Illustration: Washington Square and its lovely Arch--New York] Katherine might have taken you to other tea dispensaries--an unusual place in a converted stable in Thirty-fourth street, another stable loft in West Twenty-eighth--dozens of little shops, generally feminine to an intensified degree, which combine the serving of tea with the vending of their wares. But she preferred the big white hotel. "Tea at the Plaza is so satisfactory and so restful," she says, as you dodge to permit two ladies--one in gray silk and the other in a cut of blue cloth that gives her the contour of a magnified frog--to slip past you without knocking your tea out of your untrained fingers. "We might have gone to the Manhattan--but it's so filled with young girls and the chappies from the schools--the Ritz is proper but dull, so is Sherry's--all the rest more or less impossible." She rattles on--the matter of restaurants is always dear to the New York heart. You ignore the details. "But why?" you demand. "Why what?" she returns. "Why tea?" You explain that afternoon tea in its real lair--London--in a sort of climatic necessity. The prevalence of fog, of raw damp days, makes a cup of hot tea a real bracer--a stimulant that carries the human through another two or three hours of hard existence until the late London dinner. The bracing atmosphere of New York--with more clear days than any other metropolitan city in the world--does not need tea. You say so frankly. "I suppose you are right," Katherine concedes, "but we have ceased in this big city to rail at the English. We bow the knee to them. The most fashionable of our newest hotels and shops run--absurdly many times--to English ways. And afternoon tea has long since ceased to be a novelty in our lives. Why, they are beginning to serve it at the offices downtown--just as they do in dear old London." You swallow hard--some one has recommended that to you as a method of suppressing emotion--for polite society is never emotional. V Dinner is New York's real function of the day. And dinner in New York means five million hungry stomachs demanding to be filled. The New York dinner is as cosmopolitan as the folk who dwell on the narrow island of Manhattan and the two other islands that press closely to it. The restaurant and hotel dinners are as cosmopolitan as the others. Of course, for the sake of brevity, if for no other reason, you must eliminate the home dinners--and read "home" as quickly into the cold and heavy great houses of the avenue as into the little clusters of rooms in crowded East Side tenements where poverty is never far away and next week's meals a real problem. And remember, that to dine even in a reasonably complete list of New York's famous eating places--a new one every night--would take you more than a year. At the best your vision of them must be desultory. Six o'clock sees the New York business army well on its way toward home--the seething crowds at the Brooklyn bridge terminal in Park Row, the overloaded subway straining to move its fearful burden, the ferry and the railroad terminals focal points of great attractiveness. To make a single instance: take that division of the army that dwells in Brooklyn. It begins its march dinnerward a little after four o'clock, becomes a pushing, jostling mob a little later and shows no sign of abatement until long after six. Within that time the railroad folk at the Park Row terminal of the old bridge have received, classified and despatched Brooklynward, more than one hundred and fifty thousand persons--the population of a city almost the size of Syracuse. And the famous old bridge is but one of four direct paths from Manhattan to Brooklyn. Six o'clock sees restaurants and cafés alight and ready for the two or three hours of their really brisk traffic of the day. There are even dinner restaurants downtown, remarkably good places withal and making especial appeal to those overworked souls who are forced to stay at the office at night. There are bright lights in Chinatown where innumerable "Tuxedos" and "Port Arthurs" are beginning to prepare the chop-suey in immaculate Mongolian kitchens. But the real restaurant district for the diner-out hardly begins south of Madison square. There are still a very few old hotels in Broadway south of that point--a lessening company each year--one or two in close proximity to Washington square. Two of these last make a specialty of French cooking--their _table d'hôtes_ are really famous--and perhaps you may fairly say when you are done at them that you have eaten at the best restaurants in all New York. From them Fifth avenue runs a straight course to the newer hotels far to the north--a silent brilliantly lighted street as night comes "with the double row of steel-blue electric lamps resembling torch-bearing monks" one brilliant New York writer has put it. But before the newest of the new an intermediate era of hotels, the Holland, the nearby Imperial and the Waldorf-Astoria chief among these. The Waldorf has been from the day it first opened its doors--more than twenty years ago--New York's really representative hotel. Newer hostelries have tried to wrest that honor from it--but in vain. It has clung jealously to its reputation. The great dinners of the town are held in its wonderful banqueting halls, the well-known men of New York are constantly in its corridors. It is club and more than club--it is a clearing-house for all of the best clubs. It is the focal center for the hotel life of the town. There is an important group of hotels in the rather spectacular neighborhood of Times square--the Astor, with its distinctly German flavor, and the Knickerbocker which whimsically likes to call itself "the country club on Forty-second street" distinctive among them. And ranging upon upper Fifth avenue, or close to it, are other important houses, the Belmont, the aristocratic Manhattan, the ultra-British Ritz-Carlton, the St. Regis, the Savoy, the Netherland, the Plaza, and the Gotham. In between these are those two impeccable restaurants--so distinctive of New York and so long wrapped up in its history--Sherry's and Delmonico's. Over in the theatrical brilliancy of Broadway up and down from Times square are other restaurants--Shanley's, Churchill's, Murray's--the list is constantly changing. A fashionable restaurant in New York is either tremendously successful--or else, as we shall later see, they are telephoning for the sheriff. And the last outcome is apt more to follow than the first. For it is a tremendous undertaking to launch a restaurant in these days. The decorations of the great dining-rooms must rival those of a Versailles palace while the so-called minor appointments--silver, linen, china and the rest must be as faultless as in any great house upon Fifth avenue. The first cost is staggering, the upkeep a steady drain. There is but one opportunity for the proprietor--and that opportunity is in his charges. And when you come to dine in one of these showy uptown places you will find that he has not missed his opportunity. All New York that dines out does not make for these great places or their fellows. There are little restaurants that cast a glamour over their poor food by thrusting out hints of a magic folk named Bohemians who dine night after night at their dirty tables. There are others who with a Persian name seek to allure the ill-informed, some stout German places giving the substantial cheer of the Fatherland, beyond them restaurants phrasing themselves in the national dishes and the cooking of every land in the world, save our own. For a real American restaurant is hard to find in New York--real American dishes treats of increasing rarity. A great hotel recently banished steaks from its bills-of-fare, another has placed the ban on pie; and as for strawberry short-cake--just ask for strawberry short-cake. The concoction that the waiter will set before you will leave you hesitating between tears and laughter--ridicule for the pitiful attempts of a French cook and tears for your thoughts of the tragedy that has overwhelmed an American institution. Some day some one is going to build a hotel with the American idea standing back of it right in the heart of New York. He is going to have the bravery or the patriotism to call it the American House or the United States Hotel or Congress Hall or some other title that means something quite removed from the aristocratic nomenclature that our modern generation of tavern-keepers have borrowed from Europe without the slightest sense of fitness; and to that man shall be given more than mere riches--the satisfaction that will come to him from having accomplished a real work. The truth of the matter is that we have borrowed more than nomenclature from Europe. We have taken the so-called "European plan" with all of its disadvantages and none of its advantages. We have done away with the stuffy over-eating "American plan" and have made a rule of "pay-as-you-go" that is quite all right--and is not. For to the simple "European plan" has recently been added many complications. In other days the generosity of the portions in a New York hotel was famous. A single portion of any important dish was ample for two. Your smiling old-fashioned waiter told you that. The waiter in a New York restaurant today does not smile. He merely tells you that the food is served "per portion" which generally means that an unnecessary amount of food is prepared in the kitchen and sent from the table, uneaten, as waste. And a smart New York _restauranteur_ recently made a "cover charge" of twenty-five cents for bread and butter and ice-water. Others followed. It will not be long before a smarter _restauranteur_ will make the "cover charge" fifty cents, and then folk will begin streaming into his place. They don't complain. That's not the New York way. They do not even complain of the hat-boys--bloodthirsty little brigands who snatch your hat and other wraps before you enter a restaurant. The brigands are skillfully chosen--lean, hungry little boys every time, never fat, sleek, well-fed looking little boys. They are employed by a trust, which rents the "hat-checking privilege" from the proprietor of the hotel or restaurant. The owner of the trust pays well for these privileges and the little boys must work hard to bring him back his rental fees and a fair profit beside. Leave that to them. Emerge from a restaurant, well-fed and at peace with the world and deny that lean-looking, swarthy-faced, black-eyed boy a quarter if you can--or dare. A dime is out of the question. He might insult you, probably would. But a quarter buys your self-respect and the head of the trust a share in his new motor car. The lean-looking boy buys no motor cars. He works on a salary and there are no pockets in his uniform. There is a stern-visaged cicerone in the background and to the cicerone roll all the quarters, but the New Yorker does not complain--save when he reaches Los Angeles or Atlanta or some other fairly distant place and finds the same sort of highway brigandage in effect there. VI After the dinner and the hat-boy--the theater. You suggest the theater to Katherine. She is enthusiastic. You pick the theater. It is close at hand and you quickly find your way to it. A gentleman, whose politeness is of a variety, somewhat _frappé_, awaits you in the box-office. A line of hopeful mortals is shuffling toward him, to disperse with hope left behind. But this anticipates. You inquire of the man in the box-office for two seats--two particularly good seats. You remember going to the theater in Indianapolis once upon a time, a stranger, and having been seated behind the fattest theater pillar that you could have ever possibly imagined. But you need not worry about the pillars in this New York playhouse. The box-office gentleman, whose thoughts seem to be a thousand miles away, blandly replies that the house is sold out. "So good?" you brashly venture. You had not fancied this production so successful. He does not even assume to hear your comment. You decide that you will see this particular play at a later time. You suggest as much to the indifferent creature behind the wicket. He replies by telling you that he can only give you tickets for a Monday or Tuesday three weeks hence--and then nothing ahead of the seventeenth row. Can he not do better than that? He cannot. He is positive that he cannot. And his positiveness is Gibraltarian in its immobility. A faint sign of irritation covers his bland face. He wants you to see that you are taking too much of his time. Katherine saves the situation. She whispers to you that she noticed a little shop nearby with a sign "Tickets for all Theaters" displayed upon it. "You know they abolished the speculators two years ago," she explains. You move on to the little shop with the inviting sign. The gentleman behind its counters has manners at least. He greets you with the smile of the professional shopkeeper. "Have you tickets for 'The Giddiest Girl'?" you inquire. He smiles ingratiatingly. Of course he has, for any night and anywhere you wish them. "What is the price of them?" You are not coldly commercial but, despite that smile, merely apprehensive. And you are beginning to understand New York. "Four dollars." Not so bad at that--just the box-office price. You bring out four greasy one-dollar bills. His eyes fixed upon them, he places a ticket down upon the counter. "There--there are two of us," you stammer. He does not stammer. "Do you think that they are four dollars a dozen?" he sallies. You give him a ten dollar bill this time. You do not kick. Even though the show is perfectly rotten and the usherette charges you ten cents for a poorly printed program and scowls because you take the change from her itching palm, do not complain. You would not complain even if you knew that the man in the chair next to you paid only the regular prices, because he happened to belong to the same lodge as the cousin of the treasurer of the theater, while the man in the chair next to Katherine paid nothing at all for his seat--having a relative who advertises in the theater programs. You do not kick. Complaint has long since been eliminated from the New York code and you have begun to realize that. * * * * * After the theater, another restaurant--this time for supper--more hat-boys, more brigandage but it is the thing to do and you must do it. And you must do it well. Splendor costs and you pay--your full proportion. If up in your home town you know a nice little place where you can drop in after the show at the local playhouse and have a glass of beer and a rarebit--dismiss that as a prevailing idea in the neighborhood of Long Acre square. The White Light district of Broadway can buy no motor cars on the beer and rarebit trade. Louey's trade in his modest little place up home is sufficient to keep him in moderate living year in and year out, but Louey does not have to pay Broadway ground rent, or Broadway prices for food-stuffs or Broadway salaries--to say nothing of having a thirst for a bigger and faster automobile than his neighbor. And as we have said, the opportunity for bankruptcy in the so-called "lobster palaces" of Broadway runs high. As this is being written, one of the most famous of them has collapsed. Its proprietor--he was a smart caterer come east from Chicago where he had made his place fashionable and himself fairly rich--for a dozen years ran a prosperous restaurant within a stone-throw of the tall white shaft of the _Times_ building. And even if the heels were the highest, the gowns the lowest, the food was impeccable and if you knew New York at all you knew who went there. It was gay and beautiful and high-priced. It was immensely popular. Then the proprietor listened to sirens. They commanded him to tear down the simple structure of his restaurant and there build a towering hotel. He obeyed orders. With the magic of New York builders the new building was ready within the twelvemonth. It represented all that might be desired--or that upper Broadway at least might desire--in modern hotel construction. But it could not succeed. A salacious play which made a considerable commercial success took its title from the new hotel and called itself "The Girl from R----'s." That was the last straw. It might have been good fun for the man from Baraboo or the man from Jefferson City to come to New York and dine quietly and elegantly at R----'s, but to stop at R----'s hotel, to have his mail sent there, to have the local paper report that he was registered at that really splendid hostelry--ah, that was a different matter, indeed. Your Baraboo citizen had some fairly conservative connections--church and business--and he took no risks. The new hotel went bankrupt.[A] [A] Another hotel man has just taken the property. His first step has been to change its name and, if possible, its reputation. E. H. Beer and rarebits, indeed. Sam Blythe tells of the little group of four who went into a hotel grillroom not far from Forty-second street and Broadway, who mildly asked for beer and rabbits. "We have fine partridges," said the head-waiter, insinuatingly. "We asked for beer and rabbits," insisted the host of the little group. He really did not know his New York. "We have fine partridges," reiterated the head-waiter, then yawned slightly behind his hand. That yawn settled it. The head of the party was bellicose. He lost his temper completely. In a few minutes an ambulance and a patrol wagon came racing up Broadway. But the hotel had won. It always does. * * * * * One thing more--the _cabaret_. We think that if you are really fond of Katherine, and Katherine's reputation, you will avoid the restaurants that make a specialty of the so-called _cabarets_. Really good restaurants manage to get along without them. And the very best that can be said of them is that they are invariably indifferently poor--a _mélange_ contributed by broken-down actors or actresses, or boys or girls stolen from the possibilities of a really decent way of earning a living. As for the worst, it is enough to say that the familiarity that begins by breeding contempt follows in the wake of the _cabaret_. It may be very jolly for you, of a lonely summer evening in New York and forgetting all the real pleasures of a lonely summer night in the big town--wonderful orchestral concerts in Central Park, dining on open-air terraces and cool quiet roofs, motoring off to wonderful shore dinners in queer old taverns--to hunt out these great gay places in the heart of the town. Easy _camaraderie_ is part and parcel of them. But you will not want such comrades to meet any of the Katherines of your family. And therein lies a more than subtle distinction. VII It has all quite dazed you. You turn toward Katherine as you ride home with her in the taxicab--space forbids a description of the horrors and the indignities of the taxicab trust. "Is it like this--every night?" you feebly ask. "Every night of the year," she replies. "And typical New Yorkers like it." That puts a brand-new thought into your mind. "What is a typical New Yorker?" you demand. "We are all typical New Yorkers," she laughs. It is a foolish answer--of course. But the strange part of the whole thing is that Katherine is right. Either there are no typical New Yorkers--as many sane folk solemnly aver--or else every one who tarries in the city through the passing of even a single night is a typical New Yorker. How can it be else in a city who is still growing like a girl in her teens, who adds to herself each year in permanent population 135,000 human beings, whose transient population is nightly estimated at over a hundred thousand? They are all typical New Yorkers. Here is Solomon Strunsky who has just arrived through Ellis Island, scared and forlorn, with his scared and forlorn little family trailing on behind, Solomon Strunsky all but penniless, and the merciless home-sickness for the little faraway town in Polish hills tearing at his heart. Is Solomon Strunsky less a typical New Yorker than the scion of this fine old family which for sixty years lived and died in a red-brick mansion close by Washington square? For in four years Solomon Strunsky will be keeping his own little store in the East Side, in another year he will be moving his brood up to a fine new house in Harlem, an even dozen years from the entrance at Ellis Island and you may be reading the proud patronymic of Strunsky spelled along a signboard upon one of the great new commercial barracks, which, not content with remaining downtown, began the despoliation of Fifth avenue and its adjacent retail district. Can you keep Solomon Strunsky out of the family of typical New Yorkers? We think not. We think that you cannot exclude the man who through some stroke of fortune has accumulated money in a smaller city, and who has come to New York to live and to spend it. There are many thousands of him dwelling upon the island of Manhattan; with his families they make a considerable community by itself. They are good spenders, good New Yorkers in that they never complain while the strings of their purses are never tightly tied. They live in smart apartments uptown, at tremendously high rentals, keep at least one car in service at all seasons of the year, dine luxuriously in luxurious eating-places, attend the opera once a week or a fortnight, see the new plays, keep abreast of the showy side of New York. They are typical New Yorkers. In an apartment a little further down the street--which rents at half the figure and comes dangerously near being called a flat--is another family. This family also attends the new plays, although it is far more apt to go a floor or even two aloft, than to meet the speculator's prices for orchestra seats. It also goes to the opera, and the young woman of the house is in deadly earnest when she says that she does not mind standing through the four or five long acts of a Wagnerian matinee, because the nice young ushers let you sit on the floor in the intermissions. But this family goes farther than the drama--spoken or sung. It is conversant with the new books and the new pictures. That same young woman swings the Phi Beta Kappa key of the most difficult institution of learning on this continent. And she knows more about the trend of modern art than half of the artists themselves. And yet she "goes to business"--is the capable secretary of a very capable man downtown. These are typical New Yorkers. So are a family over in the next block--theirs is frankly a flat in every sense of that despised word. They have not been in the theater in a dozen years, never in one of the big modern restaurants or hotels. Yet the head of that family is a man whose name is known and spoken reverently through little homes all the way across America. He is a worker in the church, although not a clergyman, a militant friend of education, although not an educator, and he believes that New York is the most thoughtful and benevolent city in the world. And if you attempt to argue with him, he will prove easily and smilingly, that he is right and you--are just mistaken. He and his know their New York--a New York of high Christian force and precept--and they, too, are New Yorkers. So, too, is Bliffkins and the little Bliffkins--although Bliffkins holds property in a bustling Ohio city and votes within its precincts. To tell the truth baldly, the Bliffkinses descend upon New York once each year and never remain more than a fortnight. But they stop at a great hotel and they are great spenders. Floor-walkers, head-waiters, head-ushers know them. Annually, and for a few golden days they are part of New York--typical New Yorkers, if you please. And when they are gone other Bliffkinses, from almost every town across the land, big and little, come to replace them. And all these are typical New Yorkers. What is the typical New Yorker? Are the sane folk right when they say that he does not exist? We do not think so. We think that Katherine in all her flippancy was right. They are all typical New Yorkers who sojourn, no matter for how little a time, within her boundaries. We will go farther still. You might almost say that all Americans are typical New Yorkers. For New York is, in no small sense, America. Other towns and cities may publicly scoff her, down in their hearts they slavishly imitate her, her store fronts, her fashions, her hotel and her theater customs, her policemen, even her white-winged street cleaners. They publicly laugh at her--down in their hearts they secretly adore her. 3 ACROSS THE EAST RIVER Physically only the East river separates Brooklyn from Manhattan island. The island of Manhattan was and still is to many folk the city of New York. Across that narrow wale of the East river--one of the busiest water-highways in all the world--men have thrust several great bridges and tunnels. Politically Brooklyn and Manhattan are one. They are the most important boroughs of that which has for the past fifteen years been known as Greater New York. But in almost every other way Manhattan and Brooklyn are nearly a thousand miles apart. In social customs, in many of the details of living they are vastly different, and this despite the fact that the greater part of the male population of Brooklyn daily travels to Manhattan island to work in its offices and shops and you can all but toss a stone from one community into the other. The very fact that Brooklyn is a dwelling place for New York--professional funny-men long ago called it a "bed-chamber"--has done much, as we shall see, toward building up the peculiar characteristics of the town that stands just across the East river from the tip of the busiest little island in the world. Consider for an instant the situation of Brooklyn. It fills almost the entire west end of Long island--a slightly rolling tract of land between a narrow and unspeakably filthy stream on the north known as Newtown creek and the great cool ocean on the south. This entire tract has for many years been known as Kings county--its name a slight proof of its antiquity. Many years ago there were various villages in the old county--among them Greenpoint, Bushwick, Williamsburgh, Canarsie, Flatbush, Gravesend and Brooklyn. They were Dutch towns, and you can still see some evidences of this in their old houses, although these are disappearing quite rapidly nowadays. Brooklyn grew the most rapidly--from almost the very day of the establishment of the republic. Robert Fulton developed his steam-ferry and the East river ceased to be the bugaboo it had always been to sailing vessels. Fulton ferry was popular from the first. With the use of steam its importance waxed and soon it was overcrowded. Another ferry came, another and another--many, many others. They were all crowded, for Brooklyn was growing, a close rim of houses and churches and shops all the way along the bank of the East river from the Navy Yard at the sharp crook of the river that the Dutch called the Wallabout, south to the marshy Gowanus bay. Upon the river shore, north of the Wallabout, was Williamsburgh, which was also growing and which had been incorporated into a city. But when the horse-cars came and men were no longer forced to walk to and from the ferries or to ride in miserable omnibuses, Brooklyn and Williamsburgh became physically one. Williamsburgh then gave up its charter and its identity and became lost in the growth of a greater Brooklyn. That was repeated slowly but surely throughout all Kings county. Within comparatively recent years there came the elevated railroad--at almost the same time the great miracle of the Brooklyn bridge--and all the previous growth of the town was as nothing. For two decades it grew as rapidly as ever grew a "boom-town" in the West. The coming of electric city transportation, the multiplying of bridges, the boring of the first East river tunnel, all helped in this great growth. But the fairy web of steel that John A. Roebling thrust across the busiest part of the East river marked the transformation of Brooklyn--a transformation that did not end when Brooklyn sold her political birthright and became part and parcel of New York. That transformation is still in progress. We have slipped into history because we have wanted you to understand why Brooklyn today is just what she is. The submerging of these little Dutch villages with their individual customs and traditions has done its part in the making of the customs and traditions of the Brooklyn of today. For Brooklyn today remains a congregation of separate communities. You may slip from one to the other without realizing that you have done more than pass down a compactly built block of houses or crossed a crowded street. And so it has come to pass that Brooklyn has no main street--in the sense that about every other town in the United States, big or little, has a main street. If you wish to call Fulton street, running from the historic Fulton ferry right through the heart of the original city and far out into the open country a main street, you will be forced to admit that it is the ugliest main street of any town in the land: narrow, inconsequential, robbed of its light and air by a low-hanging elevated railroad almost its entire length. And yet right on Fulton street you will find two department-stores unusually complete and unusually well operated. New Yorkers come to them frequently to shop. The two stores seem lost in the dreariness of Fulton street--a very contradiction to that highway. Yet Brooklyn is a community of contradictions. Here we have called Fulton street a possible main street of Brooklyn, and yet there is a street in the town, for the most part miles removed from it, that is quite as brisk by day and the only street in the borough which has any real activity at night. Like that great main-stem of Manhattan it is called Broadway, and it is a wider and more pretentious street than Fulton, although in its turn also encumbered with an elevated railroad. But up and down Broadway there courses a constant traffic; on foot, in automobiles, in trolley-cars. Broadway boasts its own department-stores, some of them sizable, many hundreds of small shops, cheap theaters--and some better--by the score. It is an entertaining thoroughfare and yet we will venture to say that not one in ten thousand of the many transients who come to New York at regular intervals and who know the Great White Way as well as four corners up at home, have ever stepped foot within it. We will go further. Of the two million humans who go to make the population of Brooklyn; a large part, probably half, certainly a third, have never seen its own Broadway. This speaks volumes for the provincialism of the great community across the East river from Manhattan. Remember all this while that it is a community of communities, self-centered and rather more intent upon the problem of getting back and forth between its homes and Manhattan than on any other one thing in the world. As a rule, people live in Brooklyn because it is less expensive than residence upon the island of Manhattan, more accessible and far more comfortable than the Bronx or the larger cities of New Jersey that range themselves close to the shore of the Hudson river. It is in reality a larger and a better Jersey City or a Hoboken or a Long Island City. [Illustration: A quiet street on Brooklyn Heights] And yet, like each of these three, it is something more than a mere housing place for folk who work within congested Manhattan. It, too, is a manufacturing center of no small importance. Despite the transportation obstacles of being divided by one or two rivers from most of the trunk-line railroads that terminate at the port of New York, hundreds of factory chimneys, large and small, proclaim its industrial importance. Its output of manufactures reaches high into the millions each year. And the pay-roll of its factory operatives is annually an impressive figure. The fact remains, however, that it is a community of communities, each pulling very largely for itself. A smart western town of twenty-five thousand population can center more energy and secure for itself precisely what it wishes more rapidly and more precisely than can this great borough of nearly two million population. Brooklyn has not yet learned the lesson of concentrated effort. Now consider these communities of old Kings county once again. We have touched upon their location and their growth; let us see the manner of folk who made them grow. About the second decade of the last century a virtual hegira of New England folk began to move toward New York City. The New England states were the first portion of the land to show anything like congestion, the wonderful city at the mouth of the Hudson was beginning to come into its own--opportunity loomed large in the eyes of the shrewd New Englanders. They began picking up and moving toward New York. And they are still coming, although, of course, in no such volume as in the first half of the nineteenth century. These New England folk found New York already aping metropolitanism--with its unshaded streets and its tightly built rows of houses. Over on Long island across busy Fulton ferry it was different. There must have been something in the early Brooklyn, with its gentle shade-trees down the streets and its genial air of quiet comfort that made the New Englanders think of the pretty Massachusetts and Connecticut towns that they had left. For into Brooklyn they came--a steady stream which did not lessen in volume until the days of the Civil War. They gave the place a blood infusion that it needed. They crowded the old Dutch families to one side and laid the social foundations of the Brooklyn of today. It was New England who founded the excellent private schools and small colleges of Brooklyn, who early gave to her a public-school system of wide reputation. It was New England who sprinkled the Congregational churches over the older Brooklyn, who gave to their pulpits a Talmage and a Storrs, who brought Henry Ward Beecher out from the wilds of the Mid-west and made him the most famous preacher that America has ever known. It was New England who for forty years made Brooklyn Heights--with its exquisite situation on a plateau overlooking the upper harbor of New York--the finest residential locality in the land. It was New England for almost all that time who filled the great churches of the Heights to their capacity Sabbath morning after Sabbath morning--New England who stood for high thought, decent living and real progress in Brooklyn. It was New England that made Brooklyn eat her pork and beans religiously each Sabbath eve. The great churches and the fine houses still stand on Brooklyn Heights, but alas, there are few struggles at the church-doors any more on Sabbath morning. The old houses, the fine, gentle old houses--many of them--have said good-by to their masters, their gayeties and their glories. Some of them have been pulled down to make room for gingerbread apartment structures and some of those that have remained have suffered degradation as lodging- and as boarding-houses. It has been hard to hold the younger generation of fashionable Brooklyn in Brooklyn. Manhattan is too near, too alluring with all of its cosmopolitan airs, and these days there is another steady hegira across the East river--the first families of Brooklyn seeking residence among the smart streets of upper Manhattan. There is another reason for this. We have told how Brooklyn sold her birthright when she threw off her political individuality and made herself a borough of an enlarged New York. Perhaps it would be more true to say that she mortgaged that birthright the very hour when the Brooklyn bridge, then new, took up the fullness of its mighty work. In the weaving of that bridge is wrapped one of the little-known tragedies of Brooklyn--the immensely human story of Roebling, its designer and its builder, who suffered fatal injuries upon it and who died a lingering death before it was completed. Roebling's apartments were upon a high crest of Brooklyn Heights and the windows of his sick-room looked down upon the workmen who were weaving the steel web of the bridge. In the last hours of his life he could see the creation of his mind, the structure that was about to be known as one of the eight modern wonders of the world, being made ready for its task of the long years. The coming of that first bridge began the transformation of Brooklyn; although for a long time Brooklyn did not realize it. The New England element within her population did not even realize it when she gave up her political identity as a city. Then something else happened. Two miles to the north of the first bridge another was built--this with its one arm touching the East Side of Manhattan--the most crowded residence district in the new world--while its other hand reached that portion of Brooklyn, formerly known as Williamsburgh. We have already spoken of Williamsburgh--in its day a city of some promise but for sixty years now part of Brooklyn. In the greater part of these sixty years it hung tenaciously to its personality. Back of it was a great area of regular streets and small houses known as the Eastern District. The folk who lived there called themselves Brooklyn folk. Williamsburgh was different. Its folk were glad to give themselves the name of the old town, although the pattern of its streets ran closely into the pattern of the streets of the community which had engulfed it. They held themselves a bit by themselves. They had their own shops, their own theater, their own clubs, their own churches, their own schools. They also had the opportunity of seeing the social and the business changes that the development of the first bridge had wrought in old Brooklyn; how Fulton street from the old City Hall down to the ferry-house had lost its gayety and was entering upon decadence. The Williamsburgh bridge repeated the story of the Brooklyn bridge--only in sharper measure. It was like a tube lancing the overcrowded mass of the East Side of Manhattan. It had hardly been completed before it had its own hegira. The Jews of the crowded tenements of Rivington and Allen and Essex and all the other congested narrow streets east of the Bowery began moving over the new bridge and out to a distant section of Brooklyn, known as Brownsville. They had preëmpted Brownsville for their own. For a time that was all right. Then the wiser men of that wise old race began asking themselves "why go to Brownsville, eight or nine miles distant, when at the other end of the bridge is a fair land for settlement?" So began changed conditions for Williamsburgh. For a little while it sought to oppose the change, but an ox might as well pull against the mighty power of a locomotive, as a community try to defy the working of economic law. For a decade now Williamsburgh has been "moving out," her houses, her churches, many of her pet institutions--going the most part farther out upon Long island and there rebuilding under many protective restrictions. The old Williamsburgh is nearly gone. Strange tongues and strange creeds are heard within her churches. And some of them have been pulled down, along with whole blocks of the gentle red-brick houses, to give way to cheap apartments, wrought wondrously and fearfully and echoing with the babbling of unfamiliar words. Nor has the transformation stopped at Williamsburgh. The invasion has crept, is still creeping into the Eastern District just beyond, transforming quiet house-lined streets into noisy ways lined with crowded apartments. It is only within a comparatively little time that the older Brooklyn has realized the change that is coming upon her. She has known for years of the presence of many thousands of Irish and German within her boundaries. They have been useful citizens in her development and have done much for her in both a generous and an intelligent fashion. She holds today great colonies of Norse and of the Swedish--down close to the waterfront in the neighborhood of the Narrows, and her Italian citizens, taken by themselves, would make the greatest Italian city in the world. She has the largest single colony of Syrians in the New World and more than half a million Jews. According to reliable estimates, three-quarters of her adult population today are foreign-born. Thus can we record the transformation of a community. It is a transformation which has created many problems, far too many to be recounted here. We have only room to show the nature of the change to a town where grandfathers used to be all in all and which has sleepily awakened to find itself cosmopolitan, its institutions changing, its future uncertain. There have not been a dozen important Protestant churches builded in Brooklyn within the past twelve years--and some of these merely new edifices for old congregations which have been forced to pick up and move. And there have been old churches of old faiths that finally have had to give up and close their doors for the final time. Even the old custom of singing Christmas songs in the public schools has been forbidden. The New England strain of Americanism in Brooklyn is dying. * * * * * Brooklyn today has no theater of wide reputation, although in Greenwood she has what is deservedly the most famous cemetery in America. Hold on, Brooklyn may have no theater, but she has a town-hall and a town-hall that is worthy of mention here. They do not call it the town-hall or the opera-house, but it is known as the Academy of Music and it is an institution well worth the while of any town. And the Brooklyn Academy of Music is the rallying or focal point for so much that stands for good within the community that we must see how it has come into being. It seems that when Brooklyn men and women of today were Brooklyn boys and girls there stood down on Montague street in the oldest part of the town an elder Academy of Music and to it they were taken on certain great occasions to hear a splendid lecture with magic-lantern pictures, the Swiss Bell Ringers, or perhaps even real drama or real opera, although play-acting was frowned upon in the early days of that barn-like structure. Eventually, its directors capitulated entirely. Times were changing. So it was that Brooklyn saw the great actors and the great singers of yesterday upon the stage of its old Academy; from that stage it heard its own preachers, heard such orators as Edward Everett and John B. Gough; crowded into the spacious auditorium at the Commencement exercises and the amateur dramatics of its boys and girls. The old Academy was a part of the social fabric of old Brooklyn. There comes an end to all temporal things and a winter's morning a full decade ago saw the historic opera house go up in a truly theatrical puff of smoke and flame. And it was said that day that Brooklyn had lost an institution by which it was as well known as the Navy Yard or Plymouth church--where Beecher had once thundered. Before the ruins in Montague street were cool there were demands that the Academy be rebuilt. Brooklynites even then were beginning to feel that the old Brooklyn was beginning to pass. Beecher was dead; the last of Talmage's Tabernacles was burned and was not to be rebuilt. The idea of becoming a second Harlem was appalling. The rebuilding of the Academy was a popular measure, a test as to Brooklyn's ability to preserve at least a vestige of civic unity unto herself. It was a hard test and it almost failed. There was a time when it seemed as if Brooklyn must give up and become the Cinderella of all the boroughs of the new New York. But it seems that there were other institutions in Brooklyn and not the least of these was, and still is, the Institute of Arts and Sciences. This is a sort of civic Chautauqua. Toward it several thousand men and women each pay five dollars a year for the opportunity to gain culture and entertainment at the same time. They have lectures, museums, picture-shows, recitals and the like and this institute has so fat a purse that the impresario or prima donna is yet to be found who is strong enough to withstand its pleadings. This institute came valiantly to the aid of the Academy project and saved the day. While it has no proprietary interest in the new structure, it is its chief tenant, and the new Academy was planned in detail to meet the needs of this popular educational institution. So, while the old Academy had a single auditorium, the new has a half-dozen big and comfortable meeting-places. On a single night Brooklyn can snap its fingers at the Metropolitan Opera House, over across the East river, and can gather within its own Temple of Song--a spacious and elegant theater which receives the Metropolitan company once a week during the season--can place another great audience in the adjoining Music Hall, with its well-renowned pipe-organ; in still another hall hear some traveler show his pretty pictures and tell of distant climes and strange peoples; in a lofty ballroom, hold formal reception and dance; and gather in a still smaller hall to hear Professor Something-or-other discuss the geological strata of Iceland or the like. In this way, several audiences, all bent on divers purposes, can be assembled in this big and passing handsome structure and yet be completely independent of each other. The new Brooklyn Academy, wrought after a hard fight, is no tiny toy. The building was largely a labor of love to those who succeeded in getting the subscriptions for it. Its maintenance is today almost a labor of love for its stockholders are not alone the wealthy bankers and the merchants of the town. Its stock-list is as catholic as its endeavors--and they are legion. It is designed to be eventually a gathering-place for the butcher, the baker, the candle-stick maker; all the sturdy folk who have their homes from Greenpoint to Coney island. * * * * * [Illustration: An early Brooklyn Citizen] "One thing more," you demand. "How about Coney island?" Coney island is a part of Brooklyn. It is also the most advertised and the most over-rated show place in the whole land. While the older Brooklyn used to drive down to that sand-spit facing the sea for clams and for fish-dinner in the summer days, it is only within the past few years that it has been commercialized and an attempt made to place it upon a business basis. We are inclined to think that the attempt, measured in the long run, has been a failure. It began about ten years ago, when the standard of entertainment at the famous beach had fallen low. A young man, with a gift for the show business, created a great amusement park there by the side of the sea. "People do not come to Coney island to see the ocean," he said. "They come down here for a good time." It looked as if he was right. His amusement park was a great novelty and for a time a tremendous success. It had splendid imitators almost within a stone-throw--its name and its purpose were being copied all the way across the land. Perhaps people did not go to Coney island, after all, to see the cool and lovely ocean. But after a time the fickle taste of metropolitan New York seemed to change. New Yorkers did not seem to care quite as much for the gay creations of paint and tinsel, the eerie cities that were born anew each night in the glories of electric lighting. Fire came to Coney island--again and again. It scoured the paint and tinsel cities, thrust the highest of their towers, a blackened ruin, to the ground. Pious folk said that God was scourging Coney island for its contempt for His laws. And the fact remains that it has not regained the preëminence of its position ten years ago. We think that a man who had been out of Brooklyn for twenty years and whose recollections of the wonderful beach that forms her southern outpost were recollections of great gardens; of Patrick Gilmore playing inimitable marches in front of one giant hotel and of the incomparable Siedl leading his orchestra beside another, would do better than to return to Coney island. Siedl is dead; so is Gilmore and even the huge wooden hotel that looked down upon him was pulled apart last year to make room for the encroaching streets and houses of a growing Brooklyn. The paint and the tinsel of Coney island grows tarnished--and that twenty-year exile could find little else than the sea to hold his interest. And the folk who go to Coney island today seem to care very little for the sea--save perhaps as a giant bath-tub. We think that the absentee of twenty years' standing would do far better to go to Prospect Park. That really superb pleasure-ground, planned through the foresight of a Brooklyn man of half a century ago, remains practically unchanged through the years. It remains one of the great parks, not only of America, but of the entire world. It is the real lion of Brooklyn. It is incomparably finer than its rival, the somewhat neglected Central Park of Manhattan. And alas, Manhattan seems to think so, too, for to Prospect Park it sends each bright summer Sunday not the best but the roughest of its hordes. And Brooklyn sighs when it sees its lovely playground stolen from it. It is more than playground--Prospect Park. It is history. There are no historic buildings in Brooklyn--unless we except the Dutch Reformed church out in Flatbush--but all of Prospect Park was once a battlefield--the theater of that bitter and bloody conflict of July, 1776, when Washington was routed by British strategy and forced to retire from the city that he needed most of all to hold. Through its great meadows Continental and Briton and Hessian once marched with murder in their hearts. In those great meadows today the boys and girls of the Brooklyn of today play tennis; the older men, after the fashion of the Brooklyn of other days, their croquet. And annually down the greensward the little children of Brooklyn march in brilliant June-time pageant. The Sunday-school parade of Brooklyn is one of the older institutions of the town that still survives. Annually and upon the first Thursday afternoon of June the children of all the Sabbath-schools of the borough march out upon its streets. There is not room even in Prospect Park for all of these--for sometimes there are 150,000 of them marching of an afternoon; and the great distances within Brooklyn must also be brought into consideration. But the largest of the individual parades always marches in the park--marches like trained troopers up past the dignitaries in the reviewing stand, and the mayor, and the other city officers, the Governor of the State, not infrequently the President of the United States. There is much music, great excitement--and ice-cream afterwards. Sharp denominational bars are let down and the ice-cream goes to all. And the boys and girls who are to be the men and women of the Brooklyn of tomorrow and who are to face its great problems march proudly by, knowing that the loving eye of father or of mother must be upon them. The problems of the Brooklyn of tomorrow are not to be carelessly dismissed. Nor is the problem of Brooklyn's future in any way hopeless. The changing of conditions, the changing of habits, the changing of institutions does not of necessity spell utter ruin. Cosmopolitanism does not mean the end of all things. We have called her dull and emotionless and provincial, and yet many of her residents are quick and appreciative--well-traveled and well-read--anxious to meet the new conditions, to solve the problems that have been entailed. And we have not the slightest doubt that in the long run they will be solved, that Brooklyn will be ready and willing to undertake the great problem that has been thrust upon her--the fusing of her hundreds of thousands of foreign-born into first-rate Americans. 4 WILLIAM PENN'S TOWN To approach Philadelphia in a humble spirit of absolute appreciation, you must come to her by one of the historic pikes that spread from her like cart-wheel spokes from their hub. You will find one of those old roads easily enough, for they radiate from her in every direction. And when you have found your pike you will discover that it is a fine road, even in these days when there is a "good-roads movement" abroad in the land. You can traverse it into town as best suits your fancy--and your purse. If you are fortunate enough to own an automobile you will find motoring one of the greatest of many joys in the southeastern corner of Pennsylvania. If your purse is thin you can have joyous health out of walking the long miles such as is denied to your proud motorist. And if you have neither money nor robust health for hard walking, you will find a trolley line along each of the important pikes. Philadelphia does not close her most gracious avenues of approach to you--no matter who you are or what you are. * * * * * Here we are at the William Penn Inn at dawn of a September morning waiting to tramp our way, at least to the outskirts of the closely built part of the city. And before we are away from the tavern which has kept us through the lonely chill of the night, give it a single parting glance. It has been standing there at the cross-roads of two of the busy pikes of Montgomery county for a full century and a half. In all those years it has not closed its door against man or beast, seeking shelter or refreshment. There is a record of one hundred and fifty years of hospitality for which it does not have to make apologies. Sometimes you will discover small inns of this sort along the roadsides of New England, but we do not know where else you will find them without crossing the Atlantic and seeking them out in the Surrey and the Sussex of the older England. Yet around Philadelphia they are plentiful--with their yellow plastered walls, tight green shutters hung against them, their low-ceilinged rooms, their broad fire-places, their stout stone out-buildings, and their shady piazzas, giving to the highway. Some of them have quite wonderful signs and all of them have a wonderful hospitality--heritage from the Quaker manner of living. So from the William Penn Inn one may start after breakfast as one might have started a century ago--to walk his way into the busy town. The four corners where the pikes cross stand upon a high ridge--a smooth white house of stone, a meeting-house of the Friends, and the tavern occupying three of them. The fourth gives to a view of distant fields--and such a view! Montgomery is a county of fat farms. You can see the rich lands down in the valleys, the shrewder genius required to make the more sterile ridge acres yield. And, as you trudge down the pike, the view stays with you for a long while. At the bottom of the hill a little stream and the inevitable toll-gate that seem to hedge in Philadelphia from every side. But your payment to the toll-keeper upon the Bethlehem pike this morning is voluntary. His smile is genial, his gate open. A cigar is to his liking and if you would tarry for a little time within the living-room of the toll-house he would tell you stories of the pike--stories that would make it worth the waiting. But--Philadelphia is miles away, the road to it long and dusty. You pick up your way and off you go. Little towns and big. Sleepy towns most of them; but occasionally one into which the railroad has thrust itself and Industry flaunts a smoky chimney up to the blue sky. Quaker meeting-houses a plenty, with the tiny grave-stones hardly showing themselves through the long grass roundabout them. But those same neat stones show that the Friends are a long-lived folk, and if you lift yourself up to peer through the windows of one of these meeting-houses you may see the exquisite simplicity of its arrangement. The meeting-house is modern--it only dates back to 1823--and yet it is typical. Two masses of benches on a slightly inclined floor, the one side for the men, the other for the women. Facing them two rows of benches, for the elders. No altar, not even a pulpit or reading-desk; there is an utter absence of decoration. You do not wonder that the young folk in this mad, gay day fail to incline to the old faith of "thee" and "thou," and that no more than forty or fifty folk, almost all of them close to the evenings of their life gather here on the morning of First Day. Between the villages and the meeting-houses the solid, substantial farmhouses. And what farmhouses! Farmhouses, immaculate as to whitewash and to lawn, with cool porches, shaded by brightly striped awnings and holding windsor chairs and big swinging Gloucester hammocks. This is farming. And the prosperous look of the staunch barns belies even thought that this is _dilettante_ agriculture. It is merely evidence that farmers along the great pikes of Montgomery and Bucks and Berks have not lost their old-time cunning. And if the farmer no longer drives his great Conestoga wagons into market at Philadelphia, it is because he prefers to run in with his own motor car and let other and more modern transportation methods bring his products to the consumer. Lunch at another roadside tavern. Bless your heart, this one, like the meeting-house of the Friends back the pike a way, is cursed with modernity. It can only claim sixty years of hospitable existence. Mine host can tell no fascinating yarn of General Washington having slept beneath his roof, even though his tavern is named after no less a personage. Instead he relates mournfully how a tavern over on the Bristol pike has a tablet in its tap-room telling of the memorable night that the members of the Continental Congress moving from New York to Philadelphia tarried under that roof. Two good anecdotes and a corking name almost make a wayside inn. But the anecdotes are not always easy to find. After lunch and a good rest the last stages of the journey. The little towns grow more closely together; there are more houses, more intersecting cross-roads. It will be worth your while not to miss the signs upon these. The very names on the sign-posts--Plymouth Meeting, Wheel Pump, Spring House, Bird-in-hand--seem to proclaim that this is a venerable country indeed. More closely do the houses grow together, the farms disappear, an ancient mile-post thrusts itself into your vision. It is stone, but, after the fashion of these Pennsylvania Dutch, white-washed and readable. It tells you: P 10-1/2 C.H. 1 M. But Philadelphia in reality is no ten miles away. For here is Chestnut Hill, the houses numbered, city-fashion and the yellow trolley cars multiplied within the busy highway which has become a city street without you having realized the transition. The smart looking policeman at the corner will tell you that Chestnut Hill is today one of the wards of Philadelphia. The city at last! You may turn at the top of a long hill and for a final instant confront the country beyond, rolling, fertile, prosperous, the gentle wooded hills giving soft undulation to the horizon. Then look forward and face the busy town. For a long time yet your way shall be down what seems to be the main street of a prosperous village, with its great homes set away back in green lawns from the noisy pavement and the public sidewalk. There are shops but they are distinctly local shops and the churches bear the names of the brisk towns that were submerged in the making of a larger Philadelphia--Chestnut Hill, Mount Airy, Germantown. And down this same busy street history has marched before you. Some of it has been recorded here and there in bronze tablets along the street. In front of one old house, one learns that General Washington conferred with his officers at the eve of the battle of Germantown and on the door-steps of another--set even today in its own deep grounds--Redcoat and Buff struggled in a memorable conflict. For this was the mansion of Judge Chew, transformed in an instant of an autumn day from country-house to fortress. It was from the windows of this old house that six companies of Colonel Musgrave's Fortieth regiment poured down a deadly fire upon Mad Anthony Wayne and his men even as they attempted to set fire to it. The house stood and so stood the Fortieth regiment. General Washington lost his chance to enter Philadelphia that autumn, and Valley Forge was so writ into the pages of history. History! It is spread up and down this main street of Germantown, it slips down the side-streets and up the alleys, into the hospitable front-doors of stout stonehouses. Here it shows its teeth in the bullet-holes of the aged wooden fence back of the Johnson house and here is the Logan house, the Morris house, the Wend house, the Concord school and the burying-ground. Any resident of Germantown will tell you what these old houses mean to it, the part they have played in its making. After Germantown--Philadelphia itself. The road dips down a sudden hill, loses itself in a short tunnel under a black maze of railroad tracks. Beyond the railroad track the city is solidly built, row upon row of narrow streets lined with small flat-roofed brick houses, the monotony only accentuated by an occasional church-spire or towering factory. In the distance a group of higher buildings--downtown Philadelphia--rising above the tallest of them Father Penn poised on the great tower of the City Hall. No need now for more tramping. The fascination of the open country is gone and a trolley car will take you through tedious city blocks--in Philadelphia they call them squares--almost to the door of that City Hall. They _are tedious_ blocks. Architecturally Philadelphia is the most monotonous city in America with its little red-brick houses. Dr. S. Weir Mitchell who has known it through all the years of his life has called it the "Red City" and rightly, too. For mile after mile of the older Philadelphia is mile after mile of those flat-roofed red-brick houses. They seemingly must have been made at some mill, in great quantities and from a limited variety of patterns. For they are almost all alike, with their two or three stories of narrow windows and doors; steps and lintels and cornice of white marble and invariably set close upon the sidewalk line. There is no more generosity than individuality about the typical side streets of Philadelphia. A single thing will catch your eye about these Philadelphia houses--a small metal device which is usually placed upon the ledge of a second-story window. The window must be my lady's sitting-room, for a closer look shows the device to be a mirror, rather two or three mirrors, so cunningly placed that they will show her folk passing up and down or standing upon her doorstep without troubling her to leave her comfortable rocking chair. There must be a hundred thousand of these devices in Philadelphia. They call them "busy-bodies" quite appropriately, and they are as typical of the town as its breakfast scrapple and sausage. * * * * * Even a slow-moving Philadelphia trolley car eventually accomplishes its purpose and you will find yourself slipping from the older town into the oldest. The trolley car grinds around an open square--Franklin square, the conductor informs you and then tells you that despite its name it is not to be confounded with that aristocrat, Rittenhouse square, nor even with the more democratic Logan square. You see that for yourself. There are mean streets aroundabout this square. Oldest Philadelphia assuredly is not putting her best foot forward. And yet these sordid streets are not without their fascination. The ugly monotony of flat-roofs is gone. These roofs are high-pitched and bristle with small-paned dormer windows and with chimneys, for the houses that stand beneath them are very, very old indeed. And they are typical of that Georgian architecture that we love to call Colonial. A brave show these houses once must have made--even today a bit of battered rail, a fragment of door or window-casing or fanlight proclaims that once they were quality. Fallen to a low estate, to the housing of Italians or Chinese instead of quiet Quakers, they seem almost to be content that their streets have fallen with them; that few seem to seek them out in this decidedly unfashionable corner of Philadelphia. "Arch street," calls the conductor and it is time to get out. It is time to thread your way down one of the earliest streets of the old Red City, time to pay your respects at the tomb of him who ranked with Penn, the Proprietor, as the greatest citizen. You can find this tomb easily--any newsboy on the street can point the way to it. He is buried with others of his faith in the quiet yard of Christ church at Fifth and Arch streets. And in order that the passing world may sometimes stop to do him the homage of a passing thought, a single section of the old brick wall has been cut away and replaced by an iron grating. Through that grating you may see his tomb--a slab of stone sunk flat, for he was an unpretentious man--and on its face read: "Benjamin and Deborah Franklin. 1790." Beyond that graveyard you will see a meeting-house of the Friends, one of the best-known in all that grave city which their patron founded. It is the meeting-house of the Free Quakers, and to its building both Franklin and Washington, himself, lent a liberal aid. And you can still see upon a tablet set in one of its faded brick walls these four lines: "By General Subscription, For the Free Quakers. Erected A. D. 1783, Of the Empire 8." That "Empire 8" has puzzled a good many tourists. In a republic and erected upon the gathering-place of as simple a sect as the Friends it provokes many questions. "They must have thought it was goin' to be an empire like that French Empire that was started by the war in '75," the aged caretaker patiently will tell you with a shake of the head which shows that he has been asked that very question many times before and never found a really good answer for it. A few squares below its graveyard is Christ church itself--a splendid example of the Georgian architecture as we find it in the older cities close to the Atlantic seaboard. Designed by the architect of Independence Hall it is second to that great building only in historic interest. Its grave-yard is a roster of the Philadelphia aristocracy of other days. In its exquisitely beautiful steeple there hangs a chime of eight bells brought in the long ago from old England in Captain Budden's clipper-ship _Matilda_ freight-free. And local tradition relates that for many years thereafter the approach of Captain Budden's _Matilda_ up the Delaware was invariably heralded by a merry peal of welcome from the bells. [Illustration: Where William Penn looks down upon the town he loved so well] Philadelphia is rich in such treasure-houses of history. To the traveler, whose bent runs to such pursuits, she offers a rare field. In the oldest part of the city there is hardly a square that will not offer some landmark ripe with tradition and rich with interest. Time has laid a gentle hand upon the City of Brotherly Love. And no American, who considers himself worthy of the name, can afford not to visit at least once in his lifetime the greatest of our shrines--Independence Hall. Within recent years this fine old building has, like many of its fellows, undergone reconstruction. But the workmen have labored faithfully and truthfully and the old State House today, in all its details, is undoubtedly very much as it stood at the time of the signing of the Declaration. It still houses the Liberty Bell, that intrepid and seemingly tireless tourist who visits all the world's fairs with a resigned patience that might well commend itself to human travelers. * * * * * Around these landmarks of colonial Philadelphia there ebbs and flows the human tides of the modern city. The windows of what is today the finest as well as the largest printing-house in the land look down upon the tree-filled square in which stands Independence Hall. A little while ago this printing concern looked down upon the grave of that earlier printer--Franklin. But growth made it necessary to move from Arch street--the busiest and the noisiest if not the narrowest of all precise pattern of parallel roads that William Penn--the Proprietor of other days--laid back from the Delaware to the Schuylkill river. One square from Arch street is Market, designed years ago by the far-sighted Quaker to be just what it is today--a great commercial thoroughfare of one of the metropolitan cities of America. At its feet the ferries cross the Delaware to the fair New Jersey land. Up its course to the City Hall--or as the Philadelphian will always have it, the Public Buildings--are department stores, one of them a commercial monument to the man who made the modern department store possible and so doing became the greatest merchant of his generation. Department stores, big and little, two huge railroad terminals which seem always thronged--beyond the second of them desolation for Market street--a dreary course to the Schuylkill; beyond that stream it exists as a mere utility street, a chief artery to the great residence region known as West Philadelphia. Arch street, Market street, then the next--Chestnut street. Now the heart of your real Philadelphian begins to beat staccato. Other lands may have their Market streets--your San Francisco man may hardly admit that his own Market street could ever be equaled--but there is only one Chestnut street in all this land. The big department stores have given way to smaller shops--shops where Philadelphia quality likes to browse and bargain. Small restaurants, designed quite largely to meet the luncheon and afternoon tea tastes of feminine shoppers show themselves. Upon a prominent corner there stands a very unusual grocery shop. That is, it must be a grocery shop for that is what it advertises itself, but in the window is a _papier-mache_ reproduction of the _table-d'hôte_ luncheon that it serves upon its balcony, and within there are quotations from Shakespeare upon the wall and "best-sellers" sold upon its counters. And after Chestnut street, which runs the gamut from banks to retail shops and then to smart homes, Walnut street. We have been tempted to call Walnut "the Street of the Little Tailors," for so many shops have they from Seventh street to Broad that one comes quickly to know why Philadelphia men are as immaculate to clothes as to good manners. Between the little shops of the tailors there are other little shops--places where one may find old prints, old books, old bits of china or bronze. Walnut street runs its course and at the intersection of Broad is a group of four great hotels, two of them properly hyphenated, after modern fashion. Beyond Broad it changes. No shops may now profane it, for it now penetrates the finest residential district of Philadelphia. Here is the highway of aristocracy and in a little way will be Rittenhouse square--the holy of holies. Just as Market street in San Francisco forms the sharp demarking line between possible and impossible so does Market street, Philadelphia, perform a similar service for William Penn's city. You must live "below" Market street, which means somewhere south of that thoroughfare. "No one" lives "above Market," which is, of course, untrue, for many hundreds of thousands of very estimable folk live north of that street. In fact, two-thirds of the entire population of Philadelphia live north of Market, which runs in a straight line almost east and west. But society--and society in Philadelphia rules with no unsteady hand--decries that a few city squares south of Market and west of Broad shall be its own _demesne_. You may have your country house out in the lovely suburbs of the town, if you will, and there are no finer suburban villages in all the world than Bryn Mawr or Ognotz or Jenkintown--but if you live in town you must live in the correct part of the town or give up social ambitions. And there is little use carrying social ambitions to Philadelphia anyway. No city in the land, not even Boston or Charleston, opens its doors more reluctantly to strange faces and strange names, than open these doors of the old houses roundabout Rittenhouse square. And for man or woman coming resident to the town to hope to enter one of Philadelphia's great annual Assemblies within a generation is quite out of the possibilities. Rittenhouse square may seem warm and friendly and democratic with its neat pattern of paths and grass-plots, its rather genteel loungers upon its shadiest benches, the children of the nurse-maids playing beneath the trees. But the great houses that look down into it are neither warm nor friendly nor democratic. They are merely gazing at you--and inquiring--inquiring if you please, if you have Pennsylvania blood and breeding. If you have not, closed houses they are to remain to you. But if you do possess these things they will open--with as warm and friendly a hospitality as you may find in the land. There is the first trace of the Southland in the hospitality of Philadelphia, just as her red brick houses, her brick pavement and her old-fashioned use of the market, smack of the cities that rest to the south rather than those to the north. * * * * * To give more than a glimpse of the concrete Philadelphia within these limits is quite out of the question. It would mean incidentally the telling of her great charities, her wonderful museum of art whose winter show is an annual pilgrimage for the painters from all the eastern portion of the land, of her vast educational projects. Two of these last deserve a passing mention, however. One might never write of Philadelphia and forget her university--that great institution upon the west bank of the Schuylkill which awoke almost overnight to find itself man-size, a man-sized opportunity awaiting. And one should not speak of the University of Pennsylvania and forget the college that Stephen Girard founded. Of course Girard College is not a college at all but a great charity school for boys, but it is none the less interesting because of that. The story of Stephen Girard is the story of the man who was not alone the richest man in Philadelphia but the richest man in America as well. But among all his assets he did not have happiness. His beautiful young wife was sent to a madhouse early in her life, and Girard shut himself off from the companionship of men, save the necessity of business dealings with them. He was known as a stern, irascible, hard screw of a man--immensely just but seemingly hardly human. Only once did Philadelphia ever see him as anything else--and that was in the yellow fever panic at the end of the eighteenth century when Stephen Girard, its great merchant and banker, went out and with his own purse and his own hands took his part in alleviating the disaster. It was many years afterward that Girard College came into being; its center structure a Greek temple, probably the most beautiful of its sort in the land, and its stern provision against the admission of clergymen even to the grounds of the institution, a reflection of its founder's hard mind coming down through the years. Today it is a great charity school, taking boys at eight years of age and keeping them, if need be, until they are eighteen, and in all those years not only schooling but housing them and feeding them as well as the finest private-school in all this land. And as Girard College and the University of Pennsylvania stand among the colleges of America, so stands Fairmount Park among the public pleasure grounds of the country. It was probably the first public park in the whole land, and a lady who knows her Philadelphia thoroughly has found many first things in Philadelphia--the first newspaper, the first magazine, the first circulating library, the first medical college, the first corporate bank, the first American warship, the unfurling of the first American flag, not least of these the first real world's fair ever held upon this side of the Atlantic. For it was the Centennial which not only made Fairmount Park a resort of nation-wide reputation, not only opened new possibilities of amusement to a land which had always taken itself rather seriously, but marked the turning of an era in the artistic and the social, as well as the political life of the United States. The Centennial was, judged by the standard of the greatest expositions that followed it, a rather crude affair. Its exhibits were simple, the buildings that housed them fantastic and barnlike. And the weather-man assisted in the general enjoyment by sending the mercury to unprecedented heights that entire summer. Philadelphia is never very chilly in the summer; the northern folk who went to it in that not-to-be-forgotten summer of 1876 felt that they had penetrated the tropics. And yet when it was all over America had the pleased feeling of a boy who finds that he can do something new. And even sober folk felt that a beginning had been made toward a wider view of life across the United States. It is nearly forty years since the Centennial sent the tongues of a whole land buzzing and the two huge structures that it left in Fairmount Park have begun to grow old, but the park itself is as fresh and as new as in the days of its beginning, and there are parts of it that were half a century old before the Centennial opened its doors. There are many provisions for recreation within its great boundaries, boating upon the Schuylkill, the drives that border that river, the further drive that leaves it and sweeps through the lovely glen of the Wissahickon. The Wissahickon Drive is a joy that does not come to every Philadelphian. That winding road is barred to sight-seeing cars and automobiles of indiscriminate sort because the quality of the town prefers to keep it to itself. So runs Philadelphia; a town which is in many ways sordid, which has probably the full share of suffering that must come to every large city, but which bars its fine drive to the proletariat while Rittenhouse square blandly wonders why Socialism makes progress across the land. Philadelphia does not progress--in any broad social sense. She plays cricket--splendidly--is one of the few American towns in which that fine English game flourishes--and she dispenses her splendid charity in the same senseless fashion as sixty years ago. But she does not understand the trend of things today--and so she bars her Wissahickon Drive except to those who drive in private carriages or their own motor car, and delivers the finest of the old Colonial houses within her Fairmount Park area to clubs--of quality. Personally we much prefer John Bartram's house to any of those splendid old country-seats within Fairmount. To find Bartram's Gardens you need a guide--or a really intelligent street-car conductor. For there is not even a marking sign upon its entrance, although Philadelphia professes to maintain it as a public park. Little has been done, however, to the property, and for that he who comes to it almost as a shrine has reason to be profoundly thankful. For the old house stands, with its barns, almost exactly as it stood in the days of the great naturalist. One may see where his hands placed the great stone inscribed "John-Ann Bartram 1731" within its gable; on the side wall another tablet chiseled there forty years later, and reading: "Tis God alone, almighty Lord, The holy one by me adored." Neglect may have come upon the gardens but even John Bartram could not deny the wild beauty of these untrammeled things. The gentle river is still at the foot of the garden, within it, most of the shrubs and trees he planted are still growing into green old age. And next to his fine old simple house one sees the tangled yew-tree and the Jerusalem "Christ's-thorn" that his own hands placed within the ground. * * * * * Philadelphia prides herself upon her dominant Americanism--and with no small reason. She insists that by keeping the doorways to her houses sharply barred she maintains her native stock, her trained and responsible stock, if you please, dominant. She avers that she protects American institutions. New York may become truly cosmopolitan, may ape foreign manners and foreign customs. Philadelphia in her quiet, gentle way prefers to preserve those of her fathers. One instance will suffice. She has preserved the American Sabbath--almost exactly as it existed half a century ago. As to the merits and demerits of that very thing, they have no place here. But the fact remains that Philadelphia has accomplished it. From Saturday night to Monday morning a great desolation comes upon the town. There are no theaters not even masquerading grotesquely as "sacred concerts," no open saloons, no baseball games, no moving pictures--nothing exhibiting for admission under a tight statute of Pennsylvania, in effect now for more than a century. And it is only a few years ago that the churches were permitted to stretch chains across the streets during the hours of their services. A few bad fires, however, with the fire-engines becoming entangled with the chains and this custom was abandoned. But the churches are still open, and they are well attended. It is an old-fashioned Sabbath and it seems very good indeed to old-fashioned Americans. But upon the other six days of the week she offers a plenitude of comfort and of amusement. She is accustomed to good living--her oysters, her red-snappers, and her scrapple are justly famous. She is accustomed to good playing. In the summer she has far more than Fairmount Park. Atlantic City--our American Brighton--is just fifty-six miles distant both in crow-flight and in the even path of the railroads, and because of their wonderful high-speed service many Philadelphians commute back and forth there all summer long. For the old Red City is a paradise for commuters. Those few blocks aroundabout Rittenhouse square that her social rulers have set aside as being elect for city residence, long since have grown all too small for a great city--the great monotonous home sections north of Market and west of the Schuylkill are hot and dreary. So he who can, builds a stone house out in the lovely vicinage of the great city, and when you are far away from the high tower of the Public Buildings and find two Philadelphians having joyous argument you will probably find that they are discussing the relative merits of the "Main Line," the "Central Division" or the "Reading." And yet the best of Philadelphia good times come in winter. She is famed for her dances and her dinners--large and small. She is inordinately fond of recitals and of exhibitions. She is a great theater-goer. And local tradition makes one strict demand. In New York if a young man of good family takes a young girl of good family to the theater he is expected to take her in a carriage. She may provide the carriage--for these days have become shameful--but it must be a carriage none the less. In Philadelphia if a young man of good family takes a young woman of good family to the theater he must not take her in a carriage, not even if he owns a whole fleet of limousines. Therein one can perhaps see something of the dominating distinctions between the two great communities. But what Philadelphia loves most of all is a public festival. It does not matter so very much just what is to be celebrated as long as there can be a fine parade up Broad street--which just seems to have been really designed for fine parades. On New Year's Eve while New York is drinking itself into a drunken stupor, Philadelphia masks and disguises--and parades. On every possible anniversary, on each public birthday of every sort she parades--with the gay discordancies of many bands, with long files of stolid and perspiring policemen or firemen or civic societies, with rumbling top-heavy floats that mean whatever you choose to have them mean. Rittenhouse square does not hold aloof from these festivals. Oh, no, indeed! Rittenhouse square disguises itself as grandfather or grandmother or as any of the many local heroes and rides within the parade--more likely upon the floats. The parades are invariably well done. And the proletariat of Philadelphia comes out from the side streets and makes a double black wall of humanity for the long miles of Broad street. There is something reminiscent of Bourbon France in the way that Bourbon Rittenhouse square dispenses these festivals unto the rest of the town. It is all very diaphanous and very artificial but it is very sensuous and beautiful withal, and perhaps the rest of the town for a night forgets some of its sordidness and misery. And the picture that one of these celebrations makes upon the mind of a stranger is indelible. Like all of such _fêtes_ it gains its greatest glory at dusk. As twilight comes the strident colors of the city fade; it becomes a thing of shapes and shadows--even the restless crowd is tired and softened. Then the genius of electricity comes to transform workaday land into fairyland and all these shapes and shadows sharpen--this time in living glowing lines of fire. It is time for men to exult, to forget that they have ever been tired. Such is the setting that modern America can give a parade. Father Penn stands on his tall tower above it all, the most commanding figure of his town. Below him the searchlights play and a million incandescents glow; the shuffling of the crowds, the faint cadences of the band, the echoes of the cheering crowd come up to him. But he does not move. His hands, his great bronze hands, are spread in benediction over the great gay sturdy city which he brought into existence these long years ago. 5 THE MONUMENTAL CITY If you approach Philadelphia by dusty highway, it is quite as appropriate that you come to Baltimore by water highway. A multitude of them run out from her brisk and busy harbor and not all of them find their way to the sea. In fact one of the most fascinating of all of them leads to Philadelphia--an ancient canal dug when the railroad was being born and in all these years a busy and a useful water-carrier. If you are a tourist and time is not a spurring object, take the little steamer which runs through the old canal from the city of William Penn to the city of Lord Baltimore. It is one of the nicest one-day trips that we know in all the east--and apparently the one that is the least known. Few gazetteers or tourist-guides recommend or even notice it. And yet it remains one of the most attractive single-day journeys by water that we have ever taken. If you will only scan your atlas you will find that nature has offered slight aid to such a single-day voyage. She builded no direct way herself but long ago man made up the omission. He dug the Chesapeake and Delaware canal in the very year that railroading was born within the United States. For remember that in 1829 the dreamers, who many times build the future, saw the entire nation a great network of waterways--natural and artificial. They builded the Chesapeake and Delaware canal bigger than any that had gone before. No mere mule-drawn barges were to monopolize it. It was designed for river and bay craft--a highway for vessels of considerable tonnage. * * * * * You arrive at this canal after sailing three hours down the Delaware river from Philadelphia--past the Navy Yard at League island, the piers and jetties at Marcus Hook that help to keep navigation open throughout the winter and many and many a town whose age does not detract from all its charm. The river widens into a great estuary of the sea. The narrow procession of inbound and outbound craft files through a thin channel that finally widens in a really magnificent fairway. Suddenly your steamer turns sharply toward the starboard, toward another of the sleepy little towns that you have been watching all the way down from Philadelphia--the man who knows and who stands beside you on the deck will tell you that it is Delaware City--and right there under a little clump of trees is the beginning of the canal. You can see it plainly, with its entrance lock and guarding light, and if the day be Sunday or some holiday the townfolk will be down under the trees watching the steamer enter the lock. It is not much of a lock--scarcely eleven inches of raise at the flow of the tide--but it serves to protect the languid stretch of canal that reaches a long way inland. This gateway is a busy one at all times, for the Chesapeake and Delaware is one of the few old-time canals that has retained its prestige and its traffic. An immense freight tonnage passes through it in addition to the day-boats and the night-boats between Philadelphia and Baltimore. Moreover, the motor boats are already finding it of great service as an important link in the inside water-route that stretches north and south for a considerable distance along the Atlantic coast. [Illustration: In Baltimore Harbor] Engines go at quarter-speed through the thirteen miles of the canal and the man who prefers to take his travel fast has no place upon the boat. Four miles an hour is its official speed limit and even then the "wash" of larger craft is frequently destructive to the banks. But what of that speed limit with a good magazine in your hands and a slowly changing vista of open country ever spread before your hungry eyes? You approach swing-bridges with distinction, they slowly unfold at the sharp order of the boat's whistle, holding back ancient nags of little Delaware, drawing mud-covered buggies; heavy Conestoga wagons filled with farm produce for the towns and cities to the north; sometimes a big automobile snorting and puffing as if in rage at a few minutes of enforced delay. On the long stretches between the bridges the canal twists and turns as if finding its way, railroad fashion, between increasing slight elevations. Sometimes it is very wide and the tow-path side--for sailing-craft are often drawn by mules through it--is a slender embankment reaching across a broad expanse of water. You meet whole flotillas of freighters all the way and when edging your way past them you throw your Philadelphia morning paper into their wheel-houses you win real thanks. All the way the country changes its variety--and does not lose its fascination. So sail to Baltimore. At Chesapeake City you are done with the canal, just when it may have begun to tire you ever and ever so slightly. Your vessel drops through a deep lock into the Back creek, an estuary of the Elk river. The Elk river in turn is an estuary of Chesapeake bay and you are upon one of the remote tendons of that really marvelous system of waterways that has its focal point in Hampton Roads and reaches for thousands of miles into Maryland, Pennsylvania, Virginia and North Carolina. You sweep through the Elk river and then through the upper waters of the Chesapeake bay, just born from the yellow flood of the Susquehanna, as the day dies. As the sun is nearly down, your ship turns sharply, leaves the Bay and begins the ascent of the Patapsco river. Signs of a nearby city, a great city if you please, multiply. There are shipbuilding plants upon distant shores, the glares of foundry cupolas, multiplying commerce--Baltimore is close at hand. And so you sail into Baltimore--into that lagoon-like harbor at the very heart of the town. The steamboats that go sailing further down the Chesapeake that poke their inquisitive noses into the reaches of the Pocomoke, the Pianatank, the Nanticoke, the Rappahannock, the Cocohannock, the Big Wicomico and the Little Wicomico--all of these water highways of a land of milk and honey and only rivaling one another in their quiet lordly beauty--sail in and out of Baltimore. There are many of these steamers as you come into the inner harbor of the city, tightly tethered together with noses against the pier just as we used to see horses tied closely to one another at the hitching-rails, at fair-time in the home town years ago. And they speak the strength of the manorial city of Lord Baltimore. For the city that sits upon the hills above her landlocked little harbor draws her strength from a rich country for many miles roundabout. For many years she has set there, confident in her strength, leading in progress, firm in resource. For well you may call Baltimore--quite as much as Philadelphia--a city of first things. There are almost too many of these to be recounted here. It is worthy of note, however, that in Baltimore came the first use in America of illuminating gas, which drove out the candle and the oil lamp as relics of a past age. Baltimore's historic playhouse, Peale's Museum, was the first in all the land to be set aglow by the new illuminant. And one may well imagine the glow of pride also that dwelt that memorable evening upon the faces of all the folk who were gathered in that ancient temple of the drama. And yet there was an earlier "first thing" of even greater importance--the hour of inspiration a century ago when an enemy's guns were trained on that stout old guardian of the town's harbor, Fort McHenry--an engagement to be remembered almost solely by the fact that the "Star Spangled Banner" first lodged itself in the mind of man. But to our minds the greatest of the many, many "first things" of Baltimore was the coming of the railroad. For the first real railroad system in America--the Baltimore & Ohio--was planned by the citizens of the old town--ambitious dreamers each of them--as an offset to those rival cities to the north, Philadelphia and New York, who were creating canals to develop their commerce--at the expense of the commerce of Baltimore. So it was that a little group of merchants gathered in the house of George Brown, on the evening of the 12th of February, 1827, a date not to be regarded lightly in the annals of the land. For out of that meeting was to come a new America--a growing land that refused to be bound by high mountains or wide rivers. Not that the little gathering of Baltimore merchants pointed an instant or an easy path to quick prosperity. The path of the Baltimore & Ohio was hedged about for many years with trials and disappointments. It was more than a quarter of a century before it was a railroad worthy of the name, meeting even in part the ideals and dreams of the men who had planned it to bring their city in touch with the Ohio and the other navigable rivers of the unknown West. And at the beginning it was a fog-blinded path that confronted them. Over in England an unknown youth was experimenting with that uncertain toy, the steam locomotive, while a Russian gentleman of known intelligence gravely predicted that a car set with sails to go before the wind upon its rails was the most practical form of transportation. And it is worthy of mention that the earliest of the Baltimore and Ohio steam locomotives was beaten in a neck-and-neck race toward the West by a stout gray horse. The name of the old locomotive is still recorded in the annals of the railroad but that of the gray horse is lost forever. * * * * * To know and to love the Baltimore of today, one must know and love the Baltimore of yesterday. He must know her lore, her traditions, her first families--the things that have gone to make the modern city. He must see, as through magic glasses, the Baltimore of other days, the city that came into her own within a very few years after the close of the American Revolution. His imagination must depict that stout old merchant and banker, Alexander Brown; Evan Thomas, the first president of Baltimore's own railroad; B. H. Latrobe, the first great architect and engineer that a young nation should come to know and whose real memorial is in certain portions of the great Federal Capitol at Washington. He must see Winans, the car-builder, and Peter Cooper, tinkering with the locomotive. He may turn toward less commercial things and find Rembrandt Peale; and if his glasses be softened by the amber tints of charity he may see a drunkard staggering through the streets of old Baltimore to die finally in a gutter, while some men put their fingers to their lips and whisper that "Mr. Poe's _Raven_ may be literature after all." It is indeed the old Baltimore that you must first come to know and to love, if you are ever to understand the personality of the Baltimore of today. The new Baltimore is a splendid city. Its fine new homes, its many, many schools and colleges proclaim that here is a center of real culture; its great churches, its theaters, its modern hotels, its broad avenues are worthy of a city of six hundred thousand humans. Druid Hill Park at the back of the new Baltimore is worthy of a city of a million souls. From it you can ride or stroll downtown through Eutaw place, that broad parked avenue which is the full pride of the new Baltimore. Suddenly you turn to the left, pass through a few mean streets, the gray pile of the Fifth Regiment armory, known nationally because of the great conventions that have been held beneath its spreading walls, see the nearby tower of Mount Royal station--after that you are in the region of the uptown hotels and theaters--thrusting themselves into the long lines of tight, red-brick houses. These are builded after the fashion of the Philadelphia houses, even as to their white marble door-steps, and yet possess a charm and distinction of their own. There are many of these old houses upon this really fine street, and you crane your neck at the first intersection to catch its name upon the sign-post. "Charles Street" it reads and with a little gladsome memory you recall a bit of verse that you saw a long time ago in the _Baltimore Sun_. It reads somewhat after this fashion: Its heart is in Mount Vernon square, Its head is in the green wood: Its feet are stretched along the ways Where swarms the foreign brood; A modicum of Bon Marche, That sublimated store-- And Oh, the treasure that we have In Charles street, Baltimore! I love to watch the moving throng, The afternoon parade; The coaches rolling home to tea, The young man and the maid; The gentlemen who dwell in clubs, The magnates of the town-- Oh, Charles street has a smile for them, And never wears a frown! The little shops, so cool and sweet; The finesse and the grace Which mark the mercantility Of such a market-place; And then beyond the tempting stores The quietness that runs Into the calm and stately square With marble denizens. The little and the larger stores Are tempting, to be sure; But they are only half the charm That Charles street holds to lure; For here and there along the way, How sweet the homes befall-- The domicile that holds his Grace, The gentle Cardinal. The mansions with pacific mien Whose windows say "Come in!" The touches of colonialness, The farness of the din That rolls a city league away And leaves this dainty street A cool and comfortable spot Where past and present meet. A measure of la boulevard Before whose windows pass The madame and the damoisel, The gallant and the lass; The gravest and the most sedate, The young and gay it calls; And, oh, how proper over it-- The shadows of St. Paul's! Dip down the hill and well away, The southward track it takes, O fickleness, how many quips, How many turns it takes! But ever in its greensward heart, From head to foot we pour The homage of our love of it-- Dear Charles street, Baltimore! [Illustration: Charles Street--Baltimore] You are standing in Mount Vernon square, the very heart of Charles street. It is a little open place, shaped like a Maltese cross rather than a real square or oblong, with a modern apartment house looming up upon it, whose façades of French Renaissance give a slightly Parisian touch to that corner of the square. To the rest of it, bordered with sober, old-time mansions there is nothing Parisian, unless you stand apart and gaze at the Monument, which sends its great shaft some two hundred feet up into the air. There are such columns in Paris. It is the Monument that dominates Mount Vernon square, that adds variety to the vistas up and down through Charles street. For eighty years it has stood there, straight and true; for eighty years General Washington has looked down into the gardens of Charles street, upon the children who are playing there, the folk coming home at night. It is the most dominating thing in Baltimore, which has never acquired the sky-scraper habit, and because of it we have always known Baltimore as the Monumental City. * * * * * Now turn from the modern Baltimore--right down this street which runs madly off the sharp hill of Mount Vernon square. Charles street, with all of its shops and gentle gayety, is quickly left behind. At the foot of the hill runs St. Paul street and it is a busy and a somewhat sordid way. But at St. Paul street rises Calvert station and since you are to see so many great railroad stations before you are done with the cities of America, take a second look at this. Calvert station is not great. It is not magnificent. It is not imposing. It is old, very, very old--as far as we know the oldest of all the important stations that are still in use today. From its smoky trainshed the trains have been going up the Northern Central toward Harrisburg and the Susquehanna country--the farther lands beyond--since 1848. And that trainshed, with its stout-pegged wooden-trussed roof held aloft on two rows of solid stone pillars, seems good for another sixty-five years. Old Baltimore holds tightly to its ideals of yesterday. Over in another of the older parts of the town you can still find Camden station, which in 1857 was not only proclaimed as the finest railroad terminal that was ever built but that ever could be built, still in use and a busy place indeed. The Eutaw House, spared by the great fire of a decade ago, but finally forced to close its doors in the face of the competition of better located and more elaborate hostelries, still stands. The ancient cathedral remains a great lion, the old-time red shaft of the Merchants' Tower still thrusts itself into the vista as you look east from the Monument square there in front of the Post Office. Across the harbor you can find Fort McHenry, as silent sentinel of that busy place. Baltimore does not easily forget. And here, as you plunge down into the little congested district roundabout Jones Falls you are at last in the really old Baltimore. The streets are as rambling and as crooked as old Quebec. Some of their gutters still run with sewage although it is to be fairly said to the credit of the town that she is today fast doing away with these. And once in a time you can stand at the open door of an oyster establishment and watch the negroes shocking those bivalves--singing as they work. For just below Baltimore is a great _habitat_ of the oyster as well as of the crab, to say nothing of some more aristocratic denizens--the diamond-back terrapin for instance. Boys with trays--many of them negroes--walk the wharves and streets of old Baltimore selling cold deviled crabs at five cents each. Those crabs are uniformly delicious, and the boys sell them as freely on the streets as the boys down in Staunton and some other Virginia towns sell cold chicken. Now we are across Jones Falls[B]--that unimpressive stream that gullies through Baltimore--and plunging into Old Town. Other cities may boast their _quartiers_, Baltimore has Old Town. And she clings to the name and the traditions it signifies with real affection. Here is indeed the oldest part of Old Town and if we search quietly through its narrow, crowded streets we may still see some of the old inns, dating well back into the eighteenth century, their cluttered court-yards still telling in eloquent silence of the commotion that used to come when the coaches started forth up the new National Pike to Cumberland or distant Wheeling, north to York and Philadelphia. And everywhere are the little old houses of that earlier day. Even in the more distinctively residential sections of the town many of them still stand, and they are so very much like toy houses enlarged under some powerful glass that we think of Spotless Town and those wonderful rhymes that we used to see above our heads in the street cars. But they represent Baltimore's solution of her housing problem. [B] During the past year Baltimore has made a very creditable progress toward building an important commercial street over Jones Falls; thus transforming it into a hidden, tunneled sewer. Residents of the city will not soon forget, however, that it was at Jones Falls that the engines of the New York Fire Department took their stand and halted the great fire of 1904. E. H. For she has no tenements, even few high-grade apartments. She has, like her Quaker neighbor to the north, mile upon mile of little red-brick houses, all these also with white door-steps--marble many times, and in other times wood, kept dazzling and immaculate with fresh paintings. In these little houses Baltimore lives. You may find here and there some one of them no more than ten or twelve feet in width and but two stories high, but it is a house and while you occupy it, your own. And the rent of it is ridiculously low--compared even with the lower-priced apartments and the tenements of New York. That low rent, combined with the profuse and inexpensive markets of the town, makes Baltimore a cheap place in which to live. The proximity of her parks and the democracy of her boulevards makes her a very comfortable place of residence--even for a poor man. And you may live within your little house and of a summer evening sit upon your "pleasure porch" as comfortably as any prince. In Baltimore it is always a "pleasure porch," thus proclaiming her as a real gateway to the old South--the South of flavor and of romance. In Baltimore, you always say "Baltimore City," probably in distinction to Baltimore county, which surrounds it, and your real Baltimorean delights to speak of his morning journal as "that _Sun_ paper." The town clings conservatively to its old tricks of speech, and if you pick up that newspaper you will perhaps find the advertisement of an auctioneer preparing to sell the effects of some family "declining housekeeping." That same fine conservatism is reflected in her nomenclature--first as you see it upon the shop signs and the door-plates. She has not felt the flood of foreign invasion as some of our other cities have felt it. She is not cosmopolitan--and she is proud of that. And the names that one sees along her streets are for the most part the good names of English lineage. Even the names of the streets themselves are proof of that--Alpaca and April alleys, Apple, and Apricot courts, Crab court, Cuba street, China street--which takes one back to the days of the famous clipper ships which sailed from the wharves of Baltimore--Featherbed lane, Johnny-cake road, Maidenchoice lane, Pen Lucy avenue, Sarah Ann street--who shall say that conservatism does not linger in these cognomens? And what shall one say of conservatism and Baltimore's devotion to Charles street, sending that famous thoroughfare up through the county to the north as Charles Street avenue and then as Charles Street Avenue extension? * * * * * Do not mistake Baltimore conservatism for a lack of progress. You can hardly make greater mistake. For Baltimore today is constantly planning to better her harbor, to improve the beginning that she has already made in the establishment of municipal docks--her jealousy of a certain Virginia harbor far to the south is working much good to herself. She is constantly bettering her markets--today they are not only among the most wonderful but the most efficient in the whole land. And today she is planning a great common terminal for freight right within her heart--a sizable enterprise to be erected at a cost of some ten millions of dollars. For she is determined that her reputation for giving good living to her citizens and at a low cost shall be maintained. She realizes that much of that cost is the cost of food distribution, and while almost every other city in the land is floundering and experimenting she is going straight ahead--with definite progress in view. Such purpose and such plans make first-rate aids to conservatism. * * * * * "Baltimore can prove to any one who will give her half a chance, what a good, a dignified, a charming thing it is to be an American town," writes one man of her. He knows her well and he does not go by the mark. Baltimore is good, is dignified, is altogether charming. And she is an American town of the very first rank. 6 THE AMERICAN MECCA Just as all the roads of old Italy led to Rome so do all the roads of this broad republic lead to Washington--its seat of government. At every season of the year travelers are bound to it. It is in the spring-time, however, that this travel begins to assume the proportions of the hegira. It is a patriotic trek--essentially. And the slogan "Every true American should see Washington at least once" has been changed by shrewd railroad agents and hotel-keepers to "Every true American should see Washington once a year," although some of the true Americans after one experience with Washington hotel-keepers are apt to say that once in a life-time is quite enough. But the national capital is worth all the hardships, all the extortions large and small. It is a patriotic shrine and, quite incidentally, the most beautiful city in America, if not the world, and so it is that there is not a month in the year that Americans are not pouring through its gateway--the wonderful new Union station. That terminal still opens the eyes of those folk who come trooping down toward the Potomac--old fellows who still remember the last time they went to Washington and the entire country was a-bristle with military camps and bristling guns, little shavers entering for the first time the City of Perpetual Delights, lovelorn bridal couples, excursions from Ohio, round-trips from off back in the Blue Ridge mountains, parties from up in Pennsylvania--the broad concourse of the railroad station at Washington is a veritable parade-ground of latent and varied Americanism. The members of a self-appointed Reception Committee are waiting for the tourists--just outside the marble portals of the station. Some of them are hotel-runners, others are cab-drivers, but they are all there and their eyes are seemingly unerring. How quickly they detect the stranger who has heard the "true American" slogan for the first time, and who has the return part of his ten-day limit ticket tucked safely away in his shabby old wallet. "Seein' Washington! A brilliant trip of two hours through the homes of wealth an' fashion, with a lecture explainin' every point of interest an' fame." Here is the first welcoming cry of the Reception Committee--and seasoned tourist that you are, you do not yield to it. You shake your head in a determined "no" to the barker at the station but a little while later over in Pennsylvania avenue you succumb. Two dashing young black-haired ladies--slender symphonies in white--are sitting high upon one of the large travel-stained peripatetic grandstands. On another sight-seeing automobile over across the street are two very blondes--in black. You cast your fate upon the ladies with the black hair and the white dresses and climb upon the wagon with them. At intervals you look enviously upon mere passers-by. Then the intervals cease. Two young men climb upon the wagon and boldly engage themselves in conversation with the young ladies. At the very moment when you are about to interfere in the name of propriety, you discover that the young ladies seem to like it. At any rate you decide it will be interesting to listen to their conversation and the important young man who is in charge of the grandstand has taken your non-refundable dollar for the trip. Otherwise you might still change in favor of the blondes who are sitting huddled under a single green sunshade and who look bored with themselves. You sit ... and sit ... and sit. An old lady finds her cumbersome way up on the front seat and fumbles for her dollar. A deaf gentleman perches himself upon the rear bench. After which you sit some more. Three or four more true Americans find their way upon the wagon. You still sit. An elderly couple crowds in upon your bench. The man has whiskers like Uncle Joe Cannon or a cartoon, but his wife seems to have subdued him, after all these years. The sitting continues. Finally, when patience is all but exhausted, the personal conductor of the car shouts "All aboard" and the two young ladies in white duck drop off nimbly. For a moment their acquaintances seem non-plussed. Then they understand, for they, too, jump off and follow after. The chauffeur fumbles with the crank of the top-heavy car. It does not respond readily. The chauffeur perspires and the personal conductor--who will shortly emerge in the rôle of lecturer--offers advice. The chauffeur softly profanes. Interested spectators gather about and begin to make comments of a personal nature. Finally, when the chauffeur is about to give it all up and you and yours are to be plunged into mortification--you can safely suspect those young blondes on the rival enterprise across the way of laughing in their tight little sleeves at you--the engine begins to snort violently and throb industriously. The chauffeur wipes the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand and smiles triumphantly at the scoffers across the street. He jumps into his seat briskly, as if afraid that the car might change its mind, and you are off. The ship's company settles into various stages of contentment. Seein' Washington at last.... The lecturer reaches for his megaphone. But not so fast--this is Washington. The real start has not yet begun. All these are but preliminaries to the start of the real start. You are not going to bump into the world of wealth and fashion as quickly as all this. You go along Pennsylvania avenue for another two squares and for twenty minutes more traffic is solicited. The novelty wears off and contentment ceases. "I don't purpose to pay a dollar for a ride and spend the hull time settin' 'round like a public hack in front of th' hotels," says a bald-headed man and he voices a rising sentiment. He is from Baltimore and he is frankly skeptical of all things in Washington. The lecturer and the chauffeur confer. The performance with the engine crank is given once again and you finally make a real start. Entertainment begins from that start. But you get history as a preliminary to wealth and fashion, for it so happens that wealth and fashion do not dwell in that part of Pennsylvania avenue. "Site of first p'lice station in Washington," the young man rattles out through his megaphone. "Oldest hotel in Washington. Washington's Chinatown. Peace Monument. Monument to Albert Pike, Gran' Master of the Southern Masons; only Confederate monument in the city. Home o' Fightin' Bob Evans, there with the tree against the window. His house was--" "What was that about the Confederates?" the deaf man interrupts from the back seat. The lecturer, with an expression of utter boredom, repeats. At this moment the chauffeur comes into the limelight. He recognizes a girl friend on the sidewalk and in the enthusiasm of that recognition nearly bumps the grandstand into a load of brick. When order is restored and you go forward in a straight course once again, the lecturer resumes-- "On our right the United States Pension Office, the largest brick buildin' in the world and famed for the inaugural balls it has every four years--only it didn't have one las' time. But when Mr. Taft was inaugurated nine thousand couples were a-waltzin' an--" Some of the folk upon the car look shocked. They come from communities where dancing is taboo, and the lecturer seems to hint at an orgy there in one of the taxpayer's buildings. "There is also the largest frieze in the world 'round that building," he continues, "an' it ain't the North Pole, either. Eighteen hundred soldiers and sailors--count 'em some day--marchin' there, the sick an' the wounded laggin' behind, the trail of martyr's blood markin' their path, comrade helpin' comrade--all a-bringin' honor an' glory to the flag." He drops the megaphone to catch his breath and whispers into your ear. He realizes that you have understood him--and half apologizes for himself: "They like that," he explains, in an undertone. "A little oratory now an' then tickles 'em. An' then they like this:" The megaphone goes into action. "We are travelin' west in F street, the Wall street of Washington, the place of the banker an' broker." "Ain't we goin' to see the houses of the fashionable people?" demands the wife of the bald-headed Baltimorean. "Now over in our city Eutaw place is--" "We are comin' there, madam," says the lecturer, courteously. And in a little while you do come there. You sit back complacently in your seat and smack your mental lips at the sight of the mansion of the man who owns three banks; of that of him who, the lecturer solemnly affirms, is the president of the Whiskey Trust; at a third where dwells "the richest minister of the United States." A little school-teacher, who has come down from Hartford, Conn., makes profuse notes in a neat leather-covered book. It is plain to see that she takes the duty of the true Americans as a serious enterprise, indeed. You all start and look when ex-Speaker Cannon's house is passed, and you catch a glimpse of the old man coming down the door-steps. The public interest in him has not seemed to cease with his retirement from the center of the national arena. But it has lessened. You realize that a moment later when your peregrinating grandstand rolls by a solemn-faced man walking down the street--a big man in a black suit, his face hidden by a black slouch hat. "Mr. Bryan," whispers the lecturer, this time without the megaphone. It is quite unnecessary. For a brief instant Washington is forgotten. In that instant the crowd regards the second or third best-known man in America--silently and curiously. The lecturer brings them back to their dollar's worth. He boldly points out the Larz Anderson house as the home of "the richest real estate man in the country," the new home of Perry Belmont as having "three stories above ground and three below"--an excursionist from Reading, Pa., interrupts to ask how much coal they will need to fill such a cellar--you see the home of the late Mr. Walsh with "a forty-five hundred dollar marble bench in the yard, all cut out of a single piece," the sedate and stately house of Gifford Pinchot. It is pleasant, driving through these smooth Washington streets, even if the low-hanging tree branches do make you jump and start at times. You go up this street, down that, past long rows of neat Colonial houses that some day are going to look neat and old--turn by one of the lovely open squares of the city. They have just erected a statue there--grandstands are already going up around about it and there will be speeches and oratory before long. Washington is constantly in the throes of an epidemic of dedications. There are now more statues in the city than Mr. Baedeker ever can tally and each of them has undergone dedication--at least once. The President has been corralled, if possible, although Mr. Wilson has already shown a reticence for this sort of thing. If the President simply will not come, a Governor or a rather famous Senator will do as well. And in the far pinch there are many Representatives in Washington who are mighty good orators. You can almost get a Representative at the crook of your finger, and you cannot have a real dedication without a splurry of oratory. It is almost as necessary as music--or the refreshments. As you slip by one of those statues--"the equestrian figure of General Andrew Jackson on horseback"--the gentleman from Reading demands that the car stop. He wants to ask a question and apparently he cannot ask a question and be in motion at the same time. So he demands that the car be stopped. It is one of the privileges of a man who has paid a perfectly good dollar for the trip. The car stops--abruptly. You will probably recall that Jackson statue, standing in the center of Lafayette square and directly in front of the White House. Perhaps General Jackson rode a horse that way and perhaps he did not, but there the doughty old warrior sits, his bronze mount plunging high upon hind legs. "What is ever going to keep that statue from falling over some day?" demands the man from Reading. He has a keen professional interest in the matter, for he has been a blacksmith up in that brisk Pennsylvania town for many a year. [Illustration: Through the portals of this Union Station come all the visitors to Washington] The lecturer explains that the tail of the bronze horse is heavily weighted and that the whole figure is held in balance that way. But the blacksmith is Pennsylvania Dutch--of the sort not to be convinced in an instant--and he sets forth his opinion of the danger at length, to the bald-headed man from Baltimore, who sits just behind him. The lecturer goes forward once again. You look at the proud old mansion that faces Lafayette square, and gasp when the intelligent young man with the megaphone tells you that it was given to Daniel Webster by the American people and that he gambled it away. You notice the house that Admiral Dewey got from the same source, and wonder if he could not have contrived possibly to gamble it away. You note St. John's church--"the Church of State," the young man calls it--and turn into Sixteenth street. But alas, it is Sixteenth street no longer. Through a bit of the official snobbery that frequently comes to the surface in the governing of the national capital that fine highway has been named "the Avenue of the Presidents," a name that is so out of harmony of our fine American town that it will probably be changed in the not distant future. The lecturer points your attention to another house. "The Dolly Madison Hotel, for women only," he announces. "No men or dogs allowed above the first floor. The only male thing around the premises is the mail-box and it is--" He has gone too far. You fix your steely glance of disapproval upon him and he withers. He drops his megaphone and whispers into your ear once again: "I hate to do it," he apologizes, "but I have to. The boss says:--'Give 'em wit an' humor, Harry, or back you goes to your old job on a Fourteenth street car.' Think of givin' that bunch wit an' humor! Look at that old sobersides next to you, still a-worryin' about that statue!" Wit and humor it is then. Wit and humor and wealth and fashion. It almost seems too little to offer a mere dollar for such joys. You make the turn around the drive in back of the White House and you miss the Taft cow--which in other days was wont to feast upon the greensward. You ask the lecturer what became of Mr. Taft's cow. "She was deceased," he solemnly explained, "a year before his term was up--of the colic." And of that somewhat ambiguous statement you can make your own translation. * * * * * The sight-seeing car stops at the little group of hotels in Pennsylvania avenue, near the site of the old Baltimore & Potomac railroad station. The lecturer begins to use his megaphone to expatiate upon the advantages of a trip to Arlington which is about to begin, but Arlington is too sweetly serious a memorial to be explored by a humorous motor-car. And--in the offing--you are seeing something else. Another car of the line upon which you have been voyaging is moored at the very point from which you started, not quite two hours ago. Upon that car sit the same two young black-haired ladies. Two young men are climbing up to sit beside them. Your gaze wanders. On the rival car across the way the two very blondes in black are still holding giggling conversation. Your suspicions are roused. Do they ever ride? Apparently not. Tomorrow they will be upon the cars again, the blondes upon the right, the brunettes upon the left. And the day after tomorrow they will sit and wait and appear interested and in joyous anticipation. And if it rains upon the following day they will don their little mackintoshes and talk pleasantly about its being nearly time to clear up. Now you know. Seein' Washington employs cappers. Those young ladies sit there to induce dollars--faith, 'tis seduction, pure and simple--from narrow masculine pockets. You do know, now. * * * * * If we are giving much space to the tourist view of Washington it is because the tourist plays so important a part in the life of the town. He is one of its chief assets and, seriously speaking, there is something rather pathetic in the joy that comes to the faces of those who step out from the great portals of the new station for the very first time. There is something in their very expressions that seems to express long seasons of saving and of scrimping, perhaps of downright deprivation in order that our great American mecca may finally be reached. You will see the same expressions upon the faces of the humbler folk who go to visit any of the great expositions that periodically are held across the land. That expression of eminent satisfaction--for who could fail to see Washington for the first time and not be eminently satisfied--reaches its climax each week-day afternoon in the East Room of the White House. If President Wilson has reached a finer determination than his determination to let the folk of his nation-wide family come and see him, we have yet to hear of it. And there is not a man or woman in the land who should be above attending the simple official reception that the President gives each afternoon at his house to all who may care to come. There is little red-tape about the arrangements in advance. The tendency to hedge the President around with restrictions has been completely offset in the present administration. A note or a hurried call upon the President's secretary in advance--a card of invitation is quickly forthcoming. And at half-past two o'clock of any ordinary afternoon you present yourself at the east wing of the White House. Your card is quickly scrutinized and you may be sure of it that the sharp-eyed Irishman who is more than policeman but rather a mentor at the gate, has scrutinized you, too. His judgment is quick, rarely erring. And unless you meet his entire approval, you are not going to enter the President's house. But he has approved and before you know it you--there are several hundred of you--are slipping forward in a march into the basement of the Executive Mansion and up one of its broad stairs. There are numerous attendants along the path. "Single file!" shouts one of them and single file you all go--just as you used to play Indian or follow-your-leader in long-ago days. And you all step from the stair-head into the East Room, while the women-folk among you conjure imagination to their aid and endeavor to see that lovely apartment dressed for a great reception or, best of all, one of the infrequent White House weddings. Other attendants quickly and easily form you into a great crescent, two or three human files in width and extending in a great sweep from a vast pair of closed doors which give to the living portion of the house. No one speaks, but every one takes stock of his neighbors. If it is in vacation season there are many boys and girls--for whole schools make the Washington expedition in these days--there may be several Indians in war-paint and feather making ceremonious visit to the Great White Brother. If you are traveled you will probably see New England or Carolina or Kansas or California in these folk, whose hearts are quickened in anticipation. Suddenly--the great door opens, just a little. A thin, wiry man in gray steps into the room and takes his position near the head of the crescent. An aide in undress military uniform stands close to him, two sharp-faced young men stand a little to the left of them and act as a human Scylla and Charybdis through which all must pass. There are no preliminaries--no hint of ceremony. Within five seconds of the time when the President has taken his place, the line begins to move forward. In twenty minutes he has shaken hands with three or four hundred people and the reception is over. But in the brief fraction of a single minute when your hand has grasped that of the President you feel that he knows no one else on earth. He concentrates upon you and that, in itself, is a gift of which any statesman may well be proud. And while you are thinking of the pleasure that his word or two of greeting has given you, you awake to find yourself out of the room and hunting for your umbrella at the check-stand in the lower hall. The pleasant personal feeling is with you even after you have left the shelter of the White House roof. It is showering gently and a man under a tree is murmuring something about Secretary Bryan seeing visitors at a quarter to five but neither makes impress upon you. You are merely thinking how much easier it is to come to see the President of the greatest republic in the world than many a lesser man within it--railroad heads, bankers, even petty politicians. In other days it was not as easy to gain admittance to the President, but the tourist who was not above guile could be photographed shaking hands with the great person. A place on that always alluring Pennsylvania avenue did the trick. You stepped in a canvas screen into the place of the enlarged image of a sailor who was once snapped shaking hands with President Taft. When the picture was finished you were where the sailor had been, and you had a post-card that would make the folks back home take notice. True you were a little more prominent in it than the President, but then Mr. Taft was not paying for the picture. In fact Mr. Taft, when he heard of the practice, grew extremely annoyed and had it stopped, so ending abruptly one of the tourist joys of Washington. After the White House, the Capitol is an endless source of delight to those who have come to Washington from afar. A little squad of aged men, who have a wolfish scent for tourists, act as its own particular Reception Committee. These old men, between their cards and the sporting extras of the evening papers, condescend to act as guides to the huge building. We shall spare you the details of a trip through it with them. It is enough to say that they are, in the spirit at least, sight-seeing car lecturers grown into another generation. Their quarrels with the Capitol police are endless. On one memorable occasion, a captain of that really efficient police-force had decided to mark the famous whispering stone in the old Hall of Representatives with a bit of paint. You can read about that whispering stone in any of the tourist-guides which the train-boy sells you on your way to Washington. Suffice it now to say that when you have found this phonetic marvel and have stood upon it your whisper will be heard distinctly in a certain far corner of the gallery of the room. It is an acoustic freak of which the schoolboys out in Racine can tell you better than I. And it is one of the prized assets of the Capitol guides. The police captain forgot that when he set out to mark it. It came back to him the evening of that day, however, when the building had been cleared. He chanced to cross the old hall and, looking for his marker, found three of the guides upon their knees carefully restoring it to absolute uniformity with its neighbors. And the captain nearly lost his job. He had sought to interfere with prerogative, and prerogative is a particularly sacred thing at the Federal capital--as we shall see in a little while. * * * * * Late in a pleasant afternoon all Washington seems to walk in F street. The little girls come out of the matinees, the bigger girls drift out from the tea-rooms, there is a swirl of motor vehicles--gasoline and electric--but the tourist knows not of all this. The gay flammeries of Pennsylvania avenue hold him fascinated. Souvenir shops rivet him to their counters. Post-cards--grave, humorous, abominable--urge themselves upon him. But if all these fail--they have post-cards nowadays of the high schools in each of the little Arizona towns--here upon a counter are the little statuettes of pre-digested currency. Mr. Lincoln in $10,000 of greenbacks. And yet that money today could not buy one drop of gasoline, let alone an imported touring automobile, for once it has passed through the government's macerating machine it is only fit for the sculptor. Three thousand dollars go into a Benjamin Harrison hat, fifteen thousand into a model of the Washington Monument that looks as if it were about to melt beneath a summer sun. Twenty thousand doll--stay, there is a limit to credulity. And you refuse to buy without a signed certificate from the Treasury Department as to these valuations. Most of the tourists do buy, however. They seem to be blindly credulous--these folk who feel their way to Washington. It was not so very many spring-times ago that a rumor worked afloat of a dull Sabbath to the effect that the Washington Monument was about to fall. That rumor slipped around the town with amazing rapidity--Washington is hardly more than a gossipy, rumor-filled village after all. Two or three thousand folk went down to the Mall to be present at the fall. No two of them could agree as to the direction in which the shaft would tumble and they all made a long and cautious line that completely encircled it--at a safe distance. After long hours of waiting they all went home. Yet no one was angry. They all seemed to think it part of the day's program. * * * * * There is another side of Washington not so funny and tourists, even of the most sedate sort, who stop at the large hotels and who ride about in dignified motor-cars, do not see it. It is the side of heart-burnings. For in no other city of the land is the social code more sharply defined--and regulated. There are many cities in the country and we are telling of them in this book, who draw deep breaths upon exclusiveness. But in none of these save Washington do the folk who do obtain flaunt themselves in the faces of those who do not. The fine old houses of Beacon street, in Boston, and of the Battery down at Charleston may draw themselves apart, but they do it silently and unostentatiously. In the very nature of things in Washington much modesty is quite out of the question. [Illustration: The stately dome of our lovely Capitol] For here at our Federal capital we have a strange mixture of real democracy and false aristocracy as well as real--if there be any such thing as real aristocracy. The fact that almost every person in the town works, more or less directly, for Uncle Sam makes for the democracy. And that self-same fact seems to fairly establish the aristocracy--you can frankly call much of it snobbishness--of the place. To understand the whys and wherefores of this paradox one would need, himself, to be an employé of the government, of large or small degree. They are many and they are complicated. But an illustration or two will suffice to show what we mean: A rule, which no one nowadays seems very desirous of fathering, but nevertheless a rule of long standing, states that when a department chief enters an elevator in any of the department buildings it must carry him without other stops to his floor. The other passengers in the car must wait the time and the will of the chief, no matter how urgent may be their errands or how short the time at their command. A gradual increase of this silly rule has made it include many assistants, sub-chiefs and assistants to sub-chiefs. Only the elevator man knows the rank at which a government employé becomes entitled to this peculiar privilege. But he does know, and woe be to that little stenographer who enters the Department of X---- at just three minutes of nine in the morning, with the expectation of being at her desk with that promptness which the Federal government demands of the folk in its service. The second assistant to a second assistant of a sub-chief of a sub-division may have entered. The little stenographer's desk is upon the third floor; the gentleman whose official title spelled out reaches almost across a sheet of note paper is upon the seventh. There are folk within the crowded elevator-car for the fourth and fifth and sixth floors as well. But they have neither title nor rank and the car shoots to the seventh floor for the benefit of the Mr. Assistant Somebody. If there is another Assistant Somebody there to ride down to the ground floor--and there frequently is--you can imagine the consternation of the clerks. And yet it is part of the system under which they have to work when they work for that most democratic of employers--Uncle Samuel. The secretary of an important department who entered the cabinet with the present administration stayed very late at his office one evening, but found the elevator man awaiting him when he stepped out into the hallway of the deserted building. It was only a short flight of stairs to the street, and the secretary--it was Mr. Bryan--asked the man why he had not gone home. "My orders are to stay here, sir, until the secretary has gone home for the night," was the reply. It is hardly necessary to say that right there was one order in the State department that was immediately revoked, while some twenty thousand clerks and stenographers who form the working staff of official Washington sent up little prayers of thanksgiving. These clerks and stenographers make up the every-day fiber of the town life. They go to work in the morning at nine--for a half-hour before that time you can see human streams of them pouring toward the larger departments--and they quit at half past four. The closing hour used to be five, but the clerks decided that they would have a shorter lunch-time and so they moved their afternoon session thirty minutes ahead. Half an hour is a short lunch-time and so official Washington carries its lunch to its desk, more or less cleverly disguised. The owners of popular priced downtown restaurants have long since given up in utter disgust. But official Washington does not care. Official Washington ends its day at half-past four and official Washington is such a power that matinées, afternoon lectures and concerts of any popular sort are rarely planned to begin before that hour. And on the hot summer afternoons of the Federal capital the wisdom of such early closing is hardly to be doubted. On such afternoons, matinée or concert, a cup of tea or a walk along the shop windows of F street are all forgotten. For beyond the heat of the city, within easy reach by its really wonderful transportation system, are playgrounds of infinite variety and joy. True it is that the really fine parts of Rock Creek Park are rather rigidly held for those folk who can afford to ride in motor cars, but there is the river, innumerable picnic-grounds in every direction, fine bathing at Chesapeake beach, not far distant--and the canal. Of all these the old Chesapeake and Ohio canal is by far the most distinctive. And how the Washington folk do love that old waterway! What fun they do have out of it with their motor boats and their canoes. If that old water-highway, almost losing its path in the stretches of thick wood and undergrowth, had been created as a plaything for the capital city, it could hardly have been better devised. The motor boats and the canoes set forth from Georgetown--on holidays and Sundays in great droves. They go all the way up to Great Falls--and even beyond--working their passage through the old locks, exchanging repartee with the lock-tenders, loafing under the shadows of the trees, drinking in the indolence of the summer days. * * * * * But Shafer's Lock or Cabin John's Bridge is not the Chevy Chase Club and official Washington knows that. It reads in the daily papers of that other life, of the folk who wear white flannels and dawdle around great porches all day long; hears rumors brought, Lord knows how, from the gossipy Metropolitan Club; almost touches shoulders with its smart breakfasts and lunches and dinners when it comes in and out of the confectioners' and the big hotels. But it is none the less apart, hopelessly and irrevocably apart. Uncle Sam may take the office folk of his capital and give them the assurance of a livelihood through long years, but that is all. He gives them no chance to step out of the comfortable rut into which they have been placed. The good positions, the positions that mean rank and title and entrance to the hallowed places, rarely come through promotions. They are the gifts of fortune, gifts even to strange folk from Cleveland or Madison or Stockton. They are not the reward of faithful service at an unknown desk. And so official Washington, as we have seen here, is quite helpless. The other official Washington--the official Washington of the society columns--little cares. It is not above noticing the twenty thousand, but it is mere notice and nothing more. And as for interest or graciousness or kind-heartedness--they are quite out of the question. Washington is being rebuilt, in both its physical and its social structure. The architects of its social structure are not less capable than those folk who are working out marvels in steel and marble. These first see the Washington of tomorrow, modeled closely after the structures of European capitals. Already our newly created class of American idle rich is establishing its _habitat_ along the lovely streets of our handsomest town. That is a beginning. In some of the departments they have begun to serve tea at four of an afternoon--just as they do on the terrace of the House of Commons. That is another beginning. We are starting. The structure of European capitals is largely built upon class distinctions. Washington is being builded close to its models. For ourselves, we prefer the touch of Europe as the architects work them in steel and in marble. A man who has been to Washington and who has not returned within the decade will be astonished to see the change already worked in its appearance. From the moment he steps across the threshold of the fine new station--itself a revelation after the old-time railroad terminals of the town--he will see transformation. Washington is still in growth. They are tearing down the ugly buildings and building upon their sites the beautiful, weaving in the almost gentle creations of the modern architects, a new city which after a little time will cease to be modeled upon Europe but which will serve, in itself, as a model capital for the entire world to follow. 7 THE CITY OF THE SEVEN HILLS You can compare Richmond with Rome if you will, with an allusion upon the side to her seven hills; but, if you have even a remote desire for originality, you will not. Rather compare the old southern capital with a bit of rare lace or a stout bit of mahogany. Of the two we would prefer the mahogany, for Richmond is substantial, rather than diaphanous. And like some of the fine old tables in the dining-rooms of her great houses she has taken some hard knocks and in the long run come out of them rather well. She is scarred, but still beautiful. And she wears her scars, visible and invisible, both bravely and well. But if a man come down from the North with any idea of the histories of that war, which is now fifty years old and almost ready to be forgotten, too sharply in his memory, and so imagines that he is to see a Richmond of 1865, with grass growing in the streets, ruins everywhere, mules and negroes in the streets, he is doomed to an awakening. There are still plenty of mules and negroes in the streets and probably will be until the end of time, but the Richmond of today boasts miles and miles of as fine modern smooth pavements as his motor car might ever wish to find. And as for ruins, bless you, Richmond has begun to tear down some of the buildings which she built after the war so as to get building-sites for her newest skyscrapers. Do not forget that there is a new spirit abroad in the South--and Virginia, in many ways the most poetic and dramatic of all our states, has not lagged in it. There are Boards of Trade at Roanoke and Lynchburg that are not averse to sounding the praises of those lively manufacturing towns of the up-country, and as for Norfolk--let any Norfolk man get hold of you and in two hours he will have almost convinced you that his town is going to be the greatest seaport along the North Atlantic--and that within two decades, sir. But this chapter is not written of Roanoke or Lynchburg or Norfolk. This is Richmond's chapter and in it to be writ the fact that the capital of Virginia has not lagged in enterprise or progress behind any of the other cities of the state. In the transformation she has sacrificed few of her landmarks, none of that delightful personality that makes itself apparent to those who tarry for a little time within her gates. That makes it all the better. It is the spirit of the new South that is not only bringing such wonderful towns as Birmingham, to make a single instance, to the front, but is working the transformation of such staunch old settlements as Memphis or Atlanta--or Richmond. Not that Richmond is willing to forget the past. There is something about the Virginia spirit that seems incapable of death. There is something about the Virginian's loyalty to his native state, his blindness to her imperfections, almost every one of them the result of decades of civic poverty, that cannot escape the most calloused commercial soul that ever walked out of North or South. And there is something about this bringing up of spirit and of loyalty with the spirit of the new America that makes a combination well-nigh irresistible. Here, then, is the new South. The generation that liked to discuss the detail of Pickett's charge and the horrors of those days in the Wilderness is gone. The new generations are rather bored with such detail. The new generations are not less spirited, not less loyal than the old. But they are new. That, of itself, almost explains the difference. Now see it in a little closer light. Volumes have been written of the loyalty of the old South. Richmond herself today presents more volumes, although unwritten, of that loyalty. You can read it in her streets, in her fine old square houses, in that stately building atop of Schokoe hill, which generations have known as the Capitol and which was for a little time the seat of government of a new nation. Within that Capitol stands a statue. It is the marble effigy of a great Virginian, who was, himself, the first head of a new government. The guide-books call it the Houdini statue of Washington, and keen critics have long since asserted that it is not only the finest statue in the United States but one of the most notable art works of the world. It was known as such in France at the time of the Civil War. And hardly had that very dark page in our history been turned before the Louvre made overtures to Virginia for the purchase of the Houdini statue. The matter of price was not definitely fixed. France, in the spendthrift glories of the Second Empire, was willing to pay high for a new toy for her great gallery. Poor Virginia! She was hard pressed those days for the necessities of life, to say nothing of its ordinary comforts. Her pockets were empty. She was bankrupt. Her mouth must have watered a bit at thought of those hundreds of thousands of French francs. But she stood firm, and if you know Virginia at all, you will say "of course she stood firm." A Southern gentleman would almost repudiate his financial obligations before he would sell one of the choice possessions of his families. There are great plantation houses still standing in the Old Dominion, which were spared the torch of war by the mercy of God, and whose walls hold aloft the handiwork of the finest painters of England, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries; rare portraits of the masters and mistresses of those old houses. In them, too, are furniture and silver whose real value is hardly to be computed, not even by the screw of a dealer in antiques. The folk in these old houses may be poor--if they come of the oldest Virginia stock they very likely are. They stand bravely, though, to the traditions of their hospitality, even though they wonder if the bacon is going to last and if it is safe for the brood to kill another chicken. But they would close their kitchen and live on berries and on herbs before they would part with even the humblest piece of silver or of furniture; while if a dealer should come down from Washington or New York and make an offer, no matter how generous, for one of the paintings, he would probably be put off the place. Family means much to these Virginians. If you do not believe this go to Richmond, stop in one of its fine houses and make your host take you to one of the dances for which the city is famed. Almost any dance will do and from the beginning you will be charmed. The minor appointments will approach perfection, and you will find the men and women of the city worthy of its best traditions. Some places may disappoint in their well-advertised charm but the girls of Richmond never disappoint. Here is one of them. She gets you in a quiet corner of the place, meets a friend over there, and a conversation somewhat after this fashion gets under way: "Miss Rhett, allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Blinkins, of New York." You bow low and ask Miss Rhett if by any chance she is related to the Rhetts of Charleston. "Only distantly. My people are all Virginians. The Charleston Rhetts are quite another branch. My grandfather's brother married a Miss Morris, from Savannah and the Charleston Rhetts all come from them. If my papa were only here he would explain." You say that you understand and murmur something about having met a Richard Henry Rhett at the old Colonial town of Williamsburgh a few years ago when you were down for the Jamestown exposition. "He was a Petersburgh Rhett," the young lady explains, "son of a cousin of my father. He married Miss Virginia Tredegar last year." You remember hearing of a Miss Virginia Tredegar of Roanoke, and you slip out that fact. But this is Miss Virginia Tredegar of Weldon and a cousin of Miss Virginia Tredegar of Roanoke. Miss Virginia Tredegar of Weldon--now Mrs. Richard Henry Rhett, of course, is a delightful girl. The young lady who has you in the corner assures you that--and she, herself, is not lacking in charms. Mrs. Rhett was a sponsor for the state for several years, and you vaguely wonder just what that may mean as you have visions of large floats lumbering along in street parades, with really lovely girls in white standing upon them. And you also have visions of the Miss Virginia Tredegar, of Weldon, sitting in the other days upon the door-steps of an old red and white Colonial house, which faces a hot little open square, visions of her accomplishments and her beauty; of her ability to ride the roughest horse in the county, to dance seven hours without seeming fatigue, of the jealous beaux who come flocking to her feet. You find yourself idly speaking of these visions to your companion. She laughs. "I've just the right girl for you," she says, "and she is here in this ball-room. She is all these things--and some more; the rightest, smartest girl in all our state--Miss Virginia Bauregard, daughter of Mr. Calhoun Bauregard, of Belle Manor in King and Queen county." Apparently they are all named Virginia in Richmond, seemingly three-quarters of these girls who live in the nicer parts of the town are thus to bespeak through their lives the affectionate loyalty of their parents to the Old Dominion. All these folk come quite easily to the transformation that has come over the South within the decade, since she ceased to grieve over a past that could never be brought back and overcome. The young boys and the young girls turn readily from fine horses to fine motor cars, the coming of imported customs causes few shocks, it is even rumored that the newest of the new dances have invaded the sober drawing-rooms of the place. But the New South is kind to Richmond. She does not seek to eliminate the Old South. And so the old customs and the old traditions run side by side with the new. And even the old families seem to soften and many times to welcome the new. * * * * * If you wish to see the real Old South in Richmond go out to Hollywood cemetery, which is perhaps the greatest of all its landmarks. It is easy of access, very beautiful, although not in the elaborate and immaculate fashion of Greenwood, at Brooklyn, or Mount Auburn, just outside of Boston. But where man has fallen short at Hollywood, Nature has more than done her part. She rounded the lovely hills upon which Richmond might place the treasure-chest of her memories, and then she swept the finest of all Virginia rivers--the James--by those hills. Man did the rest. It was man who created the roadways and who placed the monuments. And not the least interesting of these is the strange tomb of President James Monroe, an imposing bronze structure, in these days reminding one of an enlarged bird-cage. It is interesting perhaps because nearby there is another grave--the grave of still another man who came to the highest office of the American people. The second grave is marked by a small headstone, scarcely large enough to accommodate its two words: "John Tyler." But more interesting than these older monuments is the group that stands alone, at the far corner of the cemetery and atop of one of those little hillocks close beside the river. The head of that family is buried beneath his effigy. It is the grave of Jefferson Davis, who stands facing the city, as if he still dreamed of the days that might have been but never were. And close beside is the grave of his little girl, "The Daughter of Confederacy." When she died, only a few years since, the South felt that the last of the living links that tied it with the days when men fought and died for the Lost Cause had been severed. It was then that it set to work to build the new out of the old. Nowadays the Old South does not come publicly into the streets of Richmond--save on that memorable occasion in the spring of 1907 when a feeble trail of aging men--all that remained of a great gray army--limped down a triumphant path through the heart of the town. The Old South sits in her dead cities, and perhaps that is the reason why the Southerner so quickly takes the stranger within his gates to the cemetery. It is his apologies for thirty or forty years lost in the march of progress. And it is an apology that no man of breadth or generosity can refuse to accept. * * * * * Here, then, is the new Richmond, riding stoutly upon her great hills and shooting the tendrils of her growth in every direction. For she is growing, rapidly and handsomely. Her new buildings--her wonderful cathedral, her superb modern hotels, the fine homes multiplying out by the Lee statue--what self-respecting southern town does not have a Lee statue--all bespeak the quality of her growth. But her new buildings cannot easily surpass the old. It was rare good judgment in an American town for her to refrain from tearing down or even "modernizing" that Greek temple that stands atop of Schokoe hill and which generations have known as the Capitol. The two flanking wings which were made absolutely necessary by the awakening of the Old Dominion have not robbed the older portion of the building of one whit of its charm. It typifies the Old South and the New South, come to stand beside one another. In other days Virginia was proud of her capital, it was with no small pride that she thrust it ahead when a seat of government was to be chosen for the Confederacy, that for a little time she saw it take its stormy place among the nations of the world. In these days Virginia may still be proud of her capital town--it is still a seat of government quite worthy of a state of pride and of traditions. 8 WHERE ROMANCE AND COURTESY DO NOT FORGET "You are not going to write your book and leave out Charleston?" said the Man who Makes Magazines. We hesitated at acknowledging the truth. In some way or other Charleston had escaped us upon our travels. The Magazine Maker read our answer before we could gain strength to make it. "Well, you can't afford to miss that town," he said conclusively. "It's great stuff." "Great stuff?" we ventured. "If you are looking into the personality of American cities you must include Charleston. She has more personality than any of the other old Colonial towns--save Boston. She's personality personified, old age glorified, charm and sweetness magnified--the flavor of the past hangs in every one of her old houses and her narrow streets. You cannot pass by Charleston." After that we went over to a railroad ticket office in Fifth avenue and purchased a round-trip ticket to the metropolis of South Carolina. And a week later we were on a southbound train, running like mad across the Jersey meadows. Five days in Charleston! It seemed almost sacrilege. Five miserable days in the town which the Maker of Magazines averred fairly oozed personality. But five days were better than no days at all--and Charleston must be included in this book. The greater part of one day--crossing New Jersey, Pennsylvania, the up-stretched head of little Delaware, Maryland--finally the Old Dominion and the real South. A day spent behind the glass of the car window--the brisk and busy Jersey towns, the Delaware easily crossed; Philadelphia, with her great outspreading of suburbs; Wilmington; a short cut through the basements of Baltimore; the afternoon light dying on the superb dome of the Washington Capitol--after that the Potomac. Then a few evening hours through Virginia, the southern accent growing more pronounced, the very air softer, the negroes more prevalent, the porter of our car continually more deferential, more polite. After that a few hours of oblivion, even in the clattering Pullman which, after the fashion of all these tremendously safe new steel cars, was a bit chilly and a bit noisy. In the morning a low and unkempt land, the railroad trestling its way over morass and swamp and bayou on long timber structures and many times threading sluggish yellow southern rivers by larger bridges. Between these a sandy mainland--thick forests of pine with increasing numbers of live-oaks holding soft moss aloft--at last the outskirts of a town. Other folk might gather their luggage together, the vision of a distant place with its white spires, the soft gray fog that tells of the proximity of the open sea blowing in upon them, held us at the window pane. A river showed itself in the distance to the one side of the train, with mast-heads dominating its shores; another, lined with factories stretched upon the other side. After these, the streets of the town, a trolley car stalled impatient to let our train pass--low streets and mean streets of an unmistakable negro quarter, the broad shed of a sizable railroad station showing at the right. "Charleston, sah," said the porter. Remember now that he had been a haughty creature in New York and Philadelphia, ebon dignity in Baltimore and in Washington. Now he was docility itself, a courtesy hardly to be measured by the mere expectation of gratuity. The first glimpse of Charleston a rough paved street--our hotel 'bus finding itself with almost dangerous celerity in front of trolley cars. That unimportant way led into another broad highway of the town and seemingly entitled to distinction. "Meeting street," said our driver. "And I can tell you that Charleston is right proud of it, sir," he added. Charleston has good cause to be proud of its main highway, with the lovely old houses along it rising out of blooming gardens, like fine ladies from their ball gowns; at its upper end the big open square and the adjacent Citadel--pouring out its gray-uniformed boys to drill just as their daddies and their grand-daddies drilled there before them--the charms of St. Michael's, and the never-to-be-forgotten Battery at the foot of the street. We sped down it and drew up at a snow-white hotel which in its immaculate coat might have sprung up yesterday, were it not for the stately row of great pillars, three stories in height, with which it faced the street. They do not build hotels that way nowadays--more's the pity. For when the Charleston Hotel was builded it entered a distinguished brotherhood--the Tremont in Boston, the Astor and the St. Nicholas in New York, Willard's in Washington, the Monongahela at Pittsburgh, and the St. Charles in New Orleans were among its contemporaries. It was worthy to be ranked with the best of these--a hotel at which the great planters of the Carolinas and of Georgia could feel that the best had been created for them within the very heart of their favorite city. We pushed our way into the heart of the generous office of the hotel, thronged with the folk who had crowded into Charleston--followers of the races, just then holding sway upon the outskirts of the town, tourists from the North, Carolinans who will never lose the habit of going to Charleston as long as Charleston exists. In due time a brisk and bustling hotel clerk--he was an importation, plainly, none of your courteous, ease-taking Southerners--had placed us in a room big enough for the holding of a reception. From the shutters of the room we could look down into Meeting street--into the charred remnants of a store that had been burned long before and the débris never removed. When we threw up the window sash we could thrust our heads out and see, a little way down the street, the most distinctive and the most revered of all Charleston's landmarks--the belfried spire of St. Michael's. As we leaned from that window the bells of St. Michael's spoke the quarter-hour, just as they have been speaking quarter-hours close upon a century and a half. We had been given the first taste of the potent charm of a most distinctive southern town. * * * * * "... The most appealing, the most lovely, the most wistful town in America; whose visible sadness and distinction seem almost to speak audibly, speak in the sound of the quiet waves that ripple round her southern front, speak in the church-bells on Sunday morning and breathe not only in the soft salt air, but in the perfume of every gentle, old-fashioned rose that blooms behind the high garden walls of falling mellow-tinted plaster; King's Port the retrospective, King's Port the belated, who from her pensive porticoes looks over her two rivers to the marshes and the trees beyond, the live-oaks veiled in gray moss, brooding with memories. Were she my city how I should love her...." So wrote Owen Wister of the city that he came to know so well. You can read Charleston in _Lady Baltimore_ each time he speaks of "King's Port" and read correctly. For it was in Charleston he spun his romance of the last stronghold of old manners, old families, old traditions and old affections. In no other city of the land might he have laid such a story. For no other city of the land bears the memory of tragedy so plaintively, so uncomplainingly as the old town that occupies the flat peninsula between the Cooper and the Ashley rivers at the very gateway of South Carolina. Like a scarred man, Charleston will bear the visible traces of her great disaster until the end of her days. And each of them, like the scars of Richmond, makes her but the more potent in her charm. Up one street and down another--fascinating pathways, every blessed one of them. Meeting and King and Queen and Legare and Calhoun and Tradd--with their high, narrow-ended houses rising right from the sidewalks and stretching, with their generous spirit of hospitality, inward, beside gardens that blossom as only a southern garden can bloom--with jessamine and narcissus and oleander and japonica. Galleries give to these fragrant gardens. Only Charleston, unique among her sisters of the Southland, does not call them galleries. She calls them piazzas, with the accent strong upon the "pi." The gardens themselves are more than a little English, speaking clearly something of the old-time English spirit of the town, which has its most visible other expression in the stolid Georgian architecture of its older public buildings and churches. And some of the older folk, defying the Charleston convention of four o'clock dinner, will take tea in the softness of the late afternoon. Local tradition still relates how, in other days, a certain distinguished and elderly citizen, possessing neither garden nor gallery with his house, was wont to have a table and chair placed upon the sidewalk and there take his tea of a late afternoon. And the Charleston of that other day walked upon the far side of the street rather than disturb the gentleman! Nor is all that spirit quite gone in the Charleston of today. The older negroes will touch their hats, if not remove them, when you glance at them. They will step into the gutter when you pass them upon the narrow sidewalks of the narrow streets. They came of a generation that made more than the small distinction of separate schools and separate places in the railroad cars between white and black. But they are rapidly disappearing from the streets of the old city. Those younger negroes who drive the clumsy two-wheeled carts in town and out over the rough-paved streets have learned no good manners. And when the burly negresses who amble up the sidewalks balancing huge trays of crabs or fresh fruits or baked stuffs smile at you, theirs is the smile of insolence. Fifty years of the Fifteenth Amendment have done their work--any older resident of Charleston will tell you that, and thank God for the inborn courtesy that keeps him from profanity with the telling. But if oncoming years have worked great changes in the manner of the race which continues to be of numerical importance in the seaport city, it will take more than one or two or three or even four generations to work great changes in the manners of the well-born white-skinned folk who have ruled Charleston through the years by wit, diplomacy, the keen force of intellect more than even the force of arms. And, as the city now runs its course, it will take far more years for her to change her outward guise. For Charleston does not change easily. She continues to be a city of yellow and of white. Other southern towns may claim distinction because of their red-walled brick houses with their white porticos, but the reds of Charleston long since softened, the green moss and the lichens have grown up and over the old walls--exquisite bits of masonry, every one of them and the products of an age when every artisan was an artist and full master of his craft. The distinctive color of the town shades from a creamy yellow to a grayish white. The houses, as we have already said, stand with their ends to the streets, with flanking walls hiding the rich gardens from the sidewalk, save for a few seductive glimpses through the well-wrought grillings of an occasional gateway. Charleston does not parade herself. The closed windows of her houses seem to close jealously against the Present as if they sought to hold within their great rooms the Past and all of the glories that were of it. Builded of brick in most instances, the larger houses and the two most famous churches, as well, were long ago given plaster coatings that they might conform to the yellow-white dominating color of the town. Invariably very high and almost invariably very narrow and bald of cornice, these old houses are roofed with heavy corrugated tiles, once red but now softened by Time into a dozen different tints. If there is another town in the land where roof-tile has been used to such picturesque advantage we have failed to see it. It gives to Charleston an incredibly foreign aspect. If it were not for the Georgian churches and the older public buildings one might see in the plaster walls and the red-tiled roofs a distinct trace of the French or the Italian. Charleston herself is not unlike many towns that sleep in the south of France or the north of Italy. It only takes the hordes of negroes upon her streets to dispel the illusion that one is again treading some corner of the Old World. Perhaps the best way that the casual visitor to Charleston can appreciate these negroes is in their street calls--if he has not been up too late upon the preceding night. For long before seven o'clock the brigades of itinerant merchants are on their ways through the narrow streets of the old town. From the soft, deep marshlands behind it and the crevices and the turnings of the sea and all its inlets come the finest and the rarest of delicacies, and these food-stuffs find their way quite naturally to the street vendors. Porgies and garden truck, lobsters and shrimp and crab, home-made candies--the list runs to great length. You turn restlessly in your bed at dawn. Something has stolen that last precious "forty winks" away from you. If you could find that something.... Hark. There it is: Through the crispness of morning air it comes musically to your ears: "Swimpy waw, waw.... Swimpy waw, waw." And from another direction comes a slowly modulated: "Waw cwab. WAW Cwab. Waw Cwa-a-a-b." A sharp staccato breaks in upon both of these. "She cwaib, she cwaib, she cwaib," it calls, and you know that there is a preference in crabs. Up one street and down another, male vendors, female vendors old and young, but generally old. If any one wishes to sleep in Charleston--well, he simply cannot sleep late in Charleston. To dream of rest while: "Sweet Pete ate her! Sweet Pete ate her!" comes rolling up to your window in tones as dulcet as ever rang within an opera house would be outrageous. It is a merry jangle to open the day, quite as remote from euphony and as thoroughly delightful as the early morning church-bells of Montreal or of Quebec. By breakfast time it is quite gone--unless you wish to include the coal-black mammy who chants: "Come chilluns, get yer monkey meat--monkey _meat_." And that old relic of ante-bellum days who rides a two-wheel cart in all the narrow lanes and permeates the very air with his melancholy: "Char--coal. Char--coal." If you inquire as to "monkey meat," your Charlestonian will tell you of the delectable mixture of cocoanut and molasses candy which is to the younger generation of the town as the incomparable Lady Baltimore cake is to the older. * * * * * The churches of Charleston are her greatest charm. And of these, boldly asserting its prerogative by rising from the busiest corner of the town, the most famed is St. Michael's. St. Michael's is the lion of Charleston. Since 1764 she has stood there at Broad and Meeting streets and demanded the obeisance of the port--gladly rendered her. She has stood to her corner through sunshine and through storm--through the glad busy years when Charleston dreamed of power and of surpassing those upstart northern towns--New York and Boston--through the bitterness of two great wars and the dangers of a third and lesser one, through four cyclones and the most devastating earthquake that the Atlantic coast has ever known--through all these perils this solidly wrought Temple of the Lord has come safely. She is the real old lady of Charleston, and when she speaks the folk within the town stand at attention. The soft, sweet bells of St. Michael's are the tenderest memory that can come to a resident of the city when he is gone a long way from her streets and her lovely homes. And when the bells of St. Michael's have been stilled it has been a stilled Charleston. For there have been times when the bells of St. Michael's have not spoken down from their high white belfry. In fact, they have crossed the Atlantic not less than five times. Cast in the middle of the eighteenth century in an English bell-foundry, they had hardly been hung within their belfry before the Revolution broke out--broke out at Charleston just as did the Civil War. Before the British left the city for the last time the commanding officer had claimed the eight bells as his "perquisite" and had shipped them back to England. An indignant American town demanded their return. Even the British commanding officer at New York, Sir Guy Carleton, did not have it within his heart to countenance such sacrilege. The bells had been already sold in England upon a speculation, but the purchaser was compelled to return them. The people of the Colonial town drew them from the wharf to St. Michael's in formal procession--the swinging of them anew was hardly a less ceremonial. The first notes they sang were like unto a religious rite. And for seventy years the soft voice of the old lady of Charleston spoke down to her children--at the quarters of the hours. After those seventy years more war--ugly guns that are remembered with a shudder as "Swamp Angels," pouring shells into a proud, rebellious, hungry, unrelenting city, the stout white tower of St. Michael's a fair and shining mark for northern gunners. Charleston suddenly realized the danger to the voice of her pet old lady. There were few able-bodied men in the town--all of them were fighting within the Confederate lines--but they unshipped those precious bells and sent them up-state--to Columbia, the state capitol, far inland and safe from the possibility of sea marauders. They were hidden there but not so well but that Sherman's men in the march to the sea found them and by an act of vandalism which the South today believes far greater than that of an angered British army, completely destroyed them. When peace came again Charleston--bruised and battered and bleeding Charleston, with the scars that time could never heal--gave first thought to her bells--a mere mass of molten and broken metal. There was a single chance and Charleston took it. That chance won. The English are a conservative nation--to put it lightly. The old bell-foundry still had the molds in which the chime was first cast--a hundred years before. Once again those old casts were wheeled into the foundry and from them came again the bells of St. Michael's, the sweetness of their tones unchanged. The town had regained its voice. If we have dwelt at length upon the bells of St. Michael's it is because they speak so truly the real personality of the town. The church itself is not of less interest. And the churchyard that surrounds it upon two sides is as filled with charm and rare flavor as any churchyard we have ever seen. Under its old stones sleep forever the folk who lived in Charleston in the days of her glories--Pringles and Pinckneys; Moultries; those three famous "R's" of South Carolina--Rutledge and Ravenel and Rhett--the names within that silent place read like the roster of the colonial aristocracy. Above the silent markers, the moldering and crumbling tombs, rises a riot of God's growing things; in the soft southern air a perpetual tribute to the dead--narcissus, oleander, jessamine, the stately Pride of India bush. And on the morning that we first strolled into the shady, quiet place a red-bird--the famous Cardinal Crossbeak of the south--sang to us from his perch in a magnolia tree. Twenty-four hours before and we had crossed the Hudson river at New York in a driving and a blizzard-threatening snowstorm. The greatest charm of St. Michael's does not rest alone within the little paths of her high-walled churchyard. Within the sturdy church, in the serenity of her sanctuary, in the great square box-pews where sat so many years the elect of Charleston, of the very Southland you might say; in the high-set pulpit and the unusual desk underneath where sat the old time "clark" to read the responses and the notices; even the stately pew, set aside from all the others, in which General Washington sat on the occasion of a memorable visit to the South Carolina town, is the fullness of her charm. If you are given imagination, you can see the brown and white church filled as in the old days with the planters and their families--generation after generation of them, coming first to the church, being baptized in its dove-crowned font at the door and then, years later, being carried out of that center aisle for the final time. You can see the congregations of half a century ago, faces white and set and determined. You can see one memorable congregation, as it hears the crash of a Federal shell against the heavy tower, and then listen to the gentle rector finishing the implication of the Litany before he dismisses his little flock. Dear old St. Michael's! The years--the sunny years and the tragic years--set lightly upon her. When war and storm have wrecked her, it has been her children and her children's children who have arisen to help wipe away the scars. In a memorable storm of August, 1885, the great wooden ball at the top of her weather vane, one hundred and eighty-five feet above the street was sent hurtling down to the ground. They will show you the dent it made in the pavement flag. It was quickly replaced. But within a year worse than cyclone was upon St. Michael's--the memorable earthquake which sank the great tower eight inches deeper into the earth. And only last year another of the fearful summer storms that come now and then upon the place wreaked fearful damage upon the old church. Yet St. Michael's has been patiently repaired each time; she still towers above these disasters--as her quaint weather-vane towers above the town, itself. * * * * * [Illustration: St. Michael's churchyard, Charleston--a veritable roster of the Colonial Elect] After St. Michael's, St. Philip's--although St. Philip's is the real mother church of all Charleston. The old town does not pin her faith upon a single lion. The first time we found our way down Meeting street, we saw a delicate and belfried spire rising above the greenery of the trees in a distant churchyard. The staunch church from which that spire springs was well worth our attention. And so we found our way to St. Philip's. We turned down Broad street from St. Michael's--to commercial Charleston as its namesake street is to New York--then at the little red-brick library, housed in the same place for nearly three-quarters of a century, we turned again. The south portico of St. Philip's, tall-columned, dignified almost beyond expression, confronted us. And a moment later we found ourselves within a churchyard that ranked in interest and importance with that of St. Michael's, itself. A shambling negro care-taker came toward us. He had been engaged in helping some children get a kitten down from the upper branches of a tree in the old churchyard. With the intuition of his kind, he saw in us, strangers--manifest possibilities. He devoted himself to attention upon us. And he sounded the praises of his own exhibit in no mild key. "Yessa--de fines' church in all de South," he said, as he swung the great door of St. Philip's wide open. He seemed to feel, also intuitively, that we had just come from the rival exhibit. And we felt more than a slight suspicion of jealousy within the air. The negro was right. St. Philip's, Charleston, is more than the finest church in all the South. Perhaps it is not too much to say that it is the most beautiful church in all the land. Copied, rather broadly, from St. Martins-in-the-Fields, London, it thrusts itself out into the street, indeed, makes the highway take a broad double curve in order to pass its front portico. But St. Philip's commits the fearful Charleston sin of being new. The present structure has only been thrusting its nose out into Church street for a mere eighty years. The old St. Philip's was burned--one of the most fearful of all Charleston tragedies--in 1834. "Yessa--a big fire dat," said the caretaker. "They gib two slaves dere freedom for helpin' at dat fire." But history only records the fact that the efforts to put out the fire in St. Philip's were both feeble and futile. It does tell, however, of a negro sailor who, when the old church was threatened by fire on an earlier occasion, climbed to the tower and tore the blazing shingles from it and was afterward presented with his freedom and a fishing-boat and outfit. Does that sound familiar? It was in our Third Reader--some lurid verses but, alas for the accuracy that should be imparted to the growing mind--it was St. Michael's to whom that widespread glory was given. St. Michael's of the heart of the town once again. No wonder that St. Philip's of the side-street grieves in silence. In silence, you say. How about the bells of St. Philip's? If you are from the North it were better that you did not ask that question. The bells of St. Philip's, in their day hardly less famous than those of the sister church, went into cannon for the defense of the South. When the last of the copper gutters had been torn from the barren houses, when the final iron kettle had gone to the gun-foundry, the supreme sacrifice was made. The bells rang merrily on a Sabbath morn and for a final time. The next day they were unshipping them and one of the silvery voices of Charleston was forever hushed. But St. Philip's has her own distinctions. In the first place, her own graveyard is a roll-call of the Colonial elect. Within it stands the humble tomb of him who was the greatest of all the great men of South Carolina--John C. Calhoun--while nightly from her high-lifted spire there gleams the only light that ever a church-tower sent far out to sea for the guidance of the mariner. The ship-pilots along the North Atlantic very well know when they pass Charleston light-ship, the range between Fort Sumter and St. Philip's spire shows a clear fairway all the distance up to the wharves of Charleston. * * * * * There are other great churches of Charleston--some of them very handsome and with a deal of local history clustering about them, but perhaps none of these can approach in interest the Huguenot edifice at the corner of Queen and Church streets. It is a little church, modestly disdaining such a worldly thing as a spire, in a crumbling churchyard whose tombstones have their inscriptions written in French. A few folk find their way to it on Sunday mornings and there they listen attentively to its scholarly blind preacher, for sixty years the leader of his little flock. But this little chapel is the sole flame of a famous old faith, which still burns, albeit ever so faintly, in the blackness and the shadow of the New World. That is the real Charleston--the unexpected confronting you at almost every turn of its quiet streets: here across from the shrine of the Huguenots a ruinous building through which white and negro children play together democratically and at will, and which in its day was the Planters' Hotel and a hostelry to be reckoned with; down another byway a tiny remnant of the city's one-time wall in the form of a powder magazine; over in Meeting street the attenuated market with a Greek temple of a hall set upon one end and the place where they sold the slaves still pointed out to folk from the North; farther down on Meeting street the hall of the South Carolina Society, a really exquisite aged building wherein that distinguished old-time organization together with its still older brother, the St. Andrews, still dines on an appointed day each month and whose polished ballroom floor has felt the light dance-falls of the St. Cecilias. "The St. Cecilia Society?" you interrupt; "why, I've heard of that." Of course you have. For the St. Cecilia typifies Charleston--the social life of the place, which is all there is left to it since her monumental tragedy of half a century ago. In Charleston there is no middle ground. You are either recognized socially--or else you are not. And the St. Cecilia Society is the sharply-drawn dividing point. Established somewhere before the beginning of the Revolution it has dominated Charleston society these many years. Invitations to its three balls each year are eagerly sought by all the feminine folk within the town. And the privilege of being invited to these formal affairs is never to be scorned--more often it is the cause of many heart-burnings. No one thing shows Charleston the more clearly than the fact that on the following morning you may search the columns of the venerable _News and Courier_ almost in vain for a notice of the St. Cecilia ball. In any other town an event of such importance would be a task indeed for the society editor and all of her sub-editresses. If there was not a flashlight photograph there would be the description of the frocks--a list of the out-of-town guests at any rate. Charleston society does not concede a single one of these things. And the most the _News and Courier_ ever prints is "The ball of the St. Cecilia Society was held last evening at Hibernian Hall," or a two-line notice of similar purport. Charleston society concedes little or nothing--not even these new-fashioned meal hours of the upstart Northern towns. In Charleston a meal each four hours--breakfast at eight, a light lunch at sharp noon, dinner at four, supper again at eight. These hours were good enough for other days--ergo, they are good enough for these. And from eleven to two and again from five to seven-thirty remain the smart calling hours among the elect of the place. Those great houses do not yield readily to the Present. Charleston society is never democratic--no matter how Charleston politics may run. Its great houses, behind the exclusion of those high and forbidding walls, are tightly closed to such strangers as come without the right marks of identification. From without you may breathe the hints of old mahogany, of fine silver and china, of impeccable linen, of well-trained servants, but your imagination must meet the every test as to the details. Gentility does not flaunt herself. And if the younger girls of Charleston society do drive their motor cars pleasant mornings through the crowded shopping district of King street, that does not mean that Charleston--the Charleston of the barouche and the closed coupé--will ever approve. * * * * * On the April day half a century ago that the first gun blazed defiantly from Fort Sumter and opened a page of history that bade fair to alter the very course of things, Prosperity slipped out of Charleston. Gentility, Courage, Romance alone remained. Prosperity with her giant steamships and her long railroad trains never returned. The great docks along the front of the splendid harbor stand unused, the warehouses upon them molder. A brisk Texas town upon a sand-spit--Galveston--boasts that she is the second ocean-port of America, with the hundreds of thousands of Texas acres turned from grazing ranges into cotton-field, just behind her. New Orleans is the south gate of the Middle West that has come into existence, since Charleston faced her greatest of tragedies. And the docks along her waterfront grow rusty with disuse. She lives in her yesterdays of triumphs. Tell her that they have builded a tower in New York that is fifty-five stories in height, and she will reply that you can still see the house in Church street where President Washington was entertained in royal fashion by her citizens; hint to her of the great canal to the south, and she will ask you if you remember how the blockade runners slipped night after night through the tight chain that the Federal gunboats drew across the entrance of her harbor for four long years; bespeak into her ears the social glories of the great hotels and the opera of New York, and she will tell you of the gentle French and English blood that went into the making of her first families. Charleston has lost nothing. For what is Prosperity, she may ask you, but a dollar-mark? Romance and Courtesy are without price. Romance and Courtesy still walk in her streets, in the hot and lazy summer days, in the brilliancy of the southern moon beating down upon her graceful guarding spires, in the thunder of the storm and the soft gray blankets of the ocean mantling her houses and her gardens. And Romance and Courtesy do not forget. 9 ROCHESTER--AND HER NEIGHBORS The three great cities of western New York--Syracuse, Rochester, Buffalo--are like jewels to the famous railroad along which they are strung, and effectively they serve to offset the great metropolitan district at the east end of the state. They have many things in common and yet they are not in the least alike. Their growth has been due to virtually a common cause; the development of transportation facilities across New York state; and yet their personality is as varied as that of three sisters; lovely but different. Of the three, Rochester is the most distinctive; one of the most distinctive of all our American towns and hence chosen as the chief subject for this chapter. But Buffalo is the largest, and Syracuse the most ingenious, so they are not to be ignored. Rochester is conservative. Rochester proves her conservatism by her smart clubs, and the general cultivation of her inhabitants. Certain excellent persons there, like certain excellent persons in Charleston, frown upon newspaper reports of their social activities. In Syracuse, on the contrary, the Sunday newspapers have columns of "society notes" and the reporters who go to dances and receptions prove their industry by writing long lists of the "among those present." Buffalo leans more to Syracuse custom in this regard. Rochester scans rather critically the man who comes to dwell there--unless he comes labeled with letters of introduction. In Syracuse and in Buffalo, too, there is more of a spirit of _camaraderie_. A man is taken into good society there because of what he is, rather than for that from which he may have sprung. So it may be said that Syracuse and Buffalo breathe the spirit of the West in their social life, while Rochester clings firmly to the conservatism of the East. Indeed, her citizens rather like to call her "the Boston of the West," just as the man from the Missouri Bottoms called the real Boston "the Omaha of the East." Take these cities separately and their personality becomes the more pertinent and compelling. Consider them one by one as a traveler sees them on a westbound train of the New York Central railroad--Syracuse, Rochester, Buffalo--and in the same grading they increase in population; roughly speaking, in a geometrical ratio. Syracuse has a little more than a hundred thousand inhabitants, Rochester is about twice her size and Buffalo is about twice the size of Rochester. [Illustration: The Erie Canal still finds an amiable path through Rochester] Each of them is the result of the Erie canal. There had been famous post-roads across central and western New York before DeWitt Clinton dug his great ditch, and the Mohawk valley together with the little known "lake country" of New York formed one of the earliest passage-ways to the West. But the Erie canal, providing a water level from the Great Lakes to the Hudson river and so to the Atlantic, was a tremendous impulse to the state of New York. Small towns grew apace and the three big towns were out of their swaddling clothes and accounted as cities almost before they realized it. The building of the railroads across the state and their merging into great systems was a second step in their transition, while the third can hardly be said to be completed--the planning and construction of a network of inter-urban electric lines that shall again unite the three and--what is far more important to each--bring a great territory of small cities, villages and rich farms into closer touch with them. In Rochester, a good many years ago, one Sam Patch jumped into the falls of the Genesee. He first planned his spectacular jump for a Sunday, but the citizens of Rochesterville, as the town by the great falls was first known, objected strenuously to such profanation of the Sabbath. So Sam Patch jumped not on a Sunday but on a Friday, which almost any superstitious person might have recognized as an unfortunate change of date; and jumping, he did not survive to jump again. But the point of this incident hinges not on Fridays, but upon Sundays in Rochester. All that was a long time ago, but she has not changed her ideas of Sabbath observance very much since then--despite the vast change in Sunday across the land. The citizens of Rochester still go to church on Sunday and they "point with pride" to the big and progressive religious institutions of their community. People in Syracuse, however, have Sunday picnics and outings off into the country, while Buffalo has always been known for its "liberal Sunday," whatever that may mean. Rochester has always frowned upon that sort of thing. She has the same point of view as her Canadian neighbor across Lake Ontario--Toronto--a city which we shall see in a little time. Rochester rather cleaves to the old-fashioned Sabbath; even her noisy beach down at Ontario's edge, which has always served as a sort of Coney island to western New York, has been a thorn in the side of her conservative population. If you want to stop and consider how the old-fashioned Sabbath of your boyhood days still reigns at the city at the falls of the Genesee, recall the fact that in one street that is bordered by some of the town's largest churches the trolley cars are not operated on Sundays.[C] In Philadelphia you will remember they used years ago to stretch ropes across the streets in front of the churches at service times. But imagine the possibilities of that sort of thing in New York, or Chicago, or San Francisco. [C] A recent rerouting of the trolley cars in Rochester has left this particular street without regular service most of the days of the week. The fact remains, however, that for many years the Park avenue line had its terminal loop through Church street. On the Sabbath that terminal was moved bodily so that churchgoers would not be annoyed. E. H. * * * * * Syracuse is famed for the Onondaga Indians and for James Roscoe Day. The Onondaga Indians are the oldest inhabitants, and a great help to the ingenious local artists who design cigar-box labels. No apologies are needed for Chancellor Day. He has never asked them. He has taken a half-baked Methodist college that stood on a wind-swept and barren hill and by his indomitable ability and Simon-pure genius has transformed it into a real university. For Syracuse University is tremendously real to the four thousand men and women who study within its halls. It is a poor man's college and Chancellor Day is proud of that. They come, these four thousand men and women, from the small cities and villages, from the farms of that which the metropolitan is rather apt indifferently to term "Up State." To these, four years in a university mean four years of cultivation and opportunity, and so has come the growth, the vast hidden power of the institution upon the hill at Syracuse. She makes no claim to college spirit of surpassing dimensions. She does claim individual spirit among her students, however, that is second to none. As a university--as some know a university--the collection of ill-matched architectural edifices that house her is typical; but as an opportunity for popular education to the boys and girls of the rural districts of the state of New York she is monumental, and they come swarming to her in greater numbers each autumn. So much for the hill--they call it Mount Olympus--which holds the university and those things that are the university's. Now for downtown Syracuse; for while the city's newer districts are ranged upon a series of impressive heights, her old houses, her stores and her factories are squatted upon the flats at the head of Onondaga lake. We all remember the pictures of Syracuse that every self-respecting geography used to print; salt-sheds running off over an indefinite acreage. We were given to understand that Syracuse's chief excuse for existence was as a sort of huge salt-cellar for the rest of the nation. Nowadays nine-tenths of the Syracusans have forgotten that there is a salt industry left, and will tell you glibly of the typewriters, automobiles, steel-tubing and the like that are made in their town in the course of a twelvemonth. They will not tell you of one thing, for of that thing you may judge yourself. Life in Syracuse is punctuated by the railroad and the canal. The canal is not so much of an obstruction unless one of the cumbersome lift-bridges sticks and refuses to move up or down, but that railroad! Every few minutes life in Syracuse comes to an actual standstill because of it. Men whose time is worth ten or fifteen dollars an hour and who grow puffy with over-exertion are violently halted by the passing of switch-engines with trails of box-cars. Appointments are missed. Board meetings at the banks halt for directors--directors who are halted in their turn by the dignified and stately passage of the Canastota Local through the heart of the city. But the old canal is going to go some day--when the State's new barge canal well to the north of the town is completed--and perhaps in that same day Syracuse will have a broad, central avenue replacing the present dirty, foul-smelling ditch. Some day, some very big Syracusan will miss an appointment while he stands in Salina street watching the serene Canastota Local drag its way past him. That missed appointment will cost the very big Syracusan a lot of money and there will be a revolution in Syracuse--a railroad revolution. After that the locomotives will no longer blow their smoky breaths against the fronts of Syracuse's best buildings and grind their way slowly down Washington street from the tunnel to the depot, for the railroad which operates them stands in the forefront of the progressive transportation systems of America, and it is only waiting for Syracuse to take the first definite step of progress. Some day Syracuse--Syracuse delayed--is going to take that step. Only a year or two ago the Chicago Limited held up the carnival parade--and therein lies the final paragraph of this telling of Syracuse. She is a festive lass. Each September she rolls up her sleeves, her business men swell the subscription lists, her matrons and her pretty girls bestir themselves, and there is a concert of action that gives Syracuse a harvest week long to be remembered. By day folk go out to the State Fair and see the best agricultural show that New York state has ever known--a veritable agricultural show that endeavors not only to furnish an ample measure of fun, but also endeavors to be a real help to the progressive owners of those rich farms of central and western New York. By night Syracuse is in festival. Do not let them tell you that an American town cannot enter into the carnival spirit and still preserve her graciousness and a certain underlying sense of decorum. Tell those scoffers to go to Syracuse during the week of the State Fair. They will see a demonstration of the contrary--Salina street ablaze with an incandescent beauty, lined with row upon row of eager citizens. The street is cleared to a broad strip of stone carpet down its center and over this carpet rolls float after float. These in a single year will symbolize a single thing. In one September we recall that they represented the nations of the world and that the Queen of Ancient Ireland wore eyeglasses; but that is as nothing, the policemen in Boston are addicted to straighteners, and Mr. Syracuse and Mrs. Syracuse, Miss Syracuse and Master Syracuse stand open-eyed in pleasure and go home very late at night on trolley cars that are as crowded as the trolley cars in very big cities, convinced that there possibly may be other towns but there is only one Syracuse.[D] [D] Let it be recorded in the interest of accuracy that the fall festival of 1913 was not given--much to the disappointment of Mr. Syracuse, Mrs. Syracuse, Miss Syracuse and Master Syracuse. It is hoped, however, that the festival has not been permanently abandoned. The loss of its influence would be felt far outside of Syracuse. E. H. All of which is exactly as it should be. Syracuse's great hope for her future rests in just such optimism on the part of her people. And in such optimism she has a strong foundation on which to build through coming years. * * * * * Buffalo is not as frivolous as Syracuse. She cares but little for festivals but speaks of herself in the cold commercial terms of success. If you have ever met a man from Buffalo, when you were traveling, and he began to tell you of his town, you will know exactly what we mean. He undoubtedly began by quoting marvelous statistics, some of them concerning the number of trains that arrived and departed from his native heath in the course of twenty-four hours. When he was through, you had a confused idea that Buffalo was some sort of an exaggerated railroad yard, where you changed cars to go from any one corner of the universe to any other corner. When your time came to see Buffalo for yourself, that confused idea returned to you. Your train slipped for miles through an apparently unending wilderness of branching tracks and dusty freight cars, past grimy round-houses and steaming locomotives, until you were ready to believe that any conceivable number of trains arrived at and departed from that busy town within a single calendar day. If you have approached her by water in the summertime you have seen her as a mighty port, her congestion of water traffic suggesting salt water rather than fresh. When we come to visit the neighboring port of Cleveland we shall give heed to the wonderful traffic of the inland seas, but for this moment consider Buffalo as something more than a railroad yard, a busy harbor, or even a melting-pot for the fusing of as large and as difficult a foreign element as is given to any American town to fuse. Consider Buffalo dreaming metropolitan dreams. The dull roar of Niagara, almost infinite in its possibilities of power, is within hearing. That dull roar has been Buffalo's incentive, the lullaby which induced her dreams of industrial as well as of commercial strength. And much has been written of her growing strength in these great lines. To our own minds the real Buffalo is to be found in her typical citizen. If he is really typical of the city at the west gate of the Empire state, you will find him optimistic and energetic to a singular degree, and he needs all his optimism and his energy to combat the problems that come to a town of exceeding growth, just crossing the threshold of metropolitanism. Those problems demand cool heads and stout hearts. Buffalo is just beginning to appreciate that. It is becoming less difficult than of old for them to pull together, to dig deep into their purses if need be, and to plan their city of tomorrow in a generous spirit of coöperation. [Illustration: Rochester is a city of charming homes] The Buffalonians have a full measure of enjoyment in their city. They are intensely proud of it and rightfully--do not forget the man who once told you of the number of railroad trains within twenty-four hours--and they are thoroughly happy in and around it. Niagara Falls and a half-dozen of lake beaches on Erie and Ontario are within easy reach, while nearer still is the lovely park of the town--which a goodly corner of America remembers as the site of the Pan-American Exposition, in 1901. The Buffalonians live much of the time outdoors, and that holds true whether they are able to patronize their country clubs or the less pretentious suburban resorts. They play at golf, at baseball, at football, and in the long hard winter months at basketball and hockey and bowling. They organize teams in all these sports--and some others--and then go down to Rochester and enter into amiable contests with the folks who live by the Genesee. Syracuse, too, comes into the fray and these three cities of the western end of the state of New York fight out their natural and healthy rivalry in series upon series of sturdy athletic championships. The bond between them is really very close indeed. * * * * * Rochester stands halfway between Syracuse and Buffalo and as we have already said, is different from both of them. One difference is apparent even to the man who does not alight from his through train. For no railroad has dared to thrust itself down a main business street in Rochester; in fact she was one of the very first cities in America to remove the deadly grade crossings from her avenues, and incalculable fatalities and near fatalities have been prevented by her wisdom. Many years ago she placed the main line of the New York Central railroad, which crosses close to her heart, upon a great viaduct. When that viaduct was built, a great change came upon the town. The old depot, with its vaulted wooden roof clearing both tracks and street and anchored in the walls of the historic Brackett House; with its ancient white horse switching the cars of earlier days (as it is years and years and years since that white horse went to graze in heavenly meadows) vanished from sight, and a great stone-lined embankment--high enough and thick enough to be a city wall--appeared, as if by magic, while Rochester reveled in a vast new station, big enough and fine enough for all time. At least that was the way the station seemed when it was first built in 1882. But alas, for restless America! They have begun to tear the old station down as this is being written--a larger and still finer structure replaces it. And the folk who pray for the conservatism of our feverish American energy are praying that it will last more than thirty-one years! But in just this way Rochester has grown apace and quite ahead of the facilities which her earlier generations thought would be abundant for all time. The high civic standard that forced the great railroad improvement in the earlier days when most American towns, like Topsy, were "jus' growin'" and giving little thought for the morrow, made Rochester different. It made her seek to better her water supply and in this she succeeded, tapping a spring pure lake forty miles back in the high hills and bringing its contents to her by a far-reaching aqueduct. It was a large undertaking for a small city of the earlier days, but the small city was plucky and it today possesses a water supply that is second to none. That same early placed high civic standard made fireproof buildings an actuality in Rochester, years in advance of other towns of the same size. That civic standard has worked wonders for the town by the falls of the Genesee. For one thing it has made her prolific in propaganda of one sort or another. Strange religious sects have come to light within her boundaries. Spiritualism was one of these, for it was in Rochester that the famed Fox sisters heard the mysterious rappings, and it was only a little way outside the town where Joseph Smith asserted that he found the Book of Mormon and so brought a new church into existence. And the ladies who are conducting the "Votes for Women" campaign with such ardor should not forget that it was in Rochester that Susan B. Anthony lived for long years of her life, working not alone for the cause that was close to her heart, but in every way for the good of the town that meant so much to her. Perhaps the most interesting phases of the Rochester civic standard are those that have worked inwardly. She has a new city plan--of course. What modern city has not dreamed these glowing things, of transforming ugly squares into plazas of European magnificence, of making dingy Main and State streets into boulevards? And who shall say that such dreams are idly dreamed? Rochester is not dreaming idly. She has already conceived a wonderful new City Hall, to spring upwards from her Main street, but what is perhaps more interesting to her casual visitors in her new plan is the architectural recognition that it gives to the Genesee. The Genesee is a splendid river--in many ways not unlike the more famous Niagara. You have already known the part it has played in the making of Rochester. Yet the city has seen fit, apparently, to all but ignore it. Main street--for Rochester is a famous one-street town--crosses it on a solid stone bridge but that bridge is lined with buildings, like the prints you used to see of old London bridge. None of the folk who walk that famous thoroughfare ever see the river. In the new scheme the old rookeries that hang upon the edge of Main street bridge are to be torn away and the river is to come into its own. And Rochester folk feel that that day can come none too soon. But the Rochester civic standard has worked no better for her than in social reforms. The phases of these are far too many to be enumerated here, but one of them stands forth too sharply to be ignored. A few years ago some Rochesterian conceived the idea of making the schools work nights as well as day. He had studied the work of the settlement houses in the larger cities, and while Rochester had no such slums as called for settlement houses it did have a large population that demanded some interest and attention. For instance, within the past few years a large number of Italians have come there, and although they present no such difficult fusing problem as the Jews of New York, the Polocks of Buffalo or the Huns of Pittsburgh, it is not the Rochester way to ignore in the larger social sense any of the folk who come to her. "We will make the school-houses into clubs, we will make them open forums where people can come evenings and get a little instruction, a little more entertainment, but best of all can speak their minds freely," said this enthusiast. "We will broaden out the idea of the ward clubs." The ward clubs to which he referred were neat and attractive structures situated in residential parts of the town, where folk who lived in their own neat homes and who earned from three to eight thousand dollars a year gather for their dances, their bridges, their small lectures and the like. The enthusiast proposed to enlarge this idea, by the simple process of opening the school-houses evenings. His idea was immensely popular from the first. And within a very few weeks it was in process of fruition. The school-houses--they called them "Social Centers"--were opened and night after night they were filled. It looked as if Rochester had launched another pretty big idea upon the world. That idea, however, has been radically changed, today. One of the professors of the local university threw himself into it, possibly with more enthusiasm than judgment, and was reported in the local prints as having said that the red flag might be carried in street parades along with the Stars and Stripes. That settled it. Rochester is a pretty conservative town, and its folk who live quietly in its great houses sat up and took notice of the professor's remarks. Those great houses had smiled rather complacently at the pretty experiment in the schools. Of a sudden they decided that they were being transformed into incubators for the making of socialists or of anarchists--great houses do not make very discerning discriminations. The professor had kicked over the boat. A powerful church which has taken a very definite stand against Socialism joined with the great houses. The question was brought into local politics. The professor lost his job out at the university, and the school-houses ceased to be open forums. Today they are called "Recreation Centers" and are content with instruction and entertainment, but the full breadth of the idea they started has swept across the country and many cities of the mid-West and the West are adopting it. The Rochester way of doing things is a very good way, indeed. For instance, the city decided a few years ago that it ought to have a fair. It had been many years since it had had an annual fair, and it saw Syracuse and Toronto each year becoming greater magnets because of their exhibitions. Straightway Rochester decided that it would have some sort of fall show, just what sort was a bit of a problem at first. It wanted something far bigger than a county fair, and yet it could hardly ask the state for aid when the state had spent so much on its own show in nearby Syracuse. Then it was that Rochester decided to dig down into its own pockets. It saw a fortunate opening just ahead. The state in abandoning a penal institution had left fourteen or fifteen acres of land within a mile of the center of the city--the famous Four Corners. The city took that land, tore down the great stone wall that had encircled it, erected some new buildings and transformed some of the older ones, created a park of the entire property and announced that it was going in the show business, itself. It has gone into the show business and succeeded. The Rochester Exposition is as much a part of the city organization as its park board or its health department. Throughout the greater part of the year the show-grounds are a public park, holding a museum of local history that is not to be despised. And for two weeks in each September it comes into its own--a great, dignified show, builded not of wood and staff so as to make a memorable season and then be forgotten, but builded of steel and stone and concrete for both beauty and permanency. * * * * * "Now what are the things that have gone to make these things possible?" you are beginning to say. "What is the nature of the typical Rochesterian?" Putting the thing the wrong way about we should say that the typical Rochesterian is pretty near the typical American. And still continuing in the reversed order of things consider, for an instant, the beginnings of Rochester. We have spoken of these three cities of the western end of New York state as the first fruit of the wonderful Erie canal. That is quite true and yet it is also true that before the canal came there was quite a town at the falls of the Genesee, trying in crude fashion to avail itself of the wonderful water-power. And while the canal was still an unfinished ditch, three men rode up from the south--Rochester and Fitzhugh and Carroll--and surveyed a city to replace the straggling town. That little village had, during the ten brief years of its existence, been known as Falls Town. Col. Rochester gave his own name to the city that he foresaw and lived to see it make its definite beginnings. All that was in the third decade of the last century, and Rochester has yet to celebrate her first centenary under her present name. Her career divides itself into three epochs. In the first of these--from the days of her settlement up to the close of the Civil War--she was famed for her flouring-mills. She was known the world over as the Flour City, and she held that title until the great wheat farms of the land were moved far to the west. But they still continued to call her by the same name although they spelled it differently now--the Flower City. For a new industry arose within her. America was awakening to a quickened sense of beauty. Flowers and florists were becoming popular, and a group of shrewd men in and around Rochester made the nursery business into a very great industry. In more recent years the nature of her manufactures has broadened--her camera factory is the most famous in all the world, optical goods, boots and shoes, ready-made clothing, come pouring out of her in a great tidal stream of enterprise. She is an industrial city, definitely and distinctly. Fortunately she is an industrial city employing a high grade of labor almost exclusively, and yet none the less a town devoted to manufacturing. Once again, do not forget that she has not neglected her social life, and you may read this as you please. You may look away from the broadening work of the ward clubs and of the school-houses and demand if there is an aristocracy in Rochester. The resident of the town will lead you over into its Third ward--a compact community almost within stone-throw of the Four Corners, and shut off from the rest of the vulgar world by a river, a canal and a railroad yard. In that compact community, its tree-lined streets suggesting the byways of some tranquil New England community, is the seat of Rochester social government. The residents of the Third ward are a neighborly folk, borrowing things of one another and visiting about with delightful informality among themselves, and yet their rule is undisputed. East avenue--the great show street of Rochester--feels that rule. East avenue is lined with great houses, far greater houses than those of the Third ward--many of them built with the profits of "Kodak" stock--yet East avenue represents a younger generation, a generation which seems to have made money rather easily. There has been some intermarriage and some letting down of the bars between the ambitious East avenue and the dominant Third ward--but not much of it. Rochester is far too conservative to change easily or rapidly. [Illustration: The canal gives Syracuse a Venetian look] She is proud of herself as she is--and rightly so. Her people will sing of her charms by the hours--and rightly so, again. They live their lives and live them well. For when all is said and done, the glory of Rochester is not in her public buildings, her water-power, her fair, her movements toward social reform, not even in her parks--although Rochester parks are superb, for Nature has been their chief architect and she has executed her commission in splendid fashion--nor does it reside in her imposing Main street, nor in her vast manufactories that may be translated into stunning arrays of statistics--her glory is in her homes. The tenement, as we know it in the big cities, and the city house, with its dead cold walls, are practically unknown there. Apartment houses are rarities--there are not more than twenty or thirty in the town--and consequently oddities. Your Rochesterian, rich and poor, dwells in a detached house on his own tract of land; the chances are that he has market-truck growing in his backyard, a real kitchen-garden. There are thousands of these little homes in the outlying sections of the town, with more pretentious ones lining East avenue and the other more elaborate streets. All of these taken together are the real regulators of the town. For the citizens of Rochester are less governed and themselves govern more than in most places of the size. That is the value of the detached house to the city. Detached houses in a city seem to mean good schools, good fire and police service, clean streets, health protection, social progress--Rochester has all of these in profusion. East avenue, in its rather luscious beauty, represents these ideals of Rochester on dress parade. We rather think, however, that you can read the character of the town better in the side streets. Now a long street, filled with somewhat monotonous rows of simple frame houses does not mean much at a glance--even when the street is parked and filled for a mile with blossoming magnolias, as Oxford street in Rochester is filled. But such a street, together with all the other streets of its sort, means that much of the disappearing charm and loveliness of our American village life is being absorbed right into the heart of a community of goodly size. Sometimes citizens from other towns running hard amuck Rochester's conservatism call her provincial. She has clung to some of her small town customs longer than her neighbors, but of late she has attempted metropolitanism--they have builded two big new hotels in the place, and the radicals have dared to place a big building or two off Main street--quite a step in a town which has become famous as a one-street town. But Rochester, like most conservatives, is careless of outside criticism. She points to the big things that she has accomplished. She shows you her streets of the detached houses and her parks--perhaps takes you down to Genesee Valley Park of a summer night when carnival is in the air and the city's band, the city's _very own band_, if you please, is playing from a great float in midstream, while voices from two or three thousand gaily decorated canoes carry the melodies a long way. She shows you her robust glories, the fair country in which she is situate. For miles upon miles of splendid highways surround her, the Genesee indolent for a time above the Valley Park appeals to the man with a canoe, the great lake to the north gives favorable breezes to the yachtsman. Do you wonder that the Rochesterians know that they dwell in a garden land, and that they are in the open through the fullness of a summer that stretches month after month, from early spring to late autumn? Do you wonder that they really live their lives? 10 STEEL'S GREAT CAPITAL A man, traveling across the land for the very first time, slips into a strange town--after dark. It is his first time in the strange town, of course. Otherwise it would not be strange. He finds his hotel with little difficulty, for a taxicab takes him to it. He immediately discovers that it is not more than two squares from the very station at which he has arrived. Still a friendly taxicab in a strange town is not an institution at which to scoff, and the man who is very tired is glad to get into his hotel room and to bed without delay. He awakes the next morning very early--at least it must be very early for it is still dark. It is dark indeed as he stumbles his way across the room to the electric switch. In the sudden radiance that follows, he sputters at himself for having arisen so early--for he is a man fond of his lazy sleep in the morning. He fumbles in his pockets and finds his watch. Ten minutes to nine, it says to him. "Stopped," says the man, half aloud. "That's another time I forgot to wind it." But the watch has not stopped. Insecure in his own mind he lifts it to his ear. It is ticking briskly. The man is perplexed. He goes to the window and peeps out from it. A great office building across the way is gaily alight--a strange performance for before dawn of a September morning. He looks down into the street. Two long files of brightly lighted cars are passing through the street, one up, the other down. The glistening pavements are peopled, the stores are brightly lighted--the man glances at his watch once again. Eight minutes of nine, it tells him this time. He smiles as he gazes down into that busy street. "This is Pittsburgh," he says. Later that day that same man stands in another window--of a tall skyscraper this time--and again gazes down. Suspended there below him is a seeming chaos. There are smoke and fog and dirt there, through these--showing ever and ever so faintly--tall, artificial cliffs, punctured with row upon row of windows, brightly lighted at midday. From the narrow gorges between these cliffs come the rustle and the rattle of much traffic. It comes to the man in waves of indefinite sound. He lifts his gaze and sees beyond these artificial cliffs, mountains--real mountains--towering, with houses upon their crests, and steep, inclined railroads climbing their precipitous sides. In these houses, also, there are lights burning at midday. Below them are great stacks--row upon row upon row of them, like coarse-toothed combs turned upside down--and the black smoke that pours up from them is pierced now and then and again by bright tongues of flame--the radiance of furnaces that glow throughout the night and day. "We're mud and dirt up to our knees--and money all the rest of the way," says the owner of that office. He is a native of the city. He comes to the window and points to one of the rivers--a yellow-brown mirrored surface, scarcely glistening under leaden clouds but bearing long tows by the dozen--coal barges, convoyed by dirty stern-wheeled steamboats. "There is one of the busiest harbors in the world," says the Pittsburgh man. "A harbor which in tonnage is not so far back of your own blessed New York." The New Yorker, for this man is a New Yorker, laughs at the very idea of calling that sluggish narrow river a harbor. They have a real harbor in his town and real rivers lead into it. This does not even seem a real river. It reminds him quite definitely of Newtown creek--that slimy, busy waterway along which trains used to pass in the days when the Thirty-fourth street ferry was the gateway to Long Island. "We have tonnage in this town," says the proud resident of Pittsburgh, "and if you won't believe what I tell you about the water traffic, how about our neat little railroad business? If you won't listen to our harbor-master here when I take you down to him, look at the lines of freight cars for forty miles out every trunk-line railroad that gets in here. This is the real gathering ground for all the freight rolling-stock of this land." And then he falls to telling the native of Manhattan island how all that traffic has come to pass--how a mere quarter of a century ago the Pittsburgh & Lake Erie railroad had offered itself to the historic Erie for a mere hundred thousand dollars--and had been refused as not worth while. Today the Pittsburgh & Lake Erie is the pet child of the entire Vanderbilt family of aristocratic railroads, earning more clear profit to the mile than any other railroad in the world. The Pittsburgh man makes this all clear to his caller. But the man from New York only looks out again upon the city in semi-darkness at midday, and thinks of the towers of his own Manhattan rising high into the clearest blue sky that one might imagine, and whispers incoherently: "This Pittsburgh gets me." Pittsburgh gets some others, too. It gets them from the back country, green country lads filled with ambition rather than anything else, and if they have the sticking qualities it makes them millionaires, if that so happens that such is the scheme of their ambitions. It has made some other millionaires, almost overnight, as we shall see in a few minutes. The picking for dollars seems good in the neighborhood of the confluence of the Monongahela and the Allegheny. Consider for a moment that confluence--the geography of Pittsburgh, if you please. In a general way the older part of the town has a situation not unlike that of the great metropolis of the continent. For New York's East river, substitute the Monongahela; for the Hudson, the Allegheny; and let the Ohio, beginning its long course at the Point--Pittsburgh's Battery--represent the two harbors of New York. Then you will begin to get the rough resemblance. To the south of the Monongahela, Pittsburgh's Brooklyn is Birmingham, set under the half-day shadows of the towering cliffs of Mount Washington. Allegheny--now a part of the city of Pittsburgh and beginning to be known semi-officially as the North Side--corresponds in location with Jersey City. And the problems that have beset Pittsburgh in her growth have been almost the very problems that from the first have hampered the growth of metropolitan New York. If her rivers have been no such stupendous affairs as the Hudson or the East rivers, the overpowering hills and mountains that close in upon her on every side have presented barriers of equal magnitude. To conquer them has been the labor of many tunnels and of steep inclined railroads, the like of which are not to be seen in any great city in America. It has been no easy conquest. As a result of all these things the growth of the city has been uneven and erratic. Down on the narrow spit of flat-land at the junction of the two rivers that go to make the Ohio--a location exactly corresponding with Manhattan island below the City Hall and of even less area--is the business center of metropolitan Pittsburgh--wholesale and retail stores, banks, office buildings, railroad passenger terminals, hotels, theaters and the like. The same causes that made the skyscraper a necessity in New York have worked a like necessity in the city at the head of the Ohio. So it has come to pass that no one lives in Pittsburgh itself, unless under absolute compulsion. The suburbs present housing facilities for the better part of its folk--Sewickley and East Liberty vie for greatest favor with them and there are dozens of smaller communities that crowd close upon these two social successes. "We can never get a decent census figure," growls the Pittsburgh man, as he contemplates the size of these outlying boroughs that go to make the city strong in everything, save in that popular competitive feature of population. And that very reason made the merging of the old city of Allegheny a popular issue, indeed. The fact that Pittsburgh men live outside of Pittsburgh goes to give her the fourth largest suburban train service in the country. Only New York, Boston and Philadelphia surpass her in this wise. Even San Francisco has less. One hundred and fifty miles to the northwest is Cleveland, the sixth city in the country and outranking Pittsburgh in population. There is not a single distinctive suburban train run in or out of Cleveland. From one single terminal in Pittsburgh four hundred passenger trains arrive and depart in the course of a single business day and ninety-five percent of these are for the sole benefit of the commuter. So congested have even these railroad facilities become that the city cries bitterly all the while for a transit relief and experts have been at work months and years planning a subway to aid both the steam roads and the overworked trolley lines. At best it is no sinecure to operate the trolley cars of Pittsburgh. Combined with narrow streets, uptown and downtown, are the fearful slopes of the great hills. It takes big cars to climb those hills, let alone haul the trailers that are a feature of the Pittsburgh rush-hour traffic. When the New Yorker sees those cars for the first time he looks again. They are chariots of steel, hardly smaller than those that thread the subway in his daily trip to and from Harlem, and when they come toward him they make him think of locomotives. The heavy car gives a sense of strength and of hill capability. But the company staggers twice each day under a traffic that is far beyond its facilities--and it staggers under its political burdens. For it is almost as much as your very life is worth to "talk back" to a street car conductor in Pittsburgh. The conductor is probably an arm of the big political machine that holds that western Pennsylvania town as in the hollow of its hand. The conductors get their jobs through their alderman, and they hold them through their alderman. So if a New York man forgets that he is four hundred and forty miles from Broadway, and gets to asserting his mind to the man who is in charge of the car let him look out for trouble. Chances are nine to one that he will be hauled up before a magistrate for breaking the peace, and that another arm of the political machine will come hard upon him. A man, who was a life-long resident of Pittsburgh, once made a protest to the conductor of a car coming across from Allegheny. The passenger was in the right and the conductor knew it. But he answered that protest with a volley of profanity. If that thing had happened in a seaboard town, the conductor's job would not have been worth the formality of a resignation. In Pittsburgh a bystander warned--the passenger--and he saved himself arrest by keeping his mouth shut and getting off the car. But the Pittsburgh man had not quite lost his sense of justice, and so he hurried to a certain high officer of the street railroad company. When he came to the company's offices he was ushered in in high state, for it so happened that the born Pittsburgh man was a director of that very corporation. It so happens that street railroad directors do not ride--like their steam railroad brethren--on passes, and the conductor did not know that he was playing flip-flap with his job. "You'll have to fire that man," said the director, in ending his complaint. "If that had happened at the club I would have punched him in the head." The big man who operated the street railroad looked at the director, and smiled what the lady novelists call a sweet, sad smile. "Sorry, Ben," said he, "but I know that man. He's one of Alderman X----'s men, and if we fired him X---- would hang us up on half a dozen things." Do you wonder that in the face of such a state of things transit relief comes rather slowly to Pittsburgh? Pittsburgh men have been trying to worm their way out of their difficulties for about a century and a half now, for it was 1758 that saw a permanent settlement started there at the junction of the three great rivers. Before that had been the memorable fight and defeat of Braddock--not far from where more recently Mr. Frick and Mr. Carnegie have been engaged in a rivalry as to which could erect the higher skyscraper and most effectually block out the _façade_ of the very beautiful Court House that the genius of H. H. Richardson designed--more than a score of years ago. At Braddock's defeat George Washington fought and it was no less a prophetic mind than that of the Father of His Country which foresaw and prophesied that Pittsburgh, with proper transportation facilities, would become one of the master cities of the country. Today, when Pittsburgh men grow nervous in one of their chronic fits of agitation--generally started by some talkative city, such as Chicago and Duluth, proclaiming herself as the future center of the steel industry--she gains comfort from the sayings of two Presidents--General Washington, as just quoted, and the gentleman who sits at the head of the board of the United States Steel Corporation, who goes out there from time to time and tells them to be of good cheer, that the center of the steel business is irrevocably fixed within their town. Pittsburgh worries much more about the steel business than about the Richardson Court House, which has just been left high and dry upon a local Gibraltar because of the desire of the local aldermen to lower Fifth avenue some eight or ten feet. But who shall say that she should not be restive about a business that reaches an output in a single twelvemonth of something over 150,000,000 tons? That is a jewel that is well worth the keeping. * * * * * Philadelphia stands at the east end of Pennsylvania; Pittsburgh is the west gate of that Keystone commonwealth. Yet two peas in a pod were never half so different. Philadelphia stands for conservatism, Pittsburgh for progress. While Philadelphia was climbing to the zenith of her power and influence through the first three-quarters of the last century and reaching her apotheosis in her great Centennial, Pittsburgh was quiet beneath her smoke umbrellas experimenting with that strange new metal, which man called steel. In the day dreams that Philadelphia enjoyed in 1876 Pittsburgh was forgotten. "I suppose the Pennsylvania railroad must have some place to end at," said a lady from Rittenhouse square, when her attention was called to the city at the junction of the three rivers. And in the next year that lady and many other ladies of the staunch old Quaker town were holding up their hands in holy horror at the news from Pittsburgh. Great riots, the bloodiest that had ever been known, were marking the railroad strike there--why, in a single day the rioters had burned the great Union station, every other railroad structure, and every car in the place. That was bad advertising for a town that had none too many friends. But Pittsburgh was finding herself--she is still in that fascinating process of development. For word was eking out from the rough mountains of western Pennsylvania that a little group of Scotchmen--led by a shrewd ironmaster whom politic folk were already calling "Mr. Carnegie"--had made steel an economic structural possibility. In this day when wood has become a luxury, steel is coming into its own and Pittsburgh is today the most metropolitan city between New York and Chicago. But she is still finding herself. The Survey, financed by Mrs. Russell Sage, and equipped with some of the ablest and fairest minded social workers in America, has called sharp attention to her shortcomings. The Survey did its work thoroughly and it was not the work of a minute or a day or a week or a month. When its report was ready, Pittsburgh smarted. It was the sort of smarting that goes before a cure. Much has been done already. The man who went to Pittsburgh as recently as ten years ago carried away some pretty definite memories of neglected railroad stations and inferior hotel facilities. He remembered that in Liberty and Penn avenues--two of the chief shopping streets in the city--long trails of freight cars were constantly being shifted by dirty switch engines in among the trolley cars, while farther up these same avenues the Fort Wayne railroad tracks formed two of the nastiest grade crossings in America. When a fine new hotel was finally built away out Fifth avenue, he could sit on its porch and face Pittsburgh's famous farm. The Schenley farm stretched over the hill and far away. Its barns were sharply silhouetted upon the horizon, rail zigzag fences ran up and down the slopes and sometimes one could see cattle outlined against the sky edge. The farm was a sore spot in Pittsburgh development. It occupied a tract somewhat similar in location to that of Central Park in Manhattan, and the struggling, growing town crawled its way around the obstacle slowly--then grew many miles east once again. Resentment gathered against the farm, and finally a bill was slipped through at Harrisburg imposing double taxes on property held by persons residing out of the United States--a distinct slap at the Schenley estate. When the estate protested, word was carried oversea to it that if a good part of the farm were dedicated to the city as a park that bill would be withdrawn. So Pittsburgh gained its splendid new park, and a site for one of the finest civic centers in America. The farm has begun to disappear--the University of Pittsburgh is absorbing its last undeveloped slope for an American Acropolis that shall put Athens in the pale. The new Athletic Club, the development of the Hotel Schenley, the great Soldiers' Memorial Hall which Allegheny county has just finished, the even greater Carnegie Institute, the graceful twin-spired cathedral, all are going toward the making of this fine, new civic center, and Pittsburgh being Pittsburgh, and the Pirates social heroes, Forbes Field the finest baseball park in all this land--a wizardry of glass and steel and concrete--is a distinctive feature of this improvement. [Illustration: The old and the new at Pittsburgh] The freight trains are gone from the downtown shopping streets and the two wicked grade crossings disappeared when the Pennsylvania built its splendid new Union Station. Other fine railroad terminals and new hotels have added to the comfort of the stranger. They are beginning in a faint way to give transfers on the trolley cars, and there is more than a promise that some day wayfarers will not be taxed a penny every time they walk across the bridges that bind the heart of the city. The bridge companies are private affairs, paying from fifteen to twenty percent in annual dividends, and they hang pretty tightly on to their bonanzas. But the Pittsburgh Chamber of Commerce is after them, and that Chamber is a fairly energetic body. It has already sought the devil in his lair and tried to abolish the smoke nuisance, with some definite results. A New York girl who has been living in Pittsburgh for the last four years complained that she had never seen but two sunsets there. There is hope for that girl. If the Chamber of Commerce keeps hard at its anti-smoke campaign, she may yet stand on the Point and down the muddy Ohio see something that dimly resembles the glorious dying of the day, as one sees it from the heights of New York city's Riverside Drive. A keen-eyed man sat in an easy chair in the luxury of the Duquesne Club, and faced the New York man. "Are we so bad?" he demanded. "You New York men like to paint us that way. You judge us falsely. You think that when you come out here you are going to see a sort of modern Sodom, bowing to all the gods of money and the gods of the high tariff. You think you are going to fairly revel in a wide open town, in the full significance of that phrase, and what do you see? "You see a pretty solid sort of a Scotch Presbyterian town, where you cannot even get shaved in your hotel on Sunday, to say nothing of buying a drink. And as for shows, you can't buy your way into a concert here on Sunday. Why, some of the elders of my kirk have even looked askance at Mr. Carnegie for the free recitals that he gives Sabbath afternoons in that splendid hall of the Institute. "There's your real Pittsburgher, and if some of the boys have chafed a bit under all the restraint that they have had here and gone to the wicked city after a little fling and a little advertising, is that any just reason why it all should be charged against Pittsburgh? Pittsburgh has enough troubles of her own without borrowing any additional ones. "The trouble is we've been making too much money to notice much about the boys, or give proper attention to some pretty vital civic problems--that's why the rottenness cropped out in the City Councils. It's the taint of the almighty dollar, Mr. New Yorker! Why, Mr. Carnegie made a couple of hundred of us millionaires within a single twenty-four hours. Can you think of any worse blow for an average town? "He took some of us, who had been working for him a long time, and got us into the business--some for an eighth interest, others for a sixteenth or even a thirty-second. That was great, and we appreciated it, but it kept us fairly tight on ready money for a while, even though Frick and Mellen were standing pat with an offer of a hundred million dollars for the bonds of the steel company. I tell you I was short on ready money myself, and wondering if I could not cut down on my house rent $2,000 a year and get my wife to keep two hired girls instead of three. Then you know what happened. Carnegie himself took over the bonds at a cold two hundred million dollars. Within a week or so I was in New York talking with an architect about building a new house for the missus, and getting passage tickets through to Europe." The ironmaster called his automobile and bundled the New York man within it. "We are going down into the slums," he said. "I can show you a single block where thirteen different languages are spoken. That is the new Pittsburgh--taking up one another's burdens, or something of that sort, as they call it. It is queer until you get used to it, and when you get used to it, it makes you feel like going up on the roof and yelling that Pittsburgh is going to be the greatest city on earth, not just the greatest in tonnage or in dollars. "That is why we are cottoning to that idea of a civic center out by Schenley Park; that's why we pat Andrew Carnegie on the back when we know that he is giving us the best in pictures and in music in America; that's why Frick is holding back with his horse pasture there in front of Carnegie Institute to build something bigger and better. Don't you get the idea now of the bigger and better Pittsburgh?" The limousine stopped and the ironmaster beckoned a large, whiskered Russian to it. "Here's a real anarchist," he said, "but he is one of my protégés. He speaks down in a dirty hall in Liberty avenue, near the Wabash terminal, but he's for the new Pittsburgh, and he's for it strong--so we come together after a fashion." The Russian, who was a teacher, came close to the big automobile and pointed to a woman of his own people--a woman wretchedly poor, who dwelt in one of the hovels which are today Pittsburgh's greatest shame. "She's reading Byron," he said quietly, "and she has been in America less than six months. She says there is a magnificent comparison between Byron and Tolstoy." That reminded the ironmaster of an incident. "After that bad time in 1907," he said, "I chanced into one of Mr. Carnegie's libraries, and the librarian complained to me of the way the books were being ruined. Their backs were being scratched and filled with rust and even shavings. I had an idea on that myself. I went back to our own mill--it was pretty dull there and I was dodging the forlorn place as much as I could. But we were sifting out a gang from the men who were beating at our doors every morning for work, and even then we were carrying twice as many men as we really needed. I went around back of the furnaces and there were the library books--the men were reading them in the long shifts." "They weren't reading fiction?" asked the New Yorker. "Not a bit of it," said the ironmaster. Then he added: "One of them spoke to me. He was only getting three days a week. 'Mr. Carnegie can give the books,' was his quiet observation, 'and the money to buy them. But we need more than money. Can't he ever give us the leisure to read them without its costing us the money for our food?' "That, New Yorker, from the mouth of one of those of the new Pittsburgh is the real answer to your question." 11 THE SIXTH CITY They call her the Sixth City, but that is only in a comparative sense, and exclusively in regard to her statistical position in the population ranks of the large cities of our land. For no real citizen of Cleveland will ever admit that his community is less than first, in all of the things that make for the advance of a strong and healthy American town. His might better be called "the City of Boundless Enthusiasm." Your Cleveland man, however, is content to know it as the Sixth City. "Not that it really matters whether we are the fifth or the seventh--or the sixth," he tells you. "Only it all goes to show how we've bobbed up in the last twenty years. You know what we used to be--an inconsiderable lake port up on the north brink of Ohio with Cincinnati down there in the south pruning herself as a real metropolis and calling herself the Queen City. We might call ourselves the Queen City today and stretch no points, but that's a sort of fancy title that's gone out of fashion now. The Sixth City sounds more like the Twentieth Century." And Cleveland having thus baptized herself, as it were, proceeded to spread her new name to the world. "Cleveland--Sixth City" appeared on the stationery of her business houses; her tailors stitched it in upon the labels of the ready-made suits they sent to all corners of the land; her bakers stamped it on the products of their ovens; big shippers stenciled it over packing-cases; manufacturers even placed it upon the brass-plates of the lathes and other complicated machines they sent forth from their shops. Today when you say "Sixth City" to an American he replies "Cleveland," which is precisely what Cleveland intended he should reply. Now why has Cleveland taken her new position of sixth among the cities of the land? Ask your Cleveland man that, and he will take you by the elbow and march you straight toward the docks, that not only line her lake front but extend for miles up within the curious twistings of the Cuyahoga river. "Lake traffic," he will tell you, and begin to quote statistics. We will spare you most of the statistics. It is meet that you should know, however, that upon the five Great Lakes there throbs a commerce that might well be the envy of any far-reaching, salty sea. To put the thing concretely, the freight portion of this traffic alone reached tremendous totals in 1912. In the navigation months of that year, exactly 47,435,477 tons of iron ore and an even greater tonnage of coal moved upon the Lakes, while the enormous total of 158,000,000 bushels of grain were received at the port of Buffalo. And although there are tens of thousands of sailormen upon the salt seas who have never heard of Cleveland, the business of the port of Cleveland is comparable with that of the port of Liverpool, one of the very greatest and the very busiest harbors in all the world. For four out of every five of the great steel steamships carrying the iron ore and coal cargoes of the lakes are operated from Cleveland. Until the formation of the United States Steel corporation a few years ago she could also say that she owned four out of five of these vessels. And today her indirect interest in them, through the steel corporation, is not small. As the Cleveland man continues to din these statistics into your ear, you let your gaze wander. Over across a narrow slip a gaunt steel framework rises. It holds a cradle, large enough and strong enough to accommodate a single steel railroad "gondola," which in turn carries fifty tons of bituminous coal. The sides of the table are clamped over the sides of one of these "gondola" cars, which a seemingly tireless switch-engine has just shunted into it. Slowly the cradle is raised to the top of the framework. A bell strikes and it raises itself upon edge, three-quarters of the way over. The coal rushes out of the car in an uprising cloud of black dust and drops through a funnel into the expansive hold of the vessel that is moored at the dock. The car is righted; some remaining coal rattles to its bottom. Once again it is overturned and the remaining coal goes through the funnel. When it is righted the second time it is entirely empty. The cradle returns to its low level, the car is unfastened and given a push. It makes a gravity movement and returns to a string of its fellows that have been through a similar process. You take out your watch. The process consumes just two minutes for each car. That means thirty cars an hour. In an hour fifteen hundred tons of coal, the capacity of a long and heavily laden train, have been placed in the hold of the waiting vessel. You are familiar, perhaps, with the craft that tie up at the wharves of seaboard towns, and you roughly estimate the capacity of this coal-carrier at some forty-five hundred tons. It is going to take but three hours to fill her great hold, and you find yourself astonished at the result of such computations. You confide that astonishment to your Cleveland man. He smiles at you, benignly. "That is really not very rapid work," he says, "they put eleven thousand tons of ore into the _Corey_ in thirty-nine minutes up at Superior last year." And that is the record loading of a vessel for all the world. When the British ship-owners heard of that feat at a port two thousand miles inland, they ceased to deride American docking facilities. The Cleveland man begins telling you something of this lake traffic in iron ore and soft coal--almost three-quarters of the total tonnage of the lakes. The workable iron deposits of America are today in greatest profusion within a comparatively few miles of the head of Lake Superior--nothing has yet robbed western Pennsylvania and West Virginia of their supremacy as producers of bituminous coal. There is an ideal traffic condition, the condition that lines the railroad cars for forty miles roundabout Pittsburgh. The great cost in handling freight upon the average railroad comes from the fact that it is generally what is known as "one-way" business--that is, the volume of traffic moves in a single direction, necessitating an expensive and wasteful return haul of empty cars. There is no such traffic waste upon the Great Lakes. The ships that go up and down the long water lanes of Erie and Huron and Superior do not worry about ballast for the return. They carry coal from Buffalo, Erie, Ashtabula, Conneaut and Cleveland to Duluth and Superior and they come back with their capacious holds filled with red iron ore. There is your true economy in transportation, and the reflection of it comes in the fact that these ships haul cargo at the rate of .78 of a mill for a ton-mile, which is the lowest freight-rate in the world. Cleveland built these ships, in fact she still is building the greater part of them. And she thinks nothing of building the largest of these steel vessels in ninety days. Take a second look at that vessel--the coal cars are still pouring their grimy treasure into her hold. She is builded, like all of these new freighters, with a severity that shows the bluff utilitarianism of the shipbuilders of the Great Lakes. None of the finicky traditions of the Clyde rule the minds of the men who today are building the merchant marine of the Lakes. One deckhouse, with the navigating headquarters, is forward; the other, with funnel and the other externals of the ship's propelling mechanism, is at the extreme stern. Amidships your Great Lakes carrier is cargo--and nothing else. No tangle of line or burden of trivials; just a red-walled hull of thick steel plates and a steel-plate deck--broken into thirty-six hatches and of precisely the same shade of red--for these ships are quickly painted by hose-spray. Remember that it is ninety days--from keel-plates to launching. In another thirty days the ship's simple fittings are finished and her engines in her heart are ready to pound from down-Lakes to up-Lakes and back innumerable times. * * * * * If we have given some attention in this Cleveland chapter to the traffic of the Great Lakes, it is, as we have already intimated, because the traffic of the Great Lakes has made her the Sixth City. It has also made the most important of her industries, the very greatest of her fortunes. Your Cleveland man will tell you of one of these--before you leave the pier-edge. It was the fortune that an old Lake captain left at his death a little time ago--the fortune a mere matter of some twenty-eight millions of dollars. The old captain knew the Lakes and he had studied their traffic--all his life. But his will directed that his money should not be expended in the building of ships. It provided that at least a quarter of a million of the income should annually go to the purchase of Cleveland real estate. And Cleveland was quick to explain that it was not that the old man loved shipping less, but that he loved Cleveland real estate more. He had the gift of foresight. If you would see that foresight in his own eyes drive out Euclid avenue--that broad thoroughfare that leads from the old-fashioned Public Square in the heart of the city straight toward the southeast. Euclid avenue gained its fame in other days. Travelers used to come back from Cleveland and tell of the glories of that highway. Alas, today those glories are largely those of memory. The old houses still sit in their great lawns, but the grime of the city's industry has made them seem doubly old and decadent, while Commerce has pushed her smart new shops out among them to the very sidewalk line. Many of these shops are given over to the automobile business--a business which does not hesitate in any of our towns to transform resident streets into commercial. But in Cleveland one may partly forgive the audacity of this particular trade in recognition of its perspicacity. For Euclid avenue, rapidly growing now from an entirely residential street into an entirely business highway, is the great automobile thoroughfare of the East Side of the city. And when you consider that one out of every ten Cleveland families has a motor car, you can begin to estimate the traffic through Euclid avenue. There is a West Side of Cleveland--you might almost say, of course--but one does not come to know it until he comes to know Cleveland well. The city is builded upon a high plateau that rises in a steep bluff from the very edge of the lake. Through this plateau, at the very bottom of a ravine, wide and deep, the navigable Cuyahoga twists its tortuous way into Lake Erie. It seems as if that ravine must almost have been cut to test the resources of the bridge-builders of America. For it has been their problem to keep the Sixth City from becoming entirely severed by her great water artery. They have solved it by the construction of one huge steel viaduct after another but the West Side remains the West Side--and always somewhat jealous of the East. She knows that the great public buildings of Cleveland--that comprehensive civic center plan to which we shall come in a moment--are fixed for all time upon the East. And so when Cleveland decides to build a great new city hall, the West Side demands and receives the finest market house in all the land. So it is that it is the East Side that your Cleveland man shows you alone when your time is limited, and so it is that Euclid avenue is the one great thoroughfare of the whole East Side. "If you want to know how we've bobbed up, look at here," the Cleveland man tells you. You look. A contractor is busy changing a railroad crossing from level to overhead; a much-needed improvement--despite the fact that it should have been under-surface rather than overhead--when you come to consider the traffic that moves through Euclid avenue in all the daylight hours and far into the night. "When the old Cleveland and Pittsburgh--it's part of the Pennsylvania, now--was built, thirty-five or forty years ago, they thought they would put the line around the town. But the town was up to their line before they knew it--and they decided ten or a dozen years ago that they would put a suburban station here." He points to a handsome red brick structure of modern architecture. "The Pennsylvania folks are long-headed--almost always. But if they had known that Cleveland was to become the Sixth City within ten years they never would have put two hundred thousand dollars in a grade crossing station at Euclid avenue. The way we've grown has sort of startled all of us." Today Euclid avenue is a compactly built thoroughfare for miles east of that Pennsylvania railroad crossing. It is at least two miles and a half from that crossing to Cleveland's two great educational lions--the Case School of Applied Science and the Western Reserve University--and they in turn only mark the beginning of the city's newest and most fashionable residence district. Indeed Cleveland has "bobbed up." And her growth within the last quarter of a century has been more than physical, more than that recorded by emotionless census-takers. For beneath those grimy old houses on Euclid avenue and the down town residence streets, beneath the roofs of those gray and grimy story-and-a-half wooden houses which line far less pretentious streets for long miles, lies as restless and as hopeful a civic spirit as any town in America can boast. It makes itself manifest in many ways--as we shall see. The man who first brought it into a working force was a resourceful little man who died a little while ago. But before Tom L. Johnson died he was Mayor of the city; something more; he was the best liked and the best hated man that Cleveland had ever known; and he was better liked than he was hated. In person a plump little man with a ceaseless smile that might have been stolen from a Raphael cherub, a democratic little man, who knew his fellows and who could read them, almost unfailingly. And the smile could change from softness into severity--when Tom L. Johnson wanted a thing he wanted it mighty hard. And he generally succeeded in getting it. He could not only read men; he could read affairs. He saw Cleveland coming to be the Sixth City. And he determined that she should realize the dignity of metropolitanism in other fashion than in merely census totals or bank clearances. [Illustration: Cleveland is proud of her great, broad streets] Johnson began by going after the street railroad system of the town. He had had some experience in building and operating street railroads in other parts of the country, and he set out along paths that were not entirely unfamiliar to him. It so happened that at the time he began his crusade Cleveland was quite satisfied with her street railroad service. Her residents went out to other cities of the land and bragged about how their big yellow cars ran out to all the far corners of their rapidly growing city. But Johnson was not criticising the service. He was merely saying in his gentle insistent way that five cents was too much for a man to pay to ride upon a street car. He thought three cents was quite enough. The street railroad company quite naturally thought differently. In every other town in the land five cents was the standard fare, and any Cleveland man could tell you how much better the car-service was at home. That company produced vast tables of statistics to prove its contentions. Tom L. Johnson merely laughed at the statistics and reiterated that three cents was a sufficient street-car fare for Cleveland. The details of that _cause celébre_ are not to be recited here. It is enough here to say that Tom L. Johnson lived long enough to see three-cent fares upon the Cleveland cars, and that the conclusion was not reached until a long and bitter battle had been fought. The conclusion itself as it stands today is interesting. The owners of the street railroad stock, the successors of the men who invested their money on a courageous gamble that Cleveland was to grow into a real city are assured of a legitimate six percent upon their stock. They cannot expect more. If the railroad earns more than that fixed six percent its fares must be reduced. If, on the other hand, it fails to earn six percent the fares must be raised sufficiently to permit that return. The fare-steps are simple, a cent at a time, with a cent being charged for a transfer, or a transfer being furnished free as best may meet the income need of the railroad. At present the fare is three cents, transfers being furnished free. A little while ago the fare was three cents, a cent being charged for the transfer. That brought an unnecessarily high revenue to the railroad, and so today while the conductor who issues you a transfer gravely charges you a cent for it, the conductor who accepts it, with equal gravity, presents you a cent in return for it. This prevents the transfers being used as stationery or otherwise frivoled away. For, while the street car system of Cleveland is among the best operated in America, it is also one of the most whimsical. Its cars are proof of that. Some of them are operated on the so-called "pay-as-you-enter" principle, although Cleveland, which has almost a passion for abbreviation, calls them the "paye" cars. These cars are still a distinct novelty in most of our cities. In Cleveland they are almost as old as Noah's Ark compared with a car in which you pay as you leave--a most sensible fashion--or a still newer car in which you can pay as you enter or pay as you leave--a choice which you elect by going to one end or the other of the vehicle. But the fact remains that Cleveland has three-cent fares upon her excellent street railroad system, to say nothing of having control over her most important utility, the street railroad, which pays six percent dividends to its owners. The three-cent fare seems standard in Cleveland. In fact, she is becoming a three-cent city. Small shops make attractive offers at that low figure, and "three-cent movies" are springing up along her streets. She has already gone down to Washington and demanded that the Federal government issue a three-cent piece--to meet her peculiar needs. So does the spirit of Tom L. Johnson still go marching on. It must have been the spirit of Tom L. Johnson that gave Cleveland a brand-new charter in this year of Grace, 1913. Into this new charter have been written many things that would have been deemed impossible in the charter of a large American city even a decade ago. Initiative and referendum, of course--Johnson and his little band of faithful followers were not satisfied until they had gone to Columbus a few winters ago and written that into the new constitution of the state of Ohio--a department of public welfare to regulate everything from the safety and morals of "three-cent movies" to the larger questions of public health and even of public employment, the very sensible short ballot, and even the newest comer in our family of civic reforms--the preferential ballot, although at the time that this is being written it is being sharply contested in the high courts at Columbus. Cleveland rejected the commission form of government. The fact that a good many other progressive American towns have accepted it, did not, in her mind, weigh for or against it. She has never been a city of strong conventions--witness her refusal to regard the five-cent fare as standard, simply because other towns had it. Neither has tradition been permitted to warp her course. A few years ago her citizens decided that her system of street names was not good enough or expansive enough for a town that was entering the metropolitan class. So she changed most of her street names--almost in the passing of a night. In most American towns that would have been out of the question. Folk cling to street names almost as they cling to family traditions. But Cleveland folk seemed to realize instantly that the new system of numbered cross-streets--with the broad diagonal highways named "roads"--after the fashion of some English cities--was so far the best that she immediately gave herself to the new scheme with heart and soul, as seems to be her way. To tell of a splendid new charter adopted, of the control gained over her chief utility and necessity, of the progressive social reforms that she houses, is not alone to tell of the splendid heart and soul that beats within the walls and roofs of her houses. It is, quite as much, to tell of a remarkable coöperation, remarkable when you consider that Cleveland has become a city of more than six hundred thousand humans. That coöperation may best be illustrated by a single incident: A retail dealer in hardware recently opened a fine new store out in Euclid avenue. He opened it as some small cities might open their new library or their new city hall--with music and a reception. His friends sent great bouquets of flowers, the concerns from which he bought his supplies sent more flowers; but the biggest bunch of flowers came from the men who were his competitors in the same line of business. That was Cleveland--Cleveland spirit, Cleveland generosity. Perhaps that is the secret of Cleveland success. * * * * * One thing more--the plan for the Cleveland civic center. For the Sixth City having set her mental house in order is to build for it a physical house of great utility and of compelling beauty. You may have heard of the Cleveland civic plan. It is in the possibility that you have not, that we bring it in for a final word. When Cleveland set out to obtain a new Federal Post Office and Court House for herself, a few years ago, it came to her of a sudden that she was singularly lacking in fine public buildings. It was suggested that she should seek for herself not only a Federal building but a new Court House and City Hall as well. In the same breath it was proposed that these be brought into a beautiful and a practical group. It was an attractive suggestion. In the fertile soil of Cleveland attractive suggestions take quick root. And so in Cleveland was born the civic center idea that has spread almost like the proverbial wildfire all the way across the land. To create her civic group she moved in a broad and decisive fashion. She engaged three of the greatest of American architects--A. W. Brunner, John M. Carrere, D. H. Burnham--two of them poets and idealists, the third almost the creator of America's most utilitarian type of building, the modern skyscraper. To these men she gave a broad and unlocked path. And they created for her, along a broad Mall stretching from Superior street to the very edge of that mighty cliff that overlooks the lake, a plan for the housing of her greatest functions. It is not too much that Cleveland should dream of this Mall as an American Place de la Concorde. It was not too much when the architects breathed twenty millions of dollars as the possible cost of this civic dream. Cleveland merely breathed "Go ahead," and the architects have gone ahead. The Post Office and the new County Building are already completed and in use, the City Hall should be completed before 1915 comes to take his place in the history of the world. Other buildings are to follow, not the least of them a new Union station--although there will be travelers who will sincerely regret the passing of Cleveland's stout old stone station, whose high-vaulted train-shed seemed to them in boyhood days to be the most lofty and wonderful of apartments. The bulk of this new open square is yet to be cleared of the many buildings that today occupy it. But that is merely a detail in the development of Cleveland's greatest architectural ambition. The civic group can never be more than the outward expression of the ambitious spirit of a new giant among the metropolitan cities of America. As such it can be eminently successful. It can speak for the city whose civic heart it becomes, proclaiming her not merely great in dollars or in the swarming throngs of her population, but rather great in strength of character, in charity, in generosity--in all those admirable things that go to make a town preëminently good and great. And in these things your Cleveland man will not proclaim his as the Sixth City, but rather as in the front rank of all the larger communities of the United States. 12 CHICAGO--AND THE CHICAGOANS Early in the morning the city by the lake is astir. Before the first long scouting rays of earliest sunlight are thrusting themselves over the barren reaches of Michigan--state and lake--Chicago is in action. The nervous little suburban trains are reaching into her heart from South, from North and from West. The long trains of elevated cars are slipping along their alley-routes, skirting behind long rows of the dirty colorless houses of the most monotonous city on earth, threading themselves around the loop--receiving passengers, discharging passengers before dawn has fully come upon the town. The windows of the tedious, almost endless rows of houses flash into light and life, the trolley cars in the broad streets come at shorter intervals, in whole companies, brigades, regiments--a mighty army of trucks and wagons begin to send up a great wave of noise and of clatter from the shrieking highways and byways of the city. * * * * * The traveler coming to the city from the east and by night finds it indeed a mighty affair. For an hour and a half before his train arrives at the terminal station, he is making his way through Chicago environs--coming from dull flat monotonies of sand and brush and pine into Gary--with its newness and its bigness proclaimed upon its very face so that even he who flits through at fifty miles an hour may read both--jolting over main line railroads that cross and recross at every conceivable angle, snapping up through Hammond and Kensington and Grand Crossing--to the right and to the left long vistas with the ungainly, picturesque outlines of steel mills with upturned rows of smoking stacks, of gas-holders and of packing-houses, the vistas suddenly closed off by long trails of travel-worn freight-cars, through which the traveler's train finds its way with a mighty clattering and reverberating of noisy echoes. This is Chicago--Chicago spreading itself over miles of absolutely flat shore-land at almost the extreme southern tip of Lake Michigan--Chicago proudly proclaiming herself as the business and the transportation metropolis of the land, disdaining such mere seaport places as New York or Boston or Baltimore or San Francisco--Chicago with the most wretched approaches on her main lines of travel of any great city of the world. If you come to her on at least one of the great railroads that link her with the Atlantic seaboard, you will get a glimpse of her one redeeming natural feature, for five or six miles before your train comes to a final grinding stop at the main terminal--the blue waters of the lake. This railroad spun its way many years ago on the very edge of the lake--much to the present-day grief of the town. It gives no grief to the incoming traveler--to turn from the sordid streets, the quick glimpses of rows of pretentious but fearfully dirty and uninteresting houses--to the great open space to the east of Chicago--nature's assurance of fresh air and light and health to one of the really vast cluster-holds of mankind. To him the lake is in relief--even in splendid contrast to the noise, the dirt, the streets darkened and narrowed by the over-shouldering constructions of man. From the intricate and the confusing, to the simplicity of open water--no wonder then that Chicago has finally come to appreciate her lake, that she seizes upon her remaining free waterfront like a hungry and ill-fed child, that she builds great hotels and office-buildings where their windows may look--not upon the town, stretching itself to the horizon on the prairie, but upon the lake, with its tranquillity and its beauty, the infinite majesty of a great, silent open place. * * * * * In the terminal stations of the city you first begin to divine the real character of the city. You see it, a great crucible into which the people of all nations and all the corners of one of the greatest of the nations are being poured. Pressing her nose against the glass of a window that looks down into surpassingly busy streets, overshadowed by the ungainly bulk of an elevated railroad, is the bent figure of a hatless peasant woman from the south of Europe--seeing her America for the first time and almost shrinking from the glass in a mixture of fear and of amazement. Next to her is a sleek, well-groomed man who may be from the East--from an Atlantic seaport city, but do not be too sure of that, for he may have his home over on Michigan avenue and think that "New York is a pretty town but not in it with Chicago." You never can tell in the most American and most cosmopolitan of American cities. At a third window is a man who has come from South Dakota. He has a big ranch up in that wonderful state. You know that because last night he sat beside you on a bench in the dingy, busy office of the old Palmer House and told you of Chicago as he saw it. "I've a farm up in the South Dakota," he told you, in brief. "This is my first time East." You started in a bit of surprise at that, for it had always occurred to you that Chicago was West, that you, born New Yorker, were reaching into the real West whenever you crossed to the far side of Main street, in Buffalo. You looked at the ranchman, feeling that he was joking, and then you took a second look into his tired eyes and knew that you were talking to no humorist. "The first real big town that I ever ran into," he said, in his simple way, "was Sioux City, and I set up and took a little notice on it. It seemed mighty big, but that was five years ago, and four years ago I took my stock down to Cudahy in Omaha--and there _was_ a town. You could walk half a day in Omaha and never come to cattle country. Just houses and houses and houses--an' you begin to wonder where they find the folks to fill them. This year I come here with the beef for the first time--an' you could put Omaha in this town and never know the difference." After that you confessed, with much pride, that you lived in New York city, and you began. You knew the number of miles of subway from the Bronx over to Brooklyn, and the number of stories in the Woolworth building, all those things, and when you caught your breath, the stockman asked you if Tom Sharkey really had a saloon in your town, and was Steve Brodie still alive, and did New York folks like to go down to the Statue of Liberty on pleasant Sunday afternoons. You answered those questions, and then you told the stockman more--of London, made of dozens of Omahas, where the United States was but a pleasant and withal a somewhat uncertain dream, of Paris the beautiful, and of Berlin the awfully clean. When you were done, you went with the stockman to eat in a basement--that is the Chicago idea of distinction in restaurants--and he took you to a lively show afterwards. Now you never would have wandered into a Broadway hotel lobby and made the acquaintance of a perfect stranger, dined with him and spent the evening with him--no, not even if you were a Chicagoan and fearfully lonely in New York. It is the Chicago that gets into a New Yorker's veins when he comes within her expanded limits, it is the unseen aura of the West that creeps as far east as the south tip of Lake Michigan. It made you acknowledge with hearty appreciation the "good mornings" of each man as he filed into the wash-room of the sleeping car in the early morning. You never say "good morning" to strangers in the sleeping cars going from New York over to Boston. For that is the East and that is different. * * * * * A Chicago man sits back in the regal comfort of a leather-padded office chair and tells you between hurried bites of the lunch that has been placed upon his desk, of the real town that is sprawled along the Lake Michigan shore. "Don't know as you particularly care for horse-food," he apologizes, between mouthfuls, "but that's the cult in this neck-o'-woods nowadays." "The cult?" you inquire, as he plunges more deeply in his bran-mash. "Precisely," he nods. "We're living in cults out here now. We've got Boston beaten to culture." He shoves back the remnant of his "health food" luncheon with an expression that surely says that he wishes it was steak, smothered with onions and flanked by an ample-girthed staff of vegetables, and faces you--you New Yorker--with determination to set your path straight. "Along in the prehistoric ages--which in Chicago means about the time of the World's Fair--we were trying to live up to anything and everything, but particularly the ambition to be the overwhelmingest biggest town in creation, and to make your old New York look like an annexed seaport. We had no cults, no woman's societies, nothing except a lot of men making money hand over fist, killing hogs, and building cars and selling stuff at retail by catalogues. We were not æsthetic and we didn't particularly care. We liked plain shows as long as the girls in them weren't plain, and we had a motto that a big lady carried around on a shield. The motto was 'I will,' and translated it meant to the bottom of the sea with New York or St. Louis or any other upstart town that tried to live on the same side of the earth as Chicago. We were going to have two million population inside of two years and--" He dives again into his cultish lunch and after a moment resumes: "The big lady has lost her job and we've thrown the shield--motto and all--into the lake. We're trying to forget the motto and that's why we've got the cult habit. We're class and we're close on the heels of you New Yorkers--only last winter they began to pass the French pastry around on a tray at my club. We learn quickly and then go you one better. We've finally given Jane Addams the recognition and the support that she should have had a dozen years ago. We're strong and we're sincere for culture--the university to the south of us has had some funny cracks but that is all history. Together with the one to the north of us, they are finally institutions--and Chicago respects them as such. "Take opera. We used to think it was a fad to hear good music, and only the society folks went to hear it--so that the opera fairly starved to death when it came out here. Now they are falling over one another to get into the Auditorium, and our opera company is not only an institution but you New Yorkers would give your very hearts to have it in your own big opera house." "You'll build an opera house out here then," you venture, "the biggest--" He interrupts. "Not necessarily the biggest," he corrects, "but as fine as the very best." The talk changes. You are frankly interested in the cults. You have heard of how one is working in the public schools, how the school children of Chicago work in classrooms with the windows wide open, and you ask him about it. "It must be fine for the children?" you finally venture. "It is," he says. "My daughter teaches in a school down Englewood way, and she says that it is fine for the children--but hell on the teachers. They weren't trained to it in the beginning." You are beginning to understand Chicago. A half an hour ago you could not have understood how a man like this--head of a giant corporation employing half a hundred thousand workmen, a man with three or four big houses, a stable full of automobiles, a man of vast resources and influences--would have his daughter teaching in a public school. You are beginning to understand the man--the man who is typical of Chicago. You come to know him the more clearly as he tells you of the city that he really loves. He tells you how Sorolla "caught on" over at the Institute--although more recently the Cubists rather dimmed the brilliance of the Spaniard's reception--and how the people who go to the Chicago libraries are reading less fiction and more solid literature all the while. Then--of a sudden, for he realizes that he must be back again into the grind and the routine of his work--he turns to you and says: "And yesterday we had the big girl and the motto. It was hardly more than yesterday that we thought that population counted, that acreage was a factor in the consummation of a great city." * * * * * [Illustration: Michigan Avenue and the wonderful lakefront--Chicago] So you see that Chicago is only America, not boastful, not arrogant, but strong in her convictions, strong in her sincerity, strong in her poise between right and power together, and not merely power without right. A city set in the heart of America must certainly take strong American tone, no matter how many foreigners New York's great gateway may pour into her ample lap in the course of a single twelvemonth. Chicago has taken that dominating tone upon herself. She is a great city. Her policemen wear star-shaped badges after the fashion of country constables in rural drama, and her citizens call the trolleys that run after midnight "owl cars," but she is a great city none the less for these things. Her small shops along Michigan avenue have the smartness of Paris or of Vienna, the greatest of her department stores is one of the greatest department stores in all the land, which means in the whole world. It is softly carpeted, floor upon floor, and the best of Chicago delights to lunch upon one of its upper floors. Chicago likes to go high for its meals or else, as we have already intimated, down into basements. The reason for this last may be that one of the world's greatest _restauranteurs_, who had his start in the city by Lake Michigan, has always had his place below sidewalk level on a busy corner of the city. The city is fearfully busy at all of its downtown corners. New Yorkers shudder at Thirty-fourth street and Broadway. Inside the Chicago loop are several dozen Thirty-fourth streets and Broadways. There you have it--the Chicago loop, designed to afford magnificent relief to the town and in effect having tightly drawn a belt about its waist. The loop is a belt-line terminal, slightly less than a mile in diameter, designed to serve the elevated railroads that stretch their caterpillar-like structures over three directions of the widespread town. Within it are the theaters, the hotels, the department stores, the retail district, and the wholesale and the railroad terminals. Just without it is an arid belt and then somewhere to the north, the west and the south, the great residential districts. So it is a mistake. For, with the exception of a little way along Michigan avenue to the south, the loop has acted against the growth of the city, has kept it tightly girdled within itself. "Within the loop," is a meaningful phrase in Chicago. It means congestion in every form and the very worst forms to the fore. It means that what was originally intended to be an adequate terminal to the various elevated railroads has become a transportation abomination and a matter of local contempt. For you cannot exaggerate the condition that it has created. It is fearful on ordinary days, and when you come to extraordinary days, like the memorable summer when the Knights Templar held their triennial conclave there, the newspapers print "boxed" summaries of the persons killed and injured by congestion conditions "within the loop." That takes it out of being a mere laughing matter. It is no laughing matter to folks who have to thread it. Trolley cars, automobiles, taxicabs, the long lumbering 'buses that remind one of the photographs of Broadway, New York, a quarter of a century ago or more, entangle themselves with one another and with unfortunate pedestrians and still no one comes forward with practical relief. The 'buses are peculiarly Chicago institutions. For long years they have been taking passengers from one railroad station to another. A considerable part of Western America has been ferried across the city by Lake Michigan, in these institutions. For Chicago, with the wisdom of nearly seventy-five years of growth, has steadily refused to accept the union station idea. St. Louis has a union station--and bitterly regrets it. Modern big towns are scorning the idea of a union station; in fact, Buffalo has just rejected the scheme for herself. For a union station, no matter how big or how pretentious it may be architecturally, will reduce a city to way-station dimensions. St. Louis is a big town, a town with personality, the great trunk lines of east and south and west have terminals there; but the many thousands of travelers who pass through there in the course of a twelvemonth, see nothing of her. They file from one train into the waiting-room of her glorious station--one of the few really great railroad stations of the world--and in a little while take an outbound train--without ever having stepped out into the streets of the town. In Chicago--as it is almost a form of _lese majeste_ to discuss St. Louis in a chapter devoted to Chicago we herewith submit our full apologies--four-fifths of the through passengers have to be carried in the omnibuses from one of the big railroad stations to another. They know that in advance, and they generally arrange to stop over there for at least a night. This means business for the hotels, large and small. It also means business for the retail stores and the theaters. And it is one of the ways that Chicago preserves her metropolitanism. And yet with all of that metropolitanism--there is a spirit in Chicago that distinctly breathes the smaller town, a spirit that might seem foreign to the most important city that we have between the two oceans. It is the spirit of Madison, or Ottumwa, or Jackson, perhaps a little flavor still surviving of the not long-distant days when Chicago was merely a town. You may or you may not know that in the days before her terrific fire she was called "the Garden City." The catalpa trees that shaded her chief business streets had a wide fame, and older prints show the Cook County Court House standing in lawn-plats. In those days Chicago folk knew one another and, to a decent extent, one another's business. In these days, much of that town feeling remains. You sit in the great tomb-like halls of the Union League, or in the more modern University Club, perhaps up in that wonderful bungalow which the Cliff-dwellers have erected upon the roof of Orchestra Hall, and you hear all of the small talk of the town. Smith has finally got that franchise, although he will pay mighty well for it; Jones is going to put another fourteen-story addition on his store. Wilkins has bought a yacht that is going to clean up everything on the lake, and then head straight for laurels on the Atlantic seaboard. You would have the same thing in a smaller western town, expressed in proportionate dimensions. After all, the circle of men who accomplish the real things in the real Chicago is wonderfully small. But the things that they accomplish are very large, indeed. They will take you out to see some of these big things--that department store, without an equal outside of New York or Philadelphia at least, and where Chicago dearly loves to lunch; a mail-order house which actually boasts that six acres of forest timber are cleared each day to furnish the paper for its catalogue, of which a mere six million copies are issued annually; they will point out in the distance the stacks and smoke clouds of South Chicago and will tell you in tens of thousands of dollars, the details of the steel industry; take you, of course, to the stock-yards and there tell you of the horrible slaughter that goes forward there at all hours of the day and far into the night. Perhaps they will show you some of the Chicago things that are great in another sense--Hull House and the McCormick Open Air School, for instance. And they will be sure to show you the park system. A good many folk, Eastern and Western, do not give Chicago credit for the remarkable park system that she has builded up within recent years. These larger parks, with their connecting boulevards, make an entire circuit around the back of the town, and the city is making a distinct effort to wrest the control of the water-front from the railroad that has skirted it for many years, so that she may make all this park land, too--in connection with her ambitious city plan. She has accomplished a distinct start already in the water-front plan along her retail shop and hotel district--from Twelfth street north to the river. The railroad tracks formerly ran along the edge of the lake all that distance. Now they are almost a third of a mile inland; the city has reclaimed some hundreds of acres from the more shallow part of Lake Michigan and has in Grant Park a pleasure-ground quite as centrally located as Boston's famous Common. It is still far from complete. While the broad strip between Michigan avenue and the depressed railroad tracks is wonderfully trim and green, and the Art Institute standing within it so grimy that one might easily mistake it for old age, the "made ground" to the east of the tracks is still barren. But Chicago is making good use of it. The boys and young men come out of the office-buildings in the noon recess to play baseball there, the police drill and parade upon it to their heart's content, it is gaining fame as a site for military encampments and aviation meets. Chicago makes good use of all her parks. You look a long way within them before you find the "Keep off the Grass" signs. And on Saturday afternoons in midsummer you will find the park lawns thronged with picnic parties--hundreds and even thousands of them--bringing their lunches out from the tighter sections of the town and eating them in shade and comfort and the cooling breezes off Lake Michigan. For Chicago regards the lake as hardly more than an annex to her park system, even today when the question of lake-front rights is not entirely settled with the railroad. On pleasant summer days, her residents go bathing in the lake by the thousands, and if they live within half a dozen blocks of the shore they will go and come in their bathing suits, with perhaps a light coat or bath-robe thrown over them. A man from New York might be shocked to see a Chicago man in a bathing suit riding a motorcycle down an important residence street--without the semblance of coat or robe; but that is Chicago, and Chicago seems to think nothing of it. She wonders if a man from Boston might not be embarrassed to see a coatless, vestless, collarless, suspendered man driving a four-thousand-dollar electric car through Michigan avenue. Chicago is fast changing, however, in these respects. She is growing more truly metropolitan each twelvemonth--less like an overgrown country town. It was only a moment ago that we sat in the office of the manufacturer, and he told us of the Chicago of yesterday, of the big girl who had "I will" emblazoned upon her shield. There is a Chicago of tomorrow, and a hint of its glory has been spread upon the walls of a single great gallery of the Art Institute, in the concrete form of splendid plans and perspectives. The Chicago of tomorrow is to be different; it is to forget the disadvantages of a lack of contour and reap those of a magnificent shore front. In the Chicago of tomorrow the railroads will not hold mile after mile of lake-edge for themselves, the elevated trains will cease to have a merry-go-round on the loop, the arid belt between downtown and uptown will have disappeared, great railroad terminal stations and public buildings built in architectural plan and relation to one another are to arise, her splendid park and boulevard system is to be vastly multiplied. Chicago looks hungrily forward to her tomorrow. She is never discouraged with her today, but with true American spirit, she anticipates the future. The present generation cares little for itself, it can tolerate the loop and its abominations, the _hodge-podge_ of the queer and the _nouveau_ that distinguishes the city by the lake in this present year of grace. But the oncoming generations! There is the rub. The oncoming generations are to have all that the wisdom and the wealth of today can possibly dedicate to them. There, then, is your Chicago spirit, the dominating inspiration that rises above the housetops of rows of monotonous, dun-colored houses and surveys the sprawling, disorderly town, and proclaims it triumphant over its outer self. 13 THE TWIN CITIES A fine yellow train takes you from Chicago to St. Paul and Minneapolis, in the passing of a single night. And if you ever meet in the course of your travel the typical globe-trotter who is inclined to carp at American railroads, refer him to these yellow trains that run from Chicago up into the Northwest. There are no finer steam caravans in all the entire world. And when the globe-trotter comes back at you with his telling final shot about the abominable open sleepers of America--and you in your heart of hearts must think them abominable--tell him in detail of the yellow trains. For a price not greater than he would pay for a room in a first-class hotel over-night, he can have a real room in the yellow trains. Like the compartments in the night-trains of Europe? No, not at all. These are real rooms--a whole car filled with them and they are the final and unanswerable argument for the comfort and luxury of the yellow trains. In such a stateroom and over smooth rails you sleep--sleep as a child sleeps until Lemuel, the porter, comes and tears you forth by entreaties, persuading you that you are almost upon the brink of--not St. Peter but of St. Paul. Of course, Lemuel has let his enthusiasm carry away his accuracy--even a porter upon a yellow train is apt to do that--but you have full chance to arise and dress leisurely before your train stops in the ancient ark of a Union station[E] upon the river level at the capital of the state of Minnesota. For at St. Paul you have come to the Mississippi--the Father of Waters of legendary lore. If you have only seen the stream at St. Louis or at New Orleans, polluted by the muddy waters of the Missouri or the Ohio or a dozen sluggish southern streams, you will not recognize the clear northern river flowing turbulently through a high-walled gorge, as the Mississippi. There are a few of the flat-bottomed, gaily caparisoned steamboats at the St. Paul to heighten the resemblance between the lower river and the upper, but that is all. [E] Since the above was written word has come of the destruction of the Union station by fire, an event which will not be regretted by travelers or by residents of the place. E. H. St. Paul owes her birth to the river-trade nevertheless. For she was, and still is, at the real head of navigation on the Mississippi and in other days that meant very much indeed. A few miles above her levee were the falls of St. Anthony and a thriving little town called Minneapolis--of which very much more in a moment. From that levee at St. Paul began the first railroad building into the then unknown country of the Northwest. The first locomotive--the _William Crooks_--which ran into the virgin territory is still carefully preserved. And the man who made railroading from St. Paul into a great trunk line system still lives in the town. He began by being assistant wharfmaster--in the days when there was something to do in such a job. Today they know him as the Empire Builder. The Swedes, who form so important a factor in the population of the Twin Cities, call him "Yem Hill" and he loves it. But he is entered in all records as James J. Hill. To tell the story of the growth of Jim Hill from wharfmaster to master of the railroads, would be to tell the story of one of the two or three really great men who are living in America today. It is a story closely interwoven with the story of St. Paul, the struggling town to which he came while yet a mere boy. He has lived to see St. Paul become an important city, the rival village at the falls of St. Anthony even exceed her in size and in commercial importance, but his affection for the old river town to which he has given so much of his life and abundant personality has not dimmed. He has made it the gateway of his Northwest and when one says "Hill's Northwest" he says it advisedly; for while there might have been a Northwest without Jim Hill, there would have been no Jim Hill without the Northwest. He found it a raw and little known land over which stretched a single water-logged railroad fighting adversity, and in momentary danger of extinction through receivership; a trunk-line railroad at that time distinguished more for its arrogance than for any other one feature of its being. Somewhere in the late eighties J. J. Hill took a trip over that railroad. He saw Seattle for the first time and found it a mere lumber-shipping town of but a few thousand population and with but little apparent future. He saw great stretches of open country--whole counties the size of the majestic states of New York and of Pennsylvania and still all but unknown. He also saw unbridled streams, high-seated mountain ranges and because J. J. Hill was a dreamer he saw promise in these things. From that trip he returned to the budding city of St. Paul, enthused beyond ordinary measure, and determined that in the coming development of the half-dozen territories at the northwestern corner of the country he would share no ordinary part. He turned his back on the navigation of the Mississippi--already beginning to wane--and gave his attention to railroading. Purchasing an inconsequential lumber railroad in Minnesota, he laid the foundations for his Great Northern system. There was a something about Jim Hill in those earlier days by which he could give his enthusiasm and his lofty inspiration to those with whom he came in contact. That rare faculty was his salvation. Men listened to the confident talker from St. Paul and then placed their modest savings at his disposal. They have not regretted their steps. The Great Northern, through Hill's careful leadership has, despite much of the sparse territory through which it passes, become one of the great conservative railroad properties of the United States. But Hill did more. He took that earlier system--the Northern Pacific, so closely allied to his territory--and made it hardly second in efficiency to the Great Northern itself. Both of these great railroads of the Northwest have never reached farther east than St. Paul, which Hill, with that fine sentiment which is so important a part of his nature, has been pleased to maintain as the gateway city of his own part of the land. But, while he has been a most helpful citizen of St. Paul, he has not hesitated to dominate her. A few years ago when the Metropolitan company presenting grand opera came to St. Paul, it was Hill who headed the subscription list for a guarantee--headed it with a good round figure. Three days before the opening night of the opera he walked into the passenger office of the linking railroad that he owned between the Twin Cities and Chicago. The singers were scheduled to come from Chicago. "Are you going to bring the troupe up in extra cars or in a special train?" he demanded, in his peremptory fashion. There was confusion in that office, and finally it was explained to him that a rival line, the M----, had been given the haul of the special train, as a return courtesy for having placed its advertisement on the rear cover of the opera programmes. Hill's muscles tightened. "If the troupe doesn't come up over our road," he said, "I will withdraw the opera subscription." The M---- road lost the movement of that opera company. * * * * * Hill is an advertiser, a patient, persistent and entirely consistent user of public print in every form. Of the really big men of the land he is perhaps the most accessible. His door swings quickly open to any resident of the Northwest. He is in demand at public dinners in the East and at every conceivable function in his own territory. And yet those folk of his own town who come to know Mr. Hill intimately know him rather as a great publicist, no poor musician, a painter of real ability, and a kind-hearted neighbor. His house in Summit avenue contains one of the finest art galleries west of Chicago. In this rare taste for good art he is not unlike the late Collis P. Huntington, or Sir William C. Van Horne, the dominating force of the Canadian Pacific. Hill has a real faculty not only for judging, but for executing oil paintings. It is related on good authority that, having been a member of a committee to purchase a portrait of a distinguished western railroader, he found the picture as it hung in the artist's studio in Chicago far from his liking. "He's missed W----'s expression entirely," said the Empire Builder. And so saying he grasped a palette that was resting on a table, dove his brush into the soft paints, and before the astonished artist could recover enough self-possession to protest, Hill was deftly at work upon the canvas. In five minutes he had convinced the little committee of which he was chairman, that the expression of the portrait had been lacking, for it was Hill who made that portrait so speaking a likeness that the artist received warm and undue praise for the fidelity of his work. * * * * * There is in St. Paul--a city of wealthy men--a man who is even wealthier than J. J. Hill. His name is Frederick Weyerheuser, and newspapers have a habit of speaking of him as the Lumber King. Mr. Weyerheuser does not court publicity, he shrinks from invitations to speak at public dinners. He has a press agent whose chief work it was for many years to keep his chief out of the columns of the newspapers. It is only within a comparatively short time that Weyerheuser consented to give his first interview to the press. He is quite typical of the conservatism of St. Paul. Minneapolis snaps its fingers at conservatism, social and business, and signs of progress. But Minneapolis mortgages her downtown business property. St. Paul does not. The two towns are as different as if they were a thousand instead of but ten miles apart. And St. Paul believes that Minneapolis may do as she pleases. St. Paul has a reputation to preserve. She is the capital of the state of Minnesota and as capital her pride and her dignity are not slight. Perhaps it was that pride that made her set forth to build a capitol that should stand through the long years as the Bulfinch State House in Boston has stood through the long years--a monument to good taste, restraint, real beauty in architecture. She summoned one of her native sons to do the work. He was unhampered in its details. And when he was done and had placed it upon a sightly knoll he must have been proud of his handiwork. In years to come the Capitol of Minnesota may become quite as famous as the capitols of older states, and the name of Cass Gilbert, its architect, may be placed alongside of that of Bulfinch. St. Paul is hardly less proud of her Auditorium. It is really a remarkable building and perhaps the first theater in the land to be operated by a municipality, although we have a distinct feeling that the small city of Northampton, Mass., has also accomplished something of the sort. But the St. Paul Auditorium is hardly to be placed in the same class as any mere theater. It is a huge building although so cunningly constructed that within ten hours it can be changed from a compact theater into a great hall with some 10,000 seats. And this change can be effected, if necessary, without the slightest disturbance to the audience. To this great hall come grand opera, well-famed orators, conventions of state and national bodies, drama, concerts of every sort in great frequency and variety. Perhaps no entertainment that it houses, however, has keener interest for the entire city than the free concerts that are given each winter. Last year there were five of these concerts, and it was soon found that the small-sized auditorium with its three thousand seats was too small. It became necessary to utilize the entire capacity of the structure. The concerts were immensely popular from the beginning. They were but typical of the high public spirit of the capital city of Minnesota, a spirit which showed itself in the early adoption of the commission form of city government, in the establishment of playgrounds and modern markets, in the buildings of the great public baths on Harriet island, in the development of a half hundred active and progressive forms of modern civic endeavor. St. Paul, with all her rare flavor of history and her great conservatism can well be reckoned in the list of the modern cities that form the gateways of what was once called the West and is today rapidly becoming an integral part of the nation. * * * * * The first time that we ever came into Minneapolis was at dusk of a July night two years ago. That is, it might have been dusk in theory. For while the clocks of the town spelled "eight," the northern day hung wonderfully clear and wonderfully sharp--a twilight that was hardly done until well towards ten of the evening. We came out of the somewhat barn-like Union station, found an unpretentious cab and drove up Nicollet avenue toward our hotel. The initial impression that a city makes upon one is not easily forgotten. And the first impression that Nicollet avenue makes upon a first-comer to Minneapolis cannot easily be erased. It is with pleasure that a stranger notes that it has not been invaded by street railroad tracks. The chief shopping and show-street of the largest city of Minnesota thereby conveys a sense of breadth and roominess that the chief streets of some other fairly important American towns lack utterly. And we distinctly recall that upon that July night the cluster lights up and down Nicollet avenue each bore a great flower-box, warm and summerlike with the brightness of geraniums. In the windows of the large stores that lined the avenue were more window-boxes, up to their seventh and eighth floors. The entire effect was distinct and different from that of any other town that we have ever seen. It seemed as if Minneapolis at first sight typified the new America. Nor was that impression lessened when a little later we drove out in the softness of the summer night to see the residence streets of the city--quiet, shady streets that seem to have been stolen from older eastern towns; drove into the parks, caught here and there the strains of bands, saw the canoes darting here and there and everywhere upon the surface of the park lakes. In other cities they have to build waterways within their parks and boast to you of the way in which they have done it. In Minneapolis they can have no such boast. For they have builded their parks around their lakes, and a man can have a sheet of water instead of greensward at the door of his home if he so choose. Where a modern canoe shoots across the waters of Lakes Calhoun or Harriet, the Indian once shot his birch-bark creation. There are some two hundred lakes in Hennepin county. But the lake of all lakes--the joy of the residents of the Twin Cities for a day's outing, Minnetonka--was the favored gathering spot for the council fires of the Indian tribes for many miles around. Do not forget that the Falls of St. Anthony were the making of Minneapolis--and you can go by trolley within the half-hour from the center of the city to the gentler Falls of Minnehaha and there recount once again the immortal romance of Hiawatha. Minneapolis has all but forgotten the Falls of St. Anthony--despite the fact that they were the very cause of her existence. They are hemmed in by great flouring-mills, great dusty, unceasing engines of industry with a capacity of some eighty thousand barrels a day, and even if you steal your way to them across one of the roadway bridges over the turbulent Mississippi you will find them lost beneath the artificial works that turn their energy to the aid of man. The roar of the great Falls of St. Anthony are the roar of the flouring-mills, their energy, the bread-stuff of the nation. [Illustration: St. Paul is still a river town] Minneapolis does not affect to forget entirely her mother river. For a long time it irritated her that St. Paul should be regarded as the head of navigation upon the Mississippi, and within the past twenty years she has put the Federal government to much trouble and incidentally the expenditure of something over a million dollars, to make herself a maritime city. A ship-channel has been dredged, locks put in, draws cut in the railroad bridges but all apparently without a very definite purpose in mind--save possible holding her own in the expenditure of the annual rivers and harbors appropriation. For one can hardly imagine water commerce coming in great volume to the docks of Minneapolis, the one exclusive glory of St. Paul--passed long ago by her greatest rival in the commercial race of the Northwest--stolen from the older town. But one could hardly have driven out from the brisk little city of St. Paul forty years ago to the straggling mill village at the Falls of St. Anthony and imagined that in the second decade of the twentieth century it would have become a city of more than three hundred thousand souls. The men who are today active in the affairs of the city have seen her grow from a straggling town into a city of almost first rank. Here was one of them who sat the other day in the well-ordered elegance of the Minneapolis Club--a structure instantly comparable with the finest club-houses of New York or Boston or Philadelphia--who admitted that he had seen the town grow from eight thousand to over three hundred thousand population, the receipts of his own fine business increase from eighty-eight to twenty-two thousand dollars a day. But he was a modest man, far more modest than many of these western captains of industry, and he quickly turned the talk from himself and to the commercial importance of the town with which he was pressing forward. Still he delighted in statistics and the fact that Minneapolis "was doing a wholesale business of $300,000,000 a year" seemed to give him an immense and personal pride. But do not believe that Minneapolis is all commercial--and nothing else. A quick ride through those shaded streets and lake-filled parks will convince you that she is a home-city; a cursory glance of the University of Minnesota, so cleverly located that she may share it with her rival twin, together with an inspection of her schools, large and small, would make you believe that she is a city that prides herself upon being well educated. The dominant strain of Norse blood that the Swedish immigrants have been bringing her for more than half a century is a strain that calls for education--and makes the call in no uncertain fashion. And when you come to delve into the details of her living you will make sure that she is a well-governed city. She has not gone deeply into what she calls "the fads of municipal government" but she is a town which offers security and comfort, as well as pretty broad measure of opportunity, to her residents. And in no better way can you gauge the sensible way in which she takes care of her residents than in the one item of the street railroad system. It has never been necessary for either St. Paul or Minneapolis to assume control, actual or subtle, over the street railroad property which they share. And yet each has a street railroad service far superior to that of most American towns--with the possible exception of Washington. The traction company seems to have assimilated much of the breadth of spirit that dominates the Twin Cities of the Northwest. Nor can you assume that Minneapolis is content to be merely commercially alive, well educated or efficiently governed. Down on one of the quiet business streets of the city is a printing-shop, so unique and so very distinctive that it deserves a paragraph here and now. In that printing shop is published a trade paper of the milling industry which has to make no apologies for its existence, and a weekly newspaper called the _Bellman_. Some one is yet to write an appreciation of the new weekly press of America, the weekly press outside of New York, if you please, such publications as the _Argonaut_ of San Francisco; the _Mirror_ of St. Louis, the _Dial_ of Chicago and the _Minneapolis Bellman_. The part that these papers are playing in the making of a broad and cultured America will perhaps never be known; but that it is a large part no one who reads them faithfully will ever doubt. The _Bellman_ holds its own among this distinguished coterie. Its house is a fit temple for its soul, and you may gain a little insight into that soul when you are bidden to join its staff at one of its Thursday luncheons at the dining-board of the printing-house--a fashion quickly and easily brought from _London Punch_ halfway across the continent and into Minneapolis. No American of taste or appreciation would ever go to Minneapolis and miss one wonderful shop there--no huge box-like structure rearing itself from sidewalk edge and vulgarly proclaiming its wares through the brilliancy of immaculate windows of plate-glass, but a shadowy structure, set in a lawn and giving faint but unmistakable hints of the real treasures that it holds. For it is a rare shop, indeed, and a revelation to folk from the seaboard who may imagine that the interior of the land is an intellectual desolation. It may have been one of these who dined a little time ago at a house in one of these shaded streets of Minneapolis. After dinner the talk drifted without apparent reason to painting, and the man from the seaboard found his host in sharp touch with many of the new pictures. Definitely the talk turned to Walter Graves, London's newest sensation among the portrait painters, and the possibilities of his succeeding Whistler. The Minneapolis man beckoned the guest into the hall, and pointed silently to a picture hung there. It was a splendid portrait of Whistler,[F] painted by Walter Graves. "I never expected to find a picture like that--out here," frankly stammered the man from the seaboard. "You will find many things here that you do not expect," was all that the man from Minneapolis said. [F] Since writing the above we have been led to believe, by a gentleman from Rochester that a picture of Whistler by Graves is no great prize. He says that he can buy them by the dozen at a certain London shop. Because we claim no wit as an art critic we take no sides in this matter. The facts are here. You may choose for yourself. E. H. * * * * * If a town that is scarce forty years old can accomplish these things, how long will it be before the older cities of the land will have to look sharply as to their laurels? The new cities of America are to be a force in her intellectual progress not to be under-estimated or despised. 14 THE GATEWAY OF THE SOUTHWEST There are three great cities, or rather three groups of great cities, along the course of the Mississippi. To the north are St. Paul and Minneapolis, while far to the south is New Orleans, to which we will come in the due order of things. Between these St. Louis stands, close to the business center of the land. For nearly twenty miles she sprawls herself along the west bank of the Mississippi. Throughout her central portion she extends for a dozen miles straight back from her once busy levee. She is a great city, a very great city, in wealth, in industry, in resource. And yet she is a rather unimpressive city to the eye, at first sight and at last. It takes even a seasoned traveler some time to get used to that. If he dreams of St. Louis as a French city and preserving something of the French atmosphere, as do New Orleans and Quebec, he is doomed to utter disappointment. Save for a few tatterdemalion cottages down in Carondolet, at the south tip of the town, there is no trace of the builders of the city to which they gave the name of one of their kings. And if he has heard of the great German population and dreams of great summer-gardens, of winter-gardens, too, with huge bands and huge steins, he is doomed to no less disappointment. For that sort of thing you go to Milwaukee. St. Louis has as many Germans as that brisk Wisconsin city, and the largest brewery in the world, but she has never specialized in beer-gardens. She is old and yet you could hardly call her quaint. There are rows of small houses in her older streets, their green blinds tightly closed as if seemingly to escape the almost endless bath of soot and cinders that falls upon them, and the flat-bottomed steamboats still are fastened at the wharf-boats along the levee. But these make a pitiful showing nowadays when your mind compares them with the tales of ante-bellum days when there were so many of them that they could only put the noses of their bows against the levees. But tradition still rules the hearts of the rivermen, and the Mississippi steamboat has lost none of those fantastics of naval architecture that has endeared it to every writer from Mark Twain down to the present day. The streets aroundabout the levee are mean and dirty, and nowadays as silent as the Sabbath. Those convivial resorts, the Widow's Vow and the Boatman's Thirst have long since ceased to exist. As this is being written the Southern Hotel has closed its doors. Cobwebs are growing through its wonderful office, and the glorious marble stair up which a regiment might have marched is silent, save for the occasional halting steps of a watchman. The old Planters'--than which there was no more famous hostelry in the Mississippi valley, unless we choose to except the St. Charles down at New Orleans--is long since gone, torn away twenty years ago to make room for a new Planters', which has already begun to get grimy and aged. The Lindell went its way a dozen years ago. The St. Louis of the riverman is dead. They are tearing away the old warehouses from the levees, and no one looks at the Mississippi any more save when it gets upon one of its annual rampages and makes itself a yellow sea. [Illustration: The entrance to the University--St. Louis] But do not for an instant think that St. Louis herself is dead. There are other hotels, and far finer than those of the war-times and the river-trade. And you have only to walk a few squares back from the levee to find industry flourishing once again, solid squares of solid buildings, grimy, commercial, uncompromising, but each representing commerce. St. Louis is still the very center of the world to the great Southwest and to her it pays its tribute, in demands for merchandise of every sort. That is why she builds shoe-stores and dry-goods stores and wholesale stores of almost every other conceivable sort, and builds them for eight or ten or twelve stories in height, closely huddled together, even through unimportant side streets. That is her reason for existence today--when the river-trade, her first reason for growth and expansion, is dead. But the railroad is a living, vital force, when the rivers are frozen and dead, and railroads slip out from St. Louis in every possible direction. Their rails are glistening from traffic, and there at the city from whence they radiate Commerce sits enthroned. For you must look upon St. Louis, yesterday and today, as essentially a commercial city. She is not a cultured city, although she has an excellent press, including a weekly newspaper of more than ordinary distinction. Still you will find few real bookshops in all her many miles of streets, she has never leaned to fads or cults of any sort; but she measures the percentage which a business dollar will earn with a delightful accuracy. She is a commercial city. That is why she is to the casual traveler an unimpressive city, although we think that her lack of a dignified main street in her business section is responsible for much of this impression. In other years Broadway--Fifth street upon her city plan and a fearfully long thoroughfare running parallel to the river--ranked almost as a main street and had some dignity, if little beauty. But today St. Louis, like so many other of our American towns, is restless and she has slipped back and away from Broadway, leaving that thoroughfare somewhat forlorn and deserted and herself without a single great business thoroughfare--such as Market street, San Francisco or State street, Chicago. Her downtown streets are narrow and as much alike as peas in a pod. And yet even a casual traveler can find much to interest him in St. Louis. Let him start his inspection of the levee, let romance and sentiment and memory work within his mind. Let his fancy see the riverboats and then he, himself, inspect one of them. Here is one of them, gay in her ginger-bready architecture. Her stacks rise high above her "Texas" but they are placed ahead of her wheel-house, a fancy peculiar to the old naval architects along the Mississippi. She is driven by sidewheels and if our casual traveler goes upon her he will find that each sidewheel is driven by a separate engine, a marvelous affair painted in reds and blues and yellows. With one engine going ahead and the other reversed a really capable Mississippi pilot--and who shall doubt that a Mississippi river pilot, even in these decadent days, is ever anything less than capable--could send the boat spinning like a top upon the yellow stream. That pretty trick would hardly be possible with one of the flat-bottomed stern wheel boats, and there still are hundreds of these upon the Father of Waters and his tributaries, moving slowly and serenely up and down and all with a mighty splashing of dirty water. If you are a casual traveler and upon your first visit to the Mississippi valley, you will make a mental reservation to ride upon one of the old boats before you leave St. Louis. They may not be there so very many more years. The steel barges have begun to show themselves, and commerce is looking inquiringly at the idle stream to see if it cannot be brought into real efficiency as a transportation agent. And before you leave that levee, with the grass growing up between its ancient stones, you will find a very small and a very dirty sidewalk that leads from it up into and upon the great Eads bridge. St. Louis does not think very much of the Eads bridge these days. Yet it was only a few years ago that it was bragging about that wonderful conception of the engineer--who had finally spanned the lordly Mississippi and right at his chief city. But other bridges have come, two huge ungainly railroad structures to the north and a public bridge to the south--that is, it will be a public bridge if the voters of St. Louis ever cease quarreling about it. At the present time it is hardly a bridge, only a great span over the water and for long months absolutely unprovided with approaches because the taxpayers of St. Louis refuse to vote the funds for its completion. So it is that the Eads bridge is today but a single agency out of three or four for the spanning of the river; it, too, has grown grimy in forty years and the railroad travelers who come across through its lower deck only remember that from it there leads under the heart of the city of St. Louis one of the smokiest railroad tunnels in existence--and that is saying much. But the fact remains that it was the first structure to span the river, and to end the importunities of the unspeakable ferry. And today it is, with all of its grime, the one impressive feature of downtown St. Louis. It is the only wagonway that leads from the sovereign state of Illinois into the sovereign city of St. Louis. Across its upper deck passes at all hours of the day and far into the night a silent parade of trolley cars, mule teams, automobiles, farm trucks, folk of every sort and description, on foot. It is as interesting as London bridge and a far finer piece of architecture. But the modern St. Louis has all but forgotten it, save when it chooses to take a motor run across the Illinois prairies. * * * * * The casual traveler finally turns his back upon the river and its oldest bridge, although not without some regret if any real sentiment dwells within him. He threads his way through the narrow streets of downtown St. Louis and finally he enters the oldest residential part, the streets still narrow but the houses of rather a fine sort, many of them transformed into small shops or given these days to lodgers. They are of a type somewhat peculiar to the town. They were built high and rather narrow and as a rule set upon a terrace and detached. Builded of brick, the fancy of those old-time architects seemed to turn almost invariably to a façade of marble, an unblushing and unashamed veneer to the street, with the side walls humble and honest in dark red brick. Steps and lintels were of marble or what must have been marble in the beginning. A Philadelphia housewife would quail beneath the steady bath of smoke and cinders that falls upon St. Louis. There are many thousands of these red-brick and white-marble houses, finally important cross streets, such as Jefferson and Grand, and then you come into the newer St. Louis--a residential district of which any city might well be proud. In the newer St. Louis the houses are more modern and more attractive perhaps, due partly to the fact that they are farther away from the river and the great factories and railroad yards that line it. You can trace the varying fads in American house architecture in layers as you go back street by street in the new St. Louis--Norman, Italian Renaissance, American Colonial, Elizabethan--all like the slices in a fat layer-cake. Some of the more pretentious of these houses are grouped in great parks or reservations which give to the public streets by entrance gates and are known as Westminster place, or Vandeventer place, or the like. They form a most charming feature of the planning of St. Louis, and one almost as distinctive as the tidy alleys which act as serviceways to all the houses. The houses themselves are almost invariably set in lawns, although there are many fine apartments and apartment hotels. The fearful monotony of the side street of New York or Philadelphia does not exist within the town. At the rear of these fine streets of the newer St. Louis stands the chief park of the town, not very distinctive and famed chiefly as the site of the biggest World's Fair that was ever held, "considerably larger than that Chicago affair," your loyal resident will tell you. Our individual fancy rather turns to Tower Grove Park and the Botanical Gardens just adjoining it. Tower Grove is in no very attractive section of St. Louis, and as an example of landscape gardening it is rather lugubrious, little groups of stones from the old Southern Hotel, which was burned many years ago and was a fearful tragedy, being set here and there. But intangibly it breathes the spirit of St. Louis, and hard by is the Botanical Gardens that Henry Shaw gave to the city in which he was for so many years a dominating figure. And for even a casual traveler to go to St. Louis and never see Shaw's Gardens is almost inconceivable. In the first place, it is an excellent collection of plants and of trees and of exceeding interest to those folk who let their tastes carry them that way. And in the second place, Henry Shaw was so typical of the old St. Louis that you must stop for a moment and remember him. You must think of the steady purpose of the man visiting all the great gardens of Europe and then seeking to create one that should outrank all of them, in the mud-bog of St. Louis. For the St. Louis of war-times, the St. Louis to which Shaw gave his benefaction was little more than a bog. And Americans of those days laughed at parks. True there was Fairmount Park in Philadelphia, but the Fairmount Park of those days was a fantastic idea and hardly to be compared with the Fairmount Park of today. Henry Shaw went much farther than the banks of the Schuylkill, although he must have known and appreciated John Bartram's historic gardens there. Shaw was only forty years of age when he retired from business. He had saved through his keen business acumen and a decent sense of thrift, a quarter of a million dollars--a tremendous fortune for those days. He was quite frank in saying that he thought that $250,000 was all that a man could honestly earn or honestly possess, and he retired to enjoy his fortune as best it might please him to do. He traveled far and wide through Europe, and upon one of the earliest of those trips he visited the World's Fair of 1851, at the Crystal Palace, London; one of the very first of these international exhibitions. He was impressed not so much by the exhibits as by the fine park in which the Crystal Palace stood. A little later he was a guest at Chatsworth House, that splendid English home given by William the Conqueror to his natural son, William Peveril, and he became a frequent visitor at Kew Gardens. It was at that time he decided to make a botanical garden out of the place which he had just purchased outside of St. Louis. [Illustration: A luxurious home in the newer St. Louis] Henry Shaw must have remembered his boyhood days in St. Louis and the wonderful garden of Madame Rosalie Saugrain. In those earlier days St. Louis was small enough in population but large enough in the material for social enjoyment. The French element was still dominant, although Madame Saugrain was comparatively a newcomer, an accomplished lady who had brought the manners and tastes of Paris into the wilds of western America. Her garden, which was then in open country beyond the struggling town, was close to what is today Seventh street, St. Louis. Great skyscrapers and solid warehouses have sprung up where formerly Madame's roses and hollyhocks bloomed, and one would have to go weary blocks to find a spear of grass, unless within some public park. But Shaw's Gardens still exist, although their founder lived to a ripe old age and has now been dead a quarter of a century. Older folk of St. Louis remember him distinctly, a vigorous and seemingly lonely man, unmarried, but who seemed to be content to live alone in his great house in the Gardens, giving a loving and a personal care to his flowers and then, as dusk came on, invariably sitting in his room and reading far into the night. They will show you his will when you go to the museum in the Gardens, a curious old document, keenly prepared and devising to the remaining members of his family, servants and intimates, everything from immensely valuable real estate in the very heart of St. Louis down to the port and sherry from his cellars. But the part that interested St. Louis most was that part which gave the Gardens to the town, although not without restrictions. And the old Missouri town made Shaw's Gardens quite as much a part of its existence as its County Fair. The St. Louis Fair was a real institution. There have been far greater shows of the kind in our land, but perhaps none that ever entered more thoroughly into the hearts of the folk to whom it catered. Every one in St. Louis used to go to the Fair. It had a social status quite its own. When, after the hot and gruelling summer which causes all St. Louis folk who possibly can to flee to the ocean or to the mountains, they came home again in the joys of Indian summer there was the Fair--up under the trees of Grand avenue in the north part of the town--to serve for a getting together once again. It had served that way since long before wartime. And with it ran that mighty social bulwark of St. Louis, the Procession of the Veiled Prophet. One night in "Fair Week"--locally known as "Big Thursday"--was annually given to this pageant, frankly modeled upon the Mardi Gras festivities at New Orleans. Through the streets of the town the pageant rolled its triumphal course, all St. Louis came out to see it, and afterwards there was a ball. To be bidden to that ball was the social recognition that the city gave you. But in 1904 there came that greater fair--the Louisiana Purchase Exposition, to which the world was bidden. It was a really great fair and it has left a permanent impress upon the town in the form of a fine Art Gallery and the splendid group of buildings at the west edge of the city which are being devoted to the uses of Washington University. But the big fair spelled the doom of the smaller. The town had grown out around its grounds and they were no longer in the country. So the career of the old St. Louis Fair ended--brilliantly in that not-to-be-forgotten exposition. Although some attempts have recently been made to reëstablish it in another part of the town, the older folk of St. Louis shake their heads. They very well know that you cannot bring the old days back by the mere waving of a wand. Upon a crisp October evening, the Veiled Prophet still makes his way through the narrow streets of the town. The preparations for his coming are hedged about with greatest secrecy, and the young girls of St. Louis grow expectant just as their mothers and their grandmothers before them used to grow expectant when October came close at hand. At last, expectancy rewarded--out of the unknown an engraved summons to attend the court of a single night--with the engraved summons some souvenir of no slight worth; the prophet's favor is a generous one. Absurd, you say? Not a bit of it. It is a pity that we do not have more of it in our land. We have been rather busy grubbing; given ourselves rather too much to utility and efficiency, to the sordid business of merely making money. A Veiled Prophet is a good thing for a town, a Mardi Gras a tonic. It is an idea that is spreading across America, and America is profiting by it. * * * * * This is a personality sketch of St. Louis and not a guide-book. If it were the latter, it would recount the superb commercial position of the city, each of the bulwarks of its financial fortresses. The river-trade is dead indeed; even the most optimistic of those who are most anxious to see it revived doubt, in their heart of hearts, if ever it can be revived. But commerce is not dead at St. Louis. As St. Paul and Minneapolis are gateways to the Northwest remember that she is one of the great gateways to the Southwest. To the man in Arkansas or Oklahoma or Texas she is another New York; she stands to him as London stands to the folk of the English counties. And this relation she capitalizes and so grows rich. She is solid and substantial--the old French town of the yesterdays has taken her permanent place among the leading cities of America. 15 THE OLD FRENCH LADY OF THE RIVERBANK At the bend of the river she stands--this drowsy old French lady of the long ago. They have called her the Crescent City. But the Mississippi makes more than a single turn around the wide-spreading town. And the results are most puzzling, even to those steadyminded folk who assert that they are direction-wise. In New Orleans, east seems west and north seems south. It must almost be that the Father of Rivers reverses all the laws of Mother Nature and runs his course up-stream. New Orleans is upon the east bank of the Mississippi. All the guide-books will tell you that. But in the morning the sun arises from over across the river, and in the cool of evening his reddish radiance is dying over Lake Ponchartrain, directly east from the river--at least, so your direction-wise intelligence seems to tell you. But east is east and west is west and Old Sol has made such a habit of rising and setting these many thousand years that his reliability is not to be trusted. As to the reliability of the Father of Waters--there is quite another matter. Truth to tell, the Mississippi river is probably the most utterly unreliable thing within the North American continent. He has shifted his course so many times within the brief century that the white-skinned men have known him, that the oldest of them have lost all trace of his original course. And so to steer a vessel up and down the stream is a doubly difficult art. The pilot does not merely have to know his steering-marks--the range between that point and this, the thrust of some hidden and fearfully dangerous reef, the advantage to be gained between eddies and currents for easy running--he has to learn the entire thing anew each time he brings a craft up or down the river. Mark Twain has long since immortalized the ample genius of the Mississippi pilots. The stories of the river's unreliability, of its constant tendency to change its channel are apocryphal--almost as old as the oldest of the houses of old New Orleans. And this is not the story of the river. Yet it must not be forgotten that the river almost is New Orleans, that from the beginning it has been the source of the French lady's strength and prosperity. Before there was even thought of a city the river was there--pouring its yellow flood down from an unknown land to the great gulf. Bienville, the real founder of New Orleans, saw with the prophetic sight of a really great thinker what even a river that came to the sea from an unexplored land might mean in years to come to the city of his creation. His prophecy was right. When the river, with the traffic upon its bosom, has prospered, New Orleans has prospered. And in the lean years when the river traffic has dwindled, New Orleans has felt the loss in her every fiber. There are old-timers in the city who shake their heads when they tell you of the fat river-boats crowding in at the levee, of the clipper-ships and the newer steam-propelled craft at the deeper docks, of the crowds around the old St. Louis and the St. Charles Hotels, the congested narrow streets, the halcyon days when the markets of the two greatest nations in the world halted on the cotton news from Factors Row. And New Orleans awaits the opening of the Panama canal with something like feverish anticipation, for she feels that this mighty nick finally cut into the thin neck of the American continents, her wharves will again be crowded with shipping--this time with a variety of craft plying to and from the strange ports of the Pacific. So much does her river still mean to her. Factors Row still stands, rusty and somewhat grimed. No longer is it consequential in the markets of the world. In fact, to put a bald truth baldly, no longer is New Orleans of supreme consequence in the cotton problem of all nations. A great cotton shipping port she still is and will long remain. But the multiplication of railroad points and the rapid development of such newer cotton ports as Galveston, to make a single instance, have all worked against her preëminence. This is not a story of the commercial importance of New Orleans, either. There are plenty who are willing to tell that story, with all of its romantic traditions of the past and its brilliant prophecies for the future. This is the story of the New Orleans of today, the city who with an almost reverential respect for the Past and its monuments still holds her doors open to the Present and its wonders. Of the Past one may know at every turn. North of Canal street--that broad thoroughfare which ranks as a dividing path with Market street in San Francisco--the city has changed but little since the Civil War. South of Canal--still called the "new" part of the city--there has been some really modern development. Prosperous looking skyscrapers have lifted their lordly heads above the narrow streets and the compactly built "squares" which they encompass; there are several modern hotels with all the momentary glory of artificial marbles and chromatic frescoes, department stores with show windows as brave and gay as any of those in New York or Chicago or Boston. But even if the narrow streets were to be widened, New Orleans would never look like Indianapolis or Kansas City or St. Paul--any of the typical cities of the so-called Middle West. Too many of her stout old structures of the fifties and the sixties still remain. And hung upon these, uncompromising and triumphant, are the galleries. The galleries of New Orleans! They are perhaps the most typical of the outward expressions of a town whose personality is as distinct as that of Boston or Charleston or San Francisco. They must have been master workmen whose fingers and whose ancient forges worked those delicate and lacelike traceries. And it has been many thankful generations who have praised the practical side of their handicraft. For in the long hot summer months of New Orleans these galleries furnish a shade that is a delight and a comfort. On rainy days they are arcades keeping dry the sidewalks of the heart of the town. And from the offices within, the galleries, their rails lined with growing things, are veritable triumphs. Once in a great while some one will rise up and suggest that they be abolished--that they are old-fashioned and have long since served their full purpose. That some one is generally a smart shopkeeper who has drifted down from one of these upstart cities from the North or East. But New Orleans is smarter still. She well knows the commercial value of her personality. There are newer cities and showier within the radius of a single night's ride upon a fast train. But where one man comes to one of these, a dozen alight at the old French town by the bend of the yellow river. "Give J---- a few French restaurants, some fame for its cocktails or its gin-fizzes--just as New Orleans has--and I will bring a dozen big new factories here within the next three years," said the secretary of the Chamber of Commerce of a thriving Texas town the other day. He knew whereof he spake. And now, we shall know whereof we speak. We shall give a moment of attention to the little restaurants and the gin-fizzes. Let the gin-fizzes come first, for they are nearly as characteristic of the old town as her galleries! You will find their chief habitat just across a narrow alley from the St. Charles Hotel. There is a long bar on the one side of the room, upon which stand great piles of ice-bound southern oysters--twelve months of the year, for New Orleans never reads an "R" in or out of her oyster-eating calendar. But any bar may bring forth oysters, and only one bar in the world brings forth the real New Orleans gin-fizz. Two enterprising young men stand behind the bar-keepers in a perpetual shaking of the fizzes. If it is tantalizing to shake that whereof you do not taste, they show it not. And in the hours of rush traffic there are six of the non-bar-keeping bartenders who give the correct amount of ague to New Orleans' most delectable beverage. A hustler from North or East would put in electric shakers instanter--a thousand or is it ten thousand revolutions to the minute? He would brag of his electric shakers and the New Orleans gin-fizz would be dead--forever. Romance and an electric shaker cannot go hand in hand. "The ingredients?" you breathlessly interrupt. "The manner of the mixing?" Bless your heart, if the Gin Fizz House published its close-held secret to the world, it would lose its chief excuse for existence and then become an ordinary drinking-place. As it is, it holds its head above the real variety of saloons, even above the polished mahogany bar of the aristocratic hotel across the narrow street. For its product, if delightful, is still gentle, although insidious, perhaps. It is largely milk and barely gin. You can drink it by the barrel without the slightest jarring of your faculties. And it is rumored that some of the men of New Orleans use it as a breakfast-food. From the Gin Fizz House to the Absinthe House is a long way,--in more meanings than one. The Absinthe House is hardly less famed, but in these days when drinking has largely gone out of fashion and wormwood is under the particular ban of the United States statutes, it is largely a relic of the past. It stands in the heart of the old French town and before we come to its broad portal, let us study the fascinating quarter in which we are to find it. We have already spoken of Canal street, so broad in contradistinction to the very narrow streets of the rest of the older parts of the town, that one can almost see the narrow water-filled ditch that once traversed it, as the dividing line of the city. South of Canal street, the so-called American portion of the city, with many affectations of modernity--north of that thoroughfare--curiously enough the down-stream side--the French quarter, architecturally and romantically the most fascinating section of any large city of the United States. The very names of its streets--Chartres, Royal, Bourbon, Burgundy, Dauphine, St. Louis--quicken anticipation. And anticipation is not dulled when one comes to see the great somber houses with their mysterious and moth-eaten courtyards and the interesting folk who dwell within them. We choose Royal street, heading straight away from Canal street as if in shrinking horror of electric signs and moving-picture theaters. In a single square they are behind and forgotten and, if it were not for the trolley cars and the smartly dressed French girls, we might be walking in Yesterday. The side streets groan under the same ugly, heavy patterns of Belgian block pavement that have done service for nearly a century. Originally the blocks--brought long years ago as ballast in the ships from Europe--were in a pretty pattern, laid diagonally. But heavy traffic and the soft sub-strata of the river-bank town have long since worked sad havoc with the old pavements. And a new city administration has finally begun to replace them with the very comfortable but utterly unsentimental asphalt. Here is the Absinthe House, worth but a single glance, for it has descended to the estate of an ordinary corner saloon. Only ordinary corner saloons are not ordinarily housed in structures of this sort. You can see houses like this in the south of France and in Spain--so I am told. For below Canal street is both French and Spanish. Remember, if you please, that the French of the Southland shared the same hard fate of their countrymen in that far northern valley of the great St. Lawrence--neglect. The French are the most loyal people on earth. Their fidelity to their language and their customs for nearly two centuries proves that. That faith, steadfast through the tragedy of the indifference and neglect of their mother country, doubly proves it. And the only difference between the Frenchman of Quebec and the Frenchman of New Orleans was that in the South the Spaniard was injected into the problem. But the Frenchman in the South was not less loyal than his fellow-countryman of the North. A dissolute king sitting in the wreck of his great family in the suburbs of Paris might barter away the title of his lands, but no Louis could ever trade away the loyalty of the older French of New Orleans to their land and its institutions. In such a faith was the French quarter of the city born. In such faith has it survived, these many years. And perhaps the very greatest episodes in the history of the city were in those twenty days of November, 1803, when the French flag displaced the Spanish in the old Place d'Armes, to be replaced only by the strange banner of a newborn nation which was given the opportunity of working out the destiny of the new France. So it was the Spaniard who took his part in the shaping of the French quarter of New Orleans. You can see the impress of his architects in the stout old houses that were built after two disastrous and wide-spread fires in the closing years of the eighteenth century--even in the great lion of the town; the Cabildo which rises from what was formerly the Place d'Armes and is today Jackson square. And the old Absinthe House, with its curiously wrought and half-covered courtyard is one of these old-time Spanish houses. Now forget about the absinthe--as the rest of the French folk of the land are beginning to forget it--and turn your attention to the courtyards. In another old Southern city--Charleston--the oldest houses shut the glories of their lovely-aging gardens from the sight of vulgar passers-by upon the street by means of uncompromising high fences. The old houses of New Orleans do more. Their gardens are shielded from the crowded, noisy, horrid streets by the houses themselves. And he who runs through those crowded, noisy, horrid streets, must really walk, for only so will he catch brief glimpses of the glories of those fading courtyard gardens. Sometimes, if you have the courage of your convictions and the proper fashion of seizing opportunity by the throat you may wander into one of the tunnel-like gateways of one of these very old houses. No one will halt you. Here it is--old France in new America. The tunnel-like way from the street is shady and cool. From it leads a stair to the right and the upper floor of the house, a stair up which a regiment might have walked, and down which the old figure of a Balzac might descend this moment without ever a single jarring upon your soul. The stair ends in a great oval hall, whose scarlet paper has long since faded but still remains a memory of the glories of the days that were. The carved entablatures over the doors, the bravado of cornice and rosette where the plaster has not finally fallen, proclaim the former grandeur of this apartment. And in some former day a great chandelier must have hung from the center of its graceful ceiling. Today--some one of the neighboring antique stores has reaped its reward, and a candle set in a wall-lantern is its sole illumination. A shabby room will not bear the glories of a gay chandelier. And the old Frenchman and his wife who live in the place have all but forgotten. They have a parrot and a sewing-machine and what are the glories of the past to them? Of course, such a house must have its courtyard. And if the huge copper-bound tank is dry, and the water has not forced its way through the battered fountain these many years, if the old exquisite tiles of the house long since went to form the roof of the new garage of some smart new American place up the river--the magnolia still blossoms magnificently among the decay, and Madame's skill with her jessamine and her geraniums would confound the imported tricks of those English gardeners in the elaborate new places. Here then is the old France in the new land--the priceless treasure that New Orleans wears at her very heart. And here in the very heart of that heart is an ugly old building boarded up by offensively brilliant advertising signs. [Illustration: You still see white steamboats at the New Orleans levee] An ugly old building did we say, with rough glance at its rusty façades? Can one be young and beautiful forever? Rusty and beautiful--oh no, do not scorn the old St. Louis Hotel for following the most normal of all the laws of Nature. For within this moldering and once magnificent tavern history was made. In one of its ancient rooms a President of the United States was unmade, while in another chamber human life was bought and sold with no more concern than the old Creole lady on the far corner shows when she sells you the little statues of the Blessed Virgin. These wonders are still to be seen--for the asking. The _concierge_ of the old hotel is a courteous lady who with her servant dwells in the two most habitable of its remaining rooms. There is no use knocking at the hotel door for she is very, very deaf indeed, poor lady. But if you will brave a stern "No Admittance" sign and ascend the graceful winding stair for a single flight--such a stair as has rarely come to our sight--you will find her--ready and willing. One by one she shows you the rooms, faded and disreputable, for the hotel is in a fearful state of disrepair. The plaster is falling here and there, and where it still adheres to the lath the old-time paper hangs in long shreds, like giant stalactites, from the ceiling. Once, for a decade in the "late eighties," an effort was made to revive the hotel and its former glories--a desperate and a hopeless effort--and the pitiful "innovations" of that régime still show. But when you close your eyes you do not see the St. Louis Hotel of that decade, but rather in those wonderful twenty years before the coming of the cruel war. In those days New Orleans was the gayest city in the new world, uptilting its saucy nose at such heavy eastern towns as New York or Boston. Its wharves were crowded with the ships of the world, the river-boat captains fought for the opportunity of bringing the mere noses of their craft against the overcrowded levee. Cotton--it was the greatest thing of the world. New Orleans was cotton and cotton was the king of the world. No wonder then that the St. Louis Hotel could say when it was new, that it had the finest ballrooms in the world. They still show them to you, in piecemeal, for they were long since cut up into separate rooms. The great rotunda was ruined by a temporary floor at the time the state of Louisiana bought the old hotel for a capitol, and used the rotunda for its fiery Senate sessions. All these things the _concierge_ will relate to you--and more. Then she takes you down the old main-stair, gently lest its rotting treads and risers should crumble under too stout foot-falls. Into the cavernous bottom of the rotunda she leads you. It is encumbered with the steam-pipes of that after era, blocked with rubbish, very dark withal. The _concierge_, with a fine sense of the dramatic, catches up a bit of newspaper, lights it, thrusts it ahead as a lighted torch. "The old slave mart," she says, in a well-trained stage whisper, and thrusts the blazing paper up at full arm's length. As the torch goes higher, her voice goes lower: "Beyond the auction block, the slaves' prison." As a matter of real fact, the "slaves' prison" is probably nothing more or less than the negro quarters that every oldtime southern hotel used to provide for the slaves of its planter patrons. But the _concierge_ does not overlook dramatic possibilities. And she is both too deaf and too much a lady to be contradicted. She has given you full value for the handful of pennies she expects from you. And as for you--a feeling of something like indignation wells within you that the city of New Orleans has permitted the stoutly built old hotel to fall into such ruin. In an era which is doing much to preserve the monuments of the earlier America, it has been overlooked. Such resentment softens a little further down. You are in Jackson square now--the Place d'Armes of the old French days--and facing there the three great lions that have stood confronting that open space since almost the beginning of New Orleans. The great cathedral flanked by the Cabilda and the Presbytery is not, of itself, particularly beautiful or impressive. But it is interesting to remember that within it on a memorable occasion Andrew Jackson sat at mass--interesting because he had just fought the battle of New Orleans and ended the Second War with England. And the _Te Deum_ that went up at that time was truly a thankful one. The Cabilda and the Presbytery, invested as they are with rare historical interest, are more worth while. But to our mind the chief delight of Jackson square are the two long red-brick buildings that completely fill the north and south sides of that delectable retreat. In themselves these old fellows are not architecturally important, although by close inspection you may find in the traceries of their gallery rails the initials of the wife of the Spanish grandee--Madama de Pontalba--historically they are not distinguished, unless count the fact that in one of them dwelt Jenny Lind upon the occasion of a not-to-be-forgotten engagement in New Orleans--but as the sides of what is perhaps the most delightful square in the entire Southland they are most satisfying. Jackson square has fallen from its high estate. Its gardens were once set out in formal fashion for the elect of New Orleans, nowadays they are visited by swarms of the cheaper French and Italian lodgers of the neighborhood, and scrawny felines from the old Pontalba buildings use it as a congregating place. But, even in decadent days, its fascination is none the less. Beyond Jackson square rests the French market, the very index to all that New Orleans' love of good eating that has become so closely linked with the city. The market-scheme of the city as this is being written is being greatly revised. Up to the present time the market-men have been autocrats. The grocers of the city have been forbidden to sell fresh fruits or vegetables; if a retailer be audacious enough to wish to set out with a private market, he must be a certain considerable number of squares distant from a public institution--and pay to the city a heavy license fee as penalty for his audacity. Nor is that all. The consumer is forbidden to purchase direct from the producer, even though the producer's wagon be backed up against the market curb in most inviting fashion. New Orleans recognizes the middleman and protects him--or has protected him until the present time. Even peddlers have been barred from hawking their wares through her streets until noon--when the public markets close and the housewives have practically completed their purchases for the day. But--banish the thoughts of the markets as economic problems, cease puzzling your blessed brains with that eternal problem of the cost-of-living. Consider the French market as a truly delectable spot. Go to it early in the morning, when the sun is beginning to poke his way down into the narrow streets and the shadows are heavy under the galleries. Breakfast at the hotel? Not a bit of it. You take your coffee and doughnuts alongside the market-men--at long and immaculate counters in the market-house. And when you are done you will take your oath that you have never before tasted coffee. The coffee-man bends over you--he is a coffee-man descended from coffee-men, for these stalls of the famous old markets are almost priceless heritages that descend from generation to generation. In these days they never go out of a single family. "_Café lait?_" says the coffee-man. You nod assent. Two long-spouted cans descend upon your cup. From one the coffee, from the other creamy milk come simultaneously, with a skill that comes of long years of practice on the part of the coffee-man. That is all--_café lait_ and doughnuts. They make just as good doughnuts in Boston, but New England has never known the joys of _café lait_. If it had, it would never return to its oldtime coffee habits. And the older markets of Boston do not see the fine ladies of the town coming to them on Sunday morning, after mass, negro servants behind, to do their marketing, themselves. Hours of joy in this market--the food capital of a rich land of milk and honey. After those hours of joy--breakfast at the Madame's. The Madame began--no one knows just how many years ago--by serving an eleven o'clock breakfast to the market-men, skilled in food as purveyors as most critical of the food they eat. The Madame realized that problem--and met it. So well did she meet it that the fame of her cookery spread outside the confines of the market-houses, and city folk and tourists began drifting to her table. In a few years she had established an institution. And today her breakfast is as much a part of New Orleans as the old City Hall or the new Court House. She has been dead several years--dear old gastronomic French lady--but her institution, after the fashion of some institutions, lives after her. It still stands at the edge of the market and it still serves one meal each day--the traditional breakfast. It is sad to relate that it has become a little commercialized--they sell souvenir spoons and cook-books--but you can shut your eyes to these and still see the place in all of its glories. A long, low room at the back of and above a little saloon, reached from the side-door of the saloon by a turning and rickety stair. A meagerly equipped table in the long, low room, from which a few steps lead up to a smoky but immensely clean kitchen. From that kitchen--odors. Odors? What a name for incense, the promise of preparation. You sometimes catch glimpses of busy women, fat and uncorseted. Cooks? Perish the words. These are artists, if artists have ever really been. Finally--and upon the stroke of eleven--the breakfast. It shall not be described here in intimate detail for you, dear reader, will not be sitting at the Madame's hospitable table as you read these lines. It is enough for you to know that the liver is unsurpassable and the coffee--the coffee gets its flavor from an adroit sweetening of cognac and of sugar. What matter the souvenirs now? The breakfast has lost none of its savor through the passing of the years. For here is New Orleans where it seems impossible to get a poor meal. There is many and many an interior city of size and pretentious marbleized and flunkeyized hotels of which that may not be said. But in New Orleans an appreciation of good cookery is an appreciation of the art of a real profession. And of her restaurants there is an infinite variety--La Louisiane, Galatoire's, Antoine's, Begue's, Brasco's--the list runs far too long to be printed here. Nor does the space of this page permit a recountal of the dishes themselves--the world-famed _gumbos_, the crawfish _bisque_, the red-snapper stuffed with oysters, the crabs and the shrimps. And lest we should be fairly suspected of trying to emulate a cook-book, turn your back upon the fine little restaurants, where noisy orchestras and unspeakable _cabarets_ have not yet dared to enter, and see still a little more of the streets of the old French quarter. More courtyards, more old houses, a venerable hall now occupied by a sisterhood of the Roman church but formerly gay with the "quadroon balls" which gave spicy romance to all this quarter. And here, rising high above the narrow thrust of Bourbon street, the French Opera, for be it remembered that New Orleans had her opera house firmly established when New York still regarded hers as a dubious experiment. To come into the old opera house, builded after the impressive fashion of architects of another time, with its real horseshoe and its five great tiers rising within it--is again to see the old New Orleans living in the new. It is to see the exclusive Creoles--perhaps the most exclusive folk in all America--half showing themselves in the shadowy recesses of their boxes. And to be in that venerable structure upon the night of Mardi Gras is to stand upon the threshold of a fairy world. * * * * * It is not meet that the details of the greatest annual carnival that America has ever known should be fully described here. It is enough here and now to say that New Orleans merely exists between these great parties at the eve of each Lent; that nearly a twelvemonth is given to preparations for the Mardi Gras. One _festa_ is hardly done before plans are being made for the next--rumor runs slyly up and down the narrow streets, _costumiers_ are being pledged to inviolate secrecy, strange preparatory sounds emerge from supposedly abandoned sheds and houses, rumors multiply, the air is surcharged with secrecy. Finally _the_ night of nights. Canal street, which every loyal resident of New Orleans believes to be the finest parade street in all the world, is ablaze with the incandescence of electricity, a-jam with humanity. For a week the trains have been bringing the folk in from half-a-dozen neighboring states by the tens of thousands. There is not a single parish of venerable Louisiana without representation; and more than a fair sprinkling of tourists from the North and from overseas. Finally--after Expectancy has almost given the right hand to Doubt, the fanfare of trumpets, the outriders of Parade. From somewhere has come Rex and The Queen and all the Great and all the Hilariously Funny and the rest besides. From the supposedly abandoned sheds and houses, from the _costumiers_? Do not dare to venture that, oh uncanny and worldly minded soul! Fairyland never emerged from old sheds, a King may not even dream of a _costumier_. From thin air, from the seventh sense, the land of the Mysterious, this King and Queen and all their cavalcade. Then, too, the Royal Palace--the historic French Opera House floored and transformed for a night. More lights, more color, the culinary products of the best chefs of all the land working under a stupendous energy, music, dancing, white shirts, white shoulders, gayety, beauty--for tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, and Catholic New Orleans takes its Lent as seriously as it gaily takes the joyousness of its carnivals. * * * * * For three-quarters of a century these carnivals have been the outspoken frivols of the old French lady by the bend of the yellow river. In all that time the carnival has progressed until it today is the outward expression of the joyousness of a joyous city. In all that time did we say? There was an interregnum--the Four Years. In the Four Years the little French restaurants were closed, the lights at the Opera extinguished--there could be no Carnival, for Tragedy sat upon the Southland. And in a great house in Lafayette square there sat a man from Massachusetts who ruled with more zeal than kindness. And that man New Orleans has not forgotten--not even in the half-century that has all but healed the sores of the Four Years. "It is funny," you begin, "that New Orleans should make so much of the Boston Club, when Butler came from--" It is not funny. You saw the Boston Club which vies for social supremacy in the old French city with the Pickwick Club, there in Canal street, at least you saw its fine old white house in that broad thoroughfare. It is not funny. Your New Orleans man tells you--courteously but clearly. "We named our club from that game," he says. "Boston was a fine game, sir," he adds. "And that without ever a thought of that town up in Massachusetts." * * * * * From a carnival to a graveyard is a far cry indeed, and yet the cemeteries of New Orleans are as distinctive of her as her Mardi Gras festivities. We have spoken of the river and the great part it has played in the history of the city that rests so close to its treacherous shore. And it is that very treacherous shore that makes it so exceedingly difficult to arrange a cemetery in the soft and marshy soil on which the city is built. So it is that the New Orleans' cemeteries are veritable cities of the dead. For the bodies that are buried within them are placed above the ground, not under them. Tombs and mausoleums are the rule, not the exception, and where a family is not prosperous enough to own even the simplest of tombs, it will probably join with other families or with some association in the ownership of a house in the city of the dead. And for those who have not even this opportunity there are the ovens. The ovens are built in the great walls that encompass the older cemeteries and make them seem like crumbling fortresses. Four tiers high, each oven large enough to accommodate a coffin--the sealed fronts bear the epitaphs of those who have known the New Orleans of other days. A motley company they are--poets, pirates, judges, planters, soldiers, priests--around them the scarred regiments of those who lived their lives without the haunting touch of Fame upon the shoulder--no one will even venture a guess as to the number that have been laid away within a single one of these cities. And when you are done with seeing the graves of Jean Lafitte or Dominique You--why is it that the average mind pricks up with a more quickened interest at the tomb of a pirate than at a preacher--the Portuguese sexton begins plucking at the loosely laid bricks of one of these abandoned ovens. Abandoned? He lifts out a skull, this twentieth century Yorick and bids you peep through the aperture. Like the _concierge_ of the old hotel, looking is made more easy from a blazing folding copy of the morning _Picayune_. In the place are seemingly countless skulls, with lesser bones. "He had good teeth, this fellow," coughs the Portuguese. You do not answer. Finally-- "Do they bury all of them this way?" Not at first, you find. The strict burial laws of New Orleans demand that the body shall be carefully sealed and kept within the oven for at least a year. After that the sexton may open the place, burn the coffin and thrust the bones into the rear of the place. And New Orleans can see nothing unusual in the custom. * * * * * "New Orleans is more like the old San Francisco than any other community I have ever seen," says the Californian. Not in any architectural sense and of course two cities could hardly be further apart in location than the city in the flat marshlands whose trees are below the level of the yellow river at flood-tide, and the new city that rises on mountainous slopes from the clear waters of the Golden Gate. But there is an intangible likeness about New Orleans and his city that was but never again can be, that strikes to the soul of the Californian. Perhaps he has come to know something of the real life of the Creoles--of those strange folk who even today can say that they have lived long lives in New Orleans and never gone south of Canal street. Perhaps he has met some of that little company of old French gentlemen who keep their faded black suits in as trim condition as their own good manners, and who scrimp and save through years and months that they may visit--not Chicago or New York--but Paris, Paris the unutterable and the unforgettable. "New Orleans is more like the old San Francisco than any other community that I have ever seen," reiterates the Californian. "It is more like the old than the new San Francisco can ever become." And there is a moral in that which the San Franciscan speaks. In the twinkling of an eye the old San Francisco disappeared--forever. Slowly, but surely, the old New Orleans is beginning to fade away. There are indubitable signs of this already. When it shall have gone, our last stronghold of old French customs and manners shall have gone. One of the most fascinating chapters in the story of our Southland will have been closed. 16 THE CITY OF THE LITTLE SQUARES In after years, you will like to think of it as the City of the Little Squares. After all the other memories of San Antonio are gone--the narrow streets twisting and turning their tortuous ways through the very heart of the old town, the missions strung out along the Concepcion road like faded and broken bits of bric-a-brac, the brave and militant show of arsenal and fort--then shall the fragrance of those open plazas long remain. The Military Plaza, with its great bulk of a City Hall facing it, the Main Plaza, where the grave towers of the little cathedral look down upon the palm-trees and the beggars, the newer, open squares--always plazas in San Antonio--and then, best of all, the Alamo Plaza, with that squat namesake structure facing it--_the_ lion of a town of many lions. These open places are the distinctive features of the oldest and the best of the Texas towns. They lend to it the Latin air that renders it different from most other cities in America. They help to make San Antonio seem far more like Europe than America. [Illustration: One of the little squares--and the big cathedral--San Antonio] To this old town come the Texans, always in great numbers for it is their great magnet--the focusing point that has drawn them and before them, their fathers, their grandfathers and their great-grandfathers--far reaching generations of Texans who have gone before. For here is the distinct play-ground of the Lone Star State. Its other cities are attractive enough in their several ways, but at the best their fame is distinctly commercial--Fort Worth as a packing-house town, Dallas as a distributing point for great wholesale enterprises, Houston as a banking center, Galveston as the great water-gate of Texas and the second greatest ocean port of the whole land. San Antonio is none of these things. While the last census showed her to be the largest of all Texas cities in point of population, it is said by her jealous rivals and it probably is true, that nearly half of that population is composed of Mexicans; and here is a part of our blessed land where the Mexican, like his dollar, must be accepted at far less than his nominal value. But if it were not for these Mexicans--that delicate strain of the fine old Spanish blood that still runs in her veins--San Antonio would have lost much of her naïve charm many years ago. The touch of the old grandees is everywhere laid upon the city. In the narrow streets, the architecture of the solid stone structures that crowd in upon them in a tremendously neighborly fashion shows the touch of the Spaniard in every corner; it appears again and again--in the iron traceries of some high-sprung fence or second-story balcony rail, or perhaps in the lineaments of some snug little church, half hidden in a quiet place. The Cathedral of San Fernando, standing there in the Main Plaza, looks as if it might have been stolen from the old city of Mexico and moved bodily north without ever having even disturbed its fortress-like walls or the crude frescoes of its sanctuary. The four missions out along the Concepcion road are direct fruit of Spanish days--and remember that each of the little squares of San Antonio is a plaza, so dear to the heart of a Latin when he comes to build a real city. But the impress of those troublous years when Spain, far-seeing and in her golden age, was dreaming of Texas as a mighty principality, is not alone in the wood and the stone of San Antonio, not even in the delirious riot of narrow streets and little squares. The impress of a Latin nation still not three hundred miles distant, is in the bronzed faces of the Mexicans who fill her streets. Some of them are the old men who sit emotionless hours in the hot sun in the narrow highways, and vend their unspeakable sweets, or who come to affluence perhaps and maintain the marketing of _tamales_ and _chile con carne_ at one of the many little outdoor stands that line the business streets of San Antonio, and make it possible for a stranger to eat a full-course dinner, if he will, without passing indoors. These are the Mexicans of San Antonio who are most in evidence--the men still affecting in careless grandeur their steeple-crowned, broad-brimmed hats, even if the rest of their clothing remain in the docile humility of blue jeans; the women scorning such humility and running to the brilliancy of red and yellow velvets, although of late years the glories of the American-made hat have begun to tell sadly upon the preëminence of the mantilla. These are the Mexicans who dominate the streets of the older part of the town--they are something more than dominant factors in the West end of the city, long ago known as the Chihuahua quarter. But there is another sort--less often seen upon the streets of San Antonio. This sort is the Mexican of class, who has come within recent years in increasing numbers to dwell in a city where unassuming soldiery afford more real protection for him and for his than do all of the brilliantly uniformed regiments with which Diaz once illuminated his gay capital. Since our neighbor to the south entered fully upon its troublous season these refugees have multiplied. You could see for yourself any time within the past two years sleeping cars come up from Laredo filled with nervous women and puzzled children. These were the families of prosperous citizens from the south of Mexico, who in their hearts showed no contempt for the comfortable protection of the American flag. * * * * * A man plucks you by the sleeve as you are passing through the corridors of one of the great modern hotels of San Antonio, hotels which, by the way, have been builded with the profits of the cattle-trade in Texas. "That _hombre_," he says, "he is the uncle of Madero." But a mere uncle of the former Mexican President hardly counts in a town which has the reputation of fairly breeding revolutions for the sister land to the south; whose streets seem to whisper of rumors and counter-rumors, the vague details of plot and counterplot. There is a whole street down in the southwestern corner of San Antonio lined with neat white houses, and the town will know it for many years as "Revolutionary Row." For in the first of these houses General Bernardo Reyes lived, and in the second of them this former governor of Nuevo Leon planned his _coup d'etat_ by which he was to march into Mexico City with all the glory of the Latin, bands playing, flags flying, a display of showy regimentals. Reyes had read English history, and he remembered that one Prince Charlie had attempted something of the very sort. In the long run the difference was merely that Prince Charlie succeeded while Reyes landed in a dirty prison in Mexico City. Here then is the very incubator of Mexican revolution. There is not an hour in San Antonio when the secret agents of the United States and all the governments and near-governments of our southern neighbor are not fairly swarming in the town and alive to their responsibilities. The border is again passing through historic days--and it fully realizes that. It is twenty-four hours of steady riding from San Antonio over to El Paso--the queer little city under the shadows of the mountains and perched hard against the "silver Rio Grande," this last often so indistinguishable that a young American lieutenant marched his men right over and into Mexican soil one day without knowing the difference--until he was confronted by the angry citizens of Ciudad Juarez and an _affaire nationale_ almost created. Every mile of that tedious trip trouble is in the air. And yet El Paso does not often take the situation very seriously. It is almost an old story, and if the revolutionists will only be kind enough to point their guns away from the U.S.A. they can blaze away as long as they like and the ammunition lasts. In fact El Paso feels that as long as the Mexican frontier battles have proper stage management they are first-rate advertising attractions for the town--quite discounting mere Mardi Gras or Portola or flower celebrations, Frontier or Round-up Days, as well as its own simpler joys of horse-racing and bull-fighting. On battle-days El Paso can ascend to its house-tops and get a rare thrill. But when the atrocious marksmanship of ill-trained Mexicans does its worst, and a few stray bullets go whistling straight across upon American soil, El Paso grows angry. It demands of Washington if it realizes that the U.S.A. is being bombarded--the fun of fighting dies out in a moment. San Antonio is a safer breeding ground for insurrection than is El Paso. For one thing it is out of careless rifle-shot, and for another--well at El Paso some Mexican troopers might come right across the silver Rio Grande in a dry season, never wetting their feet or dreaming that they were crossing the majestic river boundary, and pick up a few erring citizens without much effort. There is a risk at El Paso that is not present in San Antonio. Hence the bigger town--in its very atmosphere emitting a friendly comfort toward plottings and plannings--is chosen. You wish to come closer to the inner heart of the town. Very well then, your guide leads you to the International Club which perches between the narrow and important thoroughfare of Commerce street and one of the interminable windings of the gentle San Antonio river. It was on the roof of the International Club that Secretary Root was once given a famous dinner. It is an institution frankly given "to the encouragement of a friendly feeling between Mexico and the United States." It is something more than that, however. It is a refuge and sort of harbor for storm-tossed hearts and weary minds that perforce must do their thinking in a tongue that, to us, is alien. Most of the time the newspaper men of the town sit in the rear room of the club and look down across the tiny river on to the quiet grounds of an oldtime monastery. They play their pool and dominoes--two arts that seem hopelessly wedded throughout all Texas. The International Club nods. Suddenly a tall bronzed man, with _mustachios_, perhaps a little group of Mexicans will come into the place. The pool and the dominoes stop short. There are whisperings, flashy papers from Mexico city are suddenly produced, maps are studied. One man has "inside information" from Washington, another lays claim to mysterious knowledge up from the President's palace of the southern capital, perhaps from the constitutionalists along the frontier. There is a great deal of talk, much mystery--after all, not much real information. But when some real situation does develop, San Antonio has glorious little thrills. To be the incubator of revolution is almost as exciting as to have bull-fights or a suburban battle-field, the treasures for which San Antonio cannot easily forgive her rival, El Paso. Each new plot-hatching of this sort gives the big Texas town fresh thrills. Gossip is revived in the hotel lobbies and restaurants, the cool and lofty rooms of the International Club are filled with whisperers in an alien tongue, out at Fort Sam Houston the cavalrymen rise in their stirrups at the prospect of some real excitement. San Antonio does not want war--of course not--but if it must have war--well it is already prepared for the shock. And it talks of little else. "Within ten years the United States will have annexed Mexico and San Antonio will have become a second Chicago," says one citizen in his enthusiasm. "And what a Chicago--railroads, manufactories and the best climate of any great city in the world." Even in war-times your true San Antonian cannot forget one of the chief assets of his lovely town. The others say little. One is a junior officer from out at the post. He can say nothing. But he is hoping. There is not much for an army man in inaction and the best of drills are not like the real thing. For him again--the old slogan--"a fight or a frolic." * * * * * Not all of San Antonio is Spanish--although very little of it is negro. An astonishing proportion of its population is of German descent. These are largely gathered in the east end of the town, that which was formerly called the Alamo quarter, and like all Germans they like their beer. The brewing industry is one of the great businesses of San Antonio--and the most famous of all these breweries is the smallest of them. On our first trip to "San Antone" we heard about that beer; all the way down through Texas--"the most wonderful brew in the entire land." [Illustration: San Juan Mission--a bid of faded bric-a-brac outside of San Antonio] The active force of this particular Los Angeles brewery consisted of but one man, the old German who carried his recipe with him in the top of his head, and who had carefully kept it there throughout the years. In the cellar of the little brewery he made the beer, upstairs and in the garden he served it. In the mornings he worked at his cellar kettles, in the late afternoon and the early evening he stood behind his bar awaiting his patrons. If they wished to sit out in the shady garden they must serve themselves. There were no waiters in the place. If a man could not walk straight up to the bar and get his beer he was in no condition for it. The old German was as proud of the respectability of his place as he was of the secret recipe for the beer, which had been handed down in his family from generation to generation. Only once was that secret given--and then after much tribulation and in great confidence to an agent of the government. But he had his reward. For the government at Washington in its turn pronounced his the purest beer in all the land. Men then came to him with proposals that he place it upon the market. They talked to him in a tempting way about the profits in the business, but he shook his head. His beer was never to be taken from the brewery. It was a rule from which San Antonians and tourists alike had tried to swerve him, to no purpose. Of course, every rule has its exceptions but there was only a single exception to this. Each Saturday night Mr. Degen used to send a small keg over with his compliments to a boyhood friend--he believed that friendship of a certain sort can break all rules and precedents. All the way down through dry Texas we smacked our lips at the thought of Degen's beer. Before we had been in San Antonio a dozen hours we found our way to the brewery; in a quiet side street down back of the historic Alamo. But we had no beer. The brewer was dead. In a neighboring street his friends were quietly gathering for his funeral, and rumor was rife as to whether or no he had confided his recipe to his sons. It was a great funeral, according to the local newspapers, the greatest in the recent history of San Antonio. It was a tribute from the chief citizens of a town to a simple man who had lived his life simply and honestly--who in his quiet way had builded up one of the most distinctive institutions of the place. Rumor was soon satisfied. The secret of the recipe of the beer had not died. In a few days the brisk little brewery in the side street was in action once again. The stout Germans in their shirt-sleeves were again tramping with their paddles round and round the great vat while their foaming product was being handed to patrons in the adjoining room. But, alas, the traditions of the founder are gone. The beer is now bottled and sold on the market--in a little while is will be emblazoned in electric lights along the main streets of New York and Chicago. We are in a commercial and a material age. Even in San Antonio they are threatening to widen Commerce street--that narrow but immensely distinctive thoroughfare that cuts through the heart of the town--threatening, also, to tear down the old convent walls next the Alamo and there erect a modern park and monument. By the time these things are done and San Antonio is thoroughly "modernized" she will be ready for an awakening--she is apt to find with her naïve charm gone the golden flood of tourists has ceased to stop within her walls. Truly she will have killed the goose that laid the golden egg. * * * * * You will like to think of it as the City of the Little Squares. After all the other memories of San Antonio are gone you will revert to these--gay open places, filled with palms and other tropical growths, and flanked by the crumbling architecture of yesterday elbowing the newer constructions of today. You will like to think of those squares in the sunny daytime with the deep shadows running aslant across the faces, there is delight in the memory of them at eventide, when the cluster lights burn brightly and the narrow sidewalks are filled with gaily dressed crowds, typical Mexicans, tall Texans down from the ranches for a really good time in "old San Antone," natives of the cosmopolitan town, tourists of every sort and description. Then comes the hour when the crowds are gone, the town asleep, its noisy clocks speaking midnight hours to mere emptiness--San Antonio breathes heavily, dreams of the days when she was a Spanish town of no slight importance, and then looks forward to the morrow. She believes that her golden age is not yet come. Her plans for the future are ambitious, her opportunity is yet to come. In so far as those dreams involve the passing of the old in San Antonio and the coming of the new, God grant that they will never come true. 17 THE AMERICAN PARIS A great bronze arch spans Seventeenth street and bids you welcome to Denver. For the capital of Colorado seems only second to the Federal capital as a mecca for American tourists. She has advertised her charms, her climate, her super-marvelous scenery cleverly and generously. The response must be all that she could possibly wish. All summer and late into the autumn her long stone station is crowded with travelers--she is the focal point of those who come to Colorado and who find it the ideal summer playground of America. To that great section known as the Middle West, beginning at an imaginary line drawn from Chicago south through St. Louis and so to the Gulf, there is hardly a resort that can even rival Colorado in popular favor. Take Kansas, for a single instance. Kansas comes scurrying up into the Colorado mountains every blessed summer. It grows fretfully hot down in the Missouri bottoms by the latter part of July, and the Kansans begin to take advantage of the low rates up to Denver and Colorado Springs and Pueblo. And with the Kansans come a pretty good smattering of the folk of the rest of the Middle West. They crowd the trains out of Omaha and Kansas City night after night; at dawn they come trooping out through the portal of the Denver Union station and pass underneath that bronze arch of welcome. They find a clean and altogether fascinating city awaiting them, a city solidly and substantially built. Eighteen years ago Denver decided that she must discontinue the use of wooden buildings within her limits. She came to an expensive and full realization of that. For Colorado is an arid country nominally, and water is a precious commodity within her boundaries. The irrigation ditches are familiar parts of the landscapes and ever present needs of her cities. To put out fire takes water, and Denver sensibly begins her water economy by demanding that every structure that is within her be built of brick or stone or concrete. And yet her parks are a constant reproach to towns within the regions of bountiful water. They are wonderfully green, belying that arid country, and the water that goes to make them green comes from the fastnesses of the wonderful Rockies, a full hundred miles away. The brick buildings make for a substantial city, but Denver herself has a solidity that you do not often see in a Western city. Giant office buildings in her chief streets do not often shoulder against ill-kempt open lots, have as unbidden neighbors mere shanties or hovels. Moreover, she is not a "one-street town." Sixteenth and Seventeenth streets vie for supremacy--the one with the great retail establishments, the other with the hotels, banks and railroad offices. There are other streets of business importance--no one street not even as a _via sacre_ of this bustling town for the best of her homes. * * * * * The Paris of America, is what she likes to call herself and when you come to know her, the comparison is not bad. But Paris, with all of her charms, has not the location of Denver--upon the crest of a rolling, treeless plain, with the Rocky Mountains, jagged and snow-capped, to serve as a garden-wall. Belasco might have staged Denver--and then been proud of his work. But hers is a solitary grandeur and a very great isolation. She is isolated agriculturally and industrially, and before long we shall see how difficult all this makes it for her commercial interests. It makes things difficult in her social life, and Denver must, and does, have a keen social life. The isolation and the altitude, constantly tending to make humans nervous and unstrung, demands amusement, self-created amusement of necessity. If Denver is not amused she quarrels; you can see that in her unsettled and troubled politics, and her endless battles with the railroads. So she is wiser when she laughs and it is that faculty of much laughing, much fun, expressed in a variety of amusements that have led magazine writers to call the town, the Paris of America, although there is little about her, save the broad streets and her many open squares and parks to suggest the real Paris. But, on the other hand, the Seine is hardly to be compared to the majesty of the backbone of the continent, Denver's greatest glory. In winter Denver society has a fixed program. On Monday night it religiously attends the Broadway Theater, a playhouse which on at least one night of the week blossoms out as gayly as the Metropolitan Opera House. Denver assumes to prove herself the Paris of America by the gayness of its gowns and its hats and a Denver restaurant on Monday night after the play only seems like a bit of upper Broadway, Manhattan, transplanted. On Tuesday afternoon society attends the vaudeville at the Orpheum and perhaps the Auditorium or one of the lesser theaters that night. By Wednesday evening at the latest the somewhat meager theater possibilities of the place are exhausted and one wealthy man from New York who went out there used to go to bed on Wednesday until Monday, when the dramatic program began anew. For him it was either bed or the "movies," and he seemed to prefer bed. In summer the Broadway is closed, and Elitch's Gardens, one of the distinctive features of the town, takes its place as a Monday rendezvous. It is a gay place, Elitch's, with a quaint foreign touch. A cozy theater stands in the middle of an apple orchard--part of the one-time farm of the proprietress' father. Good taste and the delicate skill of architect and landscape gardener have gone hand in hand for its charm. You go out there and dine leisurely, and then you cross the long shady paths under the apples to the theater. And even if the play in that tiny playhouse were not all that might be expected--although the best of actors play upon its stage--one would be in a broadly generous mood, at having dined and spent the evening in so completely charming a spot. But the Parisians of Colorado are not blind to the summer joys of the wonderful country that lies aroundabout them. They quickly become mountaineers, in the full sense of the word. They can ride--and read riding not as merely cantering in the park but as sitting all day in the saddle of some cranky broncho--they can build fires, cook and live in the open. A Denver society woman is as particular about her _khakias_ as about her evening frocks. When these folk, experienced and well-schooled, go off up into the great hills, they are the envy of all the tourists. Do not forget that we started by showing Denver as a mecca for these folk. When you come to see how very well the Paris of America takes care of them you do not wonder that they return to her--many times; that they are with her more or less the entire year round. Her hotels are big and they are exceedingly well run. There are more side trips than a tourist can take, using the city as a base of operations, than a man might physically use in a month. The most of these run off into the mountains that have been standing sentinel over Denver since first she was born. In a day you can leave the bustling capital town, pass the foothills of the Rockies and climb fourteen thousand feet aloft to the very backbone of the continent. Indeed, it seems to be the very roof of the world when you stand on a sentinel peak and look upon timber line two thousand feet below, where the trees in another of Nature's great tragedies finally cease their vain attempts to climb the mountain tops. A man recommended one of the mountain trips over a wonderfully constructed railroad, poetically called the "Switzerland Trail." "You'll like that trip," he said, with the enthusiasm of the real Denverite. "It's wonderful, and such a railroad! Why, there are thirty-two tunnels between here and the divide." The tourist to whom this suggestion was made looked up--great scorn upon his countenance. "That doesn't hit me," he growled, "not even a little bit. I live in New York--live in Harlem, to be more like it, and work down in Wall street--use the subway twelve times a week. I don't have to come to Colorado to ride in tunnels." [Illustration: A broad arch spans Seventeenth Street and bids you welcome to Denver] Tourists form no small portion of Denver industry. She has restaurants and souvenir shops, three to a block; seemingly enough high-class hotels for a town three times her size. Yet the restaurants and the hotels are always filled, the little shops smile in the sunshine of brisk prosperity. And as for "rubberneck wagons," Denver has as many as New York or Washington. They are omnipresent. The drivers take you to the top of the park system, to the Cheesman Memorial, to see the view. All the time you are letting your eyes revel in the glories of those great treeless mountains, the megaphone man is dinning into your ears the excellence of his company's trips in Colorado Springs, in Manitou, in Salt Lake City. He assumes that you are a tourist and that you will have never had enough. Tourists become a prosperous industry in a town that has no particular manufacturing importance. Great idle plants, the busy smelters of other days, bespeak the truth of that statement. Denver, as far as she has any commercial importance, is a distributing center. Her retail shops are excellent and her wholesale trade extends over a dozen great western states. Her banks are powers, her influence long reaching. But she is not an industrial city. That has worried her very much, is still a matter of grave concern to her business men. Their quarrels with the railroads have been many and varied. Denver realizes, although she rarely confesses it, that she has disadvantages of location. These same mountains that the tourist comes to love from the bottom of his heart, just as the Coloradians have loved them all these years, are a real wall hemming her in, barriers to the growth of their capital. When the Union Pacific--the first of all the transcontinental railroads--was built through to the coast it was forced, by the mountains, to carry its line far to the north--a bitter pill to the ambitious town that was just then beginning to come into its own. Denver sought reprisals by building the narrow-gauge Denver & Rio Grande, a most remarkable feat of railroad engineering; bending far to the south and then to the north and west through the narrow niches of the high mountains. But hardly had the Denver & Rio Grande assumed any real importance in a commercial fashion and the mistake of its first narrow-gauge tracks corrected, before it was joined at Pueblo by direct routes to the east and Denver was again isolated from through transcontinental traffic. She was then and still is reached by side-lines. This was a source of constant aggravation to the man who was until his death two or three years ago, Denver's first citizen--David H. Moffat. Mr. Moffat's interest and pride in the town were surpassing. He had grown up with it--in the later years of his life he used to boast that he once had promoted its literature, for he had come to Denver when it was a mere struggling mining-camp as a peddler, selling to the miners who wanted to write home a piece of paper and a stamped envelope, for five cents. Moffat saw that a number of important lines were making Denver their western terminal--particularly the Burlington and the Kansas stems of the Union Pacific and the Rock Island. He felt that he might pick up traffic from these roads and carry it straight over the mountains to Salt Lake City, a railroad center suffering the same disadvantages as Denver. He sent surveyors up into the deep canyons and the _impasses_ of the Rockies. When they brought back the reports of their _reconnoissances_, practical railroad men laughed at Mr. Moffat. The big bankers of the East also laughed at him when he came to them with the scheme, but the man was of the sort who is never daunted by ridicule. He had a sublime faith in his project, and when men told him that the summit of 10,000 feet above the sea level where he proposed to cross the divide was an impossibility, he would retort about the number of long miles he was going to save between the capital of Colorado and the capital of Utah and he would tell of the single Routt county stretch, a territory approximating the size of the state of Massachusetts and estimated to hold enough coal to feed the furnace fires of the United States for three hundred years. When he was refused money in New York and Chicago he would return to Denver and somehow manage to raise some there. The Moffat road was begun, despite the scoffers. Its promoter made repeated trips across the continent to secure money, and each time when he was home again he would raise the dollars in his own beloved Denver and move the terminal of his road west a few miles. He was at it until the day of his death and he lived long enough to see his railroad within short striking reach of the treasures of Routt county. At his death it passed into the hands of a receiver, and Denver seemed to have awakened from its dream of being upon the trunk-line of a transcontinental railroad. But there were hands to take up the lines where Moffat had dropped them. Times might have been hard and loan money scarce around Colorado, but the men who were taking up what seemed to be the deathless project of Denver's own railroad were hardly daunted. Instead, they boldly revised Moffat's profile and prepared to cut two thousand feet off the backbone of the continent and shorten their line many miles by digging a tunnel six miles long and costing some four millions of dollars. Now a tunnel six miles long and costing $4,000,000 is quite an enterprise, even to a road which has boasted thirty-two of them in a single day's trip up to the divide; a particularly difficult enterprise to a road still in the shadows of bankruptcy. But the men who were directing the fortunes of the Denver & Salt Lake--as the Moffat road is now known--had a plan. Would not the city of Denver lend its credit to an enterprise so fraught with commercial possibilities for it? Would not the city of Denver arrange a bond issue for the digging of that tunnel--incidentally finding therein a good investment for its spare dollars? Would Denver do that? Ask this man over there. He is well acquainted with the Paris of America. "Of course it would," he answers. "If some one was to come along with a scheme to expend five million dollars in building a statue to Jupiter atop of Pikes Peak, he would find plenty of supporters and enthusiasm in Denver. The only scheme that does not succeed out there is the one that is practical." The gentleman is sarcastic--and yet not very far from the truth. For last year when the bond issue for the railroad tunnel went to a vote it was carried--with enthusiasm. Thereafter Denver was upon the trunk-line railroad map. The mere facts that the nine miles of tunnel were yet to be bored and many additional miles of the most difficult railroad construction of the land builded to its portals were mere details. The thin air of the Mile-High city lifts its citizens well over details. And they are far too broad, far too generous to trouble with such minute things. For in them dwells the real spirit of the West--by this time no mere gateway--and it is a rare spirit, indeed. The town, as we have already intimated, has a strong social tendency. She has sent her men and women, her sons and her daughters to the East and they have won for themselves on their own merits. The Atlantic seaboard has paid full tribute to the measure of her training--and why not? Her schools are as good as the best, her fine homes and her little homes together would be a credit to any town in the land, her big clubs would grace Fifth avenue. Her whole social organism from bottom to top is well fibered. It is charmingly exclusive in one way, warmly democratic in many others. A girl tourist from Cleveland, a recent summer, essayed to make the ascent of the capitol dome between two connecting trains. She miscalculated distances during the hour and a half that was at her disposal and almost missed her outbound train. She surely would have missed it, if it had not been for the courtesy of a well-dressed Denver woman. The girl stood at the corner of Seventeenth street and Broadway, where a group of large hotels center, waiting for a trolley car to take her to the station. She could see its sightly tower a long way down Seventeenth street, but there were no cars in sight at that instant. She spoke to the woman, who was coming out of a drug store, and asked about the car service to the station. In the East she might have had a perfunctory answer, if she received an answer at all. The Denver woman began explaining, then she checked herself: "Better yet," she smiled, "I have my automobile here and I'll take you down there while we are talking about it." The car was a big imported fellow and the girl made her train. Some time after, she discovered that the woman who had been of such courteous attention was one of the very biggest of Denver society leaders. Imagine, if you can, such a thing coming to pass upon the Atlantic seaboard--in New York, in Boston, in Philadelphia--or in Charleston! * * * * * There is still another phase of life in Denver--and that is the fact that most of her residents, for one reason or another, have drifted out to her from the East. Once in a long while, if you loaf over your morning newspaper on a shady bench in the Capitol grounds, you will become acquainted with some whiskered old fellow who will tell you that he chased antelope where the big and showy City Park today stands, that he remembers clearly when a nearby street was the Santa Fé Trail and then a country road, and that two generations after him are living in Denver; or sometimes if you go down into Larimer street, which is old Denver, you can find a veteran who likes to prate of other days--of the time when he used to pack down to the capital from his mountain claim, one hundred and twenty-five miles over the mountain snows, for his winter's bacon. But the majority of these Denverites have come from the East. There is some old town in New England with avenues of giant trees that is still home to them, and yet they all have a heap of affection for the city of their adoption. Some of them have gone to Denver against their will, and that is the tragic shadow of Colorado. They are expatriates--exiles, if you please--for Colorado is the American Siberia. This dread thing, this thing that is impartial to all low altitudes--the white plague--marks the victims, who go shuffling their way to die among the hills--in the gay Paris of North America. It is the gaunt tragedy of Denver, and even though the Denverites speak lightheartedly of the "T. B.'s" who have come to dwell among them, they themselves know best the bitter tragedy of it all. Here were two girls, sisters, who worked in a restaurant. A customer held his home newspaper spread as he supped alone. Its title, after the fashion of country weeklies, was emblazoned that all might read; the widespread eagle has been its feature for three-quarters of a century now. One of the waitresses made bold to speak. "So you are from near Syracuse?" she said. It was affirmed. She beckoned to her sister to come over. The little restaurant--Denver fashion, it made specialities of "short orders," cream waffles and T-bone steaks--was almost deserted. She spoke to her sister. "He's from Syracuse," she said. The sister was a delicate, colorless little thing, but the blood flushed up into her pale cheeks for an instant. "We're from Syracuse," she said proudly. "We used to live up on the hill, just around the corner from the college. It was great fun to see the students go climbing up around Mount Olympus there. It was twice as great fun in winter, when the north wind was blowing the snow right up into our faces." Exiles these. They had left their nice, comfortable home there in the snug, New York state city to make the long dreary trek to Denver. They were clever girls, and it seemed certain that they might find work in some nice office in the big and growing Colorado city. They were fairly competent stenographers, and it seemed to them that they might live in peace and comfort in the new home. It was a change from their big Syracuse house to a narrow hallroom in a Denver boarding house. Then upon that came the fruitless search for a "nice place." Hundreds of other girl stenographers, driven on the long trip West, were pressing against them. The two Syracusans held their heads high--for a time. Then they were glad to get the menial places as waitresses. The man who checks trunks at one of the biggest transfer companies confessed that he was an exile, too. "Came out here a dozen years ago with a busted lung," he admitted with a quizzical smile. "Guess I'll stay for a while longer. But I want to go back to Baltimore. Before I am done with it I am going back to Baltimore. I'm going to walk down Charles street once again and breathe the fragrance of the flowers in the gardens, if it kills me." A girl in a boarding house leaned up against the wall of the broad and shady piazza and said she liked Denver "really, truly, immensely." "Do you honestly?" "Honestly," she drawled gravely. "God knows, I've got to. I'm a lunger, although they don't know it here. I've only got one lung, but it's a good lung," she ended with a little hysterical laugh. Another exile. The American Siberia, in truth, save that this Siberia is a near Paradise--a kingdom for exiles where the grass is as green as it is back in the old East, where the trees cast welcome shade and the strange new flowers blossom out smiles of hope. But a Siberia none the less. The big sanitariums all about the city tell that. The keeper of the Denver Morgue will tell it, too. The suicide rate in Denver runs high. Desperate folk go out to Colorado to shut the door in the face of death--and go too late. They are far from home, alone, friendless, penniless in despair--the figures of the statisticians cannot lie. The East has this as a debt to pay Denver, and generally she pays it royally. Denver does not forget the times when the Atlantic seaboard has come to her assistance--despite the troubles of David H. Moffat in raising capital for his railroad. Once in a business council there while the East was getting some rather hard knocks for its "fool conservatism"--perhaps it had been refusing to buy the bonds of the mountain-climbing railroad--a big Denver banker got the floor. He was a man who could demand attention--and receive it. "I want you to remember one thing," he said; "fifteen years ago we were laying out and selling town-lots for a dozen miles east of Denver; we were selling them to Easterners--for their good money. When they came out and looked for their land what did they see? They saw plains--mile after mile of plains--peopled by what? They were peopled by jackrabbits, and the jackrabbits were bald from bumping their heads against the surveyors' stakes. Until we have redeemed those lots and built our city out to them and upon them, gentlemen, we have not redeemed our promise to the East." And no one who knows Denver doubts that the time will yet come when she will redeem that promise. Her railroad may or may not come to be a transcontinental route of importance, manufacturing may or may not descend upon her with its grime and industry and wealth, but her magnificent situation there at the base of the Rockies will continue to make her at least a social factor in the gradually lengthening roll of really vital American cities. 18 TWO RIVALS OF THE NORTH PACIFIC--AND A THIRD "When you get to Portland you will see New England transplanted. You will see the most American town on the continent, bar only Philadelphia." The man on the train shrieking westward down through the marvelous valley of the Columbia spoke like an oracle. He had a little group of oddly contorted valises that bespoke him as a traveling salesman, and hence a person of some discrimination and judgment. He was ready to talk politics, war to the death on railroads, musical comedy and the condition of the markets with an equally uncertain knowledge, a fund of priceless information that never permitted itself to undergo even the slightest correction. But he was right, absolutely right, about Portland. From the cleanest railroad station that we have ever seen, even though the building is more than twenty years old, to the very crests of the fir-lined hills that wall her in, here is a town that is so absolutely American, that it seems as if she might even boast one of the innumerable George Washington headquarters somewhere on her older streets. Her downtown streets are conservatively narrow, her staunch Post Office suggests a public building in one of the older cities on the Atlantic coast, and her shops are a medley of delights, with apparently about thirty percent of them given over to the retail vending of chocolate. Our Portland guide was grieved when we made mention of this last fact. "I once went to Boston," said he, "and found it an almost continuous piano store." Which was, of course, a mere evasion of the truth of our suggestion as to the chocolate propensities of the maids of Portland. They are very much like the girls in Hartford or Indianapolis or St. Paul or any other bustling town across this land, attending the Saturday matinées with an almost festal regularity; rollicking, flirting girls, grave and gay, girls dancing and girls driving their big six-cylinder automobiles with almost unerring accuracy up the tremendous hills of the town. Hills they really are and well worth the tall climb to Council Crest, the showiest of them all. If your host does not mind tire expense and the wear and tear on his engine, he may take you up there in his automobile. The street car makes the same ascent, and the managers of the local traction system who have to pay for all the repairs and renewals to the cars do not hesitate to say that it is the least profitable line in creation. But the final result at Council Crest is worth a set of tires, or a six-months' ageing of a trolley car. You have climbed up from the heart of the busy town, past the business section, spreading itself out as business sections of all successful towns must continue to do, past the trim snug little white Colonial houses--that must have been stolen from old Salem or Newburyport--all set among the dark greens of the cedars and the firs, and belying the Northland tales of the tree foliage by the great rose-bushes that bloom all the year round, up on to the place where tradition says the silent chiefs of red men used to gather.... Below you from Council Crest the town--the town, at dusk, if you please. The arcs are showing the regular pattern of trim streets, the shops and the big office buildings are aglow for the night with the brilliancy of artificial illumination. It is dark down in the town--night has closed in upon it. Now lift your eyes and let them carry past the town and the black gloom of the river, over the nearest encirclings of the fir-clad hills and see the day die in the most high place. You see it now--a peculiar pink cloud, which is not a cloud at all, but a snow-capped cone-shaped peak rising into the darkening heavens. Mount Hood is an asset for Portland, because for any habitation of man it would be an inspiration. And beyond Mount Hood--fifty miles distant--but further to the north are Mount Adams, Mount St. Helen's and sometimes on a fine clear evening Rainier bidding alike brilliant farewells to the dying day. [Illustration: Belasco might have staged Seattle] This then is the city into which a traveler may enter on an autumn day to find the innumerable cedars and firs, the changing brilliancy of the maple leaves proclaiming it North, with the gaily blossoming rose-bushes and the home-grown strawberries of October telling a paradoxical story and locating the Oregon metropolis to the South. The publicity experts of the town can--and do--sound its praises in no faint terms. They will tell you of a single day when twenty-two wheat vessels were at Portland docks gathering the food-stuffs for a hungry Orient, they will reel off statistics as to the shipping powers of the great lumber port in all the world and then, without a lessening of the pride, will go further and explain Portland's hopes for the further inland navigation of the streams that make her an important ocean port although fifty miles distant from the sight of the sea. The Columbia river is already navigable for four hundred miles inland and Portland is today coöperating with the Canadian authorities in British Columbia for extending the waterway's availability as a carrier for another four hundred miles. A great work has been performed in pulling the teeth of the mighty Columbia where it meets the sea--in building jetties at the mouth of the river. The government with unusual energy is making new locks at the impressive Cascades. Portland has good reason for her faith in the future. Her railroad systems are in their infancy; a part of Central Oregon as large as the state of Ohio is just now being reached by through routes from Portland. What future they shall bring her no man dares to predict. But we, for ourselves, shall like to continue to think of Portland as a gentle American town set between guardian fir-clad hills and sentineled by snow-capped peaks; we shall enjoy remembering the yellow and red leaves of Autumn, the luxuriant roses, the strawberries and the crisp October nights in one delightful paradoxical jumble. * * * * * To make a great seaport city out of a high-springing ridge of volcanic origin was a truly herculean task, but Seattle sprang to it with all the enthusiasm of her youth. "Re-grading" is what she has called it, and because even armies of men with pick and with shovel could not work fast enough for her own satisfaction, she borrowed a trick from the old-time gold miners and put hose-men at work. Hydraulic science supplanted men and teams and picks and even the big steam shovels. The splashing hose wore down the crest of the great hills until sturdy buildings teetered on their foundations and late moving tenants had to come and go up and down long ladders. In 1881 President Hayes came to this strange little lumbering town and spoke from the platform of the two-storied Occidental Hotel in the center of the village to its entire population--some five hundred persons. The Occidental Hotel was gone within ten years, to be replaced by a hostelry that in 1890 was big and showy for any town and that in 1912, Seattle regarded almost as a relic of past ages. And stranger still, the hills--the eternal hills, if you please--that looked upon the Occidental Hotel only yesterday, have gone. Not that Seattle will not always be a side-hill town, that the cable cars will not continue to climb up Madison street from the waterfront like flies upon a window-glass, but that a tremendous reformation has been wrought, with the aid of engineers' skill and the famous "hard money" of the Pacific coast. For here was a town that decided almost overnight to be a seaport of world-wide reputation. She looked at her high hills ruefully. Then she called for the hose-men. The hills were doomed. There was Denny hill, with a park of five acres capping it. The surveyors set their rival stakes five hundred feet below the lowest level of the little park and a matter of almost a million cubic yards of earth went sploshing down the long hydraulic sluices to make the tide-water flats at the bottom of the hills into solid footing for future factories and warehouses. And when the "regraders" were done the architects and the builders were upon their heels. Denny hill had boasted a hotel upon its summit, which in the late eighties Seattle regarded as an architectural triumph, a wooden thing of angles and shingles and queer Queen Anne turrets and dormers. The name of the old hotel went to a new one which supplanted it at a proper altitude for a city that was determined to be metropolitan--and the new hotel was a dignified structure worthy of the best town in all this land. "We had to do it," the Seattle man will tell you, without smiling. "We have got to be ready for a population of a million or more. Our house has got to be in order." It is not every day that one can see an American metropolitan city in the making. * * * * * Back of the high-crested hills that have been suffered to remain as a part of the topography of this remarkable town--for its residents still like to perch their smart new houses where they may command a view of Puget Sound or the snow-capped Rainier--is as lovely a chain of lakes as was ever given to an American city. Boston would have made the edges of these the finest suburbs in the land; she is trying some sort of an experiment of that kind with her dirty old Charles river. Seattle saw in the great bowl of Lake Washington something more. "We can crowd into Portland a little more," said the shrewdest of her citizens, "by making this lake into a fresh-water harbor." Just what the advantages of a fresh-water harbor may be to Seattle which already possesses one of the finest deep-water harbors on the North Pacific, may be obscure to you for the moment. Then the Seattle man informs you that Portland has a fresh-water harbor, that the masters of ships, still thirty days' sailing from port, make for its haven, knowing that in fresh water the barnacles that make so great a drag upon a vessel's progress will fall away from the hull. A fresh-water bath for a salt-water hull is better than a drain-off in a dry dock--and a great sight cheaper. Here, then, is a masterful new town seeking new points of advantage over its rivals, piercing canals through to its backyard lakes so that it may eventually be as completely surrounded by docks and shipping as are New York and Boston. It is impossible to think of Seattle ever hesitating. Seattle proceeds to accomplish. Before she has a real opportunity to count the cost, the improvements which she has undertaken are rolling in revenue to her coffers. * * * * * Tacoma is smaller than either Seattle or Portland--and not one whit less vigorous than either of them. She has not undergone the wholesale transformations of her sister to the north and still retains all the aspects of a busy port of the Far North--long reaching wharves, busy, dirty railroad yards reaching and serving them, fir-clad hills rising from the water, the smell and industry of lumber--and back of all these her mountain. It is her mountain--"The Mountain that was God" as the Indians used to say--and if for long weeks it may stay modestly hidden behind fog-banks, there do come days when its great snow-capped peak gazes serenely down upon the little city. Do not dare to come into this town and call her mountain Rainier, after the fashion of government "map sharps" and railroad advertisements. It is Mount Tacoma, if you please, and woe be to any man who calls it anything else. Former President Taft once shouldered the question upon reaching the northwestern corner of the land like a true diplomat. At the dinners in both Seattle and Tacoma he referred to the great guardian peak of Washington as "the mountain" thereby offending no one and leaving a pleasant "lady or the tiger" mystery as to which of the two names he would use in private conversation. But whether the mountain be Rainier or Tacoma, it is going to be one of the great playgrounds of the nation--and that within very few years. Think of starting out from a brisk American city of a hundred thousand population and within two hours standing at the foot of a giant glacier grinding down from the heavens, a cold, dead, icy thing but still imbued with the stubborn sort of life that stunted vegetable growths possess, a life that makes the frozen river travel toward the sea every day of the year. A man living in Tacoma, or Seattle, or Portland, for that matter, can have both the dangers and the joys of Swiss mountain climbing but a few hours distant. It takes knowledge and courage to make the ascent of Rainier--a tedious trip which starts through the three summer months in which it is possible at five o'clock in the morning so as to reach the summit before the snows begin to melt to the danger point. And yet, in the hands of skilled guides, so many women cross the crevices and climb the steep upward trails, that the record of their ascents is no longer kept. This great Swiss mountain--higher than Blanc, and vastly more impressive from the fact that its fourteen thousand foot summit rises almost directly from the sea--is the central feature of the newest of all the government parks. It is in the stages of early development and already the tourists are coming to it in increasing numbers. Given a few years and Rainier will vie in popularity with the Yellowstone, the Yosemite and the Grand Canyon of the Colorado. In scenic beauty of its own inimitable sort it already ranks with these. The man who makes the ascent of Rainier--if poetry and imagination rest within his soul--may truly feel that he has come near to God. He can feel the ardor and the inspiration of the red men who gave the mountain its mystic symbolism. He can look up into the clouds and feel that he is at the dome of the world. He can look down, down past the timber line off across miles of timber land and catch the silver of Puget Sound and the distant horizon flash of the Pacific. He can see smoke to the south--Portland--smoke to the north and west--Seattle--and nearer than these--the brisk Tacoma that hugs this mountain to herself. If imagination rest within him he can now know that these cities, at the northwest corner of America, are barely adult, just beginning to come into their own. A great measure of growth and strength is yet to be given to them. 19 SAN FRANCISCO--THE NEWEST PHOENIX We came upon it in the still of an early Sunday evening--the wonderful city of Saint Francis. Throughout that cloudless Sabbath we had journeyed southward through California. At dawn the porter of the sleeping car had informed us that we were in the Golden State, not to be distinguished in its northern reaches from Oregon. Men were talking of the wonders of the Klamath country into which the civilizing rails of steel are being steadily pushed, the breath of tomorrow was upon the lips of every one who boarded the train, but the land itself was wild, half-timbered, rugged to the last degree. Through the morning grays the volcanic cone of Shasta was showing ever and ever so faintly, and if an acquaintance of two hours with the peak that Joaquin Miller has made so famous did not enthuse the man behind the car-window, it must have been that he was still a bit dazed, not surfeited, with the wonders of Rainier. At the foot of Shasta our train stood for a bare ten minutes while travelers descended and partook of the vilest tasting waters that nature might boast in all California. Shasta spring water is supposed to be mightily beneficial and that is probably true, for our experience with spring waters has been that their benefits have existed in an inverse ratio to their pleasantness of taste. But if Nature had given her benefactions to Shasta a sort of Spartan touch, she has more than compensated for the severity of her gifts by the beauty of their setting. You literally descend directly upon the springs. The railroad performs earthly miracles to land a passenger in front of them. It descends a vast number of feet in an incredibly short length of track--the conductor will reduce these to cold statistics--and your idea is a quick drop on a gigantic hair-pin. At the base of the lowest leg of this hair-pin is the spring, set in a deep glen, the mossy banks of which are constantly adrip and seemingly one great slow-moving waterfall, even throughout the fearfully dry seasons of California. The whole thing is distinctly European, distinctly different--a bit of Swiss scenery root-dug and brought to the West Coast of the United States. After Shasta and the springs, another of the desolate, fascinating canyons to be threaded for many miles besides the twistings of a melancholy river, then--of a sudden--open country, farmers growing green things, ranch-houses, dusty county-roads, with automobiles plowing them dustier still, little towns, more ranches--everything in California from two to two million acres is a ranch--then a grinding of air-brakes and your neighbor across the aisle is fumbling with his red-covered time-table to locate the station upon it. As for you, you don't care about what station it really may be. It is a station. You are sure of that. There is the familiar light yellow depot, but in the well-kept lawn that abuts it grows a giant tree. That tree is a palm, and the palm-tree typifies California to every tingling sense of your mentality. This is the real California. The mountains have already become accustomed things to you, the broad ranches were coming into their own before you ever reached Denver, but the palm is exotic in your homeland, a glass-protected thing. That it grows freely beside this little unidentified railroad station proclaims to you that you are at last in a land that bids defiance to that trinity of scourging giants--December, January and February--and calls itself summer the whole year round. This palm has brought you to a sense of your location--to California. The romance that has been spelled into you of a distant land, and of the men who toiled that it become a great state peopled with great cities, of Nature's lavish gifts and terrific blows laid alike upon it, came into your heart and soul and body at the first glimpse of that tree. Before the train is under way again your camera has been called into action--mental processes are supplemented by a permanent record chemically etched upon a film of celluloid. After that pioneer among palm-trees, more of these little yellow depots and more of these rarely beautiful palms standing beside them. The ranches multiply, this valley of Sacramento is a rarely fertile thing. Growth stretches for miles, without ever a hint of undulation. California is the flattest thing you have ever seen. And again and again you will be declaring it the most mountainous of all our states. The flat-lands carry you beyond daylight into dusk. The towns multiply, a glow of arc reflection against the shadows of evening is Sacramento a dozen miles distant. Then there is a rattle of switches, a halt at a junction station, and mail is being gathered from the impromptu literature makers on our train to go east. The main line is reached. And a little later the Straits of Costa are crossed. Here is a broad arm of the sea and if it were still lingering daylight you might declare that Holland, not Switzerland, had been transplanted into California. The sea laughs at bridges, and so from Benecia to Port Costa we go on a great ferryboat, eleven Pullmans, a great ten-drivered passenger locomotive--all of us together. For twenty minutes we slip across the water, breathing fresh air once again and standing in the ferry's bow looking toward the shadowy outline of a high, black hill carelessly punctuated here and there by yellow points of light. A new land is always mysterious and fascinating; by night doubly mysterious, doubly fascinating. The ferry boat fast to its bridge, the locomotive is no longer an impotent thing. We are making the last stage of a long trip across the continent by rail. The little towns are multiplying. The subtle prescience of a great city is upon us. We turn west, then south and the suburban villages are shouldering one another all the more closely the entire way. We skirt and barely miss Berkeley, hesitate at Oakland and then come to a grinding final stop at the end of a pier that juts itself far out beyond the shallow reaches of San Francisco bay. Again there is a ferry boat--a capacious craft not unlike those craft upon which we have ridden time and time again between Staten island and the tip of Manhattan--and when its screws have ceased to turn we will finally be in the real San Francisco, reached as a really great metropolis may be reached, after an infinitude of time and trouble. It is still October--the warmest month of the year in the city by the Golden Gate--and the girls and their young men fill the long benches on the open decks of the ferry. The wind blows soft from the Pacific, and straight ahead is San Francisco--a mystery of yellow illumination rising from the water's edge. As the ferry makes her course, the goal is less and less of a mystery. Street lights begin to give some sort of half-coherent form to the high hills that make the amphitheater site of San Francisco, they dip in even lines to show the course of straight avenues. A great beer sign changes and rechanges in spelling its lively message, there is a moon-faced clock held aloft, you pinch your memory sharply, and then know that it must be the tower of the great ferry-house, the conspicuous waterfront land-mark of San Francisco. In another five minutes you are passing under that tower--a veritable gate-keeper of the city--and facing up Market street; from the beginning its undisputed chief thoroughfare. A taxicab is standing there. You throw your hand-baggage into it, come tumbling after, yourself. There is a confusion of street-lights, a momentary intimacy of a trolley car running alongside--a little later the glare and confusion of a hotel lobby, the fascinating fuss of getting yourself settled in a strange town. There is a double witchery in approaching a great new city at night. In the morning to tumble out of your hotel into that same strange town in the clarity of early sunshine, to have this great street or that or that--Market or Geary or Powell--stretching forth as if longing to invite your explorations--here again is the fascination of travel. The big trolley cars come rolling up Market street in quick succession, and for an instant their appeal is strong. But over there is a car of another sort, running on narrow-gauge tracks and with the roar of an endless cable ever at work beneath the pavement. The little cars upon those narrow tracks interest you. They are as gaily colored and as bravely striped as any circus wagon of boyhood days, and when you pay your fare you can take your choice--between the interior of a stuffy little cabin amidships or open seats at either end arranged after the time-honored fashion of Irish jaunting cars. San Franciscans do not hesitate. They range themselves along the open seats of the dinky cars and look proud as toads as the cars go clanking up the awful hills. The San Francisco cable car is in a transportation class by itself. It clings tenaciously to early traditions. For in San Francisco the cable railroad was born--and in San Francisco the cable railroad still remains. One Andrew S. Halladie was its inventor--somewhere early in the "seventies." Up Clay street hill, and to know and appreciate the slope of Clay street hill one must have seen it once at least, Halladie's first car struggled, while its passengers held their breaths just as first-comers to San Francisco still hold their breaths as they ride up and down the fearful hills. The telegraph told to the whole land how a street railroad was running on a rope out in that little-known land of marvels--California. But the telegraph could not tell what the railroad on a rope meant to San Francisco--San Francisco encompassed and held in by her high sand hills. The Clay street cable road had conquered one of the meanest of these hills and they began to plan other roads of a similar sort. Like a blossoming and growing vine the city spread, almost overnight. Sand-dunes became building-lots of high value and a new bonanza era was come to San Francisco. And, with the traditional generosity of the coast, she gave her transportation idea to other cities. In a little while St. Louis, Chicago, Washington and New York were banishing the horse cars from their busiest streets. A new era in city transit was begun. A few years later the broomstick trolley--cheaper and in many respects far more efficient--displaced the cable-cars in many of these cities. But San Francisco up to the present time has stuck loyally to her old-time hill conquerors. And the nervous lever-clutch of the gripman as he "gets the rope" is as distinctive of her as are the fantasies of her marvelous wooden architecture. Some of the cable cars have disappeared--they began to go in those wonderful years of reconstruction right after the fire, and they are already obsolete in the city's chief thoroughfare, Market street. The others remain. Over on Pacific avenue is a little line that the San Franciscans dearly love, for it is particularly reminiscent of the trams that used to clatter through Market street before the fire--a diminutive summer-house in front and pulling an immaculate little horseless horse car behind. Eventually all will go. One road's franchise has already expired and upon it San Francisco is today maintaining the first municipally operated street car line in any metropolitan city of America. If the experiment in Geary street succeeds, and it is being carefully operated with such a hope clearly in view, it will probably be extended to the cable lines when their franchises expire and they revert automatically to the city. * * * * * [Illustration: Where the Pacific rolls up to San Francisco] The distinctive mannerisms of San Francisco are changing--slowly but very surely indeed. Some of them still remain, however, in greater or less force. At the restaurants, in the shops and in the hotels you receive your change in "hard money"--gold and silver coin. Your real San Franciscan will have nothing else. There is something about the substantial feeling of a coin, something about the tinkling of a handful of it that runs straight to the bottom of his heart. Since the fire--which worked ever more fearful havoc with San Francisco comforts than with the physical structure of the city--the use of paper money has increased. But your true Californian will have none of it. When he goes east and they give him paper money he fusses and fumes about it--inwardly at least. He thinks that it may slip out of that pesky inner pocket or vest or coat. He wants gold--a handful of it in his trousers-pocket to jingle and to stay put. And as for pennies. You who count yourself of the East will have to come east once again before you pocket such copper trash--they will have none of them upon the West Coast. Small change may be anything else but it is not Western. "Western," did we say? Hold on. San Francisco is not western. California is not western. To call either western is to commit an abomination approaching the use of the word "Frisco." "California is to all purposes, practical and social--a great island," your San Franciscan will explain to you. "To the east of us lies another dividing sea--the broad miles of desert and of mountains, and so broad is it that Hong Kong or Manila or Yokohama seem nearer to us than Chicago or St. Louis. We recognize nothing west of New York and Washington. Between is that vast space--the real West--which fast trains and good, bridge in a little more than four days. In there is your West--Illinois, Mississippi, Iowa, Nebraska, Colorado--all the rest of that fine family of American states. "In Los Angeles, now, it is different. The lady that you take out upon your arm there is probably from Davenport or Kokomo or Indianapolis, whether she will admit it or not. Los Angeles is western. We are not. We are 'the Coast' and be exceeding careful, young man, how you say it." He has spoken the truth. Your typical San Franciscan is quite as well versed in the streets and shops and hotels of London, Paris and Vienna, as your typical New Yorker or Bostonian. The four days bridging across the North American continent is no more to him than the Hudson river ferries to the commuter from New Jersey. His city is cosmopolitan--and he is proud of it. Her streets are cosmopolitan and so are her shops and her great hotels. To the stately Palace reared from the site of the old, and with a new glass-covered court rivaling the glories of its predecessor, still come princes and diplomats, globe-trotters of every sort and bearing in their train wondrous luggage of every sort, prosperous miners from the North, bankers from the East, Californians from every corner of their great state, and look with curious interest at the elect of San Francisco sipping their high tea there in the court yard. And the cosmopolitanism of the streets is still more marked. Portuguese, Italian, sour-doughs from Alaska, hundreds of the little brown Japs who are giving California such a tremendous worry these days, Indians, French Kanakas, Mexicans, Chinese--the list might be run almost interminably. Of these none are more interesting than the Chinese. You see them in all the downtown quarters of San Francisco--the men with that inscrutable gravity and sagacity that long centuries of civilization seem to have given them, the women and the little girls, of high caste or low, invariably hatless and wearing loose coat and trousers--in many cases of brilliant colors and rare Oriental silks. And when you come to their own city within a city--San Francisco's famous Chinatown--they are the dominant folk upon the street. Of course the new Chinatown is not the old--with its subterranean labyrinths of unspeakable vileness and dirt, with danger and crime lurking in each of its dark corners. That passed completely in the fire. But it had begun to pass even before that great calamity. It was being exploited. Paid guides, with a keen sense of the theatrical, were beginning to work the damage. The "rubberneck wagons" were multiplying. Today Chinatown is frankly commercial. It is clean and new and clever. Architects have brought more of the Chinese spirit into its buildings than the old ever had. It does not lack color--by day, the treasures of its shops, the queer folk who walk its streets, even the bright red placards upon the door-lintels; by night the close slow-moving throngs through Grant avenue--its chief thoroughfare--the swinging lanterns above their heads, the radiance that comes out from brilliantly lighted and mysterious rooms along the way--the new Chinatown of San Francisco. But it is now frankly commercial. The paid guides and the "rubberneck wagons" have completed the ruin. If you are taken into an opium den, you may be fairly sure that the entire performance has been staged for the delectation of you and yours. For the real secrets even of the new Chinatown are not shown to the unappreciative eyes of white folk. At the edge of Chinatown slopes Portsmouth square and here the cosmopolitanism of San Francisco reaches its high apex. Around it chatters the babel of all tongues, beyond it stretches the "Barbary Coast,"[G] that collection of vile, if picturesque resorts that possesses a tremendous fascination for some San Franciscans and some tourists but which has no place within the covers of this book. To Portsmouth square come the representatives of all these little colonies of babbling foreigners, the men who sail the seven seas--the flotsam and the jetsam not alone of the Orient but of the whole wide world as well. There is a little man who sits on one side of the square and who for a very small sum will execute cubist art upon your cuticle. Among tattooers he acknowledges but two superiors--a one-legged veteran who plies his trade near the wharves of the Mersey, and a Hindu artist at Calcutta. The little shops that line Portsmouth square are the little shops of many peoples. Over their counters you can buy many things practical, and many, many more of the most impractical things in all the world. And the new Hall of Justice rises above the square in the precise site of the old. [G] As this goes to press a "vice crusade" has swept San Francisco and the "Barbary Coast" has been forced to close its doors. It is not unlikely that they may be opened once again. E. H. Portsmouth square has played its part in the history of San Francisco. From it the modern city dates. It was the plaza of the old Spanish town, and within this plaza Commodore Montgomery of the American sloop-of-war _Portsmouth_ first raised the Stars and Stripes--in the strenuous days of the Mexican war. After that the stirring days of gold-times with the vigilantes conducting hangings on the flat roofs of the neighboring houses of adobe. Portsmouth square indeed has played its part in the history of San Francisco. "Portsmouth square," you begin to say, "Portsmouth square--was it not Portsmouth square that Stevenson--" Precisely so. There are still some of the shop-keepers about that ancient plaza who can recall the thin figure of the poet and dreamer who loafed lazy days in that open space--hobnobbing with sailors and the strange dark-skinned vagabond folk from overseas. There is a single monument in the square today--a smooth monolith upon whose top there rests a ship, its sails full-bellied to the wind but which never reaches a port. Upon the smooth surface of that stone you may read: TO REMEMBER ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON To be honest To be kind--To earn a lit- tle To spend a lit- tle less--to make upon the whole a family happier for his presence--To re- nounce when that shall be necessary and not be embittered--To keep a few friends but these without capitula- tion--Above all on the same grim condition to keep friends with himself--Here is a task for all that a man has of fortitude and delicacy That is the lesson that Portsmouth square gives to the wanderers who drag themselves today to its benches--the words that come as a sermon from one who knew and who pitied wrecked humanity. There are other great squares of San Francisco--and filled with interest--perhaps none other more so than Union square, in the heart of the fine retail section with its theaters and hotels and clubs. Of these last there is none more famous than the Bohemian. More showy clubs has San Francisco. The Pacific Union in its great brown-stone house upon the very crest of Nob Hill, where in other days the bonanza millionaires were wont to build their high houses so that they might look across the housetops and see the highways in from the sea, has a home unsurpassed by any other in the whole land. But the Bohemian does not get its fame from its fine town club-house. Its "jinks" held in August in a great cluster of giant redwood trees off in the wonderful California hills are world-renowned. In the old days all that was necessary for a man to be a Bohemian, beyond the prime requisite of being a good fellow, was that he be able to sing a song, to tell a story or to write a verse. In these days the Bohemian Club, like many other institutions that were simple in the beginning, has waxed prosperous. Some of its members have rather elaborate cottages in among the redwoods and go back and forth in automobiles. But much of the old spirit remains. It is the spirit which the San Franciscan tells you gave first American recognition to such an artist as Luisa Tetrazzini, which many years ago gave such a welcome to the then famous Lotta that the generous actress in a burst of generous enthusiasm returned with the gift to the city of the Lotta fountain--at one of the most famous of the Market street corners. It is the spirit which makes San Francisco give to art or literature the quickest appreciation of any city in America. It is, in fact, the same spirit that gives to San Francisco the reputation of having the gayest night life of any city in the world--with the possible exception of Paris. Night life in a city means the intoxication of many lights, the creature comfort of good restaurants. San Francisco does not lack either. When the last glimmer of day has disappeared out over the Golden Gate, Market street, Powell street, all the highways and the byways that lead into them are ablaze with the incandescent glories of electricity. Commerce and the city's lighting boards vie with one another in the splendor of their offerings. And as for the restaurants--San Francisco boasts of twelve hundred hotels, alone. Each hotel has presumably at least one restaurant. And some of the finest of the eating-places of the city at the Golden Gate are solely restaurants. As a matter of real fact, San Francisco is the greatest restaurant city on the continent--in proportion to her population even greater than New York. In New York and more recently in Chicago the so-called "kitchenette apartment" has come into great vogue among tiny folks--two or three rooms, a bath and a very slightly enlarged clothes-press in which a small gas or electric stove, a sink and a refrigerator suffices for the preparation of light breakfasts and lunches. Dinners are taken out. In San Francisco the "kitchenettes" are omitted in thousands of apartments. All the meals are eaten in public dining-rooms and the restaurants thrive wonderfully. The soft climate does much to make this possible. Living in these new apartments of San Francisco is a comparatively simple matter. Your capital investment for house-keeping may be small. A few chairs, a table or two, some linen--you are ready to begin. Beds? Bless your soul, the builder of the apartment house solved that problem for you. Your bed is a masterpiece of architecture which lets down from the wall, _à la Pullman_. By day it goes up against the wall again and an ingenious arrangement of wall-shutters enables the bedding to air throughout the entire day. In some cases the beds will let down either within, or without, to a sleeping-porch, for your real San Franciscan has a healthy sort of an animal love for living and sleeping in the open. The glories of the open California country that lie within an hour or two of the city tempt him into it each month of the year, and he is impeccable in his horseback riding, his fishing and his shooting. To return to the restaurants--a decided contrast to that rough life in the open which he really loves--here is one, quite typical of the city. It is gay, almost garish with color and with light. Its cabaret almost amounts to an operatic performance and its proprietor will tell you with no little pride that he was presenting this form of restaurant entertainment long months before the idea ever reached New York. He will also tell you that he changes the entire scheme of decoration each three months--the San Franciscan mind is as volatile as it is appreciative. Little Jap girls pass through the crowded tables bringing you hot tea biscuits of a most delicious sort. Other girls, this time in Neapolitan dress, are distributing flowers. The head-waiter bends over you and suggests the salad with which you start your dinner, for it seems to be the fashion in San Francisco restaurants to eat your salad before your soup. The restaurant is a gay place, crowded. Late-comers must find their way elsewhere. And the food is surprisingly good. But we best remember a little restaurant just back of the California market in Pine street--into which we stumbled of a Saturday night just about dinner-time. It was an unpretentious place, with two musicians fiddling for dear life in a tiny balcony. But the _table d'hôte_--price one dollar, with a bottle of California wine after the fashion of all San Francisco _table d'hôtes_--was perfection, the special dishes which the waiter suggested even finer. _Soupe l'oignon_ that might linger in the mind for a long time, a marvelous combination salad, chicken _bonne femme_--which translated meant a chicken pulled apart, then cooked with artichokes in a _casserole_, the whole smothered with a wonderful brown gravy--there was a dinner, absolute in its simplicity yet leaving nothing whatsoever to be wished. And a long time later we read that Maurice Baring, author and globe-trotter, had visited the place and pronounced its cookery the finest that he had ever tasted. [Illustration: The Mission Dolores--San Francisco] There are dozens of such little places in San Francisco--named after the fashion of its shops in grotesque or poetic fashion--and they are almost all of them good. There is little excuse for anything else in a town whose very cosmopolitanism proclaims real cooks in the making, whose wharves are rubbed by smack and schooner bringing in the food treasures of the sea, whose farms are vast truck gardens for the land, whose markets run riot in the richest of edibles. Your San Franciscan is nothing if not an epicure. It is hardly fair, however, to assume that he is a glutton or that he merely lives to eat. For he is, in reality, so very much more--optimistic, generous, brave--and how he does delight to experiment. California is still in the throes of what seems to be a social and political earthquake, with each shake growing a little more rough than its predecessor. She has just overturned most of her political ideals for the first fifty years of her life. She delights in politics. She really lives. San Francisco, standing between those two great schools of thought, the University of California at Berkeley, and Leland Stanford University at Palo Alto, prides herself upon her growing intellectuality. From the folk who dally with advanced thought of every sort down to those who are merely puzzled and dissatisfied, the population of this Californian metropolis demands a new order of things. That as much as anything else explains the recent political revolutions. Since the great fire, the plans for those revolutions have been under progress. The mention of that fire--if you make any pretense to diplomacy you must never call it an earthquake around the Golden Gate--brings us back to the San Francisco of today. You look up and down Market street for traces of that fire--and in vain. The city looks modern, after the fashion of cities of the American west, but its buildings do not seem to have arisen simultaneously after the scourge that leveled them--simultaneously. But turn off from Market street, to the south through Second or Third streets or north through any of the parallel throughfares that lead out of that same main-stem of San Francisco. Now the fullness of that disaster--which was not more to you at the time than the brilliancy of newspaper dispatches--comes home to you for the first time. In the rear of your hotel is an open square of melancholy ruins, below it a corner plat still waste, others beyond in rapid succession. On the side streets, fragments of "party-walls," a bit of crumbling arch, a stout standing chimney remind you of the San Francisco that was and that can never be again. When you go out Market street, you may see where stood the pretentious City Hall--today a stretch of foundation-leveled ruins with a single surviving dome still devoted to the business of the Hall of Records. Still, to get the fullness of the disaster you must make your way into San Francisco's wonderful Golden Gate Park, past the single standing marble doorway of the old Towne house--a pathetic reminder of one of the great houses of the old San Francisco--and straight up to the crest of the high lifted Strawberry Hill. On that hill there stood until the eighteenth of April, 1906, a solid two-storied stone observatory. It seemed to be placed there for all time, but today it vaguely suggests the Coliseum of Rome--a half circle of its double row of arches still standing but the weird ruin bringing back the most tragic five minutes that an American city has ever spent. Or if you will go a little farther, an hour on a quick-moving suburban train will bring you to Palo Alto and the remains of Leland Stanford University, that remarkable institution whose museum formerly held whole cases of Mrs. Stanford's gowns and a _papier-mache_ reproduction of a breakfast once eaten by a member of her family. It must be discouraging to try to bring order out of the chaos that was wreaked there. The great library, which was wrecked within a month of its completion, and the gymnasium have never been rebuilt, although the dome of the latter is still held aloft on stout steel supports. The chapel, which was Mrs. Stanford's great pride and for which she made so many sacrifices still rears its crossing. Nave and transepts, to say nothing of the marvelous mosaics, were leveled in the twinkling of that April dawn. The long vistas of arched pergolas, the triumph of the master, Richardson, still remain. And the ruin done in that catastrophe to the high-sprung arch he placed over the main entrance to the quadrangle has been in part eradicated. For Leland Stanford University today represents one of the bravest attempts ever made in this land to repair an all but irreparable loss. It has never lost either faith and hope, and so the visitor to its campus today will see the beginnings toward a complete replacement of the buildings of what was one of the "show universities" of the land. With a patience that must have been infinite, the stones of the old chapel have been sorted out of the ruin--even fragments of the intricate mosaics have been carefully saved--numbered and placed in sequence for re-erection. Already the steel frame of nave and transepts is up again and the tedious work of erecting the masonry walls upon it begun. Leland Stanford has, quite naturally, caught the spirit of San Francisco--the city that would not be defeated. To analyze that spirit in a sweeping paragraph is all but impossible. Incident upon incident will show it in all its phases. For instance, there was in San Francisco on the morning of the earthquake a sober-minded German citizen who had put his all into a new business--a business that had just begun to prove the wisdom of his investment. When Nature awoke from her long sleep and stretching began to rock the city by the Golden Gate the German rushed upstairs to where his wife and daughter slept. He found them in one another's arms and frantic with terror. "Papa! Papa!" they shrieked. "We are going to die. It is the end of the world--the business is gone. We are going to die!" He smiled quietly at them. "Well, what of it?" he asked quietly. "We die together--and in San Francisco." A keen-witted business man once boasted that he could capitalize sentiment, express the spirit of the human soul in mere dollars and cents. What price could he give for a love and loyalty of that sort? That was, and still is, the affection that every San Franciscan from the ferry-house back to the farthest crest of the uppermost hill gives to his city--it is the thing that makes her one of the few American towns that possess distinctive personality. A young matron told us of her own experience on the morning of the fire. "Of course it was exciting," she said, "with the smoke rolling up upon us from downtown, and the rumors repeating themselves that the disaster was world-wide, that Chicago was in ruins and New York swallowed by a tidal wave, but there was nothing unreal about a single bit of it. I bundled my children together and hurried toward the Presidio--my knowledge of army men assured me that there could be no danger there. I took the little tent handed me and set up my crude house-keeping in it. It still seemed very real and not so very difficult. "But when those odd little newspapers--that had been printed over in Oakland--came, and I saw the first of their head-lines 'San Francisco in Ruins' then it came upon me that our city, my city, was no more, and it was all over. It was all the most unreal thing in the world and I cried all that night, not for a single loss beyond that of the San Francisco that I had loved. But the next morning they told me how they had telegraphed East for all the architects in sight, and that morning I began planning a new house just as if it had been a pet idea for months and months and months...." * * * * * Out of such men and women a great city is ever builded. San Francisco may be wild and harum-scarum, and a great deal of its wildness is painfully exaggerated, but it is a mighty power in itself. Your San Franciscan is rightly proud of the progress made since the great disaster. More than $375,000,000--a sum approximating the cost of the Panama canal--has already been spent in rebuilding the city, and now, like a man who has spent his last dollar on a final substantial meal, the western metropolis calls for cake and scrapes up an additional $18,000,000 for a World's Fair "to beat everything that has gone before." That takes financing--of a high order. It takes something more. It has taken a real spirit--enthusiasm and love and courage--to build a new San Francisco that shall gradually obliterate the poignant memories of the city that was. 20 BELFAST IN AMERICA Concerning Toronto it may be said that she combines in a somewhat unusual fashion British conservatism and American enterprise. Her neat streets are lined with solid and substantial buildings such as delight the heart of the true Briton wherever he may find them; and yet she has among these "the tallest skyscraper of the British Empire," although the sixteen stories of its altitude would be laughed to scorn by many a second-class American city. Still, many a first-class American city could hardly afford to laugh at the growth of Toronto, particularly in recent years. She prides herself that she had doubled her population each fifteen years of her history and here is a geometrical problem of growth that becomes vastly more difficult with each oncoming twelvemonth. At the close of the second war of the United States with England, just a century ago, Toronto was a mere hamlet. Beyond it was an unknown wilderness. The town was known as York in those days, and although Governor Simcoe had already chosen the place to be the capital of Upper Canada, it was a struggling little place. Still, it must have struggled manfully, for in 1817 it was granted self-government and in 1834, having garnered in some nine thousand permanent residents, it was vested with a Mayor and the other appurtenances of a real city. Since then it has grown apace, until today in population and in financial resource it is very close upon the heels of Montreal, for so many years the undisputed metropolis of the Dominion. But perhaps the spur that has advanced Toronto has been the knowledge that west of her is Winnipeg, and that Winnipeg has been doubling her population each decade. And west of Winnipeg is Calgary, west of Calgary, Vancouver; all growing apace until it is a rash man who today can prophesy which will be the largest city of the Dominion of Canada, a dozen years hence. The Canadian cities have certainly been growing in the American fashion--to use that word in its broadest sense. And yet the strangest fact of all is that Toronto grows--not more American, but more British year by year. Within the past twelve or thirteen years this has become most marked. She has grown from a Canadian town, with many marked American characteristics, into a town markedly English in many, many ways. Now consider for a moment the whys and the wherefores of this. We have already told of the rapid progress of Toronto, now what of the folk who came to make it? In the beginning there were the Loyalists--"Tories" we call them in our histories; "United Empire Loyalists," as their Canadian descendants prefer to know them--who fled from the Colonies at the time of the Revolution and who found it quite impossible to return. In this way some of the old English names of Virginia have been perpetuated in Toronto, and you may find in one of the older residential sections, a great house known as Beverly, whose doors, whose windows, whose fireplaces, whose every detail are exact replicas of the Beverly House in Virginia which said good-by to its proprietors a century and a half ago. Those Loyalists laid the foundations of Toronto of today. The municipality of Toronto of today is, as you shall see, most progressive in the very fibers of its being, ranking with such cities as Des Moines and Cleveland and Boston as among the best governed upon the North American continent. Such civic progress was not drawn from the cities of England or of Scotland or of Ireland. And Toronto was a well organized and governed municipality, while Glasgow and Manchester were hardly yet emerging from an almost feudal servility. Because in Toronto the old New England town-meeting idea worked to its logical triumph. The Loyalists who had left their great houses of Salem and of Boston brought more to the wildernesses of Upper Canada than merely fine clothes or family plate. To this social foundation of the town came, as stock for her growth through the remaining three-quarters of the nineteenth century, the folk of the north of Ireland. The southern counties of the Emerald Island gave to America and gave generously--to New York and to Boston; to New Brunswick and to Lower Canada. The men from the north of Ireland went to Toronto and the nearby cities of what is now the Province of Ontario. And when Toronto became a real city they began to call her the Belfast of America. For such she was. She was a very citadel of Protestantism. Her folk transplanted, found that they would worship God in their austere churches without having the reproachful phrase of "dissenter" constantly whipped in their faces. Toronto meant toleration. So came the Ulster men to their new Belfast. For more than sixty years they came--a great migrating army. And if you would know the way they took root give heed to a single illustration. One of these Irishmen had founded a retail store in the growing little city of Toronto. It thrived--tremendously. News of its success went back to the little north-of-Ireland village from whence its owner came. "Timothy Eaton's doin' well in America," was the word that passed through his old county. Timothy Eaton and those who came after him took good care of their kith and kin. For the Eaton business did prosper. Today the firm has two great stores--one in Toronto and one in Winnipeg--and they are not only among the largest in North America but among the largest in the world. This is but one instance of the way that Toronto has grown. And when, after sixty years of steady immigration there was little of kith and kin left to come from Ireland, there began a migration from the other side of the Irish channel, a new chapter in the growth of Toronto was opened. No one seems to know just how the tide of English emigration started, but it is a fact that it had its beginning about the time of the end of the Boer war. It is no less a fact that within ten or fifteen years it has attained proportions comparable with the sixty years of Irish immigration. The agents of the Canadian government and of her railroads have shown that it pays to advertise. There is good reason for this immigration--of course. Canada, with no little wisdom, has given great preference to the English as settlers. She has not wished to change her religions, her language or her customs. The English, in turn, have responded royally to the invitation to come to her broad acres and her great cities. The steamship piers, at Quebec and Montreal in the summer and at Halifax and St. Johns in the winter, are steadily thronged with the newcomers, and they do not speak the strange tongues that one hears at Ellis island in the city of New York. They bring no strange customs or strange religions to the growing young nation that prides herself upon her ability to combine conservatism and progress. And just as Toronto once did her part in depopulating the north of Ireland, so today is the Province of Ontario and the country to the west of it draining old England. It is related that one little English village--Dove Holes is its name and it is situate in Derbyshire--has been sadly depleted in just this fashion. Eight years ago and it boasted a population of 1250 persons. Today 500 of that number are in America--a new village of their own right in the city of Toronto, if you please--and Dove Holes awaits another Goldsmith to sing of its saddened charms. One resident came, the others followed in his trail to a land that spelled both opportunity and elbow-room. Your real Englishman of so-called middle class, even gentlemen of the profession or service in His Majesty's arms, seem to have one consuming passion. It is to cross Canada and live and die in the little West Coast city of Victoria. Victoria stands on Vancouver island and they have begun to call Vancouver island, "Little England." In its warm, moist climate, almost in its very conformation, it is a replica of the motherland of an Englishman's ideal; a motherland with everything annoying, from hooliganism to suffragettes, removed. But Victoria is across a broad continent as well as a broad sea, and so your thrifty emigrant from an English town picks Toronto as the city of his adoption. Winnipeg he deems too American; Montreal, with her damnable French blood showing even in the street-signs and the car-placards, quite out of the question. But Toronto does appeal to him and so he comes straight to her. There are whole sections of the town that are beginning to look as if they might have been stolen from Birmingham or Manchester or Liverpool--even London itself. The little red-brick houses with their neat, small windows are as distinctively British as the capped and aproned house-maids upon the street. In the States it takes a mighty battle to make a maid wear uniform upon the street. In Toronto it is not even a question for argument. The negro servant, so common to all of us, is unknown. The service of the better grade of Toronto houses is today carefully fashioned upon the British model--even to meal hours and the time-honored English dishes upon the table. And in less aristocratic streets of the town one may see a distinctively British institution, taken root and apparently come to stay. It is known as a "fish and chip shop" and it retails fried fish and potato chips, already cooked and greasy enough to be endearing to the cockney heart. * * * * * Remember also that the city upon the north shore of Lake Ontario is an industrial center of great importance. You cannot measure the tonnage of Toronto harbor as you measured the harbor of Cleveland--alongside of the greatest ports of the world--for Ontario is the lonely sister of the five Lakes. No busy commercial fleet treks up and down her lanes. But Toronto is a railroad center of increasing importance; they are still multiplying the lines out from her terminals and, as we have just intimated, she is a great and growing manufacturing community. Her industrial enterprises have been hungry for skilled and intelligent men. They have gradually drafted their ranks from the less-paid trades of the town. Into these places have come the men from the English towns. The street cars are manned by men of delightful cockney accent, they drive the broad flat "lourries," as an Englishman likes to call a dray, they fit well into every work that requires brawn and endurance rather than a high degree of intellectual effort. Just how this invasion will affect the Toronto of tomorrow no one seems willing to prophesy. The men from Glasgow and from Manchester are used to municipal street railroads and such schemes and the New England town-meeting ideas, which were the products of Anglo-Saxon spirit, come home to rest in English hearts. The street railroad system of Toronto may groan under its burden--it is paying over a million dollars this year to the city and is constantly threatened with extinction as a private corporation. But the Englishman of that city merely grunts at the bargains it offers--six tickets for a quarter; eight in rush-hours, ten for school children and seven for Sabbath riding, all at the same price--and wonders "why the nawsty trams canna' do better by a codger that's workin' like a navvie all the day?" Toronto will see that they do better--that is her vision into the future. But just how the new blood is to infuse into some of the Puritan ideas of the town--there is another question. Here is a single one of the new puzzling points--the temperance problem. It was not so very long ago that Canada's chief claim for fame rested in the excellence of her whiskey--and that despite the fact that the Canadian climate is ill-adapted to whiskey drinking. The twelfth of July--which you will probably recall as the anniversary of the battle of the Boyne--used to be marked by famous fights, which invariably had marine foundations in Canadian rye. However, during the past quarter of a century, the temperance movement has waxed strong throughout Ontario. Many cities have become "dry" and it is possible that Toronto herself might have been without saloons today--if it had not been for the English invasion. For your Englishman regards his beer as food--"skittles and beer" is something more than merely proverbial--and he must have it. He looks complacently upon the stern Sabbath in Toronto--Sunday in an English city is rarely a hilarious occasion--but he must have his beer. Up to the present time he has had it. But these problems are slight compared with the problem of assimilation of alien tongues and races, such as has come to New York within the past two decades. The Englishman is but a cousin to the Canadian after all, and he shows that by the enthusiasm with which he enters into her politics. He entered into Mr. Taft's pet reciprocity plan with an enthusiasm of a distinct sort. With all of his anti-American and pro-British ideas he leaped upon it. And when he had accomplished his own part in throttling that idea he exulted. Whether he will exult as much a dozen years hence over the defeat of reciprocity is an open question. But the part that the transplanted Englishman in Canada played in that defeat is unquestioned, just as the part he is playing in providing her with useless Dreadnoughts for the defense of other lands is undisputed.[H] The Englishman is no small factor in Canadian politics; he is a very great factor in the political situation in the city of Toronto. [H] This plan is temporarily blocked in Canada, whose enthusiasm for Dreadnoughts seems to be waning. E. H. Lest you should be bored by the politics of another land, turn your attention to the way the Toronto people live. They have formal entertainments a-plenty--dinners, balls, receptions--a great new castle is being built on the edge of Rosedale for a gubernatorial residence and presumably for the formal housing of royalty which often comes down from Ottawa. There are theaters and good restaurants, and no matter what you may say about her winters, the Canadian summers are delightful. For those who must go, there are the Muskoka Lakes within easy reach, Georgian bay and the untrod wildernesses beyond. But if we lived in Toronto, we think we should stay at home and enjoy that wonderful lake. There are yacht-clubs a-plenty alongside it, bathing beaches, sailing, canoeing--the opportunity for variety of sport is wide. In the milder seasons of the year there is golf and baseball, football, or even cricket, and in the wintertime tobogganing and snowshoeing and iceboating. No wonder that the cheeks of the Toronto girls are pink with good health. In the autumn there is the big fair--officially the Canadian National Exhibition--which has grown from a very modest beginning into a real institution. Last year nearly a million persons entered its gates, there were more than a hundred thousand admissions upon a single very big day. Delegations of folk came from as far distant as Australia--there were special excursion rates from all but three of the United States. It is not only a big fair but a great fair, still growing larger with each annual exhibition. Toronto folk are immensely proud of it and give to it loyalty and support. And the Canadian government is not above gaining a political opportunity from it. We remember one autumn at Toronto three or four years ago seeing a great electric sign poised upon one of the main buildings. It was a moving sign and the genius of the electrician had made the semblance of a waving British banner. Underneath in fixed and glowing letters you might read: ONE FLAG, ONE KING, ONE NATION * * * * * To see Toronto as a British city, however, you must go to her in May--at the time of her spring races. The fair is very much like any of the great fairs in the United States. The race-meet is distinctly different. In the United States horse-racing has fallen into ill-repute, and most of the famous tracks around our larger cities have been cut up into building lots. The sport with us was commercialized, ruined, and then practically forbidden. In Canada they have been wiser, although the tendency to make the sport entirely professional and so not sport at all has begun to show itself even over there. But in Toronto they go to horse-races for the love of horse-racing, and not in the hopes of making a living without working for it. The great spring race-meet is the gallop for the King's Guineas. It is at the Woodbine and in addition to being the oldest racing fixture in America it is also just such a day for Canada as Derby Day is for England. If you go to Toronto for Plate Day--as they call that great race-day--you will be wise to have your hotel accommodations engaged well in advance. You will find Plate Day to be the Saturday before the twenty-fourth of May. And, lest you should have forgotten the significance of the twenty-fourth of May, permit us to remind you that for sixty-four long years loyal Canada celebrated that day as the Queen's birthday. And it is today, perhaps, the most tender tribute that the Canadians can render Victoria--their adherence to her birthday as the greatest of their national holidays. If you are wise and wish to see the English aspect of Toronto, you will reserve your accommodations at a certain old hotel near the lakefront which is the most intensely British thing that will open to a stranger within the town. Within its dining-room the lion and the unicorn still support the crown, and the old ladies who are ushered to their seats wear white caps and gently pat their flowing black skirts. The accents of the employés are wonderfully British, and if you ask for pens you will surely get "nibs." The old house has an air, which the English would spell "demeanour," and incidentally it has a wonderful faculty of hospitality. From it you will drive out to the track, and if you elect you can find seats upon a tally-ho, drawn by four or six horses, properly prancing, just as they prance in old sporting-prints. Of course, there are ungainly motor-cars, like those in which the country folk explore Broadway, New York, but you will surely cling to the tally-ho. And if your tally-ho be halted in the long and dusty procession to the track to let a coach go flying by, if that coach be gay in gilt and color, white-horsed, postilioned, if rumor whispers loudly, "It's the Connaughts--the Governor-General, you know," you will forget for that moment your socialistic and republican ideas, and strain your old eyes for a single fleeting glimpse of bowing royalty. For royalty drives to Plate Day just as royalty drives to Ascot. Its box, its manners and its footmen are hardly less impressive. And in the train of royalty comes the best of Toronto, not the worst. Finely dressed women, jurists, doctors, bankers--the list is a long, long one. And in their train in turn the artisans. The plumber who tinkers with the pipes in your hotel in the morning has a dollar up on the "plate," so has the porter who handles your trunk, so have three-quarters of the trolley-car men of the town--and yet they are not gamblers. The "tout" who used to be a disagreeable and painfully evident feature of New York racing is missing. So are the professional gamblers, the betting being on the _pari-mutuel_ system. And the man who loses his dollar because he failed to pick the winning horse feels that he has lost it in a patriotic cause. It should be worth a miserable dollar to see royalty come to the races in a coach. * * * * * From Toronto we will go to her staunch French rival, Montreal. If we are in the midsummer season we may go upon a very comfortable steamer, down the lonely Ontario and through the beauties of the Thousand Islands. And at all seasons we will find the railroad ride from Toronto filled with interest, with glimpses of lake and river, with the character of the country gradually changing, the severe Protestant churches giving way to great tin-roofed Roman churches, holding their crosses on high and gathering around their gray-stone walls the houses of their little flocks. 21 WHERE FRENCH AND ENGLISH MEET Our hotel faces a little open square and in the springtime of the year, when the trees are barely budding, we can still see the sober gray-stone houses on the far side of the square, each with its brightly colored green blinds. At one is the "Dentiste," at another the "Avocat," a third has descended to a _pension_ with its "Chamber d'Louer." There are shiny brass signs on the front of each of these three old houses, and every morning at seven-thirty o'clock three trim little French Canadian maids attack the signs vigorously with their wiping cloths. Then we know that it is time to get up. By the same fashion we should be shaved and ready for our marmalade and bacon and eggs as the regal carrier of the King's mail trots down the steps of the French consulate and rings at the area door of the neighboring "Conservatoire Musicale." In a very little time that row of houses across the Place Viger Gardens has become a factor in our very lives. It is the starting-point of our days. In the morning, when the marmalade and the bacon and eggs are finished, we step out into the Gardens for the first breath of crisp fresh air of the north. There is a line of wonderful cabs waiting at its edge, and a prompt driver steps forward from each to solicit our patronage. The cab system of Montreal is indeed wonderful--it first shows to the stranger within that city's gates its remarkable continental character. For you seemingly can ride and ride and ride--and then some more--and the cabby tips his hat at a quarter or a half a dollar. He has an engaging way of smiling at you at the end of the trip, and leaving it to you as to what he gets. You can trust to the Montreal cabby's sense of fairness and he seems to feel that he can trust to yours. But that is not all quite as altruistic as it may seem at first glance. Back of the cabby's smile is the unsmiling, sober sense of justice always existent in a British city, and it is that which really keeps the Montreal cab service as efficient as it really is, as cheap and as accessible. For at every one of the almost innumerable open squares of the city, are the cab-stands, the long line of patiently waiting carriages, and the little kiosk from which they can be summoned. It is all quite simple and complete and an ideal toward which metropolitan New York may be aspiring but has never reached. * * * * * On sunny mornings we scorn the cabs and stroll across the Gardens. Sometimes we drop for a moment on one of the clumsily comfortable benches under the shade of the Canadian maples, and glance at the morning paper--a ponderous sheet much given to the news of Ottawa and London, discoursing upon the work of two Parliaments, but only granting grudging paragraphs to the news of a home-land, scarce sixty miles distant. That is British policy, the straining policy of trying to make a unified nation of lands separated from one another by broad seas. That England has done it so well is the marvel of strangers who enter her dominions. Montreal is loyal to her mother land, despite some local influences which we shall see in a moment. A surprising number of her citizens go back and forth to the little island that governs her, once or twice or three times a year. There are thousands of business men in the metropolis of Canada who know Pall Mall or Piccadilly far more intimately than either Wall street or Times square--and New York is but a night's ride from Montreal. So much can carefully directed sentiment accomplish. The paths that lead from the Gardens are varied and fascinating. One stretches up a broad and sober street to Ste. Catherine's, the great shopping promenade of the town, where the girls are all bound west toward the big shops that stretch from Phillips to Dominion squares--another at the opposite direction three blocks to the south and the harbor-front, a wonderful place now in a chaos of transformation that is going to make Montreal the most efficient port in the world. We can remember the water-front of the old town as it first confronted us a quarter of a century ago, after a long all-day trip down the rapids of the upper St. Lawrence--back of the gay shipping a long stretch of sober gray limestone buildings, accented by numerous domes, the joy of every British architect, the long straight front of Bonsecours market, the little spire of Bonsecours church, and the two great towers of Notre Dame rising above it all. There was a curving wall of stone along the quay street and it all seemed quite like the geography pictures of Liverpool, or was it Marseilles? [Illustration: A church parade in the streets of Montreal] Nowadays that quiet prospect is gone. A great waterside elevator of concrete rises almost two hundred and fifty feet into the air from the quay street; there are other elevators nearly as large and nearly as sky-scraping, a variety of grim and covered piers and the man from a boat amidstream hardly catches even a glimpse of Notre Dame or Bonsecours. And Montreal gave up her glimpses of the river that she loves so passionately, not without a note of regret; the market-men gently protested that they could no longer sit on the portico of the Bonsecours and see the brisk activity of the harbor. But Montreal realizes the importance of her harbor to her. She is a thousand miles inland from "blue water" and for five months of the year her great strength giving river is tightly frozen; despite these obstacles she has come within the past year to be the most efficient port in the world, and among twelve or fourteen of the greatest. And commercial power is a laurel branch to any British city. There are other paths that lead from Place Viger Gardens--that lead on and on and to no place in particular, but all of them are filled with constant interest. The side streets of Montreal are fascinating. Their newer architecture is apt to be fantastic, ofttimes incongruous, but there are still many graystone houses in that simple British style that is still found throughout the older Canada, all the way from Halifax to the Detroit river. There are the inevitable maple trees along the curbs that make Montreal more of a garden city than unobservant travelers are apt to fancy it. And then there are the institutions, wide-spreading and many-winged fellows, crowned with the inevitable domes and shielded from the vulgarity of street traffic by high-capped walls. These walls are distinctive of Montreal. Often uncompromising, save where some gentle vine runs riot upon their lintels and laughs at their austerity, they are broken here and there and again by tightly shut doors, doors that open only to give forth on rare occasions; to let a somber file of nuns or double one of cheaply uniformed children pass out into a sordid and sin-filled world, and then close quickly once again lest some of its contaminations might penetrate the gentle and unworldly place. And near these great institutions are the inevitable churches, giant affairs--parish churches still dominating the sky-line of a town which is just now beginning to dabble in American skyscrapers, and standing ever watchful, like a mother hen brooding and protecting her chicks. These chance paths often lead to other squares than the Gardens of the Place Viger--squares which in spring and in summer are bright green carpets spread in little open places in the heart and length and breadth of the city, and which are surrounded by more of the solid graystone houses with the green blinds. When we go from Montreal we shall remember it as a symphony of gray and green--remember it thus forever and a day. But best of all we like the path that leads from the Place Viger west through the very heart of the old city and then by strange zig-zags, through the banking center, Victoria square, Beaver Hall Hill and smart Ste. Catherine's to Dominion square and the inevitable afternoon tea of the British end of the town. We turn from our hotel and the great new railroad terminal that it shelters, twist through a narrow street--picturesquely named the Champ d'Mars--and follow it to the plain and big City Hall and Court House. They are uninteresting to us, but across the busy way of Notre Dame street stands the Chateau de Ramezay, a long, low, whitewashed building, which has had its part in the making of Montreal. This stoutly built old house was built in 1705 by Claude de Ramezay, Governor of Montreal, and was occupied by him for twenty years while he planned his campaigns against both English and Indians. Then for a time it was the headquarters of the India company's trade in furs, and for a far longer time after 1759 the home of a succession of British governors. Americans find their keenest interest in the Chateau de Ramezay, in the fact that it was in its long rambling low-ceilinged rooms that Benjamin Franklin set up his printing-press, away back during the days of the first unpleasantness between England and this country. After that, all was history, the Chateau was again the Government House of the old Canada--until Ottawa and the new Dominion came into existence. Nowadays, it faces one of the busiest streets of a busy city--and is not of it. It is like a sleeping man by the roadside, who, if he might awake once more, could spin at length the romances of other days and other men. Beyond the Chateau de Ramezay is a broad and open market street that stretches from the inevitable Nelson monument, that is part and pride of every considerable British city, down to that same water-front, just now in process of transformation. Sometimes on a Tuesday or a Friday morning we have come to the place early enough to see the open-air market of Montreal, one of the heritages of past to present that seems little disturbed with the coming and the passing of the years. Shrewd shoppers coming out of the solid stone mass of the Bonsecours pause beside the wagons that are backed along the broad-flagged sidewalks. The country roundabout Montreal must be filled with fat farms. One look at the wagons tells of low moist acres that have not yet lost their fertility. And sometimes the market women bring to the open square hats of their own crude weaving, or little carved crosses, or even bunches of delicate wild-flowers and sell them for the big round Canadian pennies. There is hardly any barterable article too humble for this market-place, and with it all the clatter of small sharp pleasant talk between a race of small, sharp, pleasant folk. From the market-place leading out from before the ugly City Hall and the uninteresting Court House, our best walk leads west through Notre Dame street up to the nearby Place d'Armes. It is a very old street of a very old city and even if the history of the town did not tell us that some of the old houses, staunch fellows every one of them, high-roofed and dormered, with their graystone walls four and five feet thick and as rough and rugged as the times for which they were built, would convince us, of themselves. They are fast going, these old fellows, for Montreal has entered upon boom times with the multiplication of transcontinental railroads across Canada. But it seems but yesterday that they could point to us in the Place d'Armes the very house in which lived LaMothe Cadillac, the founder of Detroit, nearby the house of Sieur Duluth. Montreal seems almost to have been the mother of a continent. * * * * * It is in this Place d'Armes, this tiny crowded square in the center of the modern city, hardly larger than the garden of a very modest house indeed, that so many of the romantic memories of the old Montreal cluster. With the great church that has thrust its giant shadow across it for more than three quarters of a century, the Place d'Armes has been the heart of Montreal since the days when it was a mere trading post, a collection of huts at the foot of the lowest rapids of the mighty river. Much of the old Montreal has gone, even the citadel at the west end of the town gave way years ago to Dalhousie square, which in turn gave way to the railroad yards of the Place Viger terminals. But the Place d'Armes will remain as long as the city remains. At its northwest corner is the colonnaded front of the Bank of Montreal, one of the finest banking-homes in Canada. "It is the great institution of this British Dominion," says a very old Canadian, whom we sometimes meet in the little square. "It is the greatest bank in North America." Offhand, we do not know as to the exact truth of that sweeping statement, but it is a certain fact that the Bank of Montreal is the greatest bank in all Canada, one of the greatest in the world, with its branches and ramifications extending not only across a continent four thousand miles in width but also over two broad seas. To Montreal it stands as that famous "old lady of Threadneedle street" stands to London. "And yet," our Canadian friend continues, "right across the Place d'Armes here is an institution that could buy and sell the Bank of Montreal--or better still, buy it and keep it." Our eyes follow his pointing hand--to a long, low building on the south side of the little square. It is very old and exceeding quaint. Although built of the graystone of Montreal, brought by the soot of many years to almost a dead black, it seems of another land as well as of another time. Its quaint belfry with delicate clock-face and out-set hands is redolent of the south of France or Spain or even Italy. It does not seem a part and parcel of Our Lady of the Snows--and yet it is. "You know--the Seminary of St. Sulpice," says our Canadian friend. "It was the original owner of the rich island of Montreal. No one knows its wealth today, even after it has parted with many of its fee-holds. It still holds title to thousands of acres and no one save the Gentleman of the Corporation of St. Sulpice, themselves, knows the wealth of the institution. To say that it is the richest ecclesiastical institution of the Americas is not enough, for here is an organization that for coherency, wealth and strength surpasses Standard Oil and forms the chief financial support of the strongest church in the world." And this time we feel that our acquaintance of the Place d'Armes is not by any chance over-stepping the mark. In the quaint little Seminary that stands in the half-day shadow of the second largest church on the continent--a church that it easily builded in the first third of the nineteenth century from its accumulated wealth--there centers much of the mystery of Montreal, a mystery which to the stranger takes concrete form in the high walls along the crowded streets, in whispered rumors of this force or that working within the politics of the city, in the so-called Nationalist movement, and flaunts itself in rival displays of Union Jack and the historic Tricolor of France. There is little of mystery in the outer form of the Seminary. The quiet folk who live within those very, very old walls are hospitality itself--even though their ascetic living is of the hardest, crudest sort. The only bed and carpeted room within the building is reserved for the occasional visits of bishop, or even higher church authority. But hidden from the street by the earliest part of the Seminary--almost unchanged since its erection in 1710--and enclosed by a quadrangle of the fortress-like stone buildings of the institution, is a most delicious garden with old-fashioned summer flowers and quaint statues of favored saints set in its shaded place. We remember a garden of the same sort at the mission of Santa Barbara, in California. These two are the most satisfactory gardens that we have ever seen. And it is from the rose-bushes in the Seminary of Montreal that one gets a full idea of the size and beauty of the exterior of the parish church of Notre Dame. Like so many of the cathedrals of Europe, it is so set as to have no satisfactory view-point from the street. And yet Notre Dame is one of the most satisfying churches that we have ever seen. It is not alone its size, not alone its wonderfully appropriate location facing that historic Place d'Armes, not any one of the interesting details of the great structure that comes to us, so much as the thing which the parish church typifies--the intact keeping of the customs, the language and the faith of a folk who were betrayed and deserted by their motherland, more than a century and a half ago. One rarely hears the word of English spoken in the shadowy and worshipful aisles of Notre Dame. It is the babbling French that is the language of three-quarters of the residents of Montreal. For there stands French, not only entrenched in the chief city of England's chief possession, but a language that, in the opinion of unprejudiced observers, gains rather than loses following each twelvemonth. There are reasons back of all this, and many of them too complicated and involved to be entered upon here. Suffice it to say here and now that the city school taxes are divided pro rata between Protestants and Roman Catholics for the conduct of their several schools of every sort. And that in most of the Catholic schools French is practically the only language taught, a half-hour a day being sometimes given to English, whenever it is taught at all. The devotion of these French Canadians to their language is only second to their religion, and is closely intermingled with it. There is something pathetic and lovable about it all that makes one understand why the _habitans_ of a little town below Montreal tore down the English sign that the Dominion government erected over their Post Office, a year or so ago. And the Dominion government took the hint, made no fuss, but replaced its error with a French sign. Remember that there are more Tricolors floating in lower Canada than British Union Jacks. The signs of Montreal point the truth. Half of the street markers must be in English, half in French, just as the city government that places them divides its proceedings, half in one language, half in the other. This even division runs to the street car transfers and notices, the flaring bulletins on sign-boards and dead-walls, even so stolid a British institution as the Harbor Commissioners giving the sides of its brigade of dock locomotives evenly to the rival tongues. To attend high mass in Notre Dame is to make a memory well-nigh ineffaceable. It is to bring back in future years recollections of a great church, lifted from its week-day shadows by a wealth of dazzling incandescents, to be ushered past silent, kneeling figures to a stout pew, by a stout _Suisse_ in gaudy uniform; to look to a high altar that stands afar and ablaze with candles, while priests and acolytes, by the hundreds, pass before it chanting, and the Cardinal sits aloft on his throne silent and in adoration; to hear not a word of English from that high place or the folk who sit upon the great floor or in the two encircling galleries, but to catch the refrain of chant and of "Te Deum;" these are the things that seem to make religion common to every man, no matter what his professed faith. And then, after it is all over, to come out of the shadows of the parish church into the brilliant sunshine of the Place d'Armes, the place where they once executed murderers under the old French law by breaking their backs and then their lesser bones, and to hear Gros Bourdon sing his chant over the city from the belfry of Notre Dame--this is the old Montreal living in the heart of the new. They do not swing the great bell any more--for even Notre Dame grows old and its aged stones must be respected--but they toll it rapidly, in a sort of sing-song chant. We have stood in the west end of the town, three miles distant from the Place d'Armes, and heard the rich, sweet tones of his deep throat come booming over the crowded city--a warning to a half a million folk to turn from worldier things to the thought of mighty God. * * * * * Our best path leads west again from the Place d'Armes, past the newly reconstructed General Post Office, more stately banks here concentrating the wealth of the strong, new Canada; smart British-looking shops and restaurants. In these last you may drink fine ales, munch at rare cheeses, of which Montreal is _connoisseur_, and eat rare roast beef done to a turn, with Yorkshire pudding, six days in a week. But you will look in vain for real French restaurants with their delectable _cuisines_. We have looked in vain in our almost innumerable trips to the city under the mountain. We have enlisted our friend Paul, who avers that he knows Montreal as he knows the fingers on his hand. Paul is a reporter on a French paper. He works not more than fourteen consecutive hours on dull days, at a princely salary of nine dollars a week, and the rest of the time he is our entertainment committee--and an immense success at that. Paul has taught us a smattering of Montreal French, and he has shown us many curious places about the old city, but he has never found us a French restaurant that could even compare with some we know in the vicinity of West Twenty-seventh street in the city of New York. Sometimes he has come to us with mysterious hints of final success and we have girded our loins quickly to go with him. But when we have arrived it has been a place white-fronted like the dairy lunches off from Broadway, and we have never seen one of them without the listing of breakfast foods from Battle Creek, Michigan, mince-pie or other typical dishes from the States. And at Paul's rarest find we interviewed _Monsieur le proprietaire_, only to have the dashing news that he had once served as second _chef_ in the old Burnet House, in Cincinnati. There is, after all, a closer bond between two neighboring nations than either Ottawa or London is willing to admit and even Paul, loyal to his language and to his traditions, admits that. "Some day--some day," he dreams to us between cigarettes, "I am going down to see the Easter parade on Fifth avenue. Last year twelve thousand went from Montreal"--he chuckles--"and folks from Bordeaux ward looked at the swells from Westmount and thought they were real New Yorkers." And a little while later, between another change of cigarettes, he adds: "And I may not come back on my ticket. I understand--that reporters get fifteen or twenty dollars a week on the New York city papers." Paul's collar is impossible and his appetite for cigarettes fiendish, but he has ambitions. Perhaps he shares the ambitions of the city which, old in heart and traditions, is new in enterprise and hope, and looks forward to being the mighty gateway of the greatest of all English great possessions--a city filled with more than a million folk. * * * * * We pass through the splendors of Victoria square and up the steep turn of Beaver Hall Hill into Phillips square and smart Ste. Catherine street. In a general way, the French element have preëmpted the eastern end of the city for themselves, while the English-speaking portion of the population clings to the section north and west of Phillips square and Ste. Catherine street right up to the first steep slopes of Mount Royal. This part of the city looks like any smart, progressive British town--with its fine Gothic Cathedral of the Church of England facing its showy main street, its exclusive clubs and its great hotels. And nowadays smart modern restaurants are also crowding upon Ste. Catherine street, for modern Montreal will proudly tell you, and tell you again and again, that it is more continental, far more continental than London, which in turn is tightly bound down by the traditions of English conservatism. Montreal is not very literary--Toronto surpassing it in that regard--but it has a keen love of good paintings, good art of every sort. It ranks itself next to New York and Boston and among North American cities in this regard. "We are more proud of our public and private galleries," says the citizen of the town who sips tea at five o'clock with you in the lounge of the Windsor, "than we are of our New Yorkish restaurants that have imported themselves across the line within the past year or two. We have smiled at our daughters drifting in here for their tea on matinée afternoons, but dinners and American cocktails--well there are some sorts of reciprocity that we decidedly do not want." We understand. Montreal wants her personality, her rare and varied personality, preserved inviolate and intact. That is one great reason why she has cherished the pro-British habits of her press. New York is well enough for a trip--Montreal delights in our metropolis, as she does in our Atlantic City--as mere pleasure grounds, and the Easter hegira, in which Paul is yet to join, grows each year. But New York is New York, and Montreal must be Montreal. With her wealth of tradition, her peculiarly unique conservatism of two languages and two great peoples working out their problems in common sympathy, without conceding a single heritage, one to the other, the city of the gray and green must keep to her own path. 22 THE CITY THAT NEVER GROWS YOUNG He stands, hat in hand, facing the city that honors his memory so greatly. To Samuel de la Champlain Quebec has not merely given the glory of what seems to us to be one of the handsomest monuments in America, but here and there in her quiet streets she brings back to the stranger within her walls recollections of the doughty Frenchman who braved an unknown sea to find a site for the city, which for more than three hundred years has stood as guardian to the north portal of America. Other adventurous sea spirits of those early days went chiefly in the quest of gold. Champlain had loftier ambitions within his heart. He hoped to be a nation-builder. And not only Quebec, but the great young-old nation that stands behind her, is his real monument. Still, the artist's creation of bronze and of marble is effective--not alone, as we have already said, because of its own real beauty--but also very largely because of its tremendously impressive setting at the rim of the upper town--facing the tiny open square that as far back as two hundred and fifty years ago was the center of its fashionable life. Champlain in bronze looks at the tidy Place d'Armes--older residents of Quebec still delight in calling it the Ring--with its neat pathways of red brick and its low, splashing fountain, as if he longed to return to flesh and blood and walk through the little square and from it down some of the narrow streets that he may, himself, have planned in the days of old. Or perhaps he would have chosen that once imposing main thoroughfare of Upper Town, St. Louis street, which out beyond the city wall has the even more distinctive French title of the Grande Allee. We have chosen that main street many times ourselves, leading straight past the castellated gateways of the Chateau, fashioned less than a score of years ago by a master American architect--Mr. Bruce Price--and since grown very much larger, quite like a lovely girl still in her teens. On the other side of the street, close to the curb of the Place d'Armes, is the ever-waiting row of Victorias and _caleches_, whose drivers rise smilingly in their places even at the mere suggestion of a coming fare. Beyond these patient Jehus stands the rather ordinary looking Court House, somewhat out of harmony with the architectural traditions of the town--and then we are plunged into the heart of as fascinating a street as one may hope to see in North America. It is clean--immaculate, if you please, after the fashion of all these _habitans_ of lower Canada--and it is bordered ever and ever so tightly by a double row of clean-faced stone houses, their single doors letting directly upon the sidewalk, and, also after the fashion of all Quebec, surmounted by steep pitched tin roofs and wonderfully fat chimneys, covered with tin in their turn. Quebec seems to have a passion for tin. It is her almost universal roofing, and in the bright sunshine, glittering with mirror-like brilliancy of contrast against the age-darkened stone walls, it has a charm that is quite its own. One of these old houses of St. Louis street sets well back from the sidewalk in a seeming riotous waste of front lawn, and bears upon its face a tablet denoting it as the one-time home of the Duke of Kent. This distinguished gentleman lived in Quebec many years before he became father of Queen Victoria. In fact, Quebec remembers him as a rather gay young blade of a fellow who had innumerable mild affairs with the fascinating French-Canadian girls of the town. These things have almost become traditions among the older folk of the place. Those girls of Quebec town seem always to have held keen attractions for young blades from afar. When you turn down Mountain Hill and pass the General Post Office with its quaint Golden Dog set in the _façade_, they will not only make you re-read that fascinating romance of the old Quebec, but they will tell you that years after the Philiberts and the Repentignys were gone and the English were in full enjoyment of their rare American prize, that same old inn, upon whose front the gnawing dog was so securely set, was run by one Sergeant Miles Prentice, whose pretty niece, Miss Simpson, so captivated Captain Horatio Nelson of His Majesty's Ship _Albemarle_ that it became necessary for his friends to spirit away the future hero of Trafalgar to prevent him from marrying her. Beyond the old house of the Duke of Kent, St. Louis street is a narrow path lined by severe little Canadian homes all the way to the city gate. Many of these houses are fairly steeped in tradition. One tiny fellow within which the ancient profession of the barber still works is the house wherein Montcalm died. And to another, Benedict Arnold was taken in that ill-starred American attack upon Quebec. A third was a gift two centuries ago by the Intendant Bigot to the favored woman of his acquaintance. Romance does creep up and down the little steps of these little houses. They change hardly at all with the changing of the years. [Illustration: Lower Town, Quebec--from the Terrace] Here among them are the ruins of an old theater--its solid-stone façade still holding high above the narrow run of pavement. It has been swept within by fire--the evil enemy that has fallen upon Quebec again and again and far more devastatingly than even the cannon that have bombarded her from unfriendly hands. "Are they going to rebuild?" you may inquire, as you look at the stolid shell of the old theater. "Bless you, no," exclaims your guide. "The Music Hall was burned more than a dozen years ago. Quebec does not rebuild." But he is wrong. Quebec does rebuild, does progress. Quebec progresses very slowly, but also very surely. To a man who returns after twenty years' absence from her quiet streets, the changes are most apparent. There are fewer _caleches_ upon the street--those quaint two-wheeled vehicles which merge the joys of a Coney island whirly-coaster and the benefits of Swedish massage--although the drivers of these distinctive carriages still supply the American's keen demand for "local color" by shouting "_marche donc_" to their stout and ugly little horses as they go running up and down the steep side-hill streets. Nowadays most tourists eschew the _caleche_ and turn towards trolley cars. That of itself tells of the almost sinful modernization of Quebec. It is almost a quarter of a century since the electric cars invaded the narrow streets of the Upper Town, and in so doing caused the wanton demolition of the last of the older gates--Porte St. Jean. The destruction of St. Jean's gate was a mistake--to put the matter slightly. It came at a time when the question was being gently raised of the replacement of the older gates that had gone long before--Palace, Hope and Prescott. Nowadays but two of these portals remain, the St. Louis and the Kent gates, and these are not in architectural harmony with the solid British fortifications. Indeed, that is one of the great crimes to be charged against the modernization of Quebec. Other old towns in America have brought their architects to a clever sense of the necessity of making their newer buildings fit in absolute harmony with the older. They have clung jealously to their architectural personality. Quebec has missed that point. With the exception of the lovely Chateau which fits the traditions of the town, as a solitaire fits a ring setting, the newer buildings represent a strange hodge-podge of ideas. Quebec herself rather endures being quaint than enjoys it; for in this day of Canadian development she has dreamed of the future after the fashion of those insistent towns further to the west. It has not been pleasant for her to drop from second place in Canadian commercial importance to fourth or fifth. She has had to sit back and see such cities as Winnipeg, for instance, come from an Indian trading-place to a metropolitan center two or three times her size, while her own wharves rot. It is a matter of keen humiliation to the town every time a big ocean liner goes sailing up the river to Montreal--her river, if you are to give ear to the protests of her citizens whom you meet along the Terrace of a late afternoon--without halting at her wharves, perhaps without even a respectful salute to the town which has been known these many years as the Gibraltar of America. So she has given herself to the development of transcontinental railroad projects. When one Canadian railroad decided to use her as the summer terminal of its largest trans-Atlantic liners without sending those great vessels further up to Montreal, Quebec saw quickly what that meant to her in prestige and importance. When the railroads told her, as politely as they might, that they could not develop her as a mighty traffic center because of the broad arm of the St. Lawrence which blocked rail access from the South, she put her wits together and set out to bridge that arm with the greatest cantilever in the world. The fall of the Quebec bridge five years ago with its toll of eighty lives, was a great blow to the commercial hopes of the town. But they have begun to arise once more. The wreckage of that tragedy is already out of the way and the workmen are trying again, placing fresh foundations for the slender, far-reaching span that is going to mean so very much to the portal city of Canada. * * * * * But progress has not robbed Quebec of her charm. It seems quite unlikely that such a brutal tragedy shall ever come. They may come as they did a year or two ago and tear down the impressive Champlain market--one of the very great lions of the Lower Town--but they do not understand the _habitans_ from those back country villages around Quebec. Progress does not come to those obscure communities--no, not even slowly. The women still gather together at some mountain stream on wash-days and cleanse their laundry by placing it over flat rocks by the waterside and pounding it with wooden paddles, there are more barns roofed with thatch than with shingles, to say nothing of farms where a horse is an unknown luxury and men till the soil much as the soil was tilled in the days of Christ. From those places came the _habitans_ to Champlain market--within my memory some of them in two-wheeled carts drawn by great Newfoundland dogs--and it was a gay place on at least two mornings of the week. One might buy if one pleased--bartering is a fine art to the French-Canadian and one dear to his soul--or one might pass to the next stall. But one could never pass very many stalls, with their bright offerings of food-stuffs or simple wearing apparels alike set in garniture of the brilliant flowers of this land of the short warm summer. And now that the sturdy Champlain market is no more--literally torn apart, one stone from another--a few of these folk--typical of a North American race that refuses to become assimilated even after whole centuries of patient effort--still gather in the open square that used to face the market-house. They do not understand. There are only a few of them, and their little shows of wares are still individually brave, still individually gay. But even these must see that the folk with money no longer come to them. Perhaps they see and with stolid French-Canadian indifference refuse to accept the fact. Such a thing would be but characteristic of a folk, who, betrayed and forgotten by their home-land for a little more than one hundred and fifty years, still cling not merely to their religion, but to traditions and a language that is alien to the land that shelters them. In Montreal the traveler from the States first finds French all but universal, the hardy Tricolor of France flying from more poles than boast British Union Jacks. In Quebec that feeling is intensified. We hunted through the shops of the town for a British standard, and in vain. But every one of the obliging shop-keepers was quick to offer us the flag of France. And the decorative _motif_ of the modern architecture of new Quebec lends itself with astonishing frequency to the use of the lilies of old France. "It is that very sort of thing that makes Britain the really great nation that she is," an old gentleman told us one afternoon on the Terrace. We had been discussing this with him, and he had told us how the city records of Quebec--a British seaport town--were kept in French, how even the legislative proceedings in the great new parliament building out on the Grande Allee beyond the city wall were in that same prettily flavored tongue. "Yes, sir," he continued, "we may have a King that is English in title and German in blood, sir, but here in Canada we have one who through success and through defeat is more than King--Sir Wilfred Laurier--our late premier, sir." We liked the old gentleman's spunk. He was typical of the old French blood as it pulses within the new France. We liked the old gentleman, too. To us he was as one who had just stepped from one of Honoré Balzac's stories, with his mustaches, waxed and dyed into a drooping perfection, his low-set soft hat, his vast envelope of a faded greatcoat, his cane thrust under his arm, as Otis Skinner might have done it. We had first met him one morning coming out of the arched gateway of the very ancient whitewashed pile of the Seminary; again as he stepped from his morning devotions out through the doorway of the Basilica into the sunlight of what was once the market-square of the Upper Town--after that many more times. Finally we had risked a little smile of recognition, to be answered by the salute courtly. We had conquered. We knew that romance personified was close to him. Perhaps our old gentleman was an army man; he must have been able to sit on the long porch of the Garrison Club, that delectable and afternoon-teable place that looks out upon the trim grass-carpeted court-yard, and tell stories at least as far back as the Crimea. "A Frenchman?" you begin, as if attacking the very substance of our argument of romance, "fighting the battles of the English Queen?" Bless your heart, yes. The Frenchmen of lower Canada have never hesitated at helping England fight her battles. Within sixteen years after their own disastrous defeat before the walls of the citadel city that they loved so dearly, they were fighting alongside of their conquerors to hold her safe from the attacks of the tremendously brave, and half-fed little American army which ventured north through the fearful rigors of a Canadian winter, hopelessly to essay the impossible. But our old gentleman was not a soldier. He was a seller of cheeses in St. Roch ward, who had retired in the sunset of his life. He knew the Quebec of the days when the Parliament house stood perched at the ramparts at the Prescott gate, and the old gateways themselves were narrow _impasses_ at which the traffic of great carts and little _caleches_ in summer, and dancing, splendid sleighs in winter, was forever fearfully congested; he could tell many of the romances that still linger up this street and down that, within the stout walls of this house or in the sheltered garden of some nunnery or half-hidden home. He could speak English well, which, for a Frenchman in Quebec, is a mark of uncommon education. But, best of all, he knew his Quebec. He was in a true sense the old Quebec living in the new. Even among the cosmopolitan folk of the Terrace in the shady late afternoons, you could recognize him as such. He was apart from the throng--a motley of bare-footed, brown-cloaked friars, full-skirted priests, white nuns and gray and black, red-coated soldiers from the Citadel to give a sharp note of color to the great promenade of Quebec, millionaires real and would-be from New York, tourists of every sort from all the rest of our land, funny looking English folk from the yellow-funnelled _Empress_, which had just pulled in from Liverpool and even now lay resting almost under the walls of old Quebec--he was readily distinguished. To be with him was, of itself, a matter of distinction. [Illustration: Four Brethren upon the Terrace] To walk the staid streets of the fascinating old town with him was a privilege. Always the excursion led to new and unexpected turns; one day up the narrow lane and through the impressive gates of the Citadel, where a petty officer detained our American cameras and assigned us to a mumbling rear private for perfunctory escort around the old place. It is no longer tenanted by British troops. The last of these left forty years ago. These red-coats are counterfeit; raw-boned boys from Canadian farms being put through their military paces by a distant government which may sometimes overlook, but not always. The Citadel as a military work is tremendously out-of-date. Even as it now stands, it is almost a century old, and that tells the story. The guns that have so wide a sweep and so exquisite a view from the ramparts may look fear-inspiring, but the ramparts are of stone and would be quickly vulnerable to modern naval ordnance. The gun that is unfailingly shown to Americans is a small field-piece which is said to have been captured from us at Bunker Hill. Whereupon our tourists, with a rare gift of repartee, always exclaim: "Ah, you may have the gun, but we have the hill!" And the military training of the young Canadian militiaman is so perfect that he smiles politely in response. As a matter of fact, there is no record of the fact that the gun was ever taken from the Americans, although each little while there is a request from the States for its return, which is always met with derision and scorn by the Canadians. Politics in Our Lady of the Snows is almost entirely beyond the understanding of an American. * * * * * Sometimes our friend of old Quebec led us to the churches of the town--many of them capped with roosters upon their steeples, instead of the Roman cross which we had believed inevitable with the Catholic church. Since then we have been informed that many of the Swiss churches of the same faith have that high-perched cock upon the steeple-tops. We paused once at a new church on the rim of the town, where the very old habit of having a nun in constant adoration of the Host is perpetuated, paused again at the ever fascinating Notre Dame des Victoiries in Lower Town, with its battlemented altar and its patriotic legends in French, which a British government has been indulgent enough to overlook, stood again and again at the wonderful Van Dyke which hangs in the clear, cool, white and gold Basilica. From the churches, we sometimes went to the chapels; the modern structure of the Seminary, or the fascinating holy places of the Ursulines, where the kind-hearted Mother Superior turned our attention from the imprisoned nuns chanting their prayers behind an altar screen, like the decorous and constant hum of honey-bees, to the skull of Montcalm. Then we must see his burial place in the very spot in the chapel wall cleft open by a rampant British shell sent to harass his army. "Montcalm," said our gentleman of the old Quebec. "He was, sir, the bravest soldier and the finest that France ever sent overseas." And we could only remember that other fine monument of Quebec, out on the Grande Allee toward the point where Abraham Martius's cows, chewing their cuds on an open plain, awoke one day to find one of the world's great battles being fought--almost over their very heads. In that creation of marble and of bronze, the great figure of Fame is perched aloft, reaching down to place her laurel branch upon a real French gentleman--Montcalm--at the very hour of his death. That memorial is something more. In a fashion somewhat unusual to monuments, it fairly vitalizes reality. * * * * * There must be a real reason why Quebec is such a Mecca for honeymoon journeys. You can see the grooms and the brides out on the Terrace, summernight after summernight. Romance hovers over that high-hung place. It sometimes saunters there of a sunshiny morning--a couple here, or a couple there in seemingly loving irresponsibility as to the fact that ours is a workaday world, after all. It lingers at the afternoon tea, along the Terrace promenade. It comes into its own, night after night, when the boys and girls of the town promenade back and forth to the rhythmical crash of a military band, or in the intervals stand at the rail looking down at the rough pattern of street-lights in Lower Town, the glistening string of electrics at Levis, or listening to the rattle of ship's winches which give a hint that, after all, there is a world beyond Quebec. When night comes upon the Terrace, one may see it at its very best. He may watch the day die over the Laurentians, the western sky fill with pink afterglow, and the very edge of those ancient peaks sharpen as if outlined with an engraver's steel. For a moment, as the summer day hesitates there on the threshold of twilight and good-by, he may trace the country road that runs its course along the north bank of the St. Lawrence by the tiny homes of the _habitans_ that line it, he may raise his eyes again to the sharp blue profile of the mountains. He may hear, as we heard, the old gentleman from St. Roch, whisper as he raises his pointing cane: "I come here every night and look upon the amphitheater of the gods." So it is the night that is the most subtle thing about Quebec. It is night when one may hear the bells of all the churches that have been a-jangle since early morning ring out for vespers before the many altars, the sharp report of the evening gun speaking out from the ramparts of the Citadel. After that, silence--the silence of waiting. There is a surcease of the chiming bells--the Terrace becomes deserted of the army of pleasure-seekers who a little time before were making meaningless rotation upon it, the bandmen fall asleep in their cell-like casements of the Citadel, the lights of Lower Town and of Levis go snuffing out one by one. Silence--the silence of waiting. Only the sentinels who pace the ramparts of the crumbling fortifications, the occasional policeman in the narrow street, the white-robed sister who sits in perpetual adoration of the Sacrament, proclaim Quebec awake. Quebec does not sleep. She lives, like an aged belle in memory of her triumphs of the past, keeps patiently the vigil of the lonely years, and awaits the coming of Christ. THE END * * * * * TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Punctuation and spelling standardized. Frequent inconsistent hyphenation not changed. 
35575	----	[Illustration: Willard Glazier] PECULIARITIES OF AMERICAN CITIES. BY CAPTAIN WILLARD GLAZIER, AUTHOR OF "SOLDIERS OF THE SADDLE," "CAPTURE, PRISON-PEN AND ESCAPE," "BATTLES FOR THE UNION," "HEROES OF THREE WARS," "DOWN THE GREAT RIVER," ETC., ETC. Illustrated. PHILADELPHIA: HUBBARD BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, No. 723 CHESTNUT STREET. 1886. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1883, by WILLARD GLAZIER, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. To her WHO IS NEAREST AND DEAREST; WHOSE HEART HAS ENCOURAGED; WHOSE HAND HAS CONTRIBUTED TO THE ILLUSTRATION AND EMBELLISHMENT OF ALL MY LITERARY WORK, This Volume IS LOVINGLY INSCRIBED BY _THE AUTHOR_. PREFACE. It has occurred to the author very often that a volume presenting the peculiar features, favorite resorts and distinguishing characteristics, of the leading cities of America, would prove of interest to thousands who could, at best, see them only in imagination, and to others, who, having visited them, would like to compare notes with one who has made their PECULIARITIES a study for many years. A residence in more than a hundred cities, including nearly all that are introduced in this work, leads me to feel that I shall succeed in my purpose of giving to the public a book, without the necessity of marching in slow and solemn procession before my readers a monumental array of time-honored statistics; on the contrary, it will be my aim, in the following pages, to talk of cities as I have seen and found them in my walks, from day to day, with but slight reference to their origin and past history. WILLARD GLAZIER. 22 Jay Street, ALBANY, _September 24, 1883_. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. Portrait of the Author (Steel) FRONTISPIECE. PAGE State Street and Capitol, Albany, N. Y. 34 Boston, as Viewed from the Bay 38 Soldiers' Monument at Buffalo, N. Y. 62 View of Baltimore, from Federal Hill 92 View of the Battery, Charleston, South Carolina 108 Garden at Mount Pleasant, opposite Charleston, S. C. 112 Custom House, Charleston, South Carolina 116 Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, South Carolina 120 Public Square and Perry Monument, Cleveland, Ohio 150 Euclid Avenue, Cleveland, Ohio 156 Bird's-eye View of Chicago, from the Lake Side 160 Burning of Chicago, the World's Greatest Conflagration 164 Grand Pacific Hotel, Chicago 170 Woodward Avenue, Detroit, Michigan 192 Harrisburg and Bridges over the Susquehanna 200 Jackson Square and Old Cathedral, New Orleans 274 Mardi Gras Festival, New Orleans 278 Bird's-eye View of New York 296 New York and Brooklyn Bridge 318 Pittsburg and its Rivers 336 Night Scene in Market Square, Portland, Maine 360 Old Independence Hall, Philadelphia 370 Masonic Temple, Philadelphia 378 Girard Avenue Bridge, Fairmount Park, Philadelphia 394 View of Providence, Rhode Island, from Prospect Terrace 400 Tabernacle and Temple, Salt Lake City 440 Seal Rocks from the Cliff House, near San Francisco 462 Levee and Great Bridge at St. Louis 492 Shaw's Garden at St. Louis, Missouri 502 University of Toronto, Canada 524 East Front of Capitol at Washington 538 State, War and Navy Departments, Washington, D. C. 546 TABLE OF CONTENTS. CHAPTER I.--ALBANY. From Boston to Albany.--Worcester and Pittsfield.--The Empire State and its Capital.--Old Associations.--State Street.-- Sketch of Early History.--Killian Van Rensselaer.--Dutch Emigration.--Old Fort Orange.--City Heights.--The Lumber District.--Van Rensselaer Homestead.--The New Capitol.-- Military Bureau.--War Relics.--Letter of General Dix.-- Ellsworth and Lincoln Memorials.--Geological Rooms.--The Cathedral.--Dudley Observatory.--Street Marketing.--Troy and Cohoes.--Stove Works.--Paper Boats.--Grand Army Rooms.--Down the Hudson. 25-37 CHAPTER II.--BOSTON. Geographical Location of Boston.--Ancient Names.--Etymology of the Word Massachusetts.--Changes in the Peninsula.--Noted Points of Interest.--Boston Common.--Old Elm.--Duel Under its Branches.--Soldiers' Monument.--Fragmentary History.-- Courtship on the Common.--Faneuil Hall and Market.--Old State House.--King's Chapel.--Brattle Square Church.--New State House.--New Post Office.--Old South Church.--Birthplace of Franklin.--"News Letter."--City Hall.--Custom House.-- Providence Railroad Station.--Places of General Interest. 38-56 CHAPTER III.--BUFFALO. The Niagara Frontier.--Unfortunate Fate of the Eries.--The Battle of Doom.--Times of 1812.--Burning of Buffalo.--Early Names.--Origin of Present Name.--Growth and Population.-- Railway Lines.--Queen of the Great Lakes.--Fort Porter and Fort Erie.--International Bridge.--Iron Manufacture.--Danger of the Niagara.--Forest Lawn Cemetery.--Decoration Day.-- The Spaulding Monument.--Parks and Boulevard.--Delaware Avenue.--On the Terrace.--Elevator District.--Church and Schools.--Grosvenor Library.--Historical Rooms.--Journalism.-- Public Buildings.--City Hall.--Dog-carts and their Attendants. 57-71 CHAPTER IV.--BROOKLYN. Brooklyn a Suburb of New York.--A City of Homes.--Public Buildings.--Churches.--Henry Ward Beecher.--Thomas De Witt Talmage.--Theodore L. Cuyler, D.D.--Justin D. Fulton, D.D.--R. S. Storrs, D.D.--Navy Yard.--Atlantic Dock.-- Washington Park.--Prospect Park.--Greenwood Cemetery.-- Evergreen and Cyprus Hills Cemeteries.--Coney Island.-- Rockaway.--Staten Island.--Glen Island.--Future of Brooklyn. 72-84 CHAPTER V.--BALTIMORE. Position of Baltimore.--Streets.--Cathedral and Churches.-- Public Buildings.--Educational Institutions.--Art Collections.--Charitable Institutions.--Monuments.--Railway Tunnels.--Parks and Cemeteries.--Druid Hill Park.--Commerce and Manufactures.--Foundation of the City.--Early History.-- Bonaparte-Patterson Marriage.--Storming of Baltimore in 1814.--Maryland at the Breaking-out of the Rebellion.--Assault on Sixth Massachusetts Regiment, in April, 1861.--Subsequent Events during the War.--Baltimore Proves Herself Loyal.-- Re-union of Grand Army of the Republic in Baltimore, September, 1882.--Old Differences Forgotten and Fraternal Relations Established. 85-106 CHAPTER VI.--CHARLESTON. First Visit to Charleston.--Jail Yard.--Bombardment of the City.--Roper Hospital.--Charleston During the War.--Secession of South Carolina.--Attack and Surrender of Fort Sumter.-- Blockade of the Harbor.--Great Fire of 1861.--Capitulation in 1865.--First Settlement of the City.--Battles of the Revolution.--Nullification Act.--John C. Calhoun.--Population of the City.--Commerce and Manufactures.--Charleston Harbor.-- "American Venice."--Battery.--Streets, Public Buildings and Churches.--Scenery about Charleston.--Railways and Steamship Lines.--An Ancient Church.--Magnolia Cemetery.--Drives near the City.--Charleston Purified by Fire. 107-120 CHAPTER VII.--CINCINNATI. Founding of Cincinnati.--Rapid Increase of Population.-- Character of its Early Settlers.--Pro-slavery Sympathies.-- During the Rebellion.--Description of the City.--Smoke and Soot--Suburbs.--"Fifth Avenue" of Cincinnati.--Streets, Public Buildings, Private Art Galleries, Hotels, Churches and Educational Institutions.--"Over the Rhine."--Hebrew Population.--Liberal Religious Sentiment.--Commerce and Manufacturing Interests.--Stock Yards and Pork-packing Establishments.--Wine Making.--Covington and Newport Suspension Bridge.--High Water.--Spring Grove Cemetery. 121-139 CHAPTER VIII.--CLEVELAND. The "Western Reserve."--Character of Early Settlers.-- Fairport.--Richmond.--Early History of Cleveland.--Indians.-- Opening of Ohio and Portsmouth Canal.--Commerce in 1845.-- Cleveland in 1850.--First Railroad.--Manufacturing Interests.--Cuyahoga "Flats" at Night.--The "Forest City."-- Streets and Avenues.--Monumental Park.--Public Buildings and Churches.--Union Depot.--Water Rents.--Educational Institutions.--Rocky River.--Approach to the City.--Freshet of 1883.--Funeral of President Garfield.--Lake Side Cemetery.-- Site of the Garfield Monument. 140-156 CHAPTER IX.--CHICAGO. Topographical Situation of Chicago.--Meaning of the Name.-- Early History.--Massacre at Fort Dearborn.--Last of the Red Men.--The Great Land Bubble.--Rapid Increase in Population and Business.--The Canal.--First Railroad.--Status of the City in 1871.--The Great Fire.--Its Origin, Progress and Extent.--Heartrending Scenes.--Estimated Total Loss.--Help from all Quarters.--Work of Reconstruction.--Second Fire.-- Its Public Buildings, Educational and Charitable Institutions, Streets and Parks.--Its Waterworks.--Its Stock Yards.--Its Suburbs.--Future of the City. 157-175 CHAPTER X.--CHEYENNE. Location of Cheyenne.--Founding of the City.--Lawlessness.-- Vigilance Committee.--Woman Suffrage.--Rapid Increase of Population and Business.--A Reaction.--Stock Raising.-- Irrigation.--Mineral Resources.--Present Prospects. 176-181 CHAPTER XI--DETROIT. Detroit and Her Avenues of Approach.--Competing Lines.-- London in Canada.--The Strait and the Ferry.--Music on the Waters.--The Home of the Algonquins.--Teusha-grondie.-- Wa-we-aw-to-nong.--Fort Ponchartrain and the Early French Settlers.--The Red Cross of St. George.--Conspiracy of Pontiac.--Battle of Bloody Run.--The Long Siege.--Detroit's First American Flag.--Old Landmarks.--The Pontiac Tree.-- Devastation by Fire.--Site of the Modern City.--New City Hall.--Public Library.--Mexican Antiquities. 182-193 CHAPTER XII.--ERIE. Decoration Day in Pennsylvania.--Lake Erie.--Natural Advantages of Erie.--Her Harbor, Commerce and Manufactures.-- Streets and Public Buildings.--Soldiers' Monument.--Erie Cemetery.--East and West Parks.--Perry's Victory. 194-198 CHAPTER XIII.--HARRISBURG. A Historic Tree.--John Harris' Wild Adventure with the Indians.--Harris Park.--History of Harrisburg.--Situation and Surroundings.--State House.--State Library.--A Historic Flag.--View from State House Dome.--Capitol Park.--Monument to Soldiers of Mexican War.--Monument to Soldiers of Late War.--Public Buildings.--Front Street.--Bridges over the Susquehanna.--Mt. Kalmia Cemetery.--Present Advantages and Future Prospects of Harrisburg. 199-206 CHAPTER XIV.--HARTFORD. The City of Publishers.--Its Geographical Location.--The New State House.--Mark Twain and the "None Such."--The "Heathen Chinee."--Wadsworth Atheneum.--Charter Oak.--George H. Clark's Poem.--Putnam's Hotel.--Asylum for Deaf Mutes.--The Sign Language.--A Fragment of Witchcraftism.--Hartford _Courant_.--The Connecticut. 207-215 CHAPTER XV.--LANCASTER. First Visit to Lancaster.--Eastern Pennsylvania.--Conestoga River.--Early History of Lancaster.--Early Dutch Settlers.-- Manufactures.--Public Buildings.--Whit-Monday.--Home of three Noted Persons.--James Buchanan, his Life and Death.-- Thaddeus Stevens and his Burial Place.--General Reynolds and his Death.--"Cemetery City." 216-221 CHAPTER XVI.--MILWAUKEE. Rapid Development of the Northwest.--The "West" Forty Years Ago.--Milwaukee and its Commerce and Manufactures.-- Grain Elevators.--Harbor.--Divisions of the City.--Public Buildings.--Northwestern National Asylum for Disabled Soldiers.--German Population.--Influence and Results of German Immigration.--Bank Riot in 1862.--Ancient Tumuli.--Mound Builders.--Mounds Near Milwaukee.--Significance of Same.-- Early Traders.--Foundation of the City in 1835.--Excelling Chicago in 1870.--Population and Commerce in 1880. 222-235 CHAPTER XVII--MONTREAL. Thousand Islands.--Long Sault Rapids.--Lachine Rapids.-- Victoria Bridge--Mont Rèal.--Early History of Montreal.-- Its Shipping Interests.--Quays.--Manufactures.--Population.-- Roman Catholic Supremacy.--Churches.--Nunneries.--Hospitals, Colleges.--Streets.--Public Buildings.--Victoria Skating Rink.--Sleighing.--Early Disasters.--Points of Interest.-- The "Canucks." 236-247 CHAPTER XVIII.--NEWARK. From New York to Newark.--Two Hundred Years Ago.--The Pioneers.--Public Parks.--City of Churches.--The Canal.-- Sailing Up-Hill.--An Old Graveyard.--New Amsterdam and New Netherlands.--The Dutch and English.--Adventurers from New England.--The Indians.--Rate of Population.--Manufactures.-- Rank as a City. 248-255 CHAPTER XIX.--NEW HAVEN. The City of Elms.--First Impressions.--A New England Sunday.-- A Sail on the Harbor.--Oyster Beds.--East Rock.--The Lonely Denizen of the Bluff.--Romance of John Turner.--West Rock.-- The Judges' Cave.--Its Historical Association.--Escape of the Judges.--Monument on the City Green.--Yale College.--Its Stormy Infancy.--Battle on the Weathersfield Road.--Harvard, the Fruit of the Struggle. 256-263 CHAPTER XX.--NEW ORLEANS. Locality of New Orleans.--The Mississippi.--The Old and the New.--Ceded to Spain.--Creole Part in the American Revolution. Retransferred to France.--Purchased by the United States.-- Creole Discontent.--Battle of New Orleans.--Increase of Population.--The Levee.--Shipping.--Public Buildings, Churches, Hospitals, Hotels and Places of Amusement.-- Streets.--Suburbs.--Public Squares and Parks.--Places of Historic Interest.--Cemeteries.--French Market.-- Mardi-gras.--Climate and Productions.--New Orleans during the Rebellion.--Chief Cotton Mart of the World.--Exports.-- Imports.--Future Prosperity of the City. 264-280 CHAPTER XXI.--NEW YORK. Early History of New York.--During the Revolution.--Evacuation Day.--Bowling Green.--Wall Street.--Stock Exchange.-- Jacob Little.--Daniel Drew.--Jay Cooke.--Rufus Hatch.-- The Vanderbilts.--Jay Gould.--Trinity Church.--John Jacob Astor.--Post-Office.--City Hall and Court House.--James Gordon Bennett.--Printing House Square.--Horace Greeley.--Broadway.-- Union Square.--Washington Square.--Fifth Avenue.--Madison Square.--Cathedral.--Murray Hill.--Second Avenue.--Booth's Theatre and Grand Opera House.--The Bowery.--Peter Cooper.-- Fourth Avenue.--Park Avenue.--Five Points and its Vicinity.-- Chinese Quarter.--Tombs.--Central Park.--Water Front.-- Blackwell's Island.--Hell Gate.--Suspension Bridge.--Opening Day.--Tragedy of Decoration Day.--New York of the Present and Future. 281-318 CHAPTER XXII.--OMAHA. Arrival in Omaha.--The Missouri River.--Position and Appearance of the City.--Public Buildings.--History.--Land Speculation.--Panic of 1857.--Discovery of Gold in Colorado.-- "Pike's Peak or Bust."--Sudden Revival of Business.--First Railroad.--Union Pacific Railroad.--Population.--Commercial and Manufacturing Interests.--Bridge over the Missouri.-- Union Pacific Depot--Prospects for the Future. 319-325 CHAPTER XXIII.--OTTAWA. Ottawa, the Seat of the Canadian Government.--History.-- Population.--Geographical Position.--Scenery.--Chaudière Falls.--Rideau Falls.--Ottawa River.--Lumber Business.-- Manufactures.--Steamboat and Railway Communications.--Moore's Canadian Boat Song.--Description of the City.--Churches, Nunneries, and Charitable Institutions.--Government Buildings.--Rideau Hall.--Princess Louise and Marquis of Lorne.--Ottawa's Proud Boast. 326-331 CHAPTER XXIV.--PITTSBURG. Pittsburg at Night.--A Pittsburg Fog.--Smoke.--Description of the City.--The Oil Business.--Ohio River.--Public Buildings, Educational and Charitable Institutions.--Glass Industry.-- Iron Foundries.--Fort Pitt Works--Casting a Monster Gun.-- American Iron Works.--Nail Works.--A City of Workers.-- A True Democracy.--Wages.--Character of Workmen.--Value of Organization.--Knights of Labor.--Opposed to Strikes.--True Relations of Capital and Labor.--Railroad Strike of 1877.-- Allegheny City.--Population of Pittsburg.--Early History.-- Braddock's Defeat.--Old Battle Ground.--Historic Relics.-- The Past and the Present. 332-347 CHAPTER XXV.--PORTLAND. The Coast of Maine.--Early Settlements in Portland.--Troubles with the Indians.--Destruction of the Town in 1690.--Destroyed Again in 1703.--Subsequent Settlement and Growth.--During the Revolution.--First Newspaper.--Portland Harbor.--Commercial Facilities and Progress.--During the Rebellion.--Great Fire of 1866.--Reconstruction.--Position of the City.--Streets.-- Munjoy Hill.--Maine General Hospital.--Eastern and Western Promenades.--Longfellow's House.--Birthplace of the Poet.-- Market Square and Hall.--First Unitarian Church.--Lincoln Park.--Eastern Cemetery.--Deering's Woods.--Commercial Street.--Old-time Mansion.--Case's Bay and Islands.-- Cushing's Island.--Peak's Island.--Ling Island.--Little Chebague Island.--Harpswell. 348-365 CHAPTER XXVI.--PHILADELPHIA. Early History.--William Penn.--The Revolution.--Declaration of Independence.--First Railroad.--Riots.--Streets and Houses.--Relics of the Past.--Independence Hall.--Carpenters' Hall.--Blue Anchor.--Letitia Court.--Christ Church.--Old Swedes' Church.--Benjamin Franklin.--Libraries.--Old Quaker Almshouse.--Old Houses in Germantown.--Manufactures.-- Theatres.--Churches--Scientific Institutions.--Newspapers.-- Medical Colleges.--Schools.--Public Buildings.-- Penitentiary.--River Front.--Fairmount Park.--Zoölogical Gardens.--Cemeteries.--Centennial Exhibition.-- Bi-Centennial.--Past, Present and Future of the City. 366-398 CHAPTER XXVII.--PROVIDENCE. Origin of the City.--Roger Williams.--Geographical Location and Importance.--Topography of Providence.--The Cove.-- Railroad Connections.--Brown University.--Patriotism of Rhode Island.--Soldiers' Monument.--The Roger Williams Park.-- Narragansett Bay.--Suburban Villages.--Points of Interest.-- Butter Exchange.--Lamplighting on a New Plan.--Jewelry Manufactories. 399-404 CHAPTER XXVIII.--QUEBEC. Appearance of Quebec.--Gibraltar of America.--Fortifications and Walls.--The Walled City.--Churches, Nunneries and Hospitals.--Views from the Cliff.--Upper Town.--Lower Town.-- Manufactures.--Public Buildings.--Plains of Abraham.--Falls of Montmorenci.--Sledding on the "Cone."--History of Quebec.-- Capture of the City by the British.--Death of Generals Wolfe and Montcalm.--Disaster under General Murray.--Ceding of Canada, by France, to England.--Attack by American Forces under Montgomery and Arnold.--Death of Montgomery.--Capital of Lower Canada and of the Province of Quebec. 405-414 CHAPTER XXIX.--READING. Geographical Position and History of Reading.--Manufacturing Interests.--Population, Streets, Churches and Public Buildings.--Boating on the Schuylkill.--White Spot and the View from its Summit.--Other Pleasure Resorts.--Decoration Day.--Wealth Created by Industry. 415-420 CHAPTER XXX.--RICHMOND. Arrival in Richmond.--Libby Prison.--Situation of the City.-- Historical Associations.--Early Settlement.--Attacked by British Forces in the Revolution.--Monumental Church.-- St. John's Church.--State Capital.--Passage of the Ordinance of Secession.--Richmond the Capital of the Confederate States.--Military Expeditions against the City.--Evacuation of Petersburg.--Surrender of the City.--Visit of President Lincoln.--Historical Places.--Statues.--Rapid Recuperation After the War.--Manufacturing and Commercial Interests.-- Streets and Public Buildings.--Population and Future Prospects. 421-432 CHAPTER XXXI.--SAINT PAUL. Early History of Saint Paul.--Founding of the City.--Public Buildings.--Roman Catholics.--Places of Resort.--Falls of Minnehaha.--Carver's Cave.--Fountain Cave.--Commercial Interests.--Present and Future Prospects. 433-487 CHAPTER XXXII.--SALT LAKE CITY. The Mormons.--Pilgrimage Across the Continent.--Site of Salt Lake City.--A People of Workers.--Spread of Mormons through other Territories.--City of the Saints.--Streets.--Fruit and Shade Trees.--Irrigation.--The Tabernacle.--Residences of the late Brigham Young.--Museum.--Public Buildings.--Warm and Hot Springs.--Number and Character of Population.-- Barter System before Completion of Railroad.--Mormons and Gentiles.--Present Advantages and Future Prospects of Salt Lake City. 438-447 CHAPTER XXXIII.--SAN FRANCISCO. San Francisco.--The Golden State.--San Francisco Bay.--Golden Gate.--Conquest of California by Fremont, 1848.--Discovery of Gold.--Rush to the Mines, 1849.--"Forty-niners."--Great Rise in Provisions and Wages.--Miners Homeward Bound.--Dissipation and Vice in the City.--Vigilance Committee.--Great Influx of Miners in 1850.--Immense Gold Yield.--Climate.--Earthquakes.-- Productions.--Irrigation.--Streets and Buildings.--Churches.-- Lone Mountain Cemetery.--Cliff House.--Seal Rock.--Theatres.-- Chinese Quarter.--Chinese Theatres.--Joss Houses.--Emigration Companies.--The Chinese Question.--Cheap Labor.--"The Chinese Must Go."--Present Population and Commerce of San Francisco.-- Exports.--Manufactures.--Cosmopolitan Nature of Inhabitants. 448-472 CHAPTER XXXIV.--SAVANNAH. First Visit to Savannah.--Camp Davidson.--The City During the War.--An Escaped Prisoner.--Recapture and Final Escape.--A "City of Refuge."--Savannah by Night.--Position of the City.--Streets and Public Squares.--Forsyth Park.-- Monuments.--Commerce.--View from the Wharves.--Railroads.-- Founding of the City.--Revolutionary History.--Death of Pulaski.--Secession.--Approach of Sherman.--Investment of the City by Union Troops.--Recuperation After the War.-- Climate.--Colored Population.--Bonaventure, Thunderbolt, and Other Suburban Resorts. 473-486 CHAPTER XXXV.--SPRINGFIELD. Valley of the Connecticut.--Location of Springfield.-- The United States Armory.--Springfield Library.--Origin of the Present Library System.--The Wayland Celebration.-- Settlement of Springfield.--Indian Hostilities.--Days of Witchcraft.--Trial of Hugh Parsons.--Hope Daggett.-- Springfield "Republican." 487-491 CHAPTER XXXVI.--ST. LOUIS. Approach to St. Louis.--Bridge Over the Mississippi.--View of the City.--Material Resources of Missouri.--Early History of St. Louis.--Increase of Population.--Manufacturing and Commercial Interests.--Locality.--Description of St. Louis in 1842.--Resemblance to Philadelphia.--Public Buildings.-- Streets.--Parks.--Fair Week.--Educational and Charitable Institutions.--Hotels.--Mississippi River.--St. Louis During the Rebellion.--Peculiar Characteristics.--The Future of the City. 492-510 CHAPTER XXXVII--SYRACUSE. Glimpses on the Rail.--Schenectady.--Valley of the Mohawk.-- "Lover's Leap."--Rome and its Doctor.--Oneida Stone.--The Lo Race.--Oneida Community.--The City of Salt.--The Six Nations.--The Onondagas.--Traditions of Red Americans.-- Hiawatha.--Sacrifice of White Dogs.--Ceremonies.--The Lost Tribes of Israel.--Witches and Wizards.--A Jules Verne Story.--The Salt Wells of Salina.--Lake Onondaga.--Indian Knowledge of Salt Wells.--"Over the Hills and Far Away."-- A Castle.--Steam Canal Boats.--Adieux.--Westward Ho! 511-521 CHAPTER XXXVIII--TORONTO. Situation of Toronto.--The Bay.--History.--Rebellion of 1837.--Fenian Invasion of 1866.--Population.--General Appearance.--Sleighing.--Streets.--Railways.--Commerce.-- Manufactures.--Schools and Colleges.--Queen Park.-- Churches.--Benevolent Institutions.--Halls and Other Public Buildings.--Hotels.--Newspapers.--General Characteristics and Progress. 522-527 CHAPTER XXXIX.--WASHINGTON. Situation of the National Capital.--Site Selected by Washington.--Statues of General Andrew Jackson, Scott, McPherson, Rawlins.--Lincoln Emancipation Group.--Navy Yard Bridge.--Capitol Building.--The White House.--Department of State, War and Navy.--The Treasury Department.--Patent Office.--Post Office Department.--Agricultural Building.-- Army Medical Museum.--Government Printing Office.--United States Barracks.--Smithsonian Institute.--National Museum.-- The Washington Monument.--Corcoran Art Gallery.--National Medical College.--Deaf and Dumb Asylum.--Increase of Population.--Washington's Future Greatness. 528-558 CHAPTER I. ALBANY. From Boston to Albany.--Worcester and Pittsfield.--The Empire State and its Capital.--Old Associations.--State Street.--Sketch of Early History.--Killian Van Rensselaer.--Dutch Emigration.-- Old Fort Orange.--City Heights.--The Lumber District.--Van Rensselaer Homestead.--The New Capitol.--Military Bureau.-- War Relics.--Letter of General Dix.--Ellsworth and Lincoln Memorials.--Geological Rooms.--The Cathedral.--Dudley Observatory.--Street Marketing.--Troy and Cohoes.--Stove Works.--Paper Boats.--Grand Army Rooms.--Down the Hudson. An exceedingly cold day was February fourth, 1875, the day which marked our journey from Boston to Albany. My inclination to step outside our car and tip my hat to the various familiar places along the route was suddenly checked by a gust of cutting, freezing, zero-stinging air. A ride of between one and two hours brought us to Worcester, a stirring town of about forty thousand inhabitants. Worcester is noted principally for its cotton factories, and as a political center in Eastern Massachusetts. Springfield, Westfield and Pittsfield follow in succession along the route, in central and Western Massachusetts, the first of which has been made the subject of a special chapter in this book. The last I remember chiefly as the place where, in the summer of 1866, I took my first steps in a new enterprise. Pittsfield has large cotton mills, is a summer resort, and is the nearest point, by rail, to the Shaker community at Lebanon, five miles distant. At Westfield the Mount Holyoke Railroad joins the main line, and semi-annually conveys the daughters of the land to the famous _Holyoke Female Seminary_. Leaving Pittsfield we soon reached the State line between New York and Massachusetts. I sometimes think that after a residence in almost every State of the Union, I ought to feel no greater attraction for my native State than any other, yet I cannot repress a sentiment of stronger affection for good, grand old New York than any other in the united sisterhood. The Empire State has indeed a charm for me, and a congenial breeze, I imagine, always awaits me at its boundary. A ride of another hour brings to view the church spires of Albany, and with them a long line of thrilling memories come rushing, like many waters, to my mind. Here, in 1859, I entered the State Normal School; here I resolved to enter the army; and here the first edition of my first book was published, in the autumn of 1865. The work, therefore, of presenting this chapter upon the peculiar features of the Capital City of New York, may be regarded as one of the most agreeable duties I have to perform in the preparation of these pages. The traveler now entering Albany from the east crosses the Hudson on a beautiful iron railroad bridge, which, in the steady march of improvements, has succeeded the old-time ferry boat. He is landed at the commodious stone building of the New York Central and Hudson River Railroad, which is conveniently sandwiched between the Delavan House and Stanwix Hall, two large, well known and well conducted hotels. My first night in a city and a hotel was spent here, at the old Adams House, located at that time on Broadway just opposite the Delavan. I was awakened in the morning by the roll and rattle of vehicles, and the usual din and confusion of a city street. The contrast to my quiet home in the Valley of the St. Lawrence was so marked, I can never forget the impression I then received, and as I walked up State street toward the old Capitol, I almost fancied that such a street might be a fit road to Paradise. Albany was the gate through which I entered the world, and to my boyish vision the view it disclosed was very wide, and the grand possibilities that lay in the dim distance seemed manifold. It is the oldest city, save Jamestown, Va., in the Union, having been settled in the very babyhood of the seventeenth century, somewhere about 1612 or 1614. It was originally, until the year 1661, only a trading post on the frontier, the entire region of country to the westward being unexplored and unknown, except as the "far west." The red warriors of the Mohegans, Senecas, Mohawks and the remaining bands of the "Six Nations" held undisputed possession of the soil, and kindled their council fires and danced their "corn dances" in peace, unmolested as yet by the aggressive pale-faces. The baptismal name of the embryo city of Albany was Scho-negh-ta-da, an Indian word meaning "over the plains." The name was afterwards transferred to the outlying suburban town now known as Schenectady. An immense tract of land bordering the Hudson for twenty-four miles, and reaching back from the river three times that distance, included Albany within its jurisdiction, and was originally owned by a rich Dutch merchant, one Killian Van Rensselaer, from Amsterdam. The land was purchased from the Indians for the merest trifle, after the usual fashion of white cupidity when dealing with Indian generosity and ignorance. Emigrants were sent over from the old country to people this wide domain, and thus the first white colony was established, which subsequently grew into sufficient importance to become the Capital city of the Empire State. Before the purchase of Killian Van Rensselaer, a fort was built somewhere on what is now known as Broadway, and was named Fort Orange, in honor of the Prince of Orange, who was at that time patroon of New Netherlands, as New York was at first called. Old Fort Orange afterwards went by various names, among which were Rensselaerwyck, Beaverwyck and Williamstadt. In 1664 the sovereignty of the tract passed into the hands of the English, and was named Albany, in compliment to the Duke of Albany. In 1686 the young city aspired to a city charter, and its first mayor, Peter Schuyler, was then elected. In 1807 it became the Capital of the State. As an item of interest, it may be mentioned that the first vessel which ascended the river as far as Albany was the yacht Half Moon, Captain Hendrick Hudson commanding. Albany, like ancient Rome, sits upon her many hills, and the views obtained from the city heights are beautiful in the extreme. The Helderbergs and the Catskill ranges loom blue and beautiful towards the south, Troy and the Green Mountains of Vermont can be seen from the north, while beyond the river, Bath-on-the-Hudson and the misty hill tops further away, rim the horizon's distant verge. The city has a large trade in lumber, and that portion of it which is known as the "lumber district" is devoted almost exclusively to this branch. One may walk, of a summer's day, along the smooth and winding road between the river and the canal, for two miles or more, and encounter nothing save the tasteful cottage-like offices, done in Gothic architecture, of the merchant princes in this trade, sandwiched between huge piles of lumber, rising white and high in the sun, and giving out resinous, piney odors. Not far from this vicinity stands the old Van Rensselaer homestead, guarded by a few primeval forest trees that have survived the wreck of time and still keep their ancient watch and ward. The old house, I have been told, is now deserted of all save an elderly lady, one of the last of the descendants of the long and ancient line of Van Rensselaer. Numerous points of interest dot the city in all directions, from limit to limit, and claim the attention of the stranger. Among the most prominent of these is, of course, the new Capitol building now in process of construction at the head of State street. A very pretty model of the structure is on exhibition in a small wooden building standing at the entrance to the grounds, which gives, I should judge, a clever idea of what the future monumental pile is to be like. Its height is very imposing, and the tall towers and minarets which rise from its roof will give it an appearance of still greater grandeur. It is built of granite quarried from Maine and New Hampshire, and is in the form of a parallelogram, enclosing an open court. Had I a sufficient knowledge of architecture to enable me to talk of orders, of pilasters, columns, entablatures and façades, I might perhaps give my readers a clearer idea of the magnificence of this new structure, which will stand without a rival, in this country at least, and may even dare to compete with some of the marvellous splendors of the old world. The Old Capitol and the State Library stand just in front of the new building, and obscure the view from the foot of State street. The Senate and Assembly chambers in the old building have an antiquated air, with their straight-backed chairs upholstered in green and red, and the rough stairways leading to the cupola, through an unfurnished attic, are suggestive of accident. In this cupola, once upon a time, in the year 1832, a certain Mr. Weaver, tired of life and its turmoil, swung himself out of it on a rope. So the cupola has its bit of romance. In this neighborhood, on State street, above the Library, is located the Bureau of Military Statistics, which is well worth a visit from every New Yorker who takes a pride in the military glory of his native State. One is greeted at the entrance with a host of mementos of our recent civil war, which bring back a flood of patriotic memories. Here is a collection of nine hundred battle flags, all belonging to the State, most of them torn and tattered in hard service, and inscribed with the names of historic fields into which they went fresh and bright, and out of which they came smoked and begrimed, and torn with the conflict of battle. Here are old canteens which have furnished solace to true comrades on many occasions of mutual hardship. Here, too, is the Lincoln collection, with its sad reminders of the nation's loved and murdered President; and in a corner of the same room the Ellsworth collection is displayed from a glass case. His gun and the Zouave suit worn by him at the time of his death hang side by side, and there, too, is the flag which, with impetuous bravery, he tore down from the top of the Marshall House at Alexandria, Virginia. In the same case hangs the picture of his avenger, Captain Brownell, and the rifle with which he shot Jackson. In another part of the room may be seen the original letter of Governor, then Secretary, Dix, which afterwards became so famous, and which created, in a great measure, the wave of popularity that carried him into the gubernatorial chair. The letter reads as follows:-- "TREASURY DEPARTMENT, January, 29th, 1861. "Tell Lieutenant Caldwell to arrest Captain Breshwood, assume command of the cutter, and obey the order I gave through you. If Captain Breshwood, after arrest, undertakes to interfere with the command of the cutter, tell Lieutenant Caldwell to consider him as a mutineer and treat him accordingly. If any one attempts to haul down the American flag, shoot him on the spot. "JOHN A. DIX, _Secretary of the Treasury_." The captured office chairs used by Jeff. Davis, in Richmond, the lock from John Brown's prison door at Harper's Ferry, pieces of plate from the monitors off Charleston, torpedoes from James River, the bell of the old guard-house at Fort Fisher, captured slave chains, miniature pontoon bridges, draft boxes and captured Rebel shoes, may be mentioned as a few among the many curiosities of this military bureau. Here, too, may be seen the pardon, from Lincoln, for Roswell Mclntire, taken from his dead body at the battle of Five Forks; and near by hangs the picture of Sergeant Amos Humiston, of the 154th New York Regiment, who was identified by means of the picture of his three children, found clasped in his hand as he lay dead on the field of Gettysburg. In this room, also, is the Jamestown, New York, flag, made by the ladies of that place in six hours after the attack on Sumter, and which was displayed from the office of the Jamestown _Journal_. Mr. Daly, the polite janitor of the building, is always happy to receive visitors, and will show them every courtesy. The Geological Rooms, on State street, are also well worthy the time and attention of the visitor. Large collections of the various kinds of rock which underlie the soil of our country are here on exhibition, as, also, the coral formations and geological curiosities of all ages. In an upper room towers the mammoth Cohoes mastodon, whose skeleton reaches from floor to ceiling. This monster of a former age was accidentally discovered at that place by parties who were excavating for a building. In these rooms, also, there are huge jaws of whales, which enable one to better understand the disposition of the Bible whales, and how easy it must have been for them to gulp down two or three Jonahs, if one little Jonah should fail to appease the delicate appetite of such sportive fishes. I couldn't help thinking of the lost races that must have peopled the earth when this old world was young--when these fossils were undergoing formation, and these mastodons made the ground tremble beneath their tread. Where are these peoples now, and where their unrevealed histories? Shall we never know more of them than Runic stones and mysterious mounds can unfold? These reminders of the things that once had an existence but have now vanished from the face of the earth, and well nigh from the memory of men--these things are full of suggestion, to say the least, and are quite apt to correct any undue vanity which may take possession of us, or any large idea of future fame. We may, perhaps, create a ripple in the surface of remembrance which marks the place where our human existence went out, and which, at the furthest, may last a few hundred years. But who can hope for more than that, or hoping, can reasonably expect to find the wish realized? "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in our philosophy." The Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, on Eagle street, is one of the finest church structures in Albany. It is built of brown freestone, in the Gothic style of architecture, and its two towers are each two hundred-and-eighty feet in height. Its cost was six hundred thousand dollars. The interior decorations are beautiful, and the rich stained glass windows are the gifts of sister societies. On Easter mornings the Cathedral is sure to be crowded by people of all sects and creeds, brought there to witness the joyous Easter services which terminate the long fast of Lent. About a mile and a half from the city, on Patroon's Hill, is situated the Dudley Observatory, where on clear summer nights Albanians come to gaze at the stars and the moon, through the large Observatory refractor. The structure is built in the form of a cross, eighty-six feet long and seventy feet deep. One of the first peculiarities which attracts the attention of the non-resident of Albany is the appearance of the business portion of State street, in the forenoon, from eight o'clock until twelve. Any time between these hours the street, from the lower end of Capitol Park down to Pearl street, is transformed into a vast market-place. Meat-wagons, vegetable carts, restaurants on wheels, and all sorts of huckstering establishments, are backed up to the sidewalk, on either side, blocking the way and so filling the wide avenue that there is barely room for the street-car in its passage up and down the hill. The descendants of Killian Van Rensselaer and the aristocratic Ten Eycks and Van Woerts, of Albany, should exhibit enterprise enough, I think, to erect a city market and spare State street this spectacle. [Illustration: STATE STREET AND CAPITOL, ALBANY, NEW YORK.] The manufacturing interest of Albany consists largely of stove works, in which department it competes with its near neighbor, Troy. This flourishing city, of about forty-eight thousand souls, is seven miles distant from Albany, up the river, and is in manifold communication with it by railroads on both sides of the Hudson, as well as by street railway. Steam cars run between Albany and Troy half hourly, during the day and far into the night, and one always encounters a stream of people between these two places, whose current sets both ways, at all times and seasons. Troy is at the head of navigation on the Hudson and communicates by street car with Cohoes, Lansingburg and Waterford. Cohoes is a place of great natural beauty, and the Cataract Falls of the Mohawk River at that place add an element of wild grandeur to the scenery. One of the large, rocky islands in the river, known as Simmons' Island, is a popular resort for picnic excursions, and is a delightful place in summer, with its groves of forest trees, and the pleasant noise of waters around its base. The place seems haunted by an atmosphere of Indian legend, and one could well imagine the departed warriors of the lost tribes of the Mohawk treading these wild forest paths, and making eloquent "talks" before their red brothers gathered around the council fire. The Mohawk and Hudson rivers unite at Troy, and seek a common passage to the sea. Mrs. Willard's Seminary for young ladies is located in this city, and is a standard institution of learning. Many of the streets of Troy are remarkably clean and finely shaded, and handsome residences and business blocks adorn them. The city is also a headquarters for Spiritualism in this section of the country. The Spiritualistic Society has, I am told, a flourishing, progressive Lyceum, which supersedes, with them, the orthodox Sunday school, and the exercises, consisting in part of marches and recitations, are conducted in a spirited and interesting manner. Foundries for hollow-ware and stoves constitute the leading branch of manufacture in the city of Troy. To one not familiar with the process by which iron is shaped into the various articles of common use among us, a visit to the foundries of Troy or Albany would be full of interest and instruction. Piles of yellow sand are lying in the long buildings used as foundries, while on either side the room workmen are busily engaged fashioning the wet sand into moulds for the reception of the melted iron. Originally the sand is of a bright yellow color, but it soon becomes a dingy brown, by repeated use in cooling the liquid metal. Each moulder has his "floor," or special amount of room allotted him for work, and here, during the forenoon, and up to three or four o'clock in the afternoon, he is very busy indeed, preparing for the "pouring" operation. Pig iron, thrown into a huge cauldron or boiler, and melted to a white heat, is then poured, from a kettle lined with clay, into the sand-moulds, and in a remarkably short space of time the greenish-white liquid which you saw flowing into a tiny, black aperture is shaken out of the sand by the workmen, having been transformed into portions of stoves. These go to the polishing room, and thence to the finishing apartment, where the detached pieces are hammered together, with deafening noise. Troy rejoices also in a paper boat manufactory--the boats being made especially for racing and feats of skill. They find sale principally in foreign markets, and at stated seasons divide the attention of the English with the "Derby." The boats are made of layers of brown paper put together with shellac. There is a large society of Grand Army men in Albany, one Post numbering five or six hundred members. Their rooms are tastefully decorated, and hung with patriotic pictures, which make the blood thrill anew, as in the days of '61. A miniature fort occupies the centre of the room, and emblematic cannon and crossed swords are to be seen in conspicuous places. A trip down the Hudson, in summer, from Albany to New York, is said to afford some of the finest scenery in the world, not excepting the famous sail on the castled Rhine; and the large river boats which leave Albany wharf daily, for our American London, are, indeed, floating palaces. The capital city of the Empire State is not, therefore, without its attractions, despite the fact that it was settled by the Dutch, and that a sort of Rip Van Winkle sleep seems, at times, to have fastened itself upon the drowsy spirit of Albanian enterprise. CHAPTER II. BOSTON. Geographical Location of Boston.--Ancient Names.--Etymology of the Word Massachusetts.--Changes in the Peninsula.--Noted Points of Interest.--Boston Common.--Old Elm.--Duel Under its Branches.--Soldiers' Monument.--Fragmentary History.--Courtship on the Common.--Faneuil Hall and Market.--Old State House.-- King's Chapel.--Brattle Square Church.--New State House.-- New Post Office.--Old South Church.--Birthplace of Franklin.-- "News Letter."--City Hall.--Custom House.--Providence Railroad Station.--Places of General Interest. Boston sits like a queen at the head of her harbor on the Massachusetts coast, and wears her crown of past and present glory with an easy and self-satisfied grace. Her commercial importance is large; her ships float on many seas; and she rejoices now in the same uncompromising spirit of independence which controlled the actions of the celebrated "Tea Party" in the pioneer days of '76. Her safe harbor is one of the best on the Atlantic seaboard, and is dotted with over a hundred islands. On some of these, garrisoned forts look grimly seaward. Boston is built on a peninsula about four miles in circumference, and to this fact may be attributed the origin of her first name, Shawmutt, that word signifying in the Indian vocabulary a peninsula. Its second name, Tremount, took its rise from the three peaks of Beacon Hill, prominently seen from Charlestown by the first settlers there. Many of the colonists were from old Boston, in Lincolnshire, England, and on the seventh of September, 1630, this name supplanted the first two. [Illustration: BOSTON, AS VIEWED FROM THE BAY.] In this connection may be given the etymology of the word Massachusetts, which is somewhat curious. It is said that the red Sachem who governed in this part of the country had his seat on a hill about two leagues south of Boston. It lay in the shape of an Indian arrow's head, which in their language was called Mos. Wetuset, pronounced _Wechuset_, was also their name for a hill, and the Sachem's seat was therefore named Mosentuset, which a slight variation changed into the name afterwards received by the colony. Boston, as the centre of this colony, began from the first to assume the importance of the first city of New England. Its history belongs not only to itself, but to the country at large, as the pioneer city in the grand struggle for constitutional and political liberty. A large majority of the old landmarks which connected it with the stormy days of the past, and stood as monuments of its primeval history, are now obliterated by time and the steady march of improvements. The face of the country is changed. The three peaks of Beacon Hill, which once lifted themselves to the height of a hundred and thirty feet above the sea, are now cut down into insignificant knolls. The waters of the "black bay" which swelled around its base have receded to give place to the encroachments of the city. Made lands, laid out in streets and set thick with dwellings, supplant the mud flats formerly covered by the tide. Thousands of acres which were once the bed of the harbor are now densely populated. The house on Harrison avenue where the writer is at present domiciled is located on the spot which once was occupied by one of the best wharves in the city. The largest ocean craft moored to this wharf, on account of the great depth of water flowing around it. The land has steadily encroached on the water, until the peninsula that was is a peninsula no longer, and its former geographical outlines have dropped out of sight in the whirl and rush of the populous and growing city. A few old landmarks of the past, however, still remain, linking the _now_ and the _then_, and among the most prominent of these are Faneuil Hall, the Old South Church, which was founded in 1660, King's Chapel, the Old Granary Burying-ground, Brattle Square Church, quite recently demolished, the old State House, and Boston Common. The Common antedates nearly all other special features of the city, and is the pride of Bostonians. Here juvenile Boston comes in winter to enjoy the exciting exercise of "coasting," and woe to the unwary foot passenger who may chance to collide with the long sleds full of noisy boys which shoot like black streaks from the head of Beacon street Mall, down the diagonal length of the Common, to the junction of Boylston and Tremont streets. This winter (1874-5), owing to several unfortunate accidents to passers-by across the snowy roads of the coasters, elevated bridges have been erected, to meet the wants of the people without interfering with the rights of the boys. The Common was originally a fifty-acre lot belonging to a Mr. Blackstone. This was in 1633. It was designed as a cow pasture and training ground, and was sold to the people of Boston the next year, 1634, for thirty pounds. The city was taxed for this purpose to the amount of not less than five shillings for each inhabitant. Mr. Blackstone afterwards removed to Cumberland, Rhode Island, where he died, in the spring of 1675. It is said that John Hancock's cows were pastured on the Common in the days of the Revolution. On the tenth of May, 1830, the city authorities forbade the use of the Common for cows, at which time it was inclosed by a two-rail fence. The handsome iron paling which now surrounds the historic area has long since taken the place of the ancient fence. Perhaps the most noticeable, certainly the most famous object on Boston Common, is the Great Tree, or Old Elm, which stands in a hollow of rich soil near a permanent pond of water, not far from the centre of the enclosure. It is of unknown age. It was probably over a hundred years old in 1722. Governor Winthrop came to Boston in 1630, but before that period the tree probably had its existence. It antedates the arrival of the first settlers, and it seems not unlikely that the Indian Shawmutt smoked the pipe of peace under its pendent branches. In 1844 its height was given at seventy-two and a half feet--girth, one foot above the ground, twenty-two and a half feet. The storms of over two centuries have vented their fury upon it and destroyed its graceful outlines. But in its age and decrepitude it has been tenderly nursed and partially rejuvenated. Broken limbs, torn off by violent gales, have been replaced by means of iron clamps, and such skill as tree doctors may use. In the last century a hollow orifice in its trunk was covered with canvas and its edges protected by a mixture of clay and other substances. Later, in 1854, Mr. J. V. C. Smith, Mayor of the city, placed around it an iron fence bearing the following inscription:-- "THE OLD ELM." "This tree has been standing here for an unknown period. It is believed to have existed before the settlement of Boston, being full-grown in 1722. Exhibited marks of old age in 1792, and was nearly destroyed by a storm in 1832. Protected by an iron inclosure in 1854." What a long array of exciting events has this tree witnessed! In the stirring days of the Revolution the British army was encamped around it. In 1812 the patriot army occupied the same place, in protecting the town against the invasion of a foreign foe. Tumultuous crowds have here assembled on election and Independence days, and its sturdy branches have faced alike the anger of the elements and the wrath of man. Public executions have taken place under its shadow, and witches have dangled from its branches in death's last agonies. Here, in 1740, Rev. George Whitfield preached his farewell sermon to an audience of thirty thousand people; and here, also, at an earlier date, old Matoonas, of the Nipmuck tribe, was shot to death by the dusky warriors of Sagamore John, on a charge of committing the first murder in Massachusetts Colony. An incident of still more romantic interest belongs to the history of the Old Elm. On July third, 1728, this spot was the scene of a mortal combat between two young men belonging to the upper circle of Boston society. The cause of dispute was the possession of an unknown fair one. The names of the young men were Benjamin Woodbridge and Henry Phillips, both about twenty years old. The time was evening, the weapons rapiers, and Woodbridge was fatally dispatched by a thrust from the rapier of his antagonist. Phillips fled to a British ship of war lying in the harbor, and was borne by fair breezes to English shores. He did not long survive his opponent, however, dying, it is said, of despair, shortly after his arrival in England. Frog Pond, or Fountain Pond, near the Old Elm, has been transformed from a low, marshy spot of stagnant water, to the clear sheet which is now the delight of the boys. October twenty-fifth, 1848, the water from Cochituate Lake was introduced through this pond, and in honor of the occasion a large procession marched through the principal streets of the city to the Common. Addresses, hymns, prayers, and songs, were the order of the day, and when the pure water of the lake leaped through the fountain gate, the ringing of bells and boom of cannon attested the joy of the people. Near the Old Elm and the Frog Pond, on Flagstaff Hill, the corner-stone of a Soldiers' Monument was laid, September eighteenth, 1871. Some idea of the style of the monument may be gathered from the following description:--"Upon a granite platform will rest the plinth, in the form of a Greek cross, with four panels, in which will be inserted bas-reliefs representing the Sanitary Commission, the Navy, the Departure for the War and the Return. At each of the four corners will be a statue, of heroic size, representing Peace, History, the Army, and the Navy. The die upon the plinth will also be richly sculptured, and upon it, surrounding the shaft in alto-relievo, will be four allegorical figures representing the North, South, East and West. The shaft is to be an elegant Doric column, the whole to be surmounted by a colossal statue of America resting on a hemisphere, guarded by four figures of the American eagle, with outspread wings. 'America' will hold in her left hand the national standard, and in her right she will support a sheathed sword, and wreaths for the victors. The extreme height of the monument will be ninety feet. The artist is Martin Millmore, of Boston." In the year 1668, a certain Mr. Dunton visited Boston, and wrote the following letter to his friends in England. It will serve to show the custom of Bostonians on training day, and recall some of the scenes which transpired over two hundred years ago on the historic Common. "It is a custom here," he says, "for all that can bear arms to go out on a training day. I thought a pike was best for a young soldier, so I carried a pike; 'twas the first time I ever was in arms. Having come into the field, the Captain called us into line to go to prayer, and then prayed himself, and when the exercise was done the Captain likewise concluded with a prayer. Solemn prayer upon a field, on training day, I never knew but in New England, where it seems it is a common custom. About three o'clock, our exercises and prayers being over, we had a very noble dinner, to which all the clergymen were invited." In 1640, Arthur Perry was Town Drummer for all public purposes. There being no meeting-house bell in town, he called the congregation together with his drum. "He joined the Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company in that capacity, for which yearly service he received five pounds. The second additional musical instrument was a clarionet, performed on by a tall, strapping fellow with but one eye, who headed the Ancient and Honorable a few strides." The first band of music used in Boston was in 1790, at the funeral of Colonel Joseph Jackson. Yearly, for a period of between two and three hundred years, this military company has appeared on the Common, to be received by the Governor of the State, with his aides, who appointed the new commissions for the year to come and received those for the year just past. Their anniversary occurs on the first Monday in June. The Brewer Fountain, the Deer Park and the Tremont and Beacon Street Malls complete the list of conspicuous attractions on the Common. The Beacon Street Mall is perhaps the finest, being heavily shaded by thickly-set rows of American elms. A particular portion of this mall is described as the scene of at least _one_ courtship, and how many more may have transpired in the neighborhood history or tradition tells us not! The "Autocrat of the Breakfast-table" loved the schoolmistress who partook of her daily food at the same board with himself and listened quietly to his wise morning talks, with only an occasional sensible reply. The schoolmistress returned his passion, but the young Autocrat, uncertain of his fate, rashly determined that if she said him "nay" to this most important question of his life, he would take passage in the next steamer bound for Liverpool, and never look upon her face again. The fateful hour which was to decide his fate approached, and the Autocrat proposed a walk. They took the direction of the Beacon Street Mall, and what happened next his own charming pen-picture best describes: "It was on the Common that we were walking. The _mall_ or boulevard of our Common, you know, has various branches leading from it in different directions. One of these runs down from opposite Joy street, southward, across the length of the whole Common, to Boylston street. We called it the long path, and were fond of it. "I felt very weak indeed (though of a tolerably robust habit) as we came opposite the head of this path on that morning. I think I tried to speak twice without making myself distinctly audible. At last I got out the question:--'Will you take the long path with me?' "'Certainly,' said the schoolmistress, 'with much pleasure.' "'Think,' I said, 'before you answer; if you take the long path with me now, I shall interpret it that we are to part no more!' The schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow had struck her. "One of the long, granite blocks used as seats was hard by, the one you may still see close by the Ginko tree. 'Pray, sit down,' I said. "'No, no,' she answered softly, 'I will walk the _long path_ with you.'" Propositions to convert the Common into public thoroughfares have ever met with stout resistance from "we the people"--the Commoners of Boston--and only this winter a meeting was held in Faneuil Hall for the purpose of protesting against this causeless desecration. The occasion of the meeting was a clique movement to have a street-car track run through the sacred ground. One of the speakers--a workingman--waxed eloquent on the theme of the "poor man's park, where in summer a soiled son of labor might buy a cent apple and lounge at his ease under the shady trees." In 1734, by vote of the town, a South End and North End Market were established. Before this the people were supplied with meats and vegetables at their own doors. In 1740, Peter Faneuil offered to build a market-house at his own expense, and present it to the town. His proposition was carried by seven majority. Faneuil Hall, the "Cradle of Liberty," was first built two stories high, forty feet wide, and one hundred feet in length. It was nearly destroyed by fire in 1761, and in 1805 it was enlarged to eighty feet in width and twenty feet greater elevation. "The Hall is never let for money," but is at the disposal of the people whenever a sufficient number of persons, complying with certain regulations, ask to have it opened. The city charter of Boston contains a provision forbidding the sale or lease of this Hall. For a period of over eighty years--from the time of its erection until 1822--all town meetings were held within its walls. It is "peculiarly fitted for popular assemblies, possessing admirable acoustic properties." The capacity of the Hall is increased by the absence of all seats on the floor--the gallery only being provided with these conveniences. Portraits cover the walls. Healy's picture of Webster replying to Hayne hangs in heavy gilt, back of the rostrum. Paintings of the two Adamses, of General Warren and Commodore Preble, of Edward Everett and Governor Andrew, adorn other portions of the Hall. Nor are Washington and Lincoln forgotten. The pictured faces of these noble patriots of the past seem to shed a mysterious influence around, and silently plead the cause of right and of justice. The words which echoed from this rostrum in the days before the Revolution still ring down from the past, touching the present with a living power whenever liberty needs a champion or the people an advocate. Faneuil Hall Market, or Quincy Market, as it is popularly called, grew out of a recommendation by Mayor Quincy, in 1823. Two years later the corner-stone was laid, and in 1827 the building was completed. It is five hundred and thirty-five feet long, fifty feet wide, and two stories high. Its site was reclaimed from the tide waters, and one hundred and fifty thousand dollars were expended in its erection. The capital for its construction was managed in such a judicious way that not only the market was built, but six new streets were opened and a seventh enlarged, without a cent of city tax or a dollar's increase of the city's debt. The Old State House was located on the site of the first public market, at the head or western end of State street. It was commenced with a bequest of five hundred pounds from Robert Keayne, the first commander of the "Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company." It was known as the Town House, and was erected about the year 1670. The present Old State House was built in 1748, on the same site. Its vicinity is historic. The square in State street below the Old State House, was the scene of the Boston massacre, March fifth, 1770. "The funeral of the victims of the massacre was attended by an immense concourse of people from all parts of New England." About the same year also, in front of this Town House, occurred the famous battle of the broom, between a fencing master just arrived from England and Goff, the regicide. This English fencer erected an elevated platform in front of the Town House and paraded, sword in hand, for three days, challenging all America for a trial of his skill. At this time three of the judges who signed the death warrant for beheading Charles the First, of England, had escaped to Boston, and were concealed by the people of Massachusetts and Connecticut. Their names were Goff, Whalley and Dixwell, for whom, dead or alive, Parliament offered one hundred pounds each. The fencing master made such a stir about his skill that Goff, hearing of it at his place of concealment in the woods of Hadley, came to Boston and confronted the wordy hero. His sword was a birch broom, his shield a white oak cheese slung from his arm in a napkin. After he had soaked his broom in a mud-puddle he mounted the platform for battle. The fencing master ordered him off, but Goff stood his ground and neatly parried the first thrust of the braggart. The battle then commenced in earnest, and the cheese three times received the sword of the fencing master. Before it could be withdrawn, Goff each time daubed the face of his antagonist with the muddy broom, amid the huzzas of the crowd which had gathered from all quarters to witness the contest. At the third lunge into the huge cheese the swordsman threw aside his small blade, and, unsheathing a broadsword, rushed furiously upon Goff. "Stop, sir!" exclaimed Goff; "hitherto, you see, I have only played with you, and have not attempted to hurt you, but if you come at me with the broadsword, know that I will certainly take your life!" "Who can you be?" replied the other; "you are either Goff, Whalley or the devil, for there was no other man in England could beat me!" Goff immediately retired, amid the plaudits of the crowd, and the subdued fencing master slunk away with chagrin. The interior arrangement of the Old State House has been entirely remodeled, and is now used exclusively for business. King's Chapel, at the corner of Tremont and School streets, is another noteworthy point of interest. The corner-stone was laid in 1750, and four years were occupied in its construction, the stone for the building material being imported. Its church-yard was Boston's first burial-ground, and some of the tombstones date back as far as 1658. Mr. Isaac Johnson, one of the founders of Boston, is said to have here found his last resting place. John Winthrop, his son and grandson--all governors of Connecticut, lay in the same family tomb in this yard. Four pastors of the "First Church of Christ in Boston" are also buried here. The body of General Joseph Warren was placed in King's Chapel before it was re-interred at Cambridge, and "dust to dust" has been pronounced over many other distinguished men at this stone church. The edifice is constructed in a peculiar way, with Doric columns of gray stone, and is sure to attract the attention of the stranger. It was the first Episcopal, as well as the first Unitarian church in Boston, and its pulpit is now the exponent of Unitarian doctrine, added to the Church of England service. Going down Washington street towards Charlestown, we come to the famous Brattle Square, and its church, which once consecrated the spot. Here Edward Everett preached to his listening flock, and here, on July thirtieth, 1871, Dr. S. K. Lothrop pronounced the last sermon within its walls. Its ancient bell has ceased to ring, and the old-fashioned pulpit echoes no more to the tread of distinguished men. The first Brattle Square Church was built in 1699. It was torn down in 1772, and the next year rebuilt on the same site, the dedication taking place July twenty-fifth. On the night of March sixteenth, 1776, the British under Lord Howe were encamped in this neighborhood, some of the regiments using Brattle Square Church as a barrack. A cannon ball, fired from Cambridge, where the American army was then stationed, struck the church, and was afterwards built into the wall of the historic edifice, above the porch. On the next night ten thousand of Lord Howe's troops embarked from Boston. In 1871 the building was sold by the society, and a handsome granite block now takes its place. The new State House on Beacon street is one of the most prominent geographical points in all Boston, and the view from its cupola is second only to that obtained from the glorious height of Bunker Hill monument. Its gilded dome is a conspicuous object far and near, and glitters in the sunlight like veritable gold. The land on which the State House stands was bought by the town from Governor Hancock's heirs, and given to the State. The corner-stone was laid July fourth, 1793, the ceremony being conducted by the Freemasons, Paul Revere, as Grand Master, at their head. The massive stone was drawn to its place by fifteen white horses, that being the number then of the States in the Union. Ex-Governor Samuel Adams delivered the address. The Legislature first convened in the new State House in January, 1798. In 1852 it was greatly enlarged, and in 1867 the interior was entirely remodeled. Chantry's statue of Washington, the statues of Webster and Mann, busts of Adams, Lincoln and Sumner, and that beautiful piece of art in marble, the full-length statue of Governor Andrew, in the Doric Hall--all attract the attention of the visitor. In this rotunda there are also copies of the tombstones of the Washington family of Brington Parish, England, presented by Charles Sumner, and the torn and soiled battle-flags of Massachusetts regiments, hanging in glass cases. In the Hall of Representatives and the Senate Chamber, relics of the past are scattered about, and the walls are adorned with portraits of distinguished men. The eastern wing of the State House is occupied with the State Library Large numbers of visitors yearly throng the building and climb the circular stairways for the fine view of Boston to be obtained from the cupola. The new Post Office is accounted one of the finest public buildings in New England. It has a frontage on Devonshire street, of over two hundred feet and occupies the entire square between Milk and Water streets. It was several years in building, being occupied this winter for the first time since the great fire. Its cost was something like three millions of dollars. Its style of architecture is grand in the extreme. Groups of statuary ornament the central projections of the building, and orders of pilasters, columns, entablatures and balustrades add to it their elegant finish. Its roof is an elaboration of the Louvre and Mansard styles, and the interior arrangement cannot be surpassed for beauty or convenience. It has three street façades, from one of which a broad staircase leads to the four upper stories. On these floors are located important public offices. The Post Office corridor is twelve feet in height and extends across two sides of the immense building. At the time of the great fire of 1872 this structure was receiving its roof, and became a barrier against the onward sweep of the flames. The massive granite walls were cracked and split, but they effectually stopped the work of the fire fiend. In the heart of the city, at the corner of Milk and Washington streets, stands one of the most famous buildings in Boston, and perhaps the most celebrated house of religious worship in the United States. It was founded in 1669, and received the name of the Old South Church. The first building was made of cedar, and stood for sixty years. In 1729 it was taken down, and the present building erected on the same spot. The interior arrangement is described as having been exceedingly quaint, with its pulpit sounding board, its high, square pews, and double tier of galleries. During the Revolution it was frequently used for public meetings, and Faneuil Hall assemblies adjourned to the Old South whenever the size of the crowd demanded it. Here the celebrated "Tea Party" held their meetings, and discussed the measures which resulted in consigning the British tea, together with the hated tax, to the bottom of Boston Harbor. Here Joseph Warren delivered his famous oration on the Boston Massacre, drawing tears from the eyes of even the British soldiery, sent there to intimidate him. In 1775 the edifice was occupied by the British as a place for cavalry drill, and a grog-shop was established in one of the galleries. In 1782 the building was put in repair, and has stood without further change until the present time, nearly a hundred years. In 1872 it was occupied as a Post Office, and has only been vacated this winter. Its day of religious service is doubtless over. It will probably be used for business purposes, but never again as a society sanctuary. Opposite the south front of the Old South Church, on Milk street, stood the house in which Benjamin Franklin was born. Here, on the seventeenth of January, 1706, the great philosopher was ushered into existence, and on the same day was christened at the Old South. When he was ten years old, he worked with his father in a candle manufactory, on the corner of Union and Hanover streets, at the sign of the Blue Bell. He was afterwards printer's devil for his brother James, and at eighteen established the fourth newspaper printed in this country. It was entitled "The New England Courant." The first newspaper of Boston was also the first in the colonies, and was printed on a half sheet of Pot paper, in small pica. It was entitled "The Boston News Letter. Published, by authority, from Monday, April seventeenth, to Monday, April twenty-fourth, 1704." John Campbell, a Scotchman and bookseller, was proprietor. Now the Boston press stands in the front rank of the world's journalism, and is commodiously accommodated; as the elegant buildings of the _Transcript_, _Globe_, _Journal_, _Herald_ and other papers, testify. The _Advertiser_ is the oldest daily paper in the city. It is impossible to properly describe Boston within the limits of so short a chapter, and only a glance at a few other points of interest will therefore be given. The City Hall, on School street, is on the site of the house of Isaac Johnson, who lived here in 1630, and who has been styled the founder of Boston. The corner-stone of the new building was laid December twenty-second, 1672. It is of Concord granite, and is in the finest style of modern architecture. Here, under the arching roof of the French dome, the fire-alarm telegraph centres, and the sentinel who stands guard at this important point never leaves his post, night or day. The mysterious signal, though touched in the city's remotest rim, is instantly obeyed, and in less time than it takes to tell it the brave firemen are rushing to the rescue. A fine bronze statue of Benjamin Franklin stands in the inclosure in front of the building. The Custom House, on State street, is built of granite, even to the roof. It is constructed in the form of a Greek cross, and is surrounded by thirty-two granite columns, a little over five feet in diameter. The site was reclaimed from the tide waters, and the massive building rests upon about three thousand piles. Over a million dollars were expended in its erection. The Old Granary Burying-ground, once a part of the Common, received its name from a public granary which formerly stood within its limits. Some of the most distinguished dust in history is consigned to its keeping. Paul Revere, Peter Faneuil, Samuel Adams, John Hancock, the victims of the Boston Massacre, the parents of Franklin, the first Mayor of Boston, and a long list of other names famed in their day and ours, lie buried within this ancient ground. Near by, between the Common and the Granary Cemetery, stands the celebrated Park Street Church, of which W. H. H. Murray, the brilliant writer and preacher, was, until lately, the pastor. It used to be known as "brimstone corner." This winter we attended Park Street Church on the same day with the _brunette_ monarch, Kalakaua and suite. One of the most commodious and elegant stations in New England, or this country, is that of the Boston and Providence Railroad. It is about eight hundred feet in length, and is built of brick, with two shades of sandstone. The track house is seven hundred feet long, covering five tracks, and has a span of one hundred and twenty-five feet. Its cost is somewhere in the neighborhood of six hundred thousand dollars. The interior arrangement is quite novel in style. The waiting-rooms open out of an immense central apartment with a balcony reaching around the entire inner circumference. Theatre tickets, flower and cigar stands, a billiard room and a barber shop, are some of the special features of the station. Refreshment rooms and dressing rooms, in oak and crimson, are also an integral part of the building. Hundreds of interesting places in this singular and devious city of Boston must go unnoticed in these pages. The beautiful Tremont Temple and its Sunday temperance lectures; Music Hall, with its big organ of six thousand pipes, through one of which Henry Ward Beecher is said to have crawled, before its erection; the Parker House, one of the crack hotels of the city; the Revere House, where all the distinguished people stop, with its special suite of rooms upholstered in blue satin, where King Kalakaua smoked his cigars in peace; the beneficent Public Library; the Boston Athenæum, home of art; the Boston Theatre, the new and elegant Globe Theatre, and the suburban limits, including Charlestown and famous Bunker Hill, Cambridge and Harvard University, Mt. Auburn, Dorchester Heights, Roxbury and East Boston, which was formerly known as Noddle's Island, and where now the Cunard line of steamers arrive and depart--all these tempt my pen to linger within their charmed localities. But it is a temptation to be resisted. When, after many weeks' sojourn in the intellectual "Hub," I was at last seated in the outward bound train, ticketed for the west, a regret, born of pleasant associations and a taste of Boston atmosphere, took possession of me. The farewells I uttered held an undertone of pain. But the train sped onward, unheeding, and the city of the harbor seemed to dissolve and disappear in the smoke of her thousand chimneys, like a dream of the night. CHAPTER III. BUFFALO. The Niagara Frontier.--Unfortunate Fate of the Eries.--The Battle of Doom.--Times of 1812.--Burning of Buffalo.--Early Names.--Origin of Present Name.--Growth and Population.-- Railway Lines.--Queen of the Great Lakes.--Fort Porter and Fort Erie.--International Bridge.--Iron Manufacture.--Danger of the Niagara.--Forest Lawn Cemetery.--Decoration Day.--The Spaulding Monument.--Parks and Boulevard.--Delaware Avenue.--On the Terrace.--Elevator District.--Church and Schools.--Grosvenor Library.--Historical Rooms.--Journalism.--Public Buildings.-- City Hall.--Dog-carts and their Attendants. Buffalo is a kind of half-way house between the East and the West--if anything may be called west this side of the Mississippi River--and it partakes of the characteristics of both sections. It was once the chief trading post on the Niagara frontier, and its vicinity has been the scene of many a hotly contested battle between dusky races now forever lost to this part of the world, and almost forgotten of history. Long ago, the Eries, or the Cat Nation, lived on the southern shores of the same lake whose waters now lap the wharves of Buffalo. They left it the heritage of their name, and that is all. The race, in its lack of calculation, did not greatly differ from many isolated instances of the paler race of mankind around us now; for it died of a too o'erreaching ambition. Jealous of the distant fame of the Five Nations, the Eries set out to surprise and conquer them in deadly battle, and themselves met the fate they had meant for the Iroquois. They were exterminated; and few returned to the squaws in their lonely wigwams, to tell the tale of doom. The noble race of Senecas succeeded the Cat Nation on the shores of Lake Erie, and after them, from across the great seas, came the dominant, pushing, civilizing Anglo-Saxons. When the war of 1812 broke out, Buffalo was an exceedingly infant city, and did not promise well at all. Nobody would have then predicted her importance of to-day. Later, in 1813, the battle of Black Rock was fought, and while a few old soldiers made a determined stand against the onset of the solid British phalanx, most of the raw recruits fled down Niagara street in a regular Bull Run panic, chased by the pursuing foe. The village was then fired by the enemy, and every building except one was burned to the ground. The description of the suffering and flight of women and children, during that harrowing time, draws largely on the sympathies of the reader, and sounds strangely similar to the newspaper accounts of the burning of Western and Pennsylvania towns, of more recent occurrence. But, though Buffalo was destroyed by fire, it shortly evinced all the power of the fabled phoenix, and rose from its ashes to a grander future than its early settlers ever dreamed of prophesying for it. The young city, however, suffered in its first days from a multiplicity of names, struggling under no less than three. The Indians named it Te-osah-wa, or "Place of Basswood;" the Holland Land Company dragged the Dutch name of New Amsterdam across the ocean and endeavored to drop it at the foot of Lake Erie; and finally, it took its present name of Buffalo, from the frequent visits of the American Bison to a salt spring which welled up about three miles out of the village, on Buffalo creek. I think Buffalonians have reason to be grateful that the last name proved more tenacious than the other two. Think of the "Queen City" of the most Eastern West being overshadowed by the tiled-roof name of New Amsterdam! It was not until 1822, on the completion of the Erie Canal, that Buffalo began the rapid advance towards prosperity that now marks its growth, the muster-roll of its population, at this writing, numbering the round figures of one hundred and sixty-one thousand. It now rejoices in business streets three and four miles long--full-fledged two-thirds of the distance, and the remainder embryonic. The harbor-front, facing the ship canal and the Lake, bristles with the tall tops of huge grain elevators--a whole village of them. A network of railroad lines, and the commerce of the great Lakes, have combined to build up and carry on a vast business at this point, and to make it a station of much importance between the East and the West. The rails of the New York Central, the Great Western, the Lake Shore, and the Buffalo and Philadelphia roads, besides many other lines, all centre here, carrying their tide of human freight, mainly westward, and transporting the cereals of the great grain regions in exchange for the manufactured products of less favored localities. When the representative of New York or New England wishes to go west, he finds his most direct route by rail, via Buffalo; or, if he desires a most charming water trip, he embarks, also via Buffalo, on one of the handsome propellers which ply the Lakes between this city and Chicago, and steaming down the length of Lake Erie, up through the narrower St. Clair and the broad Huron, he passes the wooded shores of Mackinac's beautiful island, surmounted by its old fort, and entering Lake Michigan, in due time is landed on the breezy Milwaukee banks, or is set down within that maelstrom of business, named Chicago. Indeed, after Chicago, Buffalo is the ranking city of the Lakes, and is said to cover more territory than almost any city in the country outside the great metropolis--the distance, from limit to limit, averaging seven and eight miles. Its suburban drives and places of summer resort, owing to the superior water localities of this region, are much out of the usual line. Niagara River, famous the world over, allures the daring boatman from Fort Porter onward, and the wonderful Falls themselves are only eighteen miles beyond that. Fort Porter, about two miles out from the heart of the city, is located just at the point where Niagara River leaves the lake in its mad race to the Falls. Here the banks are high and command a wide water prospect. Away to the westward the blue lake and the blue sky seem to meet and blend together as one; and in the opposite direction the rushing river spreads out like another lake, towards Squaw Island and Black Rock. One or more companies of United States Regulars are stationed here, and the barracks and officers' quarters surround a square inclosure, which is used as a parade ground. Graveled walks are laid out around it, and a grassy foot-path leads from the soldiers' quarters to the site of the old Fort on the brow of a gentle elevation just beyond. The Fort was built for frontier defence, in 1812, and the interior, now grass-grown and unused, is so deep that the roof of the stone structure, once appropriated as a magazine, is nearly on a level with the high ground at your feet. During our last war the building was occupied as a place of confinement for Rebel prisoners. It is now in a state of advanced collapse, and the battered walls and open windows expose to view the ruin within. A small, square outhouse, near one of the embrasures higher up, which was used for firing hot shot, is still intact. Field pieces, pointing grimly towards the Lake, and little heaps of cannon balls lying near, bring freshly to mind the nation's last war days, when "the winding rivers ran red" with the mingled blood of comrade and foe. The sunset gun boomed over the waters while we lingered at the old Fort, and the fading glow of day bridged the river with arches of crimson and gold. Diagonally opposite from this point, one looks across into the Queen's dominions, where lies the little village of Fort Erie, historic as the place from which the British crossed to our shores on the night preceding the burning of Buffalo. At Black Rock, about two miles below Fort Porter, the great International Railroad Bridge, a mile in length, spans the mighty river, having superseded the old-time ferry. This bridge is the connecting link on the Grand Trunk Road, between Canada and the States. Near its terminus, on the American side, are located the immense malleable iron works of Pratt & Letchworth, said to be the largest manufactory of the kind in the world. Their goods certainly find a world-wide market, taking in New England and the Pacific coast, Mexico, England and Australia. A pretty picture of the country seat of Mr. Letchworth, at Portage, New York, may be seen at the Historical Rooms. It is named Glen Iris, and is surrounded by handsome grounds, groves and fountains. Boating on the Niagara is much in vogue here, notwithstanding the rapid current and the dreadful certainty of the Falls in case of accident. The keeper of a boat house at Black Rock, opposite Squaw Island, told me that the proportion of accidents on the river was frightfully large--far greater than ever got into the public prints. [Illustration: SOLDIERS' MONUMENT AT BUFFALO, NEW YORK.] Forest Lawn Cemetery--Buffalo's city of the dead--is one of the loveliest burial places between Brooklyn and Chicago. It is picturesque with hill and dale and grove, not to mention a large artificial lake lapped in one of its grassy hollows, and a winding, wide and rocky-bedded creek running through it. The name of the creek is spelled S-c-a-j-a-q-u-a-d-a and pronounced Kon-joc'-e-ta. The Pratt monument, in a remote portion of the grounds, is perhaps the handsomest in the cemetery. It looks like a gothic gateway with fluted pillars of Italian marbles. A sculptured image of a child of one of the Fargos--of the famous Wells, Fargo & Co.--rests under a glass case on the lap of earth which marks her grave. The head is peculiarly noble, reminding one of that of the Belvidere Apollo. It is said to be a truthful likeness. Decoration Day at Forest Lawn was a picture long to be remembered. On a little knoll under the trees at the entrance to the grounds the military and civic processions assembled to listen to the eloquent words of Rev. Mr. Barrett, of Rochester. When the brief address was concluded, and the band music and singing were over, we followed the committees of decoration to the scattered graves of the patriot dead, and witnessed the strewing of flowers upon their sacred dust. A hushed circle above the mound of earth, a few fitly-spoken words from one of their number who knew the soldier-hero, and the floral tributes were tenderly placed above the sleeper's head. Thus, oh heroes, shall your memory be kept forever green! The flowers were wrought into every symbolic shape by which the language of affection could be translated. Crowns, and crosses, and stars, and anchors of hope, spoke their love and solace. The graves of the Confederate dead were also decorated, and side by side, under a common mantle of flowers, the Blue and the Gray received alike the benediction of the hour. "Then beautiful flowers strew, This sweet memorial day, With tears and love for the Blue, And pity for the fallen Gray." At Forest Lawn, also, on the historic seventeenth of June--the Bunker Hill Centennial--a monument was dedicated to the memory of nine Spauldings who fought at that battle, one hundred years before. The granite cenotaph was erected by E. G. Spaulding, of Buffalo, descended from the same blood with the heroic nine. The names of the list inscribed on the Western front of the monument were headed by that of his grandfather, Levi Spaulding, who was captain of the ninth company, third regiment, under Colonel Reed, of the New Hampshire troops, engaged on that day. "For bright and green the memory still Of those who stood on Bunker Hill, And nobly met the battle shock, Firm as their native granite rock." Speeches reviving Revolutionary memories, and fresh descriptions of the Bunker Hill contest, were in order. There was a semi-military procession, and the interest felt in the occasion was general. A grand reception at Mr. Spaulding's residence in the evening, concluded the patriotic anniversary. The large park adjoining Forest Lawn is plentiful in attractions, including the delights of boating on the Konjoceta and loitering in the shadowy coolness of the primeval woods. In addition to these, Buffalo is completing a grand boulevard system which encircles half the City, beginning at what is called the Front, in the neighborhood of Fort Porter, and making the circuit of the outskirts through Bidwell and Lincoln and Humboldt parkways to the intersection of Genesee street with the Parade, on the opposite arc of the circle. One is sure to find cool breezes along this drive, though the day be the hottest of the season. Indeed, the summer heats are, at all times, shorn of their fervor in this Queen City of the Lakes, and its climatic advantages are, therefore, superior. Delaware Avenue is the leading street of Buffalo for private residences, and here much of the aristocracy do congregate. It is about three miles long, and double rows of shade trees line either side. Fast driving on this avenue is licensed by city authority, and racing down its gentle incline is much in vogue. In winter, when sleighing is good, this is carried to greater excess, and the snowy road is black with flying vehicles. Main street, the principal business thoroughfare of the city, at least for retail trade, is wide, well paved and straight, and is built up with substantial business blocks. Its sister thoroughfare on the east, Washington street, towards the lower end as it approaches the lake, degenerates into manufacturing, and the buzz of machinery and incessant din of hammers break in on the maiden meditations of the passive sight-seer. As one approaches the Terrace, which is an elbow of blocks at one end and a diagonal at the other, one is confronted by a confusion of cross streets, which look as if they had been gotten up expressly to demoralize one's points of compass. They all look out on Buffalo harbor and the sea-wall beyond. Ohio street, following the bend of the harbor, is the great elevator district of the greatest grain mart in the world. Here, when business is at high tide, between two and three million bushels of grain per day are transferred by these giant monsters with high heads. The business places of this department of Buffalo enterprise are located principally on Central Wharf, in this vicinity, which fronts the harbor and which is crowded with offices two tiers deep. Along the wharf the very air is charged with bustle and activity. Vessels of all descriptions are arriving and departing at all hours, and the commerce of the great lakes pours its flood tide into Buffalo through this gateway. As for churches and schools, the city overflows with them. It is sprinkled in all directions with handsome religious edifices, like interrogation points, in stone and brick, asking the questions of a higher life. And there are thirty-six public schools, besides the State Normal, the Central, and the Buffalo Female Academy. This last is under the able guidance of Dr. Chester. But even these do not complete the list, as I understand there are numerous other private institutions of learning. In one of the triangular pieces of ground where the three streets of Niagara, Erie and Church make their entrance into Main street, stands the picturesque structure of St. Paul's Episcopal Cathedral. It is built of brown stone, and the creeping ivy nearly covers one end of it, from the crosses and minarets at the pinnacle to the trailing vines on the ground. The gray, gothic edifice of St. Joseph's Romish Cathedral, fronting on Franklin street, is also very large, and the interior is rich in architectural design. As for the immeasurable realm of books, Buffalo furnishes her children access to this, through her libraries. Chiefest among them is the Grosvenor, which has a bit of history all by itself. It was founded by a retired merchant of New York, who had lived in Buffalo during the earliest infancy of the city, and whose property had been destroyed when the then frontier village was fired by the British and Indians, in retaliation for the burning of Newark. This generous gentleman also left thirty thousand dollars to found a reference library for the High School of New York City. His will provided a legacy of ten thousand for Buffalo, to be applied towards a fire-proof building for a library, and the sum of thirty thousand, the interest of which was to be used for the purchase of books. The building fund having been on interest ever since, now amounts to twenty-eight thousand, and in addition the city has donated what is known as the Mohawk street property, used at present for police purposes, which will sell for an amount sufficiently large, together with the deposit already on hand, to erect a handsome building. The library is now located over the Buffalo Savings Bank, facing a pleasant little park between Washington and Main streets. In 1870 the interest had more than doubled the donation, and the Trustees then commenced the work of making the library a living institution. After a great deal of trouble, they at last secured the services of Alexander J. Sheldon, who was willing, without any certain compensation, to undertake the task of organizing and superintending the library. Mr. Sheldon, who is an expert in books, is native to the city, and from boyhood has been connected with this line of business. The first year of his hard labor at the Grosvenor was rewarded by the large sum of five hundred dollars! It was well for the institution, however, that Mr. Sheldon was not dependent on his salary for support. He entered into the work with an enthusiasm which surmounted all difficulties, and which has brought the library to its present state of progress, making it a credit to the city of Buffalo. The large reading room is neatly fitted up with black walnut cases, nine feet in length, and eight feet high, opening on both sides, and capable of holding eight or nine hundred average volumes. There are about thirty of these cases in the room, with reading tables and easy chairs interspersed between them. The style of alcove and arrangement, which was also Mr. Sheldon's suggestion, produces a very handsome effect. The cases stand on black walnut platforms six inches in height, and are surmounted by a pretty cornice. The shelves are interchangeable, and are of such moderate height that the necessity for step-ladders is entirely avoided. There are also dummy volumes, made to resemble books and properly titled, which, if their mission is to deceive the uninitiated, certainly accomplish that task. The number of volumes has now accumulated to about eighteen thousand, and includes the choicest works in art, science, literature and the professions. The fiction department comprehends all the recognized standard works, but the mass of worthless novels, which pass current in some of our circulating libraries, is unhesitatingly excluded. The bindings are nearly all morocco, with gilt or marbled tops, and the back of each book, as it is added to the library, is given a coat of white shellac varnish, which prevents it, in a great degree, from fading, and renders it easy of renovation. The small ante-room which is used by the librarian and committeemen contains several hundred volumes on bibliography, which is a very important feature of such an institution. The rooms in summer are breezy, from the lake winds, and in winter are heated by steam radiators. A heavy cocoa matting deadens all sound on the floors, and absolute quiet is thus secured. Thanks to the efforts of Mr. Sheldon, the Grosvenor is undoubtedly the best library for a student west of the Hudson. The Historical Rooms deserve notice as one of the salient points of Buffalo, and though the Society is young and not by any means wealthy, yet it is fairly started on its road to distinction. It was founded in 1862, and subsists principally by donations, as it is yet too poor to make purchases of books or relics. The Rooms are located at the corner of Main and Court streets, nearly opposite the ancient site of the old Eagle Tavern. A picture of this hotel as it looked fifty years ago may be seen among their collection. A huge gilt eagle surmounted the main entrance, and an enclosed porch, or what looks like it, at one end of the building, bore the inscription "_Coach Office_," in large letters over the doorway. Here also is the noble looking portrait of Red Jacket, the great Seneca Chief, together with the grand-daughter of Red Jacket's second wife--Nancy Stevenson--taken at sixteen. This bright-eyed, brown maiden married an Indian named Hiram Dennis, and was still living in 1872. Belts of wampum, war hatchets and pipes of peace, besides numerous pictures, in oil, of celebrated red warriors, are among the Indian mementoes connected with Buffalo's early history. The war of 1812 also contributes its scattered waifs to keep alive the memory of that time. The sword of Major-General Brown, worn at the battle of Sackett's Harbor, and a piece of timber from Perry's ship, on which is traced the legend "We have met the enemy and they are ours," are among the heirlooms of history. Here, too, is a Mexican lance from the field of Monterey, and the clarionette used in Buffalo's first band of music, whose strains helped swell the chorus during the triumphal march of Lafayette through her streets in 1824. A representation of the first boat on the Erie Canal, named "Chief Engineer of Rome," looks quaint enough. The walls of the large apartment devoted to historical collections are covered with pictures of Buffalo's prominent men, and at one end of the room hangs a handsome portrait of Millard Fillmore, set in heavy gilt. Their list of books and directories is also quite large. The story of a city's growth is always one of deep interest, and the generations of future years will, no doubt, be grateful for these landmarks of their early history. Journalism in Buffalo rides on the top wave, and her leading papers have achieved an enviable fame. Eight dailies swell the list, four of which are German, besides ten weeklies and seven monthly papers. The history of the _Commercial Advertiser_ dates back to October, 1811. It was issued at that time, under the name of the _Buffalo Gazette_, by the Salisbury brothers, from Canandaigua. With the exception of a paper at Batavia, begun in 1807, the _Gazette_ was the only paper published at that time in Western New York. It afterwards changed its name to the _Buffalo Patriot_, and since 1836 it has been issued as the _Daily Commercial Advertiser_. The _Courier_ and _Commercial_ are the ranking papers of the city, in point of influence. Buffalo doesn't seem to be ambitious of display in her public buildings, judging from the quality of those already on hand. The new City Hall, however, is a noble exception to the general rule. It is built of Maine granite, in the form of a double Roman cross, and the tower, which is two hundred and forty-five feet high, is surmounted by four pieces of statuary. Its estimated cost is over two millions of dollars. St. James' Hall and the Academy of Music are the chief places of amusement in the city, the latter place being conducted by the Meech brothers, two young gentlemen of acknowledged ability. Many noted stars of the stage whose names have blazed forth in histrionic glory have here made their first conquests, before applauding audiences. The stock company is unusually good, Ben Rogers, stage manager and first comedian, being a host in himself. The fire department of the city is said to be exceedingly efficient, and the police system has gained a reputation for thorough work which ought to be the terror of the criminal class. It embraces a body of mounted police, a corps of detectives and of patrolmen, besides the regular force stationed at the harbor. Among the minor peculiarities of Buffalo may be mentioned the superabundance of dog carts to be seen in her streets; not the conventional kind that goes rolling down Fifth Avenue, among the bewildering array of splendid equipages--coupes, landaus, landaulets, drags and what not--that daily make their way to Central Park; not any of these; but the original dog cart, with the dog attached. He is to be seen in all the varieties of the species, from a muddy yellow to the fierce-looking mastiff. He is usually harnessed in company with a collapsed old woman or a cadaverous looking little boy, and he carries all kinds of mixed freight, from an ash barrel to a load of sticks. The undercurrent of Buffalo society does not seem to look upon the dog in a purely ornamental light. This chapter on a place so fertile in suggestion might be prolonged indefinitely; but we are gazing westward, along a line of cities whose terminus does not end until it reaches the Golden Gate and the most famous centre of population on the Pacific coast. Our steps are bent toward that far-off goal, and we must say good-bye to the ancient land of the Eries and the former haunts of the buffalo. CHAPTER IV. BROOKLYN. Brooklyn a Suburb of New York.--A City of Homes.--Public Buildings.--Churches.--Henry Ward Beecher.--Thomas De Witt Talmage.--Theodore L. Cuyler, D.D.--Justin D. Fulton, D.D.-- R. S. Storrs, D.D.--Navy Yard.--Atlantic Dock.--Washington Park.--Prospect Park.--Greenwood Cemetery.--Evergreen and Cyprus Hills Cemeteries.--Coney Island.--Rockaway.--Staten Island.--Glen Island.--Future of Brooklyn. New York holds such supremacy over the other cities of the United States that she almost overshadows Brooklyn, which lies so near her as to be separated only by the narrow channel of the East River. Yet Brooklyn in any other locality would be a city of the first importance, ranking, as she does, the third in the Union as to size and population, and numbering not less than six hundred thousand inhabitants. Practically New York and Brooklyn are but one city, with identical commercial interests, and a great deal else in common. Many of the most prominent business men of the former city find their homes in the latter; and by means of the numerous ferries and the great Suspension Bridge there is a constant interchange of people between them. The time may come when they will be united under one municipal government; though, no doubt, many of the older residents of Brooklyn, who have helped to build her up to her present extent and prosperity, would object to losing her name and identity. But should such a union ever take place, there will be at once created, next to London, the largest city of the world, with a population of not less than two millions of people. Brooklyn is situated on the west end of Long Island, and overlooks both the East River and the Bay. It extends nearly eight miles from north to south, and is about four miles from east to west. Its business is not so extended or so important as that of New York, nor, as a rule, are its business edifices so imposing, though some of them present a very fine appearance. It is, in fact, a great suburb of the metropolitan city, composed more largely of dwellings than of commercial houses. Its business men, each morning, make an exodus across the East River to Wall street, or Broadway, or other streets of New York, and then return at night. It is, in fact, a great city of homes, all of them comfortable and many of them elegant. There is no squalor, such as is found in Mott or Baxter streets and the Five Points and their neighborhood, in its sister city. Handsome mansions, tasteful cottages and plain but neat rows of dwellings are found everywhere, and the streets are beautifully shaded by avenues of trees. The public buildings of Brooklyn worthy of notice are few, compared to those of New York. Fulton street is its principal thoroughfare, and contains occasional handsome edifices. The City Hall, on an open square at the junction of Fulton court and Joraleman street, is a fine, white marble building, in Ionic style, with six columns supporting the roof of the portico. It is surmounted by a tower one hundred and fifty-three feet in height. Just back of this, to the southeast, and facing toward Fulton street, is the County Court House, with a white marble front, a Corinthian portico, and an iron dome one hundred and four feet high. Beside the Court House, to the westward, stands the Municipal Building, also of marble, four stories in height, with a mansard roof, and a tower at each corner. The Post Office is in Washington street, north of the City Hall. The Long Island Historical Society has a fine edifice at the corner of Clinton and Pierrepont streets, and possesses a large library and collection of curiosities. The Academy of Design, on Montague street, has a handsome exterior; opposite is the Mercantile Library, a striking Gothic structure, containing two reading rooms and a library of forty-eight thousand volumes. The building of the Young Men's Christian Association is on Fulton street, at the corner of Gallatin Place, and contains a library and free reading room. The Penitentiary is an immense stone structure on Nostrand avenue, near the city limits. The County Jail, in Raymond street, is constructed of red sandstone, in castellated Gothic style. The Long Island College Hospital is an imposing building, surrounded by extensive grounds, on Henry street near Pacific. Brooklyn is, preëminently, the City of Churches, of which she is said to contain not less than one hundred. She has secured the services of the most eminent clergymen in the country, and thousands of people each year make a pilgrimage thither, for the sole purpose of listening to some one or other of those whom they have long admired and appreciated at a distance. Most prominent among all these clergymen is Henry Ward Beecher, who has been the pastor of Plymouth Church ever since its organization in 1847. Mr. Beecher came of a noted family, his father, Rev. Lyman Beecher, being one of the theological lights of his day and generation, while his brothers and sisters have all distinguished themselves in some way. The author of "Uncle Tom's Cabin" was his sister, Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe, while all of his brothers are, like himself, in the ministry. Mr. Beecher's popularity has been unparalleled. Besides the hundreds who listen to him every Sunday, each sermon is reported in full and read by thousands of people throughout the country. He has been a leader of liberal thought in the Protestant churches; and it is largely due to his bold and advanced utterances that the church in which he holds communion has taken a long step ahead of the position which it occupied early in the present century. Plymouth Church is a plain edifice, in Orange street, near Hicks. It has a large seating capacity, yet every Sunday it is filled. A goodly proportion of the audience is composed of strangers, who are not permitted to take seats until the pewholders are provided for. These visitors stand in long rows at each of the doors, the rows sometimes extending out upon the sidewalk, waiting their turns to be seated. Ten minutes before the hour of service they are conducted to seats, and the pewholders who come after that time must take their chances with the rest. On pleasant Sundays every seat is occupied, and the aisles and vestibules are crowded. Mr. Beecher occupies no pulpit, in the strict sense of the word. In front of the organ and choir is a platform, upon which are three chairs and three small tables, or stands. On one of the latter is a Bible, and on the others a profusion of flowers. One realizes in this church the grandeur of congregational singing, which is led here by a choir of one hundred voices, and accompanied by a magnificent organ. When the entire congregation join in some familiar hymn, the singing is exceedingly impressive. Mr. Beecher, albeit his reputation is that of a sensational preacher, makes little attempt at sensationalism in his manner of delivery. He reads well and speaks well, with a clear, distinct enunciation, which is heard in every part of his church. He talks directly to his point, using plain but forcible language, his sermons sparkling with original thought and brilliant language, all based upon a foundation of plain, practical common sense. He has great dramatic power, yet manifests it in so unstudied a manner that it is never offensive. He imitates the voice and manner of the man of whom he is speaking; the maudlin condition of the drunkard, the whine of the beggar, the sanctimoniousness of the hypocrite; and keeps his audience interested and on the alert. The Friday evening lectures are also features of this church, and are conducted without formality, yet in a decorous manner. The Brooklyn preacher who is a rival of Beecher, in the popular estimation, is Thomas De Witt Talmage, whose church is in Schermerhorn street, and known as the Tabernacle. It is built in Gothic style, semi-circular in form, like an opera house, and is capable of seating 5,000 persons. It is the largest Protestant place of worship in the United States, yet every Sunday it is filled nearly, if not quite, to its utmost capacity. Talmage was born at Bound Brook, New Jersey, in 1832. After graduating at the Theological Seminary, at New Brunswick, he preached in Belleville, New Jersey; Syracuse, New York; and Philadelphia, until 1869, when he came to Brooklyn to be pastor of the Central Presbyterian Church. Within a year he had become the acknowledged rival of Beecher. His church was crowded, and in 1870 a large amphitheatre, called the Brooklyn Tabernacle, capable of seating four thousand persons, was built. This building was destroyed by fire in 1872, and while it was being rebuilt in its present size and form, Talmage preached in the Academy of Music, to immense crowds. The great organ used in the Boston Coliseum, during the Musical Peace Jubilee, accompanies the singing at the Tabernacle, which is principally congregational, though a choir of four male singers give one or more voluntaries. The singing was led by Arbuckle, the celebrated cornetist, but he died in May, 1883, and was buried on the day of the opening of the Suspension Bridge. In 1879, Talmage visited Great Britain, and made a most successful lecture tour, receiving from five to six hundred dollars for each lecture, and netting about fifty thousand dollars for the tour. In this country he has not been so popular as a lecturer as Beecher. He is a tall, angular man, with dark hair, red whiskers, light complexion, large mouth and blue eyes. His pulpit is merely a platform, about thirty feet in length, built in front of the organ, between the pipes and the performer; and back and forth on this he paces while delivering his sermon, frequently making forcible gestures, which have caused him to be caricatured as a contortionist or gymnast. He is fluent in his style, with much originality of expression, yet with a certain drawl in the middle of his sentences, and snarl at their end, which renders his elocution not entirely pleasing. He carries his audience with him through the heights and depths of his oratory, now provoking to smiles, again affecting to tears. Theodore L. Cuyler, D.D., has been pastor of the Lafayette Avenue Presbyterian Church since 1860. He was born at Aurora, New York, on January tenth, 1822, and preached in Market street church, in New York City, from 1853 to 1860. The church edifice where he now ministers is one of the most spacious and complete, in all its arrangements, in either New York or Brooklyn, having seats for two thousand people, while the Sabbath-school hall will accommodate one thousand. Dr. Cuyler, during the thirty-seven years of his ministry, has delivered five thousand three hundred and forty discourses, and a multitude of platform addresses. He has received four thousand and forty-one persons into church membership, of whom about one-half have been on confession of faith. He has published several volumes and over two thousand articles in the leading religious newspapers. The present membership of the Lafayette Avenue Church is nineteen hundred and twenty persons. His congregations are very large on every Sunday, and he is an untiring pastor, especially zealous for temperance. He preaches the old orthodox gospel, with no "modern improvements." His discourses are able and eloquent, while his chief aim in the pulpit is to reach the heart. Justin D. Fulton, D.D., is still another eminent clergyman of Brooklyn. He was born in 1828, in Sherburne, Madison County, New York, and literally worked his way through college and to the ministry. He began his public life in St. Louis, where he was engaged as editor of the _Gospel Banner_. Preaching in the Tabernacle Baptist Church of that city, he delivered the first Free-state sermon ever heard in St. Louis. He also put his anti-slavery sentiments into his paper, and was shortly deposed from his position as editor because he would not believe slavery to be right and defend it. From St. Louis he went to Sandusky, Ohio, preaching there a short period; and from thence, in 1859, to Albany, New York, where he became pastor of the Tabernacle Church. In 1863 he received a call from the Tremont Temple Church of Boston, and labored with that church for ten years, increasing its membership from fifty to one thousand. In 1873, he became pastor of the Hanson Place Church, of Brooklyn, leaving it, however, in 1875, to organize the Centennial Baptist Church, in the same city. His popularity as a preacher became so great that it was presently found necessary to seek a larger place of worship. Therefore, in 1879, the Rink was purchased, for much less than its original cost, and was consecrated as a People's Church. The Rink is an immense edifice, capable of seating nearly six thousand persons. Dr. Fulton is an able writer, having published a number of volumes, the most prominent among which is "The Roman Catholic Element in America." In the old days of slavery he was a most able and eloquent anti-slavery advocate, and as such created strong prejudice against himself in certain quarters. He preached the funeral sermon of Colonel Ellsworth, in Tweddle Hall, Albany, in which he said that the war must go on until the musket should be put in the hands of the black man, and he was permitted to prove his manhood on the battle field. This drew down upon him the denunciation of the conservative press; but he was appointed Chaplain of Governor Morgan's staff, and served in hospital and camp. He is no less famous as an advocate of temperance, and devotes much of his energies to work in this field. In person, Dr. Fulton is tall, stout, finely formed, with black whiskers and moustache, and a somewhat bald forehead. His manner in the pulpit is full of earnestness and impetuosity. He sometimes overwhelms his audience with a whirlwind of words. He has strong magnetic and nervous power, while he impresses his listeners with his sincerity and candor. He makes frequent and expressive gestures, and combines in his oratory the carefulness of art with the fire of genius. In belief he is thoroughly orthodox, having no leanings toward the so-called "liberality" of many popular clergymen. R. S. Storrs, D.D., is pastor of the Church of the Pilgrims, at the corner of Remsen and Henry streets. He is one of the most noted clergymen of the city, and was selected to assist in the opening of the New York and Brooklyn Suspension Bridge, making one of the addresses of the occasion. The Unitarian Church of the Saviour, at the corner of Pierrepont street and Monroe Place, is an elaborate Gothic edifice, as is also St. Ann's Episcopal Church, at the corner of Clinton and Livingston streets. The Roman Catholic Church of St. Charles Borromeo, in Sidney Place, is famous for its music. The Dutch Reformed Church, in Pierrepont street, is of brown stone, in the richest Corinthian style, and the interior elaborately finished. The United States Navy Yard is one of the features of Brooklyn, and is the chief naval station of the country. It is on the south shore of Wallabout Bay, and contains forty-five acres. The yard is inclosed by a high brick wall, and contains numerous foundries, workshops and storehouses. Vessels of every kind used by the navy may be seen at almost any time at the yard, and it has also a large and varied collection of trophies taken in war and relics of earlier times, which prove of interest to the visitor. At the other extremity of Brooklyn, a mile below South Ferry, is the Atlantic Dock, which covers an area of forty-two and one-half acres, and deserves special attention. It is surrounded by piers of solid granite, upon which are spacious warehouses. In the heart of the city, a little south of the Navy Yard, between Myrtle and DeKalb avenues, is Washington Park, or old Fort Greene. It is on an elevated plateau, contains thirty acres, and commands extensive views. Its name of Fort Greene dates back to the time of the Revolution, when it was the seat of extensive fortifications. The special pride of Brooklyn is Prospect Park, one of the finest in America, where art and the landscape gardener have assisted rather than thwarted nature in her efforts to produce beauty. It is situated on an elevated ridge on the southeastern borders of the city, and from certain localities commands broad views of Brooklyn, New York, the inner and outer harbor, and the Jersey shore. It contains five hundred and fifty acres, which embrace broad, green lawns, grassy slopes, groves, wooded hills, beautiful with ferns and wild flowers, lakes and rocky dells. It contains eight miles of drives, four miles of bridle paths, and eleven miles of walks. At the main entrance, on Flatbush avenue, is a large, circular open place known as the Plaza, paved with stone and bordered by grassy mounds. A fountain of novel design furnishes the welcome sound of splashing, trickling water, and not far distant from it is a bronze statue of President Lincoln. Within the Park, on an eminence overlooking the cottages and dell, is a monument, erected in 1877, to the memory of John Howard Payne, author of "Home, Sweet Home." On Gowanus Heights, overlooking Gowanus Bay, in the southern portion of Brooklyn, is situated Greenwood Cemetery, one of the most beautiful "cities of the dead" in the world. It was laid out in 1842, and contains over five hundred acres. At least two hundred thousand interments have been made in it. It is a perfect wilderness of beauty. The surface of the ground is uneven, and hills and valleys, grassy slopes, beautiful little lakes with fountains playing in their midst, overshadowing trees, a profusion of brilliant flowers, and the white or gray gleam of a thousand monuments, varied and beautiful in design, all unite in forming an exquisite spot for the resting place of the dead, which is a fitting embodiment and expression of the loving remembrance in which they continue to be held by the living. Among the many elegant and expensive monuments which this cemetery contains, not one will attract more attention for its beauty and elaborateness than that erected to Charlotte Canda, a young French girl, whose fortune was expended in the marble pile above her grave. The main entrance to Greenwood, near Fifth Avenue and Twenty-third street, has a magnificent gateway in the pointed Gothic style, and opens upon a most enchanting landscape. On an elevation to the right of this entrance, within this cemetery, is obtained an extensive view of Brooklyn and the bay. The cemetery contains nineteen miles of carriage roads, and seventeen miles of footpaths. Four miles to the eastward of Greenwood are the cemeteries of the Evergreen and Cypress Hills, both beautiful spots, and the latter especially celebrated as containing the grave of a large number of soldiers of the late war. Radiating from Brooklyn, in almost every direction, are routes leading to some of the most frequented pleasure resorts of the country. On the southern coast of Long Island, just east of the Narrows, is Coney Island, four and a half miles long, with a firm, gently-sloping beach. The island is divided into four distinct places of resort: Coney Island Point, or Morton's, at the west end, the oldest of the four; West Brighton Beach, or Cable's, where there is an iron pier one thousand feet long, extending out into the ocean, and an observatory three hundred feet high; Brighton Beach, connecting with West Brighton by a wide drive and promenade, known as the Concourse; and Manhattan Beach, the most fashionable resort on the island. At the latter place are two vast hotels, and an amphitheatre, with three thousand five hundred seats, upon the beach, for the accommodation of those who wish to watch the bathers. Rockaway Beach is to the westward of Coney Island, and is about four miles long, with surf bathing on one side and still bathing on the other. A colossal tubular iron pier, twelve hundred feet long, extends out into the ocean, affording a landing for steamboats. Staten Island, the western boundary of the Narrows, is a sort of earthly paradise, which separates the Lower Bay from the Upper. It is a beautiful island, having an area of nearly sixty square miles, and rising boldly from the waters of the bays. It commands extensive views over harbor and ocean, and is a favorite summer home or place of temporary resort. Along the shores of the Sound are many places for summer rest and recreation. Glen Island, lying in the East River, is a famous and attractive picnicing spot for both New Yorkers and Brooklynites. Brooklyn is a beautiful and an extensive city, a fitting suburb of the metropolis. The additional facilities for transit between the two cities afforded by the completion of the Suspension Bridge will tend to her material advantage, drawing thither a still larger class of people to make their homes in its quiet suburban streets and avenues, out of the noise and whirl of the great city. Her prosperity must keep pace with that of her elder sister, and so close is the bond of common interest between them, that whatever benefits one must benefit the other. CHAPTER V. BALTIMORE. Position of Baltimore.--Streets.--Cathedral and Churches.-- Public Buildings.--Educational Institutions.--Art Collections.-- Charitable Institutions.--Monuments.--Railway Tunnels.--Parks and Cemeteries.--Druid Hill Park.--Commerce and Manufactures.-- Foundation of the City.--Early History.--Bonaparte-Patterson Marriage.--Storming of Baltimore in 1814.--Maryland at the Breaking-out of the Rebellion.--Assault on Sixth Massachusetts Regiment, in April, 1861.--Subsequent Events during the War.-- Baltimore Proves Herself Loyal.--Re-union of Grand Army of the Republic in Baltimore, September, 1882.--Old Differences Forgotten and Fraternal Relations Established. The first in commercial and manufacturing importance of all southern cities is Baltimore, situated on the north branch of the Patapsco River, fourteen miles from its entrance into the Chesapeake Bay, and one hundred and ninety-eight miles from the Atlantic. It embraces an area of nearly twelve square miles, about one-half of which is built up solidly with residences and business houses. The city is divided into East and West Baltimore, by Jones' Falls, a small stream running nearly north and south, and spanned by numerous bridges. The northwest branch of the Patapsco also runs up into the heart of the city, forming a basin, into which small vessels can enter. The outer harbor, or main branch of the Patapsco, is accessible to the largest ships. The harbor is a safe and capacious one, capable of furnishing anchorage to a thousand vessels. At the point of the peninsula separating the two branches of the river is situated Fort McHenry, which defends the entrance, and which was unsuccessfully bombarded by the British fleet in the War of 1812. The general appearance of the city is striking and picturesque. It is regularly laid out, the streets for the most part crossing one another at right angles, but there is sufficient diversity to prevent sameness. Thus while the main part of the city is laid out with streets running north and south, crossed by others running east and west, large sections show streets running diagonally to the points of the compass. The surface of the ground upon which the city is built is undulating, and its streets are moderately wide. Baltimore street, running east and west, is the main business thoroughfare, containing the principal retail stores and hotels. North Charles street is the most fashionable promenade, while Mount Vernon Place, and the vicinity of the Monument and Broadway are favorite resorts. The city abounds in handsome edifices. A generation ago, the Catholic Cathedral, at the corner of Mulberry and Cathedral streets--a large granite edifice in the form of a cross, one hundred and ninety feet long, one hundred and seventy-seven feet at the arms of the cross, and surmounted by a dome one hundred and twenty-seven feet high--was the especial pride and boast of Baltimoreans. At its west end are two tall towers with Saracenic cupolas, resembling the minarets of a Mohammedan mosque. It contains one of the largest organs in America, and two valuable paintings, "The Descent from the Cross," the gift of Louis XVI, and "St. Louis burying his officers and soldiers slain before Tunis," presented by Charles X, of France. Now other buildings are found equally as magnificent. The Roman Catholic churches of St. Alphonsus, at the corner of Saratoga and Park Streets, and of St. Vincent de Paul, in North Front Street, are fine in architectural design and interior decorations. The Unitarian Church, at the corner of North Charles and Franklin streets, is a handsome edifice, faced by a colonnade composed of four Tuscan columns and two pilasters, which form arcades, and containing five bronze entrance doors. Grace Church, Episcopal, at the corner of Monument and Park streets, and Emmanuel Church, also Episcopal, at the corner of Reed and Cathedral streets, are handsome gothic structures, the former of red and the latter of gray sandstone. Christ's and St. Peter's Episcopal churches, the one at the corner of St. Paul and Chase streets, and the other at the corner of Druid Hill avenue and Lanvale street, are both of marble. The Eutaw Place Baptist Church, at the corner of Eutaw and Dolphin streets, has a beautiful marble spire one hundred and eighty-six feet high. The First Presbyterian Church, at the corner of Park and Madison streets, has a spire two hundred and sixty-eight feet high, with side towers, respectively seventy-eight and one hundred and twenty-eight feet in height, and is the most elaborate specimen of Lancet-Gothic architecture in the country. The Westminster, at the corner of Green and Fayette streets, contains the grave and monument of Edgar Allan Poe. Mount Vernon Church, which fronts Washington Monument, at the corner of Charles and Monument streets, and is in the most aristocratic residence quarter of Baltimore, is built of green serpentine stone, with buff Ohio and red Connecticut sandstone, and has eighteen polished columns of Aberdeen granite. The Hebrew Synagogue, in Lloyd street near Baltimore street, is a large and handsome edifice. The City Hall, filling the entire square bounded by Holliday, Lexington, North and Fayette streets, built of marble, in the Renaissance style, was completed in 1875, and is one of the finest municipal edifices in the United States. It is four stories in height, with a French roof, and an iron dome two hundred and sixty feet high, with a balcony elevated two hundred and fifty feet above the sidewalk, from which a magnificent view of the city may be obtained. The Masonic Temple, in Charles street, near Saratoga, is a handsome building, completed in 1870, at a cost of $200,000. The Exchange, in Gay street, between Second and Lombard streets, is an extensive structure, surmounted by an immense dome, one hundred and fifteen feet high, and fifty-three feet in diameter, which overarches a spacious and brilliantly frescoed rotunda. Six Ionic columns, the shafts of which are single blocks of Italian marble, form colonnades on the east and west sides. It contains the United States Custom House, Post Office, Merchants' Bank, and a fine, large reading-room. The Corn and Flour Exchange, the Rialto Building, Odd Fellows' Hall, Y. M. C. A. Building, are all modern and elegant structures. The Merchant's Shot Tower, which stands at the corner of Front and Fayette streets, is two hundred and sixteen feet high, and from sixty to twenty feet in diameter, and is one of the landmarks of the city. One million, one hundred thousand bricks were used in its construction. Peabody Institute faces Washington monument, on the south, and was founded and endowed by George Peabody, the eminent American-born London banker, for the diffusion of knowledge among the people. It contains a free library of fifty-eight thousand volumes, a conservatory of music, lecture hall, and a Department of Art, which includes art collections and an art school. The Athenæum, at the corner of Saratoga and St. Paul streets, contains the Merchants' Library, with twenty-six thousand volumes, the Baltimore Library, with fifteen thousand volumes, and the collections of the Maryland Historical Society, comprising a library of ten thousand volumes, numerous historical relics, and fine pictures and statuary. The Johns Hopkins University, which was endowed with over three millions of dollars, by Johns Hopkins, a wealthy citizen of Baltimore, who died in 1873, has a temporary location at the corner of Howard street and Druid Hill avenue, but will probably be permanently located at Clifton, two miles from the city on the Harford road. The Johns Hopkins Hospital, to be connected with the Medical Department of the Johns Hopkins University, and endowed with over two millions of dollars by the same generous testator, is in process of construction at the corner of Broadway and Monument street, and will be the finest building of its kind in America. The Maryland Institute is a vast structure at the corner of Baltimore and Harrison streets, and is designed for the promotion of the mechanical arts. The main hall is two hundred and fifty feet long, and in it is held an annual exhibition of the products of American mechanical industry. It contains a library of fourteen thousand volumes, a lecture room, and a school of design. The first floor is used as a market. The Academy of Science, in Mulberry street, opposite Cathedral street, has a fine museum of natural history, embracing a rich collection of birds and minerals, and including a complete representation of the flora and fauna of Maryland. Not only is Baltimore noted for free educational institutions, but for her art collections as well. Annual exhibitions of American paintings are held in the Athenæum, and the Academy of Art and Science contains a fine collection of paintings, engravings and casts. The private art gallery of William T. Walters, of No. 65 Mount Vernon Place, is one of the finest in America. There are numerous charitable institutions in the city, prominent among which are the Hospital for the Insane, in East Monument street; Institution for the Instruction of the Blind, in North avenue near Charles street; State Insane Asylum, a massive pile of granite buildings, near Catonsville, six miles from the city; Bay View Asylum, an almshouse, on a commanding eminence near the outskirts of the city, on the Philadelphia road; Mount Hope Hospital, conducted by the Sisters of Charity, on North avenue, corner of Bolton street; Episcopal Church Home, in Broadway near Baltimore street; Sheppard Asylum for the Insane, founded by Moses Sheppard, a wealthy Quaker, situated on a commanding site near Towsontown, seven miles from the city, and Mount Hope Retreat for the insane and sick, four miles from the city, on the Reistertown road. But her monuments are the special pride of Baltimore, and from them she derives her name of "The Monumental City." Chief among them is Washington Monument, whose construction was authorized by the Legislature in 1809, the land being donated for the purpose by Colonel John Eager Howard. The site is one hundred feet above tide-water, in Mount Vernon Place, at the intersection of Monument and Washington streets. It is a Doric shaft rising one hundred and seventy-six and one-half feet, from a base fifty feet square by thirty-five feet in height, and is surmounted by a colossal figure of Washington, fifteen feet high, the whole rising more than three hundred feet above the level of the river. It is built of brick, cased with white marble, and cost $200,000. From the balcony at the head of the shaft, reached by a winding stairs within, a most extensive view of the city, harbor and surrounding country may be obtained. Battle Monument stands in Battle Square, at the intersection of Calvert and Fayette streets, and is commemorative of those who fell defending the city when it was attacked by the British in 1814. A square base, twenty feet high, with a pedestal ornamented at four corners by a sculptured griffin, has on each front an Egyptian door, on which are appropriate inscriptions and basso relievo decorations illustrating certain incidents in the battle. A fascial column eighteen feet in height rises above the base, surrounded by bands on which are inscribed the names of those who fell. The column is surmounted by a female figure in marble, emblematic of the city of Baltimore. The Poe Monument, raised in memory of Baltimore's poet, Edgar Allan Poe, stands in the churchyard of Westminster Presbyterian Church, at the corner of Green and Fayette streets. The Wildey Monument has a plain marble pediment and shaft, surmounted by a group representing Charity protecting orphans, and has been raised in honor of Thomas Wildey, the founder of the order of Odd Fellows in the United States. It is on Broadway near Baltimore street. The Wells and McComas Monument, at the corner of Gay and Monument streets, perpetuates the memory of two boys bearing those names, who shot General Ross, the British Commander, on September twelfth, 1814. The railway tunnels, by which the railroads on the north side of the city are connected with tide water at Canton, are among the wonders of Baltimore. That of the Baltimore and Potomac Road is second in length only to the Hoosac Tunnel, in America, it being 6969 feet long, while the Union tunnel is half the length. They were completed in 1873, at a cost of four million, five hundred thousand dollars. Previous to their construction, passengers and freight were transferred through the city by means of horses and mules attached to the cars. Federal Hill is a commanding eminence on the south side of the river basin, and from it extensive views are obtained of the city and harbor. It was occupied by Union troops during the civil war, and now contains a United States Signal Station. It has been purchased by the city for a park. Greenmount Cemetery, in the northern part of the city, and Loudon Park Cemetery, both have imposing entrances and contain handsome monuments. Patterson Park, at the east end of Baltimore street, contains seventy acres handsomely laid out, and commanding extensive views. [Illustration: VIEW OF BALTIMORE FROM FEDERAL HILL.] The people of the present day can scarcely comprehend the grand scale on which landscape gardening was attempted a hundred or more years ago. The landed gentry, themselves or their fathers immigrants from England, considered a well-kept park, like those of the immense English estates, an essential to an American one. To this day may be seen traces of their efforts in this direction, in stately avenues of venerable trees, which the iconoclastic hand of modern progress has considerately spared. In some rare instances whole estates have remained untouched, and have become public property, and their beauties thus perpetuated. Bonaventure Cemetery, near Savannah, is a notable instance of this, where a magnificently planned Southern plantation has been transferred from private to public hands, and its valuable trees remain, though the hand of art, in attempting to improve, has rather marred the majestic beauty of the place. Lemon Hill, the nucleus of Fairmount Park, in Philadelphia, was, in revolutionary times, the estate of Robert Morris, and though the landscape gardener has been almost ruthless in his improvements (?), he has been considerate enough to spare some of the century-old trees. To the same private enterprise, love of the picturesque and appreciation of beauty, Baltimore is indebted for Druid Hill Park, in the northern suburbs of the city. Colonel Nicholas Rogers, a soldier of the Revolution and a gentleman of taste and leisure, when the war was over, retired to his country residence, a little distance from Baltimore, then a city of some ten thousand inhabitants, and devoted the remainder of his life to improving and adorning its extensive grounds. He seemed a thorough master of landscape gardening, and all his plans were most carefully matured, so that the trees are most artistically grouped and alternated with lawns; dense masses of foliage are broken into by bays and avenues, and beautiful vistas secured in various directions. Also in the selection of his trees a careful consideration was had of their autumn foliage, so that fine contrasts of color should be produced at that season of the year. The result of all this care and labor was one of the most charming and enchanting private parks which the country afforded. It contained an area of nearly five hundred acres. When Colonel Rogers died, his son, Lloyd N. Rogers, who seemed to have inherited only in part the tastes of his father, devoted himself solely to the cultivation of fruit, doing nothing to add to or preserve the beauty of his domain, but, on the other hand, allowing it to fall into neglect and decay. However, the harm that he wrought was only negative, for he did nothing to mar it, and preserved, with jealous care, the grand old trees which his father had planted, and with unremitting vigilance warded off interlopers and depredators. The estate was secluded from the outside world by fringes of woodland, and though the city had gradually crept to within a quarter of a mile, few people knew anything of its beauties. When, therefore, the Commission appointed to select the site for a new park decided upon Druid Hill as the most available for that purpose, it was absolutely necessary to detail its advantages. Mr. Rogers reluctantly consented to accept one thousand dollars an acre for his estate, and it became city property. Subsequently, other small pieces of adjoining property were bought, and Druid Lake and grounds were finally added, and the people of Baltimore found themselves in the possession of a park embracing an area of six hundred and eighty acres, which needed not to be created, but only to be improved, to be one of the most beautiful in the country. There has been but little attempt at architectural decoration. A costly and imposing gateway, a Moorish music stand, bright with many colors, a boat-house crowning a little island in a miniature lake, a pretty bridge and a Moorish arch thrown across a ravine, a few handsome fountains, and, finally, the old mansion, renovated and enlarged, standing out against the densely-wooded hill from which the park takes its name--these are about all which have been attempted in that line. The surface of the Park is gently undulating, with occasional bold eminences from which fine views may be obtained of the city and surrounding country. Its special attractions are its secluded walks, well-kept drives and tree-arched bridle-paths, its smooth, velvety turf, and the venerable beauty of its trees, which are the oldest of those of any park in the country. Its glades and dells have been left as nature made them, having been spared the artificial touches of the landscape gardener; and its little trickling springs and cool, secluded brooks, have a sylvan, rustic beauty which is surpassingly delightful. The future care and improvement of the Park are well provided for. About the time that it became a matter of public interest, the charter for the first line of street passenger railways was granted, and this charter stipulated that one-fifth of the gross receipts of the road, or one cent for each passenger carried, should be paid to the city, to constitute a Park Fund. This amount, small at first, but gradually increasing until it now amounts to more than a hundred thousand dollars annually, was devoted first to paying the interest on the Park bonds, and finally to the preservation and improvement of the Park. The Park Commissioners, who receive no pay for their services, have most judiciously administered the fund entrusted to their care. The foreign and coasting trade of Baltimore are both extensive. Two lines of steamships leave the port weekly for Europe, and she commands a large share of the trade of the West and Northwest. Her shipments to Europe are principally grain, tobacco, cotton, petroleum and provisions. The city contains rolling mills, iron works, nail factories, locomotive works, cotton factories and other industrial establishments, numbering more than two thousand in all. The rich copper ores of Lake Superior are chiefly worked here, and nearly four thousand tons of refined copper are produced annually. The smelting works in Canton, a southern suburb of the city, employ one thousand men. There are also extensive flouring mills, while oysters, fruit and vegetables, to the value of five million dollars, are canned annually. Five hundred thousand hides are also annually made into leather and sent to New England. Baltimore oysters are renowned as being among the best the Atlantic seaboard produces, and no one should think of visiting the city without testing them. The Chesapeake oyster beds are apparently exhaustless, and supply plants for beds all along the coast. Although the first settlements in Maryland were made early in the seventeenth century, the present site of Baltimore was not chosen until 1729, and in 1745 the town was named Baltimore, in honor of Lord Baltimore, a Catholic, to whom the patent of the province of Maryland had been originally made out. In 1782 the first regular communication with Philadelphia, by means of a line of stage coaches, was established, and Baltimore was chartered as a city in 1787, having at that time a population of twenty thousand, which, by 1850, had increased to nearly two hundred thousand; and, according to the census of 1880, the population was 332,190 inhabitants. In 1780 the city became a port of entry, and in 1782 the first pavement was laid in Baltimore street. In 1803 Baltimore became the scene of a romance which is even yet remembered with interest. Jerome Bonaparte, the youngest brother of Napoleon, born in Ajaccio, November fifteenth, 1784, found himself, in the year just mentioned, while cruising off the West Indies, on account of the war between France and England, compelled to take refuge in New York. Being introduced into the best society of that and neighboring cities, he made the acquaintance of Miss Elizabeth Patterson, daughter of a merchant of Baltimore. The manner of their introduction was peculiar. In a crowded saloon the button of young Bonaparte's coat caught in the dress of a young lady, and as it took a little time to disengage it, the future King of Westphalia had opportunity to see that the lady was young, surpassingly beautiful and charming. This interview, by some who knew the lady and who were acquainted with her ambition, thought to be not entirely accidental, resulted, on the twenty-seventh of December of the same year, in a marriage between the two, the bridegroom being but nineteen years of age. Being summoned back to France by his Imperial brother, he was quickly followed by his young wife, who, however, was not permitted to land in France, and retired to England, where she shortly afterwards gave birth to a son, whom she named Jerome, after his father. Napoleon annulled the marriage, on the ground that it had been made contrary to French law, which stipulates that the consent of parents must be gained in order to legalize a marriage. Jerome was compelled, after he succeeded to the Westphalian crown, to marry Sophia Dorothea, daughter of King Frederick I, of Wurtemburg. Madame Patterson, as she was called to the day of her death, though she maintained her title to the name of Bonaparte, having an utter scorn for America and its democratic institutions, spent much of her life in Europe, where at first her beauty, and to the last her wit and charming manners, secured her admission to the most exclusive salons, and a sort of acknowledgment of her claims. She never saw her husband again, save on one occasion, when she came face to face with him in a European picture-gallery. Madame Patterson's aristocratic prejudices were greatly shocked when her son married a most estimable American lady, the mother's ambition seeking for him an alliance among the royal or at least noble families of the Old World. During the reign of Napoleon III, the Pope recognized the first marriage of Jerome Bonaparte, and the Emperor, who had taken offence at his cousin, the son of Jerome by his princess wife, also legitimatized the son, and took him into his service. Madame Patterson lived to be nearly a hundred years old, having spent her last days in her native city, and dying but a few years ago. Her son Jerome survived her not many years, leaving two sons, who are known as the Patterson-Bonapartes. In December, 1814, Baltimore was made the object of attack by the British forces, then at war with the United States. On the eleventh of that month the fleet reached the mouth of the Patapsco, and on the next day six thousand men landed at North Point, and proceeded, under command of General Ross, toward the city. An army of over three thousand men met them and kept them in check, in order to gain time to put the forts and batteries of Baltimore in proper condition for defence. A battle was fought, and the Americans defeated, with considerable loss. Among the killed and wounded, which numbered one hundred and three, were many of the most prominent citizens of Baltimore. The next morning the British advanced to the entrenchments about two miles from the city, and at the same time a vigorous attack was made by the fleet, upon Fort McHenry, at the entrance of the harbor. The fort was vigorously bombarded during the next twenty-four hours, but without visible effect. The troops which had landed, after hovering at a respectful distance from the city, until the evening of the thirtieth, then retired to their shipping, and set sail down the river, leaving behind them their commander, General Ross, who had been killed in the battle of the twelfth. It was during the siege of Baltimore, while the British fleet lay off Fort McHenry, and the bombs were raining upon it, that Philip Barton Key wrote the "Star Spangled Banner." From 1814 to 1861, nearly half a century, Baltimore had nothing to do but develop her resources and extend her commerce, which she did so well and so thoroughly, that in 1860 her inhabitants numbered more than 212,000, and she stood in the front rank as a manufacturing and commercial town. At the inauguration of President Lincoln, in 1861, the sentiments of the people assimilated rather with those of Virginia and the South, than with those of Pennsylvania and the North. Had it not, by its geographical position, been so completely in the power of the Federal government, Maryland would probably have seceded with Virginia. Great excitement was aroused by the attack on Fort Sumter, and the State was with difficulty made to retain her old position in the Union. The only line of railway from the north and east to Washington passed through Baltimore, and when, on the fifteenth of April, the President made his call for seventy-five thousand men, it was necessary that, in reaching the seat of war, they should pass through that city. Apprehensions were felt that they might be disturbed, but the Marshal of Police, on the eighteenth of April, maintained perfect order in the city, and summarily quieted all attempts at riot. He also received from the State Rights Association a most solemn pledge that the Federal troops should not be interfered with. The Mayor issued a proclamation invoking all good citizens to uphold and maintain the peace and good order of the city. On the nineteenth, the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment, the first to respond to the President's call, arrived, by the Philadelphia and Baltimore Railroad. A crowd of two or three thousand persons had gathered at the depot early in the day, to witness their arrival. Soon after eleven o'clock in the morning twenty-nine cars arrived from Philadelphia, filled with soldiers. Horses were attached to the cars, which were driven along Pratt street to the Camden station. The multitude hooted and yelled after the first six cars, but did not otherwise molest them. The horses becoming frightened by the uproar, were detached from the seventh car, which moved without their aid nearly to Gay street, where a body of laborers were removing the cobblestones from the bed of the street, in order to repair it. Some thirty or forty men had followed the car to this point, cheering for President Davis and the Southern Confederacy, and applying contemptuous and insulting epithets to the troops. The latter received these taunts in perfect silence; and when the horses were again attached, and the car commenced moving off, a proposition was made to stone it. Almost instantly, acting on the suggestion, nearly every window was smashed by projectiles snatched from the street. The eighth car was treated in a like manner. The ninth car was suffered to pass unmolested, as it was apparently empty. When the tenth car approached, after an ineffectual attempt to tear up the track, it was heaped with paving stones, and a cartload of sand dumped upon them, and four or five large anchors, dragged from the sidewalk, completed the barricade. Progress was impossible, and the car returned to the President Street Depot. Two-thirds of the cars still remained, filled with troops, besides others loaded with ammunition and baggage. Mayor Brown hastened to the depot, in order to prevent any disturbance. The troops were ordered to leave the cars and form into line. While forming they were surrounded by a dense mass of people, who impeded their march, threw great quantities of stones, and knocked down and severely injured two soldiers. Marching through the city, from the President Street Depot to the Pratt Street Bridge, they were pursued by the excited crowd, who continued to throw stones, and even fired muskets at them. When they reached Gay street, where the track had been torn up, they were again violently assaulted by a fresh mob, and a number knocked down and wounded. At the corner of South and Pratt streets a man fired a pistol into the ranks of the military, when those in the rear ranks immediately wheeled and fired upon their assailants, wounding several. The guns of the wounded soldiers were seized, and fired upon the ranks, killing two soldiers. Reaching Calvert street, the troops succeeded in checking their pursuers by a rapid fire, and were not again seriously molested until they reached Howard street, where still another mob had assembled. The police did their utmost to protect the troops from assault, but were pressed back by the excited crowd. The soldiers left the Camden station about half-past twelve o'clock, and a body of infantry, about one hundred and fifty strong, from one of the Northern States, which had arrived meantime, next attracted the malevolence of the crowd. The excitement was now intense. A man displayed the flag of the Confederate States, and a general panic ensued. As many as twenty shots were fired, happily without injury to any one, and cobblestones fell like hail. At last the soldiers gained refuge in the cars. Other troops, by order of Governor Hicks, were sent back to the borders of the State, and the military was called out and quiet restored, by evening. Nine citizens of Baltimore had been killed, and many wounded; while twenty-five wounded Massachusetts troops were sent to the Washington Hospital, and their dead numbered two. Thus Baltimore shares with Charleston the doubtful honor of being first in the great civil war which devastated the country and sent desolation to many thousand homes, both north and south. Charleston fired the first gun, and Baltimore shed the first blood. During the succeeding night, a report reaching the city that more Northern troops were on their way southward, the bridge at Canton, the two bridges between Cockeysville and Ashland, also the bridges over Little Gunpowder and Bush rivers were destroyed, by order of the authorities of Baltimore. Upon a representation of the matter to President Lincoln, he ordered that "no more troops should be brought through Baltimore, if, in a military point of view, and without interruption or opposition, they can be marched around Baltimore." The transmission of mails, and removal of provisions from the city, were suspended, by the order of the Mayor and Board of Police. Four car-loads of military stores and equipments, sufficient to furnish a thousand men, belonging to the Government, were thus detained. On the twenty-fourth of the month the city had the appearance of a military camp. Twenty-five thousand volunteers had enlisted, and four hundred picked men left the city for the Relay House, on the Baltimore and Ohio Road, for the purpose of seizing and protecting that point, in order to cut off communications with Washington by that route. For a week an unparalleled excitement prevailed in Baltimore, which was succeeded by a counter-revolution, when the volunteer militia were dismissed, and a large number of troops landed at Fort McHenry and shipped for Washington, from Locust Point. On the fifth of May General Butler removed a portion of his troops to Baltimore, and they were permitted to enter and remain in the city without disturbance. As they proceeded on their way to Federal Hill, they were even greeted with cheers, while ladies at windows and doors waved their handkerchiefs and applauded. On the sixteenth of May the passenger trains between Baltimore and Washington resumed their regular trips. On the twenty-seventh of June, Marshal of Police Kane was arrested and escorted to Fort McHenry, on the charge of being at the head of an unlawful combination of men organized for resistance to the laws of the United States and the State of Maryland. On the first of July the Commissioners of Police were arrested, for having acted unlawfully. On the sixteenth of July General Dix was put in command of the troops stationed at Baltimore, and the city thenceforth remained tranquil. At the fall elections a full vote was cast, which resulted in the Union candidates receiving a very large majority. At the meeting of the Legislature, it appropriated seven thousand dollars for the relief of the families of the Massachusetts troops killed and wounded at Baltimore on April nineteenth. On June thirtieth, 1863, Major General Schenck, in command at Baltimore, put that city and Maryland under martial law. The value of merchandise exported that year from Baltimore was $8,054,112, and her imports during the same time were $4,098,189, showing that although on the borderland of strife, her commerce was in an exceedingly healthy condition. During July a number of her citizens were arrested, on a charge of being disloyal to the government. On the Fourth of July all citizens were required by the Commander to show their colors, from ten o'clock A.M. to six o'clock, P.M.; an absence of the national flag being considered tantamount to a confession of disloyalty. In 1864 the State adopted a new Constitution, which conferred freedom upon the slaves within her borders, and in November a Freedman's Bureau was established by Major General Wallace, having its headquarters at Baltimore. The following year saw the close of the war, and Baltimore, which had not suffered like her sister cities at the South, her port being free from blockade, but had rather witnessed increased prosperity arising from the demands of the war, continued her prosperous career. Although many violent disunionists had found their homes within the city, the popular sentiment had grown strongly in favor of the North, and Baltimore had come to see that she had little to lose and much to gain by the reestablishment of the Union. The bitterness of the old war times has passed away, and, as if to emphasize this fact, the Grand Army of the Republic was invited to hold a reunion in Baltimore in September, 1882. Accepting the invitation, her citizens vied with each other in honoring the veterans of the war, and made their visit a regular ovation. Of the Sixth Massachusetts Regiment, who had passed through Baltimore on that fateful day in April, twenty-one years before, and who suffered from the fury of an ungoverned mob, only one member attended the reunion, Captain C. P. Lord, a resident of Vineland, New Jersey. He was lionized on every hand. This Grand Army reunion had many pleasant and amusing features. Here men met each other again who had last parted on the battlefield or in a Southern prison. Here the dead seemed to come to life, and the lost were found. Many officers and soldiers of the Confederate army were also present, and it was as satisfactory as curious, as more than once happened during this occasion, to have two men meet and clasp hands in a cordial greeting, as one of them said to the other, "The last time we met I tried to put a bullet hole through you on a battlefield;" or, "I took you prisoner when I saw you last;" or, "This empty sleeve, or these crutches, I must thank you for." The gathering was one which will long be remembered by Union and Confederate soldiers, and by the citizens of Baltimore as well. It was the inauguration of an era of good feeling between the North and the South. All personal and sectional enmity had died out, and this gathering joined those who had represented, on one side the North and on the other the South, in that great intestine struggle which is now so long past, and the terror of which, thank God, is being gradually obliterated by time from our memories, in new fraternal bonds, which are a good augury for the preservation of our Union. When soldiers who suffered so much at each other's hands, who were stirred by all the evil passions which war develops, and who bore the brunt of the conflict, offering all, if need be, as a sacrifice on the altar of the cause they had espoused, can so forget the past, and shaking hands over the chasm which divided them, look forward to a happy and concordant future, surely civilians should be willing to bury the hatred and prejudice which has so embittered the past, and live only for a common country, made of many parts whose interests are identical. CHAPTER VI. CHARLESTON. First Visit to Charleston.--Jail Yard.--Bombardment of the City.--Roper Hospital.--Charleston During the War.--Secession of South Carolina.--Attack and Surrender of Fort Sumter.--Blockade of the Harbor.--Great Fire of 1861.--Capitulation in 1865.-- First Settlement of the City.--Battles of the Revolution.-- Nullification Act.--John C. Calhoun.--Population of the City.-- Commerce and Manufactures.--Charleston Harbor.--"American Venice."--Battery.--Streets, Public Buildings and Churches.-- Scenery about Charleston.--Railways and Steamship Lines.--An Ancient Church.--Magnolia Cemetery.--Drives near the City.-- Charleston Purified by Fire. My first introduction to the city of Charleston can scarcely be said to have been under propitious circumstances. True, a retinue of troops conducted my companions and myself, with military pomp, to our quarters in the city. But these quarters, instead of being any one of its fine hotels, were none other than the Charleston Jail Yard, for the year was 1864, and we were prisoners of war. After a varied experience of prison life at Richmond, Danville, Macon and Savannah, I had been sent, with a number of others, to Charleston, South Carolina, to be placed under the fire of our batteries, which were then bombarding the city. We had received more humane treatment at Savannah than at any previous place of detention; therefore it was with a sinking of the heart that we found ourselves, when we arrived at our destination, thrown into the jail yard at Charleston, which was the grand receptacle of all Union prisoners in that city. The jail was a large octagonal building, four stories high, surmounted by a lofty tower. A workhouse and a gallows also occupied the yard. The jail building was for the accommodation of criminals, military prisoners, and Federal and Rebel deserters, all of whom at least had the advantage of shelter from sun and storm. The war prisoners were permitted the use of the yard only, which was in the most filthy condition conceivable, having been long used as a prison-pen, without receiving any cleaning or purification whatever. The only shelter afforded us were the remnants of a few tents, which had been cut to pieces, more or less, by former prisoners, to make themselves clothing. This jail yard was in the southeastern portion of the city, and apparently directly under the fire of our batteries on Morris Island. But though the shells came screaming over our heads, and proved a subject of interest, discussion, and even mathematical calculation among the prisoners, who were thankful for anything which should take their minds, even momentarily, from the misery which they endured, so carefully were they aimed, not to do us mischief, that though they exploded all about us--in front, behind, and on either side--not one of them fell within the prison enclosure. The scene at night was of peculiar beauty. These messengers of death presented the spectacle of magnificent fireworks, and every explosion sounded as the voice of a friend to us, assuring us that the great Northern army was still exerting itself to crush out the rebellion and open our prison doors and set us free. [Illustration: VIEW ON THE BATTERY, CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA.] Reaching Charleston and its jail yard September twelfth, 1864, on the twenty-ninth I was transferred to the Roper Hospital, having given my parole that I would not attempt to escape. The quarters here were so much more comfortable that it was almost like a transition from hell to heaven. Leaving behind me the filthiness of the jail yard, and my bed there on the chill, bare ground, where I had protection against neither heat nor cold, storm nor sunshine, to be permitted the freedom of the beautiful garden of the hospital, and to sleep even upon the hard floor of the piazza, were luxuries before unenjoyed in my experience of southern prisons. And here the Sisters of Charity, those angels among women, did what they could to alleviate the sufferings of the sick, and to add to the comfort of us all. Their ministrations were bestowed indiscriminately on Rebels and Federals, with a charity as broad and boundless as true religion. On October fifth we were ordered to leave Charleston, and were sent, in the foulest of cattle cars, to Columbia, the Capital of the State. We left Charleston without a regret. It was the breeding place of the rankest treason, the cradle of the Rebellion, and the scene of untold cruelties to Union prisoners. At the time of our brief visit to the city, it was undergoing all the horrors of an actual siege. About one-third of its territory had been destroyed by fire during the early part of the war, caused by shells thrown from the Union batteries on Morris Island. This portion of the city was deserted by all its inhabitants save the negroes, who, during every brief cessation in the bombardment, flocked in and took possession, rent free, to scatter as quickly when one or more of them had been killed by the sudden appearance and explosion of shells in this quarter. The balance of the city was forsaken by non-combatants, and the blockade had put an end to all her commerce. The quiet industries of peace had given place to all the turmoil of war. Her streets were filled with military, while the boom of the distant batteries, the whiz of the flying shells, and the noise of their explosion, were daily and familiar sounds. During the four years of the war, Charleston was one of the chief points of Federal attack, though it remained in possession of the Confederate forces until the beginning of 1865. These were four terrible years to the city. Yet her sufferings she had brought upon herself. The first open and public movement in favor of the dissolution of the Union was made in that city. South Carolina was the first to call a State convention, and to secede from the Union. This convention was held at Columbia, the Capital of the State, but was adjourned to Charleston, where the Ordinance of Secession was unanimously passed on the twentieth of December, 1860. Fort Sumter, which was one of the largest forts in Charleston, a massive fortress of solid masonry, standing on an island commanding the principal entrance, at the mouth of Charleston Harbor, was in command of Major Robert Anderson, with a garrison of eighty men. On the twenty-seventh of December he ran up the stars and stripes. Governor Pickens immediately demanded a surrender of the fort, which was promptly refused. Early on Friday morning, April twelfth, 1861, the initial gun of the terrible four years' war was fired by the Rebel forces from the howitzer battery on James Island, west of Sumter. Fort Moultrie, on Sullivan Island, on the northeast, the gun battery at Cumming's Point, the northwest extremity of Morris Island, and other batteries and fortifications which the Confederates had seized and appropriated to their own use, all followed in a deadly rain of shells upon Sumter. The firing was kept up for thirty-five hours, and Sumter made a vigorous defence, until the quarters were entirely burned, the main gates destroyed by fire, the supplies exhausted, and the magazine surrounded by flames, when Major Anderson accepted the terms of capitulation offered by General Beauregard. Upon the surrender of the Fort, which was received as a good omen by the South, troops began to pour into the city, so that by the sixteenth of the same month as many as ten thousand had arrived. The blockade of the port was commenced on the tenth of May, and continued until the close of the war. In the latter part of 1861 an attempt was made by the Federal government to seal up the channel of the harbor with sunken ships, to prevent the egress of privateers. On the twenty-first of December seventeen vessels were sunk, in three or four rows, across the channel. But this attempt at blockade proved a failure. The current washed some of them away, and many passages in a water front of six miles were left unobserved, and more vessels ran the blockade and reached the city, than at any other southern port. On the tenth of December, 1861, a fire broke out in the city, which destroyed nearly all its public buildings, banks and insurance offices, and several churches, besides many dwellings, reducing thousands to homelessness and the extremity of want. The loss occasioned by this conflagration was estimated at ten millions of dollars. In 1863, the women, children and other non-combatants were ordered out of the city, and free transportation, food and lodgings were furnished those unable to pay for them. Morris Island had been captured by the Federal Army, who used it as a point of attack against Sumter and the city. Its shells had wrought destruction in all parts of the city, especially in its lower portions. On February seventeenth, 1865, Charleston, which had withstood all attacks from the seaward, capitulated to the Union forces, Columbia having been captured by Sherman. The history of Charleston goes back to earliest colonial times. In 1671 a few persons located themselves on Ashley River, at Old Charleston. But in 1680 this settlement was abandoned, and the foundations of the present city laid, several miles nearer the sea. The whole country, up to 1671, between the thirtieth and thirty-sixth parallel of latitude, was called Carolina, having received the name in honor of Charles IX, of France. In that year the division was made between the Northern and Southern provinces. In 1685 the young settlement received a considerable influx of French Huguenot refugees. During the early part of the eighteenth century the war of Queen Anne against France and Spain greatly disturbed the young colony; and a little later the Indians threatened its existence. All the inhabitants of the region took refuge at Charleston, which was vigorously defended. In 1700, the same year that Kidd was captured and taken to England, no less then seven pirates were secured, and executed at Charleston. Subsequently others shared the same fate. [Illustration: GARDEN AT MOUNT PLEASANT, OPPOSITE CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA.] South Carolina was among the foremost of the American colonies to strike for independence. On the twenty-eighth of June, 1776, Charleston was attacked by the British, an attempt being made to destroy the military works on Sullivan's Island. But Colonel Moultrie, in honor of whom the fort was subsequently named, made a gallant defence and repulsed them. In 1779 they made a second attack upon the city, this time approaching it by land, but were again compelled to retreat. Sir Henry Clinton, with seven or eight thousand men, opened his batteries upon Charleston on the second of April, 1780. Fort Moultrie, on Sullivan's Island, was compelled to surrender on the fourteenth, and the city yielded on May eleventh. The British retained possession of the city until the close of the war. Charleston took a prominent part in the passage of the nullification act by the State, which maintained that any one of the States might set aside or nullify any act of Congress which it deemed unconstitutional or oppressive. The occasion of this nullification act was the Tariff Laws of 1828, which were not considered favorable to the Southern States. A convention of the State declared them null and void, and made preparations to resist their execution. John C. Calhoun, who was at that time Vice-President under Andrew Jackson, resigned his office, became a leader in the nullification movement, and was the father of the doctrine of State Sovereignty, the legitimate outcome of the principles of which was the late attempt to dissolve the Union. The population of Charleston in 1800 was 18,711; in 1850, 42,985 inhabitants; in 1860, 40,519; in 1870, 48,956; and in 1880, 50,000 inhabitants. It has not made so rapid a growth as other cities, even in the South, but is, nevertheless, a prosperous town, with large commercial, and since the war, large manufacturing interests. It is one of the chief shipping ports for cotton, and also exports rice, lumber, naval stores and fertilizers. Immense beds of marl were discovered in the vicinity of the city in 1868, and now the manufacture of fertilizers from marl and phosphate is one of its principal industries. There are also flour and rice mills, carriage and wagon factories and machine shops. The city is learning that the surest foundation stone for its future prosperity is its manufacturing interests; and, probably, the political battle of 1861, could it be fought over again to-day, in that city, would find the nullifiers largely in the minority. The city which was so marred and blemished during its long state of siege, has been rebuilt, and all traces of the fratricidal conflict removed; and though Charleston would not be true to her traditions if she did not still cherish a strong Southern sentiment, the years which have passed since the cessation of hostilities have done much toward softening the asperities of feeling on both sides. As a seaboard city, Charleston is most favorably situated. It has an excellent harbor, seven miles in length, with an average width of two miles, landlocked on all sides, except an entrance about a mile in width. This entrance is blocked by a bar, which, however, serves both as a bulwark and a breakwater. Of its two passages, its best gives twenty-two feet in depth at flood tide, and sixteen feet at ebb. The harbor of Charleston is impregnable, as the Union troops learned to their cost during the late war. Standing directly in the channel are forts Ripley and Sumter. On a point extending out into the strait, between the two, is Fort Johnson. Directly in front of the city, one mile distant from it, is Castle Pinckney, covering the crest of a mud shoal, and facing the entrance. Sullivan's Island, a long, low, gray stretch of an island, dotted here and there by clumps of palmettoes, lies on the north of the entrance of the harbor, with Fort Moultrie on its extreme southern point, as a doorkeeper to the harbor. On the southern side is Morris Island, long, low and gray also, with tufts of pines instead of palmettoes, and with batteries at intervals along its whole sea front, Fort Wagner standing near its northern end. Sullivan's Island, the scene of fierce conflict during the Revolution, and later, during the Rebellion, is to-day the Long Branch or Coney Island of South Carolina, containing many beautiful cottages and fine drives, and furnishing good sea bathing. The village occupies the point extending into the harbor. As one approaches Charleston from the sea, the name which has been applied to it, of the "American Venice," seems not inappropriate. The shores are low, and the city seems to rise out of the water. It is built something after the manner of New York, on a long and narrow peninsula, formed by the Cooper and Ashley rivers, which unite in front of the city. It has, like New York, its Battery, occupying the extreme point of the peninsula, its outlook commanding the entire harbor, bristling with fortifications, so harmless in time of peace, so terrible in war. The Battery contains plots of thin clover, neatly fenced and shelled promenades, a long, solid stone quay, which forms the finest sea-walk in the United States, and has a background of the finest residences in the city, three storied, and faced with verandahs. The dwelling-houses throughout the city are mostly of brick or wood, and have large open grounds around them, ornamented with trees, shrubbery, vines and flowers. The city is laid out with tolerable regularity, the streets generally crossing each other at right angles. King street, running north and south, is the fashionable promenade, containing the leading retail stores. Meeting street, nearly parallel with King, contains the jobbing and wholesale stores. Broad street, the banks, brokers' and insurance offices. Meeting street, below Broad, Rutledge street, and the west end of Wentworth street, contain fine private residences. The City Hall, an imposing building, standing in an open square, the Court House, the Police Headquarters, and the venerable St. Michael's Church (Episcopal), all stand at the intersection of Broad and Meeting streets. St. Michael's was built in 1752, after designs by a pupil of Sir Christopher Wren. The view from the belfry is very fine, embracing the far stretch of sea and shore, the shipping, fortresses of the harbor, and near at hand buildings as ancient as the church itself. It is the church of the poem--a favorite with elocutionists--"How he saved St. Michael." Says the poem, in one of its stanzas, its spire rose "High over the lesser steeples, tipped with a golden ball That hung like a radiant planet caught in its earthward fall, First glimpse of home to the sailor who made the harbor round, And last slow fading vision, dear, to the outward bound." Next in interest among the churches of Charleston is St. Philip's Episcopal Church, in Church street, near Queen. The building itself is not so venerable as St. Michael's, though its church establishment is older. The view from the steeple is fine; but its chief interest centres in the churchyard, where lie some of South Carolina's most illustrious dead. In one portion of the churchyard is the tomb of John C. Calhoun, consisting of a plain granite slab, supported by brick walls, and bearing the simple inscription "Calhoun." The ruins of St. Finbar's Cathedral (Roman Catholic) stand at the corner of Broad and Friend streets. The building, which was one of the costliest edifices of Charleston, was destroyed by the great fire of 1861, and the walls, turrets and niches still standing are exceedingly picturesque. Other handsome church edifices abound. The old Huguenot Church, at the corner of Church and Queen streets has its walls lined with quaint and elegant mural entablatures. [Illustration: CUSTOM HOUSE, CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA.] The Post Office, at the foot of Broad street, is a venerable structure, dating back to the colonial period, the original material for its construction having being brought from England in 1761. It received considerable damage during the war, but has since been renovated. The new United States Custom House, which, when completed, will be the finest edifice in the city, is of white marble, in very elegant Corinthian style, and is situated south of the market wharf, on Cooper River. The old Orphan House of Charleston is one of the most famous institutions in the country. It stands in spacious grounds between Calhoun and Vanderbuist streets, and a statue of William Pitt, erected during the Revolution, stands in the centre of the grounds. John Charles Fremont, the conqueror of California, and once a candidate for the Presidency, and C.C. Memminger, Secretary of the Treasury of the Confederate States, were both educated here. The Charleston Library, at the corner of Broad and Church streets, founded in 1748, and the College of Charleston, located in the square bounded by George, Green, College and St. Philip streets, and founded in 1788, are both spacious and commodious buildings. One of the most characteristic sights of Charleston is to be seen between six and nine o'clock in the morning, in and about market Hall, in Meeting street, near the Bay. The Hall is a fine building in temple form, with a lofty portico in front, and a row of long, low sheds in the rear. There is nothing picturesque in the country around about Charleston. On the contrary, it is low, flat and uninteresting. Looking across the Ashley River, which is more than a quarter of a mile wide here, there is on the opposite side a long, low line of nearly dead level, with occasional sparse pine forests, interspersed with fields of open sand. There are no palmettoes, but here and there are gigantic oaks, hung with pendants of gray Spanish moss, and occasional green spikes of the Spanish bayonet. The view across the Cooper is very similar. Large extents of country in the neighborhood of Charleston, especially that lying along the streams, and stretching for many miles inland, are low and swampy. The region is sparsely settled, and furnishes no thriving agricultural or manufacturing population, which, seeking a market or a port for its productions, and wanting supplies in return, helps to build up the city. Several railways connecting with the North, West and South centre here; and she is also connected, by means of steamship lines, with the principal Atlantic seaports and some European ones. She is also the centre of a great lumber region, and annually exports many million feet of lumber. There are few points of interest about the city. Besides Sullivan's Island, Mount Pleasant, on the northern shore of the harbor, so named, probably, because the land is sufficiently high to escape being a swamp, is a favorite picnic resort. The antiquarian will find interest in the old Church of St. James, about fifteen miles from Charleston, on Goose Creek. It is secluded in the very heart of the pine forest, entirely isolated from habitations, and is approached by a road scarcely more than a bridle-path. The church was built in 1711, and the royal arms of England, which are emblazoned over the pulpit, saved it from destruction during the Revolutionary War. On the walls and altars are tablets in memory of the early members of the organization, one dated 1711, and another 1717. The pews are square and high, the pulpit or reading desk exceedingly small, and the floor is of stone. On the other side of the road, a short distance from this church, is a farm known as The Oaks, approached by a magnificent avenue, a quarter of a mile in length, of those trees, believed to be nearly two hundred years old. They are exceedingly large, and form a continuous archway over the road, their branches festooned with long fringes of gray moss, which soften and conceal the ravages of age. Magnolia Cemetery lies just outside the city, on its northern boundary. It is beautified by live oaks and magnolias, and contains, among other fine monuments, those of Colonel William Washington, of Revolutionary fame, Hugh Legaré and Dr. Gilmore Simms, the novelist. The roads leading out of the city by the Cooper and Ashley rivers afford attractive drives. What the scenery lacks in grandeur and picturesqueness is made up in beauty by the abundance of lovely foliage, composed of pines, oaks, magnolias, myrtles and jasmines, exhibiting a tropical luxuriance. On the twenty-seventh of April, 1838, Charleston was visited by a fire which proved exceedingly disastrous. Nearly one-half the city was swept by the flames, which raged for twenty-eight hours, and were finally averted only by the blowing up of buildings in their path. There were 1158 buildings destroyed, involving a loss of three millions of dollars. The most shocking feature of the catastrophe was that, in the carelessness of handling the gunpowder in blowing up these buildings, four of the most prominent citizens were killed, and several others injured. The fire of 1861 exceeded this in destructiveness, and to it were added the terrific effects of a four years' besiegement. So that it can be truly said that Charleston has been purified by fire. She is to-day fully recovered from the effects, and as prosperous as her geographical position will permit. [Illustration: MAGNOLIA CEMETERY, CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA.] CHAPTER VII. CINCINNATI. Founding of Cincinnati.--Rapid Increase of Population.-- Character of its Early Settlers.--Pro-slavery Sympathies.-- During the Rebellion.--Description of the City.--Smoke and Soot.--Suburbs.--"Fifth Avenue" of Cincinnati.--Streets, Public Buildings, Private Art Galleries, Hotels, Churches and Educational Institutions.--"Over the Rhine."--Hebrew Population.--Liberal Religious Sentiment.--Commerce and Manufacturing Interests.--Stock Yards and Pork-packing Establishments.--Wine Making.--Covington and Newport Suspension Bridge.--High Water.--Spring Grove Cemetery. Cincinnati, whether we consider what its past history has been, or whether we regard it as it is to-day, is probably the most matter-of-fact and prosaic of all our western cities. A generation ago it derived its chief importance from the pork-packing business, in which, though it once stood at the head, it is now completely distanced by Chicago. Its extensive factories and foundries give it material wealth, while its geographical situation guarantees its commercial importance. Unlike most of the towns and cities of this western world, no interesting historical associations cling around its site. The Indians seem to have been troublesome and treacherous here, as elsewhere; but the records tell no stories of famous wars, terrible massacres, or hairbreadth escapes. In all the uninteresting accumulation of dry facts and statistics regarding the founding and subsequent growth of the city, there is just one exceptional romance. In early times three settlements were made along the banks of the Ohio River, on what is now the southern boundary of the State of Ohio. The first was at Columbia, at the mouth of the Little Miami River, in November, 1788, on ten thousand acres, purchased by Major Benjamin Stites, from Judge Symmes. The second settlement was commenced but a month later, on the north bank of the Ohio River, opposite the mouth of the Licking River, Matthias Denman, of New Jersey, being the leading spirit in the new undertaking, he having purchased about eight hundred acres, also from Judge Symmes, for an equivalent of fifteen pence an acre. Judge Symmes himself directed the third settlement, which was founded in February, 1789, and gave it the name of North Bend, from the fact that it was the most northern bend of the Ohio River, below the mouth of the great Kanawha. A spirit of rivalry existed between these three settlements, which lay but a few miles apart. Each one regarded itself as the future great city of the west. In the beginning, Columbia took the lead; but North Bend presently gained the advantage, as the troops detailed by General Harmer for the protection of the settlers in the Miami Valley landed there, through the influence of Judge Symmes. This detachment soon took its departure for Louisville, and was succeeded by another, under Ensign Luce, who was at liberty to select the spot, for the erection of a substantial block-house, which seemed to him best calculated to afford protection to the Miami settlers. He put up temporary quarters at North Bend, sufficient for the security of his troops, and began to look for a suitable site on which to build the block-house. While he was leisurely pursuing this occupation, he was attracted by a pair of beautiful black eyes, whose owner was apparently not indifferent to his attentions. This woman was the wife of one of the settlers at the Bend, who, when he perceived the condition of affairs, thought best to remove her out of danger, and at once proceeded to take up his residence at Cincinnati. The gallant commander, still ostensibly engaged in locating his block-house, felt immediately impelled to go to Cincinnati, on a tour of inspection. He was forcibly struck by the superior advantages offered by that town, over all other points on the river, for a military station. In spite of remonstrance from the Judge, the troops were, accordingly, removed, and the erection of a block-house commenced at once. The settlers at the Bend, who at that time outnumbered those of the more favored place, finding their protection gone, gave up their land and followed the soldiers, and ere long the town was almost deserted. In the course of the ensuing summer, Major Doughty arrived at Cincinnati, with troops from Fort Harmer, and established Fort Washington, which was made the most important and extensive military station in the northwest territory. North Bend still continued its existence as a town, and was finally honored by becoming the home of General Wm. H. Harrison, ninth President of the United States, and there still rest his mortal remains. Farms now occupy the place where Columbia once stood. The unsettled condition of the frontier prevented Cincinnati from making a rapid growth in its early years. In 1800, twelve years after the first colonist landed on the shore of the Ohio opposite the Licking River, there were but 750 inhabitants. In 1814 the town was incorporated as a city. In 1820 its inhabitants numbered 9,602, and in 1830, 16,230. About this time the Miami Canal was built, running through the western portion of the State of Ohio, and connecting Cincinnati with Lake Erie at Toledo. This gave an impetus to trade, and during the next ten years the population increased nearly three hundred per cent., numbering in 1840, 46,382 inhabitants. In 1850 it had again more than doubled, amounting to 115,436. In 1860 the number was 161,044; in 1870, 216,239; while according to the United States census returns of 1880 the population in that year was 255,708. The career of Cincinnati will not compare in brilliancy with that of Chicago. It has not displayed the same energy and activity. Outwardly, it has not made the most of its superior natural advantages, and intellectually, although it boasts some of the most readable and successful newspapers in the country, it has fallen behind other cities. Settled originally by emigrants from Pennsylvania and New Jersey, descendants of Germans, Swedes and Danes, its inhabitants were plodders rather than pushers. They lacked the practical and mental activity of New Englanders and New Yorkers. By habits of industry and economy they were sure to accumulate wealth; but they cared little for outward display, and less for educational and intellectual advancement. The churches met better support than the schools, "book learning" being held in small estimation by this stolid yet thrifty race. They patterned their city after Philadelphia, the most magnificent city their eyes had ever beheld, and anything more splendid than which their imaginations were powerless to depict; called their streets Walnut, Spruce and Vine, and felt that they should be commended for having built them up with a view to substantiality rather than to display. Yankee capital and enterprise, in the course of time, found their way to Cincinnati, to build up its factories and stimulate public improvements. But, on the line between freedom and slavery, its population largely southern by immigration or descent, and by sympathy, Cincinnati up to the time of the war was more a southern than a northern city. Her leading families were connected by marriage with Kentucky, Virginia and Maryland; many of her leading men had immigrated from those States; and her aristocracy scorned the northern element which had helped to build up the city, and repudiated all its tendencies. Public sentiment had been, from its earliest history, intensely pro-slavery. In 1836 a mob broke into and destroyed the office of the _Philanthropist_, an anti-slavery paper, published by James G. Birney, scattered the type, and threw the press into the river, having previously resolved that no "abolition paper" should be either "published or distributed" in the town. In 1841 the office of the same paper was again raided and destroyed, and a frenzied mob, numbering at one time as many as fifteen hundred men, engaged in a riot against the negro residents in the city, until, to secure their safety, it was found necessary to incarcerate the latter, to the number of 250 to 300, in the county jail. Houses were broken into and furniture destroyed, several persons killed, and twenty or thirty more or less seriously wounded. Yet at this very period, Salmon Portland Chase, the future statesman and financier, but then an obscure young lawyer, was living in Cincinnati, and was already planning the beginnings of that Liberty party which, after many vicissitudes, and under a different name, finally accomplished the abolition of slavery; and in this same city, but ten years later, Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe wrote "Uncle Tom's Cabin." When the war began, Cincinnati found itself in an anomalous position. Geographically it was on the side of the north, while to a large extent its social and business relations allied it with the south. Many of the leading families furnished adherents to the southern cause; but the masses of the people, notably the Germans, who had already become an important factor in its population, were stirred by the spirit of patriotism, and casting aside once for all their conservatism, they identified themselves with the cause of the Union. Trade was greatly disturbed. The old profitable relations with the south were broken up for the time being, but Cincinnati did not find herself a loser. Army contractors made fortunes, and the business of supplying gunboats, military stores and provisions to the army gave employment to immense numbers, and stimulated all branches of trade. From this period Cincinnati dates her new life. Heretofore she had stagnated in all but a business sense. With the steady increase of her population came a new element. Southern supineness and Middle State stolidity were aroused and shaken out of themselves, when slavery no longer exerted its baleful influence over the country and the city. Fresh life was infused into her people, and the war marked the dawn of a new era for the city, an era in which public spirit took a prominent place. The name, Cincinnati, was bestowed upon the city at its foundation, as tradition has it, by General St. Clair, who called it after the society of that name, of which himself and General Hamilton were both members. The county was subsequently named in honor of General Hamilton. The young town barely escaped the name of Losantiville, a word of original etymology, compounded by a pedantic schoolmaster, who, wishing to indicate the position of the future city as opposite the mouth of the Licking River, united _os_, mouth, _anti_, against or opposite to, and _ville_, as meaning city, prefacing the whole with L, the initial letter of Licking; hence "Losantiville." But the name, although accepted for several months, was not permanently adopted. Cincinnati is nearly in the centre of the great valley of the Ohio, being only fifty-eight miles nearer Cairo, at its junction with the Mississippi, than to its head waters at Pittsburg. It occupies the half circle formed by an outward curve of the river, which bends continually in one direction or another. The plateau upon which the business part of the city is built is sixty feet above the low-water mark of the river. Back of this is a terrace some fifty feet higher yet, graded to an easy slope, the whole shut in by an amphitheatre of what appears to be hills, though when one mounts to their summits he finds himself on an undulating table-land, four or five hundred feet above the river, which extends backward into the country. The river flows through a wide and deep ravine, which the raging floods have, in the long ages since they began their course, cut for themselves, through an elevated region of country. In the remote west these ravines, chiseled through the solid rocks, are bordered by steep precipices; on the Ohio the yielding soil has been washed away in a gradual slope, leaving the graceful outlines of hills. The city proper is occupied by stores, offices, public buildings, factories, foundries, and the dwelling houses of the poorer and middle classes, over all which hangs a pall of smoke, caused by the bituminous coal used as fuel in the city. Cleanliness in either person or in dress is almost an impossibility. Hands and faces become grimy, and clean collars and light-hued garments are perceptibly coated with a thin layer of soot. Clothes hung out in the weekly wash acquire a permanent yellow hue which no bleaching can remove. The smoke of hundreds of factories, locomotives and steamboats arises and unites to form this dismal pall, which obscures the sunlight, and gives a sickly cast to the moonbeams. But beyond the city, on the magnificent amphitheatre of hills which encircle it, are half a dozen beautiful suburbs, where the homes of Cincinnati's merchant princes and millionaires are found, as elegant as wealth combined with art can make them, surrounded by enchanting scenery, and commanding extensive views over the city and surrounding country. Cincinnati has no Fifth Avenue like New York, but it has its Mount Auburn, its Walnut Hills, its Price's Hill, its Clifton and its Avondale, which are as much superior to Fifth Avenue as the country is superior to the city, and as space is preferable to narrowness. As far as the eye can reach, on these billowed outlines of hills and valleys, elegant cottages, tasteful villas, and substantial mansions, surrounded by a paradise of grass, gardens, lawns, and tree-shaded roads, are clustered. Each little suburb has its own corporation, and its own municipal government, while even its mayor and aldermen may do daily business in the large city below it. In the city itself Pearl street is noted for its wholesale trade, and for the uniform elegance of its buildings. Third street, between Main and Vine, contains the banking, brokering, and insurance offices. Fourth street is the fashionable promenade and business street. Freeman street, in the neighborhood of Lincoln Park, is also a favorite promenade. Both the East and West Ends contain many fine residences. Along Front street, at the foot of Main, is the public landing, an open space one thousand feet long and four hundred and twenty-five feet wide. The city has a frontage of ten miles on the river, and extends back three miles. The United States Government building, occupying the square bounded by Main and Walnut, and Fifth and Sixth streets, and accommodating the Custom House, Post Office, and United States Courts; the County Court House, in Main street, near Canal street; the City buildings occupying an entire square on Plum street, between Eighth and Ninth; the Chamber of Commerce, on Fourth street between Main and Walnut; and the Masonic Temple, at the corner of Third and Walnut streets, are among the most imposing buildings of the city. The Exposition buildings, in Elm street, fronting Washington Park, cover three and one-half acres of ground, and have seven acres of space for exhibiting. The Exhibition opens annually, during the first week in September, and closes the first week in October. The Springer Music Hall will seat 5,000 persons, and contains one of the largest organs in the world, having more pipes, but fewer speaking stops, than the famous Boston organ. Pike's Opera House, in Fourth street, between Vine and Walnut, is a very handsome building. Cincinnati is noted for its appreciation and encouragement of fine music. The Emery Arcade, said to be the largest in America, extends from Vine to Race street, between Fourth and Fifth. The roof is of glass, and in it are shops of various kinds, and the Hotel Emery. The late Henry Probasco, on Clifton Heights, and Joseph Longworth, on Walnut Hills, each had very fine private art galleries, to which visitors were courteously admitted, and the city itself occupies a high standard in art matters. The Tyler-Davidson fountain, in Fifth street, between Vine and Walnut, the gift of Mr. Probasco, exhibits a series of basins, one above another, the shaft ornamented by figures, and the whole surmounted by a gigantic female figure, from whose outstretched hands the water rains down in fine spray. The fountain was cast in Munich, and cost nearly $200,000. The Burnet House has been, for more than a quarter of a century, the principal hotel in Cincinnati. The Grand Hotel is newer and more elegant. The Gibson House is large and centrally located. There are various opera houses, theatres, variety and concert halls, a gymnasium, a Floating Bath, and Zoölogical Gardens, with a collection of birds and animals, among the best in the country. St. Peter's Cathedral (Roman Catholic), in Plum street, between Seventh and Eighth, is the finest religious edifice in the city. Its altar of Carrara marble was carved in Genoa, and its altar-piece, "St. Peter Delivered," by Murillo, a work of art of world-wide reputation. Many of the Protestant churches are elegant, and some of them actually magnificent. The Hebrew Synagogue on Plum street, opposite the Cathedral, and the Hebrew Temple, at the corner of Eighth and Mound streets, both handsome edifices, one in Moorish and the other in Gothic style, have each of them brilliant interiors. Among the educational institutions of Cincinnati are the University of Cincinnati, having in connection with it a School of Design and a Law School, St. Xavier's College (Jesuit); Wesleyan Female College; Seminary of Mount St. Mary's, a famous Roman Catholic College; Lane Theological Seminary, of which Dr. Lyman Beecher was once president, and where Henry Ward Beecher once studied theology for three years; several medical colleges, and scientific, classical and mechanical institutes. A number of parks surround the city, furnishing fine pleasure grounds, and containing magnificent views of the river and its shores. More than a third of the residents of Cincinnati are of German birth or descent. Besides being scattered all through the city, they also occupy a quarter exclusively their own, on the north of the Miami Canal, which they have named "the Rhine." "Over the Rhine," one seems to have left America entirely, and to have entered, as by magic, the Fatherland. The German tongue is the only one spoken, and all signs and placards are in German. There are German schools, churches and places of amusement. The beer gardens will especially recall Germany to the mind of the tourist. The Grand Arbeiter and Turner Halls are distinctive features of this quarter of the city, and specially worthy of a visit. The Jews also constitute a proportion of the inhabitants, respectable both as to numbers and character; and, what is worthy of remark, there is an unwonted harmony between Christians and Hebrews, so that an exchange of pulpits between them has been among the actual facts of the past. Dr. Max Lilienthal, one of the most eloquent and learned rabbis of the country, presides over one of the Jewish congregations, and has preached to Christian audiences; and Mr. Mayo, the Unitarian clergyman, has spoken by invitation in the synagogues. The Jews of the city are noted for their intelligence, public spirit and liberality, and are represented in the municipal government, and on the boards of public and charitable institutions. Quite as worthy of note is the fact that the Young Men's Christian Association of Cincinnati is not influenced by that spirit of narrow bigotry which in certain other cities of the Union excludes Unitarians from fellowship. The venerable Archbishop Purcell, who for half a century had been at the head of the Roman Catholic Church in this diocese, was a man of genial manners, sincerely beloved by all. But the closing days of his life were sadly clouded by a gigantic financial failure, amounting to several millions of dollars, with which he was connected. As heavily as the blow has fallen upon many of his flock, the only blame they impute to the dead prelate is that of most faulty judgment and general incapacity in financial affairs. The most singular part of it all was that the difficulties should have remained so long undiscovered, until such an immense amount of property was involved. Cincinnati's commerce is very extended, and so are her manufacturing interests. Steamboats from all points on the Mississippi and the Ohio lay up at her levee, which extends five or six miles around the bank of the river in front of the city. The traveler may take his ticket for St. Paul, New Orleans, Pittsburg, high up the Red River, or any intervening point. The staple article of trade is pork, though she exports wine, flour, iron, machinery, whisky, paper and books. In addition to the water ways, a large number of railways, connecting the city with every section of the country, centres here. The stock yards of Cincinnati are on an extended scale, though not equaling those of Chicago. The Union Railroad's Stock Yards, comprising fifty acres on Spring Grove avenue, have accommodations for 25,000 hogs, 10,000 sheep, and 5,000 cattle. In the pork packing establishments, thousands of hogs from the farms of Ohio, Indiana, and Kentucky, are slaughtered daily. In a single establishment fifty men will slaughter and dispose of 1,500 hogs a day. Each man has his own special line of work, the labor being divided among pen-men, knockers-down, stickers, scalders, bristle-snatchers, scrapers, shavers, hangers or "gamble-men," gutters, hose-boys, slide-boys, splitters, cutters with their attendants, weighers, cleavers, knife-men, ham-trimmers, shoulder-trimmers, packers, salters, weighers and branders, lard-men, bookkeepers, porters and laborers, of whom fifty will unitedly dispose of a hog once in every twenty seconds. The old saying is that it takes nine tailors to make a man, but it takes fifty men, belonging to all the professions named above, to make one complete butcher. The work is accomplished so rapidly that the creature has no time to realize what has happened to him, before the different portions of his dissected body are slipping down wooden pipes, each to its appropriate apartment below, to be finally disposed of. Nowhere east of the Rocky Mountains are grapes cultivated to such an extent, and such quantities of wine manufactured, as on the southern slopes of the hills which hem in the city of Cincinnati. This business is mostly engaged in by Germans, who make excellent wine, which has acquired a world-wide celebrity. But the grape-rot, which has especially affected the Catawbas, from which the best wine is produced, has of late years rather checked the industry. Some of the wine cellars of Cincinnati are famous, not only for the quantity of native wine which they contain, but for its quality as well. Looking across the river, which at low water is, perhaps, a third of a mile wide, to the Kentucky side, one sees, on the right bank of the Licking River, the city of Covington, a mass of black factories and tall chimneys, from which dense smoke is always ascending, and spreading out over the valley. On the left or opposite bank of the Licking is Newport, the two towns connected by a suspension bridge. Covington is also connected with Cincinnati by a suspension bridge, 1,057 feet long from tower to tower, its entire length 2,252 feet, and elevated by two iron cables above the river, at low water, one hundred feet. Its weight is 600 tons, but it is estimated that it will sustain a weight of 16,000 tons, and is one of the finest structures of its kind in the world. This bridge was nine years in construction, and cost nearly two millions of dollars. There are also two pier railroad bridges across the Ohio at Cincinnati. Along the summit of the steep levee, close to the line of stores, there is a row of massive posts, three feet thick and twenty feet high, and forty or fifty feet above the usual low water mark. The stranger will be puzzled to imagine their use. But let him visit the city during the spring freshet, and he will speedily discover their purpose. The swelling of the river at that period brings the steamboats face to face with the warehouses on the levee, and they are secured to these huge posts by means of strong cables, to prevent them being swept down the stream by the mighty rush of waters. The usual difference between the high and low water mark of the Ohio River at Cincinnati is about forty feet, though a flood has been known to mark a much higher figure than that. When this occurs, which it does once or twice in a generation, the overflowing water carries desolation to all the lower parts of the city. The ground floors of houses are submerged, cellars filled, merchandise damaged or destroyed. People betake themselves to the upper stories, and make their way about the streets in boats. The latest and most disastrous flood on record was that of 1883, when, on February fifteenth, the river indicated sixty-six feet and four inches above low water mark. Furious rain storms throughout the Ohio Valley had swollen all the streams to an unprecedented height, and caused terrible disaster to all the towns and cities on the shores of the Ohio River. For seven miles along the water front of Cincinnati the water overflowed valuable property, reaching from two to eight blocks into the city, so that the great suspension bridge, entrance to which is from the top of the decline, could not be reached except in boats. A thousand firms were washed out. In Mill Creek Valley are the large manufacturing establishments, which employ over thirty thousand men, women, and children, and these were all cut off by water. Twelve wards in the city, and seven townships in the country, were more or less affected by the flood. The entire population of the flooded city districts is nearly 130,000, and one quarter of these, exclusive of business interests, were sufferers by the flood, their houses being either under water or totally destroyed. The waterworks were stopped, and the city was left in darkness by the submergence of the gasworks. On Tuesday, February thirteenth, although the flood had not yet reached its height, the freight depot of the Cincinnati Southern Railroad was undermined by the bursting of a culvert under it, and fell into the surrounding water, carrying with it, to certain death, several people. More than twenty railroad tracks were submerged, some of them to a depth of twelve feet, so that nearly all communication was cut off. Policemen patrolled the streets in boats. The churches were thrown open to receive the homeless, and nearly every organization in the city, from the Chamber of Commerce to the ladies' sewing societies, entered upon the work of relieving the sufferers. Contributions poured in most liberally from abroad, the Free Masons of Cleveland alone shipping twelve large boats, with a generous supply of stores. Before relief could come to them, many persons suffered severely, from both cold and hunger. They were rescued from their flooded homes by the aid of skiffs, some of them with barely enough clothing to conceal their nakedness. It is estimated that eight square miles of Cincinnati were under water, five of which were in the Mill Creek Valley. Provisions became scarce, and commanded high prices. Newport, on the Kentucky shore, was in even a more deplorable condition than Cincinnati. Supplies became entirely exhausted, and on the night of the fourteenth, fifteen thousand people there were without fuel or provisions. On the sixteenth of February the waters had begun to subside, and gradually regained their normal level, making more apparent, as the flood decreased, the ruin and desolation which had attended it. A vast deposit of mud was left upon the streets, many premises had been undermined by the sucking currents, malaria haunted the wet cellars, the destruction of merchandise was found to be very heavy indeed, while thousands of men were compelled to remain out of employment until the factories and mills could be put in working condition. The great flood of 1883 will long be remembered by the citizens of Cincinnati. The breaking up of the ice in the river, in the spring, is also a time of great peril to property. There is usually more or less rise in the river at that period, with a swifter current, and the floating blocks sometimes drag boats away from their moorings, and crush them to either partial or utter destruction. The Ohio River, known to the French as _La Belle Riviere_, so called because of its high and picturesque banks, is, like the Mississippi, a capricious stream, and neither life nor property is always safe upon its bosom or along its shores. The pride of Cincinnati is Spring Grove Cemetery, five miles northwest of the city, which is one of the most beautiful in the West. It is in the valley of Mill Creek, and is approached by a handsome avenue, one hundred feet wide. It contains six hundred acres, well wooded, and so laid out as to present the appearance of a park. The boundaries of the lots are indicated by sunken stone posts at each corner, there being neither railing, fence, nor hedge within the cemetery, to define these lots. The graves are leveled off, even with the ground, and the monuments are remarkable, for their variety and good taste. The Dexter mausoleum, which represents a Gothic chapel, will attract special attention; while one of the principal objects in the cemetery is the bronze statue of a soldier, cast in Munich, and erected in 1864, to the memory of the Ohio volunteer soldiers who died during the War. In spite of many changes for the better since the war, Cincinnati still retains her distinctive character. She has taken long strides in the direction of intellectual development, and has now numerous and extensive public libraries, of which any city might be proud. The theatres and other places of amusement, which, not long since, were represented by shaky buildings, third-rate talent and a general dearth of attractions, and patronized more largely by the river men than by any other single class, have risen to take rank among the best in the country. But she is still a city noted for her wealth; for her solid business enterprises and scrupulous honesty, rather than for that spirit of speculation in which, in other cities, fortunes are quickly made, and even more quickly lost. Her prosperity has a solid foundation in her factories, her foundries, her mills and engine shops. A man, to be successful in Cincinnati, must know how to _make_ and to _do_, as well as how to buy and sell. Men have risen from the humblest ranks by dint of industry and energy alone, while they were yet young, to be the masters of princely fortunes. Even a newspaper publisher in that city, a few years since, estimated his property at five millions of dollars, an instance which, probably, has not a parallel in the civilized world. Nicholas Longworth died worth twelve millions of dollars, and her living millionaires are to be counted by hundreds. Cincinnati stands in the front rank of the manufacturing cities of America, and the secret of her financial success is that she has made what the people of Ohio and other States needed and were sure to buy. Receiving their products in return, and turning these to account, her merchants have made a double profit. As long as the Ohio River sweeps by the city's front, and as long as the smoke of her factories and her foundries ascends to heaven and obscures the fair face thereof, and corn, transformed into pork, is sent away in such quantities to the Eastern cities and to Europe; so long as the cotton of the South, the hay of the blue grass region, and the grain of the North and West, find a market on her shores, her prosperity is secure; and the Queen City of the West, as she proudly styles herself, will go on increasing in population and in prosperity. CHAPTER VIII. CLEVELAND. The "Western Reserve."--Character of Early Settlers.-- Fairport.--Richmond.--Early History of Cleveland.--Indians.-- Opening of Ohio and Portsmouth Canal.--Commerce in 1845.-- Cleveland in 1850--First Railroad.--Manufacturing Interests.-- Cuyahoga "Flats" at Night.--The "Forest City."--Streets and Avenues.--Monumental Park.--Public Buildings and Churches.-- Union Depot.--Water Rents.--Educational Institutions.--Rocky River.--Approach to the City.--Freshet of 1883.--Funeral of President Garfield.--Lake Side Cemetery.--Site of the Garfield Monument. In early colonial times, out of utter ignorance of the boundless territory extending westward, the first American Colonies were chartered by the Kings of England with permission to extend westward indefinitely. After the close of the Revolutionary War, while negotiations were in progress in regard to the final treaty of peace with the United States, which was ultimately signed at Paris on November thirtieth, 1782, Mr. Oswald, the British Commissioner, proposed the Ohio River as the western boundary of the young nation, and had it not been for the firmness and persistence of John Adams, one of the American Commissioners, who insisted upon the right of the United Colonies to the territory as far westward as the Mississippi, it is probable that the rich section of country between these two rivers would still have formed a portion of the British dominions, or have been the source of subsequent contention and expense. When the Colonies had become independent States, many of them claimed the right of soil and jurisdiction over large portions of western unappropriated land originally embraced in their charters. Congress urged upon these States to cede these lands to the general government, for the benefit of all. They all yielded to this request, except Connecticut, who retained a small tract of land in the northeastern portion of the present State of Ohio, which was subsequently divided up five counties in length along the lake, with an average width of two counties. The lower boundary of this tract of land was 40° 22´ north latitude, and it extended from the Pennsylvania line on the east, one hundred and twenty miles westward, to a line running north and south, a little west of the present location of Sandusky City. This tract of land was called the "Western Reserve of Connecticut." In 1801 Connecticut ceded all her jurisdictional claims over the territory, but it continues to be known, to this day, as the "Connecticut Reserve," the "Western Reserve," or simply as the "Reserve." This "Western Reserve" is like a little piece of New England in a mosaic, representing many sections and many peoples. It is a peculiarity of the Anglo-Saxon race, that in emigrating it usually moves along parallels of latitude, and rarely diverges much either northward or southward. We find to the eastward of Ohio, Connecticut, and Rhode Island, New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania, Maryland, Delaware and Virginia, and all of these States have contributed to her population. Thus, below the Reserve, the people are largely from Pennsylvania; still further south, from Maryland and Virginia; and the lower section of the State is allied more by kindred and sympathy with the South than with the North. But on the Western Reserve, the cosmopolitan character of the inhabitants is at once lost. It is New England in descent and ideas. The little white meeting house, and the little red school house not far off, both as bare and homely as a stern Puritan race could conceive of, were everywhere met in the early days of its settlement, after the log cabin epoch had passed away. Massachusetts, Connecticut and Vermont furnished the principal immigrants, and they built their neat and thrifty little New England towns over again, and maintained their New England sturdiness and simplicity. The inhabitants of the Reserve have been, and are still, noted for their thrift, their intelligence and their superior culture. That section has furnished many distinguished public men, and one President, to the country. It was, in the old slavery days, spoken of contemptuously as "the hotbed of abolitionism," and gave both Giddings and Wade to fight the battle against Southern dominion in the United States Congress. Here Garfield was born, and here he is buried. Howells, the novelist, was a native of the Reserve, and passed his life until early manhood in its northeasternmost county. The northern shores of the Reserve are washed by Lake Erie, one of the shallowest, most treacherous and least picturesque of the chain of lakes which form our northern boundary. It embraces the "Great Divide" between the north and the south, its waters flowing to the sea by both the St. Lawrence and the Mississippi. Summit and Portage counties, by their names, indicate the locality of this Divide. Very early in the present century, the sturdy New England pioneers, looking for a suitable harbor upon the lake, discovered the mouth of Grand River, about thirty-five miles northeast of the Cuyahoga River; and in 1803, two miles up this river, the first warehouse on the lake was built. In 1812 the town of Fairport, at the mouth of this river, was laid out, and was destined by its founders to be the future great lake city of Ohio. It had one of the best harbors on the lake, if not the best, well defended from storms, and easy of access, so that vessels entered it without difficulty when they could not make other ports. The water was deep enough for any large craft, and in the course of time the government expended a considerable sum of money in improving the harbor. A line of boats was speedily established between Fairport and Buffalo, which in those railroadless days were liberally patronized. Nearly all the lake steamers bound for other ports stopped there, and its business constantly increased. A lighthouse was built, and its future prosperity seemed assured. During the great period of land speculation, between 1830 and 1840, the town of Richmond was laid out on the opposite bank of the Grand River, by wealthy eastern capitalists, who established their homes there, and transported to the infant city the wealth, magnificence and luxurious social customs of the east. During their brief reign, they gave entertainments such as were not equaled in that section of the country for many long years afterwards. A large village was built and a steamboat was owned there. Meantime, a little town had been growing up on the banks of the Cuyahoga. The first permanent settlement had been made as early as 1796, and named Cleveland, in honor of General Moses Cleveland, of Canterbury, Connecticut. At that period the nearest white settlement was Conneaut, on the east, and another at the mouth of the River Raisin, to the west. Immigration at that period did not march steadily westward, each new settlement being in close proximity to an older one, but it took sudden jumps over wide extents of territory, so that for many years isolated families or small neighborhoods were far apart. Each little settlement had to be sufficient unto itself, since, to reach any other involved a long, difficult and often dangerous journey. Up to nearly 1800 each house in Cleveland had its own hand grist-mill standing in the chimney-corner, in which the flour or meal for the family consumption was slowly and laboriously ground each day. In the spring of 1799 Wheeler W. Williams and Major Wyatt erected the first grist and saw mill on the Reserve, at Newburg, a few miles above the mouth of the Cuyahoga. The first ball ever given in Cleveland was on the Fourth of July, 1801, in a log cabin, the company numbering thirty, of both sexes. The first militia muster was held at Doane's Corners, on the sixteenth of June, 1806. The spot is now incorporated in the city of Cleveland. Never before had been so many whites collected together in this region as on this occasion, which was one of general excitement. The militia consisted of about fifty privates, with the usual complement of officers, but a surveying party and a number of strangers were present and added to the spectators. In the beginning of the century the Indians were in the habit of meeting every autumn, at Cleveland, piling their canoes up at the mouth of the Cuyahoga, and scattering into the interior of the country, which constituted their great winter hunting ground. In the spring they returned, disposed of their furs, and entering their canoes, departed up the lake for their villages, in the region of Sandusky and Maumee, where they raised their crops of corn and potatoes. Many local names are of Indian origin; Cuyahoga means "crooked river." Geauga, the name of an adjoining county, signifies "raccoon." Their encampment on going and returning was usually on the west bank of the river, and in their drinking bouts, in which they occasionally indulged, they were sometimes quarrelsome and dangerous, but do not seem, on the whole, to have given the settlers much trouble. On the twenty-sixth of June, 1812, an Indian named McMic was hanged for murder, on the public square of Cleveland. There were fears that the Indians would rally to his rescue, and a large number of citizens from Cuyahoga and adjoining counties, armed themselves and attended the execution, prepared for any outbreak. The Indians remained peaceable, but the prisoner, at the last moment, refused to ascend the scaffold. Finally, his scruples were overcome by a pint of whisky, which he swallowed with satisfaction before yielding to the inevitable. In 1813 Cleveland became a depot for supplies and troops during the war, and a permanent garrison was established here, a small stockade having been erected on the lake bank, at the foot of Ontario street. The return of peace was celebrated in true American style. The cannon which was fired in honor of the occasion was supplied with powder by one Uncle Abram, who carried an open pail of the explosive material on his arm. Another citizen bore a lighted stick with which to touch off the gun. In the excitement, the latter swung his stick in the air; a spark fell into Uncle Abram's powder, and that worthy, whether from astonishment or some other cause, suddenly sprang twenty feet into the air, his ascent being accompanied by a deafening report. When he came down again, his clothing was singed off, and he vociferously protested that he was dead. But the multitude refused to take his word for it, and it was not a great while before he had completely recovered from the accident. The Ohio Canal, which connects Lake Erie at this point with the Ohio River at Portsmouth, was completed in 1834, and from that date her prosperity seems to have been established. She was incorporated a city in 1836. About this time the great western land bubble burst, and with it the hopes of Fairport and Richmond. The latter city speedily disappeared from the face of the earth, and its name from the map. Its houses were taken up bodily and removed to adjacent towns. Boats still continued to stop at Fairport, but they began to stop more frequently at Cleveland, and while the business of the former point was at a standstill, that of the latter continued to increase. In 1840 its population was over 6,000, and its supremacy fairly established. In 1850 Fairport was still a little hamlet, the boats passing her far out in the lake without giving her so much as a nod of recognition; while the wharves of Cleveland were lined with shipping, and her population did not fall far short of 20,000. Besides the Cleveland and Portsmouth Canal, which opened up a line of traffic with the south and southwest, communication was also had with the East, by means of canal to Pittsburg and to New York, and the lakes were a highway, not only to the East but to the North and West. Cleveland became the great mart of the grain-growing country. Its harbor was extended and improved by the erection of piers each side of the mouth of the river, two hundred feet apart, and extending out several hundred feet into the lake, furnishing effective break-waters, and ample room for the loading and unloading of vessels. A lighthouse was erected at the end of each pier, and one already stood upon the cliff. In 1845 the number of vessels which arrived by lake was 2,136; and of these 927 were steamers. The tonnage then owned at that port amounted to 13,493, and the number of vessels of all kinds eighty-five. The total value of exports and imports by the lake for that year was over $9,000,000. Cleveland occupied a small region on the cliff at the mouth of the Cuyahoga. Ontario street was filled with boarding-houses and private residences. Euclid avenue and Prospect street extended for a few squares, and were then lost in the country. The flats through which the river wound its devious way were occupied as pastures for the cows of persons living in the heart of the city. The business portion of the town was contained, for the most part, in the two squares on Superior street, west of Ontario. Ohio City was a separate corporation, a straggling, dilapidated town, looking like a country village, on the western bank of the Cuyahoga, connected with Cleveland by means of drawbridges. In the fall of 1852 the first whistle of the locomotive was heard down by the river side, in the city of Cleveland. It started the city into new life, and woke all the farmers within the sound of its hoarse screech into renewed energy. That fall and winter there was a butter famine in all that region. The market being opened to New York, butter went suddenly up from eight and ten cents a pound, to twelve, sixteen, and then to twenty cents. Buyers could afford to pay no such fancy price for an article which might be dispensed with; and producers were equally unwilling to put upon their own tables anything which would yield them such a handsome profit on selling. And so many families, not only of mechanics, but of farmers as well, went without butter that winter; the latter happy in receiving, first twenty, then twenty-two, and finally twenty-five cents per pound for the products of their dairies. This first railroad gave the city a fresh start, and presently others found their terminus here. Population and business have both steadily increased since then, until in 1880 the former was 160,142, and its commerce immense, especially with Canada and the mining regions of Lake Superior. Since 1860 the city has rapidly developed in the direction of manufacturing industries. The headquarters of the giant monopoly, known as the Standard Oil Company, Cleveland is the first city of the world in the production of refined petroleum. The old pasture grounds of the cows of 1850 are now completely occupied by oil refineries and manufacturing establishments; and the river, which but a generation ago flowed peaceful and placid through green fields, is now almost choked with barges, tugs and immense rafts. Looking down upon the Cuyahoga Flats, from the heights of what was once Ohio City, but is now known as the West Side of Cleveland itself, the view, though far from beautiful, is a very interesting one. There are copper smelting, iron rolling, and iron manufacturing works, lumber yards, paper mills, breweries, flour mills, nail works, pork-packing establishments, and the multitudinous industries of a great manufacturing city, which depends upon these industries largely for its prosperity. The scene at night, from this same elevated position, is picturesque in the extreme. The whole valley shows a black background, lit up with a thousand points of light from factories, foundries and steamboats, which are multiplied into two thousand as they are reflected in the waters of the Cuyahoga, which looks like a silver ribbon flowing through the blackness. Cleveland is acknowledged to be the most beautiful city of the many which are found upon the shores of the great lakes. It stands on a high bluff overlooking Lake Erie. It is laid out, for the most part, with parallel streets, crossed by others at right angles; and even in the heart of the city nearly every house has its little side and front yard filled with shrubbery and shaded by trees, a large majority of the latter being elms. The great number of these trees fairly entitle Cleveland to be known as the "Forest City." The streets are very wide, and the principal ones are paved. The main business thoroughfare and fashionable promenade is Superior street, which is one hundred and thirty-two feet wide, and lined with handsome hotels and retail stores. From the foot of this street, and on a level with it, was completed, in 1878, a great stone viaduct, connecting the East Side with the West Side, reaching the latter at the junction of Pearl and Detroit streets. This roadway is 3,211 feet long, and cost $2,200,000. Some years before a bridge had been constructed in the same locality, at a sufficient elevation to permit the passage under it of various craft; but even at this height there was quite a descent to reach it, and an equal ascent on leaving it on the other side. The drawbridge near the mouth of the river was totally inadequate to meet the needs of business, and was often open for long periods of time while vessels were passing through. Ontario, Bank, Water, Mervin and River streets and Euclid avenue are other important business streets on the East Side. Detroit, Pearl and Lorain are the principal thoroughfares on the West Side. Monument Park is a square ten acres in extent, in the centre of the city, crossed by Superior and Ontario streets. It is divided by these streets into four sections and is shaded by fine trees. In the southeast section stands a monument to Commodore Perry, the hero of the battle of Lake Erie, erected in 1860, at a cost of $8,000. It contains a colossal statue of the Commodore, in Italian marble, standing on a pedestal of Rhode Island granite, the entire monument being about twenty feet in height. In front of the pedestal is a marble medallion, representing Perry in a small boat passing from the Lawrence to the Niagara, in the heat of battle. In the southwest corner of the Park is a pool and cascade, and in the northwest a handsome fountain. In this park was erected the large catafalque under which the casket containing the remains of the late President Garfield was laid in state until and during the grand public funeral, after which it was taken to the cemetery. This park is surrounded by very handsome churches and public buildings, among which latter are the Custom House, Post Office, Federal Courts, County Court House and City Hall, all magnificent edifices. Case Hall, near the park, contains a concert hall capable of seating fifteen hundred persons, a library, reading room, and the rooms of the Cleveland Library Association. The Opera House, a new and handsome building, is on Euclid avenue. There are, besides, an Academy of Music and the Globe Theatre and several minor theatres. [Illustration: PUBLIC SQUARE AND PERRY MONUMENT, CLEVELAND, OHIO.] The business portion of Euclid avenue extends from the Park to Erie street, beyond which it is lined with handsome residences, elegant cottages and superb villas, the grounds around each being more and more extensive as it approaches the country. It is one of the finest avenues in the world, and is not less than ten miles in length, embracing during its course several suburbs which a generation since were remote from the city, and are now considerably surprised to find themselves brought so near it. Euclid avenue crosses the other streets diagonally, and was evidently one of the original roads leading into the city before it attained its present dimensions. The majority of the streets are parallel with the lake front, which pursues a course from the northeast to the southwest. But Euclid avenue runs directly eastward for about three miles, to Doane's Corners, one of the historic spots in the neighborhood of Cleveland, and then turns to the northeast, following nearly parallel to the course of the lake. Prospect street runs parallel to Euclid avenue, and is only second to it in the beauty and elegance of its residences. St. Clair street is also a favorite suburban avenue, extending parallel to the lake, a little distance from it, far out into the country, and containing many handsome residences. Newburg, once three miles from the city, and the site of the first saw and grist mill on the Reserve, is now included as a suburb of Cleveland, and contains extensive iron manufactories. The Union Depot, erected in 1866, is one of the finest and largest in the country. It is built on the shore of the lake, below the bluff, and near the mouth of the Cuyahoga. Streets more or less steeply graded furnish access to it for carriages and vehicles of all descriptions, while a long flight of massive stone steps conduct the pedestrian directly to the summit of the cliff, where horse-cars, leading by various routes to all quarters of the city, are waiting for him. All the railroads leading out of the city centre here. In the keystone over the main entrance of the depot is a bas relief portrait of Mr. Amasa Stone, under whose supervision it was built. Similar portraits of Grant and Lincoln are found upon keystones at either end of the building. The waterworks stand near the lake, west of the river, and by means of a tunnel extending some six thousand feet out under the lake, pure water, forced by two powerful engines into a large reservoir upon the cliff, is supplied to the entire city. This reservoir is a popular resort for pleasure seekers, and furnishes a fine view of the city, lake and surrounding country. Cleveland enjoys superior educational facilities. Her schools are not excelled by any in the country, and she has, besides, several large libraries. The Western Reserve College, until recently located at Hudson, a small village about twenty miles to the southeast, has been, within the last few years, removed to this city. The Medical College, a branch of the Western Reserve College, founded in 1843, occupies an imposing building at the corner of Erie and St. Clair streets. Near this college, on the shore of the lake, stands the extensive United States Marine Hospital, surrounded by grounds nine acres in extent, beautifully laid out and well kept. There are a number of parks and gardens in the suburbs of Cleveland, one of the most extensive having been a donation to the city by Mr. Wade, one of her millionaires. The favorite drive, however, next to the avenue, is across the Cuyahoga and seven miles westward to Rocky River, which flows into the lake through a narrow gorge between perpendicular cliffs which project themselves boldly into the lake. Here a park has been laid out, and all that art can do has been done to add to the natural beauties of the place. From this point a distant view of the city may be obtained, its spires pointing to the sky out of a billow of green. To the west is Black River Point, with its rocky promontories, and on the north stretches out an unbroken expanse of water, with here and there the long black trail of a steamer floating in the air, its wake like a white line upon the water; or white specks of sails dotting the horizon. The coast between Cleveland and Rocky River is high and precipitous, the emerging streams rushing into the lake by means of rapids and waterfalls. On this inhospitable coast, which affords no landing for even a small boat, more than one frail bark came to grief in the early days of the white man's possession of the land, and nearly all its living freight found a watery grave. In 1806 a man by the name of Hunter, his wife and child, a colored man named Ben, and a small colored boy, were driven by a squall upon these rocks. They climbed up as far as possible, the surge constantly beating over them, and finally they died, one after the other, from exposure and hunger, and after five days only the man Ben was rescued alive. A similar occurrence transpired the following spring. Of the eighteen deaths which took place at Cleveland during the first twelve years after its settlement, eleven were caused by drowning. Twenty or thirty years ago nothing more desolate or devoid of beauty can be imagined than was the lake and river approach to Cleveland. The cars ran along the foot of the cliff, while the space between the tracks and the table land upon which the city is built was given up to rubbish and neglect. Little huts, the size of organ boxes, were perched here and there, swarming with dirty, half-clad children and untidy women, and festooned with clothes-lines, from which dangled a motley array of garments. Blackness, dirt and decay were visible everywhere; and the vestibule of the most beautiful city in America presented to the visitor the opposite extreme of repulsiveness. But now all this is changed; one enters the Forest City through a continuous park. Coming from the east, the waves of the beautiful inland sea almost wash the tracks. On the left the steep slope is covered by green grass, shrubbery and trees, the line broken here and there, perhaps, by private grounds no less beautiful, while the United States Marine Hospital crowns the cliff, at Erie street, with its ample and well-kept grounds. Reaching the depot the traveler at once ascends the cliff, and avoids the necessary ugliness of the immense railroad yard, with its gridiron of tracks. Even the river, once so unsightly, presents to view the ceaseless movements of multifarious business, all of which indicate the prosperity and thriving industry of the city. It is a peculiarity of western cities that they give so much thought and spend so much money in public improvements, and especially those which are merely decorative. Cleveland is in no wise behind the rest. No city in the east, though many of them boast extensive and expensive public parks, bestows so much thought, labor and money, to make her general appearance beautiful and attractive to the stranger. If first impressions count for much, as it is said they do, then Cleveland has proved herself wise. She possesses many natural advantages of position. She is not in a slough, like Chicago, being built on a gravelly plain about one hundred feet above the lake. Nor is she subject to inundation, like Cincinnati, most of her business sites and residences being far above the water. The Cuyahoga River sometimes, however, does damage to the manufacturing establishments along its shores. In February, 1883, a freshet occurred, which raised the river ten feet above its ordinary level, and flooded all its valley. Enormous quantities of lumber and shingles were washed from the lumber yards. The Valley Railroad was several feet under water; paper mills, furnaces and other property submerged nearly to the top of the first story. The Infirmary Farm, further up the river, was under water, and the damage of the flood was estimated at not less than a million dollars. The water was higher than at any period since 1859, when a similar disaster occurred. All eyes were turned towards Cleveland, when, in September, 1881, a mournful cortege proceeded thither, accompanying the remains of the murdered Chief Magistrate. A mighty concourse of people assembled in the park to assist at the last sad rites, and then the funeral procession passed out the beautiful Euclid avenue to Lake View Cemetery, where the casket was deposited in a vault prepared for it, and was guarded by soldiers night and day; and there, on a spot overlooking the lake, and surrounded by a lovely country, varied by hill and dale, cultivated farms and elegant suburban residences, all that is mortal of James Abram Garfield has found its last resting-place, while his memory lives in fifty millions of hearts, and his fame is immortal. The youngest son of his mother, and she a widow, reared in poverty and obscurity, by dint of his unswerving integrity and overmastering intellect, he rose to occupy the highest position which man can accord to his fellow man, that of being the chosen head of a free, intelligent and powerful people. Cut off as he was, in the prime of his life, a nation mourned her dead, and Lake View Cemetery is to-day a spot of national interest. It is five miles from the city, contains three hundred acres, and lies two hundred and fifty feet above the level of the lake. It commands extensive views, and though opened as late as 1870, is already very beautiful. It was here that Garfield expressed his desire to be buried. Here, on a knoll commanding one of the finest views the cemetery affords, his tomb will be eventually constructed, and a monument reared to him, as a mark of the nation's appreciation of his character and sorrow at his untimely death. [Illustration: EUCLID AVENUE, CLEVELAND, OHIO.] CHAPTER IX. CHICAGO. Topographical Situation of Chicago.--Meaning of the Name.--Early History.--Massacre at Fort Dearborn.--Last of the Red Men.--The Great Land Bubble.--Rapid Increase in Population and Business.-- The Canal.--First Railroad.--Status of the City in 1871.--The Great Fire.--Its Origin, Progress and Extent.--Heartrending Scenes.--Estimated Total Loss.--Help from all Quarters.-- Work of Reconstruction.--Second Fire.--Its Public Buildings, Educational and Charitable Institutions, Streets and Parks.--Its Waterworks.--Its Stock Yards.--Its Suburbs.--Future of the City. "See two things in the United States, if nothing else--see Niagara and Chicago," said Richard Cobden, the English statesman, to Goldwin Smith, on the eve of the departure of the latter to America. And truly, if one would obtain a proper sense of America's wonders and achievements, then Niagara and Chicago may be accepted as respectively the highest types of each. Niagara remains the same yesterday, to-day and forever. But if it were a desirable thing to see Chicago at the time of the visit referred to, how much more so is it to-day, when, Phoenix-like, she has arisen from her own ashes, turning that which seemed an overwhelming disaster into positive blessing; drawing her fire-singed robes proudly about her, crowning herself with the diadem of her own matchless achievements, and sitting beside her inland sea, the queenliest city of them all. Situated upon a flat and relatively low tract of country, Chicago is yet upon one of the highest plane elevations of our continent. Lake Michigan represents the headwaters of the great chain of American lakes, through which, in connection with the St. Lawrence, much of the rainfall of that city finds its way to the Atlantic; while through the canal to the Illinois River, its sewage is borne to the Gulf of Mexico. Perhaps no more hopeless site could have been selected for a city than that seemed half a century ago. A bayou or arm of the lake penetrated the land for half a mile or more, but a sand-bar across its mouth prevented the ingress of all but the smallest craft. This bayou, called by courtesy the Chicago River, separated into two branches, the course of one of which was in a northerly direction, and of the other in a southerly one. The land was barely on a level with the lake, and at portions of the year was a vast morass, some parts of it being entirely under water. Teams struggled helplessly through the black ooze of its prairies, and a carriage would sink three or four feet in mud and mire within two miles of where the court house now stands. Sometimes in this slough a board would be set up, with a rude inscription: "No bottom here." But American enterprise has found a bottom and reared a city, the history of whose seemingly magical building almost rivals the tales of the Arabian Nights. Chicago is an Indian word, signifying the widely-varying titles of a king or deity, and a skunk or wild onion. In its early history, while drainage it had none, and its water supply was mere surface water, foul with all the accumulated impurities of the soil, and while from the lagoon, which lay stagnant for twelve or fifteen miles, a horrible, sickening stench constantly arose, the latter appellations seemed singularly appropriate, and no doubt originated in these conditions. But since the city has been purified by fire, and its sanitary conditions made such as they should be, it has earned its right to the nobler titles. The first white visitors to the site of Chicago were Joliet and Marquette, who arrived in August, 1673. The year following his first visit Pere Marquette returned and erected a rude church. Later the French seem to have built a fort on the spot, but no traces of it now remain. Very early in the nineteenth century John Kinzie, an Indian trader, and agent of the American Fur Company, having traded with the Indians at this point for some time, probably influenced the government to build a fort here. Accordingly, in 1804, Fort Dearborn was built and garrisoned with about fifty men and three pieces of artillery. Mr. Kinzie removed his family to the place the same year. In 1812, Fort Dearborn was the scene of a bloody Indian massacre. Captain Hull, then in command of the fort, having placed too great confidence in the professions of fidelity of the Pottawatomie tribe, and trusting to an escort of that tribe to convey the soldiers and inhabitants of the fort to Fort Wayne, saw his entire party either killed or taken prisoners, and found himself a prisoner. The fort stood at the head of Michigan avenue, below its intersection with Lake street. Abandoned and destroyed at this period, it was rebuilt in 1816, and finally demolished in 1856. For four years the place was deserted by the whites, and even the fur traders did not care to visit it. In 1818 two families had established themselves upon the spot. In 1820 some dozen houses represented the future city, and in 1827 a government agent reported the place as a collection of pens and kennels, inhabited by squatters, "a miserable race of men, hardly equal to the Indians." The population numbered seventy in 1830. In 1832 there were six hundred people in the miserable little town. In September, 1833, the United States purchased of the Indians 20,000,000 acres of land in the northwest, the latter pledging themselves to remove twenty days' journey west of the Mississippi. Seven thousand redskins attended the making of this treaty, which was ratified by the chiefs in a large tent on the bank of the river. A year later four thousand Indians returned to receive an annuity of $30,000 worth of goods. The distribution of these goods was the occasion of, first, a fierce scramble, followed by a bloody fight, in which several Indians were killed and others wounded; the scene closing by a wild debauch, so that on the following morning few of the recipients were any better off for the property which had been given them. Similar scenes, with similar results, were enacted in 1835. But that was the last Chicago saw of the red men. In September, a train of forty wagons, each drawn by four oxen, conveyed away on their far westward march the children and effects of the Pottawatomies, while the squaws and braves walked beside them. It took them twenty days to reach the Mississippi, and twenty days longer it took them to attain a point which can now be reached from Chicago in fifteen hours. [Illustration: BIRD'S-EYE VIEW OF CHICAGO, FROM THE LAKE SIDE.] In 1827, Major Long, a government agent sent to visit the place, spoke of the site as "affording no inducements to the settler, the whole amount of trade on the lake not exceeding the cargoes of five or six schooners, even at the time when the garrison received its supplies from the Mackinac." In 1833 the tide of immigration began. At the end of that year there were fifty families floundering in the Chicago mud. In 1834 there were nearly two thousand inhabitants of the town, and at the close of 1835 more than three thousand. In 1835-6 Chicago became the headquarters of a great land speculation. Multitudes of towns sprang up in every direction, on paper. The country was wild with excitement. Even eastern capitalists were seized with the mania, and fortunes were made and lost in this wild gambling in prospective cities. The bubble shortly burst, resulting in great business depression. The State was bankrupt, and Chicago languished. But not for long. Turning from the frenzy of speculation, its inhabitants wisely gave their attention to developing legitimate business interests. The United States had, in 1833, spent $30,000 in dredging out the Chicago River, and in the spring of 1834 a most timely freshet had swept away the bar at the mouth of the river, making it accessible for the largest craft. In 1838 a venturesome trader shipped from that port seventy-eight bushels of wheat. In 1839 four thousand bushels were sent. In 1842 the amount of wheat exported arose all at once from forty thousand bushels to nearly six hundred thousand bushels. In 1839 three thousand cattle were driven across the prairies, and sent to the eastern market; and every year thereafter showed a surprising increase. Yet with all this accumulating commerce, the streets of the city were still quagmires, and many a farmer came to grief with his load of grain within what is now city limits. Before there was a railroad begun or a canal finished, Chicago exported two and a quarter millions of bushels of grain in a year, and sent back on the wagons which brought it loads of merchandise. The Illinois River is connected with the Chicago River, and through that to Lake Michigan, by a canal which enters it at La Salle, ninety-six miles from Chicago. This canal was begun in 1836 and completed in 1848. It gave a fresh impetus to the youthful western town, and established its future prosperity. Connected as it already was with the east by the magnificent lake and river system of our northern borders, this canal opened up communication with the south and west, and made Chicago the portal, so to speak, between the different sections of our country. In 1849 the first railroad had approached within ten miles of the city. In 1852 direct communication with the east was gained by the completion of the Michigan Central and Michigan Southern railroads, while more than one western railroad was projected, and some of them were in actual progress of construction. To-day, Illinois and its adjoining States are literally gridironed with iron roads, nearly all of which centre at Chicago. In 1857 there were living beside the still stagnant waters of the Chicago River one hundred thousand people. In 1871 Chicago was the fourth city of the country, claiming a population of 334,000 persons. By a _chef d'ouvre_ of engineering, the waters of the river had been turned backward, and made to carry away its sewage to fertilize the shores of the Illinois and the Mississippi. The streets had been drained, hollow places filled up, and their grade had been gradually raised, until it stood twelve feet higher than at first. Some of the buildings were raised at once to the latest established grade, and others remained as they had been built. The consequence was that the plank sidewalks became a series of stairs, adapting themselves to the buildings which they fronted. The principal streets were paved with stone or with the Nicholson pavement. The triple river was spanned by no less than seventeen drawbridges, while two tunnels afforded uninterrupted travel between the opposite sides. Efficient waterworks had been constructed to provide pure water for the use of the city. The total trade for the year previous to the great fire was estimated at $400,000,000. Its grain trade had reached such enormous proportions that seventeen large elevators, with an aggregate capacity of 11,580,000 bushels were required for its accommodation. Eighteen banks were in operation, with an aggregate capital of $10,000,000 and with nearly $17,000,000 of deposits. The city was beginning to give its attention largely to manufactures, and its lumber trade had grown into something almost fabulous. Miles of lumber yards extended along one of the forks of the river, and its harbor was sometimes choked with arriving lumber vessels. In a single day, three or four years before the fire, a favorable wind blew into port no less than two hundred and eighteen vessels loaded with lumber. One hundred passenger and one hundred and twenty freight trains arrived and departed daily; and seventy-five vessels unloaded and loaded at her wharves every twenty-four hours. Chicago _Redivivus_ should bear upon her shield a cow rampant. On the evening of the eighth of October, 1871, Mrs. Scully's cow kicked herself into history, and Chicago into ruin and desolation. Chicago is divided by the river and its branches into three different sections, known as the north, south and west sides. The principal business portion of the city is on the south side, and along the margins of the lake and streams. The "burnt district," which even yet the Chicagoan will outline to the visitor with peculiar pride, was confined almost wholly to the south and north sides. On the evening of October seventh a planing mill had caught fire on the west side, and the conflagration had spread over a territory embracing about twenty acres, destroying a million dollars' worth of property. This fire, terrible as it seemed, probably saved the west side from destruction on that fatal night of the eighth, imposing as it did a broad banner of desolation, when the flames essayed to leap across the river. At about nine o'clock in the evening of Sunday, October eighth, 1871, a cow kicked over a lantern among loose, dry hay, in a stable at or near the corner of Jefferson and DeKoven streets, on the west side. There had been no rain of any consequence for fourteen weeks, and roofs and wooden buildings were as dry as tinder. There was a strong wind blowing from the southwest, and before the engines could reach the spot, half a dozen adjoining buildings were wrapped in flames. The buildings of that quarter were mostly of wood, and there were several lumber yards along the margin of the river. The flames swept through these with resistless fury, and then made a bold and sudden leap across the river into the very heart of the business portion of the south side. Many of the buildings here also were of wood, while the wooden sidewalks, and wooden block pavements, the latter filled with an inflammable composition, seemed constructed especially to aid and hasten the work of the flames. The fire marched steadily toward the north and east, destroying everything in its course. Even fireproof buildings seemed to melt down as it touched them. [Illustration: BURNING OF CHICAGO. THE WORLD'S GREATEST CONFLAGRATION.] The wind increased to a gale, and all night long the fire wrought its terrible will, like a devouring demon; and at sunrise it had already leaped the narrow barrier of the river, and was devastating the northern side, sweeping away block after block of the wooden structures which occupied to a large extent that quarter of the city. The flames seized upon the shipping in the river, and when it left it only blackened hulls remained. The water supply, upon which the city had founded hopes in case of such extremity, failed. The walls of the buildings, weakened by the overpowering heat, had fallen in upon the engines, and hope was quenched in that quarter. The flames spread southward as far as Taylor street, and to the northward they only paused when, at Fullerton avenue, the broad prairie lay before them, and there was nothing more to burn. The track of the fire was nearly five miles in length, running north and south, and averaged a mile in width. It continued from nine o'clock on Sunday night until daybreak Tuesday morning, and then nothing was left of all the business portion of Chicago, save a vast blackened field on which the flames still smouldered, with piles of rubbish, formed by fallen buildings, and here and there portions of walls still standing. Every bank, insurance office, hotel, theatre, railroad depot, law office, newspaper office, most of the churches, all but one of the wholesale stores, and many of the warehouses and retail stores, six elevators, fifty vessels, and sixteen thousand dwellings, including many elegant mansions, besides numberless humble homes, were destroyed; two hundred persons killed, and a hundred thousand people suddenly found themselves homeless and penniless, without food to eat or clothes to wear. The scenes accompanying the fire were terrible and heart-rending. They were a mingling of the horrible and grotesque, the tragic and the ridiculous, such as was probably never witnessed before on so grand a scale, and we trust will never be repeated; and over it all the smoke hung like a pall, stifling and blinding, and the flames cast a baleful glare, which lit up the scene and made it seem like a literal inferno. The fire spread with a rapidity which baffled all attempts to check it. Many made a feeble effort to save their household goods, an effort which was too often futile, while others barely escaped with their lives, clad only in their scant night garments. The streets were filled with a frantic multitude; vehicles of every description, laden with movable property; men, women and children, some of them burdened with their belongings, and others nearly naked, forgetful of all but the terrible danger of the hour, all wild with the insanity born of fear, and all fleeing from the pursuing demon which pressed on behind them, and whose hot breath scorched their garments and singed their hair. Many took refuge in the river or the lake; but the hissing flames stooped down and licked the water, and the poor victims were made to feel the tortures of a double death. Very few of these escaped with their lives. The progress of the flames was so swift that many were overwhelmed by the crumbling walls of their houses or workshops before they had time to escape, and found in them a fiery tomb. Others were suffocated by the smoke. Children were separated from parents, and young and old sought safety wherever they could find it, and a mad panic reigned everywhere. Many saloons were thrown open, and whisky flowed freely, and the turbulent riot of drunkenness was added, to increase the confusion and despair of the dreadful night. Sneak thieves and larger depredators found spoil on every hand. In this terrible calamity each one seemed to throw off his mask, and become what he really was--the brave man, the noble gentleman, the selfish coward, the bully or the thief. A single leaf of a quarto Bible, charred around its edges, was all that was left of the immense stock of the Western News Company. It contained the first chapter of the Lamentations of Jeremiah, which begins with the following words: "How doth the city sit solitary that was full of people! how is she become as a widow! she that was great among the nations, and princess among the provinces, how is she become tributary! She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks: among all her lovers she hath none to comfort her." The amount lost by the insurance companies, American and foreign, by the Chicago fire, was $88,634,133. More than 2,200 acres were swept by the flames in the space of thirty hours. The value of buildings alone consumed was estimated at $75,000,000, while their contents were at least as much more. The total loss probably was not much less than $200,000,000. No sooner had the news of the dreadful calamity gone abroad to the world, than the spirit of generosity prompted efficient aid from all quarters. St. Louis, Milwaukee, Cincinnati, Cleveland, New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Pittsburg, Montreal, cities and towns in the north, south, east and west, sent generous, and some of them princely, donations. Even China forwarded $1,290. By December first the public cash donations had reached $2,508,000. The naked were clothed, the hungry fed, the homeless housed in at least temporary quarters, and Chicago set herself to the task of reconstruction. The smouldering ruins were yet glowing with heat, and the smoke was still ascending here and there, when, on Wednesday morning, the work of regeneration began. Within a month, five or six thousand temporary tenements had been erected. Meantime the foundations for the permanent structures were being laid, on a scale far surpassing those of the past. In a year not a trace of the fire remained. Nearly three years later, on July fourteenth, 1874, another great fire swept over the devoted city, destroying eighteen blocks, or sixty acres, in the heart of the city, and about $4,000,000 worth of property. Over six hundred houses were consumed, but by far the larger number were mere wooden shanties. To-day Chicago counts her great fire as one of her chief blessings. The city is entirely rebuilt, but not with rickety wooden structures, the previous plenitude of which had rendered her so easy a prey to the devouring element. Solid, substantial, handsome, and in many instances magnificent, the stranger can scarcely realize that these blocks of buildings are not the growth of a century, or of a generation even, but have sprung from the ground almost in a night. The new Chicago is surpassingly beautiful and grand. The visitor will walk through squares and squares of streets, each teeming with life and commercial activity, and bearing no trace, save in increased elegance, of the disaster of little more than a decade ago; and is forced to the conclusion that, for courage and enterprise, Chicago has proved herself unsurpassed by any city in the world. Chicago has a water frontage of thirty-eight miles, of which twenty-four are improved, without including the lake front, where an outer harbor is in process of construction. The rivers are now spanned by thirty-five drawbridges, while a tunnel, 1,608 feet long, with a descent of forty-five feet, connects the south and west sides of Washington street, and another tunnel, with a total length of 1,854 feet, connects the north and south sides on the line of La Salle street. State street, on the south side, is the Broadway of Chicago. Randolph street is famous for its magnificent buildings, among which are the city and the county halls. Washington street is one of the fashionable promenades, lined with retail stores, though Dearborn street closely rivals it. The United States Custom House and Post Office, a magnificent structure, costing upward of $5,000,000, occupies the square bounded by Clark, Adams, Jackson and Dearborn streets. The Chamber of Commerce, a spacious and imposing building, with elaborate interior decorations, is at the corner of Washington and La Salle streets, opposite City Hall Square. Its ceiling is frescoed with allegorical pictures representing the trade of the city, the great fire and the rebuilding. The Union Depot, in Van Buren street, at the head of La Salle, is among the finest buildings of the city. The Exposition Building is a vast ornate structure of iron and glass, occupying the lake front, extending from Monroe to Jackson street, and with a front of eight hundred feet on Michigan avenue. The centre of the edifice is surmounted by a dome one hundred and sixty feet high and sixty feet in diameter. Annual expositions of the art and industry of the city are held here every autumn. Among the hotels of Chicago the Palmer House takes the lead. This house was destroyed by the fire, but has been rebuilt with a magnitude and elaborateness far exceeding its former self, and constituting it one of the finest, if not the finest, in the world. It is entirely fireproof, being constructed only of incombustible materials, brick, stone, iron, marble and cement. It has three fronts, on State and Monroe streets and Wabash avenue, and the building and furnishing cost $3,500,000. It is kept on both the American and European plans, and continually accommodates from six hundred to one thousand guests. The Grand Pacific Hotel is but little inferior to the Palmer House. It occupies half the block bounded by Jackson, Clark, Adams and La Salle streets. The Sherman and Tremont Houses are fine hotels and centrally located. There are about three hundred churches in Chicago, including those untouched by fire and those which have been since rebuilt. The great Tabernacle, on Monroe street, where Messrs. Moody and Sankey held their meetings, is used for sacred concerts and other religious gatherings, and will seat ten thousand persons. In literary and educational institutions Chicago holds a foremost place. Its common schools are among the best in the country, with large, handsome, convenient and well-ventilated buildings. The University of Chicago, founded by the late Stephen A. Douglas, occupies a beautiful site overlooking the lake, and boasts the largest telescope in America. It has a Public Library containing 60,000 volumes. The Academy of Sciences lost a valuable collection of 38,000 specimens in the fire, but has erected a new building and is slowly gathering a new museum and library. There are three Theological Seminaries, and three Medical Colleges, three hospitals, and a large number of charitable institutions within the city. The fire department is most efficiently organized, and its annual expenses are scarcely less than $1,000,000. [Illustration: GRAND PACIFIC HOTEL, CHICAGO.] Chicago has the most extensive system of parks and boulevards of any city in the United States. Lincoln Park, lying upon the lake to the northward, contains 310 acres, and served, during the great fire, as a place of refuge for thousands of people driven thither by the raging element. The Lake Shore Drive, the great north side boulevard, extends from Pine street to Lake View, and is one of the finest drives in the world. Humboldt Park, Central Park and Douglas Park extend along the western boundaries of the city, are large, contain lakes, ponds, walks, drives, fountains and statuary, and are connected with each other by wide and elaborately ornamented boulevards. The great South Parks are approached on the north by Drexel and Grant Boulevards. Drexel Boulevard is devoted exclusively to pleasure, all traffic over it being forbidden. The most southerly of the two south parks extends upwards of a mile and a half along the shore of the lake. Union Park is located in the very centre of the residence portion of the west side. Whatever Chicago accomplishes is on so gigantic a scale that strangers almost hold their breath in astonishment. Among the titanic achievements of this youthful giant are the waterworks, which supply pure drinking water to its six hundred thousand population. The water supply is by means of a tunnel sent out under Lake Michigan for a distance of two miles, the water being forced by numerous engines into an immense standpipe, 154 feet high. The works are situated at the foot of Chicago avenue. In tunneling under the lake, excavations went on simultaneously at the land end and two miles out in the lake; and so accurate were the calculations that when the two tunnels met in the centre, they were found to be but seven and one-half inches out of the line, and there was a variation of but three inches in the horizontal measurements. This tunnel, which is made of iron, protected by heavy masonry, is large enough for a canoe to pass through it when it is but partially filled with water, it being nine feet in diameter. The exit at the lake end of the tunnel is protected by a breakwater, and securely anchored to its place by means of heavy stones. Storms never affect it, save sometimes to produce a light tremor; and even large fields of ice, which grate by it with a fearful, crunching noise, have thus far failed to shake its foundations. Chicago ships a considerable portion of her grain in the shape of flour, there being extensive flouring mills in the city. The present annual export of flour is probably not less than 3,000,000 barrels. Chicagoans have also found it possible to pack fifteen or twenty bushels of corn in a single barrel. "The corn crop," remarks Mr. Ruggles, "is condensed and reduced in bulk by feeding it into an animal form, more portable. The hog eats the corn, and Europe eats the hog. Corn thus becomes incarnate, for what is a hog but fifteen or twenty bushels of corn on four legs?" The business of pork-packing has attained enormous proportions in Chicago. It has entirely superseded Cincinnati, the former "Porkopolis," in this branch of trade. Cincinnati, Louisville, St. Louis, Indianapolis and Milwaukee do not together furnish a total number of head slaughtered equal to that of Chicago. The stock yards, just outside the city limits on the southwest, are the largest in the world. They cover hundreds of acres, and constitute what has been styled "The Great Bovine City of the World." This bovine city is regularly laid out in streets and alleys crossing each other at right angles. The principal street is called Broadway, and it is a mile long and seventy-five feet wide. On either side are the cattle pens, and it is divided by a light fence into three paths, so that herds of cattle can pass one another without wrangling, and leave an unobstructed road for the drovers. These yards are connected with all the railroads in the west centering in Chicago. The company have twenty-five miles of track. A cattle train stops along the street of pens; the side of each car is removed, and the living freight pass over a declining bridge into clean, planked inclosures, where food and water is quickly furnished them. A large and comfortable hotel furnishes accommodation for their owners; there is a Cattle Exchange, a spacious and elegant edifice; a bank solely for the cattle-men's use; and a telegraph office, which reports the price of beef, pork and mutton from all parts of the world. The present capacity of the yards is 25,000 head of cattle, 100,000 hogs, 22,000 sheep, and 1,200 horses. A town of five thousand inhabitants has grown up in the immediate vicinity of these stock yards. In some of the yards not less than five hundred beeves are slaughtered daily. Much of this beef is sent in refrigerator cars to the Atlantic cities, while enormous quantities are cooked and packed in cans and sent all over the world. Suburban towns have spread out from Chicago, in every direction, over the prairie. South Chicago, one of the principal of these, is twelve miles to the southward, at the mouth of the Calumet river, and has a large amount of capital invested in iron and steel works. The sloughy morasses which still exist between the parent city and its thrifty offshoots are fast being filled up, and bridged over with pavements, so that the mud, which a generation ago was the chief distinguishing feature of Chicago and its vicinity, but which is now confined to outlying sections, will soon be a thing of the past. Chicago is itself extending rapidly in all directions, and numberless suburban streets are lined with pretty cottages, whose rural surroundings have given to the city its appropriate name of "The Garden City." Taking its past as a criterion, who shall dare to predict the future of Chicago? It has by no means come to a stand-still, but is to-day increasing its population, developing its resources, and extending its commercial enterprises to a degree that is scarcely credible, save as one is faced by actual facts and figures. These miles of streets, filled with the incessant roar of business; these lofty temples, magnificent warehouses and elegant residences; these public institutions of learning; this gigantic commerce, this high degree of civilization; all of which have been attained by older cities after a prolonged struggle with adversity, are here the creations and accumulations of less than two generations. Up the Chicago River, where considerably less than a century ago the Indian paddled his solitary canoe, and John Jacob Astor annually sent his single small schooner to bring provisions to the garrison and to take away his furs, there swarms a fleet of vessels of all descriptions, bringing goods from, and sending them to, every quarter of the world. Where, no later than 1834, a grand wolf hunt was held, and one bear and forty wolf scalps were the trophies of the day, the bears of the Stock Exchange alone rage and howl, and the only wolves are human ones. Chicago is a great and a magnificent city, embodying more perfectly than any other in the world the possibilities of accomplishment of the Anglo-Saxon race, given its best conditions of freedom, independence and intelligence. CHAPTER X. CHEYENNE. Location of Cheyenne.--Founding of the City.--Lawlessness.-- Vigilance Committee.--Woman Suffrage.--Rapid Increase of Population and Business.--A Reaction.--Stock Raising.-- Irrigation.--Mineral Resources.--Present Prospects. Cheyenne is the half-way house, on the Union Pacific Railroad, between the civilization of the East and that of the West. It is situated on Crow Creek, a branch of the South Platte River, just at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. A few miles away to the westward the ascent of the Black Hills begins, the road ascending over the rugged granite hills, and winding in and out of miles of snow sheds. It is five hundred and sixteen miles from Omaha, and has an elevation of more than six thousand feet above the sea, being one thousand more than Denver, and with an atmosphere proportionately rarer and dryer. The city is a child of the Pacific Railroad, being, during the building of that road, its winter terminus. When it was found that Cheyenne was probably to become an important railroad point, there was a grand influx of roughs, of all classes and of both sexes, to the spot. Habitations sprang up as if by magic, and were of the rudest construction, some of them being mere dug-outs in the sand hills. Town lots ran up to fabulous prices. The first city government was organized in August, 1867, and the first newspaper, the _Cheyenne Leader_, published on the nineteenth day of the following month. On the thirtieth of November, 1867, the track layers reached the city limits, and were greeted by music and a grand demonstration on the part of the people. The first passenger train arrived the next day. In the winter of 1868 Cheyenne contained not less than six thousand inhabitants. Lawlessness was the order of the day, and gambling, drinking and shooting were the favorite recreations. Knock-downs and robberies were matters of course, and murders of too frequent occurrence to cause special excitement. During these early days of its history the young city acquired two names, both of which were exceedingly suggestive, not to say appropriate. Its rapid growth fastened upon it the name of "Magic City of the Plains;" the desperate character of its inhabitants, that of "Hell on Wheels." When the city was but six months old, the patience of the order-loving people was tried beyond endurance. A Vigilance Committee was formed, and justice came swift and sure, without the intervening and delaying processes of the law. Its first public demonstration occurred in the following manner. Three men had been arrested on January tenth, 1868, charged with stealing $900, and put under bonds to appear at court. On the morning of the day after their arrest they were found on Eddy street, walking abreast and tied together, with a placard attached to them, bearing the following inscription, in conspicuous lettering: "$900 stole; $500 returned; thieves, F. S. Clair, W. Grier, E. D. Brownville. City authorities, please not interfere until 10 o'clock A. M. Next case goes up a tree. Beware of Vigilance Committee." During that year no less than twelve desperadoes were hung and shot, and five sent to the penitentiary, through the agency of the Vigilance Committee. The condition of affairs was at once materially improved. In 1871 the Territorial Legislature passed a bill giving universal suffrage, without distinction of sex. The ladies at once made use of their newly-acquired political right, with an earnestness and universality entirely unexpected by those who had conferred its exercise upon them. In their capacity as grand jurors, they closed every gambling saloon and brothel in the city, put restrictions upon the liquor traffic, brought criminals to justice who had heretofore defied the law, and, in brief, made a clean sweep of the city, raising its social and moral standard. Women of all classes voted, and, strange to say, even the worst women voted for law and order. Political parties found it necessary to put up men with a good moral record, as well as those politically sound, for the women would not vote for a bad man. All classes recognized the good results of woman suffrage, and all opposition to it was speedily overcome. Cheyenne is now one of the best governed and most orderly cities in the country; and every Governor of the Territory, whatever his political complexion, has given his unqualified testimony in favor of women at the polls. Women not only deposit their ballots unmolested, but are treated with the utmost courtesy, and the polling places are made comfortable, and even elegant, for their reception. It is no uncommon thing for husband and wife to vote opposing tickets, but no divisions or even disturbances in families have resulted, thus far. On the first of July, 1867, there was but one house in Cheyenne, standing on what is now Eddy street, between Sixteenth and Seventeenth streets, built of logs, smoothly plastered outside and in, and owned by Judge J. R. Whitehead. Six months thereafter there were no less than three thousand houses in the city. The first lots were offered for sale in July, 1867, at one hundred and fifty dollars. Thirty days afterward they sold at one thousand dollars each, and in two or three months later for two thousand five hundred and three thousand dollars. Stores were erected with marvelous rapidity, in its early history, a good-sized and comparatively substantial warehouse being put up in forty-eight hours. The business of the first six months was enormous, single houses making sales of from ten thousand to thirty thousand dollars per month. In two months after the Post-Office was established, it averaged twenty-six hundred letters a day. As the railroad progressed westward across the mountains, and finally reached the Pacific, Cheyenne suffered a reaction from its sudden and wonderful prosperity. The road took much of its business with it, and the town fell dead. But the discovery of gold in the Black Hills gave a fresh impetus to its business interests. It is also located in the midst of a great stock-raising region, and is surrounded by ranches of stock-men engaged in raising cattle, horses and sheep for market. The cattle and horses find sustenance the year round in the native grasses, and Cheyenne is the natural centre and trading post of these ranch-men. Each year the business increases, and the shipments from the city become larger. Wool is becoming an important export, being produced in great quantities on the large sheep farms. The railroad has constructed extensive machine and repair shops at Cheyenne, which furnish employment for a large number of workmen. The rickety structures of its early days are fast giving place to substantial brick buildings. There is a fine Court House and Jail, a City Hall, Opera House, and several Public School buildings. In proportion to its population, Cheyenne has now more substantial and handsome business houses than any other western city. Stock raising is the only agricultural pursuit for which Wyoming is adapted. The soil about Cheyenne is barren, and in no way suited for farming purposes. The rainfall during the year is very slight, and it has been found necessary to resort to irrigation. Therefore, ditches run through the streets, supplying water for the gardens throughout the city, and, by means of this irrigation, what was once a desert is becoming green with trees and shrubbery. The mineral resources of Wyoming are very rich. Silver and gold are both found in the ranges of hills and mountains to the north and west. Moss agates, opals, topaz, garnets, amethysts, onyx and jasper have all been found in the immediate neighborhood of Cheyenne, and some of the specimens are exceedingly beautiful. The high elevation of the city gives it a delightful climate. The winters are mild, and the summers free from excessive heat. Cheyenne has a special niche in my memory, since, in making my horseback journey from the Atlantic to the Pacific, in 1876, it was the last place at which I dined before entering the Black Hills and falling into the hands of the treacherous Arrapahoes. The rapid growth which Cheyenne made at the beginning of her existence, and the feverish activity of her business enterprises, have given place long since to a slower but more healthy life and development. Her trade interests are being placed on a firmer foundation, and when the resources of the surrounding country are utilized to the fullest advantage of the city, its prosperity will be assured. CHAPTER XI. DETROIT. Detroit and Her Avenues of Approach.--Competing Lines.--London in Canada.--The Strait and the Ferry.--Music on the Waters.--The Home of the Algonquins.--Teusha-grondie.--Wa-we-aw-to-nong.-- Fort Ponchartrain and the Early French Settlers.--The Red Cross of St. George.--Conspiracy of Pontiac.--Battle of Bloody Run.--The Long Siege.--Detroit's First American Flag.--Old Landmarks.--The Pontiac Tree.--Devastation by Fire.--Site of the Modern City.--New City Hall.--Public Library.--Mexican Antiquities. Four lines of railway leading westward from Niagara, place Buffalo and Detroit _en rapport_ with each other, through their connecting steel rails, and compete for the patronage of the traveler. In addition to this, there are not less than two lines by water, thus affording the tourist--if he develops a desire to tempt the waves of Old Erie--ample scope for his choice. The Lake Shore route takes one through a continuous succession of ever-changing landscapes on the southern shore of Lake Erie, and skirts the two great States of Ohio and Pennsylvania before reaching Michigan. It is, perhaps, the preferable route by rail, looking at it from a purely æsthetic standpoint. The Great Western Road crosses, at Suspension Bridge, the famous chasm cut by Niagara, in its recession from Ontario, and gives a faint conception, as seen in the distance, of the glorious Falls themselves. The roar and rush of water--at the rate of twenty-five million tons per minute--is borne down the deeply-cut channel, and clouds of spray are visible from the car windows. Below the bridge the swift drifts and eddies can be seen foaming on their way to the whirlpool, a mile and a half further down. This route also takes the traveler through London, Canada, a quaint old English town of twenty thousand inhabitants, on the Thames River. The place is brimming over with localities the names of which, carried in the affections of her settlers across the ocean, serve as reminders of the old London left forever behind them on Britannia's Isle. Blackfriar's Bridge and Westminster Bridge both cross the new Thames, and Kensington and Covent Garden market belong also to the transplanted nomenclature. On Saturdays the great square in the heart of the town is filled with marketers and hucksters of all descriptions, and every kind of merchandise, from a feather bed to a table knife, is there bought and sold. Squaws and Indians and quaintly dressed women commingle with the crowd and sell their various wares. The scene is very picturesque, and wears an atmosphere of being a hundred years old. The Grand Trunk Road--the most northerly of the three routes leading through Canada--has nothing except its easy-going time to recommend it to favor. The traveler on this road stands a fair chance of missing his connecting links in the great railway chain which interthreads the continent east and west, or of being delayed for hours at a time by running off the rails. The Canada Southern is a newly completed road, and is said to be the most direct and shortest of all the competing lines. This route follows the windings of the northern shore of Lake Erie, just opposite from the Lake Shore Road on the southern side, and the shifting landscapes are perhaps quite as full of natural beauty. Detroit, the fair "City of the Strait," spreads itself along the river front for miles, and the approach from Windsor, on the opposite shore, is suggestive of the pictured lagoons of Venice, Queen of the Adriatic. The Detroit River, or strait, is one of the most beautiful water avenues west of the Hudson. It is from half a mile to a mile wide, is always of a clear green color, and is never troubled by sand bars or anything which might affect its navigation. It has an average depth of twenty-five feet at the wharves and perhaps forty or fifty feet in the centre of the river bed. No floods disturb its calm flow or change the pervading green of its waters. It is, with reason, the pride of the city, and the ferry boats of the several lines plying between Detroit and Windsor are of the most attractive type. In summer a corps of musicians are engaged for the regular trips, and are considered as indispensable to the boat's outfit as the captain or pilot. Their syren strains entice the lounger at the wharf, and he may ride all day, if he chooses, for the sum of ten cents. Whole families spend the day on the river, in this way, taking their dinner in baskets, as they would go to a picnic. The people of Detroit, perhaps, inherit the pleasure-loving characteristics of their French ancestors, or at least they do not seem to have their minds exclusively concentrated on the struggle after the almighty dollar. Detroit, as the principal mart of the Peninsular State--the nucleus which gradually crystallized into the heart of Michigan--has an early history of thrilling interest; the site of the present populous city of a hundred and twenty thousand souls was long ago, in the shadowy years of its Indian lore, the home of a dusky tribe of the Algonquin family--a race which was once as populous and widespread as the waves of the ocean. In 1610 the first white man who set foot on these wild and unexplored shores found it occupied by the clustered wigwams of a peaceful Indian village named _Teushagrondie_. "Beside that broad but gentle tide * * * * * Whose waters creep along the shore Ere long to swell Niagara's roar, Here, quiet, stood an Indian village; Unknown its origin or date; Algonquin huts and rustic tillage, Where stands the City of the Strait. * * * * * From dark antiquity it came, In myths and dreamy ages cast." Another of its ancient names was "Wa-we-aw-to-nong," meaning _round by_, in allusion to its circuitous way of approach. "No savage home, however rare, If told in legend or in song, Could with that charming spot compare, The lovely Wa-we-aw-to-nong." In 1679, the _Griffin_, under La Salle--the first vessel that ever sailed these inland seas--anchored off the group of islands at the entrance to Detroit River. Peaceful Indian tribes were scattered along the banks, and the white man was received with friendly overtures. In 1701, La Motte Cadillac founded Detroit. He erected a military fort on the site of the future city, which he named after his French patron, _Pontchartrain_. It was surrounded by a strong stockade of wooden pickets, with bastions at each angle. A few log huts with thatched roofs of straw and grass were built within the enclosure, and as the number of settlers increased the stockade was enlarged, until it included about a hundred houses closely crowded together. The streets were very narrow, with the exception of a wide carriage road or boulevard which encircled the town just within the palisades. The object of the establishment of this military post was to aid in securing to the French the large fur trade of the northwest, and it was also a point from whence the early Jesuit fathers extended their missionary labors. The little military colony was the centre of the settlement, and the Canadian dwellings were scattered up and down the banks above and below the fort for miles. The river almost washed the foot of the stockade--Woodbridge street being at that time the margin of the water--and three large Indian villages were within the limits of the settlement. Below the fort were the lodges of the Pottawattomies, on the eastern shore dwelt the Wyandots, and higher up Pontiac and the Ottawas had pitched their wigwams. Fort Pontchartrain remained in the possession of the French until 1760, when, by the fall of Quebec, it fell into the hands of the British, and was surrendered to Major Robert Rogers on the twelfth of September. The Red Cross of St. George now supplanted the _Fleur-de-lis_ of France, and the change to British rule was ill relished by the surrounding Indian tribes, who had been the firm friends and allies of the French. The well known Pontiac conspiracy grew out of this change of administration, and a general massacre of the whites was determined upon. Pontiac, chief of the Ottawas, was the leading spirit of the bloody plot, and so well laid were his plans that ten out of the thirteen posts which were simultaneously attacked fell before their savage onsets. The post at Detroit, at that time under command of Major Gladwyn, was only saved through the timely betrayal of Pontiac's plot, by Catherine, a beautiful Ojibway girl, who dwelt in the village of the Pottawattomies, and who had become much attached to Major Gladwyn, of the Fort. The day before the intended massacre she brought him a pair of moccasins which she had made for him, and then revealed the intended surprise of Pontiac. The garrison and occupants of the fort were supported by two small vessels, the Beaver and the Gladwyn, which lay anchored in the river. On the morning of May sixth, 1763, a large flotilla of birch canoes, filled with warriors lying flat on their faces, crossed the river above the Port, landing just beyond the banks of Bloody Run, or Parent's Creek, as it was then called. About ten o'clock, sixty chiefs, with Pontiac at their head, marched to the Port and demanded admittance. It was granted, but all preparation was made on the part of Gladwyn to repel the first sign of treachery. Every soldier was armed to the teeth, and the eagle eye of Gladwyn watched every movement of Pontiac, as that brave made a speech of mock friendship. When the savages discovered the failure of their plans, their disappointed rage knew no bounds, and after passing out of the gates of the Fort, their mad thirst for blood was only glutted by massacres of isolated families, and the tomahawk and scalping knife sealed the doom of many an unhappy victim who that day crossed the path of Pontiac's warriors. From this hour Detroit was in a state of siege, and for eleven long months the siege continued. Bravely the little band at the Fort held out until reinforcements arrived--Captain Dalzell, with a force of three hundred regulars, coming to their aid. A few days afterwards--at two o'clock on the morning of July thirty-first--an attack was made on the Indians, who were stationed along the banks of Parent's Creek, about a mile and a half from the Fort. The troops neared the narrow, wooden bridge which spanned the creek, when suddenly, in the gloom of night, the Indian war-whoop burst on their ears, and a blaze of leaden death followed. Captain Dalzell rushed to the front across the bridge, leading his men forward, but their foes were not to be seen. Bewildered in the gloom, the English troops were obliged to fall back to the fort and wait for daylight before renewing the attack. Hundreds of Indians lay in ambuscade along the river, whither the soldiers were obliged to pass on their way to the Fort, and the creek ran red with their blood. The waters of the little stream, after this crimson baptism, were re-christened with the name of Bloody Run. The survivors entered the Fort next morning with a loss of seventy killed and forty wounded. During the war of the Revolution, Detroit was subjected to greater annoyance from Indian tribes than before, but this was the only way in which the war affected it. Through the treaty of Greenville, made by General Wayne with the red men, in August, 1795, Detroit and all the region of the northwest became the property of the United States, and in 1796 Captain Porter, from General Wayne's army, took possession of the post, and flung to the breeze the first American banner that ever floated over the soil of the Peninsular State. "Pontiac's Grate" was the eastern entrance to the town, and occupies the site of the old United States Court House. In 1763, a rude chapel stood on the north side of St. Ann street--nearly in the middle of the present Jefferson avenue--while opposite was a large military garden, in the centre of which stood a block house, where all the councils with the Indians were held. These were the only public buildings in the town. The "Pontiac Tree," behind which many a soldier took shelter on the night of the bloody battle at Parent's Creek, and whose bark is fabled to have been thickly pierced with bullets, stood as an old landmark for years, on the site of the ancient field of conflict, and many a stirring legend is told of it. On June eleventh, 1805--just five months after Michigan was organized as a territory--Detroit was laid in ruins by a wholesale conflagration, which left only two houses unharmed. An act of Congress was passed for her relief, and thus, through baptisms of fire and blood, and through tribulation, has she arisen to her present proud estate. The stranger landing on these shores now is struck with the handsome general appearance of the city--its clean, wide streets, varying in width from fifty to two hundred feet--its elegant business blocks and pervading air of enterprise. The ground on which the city stands rises gradually from the river to an elevation of thirty or forty feet, thus affording both a commanding prospect and excellent drainage. Detroit is an authorized port of entry, and is about seven miles distant from Lake St. Clair and eighteen miles from Lake Erie. Ship and boat building has been an extensive branch of business here, and in 1859 there were nine steam saw mills located in the city, sawing forty million feet of lumber annually. There are also works for smelting copper ore two miles below the city, or rather within that suburban portion of the city known as Hamtramck. Among the first objects of interest which attract the stranger's attention are the new City Hall and the Soldiers' Monument. The City Hall, fronting on one side of the square known as the Campus Martius, is a structure of which any city in the land might be proud. It is built of Cleveland sandstone, and faces on four streets,--being two hundred feet long on Woodward avenue and Griswold street, with a width of ninety feet on Fort street and Michigan avenue. It is built in the style of the Italian renaissance, with Mansard roof and a tower rising from the centre of the building, adorned at its four corners with colossal figures fourteen feet high, representing "_Justice_," "_Industry_," "_Arts_," and "_Commerce_." Its height from the ground to the top of the tower is a hundred and eighty feet, and the three ample stories above the basement furnish accommodation to the city and county offices, in addition to the Circuit and Recorder's Courts. The walls are frescoed, the floors laid in mosaics of colored marbles, and the Council Chamber and other public rooms are furnished with black walnut chairs and desks, and paneled in oak. With these exceptions, there is no woodwork about the immense building. Everything, from basement to dome, is brick and iron and stone. Even the floors are built in delicate arches of brick and iron, and iron staircases follow the windings of the tower to its dizzy top. It is reckoned fireproof. The exterior is curiously carved, and two large fountains adorn the inclosing grounds. The estimated cost of the building is about six hundred thousand dollars. From the airy outlook of the City Hall Tower, Detroit appears like a vast wheel, many of whose streets diverge like spokes from this common centre, reaching outward until they touch, or seem to touch, the wooded rim of the distant horizon. The hub of this immense wheel is the triangular open space called the Campus Martius, and the Soldiers' Monument, occupying the centre of the Campus Martius, is also the centre of this imaginary hub. Michigan avenue--one of the long arms of the wheel--loses itself in the western distance, and is called the Chicago road. Woodward avenue leads into the interior, toward Pontiac, and Gratiot avenue goes in the direction of Port Huron. Fort street, in yet another direction, guides the eye to Fort Wayne and the steeples of Sandwich, four miles away. Toward the southern or river side of the city, the resemblance to the wheel is nearly lost, and one sees nothing but compact squares of blocks, cut by streets crossing each other at right angles and running parallel and perpendicular to the river. Between the Campus Martius and Grand Circus Park there are half a dozen or more short streets, which form a group by themselves, and break in somewhat on the symmetry of the larger wheel, without destroying it. This point gives the best view of Detroit to be obtained anywhere about the city. The Soldiers' Monument is a handsome granite structure, fifty-five feet in height, the material of which was quarried from the granite beds of Westerly, Rhode Island, and modeled into shape under the superintending genius of Randolph Rogers, of Rome, Italy. It is surmounted by a massive allegorical statue, in bronze, of Michigan, and figures of the soldier and sailor, in the same material, adorn the four projections of the monument; while bronze eagles with spread wings are perched on smaller pedestals in the intermediate spaces. Large medallions, also in bronze, with the busts of Grant, Lincoln, Sherman and Farragut, in low relief, cover the four sides of the main shaft, and higher up the following inscription is imprinted against the white background of granite:-- "ERECTED BY THE PEOPLE OF MICHIGAN IN HONOR OF THE MARTYRS WHO FELL AND THE HEROES WHO FOUGHT IN DEFENCE OF LIBERTY AND UNION." The bronzes and ornaments were imported from the celebrated foundry at Munich, Bavaria, and the cost of the monument--donated exclusively by private subscription--amounted to fifty-eight thousand dollars. The unveiling of the statue took place April ninth, 1872. Another feature of the city is the Public Library, founded in March, 1865, and at present occupying the old Capitol, until the new and elegant Library building now in process of construction is completed. [Illustration: WOODWARD AVENUE, DETROIT, MICHIGAN.] Beginning entirely without funds, ten years ago, it can now exhibit a muster roll of twenty-five thousand volumes, and is fairly started on the high road to fortune. There is a kind of poetic justice in the fact that its principal source of revenue accrues from county fines and penalties. Here is a knotty question for the divinity doctors, for in this case, at least, good is born of evil. The library is under the control of the Board of Education, and was given an existence from the State constitution. Some very rare volumes of Mexican antiquities have recently been purchased from England by the School Board and added to the library, at a cost of four hundred dollars. They contain a pictorial and hieroglyphic history of the Aztec races occupying Mexico when Cortes came over from a foreign shore with his Spanish galleons. The earliest date goes back to 1324, and the strange figures in the centre of the page are surrounded by devices indicating cycles of thirteen years, four of which made a great cycle, or a period of fifty-two years. The deeds of the Aztec king, _Tenuch_, and his successors, are here recorded, and through the efforts of an English nobleman who devoted his life to these researches, we have the translation rendered for us. The city has a scientific association, two years old, and also a Historical Society, in which her citizens manifest considerable pride. Detroit has been called, with reason, one of the most beautiful cities of the West. Transformed from the ancient _Teushagrondie_ into the present populous "City of the Strait," she sits like a happy princess, serene, on the banks of her broad river, guarding the gates of St. Clair. Backed by a State whose resources are second to none in the Union, emerging from an early history of bloody struggle and battle, rising like the fabled Phoenix, from the ashes of an apparent ruin, contributing her best blood and treasure to the war for liberty and union, she may well be proud of her past record, her present progress, her advancement toward a high civilization and her assured position. CHAPTER XII. ERIE. Decoration Day in Pennsylvania.--Lake Erie.--Natural Advantages of Erie.--Her Harbor, Commerce, and Manufactures.--Streets and Public Buildings.--Soldiers' Monument.--Erie Cemetery.--East and West Parks.--Perry's Victory. I took my fourth ride from Buffalo westward, on the Lake Shore Road, on the afternoon of May twenty-ninth, 1875, the day set apart that year by the patriotic citizens of Pennsylvania, for the decoration of her soldiers' graves. Passing the State line or boundary between New York and Pennsylvania, a little beyond Dunkirk, an unusually large assemblage of citizens and soldiers, with bouquets and a great profusion of flowers, at nearly every station, betokened the earnest patriotism of the old Keystone State. Pennsylvania will never be behind her sister States in doing honor to the brave men who gave up their lives while fighting her battles; and the demonstrations of each Decoration Day are evidences that she will not soon forget their deeds, or their claim upon her deepest gratitude. A beautiful sight opens to the view of the tourist as he turns his eye toward the broad, blue expanse of the lake, which may be seen at intervals from the car windows, from Buffalo to Toledo. The mind is quite naturally occupied with grand commercial schemes, on viewing such wonderful facilities for the promotion of enterprise. We have here, in Lake Erie, the connecting link in a chain of fresh-water oceans, which stretch from the Atlantic, westward, almost to the Rocky Mountains. Our internal prosperity is largely due to this great chain of lakes, which secure and facilitate cheap transportation, and have made possible the great inland cities, the pride of our Middle States. Erie is an intermediate point between Buffalo and Cleveland, and having a most excellent harbor, would seem destined to take rank among the first cities of America. But by that inscrutable law which, seemingly beyond reason, governs and controls the foundation and growth of cities and towns, natural advantages do not always seem to count; and as a large fish swallows a smaller one, so has Erie been dwarfed by her older rivals, who, getting an earlier foothold upon the shore of the lake, have absorbed its trade, and continued to maintain the advantage they at first secured. An increase of commerce on Lake Erie will undoubtedly throw a share to the city of Erie, and thus she may eventually succeed in occupying the position to which her harbor and railroads entitle her. Erie is on the lake, about midway of the brief stretch of shore which the narrow section of Western Pennsylvania, jutting up between New York and Ohio, secures to that State. It is her only lake town of any importance, is a port of entry, and has a population of nearly thirty thousand inhabitants. The harbor is the largest and best on Lake Erie. It is about four miles in length, one mile in width, and in depth varying from nine to twenty-five feet, thus permitting access to the largest lake vessels. It is formed by an island four miles in length, which lies in front of the city, and which, from its name of Presque Isle, indicates that within the memory of man it has been a peninsula. The bay is known as Presque Isle Bay. It is protected by a breakwater, and three lighthouses guard the entrance. Several large docks, furnished with railroad tracks, permit the transfer of merchandise to take place directly between the vessels and the cars. The terminus of the Philadelphia and Erie Railroad, and connected by the Lake Shore Railroad with all important points in the east and west, the city is fast developing into a strong commercial centre. A canal connecting with Beaver River, a tributary of the Ohio, facilitates commerce in the western section of Pennsylvania, and furnishes extensive water-power, of which various kinds of mills avail themselves. These mills and the many factories and foundries of the city--for Erie is a manufacturing town of considerable importance--produce iron ware, cars, machinery, organs, furniture, brass, leather, boots and shoes, and send them, by the various methods of transportation, to markets in the States and Canada. The great forest and mining regions of Pennsylvania find, at Erie, an outlet for their lumber, coal and iron ore; while the numerous productive farms which lie in the vicinity of the lake send quantities of grain to be shipped at this port. The city is built upon an elevated bluff, commanding an extensive view of the lake. It is regularly laid out, with broad streets crossing each other at right angles, and its general appearance is prosperous and pleasing. In the centre of the city are the Parks, two finely shaded inclosures, intersected by State street, and surrounded by handsome buildings. A Soldiers' Monument stands in one of them, erected to commemorate the memory of the brave men who fell in the War of the Rebellion. It is surmounted by two bronze statues of heroic size. There are also two handsome fountains within the Park inclosure. Near by is the classic structure used as a Court House. The Custom House is erected in a substantial style, near the shores of the lake. A new Opera House is also one of the features of the city. The Union Depot is an immense building, nearly five hundred feet in length, in the Romanesque style, two stories in height and surmounted by a cupola forty feet high. State street is the principal business thoroughfare. The Erie Cemetery, on the south side, is one of the most beautiful in the country. It is on a bluff overlooking the city and the lake, and comprises seventy-five acres, in which tree-shaded walks, elegant drives, velvet turf, running water, masses of shrubbery and brilliant flowers, together with the plain white headstones and the elaborate monuments which mark the resting-places of the dead, are united in a harmonious effect, which is most satisfactory to the beholder. Erie is very proud of this cemetery, and spares no pains to perfect it, while every year adds to its beauty. East and West Parks lie, as their names indicate, in opposite directions within the city, and are beautiful breathing places where its citizens resort for rest and recreation. Art has joined with nature in rendering these places attractive, and their trees, shrubbery, lawns, walks and drives, and general picturesqueness, combine to make them very charming spots. Erie has historical associations which render her of interest to one who would gather facts concerning his country. Lake Erie was the scene of a naval engagement between the British and Americans, on September tenth, 1813, in which the latter were victorious. Commodore Perry, in command of the American fleet, sailed from this port on the memorable day, and when the engagement was concluded, brought thither his prizes. Several of his ships sunk in Lawrence Bay, and in fair weather the hull of the Niagara is still visible. The development of Western Pennsylvania is contributing more and more, as the years go by, to the prosperity of Erie. Her exceptionally fine harbor is already beginning to be recognized by commerce, and though the city may never rival Cleveland or Buffalo, the time may come when Erie will take rank as only second to them on Lake Erie, in commercial importance. CHAPTER XIII. HARRISBURG. A Historic Tree.--John Harris' Wild Adventure with the Indians.--Harris Park.--History of Harrisburg.--Situation and Surroundings.--State House.--State Library.--A Historic Flag.--View from State House Dome.--Capitol Park.--Monument to Soldiers of Mexican War.--Monument to Soldiers of Late War.--Public Buildings.--Front Street.--Bridges over the Susquehanna.--Mt. Kalmia Cemetery.--Present Advantages and Future Prospects of Harrisburg. A century and a half ago, John Harris, seeking traffic with the red men of the Susquehanna, built a rude hut, dug a well, and thereby began a work which, taken up by his son, led to the founding of the Capital City of Pennsylvania, a city destined to take rank among the first of a great State. The stump of an old tree, in a beautiful little park which skirts the Susquehanna, on a line parallel with Front street, marks the scene of an early adventure of Harris with the Indians, and tells the stranger of his birth and death. About 1718 or 1719, Harris, who had settled at this point on the Susquehanna, as a trader, was visited by a predatory band of Indians returning from the "Patowmark," who made an exchange of goods with him, for rum. Becoming drunken and riotous, he finally refused them any more liquor, when they seized him and bound him to a tree, dancing around their captive, until he thought his last day had come. His negro servant, however, summoned some friendly Shawnees from the opposite side of the river, who, after a slight struggle with the drunken Indians, rescued Harris from his bonds and probably from a death by torture. The stump referred to is that of the historical tree, which was a gigantic mulberry, eleven feet seven inches in circumference. Here also is the grave of Harris, which is surrounded by a strong iron fence, and a young mulberry tree has been planted, by one of his descendants, to take the place of the one whose trunk alone stands as a monument of the past. During the summer months this romantic spot is the favorite resort of the boys and girls of the neighborhood, and whenever the weather is favorable, a large troop of juveniles may be seen spinning their tops, rolling their hoops and playing at croquet on the lawn. What a contrast is here unfolded to the imagination, as we stand at the grave of the venerable pioneer, and contemplate the wonderful change that has characterized the progress of events during the past hundred years. But little more than a century ago there was a solitary trader with his family upon the borders of a great river in the wilderness. His goods were brought on a pack-horse, and his ferry was a row boat. To-day a thriving, beautiful city takes the place of the log cabin; children sport where once the treacherous Indian sought the life of the hardy frontiersman; the river is spanned by wonderful bridges; and a hundred railroad trains pass through its streets in the course of twenty-four hours. Harrisburg was laid out by John Harris, Jr., the son of the pioneer, in 1785; it was incorporated as a borough in 1791; became the State Capital in 1812; and received a city charter in 1860. Its population in 1880 numbered more than thirty thousand persons. [Illustration: HARRISBURG AND BRIDGES OVER THE SUSQUEHANNA.] Harrisburg is most picturesquely situated, on the Susquehanna River, at the eastern gateway of the Alleghenies. The river is here a mile wide, shallow at most seasons of the year, but capable of becoming a turbulent torrent, carrying destruction along its banks. On the opposite side of the river to the south are the Conestoga Hills; while to the northward are the bold and craggy outlines of the Kittatinny or Blue Mountains. But five miles away is the gap in these mountains through which the Susquehanna forces its way, and the summits of these sentinels are plainly visible. Although on the very threshold of the mountainous region of Pennsylvania, the pastoral beauty of landscape which characterizes eastern Pennsylvania creeps up to meet the ruggedness which predominates beyond; and the two are here blended with most charming results; the softness of the one half veiling the ruggedness of the other; while the picturesqueness of each is heightened by contrast. The handsomest and most noticeable building of Harrisburg is the State House, which is conspicuously placed on an eminence near the centre of the city. It is T-shaped, having a front of one hundred and eighty feet by eighty in depth, and with an extension of one hundred and five feet by fifty-four feet. It is built of brick, and is three stories high, including the basement. A large circular portico, sustained by six Ionic columns, fronts the main entrance. The building is surmounted by a dome, reaching an altitude of one hundred and eight feet. A State Library, with accommodation for one hundred thousand volumes, and possessing at the present time thirty thousand volumes, is one of the features of the Capitol. This library contains a number of portraits, curiosities and art treasures, prominent among which are two small portraits of Columbus and Americus Vespucius, the work of a celebrated Florentine artist; a picture of the event already narrated in the life of John Harris; and a reflecting telescope, purchased by Benjamin Franklin, and through which was taken the first observation in the western hemisphere, of the transit of Venus. In the Flag Room of the State House, where are preserved the Pennsylvania State flags used by the different regimental organizations in the war for the Union, is a flag captured by the Confederates at Gettysburg, and afterwards recaptured in the baggage of Jefferson Davis. We find the following brief account of the capture of this flag in the "Harrisburg Visitors' Guide," prepared by Mr. J. R. Orwig, Assistant State Librarian, to whom we are indebted for favors in our literary work. "It was on the evening of the first day; all the color guard were killed, the last being Corporal Joseph Gutelius, of Mifflinburg, Union County. When surrounded, and almost alone, he was commanded to surrender the flag. His mute reply was to enfold it in his arms, and he was instantly shot dead through its silken folds." He lies buried at Gettysburg. The view from the State House dome is exceptionally grand. I stood on that eminence one bright morning, during the early part of my sojourn at Harrisburg, in the spring of 1877. To eastward is a picturesque, rolling country, varied by hill and dale, field and woodland, with villages or isolated farmhouses nestling here and there in their midst, the brilliant green tint of the foreground melting imperceptibly away into the soft purple haze of the far distance. In front of the city to the westward lies the broad river, gleaming like a ribbon of silver in the sunlight, dotted with emerald islands, and winding away to the southeast, between sloping banks and rocky crags, until it at last loses itself in the misty horizon. To the northward is distinctly seen the gap in the mountains through which the river approaches the city. The bold and abrupt outlines of the mountains are plainly traced, and the scenery in this region is exceptionally grand. Immediately surrounding the State House is the city, spread out with its labyrinth of streets, its factories and furnaces, its stately public buildings, and its elegant private residences, presenting a panorama fair to look upon, and evidencing the prosperity and industry of its people. To obtain a view from this dome is well worth a visit to Harrisburg. The State House is surrounded by Capitol Park, embracing thirteen acres, and inclosed by an iron fence. These grounds gently slope from the centre, and are ornamented with stately trees, beautiful shrubbery and flowers and closely-shorn greensward. The site was set apart for its present purpose before Harrisburg was a city, by John Harris, its public-spirited founder. Fine views are obtained from it of the suburb of East Harrisburg and the Reservoir, Mt. Kalmia Cemetery, the tower of the new State Arsenal, and the dome of the State Insane Asylum. The prominent feature of this park, next to the State House, is, however, the beautiful monument erected to the memory of the soldiers who fell in the Mexican War. It is one hundred and five feet high, with a sub-base of granite, a base proper, with buttresses at each corner surmounted by eagles, and a Corinthian column of Maryland marble, surmounted by a statue of Victory, the latter executed at Rome, of fine Italian marble. The sides of the base are paneled, and contain the names of the different battles of the Mexican War. The monument is surrounded by an inclosure constructed of muskets used by the United States soldiers in Mexico. In front of the monument are a number of guns, trophies of the Mexican war, and several others presented by General Lafayette. Another monument, at the intersection of State and Second streets, is in its design purely antique, being founded on the proportions of the pair of obelisks at the gate of Memphis, and of that which stands in the Place Vendome at Paris. It contains the following inscription: "To the Soldiers of Dauphin County, who gave their lives for the life of the Union, in the war for the suppression of the Rebellion, 1861-5. Erected by their fellow-citizens, 1869." In East Harrisburg, or "Allison's Hill," as it is called, will be seen Brant's private residence, built in the style of the Elizabethan period, the massive stone Catholic Convent, and St. Genevieve's Academy. On State street is Grace M. E. Church, one of the most costly and beautiful churches in the State. Not far away is St. Patrick's Pro-Cathedral. The State Lunatic Asylum is a vast and imposing edifice, a mile and a half north of the city. Front street, which overlooks the river, is the favorite promenade of the city. Here may be seen the broad river, with its craft and numerous islands, the villages on the opposite shore, and the delightful landscape beyond. Here the citizens often congregate on fine evenings, to watch the sunset views, which are especially fine from this point. On the ridge opposite, is Fort Washington and the line of defenses erected in 1863, in expectation of an invasion of the Southern army. Front street is by far the finest street in the city, containing the most imposing residences, being bordered by trees, and forming a most attractive drive. From State street to Paxton, it presents an almost unbroken range of palatial buildings of brick, stone, marble or granite. On this street is found the residence of the Governor, presented to the State by the citizens of Harrisburg, in 1864, as the Executive Mansion. A more desirable location for a residence can scarcely be imagined than that of Hon. J. D. Cameron, on the southeast corner of State and Front streets, overlooking the Susquehanna. Near the corner of Front street and Washington avenue is the old "Harris Mansion," originally erected in 1766, by John Harris, and remaining in the Harris family until 1840, but now the home of Hon. Simon Cameron. The Market street bridge spans the river, resting midway on Forster's Island, the western end being an ancient structure, dating back to 1812, while the eastern end, having once been destroyed by flood, and once by fire, was rebuilt in modern style in 1866. The second bridge across the river is at the head of Mulberry street, but it is used for trains alone. This bridge is also divided by Forster's Island. It has once been destroyed by fire, and was entirely remodeled in 1856. Mt. Kalmia Cemetery is a charming resting-place of the dead, on the heights overlooking the city. Its natural beauties are many, and they have been enhanced by art. It is reached from East State street. Harrisburg has extensive iron manufactories, and is the centre of six important railways. More than one hundred passenger trains arrive and depart daily, and few cities have a greater number of transient visitors. It is one of the most prosperous cities of the Commonwealth; situated in a fertile valley, in view of some of the grandest scenery in America, with railroads, canals and macadamized roads, diverging in all directions, and connecting it with every section of the country; with important business interests, and an intelligent, industrious and prosperous population; the political centre of one of the chief States of the Union; it has much to congratulate itself upon in the present, and more to hope for from the future. Another decade will see vastly increased business interests, and a population nearly if not quite double that of to-day. CHAPTER XIV. HARTFORD. The City of Publishers.--Its Geographical Location.--The New State House.--Mark Twain and the "None Such."--The "Heathen Chinee."--Wadsworth Atheneum.--Charter Oak.--George H. Clark's Poem.--Putnam's Hotel.--Asylum for Deaf Mutes.--The Sign Language.--A Fragment of Witchcraftism.--Hartford _Courant_.-- The Connecticut River. Having decided to pitch our tents in Hartford, we moved from New Haven by rail, on the afternoon of September eighth, 1874. A hot, dusty day it was, indeed, with mercury at ninety-two in the shade, and dust enough to enable passengers of the rollicking order to inscribe monograms on the backs of their unsuspecting neighbors. The distance, according to recent time tables, is one dollar, or an hour and fifteen minutes. The scenery encountered on this route is less varied than that from New York to New Haven, and yet there is much to interest the careful observer. The only town of any importance between these rival cities is Meriden, an enterprising city of twenty thousand souls, standing midway between them. Hartford, the capital of nutmegdom, is the second city of Connecticut, having, as shown by the last census, a population of thirty-seven thousand. Pleasantly situated on the Connecticut River, and enjoying now the advantage of exclusive legislation for the State, Hartford is destined to become one of the most important cities of New England. Authors, artists and publishers have ever found Hartford a fruitful field for the development of brains and enterprise. It is, perhaps, not exaggeration to say that in no other city of the United States of the same size is there so large a proportion of the population devoted to literature. The American and Hartford Publishing Companies, the firms of Burr, Scranton, Worthington, Dustin, Gilman and Company, and many others of less note, are located here. The new State House, now in process of erection, is destined to be one of the finest buildings in the country. The site commands a view of the city and its surroundings for many miles. Among the objects of interest to be found here are the residence of "Mark Twain" and the State Insane Asylum. "Mark's" house is at the end of Farmington avenue, on a little eminence, at the foot of which flows a nameless stream. Its style of construction is so unlike the average house that it has won for itself the characteristic title of "The None Such." It is still in the hands of the architect, and will probably not be ready for occupancy before November. If this building is not regarded as a marvel, then I will confess that, after nearly twenty years of travel, I have yet to learn the meaning of that term as applied to architecture. The plat of ground on which the house and adjacent buildings stand was selected and purchased by Mrs. "Twain"--so said the gentlemanly architect who replied to our inquiries. As the genial "Mark" desires the maximum quantity of light, his apartments are so arranged as to give him the sun all day. The bricks of the outer walls of the house are painted in three colors, making the general effect decidedly fantastic. Taking it all in all, I have nowhere seen a more curious study in architecture, and hope, for the satisfaction of its eccentric owner, that it will quite meet his expectations. The Celestials, or representatives from China, are now so often seen, from California eastward to New England, that they have ceased to be considered objects of special interest in any part of the United States. I have met them more or less in my journeyings during the last two years, and have often wondered if others see their strange characteristics from the same standpoint that I do. To me, Ah Sin is ingenious, enterprising, economical, and the essence of quiet good humor. Opposite my quarters here in Hartford are two of these odd-looking Chinamen, whom I will, for convenience, name Ching Wing Shing and Chang Boomerang. My rooms being directly opposite the store of Boomerang and Company, an excellent opportunity is afforded me for witnessing their varied devices to invite trade and entertain their customers. Although only tea and coffee are advertised, Chang's store will be found, on close inspection, to strongly resemble the "Old Curiosity Shop," described by Dickens, there being a small assortment of everything in their line, from tea and coffee to watermelons. Chang and Ching invariably wear a smile upon their "childlike and bland" features. School children passing that way seem to take pleasure in teasing these mild-mannered China merchants, and unfortunate indeed is the firm of Boomerang and Company, if their backs are turned on their youthful tormenters; for these mischievous urchins seem to think it no crime to pilfer anything owned or presided over by their pig-tailed neighbors. Should Chang or Ching discover their sportive enemies gliding away with the tempting fruits of their stands, it is useless to pursue, for a troop of juvenile confederates will rush into the store the moment it is vacated and help themselves to whatever may please their fancy. THE WADSWORTH ATHENEUM. While taking a stroll down Main street the other day my attention was arrested by a three-story brownstone building, standing on the east side and back some distance from the street. I had only to glance at the large, bold lettering across its front to be told that it was the Wadsworth Atheneum. Deciding to take a look at the interior of this receptacle of antiquities, I soon made the acquaintance of W. J. Fletcher, the gentlemanly assistant librarian of the Watkins Library, who seemed to take an especial pleasure in showing me everything of interest, and who spared no pains in explaining everything about which I had a question to ask. There were so many curiosities of ancient as well as modern pattern, that it would be impossible to notice all in a work of this magnitude, and hence I shall content myself with presenting a few subjects which, to me at least, were of striking interest. Stepping into the Historical Rooms my attention was first called to the stump of the famous Charter Oak, which will ever form an interesting chapter in Connecticut history. A very comfortable seat or arm-chair has been moulded from this aged relic, and while sitting within its venerable arms, I copied the following poem by George H. Clark, the manuscript of which is framed and hung up over the chair. I cannot endorse the sentiment of the poet, but will record his lines. September 10th, 1858. DEAR SIR:--You seem to take so much interest in my lines on the destruction of the old oak, that I have thought you might be pleased with a copy in the author's handwriting, and accordingly inclose one. Yours, GEO. H. CLARK. THE OAK. 1. "Yes--blot the last sad vestige out-- Burn all the useless wood; Root up the stump, that none may know Where the dead monarch stood. Let traffic's inauspicious din Here run its daily round, And break the solemn memories Of this once holy ground. 2. "Your fathers, long the hallowed spot Have kept with jealous care, That worshippers from many lands Might pay their homage there; You spurn the loved memento now, Forget the tyrant's yoke, And lend Oblivion aid to gorge Our cherished Charter Oak. 3. "'Tis well, when all our household gods For paltry gain are sold, That e'en their altars should be razed And sacrificed for gold. Then tear the strong, tenacious roots, With vandal hands, away, And pour within that sacred crypt The garish light of day. 4. "Let crowds unconscious tread the soil By Wordsworth sanctified, Let Mammon bring, to crown the hill, Its retinue of pride, Destroy the patriot pilgrim's shrine, His idols overthrow, Till o'er the ruin grimly stalks The ghost of long ago. 5. "So may the muse of coming time Indignant speak of them Who Freedom's brightest jewel rent From her proud diadem,-- And lash with her contemptuous scorn The man who gave the stroke That desecrates the place where stood The brave old Charter Oak." It appears to me that no more sensible thing could have been done after the tree fell to the ground, August twenty-first, 1859, than to preserve it here, where it will outlive, by centuries, its rapid decay in an open field, exposed to sun and storm. Thousands may now see the famous oak that otherwise might never know its location or history. It stood on the grounds formerly owned by Samuel Wordsworth, near Charter Oak Avenue, and its top having been blown down and broken during a violent storm, it was afterwards dug up and taken to the Historical Rooms of the Wadsworth Atheneum. After occupying two hours in looking through the Historical Department, we came to a corner of the room devoted to an exhibition of the relics identified with the history of General Israel Putnam, the Revolutionary patriot, who was commander-in-chief of the American forces engaged at the battle of Bunker Hill. Connecticut takes a lively interest in anything that pertains to her favorite hero, and we were engaged not less than half an hour in an examination of the various articles impersonating "Old Put." Most Americans are familiar with the story of his early life and adventures, but I think few are aware of the fact that at one time he was a country landlord. Here at the Atheneum they have the very sign-board that attracted the traveler to "Putnam's Hotel." A life-size portrait of the gallant General Wolfe, who was slain while leading his army against Quebec, is painted on the board, which is three feet long by two and a half wide. Imagine now, the hero of a hundred battles and adventures, performing the duties of "mine host"--at once hostler, bartender and perhaps table girl in the dining room. The character of the man who had the ability to rise from the position of an humble farmer and inn-keeper to that of Senior Major-General of the United States armies, is an index to the character of the American people. Often on the battle-field were the titled nobility of Great Britain compelled to fly before the crushing blows of this sturdy yeoman, who, leaving his plow in the furrow, rushed to the field of danger and glory. Casting aside the habiliments of the farmer, he buckled on his armor and dared to lead where the bravest dared to follow. Israel Putman "Sleeps the sleep that knows not breaking," but his glorious deeds will never be forgotten while the blessings of liberty are appreciated by the descendants of that galaxy of devoted patriots who rallied around the standard of George Washington. The Deaf and Dumb Institute, situated on Asylum Hill, is the oldest institution of the kind in the United States, having been established in 1817, by Rev. F. H. Gallaudet, a noble and generous philanthropist, who devoted his life and fortune to the elevation and enlightenment of the afflicted. A monument recently erected to his memory, in front of the Institute, attests the regard in which he is still held by those who revere him as their benefactor. It was my pleasure, while in Hartford, to attend a lecture in the sign language, by Professor D. E. Bartlett, who is reputed to be the oldest teacher living, and who commenced work at this institute forty years ago. I shall never forget my emotions as I eagerly watched sign and gesture, and at the same time noted its effect upon the features of each face in his attentive audience. What a noble mission, to thus lead these children of silence from the prison darkness of ignorance into the beautiful light of knowledge? May those who devote their lives to such a cause reap the rich reward which their benevolence deserves! In 1652 Hartford had the _honor_ of executing the first witch ever heard of in America. Her name was Mrs. Greensmith. She was accused in the indictment of practicing evil things on the body of Ann Cole, which did not appear to be true; but a certain Rev. Mr. Stone and other ministers swore that Greensmith had confessed to them that the devil possessed her, and the righteous court hung her on their indictment. What would that court have done with the spiritual manifestations rife in these parts to-day? It is a bitter sarcasm on our Plymouth Rock progenitors that, having fled from the old country on account of religious persecution, they should inaugurate their freedom to worship God on the shores of the new world by hanging witches! The leading paper of the city is the Hartford _Courant_, which is ably edited by General Joseph R. Hawley, and is a powerful political organ throughout New England. General Hawley distinguished himself during the late war as a brave officer, entering the army as captain and rising to the rank of brigadier general. The _Courant_, like its soldier-editor, may always be found fighting in the van. The Connecticut River at Hartford is about a quarter of a mile wide, and sweeps onward in a swift current, through sinuous banks, until it mingles with the waters of the Sound at Saybrook. The valley through which this river seeks a passage to the sea is one of the loveliest to be found anywhere, and gazing down upon it from the surrounding heights, as it lies veiled in blue distance, is like looking upon a dream of Arcadia. CHAPTER XV. LANCASTER. First Visit to Lancaster.--Eastern Pennsylvania.--Conestoga River.--Early History of Lancaster.--Early Dutch Settlers.-- Manufactures.--Public Buildings.--Whit-Monday.--Home of three Noted Persons.--James Buchanan, his Life and Death.--Thaddeus Stevens and his Burial Place.--General Reynolds and his Death.--"Cemetery City." My first visit to Lancaster was made on a bright morning in the early part of April, 1877. We rode out of the West Philadelphia Depot in the eight o'clock accommodation, which we were told would make sixty-five stops in a short journey of seventy-three miles. I did not count the stations, but should have no hesitancy in fully indorsing my informant. The frequency of the halts gave us an excellent opportunity to explore the surrounding country, and reminded one of street-car experiences in metropolitan cities, where one is brought to a stand at every crossing. Eastern Pennsylvania is beyond question the finest section of the State; and the tourist who sojourns at Bryn Mawr, Downingtown, Bird-in-Hand, and many of their sister villages, will see abundant evidences of the wealth and prosperity of an industrious people. The country is sufficiently rolling to be picturesque, without any of the ruggedness which characterizes the central and western portions of the State. Sometimes from the car windows the roofs and spires of several villages may be seen in different directions, while substantial farmhouses with their commodious out-buildings, are on every hand. The land is brought to a high state of cultivation, and the entire region seems almost like an extensive park. Lancaster, the county-seat of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, is situated on the Conestoga River, seventy-three miles from Philadelphia. This river, which is a tributary of the Susquehanna, is made navigable by nine locks and slack-water pools, from Lancaster to its mouth at Safe Harbor, eighteen miles distant. Considerable trade is brought to the city by its means; while Tidewater Canal opens up navigable communication to Baltimore, by way of Port Deposit. Lancaster was, from 1799 to 1812, the seat of the State government; it was incorporated in 1818, and was at one time the principal inland town of Pennsylvania. The oldest turnpike in the United States terminates at Lancaster, connecting that city with Philadelphia. It has now something more than twenty-five thousand inhabitants, largely descended from the early Dutch settlers, whose names are still borne, and whose language, corrupted into "Pennsylvania Dutch," is still a most familiar one in that region. The city is principally a manufacturing one, producing locomotives, axes, carriages and cotton goods, and being particularly celebrated for its rifles. It has many fine buildings, both public and private. The Court House and County Prison will both attract attention, the former being in the Corinthian and the latter in the Norman style of architecture. Fulton Hall, near the Market-place, is a large edifice used for public assemblies. Franklin and Marshall College, organized in 1853 by the union of Marshall College with the old Franklin College, founded in 1787, is found on James street, and possesses a library of thirteen thousand volumes. It has a large number of both daily and weekly newspapers, and not less than fifteen churches. Whit-Monday is by far the greatest social holiday with the Germans of Lancaster city and county, and, as such, is the scene of general festivities among the city folk and a large influx of country visitors. On the return of this day in Lancaster, the venders of beer, peanuts, colored lemonade and pop-corn are stationed at every corner, and are unusually clamorous and busy. The pic-nics, shows and flying horses are well patronized; but I am told that the scene in the public square is not so animated as in former days, when soap venders and the razor strop man monopolized the attention of the rustic lads and lasses. Public ceremonies have no apparent place in the observance of this anniversary. Lancaster is noted for having been the residence of three persons who have played an important part in the affairs of the nation: James Buchanan, our fifteenth President; Hon. Thaddeus Stevens, the champion of the slave; and General Reynolds, the gallant soldier, who fell at Gettysburg. These all sleep their last sleep within the city limits. James Buchanan, though born in Franklin County, Pennsylvania, made his home at Lancaster during all the years of his statesmanship, finding at Wheatland, his country residence, in the vicinity of the city, relaxation from the cares of public life. Born in 1791, in 1814 he was elected a member of the Pennsylvania House of Representatives. In 1820 he was elected Congressman, holding that position until 1831, when he was appointed ambassador to Russia. In 1834 he was made Senator; in 1845 Secretary of State under President Polk, and Ambassador to England in 1854. In 1856 he was elected President of the United States, the close of his administration being signalized by the secession of South Carolina, and the incipient steps of the Rebellion. He died at his home at Wheatland, in Lancaster, on June first, 1868. The remains of Thaddeus Stevens, for so many years one of the most fearless champions of the anti-slavery cause in Congress, lie buried in "Schreiner's Cemetery," in a quiet and retired corner at the side furthest from its entrance on West Chestnut street. An exceedingly plain stone, with a simple but expressive inscription, tells the stranger the date of his birth and death, and the reasons which led him to request that his remains should be laid in this, the most unpretentious cemetery I have ever seen within the limits of any city. The word Stevens is clearly cut in large letters on the west end of the stone. On the opposite end I noticed a gilt star. On the north side is the following inscription:-- "THADDEUS STEVENS, BORN AT DANVILLE, CALEDONIA CO., VERMONT, APRIL 4TH, 1792. DIED AT WASHINGTON, D. C, AUGUST 11TH, 1868." On the south side of the monument are found these words:-- "I repose in this quiet and secluded spot, Not from any natural preference for solitude, But finding other cemeteries limited as to race, By charter rules, I have chosen this that I might illustrate in my death The principles which I advocated through a long life: Equality of man before his Creator." General Reynolds was among the first to fall at the battle of Gettysburg. On the evening of June thirtieth, 1863, while commanding the First, Third and Eleventh Corps of the Army of the Potomac, he encamped near the village of Emmetsburg, Maryland. He was ordered by General Meade to move early in the morning, with his First and Third Corps, in the direction of Gettysburg. The Third Cavalry Division, under General John Buford, was attacked on Wednesday morning, on the Chambersburg pike, about two miles west of the village, by the vanguard of the Rebel army, which, however, were driven back upon their reserves, but advanced again and, with greatly augmented numbers, drove the Union troops before them. General Wadsworth, hearing the sound of the conflict, came up with his men and seized the range of hills in the direction of Chambersburg, overlooking the battle ground from the northwest. While Wadsworth was getting into position, Reynolds rode forward, unattended, to gain an idea of the position and numbers of the enemy. He discovered a heavy force not far distant, in a grove, and, while reconnoitring through his field-glass, one of the enemy's sharpshooters took aim at him, with fatal effect. He fell to the ground, never to rise again. He was a brave and dauntless soldier, who had already won such distinction on the battlefield that few were entrusted with as heavy responsibilities as he. Had his life been prolonged, no doubt he would have been promoted still higher, and his name might have been written among those of the successful generals of the war. His ashes repose at Lancaster, where due honor is done them. Lancaster might not inappropriately be called the Cemetery City, for every principal street seems to lead to a cemetery. Here, in these cities of the dead, lie those who have passed away for many generations back. Numerous venerable stones record, in Dutch, the names and virtues of Herrs and Fraus who lived and died in the last century, while more modern tombstones and monuments are erected over the later dead. Few places are more interesting to one who would study a people and their history, than an old graveyard; and few cities furnish the visitor more numerous or better opportunities than Lancaster. CHAPTER XVI. MILWAUKEE. Rapid Development of the Northwest.--The "West" Forty Years Ago.--Milwaukee and its Commerce and Manufactures.--Grain Elevators.--Harbor.--Divisions of the City.--Public Buildings.--Northwestern National Asylum for Disabled Soldiers.--German Population.--Influence and Results of German Immigration.--Bank Riot in 1862.--Ancient Tumuli.--Mound Builders.--Mounds Near Milwaukee.--Significance of Same.--Early Traders.--Foundation of the City in 1835.--Excelling Chicago in 1870.--Population and Commerce in 1880. There is no more astonishing fact connected with the history of our country than the rapid settlement of the Northwest, the development of its vast agricultural and mineral resources, and the almost magical growth of towns and cities along the margins of its lakes and rivers. A person who has not passed middle age can remember when the "West" indicated Indiana and Illinois, which were reached by the emigrant after many days of weary travel in his own rude-covered wagon, and before starting on his journey to which he bade kindred and friends a solemn adieu, scarcely hoping to meet them again in this world. Then the present great trade centres of the west were mere villages, with ambitious aspirations, it is true, but contending for a successful future against fearful odds. A man who has reached threescore and ten can remember when most of these towns and cities had no existence save as Indian trading posts, and when most of the country west of the Mississippi was as yet unexplored and regarded either as a desert waste or a howling wilderness. Only the brave Jesuit missionaries had at that period dared the perils of something even more dangerous than a frontier life, and established missions throughout the Northwest, on the sites of what are to-day thriving towns. But the genius and daring of the Anglo-Saxon race have changed all this. Civilization has impressed itself so deeply on our Northwestern territory, that were it, by any unfortunate contingency, destroyed or removed to-day, it would take longer time to obliterate its footprints than it has required to make them. Among the cities of the West remarkable for rapid growth, Milwaukee, on the western bank of Lake Michigan, is especially prominent. First settled in 1835, and not chartered as a city until 1846, she has made such rapid strides in both population and commerce, that in 1880 her inhabitants numbered 115,578, and in 1870 she claimed the rank of the fourth city in the Union in marine commerce, a rank which she has since lost, not by any backward steps on her own part, but because of the sudden and astonishing development of other cities. A rival of Chicago, Milwaukee shares with that city the commerce of the lakes, and is connected by steamboats with many points on the opposite side of Lake Michigan and with more distant ports. She is the lake terminus of a large number of railroads which drain an agricultural region of great extent and fertility; while her nearness to the copper mines of Lake Superior and the inexhaustible iron mines distant but from forty to fifty miles to the northward, contribute to make her a manufacturing centre. A single establishment for the manufacture of railroad iron was established, at a cost of a million of dollars. She has other iron works, and manufactures machinery, agricultural implements, car wheels and steam boilers, large quantities of tobacco and cigars; furnishes the Northwest with furniture, and has extensive pork packing establishments, while the products of her flouring mills and lager beer breweries find markets in every quarter of the United States, and have a reputation all their own. The rolling mill of the North Chicago Rolling Mill Company is one of the most extensive in the West. As a grain depot, Milwaukee takes high rank. There are six immense elevators within the limits of the city, with a united capacity of 3,450,000 bushels; the largest one, the grain elevator of the Milwaukee and St. Paul Railroad, being one of the largest on the continent, and having a storage capacity of 1,500,000 bushels. The flour mills of E. Sanderson & Company have a daily capacity of one thousand barrels of flour. The harbor of Milwaukee is the best on the south or west shore of Lake Michigan. It is formed by the mouth of the Milwaukee River, and the largest lake boat can ascend it for two miles, to the heart of the city, at which point the Menomonee River unites with the Milwaukee. The course of the Milwaukee River is nearly due south, while that of the Menomonee is nearly due west; and by these two rivers and their united stream after their junction, the city is divided into three very nearly equal districts, which are severally known as the East, being that portion of the city between the Milwaukee River and Lake Michigan; the West, that portion included between the two rivers; and the South, or the territory south of them both. The city embraces an area of seventeen square miles, and is laid out with the regularity characteristic of western cities. The business quarter lies in a sort of hollow in the neighborhood of the two rivers, whose shores are lined with wharves. The East and West portions of the city are chiefly occupied by residences, the former being upon a high bluff, overlooking the lake, and the latter upon a still higher bluff west of the river. Milwaukee is known as the "Cream City of the Lakes," this name being derived from the cream-colored brick of which many of the buildings are constructed. It gives to the streets a peculiarly light and cheerful aspect. The whole architectural appearance of the city is one of primness rather than of grandeur, which might not inappropriately suggest for it the name of the "Quaker City of the West." The residence streets are shaded by avenues of trees, which add to the cheerful beauty of the town. The principal hotels and retail stores are found upon East Water street, Wisconsin street and Second avenue, which are all three wide and handsome thoroughfares. The United States Custom House stands on the corner of Wisconsin and Milwaukee streets, and is the finest public building in the city. It is of Athens stone, and contains the Post Office and United States Courts. The County Court House is also a striking edifice. The Opera House, used for theatrical purposes, is worthy of mention; while the Academy of Music, which was erected in 1864, by the German Musical Society, at a cost of $65,000, has an elegant auditorium, seating two thousand three hundred persons. The Roman Catholic Cathedral of St. John, and the new Baptist Church, are fine church edifices, but the finest which the city contains is the Immanual Presbyterian Church. A Free Public Library possesses a collection of fourteen thousand volumes, and a well-supplied reading room. Several banking houses have imposing buildings. The most prominent among the educational institutions of the city is the Milwaukee Female College, which was finished in 1873. There are three Orphan Asylums, a Home for the Friendless, and two Hospitals. One of the chief points of interest to the visitor is the Northwestern National Asylum for disabled soldiers, which furnishes excellent accommodation for from seven hundred to eight hundred inmates. It is an immense brick edifice, located three miles from the city, in the midst of grounds four hundred and twenty-five acres in extent, more than half of which is under cultivation, and the remainder laid out as a park. The institution has a reading room, and a library of two thousand five hundred volumes, for the use and benefit of its patriot guests. No one who visits Milwaukee can fail to be struck with the semi-foreign appearance of the city. Breweries are multiplied throughout its streets, lager beer saloons abound, beer gardens, with their flowers and music and cleanly arbor-shaded tables, attract the tired and thirsty in various quarters. German music halls, gasthausen, and restaurants are found everywhere, and German signs are manifest over many doors. One hears German spoken upon the streets quite as often as English, and Teuton influence upon the political and social life of the city is everywhere seen and felt. Germans constitute nearly one-half the entire population of Milwaukee, and have impressed their character upon the people and the city itself in other ways than socially. Steady-going plodders, with their love for music and flowers, they have yet no keen taste for display, and every time choose the substantial rather than the ornamental. Milwaukee is a sort of rendezvous for the Scandinavian emigrants, who are pouring in like a mighty tide to fill up the States of Wisconsin and Minnesota. Danes and Swedes, and especially Norwegians, stop here, and it may be, linger for a longer or shorter period, before they strike out into the, to them, unknown country which is to be their future home. Domestic service is largely supplied by the Norwegians, who prove themselves honest, industrious and capable. This mighty influx of the Germanic and Scandinavian races into our Northwest is certain to produce a permanent impression upon the social condition of those States. Yet our system of government is adapted to the successful management of such immigration. It cannot, perhaps, do so much with the immigrants themselves. Many of them intelligent, but more of them ignorant and stupid, they remain foreign in their habits and ideas to the end of their lives. But it makes citizens of their sons, trains them up with an understanding of democratic institutions, gives them an education, for the most part, forces them to acquire our language, and instead of making them a separate class, recognizes them as an undivided part of the whole population. In brief, it Americanizes them, and though habits and traits of character and race still cling to them in some degree, their original nationality is soon lost in the great cosmopolitan tide of civilized humanity which swells and surges around them. Different races intermarry and blend, and form a composite of personnel and character which is fast becoming individualized and recognized as the type of the true American. After a few generations but little remains save the patronymic to remind the descendants of these immigrants of their original descent. Wherever the German race has settled it has taken substantial prosperity with it. The members of that race have proved themselves honest, industrious, and preëminently loyal. To the "Dutch" St. Louis owed her own modified loyalty during the late civil war. The German element of Cincinnati also turned the tide of popular sentiment in favor of the North, and secured for that city, during war times, an immunity from disturbance, and a prosperity unexampled during her previous history. They bring with them not only thrift, but an appreciation for the refining arts which is not found in any other class of immigrants. The German quarter of a city may nearly always be discovered by the abundance of flowers in windows and balconies, and growing thriftily in secluded courts. The German better appreciates his beer when sipped in the midst of natural beauties, and to the sound of music. To this music-loving characteristic of her German population Milwaukee owes her finest music hall, the Academy of Music already described. They are not quick of thought, but even their stolidity, when it is offset and modified by the almost supernatural sharpness and quickness of wit of other nationalities which also look to America as a refuge from oppression, produces a useful counter-balance, and the offspring of the two will be apt to possess stability of character with intellectual alertness. The Germans have their faults, undoubtedly, but they are less obnoxious than those of some other classes of immigrants, and when modified often become virtues. Milwaukee, since her existence as a city, has had a comparatively uneventful history. She has not been ravaged by flood, like Cincinnati, nor by fire, like Chicago, nor by pestilence, like Memphis, nor by famine, like many cities in the old world. She has moved on in the even tenor of her way, increasing her commerce and adding to her industries, perfecting her school system and enlarging her own domain. The only disturbance which is recorded against her in the chronicles of her existence, occurred in June, 1862, when there was a riot, in consequence of the rejection, by the bankers of Milwaukee, of the notes of most of the banks of the State. The banks of Wisconsin being governed, at that time, by a free banking law, modeled, in a great measure, after that of New York, had purchased largely the bonds of different Southern States, and deposited them with the State Comptroller as a security for their issues, the bonds of said States usually being lower than those of the Northern States. When the Southern States withdrew from the Union there was, in consequence, a rapid reduction of the value of these securities, and an equally rapid depreciation of the value of the bank notes based upon them. Their issues were finally curtailed, occasioning severe loss and great bitterness of feeling on the part of those who held them. The riot consequent on this state of affairs resulted in a considerable destruction of property, though no lives were lost. It was finally quelled by the State authorities. Of the original inhabitants of Wisconsin, we have no knowledge whatever. The only traces they have left of their existence are numerous ancient mounds or tumuli, which are scattered at various points all over the State. Their antiquity is attested by the fact that trees of four hundred years' growth are found standing upon them. Discoveries in the Lake Superior copper regions, of mines which had once been worked, over which trees of a like age were growing, seem to indicate that the same people raised the mounds and worked the mines. In all probability their antiquity extends further backward than this. The Indians, improperly called the aborigines, have no traditions concerning the construction of these mounds, which are evidently none of their handiwork, but belong to a race which has been supplanted and disappeared from the globe. The similarity of these mounds to those discovered in Central America leads to the conclusion that they were both the work of one and the same race; but whether they were constructed as tombs or as places for altars, there is a division of opinion. Those in Central America were evidently once surmounted by temples or places of worship and sacrifice. These mounds vary in size, shape and height. At Prairie du Chien one of the largest of these tumuli was leveled to furnish a site for Fort Crawford. It was circular in form, having a base of some two hundred feet, and was twenty feet high. The circular form is the most common in those mounds, although there are many different shapes. Some appear like wells, inclosing an open space; others like breastworks with angles; still others have a space through them, as if they formed a sort of gateway. On the dividing ridge between the Mississippi and Wisconsin rivers mounds are found in the form of birds with their wings and tails spread; of deer, rabbits and other animals. One even bears a marked resemblance to an elephant. There are also a few mounds representing a man lying on his face. They are three or four feet high at the highest points, rounding over the sides. One of the most singular characteristics of these mounds is that they seem invariably to be composed of earth brought from a greater or less distance. The surface of the surrounding ground usually comes up to the base of the mound in a smooth level, when it does not already possess a natural elevation; but there is no evidence of the ground anywhere in the neighborhood having been disturbed to furnish the earth for their construction. In some instances the soil of these tumuli is of an actually different character, the like of which has not been discovered within several miles of the mounds. These antiquities constitute the only mementos and annals transmitted to us, of the mysterious race which once peopled our western territory, and extended as far east as the shores of the Ohio, as far north as the great lakes, and westward and southward to Central America. It seems a pity that no systematic effort has been made to perpetuate them, if not for the benefit of future generations whose interest and curiosity should be excited at beholding them, at least out of a consideration for the unknown race whose work they are, and as enduring monuments to whose numbers and industry they have remained up to the present time, when all else has perished. The plow, the hoe and the spade, those iconoclastic weapons of civilization, are fast effacing them from the surface of the country. When the plow once breaks the sod which has covered them and preserved their form, the wind and rain each lend speedy assistance to the work of destruction, and but a few years will elapse before most of them will have disappeared altogether, and the places which have known them for untold centuries will know them no more forever. It is a fact worthy of mention that these mounds have most frequently been found on sites selected for modern towns and cities, as though ancients and moderns alike had instinctively chosen for their abiding places those localities most favored by nature for the uses of man. Numerous earthworks about Milwaukee attest the favor in which the locality of that city was held by this pre-historic race. These works extend from Kinnickinnic Creek, near the "Indian Fields," where they are most abundant, to a point six miles above the city. They occupy high grounds near but not in immediate proximity to the lake and streams, and are most varied in their form, while many are of large extent. They are chiefly from one hundred to four hundred feet in diameter, and represent turtles, lizards, birds, the otter and buffalo, while a number have the form of a war club. Occasionally, a mound is elevated so as to overlook or command many others, as though it was a sort of high or superior altar for the observance of religious or sacrificial rites. Milwaukee is to be commended for her failure to manifest that spirit of modern vandalism which, in other sections, has sacrificed the relics of a by-gone age and people to the fancied utility of civilization. The Forest Home Cemetery incloses a number of these mounds, and so they are preserved for the benefit of the antiquary and curiosity seeker. We trust she will continue to cherish sacredly these few monuments left as the sole legacy of the ancient inhabitants of the West. The early Indian name of the river upon which the city of Milwaukee now stands was Mellcoki. So says one tradition. Another gives the name as Man-a-wau-kee, from the name of a valuable medicinal root known as Man-wau; hence, the land or place of the Man-wau. Still another gives the Indian name as Me-ne-wau-kee---a rich or beautiful land. The Indians had a village on the site of the present city. The Milwaukee tribe were troublesome and difficult to manage. About the first trader who ventured to establish a post among them was Alexander Laframboise, who came from Mackinaw and located on the spot previous to or about 1785. This trading post, having been mismanaged, was discontinued about 1800, and another soon took its place. A succession of trading posts and fur stations followed, until about 1818, when Solomon Juneau, a Frenchman, established himself there permanently, with a little colony of half-breeds, who built themselves log cabins on the banks of the stream, two miles from the lake, near the junction of the Menomonee. Below them, on the river flats, where now extend the business streets of the city, the low marshy ground was overgrown by tall reeds and rushes, while away back from the river stretched the boundless prairie. The place was known, thenceforth, as Juneau's Settlement. This settlement gradually attracted, first, other traders, and finally immigrants. In 1825 it was still nothing more than a trading station, but ten years later it had become a settlement and called itself a town, taking the name of Milwaukee, from the river upon which it was built. Chicago had already begun her marvelous growth, and was at that very time extending herself to extraordinary dimensions--on paper. The little town of Milwaukee had then no thought of rivalry, but was content to plod along for eleven years more before it received its city charter. By 1850 its growth had been remarkable, and it numbered more than twenty thousand inhabitants. In 1860 it had more than doubled this population, recording over forty-five thousand inhabitants, and in 1870 it had almost doubled again, the census reporting more than seventy-one thousand persons for that year. In the same year Milwaukee received 18,466,167 bushels of wheat, actually exceeding Chicago by about a million of bushels. The shipments of wheat the same year were 16,027,780 bushels, and of flour 1,225,340 barrels. Her exports for that year also included butter, hops, lumber, wool and shingles, of all which commodities she shipped immense quantities. From 1870 to 1880 the increase of population and commerce was equally astonishing, while her manufactures had grown in like proportion. The vast lumber regions to the northwest help to build up her business; new towns which spring up throughout the State become tributary to her; and the farms which are multiplying in that fertile region send a share of their products to find a gateway through her to the eastern markets and to Europe. She divides with Chicago the trade which, by means of the great lakes and the great railway trunk lines, is busy going to and fro in the land, from east to west and from west to east. When the Northern Pacific Railway furnishes a continuous route of travel and freight between Lake Superior and the Northern Pacific States, the business of Milwaukee will be naturally augmented. But her future prosperity depends largely upon the prosperity of the agricultural population which surrounds her, which fills her elevators and warehouses, and furnishes freight for her boats with its products, and has need of her manufactures in return. And thus we see illustrated the fundamental principle of political economy, that that which concerns one must concern all; that one class or section of people cannot suffer without affecting in some degree all classes and sections. All are interdependent, and all must stand or fall together. CHAPTER XVII. MONTREAL. Thousand Islands.--Long Sault Rapids.--Lachine Rapids.--Victoria Bridge.--Mont Rèal.--Early History of Montreal.--Its Shipping Interests.--Quays.--Manufactures.--Population.--Roman Catholic Supremacy.--Churches.--Nunneries.--Hospitals.--Colleges.-- Streets.--Public Buildings.--Victoria Skating Rink.-- Sleighing.--Early Disasters.--Points of Interest.--The "Canucks." The traveler who visits Montreal should, if possible, make his approach to that city by a descent of the St. Lawrence River, that he may become acquainted with some of the most beautiful scenery in America. Leaving Kingston, at the outlet of Lake Ontario, he will wind his way through the mazes of the Thousand Islands, which will seem to him as if belonging to an enchanted country. These islands, situated at the head of the St. Lawrence, extend down the river for a distance of thirty miles, and are innumerable and of every size and shape. Wolf Island, about fifteen miles in length, is the largest; while some of the smallest seem like mere flower-pots rising out of the water, with but a single plant. They are most picturesque in appearance, their rocky foundations being veiled and softened by the trees and shrubbery which cover them. In past ages mythology would have made these islands the sacred abodes of the gods, and peopled their woods and dells with nymphs and fauns, while the intervening channels would have been presided over by naiads. A little more than a generation ago, a single inhabitant, a freebooter, who levied toll upon the passers up and down the river, and who concealed his ill-gotten booty in his numerous lurking-places in the islands, turned this terrestrial paradise into a pirate's den. To-day the Thousand Islands have become famous summer resorts for the denizens of our northern cities; and large and small are studded with attractive cottages and imposing villas; while nature, already so beautiful in its wild state, has been trained into the tamer beauty of modern landscape gardening. Beyond the islands the majestic St. Lawrence rolls on until it reaches the rapids, celebrated in song by Thomas Moore. Here the river narrows, and the current rushes impetuously over and between the rocks which jut from its bottom; while the pilot, with watchfulness and skill, guides the boat through the treacherous channel, and lands her safely in the smoother waters beyond. These rapids are known as the Long Sault Rapids, and are nine miles in length. A raft will drift this whole distance in forty minutes. The passage of boats down these rapids was considered impossible until 1840, when the famous Indian pilot, Teronhiahéré, after watching the course of rafts down the stream, attempted it, and discovered a safe channel for steamboats. Many of the pilots are still Indians, who exhibit great skill and courage in the undertaking. There has never yet been a fatal accident in shooting these rapids. The Cornwall Canal, eleven miles long, permits vessels to go around the rapids in ascending the river. The Lachine Rapids, nine miles above Montreal, although the shortest, are the most dangerous. It is easy enough to descend these rapids, if one is not particular as to results; but it is difficult enough to descend them safely. The faint-hearted had better commit themselves to the more placid waters of the canal, or take to the railroad. But to the brave traveler there is a certain exhilaration in thus toying with and conquering danger. The rapids fairly passed, one can distinguish the long line and graceful archways of the Victoria Bridge, and the towers and spires of Montreal. Montreal is on an island thirty-two miles in length, and with a width at its widest of ten miles. It is at the junction of the St. Lawrence and Ottawa, both of them noble rivers, and is connected with the mainland by two bridges, one of them spanning the Ottawa by a series of immense arches; and the other, the Victoria bridge, thrown across the St. Lawrence. The length of the latter bridge is nearly two miles. It rests upon twenty-three piers and two abutments of solid masonry, the central span being three hundred and thirty feet long. Its total cost was about $6,300,000. It was formally opened to the public by the Prince of Wales, on the occasion of his visit to America during the summer of 1860. The railway track runs through an iron tube, twenty-two feet high and sixteen feet wide. The river rolls nearly a hundred feet below, in summer a sweeping flood, and in winter a sort of glacier, the ice masses piled and heaped upon one another, as they have been upheaved or hurled in the contentions between the current and the frost-king. The city of Montreal is distinctly outlined against Mount Royal or Mont Rèal, which rises back of it, its edifices showing dark and gray, except where the sun catches its numerous tin roofs, making them glitter like burnished steel. It takes its name from Mont Rèal, the mountain already referred to, which closes it in on one side, and rises seven hundred and fifty feet above the river. Its eastern suburb, still known as Hochelaga, was the site of an Indian village when it was discovered, in 1535, by Jacques Cartier, and this explorer it was who gave the name to the mountain. In 1642, just one hundred and fifty years after the discovery of America, it was settled by the French, retaining its Indian name for a century later, when that appellation was replaced by the French one of "Ville Marie." In 1761 the city came into the possession of the British, and received its present name. In 1775 it was captured by the Americans under General Montgomery, and held by them until the following summer. Montreal was, under both French and British rule, an outpost of Quebec until 1832, when it became a separate port. The shallower parts of the river being deepened above Quebec, Montreal became accessible to boats drawing from nineteen to twenty-two feet of water. It is now the chief shipping port of Canada. It is five hundred miles from the sea, and ninety miles above tidewater; and being at the head of ship navigation of the St. Lawrence, and at the foot of the great chain of inland lakes, rivers and canals which connect it with the very centre of the American continent, its commerce is very important. At the confluence of the Ottawa with the St. Lawrence, it is also the outlet of a vast lumber country. It feels, however, the serious disadvantage of being, for five months in the year, blockaded, and made, to all intents and purposes, an inland city, by the closing of navigation during the winter. Then, by means of the Grand Trunk and other railways, it becomes tributary to Portland, Maine, and finds, at that city, a port for its commerce. Its two miles of quays, including the locks and stone-cut wharves of the Lachine Canal, all built of solid limestone, would do credit to any city in the world; while a broad wall or esplanade extends between these quays and the houses which overlook the river. Montreal takes a front rank in its manufacturing interests, which embrace all kinds of agricultural and mechanical implements, steam engines, printing types, India-rubber shoes, paper, furniture, woolens, cordage and flour. In 1874 its exports were valued at over twenty-two millions of dollars. The population of Montreal in 1779 was only about seven thousand inhabitants. In 1861 it had increased to 70,323; and in 1871 the census returns made the population 115,926. Of these inhabitants, probably more than one-half are Roman Catholics, representing a great variety of nationalities, among which, however, French Canadians and Irish predominate. The Catholics were, at first, under French dominion, in exclusive possession of the city, and the different religious societies gained vast wealth. Ever since Canada has passed into the hands of England they still hold their own, and exercise an influence over the people, and display a magnificence in their edifices and appointments, unknown in other sections of America. No city of the same size in the United States has such splendid churches. The Roman Catholic Cathedral of Notre Dame, fronting on the Place d'Armes, is the largest on the continent. It is two hundred and forty-one feet in length, by one hundred and thirty-five feet in width, and is capable of seating more than ten thousand persons. It is a massive structure, built of stone, in the Gothic style with a tower at each corner, and one in the middle of each flank, numbering six in all. The towers on the main front are two hundred and twelve feet high, and furnish to visitors a magnificent view of the city. In one of these towers is a fine chime of bells, the largest of which, the "Gros Bourdon," weighs twenty-nine thousand four hundred pounds. But as large as is this cathedral, it will be surpassed in size by the Cathedral of St. Peter, now in process of erection at the corner of Dorchester and Cemetery streets, and built after the general plan of St. Peter's at Rome. This cathedral will be three hundred feet long by two hundred and twenty-five feet wide at the transepts, and will be surmounted by five domes, the largest of which will be two hundred and fifty feet in height, supported on four piers and thirty-two Corinthian columns. The vestibule alone will be two hundred feet long by thirty feet wide, and will be fronted by a portico, surmounted by colossal statues of the Apostles. It will, when completed, be by far the finest and largest church edifice in America. St Patrick's Church at the west end of Lagauchère street, is noticeable for its handsome Gothic windows of stained glass, and will seat five thousand persons. The Church of the Gesü, in Blewry street, has the finest interior in the city, the vast nave, seventy-five feet in height, being bordered by rich composite columns, and the walls and ceilings beautifully frescoed. The Roman Catholic churches undoubtedly exceed in size and number those of the Protestants, though some of the latter are worthy of note. Christ Church Cathedral--Episcopal, in St. Catherine street, is the most perfect specimen of English Gothic architecture in America. It is built of rough Montreal stone, with Caen stone facings, cruciform, and surmounted by a spire two hundred and twenty-four feet high. St. Andrew's Church--Presbyterian, in Radegonde street, is a fine specimen of Gothic architecture, being an imitation, on a reduced scale, of Salisbury Cathedral. Zion Church--Independent, in Radegonde street, near Victoria Square, was the scene of the riot and loss of life on the occasion of Gavazzi's lecture in 1852. Like Quebec, Montreal is famous for its nunneries. The Gray Nunnery, founded in 1692, for the care of lunatics and children, is situated in Dorchester street. This nunnery owns Nun's Island, in Lake St. Louis, above Montreal, once an Indian burial ground, but now in a high state of cultivation. In Notre Dame street, near the Place d'Armes, is the Black or Congregational Nunnery, which dates from 1659, and is devoted to the education of girls. At Hochelaga is the Convent of the Holy Name of Mary. The Hôtel Dieu, founded in 1644, for the cure of the sick, and St. Patrick's Hospital, are both under the charge of the Sisters of St. Joseph. The Christian Brothers have control of numerous schools, and render material aid to morality and religion. The Seminary of St. Sulspice is a large and stately building, devoted to the education of Catholic priests. Nuns and priests are familiar objects upon the streets, and not always a welcome sight to the Protestant eye; nevertheless, the good works in which they engage are numerous and not to be undervalued. The number of hospitals, scientific institutions, libraries, reading-rooms, schools and universities of Montreal is remarkable. Many of them are under Catholic control, and all are worthy of a highly civilized and prosperous community. First among the educational institutions of the city is McGill College, founded by a bequest of the Hon. James McGill, in 1811, and erected into a university, by royal charter, in 1821. It is beautifully situated at the base of Mount Royal, and, besides a large corps of able professors, possesses one of the finest museums in the country. Montreal is a beautiful city. Its public buildings are constructed of solid stone, in which a handsome limestone, found in the neighborhood, predominates. Its churches, banks, hospitals and colleges are all edifices of which to be proud. Its private dwellings are, a majority of them, substantially built, while many of the roofs, cupolas and spires are covered with metal, which, seen at a distance, glitters in the sun. The most elegant private residences are found upon the slope of Mont Rèal, surrounded by ample grounds containing fine lawns, trees and shrubbery. From these hillside residences the scenery is most lovely, looking over a panorama of city, river and country, with the blue tops of the mountain ranges of New York, Vermont and New Hampshire plainly perceptible on clear days. St. Paul street is the chief commercial thoroughfare, and extends nearly parallel to the river, but a square or two back from it, the whole length of the city. Commissioner street faces the quays and monopolizes much of the wholesale trade. McGill, St. James and Notre Dame are also important business streets. Great St. James and Notre Dame streets are the fashionable promenades, while Catherine, Dorchester and Sherbrook streets contain the finest private residences. At the intersection of McGill and St. James streets, in a small public square, called Victoria Square, is a fountain and a bronze statue of Queen Victoria. A number of fine buildings surround this square, prominent among which are the Albert buildings and the beautiful Gothic structure of the Young Men's Christian Association. Bontecour's Market, a spacious stone edifice in the Doric style, is one of the handsomest buildings in the city. It fronts the river at the corner of St. Paul and Water streets, is three stories high, surmounted by a dome, from which the view is exceptionally fine. The new City Hall, at the head of Jacques Cartier Square, containing the offices of the various civil and corporate functionaries, is an elegant structure, spacious and perfect in all its appointments. The Court House, in Notre Dame street, is three hundred feet long by one hundred and twenty-five feet wide, in the Doric style, and erected at a cost of over three hundred thousand dollars. It includes a law library of six thousand volumes. Back of it is the Champs de Mars, a fine military parade ground. The Custom House is between St. Paul street and the river, on the site of an old market-place, and is a massive structure with a fine tower. The Post Office is an elegant building near the Place d'Armes, in great St. James street. In the Place d'Armes, is the Bank of Montreal and the City Bank, Masonic Hall, the headquarters of the Masons of Canada, and several other of the principal banks of the city. Mechanics' Institute, in great St. James street, though plain externally, has an elaborately decorated lecture room. The principal hotels are the Windsor, in Dorchester street, one of the finest of its kind in America; the St. Lawrence, in Great St. James street; the Ottawa House, corner of St. James and Notre Dame streets; Montreal House, in Custom House Square; the Richelieu Hotel, and the Albion. One of the principal points of attraction in both winter and summer is the Victoria Skating Rink, in Dominion Square. This extensive building is used during the milder months of the year for horticultural shows, concerts and miscellaneous gatherings. In the winter the doors of this place are thronged with a crowd of sleighs and sleigh drivers, while inside, skaters and spectators form a living, moving panorama, pleasant to look upon. The place is lighted by gas, and men and women, old and young, with a plentiful sprinkling of children, on skates, are practicing all sorts of gyrations. The ladies are prettily and appropriately dressed in skating costumes, and some of them are proficient in the art of skating. The spectators sit or stand on a raised ledge around the ice parallelogram, while the skaters dart off, singly or in pairs, executing quadrilles, waltzes, curves, straight lines, letters, labyrinths, and every conceivable figure. Now and then some one comes to grief in the surging, moving throng; but is quickly on his or her feet again, the ice and water shaken off, and the zigzag resumed. Children skate; boys and girls; ladies and gentlemen, and even dignified military officers. Some skate well, some medium, some shockingly ill; but all skate, or essay to do so. It is the grand Montrealese pastime, and though the ice is sloppy, and the air chill and heavy with moisture, everybody has a good time. There is one other amusement of the public, and that is sleighing. The winter in the latitude of Montreal is long and cold, and sometimes the snow falls to a depth of several feet, lying upon the ground for months. When winter settles down upon the city, the river freezes over, leaving the island an island no longer, but making it part and parcel of the surrounding continent. Then the people wrap themselves in furs and betake themselves to their sleighs, and glide swiftly along the well-beaten roads, between the white drifts. Vehicles of every description, from the most elegant appointed sleigh down to the rough box sled, are seen upon the road, and the jingle of bells is everywhere heard, as the sledges follow, pass and repass one another on the snowy track. Ladies closely wrapped in furs and veils, and their cavaliers in fur caps with flaps brought closely around ears and chin, alike bid defiance to the temperature, which is not infrequently in the neighborhood of zero; and the blood seems to course more quickly for the keenness of the atmosphere. During its long history, Montreal has had disasters as well as successes. Something over a hundred years after its founding as a French colony it was nearly destroyed by fire, and a little later it became a favorite point of attack during the two American wars. But to-day it is the most thriving city of the British provinces. It has pushed its railway communications with great energy, and so long as peace is maintained between Canada and the United States it will continue to prosper. In the event of war, the city lies in an exposed position, and during the winter its only outlet, by rail to Portland, would be cut off. The Nelson Monument in Jacques Cartier Square, and near it the old Government House, will prove objects of interest to the visitor, though the former is in somewhat of a dilapidated condition. The city is supplied with water by works which are situated a mile or so above it, in the midst of beautiful scenery. Mount Royal Cemetery is two miles from the city, on the northern slope of the mountain. One of the most beautiful views in the neighborhood of Montreal is the famous around the mountain drive, nine miles in length, and passing by Mount Royal Park. First settled by the French, their descendants, the French Canadians, form a considerable proportion of the population of Montreal. But whatever they may have been in the past, they have degenerated into an illiterate, unenterprising people. The English, Irish and Scotch, who during the past century have been emigrating to Canada in such numbers, have monopolized most of the business, and have rescued Montreal, as well as Lower Canada generally, from a stagnation which was sure to creep upon it if left in the hands of the descendants of the early French settlers. Arcadian innocence and simplicity have developed, or rather degenerated, into indolence, stolidity and ignorance. The priests do the thinking for these people, who, apparently have few ambitions in life beyond meeting its daily wants. Thus, though the streets of Montreal still bear the old names, and though its architecture still retains much of the quaintness which it early assumed, the business is largely in the hands of the Anglo-Saxons and Celts, who are its later settlers; and English pluck, Irish industry, Scotch thrift and American push, are all brought into marked contrast with the sluggishness and lethargy of the "Canucks." The names over the principal business houses are either English, Scotch or Irish; and the sympathies of the intelligent people are entirely in harmony with the government under which they live. CHAPTER XVIII. NEWARK. From New York to Newark.--Two Hundred Years Ago.--The Pioneers.--Public Parks.--City of Churches.--The Canal.-- Sailing Up-Hill.--An Old Graveyard.--New Amsterdam and New Netherlands.--The Dutch and English.--Adventurers from New England.--The Indians.--Rate of Population.--Manufactures.-- Rank as a City. Nine miles, in a westerly direction, from New York, on a lovely morning in the early autumn of 1880, by the comfortable cars of that most perfect of all railways, the "Pennsylvania," brought our little party to Newark, which I had often heard spoken of as the leading commercial and manufacturing city of New Jersey. Situated in the northeastern corner of the State, on the west bank of the Passaic, three miles from its entrance into Newark Bay--the city of Newark occupies the most delightful spot in a State famed for its beauty. In our short journey from New York we passed over broad, level meadows, bearing some resemblance to a western prairie. The Passaic and the Hackensack rivers traverse these prairie-like meadows, while rising abruptly in the distance you behold the historic Bergen Heights. Disembarking at the conveniently located Market Street Depot, we sought and found a temporary home, and then lost no time in gratifying our native curiosity, by exploring the city and learning something of its origin and history. Newark is over two hundred years old, and yet is regularly laid out; its wide and well paved streets are adorned and shaded with grand old elms--some of them coeval with the founding of the city. Its chief business thoroughfare, Broad street, running north and south, through the central part of the city, has many fine business blocks, and a finer avenue cannot be found than the south end of Broad street, lined with wide-spreading elms, and extending, apparently, into infinitude. One peculiarity that absorbed my attention, was the vast number of manufacturing establishments here, located, for the most part, outside of the central streets, and these are doubtless the source of her prosperity. About two hundred years ago Newark was an obscure hamlet of some sixty odd settlers. Since that time it has grown into a city of one hundred and thirty thousand inhabitants. The handful of original settlers were, for the most part, upright, earnest and sturdy mechanics, of Anglo-Saxon blood, and they laid the foundation of what is now one of the most important cities of the Union, ranking, indeed, among the foremost of the world's industrial bee-hives--a monster workshop, whose skilled labor cannot well be surpassed anywhere. They called their village after the old English town of Newark-on-Trent; and Newark-on Passaic has now grown into a city ten times greater than its ancient namesake. The public parks possess a startling interest to the stranger visiting Newark for the first time. Seldom have I found so many, and of such extent, in a city that measures only five miles long, by five broad. Possessed of such breathing places, a town must of necessity be healthy, and I accordingly found this strongly indicated in the faces of all I met, more especially of the blooming young maidens and their mammas. We are told that when the first settlers purchased the site of Newark and its surrounding lands, of the native Indians, and laid out their embryo city, they wisely reserved certain tracts for public purposes, and that most of these still exist as ornaments of the city. Besides those set apart for churches and graveyards, the principal reservations were the "Training-place," the "Market-place," and the "Watering-place." The Training-place is now Military Park, on the east side of Broad street, near its centre; and the Market-place is now Washington Park. These and several others in various parts of this favored city, form delightful retreats from the sun's rays--shaded by majestic elms--a veritable _rus in urbe_. The suburbs also are passing beautiful, extending to Orange on the west, and to within a mile of Elizabeth on the south--both busy towns. Like Brooklyn, Newark may be called a city of churches, and its enlightened and industrious citizens are a church-going people. The Reformed Dutch Church dates from 1663; and the First Presbyterian from 1667. These were the parent churches, and their progeny are manifold and prosperous, as noted in the exceptionally high standard of morality that generally characterizes the peaceful workers in this hive of industry. I was especially struck with the canal which flows under Broad street, and the ingenuity displayed in surmounting a hill that crosses it, by the barges navigating its waters. Here it may be almost said that among their numberless other inventions, the inhabitants of Newark have discovered the art of sailing up a hill! Instead of a lock, by which similar difficulties of inland navigation are usually overcome, the barges are drawn in a cradle up an inclined plane, by means of a stationary steam engine placed at the top of the hill, where the canal recommences, and the barges are re-launched to continue their course westward. In my rambles down Broad street, on its well-paved sidewalk, flanked by flourishing stores, in which every commodity, from a five hundred dollar chronometer down to a ten cent pair of men's socks, is presented for sale, I stopped at an arched gateway on my right, my attention being arrested by a patch of green sward behind it. The gate stood invitingly open, and passing through, I found myself in a venerable and disused graveyard. "This is the oldest of the city graveyards," said an elderly gentleman, to whom I addressed myself for information, "and is of the same age as the city itself. It is the resting-place of many of the original inhabitants. The first church of Newark stood here, and around, you will observe, are tombs, bearing dates of two centuries ago." Such, I found, on investigation, to be the case. These old stones--most of their inscriptions now undecipherable,--were erected to commemorate the dead colonists' names and virtues, more than one hundred years before Washington was born, or they had dreamed of casting off the authority of mother England. I reflected: what was Newark like in those far-away days, two hundred years ago? How did she compare with Newark in the year of grace 1880? In 1608 Henry Hudson descended the noble river which bears his name, and the settlement of _New Amsterdam_ by the Hollanders soon followed. Next, _New Netherlands_ was added to the territory of the Dutchmen, then a great maritime people. Down to the beginning of the seventeenth century the colonization of New Netherlands, on the western banks of the Hudson, had made but little progress. It was all a wilderness, peopled only by Indians. The white man had scarcely penetrated its fertile valleys. The story is told, however, that some of Hudson's hardy crew had sailed in their boats through the _Kill-von-Kule_, at the north of what is now Staten Island, and passed northward into the Passaic River. The enterprising Dutch traders were no doubt fully cognizant of the boundless possibilities of the country, whose fairest spot was destined to form the site of the city of Newark. But these Dutchmen were only lawless adventurers. By right of discovery, a priority of title to all the lands in North America was claimed by England, who declared war upon Holland and all her reputed possessions. _New Amsterdam_ and the province of _New Netherlands_ were among the first to succumb, and in 1664 England obtained complete command of the Atlantic coast. _New Amsterdam_ then became _New York_, in honor of the Duke of York, brother of King Charles II; and _New Netherlands_ became _New Jersey_, in compliment to the Countess of Jersey, a court favorite. To this conquest by England we owe our English tongue, for had the Hollanders vanquished the English, and retained possession, we should doubtless all be speaking "low Dutch" to-day, instead of English. But this is a digression. Colonization rapidly followed when the phlegmatic Dutchmen were turned out, and the first English governor of the province of New Jersey inaugurated a very liberal form of government. This induced many adventurers from New England to unite their fortunes with the colonists of New Jersey. Under the leadership of the enterprising Captain Treat, these New Englanders proceeded to select a site for their new town. They soon found a spot exactly suited to their wishes; a fertile soil, beautiful woodlands, and a navigable stream; while away to the eastward was a wide and sheltered bay. In May, 1666, about thirty families, John Treat being their captain, laid the foundation of Newark. A conference was held with the Indians, which resulted satisfactorily to all. They transferred the land to the white men, and received in payment for what now constitutes the county of Essex, "Fifty double-hands of powder, one hundred bars of lead, twenty axes, twenty coats, ten guns, twenty pistols, ten kettles, ten swords, four blankets, four barrels of beer, two pairs of breeches, fifty knives, twenty hoes, eight hundred and fifty fathoms of wampum, two ankers of liquor, or something equivalent; and three troopers' coats, with the ornaments thereon." A few years later a second purchase was made, by which the limits of the city they were building were extended westward to the top of Orange Hill, the equivalent being "two guns, three coats and thirteen cans of rum." For many years, Newark grew and prospered. In 1681 she was the "most compact town in the province, with a population of 500." In 1713 Queen Anne granted a charter of incorporation, thus making the township of Newark a body politic, which continued in force until the Revolution. With the successful close of the war, Newark entered on a new and prosperous era, and the population increased very largely. In 1795 bridges were built over the Passaic and the Hackensack. In 1810 the population is given as 6,000, and in 1830 it had increased to 11,000. From this date its rate of progress has been very rapid, and at the present time Newark ranks as the thirteenth city of the Union in population. I cannot conclude this chapter without a few words on the manufactures of Newark. The early settlers were, as we have said, in the main, mechanics and artisans, and from this circumstance the growth of the city lay in the direction of manufactures. Newark, to-day, is among the foremost cities of the Union in intelligent industry. So early as 1676 efforts were made to promote the introduction of manufactures. The nearness of the city to New York, the chief market in the Union, with shipping facilities to every quarter of the globe; with the great iron and coal fields easy of access, and a thrifty and industrious people, Newark drew to her mills and factories abundant capital and skilled workmen. She has contributed more useful inventions to industrial progress than any other American city. The Newark Industrial Exposition was originated in 1872, for the purpose of holding an annual exhibition of her local manufactures. The enterprise met with signal success. We have counted no less than four hundred distinct manufactories in operation in this extraordinary city, a list of which would occupy too much of our space. Hardware, tools, machinery, jewelry, leather, hats, and trunks seem to predominate. Of the last-named indispensable article, Newark has the most extensive manufactory in the world, 7,000 trunks per week, or about 365,000 yearly being produced here. It is said that in the manufacture of the best steam fire-engines, Newark ranks first. The number of persons finding employment in the factories is about 25,000, and the amount of wages paid weekly averages $250,000, or about $13,000,000 per year. The annual value of the productions of all her manufactories amounts to about $60,000,000. Thus it is seen that Newark has developed into one of the principal producing cities of the United States, the value of her diversified manufactured products making her, in this respect, the third, if not the second city of the Union. CHAPTER XIX. NEW HAVEN. The City of Elms.--First Impressions.--A New England Sunday.-- A Sail on the Harbor.--Oyster Beds.--East Rock.--The Lonely Denizen of the Bluff.--Romance of John Turner.--West Rock.-- The Judges' Cave.--Its Historical Association.--Escape of the Judges.--Monument on the City Green.--Yale College.--Its Stormy Infancy.--Battle on the Weathersfield Road.--Harvard, the Fruit of the Struggle. Leaving New York by the New York, New Haven and Hartford Railroad, we found ourselves, at the end of a three hours' ride, in New Haven, the beautiful "City of Elms." Everything here bears the impress of New England, with the special peculiarities of Connecticut, land of smart sayings and of the proverbial wooden nutmegs and oak hams. Stepping from the cars, my ears were first saluted by the salutations of two genial Yankees, one of whom, I inferred from the conversation, had just arrived from Bridgeport, and the other at the depot had awaited his coming. Compliments were passed by the latter, who saluted his friend with-- "Well, old boy, where have you been all summer? I see you have got your dust full of eyes." The reply to this salute was in entire harmony with the interrogation, and both walked away from the station, amusing each other with odd maxims and witty retorts. It being our intention to remain several weeks in New Haven, we decided to take up our abode at a private house, and with this object in view we started in pursuit of suitable accommodations. It was soon discovered that in the matter of board we were competing with "Old Yale," students always being preferred, owing to the prospect of permanency. A reconnoissance of several hours, during which we saw more stately elms than I ever expect to see again in so short a period, brought us to 66 Chapel street, where we were pleasantly lodged, with an excellent table, and favored with a Yankee landlord from the classic banks of the Rhine. Universal quiet on the streets, and an inexhaustible supply of brown bread and beans at the breakfast table, was an unmistakable evidence that we had reached a New England Sunday. After breakfast, the weather being fine, I was invited to accompany some young gentlemen in a sail down the harbor. Being uncertain as to the propriety of such a proceeding on the seventh day, I was promptly assured that the Blue Laws of Connecticut would not be outraged in case I had taken a generous ration of brown bread and beans before starting. A ride of half an hour, with but little wind in our sails, carried us down through the oyster beds, to a point nearly opposite the lighthouse at the mouth of the harbor. A novel sight, in my judgment, is a multitude of oyster plantations staked out in such a manner as to show the proprietor of each particular section his exact limit or boundary. To those of my readers who are familiar with hop-growing regions, I would say that an oyster farm is not unlike a hop field which seems to have been suddenly inundated by water, leaving only the tops of the poles above the surface. Oyster raising is one of the leading features of New Haven enterprise, and the Fair Haven oysters, in particular, are regarded among the best that are cultivated on the Atlantic coast. On our return trip up the harbor the tide was going out, and as the water was extremely shallow in many places, and also very clear, we could see oysters and their less palatable neighbors, clams, in great abundance. I was strongly tempted to make substantial preparation for an oyster dinner, but on being informed that such a course would be equivalent to staking out claims in a strange water-melon patch, I concluded to desist, and contented myself with seeing more oysters in half an hour than I had seen in all my life before. EAST ROCK. One of the famous places of resort in the neighborhood of New Haven is East Rock, an abrupt pile of red-brown trap rock, lifting itself up from the plain to a height of four hundred feet. The summit of this monumental pile spreads out in a wide plateau of twenty-five or thirty acres, sloping gradually back towards the meadow lands which border the winding Quinnipiac River. It is owned and occupied by a somewhat eccentric individual, rejoicing in the name of Milton Stuart, who related to me the story of his life in this strange locality since taking up his abode here, some twenty years ago. On being told that I would commit to paper some account of my wanderings about New Haven, he seemed to take an especial pleasure in showing me his grounds and telling me everything of interest concerning them. With ready courtesy he pointed out a heap of stones on the western slope of the bluff, which he said was all that remained of a hut formerly occupied by one John Turner, who made a hermit of himself on this rock, years ago, all because the lady of his love refused to become Mrs. Turner. He met her while teaching in the South--so the story ran--and all his energies seemed to be paralyzed by her refusal to listen to his suit. He came to East Rock and built this wretched hovel of stone, where he lived in solitude, and where one morning in that long ago, he was found dead on the floor of his hovel. How many romances like this lie about us unseen, under the every-day occurrences of life! WEST ROCK is a continuation of the precipitous bluff of which East Rock is one extremity, and is about a mile further up the valley. It is not so high nor so imposing as East Rock, and the view from its wooded top fades into tameness beside the remote ocean distance and the flash of city spires to be seen from East Rock. But it makes up in historical interest what it may lack in other attractions; for here, about a quarter of a mile from its southernmost point, is located the "Judge's Cave," famous as the hiding-place of the regicides who tried and sentenced King Charles the First, in the seventeenth century. On the restoration of Charles II to the throne of his father, three of the high court which had condemned the first Charles wisely left England for the shores of the New World. Their names were Goffe, Whalley and Dixwell. Whalley was a lieutenant-general, Dixwell was a colonel, and Goffe a major-general. These noted army officers arrived at Boston, from England, July twenty-seventh, 1660, and first made their home in Cambridge. Finding that place unsafe, they afterwards went to New Haven. The next year news came from England that thirty-nine of the regicide judges were condemned, and ten already executed, as traitors. An order from the king was sent to the Colonial governors of Massachusetts and Connecticut, for the arrest of the judges. They were thus compelled to fly for their lives, and sought refuge in the cave on West Rock, which afterwards bore their name. Here they lived concealed for some time, being supplied with food by Richard Sperry, who lived about a mile west of the cave. The food was tied up in a cloth and laid on a stump near by, from which the judges could take it unobserved. One night they beheld the blazing eyes of a catamount or panther, peering in upon them at their cave, and were so frightened that they fled in haste to the house of Mr. Sperry, and could not again be induced to return. Several large boulders, from twenty to thirty feet in height, thrown together, doubtless, by some volcanic convulsions, unite to form the cave. Dixwell afterwards lived in New Haven, under an assumed name, and the graves of all three may now be seen, at one side of Centre Church, on the City Green. The following inscription is on a marble slab over the ashes of Dixwell, erected by his descendants in 1849:-- "Here rests the remains of John Dixwell, Esq., of the Priory of Folkestone, in the county of Kent, England. Of a family long prominent in Kent and Warwickshire, and himself possessing large estates and much influence in his county, he espoused the popular cause in the revolution of 1640. Between 1640 and 1660 he was Colonel in the Army, an active member of four parliaments, and thrice in the Council of State; and one of the High Court which tried and condemned King Charles the First. At the restoration of the monarchy he was compelled to leave his country, and after a brief residence in Germany, came to New Haven, and here lived in seclusion, but enjoying the esteem and friendship of its most worthy citizens, till his death in 1688-9." The little brown headstone which first marked his resting place bore only his initials and the date of his death:-- "J. D. Esq. Deceased March Y^e 18th in Y^e 82^D Year of his age 1688/9." That was all--his name being suppressed, at his request. The headstones of Goffe and Whalley are marked in the same obscure way. Yale College adds largely to the importance of New Haven, and the elegant new College buildings now in process of erection, built of brown freestone, cannot well be surpassed in style of architecture. "Old Yale" was originally a small school, established in Saybrook by Rev. Thomas Peters, who lived at that place, and who bequeathed his library to the school at his death. It soon acquired the title of the "Illustrious School," and about the year 1700 was given a charter of incorporation from the General Assembly, making it a college. It was named Yale, after its greatest benefactor, who was at that time governor of one of the West India islands. The historian, Dr. Samuel Peters, who wrote nearly a hundred years ago, said that Greek, Latin, Geography, History and Logic were well taught in this seminary, but it suffered for want of tutors in the Hebrew, French and Spanish languages. He remarks, incidentally, that "oratory, music and _politeness_ are equally neglected here and in the Colony." The students, numbering at that time one hundred and eighty, were allowed two hours' play with the foot ball every day, and were seated at four tables in the large dining room. This ancient historian says the college was built of wood, was one hundred and sixty feet long and three stories high, besides garrets. In 1754 another building, of brick, one hundred feet long, with double rooms and a double front, was added. About 1760 a chapel and library were erected, which was described as being "very elegant." The "elegant" structure of a hundred years ago will soon be discarded for the new one of brown freestone. In the year 1717 the seminary was removed from Saybrook to New Haven, but it had a hard time in getting there. A vote was passed to remove the college from Saybrook, because, as the historian says, Saybrook was suspected of being too much in sympathy with the Church of England and not sufficiently alienated from the mother country. But there was a division in the vote, the Hartford ballot being in favor of removing the college to Weathersfield, while the New Haven party declared in behalf of their own city. A small battle grew out of this split between the Weathersfield and New Haven factions. Hartford, in order to carry its vote into execution, prepared teams, boats and a mob, and privately set off for Saybrook, seizing upon the college apparatus, library and students, which they carried to Weathersfield. This redoubled the jealousy of the "saints" at New Haven, who thereupon determined to fulfill their vote, and accordingly, having collected a mob, they set out for Weathersfield, where they seized by surprise the students and library. On the road to New Haven they were overtaken by the Hartford faction, who, after an inglorious battle, were obliged to retire with only part of the library and part of the students. From this affair sprang the two colleges, Yale and Harvard. The Massachusetts Bay people acted the part of peacemakers, and settled the difficulty between these two hostile factions, which resulted finally in placing the college at New Haven. So it seems our Puritan ancestors had their little disputations then, much as our Alabama and Arkansas brothers do now. What a flaming head-line that college battle doubtless furnished the bulletin boards and colonial press of 1717! Imagine a column beginning with this:-- _Sharp Fight on the Weathersfield Road!_ _Large Captures of Students!_ _New Haven Victorious!_ But out of revenge for the victory, the sons of Hartford were not sent to Yale College to be educated. No, rather than go to Yale they went much further away, at greater expense, and where fewer educational advantages could be obtained. What were such disadvantages, however, compared to the satisfaction of standing by their party and ignoring the New Haven vote? But old Yale grew and flourished, despite the stormy days of its childhood, and has now a world-wide reputation. Many distinguished men of letters call her "Alma Mater," and in all their wanderings carry her memory green in their hearts. CHAPTER XX. NEW ORLEANS. Locality of New Orleans.--The Mississippi.--The Old and the New.--Ceded to Spain.--Creole Part in the American Revolution.-- Retransferred to France.--Purchased by the United States.-- Creole Discontent.--Battle of New Orleans.--Increase of Population.--The Levee.--Shipping.--Public Buildings, Churches, Hospitals, Hotels and Places of Amusement.--Streets.--Suburbs.-- Public Squares and Parks.--Places of Historic Interest.-- Cemeteries.--French Market.--Mardi-gras.--Climate and Productions.--New Orleans during the Rebellion.--Chief Cotton Mart of the World.--Exports.--Imports.--Future Prosperity of the City. As the traveler proceeds down the Mississippi, from its source to its mouth, a unique phenomenon strikes his attention. The river seems to grow higher as he descends. The bluffs, which on one side or the other rise prominently along its banks in its upper waters, grow less bold, and finally disappear as he progresses southward. And if it should be the season of high water, he will find himself, as he nears New Orleans, gliding down a river which is higher than its bordering land, and which is restrained in its penchant for destruction, by massive dykes, or levees, as they are termed in this section. New Orleans, the commercial metropolis of Louisiana, known as the "Crescent City," is situated on the eastern, or, more correctly speaking, the northern bank of the Mississippi River, which here, after running northward several miles, takes a turn to the eastward. Originally built in the form of a crescent, around this bend in the river, it has at the present time extended itself so far up stream that its shore line is now more in the shape of a letter S. It is one hundred and twelve miles from the mouth of the Mississippi, 1,200 miles south of St. Louis, and 1,438 miles southwest of Washington. The city limits embrace an area of nearly 150 square miles, but the city proper is a little more than twelve miles long and three miles wide. It is built on alluvial soil, the ground falling off toward Lake Pontchartrain, which is five miles distant to the northward, so that portions of the city are four feet lower than the high water level of the river. The city is protected from inundation by a levee, twenty-six miles in length, fifteen feet wide and fourteen feet high. The streets are drained into canals, from which the water is raised by means of steam pumps, with a daily capacity of 42,000,000 gallons, which elevates it sufficiently to carry it off to Lake Pontchartrain. The geological history of this section of the country is extremely interesting. The whole region south of New Orleans is made land, having been brought down from the Rocky Mountains and the western plains, by that tireless builder, the Mississippi, which has heaped it up, grain by grain, probably changing the entire course of its lower waters in doing so, filling up old channels and wearing itself new ones, until it finally extends its delta, like an outstretched hand, far out into the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. The river has a history and a romance, all its own, beginning with the time when French and Spanish, alike, were searching for the "Hidden River"--that mysterious stream which, according to Indian tradition, "flowed to the land from which the sweet winds of the southwest brought them health and happiness, and where there was neither snow nor ice," and which was known by so many different names--and ending with the construction of the gigantic jetties, which have given depth and permanence to the channels of its delta. The visitor finds the city very unlike northern towns with which he has been familiar. To the Creole quarter especially there is a foreign look, which is intensified by the frequent sound of foreign speech. It is as if one had stepped into some old-world town, and left America, with its newness and its harshness of speech, far behind. But it is not so far away, either. It is only around the corner, or, at best, a few squares off. New Orleans of the nineteenth century jostles New Orleans of the eighteenth on every hand. It has seized upon the old streets, with their quaint French and Spanish names, and carried them to an extent never dreamed of by those who originally planned them. It has reared modern structures beside those hoary with age, and set down the post common school building and the heretical Protestant church beside the venerable convent and the solemn cathedral. The main streets describe a curve, running parallel to the river, and present an unbroken line from the upper to the lower limits of the city, a distance of about twelve miles. The cross streets run for the most part at right angles from the Mississippi River, with greater regularity than might be expected from the curved outline of the river banks. Many of the streets are well paved, and some of them are shelled; but many are unpaved, and, from the nature of the soil, exceedingly muddy in wet weather, and intolerably dusty in dry. The city is surrounded by cypress swamps, and its locality and environments render it very unhealthy, especially during the summer season. Yet, notwithstanding its insalubrity, it is constantly increasing in population and business importance. Certain sanitary precautions, adopted in later years, have somewhat improved its condition. New Orleans has a history extending further back than that of most southern towns. While others were making their first feeble struggles for existence with their treacherous foes, the red-skins, New Orleans was stirred by discontent and insurrection. In 1690, d'Iberville, in the name of France, founded the province of Louisiana, and Old Biloxi, at the mouth of the Lost River, as the Mississippi was still termed, was made the capital. The choice of site proved a disastrous one, and the seat of government was moved to New Biloxi, further up the river. Meantime, Bienville, his younger brother, laid out a little parallelogram of streets and ditches on a crescent-shaped shore of the river, in the midst of cypress swamps and willow jungles. A colony of fifty persons, many of them galley slaves, formed this new settlement. Houses were built, a fort added, and the little town received its present name, in honor of the Regent of France, the Duke of Orleans. In the same year John Law sent eight hundred men from La Rochelle. They had no sooner landed than they scattered to the four winds, a number of Germans among them alone remaining in or near the promised city. Amid many discouragements the town prospered, and when, one after another, three cargoes of women were sent out from the old country, to furnish wives for the new settlers, their content was complete. Thus many of the proudest aristocrats of New Orleans trace their descent from these "_Filles de Casette_," as they were called, each one being endowed with a small chest of property. Here the French Creoles were born, and lived a wild, unrestrained life, valorous but uneducated, and became such men and women as one would expect to find in a military outpost so far from the civilized world. For sixty-three years the little colony struggled for life, enduring floods and famines, and the terrors of Indian warfare, when, in 1762, the province of Louisiana was transferred by an unprincipled king to Spain. The news did not reach the remote American settlement until 1764. It was hardly to be expected that a colony so separated by time and distance from the mother country should be intensely loyal, but the people felt themselves to be French and French only, and they resented this unwitting transfer of their allegiance as an unendurable grievance. The Spanish Governor, Ulloa, did not land in New Orleans until two years later; and though he showed himself to be a man of great discretion, and inclined to adopt a conciliatory policy, the people made the little town so hot for him, that in two more years he was glad to return to Spain. They sent a memorial after him, which, being a most unique document, is worth recording, in substance. Says a recent historian, Mr. George W. Cable:-- "It enumerated real wrongs, for which France and Spain, but not Ulloa, were to blame. Again, with these it mingled such charges against the banished Governor as--that he had a chapel in his own house; that he absented himself from the French churches; that he inclosed a fourth of the public common to pasture his private horses; that he sent to Havana for a wet nurse; that he ordered the abandonment of a brick-yard near the town, on account of its pools of putrid water; that he removed leprous children from the town to the inhospitable settlement at the mouth of the river; that he forbade the public whipping of slaves in the town; that masters had to go six miles to get a negro flogged; that he had landed in New Orleans during a thunder and rain storm, and under other ill omens; that he claimed to be king of the colony; that he offended the people with evidences of sordid avarice; and that he added to these crimes--as the text has it--'many others, equally just and terrible!'" In 1769 the colony was in open revolt, and was considering the project of forming a republic. But the arrival of a Spanish fleet of twenty-four sail checked their aspirations towards independence, and paralyzed their efforts, and they yielded without a struggle. In 1768 New Orleans was a town of 3,200 persons, a third of whom were black slaves. After the establishment of Spanish rule, although the population was thoroughly Creole, and opposed to the presence of English traders, the government at first winked at their appearance, and finally openly tolerated them, so that English boats supplied the planters with goods and slaves, and English warehouses moored upon the river opposite the town disposed of merchandise. In 1776, at the breaking out of the American Revolution, the Creole and Anglo-American came into active relations with each other, a relation which has since qualified every public question in Louisiana. The British traders were suddenly cut off from communication, and French merchants commanded the trade of the Mississippi. Americans followed close after the French, and the tide of immigration became Anglo-Saxon. France was openly supporting the American colonies in their rebellion against England, and in 1779 Spain declared war against Great Britain, so that the sympathies of the Creoles were led, by every tie, to the rebels. Galvez, then Governor of Louisiana, and also son of the Viceroy of Mexico, a young man, brave, talented and sagacious, who had adopted a most liberal policy in his administration, discovered that the British were planning the surprise of New Orleans. Making hasty but efficient preparations, with a little army of 1,430 men, and with a miniature gun fleet of but ten guns, he marched, on the twenty-second of August, 1779, against the British forts on the Mississippi. On the seventh of September, Fort Bute, on Bayou Manchac, yielded to the first assault of the Creole Militia. The Fort of Baton Rouge was garrisoned by five hundred men with thirteen heavy guns. On the twenty-first of September, after an engagement of ten hours, Galvez reached the fort. Its capitulation included the surrender of Fort Panmure, a place which, by its position, would have been very difficult of assault. In the Mississippi and Manchac, four English schooners, a brig and two cutters were captured. On the fourteenth of the following March, Galvez, with an army of two thousand men, having set sail down the Mississippi, captured Fort Charlotte, on the Mobile River. On the eighth of May, 1781, Pensacola, with a garrison of eight hundred men, and the whole of West Florida, surrendered to Galvez. One of the rewards bestowed upon her Governor for his valorous achievements was the Captain-generalship of Louisiana and West Florida. He never returned to New Orleans, however, and four years later succeeded his father as Viceroy of Mexico. Thus, while Andrew Jackson was yet a child, New Orleans was defended from British conquest by this gallant Spanish soldier. In 1803 Louisiana was transferred to France by Spain, and great was the rejoicing of the Creole colonists, who, during the forty years of their Spanish domination, had never forgotten their French origin. But their joy was quickly turned to bitterness by the news which speedily followed, that Louisiana had been sold, by Napoleon I, to the United States. The younger generation, and those who had a clear apprehension of all in the way of prosperity which this change might mean to them, were quickly reconciled, and set about the business of life with renewed interest. But to the French Creoles, as a class, who, during their long alienation had still at heart been thoroughly French, to become a part of a republic, and that republic English in its origin, was intensely distasteful. This was the deluge indeed, which Providence had not kindly stayed until after their time. They withdrew into a little community of their own, and refused companionship with such as sacrificed their caste by accepting the situation, and adapting themselves to it. But in spite of these disaffected persons, the prosperity of the city dated from that time. Its population increased, and its commerce made its first small beginnings. New Orleans was incorporated as a city in 1804, having then a population of about 8,000 inhabitants. In 1812 the first steamboat was put upon the Mississippi, though it was not until several years later that, after a period of experiment and disaster, success was attained with them. Yet without steamboats the development of the great Mississippi Valley, and the creation of the extended cities upon its banks, would have been well-nigh impossible. Its winding course, its swift current, its shifting channel, and the snags which line its bottom, make navigation by other craft than steamboats well-nigh impossible. Canoes, batteaux and flat-boats might make the voyage down the river with tolerable speed and safety, but to return against the current was a difficult thing to do; and a trip from St. Louis or Louisville to New Orleans and return required months. Where, then, would have been the mighty commerce of the West, but for the timely invention of the steam engine, and its application to water craft? On January eighth, 1815, New Orleans was successfully defended against the British by General Jackson, who threw up a strong line of defences around the city, protected by batteries, and who, with a force of scarcely six thousand men, defeated fifteen thousand British, under Sir Edward Packenham, the enemy sustaining a loss of seven hundred killed, fourteen hundred wounded, and five hundred taken prisoners, while the American loss was but seven men killed and six wounded. The old battle field is still retained as a historic spot. It is four and one-half miles south of Canal street, washed by the waters of the Mississippi, and extends backward about a mile, to the cedar swamps. A marble monument, seventy feet in height, and yet unfinished, commemorative of the victory, overlooks the ground. In the southwest corner of the field is a national cemetery. The old city bears the impress of the two nations to which it at different times belonged. Many of the streets still retain the old French and Spanish names, as, for instance, Tchapitoulas, Baronne, Perdido, Toulouse, Bourbon and Burgundy streets. There are still, here and there, the old houses, sandwiched in between those of a later generation--quaint, dilapidated, and picturesque. Sometimes they are rickety, wooden structures, with overhanging porticoes, and with windows and doors all out of perpendicular, and ready to crumble to ruin with age. Others are massive stone or brick structures, with great arched doorways, and paved floors, worn by the feet of many generations, dilapidated and heavy, and possessing no beauty save that which is lent them by time. The city is made up of strange compounds, which even yet, after the lapse of more than three-quarters of a century since it became an American city, do not perfectly assimilate. Spanish, French, Italians, Mexicans and Indians, Creoles, West Indians, Negroes and Mulattoes of every shade, from shiny black to a faint creamy hue, Southerners who have forgotten their foreign blood, Northerners, Westerners, Germans, Irish and Scandinavians, all come together here, and jostle one another in the busy pursuits of life. The levee at New Orleans represents all spoken languages; and the popular levee clerk must have a knowledge of multitudinous tongues, which would have secured him a high and authoritative position at Babel. The Romish devotee, the mild-faced "sister," in her ugly black habiliments and picturesque head-gear, the disciple of Confucius, the descendant of the New England Puritan, the dusky savage, who still looks to the Great Spirit as the giver of all life and light, the modern skeptic, and the black devotee of Voodoo, all meet and pass and repass each other. All nationalities, all religions, all civilizations, meet and mingle to make up this city, which, upholding the cross to indicate its religion, still, in its municipal character, accepts the Mohammedan symbol of the crescent. Added to the throng which comes and goes upon the levee, merchants, clerks, hotel runners, hackmen, stevedores, and river men of all grades, keep up a general motion and excitement, while piled upon the platforms which serve as a connecting link between the water-craft and the shore, are packages of merchandise in every conceivable shape, cotton bales seeming to be most numerous. Along the river front are congregated hundreds of steamers, and thousands of nondescript boats, among them numerous barges and flat-boats, thickly interspersed with ships of the largest size, from whose masts float the colors of every nation in the civilized world. New Orleans is emphatically a commercial town, depending in only a small degree, for her success, upon manufactures. [Illustration: JACKSON SQUARE AND OLD CATHEDRAL, NEW ORLEANS.] New Orleans is not a handsome city, architecturally speaking, though it has a number of fine buildings. Its situation is such that it could never become imposing, under the most favorable circumstances. The Custom House, a magnificent structure, built of Quincy granite, is, next to the Capitol at Washington, the largest building in the United States. It occupies an entire square, its main front being on Canal street, the broadest and handsomest thoroughfare in the city. The Post Office occupies its basement, and is one of the most commodious in the country. The State House is located on St. Louis street, between Royal and Chartres streets, and was known, until 1874, as the St. Louis Hotel. The old dining hall is one of the most beautiful rooms in the country, and the great inner circle of the dome is richly frescoed, with allegorical scenes and busts of eminent Americans. The United States Branch Mint, at the corner of Esplanade and Decatur streets, is an imposing building, in the Ionian style. The City Hall, at the intersection of St. Charles and Lafayette streets, is the most artistic of the public buildings of the city. It is of white marble, in the Ionic style, with a wide and high flight of granite steps, leading to a beautiful portico. The old Roman Catholic Cathedral of St. Louis is the most interesting church edifice in New Orleans. It stands in Chartres street, on the east side of Jackson Square. The foundations were laid in 1793, and the building completed in 1794, by Don Andre Almonaster, perpetual _regidor_ of the province. It was altered and enlarged in 1850. The paintings in the roof of the building are by Canova and Rossi. The old Ursuline Convent, in Conde street, a quaint and venerable building, erected in 1787, during the reign of Carlos III, by Don Andre Almonaster, is one of the most interesting relics of the early Church history of New Orleans. It is now occupied as a residence by the Bishop. The Charity Hospital, on Common street, was founded in 1784, has stood on its present site since 1832, and is one of the most famous institutions of the kind in the country. Roman Catholic churches, schools, hospitals and asylums abound, some of them dating back for nearly or quite a century. The St. Charles Hotel is one of the institutions of New Orleans, and one of the largest and finest hotels in the United States. It occupies half a square, and is bounded by St. Charles, Gravior and Common streets. The city has a French opera house, an academy of music, and several theatres and halls. Like those of St. Louis, its inhabitants are passionately fond of gayety, and places of amusement are well patronized. Sunday, as in all Catholic cities, is devoted to recreation, and the inhabitants, in their holiday garments, give themselves up to enjoyment. Theatres, concert rooms and beer gardens are filled with pleasure-seekers. Canal street, the main business thoroughfare and promenade of New Orleans, is nearly two hundred feet wide, and has a grass plot twenty-five feet wide, in the centre, bordered on each side by trees. Claiborne, Rampart, St. Charles and Esplanade streets are similarly embellished. They all contain many fine stores and handsome residences. Royal, Rampart and Esplanade streets are the principal promenades of the French quarter. The favorite drives are out the Shell Road to Lake Pontchartrain, and out a similar road to Carrollton. The lake is about five miles north of the city, forty miles long and twenty-four wide, and is famous for its fish and game. Cypress swamps, the trees covered with the long, gray Spanish moss peculiar to the latitude, lie between the lake and the city, and render the drive in that direction an interesting one. Carrollton, in the north suburbs, has many fine public gardens and private residences. On the opposite shore of the river is Algiers, where there are extensive dry docks and ship-yards. A little further up the river, on the same side, is Gretna, where, during Spanish rule, lay moored two large floating English warehouses, fitted up with counters and shelves, and stocked with assorted merchandise. New Orleans has a few small, tastefully laid out squares, among which are Jackson, Lafayette, Douglass, Annunciation and Tivoli Circle. The City Park, near the northeast boundary, contains one hundred and fifty acres, which are tastefully laid out, but which is little frequented. Jackson Square has a historic interest, it having been the old Place d'Armes of colonial times. It was here that Ulloa landed in that ill-omened thunder storm, and here that public meetings were held and the colony's small armies gathered together. The inclosure, though small, is adorned with beautiful trees and shrubbery, and shell-strewn paths, and in the centre stands Mills' equestrian statue of General Jackson. The city is not without other objects of historic interest. During the Indian wars barracks arose on either side of the Place d'Armes, and in 1758 other barracks were added, a part of whose ruin still stands, in the neighborhood of Barracks street. Then there is the battle field, already referred to, and many buildings belonging to a past century, some of which have distinctive historic associations. Near Jackson Square is the site of the oldest Capuchin Monastery in the United States. Sailing down the Mississippi, the voyager will reach a portion of the stream which flows almost directly south. Here is a point in the river which bears the name, to this day, of the English Turn. Up the mouth of the Mississippi sailed one day, in the seventeenth century, a proud English vessel, bent on exploration and acquisition of territory to England. Threading for a hundred miles the comparatively direct course of the stream, it had then made two abrupt right-angled turns, when, coming around a third point, in advance of it, it saw a French ship, armed and equipped, and bearing down stream under full sail. The English ship was given to understand that the Mississippi was "no thoroughfare" for boats of its nationality, and commanded to turn and retrace its course, which it reluctantly, but no less surely did. Hence the name "English Turn." The Cemeteries of New Orleans are most peculiar in their arrangement and modes of interment. The ground is filled with water up to within two or three feet of the surface, and the tombs are all above ground. A great majority of them are also placed one above another. Each "oven," as it is called, is just large enough to admit a coffin, and is hermetically sealed when the funeral rites are over. A marble tablet is usually placed upon the brick opening. Some of the structures are, however, costly and beautiful, being made of marble, granite or iron. There are thirty-three cemeteries in and near the city, and of these the Cypress Grove and Greenwood are best worth visiting. The most picturesque and characteristic feature of New Orleans is the French Market, on the Levee, near Jackson Square. The gathering begins at break of day on week-days and a little later on Sunday morning, and comprises people of every nationality represented in the city. French is the prevailing language, but it will be heard in every variety, from the pure Parisian to the childish jargon of the negroes. Mardi-Gras, or Shrove Tuesday, is observed in New Orleans by peculiar rites and ceremonies. Rex, King of the Carnival, takes possession of the city, and passes through the streets, accompanied by a large retinue, his staff and courtiers robed in Oriental splendor. The city gives itself up to mirth and gayety, with an abandon only paralleled by that witnessed in Italy on the same occasion; and the day is concluded by receptions, tableaux and balls. [Illustration: NIGHT PARADE OF THE MYSTIC CREW--MARDI-GRAS FESTIVAL, NEW ORLEANS.] New Orleans boasts a semi-tropical climate, being situated in latitude 29° 58´ north. The summers are oppressively hot, but the winters are mild and pleasant, with just sufficient frost to kill any germs of disease engendered by her unhealthful situation. Semi-tropical fruits, such as the orange, banana, fig and pine-apple, grow readily in her gardens, where are also cultivated many of the productions of the temperate zone. The neighboring country is clothed with a rich and luxuriant semi-tropical vegetation, and forests of perennial green, in which the cypress and live-oak predominate. New Orleans had a population, in 1820, of 27,000. In 1850 it had increased to 116,375, and in 1860 to 168,675. In common with other cities of the South, New Orleans suffered in her business interests severely during the war of the Rebellion. Louisiana having seceded from the Union in 1861, New Orleans was closely blockaded by the Federal fleet, and on April twenty-fourth, 1862, the defences near the mouth of the river were forced by Commodore Farragut, in command of an expedition of gunboats. On the surrender of the city General B. F. Butler was appointed its military Governor, and held possession of it until the close of the war. Its commerce was entirely destroyed during that period, its business interests crushed, and many of its leading men impoverished, and, in addition, the State was disturbed by intestine troubles, which kept affairs in an unsettled condition. New Orleans did not rally as quickly as St. Louis from the effects of the war. Nevertheless, in 1870 its population had increased to 191,418, and in 1874 the value of its exports, including rice, flour, pork, tobacco, sugar, etc., but excepting cotton, were estimated at $93,715,710. Its imports the same year were valued at more than $14,000,000. It is the chief cotton mart of the world, and its wharves are lined with ships which bear this commodity to every quarter of the globe. In the amount and value of its exports, it ranks second only to New York, though its imports are not in the same proportion, which always speaks well for the business prosperity of a city. The census of 1880 gave it a population of 216,140, showing that its progress still continues. No longer cursed by the presence of the "peculiar institution," its former slave marts turned into commercial depots or abolished altogether, and its population numbering to a greater degree every year the industrious class, New Orleans will do more in the future than maintain her present prosperity; she will build up new industries, and originate new schemes of advancement; so that she is certain to continue her present supremacy over her sister cities in the South. CHAPTER XXI. NEW YORK. Early History of New York.--During the Revolution.-- Evacuation Day.--Bowling Green.--Wall Street.--Stock Exchange.-- Jacob Little.--Daniel Drew.--Jay Cooke.--Rufus Hatch.--The Vanderbilts.--Jay Gould.--Trinity Church.--John Jacob Astor.-- Post-Office.--City Hall and Court House.--James Gordon Bennett.--Printing House Square.--Horace Greeley.--Broadway.-- Union Square.--Washington Square.--Fifth Avenue.--Madison Square.--Cathedral.--Murray Hill.--Second Avenue.--Booth's Theatre and Grand Opera House.--The Bowery.--Peter Cooper.-- Fourth Avenue.--Park Avenue.--Five Points and its Vicinity.-- Chinese Quarter.--Tombs.--Central Park.--Water Front.-- Blackwell's Island.--Hell Gate.--Suspension Bridge.--Opening Day.--Tragedy of Decoration Day.--New York of the Present and Future. Less than three hundred years ago the narrow strip of territory now occupied by what its wide-awake and self-asserting citizens delight to term "The Metropolis of the New World," was a broken and rugged wilderness, which the foot of white man had never trod, not, at least, within the memory of its then oldest inhabitants, a few half-naked savages of the Manhattan tribe, from whom the island derives its name of Manhattan. In 1609 Henry Hudson, an English navigator in the service of the Dutch East India Company, landed near the present site of the Battery, securing, by right of discovery, the territory to the States of the Netherlands. Dutch traders soon followed, and in 1614 a small fort and four houses were erected in the neighborhood of what is now Bowling Green. The infant metropolis was christened New Amsterdam, and Peter Minuits sent out, in 1626, as its first Governor. He purchased the island from its native owners, for goods, about twenty-four dollars in value. Minuits was recalled in 1631, his successors being Wonter Von Twiller, 1633; William Krift, 1638; and Peter Stuyvesant, 1647. In 1644 a fence was built nearly along the line of what is now Wall street, and in 1653 palisades and breastworks, protected by a ditch, were added along this line. These palisades remained in existence until near the beginning of the present century. Peter Stuyvesant was the last of the Dutch Governors. In 1664 Charles II, of England, gave the territory to his brother James, Duke of York, and an expedition was sent out under the command of Colonel Richard Nicholls, to take possession of it. The fort was easily captured, and the name of the settlement changed to New York. In 1673 the town was recaptured by the Dutch, who again changed its name to New Orange; but the following year it was restored to the English by treaty. In 1689 Jacob Leister instituted an insurrection against the unpopular administration of Nicholls, which he easily overthrew, and strengthened the fort by a battery of six guns outside its walls. This was the origin of the "Battery." In 1691 he was arrested and convicted on a charge of treason and murder, condemned to death, and executed. Negro slavery was introduced into New York at an early period, and in the year 1741 the alleged discovery of a plot of the slaves to burn the city and murder the whites resulted in twenty negroes being hanged, a lesser number being burned at the stake, and seventy-five being transported. From the very first the mass of citizens of New York took an active part in the struggle for independence. In 1765 the "Sons of Liberty" were organized to resist the Stamp Act; in 1770 a meeting of three thousand citizens resolved not to submit to this oppression; and in 1773 a Vigilance Committee was formed to resist the landing of the tea, by whom, in the following year, a tea-laden vessel was sent back to England, while eighteen chests of tea were thrown overboard from another. On the eighteenth of September, 1776, as a result of the disastrous defeat of the American troops, under General Washington, on Long Island, New York fell into the hands of the British, who held it until the twenty-sixth of November, 1783, when they evacuated it. The day is still annually celebrated, under the name of "Evacuation Day." From 1784 to 1797 New York was the Capital of the State, and from 1785 to 1790 the seat of government of the United States. The adoption of the National Constitution was celebrated in grand style in 1788; and on April thirtieth, 1789, Washington was inaugurated at the City Hall, as the first President of the United States. In 1791 the city was visited by yellow fever. In 1795 and 1798 it reappeared, with added violence, over two thousand persons falling victims to it during the latter year. It made visits at intervals until 1805, after which it did not reappear until 1819. It came again in 1822 and 1823, occasioning considerable alarm, but since then its visits in an epidemic form have ceased. In 1820 the surveying and laying out of Manhattan Island north of Houston street, after ten years of labor, was completed. The opening of the Erie Canal, in 1825, gave the city a fresh impetus on the road to prosperity. The first steam ferry between New York and Jersey City was started in 1812. In 1825 the city was first lighted by gas; while the great Croton Aqueduct, through which it receives its immense water supply, was not completed until 1842. In December, 1835, the most disastrous fire ever known in the city destroyed over $18,000,000 worth of property. In July, 1845, a second conflagration consumed property to the amount of $5,000,000. Both these great fires were in the very heart of the business portion of the city. In July, 1853, an industrial exhibition was opened, with striking ceremonies, in a so-called Crystal Palace, on Reservoir Square. This building, in the form of a Greek cross, was made almost wholly of iron and glass, being three hundred and sixty-five feet in length each way, with a dome one hundred and twenty-three feet high. The flooring covered nearly six acres of ground. This structure was destroyed by fire in 1858. New York has been the scene of several sanguinary riots within the past half century. In 1849, when Macready, the English tragedian, attempted to play a second engagement at the Astor Place Opera House, the friends of Forrest attacked the building, resulting in calling out of the military, the killing of thirty-two persons, and wounding of thirty-six others. In July, 1863, a mob, made up of the poorer classes of the population, rose in fierce opposition to the draft rendered necessary by the requisition for troops by the general government. For several days this mob was in practical possession of the city, and it was dispersed only by a free use of military force. This mob resulted in the death of one thousand persons, and the destruction of $1,500,000 worth of property. In 1871 a collision occurred between a procession of Irish Orangemen, who were commemorating the Battle of the Boyne, and their Catholic fellow-countrymen, during which sixty-two persons lost their lives. The summer of 1871 was made memorable by the discovery that the most stupendous frauds upon the public treasury had been carried on for several years, by certain city officials, some of whom had been extraordinarily popular. A mass meeting, called at Cooper Institute on the fourth of September, appointed a committee of seventy-six to take measures for securing better government for the city. The elections in November following resulted in a complete sweeping out of the obnoxious officials, many of whom were subsequently prosecuted, convicted and imprisoned, or obliged to fly the country. New York City, the greater portion of which lies on Manhattan Island, is situated at the mouth of the Hudson River, some eighteen miles from the Atlantic Ocean. Its extreme length north from the Battery is sixteen miles, while the average breadth of the island is one and three-fifths of a mile. The city has an area of about 27,000 acres, of which 14,000 are on Manhattan Island, and about 12,000 on the main land; while the remainder is in the East River and the Bay, and includes Ward's, Blackwell's, Randall's, Governor's Ellis', and Bedloe's Islands. It is bounded on the north by the town of Yonkers; on the east by the Bronx and East Rivers; on the south by the Bay; and on the west by the Hudson River. Manhattan Island is separated on the north, from the main land, by Spuyten Duyvel Creek and Harlem River, both names recalling the Dutch origin of the city. The more ancient portion of New York, from Fourteenth street to the Battery, is laid out somewhat irregularly. As far north as Central Park, five miles from the Battery, it is quite compactly built. Various localities in the more northern and less densely built-up part of the island are known by different names; as Yorkville, near Eighty-sixth street; and Harlem, in the vicinity of One-hundred-and-twenty-fifth street, on the eastern side; and Bloomingdale and Manhattanville, opposite them, on the western. North of Manhattanville, near One-hundred-and-fiftieth street, is Carmansville, and a mile and a half further north are Washington Heights; while Inwood lies at the extreme northwestern point of the island. All these are places of interest, and offer numerous attractions to the visitor. That part of New York lying on the mainland, comprising the twenty-third and twenty-fourth wards, was added to it in 1874, and contains many thriving towns and villages. Prominent among them is Morrisania, with avenues running north and south, and streets crossing them at right angles, and numbered in continuation of those of Manhattan Island. Numerous other towns, with a host of beautiful country residences, are scattered over the high and rolling land of which this late addition to the area of the city is composed; but with the exception of Morrisania it has not yet been regularly laid out for building purposes. The whole country in this section of the city, with a romantic natural beauty, to which wealth and artistic taste have largely contributed, is a perfect paradise of picturesqueness. The foreigner who visits New York usually approaches it from the lower bay, through the "Narrows," a strait lying between Staten Island on the left and Long Island on the right. From the heights of the former, a beautiful island, rising green and bold from the water's edge, frown the massive battlements of Fort Wadsworth and Fort Tompkins; while on the latter is Fort Hamilton; and in the midst of the water, gloomy and barren, is Fort Lafayette, famous as a political prison during the late war. New York Bay is one of the most beautiful, if not _the_ most beautiful, in the world. Staten Island rises abruptly on one shore, with hills and valleys, green fields and trees, villages and villas; and on the other shore are the wood-crowned bluffs of Long Island. Within the bay Ellis' Island is near the Jersey shore; Bedloe's Island is not far from its centre, and is the selected site of the colossal statue of Liberty which France has presented to New York; while Governor's Island, the largest of the three, lies to the right, between New York and Brooklyn. Each island is fortified, the latter containing Castle William and old Fort Columbus. The bay is dotted with the shipping of every nation. Ocean steamers are setting out on their long journeys, or just returning from foreign shores. The finest steamboats and ferry boats in the world dart hither and thither, like water spiders on the surface of a glassy pool. Tugs, oyster boats, and sailing vessels of every size and description, are all represented. It is a moving panorama of water craft. As the city is approached, gradually, from the distant haze which broods over it, is evolved the forms of towers, spires, and roofs, and all its varied and picturesque outlines. The city presents a beautiful view from the bay. It rises gradually from the water's edge, some portions of it to a considerable elevation. A prominent feature in its outline is the graceful, tapering spire of Trinity Church, while higher still rises the clock-tower of the Tribune building. Other towers, spires and domes, break the monotony of roofs and walls. Approaching the mouth of the East River, the most striking objects are the massive towers of the Suspension Bridge, one on either shore, while between them is the bridge, swung upon what seem at a distance like the merest cobwebs. At the extreme southern end of Manhattan Island is the Battery, already referred to, a park of several acres, protected by a granite sea wall. It presents a beautiful stretch of green turf, fine trees and wide pathways. On its southwest border is Castle Garden, a circular brick structure, which has a history of its own. It was originally constructed for a fort, and was afterwards converted into a summer garden. A great ball, to Marquis Lafayette, was given in it in 1824; and General Jackson in 1832, and President Tyler in 1843, held public receptions there. Then it was turned into a concert hall, and is chiefly famous, as such, as being the place where Jenny Lind made her first appearance in America. It is now an emigrant depot, and on days of the arrival of emigrant ships, it is very entertaining to watch the troops of emigrants, with their quaint gait, unfamiliar language, and strange, un-American faces, passing out of its portals, and making their first entrance into their new life on the western continent. Just east of the Battery is Whitehall, the terminus of numerous omnibus and car lines, and the location of the Staten Island, South and Hamilton ferries. There, too, is the depot of the elevated railways, which extend in four lines, two on the eastern side and two on the western, the entire length of the city. The Corn Exchange, an imposing building, is at the upper end of Whitehall. At the junction of Whitehall with Broadway is a pretty, old-fashioned square, shaded with trees, and surrounded by an iron fence, called Bowling Green. This was the aristocratic quarter of the city in its early days. No. 1 Broadway, known as the "old Kennedy House," was built in 1760, and has been, successively, the residence and headquarters of Lords Conwallis and Howe, General Sir Henry Clinton and General Washington, while Talleyrand lived there during his stay in America. Benedict Arnold concocted his treasonable projects at No. 5 Broadway. At No. 11 General Gates had his headquarters. A few of the old buildings still remain, but they have many of them already given way to more modern and more pretentious structures. The posts of the iron fence around Bowling Green were once surmounted by balls, but they were knocked off and used for cannon balls during the Revolution. An equestrian statue of King George III, which once ornamented the Square, was melted up during the same period, and furnished material for forty-two thousand bullets. The stranger in New York sometimes wonders why its principal business street is called Broadway, since there are many others which are quite as broad, some of them even broader. But if he will visit the extreme southern portion of the city, he will quickly comprehend. The old streets are narrow, being scarcely more than mere alleys, with pavements barely broad enough for two to walk abreast, so that Broadway, when originally laid out, seemed a magnificent thoroughfare. As already described, Wall street formed the northern boundary of the young colonial city. In that early day, as now, wealth and fashion sought to avoid the more plebeian business streets, and so withdrew to the neighborhood of this northern boundary, and established, first their residences, and then their commercial houses. Wall street then became what it has since remained, the monetary centre of the city, only that now it is more than that; it is the great monetary centre of the entire country. On it and the blocks leading from it, all embraced in comparatively a few acres, are probably stored more gold and silver than in all the rest of the United States put together, while the business interests represented extend to every section, not only of the continent, but of the world. Nowhere else in America are there such and so many magnificent buildings as in this section of the city. The streets are narrow, and overshadowed as they are by edifices six or more stories in height, seem to be dwarfed into mere alley-ways. Nearly every building is worthy of being called a temple or a palace. White marble and brown stone, with every style of architecture, abound. The United States Sub-Treasury Building, at the corner of Wall and Nassau streets, is a stately white marble structure in the Doric style, occupying the site of the old Federal Hall, in which Washington delivered his first inaugural address. Opposite is the white marble palace, in the style of the Renaissance, known as the Drexel Building. A little further down the street, at the corner of William, is the United States Custom House, formerly the Merchants' Exchange, built of granite. It has a portico supported by twelve massive columns, and its rotunda in the interior is supported by eight columns of Italian marble, the Corinthian capitals of which were carved in Italy. Opposite this building is the handsome structure of the Bank of New York. Banks, and bankers' and brokers' offices fill the street, and are crowded into the side streets. On Broad street, a short distance below Wall, is the Stock Exchange, a handsome, but not large building, which in point of interest towers over all others in the locality. Here are daily exacted the comedies and tragedies of financial life, and here fortunes are made and fortunes lost by that system of gigantic gambling which has come to be known as "dealing in stocks." The operations of the Stock Exchange and Gold Room concern the whole country, both financially and industrially. Here is the true governmental centre, rather than at Washington. Wall and Broad streets dictate to Congress what the laws of the country concerning finance shall be, and Congress obeys. The Bankers' Association holds the menace over the government that if their interests are not consulted, they will bring ruin upon the country; and it is in their power to execute the threat. This power was illustrated on the twenty-fourth of. September, 1869, a day memorable as Black Friday in the history of Wall street. By a small but strong combination of bears, gold was made to fall in seventeen minutes, from 1.60 to 1.30, after a sale of $50,000,000 had been effected, and thousands of men, from the Atlantic to the Pacific, were ruined. Money was locked up, and could not be obtained even at a premium of one hundred per cent. This was the forerunner of the panic which came four years later, in 1873. Then the Union Trust Company failed, carrying with it Jay Cooke, Fisk and Hatch, Henry Clews, Howe and Macy, and other houses. For the first time during its existence the Stock Exchange was closed. Without its closing, not a merchant or banker could have survived. With its doors shut no contract could be completed nor stocks transferred, and it gave people time, which was absolutely needed, to do what they could; or else universal and overwhelming ruin would have swept over the country. As it was, not less than twenty thousand firms went under, and the stringency of the times was felt throughout the nation, depressing business and checking industry, until Congress took measures for its relief. The names of Jacob Little, Leonard W. Jerome, Daniel Drew, Jay Cooke, Augustus Schell, Rufus Hatch, James Fisk, Jr., Jay Gould, Commodore Vanderbilt, Wm. H. Vanderbilt, and others, are permanently associated with Wall street. Jacob Little was known as the "Great Bear of Wall street." He originated the daring, dashing style of business in stocks, and was always identified with the bears. Meeting many reverses, he died at last, comparatively poor, the Southern Rebellion having swept away his little remaining fortune. Leonard W. Jerome was at one time financially the rival of Vanderbilt and Drew, with a fortune estimated at from six to ten millions. He assumed an unequaled style of magnificence in living; but reverses came, and his splendid property on Madison Square, including residence, costly stables and private theatre, passed into the hands of the Union League Club, and was occupied by them until they went to their new quarters in Fifth Avenue. He himself is now forgotten, although a man scarcely past the prime of life; but his name is perpetuated in the Jerome Race Course. Daniel Drew came to New York a poor boy, and, by persistent industry and business capacity, worked his way up to the highest round of the commercial ladder. In 1838 Drew put an opposition boat upon the Hudson, with fare at one dollar to Albany; and shortly afterward established the People's Line, which has been so successful. The panic of 1873 affected him seriously, but he staved off failure until 1875. He died in 1879, leaving next to nothing of the millions he had made during his lifetime. St. Paul's Church, in Fourth avenue; the Methodist Church at Carmel, Putnam County, New York, his native place; and Drew Theological Seminary, are monuments of his munificence while money was at his command. Jay Cooke, having been already tolerably successful in business, amassed his millions by negotiating the war loan. He was regarded as one of the most prominent and safe financiers in the country; but in 1873 his failure was complete, and he has not since been heard of in financial circles. Rufus Hatch is one of the successful stock operators of New York. Beginning life with nothing, and meeting reverses as well as successes, he is now known as one of the boldest and most gigantic of street operators. The name of James Fisk, Jr., is associated with that of the Erie Railroad. He commenced life as a peddler. In 1868 he was appointed Comptroller of the Erie Road, and immediately set about building up the fortunes of that corporation. He appeared on Wall street as an assistant of Daniel Drew; made himself master of the Narragansett Steamship Company, and changed the condition of its affairs from disaster to success. He was one of the conspirators on Black Friday of 1869. He purchased the Opera House and the Fifth Avenue Theatre, finding them both good investments. He was shot by Edward S. Stokes, both himself and Stokes having become entangled with a woman named Helen Josephine Mansfield. After his death his supposed great private fortune dwindled into a comparatively small amount. Commodore Vanderbilt also started in life a penniless boy, and became, eventually, the great King of Wall street. He built up the Harlem River Railroad, originated gigantic enterprises; sent a line of steamships across the ocean; gained control of the Hudson River Railroad and other roads; and died in 1877, worth not far from $100,000,000, the bulk of which he left to his eldest son, William H. Vanderbilt. The Vanderbilt name has lost none of its lustre in the hands of the second generation. In less than ten years, after a career of unequaled brilliancy in the financial world, William H. Vanderbilt retired, with a fortune probably double that of his father. Jay Gould also achieved success from small beginnings. He was in company with Fisk in the control of the Erie Railroad, and an associate in bringing about the disasters of Black Friday. Soon after the death of Greeley he secured a controlling interest in the New York _Tribune_. He is still a power in Wall street, and a great railroad magnate. Broad street still has historical associations clinging about it. At the corner of Broad and Pearl streets is the famous De Lancy House, built early in the last century by Stephen De Lancy, a Huguenot refugee from Normandy. In this house, on the evening of November twenty-fifth, 1783, Washington and his staff, with Governor Clinton, celebrated the evacuation of the city by the British troops, and a few days later Washington bade his officers farewell, before departing for Annapolis to resign his commission. The house, having passed through successive stages of degeneration, had at one time sunk so low as to have become a German tenement house, with a lager beer saloon on the third floor. It has recently been renovated, and has again put on an air of respectability. It still bears upon it the words: "Washington's Headquarters." All about it are, here and there, the relics of the past, in the shape of houses which once were homes of the gentility, in colonial times. Pearl street is said to have been originally a cow-path, and it is certainly crooked enough to justify such an origin. It is the locality of the Cotton Exchange and the cotton brokers. On Broadway, at the head of Wall street, is Trinity Church, whose spire was, until a recent period, the highest in the city, being two hundred and eighty-four feet in height. In the early days, when the aristocracy were seeking the select neighborhood of Wall street, this church corporation established itself upon the utmost northern confines of the city. Its original edifice was destroyed by fire, and the present one was erected in 1846. It is of brown stone, in pure gothic architecture, and one of the most beautiful in New York. In the rich carving of the exterior numerous birds have built their nests. It has stained glass windows, and the finest chime of bells in America. Within the church is a costly reredos in memory of John Jacob Astor. A venerable graveyard lies to its north, where repose the remains of Alexander Hamilton, Captain Lawrence, of the Chesapeake, Robert Fulton, and the unfortunate Charlotte Temple. Some of the headstones, brown and crumbling with age, and bearing grotesque carved effigies of angels, date back for more than a century. In the northeast corner is a stately monument erected to the memory of the patriots who died in British prisons in New York during the Revolution. Trinity Parish is the oldest in the city, and fabulously wealthy, the corporation having been granted, by Queen Anne, in 1705, a large tract of land west of Broadway, extending as far north as Christopher street, known as the "Queen's Farm." The land, at that time remote from the city, now embraces some of its most valuable business portions. It is all leased of Trinity Church by the occupants, and the church, when the leases expire, becomes possessed of the buildings and improvements upon the ground, and is thus constantly augmenting its wealth. The claims of the Jans Anneke heirs involve this vast estate. It has three chapels, one of which, St. Paul's, is a few blocks above, on the corner of Broadway and Vesey streets, and is surrounded by a graveyard almost as ancient as that of Trinity. At the northwest corner of Vesey street and Broadway is the Astor House, which, when it was built, something more than a generation ago, was a marvel of size and splendor, though it is now thrown in the shade by more modern structures. John Jacob Astor, its builder, was born near Heidelberg, in Germany, in 1765, and came penniless to the new world, to seek his fortune. After serving as a clerk, he then engaged in a small way in the fur business, which eventually grew to the proportions of the American Fur Company, and brought to its founder a large fortune, though no one outside his family ever knew its exact amount. He settled most of his affairs before his death, selling the Astor House to his son William, for the consideration of one dollar. Much of his property was in real estate, which constantly increased in value. He died in 1848, and his senior son being an imbecile, William B. Astor, the younger brother, inherited most of his father's fortune. The son became vastly richer than his father, dying in 1875, leaving behind him a fortune of $50,000,000, which was mostly bequeathed to his eldest son, John Jacob, who is now the head of the house. [Illustration: BIRDS-EYE VIEW OF NEW YORK.] The Post Office stands opposite the Astor House, on the east side of Broadway, at the southern extremity of City Hall Park. It is a massive structure, of Doric and Renaissance architecture, four stories in height, beside a Mansard roof, costing $7,000,000. Half a century ago the City Hall Park was the chief park of New York, and the elegance and aristocracy of the city gathered around it. The City Hall stands in the park, and back of it is the new Court House, still unfinished, a massive edifice in Corinthian style, which, when completed, will have a dome two hundred and ten feet above the sidewalk. On the western side of Broadway, opposite St. Paul's, is the splendid building of the New York _Herald_. The _Herald_ is the representative newspaper of New York, and is probably the most enterprising sheet in the world. James Gordon Bennett, its founder, was born in Scotland in 1795, and came to America in 1819. After various literary ventures, he decided to establish a paper which should embody his ideal of a metropolitan journal. On the sixth of May, 1855, the first number of the New York _Herald_ was issued, being then a small penny sheet. Mr. Bennett was editor, reporter and correspondent. He was his own compositor and errand boy, mailed his papers and kept his accounts. His rule, from the very first, was never to run a dollar in debt. He succeeded in establishing a paper which has no parallel in history, while, since his death, his son's enterprise has still further increased its scope and popularity. Young Bennett, the present proprietor of the _Herald_, named after his father, was trained especially for the duties which were to devolve upon him. He is thoroughly at home in French, German, Italian and Scotch. He is a skilled engineer, and can run either the engines or presses of his establishment. He is a practical printer, and can also telegraph with skill and accuracy. He gives strict personal supervision to the affairs of his immense establishment, which yields him a yearly income equaling that of a merchant prince. Extending from the _Herald_ Building northward, on the eastern side of City Hall Park, is what is known as Printing House Square, including the offices of the principal daily and weekly papers. The magnificent granite structure of the _Staats Zeitung_ faces this square on the north. The immense _Tribune_ Building, nine stories high, with its tall clock tower, flanks it on the east, on Nassau street. The _Sun_ modestly nestles in the shadow of the _Tribune_. The _Times_ Building is found on Park Row, where also is the _World_ office. _Truth_ lurks in a basement on Nassau street. But a square or two below is the _Evening Post_ Building, where the venerable poet Bryant labored at his editorial duties for so many years. A statue of Franklin occupies a small open triangular space in the midst of the square. Horace Greeley's name is inseparably associated with that of the _Tribune_, which he founded. Honest and single-minded, he wielded a mighty influence, and his paper was a great political power in the country. He often made enemies by his honesty and straight-forwardness; but both enemies and friends respected him. In 1872 the Liberal Republican and Democratic parties nominated him as their choice for President. Believing that he could rally around him men of all parties who desired to see reform in political methods, he accepted the nomination; and was attacked so bitterly by those whom he had supposed to be his friends, and met such overwhelming defeat in the contest, that, taken with the death of his wife within a week of the election, he was crushed completely, his reason left him, and before the end of a month he died a broken-hearted man. North of the City Hall Park, on the corner of Chambers street, is the old wholesale house of A. T. Stewart, now devoted to other purposes, and having two stories added to its top. Here, a generation ago, the belles of New York City came to do their shopping, it having been originally built for the retail trade, as a few years later they flocked to the new retail store on Broadway, between Ninth and Tenth. The name of A. T. Stewart is no longer heard in New York, save in connection with the past. It was a power in its day and generation. Few men had more to do with Wall street than Stewart, and his mercantile business was carried on in the Wall street style. He "cornered" goods, "sold short," "loaded the market," and "bought long." Having emigrated from the north of Ireland, he first opened business in a small way, himself and wife living in one room over their store. Beginning at the very lowest round of the ladder, he worked with the fixed resolution of becoming the first merchant in the land. He always lived within his income, and never bought a dollar's worth of merchandise that he could not pay cash for. In the days of his prosperity he built for himself and wife a marble palace, at the corner of Fifth avenue and Thirty-fourth street, the most finely-finished and elegantly-furnished residence in the country. He died in 1876, worth, probably, $50,000,000. The theft of his remains from the graveyard of St. Mark's Church, at Ninth street and Second avenue, was the nine days' wonder of the time; and the vault prepared for their reception, in the fine Cathedral at Garden City, Long Island, remains empty. Broadway, almost from the Battery, is bordered by magnificent structures. The lower end of this thoroughfare is devoted principally to insurance, bankers' and brokers', railway and other offices, and to the wholesale trade. Above Canal street the retail stores begin to appear at intervals, and as one approaches Ninth street ladies multiply on the western pavement. From Ninth street up, the retail trade monopolizes the street, and on pleasant afternoons the pavement is filled with elegantly dressed ladies who are out shopping. At Tenth street Broadway makes a bend to the westward, and on the eastern side of the way, facing obliquely down the thoroughfare, is Grace Church and parsonage, both elegant structures. Grace Church is a fashionable place of worship, and the scene of the most exclusive weddings and funerals of the city. Union Square is reached at Fourteenth street. It is oval in form, with beautiful green turf, trees and walks, and contains a fine fountain in the centre, a colossal bronze statue of Washington on a granite pedestal, and statues of Hamilton and Lafayette. Along its northern end is a wide plaza for military parades and popular assemblies. Union Square was once a fashionable residence quarter, but it is now occupied almost wholly by business. At Twenty-third street, Broadway runs diagonally across Fifth avenue, touching the southwestern corner of Madison Square--not so very long since the most genteel locality in New York, but now, like Union Square, becoming occupied by hotels and business houses. Fifth Avenue, the most splendid avenue in America, makes a beginning at Washington Square, a lovely public park embowered in trees, which was once Potters' Field, the pauper burying ground, and where one hundred thousand bodies lie buried. New York University and Dr. Hutton's Church face the square on the east. The southern side is given up to business, but the north and west are still occupied by handsome private residences. Fifth Avenue is a continuous line of palatial hotels, gorgeous club-houses, brownstone mansions and magnificent churches. No plebeian horse cars are permitted to disturb its well-bred quiet, and the rumble of elegant equipages is alone heard upon its Belgian pavement. Business is already invading the lower portion of the avenue, piano warehouses being especially prominent. On Madison Square are the Fifth Avenue Hotel and the Hoffman House. Opposite the latter house is a monument erected to General Worth, a hero of the Mexican war. Delmonico's and the Café Brunswick, rival restaurants, occupy opposite corners of Twenty-sixth street. The Stevens House is an elegant family hotel on Fifth Avenue and Twenty-seventh street, running to Broadway. At Twenty-ninth street is the Congregational Church, a stately granite edifice; and on the same street, just east of the Avenue, is the Church of the Transfiguration, popularly known as "the little church around the corner," a name bestowed on it by a neighboring clergyman, who, refusing to bury an actor from his own church, referred the applicant to this. At the corner of Thirty-fourth street is the Stewart marble palace already referred to. From Forty-first to Forty-second streets is the distributing reservoir of the Croton Water-works, with walls of massive masonry in the Egyptian style. The Crystal Palace of 1853 occupied this square. The Avenue has at this place ascended to a considerable elevation, and the locality, embracing several streets and avenues, is known as Murray Hill, the most wealthy and exclusive quarter of the city. At Forty-third street is the Jewish Temple Emanuel, the finest specimen of Moorish architecture in the country. Occupying the block between Fiftieth and Fifty-first streets is the Roman Catholic Cathedral of St. Patrick, commenced in 1858, and with the towers still incomplete. It is of white marble, in decorated Gothic style; and the largest and handsomest church in the country. It is elaborately carved, the numerous rose windows seeming almost like lace work. When completed it will have two spires, ornamented with buttresses, niches with statues, and pinnacles, and three hundred and twenty-eight feet in height. The interior is as beautiful as a dream. It is entirely of white marble. Massive pillars with elaborately carved capitals support the arched roof, while the light is softened and subdued by beautiful stained-glass windows. The building is in such perfect proportion that one does not realize its immense size until he descries the priest at the altar, so far away as to seem a mere child. But eight squares away is Central Park, the great breathing-place of the city. Looking back, down the Avenue, from the entrance to the Park, there is seen a forest of spires rising from magnificent churches which we have had no space to mention, and blocks upon blocks of palatial residences, the homes of the millionaires of the city. The eastern side of Fifth Avenue, facing the Park for a number of blocks, is occupied by elegant private residences. Madison Avenue starts from Madison Square, running through to Forty-second street. It, with parallel avenues and places, shares the prestige of Fifth Avenue, as being the aristocratic quarter of the city. Fourteenth street, once a fashionable thoroughfare, is now fast being occupied by large retail stores. The avenues, commencing at First, and numbering as high as Eleventh, run north and south, parallel to Fifth Avenue, already described. They are supplemented on the eastern side, at the widest part of the island, by avenues A, B, C, and D. Most of these avenues commence on the eastern side at Houston street, the northern boundary of the city in the early part of the present century. On the western side, with the exception of Fifth and Sixth, they commence but little below Fourteenth street. They are mostly devoted to retail trade, and, on seeing their miles of stores, one wonders where, even in a great city like New York, all the people come from who support them. Second Avenue is almost the only exception among the avenues. Early in the century it was what Fifth Avenue has become to-day, the fashionable residence avenue; and even yet some of the old Knickerbocker families cling to it, living in their roomy, old-fashioned houses, and maintaining an exclusive society, while they look down with disdain upon the parvenues of Fifth avenue. Stuyvesant Square, intersected by Second avenue, and bounded on the east by Livingston Place, and on the west by Rutherford Place, is one of the quarters of the _ancient régime_. Here still live the Rutherfords and the Stuyvesants. Here is the residence of Hamilton Fish and William M. Evarts. St. George Church, with the largest seating capacity of any church in the city, faces this square. Booth's Theatre is on the corner of Sixth avenue and Twenty-third street. It is the most magnificent place of amusement in America; built in the Renaissance style, with a Mansard roof. Opposite is the Masonic Temple, in Ionic and Doric architecture. At the corner of Eighth avenue and Twenty-third street is the Grand Opera House, once owned by James Fisk, Jr. New York is at once spendthrift and parsimonious in the naming of her streets. Thus, she sometimes repeats a name more than once, and again, bestows two or three names upon the same street. There is a Broadway, an East Broadway, a West Broadway, and a Broad street. There is Greenwich avenue and Greenwich street. There are two Pearl streets. There is a Park avenue, a Park street, a Park row, and a Park place. On the other hand, Chatham becomes East Broadway east of Bowery; Dey street is transformed into John street east of Broadway; Cortlandt becomes Maiden Lane at the same dividing line; and other streets are in like manner metamorphosed. Fourth Avenue, beginning at the Battery as Pearl street, changes to the Bowery at Franklin Square. At Eighth street, without any change in its direction, it becomes Fourth Avenue; from Thirty-fourth to Forty-second streets it is Park Avenue, and then relapses into Fourth Avenue again. This is one of the most interesting avenues in the city; as Pearl street, its windings and its business occupations have been referred to. Bowery has a character all its own. It takes its name from Peter Stuyvesant's "Bowerie Farm," through which it passes. In it is probably represented every civilized nation on the globe. It is unqualifiedly a democratic street. While Fifth Avenue represents one extreme of city life, the Bowery represents the other. Here are the streets and shops of the working classes, consisting of dry and fancy goods, cigar shops, lager beer saloons, shoe stores, confectionery stores, pawnbrokers' shops, and ready-made clothing, plentifully besprinkled with variety and concert saloons and beer gardens. There are no elegant store fronts or marble stores here. The buildings are plain brick edifices, three or four stories in height, the upper stories occupied by the families of the merchants, or as tenement houses. The Germans visit the beer gardens with their wives and families, to listen to what is sometimes excellent music, and to drink beer. The concert saloons are, some of them, the resorts of the lowest of both sexes. Near Canal street is the site of the old Bowery Theatre, which, having been thrice destroyed by fire, has been thrice rebuilt, the last time, quite recently, and is now known as Thalia Theatre. A generation and a half ago the gamins of New York reigned supreme in the pit. Now that they have been relegated to the gallery, they still criticise the performance with the frankness and originality of expression characteristic of the "Bowery boys" of old. One should visit the Bowery at night, when the workmen and shop girls, having finished their daily labor, are out for recreation and amusement. Then he will gain an idea of one phase of city life and people which he would not obtain otherwise. At Seventh street, where Third avenue branches off, looking down the Bowery, and occupying the entire block to Eighth street, is Cooper Institute, containing a free library, free reading-room, free schools of art, telegraphy and science, and a hall and lecture room. Peter Cooper was one of the representative men of New York. Acquiring a large fortune by strictly honorable methods, he devoted a generous portion of it to charitable objects, and this Institute is one of the lasting monuments of his generosity. He was a true philanthropist, a man of broad thought and kindly impulses, whose name was honored by all classes of the community. He died in April, 1883, at a ripe old age. Occupying the block between Third Avenue and the Bowery, which is now dignified by the name of Fourth avenue, is the Bible House, the largest structure of its kind in the world, except that of London. Here the Bible is printed in almost every known language, and here are congregated the offices of the various religious societies of the city and country. The Young Men's Christian Association and Academy of Design occupy opposite corners at Twenty-third street, on the west side of the avenue. The exterior of the latter is copied from a famous palace in Venice, and it is peculiar as well as beautiful in its appearance. From Thirty-second to Thirty-third streets is the immense structure intended by A. T. Stewart as the crowning charitable object of his life, to be, perhaps, in some sort, an atonement for injustice of which he may have been guilty toward the working classes. It was designed as a hotel for working women, but in its very plan indicated how little its founder understood the nature or needs of that class. At its completion, after his death, it did not take many weeks to demonstrate that working women preferred a place more home-like, and fettered by less restrictions than this palace-prison; and so the edifice was turned into an ordinary hotel. Park avenue commences at Thirty-fourth street, being built over the track of the Fourth avenue car line. In the centre of this avenue, over the tunnels, are little spaces inclosed by iron fences, and containing a profusion of shrubbery and flowers. The avenue abounds in elegant churches and equally fine residences. At Forty-second street is the Grand Central Depot, seven hundred feet in length, its exterior imposing, and with corner and central towers surmounted by domes. At Sixty-ninth street, between Fourth and Lexington avenues, is the new Normal College, an ecclesiastical-looking building, the most complete of its kind in America. Retracing our steps to near the foot of Bowery, we come to Chatham street, where the Jews reign supreme, and which is the vestibule of the worst quarter of the city. Passing along a pavement festooned with cheap, ready-made clothing, one comes to Baxter street, and from thence to the Five Points, once the most infamous locality of New York. Here, a generation ago, a respectable man took his life in his hands, who attempted to pass through this quarter, even in broad daylight. It was the abode of thieves, burglars, garotters, murderers and prostitutes. Hundreds of families were huddled together in tumble-down tenement houses, living in such filth and with such an utter lack of decency as is scarcely to be credited. But home missionaries visited the quarter, established mission-schools and a house of industry, tore down the disgraceful tenement-houses and built better ones in their place; and to-day the old Bowery, Cow Bay and Murderers' Alley are known only in name. The Five Points is at the crossing of Baxter, Worth and Parker streets, and is really five points no longer, the carrying through of Worth street to the Bowery, forming an additional point. The locality is still dreadful enough, with all its improvements. Drunken men, depraved women, and swarms of half-clad children fill the neighborhood, and even the "improved tenement houses," as viewed from the outside, seem but sorry abodes for human beings. This is the heart of a wretched quarter, which extends westward to Broadway, and almost indefinitely in other directions. Mott, Mulberry, Baxter, Centre, Elm and Crosby streets are all densely populated, containing numberless tenement houses. It is possible to walk through some of these streets and never hear a word of English. Mulberry and Crosby streets are especially the homes of Italians, who on Sunday mornings pour out of the tenements upon the pavement and street below in such throngs that a stranger can scarcely elbow his way through. The Chinese have taken possession of the lower part of Mott street, and established laundries, groceries, tea-houses, lodging-houses, and opium-smoking dens. The latter are already attracting the attention of the public, and a feeble effort has been made by the city government to put a check upon their evil influence. These streets are a festering sore in the very heart of the city, and require attention. The Tombs, the city prison, famous in the criminal history of New York, is located in the midst of this quarter, on Centre street, occupying an entire block. It is a gloomy building, constructed of granite, in imitation of an Egyptian temple. Within these forbidding walls is the Tombs Police Court, where, early each morning, petty cases are disposed of by the magistrate upon the bench; and here prisoners are kept awaiting trial. Eleven cells of special strength and security are for murderers awaiting trial or punishment. There is also a special department for women. In the inner quadrangle of the building murderers are made to suffer the utmost penalty of the law, and the last act of many a tragedy which has excited and horrified the public has been performed here. It will be a relief to turn from the gloom and wretchedness of the Tombs to the sunshine and freedom of New York's great breathing place. Central Park contains eight hundred and forty-three acres, and embraces an area extending from Fifth to Eighth avenues, and from Fifty-ninth to One-hundred-and-tenth streets. Originally, it was a desolate stretch of country in the suburbs of the city, varied by rocks and marshes, and dotted by the hovels of Irish and Dutch squatters, its most picturesque features being their goats, which picked up a scant living among the rubbish with which it was covered. Its whole extent is now covered with a heavy sod, planted with trees and shrubbery, and furnishes many miles of drives and walks. Every day in the year it has numerous visitors, but on Sunday, one must fairly elbow one's way through the crowds. In the southeast corner are the Zoölogical Gardens and the old State Arsenal; the Metropolitan Museum of Art, recently opened, is north of Belvidere, on the east side of the Park. The Egyptian Obelisk stands on an eminence west of the museum. Winding paths conduct the visitor to the Mall, a stately avenue shaded by double rows of elms, and ornamented at intervals with bronze statues of celebrated American and European statesmen and poets; also a number of groups which are especially fine. The Terrace is at the northern terminus of the Mall, and leads by a flight of broad, stone stairs to Central Lake, the prettiest body of water in the Park, dotted by gondolas. A fountain, with immense granite basins, and a colossal statue of the Angel of Bethesda, stands between the terrace and the lake. Beyond the lake is the Ramble, consisting of winding, shaded paths, and covering thirty-six acres of sloping hills. From the tower at Belvidere, a magnificent piece of architecture, in the Norman style, may be obtained a fine bird's-eye view of the Park. Just above Belvidere are the two reservoirs of the water works, extending as far north as Ninety-sixth street. Beyond that the Park is less embellished by art, and is richer in natural beauties. From the eminence upon which stands the old Block House, on the northern border of the Park, a magnificent and extensive view may be obtained of the hills which bound in the landscape, and including High Bridge. One should visit the water front of New York, which circles the city on three sides, to gain an idea of its immense commerce. A river wall of solid masonry has been commenced, which, when completed, will make the American metropolis equal to London and Liverpool in this respect. A perfect forest of masts lines the wharves, representing every kind of craft, and almost every nation that sails the seas. Twice a week European steamships leave from the foot of Canal street; while from various points along the wharves, indicated by handsome ferry or shipping houses, boats go and come, to and from every port on the river or on the Atlantic coast. At Desbrosses and Cortlandt streets ferries connect with Jersey City. South, Wall and Fulton ferries give access to Brooklyn; while other ferries convey passengers to other points on the rivers and bay. Passing up the East River, with the ship-thronged wharves and docks of New York on one hand, and the Brooklyn Navy Yard on the other, the visitor soon obtains a view of Blackwell's, Ward's and Randall's islands. Blackwell's Island is at the foot of Forty-sixth street, and is one hundred and twenty acres in extent. Upon it are located the Almshouse, Female Lunatic Asylum, Penitentiary, Work House, Blind Asylum, Charity, Smallpox and Typhus Fever hospitals. These buildings are all constructed of granite, quarried from the island by convicts. They are plain but substantial in appearance. Leaving Blackwell's Island, the boat passes cautiously through the swirling waters of Hell Gate, once the terror of all sailors, but now robbed of most of its horrors. It was originally a collection of rocks in mid channel, which, as the tides swept in and out, caused the waters to rush in a succession of whirlpools and rapids. But a few years ago United States engineers undertook and accomplished a gigantic excavation, directly under these threatening rocks and reefs. When it was completed a grand explosion, effected by means of connecting wires, blew up these dangerous obstructions, and left a comparatively clear and safe channel for vessels. The few remaining rocks which this explosion failed to disturb are being removed, and with its dangers, much of the romantic interest which attached to Hell Gate will pass away. Ward's Island, embracing two hundred acres, and containing the Male Lunatic Asylum, the Emigrant Hospital, and the Inebriate Asylum, divides the Harlem from the East River. Randall's Island is separated from Ward's Island by a narrow channel, and is the last of the group. It contains the Idiot Asylum, the House of Refuge, the Infant Hospital, Nurseries, and other charities provided by the city for destitute children. The visitor in New York should, if possible, make an excursion to High Bridge, a magnificent structure by which the Croton Aqueduct is carried across Harlem River. It is built of granite, and spans the entire width of valley and river, from cliff to cliff. It is composed of eight arches, each with a span of eighty feet, and with an elevation of a hundred feet clear from the surface of the river. The water is led over the bridge, a distance of fourteen hundred and fifty feet, in immense iron pipes, six feet in diameter. Above these pipes is a pathway for pedestrians. At One-hundred-and-sixty-ninth street, a little below the High Bridge, is the site of the elegant mansion of Colonel Roger Morris, and the head-quarters of General Washington during active operations in this portion of the island. The situation is one of picturesque and historic interest. Rising grandly above all the shipping of the East River, on both its sides, are the massive towers of the Suspension Bridge, connecting the sister cities of New York and Brooklyn. Ponderous cables swing in a single grand sweep from tower to tower, supporting the bridge in its place. It does not seem very much elevated above the river, and you feel that a certain majestic sailing vessel which is bearing down upon it will bring the top of her masts in contact with it. But she sails proudly beneath the structure, never bowing her head, and there is plenty of room and to spare; for the bridge is one hundred and thirty-five feet above high water mark. The distance from tower to tower is one thousand five hundred and ninety-five feet, while the entire length of the bridge, from Park Place to its terminus, on the heights in Brooklyn, is six thousand feet, or a little more than a mile. Its width is eighty-five feet, affording space for two railways, besides two double carriageways, and one foot-path. It was commenced in 1871, and cost $15,000,000. Its formal opening took place on May twenty-fourth, 1883. The day was a rarely beautiful one, and was observed as a general holiday by the people of both cities. President Arthur and his Cabinet, the governors of New York, New Jersey, and Rhode Island, with many other distinguished persons, were among the guests, while the honors of the occasion were done by the Mayors of New York and Brooklyn. Every street in the neighborhood of the bridge was packed with a dense throng of spectators, while windows, balconies and roofs were filled with curious sight seers. Shortly after noon the procession moved down Broadway, and a little after one o'clock the President and other distinguished guests entered the gateway of the bridge, preceded by the Seventh Regiment, the procession headed by a company of mounted policemen, while Cappa's band played "Hail to the Chief." When the party reached the New York tower, they were met by President Kingsley of the bridge trustees, and there were introductions and welcomes, and the march was resumed. At the Brooklyn tower Mayor Low met the President, and the Seventy-third Regiment presented arms. In announcement of the fact that the bridge was crossed, cannons thundered forth salutes, the steam whistles of vessels and factories screamed, bells rang, and deafening cheers went up from the watching multitude. The further ceremonies of the day took place in a pavilion on the Brooklyn end, when Mr. William E. Kingsley, the President of the Bridge Association, Mayor Low, of Brooklyn, Mayor Edson of New York, Hon. Abram S. Hewitt and Rev. B. S. Storrs, made able addresses. A reception was tendered in the evening, at the Academy of Music, by the City of Brooklyn, to the President and the Governor of the State, previous to which there was a fine display of fireworks from the bridge. During all the excitement of the day, while cannon thundered and the multitude cheered, an invalid sat alone in his house on Columbia Heights, and regarded from afar the completion of his toil of years. John A. Roebling, the elder of the two Roeblings, first conceived and planned the bridge which connects New York and Brooklyn. He had built the chief suspension bridges in the country, and to him was intrusted the task of putting his own plans into tangible form. While testing and perfecting his surveys, his foot was crushed between the planking of a pier; lockjaw supervened, and the man who had designed the bridge lost his life in its service. He was succeeded by his son, Colonel Washington A. Roebling, who was equally qualified for the undertaking. He labored with zeal, giving personal superintendence to his workmen, until in the caissons he contracted a mysterious disease, which had proved fatal to several men in his employ. From that period he was confined to his home, a hopeless invalid, his intellect apparently quickened as his physical system was enfeebled. He has never seen the structure, save as it stands from a distance; but from his sick-room he has directed and watched over the progress of the enterprise, his active assistant being his wife, of whom Mayor Edson, in his address on the occasion, spoke in the following terms: "With this bridge will ever be coupled the thought of one, through the subtle alembic of whose brain, and by whose facile fingers, communication was maintained between the directing power of its construction and the obedient agencies of its execution. It is thus an everlasting monument to the self-sacrificing devotion of woman." After the conclusion of the address, the President and his Cabinet, the Governor, and hundreds of others, paid their respects to Colonel Roebling, and did honor to the man the completion of whose work they were celebrating. After it was over Roebling replied, to the suggestion that he must be happy, "I am satisfied." The great bridge was opened to the public at midnight, and the waiting throng, which even at that hour numbered about twenty thousand persons, were permitted to enter the gates and cross the structure. A representative of the New York _Herald_ was the first to pay the toll of one cent demanded, and the first to begin the passage across. With the completion of this bridge the continent is entirely spanned, and one may visit, dry shod and without the use of ferry boats, every city from the Atlantic to the Golden Gate. But the great bridge was not to be consecrated to the use of the public without a baptism of blood. On Decoration Day, which occurred the seventh day after the opening of the bridge, there was a grand military parade in New York, reviewed by President Arthur from a stand in Madison Square, and impressive ceremonies at the various cemeteries in Brooklyn. From early morning a steady stream of pedestrians poured each way, across the bridge. About four o'clock in the afternoon there came a lock in the crowd, just at the top of the stairs on the New York side, leading down to the concrete roadway Men, women and children were wedged together in a jam, created by the fearful pressure of two opposing crowds, extending to either end of the bridge. Some one stumbled and fell on the stairs. The terrible pressure prevented him or her from rising, and others fell over the obstacle thus placed in the pathway. Those immediately behind were hopelessly forced on over them. A panic ensued. Women screamed and wrung their hands; children cried and called pitifully for "help!" Men shouted themselves hoarse, swore and fought. A hundred hats and bonnets were afterwards found upon the spot, trampled into shapelessness. Clothes were torn off, and many emerged from the crush in only their undergarments. Parents held their children aloft to keep them from being trampled upon. Hundreds of men climbed with difficulty on the beams running over the railroads, and dropping down were caught by those in the carriage-way beneath. A number of women also escaped in that manner. At last, after almost superhuman efforts, the crowd was pressed back sufficiently to gather up the prostrate bodies, which were taken to the roadway below, and ranged along the wall, waiting for ambulances to convey them away. Twelve persons were found dead, some of them bruised, discolored, and covered with blood, and others apparently suffocated to death. The list of injured was very much larger--how much will probably never be known, since many, assisted by their friends, returned to their homes without reporting their hurts. The dead and wounded were most of them conveyed to the City Hall Police Station, and were there claimed by their friends; and the day which had begun so joyously ended in gloom. New York is one of the most wonderful products of our wonderful western civilization. It is itself a world in epitome. Thoroughly cosmopolitan in its character, almost every nationality is represented within its boundaries, and almost every tongue spoken. It is the great monetary, scientific, artistic and intellectual centre of the western world. Containing much that is evil, it also abounds with more that is good. It is well governed. Its sanitary arrangements are such as to make it peculiarly free from epidemic diseases. The record of its crimes is undoubtedly a long one; but when the number of its inhabitants is considered, it will be found to show an average comparing favorably with other cities. Thousands of happy homes are found throughout its length and breadth. Hundreds of good and charitable enterprises are originated and fostered within its limits, and grow, some of them, to gigantic proportions, reaching out strong arms to the uttermost confines of the country and even of the world, comforting the afflicted, lifting up the degraded, and shedding the light of truth in dark places. It is already a great city, a wonderful city. But what it is to-day is only the beginning of what those who live fifty years hence will behold it. There is still space upon Manhattan Island for twice or thrice its present population and business; and the no distant future will undoubtedly see this space fully occupied, while it is among the possibilities that New York will become, in point of inhabitants and commercial interests, the first city in the world. [Illustration: NEW YORK AND BROOKLYN BRIDGE.] CHAPTER XXII. OMAHA. Arrival in Omaha.--The Missouri River.--Position and Appearance of the City.--Public Buildings.--History.--Land Speculation.-- Panic of 1857.--Discovery of Gold in Colorado.--"Pike's Peak or Bust."--Sudden Revival of Business.--First Railroad.--Union Pacific Railroad.--Population.--Commercial and Manufacturing Interests.--Bridge over the Missouri.--Union Pacific Depot.-- Prospects for the Future. On the afternoon of October twenty-first, 1876, I sat in the saddle upon the eastern bank of the Missouri River, opposite Omaha, Nebraska, having that day accomplished a horseback journey of twenty-two miles, on my way from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Paul Revere, the faithful horse who had borne me all the way from Boston, declined entering the ferry boat, it being his firm conviction that rivers should either be crossed by bridges or forded. At last, being gently coerced, the horse reluctantly consented, and the muddy current of the river was soon crossed. At three o'clock I entered the city of Omaha, the half-way house across the continent, it having been a little more than five months since I dashed out of the surf, my horse's hoofs wet and dripping with the brine of the Atlantic. Omaha lies on the eastern boundary of Nebraska, opposite Council Bluffs, on the western bank of the Missouri River, a turbulent stream, which is never satisfied with its position, but is constantly shifting and changing, and making for itself new channels. A bottom land about three miles wide stretches out between Omaha and Council Bluffs, and through this the Missouri rolls, a swift, muddy stream, slowly but surely carrying the Rocky Mountains down to the Mississippi, which, in its turn, deposits them in the Gulf of Mexico, and helps to extend our Gulf coast. The Missouri vibrates like a pendulum, from one side of this bottom land to the other; now being near one city, and then near the other. At the period of my visit its current washed the front of Omaha, leaving Council Bluffs some distance off on the opposite side; but it was already beginning its backward swing. Thus the boundary line between Nebraska and Iowa is being continually shifted, and one State is augmented in territory at the expense of the other. Omaha is built in part upon the low bottom lands which border the river, and which may at any time be menaced by the swollen and angry stream, unless precautions are taken, in the building of high and substantial stone levees along the river front. The town lies also in part upon the table lands beyond, and is extending to the bluffs which rise still further away. Its business is chiefly confined to the lower portion, where magnificent blocks attest the prosperity of the city. Streets of substantial dwellings, and numerous most elegant private residences, with large and handsomely ornamented grounds, are discovered as one passes through the city. A striking edifice, of Cincinnati freestone, four stories high, is occupied as a Post Office and Court House. Its High School building is one of the finest in the country. When the State Government was, in 1866, removed from Omaha to Lincoln, the Legislature donated the Square and Capitol Building at the former place for High School purposes. The old Capitol was demolished, and a magnificent school building erected on its site, at a cost of $250,000, while other fine school edifices, aggregating in cost about $150,000 more, were erected in other sections of the city. The High School building is on the summit of a hill, overlooking a large extent of country, and has a spire one hundred and eighty-five feet high. The Depot of the Union Pacific Railroad is also a noteworthy edifice. Omaha was first laid out in 1853, and thus named, after a now nearly extinct tribe of Indians. The first house was built, and the first ferry established in that year; and a year later the first brick-kiln was burned, and the first newspaper--the Omaha Arrow--established. Where Turner Hall now stands, in 1854 was dug the first grave, for an old squaw of the Omaha tribe who had been left by her kindred to die. Whittier's description of the growth of western cities seems particularly applicable to Omaha:-- "Behind the squaw's light birch canoe The steamer smokes and raves, And city lots are staked for sale Above old Indian graves." The first Legislature of Nebraska convened in Omaha in the winter of 1854-5; and in 1856 the Capital was definitely located in that city, and the erection of the capitol building commenced. For a year or two there was a great land-boom, and city property and "corner lots" were held at fabulous prices. But in 1857 a crash came, and for a time the infant town was prostrated. However, in 1859 the discovery of gold in Colorado gave it a fresh impetus. The miners who marched in a perpetual caravan across the plains, in white-topped wagons, marked "Pike's Peak or bust," made Omaha their final starting-point, taking in at that place supplies for their long journey. Two years previous all who could get away from the apparently doomed town had gone to other sections, to begin anew the fight for fortune. Only those remained who were too poor to go, but these were now in luck. Fortune came to them, instead of their being compelled to undertake an ignis fatuus chase after her. At that time the business men of the city laid the foundations of their wealth and prosperity. In 1857 the town was incorporated as a city; but up to 1867 its only means of communication with the east was by stage-coach, across Iowa, and by steamers on the Missouri, which latter ceased running in winter. In 1865 the population of the town was but four thousand five hundred persons. In 1867 the first train of cars arrived in the city, on the Chicago and Northwestern Railroad. It was not long before other railroads, one after another, made it their western terminus, and its prosperity was established. Then came the Union Pacific Railroad, which started on its long journey across the plains and mountains from this point. The trade to the Pacific coast thus necessarily passed through Omaha, which became a gateway on the route, while many travelers and emigrants paused to breathe and rest before proceeding further, and to take in large quantities of supplies. In 1875 its population had increased to twenty thousand inhabitants, and in 1880 had run up to thirty thousand. Strange as it may seem, the building of the Union Pacific Railroad has diminished rather than increased the local trade of the city. In overland times single houses sometimes traded as much as three million dollars' worth in a year; but the railroad has so dispersed and distributed business, that now none reach even half that amount. The city, however, does an immense manufacturing business. Within its limits is located the largest smelting works in America, employing nearly two hundred men, and doing an annual business of probably not less than five millions of dollars. One distillery alone, in 1875, the year previous to my visit, paid the government a tax of $316,000; while there are extensive breweries, linseed-oil works, steam-engine works, and pork-packing establishments. The engine shops, car-works and foundry of the Union Pacific Road occupy, with the round-house, about thirty acres of land, on the bottom adjoining the table land upon which the city is built. Over one million dollars is paid out annually in these establishments, for manual labor alone, without including payments for merchandise and supplies. A notable industry is the manufacture of brick, over five millions being turned out annually from the four brick-yards of Omaha. The city is also the headquarters of the Army of the Platte, which annually distributes nearly a million of dollars. The first postmaster of Omaha used his hat for a post office, and carried around the mail matter in that receptacle wherever he went, delivering it by chance to its owners. Twenty years later the city possessed the finest government building west of the Mississippi, while the post office receipts are to-day upwards of a million dollars annually. Hides, buffalo robes, and furs, to the value of one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, are annually collected and shipped from Omaha; while two hundred and fifty thousand dollars is the extent in a single year of the sewing machine business. The Pacific Railroad ships from Omaha vast quantities of grain to the Salt Lake Valley, and brings back in return supplies of Utah fruit, fresh and dried. The first shipment of fruit, made in 1871, amounted to three hundred pounds. In four years the quantity had increased to nine hundred thousand pounds, and is still greater to-day. The Grand Central Hotel was the finest hotel between Chicago and San Francisco, having been erected in 1873, at a cost of three hundred thousand dollars; but it was destroyed by fire in 1878. The visitor to Omaha will probably reach that city by means of the great bridge across the Missouri River. This bridge is two thousand seven hundred and fifty feet long, with eleven spans, each span two hundred and fifty feet in width, and elevated fifty feet above high water mark. One stone masonry abutment, and eleven piers, each with two cast iron columns, support this bridge. Its construction was commenced in February, 1869, and completed in 1872, during most of which time not less than five hundred men were employed upon it. Each column was sunk in the bed of the river until a solid foundation was reached. One column penetrated the earth eighty-two feet below low water, before it rested on the bed-rock. The approach to the bridge from the Council Bluffs side is by means of a gradually ascending embankment, one mile and a half in length. This bridge was constructed at a cost of two million six hundred and fifty thousand dollars, and brings an annual revenue of about four hundred thousand dollars. It is now, by act of Congress, considered a part of the Union Pacific Railroad, making the eastern terminus of that road really at Council Bluffs. Its total length, including its necessary approaches by embankment on the eastern shore, and by lengthy tressel-work on the western shore is nine thousand nine hundred and fifty feet, or nearly two miles. The old depot grounds of the Union Pacific Railroad were on the bank of the river, directly under the present bridge. In order to complete the connection between the bridge and the road, a branch line, seven thousand feet in length, was laid down directly through the city, and a new, spacious and most commodious depot constructed, on higher ground. And from this depot the westward-bound traveler takes his departure for that western empire toward the setting sun, and may, perhaps, continue his journey until he has reached and passed the Golden Gate, and only the solemn immensity of the ocean lies before him. Situated midway of the American continent, on a navigable river, which drains the northwest, and opens communication with the east and south; a prominent point on the great road which clasps a continent and unites the Atlantic with the Pacific; and at the same time a terminus for lesser roads which open up to it the trade and commerce of the interior; and on the borders of two states rich in agricultural and mineral wealth, and settled by a thrifty, intelligent and enterprising people; Omaha can scarcely fail to become the greatest city west of St. Louis. Founded but a generation ago, its business is already stupendous, though it is really but a beginning of what it promises to be in the future. As Iowa, Nebraska, and the States and Territories still further to the northwest, become more thickly settled, with their resources developed, it will form their natural commercial centre, to which they will look for supplies, and where they will find a market or a port for their produce and manufactures. With such an outlook, who will dare to limit Omaha's possibilities in the future, or say that any flight of the imagination really exceeds what the actuality may prove? CHAPTER XXIII. OTTAWA. Ottawa, the seat of the Canadian Government.--History.-- Population.--Geographical Position.--Scenery.--Chaudière Falls.--Rideau Falls.--Ottawa River.--Lumber Business.-- Manufactures.--Steamboat and Railway Communications.--Moore's Canadian Boat Song.--Description of the City.--Churches, Nunneries, and Charitable Institutions.--Government Buildings.-- Rideau Hall.--Princess Louise and Marquis of Lorne.--Ottawa's Proud Boast. Ottawa was, in 1858, selected by Queen Victoria as the seat of the Canadian Government. When, in 1867, the British North American Possessions were reconstructed into the Dominion of Canada, Ottawa continued to be the Capital city. It was originally called Bytown, after Colonel By, of the Royal Engineers, who was, in 1827, commissioned to construct the Rideau Canal, and who laid out the town. In 1854 it was incorporated as a city, and its name changed to Ottawa, from the river upon which it stands. Since that time it has increased rapidly in population and importance, and has at the present time not far from twenty-five thousand inhabitants. It is situated on the south bank of the Ottawa River, at the mouth of the Rideau, one hundred and twenty-six miles above Montreal. The scenery around it is most magnificent, and is scarcely surpassed by any in Canada. At the west end of the city the Ottawa rushes, in a magnificent cataract, over a ragged ledge, two hundred feet wide and forty feet high, in what is known as the Chaudière Falls. Chaudière signifies caldron, and in the seething caldron of waters at the base of the falls a sounding line three hundred feet in length has not touched bottom. Immediately below the falls is a suspension bridge, from which a most satisfactory view can be obtained. At the northeast end of the city the Rideau tumbles, in two cataracts, into the Ottawa. These cataracts are very picturesque, but are exceeded in grandeur by the Chaudière. The Des Chênes Rapids, having a fall of nine feet, are found about eight miles above Ottawa. The Ottawa River is, next to the St. Lawrence, the largest stream in Canada. Rising in the range of mountains which forms the watershed between Hudson Bay and the great lakes, it runs in a southeasterly direction for about six hundred miles before it empties into the St. Lawrence. It has two mouths, which form the island upon which Montreal is situated. The entire region drained by it and its tributaries measures eighty thousand square miles. These tributaries and the Ottawa itself form highways for, probably, the largest lumber trade in the world. The clearing of great tracts of country by the lumbermen has opened the way for agriculturists; and numerous thriving settlements are found upon and near their banks, all of which look to Ottawa as their business centre. As these settlements increase in number and size, the prosperity of Ottawa will multiply in proportion. The navigation of the river has been much improved by engineering, especially for the transportation of lumber, dams and slides having been constructed for its passage over rapids and falls. This immense supply of lumber is, much of it, arrested at Ottawa, where the almost unequaled water power is utilized in saw-mills, which furnish the city its principal employment, and from which issue yearly almost incredible quantities of sawed lumber. There are also flour mills, and manufactories of iron castings, mill machinery, and agricultural implements, which give it commercial importance, and a sound basis of prosperity. Ottawa is connected by steamer with Montreal, and by the Rideau Canal with Lake Ontario at Kingston, while the Grand Trunk Railway sends a branch line from Prescott. The Ottawa River is navigable for one hundred and eighty-eight miles above the city, by steamers of the Union Navigation Company, but there are numerous portages around falls and rapids. The last stopping place of the steamer is Mattawa, a remote port of the Hudson Bay Company. Beyond that outpost of civilization there is nothing but unexplored and unbroken wilderness. Moore's Canadian boat song makes mention of the Ottawa River:-- "Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing, at St. Ann's, our parting hymn. "Ottawa's tide, this trembling moon Shall see us afloat on thy waters soon." Ottawa is divided into Upper and Lower Town by the Rideau Canal, which contains eight massive locks within the city limits, and is crossed by two bridges, one of stone and iron, and the other of stone alone. The streets of the city are wide and regular. Sparks street is the fashionable promenade, containing the principal retail stores. Sussex is also a prominent business street. The principal hotels are the Russell House, near the Parliament Buildings; Windsor House, in the Upper Town; and the Albion, on Court House Square. The most prominent church edifice in the city is the Roman Catholic Cathedral of Notre Dame, which is of stone, with double spires two hundred feet in height. The interior is very fine, and contains as an altar piece Murillo's "Flight into Egypt." St. Patrick's, Roman Catholic, and St. Andrew's, Presbyterian, are also striking churches. At the corner of Bolton and Sussex streets is the imposing stone building of the Grey Nunnery, while the group of buildings belonging to the Black Nunnery is to the eastward of Cartier Square. There are, besides, in the city, two convents, two hospitals, three orphan asylums, and a Magdalen asylum, all under the control of the Roman Catholics. The Ottawa University is also a Roman Catholic institution, and has a large building in Wilbrod street. The Ladies' College, in Albert street, is a Protestant school. But all these structures sink into insignificance when compared to the Government Buildings, which constitute the most prominent feature of the city of Ottawa. They are situated on an eminence known as Barrack Hill, which rises one hundred and fifty feet above the river, and were erected at a cost of about four millions of dollars. They form three sides of a vast quadrangle, which occupies nearly four acres. The Parliament House is on the south side or front of the quadrangle, and is four hundred and seventy-two feet long, and the same number of feet deep, from the front of the main tower, to the rear of the library. The Departmental Buildings run north from this main structure, forming the east and west sides of the quadrangle. The eastern side is five hundred and eighteen feet long, by two hundred and fifty-three feet deep, and the western side is two hundred and eleven feet long, by two hundred and seventy-seven feet deep. These latter buildings contain the various government bureaus, in the west block being also found the model room of the Patent Office, and the Post Office. The entire structure is of cream-colored sandstone, with arches and doors of red Potsdam sandstone, and the external ornamental work of this sandstone. Its architecture is in the Italian-Gothic style. Green and purple slates cover the roof, and the pinnacles are ornamented with elaborate iron trellis work. The columns and arches of the legislative chambers are of marble. These chambers are capacious and richly finished, and have stained glass windows. The Chamber of Commons is reached by an entrance to the left of the main entrance, under the central tower, and the marble of its columns and arches is beautiful. The Senate Hall, which is entered from the right of the main entrance, contains the vice-regal canopy and throne, and a portrait of Queen Victoria. There are also full-length portraits, by Sir Joshua Reynolds, of George III, and Queen Charlotte. The Library is a circular structure, on the north front of the Parliament House, with a dome ninety feet high, and contains about forty thousand volumes. A massive stone wall incloses the fourth side of the quadrangle, and the inclosure is laid out with tree-shaded walks. Rideau Hall, the official residence of the Governor General, is in New Edinburgh, a suburban town on the opposite side of the Rideau River, connected with Ottawa by a bridge. Rideau Hall has been for several years past the home of the Marquis of Lorne, Governor General of the Dominion of Canada, and the Princess Louise, fourth daughter of Queen Victoria. The love which the Canadians bear their Queen was most loyally manifested on the arrival of the Governor General and the Princess, his wife. Every honor was shown the Marquis which was due his official and hereditary rank; but the most extravagant marks of affection and veneration were lavished upon the Princess, who was regarded as a representative of her mother. Whenever she proceeded through the Dominion, her progress was a triumphal procession. The people crowded to catch but a glimpse of her face, or to hear the tones of her voice. She is described as an extremely affable lady, the beauty of Her Majesty's family, caring less for the traditions and observances of royalty than her imperial mother, with great native shrewdness and marked ability as an artist. She has traveled extensively throughout the dominion of Canada, having reached its extreme western limit, and crossed the United States from the Atlantic to the Pacific. It is said she does not greatly admire Canada, and proposes to spend as little time at Ottawa as possible, regarding the somewhat primitive society there as almost semi-barbaric. But when she returns permanently to the island of her birth she will go with greatly enlarged views, and a knowledge of the world, and especially of the people of the new world, which ought to constitute her an efficient counsellor in affairs of state. The Marquis of Lorne, Governor General of Canada, is described as an extremely handsome gentleman of the Scotch type, with large literary attainments, and with a desire to conciliate the people over whom he has been sent to rule. For many generations to come it will undoubtedly be Ottawa's highest boast that it has numbered among its citizens the son of one of the proudest nobles of the British realm, and a princess of the blood. CHAPTER XXIV. PITTSBURG. Pittsburg at Night.--A Pittsburg Fog.--Smoke.--Description of the City.--The Oil Business.--Ohio River.--Public Buildings, Educational and Charitable Institutions.--Glass Industry.-- Iron Foundries.--Fort Pitt Works.--Casting a Monster Gun.-- American Iron Works.--Nail Works.--A City of Workers.-- A True Democracy.--Wages.--Character of Workmen.--Value of Organization.--Knights of Labor.--Opposed to Strikes.--True Relations of Capital and Labor.--Railroad Strike of 1877.-- Allegheny City.--Population of Pittsburg.--Early History-- Braddock's Defeat.--Old Battle Ground.--Historic Relics.-- The Past and the Present. By all means make your first approach to Pittsburg in the night time, and you will behold a spectacle which has not a parallel on this continent. Darkness gives the city and its surroundings a picturesqueness which they wholly lack by daylight. It lies low down in a hollow of encompassing hills, gleaming with a thousand points of light, which are reflected from the rivers, whose waters glimmer, it may be, in the faint moonlight, and catch and reflect the shadows as well. Around the city's edge, and on the sides of the hills which encircle it like a gloomy amphitheatre, their outlines rising dark against the sky, through numberless apertures, fiery lights stream forth, looking angrily and fiercely up toward the heavens, while over all these settles a heavy pall of smoke. It is as though one had reached the outer edge of the infernal regions, and saw before him the great furnace of Pandemonium with all the lids lifted. The scene is so strange and weird that it will live in the memory forever. One pictures, as he beholds it, the tortured spirits writhing in agony, their sinewy limbs convulsed, and the very air oppressive with pain and rage. But the scene is illusive. This is the domain of Vulcan, not of Pluto. Here, in this gigantic workshop, in the midst of the materials of his labor, the god of fire, having left his ancient home on Olympus, and established himself in this newer world, stretches himself beside his forge, and sleeps the peaceful sleep which is the reward of honest industry. Right at his doorway are mountains of coal to keep a perpetual fire upon his altar; within the reach of his outstretched grasp are rivers of coal oil; and a little further away great stores of iron for him to forge and weld, and shape into a thousand forms; and at his feet is the shining river, an impetuous Mercury, ever ready to do his bidding. Grecian mythology never conceived of an abode so fitting for the son of Zeus as that which he has selected for himself on this western hemisphere. And his ancient tasks were child's play compared with the mighty ones he has undertaken to-day. Failing a night approach, the traveler should reach the Iron City on a dismal day in autumn, when the air is heavy with moisture, and the very atmosphere looks dark. All romance has disappeared. In this nineteenth century the gods of mythology find no place in daylight. There is only a very busy city shrouded in gloom. The buildings, whatever their original material and color, are smoked to a uniform, dirty drab; the smoke sinks, and mingling with the moisture in the air, becomes of a consistency which may almost be felt as well as seen. Under a drab sky a drab twilight hangs over the town, and the gas-lights, which are left burning at mid-day, shine out of the murkiness with a dull, reddish glare. Then is Pittsburg herself. Such days as these are her especial boast, and in their frequency and dismalness, in all the world she has no rival. In truth, Pittsburg is a smoky, dismal city, at her best. At her worst, nothing darker, dingier or more dispiriting can be imagined. The city is in the heart of the soft coal region; and the smoke from her dwellings, stores, factories, foundries and steamboats, uniting, settles in a cloud over the narrow valley in which she is built, until the very sun looks coppery through the sooty haze. According to a circular of the Pittsburg Board of Trade, about twenty per cent., or one-fifth, of all the coal used in the factories and dwellings of the city escapes into the air in the form of smoke, being the finer and lighter particles of carbon of the coal, which, set free by fire, escapes unconsumed with the gases. The consequences of several thousand bushels of coal in the air at one and the same time may be imagined. But her inhabitants do not seem to mind it; and the doctors hold that this smoke, from the carbon, sulphur and iodine contained in it, is highly favorable to lung and cutaneous diseases, and is the sure death of malaria and its attendant fevers. And certainly, whatever the cause may be, Pittsburg is one of the healthiest cities in the United States. Her inhabitants are all too busy to reflect upon the inconvenience or uncomeliness of this smoke. Work is the object of life with them. It occupies them from morning until night, from the cradle to the grave, only on Sundays, when, for the most part, the furnaces are idle, and the forges are silent. For Pittsburg, settled by Irish-Scotch Presbyterians, is a great Sunday-keeping day. Save on this day her business men do not stop for rest or recreation, nor do they "retire" from business. They die with the harness on, and die, perhaps, all the sooner for having worn it so continuously and so long. Pittsburg is not a beautiful city. That stands to reason, with the heavy pall of smoke which constantly overhangs her. But she lacks beauty in other respects. She is substantially and compactly built, and contains some handsome edifices; but she lacks the architectural magnificence of some of her sister cities; while her suburbs present all that is unsightly and forbidding in appearance, the original beauties of nature having been ruthlessly sacrificed to utility. Pittsburg is situated in western Pennsylvania, in a narrow valley at the confluence of the Allegheny and Monongahela rivers, and at the head of the Ohio, and is surrounded by hills rising to the height of four or five hundred feet. These hills once possessed rounded outlines, with sufficient exceptional abruptness to lend them variety and picturesqueness. But they have been leveled down, cut into, sliced off, and ruthlessly marred and mutilated, until not a trace of their original outlines remain. Great black coal cars crawl up and down their sides, and plunge into unexpected and mysterious openings, their sudden disappearance lending, even in daylight, an air of mystery and diablerie to the region. Railroad tracks gridiron the ground everywhere, debris of all sorts lies in heaps, and is scattered over the earth, and huts and hovels are perched here and there, in every available spot. There is no verdure--nothing but mud and coal, the one yellow the other black. And on the edge of the city are the unpicturesque outlines of factories and foundries, their tall chimneys belching forth columns of inky blackness, which roll and whirl in fantastic shapes, and finally lose themselves in the general murkiness above. The tranquil Monongahela comes up from the south, alive with barges and tug boats; while the swifter current of the Allegheny bears from the oil regions, at the north, slight-built barges with their freights of crude petroleum. Oil is not infrequently poured upon the troubled waters, when one of these barges sinks, and its freight, liberated from the open tanks, refuses to sink with it, and spreads itself out on the surface of the stream. The oil fever was sorely felt in Pittsburg, and it was a form of malaria against which the smoke-laden atmosphere was no protection. During the early years of the great oil speculation the city was in a perpetual state of excitement. Men talked oil upon the streets, in the cars and counting-houses, and no doubt thought of oil in church. Wells and barrels of petroleum, and shares of oil stock were the things most often mentioned. And though that was nearly twenty years ago, and the oil speculation has settled into a safe and legitimate pursuit, Pittsburg is still the greatest oil mart in the world. By the means of Oil Creek and the Allegheny, the oil which is to supply all markets is first shipped to Pittsburg, passes through the refineries there, and is then exported. [Illustration: PITTSBURGH AND ITS RIVERS.] The Ohio River makes its beginning here, and in all but the season of low water the wharves of the city are lined with boats, barges and tugs, destined for every mentionable point on the Ohio and Mississippi rivers. The Ohio River is here, as all along its course, an uncertain and capricious stream. Sometimes, in spring, or early summer, it creeps up its banks and looks menacingly at the city. At other times it seems to become weary of bearing the boats, heavily laden with merchandise, to their destined ports, and so takes a nap, as it were. The last time we beheld this water-course its bed was lying nearly bare and dry, while a small, sluggish creek, a few feet, or at most, a few yards wide, crept along the bottom, small barges being towed down stream by horses, which waded in the water. The giant was resting. The public buildings and churches of Pittsburg are, some of them, of fine appearance, while the Mercantile Library is an institution to be proud of, being both handsome and spacious, and containing a fine library and well-supplied reading room. The city boasts of universities, colleges, hospitals, and asylums, and the Convent of the Sisters of Mercy is the oldest house of the order in America. There are also two theatres, an Opera House, an Academy of Music, and several public halls. But it is not any of these which has made the city what she is, or to which she will point with the greatest pride. The crowning glory of Pittsburg is her monster iron and glass works. One-half the glass produced in all the United States comes from Pittsburg. This important business was first established here in 1787, by Albert Gallatin, and it has increased since then to giant proportions. Probably, not less than one hundred millions of bottles and vials are annually produced here, besides large quantities of window glass. The best wine bottles in America are made here, though they are inferior to those of French manufacture. A great number of flint-glass works turn out the best flint glass produced in the country. In addition to these glass works--which, though they employ thousands of workmen, represent but a fraction of the city's industries--there are rolling mills, foundries, potteries, oil refineries, and factories of machinery. All these works are rendered possible by the coal which abounds in measureless quantities in the immediate neighborhood of the city. All the hills which rise from the river back of Pittsburg have a thick stratum of bituminous coal running through them, which can be mined without shafts, or any of the usual accessories of mining. All that is to be done is to shovel the coal out of the hill-side, convey it in cars or by means of an inclined plane to the factory or foundry door, and dump it, ready for use. In fact, these hills are but immense coal cellars, ready filled for the convenience of the Pittsburg manufacturers. True, in shoveling the coal out of the hill-side, the excavations finally become galleries, running one, two or three miles directly into the earth. But there is neither ascent nor descent; no lowering of miners or mules in great buckets down a deep and narrow shaft, no elevating of coal through the same means. It is all like a great cellar, divided into rooms, the ceilings supported by arches of the coal itself. Each miner works a separate room, and when the room is finished, and that part of the mine exhausted the arches are knocked away, pillars of large upright logs substituted, the coal removed, and the hill left to settle gradually down, until the logs are crushed and flattened. The "Great Pittsburg Coal Seam" is from four to twelve feet thick, about three hundred feet above the water's edge, and about one hundred feet from the average summit of the hills. It is bituminous coal which has been pressed solid by the great mass of earth above it. The thicker the mass and the greater the pressure, the better the coal. It has been estimated as covering eight and a half millions of acres, and that it would take the entire product of the gold mines of California for one thousand years to buy this one seam. When we remember the numerous other coal mines, anthracite as well as bituminous, found within the limits of the State of Pennsylvania, we are fairly stupefied in trying to comprehend the mineral wealth of that State. The coal mined in the rooms in these long galleries is conveyed in a mule-drawn car to the mouth of the gallery, and if to be used by the foundries at the foot of the hill, is simply sent to its destination down an inclined plane. Probably not less than ten thousand men are employed in these coal mines in and near Pittsburg, adding a population not far from fifty thousand to that region. Pittsburg herself consumes one-third of the coal produced, and a large proportion of the rest is shipped down the Ohio and Mississippi rivers, some of it as far as New Orleans. The monster iron works of Pittsburg consume large quantities of this coal, and it is the abundance and convenience of the latter material which have made the former possible. No other city begins to compare with Pittsburg in the number and variety of her factories. Down by the banks of the swift-flowing Allegheny most of the great foundries are to be discovered. The Fort Pitt Works are on a gigantic scale. Here are cast those monsters of artillery known as the twenty-inch gun. Not by any means a gun twenty inches in length, but a gun with a bore twenty inches in diameter, so accurate that it does not vary one-hundredth part of an inch from the true line in its whole length. The ball for this gun weighs one thousand and eighty pounds, and costs a hundred and sixty-five dollars. The gun itself weighs sixty tons, and costs fifty thousand dollars, and yet one of these giants is cast every day, and the operation is performed with the utmost composure and absence of confusion. The mould is an enormous structure of iron and sand, weighing forty tons, and to adjust this properly is the most difficult and delicate work in the foundry. When it is all ready, three streams of molten iron, from as many furnaces, flow through curved troughs and pour their fiery cataracts into the mould. These streams run for twenty minutes, and then, the mould being full, the furnaces from which they flow are closed with a piece of clay. Left to itself, the gun would be thirty days in cooling, but this process is expedited to eighteen days, by means of cold water constantly flowing in and out of the bore. While it is still hot, the great gun is lifted out of the pit, swung across the foundry to the turning shop, the end shaven off, the outside turned smooth, and the inside hollowed out, with an almost miraculous precision. The weight of the gun is thus reduced twenty tons. The American Iron Works employ two thousand five hundred hands, and cover seventeen acres. They have a coal mine at their back door, and an iron mine on Lake Superior, and they make any and every difficult iron thing the country requires. Nothing is too ponderous, nothing too delicate and exact, to be produced. The nail works of the city are well worth seeing. In them a thousand nails a minute are manufactured, each nail being headed by a blow on cold iron. The noise arising from this work can only be described as deafening. In one nail factory two hundred different kinds of nails, tacks and brads are manufactured. The productions of these different factories and foundries amount in the aggregate to an almost incredible number and value, and embrace everything made of iron which can be used by man. George F. Thurston, writing of Pittsburg, says, it has "thirty-five miles of factories in daily operation, twisted up into a compact tangle; all belching forth smoke; all glowing with fire; all swarming with workmen; all echoing with the clank of machinery. Actual measurement shows that there are, in the limits of what is known as Pittsburg, nearly thirty-five miles of manufactories of iron, of steel, of cotton, and of brass alone, not mentioning manufactories of other materials. In a distance of thirty-five and one-half miles of streets, there are four hundred and seventy-eight manufactories of iron, steel, cotton, brass, oil, glass, copper and wood, occupying less than four hundred feet each; for a measurement of the ground shows that these factories are so contiguous in their positions upon the various streets of the city, that if placed in a continuous row, they would reach thirty-five miles, and each factory have less than the average front stated. This is "manufacturing Pittsburg." In four years the sale and consumption of pig iron alone was one-fourth the whole immense production of the United States; and through the Ohio and Mississippi rivers and their tributaries, its people control the shipment of goods, without breaking bulk, over twelve thousand miles of water transportation, and are thus enabled to deliver the products of their thrift in nearly four hundred counties in the territory of fifteen States. There is no city of its size in the country which has so large a banking capital as Pittsburg. The Bank of Pittsburg, it is said, is the only bank in the Union that never suspended specie payments. Pittsburg is a city of workers. From the proprietors of these extensive works, down to the youngest apprentices, all are busy; and perhaps the higher up in the scale the harder the work and the greater the worry. A man who carries upon his shoulders the responsibility of an establishment whose business amounts to millions of dollars in a year; who must oversee all departments of labor; accurately adjust the buying of the crude materials and the scale of wages on the one hand, with the price of the manufactured article on the other, so that the profit shall be on the right side; and who at the same time shall keep himself posted as to all which bears any relation to his business, has no time for leisure or social pleasures, and must even stint his hours of necessary rest. Pittsburg illustrates more clearly than any other city in America the outcome of democratic institutions. There are no classes here except the industrious classes; and no ranks in society save those which have been created by industry. The mammoth establishments, some of them perhaps in the hands of the grandsons of their founders, have grown from small beginnings, fostered in their growth by industry and thrift. The great proprietor of to-day, it may have been, was the "boss" of yesterday, and the journeyman of a few years ago, having ascended the ladder from the lowest round of apprenticeship. Industry and sobriety are the main aids to success. The wages paid are good, for the most part, varying according to the quality of the employment, some of them being exceedingly liberal. The character of the workmen is gradually improving, though it has not yet reached the standard which it should attain. Many are intelligent, devoting their spare time to self-improvement, and especially to a comprehension of the relations of capital and labor, which so intimately concern them, and which they, more than any other class of citizens, except employers, need to understand, in order that they may not only maintain their own rights, but may avoid encroaching on the rights of others. Too many workmen, however, have no comprehension of the dignity of their own position. They live only for present enjoyment, spend their money foolishly, not to say wickedly, and on every holiday give themselves up to that curse of the workingman--strong drink. While this class is such a considerable one, the entire ranks of working men must be the sufferers. And while ignorance as well as vice has been so prevalent among them, it is not to be wondered at that they have been constantly undervalued, and almost as constantly oppressed. The prosperity of the country depends upon the prosperity of the masses. With all the money in the hands of a few, there are only the personal wants of a few to be supplied. With wages high, work is more plentiful, and everybody prospers. The gains of a large manufacturing establishment, divided, by means of fair profit and just wages, between employers and employed, instead of being hoarded up by one man, make one hundred persons to eat where there would otherwise be but one; one hundred people to buy the productions of the looms and forges of the country, instead of only one; one hundred people, each having a little which they spend at home, instead of one man, who hoards his wealth, or takes it to Europe to dispose of it. It means all the difference between good and bad times, between a prosperous country, where all are comfortable and happy, and a country of a few millionaires and many paupers. No description of Pittsburg would be complete without a reference to the Knights of Labor, which has taken the place of the old trades unions and guilds. While the latter were in existence, that city was often the scene of violent and disastrous strikes. The great railroad strike of 1877, in which a number of lives were lost, and millions of dollars' worth of property destroyed, culminated at Pittsburg, and for days the city was stricken with panic. The cause of this strike was the decision of the railroad corporation to reduce to one dollar a day the wages of a certain class of its employees, which were already too low. The cause of these strikers was just, but their methods were reprehensible. The institution and spread of the Knights of Labor has rendered such another strike an impossibility, as that Order, which has a large membership among the workmen of Pittsburg, aims to settle, as far as possible, the difficulties between employers and employees by arbitration; and its spread will, we trust, if it does not pass under the control of demagogues, eventually result in a better understanding between capital and labor, and in a recognition of the fact that their real interests are identical. Pittsburg has no park or public pleasure ground. Its people are too busy to think about such things, or to use them if it had them. On Saturday nights its theatres and variety halls are crowded, to listen to entertainments which are not always of the best. When its people wish to visit a public park, they must cross to Allegheny City, on the west bank of the Allegheny River, where there is a park embracing a hundred acres, containing a monument to Humboldt, and ornamented with small lakes. The Soldiers' Monument, erected to the memory of four thousand men of Allegheny County who lost their lives in the war of the Rebellion, is also in this latter city, on a lofty hill near the river, in the eastern part of the city. Many of the handsome residences of Pittsburg's merchants and manufacturers are to be seen in this city, which is also famous for its manufacturing interests, and is connected with Pittsburg by five bridges. Birmingham is a flourishing suburb on the opposite bank of the Monongahela River, containing important glass and iron manufactories. The present population of Pittsburg is 156,381 inhabitants. The first settlement upon the site of the city was in 1754, when a French trading post was established and named Fort Duquesne. On July ninth, 1755, General Braddock, in command of two thousand British troops, accompanied by Colonel Washington with eight hundred Virginians, marched toward Fort Duquesne with the intention of capturing it. When within a few miles of the fort, they were surprised by a large party of French and Indians in ambush, and Braddock, who angrily disregarded Washington's advice, saw his troops slaughtered by an invisible enemy. The English and colonists lost seven hundred and seventy-seven men, killed and wounded, while the enemy's loss was scarcely fifty. Braddock himself was mortally wounded, and died upon the battle field, and in order that his remains might not be disturbed, Washington buried him in the road, and ordered the wagons in their retreat to drive over his grave. Washington himself escaped unhurt, though he had two horses shot under him, and had four bullets sent through his clothes. An Indian who was engaged in this battle afterwards said that he had seventeen fair fires at Washington during the engagement, but was unable to wound him. In 1758, Fort Duquesne was abandoned by the French, and immediately occupied by the English, who changed its name to Fort Pitt, in honor of William Pitt. As a town its settlement dates from 1765. In 1804 it was incorporated as a borough, and in 1816 chartered as a city. Its population in 1840, was a little more than 20,000. In 1845 a great part of the city was destroyed by fire, but was quickly rebuilt, its prosperity remaining unchecked. A little less than ten miles from Pittsburg is the village called Braddock's Field, which, in the names of its streets, perpetuates the old historic associations. The ancient Indian trail which led to the river is still preserved, and the two shallow ravines in which the French and Indians lay concealed when they surprised Braddock's troops are still there, though denuded of the dense growth of hazel bushes which at that period served the purpose of an ambush. From an old oak in this neighborhood many bullets have been pried out by persevering relic hunters; while in the adjacent gardens the annual spring plowing invariably turns up mementoes of that historic event, in the shape of bullets, arrow heads, and even bayonets. A sword with a name engraved upon it has also been found. The Pennsylvania Railroad now crosses the location of the thickest of the fight, and at the time of its construction a considerable number of human bones were dug up and reinterred, the place of the later interment being surrounded by a rough fence of common rails. Children now play where once the forces of their nation engaged in deadly warfare. The hillside, which was then pierced by bullets, is now perforated near its summit by large openings, through which emerge car-loads of coal. Thus the present and the past strike hands across the century, and modern civilization, with its implements of industry and its appliances of commerce, supersedes and obliterates the traces of savagery, and of the deadly enmity of man toward man. The sword is turned into the plowshare, and peace triumphs over bloodshed. CHAPTER XXV. PORTLAND. The Coast of Maine.--Early Settlements in Portland.--Troubles with the Indians.--Destruction of the Town in 1690.--Destroyed Again in 1703.--Subsequent Settlement and Growth.--During the Revolution.--First Newspaper.--Portland Harbor.--Commercial Facilities and Progress.--During the Rebellion.--Great Fire of 1866.--Reconstruction.--Position of the city.--Streets.-- Munjoy Hill.--Maine General Hospital.--Eastern and Western Promenades.--Longfellow's House.--Birthplace of the Poet.-- Market Square and Hall.--First Unitarian Church.--Lincoln Park.--Eastern Cemetery.--Deering's Woods.--Commercial Street.--Old-time Mansion.--Case's Bay and Islands.--Cushing's Island.--Peak's Island.--Long Island.--Little Chebague Island.-- Harpswell. The hungry ocean has gnawed and ravaged the New England coast, until along almost its entire length it is worn into ragged edges, forming islands, capes, promontories, bold headlands, peninsulas, bays, inlets and coves. In this coast are united the grand, the picturesque and the beautiful. Soft masses of foliage are in close juxtaposition with rugged rocks and dashing surf. Violet turf sweeps down to meet the sands washed up by the sea. Bays cut deeply into the land, forming safe harbors, and emerald islands innumerable dot their surface. In 1632 George Cleve and Richard Tucker landed on the beach of a peninsula, jutting out into a broad and deep bay, and sheltered from the ocean by a promontory at the south, now known as Cape Elizabeth, and by a guard of islands which clasped hands around it. Here Cleve built, of logs, the first house on the site of what is now the city of Portland. After a time other colonists came, devoting themselves to fishing and buying furs of the Indians. When the people of this distant colony wanted to go to Boston, they rode horseback along the beach, which formed the original highway. The settlement was first known as Casco, but its name was changed to Falmouth in 1668, though a portion of it, where Portland now stands, continued to be known as Casco Rock. In 1675 there were but forty families in the town, and the Rock was still almost covered by a dense forest. In that year the Indians, who had long borne grievous wrongs at the hands of the settlers with patient endurance, arose, under King Philip, to avenge them. The inhabitants of Falmouth were either killed or carried into captivity, and the little town was wiped out of existence. Three years later Fort Royal, the largest fortification on the coast, was erected on a rocky eminence, near the present foot of India street, where the round-house of the Grand Trunk Railway now stands, and settlers began to return. A party of French Huguenots settled there, mills were set up, roads cut into the forest, and trade established between Falmouth and Massachusetts towns. The little settlement existed under varying fortunes until 1690, when the French and Indians, after a few days' siege, captured the fort, destroyed the town, and carried the commanding officer and his garrison captives to Quebec. The war continued until 1698, during which time the place was only known as "deserted Casco." In 1703 the war broke out again, and what few inhabitants had straggled back were killed, and the place remained desolate until 1715, when the re-settlement began. Three years later twenty families had banded themselves together for mutual defence, clustering about the foot of India street, and eastward along the beach. The second meeting-house of the town was erected at the corner of India and Middle streets, where Rev. Thomas Smith, in 1727, commenced his ministry, which extended over a period of sixty-eight years. The town was incorporated in 1718, and at that time the Neck above Clay Cove was all forest and swamp. A brook flowed into the Cove, crossed by bridges at Fore and Middle streets. The old bridge at Middle street remained until early in the present century. The trails stretching out into the forest gradually grew into streets, and the three principal ones were named Fore, Middle and Back streets. The name of the latter was, late in the century, changed to Congress street. After a period of sixty years of steady growth, the town had extended only as far westward as Centre street, and the upper portion of the Neck was still covered with woods. The Indians gave the town little trouble after 1725, having made peace in that year, and gradually dwindled away, and emigrated to Canada. In 1755 it was no longer a frontier post. Its population had increased to nearly 3,000 inhabitants, commerce had been established, and the town was a most peaceful and a prosperous one. At the commencement of the Revolution 2,555 tons of shipping were owned in Falmouth. When the colonies began to resist the encroachments of England, Falmouth took a prominent and patriotic stand. In October, 1775, Captain Henry Mowatt, with a fleet of five vessels, opened his batteries on the town, and, firing the houses, laid it in ashes. Over four hundred buildings were destroyed, leaving only one hundred standing. The place was again deserted, the people seeking safety in the interior. On January first, the _Falmouth Gazette and Weekly Advertiser_, the first newspaper of the town, was published by Benjamin Titcomb and Thomas B. Waite. In 1786 the town was divided, the Neck receiving the name of Portland, having at that time a population of about two thousand. In 1793 wharves were extended into the harbor. In 1806, its commercial business and general prosperity were unexampled in New England. The duties collected at the Custom House reached, in that year, $342,809, having increased from $8,109 in 1790. But in 1807, the embargo which followed the non-intercourse policy of 1806 resulted in the suspension of commerce and the temporary ruin of the shipping interests. Commercial houses were prostrated, and great distress prevailed. The harbor was empty, and grass grew upon the wharves. In the war of 1812 privateers were fitted out here, some of which damaged the enemy, while others were captured. After the peace of 1815 commerce revived but slowly, and the population as slowly increased. In March, 1820, Maine was separated from Massachusetts, and admitted into the Union as a State; and Portland became its capital. In 1832 the capital was removed to Augusta. In 1828 the first steamboat anchored in the harbor of Portland, having arrived from New York to run as a passenger boat between Portland and Boston. The Portland Steam Packet Company was organized in 1844, and has continued in successful operation ever since. Portland has one of the deepest and best harbors in the world, with a depth of forty feet at low tide. Its surroundings are exceptionally favorable for a commercial city, and were it not for its geographical location, it being so far north of the great areas of population, it would undoubtedly have gained a prominence over most of the Atlantic cities. But Boston and New York drew all but the provincial trade and commerce, and with a sparsely settled country at its back, there was little to build up Portland and give it great prosperity. In 1850 the Cumberland and Oxford Canal, connecting the waters of Sebago Lake with Portland Harbor, was completed. This was not a great enterprise, certainly, as compared with modern undertakings; but the Portlanders thought a good deal of it at the time. Between 1840 and 1846, the city endured another season of depression. Railroads had given to Boston much of the business that had formerly found a natural outlet through Portland; but in the latter year a railroad was planned to Canada, which, when completed, in 1853, brought it into connection with the cities of the British provinces, and with the vast grain-growing regions of the west. A winter line of steamers to Liverpool followed, and the rapidly increasing commerce of the city soon resulted in the construction of a wide business avenue, extending a mile in length, along the whole water front of the city. This new street was called Commercial, and became the locality of heavy wholesale trade. Closely following, came the opening up of railroads to all sections of the State, and the establishment of steamboat lines along the coast, as far as the Lower Provinces. Trade that had hitherto gone to Boston was thus reclaimed, new manufacturing establishments sprung up, and an era of prosperity seemed fairly inaugurated. Portland manifested her patriotism during the war of the Rebellion, contributing 5,000 men to the army, of whom four hundred and twenty-one returned. In June, 1863, the United States Revenue cutter, Caleb Cushing, having been captured by Rebels, and pursued by the officials of the city, and becoming becalmed near the Green Islands, was blown up by her captors, the latter taking to the boats, only to be captured and sent to Fort Preble as prisoners of war. On the fourth of July, 1866, a fire-cracker, carelessly thrown in a boat builder's shop, on Commercial, near the foot of High street, resulted in a fire which laid in ruins more than half the city of Portland. The fire commenced about five o'clock in the afternoon. The sparks soon communicated with Brown's Sugar House, and thence, spreading out like a fan, swept diagonally across the city, destroying everything in its track, until a space one and one-half miles long, by one and one-fourth miles broad, was so completely devastated that only a forest of tottering walls and blackened chimneys remained, and it was difficult to trace even the streets. The fire was fanned into such a fury by a gale which was blowing at the time, that the efforts of the firemen were without avail, and the work of destruction was only stayed when, as a last resort, buildings in its path were blown up before the flames had reached them. The entire business portion, embracing one-half the city, was destroyed. Every bank and newspaper office, every lawyer's office, many stores, churches, public buildings and private residences were swept away. Fireproof structures, which were hastily filled with valuables, in the belief that they would withstand the flames, crumbled to the earth, as though melted by the intense heat. Only one building on Middle street stood unscathed, though the flames swept around it in a fiery sea. The fire did not burn itself out until early in the morning of the following day, when it paused at the foot of Mountjoy Hill. When morning came, the inhabitants looked with terror and dismay upon fifteen hundred buildings in ashes, fifty-eight streets and courts desolated, ten thousand people homeless, and $10,000,000 worth of property destroyed. The work of succor and reconstruction immediately began. The churches were thrown open to shelter the homeless; Mountjoy Hill was speedily transformed into a village of tents; barracks were built; contributions of food, clothing and money poured in from near and far; the old streets were widened and straightened, and new ones opened; and before the year had closed many substantial buildings and blocks had been completed, and others were in process of erection. The new Portland has arisen from the ruins of the old, more stately, more beautiful and more substantial than before; and after the lapse of so many years, the evil which the fire wrought is forgotten, and only the good is manifest. Railroads have since been built, and travel and commerce is each year increasing. The population of Portland in 1880 was 33,810. The approach to Portland is more beautiful, even, than that to New York. The city is built upon a small peninsula rising out of Casco Bay, to a mean central elevation of more than one hundred feet. This peninsula projects from the main land in a northeast direction, and is about three miles long, by an average breadth of three-fourths of a mile. An arm of the Bay, called Fore River, divides it on the south from Cape Elizabeth, and forms an inner harbor of more than six hundred acres in extent, and with an average depth, at high water, of thirty feet. Vessels of the largest size can anchor in the main harbor, in forty feet of water at low tide. The waters of the Back Cove separate it on the north from the shores of Deering, and form another inner basin, of large extent and considerable depth. At the northeasternmost extremity of the Neck, Munjoy Hill rises to a height of one hundred and sixty-one feet, and commands a beautiful view of the city, bay, adjacent islands and the ocean beyond. At the southwestern extremity is Bramhall's Hill, rising to one hundred and seventy-five feet and commanding city, bay, forests, fields, villages and mountains. The land sinks somewhat between these two elevations, but its lowest point still rises fifty-seven feet above high tide. The elevation of its site, and the beauty of its scenery and surroundings, are fast attracting the attention of tourists, and drawing to the city hosts of summer visitors. The peninsula is covered with a network of streets and lanes, containing an aggregate length of fifty miles, while it has thirty wharves to accommodate the commerce of the port. Congress street, the main thoroughfare of the city, is three miles in length, and extends from Bramhall to Munjoy. Running parallel to it for a part of its length, on the southern slope, are Middle street, a business street, devoted principally to the wholesale and retail trade; Fore street, the ancient water street of the city, but now devoted to miscellaneous trade; and Commercial street, which commands the harbor, and is principally devoted to large wholesale business. At the west end there are other streets between Congress and Commercial, including Spring, Danforth and York. Cumberland, Oxford, supplemented on its western end by Portland, Lincoln, along the shore of Back Cove, also supplemented on its western end by Kennebec street, are on the northern slope of Congress street. The cross streets are numerous. India street, at the eastern end, was the early site of population and business; Franklin and Beal streets are the only ones running straight across the peninsula, from water to water; Exchange street, devoted to banks, brokers' offices and insurance agencies, and High and State streets, occupied by private residences, are the principal ones. There is partially completed around the entire city a Marginal Way, one hundred feet in width, and nearly five miles in length. Munjoy Hill is a suburb, which is almost a distinct village, being occupied by residences of the middle class, who have their own schools, churches, and places of business. From its summit, at early morning, one may see the sun rising out of the ocean, in the midst of emerald islands. On this hill, in 1690, Lieutenant Thaddeus Clark, with thirteen men, was shot by Indians in ambush, the hill being then covered with forest. On the same hill, in 1717, Lieutenant-Governor Dammer made a treaty with the Indians, which secured a peace for many years; and in 1775 Colonel Thompson captured Captain Mowatt, in revenge for which the latter subsequently burned the city. In 1808 the third and last execution for murder took place here; and in 1866 here arose the village of tents after the great conflagration. The Observatory, built in 1807, is upon Munjoy, having been erected for the purpose of signaling shipping approaching the harbor. It is eighty-two feet high, and from it one can obtain the best view of the city and its surroundings. Casco Bay lies to the northeast, dotted with islands. To the eastward, four miles distant, beyond its barrier of islands, the Atlantic keeps up the never-ending music of its waves. To the southward is the city, with the harbor and the shipping beyond. Far away to the northeast is Mount Washington, faintly outlined upon the horizon, prominent in the distant range of mountains. Adjoining the Observatory is the Congress street Methodist Episcopal Church, a beautiful edifice, its slender, graceful spire being a most conspicuous object from the harbor and the sea, and rising to the greatest height of any in the city. The western end, including Bramhall Hill, is the fashionable quarter; and having been spared in the conflagration of 1866, many ancient mansions remain, surrounded by newer and more elegant residences. The houses are in the midst of well-kept lawns and gardens, and the streets are shaded by stately elms, some of them of venerable age. The views through these avenues of trees, through some of the streets leading down to the water, are delightful beyond description, the overarching foliage framing in glimpses of water, fields, distant hills and blue sky. At evening, from Bramhall's Hill, one looks over a beautiful and varied landscape, brightened by the glow of sunset on the western sky. The Maine General Hospital stands on Bramhall Hill, an imposing edifice, and one of the most prominent features of the city. The Western Promenade, a wide avenue planted with rows of trees, runs along the brow of Bramhall's Hill. The hill is named after George Bramhall, who in 1680 bought a tract of four hundred acres, and made himself a home in the wilderness. Nine years later he was killed at the foot of the hill, in a fight with the Indians. From the summit of the hill may be seen the waters of Fore River on the one hand, and of Back Cove on the other. Beyond is a wide stretch of field and forest, broken by villages and farmhouses, with the spires of Gorham in view, and far away, behind them, Ossipee Mountain, fifty-five miles distant, in New Hampshire. To the east is the church of Standish, Maine, and Chocorue Peak rising behind it; Mount Carrigain, sixty-three miles away, the line of the Saddleback in Sebago, and far beyond, the sun-capped summits of the White Mountains. The Eastern Promenade is on Munjoy's Hill, and commands views equally beautiful. The Preble House is in Congress street, shaded by four magnificent elms, which have survived from the days of the Preble Mansion. Next to it, sitting back from the street, and also shaded by elms, is the first brick house built in Portland. It was begun in 1785, by General Peleg Wadsworth, and finished the following year, by his son-in-law, Stephen Longfellow. It is known as the Longfellow House, but it is not the place where the poet was born. He lived here in his youth, and frequently visited the house in later days; and it is still in the possession of his family. But Henry Wadsworth Longfellow first saw the light on February twenty-seventh, 1807, in an old-fashioned wooden house, at the corner of Fore and Hancock streets. The sea at that period flowed up to the road opposite the house, which commanded a fine view of the harbor. New-made land crowds it further away, and the trains of the Grand Trunk Railway run where the tide once ebbed and flowed. Not far off is the site of the first house ever built in Portland, by George Cleves, in 1632. Nathaniel P. Willis was also born in Portland, but a little more than a month earlier than Longfellow. Both his father and his grandfather had been publishers, the latter having been apprenticed in the same printing office with Benjamin Franklin. Sarah Payson Willis, subsequently Mrs. James Parton, still better known as Fanny Fern, a sister of the poet, was also a native of Portland. John Neal, born in Portland August twenty-fifth, 1793, was a man well known as a poet, novelist and journalist. Seba Smith, author of the Jack Downing Papers, Mrs. E. Oakes Smith, Mrs. Elizabeth Oakes Allen, Nathaniel Deering, Rev. Elijah Kellogg, Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, Mrs. Margaret J. M. Sweat, and other well-known authors, have been either natives of or residents in Portland. General Neal Dow, who served in the late war, and so famous as an advocate of prohibition, finds his home in Portland, at the corner of Congress and Dow streets. William Pitt Fessenden, late Senator and Secretary of the Treasury, claimed Portland as his home. Market Square is in the heart of the city, surrounded by stores, hotels, halls, and places of amusement. Military Hall stands almost in-the centre of the square, and was built in 1825, as a town hall and market place. The building contains a history in itself. Here, before the city charter was obtained, in 1832, town meetings were held, and subsequently it was the headquarters of the city government. Military companies had and still have their armories here; and it has been the place of many exciting political meetings. In it Garrison uttered his anathemas against slavery, and Stephen A. Foster was assaulted by a brutal pro-slavery mob. Sumner, Fessenden, and other great orators, have poured forth their eloquence within its hall, and parties have been made and unmade. On holidays Market Square is crowded with an animated throng, and at night, when peddlers and mountebanks take their stands and display their wares by the light of flaming torches, the scene is especially picturesque. On Congress street, not far from Market Square, is the First Parish (Unitarian) Church, which was rebuilt in 1825, on the site which the old church had occupied since 1740. This church is remarkable for its long pastorates, there having been but four pastors from 1727 to 1864, a period of one hundred and thirty-seven years. The present pastor is the Rev. Dr. Thomas Hill, ex-President of Harvard College. Lincoln Park is a public square, bounded by Congress, Franklin, Federal and Pearl streets. It contains a little less than two and one-half acres, in the middle of which is a fountain. This park is in the centre of the district swept by the conflagration of 1866, and looking on every side, not a building meets the eye which was erected previous to that year. The largest and most costly church in Portland is the Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception, fronting on Cumberland street. It is one hundred and ninety-six feet in length, by one hundred in width, with a spire rising in the air two hundred and thirty-six feet. It is of brick, and is imposing only on account of its size. Its interior, however, is finished and decorated in a style surpassed by few churches in the country. [Illustration: NIGHT SCENE IN MARKET SQUARE, PORTLAND, MAINE.] The Eastern Cemetery, on Congress street, is the oldest graveyard in Portland. For two hundred years it was the common burial ground of the settlement, and here, probably, all the early colonists sleep their last sleep, though their graves are forgotten. The oldest tombstone which the yard seems to contain is that of Mrs. Mary Green, who died in 1717. On the opposite side of the yard, near Mountford street, are the monuments erected to the memory of William Burroughs, of the United States Brig Enterprise, and Samuel Blythe, of His Majesty's Brig Boxer, who fought and died together, on September fifth, 1813, and were buried here. Lieut. Kerwin Waters, of the Enterprise, wounded in the same action, lies beside them. Of him Longfellow sung:-- "I remember the sea fight far away, How it thundered o'er the tide! And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves o'erlooking the tranquil bay, Where they in battle died." There is a white marble monument to Commodore Preble, and the death of Lieutenant Henry Wadsworth, uncle of the poet Longfellow, who fell before Tripoli in 1804, is also commemorated here. Congress Square, at the junction of Fore street, has an elevated position, and is surrounded by churches of various denominations. From Congress street, near its junction with Mellen street, the visitor can look off to Deering's Woods, which rise on the borders of a creek, running in from Back Cove. This tract of woodland has come into possession of the city, and will be preserved as a park. Longfellow sings of "The breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering's Woods." Again:-- "And Deering's Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were I find my lost youth again." The reservoir of the Portland Water Works is at the junction of Bramhall and Brackett streets. It has an area of 100,000 square feet, with a capacity of 12,000,000 gallons, and is supplied with water from Lake Sebago, seventeen miles distant. The extensive premises of the Grand Trunk Railway lie at the foot of India street, where are wharves for the great freight business between Canada and Europe, and whence the Dominion and Beaver Line of steamships, every fortnight, from November to May, send ships to Liverpool. The scene during the winter season is a busy one, and the amount of freight handled and shipped is immense. Then begins Commercial street, the modern business avenue of the city, which runs its whole water front, with a railroad track in the middle of it. On this street is the old family mansion of the widow of Brigadier Preble, built in 1786, on the site of his father's house, destroyed by fire in 1775. It then occupied a beautiful and retired locality, looking out upon the harbor, and surrounded by ample grounds. But now it is strangely out of keeping with its neighbors. Opposite it now stands the grain elevator of the Grand Trunk Railway, having been built in 1875, with a capacity of 200,000 bushels. All around are wholesale shipping and commission houses, and wharves for ocean steamships extend up and down the shore. When Captain John Smith, famous in the early history of Virginia, and the first tourist who ever visited Maine, made his famous summer trip thither, in 1614, he described the place as follows:--"Westward of Kennebec is the country of Ancocisco, in the bottom of a deep bay full of many great isles, which divide it into many great harbors." Ancocisco was very soon abbreviated to Casco, and the bay is still filled with many great isles. Casco Bay, extending from Cape Elizabeth, on the west, to Cape Small Point, on the east, a distance of about eighteen miles, with a width of, perhaps, twelve miles, contains more islands than any other body of water of like extent in the whole United States. It is a popular belief that these islands number three hundred and sixty-five--one for every day in the year; but a regard for truth compels us to state, that of the named and unnamed islands and islets, there are only one hundred and twenty-two, while a few insignificant rocks and reefs would not swell the number to one hundred and forty. These islands are divided into three ranges, the Inner, Middle and Outer. The Inner range contains twenty islands; the Middle range, twenty-four; and the Outer range, seventy-eight. Besides these islands, the shore is very much broken, and extends out into the bay in picturesque points or fringes, the creeks, inlets and tidal rivers extending far inland. In this bay was discovered, by a mariner named Joselyn, in 1639, a triton or merman, and the first sea serpent of the coast. Seals breed and sport on a ledge in the inner bay, off the shore of Falmouth, and its waters abound with edible fish and sea-fowl. Ferry boats convey an endless stream of pleasure-seekers to the different islands, during the summer season. Cushing's Island lies at the mouth of Portland Harbor, forming one shore of the ship channel. Its southern shore presents a rocky and precipitous front, culminating in a bold bluff nearly one hundred and fifty feet high, known as White Head. The island looks out upon the harbor from smiling fields and low, tree-bordered beaches. It furnishes good opportunities for fishing and bathing, and is fast becoming a popular summer resort. It is five miles in circumference, and commands magnificent sea views. Peak's Island is separated from Cushing's Island by White Head Passage, and with the latter forms an effectual barrier to the ocean. Like it, it presents a bold front to the sea, and smiles upon the bay. It is about a mile and a half long, by a mile and a quarter wide, and rises gradually to a central elevation of, perhaps, one hundred feet, commanding extensive views of the ocean and harbor, and of the mountains, eighty miles away. It is one of the most beautiful of all the islands of Casco Bay, and has a resident population of three hundred and seventy persons, who are largely descendants of the first settlers. Long Island lies northeast of Peak's Island, and is separated from it by Hussey's Sound. It has an area of three hundred and twelve acres, presenting a long, ragged line of shore to the sea. Its population was, in 1880, two hundred and fifty-two, the men being engaged in fishing and farming. Little Chebague lies inside of Long Island, and is connected with Great Chebague by a sand bar, dry at low water. A hotel and several summer cottages stand upon the island, and it is an attractive place. Harpswell is a long peninsula, about fourteen miles down the bay, and is much resorted to by picnic parties. To the eastward lies Bailey's Island, one of the most beautiful of the bay, and to the northward is Orr's Island, the scene of Harriet Beecher Stowe's novel, "The Pearl of Orr's Island." Rising between Bailey's Island and Small Point Harbor is the Elm Island of Rev. Elijah Kellogg's stories. Whittier has written a poem entitled "The Dead Ship of Harpswell," in which he describes a spectre ship which never reaches the land, and is a sure omen of death:-- "In vain o'er Harpswell's neck the star Of evening guides her in, In vain for her the lamps are lit Within thy town, Seguin! In vain the harbor boat shall hail, In vain the pilot call; No hand shall reef her spectral sail, Or let her anchor fall." CHAPTER XXVI. PHILADELPHIA. Early History.--William Penn.--The Revolution.--Declaration of Independence.--First Railroad.--Riots--Streets and Houses.-- Relics of the Past.--Independence Hall.--Carpenters' Hall.-- Blue Anchor.--Letitia Court.--Christ Church.--Old Swedes' Church.--Benjamin Franklin.--Libraries.--Old Quaker Almshouse.-- Old Houses in Germantown.--Manufactures.--Theatres.--Churches.-- Scientific Institutions.--Newspapers.--Medical Colleges.-- Schools.--Public Buildings.--Penitentiary.--River Front.-- Fairmount Park.--Zoölogical Gardens.--Cemeteries.--Centennial Exhibition.--Bi-Centennial.--Past, Present and Future of the City. In the year 1610, Lord Thomas de la War, on his voyage from England to Virginia, entered what is now Delaware Bay, and discovered the river flowing into it, to which he also gave his name. The Dutch made a prior claim to the discovery of the land which bordered this river, and retained possession for a time. But there were difficulties in maintaining their settlements, and in 1638 the Swedes sent out a colony from Stockholm, and established a footing on the west bank of the river, afterwards known as Pennsylvania. The Dutch at New York, however, would not submit to this arrangement, and under Peter Stuyvesant, Governor of Manhattan, demanded the surrender of their fort--now called Trinity Fort--which was yielded. The Dutch authority lasted for a short time only. In 1664 the English captured Manhattan and expelled the Dutch, and in the same year an expedition under Sir Robert Carr came to the Delaware, fired two broadsides into Trinity Fort, landed storming parties, assaulted the fort, killed three Dutchmen, wounded ten, and in triumph raised the flag of England, which was thereafter supreme on the Delaware for nine years. In 1672 the Dutch tried their strength again, and summoned the English fort at Staten Island to surrender. This summons was complied with, and the English of New York swore allegiance to the Prince of Orange. The people upon the banks of the Delaware soon accommodated themselves to the change of masters, and welcomed the Dutch. But this was their last appearance upon the Delaware. In the next year, 1673, their settlements in America were all ceded, through the fortune of war, to Great Britain, and this territory once more passed under the English flag. About this time the name of William Penn enters into American history. The British Government being largely indebted to his father, Admiral William Penn, the son found little difficulty in obtaining a grant for a large tract of land in America, upon which to found a colony. This was in 1681. He immediately sent out to his wooded possessions, which he named Pennsylvania, his cousin, Captain William Markham, who had been a soldier, with a commission to be Deputy Governor, and with instructions to inform the European inhabitants already settled there of the change in government, promising them liberal laws. Markham was also to convey a message of peace to the Indians, in the name of their new "proprietor." He was soon followed by three commissioners, who had power to settle the colony, and among other things, to layout a principal city, to be the capital of the province, which William Penn, who was a member of the Society of Friends, directed should be called Philadelphia--a Greek compound signifying "brotherly love." He himself arrived on the great territory of which he was sole proprietor in 1682, and found the plans of the city and province to his satisfaction. He at once convened an Assembly, and the three counties of Philadelphia, Bucks, and Chester were created, and proper laws passed for their government. In less than two years, however, Penn was obliged to return to England, and shortly after, in 1692, the British Government took possession of the colony, and placed it under the jurisdiction of the Governor of New York. But in 1694, the government was restored to Penn, and Markham was again made Lieutenant-Governor. Penn, himself, did not return to America until 1699. He found his capital very considerably improved. Instead of the wilderness he had left, fifteen years before, there were streets, houses, elegant stores, warehouses, and shipping on the river. The population was estimated at four thousand five hundred persons. His visit was, however, brief. In 1701, he set sail again for England, intending to return in a few months, but this intention was never carried out. In 1708, his pecuniary embarrassments were so great, that he was arrested for debt in London, and thrown into the Fleet Prison, where he continued for nine years. In 1712 his health and mind gave way, and during six years he lingered as an imbecile, childish and gentle in his manners, the sad wreck of a strong mind. He died in July, 1718. The government of Pennsylvania was administered for a time by his widow, and subsequently went into the hands of his children and their descendants, as proprietors. They usually delegated the administration to lieutenant-governors, though they sometimes exercised their authority in person, until the American Revolution put an end to all the colonial governments. The history of Philadelphia during the period of the Revolution is largely connected with that of the whole country. At a large meeting held in the State House in Philadelphia, in April, 1768, it was resolved to cease all importations from the mother country, in consequence of the exorbitant taxes levied upon them. In 1773, the British East India Company being determined to export tea to America, a second meeting was called at the State House, at which it was patriotically resolved that "Parliament had no right to tax the Americans, without their consent," and that "any one who would receive or sell the tea sent out to America would be denounced as an enemy to his country." The ship Polly, Captain Ryers, was to bring the tea to Philadelphia. Handbills, purporting to be issued by the "committee for tarring and feathering," were printed and distributed among the citizens. They were addressed to the Delaware pilots and to Captain Ryers himself, warning the former of the danger they would incur if they piloted the tea ship up the river, whilst Captain Ryers was threatened with the application of tar and feathers if he attempted to land the tea. Christmas Day, 1773, the Polly arrived. A committee of citizens went on board, told Captain Ryers the danger he was in, and requested him to accompany them to the State House. Here the largest meeting was assembled that had ever been held in the city. This meeting resolved that the tea on board the Polly _should not be landed_, and that it should be carried back to England immediately. The captain signified his willingness to comply with the resolution, and in two hours after, the Polly, with her freight of tea, hoisted sail and went down the river. In September, 1774, the first Congress, composed of delegates from eleven Colonies, met at Carpenters' Hall, on Chestnut street, Philadelphia, to consider the condition of the Colonies, in their relation to the mother country. This Congress resolved that all importations from Great Britain or her dependencies should cease. Committees of "inspection and observation," were appointed, which exercised absolute authority to punish all persons infringing the order of Congress. On April twenty-fourth, 1775, news of the battles of Concord and Lexington reached the city. A meeting was immediately called, by sound of gong and bell, at the State House. Eight thousand persons assembled, who resolved that they would "associate together, to defend with arms their property, liberty and lives." Troops were at once raised, forts and batteries built on the Delaware, floating batteries, gunboats and ships-of-war constructed, with all the speed possible, and _chevaux de frize_ sunk in the river, to prevent the passage of British ships. In May, 1776, the English Frigate Roebuck, and Sloop-of-war Liverpool, attempting to force their way up the river, the Americans opened fire on them, and a regular naval action took place. The British managed to escape, and retired to their cruising ground, at the entrance of the bay. [Illustration: OLD INDEPENDENCE HALL, PHILADELPHIA.] On July second, 1776, Congress, sitting at the State House, resolved in favor of the severance of all connection between the American Colonies and Great Britain, and independence of that power. On July third and fourth, the form of the declaration of independence was debated, and adopted on the latter day. July eighth, the Declaration was read to the people in the State House yard, and received with acclamations, and evidences of a stern determination to defend their independence with their lives. The King's Arms were at once torn down from the court room in the State House, and burned by the people. Bells were rung and bonfires lighted, the old State House bell fulfilling the command inscribed upon it, when it was cast, twenty years before: "Proclaim Liberty throughout the land, unto all the inhabitants thereof." In September, 1777, the British army, under General Lord Howe, entered Philadelphia. October fourth, Washington attacked it at Germantown, and although he did not win a victory, compelled the British commander to respect him. The English remained in possession of the city, but the Americans held the country around. The Philadelphians having closed the Delaware by the _chevaux de frize_, the royal army was in effect hemmed in and cut off from communication with the British fleet, which had entered the Delaware, but was prevented from approaching the city by the American forts and batteries. It had brought but a moderate supply of stores, and as these diminished, the troops suffered from scarcity of food. On November twenty-sixth, British frigates and transports arrived at the wharves of the city, to the great joy of the royal troops and of the inhabitants, provisions having become very scarce and famine threatened. Beef sold at five dollars a pound, and potatoes at four dollars a bushel, hard money. The British army remained in Philadelphia until June eighteenth, 1778, about nine months from its first occupation of the city. During that time the officers gave themselves up to enjoyment. They amused themselves with the theatre, with balls, parties, cock-fights and gambling: and a grand fête was celebrated in honor of their commander, Lord Howe. This fête, in the style of a tournament of chivalry, took place in the lower part of the city, and while it was in progress the Americans in considerable force made an attack upon the lines north of the city, set fire to the abattis, and brought out the entire body of the royal troops to repel the attack. Upon the evacuation of the city, in June, General Benedict Arnold was immediately sent with a small force to occupy it. He remained in military command for several months. It was discovered by many that he had become largely involved in certain speculating transactions, and the shame of the discovery stimulated the traitorous intentions which finally carried him over to the British army. After the inauguration of Washington as President of the new republic, it was determined by Congress that Philadelphia should be the seat of the United States government for the ensuing ten years, after which it should be removed to Washington City. The scheme of the Federal Constitution was framed and adopted in September, 1787, by the Convention sitting at the State House, with George Washington as President. The final adoption of the Constitution of the United States of America was celebrated in Philadelphia on the Fourth of July, 1788 by a magnificent procession. The principal officers of Congress removed their residences to Philadelphia in the latter part of 1790. At that period Washington lived in Market street near Sixth, in a plain two-story brick house, which had been the residence of Lord Howe during the British occupation of the city. The locality is now occupied, if I mistake not, by the mammoth clothing house of Wanamaker & Brown. John Adams, Vice-President, lived in the Hamilton mansion at Bush Hill; and Thomas Jefferson, Secretary of State, at 174 Market street, between Fourth and Fifth, on the south side. Congress assembled for the transaction of business on State House Square. During the stay of the Federal government in Philadelphia, Washington and Adams were inaugurated as President and Vice President (March fourth, 1797), in the chamber of the House of Representatives. In 1793, 1797, and 1798, a fearful epidemic of the yellow fever, visited Philadelphia and created great alarm, the mortality being dreadful. The removal of the Federal government to Washington, in 1800, deprived Philadelphia of the prominence she had enjoyed as the Capital of the nation. In the year 1808 steamboats began to ply regularly on the Delaware River. During the war which commenced in 1812 between the United States and Great Britain, Philadelphia maintained her loyalty, and fulfilled her duty to the country. Several volunteer companies were formed, and there was an engagement in July, 1813, between British war vessels and the United States gunboat flotilla on the Delaware, in which the Philadelphians proved themselves brave and patriotic. The first railroad, running from Philadelphia to Germantown, was built in 1832. The Pennsylvania Railroad was projected in 1845, and chartered in the following year. In 1834 a spirit of riot and disorder which passed over the United States, reached Philadelphia, and led to disturbances between whites and blacks. The houses of colored people were broken into, a meeting-house torn down, and many other outrages committed. Again, in 1835 attacks were made on the blacks, and houses burned. In 1838 all friends of the abolition of slavery were violently attacked, and much damage done to property in the city. But the most terrible riots which Philadelphia has known occurred in 1844. A meeting of the Native American party was attacked and dispersed. The "Natives" rallied to a market house on Washington street, where they were again attacked, and fire-arms used on both sides. Houses were broken into and set on fire. The Roman Catholic churches of Saint Michael and Saint Augustine, and a female Catholic seminary, were burned, and many buildings sacked and destroyed. All the Catholic churches were in great danger of sharing the same fate. A large number of persons were killed on both sides. On July fourth, of the same year, the Native Americans had a very large and showy procession through the streets of the city. On Sunday, July seventh, the church of Saint Philip de Neri, in Southwark, was broken into by the mob. In clearing the streets, the soldiers and the people came into collision. The former fired into the crowd, and several persons were killed, and others wounded. This occurrence caused intense excitement. The soldiers were attacked with cannon and with musketry, and they responded with artillery and with musketry. The rioters had four pieces, which were worked by sailors. The battle continued during the night of the seventh and the morning of the eighth of July. Two soldiers were killed, and several wounded. Of the citizens seven were killed, and many wounded. This was the most sanguinary riot, and the last of any importance, which ever occurred in Philadelphia. Philadelphia possesses many characteristic features which distinguish her from her sister cities. The visitor will be at first struck by the extreme regularity of the streets, and the look of primness which invests them. They are laid out at right angles, the only notable exceptions being those roads, now dignified by the name of avenues, which usually led from the infant city into the then adjacent country. These avenues, of which Passyunk, Germantown and Ridge are the principal ones, are irregular in their course, but take a generally diagonal direction; the first southwest, and the other two northwest. The houses are mostly of brick, with white marble facings and steps, and white wooden shutters to the first story. The streets running east and west, from the Delaware to the Schuylkill, are, in the original city, with few exceptions named after trees. Thus Cedar, Pine, Spruce, Locust, Walnut, Chestnut, Filbert, Mulberry, Cherry, Sassafras and Vine. Cedar became South street, and Sassafras and Mulberry became Race and Arch, the latter so named because in the early days of the city Front street spanned it by an arch. Callowhill street was originally Gallowhill street, the word indicating its derivation. The houses on these streets are numbered from the Delaware, beginning a new hundred with every street. Thus all houses between Front and Second streets are numbered in the first hundred, and at Second street a new hundred begins; the even numbers being on the southern side, and the odd ones on the northern side of the street. The streets running parallel to the river are numbered from the river, beginning with Front, then Second, Third, and so on, until the furthest western limit of the city is reached. Market street, originally called High street, runs between Chestnut and Filbert, dividing the city into north and south. The houses on the streets crossing Market begin their numbers at that street, running both north and south, each street representing an additional hundred. With this naming of streets and numbering of houses, no stranger can ever lose himself in Philadelphia. The name and number of street and house will always tell him just where he is. Thus if he finds himself at 836 North Sixth street, he knows he is eight squares north of Market street, and six squares west of the Delaware River. The original city was bounded by the Delaware River on the east, and the Schuylkill on the west, and extended north and south half a mile on either side of Market street. Even before the present century it had outgrown its original limits in a northerly and southerly direction, and a number of suburbs had sprung up around it, each of which had its own corporation. The names of these suburbs were, most of them, borrowed from London. Southwark faced the river to the south; Moyamensing was just west of Southwark; Spring Garden, Kensington, Northern Liberties, Germantown, Roxborough, and Frankford were on the north, and West Philadelphia west of the Schuylkill. In 1854 these suburbs, so long divided from the "city" merely by geographical lines, were incorporated with it; and the City of Philadelphia was made to embrace the entire county of Philadelphia--a territory twenty-three miles long, with an area of nearly one hundred and thirty square miles. It thus became in size the largest city in the country, while it stands only second in population. The old city was laid out with great economy as to space, the streets being as narrow as though land were really scarce in the new country when it was planned. Market street extends from the Delaware westward--a broad, handsome avenue, occupied principally by wholesale stores. It is indebted, both for its name and width, to the market houses, which from an early date to as late as 1860, if not later, occupied the centre of the street; long, low, unsightly structures, thronged early in the morning, and especially on market days, with buyers and sellers, while market wagons lined the sides of the street. The same kind of structures still occupy certain localities of Second, Callowhill, Spring Garden and Bainbridge streets. But those in Market street have disappeared, and substantial and handsome market buildings have been erected on or near the street, instead of in its centre. A century ago the business of Philadelphia was confined principally to Front street, from Walnut to Arch. Now Second street presents the most extended length of retail stores in the country, and business has spread both north and south almost indefinitely, and is fast creeping westward. Market street presents a double line of business houses, from river to river. Chestnut, the fashionable promenade and locality of the finest hotels and retail stores, is invaded by business beyond Broad, and Arch street beyond Tenth; while Eighth street, even more than Chestnut the resort of shoppers, is, for many squares, built up by large and handsome retail stores. Broad street, lying between Thirteenth and Fifteenth, is the handsomest avenue in Philadelphia. It is fifteen miles in length, and one hundred and thirteen feet in width, and contains many of the finest public buildings and private residences in the city. Ridgway Library, the Deaf and Dumb Asylum, Horticultural Hall, Academy of Music, Broad Street Theatre, Union League Club House, Masonic Temple, Academy of Fine Arts, besides some of the most elegant religious edifices, are located on this street. At the intersection of Broad and Market, where were once four little squares left in the original plan of the city, and known as Penn Square, are being constructed the vast Public Buildings of the city. They are of white marble, four hundred and eighty-six and one-half feet long by four hundred and seventy feet wide, and four stories high, covering an area of four and one-half acres, not including a large court in the centre. The central tower will, when completed, be four hundred and fifty feet high, and the total cost of the buildings over ten millions of dollars. This building presents a most imposing appearance, whether viewed from Market or Broad streets. The Masonic Temple, just to the north, is one of the handsomest of its kind in America. It is a solid granite structure, in the Norman style, most elaborately ornamented, and with a tower two hundred and thirty feet high. Its interior is finished in a costly manner, and after the several styles of architecture. The Academy of Music is one of the largest opera houses in America, being capable of seating three thousand persons. [Illustration: MASONIC TEMPLE, PHILADELPHIA.] Third street is the banking and financial centre of Philadelphia; on Walnut street are found the greatest proportion of insurance offices; South street is the cheap retail street, and is crowded with shoppers, especially on market days, and the Jews reign here supreme. Bainbridge street (once Shippen) east of Broad represents the squalor and crime of the city. "Old clo'" and second-hand stores of all descriptions alternate with low drinking places, and occupy forlorn and tumble-down tenements. All races and colors, and both sexes mingle here, and the man who sighs for missionary work need go no further than this quarter. Chestnut street is, next to Broad, the handsomest in the city. The buildings are all of comparatively recent construction, and are many of them handsome and costly. On Market street the past century still manifests itself in quaint houses of two or three stories in height, sometimes built of alternate black and red bricks, and occasionally with queer dormer windows, wedged in between more stately and more modern neighbors. It will be some time before the street becomes thoroughly modernized, and we can scarcely wish that it may become so, for the city would thus lose much of its quaint interest. One of the characteristics of Philadelphia which strikes the traveler is that it wears an old-time air, far more so than Boston or New York. Boston cannot straighten her originally crooked streets, but her thought and spirit are entirely of the nineteenth century. New York is intensely modern, the few relics of the past which still remain contrasting and emphasizing still more strongly the life and bustle and business of to-day. Philadelphia is a quiet city. Its people do not rush hither and thither, as though but one day remained in which to accomplish a life work. They take time to walk, to eat, to sleep, and to attend to their business. In brief, they take life far more easily and slowly than their metropolitan neighbors. They do not enter into wild speculative schemes; they have no such Stock Exchange, where bulls and bears roar and paw the ground, or where they may make or lose fortunes in less time than it takes to eat one's dinner. They are a steady, plodding people, accumulating handsome fortunes in solid, legitimate ways. There is little of the rustle and roar of the elder city; save for the continual ring and rattle of the street cars, which cross the city in every direction, many of its quarters are as quiet as a country village. Its early Quaker settlers have stamped it with the quiet and placidity which is the leading trait of their sect; and though the Quaker garb is seen less and less often upon the streets, the early stamp seems to have been indelible. Philadelphia retains more of the old customs, old houses, and, perhaps, old laws, than any other city in the country. The Quaker City lawyer carries his brief in a green bag, as the benches of the Inner Temple used to do in Penn's time. The baker cuts a tally before the door each morning, just as the old English baker used to do three centuries ago. After a death has occurred in it, a house is put into mourning, having the shutters bowed and tied with black ribbon, not to be opened for at least a year. There are laws (seldom executed, it is true, but still upon the statute-books), against profanity and Sabbath-breaking, and even regulating the dress of women. Some of the streets of Philadelphia bear strongly the marks of the past. Those, especially, near the river, which were built up in the early days, have not yet been entirely renovated; while some ancient buildings of historic interest have been preserved with jealous care. First and foremost among the latter is Independence Hall, occupying the square upon Chestnut street between Fifth and Sixth streets--no doubt, considered an imposing edifice at the time of its erection, but now overshadowed by the business palaces which surround it. It was here that the second Colonial Congress met; here that the Declaration of Independence was adopted; and here that the United States Congress assembled, until the seat of the General Government was removed to Washington, in 1800. In Congress Hall, in the second story of this building, Washington delivered his Farewell Address. The building is now preserved with great care. The hall where the Declaration of Independence was signed is decorated with portraits of the signers, and contains, among other objects of interest, as before stated, the bell which pealed out freedom to all. Next in historic importance is Carpenters' Hall, between Third and Fourth streets. The first Continental Congress met here, and here the first words pointing toward a collision with the mother country were spoken in Philadelphia. When William Penn made his first visit to Philadelphia, on October twenty-fourth, 1682, he set foot upon his new possessions at the Blue Anchor Landing, at the mouth of Dock Creek, in the vicinity of what is now the corner of Front and Dock streets. Here stood the Blue Anchor Inn, the first house built within the ancient limits of the city. Then, and long afterwards, Dock Creek was a considerable stream, running through the heart of the town. But, in course of time, the water became offensive, from the drainage of the city, and it was finally arched over, and turned into a sewer. The winding of Dock street is accounted for by the fact that it follows the former course of the creek. Sloops once anchored and discharged their cargoes where now stands Girard Bank, on Third street, below Chestnut. Between Chestnut and Market streets, Second and Front, is found Letitia street, where long stood the first brick house built in the Province, erected for the use of Penn himself, and named after his daughter Letitia. He directed that it should "be pitched in the middle of the platt of the town, facing the harbor." The bricks, wooden carvings and other materials, were imported from England. At the time of its construction a forest swept down to the river in front, forming a natural park, where deer ranged at will. Letitia House became a lager beer saloon, the front painted with foaming pots of beer. But business interests claimed the site and the old house was removed and carefully re-erected in Fairmount Park. The old Slate Roof House, long one of the ancient landmarks, on Second street below Chestnut, the residence of William Penn on his second visit to this country, during which visit John, his only "American" son was born, and where other noted persons lived and died, or at least visited, was removed in 1867, to make room for the Commercial Exchange. Not far off, on Second street, north of Market, is Christ's Church, occupying the site of the first church erected by the followers of Penn. The present edifice was begun in 1727. Washington's coach and four used to draw up proudly before it each Sabbath, and himself and Lady Washington, Lord Howe, Cornwallis, Benedict Arnold, Andre, Benjamin Franklin, De Chastellux, the Madisons, the Lees, Patrick Henry and others whose names have become incorporated in American history, have worshiped here. In the aisles are buried various persons, great men in their day, but forgotten now. The chime of bells in the lofty tower is the oldest in America, and were cast in London. This chime joined the State House bell on that memorable Fourth of July, when the latter proclaimed liberty throughout the land. Just opposite this church is a small street, opening into Second street, its eastern end closed by a tall block of warehouses. This street contained Stephen Girard's stores and houses. The great elm tree, at Kensington, under which Penn made his famous treaty with the Indians, remained until 1800, when it was blown down. An insignificant stone now marks the spot, being inclosed by a fence, and surrounded by stone and lumber yards. An elm overshadows it--possibly, a lineal descendant of the historic tree. There is an older religious edifice in Philadelphia than Christ's Church. It is the old Swedes' Church, erected in 1697, not far from Front and Christian streets, by early Swedish missionaries. Though insignificant, compared with modern churches, it was regarded as a magnificent structure by the Quakers, Swedes and Indians, who first beheld it. The inside carvings, bell and communion service, were a gift of the Swedish king. In the graveyard which surrounds it are found the dead of nearly two centuries ago, some of the slate-stones over the older graves having been imported from the mother country. Here sleeps Sven Schute and his descendants, once, under Swedish dominion, lords of all the land on which Philadelphia now stands. None of his name now lives. Here lie buried, forgotten, Bengtossens, Peterssens, and Bonds. Wilson, the ornithologist, was a frequent attendant at this church, early in the present century, and he lies in the church yard, having been buried there by his own request, as it was "a silent, shady place, where the birds would be apt to come and sing over his grave." The English sparrows have built their nests above it. An ancient house possessing special historic interest stands on Front street, a few doors above Dock. It is built of glazed black bricks, with a hipped roof, and, though it was a place of note in its day, occupied by one generation after another of the ruling Quakers, it has now degenerated into a workingmen's coffee-house. To it the Friends conducted Franklin on his return from England. War was not yet declared, but there were mutterings in the distance; all awaited Franklin's counsels, sitting silently, as is their wont, waiting for the spirit to move to utterance, when Franklin stood up and cried out: "To arms, my friends, to arms!" Franklin has left many associations in the city of his adoption. As a boy of seventeen he trudged up High, now Market street, munching one roll, with another under his arm, friendless and unknown. Even his future wife smiled in ridicule as he passed by. To-day statues are erected to his memory, and institutions named after him. The Philadelphia Library, the oldest and richest in the city, claims him as one of its original founders. In 1729, the Junto, a little association of tradesmen of which Franklin was a member, used to meet in the chamber of a little house in Pewter-platter alley, to exchange their books. Franklin suggested that there should be a small annual subscription, in order to increase the stock. To-day the library contains many thousand volumes, with many rare and valuable manuscripts and pamphlets. This library contains Penn's desk and clock, John Penn's cabinet, and a colossal bust of Minerva which overlooked the deliberations of the Continental Congress. In an old graveyard at the corner of Fifth and Arch, a section of iron railing in the stone wall which surrounds it permits the passer to view the plain marble slab which covers the remains of Franklin and his wife. Speaking of libraries, the Apprentices' Library, on the opposite corner of Fifth and Arch, overlooks Franklin's grave. It was established by the Quakers, and dates back to 1783. The apprentice system has died out, and the library is almost forgotten. As late as 1876, stood the old Quaker Almshouse, on Willings alley, between Third and Fourth streets, of which Longfellow gives this description in his poem, "Evangeline:"-- "Then in the suburbs it stood, in the midst of meadows and woodlands;-- Now the city surrounds it; but still with its gateway and wicket, Meek in the midst of splendor, its humble walls seem to echo Softly the words of the Lord: 'The poor ye always have with you.'" Here Evangeline came when the pestilence fell on the city, when-- "Distant and soft on her ear fell the chimes from the belfry of Christ Church, While intermingled with these, across the meadows were wafted Sounds of psalms that were sung by the Swedes in their church at Wicaco." And here Evangeline found Gabriel. The ancient building is now leveled, and only the poem remains. Germantown, now incorporated in Philadelphia, is rich in historic associations. Stenton, a country seat near Germantown, was for generations the centre of the social life of the Quakers. It was built in 1731, by James Logan, and was finished with secret passages and underground ways, to be used in case of attack by Indians and others. The Chew House at Germantown was, during the Revolution, used by Colonel Musgrove and six companies, for a long time. The old Johnson House had its hall door, which is still preserved, riddled by cannon. In many private lawns and gardens of that suburb royalists and rebels sleep peacefully side by side. A house, now quaint in its antiquity, at the intersection of Main street and West Walnut lane, was used during the Revolution as a hospital and amputating room. The old Wistar House, built in 1744, played a part in the events of the last century, and contains furniture which once belonged to Franklin and Count Zinzendorf. There is a room filled with relics of early times. In 1755 the corner stone of Pennsylvania Hospital was laid. This corner stone having been recently uncovered, in making alterations to the building, the following inscription, of which Franklin was the author, was discovered: "In the Year of Christ, MDCCLV, George the Second happily reigning (for he sought the happiness of his people)--Philadelphia flourishing (for its inhabitants were public spirited)--This Building, By the Bounty of the Government, and of many private persons, was piously founded For the Relief of the Sick and Miserable. May the God of Mercies Bless the undertaking!" A noticeable and commendable feature of Philadelphia is its many workingmen's homes. In New York the middle classes, whose incomes are but moderate, are compelled to seek residences in cheap flats and tenement houses, or else go into the country, at the daily expense of car or ferry rides. But in Philadelphia flats are unknown, and tenement life--several families crowded under a single roof--confined almost entirely to the more wretched quarters of the city. There are streets upon streets of comfortable and neat dwellings, marble-faced and marble-stepped, with their prim white shutters, two or three stories in height, and containing from six to nine rooms, with all the conveniences of gas, bath-room and water, which are either rented at moderate rates or owned outright by single families, who may possibly rent out a room or two to lodgers. Philadelphia may have less elegant public and business edifices than New York, but her dwelling houses stand as far more desirable monuments to the prosperity of a people than the splendor united with the squalor of the metropolis. The manufactures of Philadelphia furnish the foundation of her prosperity. Her iron foundries produce more than one-third of the manufactured iron of the country, and number among them some of the largest in America. The Port Richmond Iron Works of I. P. Morris & Company cover, with their various buildings, five acres of ground. The Baldwin Locomotive Works, on Broad street, founded in 1831, employ a large force of men. It takes eighteen hundred men one day to complete and make ready for service a single locomotive; yet these works turn out three hundred locomotives a year. Some of the largest men-of-war in the world have also been built at the navy yards in Philadelphia and League Island. Among them is the old Pennsylvania, of one hundred and twenty guns. Besides her iron works there are many mills and factories. Miles of carpet, of superior quality, are woven every day, besides immense quantities of other woolen and cotton goods and shoes. Her retail stores, taken as a whole, will not compare in size and elegance with those of New York, though there are two or three exceptions to this rule. The headquarters of the Pennsylvania Railroad is at Philadelphia, and there is a grand depot on Broad street, near Market, which is palatial in its appointments. Of her places of amusement, the Academy of Music ranks first in size. There are numerous theatres, among which the Walnut Street Theatre is the oldest, and the Arch Street Theatre the most elegantly finished and furnished, and the best managed. With these and other places of amusement, are associated the names of all the prominent musicians, actors and actresses of the past and present. The Academy of Music was not built when Jenny Lind visited this country, but it was ready for occupancy only a few years later; and has witnessed the triumphs of many a prima donna, now forgotten by the public, which then worshiped her. Forrest began his theatrical career in Philadelphia; and the names of noted tragedians and comedians who have come and gone upon her boards are legion. Of churches Philadelphia has many, and beautiful ones. On three corners of Broad and Arch streets tall and slender spires point heavenward, rising from three of the most costly churches in the city. Surpassing them all, however, is the Roman Catholic Cathedral of Saint Peter and Saint Paul, on Logan Square. It is of red sandstone, in the Corinthian style, and is surmounted by a dome two hundred and ten feet high. The interior is cruciform and richly frescoed. The altar piece is by Brumidi. Also, fronting on Logan Square, at the corner of Nineteenth and Race streets, is the Academy of Natural Sciences, containing a library of twenty-six thousand volumes, and most extensive, valuable and interesting collections in zoölogy, ornithology, geology, mineralogy, conchology, ethnology, archæology and botany. The museum contains over two hundred and fifty thousand specimens, and Agassiz pronounced it one of the finest natural science collections in the world. It also contains a perfect skeleton of a whale, a complete ancient saurian, twenty-five feet long, and the fossil remains of a second saurian so much larger than the first that it fed upon it. Franklin Institute is devoted to science and the mechanical arts, and contains a library of fifteen thousand volumes. The Mercantile Library occupies a stately edifice, on Tenth street below Market, and contains over fifty thousand volumes, exclusive of periodicals and papers. On an average, five hundred books are loaned daily, from this institution. The newspapers of Philadelphia rank second only to those of New York. The _Ledger_ has a magnificent building at the corner of Sixth and Chestnut, complete in all its appointments, from engine rooms, in the basement, to type-setting rooms in the top story. The _Times_ building, at the corner of Eighth and Chestnut, is also very fine. The _Public Record_ building, newly finished, on Chestnut street above Ninth, near the new Post Office, surpasses all others. It represents the profits of a daily penny paper, giving news in a condensed form, to meet the wants of a working and busy public. Philadelphia once represented the literary centre of the country. It took the lead in periodic literature half a century ago, and claimed, as residents, some of the most brilliant novelists, essayists and poets of the day. But the glory of that age has departed. The _Continent_, a weekly magazine, sought to revive the prestige of the city, but soon removed to New York, where it died. The Medical Colleges of Philadelphia have long stood in the front rank, and have attracted students from all parts of the country. A Woman's Medical College is in successful operation, with a fine hospital connected with it. Philadelphia has an educational system embracing schools of different grades, and a High School. But it pays its teachers less salaries than most of the other cities, and the standard of the schools is not so high as it should be, in consequence. Girard College should not be overlooked, while speaking of educational institutions. Architecturally, it is a magnificent marble building, in Grecian style. It is located near the Schuylkill River, on Girard avenue. When Girard selected the location for his proposed college, it was so far out in the country, that he never thought the city would creep up to it. But to-day the college is inclosed by it, and its high stone walls block many a street, to the inconvenience of the people of the neighborhood. It was established for the practical education of orphan boys, and one of the provisions of its founder--himself a free thinker--was, that no religious instruction should be imparted to the pupils, and no clergyman be permitted to enter its doors; a provision which is widely interpreted, to the effect that no sectarian bias is given in the college. The United States Mint, located on Chestnut street, above Thirteenth, is copied from a Grecian temple at Athens. It contains a very valuable collection of coins, embracing those of almost every period of the world and every nation. The Custom House is an imitation of the Pantheon at Athens. The new Post Office is on Ninth street, extending from Chestnut to Market. It is a spacious granite structure, in the Renaissance style, four stories in height, with an iron dome, and when completed will cost about four millions of dollars. On the opposite corner from the Post Office is the Continentel Hotel, a spacious structure which, when erected, was the largest of its kind in the country. It is now exceeded in size by several other hotels in other cities, but it is noted for the elegance and excellence of the entertainment it offers its guests. Girard Hotel is immediately opposite, and ranks second only to the Continental. The Eastern Penitentiary is on Fairmount avenue, on what was once known as Cherry Hill. In it is practiced the plan of solitary confinement for prisoners. When Dickens paid his first visit to America, more than forty years ago, he visited this prison, and was so moved to pity by the solitude of its inmates, that he wrote a touching account of one of the prisoners, in whom he was especially interested. But this very prisoner, when he was set at liberty, soon committed another crime which sent him back to his silent and solitary cell, and every subsequent release was followed by a subsequent crime and subsequent imprisonment. Finally, when Dickens had been in his grave for years, the old man, still hale and hearty, but bearing the marks of age, was once more set free. Attention was attracted to him by the newspapers, as having been the prison hero of Dickens. The public became interested in him, and an effort was made to place him beyond the temptation of crime, so that he might go down to his grave a free man. But before many months had elapsed, life in the outer world became irksome to him, and he returned, by his well-beaten path, back to the penitentiary. He was very proud of the notice which Dickens had bestowed upon him, and it seemed to more than compensate for the loss of his liberty. When Penn visited Philadelphia, in its infant days, he wished to preserve the bluff overlooking the Delaware, to be forever used as a public park and promenade. But the traffic of Front street now rattles where he would have had green trees and grass. Philadelphia has no pleasant outlook upon the river, to correspond with the Battery of New York. The wharves are lined with craft of every description, and the flags of many nations are to be seen in her harbor; but commerce creeps down to the very shores, and Delaware avenue, which faces the river, is dirty and crowded with traffic. Seen from the river the city makes a pleasing outline against the sky, with its many spires and domes. Smith's Island and Windmill Island lie opposite the city, a short distance away, and Camden is on the New Jersey shore. Ferry boats continually ply across the Delaware, carrying to and fro the travelers of a continent. Philadelphia is not without its public breathing places, where the residents of its narrow streets may enjoy fine trees and green grass. When the city was first planned, four squares, of about seven acres each, were reserved in its four quarters, two each side of Market street, and are now known as Washington, Franklin, Logan and Rittenhouse Squares. Washington Square is at Sixth and Walnut, and was once a Potters' Field. Many soldiers, victims of the smallpox and camp fever, were buried there during the Revolution. Franklin Square, at Sixth and Race was also once a burying, ground. A fountain now occupies its centre. At Eighteenth and Race is Logan Square, where in 1864 was held the great Sanitary Fair. The entire square was roofed over and boarded up, the trunks of the trees standing as pillars in the aisles of the large building. Its companion, Rittenhouse Square, at Eighteenth and Walnut streets, is the centre of the aristocratic quarter of the city. It is surrounded by most elegant mansions and costly churches. Independence Square lies back of Independence Hall. There are a few other smaller and newer squares scattered throughout the city, but its great pride is Fairmount Park, which is unsurpassed in its natural advantages by any park in the world. This park contains nearly three thousand acres, embracing eleven miles in length along the Schuylkill and Wissahickon rivers. The nucleus of this park was the waterworks and reservoir, the former situated on the Schuylkill, in the northwestern part of the city, and the latter on a natural elevation close by, from which the entire park takes its name, while a small tract of land between the two was included in the original park. There was added the beautiful estate of Lemon Hill, once the country seat of Robert Morris, with the strip along the Schuylkill which led to it. In course of time Egglesfield, Belmont, Lansdowne and George's Hill, on the opposite side of the river, were added, either by gift or purchase, and eventually the tract of land on the eastern bank, extending from Lemon Hill to the Wissahickon, and along both banks of the latter as far as Chestnut Hill. This park, besides the beautiful river and romantic stream which it incloses, includes hills and valleys, charming ravines and picturesque rocks. While the city has gained much, the true lover of nature has lost something, by the conversion of this tract of land into a park. While it was still private property, nature was at her loveliest. Wild flowers blossomed in the dells, and little streams gurgled and tumbled over stones down the ravines, while vines and foliage softened the rugged outlines of the rocky hillsides. But the landscape gardener has been there. The dells are converted into gentle slopes; the wild flowers and ferns which beautified them have given place to green sward; one of the prettiest of the brooks has been converted into a sewer and covered over. The Wissahickon, once the most delightful of wild and wayward streams, is now, for a considerable part of its way, imprisoned between banks as straight and unpicturesque as those of a canal. The pretty country lanes have been obliterated, and the trees which overshadowed them have disappeared. Primness and stableness is now the rule. Art has sought to improve nature, and has almost obliterated it, instead. Yet even the landscape gardener cannot succeed in making the Schuylkill entirely unattractive; and velvet turf and trees waving in the wind, even though the latter be pruned into a tiresome regularity, are always more grateful than the cobble stones and brick pavements of the city streets, and thousands every day seek rest or recreation at Fairmount. Belmont Mansion is now a restaurant. Solitude, a villa built in 1785 by John Penn, grandson of William Penn, and the cottage of Tom Moore, not far from Belmont where he spent some months during his visit to America, are among the attractions of the park. [Illustration: GIRARD AVENUE BRIDGE--FAIRMOUNT PARK, PHILADELPHIA.] The Zoölogical Gardens are included in the park, and are situated on the western bank of the Schuylkill, opposite Lemon Hill. Here is found the finest collection of European and American animals in America, and the daily concourse of visitors is very great. The several bridges which span the Schuylkill are very picturesque. In the winter, when the river at Fairmount, above the dam, is frozen over, the ice is covered with skaters, and the bank is thronged with spectators. Laurel Hill, one of the most beautiful cemeteries of the country, adjoins Fairmount Park, and is inclosed by it, seeming to make it a part of the park. Mount Vernon Cemetery is nearly opposite Woodlands, in West Philadelphia, and contains the Drexel Mausoleum, the costliest in America. Fairmount was the site of the Centennial Exhibition in 1876, and numerous and costly buildings were erected there. Of these many were removed at once at the close of the Exhibition. The main building, a mammoth structure, covering eleven acres, was retained for several years for a permanent exhibition building, but was removed in 1883. Memorial Hall, erected by the State, at a cost of $1,500,000, standing on an elevated terrace between George's Hill and the river, and used as an art gallery during the Exhibition, still remains, and is designed for a permanent art and industrial collection. North of Memorial Hall stands the Horticultural Building, a picturesque structure, in the Mooresque style. It is a conservatory, filled with tropical and other plants, and is surrounded by thirty-five acres devoted to horticultural purposes. In October, 1882, Philadelphia celebrated her Bi-centennial, and commemorated the landing of Penn, who first stepped upon her shores two hundred years before. This Bi-centennial lasted for three days, which were celebrated, the first as "Landing Day," the second as "Trades' Day," and the third as "Festival Day." On the first day, October twenty-fourth, the State House bell rang two hundred times, and the chimes of the churches were rung. The ship Welcome, which two hundred years before had conveyed Penn to our shores, made a second arrival, and a mimic Penn again visited the Blue Anchor, still standing to receive him, held treaty with the Indians, and then paraded through the city, followed by a large and brilliant procession, which presented the harmless anachronism of the Proprietor of two hundred years ago hob-nobbing with the city officials and others of the nineteenth century. On the second day the different trades and manufacturing interests made a great display. In the evening Pennsylvania history was represented by ten tableaux; eleven tableaux presented the illustrious women of history; and ten tableaux gave the principal scenes in the Romayana, the great poem of India. The display of this night pageant was gorgeous and beautiful beyond anything ever before seen in this country. On the third day the morning was devoted to a parade of Knights Templar, and the evening to a reception at the Academy of Music and Horticultural Hall. A musical festival was held during the day; also a naval regatta upon the Schuylkill, a bicycle meet at Fairmount, and archery contests at Agricultural Hall. During the entire three days Philadelphia held holiday. Her streets and pavements were crowded with throngs of people from the country, and elevated seats along the principal streets were constantly filled, at high prices. If William Penn could really, in person, have stepped upon the scene, and beheld the city of his planning as it is to-day, he would undoubtedly be astonished beyond expression. In magnitude it must exceed his wildest dreams; in commercial and manufacturing enterprises its progress reads like some fable of the east. He would look almost in vain for his country residence upon the Delaware, once surrounded by noble forests, and we fear he would scorn the Blue Anchor and all its present associations. Time works wonders. Nearly a million people now find their homes where, in 1683, one year after Penn's arrival, there were but one hundred houses. In 1684 the population of Philadelphia was estimated at 2,500. In 1800 it had increased to 41,220. In 1850 it was 121,376. From this period to 1860, its growth was almost marvelous, at the latter period its inhabitants numbering 565,529. The census of 1880 gave it a population of 846,984. The residents of Philadelphia include every nationality and class of people. The Quakers are in a small minority, though they have done much to mould the character of the city. Irish and Germans predominate among foreigners. Italians, French, Spanish, and Chinese are not so numerous as in New York. The society of the Quaker City bears the reputation of great exclusiveness. While culture will admit to the charmed circle in Boston, and money buys a ready passport to social recognition in New York, in Philadelphia the door is closed to all pretensions except those of family. Boston asks "How much do you know?" New York, "How much are you worth?" but in Philadelphia the question is, "Who was your grandfather?" Philadelphia ranks fourth in commerce among the cities of the Union. As a manufacturing city it occupies the very front rank. With the inexhaustible coal and iron fields of Pennsylvania at its back, her manufacturing interests are certain to grow in extent and importance, maintaining the ascendency they have already gained. Its prosperity has a firm basis. Like all large cities, there is squalor, misery and crime within its borders; but the proportion is smaller than in some other cities, and the aggregate amount of domestic content, owing to its many comfortable homes, much greater. Thus Philadelphia offers an example, in more than one direction, which might be emulated by her sister cities. What she will have become when her tri-centennial comes around, who shall dare to predict? CHAPTER XXVII. PROVIDENCE. Origin of the City.--Roger Williams.--Geographical Location and Importance.--Topography of Providence.--The Cove.--Railroad Connections.--Brown University.--Patriotism of Rhode Island.-- Soldiers' Monument.--The Roger Williams Park.--Narragansett Bay.--Suburban Villages.--Points of Interest.--Butter Exchange.--Lamplighting on a New Plan.--Jewelry Manufactories. In the year 1630, Roger Williams, a clergyman, persecuted and banished from Massachusetts on account of his peculiar religious views, came to Rhode Island and laid the foundation of a city, naming it Providence, in gratitude for his deliverance from persecution. This renowned pioneer not only laid the corner stone of a great and growing city, but ineffaceably stamped his character upon all her institutions, public and private. Providence is the second city of New England in respect to wealth and population. It is pleasantly located at the head of Narragansett Bay, thirty-five miles from the ocean. Its commercial advantages are unsurpassed, and as a manufacturing town it ranks among the first in the Atlantic States. The city is divided into two unequal portions by a narrow arm of the Bay, which terminates near the geographical centre of the town, in a beautiful elliptical sheet of water, about one mile in circumference, called the cove, or basin. This basin is inclosed by a handsome granite wall, capped by a substantial and ornamental iron fence, and is surrounded by a green about eighty feet in width, filled with a variety of beautiful and thrifty shade trees. The eastern portion of the city rises from the water, in some places gradually, in others quite abruptly, to the height of more than two hundred feet. This elevated land is occupied by elegant private mansions surrounded with numerous shade trees and ornamental gardens, making one of the most delightful and desirable places for residence to be found in any city. The western portion of the city rises very gradually until it reaches an elevation of about seventy-five feet, when it spreads out into a level plain, extending a considerable distance to the southwest. The northern portion, recently annexed to the city, is more sparsely populated, and portions of it are quite rural in appearance and abounding in hills, numerous springs and small streams of water. Providence is about forty-three miles from Boston, the same distance from Worcester, ninety miles from Hartford, fifty miles from Stonington, and twenty miles from Fall River, with each of which places it is connected by numerous daily trains. It also has railroad connections with New Bedford and southern Massachusetts, with Fitchburg, and thence with Vermont and New Hampshire. There is now in process of construction another route to Northern Connecticut, Springfield and the west. It is also closely connected with Newport, and other places on Narragansett Bay, by steamboats. [Illustration: VIEW OF PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND, FROM PROSPECT TERRACE.] Brown University is one of the distinguishing features of Providence, and, as an institution of learning, stands in the front rank of American colleges. Founded more than one hundred years since, this college has come down from the past, hand in hand with Yale and Harvard. Among the renowned graduates of Brown University may be mentioned Charles Sumner, the great statesman, the devoted patriot, the champion of the negro, whose fame and good works will live while freedom is the heritage of the American people. President Wayland, of this institution, was the originator of the public Library System of New England--a system whose wonderful power for good is markedly on the increase. During the war no State of the whole sisterhood evinced more patriotism than little Rhode Island, and Providence was largely represented in the Union army. A Soldiers' Monument stands in the triangular space near the Boston and Providence Railroad Depot, inscribed with the names of Rhode Island soldiers who were killed in battle. The Monument is surmounted by a statue in bronze of the Goddess of Liberty, and in niches of the granite pillar below this figure each arm of the service is represented by soldiers in bronze. The work is finely executed, and it is one of the first objects which attracts the attention of the stranger. The Artilleryman stands behind his cannon in grim silence; representatives of the infantry, the cavalry and the marine arms of the service are his coadjutors, and the entire group is sternly suggestive of war's sad havoc. About a mile and a half from the heart of the city, along a beautiful McAdamized road leading to Pawtuxet, is situated the Roger Williams Park, a tract of land containing about thirteen hundred acres, which was bequeathed to the city by a descendant of Roger Williams, in consideration of five hundred dollars, to be raised by the Providence people, for the erection of a monument to the city's illustrious founder. The sum to be appropriated for that purpose was equivalent to twenty-six hundred dollars at the present time. The embryo park is yet a wilderness, unreclaimed, and primeval forest-trees fill the wide enclosure. The ground is undulating with hill and dale, and pleasant driveways under the dark pines and hemlocks are already laid out. The memory of Roger Williams is held in great veneration by the citizens of Providence, and he is ranked with William Penn in the category of noble pioneers. Plenty of eulogistic essays and poems have been written concerning him, and his great love of liberty, exemplified in his life, is a matter of history. The following fragment of verse, by Francis Whipple, one of Rhode Island's poets, places the memory of the two heroes side by side:-- "When warlike fame, as morning mist shall fly, And blood-stained glory as a meteor die, When all the dross is known and cast away, And the pure gold alone allowed to stay, Two names will stand, the pride of virtuous men, Our Roger Williams and good William Penn." Many of the suburbs of Providence are of some note as places of summer resort. The coast scenery along Narragansett Bay is full of charming water-pictures, and numerous rocky islands may be seen, on which are erected little white cottages, for summer occupation. The islands are sometimes connected with the shore by foot-bridges, but often the only means of communication with land is by boat. Nayatt Point, six miles distant from Providence by rail, is, as its name implies, a jutting point of land, reaching out into the bay, where beautiful drives along the beach and through the neighboring groves, added to the salt sea air, are the chief summer attractions. Rocky Point, directly opposite Nayatt, is famous for its clam bakes, and on moonlight nights in summer, excursion parties from Nayatt, Barrington or Warren, glide over the smooth waters of the bay to this lovely spot. The red glow of Rocky Point Light can be seen through the night, for miles and miles along the coast and down the bay. Westminster street is the principal avenue of Providence, and is handsomely built up with substantial and elegant business blocks. A very large hostelry, to be called the Narragansett Hotel, is in process of erection at the corner of Dorrance and Broad streets. Just back of this building, the new Providence Opera House, a structure of recent date, furnished with all the modern appliances for the stage, opens its doors to lovers of the histrionic art. The What-Cheer building, the Arcade, and the Butler Exchange are all well known business centres. The last named place owes its existence to a clause in a Scotchman's will. A large inheritance was left to a gentleman in Providence, with a stipulation that a certain amount of its yearly income should be used in the erection of public buildings in the city. The Butler Exchange is one of the children of this proviso. A recent improvement in Providence is that of lighting the city lamps by means of electricity. Only one person is required to light the streets of the entire city. A single turn of the screw which commands the network of wires leading to the lamp posts, sets every gas jet, far and near, aflame, in one instantaneous blaze. It is a marvelous advance on the old way of doing things, and will greatly lessen the expenditures of the city. Providence is justly celebrated for its manufacture of jewelry. The largest establishments of the kind in New England are in operation here, and the work turned out is of the most skillful pattern. A visit to the lapidary establishments is full of interest. A shining array of precious stones, from the white brilliance of the diamond, to the mottled moss agate, greets the bewildered gaze, and skillful workmen are deftly transforming them into the beautiful gems which shine in the jeweler's window. CHAPTER XXVIII. QUEBEC. Appearance of Quebec.--Gibraltar of America.--Fortifications and Walls.--The Walled City.--Churches, Nunneries and Hospitals.-- Views from the Cliff.--Upper Town.--Lower Town.--Manufactures.-- Public Buildings.--Plains of Abraham.--Falls of Montmorenci.-- Sledding on the "Cone."--History of Quebec.--Capture of the City by the British.--Death of Generals Wolfe and Montcalm.-- Disaster under General Murray.--Ceding of Canada, by France, to England.--Attack by American Forces under Montgomery and Arnold.--Death of Montgomery.--Capital of Lower Canada and of the Province of Quebec. Of all the cities and towns on the American continent, not one wears such an Old-World expression as Quebec. Not even St. Augustine, in Florida, with its narrow streets, and quaint, overhanging balconies, so takes the traveler back to a past age, as that fortified city on the lower St. Lawrence. It is not French in any modern sense. But the city and its inhabitants belong to a France now passed away, the France of St. Louis, the _fleur-de-lis_, and a dominant priesthood. An offshoot from such a France, now blotted out and forgotten in the crowding of events during the last century, it has remained oblivious of all the changes in the parent country, and not even British rule, and the infusion of Anglo-Saxon and Celtic blood have been able to more than partially obliterate its early characteristics. Quebec is situated at the confluence of the St. Charles River with the St. Lawrence, on the northern side of a point of land which projects between these two rivers. This point ends in an abrupt headland, three hundred and thirty-three feet above the level of the river; and its precipitous sides, crowned with an almost impregnable fortress, have won for it the name of the "Gibraltar of America." The most elevated part of this promontory is called Cape Diamond, since at one time numerous quartz crystals were found there; and upon this is placed the citadel, occupying forty acres. From the citadel a line of wall runs towards the St. Charles River, until it reaches the brow of the bluff. Continuing around this bluff towards the St. Lawrence, it finally completes a circle of nearly three miles in circumference, by again connecting with the citadel. This encircling wall originally had five gates, but four of these were removed some time ago. They are now being replaced by more ornamental ones. The old St. Louis Gate, opening upon the street of that name, is being replaced by the Kent Gate, in honor of Queen Victoria's father, who spent the summer of 1791 near Quebec. Dufferin Gate is being erected on St. Patrick street; Palace and Hope gates are to be replaced by castellated gates; while a light iron bridge is to occupy the site of the Prescott Gate. The old city is contained within this walled inclosure, and here, in the narrow, tortuous, mediæval streets, are the stately churches, venerable convents, and other edifices, many of them dating back to the period of the French occupation of the city. The houses are tall, with narrow windows and irregular gables, two or three stories high, and roofed, like the public buildings, with shining tin. A very large part of the city within the walls is, however, taken up with the buildings and grounds of the great religious corporations. Monks, priests, and nuns, seemingly belonging to another age and another civilization than our own, are jostled in the street by officers whose dress and manners are those of the nineteenth century. French is quite as frequently heard as English; and everywhere the old and the new, the past century and the present, seem inextricably mingled. The past has, however, set its ineffaceable stamp upon the city and its people. There is none of the hurry and push of most American cities, seen even, to a degree, in Montreal. To-day seems long enough for its duties and its pleasures, and to-morrow is left to take care of itself. Even the public buildings have the stamp of antiquity upon them, and are, in consequence, interesting, though few of them are architecturally beautiful. The churches of Quebec have none of the grandeur of those of Montreal. Most prominent among them is the Anglican Cathedral, a plain, gray stone edifice in St. Ann street. The Basilica of Quebec, formerly the Cathedral, is capable of seating four thousand persons, and with a plain exterior, contains some invaluable art treasures in the form of original paintings by Vandyke, Caracci, Halle and others. The remains of Champlain, the founder and first governor of Quebec, lie within the Basilica. The Ursuline Convent is in Garden street, north of Market Square, and is composed of a group of buildings surrounded by beautiful grounds. It was founded in 1639, originally for the education of Indian girls, and is now devoted to the education of girls of the white race. The remains of Montcalm are buried within the convent grounds, in an excavation made by the bursting of a shell, during the engagement in which he lost his life. The Gray Nunnery, the Black Nunnery, and Hôtel Dieu with its convent and hospital, under the charge of the Sisters of the Sacred Blood, of Dieppe, are among the Roman Catholic religious institutions of the city. In the hospital of the Hôtel Dieu ten thousand patients are gratuitously cared for annually. Durham Terrace lies along the edge of the cliff overlooking the St. Lawrence. It occupies the site of the old chateau of St. Louis, built by Champlain in 1620, and destroyed by fire in 1834. The outlook from this terrace is one of the finest in the world; though the view from the Grand Battery is conceded to be even finer. Looking down from an elevation of nearly three hundred and fifty feet, the lower town, the majestic St. Lawrence and the smaller stream of St. Charles rolling away in the distance, and a vast stretch of country varied by hills and plains, woodlands and mountains, are spread out before the spectator, making one of the most beautiful pictures of which it is possible to conceive. The walled city, with the suburbs of St. Louis and St. John between the walls to the eastward, and the Plains of Abraham to the westward, is known as the upper town. The lower town is reached from the upper by the Côte de la Montagne, or Mountain street, a very steep and winding street, and lies below the cliff, principally to the northward, though it encircles the base of the promontory. Here, in the lower town, is the business portion of the city, with all its modern additions. The narrow strand between the cliff and the rivers is occupied by breweries, distilleries, manufactories, and numerous ship-yards; while the many coves of the St. Lawrence, from Champlain street to Cape Rouge, are filled with acres of vast lumber rafts. Quebec is one of the greatest lumber and timber markets in America, supplying all the seaboard cities of the United States. It also builds many ships, and produces sawed lumber, boots and shoes, furniture, iron ware and machinery. The Custom House occupies the extreme point between the St. Lawrence and St. Charles rivers. It is Doric in architecture, surmounted by a dome, and has a columned façade reached by an imposing flight of steps. The Marine Hospital, built in imitation of the Temple of the Muses on the banks of the Ilissus, is situated near the St. Charles River. The Marine and Emigrants' Hospital is not far away. The General Hospital, an immense cluster of buildings further up the river, was founded in 1693, and is in charge of the nuns of St. Augustine. The Plains of Abraham, lying back of Quebec, near the St. Lawrence, and the scene of the famous encounter between the forces of Wolfe and Montcalm, are fast being encroached upon by suburban residences, large conventual establishments, and churches. The Martello towers are four circular stone structures, erected upon the Plains to defend the approaches of the city. On the plains, near the St. Foye road, is a monument composed of a handsome iron column, surmounted by a bronze statue of Bellona, presented by Prince Napoleon, and erected in 1854, to commemorate the victory won by the Chevalier de Lèris over General Murray, in 1760. The Mount Hermon Cemetery, beautifully laid out on the edge of the precipice which overhangs the St. Lawrence, lies about three miles out, on the St. Louis road. It is imperative upon the stranger, in Quebec, to visit the Falls of Montmorenci, eight miles distant, and among the most beautiful in America. A volume of water fifty feet wide makes a leap of two hundred and fifty feet, down a sheer rock face, into a boiling and turbulent basin. During the winter the spray which is continually flying from this cataract congeals and falls like snow, until it builds up an eminence which is known as the Cone. This Cone, in favorable seasons, sometimes reaches an altitude of one hundred and twenty feet. To visit the Falls in sleighs, over the frozen river, and to ride down the Cone on hand-sleds, or "toboggins," as they are locally called, is considered the very climax of enjoyment by the inhabitants of Quebec. The Cone is in the form of a sugar loaf, quite as white and almost as firm. Up its steep sides the pleasure seekers toil with their sleds, and then glide from the top, impelled by the steepness alone, rushing down the slope with fearful velocity, and sometimes out on the ice of the river for hundreds of yards, until the force is spent. The interior of the Cone is not unfrequently hollowed out in the shape of a room, and a bar is set up, for the benefit of thirsty pleasure seekers. About a mile above Montmorenci Falls are the Natural Steps, a series of ledges cut in the limestone rock by the action of the river, each step about a foot in height, and as regular in its formation as though it was the work of man. There are points of interest nearer Quebec, among which are the Isle of Orleans, a beautiful and romantic place, laid out with charming drives, and reached by ferry; _Château Bigot_, an antique and massive ruin, standing at the foot of the Charlesbourg mountain; and still further away, Lorette, an ancient village of the Huron Indians. Quebec, the oldest city in British America, was settled in 1608, the spot having been visited by Cartier, in 1534. Its history is an exceedingly interesting and varied one. Twenty-one years after its founding it was seized by the British, who did not restore it to France until 1632. In 1690 and in 1711 the British made unsuccessful maritime assaults upon it It continued to be the centre of French trade and civilization, and of the Roman Catholic missions in North America, until, in 1759, it fell into the hands of the British. The Fleur-de-lis fluttered from the citadel of Quebec for two hundred and twenty years, with the exception of the three years from 1629 to 1632, when Sir David Kirke placed the fortification in the hands of England. In 1759, during the Seven Years' War, the English, under General Wolfe, attacked the city and bombarded it. An attempt had been previously made to land British troops at Montmorenci, which had been frustrated by Montcalm, resulting in a loss of five hundred men. But on the occasion of the present attack Wolfe had conceived the idea of landing his troops above the town. He pushed his fleet stealthily up the river, under the brow of the frowning precipice and beneath the very shadow of the fortifications. Passing above the city, he effected a landing where the acclivity was a little less steep than at other places, and the troops dragged themselves up, and actually brought with them several pieces of ordnance. All this was under cover of night; and when day dawned the British army with its artillery was found in line of battle on the Plains of Abraham. Wolfe had eight thousand men, while the French troops numbered ten thousand. Montcalm believed he could easily drive the British into the river or compel them to surrender, and so threw the whole force of his attack upon the English right, which rested on the river. But in the French army were only five battalions of French soldiers, the balance being Indians and Canadians. The French right, composed of these undisciplined troops, was easily routed and the French left was ultimately broken. Five days later the British were in complete possession of Quebec. But before this victory was fairly assured to the English troops, both the French and English armies had lost their commanders. The spot where Wolfe fell in the memorable battle of September thirteenth, 1759, is marked by an unpretending column. A monument was shipped from Paris, to commemorate the death of Montcalm, but it never reached Quebec, the vessel which conveyed it having been lost at sea. A lengthy inscription upon this monument, after giving the Marquis de Montcalm's name and many titles, and depicting in glowing words his character and his brilliant achievements as a soldier, says: "Having with various artifices long baffled a great enemy, headed by an expert and intrepid commander, and a fleet furnished with all warlike stores, compelled at length to an engagement, he fell--in the first rank--in the first onset, warm with those hopes of religion which he had always cherished, to the inexpressible loss of his own army, and not without the regret of the enemy's, September fourteenth, 1759, of his age forty-eight. His weeping countrymen deposited the remains of their excellent General in a grave which a fallen bomb in bursting had excavated for him, recommending them to the generous faith of their enemies." Whether the "generous faith" of their friends was equally to be trusted each one must judge for himself; for in the chapel of the Ursuline Convent of Quebec, among the curiosities exhibited to the visitor, is the skull of the Marquis de Montcalm. In April, of the following year, the British very nearly lost what Wolfe had gained for them. General Murray went out to the Plains of Abraham, with three thousand men, to meet the French, under Chevalier de Lèris, losing no less than one thousand men, and all his guns, which numbered twenty, and being compelled to retreat within the walls. The arrival of a British squadron brought him timely relief, and compelled the French to retreat, with the loss of all their artillery. The treaty of peace made between Louis Fifteenth and England, in 1763, ceded the whole of the French Canadian possessions to the British. In December, 1775, during the war of the Revolution, a small American force, under General Montgomery, made an attack upon the fortress, but was repulsed with the loss of their commander and seven hundred men. Arnold preceded Montgomery, making an astonishing march, and enduring untold perils, by the Kennebec and Chaudière. Following the course pursued by Wolfe, he placed his troops upon the Plains of Abraham; but when Montgomery joined him, from Montreal, it was found they had no heavy artillery, and the only alternatives were, to retreat, or to carry the place by storm. Deciding on the latter course, two columns, headed by Arnold and Montgomery, rushed forward. The latter carried the intrenchment, and was proceeding toward a second work, when he and the officers who followed him were swept down before a gun loaded with grape. Arnold was carried from the field, wounded, and the attempt on Quebec was a most disastrous failure. Quebec remained the chief city of Canada until the western settlements were erected into a separate Province, as Canada West, when it became the Capital of Canada East. In 1867, the British North American Provinces were united, in the Dominion of Canada. Canada East, or Lower Canada, as a Province, took the name of the city, and the city of Quebec became the Capital of the Province. The population of Quebec was, in 1871, 58,699, of whom a large proportion are descendants of the early French settlers, though many English, Scotch and Irish, have domiciled themselves within it, and form, really, its most enterprising and energetic citizens. CHAPTER XXIX. READING. Geographical Position and History of Reading.--Manufacturing Interests.--Population, Streets, Churches and Public Buildings.--Boating on the Schuylkill.--White Spot and the View from its Summit.--Other Pleasure Resorts.--Decoration Day.--Wealth Created by Industry. Reading, the seat of Justice of Berks County, Pennsylvania, is beautifully situated near the junction of the Tulpehocken with the Schuylkill River, and is midway between Philadelphia and Harrisburg, on the Philadelphia and Reading Railroad. It was named after the ancient borough of Reading, a prominent market town of Berkshire, England, which it is said to resemble in some of its geographical surroundings. Attention was first called to Reading in the fall of 1748, by the agents of Richard and Thomas Penn, who represented it as "a new town with great natural advantages, and destined to become a prosperous place." It was incorporated as a borough in 1783, and as a city in 1847. The original settlers were principally Germans, who gave character to the town, both in language and customs. For many years the German tongue was almost exclusively spoken, and it is still used in social intercourse and religious worship by more than one-half the present population. The manufacturing interests of Reading are second to no city of like population in the United States; while it is the third city in Pennsylvania in its manufactures, Pittsburg and Philadelphia alone exceeding it. Among these manufactures the working of iron holds the first rank. Much of the ore is obtained from Penn's Mountain, on the east of the town. Rolling mills, machine shops, car shops, furnaces, foundries, cotton mills and hat factories, from their number and extent, establish beyond question the claim of Reading to be considered one of the first manufacturing towns of America. The shops of the Philadelphia and Reading Railroad alone employ two thousand men. From an early hour in the morning the eastern bank of the Schuylkill rings out the discordant music of numberless factories, betokening the enterprise of her productive industries. Reading has, at the present time, a population numbering not far from fifty thousand. It is delightfully situated on an elevated and ascending plain, which rises to the eastward into Penn's Mountain, and to the southward into the Neversink Mountain. The city is abundantly supplied with pure water, by streams flowing from these mountains. It is surrounded by a rich farming country, which looks to it for supplies. The streets cross each other at right angles, and the chief hotels and stores are built around Penn's Square, which occupies the centre of the city. It contains thirty-one churches, most prominent among which is Trinity, German Lutheran, an antique building with a spire two hundred and ten feet in height. Christ Church, Episcopal, is a handsome Gothic edifice of more recent date, and with a spire nearly as high. The Grand Opera House and Mishler's Academy of Music furnish amusements for the pleasure-seekers of the city. The Schuylkill River is one of the most charmingly picturesque in America. Taking its rise among the rocky heights of the Blue Ridge, when it reaches Reading it has left all the ruggedness of the mountain region behind, and flows between gently sloping banks, which, though sometimes rising in the background to considerable elevations, never lose their softness of outline and their pastoral beauty. One evening we strolled down to this river, and took a most delightful boat ride from the Lancaster bridge to the dam opposite the White House and Neversink. Two boats were placed at the disposal of our party. It was a lovely May evening, the air soft and warm, yet with all the freshness of spring. We glided down the stream, the trees upon the banks overhanging the water, and catching reflections of themselves in its depths. Our downward progress was easy and pleasant. The current aided our efforts, while the tranquil waters, rippled only by a passing boat, offered no resistance to us in our course. When we turned and headed up stream, we found it quite another matter. Then we had to bring all our energies and wills to aid us in the labor of rowing. This is something that a man is apt to discover many times in his life, that, in both material and moral matters, it is easier to float with the current than to make headway against it. A call from Mr. W. H. Zeller, of the Reading _Eagle_, paid me early one day, before the sun was up, was an indication that that gentleman was ready to pilot me to "White Spot," the famous resort of Reading. Starting as soon as possible, we walked up Franklin street, crossed Perkiomen avenue, and took a "bee line" for our destination. Up and up and up we walked, ran and jumped, over gulches and stones, and from log to log, halting occasionally for breath, and to discuss the city and landscape at our feet. It was but half-past five o'clock when we reached the goal of our walk. Taking in a view from its elevated heights, I felt that my visit to Reading would have given me a very indefinite idea of its natural beauties, had I not seen it from this point. White Spot is upon Penn's Mountain, one thousand feet above the river. I would but mislead the imagination of the reader, were I to attempt to convey a faithful impression of the magnificent panorama which, for a while, almost bewildered me. But let him imagine, if he can, a vast girdle of far-off, misty, blue hills, faintly defined by the horizon; against them to the north and west jut rows of towering but withal gently sloping mountains, purple, black, or darkly blue, just as each drifting cloud shadows them; within these encircling hills and mountains scatter the loveliest landscape features of which the human mind can conceive; green meadows, wooded hills, enchanting groves, dotted here and there with the most charming irregularity; farmhouses and farms, in themselves a little Arcadia; roads diverging from a common centre, and winding about until in the distance they look like the tiny trail which a child's stick makes in the sand; a clear, silvery river, looking in the sunshine like liquid light, reproducing on its mirrored surface the wonderful beauty which clothes either bank, studded with green isles that "blossom as the rose," spanned by splendid bridges as delicate in their appearance as lace work or filigree, yet supporting thousands of tons daily; in the heart of all a city, whose factories, furnaces, churches, majestic public buildings, handsome private residences, and attractive suburbs betoken prosperity, intelligence, culture, wealth and constant improvement; over the whole throw that peculiar _couleur de rose_ with which the heart in its happiest moments paints all it loves, and he will have a faint conception of the aspect of Reading and its surroundings as seen from White Spot. After resting on the summit, and taking in, to the full, this magnificent view, we returned to the city by the way of Mineral Spring, another delightful resort, which lies surrounded by charming natural beauties, about a mile and a half east of Reading. White House Hotel, a mile and a half to the southeast, on the Neversink Mountain, three hundred feet above the river, is still another favorite visiting place, from which a fine view of the city and surrounding country may be obtained, though not equal to that of White Spot. I was particularly fortunate in finding myself still in Reading on Decoration Day, that day which has become a national holiday, and is universally observed throughout the northern States. The occurrence of this anniversary is hailed by the "Boys in Blue" as affording a blessed opportunity for doing honor to their dead comrades, and renewing their devotion to the flag which they followed through a four years' war for the preservation of the Union. Reading manifested her patriotism by a parade of all her civic and military organizations, and by invitation I was permitted to participate in the decoration exercises, at the Charles Evans Cemetery. The people of Reading are truly loyal, as industrious and order-loving people are sure to be. The perpetuation of the Union means to them the protection of their homes and the encouragement of their industries. Although the manufacturing interests of Philadelphia and Pittsburg are exceedingly large--those of the latter without parallel on the continent, if, in the world--a visit to Reading is, nevertheless, desirable, for one who would gain a comprehensive idea of the industries of Pennsylvania. The city is not a large one, but it is almost wholly a city of workers. With the great coal and iron regions of the State at its back, their products brought to it by river, railroad and canal, its manufacturing enterprises are multiplied in numbers, and are almost Cyclopean in their proportions. Here the brawn of the country, with giant strength united with surprising skill, hammers and fashions the various devices of an advanced civilization, which its brain has already imagined and planned. Here wealth is created by the sturdy strokes of industry, and the permanent prosperity of the State secured. CHAPTER XXX. RICHMOND. Arrival in Richmond.--Libby Prison.--Situation of the City.-- Historical Associations.--Early Settlement.--Attacked by British Forces in the Revolution.--Monumental Church.--St. John's Church.--State Capital.--Passage of the Ordinance of Secession.--Richmond the Capital of the Confederate States.--Military Expeditions against the City.--Evacuation of Petersburg.--Surrender of the City.--Visit of President Lincoln.--Historical Places.--Statues.--Rapid Recuperation After the War.--Manufacturing and Commercial Interests.-- Streets and Public Buildings.--Population and Future Prospects. On the morning of October twenty-third, 1863, a large company of Union prisoners, including the author, made an entry into Richmond, which was the reverse of triumphant, we having been, four days before, made prisoners of war in the cavalry fight at New Baltimore, in Northern Virginia. A brief stay in Warrenton jail, a forced march on a hot day, for a distance of thirty miles, to Culpepper, and then a transfer by march and rail, landed us at last at Libby Prison, Richmond. The "chivalry" and the descendants of the F. F. V's did not impress us very favorably, as we marched from the depot, through some of the principal streets, to the James River. Contemptuous epithets were bestowed freely upon us, while the female portion of the community was even more bitter in its expressions of hatred, and a troop of boys followed in our rear, hooting and yelling like young demoniacs. Libby Prison was situated at the corner of Fourteenth and Cary streets, and was an old, dilapidated three-story brick structure, which still bore upon its northwest corner the sign "Libby & Son, Ship Chandlers and Grocers." The windows were small and protected by iron bars. The story of my stay in this prison-house I have recorded in "Capture, Prison-Pen and Escape." It was my abiding place until the seventh of the following May, when, in a filthy, rough box-car, a number of prisoners, including myself, were shipped to Danville. It is needless to say that my prolonged stay in Richmond did not materially alter or improve my impressions in regard to the city. True, our view of the city from our prison windows was limited, but memories only of suffering, privation and unnecessary barbarity, prompted by the cruel nature of those who had us in charge, are associated with it. The city was at that time the heart and centre of the then Southern Confederacy, the seat of the Rebel government, the rendezvous of troops, and the hatching place of treason and rebellion. Yet one who views Richmond at the present day, unbiased by the untoward circumstances which threw their baleful influence over us, will see much to admire in and about the city. It is situated on the north bank of the James River, about one hundred miles by water from Chesapeake Bay, and the same distance a little west of south of Washington. It is built upon several eminences, the principal ones being Shockoe and Richmond hills, separated by Shockoe Creek. Like so many other Southern cities, its residences are surrounded by gardens, in which are grass plots, shrubbery and flowers; and in the business quarter are many substantial edifices. The Richmond of to-day is very different from the Richmond of war times. The loyal city has been literally reconstructed upon the ruins of the rebellious one. There are few cities around which so many historical associations cluster, as around Richmond. It is on the site of a settlement made as early as 1611, by Sir Thomas Dale, and in honor of Prince Henry called Henrico, from which the county afterwards took its name. An early historical account says it contained three streets of framed houses, a church, storehouses and warehouses. It was protected by ditches and palisades, and no less than five rude forts. Two miles below the city a settlement had been made two years previously. In 1644-5 the Assembly of Virginia ordered a fort to be erected at the falls of the James River, to be called "Forte Charles." In 1676 war was declared against the Indians, and bloody encounters took place between the aborigines and their white neighbors. Bloody Run, near Richmond, is so named, according to tradition, on account of a sanguinary battle which one Bacon had there with the Indians; though it is stated on other authority that its name originated from the battle in which Hill was defeated and Totopotomoi slain. In 1677 certain privileges were granted Captain William Byrd, upon the condition that he should settle fifty able-bodied and well armed men in the vicinity of the Falls, to act as a protection to the frontier against the Indians. Richmond was established by law as a town in May, 1742, in the reign of George II, on land belonging to Colonel William Byrd, who died two years later. The present Exchange Hotel is near the locality of a warehouse owned by that gentleman. In 1779 the capital of the State was removed to Richmond, from Williamsburg, the latter, its former capital, being in too assailable a position. In 1781 the traitor Arnold invested the city with a British force. As soon as he arrived he sent a force, under Colonel Simcoe, to destroy the cannon foundry above the town. After burning some public and private buildings, and a large quantity of tobacco, the British forces left Richmond, encamping for one night at Four Mile Creek. The village at that time contained not more than eighteen hundred inhabitants, one-half of whom were slaves. In 1789 it contained about three hundred houses. At that period all the principal merchants were Scotch and Scotch-Irish. Paulding describes the inhabitants as "a race of most ancient and respectable planters, having estates in the country, who chose it for their residence, for the sake of social enjoyments. They formed a society now seldom to be met with in any of our cities. A society of people not exclusively monopolized by money-making pursuits, but of liberal education, liberal habits of thinking and acting; and possessing both leisure and inclination to cultivate those feelings and pursue those objects which exalt our nature rather than increase our fortune." In 1788, a convention met in the city, to ratify the Federal Constitution. At the corner of Broad and Thirteenth streets stands the Monumental Church, in commemoration of a terrible calamity which once befell the city. On the twenty-sixth of December, 1811, a play entitled "The Bleeding Nun" was being performed in the little theatre of the city, and proved such a great attraction that the house was crowded, not less than six hundred people being present on the eventful night. Just before the conclusion of the play the scenery caught fire, and in a few minutes the whole building was wrapped in flames. The fire falling from the ceiling upon the performers was the first notification the audience had of what was transpiring. A scene of the wildest confusion ensued. There was but one door through which the entire audience, composed of men, women and children, could make its exit. The fire flashed from one portion of the interior to another, catching on the garments of the frantic people. All pressed in a wild panic toward the door. People jumped and were pushed out of the windows. Many were rescued with their clothing literally burned off from them, and no less than sixty-nine persons perished in the flames, among them George W. Smith, Governor of the State, and many other prominent men and women. A great funeral was held in the Baptist meeting-house, and the entire population of the city attended, as mourners. The remains of the unfortunates were interred beneath a mural tablet which is now in the vestibule of the church that was subsequently erected on the site of the theatre. St. John's Church, on Church Hill, at the corner of Broad and Twenty-fourth streets, dates back to ante-Revolutionary times, and in it was held, in 1775, the Virginia Convention, in which Patrick Henry made his famous speech, containing the words "Give me liberty or give me death!" It was subsequently the place of meeting of the Convention which, in 1788, ratified the Federal Constitution. Among the members of this Convention were James Madison, John Marshall, James Monroe, Patrick Henry, George Nicholas, George Mason, Edmund Randolph, Pendleton and Wythe. Rarely has any occasion in a single State presented such a list of illustrious names as we find here. This church is a plain, unpretending edifice, built in the style of a century ago, to which has been added a modern spire. The State Capitol stands on the summit of Shockoe Hill, in the centre of a park of eight acres. It is of Graeco-Composite style of architecture, with a portico of Ionic columns, planned after that of the _Maison cassée_ at Nismes, in France, the plan being furnished by Thomas Jefferson. Beneath a lofty dome in the centre of the building is Houdon's celebrated statue of Washington, of marble, life size, representing him clad in the uniform of a revolutionary general. Near by, in a niche in the wall, is a marble bust of Lafayette. This building has been the scene of many noted political gatherings. In it, on January seventh, 1861, was read Governor Letcher's message to the Legislature, in which he declared it was "monstrous to see a government like ours destroyed merely because men cannot agree about a domestic institution." Nevertheless, on the seventeenth of the same month, the Capitol Building witnessed the unanimous passage of the following resolution:-- "_Resolved_, That if all efforts to reconcile the unhappy differences between sections of our country shall prove abortive, then every consideration of honor and interest demands that Virginia shall unite her destinies with her sister slaveholding States." And on the thirteenth of February, the same edifice saw a State Convention meet within its walls; on the sixteenth of April, Governor Letcher refused the requisition of the Secretary of War for troops to assist in putting down the Rebellion in South Carolina; and the next day the Ordinance of Secession was passed, two months having been given to an active discussion of its expediency, pro and con. The Confederate flag, with eight stars, was raised from the dome of the Capitol, and the Custom House, which stands on Main street, between Tenth and Eleventh, had the gilt sign on its portico, "United States Court," removed. A citizen writing from Richmond, on April twenty-fifth, says: "Our beautiful city presents the appearance of an armed camp. Where all these soldiers come from, in such a state of preparation, I cannot imagine. Every train pours in its multitude of volunteers, but I am not as much surprised at the number as at the apparent discipline of the country companies. * * But the war spirit is not confined to the men nor to the white population. The ladies are not only preparing comforts for the soldiers, but arming and practicing themselves. Companies of boys, also, from ten to fourteen years of age, fully armed and well drilled, are preparing for the fray. In Petersburg, three hundred free negroes offered their services, either to fight under white officers, or to ditch and dig, or any kind of labor. An equal number in this city and across the river, in Chesterfield, have volunteered in like manner." A resolution was passed by the Convention inviting the Southern Confederacy to make Richmond the seat of government. The Ordinance of Secession having been submitted to the people, the vote in the city stood twenty-four hundred in favor and twenty-four against, being less than half the vote polled at the Presidential election in November previous. Richmond became a general rendezvous for troops. The Confederate Congress met in Richmond, in the hall of the House of Delegates, on the twentieth of July, 1861, and the seat of government continued there until the taking of the city marked the fall of the Confederacy. A school-house in the vicinity of the rear of Monumental Church, was at that time known as Brockenburg House, and was the residence of Jefferson Davis, president of the Southern Confederacy. Two tobacco warehouses, under their former titles of Libby & Son and Castle Thunder, together with Belle Isle, were military prisons during the war, and in the former of these, as already narrated, the writer was confined for several months. About the middle of May, 1862, the Federal forces having passed Yorktown and Williamsburg, began to move directly upon Richmond. Consternation seized the city, all who could get away packed up everything and fled southward. Even President Davis took his family and hastened to North Carolina. It was resolved to destroy the city by conflagration as soon as the Union troops reached it. The Federal army was, however, compelled to abandon the Peninsula, and Richmond was safe for the time being. On February twenty-ninth, 1864, General Kilpatrick, with his division of cavalry, commenced his march upon the city, and came within six miles, when he was compelled to withdraw to Mechanicsburg. The next day he made a second attempt, advancing by the Westham or river road, but was confronted by superior forces, and again compelled to fall back, and shortly after he returned down the Peninsula. From the beginning of the war Richmond had been the objective point of a series of formidable expeditions for its capture, under Generals McDowell, McClellan, Burnside, Hooker, Meade and Grant. The strong earthworks which were drawn around the city for its protection still remain as mementoes of the great struggle. On July thirtieth, 1864, the Union forces advanced as far as Petersburg, and after destroying one fort, were repulsed. It was not until April second, 1865, that the Rebel forces were obliged to surrender that outpost, and on the following day, General Weitzel, with his troops, entered the city of Richmond. President Davis was attending church at St. Paul's Episcopal Church, at the corner of Grace and Ninth streets, when a messenger brought him a dispatch from General Lee, announcing that Petersburg was about to be evacuated. The officers of the Southern Confederacy stood not on the order of their going, but went at once. Jefferson Davis took his family and left the city immediately. The Rebel authorities took with them what stores and treasures they could convey away, burned what they had to leave behind, and set fire to the warehouses, public buildings, and bridges across the James River. The flames communicated to adjacent structures, and it was thought the entire city would be destroyed. A large portion of its business section was thus laid waste; the number of buildings destroyed being estimated at one thousand, and the entire loss at eight millions of dollars. On the fourth of April, President Lincoln reached Richmond, and entered the house which had but two days before been occupied by Jefferson Davis, but which was now the headquarters of General Weitzel. He came unattended, and walked up from the river into the city, without parade, as any ordinary citizen might have done. The news of his presence soon spread, and the colored people flocked around him, with strong demonstrations of joy. "God bless you, Massa Linkum!" was heard on every hand, while the tears rolled down the cheeks of some, and others danced for joy. And here, perhaps all unconsciously, the second father of his country emulated the first. It is told of Washington, that, a colored man having bowed to him, he returned the bow with stately courtesy. Being remonstrated with for bowing to a colored person, he replied that he did not wish to be outdone in politeness by a negro. At Richmond a colored man bowed to Lincoln, with the salutation, "May de good Lord bless you, President Linkum!" Lincoln returned the bow with cordiality, evidently, like Washington, determined not to be outdone in politeness by a negro. But that bow not only indicated the noble nature of the man who recognized a humanity broader than a color line, and over whom already hung the dark shadow of martyrdom; but it also was a foretoken of the Fourteenth Amendment to the Constitution and the Civil Rights act, which so quickly followed the quelling of the Rebellion. In the soldiers' section of the Hollywood Cemetery, in the western limits of the city, overlooking the James River, are the graves of hundreds of Confederate dead, from the midst of which rises a monumental pyramid of rough stone. In the same cemetery, on a hill at its southern extremity, a monument marks the resting-place of President Monroe. General J. E. B. Stuart, commander of Lee's cavalry, is also buried here. The Tredegar Iron Works, which are still in active operation, and whose buildings cover thirteen acres of ground, were the great cannon manufactory of the Confederacy. Several battle fields and national cemeteries are within a few hours' drive of the city. The old African Church, a long, low building in Branch street, near Monumental Church, is famous as a place of political meetings, both before and during the war. Crawford's equestrian statue of Washington, in the esplanade leading from the Governor's house to the Capitol Square, will recall the early days of the Republic. The statue is of bronze, representing a horse and rider of colossal size, the horse thrown back partly upon its haunches, on a massive granite pedestal, and around it are grouped bronze figures of Patrick Henry, Thomas Jefferson, John Marshall, George Mason, Thomas Nelson, and Andrew Lewis, all illustrious sons of Virginia. In the Capitol Square, north of the Capitol Building, is Foley's statue of General "Stonewall" Jackson, of heroic size, on a granite pedestal, and near it a life-size marble statue of Henry Clay. In the State Library, which contains forty thousand volumes, are many historical portraits. Richmond has rapidly recuperated since the war. Her streets have been rebuilt, and, in common with many other Southern cities, she has, since the abolition of slavery, and the consequent elevation of labor and attraction of Northern enterprise and capital, developed many industrial interests. The Gallego and Haxall flour mills are among the largest in the world. It has a large number of cotton, and a still larger number of tobacco factories; and contains also forges, furnaces, paper mills, and machine shops. Its chief exports are, however, tobacco and flour. Richmond owes its present flourishing condition to its river facilities, and the immense water power supplied by the falls. It is alike the manufacturing and the commercial metropolis of the State. Vessels drawing ten feet of water can come within a mile of the centre of the city, those drawing fifteen feet, to three miles below. A canal around the falls gives river navigation two hundred miles further into the interior. Steamboat lines connect it with the principal Atlantic cities, and railroads and canals open up communication with the North, South, and West. The city is regularly laid out, the streets crossing each other at right angles. Those parallel with the river are named alphabetically, A street being on the river. The cross streets are named numerically. The principal thoroughfare is Main or E street, which is the centre of business. The fashionable quarter is on Shockoe Hill, in the western part of the city, where are also the chief public edifices. The Penitentiary is in the western suburbs facing the river, and is a massive structure three hundred feet long and one hundred and ten feet deep. The Almshouse is one of the finest buildings in the city. There are a large number of churches, thirteen colleges, and an orphan asylum. Five bridges across the James River connect it with Spring Hill and Manchester, the latter a pretty town containing two cotton mills. The population of Richmond, by the census of 1880, was 63,803, which showed an increase of more than ten thousand persons in ten years. Unlike Charleston, S. C., it is surrounded by a populous rural region, whose products find a market here, and whose population look largely to the city for their supplies. It will never attain the commercial consequence of Savannah or of Norfolk, but as the centre of the tobacco region, and the seat of large manufacturing interests, it will always possess a certain importance and prosperity. CHAPTER XXXI. SAINT PAUL. Early History of Saint Paul.--Founding of the City.--Public Buildings.--Roman Catholics.--Places of Resort.--Falls of Minnehaha.--Carver's Cave.--Fountain Cave.--Commercial Interests.--Present and Future Prospects. The first white man who ever visited the locality where Saint Paul now stands, was Father Hennepin, who made a voyage of discovery up the Mississippi, above the Falls of Saint Anthony, in 1680. But for more than a century and a half after his visit the entire section of country remained practically in the possession of the Indians. Eighty-six years afterwards Jonathan Carver made a treaty with the Dakotas, and in 1837 the United States made a treaty with the Sioux, throwing the land open to settlement. The first building in Saint Paul was erected in 1838, but for a number of years afterwards it remained merely an Indian trading-post. In 1841 a mission was established on the spot by the Jesuits, and a log chapel dedicated to Saint Paul, from which the city afterwards took its name. The land upon which Saint Paul is built was purchased in 1849, at the government price of one dollar and twenty-five cents an acre. The same year the town was made the capital of the State, while it was yet a hamlet of a few log huts. Four years later it had nearly four thousand inhabitants, with handsome public buildings, good hotels, stores, mills, factories, and other constituents of a prosperous town. In 1846 the town had but ten inhabitants. In 1856 it had ten thousand. Steamers were coming and going; loads of immigrants were arriving; drays and teams were driving hither and thither; carpenters and masons were hard at work; yet could not put up houses fast enough; shops and dwellings were starting out of the ground, as if by magic. In 1880 the population had increased to fifty thousand, and was steadily and rapidly multiplying. Saint Paul originally occupied the western bank of the Mississippi, but has now extended to the eastern bank as well. It is divided into a lower and upper town, the former lying on the low shore between the bluff and the river, and containing the wholesale houses, shipping houses and factories. The latter occupies no less than four plateaus rising one above another, in a semicircle around the bend of the river, the first plateau being nearly a hundred feet in height. Here are the retail stores, public buildings, churches and private residences. The streets in the central portions of the city cross one another at right angles, but become irregular as they approach the boundaries. They are graded and paved and lighted by gas. Two bridges connect the opposite shores of the river, and horse cars traverse all sections of the city. Its general appearance is pleasing in the extreme. Many of the houses are built of blue limestone, which is found underlying one of the terraces in great quantities. The State Capitol building is now in process of construction, and will, when completed, be a very handsome edifice, occupying an entire square. The United States Custom House, an opera house, a large number of handsome churches, and several public school buildings are among the objects worthy of note in the city. Although Saint Paul is settled largely by people from New England and New York State, the Roman Catholics still hold an important place in the city. The first to take possession of the spot, they will be the last to relax their hold. They have a number of large and handsomely finished church edifices, and have established an orphan asylum. There is also a Protestant orphan asylum, and three free hospitals. The city boasts an Academy of Sciences, which has a very full museum, a Historical Society and a Library Association, each of the latter having fine libraries. Saint Paul is in the midst of a charming and romantic country, and the throngs of people who seek a transient home within its borders during the heat of summer find abundance of delightful drives and places for picnics and excursions. White Bear Lake and Bald Eagle Lake, but a short distance away by rail, furnish boating, fishing and bathing for pleasure seekers, as well as most enchanting scenery for the lovers of nature. The city park is but two miles away, on the shores of Lake Como, and is also an attractive place. All lovers of the romantic should thank Longfellow that by means of his exquisite poem of Hiawatha he has rescued the beautiful Falls of Minnehaha, meaning in the Dakota language "laughing water," from being known as Brown's Falls, a name which some utilitarian egotist had bestowed upon it. From a high bank, covered with shrubbery, the clear, silvery stream makes a sudden leap of about fifty feet into the chasm beneath. A veil of mist rises before the falls, and the sun shining upon it spans the cataract with a rainbow. On the eastern side of the city, in Dayton Bluff, near the river, is Carver's Cave, so named after Jonathan Carver, already referred to, who, in this cave, in May, 1767, made his treaty with the Indians, by which he secured a large tract of land. The cave contains a lake large enough to have a boat upon it. Two miles above Saint Paul, on a beautiful clear stream that flows into the Mississippi, is Fountain Cave, a most wonderful and interesting production of nature. It seems to have been formed by the action of the stream which finds an outlet through it. It has an arched entrance with a vaulted roof, the entrance being twenty feet in height by twenty-five in width, while roof, sides and floor are of pure white sandstone. This cave contains a number of chambers, the largest being one hundred feet in length by twenty-five feet in width, and twenty feet in height. The cave has been penetrated for a thousand feet or more, and still has unexplored recesses. Saint Paul stands at the head of navigation of the Mississippi River, the Falls and Rapids of Saint Anthony, a short distance above, effectually barring the further upward progress of craft from below, though above the falls small steamboats thread the waters of the youthful Mississippi to the furthest outposts of civilization. At this point the immense grain fields of the northwest find an outlet for their annual products, and to this point comes the merchandise which must supply the needs of an already large and constantly increasing agricultural, mining and lumbering population. Numerous railroads connect it, not only with the great trade centres of the east and south, but with a hundred thriving towns and villages in Minnesota and Wisconsin, who look to it for supplies; and when the Northern Pacific is completed, the entire northwest will be brought into communication with Saint Paul, and as the Mississippi will share with the lakes the transportation of produce, manufactures and ores of an inexhaustible but now scarcely populated region, Saint Paul will derive immense advantages from this gigantic enterprise. Saint Paul is already a town of the greatest importance on the Upper Mississippi. Her streets teem with business, and boats of all descriptions lie at her wharves. Already a populous city, what she is to-day is but the beginning of what the future will behold her. A generation hence she will count her inhabitants by hundreds where now she counts them by tens; her business will have increased in like proportion; and in the no distant future she will be known as the great metropolis of the Northwest. CHAPTER XXXII. SALT LAKE CITY. The Mormons.--Pilgrimage Across the Continent.--Site of Salt Lake City.--A People of Workers.--Spread of Mormons through other Territories.--City of the Saints.--Streets.--Fruit and Shade Trees.--Irrigation.--The Tabernacle.--Residences of the late Brigham Young.--Museum.--Public Buildings.--Warm and Hot Springs.--Number and Character of Population.--Barter System before Completion of Railroad.--Mormons and Gentiles.--Present Advantages and Future Prospects of Salt Lake City. Of all the cities which have sprung into being and grown and prospered, since the discovery of the American continent, there is not one with which is associated so much interest, and which attracts such universal curiosity as Salt Lake City. From the time of the so-called discovery of the Book of Mormon, in 1827, by Joseph Smith, through all the wanderings of the adherents of Mormonism, beginning with the organization of the "Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints," in Manchester, New York, including its removal to Kirtland, Ohio, and the establishment of a branch church in Jackson County, Missouri; its transplanting to Nauvoo, Illinois; the temporary sojourn of its adherents in Iowa; and the final exodus, in 1847, over the then almost unknown and unexplored plains and mountains of the great west, until they reached the Land of Promise, lying between the Wasatch Range and the Sierra Nevadas, and there settled themselves permanently, to build up literally a "Kingdom of Christ upon the earth," the Mormons have been in more senses than one a peculiar people. They have been unpleasantly peculiar in their advocacy and practice of polygamy, and during their early sojourn at Salt Lake, in their defiance of the United States Government. In some other respects they have challenged the admiration of the world, and have set patterns in industry, and in a system of government, which seems to consider the well-being of all, both of which might be imitated to advantage by the "Gentiles" who affect to despise them. After a weary pilgrimage through a wilderness far greater than that traversed by the Israelites in days of old, the Mormons found their Canaan in an immense valley, from four thousand to six thousand feet above the level of the sea, and walled in by mountain ranges which seemed to furnish natural barriers against the incroachments of an antagonistic civilization. This valley, the geologist said, was the bottom of a great, pre-historic sea, which by some mighty convulsion of nature had been lifted up from its original level, and its outlet cut off, and, like the Caspian Sea and others, was left to shrink by evaporation. In the deepest depression of this valley still remained all that was left of this ancient inland ocean, reduced now to seventy-five miles in length and thirty in breadth, with an average depth of but eight feet. Still holding in solution a large proportion of the salts of the greater sea, its waters form one of the purest and most concentrated brines in the world, containing twenty-two per cent of chloride of sodium, slightly mixed with other salts. All through the valley of the Great Salt Lake there are salt and alkaline deposits, evidencing the former presence of water. The valley seemed barren and uninviting; yet in it, as offering a refuge from the persecutions which they had suffered in the east, the Mormons decided to establish their church and build their homes. They found the soil, barren as it looked, would grow grass, grain and fruits; and though the climate is changeable, the winter cold, with deep snows, and the heat of summer intense, they had faith to believe that they could endure whatever natural disadvantages they could not overcome, and that they should in time receive the reward of their piety and industry. Their chief town and ecclesiastical capital was located on the eastern bank of the river Jordan, between Lake Utah, a beautiful body of fresh water lying to the southward, and Great Salt Lake, lying twenty miles to the northward. The new settlement was eleven hundred miles west of the Mississippi, and six hundred and fifty miles east-northeast of the then scarcely heard of city of San Francisco. Its site extended close up to the base of the great mountains on the north, while to the southward its view spread over more than a hundred miles of plain, with a range of rugged mountain peaks, snow-capped and bold, lying beyond. A grander outlook could scarcely be imagined. In the laying out of the city the fact was kept in view that it was for a people of workers, each one of whom must be self-sustaining. In truth, the great success of these people is due to the fact that no class of drones has been recognized and provided for. All, from the highest to the lowest, were expected to work, church officials as well as laymen; and prosperity has attended industry, as it always does. The wilderness and solitary place were glad for them, and the desert was made to rejoice and blossom as the rose; and a mighty nation within a nation has been built up in the valley of Utah, protected by its mountain fastnesses. The Mormons have become a strong and prosperous people, and have not only possessed themselves of Utah, but have sent out colonies to Colorado, Nevada, New Mexico, Wyoming, Idaho and Arizona, which have prospered and increased, until they now practically control those Territories. [Illustration: MORMON TEMPLE AND TABERNACLE, SALT LAKE CITY.] It is not my province to speak of the Mormons from either a religious or political standpoint. Their material prosperity one cannot fail to see, and a truthful historian must note it. The "City of the Saints," as Salt Lake City is sometimes called, is doubly interesting, from its history and from its peculiar features, so unlike those of any other city. The streets are one hundred and twenty-eight feet wide, crossing each other at right angles, an eighth of a mile apart, each square thus formed containing ten acres. Each square is divided into eight lots, measuring ten by twenty rods, and containing one-fourth of an acre. Several of the squares in the business quarter of the town have been cut across since the original laying out, forming cross streets. The streets are lined with trees, while streams of running water course down each side of every street, being brought from the neighboring mountains, ten thousand feet high, furnishing a pure water supply, and irrigating the gardens. Almost every lot has an orchard of pear, apple, plum, apricot, and peach trees, and Utah furnishes large quantities of fresh and dried fruit for the eastern markets. Apricots, which in the east are almost unknown, sometimes grow as large as eastern peaches, from six to eight inches in circumference. Locust, maple and box-elder are the favorite shade trees, and these grow luxuriantly. When, however, their roots strike soil from which the alkali has not yet been washed, their leaves turn from a dark green to a sickly yellow. But irrigation washes out this alkali, and the trouble from it grows less every year. Salt Lake City is divided into twenty wards, nearly every one of which has a square. Every ward has its master, who superintends the public improvements, and sees that every man does his share without shirking. The houses are generally of adobe (sun-dried bricks), though a few of the newer business blocks are handsome and commodious stone structures. Most of the dwelling houses are small, and but a single story in height, having separate entrances when there is more than one wife in the family. The city is not an imposing one. The wide streets, large grounds around each dwelling, and low, small houses, give it more the appearance of an overgrown village than that of a city. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that the plan upon which it is built secures to its inhabitants the maximum of comfort, health and cleanliness. There are no narrow and stifling streets, overshadowed by tall buildings; no dirty alleys; no immense crime and pestilence-breeding tenement houses. Each little dwelling has its garden and orchard, securing to each family the blessings of fresh vegetables and fruit, and making each in a measure self-dependent. The air is pure, blowing down the valley from the mountain heights; and no foul vapors from half protected sewers or reeking courts poison it. The chief business thoroughfares are Main and Temple streets. The former is entirely devoted to trade, while church edifices are found in the latter. The Tabernacle is, of course, the most prominent object which meets the eye of the traveler as he arrives in Salt Lake City, standing out, as it does, in all its huge proportions, surrounded by the tiny homes of the people. It is on Temple street, in the heart of the city, and is entirely without architectural beauty, its predominant features being its hugeness and its ugliness. It is an enormous wooden structure, oval in form, with an immense dome-like roof, supported by forty-six sandstone pillars. It will seat fifteen thousand persons, and is used for the services of the church, lectures and public gatherings. It contains one of the largest organs in America. It is inclosed within a high wall, and a little to the east of it, within the same inclosure, are the foundations of a new temple, estimated to cost ten millions of dollars, but which will not probably be finished for many years to come. An inferior adobe building, also within the walls, is the celebrated Endowment House, where are performed those sacred and mysterious rites of the Mormon Church which no Gentile may look upon, and where the Saints are sealed to their polygamous wives. On South Temple street, east of the Tabernacle, is the group of buildings known as Brigham Block, inclosed, like the former, by a high stone wall, and comprising the Tithing House, the Beehive House, the Lion House, the office of the _Deseret News_, and various other offices and buildings. The Beehive House and the Lion House constituted the residences of the late Brigham Young and eighteen or twenty of his wives. A handsome structure nearly opposite, the most pretentious structure in Salt Lake City, and known as Amelia Palace, was built by Brigham Young, for his favorite wife, Amelia. The theatre is a large building with a gloomy exterior, but handsomely fitted up inside. It is a favorite resort of the Saints, who make it a source of innocent recreation, and entertain no prejudices against it, permitting their wives and children to appear upon its boards. One of the daughters of Brigham Young was at one time an actress at this theatre. On South Temple street, opposite the Tabernacle, is the Museum, containing interesting products of Mormon industry; specimens of ores from the mines of Utah, and precious stones from the desert; a fair representation of the fauna of the Territory; relics of the mound builders; articles of Indian use and manufacture, and other curiosities, which the visitor may behold on the payment of a small admission fee. The City Hall, which is at the present time used by the Territorial Government, is a handsome building, erected at a cost of sixty thousand dollars. In its rear is the city prison. A co-operative store in successful operation will be found occupying a handsome building on East Temple street. The Deseret National Bank, at the corner of East Temple and South First streets, is also a fine building. The two principal hotels of Salt Lake City are the Walker House, on Main street, and the Townsend House, at the corner of West Temple and South Second streets. With all its quaintness and want of resemblance to other cities, it has adopted the system of horse cars, which run on the principal streets, and make all parts of the city accessible. About one mile distant from the city are the Warm Springs, issuing from the limestone rock at the foot of the mountains. The water of these springs contains lime, magnesia, iron, soda, chlorine, and sulphuric acid, and their temperature is lukewarm. A bath in them is delightful, and beneficial, if not prolonged. Private bathing apartments are fitted up for the use of bathers. A mile further north are the Hot Springs, also strongly sulphurous, and with a temperature of over 200°. Eggs may be boiled in these springs in three minutes, ready for the table. The water from these springs forms a beautiful lake, called Hot Spring Lake, which practically destroys all agriculture and vegetation for hundreds of yards within the vicinity. Strange as it may seem, the hot water does not prevent the existence of some kinds of excellent fish, among which have been seen some very fine, large trout. The population of Salt Lake City is something over twenty thousand persons, of whom about one-third are Gentiles and apostate Mormons. This population is made up of all nationalities, apostles and missionaries being continually sent out to nearly every part of the civilized world, to make proselytes, and bring them to the fold. These converts to the faith are usually from the lower classes, ignorant and superstitious; and as a consequence the intellectual and social standards of Salt Lake City are not high. But with their new faith these people acquire habits of industry, if they never possessed them before; and the conditions of the city are favorable for growth in certain directions. Their children are educated and brought up to a higher position than that occupied by their parents; so that whatever may be our opinion as to the advantages or disadvantages, from a religious point of view, in their conversion to the Mormon faith, materially, intellectually and socially they have many of them undoubtedly made a change for the better. They are taken away from the stationary conditions of life in the old world, and transplanted into a new and growing country, where there is plenty of room and incentive for progress and expansion. Though the first generation do not always avail themselves of this room, nor even the second, to its fullest extent, ultimately these people will come to compare favorably with other classes of American citizens. The completion of the Union Pacific Railroad, although it deprived the Mormons of that isolation which they sought, has been of vast benefit to them in material ways. It is said that when the city was first settled the whole community could not have raised one thousand dollars in cash. And up to the completion of the railroad nine-tenths of the business of the Mormon people was conducted on a system of barter. A writer thus facetiously describes the condition of things at that period: "A farmer wishes to purchase a pair of shoes for his wife. He consults the shoemaker, who avers his willingness to furnish the same for one load of wood. He has no wood, but sells a calf for a quantity of adobes, the adobes for an order on the merchant, payable in goods, and the goods and the order for a load of wood, and straightway the matron is shod. Seven watermelons purchased the price of a ticket of admission to the theatre. He paid for the tuition of his children seventy-five cabbages per quarter. The dressmaker received for her services four squashes per day. He settled his church dues in sorghum molasses. Two loads of pumpkins paid his annual subscription to the newspaper. He bought a 'Treatise on Celestial Marriage' for a load of gravel, and a bottle of soothing syrup for the baby with a bushel of string beans." There are not the most harmonious relations existing between the Mormon and Gentile people of Salt Lake City. Each regards the other with suspicion. The former look upon the latter as hostile to their faith, and determined to destroy it. The Gentiles regard certain practices of the Mormons with abhorrence, and themselves as at heart rebellious to the government to which they have been compelled to submit. The leading papers of the two factions are very hostile, and keep alive the feeling of antagonism. Lying between two prominent mountain chains, the chief city in a vast valley which the enterprise of man has demonstrated to be fertile; furnishing a depot of supplies, and a mart and shipping place for produce and manufactures; Salt Lake City is destined to become an important point in the western section of our country. Her future is assured, even though the people who founded her, together with the faith to which they cling, should disappear from the face of the earth, and be forgotten, like the lost tribes of Israel, which they believe themselves to represent. Essentially American in all her features--since no city of the Old World, either ancient or modern, furnishes a prototype--and in her very plan including certain sure elements of success, as our Western States and Territories become filled up with a thriving and industrious people, she will find herself the natural centre of a vast agricultural and mining population, and continue to increase in importance and prosperity. CHAPTER XXXIII. SAN FRANCISCO. San Francisco.--The Golden State.--San Francisco Bay.--Golden Gate.--Conquest of California by Fremont, 1848.--Discovery of Gold.--Rush to the Mines, 1849.--"Forty-niners."--Great Rise in Provisions and Wages.--Miners Homeward Bound.--Dissipation and Vice in the City.--Vigilance Committee.--Great Influx of Miners in 1850.--Immense Gold Yield.--Climate.--Earthquakes.-- Productions.--Irrigation.--Streets and Buildings.--Churches.-- Lone Mountain Cemetery.--Cliff House.--Seal Rock.--Theatres.-- Chinese Quarter.--Chinese Theatres.--Joss Houses.--Emigration Companies.--The Chinese Question.--Cheap Labor.--"The Chinese Must Go."--Present Population and Commerce of San Francisco.-- Exports.--Manufactures.--Cosmopolitan Spirit of Inhabitants. San Francisco is situated on the best harbor which our Pacific Coast affords, a little below the 38th parallel of latitude, and about a degree further south than St. Louis, Cincinnati and Washington. It is the western terminus of the Central Pacific Railroad, American gateway to Asia and the far East. As the traveler proceeds thitherward from the Valley of the Mississippi, on descending the western slopes of the Sierras, he finds himself fairly within the Golden State; and in more senses than one does California deserve that name. If it be the summer season the very air seems filled with a golden haze. In leaving the mountains all freshness is left behind. Trees and fields are yellow with drouth, which lasts from April to November. Dense clouds of dust fill the air and settle upon everything. Whole regions, by the means of extensive and destructive mining operations, have been denuded of all verdure, and lie bare and unsightly, waiting until the slow processes of time, or the more expeditious hand of man, shall reclaim them. But mines have now given place to vast grain and cattle farms or ranches; and great fields of golden grain and the cattle on a thousand hills are on either side of the track. If it be later or earlier in the year there is a wealth of bloom such as is never dreamed of in the East. The ground, sometimes, as far as the eye can reach, is brilliant with color, a golden yellow the predominating hue. In the rainy season the Sacramento valley, the occasional victim of prolonged drouth, is sometimes visited by a freshet, which carries destruction with it; a mountain torrent, taking its rise near the base of Mt. Shasta, and fed by the snows of the Sierras, it is fitful in its demeanor. It finds its outlet through San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate to the Pacific. San Francisco is on a peninsula which extends between the bay of that name and the ocean. Its site is nothing more than a collection of sand hills, which, before the building of the city, were continually changing their positions. The peninsula is thirty miles long and six wide, across the city, which stands on the eastern or inner slope. San Francisco Bay is unsurpassed in the world, except by Puget Sound, in Washington Territory, for size, depth, ease of entrance and security. The entrance to the bay is through a passage five miles in length and about two in width, with its shallowest depth about thirty feet at low tide. Rocks rise almost perpendicularly on the northern side of the entrance, to a height of three thousand feet. A lighthouse is placed on one of these, at Point Bonita. Fort Point, a fortress built on solid rock, commands the entrance from the south, and beyond it, until San Francisco is reached, are a series of sand dunes, some of them white and drifting and others showing green with the scant grass growing upon them. The entrance to the bay is called the Golden Gate, a name applied with singular appropriateness, since through its portals have passed continuous streams of gold since the discovery of the latter in 1848. Strangely enough, the name was given before the gold discovery, though at how early a date there seems no means of knowing. As far as can be ascertained, it first appears in Fremont's "Geographical Memoir of California," published in 1847. Six miles eastward from its entrance the bay turns southward for a distance of thirty miles, forming a narrow peninsula between it and the ocean, on the northeastern extremity of which the city is built. It also extends northward to San Puebla Bay, which latter extending eastward, connects by means of a narrow strait with Suisun Bay, into which the Sacramento River discharges its volume of water. These three bays furnish ample and safe harborage for all the merchant fleets of the world. San Francisco Bay is about forty miles in length, its widest point being twelve miles. At Oakland, directly east of San Francisco, it is eight miles in width. Alcatraz Island, in the centre of the channel, six miles from the Golden Gate, is a solid rock rising threateningly above the water, and bristling with heavy artillery. It is sixteen hundred feet in length, and four hundred and fifty feet in width. Angel Island is directly north of Alcatraz, and four miles from San Francisco, contains eight hundred acres, and is also fortified. Midway between San Francisco and Oakland is Yerba Buena, or Goat Island, which, too, is held as a United States military station. Red Rock, Bird Rock, the Two Sisters, and other small islands dot the bay. In 1775 the first ship passed the portals of the Golden Gate, and made its way into the Bay of San Francisco. This ship was the _San Carlos_, commanded by Caspar De Portala, a Franciscan monk and Spanish Governor of Lower California, who set out on a voyage of discovery and exploration. The same man had six years previously visited the sand hills of the present site of San Francisco, being the first white man to set his foot upon them. Portala named the harbor San Francisco, after the founder of his monastic order, St. Francis. A mission was founded there six years later, on the twenty-seventh of June, by Friars Francisco Paloa and Bonito Cambou, under the direction of Father Junipero Serra, who had been commissioned by Father Portala as president of all the missions in Upper California. This was the sixth mission established in California, and up to the year 1800 the Fathers labored with great zeal and industry, had established eighteen missions, converted six hundred and forty-seven savages, and acquired a vast property in lands, cattle, horses, sheep and grain. Presidios or military stations were established for the protection of these missions, and the Indians readily submitted themselves to the Fathers, and acquired the arts of civilization. The Franciscan friars continued complete sovereigns of the land during the first quarter of the present century, and increased in worldly goods. Mexico became a republic in 1824, and in 1826 considerably curtailed their privileges. In 1845 their property was finally confiscated and the missions broken up. The priests returned to Spain; the Indians to their savagery; and only the crumbling walls of their adobe houses, and their decaying orchards and vineyards, remained to tell the tale of the past history of California. From that period until 1847 California was a bone of contention between Mexico and the United States, her territory overrun by troops of both nations. On the sixteenth of January, 1847, the Spanish forces capitulated to Fremont, and peace was established. With the exception of the Mission Dolores, there was no settlement at San Francisco until 1835, when a tent was erected. A small frame house was built the following year, and on the fifteenth of April, 1838, the first white child was born. The population of San Francisco, then known as Yerba Buena, in 1842 was one hundred and ninety-six persons. In 1847 it had increased to four hundred and fifty-one persons, including whites, Indians, negroes and Sandwich Islanders. In March, 1848, the city contained two hundred houses, and eight hundred and fifty inhabitants. In November of the same year, the first steamer, a small boat from Sitka, made a trial trip around the bay. In this year the first public school and the first Protestant church were established. This year marked the great era in the history of San Francisco. In the fall of 1847, Captain John A. Sutter, a Swiss by birth, who had resided in California since 1839, began erecting a saw mill at a place called Colorna, on the American River, a confluent of the Sacramento, about fifty miles east of the city of that name. James W. Marshall, who had taken the contract for erecting the mill, was at work with his men cutting and widening the tail-race when, on January eighteenth, 1848, he observed some particles of a yellow, glittering substance. In February specimens of these findings were taken to San Francisco, and pronounced to be gold. The truth being soon confirmed, the rush for the gold fields commenced. People in all sections of California and Oregon forsook their occupations, and set out for the mines. The news spread, increasing as it went; until the reports grew fabulous. Many of the earliest miners acquired fortunes quickly, and as quickly dissipated them. The journal of Rev. Walter Colton, at that time Alcalde of Monterey, contains the following paragraph, under date of August twelfth, 1848:-- "My man Bob, who is of Irish extraction, and who had been in the mines about two months, returned to Monterey about four weeks since, bringing with him over two thousand dollars, as the proceeds of his labor. Bob, while in my employ, required me to pay him every Saturday night in gold, which he put into a little leather bag and sewed into the lining of his coat, after taking out just twelve and a half cents, his weekly allowance for tobacco. But now he took rooms and began to branch out; he had the best horses, the richest viands, and the choicest wines in the place. He never drank himself but it filled him with delight to brim the sparkling goblet for others. I met Bob to-day, and asked him how he got on. 'Oh, very well,' he replied, 'but I am off again for the mines.' 'How is that, Bob? you brought down with you over two thousand dollars; I hope you have not spent all that; you used to be very saving; twelve and a half cents a week for tobacco, and the rest you sewed into the lining of your coat.' 'Oh, yes,' replied Bob, 'and I have got _that_ money yet. I worked hard for it, and the devil can't get it away. But the two thousand dollars came aisily, by good luck, and has gone as aisily as it came!'" Reports of the new El Dorado reached the States, and during 1849, from Maine to Louisiana came the gold seekers. From every country in Europe, from Australia and from China, additions were made to the throng of pilgrims, who, by the Isthmus, around the Horn, across the seas, and by the terrible journey overland, all rushed pell mell up the Sacramento, stopping at San Francisco only long enough to find some means of conveyance. We have no space to tell the story of that time. Men came and went. Some made fortunes. Others returned poorer than they came. Many who attempted the overland route left their bones bleaching on the plains. Some went back to their homes, and others remained to become permanent citizens of California. What the F. F. V.s are to Virginia, and the Pilgrim Fathers to Massachusetts, the "Forty-niners," a large number of whom still survive, will be, in the future, to California. During 1848 ten million dollars' worth of gold had been gathered on the Yuba, American and Feather rivers. The city of San Francisco had, in January, 1849, two thousand inhabitants, and these were in a hurry to be off to the mines as soon as the rainy season was over. Ships began to arrive from all quarters, and July of that year found the flags of every nation floating in the bay. Five hundred square-rigged vessels lay in the harbor, and everybody was scrambling for the mines. These multitudes of people, though they thought only of gold, yet had to be fed, clothed and housed after a fashion. There were no supplies adequate to the demand, and provisions went up to fabulous prices. Apples sold for from $1 to $5 apiece, and eggs at the same rates. Laborers demanded from $20 to $30 for a day's work, and were scarcely to be had at those figures. The miners probably averaged $25 a day at the mines, though some were making their hundreds. But at the exorbitant prices to be paid for everything, few were able to lay up much money. Late in the year of 1849 the reaction came. The steamers were filled with downcast miners, thankful that they had enough left to take themselves home. Others having acquired something, stopped at San Francisco, and plunged into the worst forms of dissipation. The city during this and the following year held a carnival of vice and crime. Women there were few or none, save of the worst character, and gambling dens, dance houses, and drinking hells flourished on every street. In 1850 a Vigilance Committee was organized by the better class of citizens, which soon exercised a wholesome restraint upon the criminal classes. In the same year California was admitted to the Union without the preliminary of a Territorial Government, and San Francisco was chartered as a city. Courts were established, and the lawless community came under the dominion of law and order. By this time the great haste which seized everybody in his eagerness to obtain gold and return home to enjoy it, had somewhat subsided. Men began to realize that there were other means of making money besides digging for it. Gardens were planted and orchards set out, and it was discovered that the apparently barren soil of the State would yield with a fruitfulness unparalleled in the East. San Francisco began to be more than a canvass city. Mud flats were filled in and sand hills leveled, houses, hotels and stores erected, and a wild speculation began in city property. Lots which a few days before had been purchased for two or three thousand dollars, were held at fifty thousand dollars. A canvas tent, fifteen by twenty feet, near the plaza, rented for forty thousand dollars per annum. The Parker House, a two-story frame building on Kearney street, also near the plaza, brought a yearly rent of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Board in a hotel or a tent was eight dollars per day, and provisions were proportionately high. To build a brick house cost a dollar for each brick used. Twenty-seven thousand people arrived in San Francisco, by sea or land, during 1850. In 1853 thirty-four thousand gold seekers returned home, the yield of gold that year having been $65,000,000, the largest annual yield of the State. The imports of San Francisco in the same year were over $45,000,000. As early as this period it was the third city in tonnage entrances in the United States, New York and New Orleans alone exceeding it. In 1856 the bad state of public affairs again necessitated the interference of a Vigilance Committee, but since that time the city has been orderly. The site of San Francisco was fixed by chance. More desirable places might have been selected, but the influx of miners dropped upon the first spot convenient for them to land, from which to start post-haste to the mines, and that spot is indicated by the present city. Owing to its location its climate is not in all respects desirable. The general climate of the coast is tempered, both in summer and winter, by a warm ocean current, which, flowing northward along the coast of China and Siberia, takes a turn to the south when it reaches Alaska, and washes the western coast of the continent of America. It is so warm that it produces a marked effect upon this coast, just as the Gulf Stream tempers the climate of the British Islands. But it has been sensibly cooled by its proximity to Arctic seas, and so sends cool breezes to fan the land during the heat of summer. These summer sea breezes rushing through the narrow opening of the Golden Gate become almost gales, and bring both cold and fog with them. The air of winter is mild and spring-like. This is the rainy season, but it does not rain continuously. It is the season of verdure and growth, and frosts are both slight and infrequent in the latitude of San Francisco. Not a drop of rain falls during the summer. The mornings are warm and sometimes almost sultry; but about ten o'clock the sea breeze springs up, growing more violent as the day advances, and frequently bringing a chilly fog with it, so that by evening men are glad to wrap themselves in overcoats, and women put on their cloaks and furs. The sand, which is still heaped in dunes to the westward of the city, and lies upon its vacant lots, is lifted and whirled through the air, falling almost like sleet, and stinging the faces of pedestrians. Thunder storms are of rare occurrence at San Francisco, but earthquakes are exceedingly frequent. Probably not a year elapses in which slight shocks are not felt in the State. Sometimes these shocks extend over vast areas, and at other times are merely local. On October twenty-first, 1868, a severe earthquake occurred at San Francisco, swaying buildings and throwing down numbers in process of erection. The houses of the city are mostly built with a view to these disturbances of nature. The dwelling houses are seldom more than two and one-half stories in height, while the blocks of the business streets do not display the altitude of structures in the eastern cities. The climate is so mild and so favorable that the productions of California embrace those of both temperate and semi-tropical latitudes. The sand hills of San Francisco were found, with the help of irrigation to produce plentifully of both fruits and flowers, and the suburbs of the city display many greenhouse plants growing in the open air. Roses bloom every month in the year, and strawberries ripen from February to December. In San Francisco the mean temperature in January is 49° and in June 56°. The average temperature of the year is 54°. The California market, between Kearney and Montgomery streets, extending through from Pine to California streets, displays all the fruits, vegetables and grains of the northern States, raised in the immediate neighborhood of the city, while oranges, lemons and pomegranates are sent from further south. The tenderer varieties of grapes flourish in the open air, and the State produces raisins which command a price but little below those of Europe. The thrift of the fruit trees of California is most remarkable. Most trees begin bearing on the second year from the slip or graft, and produce abundantly at three or four years of age. Their growth and the size of their productions are unequaled on the continent. The above mentioned market is one of the sights of the city, and should not be missed by the visitor. Irrigation has been found necessary to render the sand hills about San Francisco productive, and windmills have become familiar objects in the landscape, their long arms revolving in the ocean breeze, while little streams of water trickling here and there vivify the earth. As a result, though trees are scarce, what few there are being mostly stunted live oaks, whose long roots extend down deep into the soil, there are flowers everywhere. On one side of a fence will be a sand-bank, white with shifting sand, on the other, flourishing in the same kind of soil, will be an _al fresco_ conservatory, brilliant with color and luxuriant in foliage. Montgomery street is the leading thoroughfare, broad and lined with handsome buildings. Toward the north it climbs a hill so steep that carriages cannot ascend it, and pedestrians make their way up by means of a flight of steps. From this elevation a fine view is obtained of the city and bay. Kearney and Market streets are also fashionable promenades, containing many of the retail stores. The principal banks and business offices are found on California street, and the handsomest private residences are on Van Ness avenue, Taylor, Bush, Sutter, Leavenworth and Folsom streets, Clay street Hill and Pine street Hill. The city extends far beyond its original limits, having encroached upon the bay. Solid blocks now stand where, in 1849, big ships rode at anchor. It is laid out with regularity, most of its streets being at right angles with one another. The business streets are generally paved with Belgian blocks or cobble stones, and most of the residence streets are planked. The city does not present the handsome and showy architecture of many cities of the east, though here and there are fine edifices. It is yet too new, and too hurriedly built, to have acquired the substantiality and grandeur of older cities. Between fine brick or stone structures several stories high are sandwiched insignificant wooden houses of only two stories, the relics of a past which is yet exceedingly near the present. The public buildings, especially those belonging to the United States, are fine. The City Hall will, when finished, be surpassed by few structures in the country. The Palace Hotel, at the corner of Market and New Montgomery streets, is a vast building, erected and furnished at a cost of $3,250,000. It is entered by a grand court-yard surrounded by colonnades, and from its roof a birds-eye view of the whole city can be obtained. Baldwin's Hotel, at the corner of Marshall and Powell streets, is another palatial structure, costing a quarter of a million more, for building, decorating and furnishing, than the Palace Hotel. The Grand Hotel, Occidental, Lick House, Russ House and Cosmopolitan are all established and popular hotels. The largest and finest church edifice on the Pacific Coast is that of St. Ignatius, Roman Catholic, in McAlister street. The finest interior is that of St. Patrick's, also Roman Catholic, in Mission street between Third and Fourth. The First Unitarian church, in Geary street, is one of the finest churches in the city, remarkable for the purity of its architectural design and the elegance of its finish. The Chinese Mission House, at the corner of Stockton and Sacramento streets, will prove interesting to strangers. The Roman Catholics, who number among their adherents all the Spanish citizens, make no concealment of their intention to gain a majority of the population. But though they are a power in the community, and have many churches, the different Protestant sects are largely represented. Indeed, San Francisco is thoroughly tolerant in matters of religion. Not only do Catholics and Protestants find their own appropriate places of worship, but the Jews have two Synagogues, and the Chinese Buddhists three Temples or Joss Houses. There is but one road leading out of the city, but within the city limits there are many modes of conveyance. Cars propelled by endless wire cables, which move along the streets without the assistance of either horse or steam power, intersect the city in every direction. Omnibuses run out on the Point Lobos road to the Cliff House; and he who has not ridden or driven thither and watched the seals on Seal Rock, has not seen all of San Francisco. This is the one excursion of the city; its one pet dissipation. Everybody goes to the Cliff. A drive of five or six miles, on a good road, over and through intervening sand hills, brings the visitor to the Cliff House. This road leads by Laurel Hill, or as it was formerly called, Lone Mountain Cemetery, two and one-half miles west of the city, within whose inclosure a conical hill rises to a considerable height above the surrounding level country. On its summit is a large wooden cross, a prominent landmark, and within the cemetery are several fine monuments, conspicuously that of Senator Broderick, and a miniature Pantheon, marking the resting place of the Ralston family. The Lone Mountain possesses an unrivaled outlook over city, bay, ocean and coast range. The Cliff House is a large, low building, set on the edge of a cliff rising abruptly from the ocean, and facing west; and from it you have a grand view of the Golden Gate, while oceanward you strain your eyes to catch some glimpse of China or Japan, which lie so far away in front of you. But you see instead, if the day be clear, the faint but bold outlines of the Farallon Islands, and the white sails of vessels passing in and out of the Golden Gate. Late in the year of 1876 I completed my horseback journey across the continent, dashing with my horse into the surf to the westward of the Cliff House. A long and wearisome, but at the same time interesting and reasonably exciting ride, was at an end, and after viewing San Francisco, I was free to enjoy those luxuries of modern civilization, the railway cars, on my homeward route. [Illustration: SEAL ROCKS, FROM THE CLIFF HOUSE, NEAR SAN FRANCISCO.] The Farallones de los Frayles are six islets lifting up their jagged peaks in picturesque masses out in the ocean, twenty-three and one-half miles westward of the Golden Gate. The largest Farallon extends for nearly a mile east and west, and is three hundred and forty feet high. On its highest summit the government has placed a lighthouse, and there the light-keepers live, sometimes cut off for weeks from the shore, surrounded by barrenness and desolation, but within sight of the busy life which ebbs and flows through the narrow strait which leads to San Francisco. These islands are composed of broken and water-worn rocks, forming numerous sharp peaks, and containing many caves. One of these caves has been utilized as a fog-trumpet, or whistle, blown by the force of the waves. The mouth-piece of a trumpet has been fixed against the aperture of the rock, and the waves dashing against it with force enough to crush a ship to pieces, blows the whistle. This fog whistle ceases entirely at low water, and its loudness at all times depends upon the force of the waves. The Farallones are the homes of innumerable sea birds, gulls, mures, shags and sea-parrots, the eggs of the first two being regularly collected by eggers, who make a profitable business of gathering them at certain seasons of the year. In 1853 one thousand dozen of these eggs, the result of a three days' trip, were sold at a dollar a dozen. Gathering the eggs is difficult and not unattended by danger, as precipices must be scaled, and the birds sometimes show themselves formidable enemies. The larger island is also populated by immense numbers of rabbits, all descended from a few pairs brought there many years ago. Occasionally these creatures, becoming too numerous for the resources of the island, die by hundreds, of starvation. Though their progenitors were white, they have reverted to the original color of the wild race. The cliffs of these islands are alive with seals, or sea-lions, as they are called, which congregate upon their sunny slopes, play, bark, fight and roar. Some of them are as large as an ox and seemingly as clumsy; but they disport themselves in the surf, which is strong enough to dash them in pieces, with the utmost ease, allowing the waves to send them almost against the rocks, and then by a sudden, dextrous movement, gliding out of danger. The Cliff House has also its sea-lions, on Seal Rock, not far from the hotel, and the visitors are never tired of watching them as they wriggle over the rocks, barking so noisily as to be heard above the breakers. Formerly numbers of them were shot by wanton sportsmen, but they are now protected by law. "Ben. Butler" and "General Grant" are two seals of unusual size, which appear to hold the remainder of the seal colony in subjection. If two begin to fight and squabble about a position which each wants, either "Ben" or the "General" quickly settles the dispute by flopping the malcontents overboard. The higher these creatures can wriggle up the rocks the happier they appear to be; and when a huge beast has attained a solitary peak, by dint of much squirming, he manifests his satisfaction by raising his small pointed head and complacently looking about him. As soon as another spies him, and can reach the spot, a squabble ensues, howls are heard, teeth enter into the contest, the stronger secures the eminence, and the weaker is ignominiously sent to the humbler and lower regions. An early drive to and a breakfast at the Cliff House, with a return to the city before the sea-breeze begins, is the favorite excursion of the San Franciscan. The road passes beyond this hotel to a broad, beautiful beach, on which, at low tide, one can drive to the Ocean House, at its extreme end, and then return to the city by the old Mission grounds, which still lie in its southwestern limits. The Mission building is of adobe, of the old Spanish style, built in 1778. Adjoining it is the cemetery, with its fantastic monuments, and paths worn by the feet of the Mission fathers and their dusky penitents. The largest and finest theatre of the city, and one of the finest in the United States, is the Grand Opera House, at the corner of Mission and Third streets. Four other theatres and an Academy of Music, furnish amusements to the residents of the city. Woodward's Gardens, on Mission street between Thirteenth and Fourteenth streets, contains a museum, an art galley, and a menagerie. There are also two Chinese theatres, one at 618 Jackson street, and the other at 625-1/2 Jackson street. The Chinese Quarter of San Francisco, which has become famous the world over, occupies portions of Sacramento, Commercial, Dupont, Pacific and Jackson streets. It is a locality which no stranger should fail to see. Here he steps at once into the Celestial Empire. Chinamen throng the streets, dressed in their semi-American, semi-Asiatic costumes, the pig-tail usually depending behind, though sometimes it is rolled up, out of sight, under the hat. The harsh gutturals of the Chinese language, nearly every word ending in ng, are heard on every hand, mingled with the grotesque pigeon English. The signs exhibit Chinese characters, and the stores and bazaars are filled with Chinese merchandise. Women are scarce in this quarter, and only of the courtezan class; but here and there one meets you, dressed usually in Chinese gown and trowsers, with hair arranged in the indescribable Chinese chignon, and carrying a fan--for all the world as though she had stepped off a fan or a saucer--and not more immodest in demeanor than the same class in our eastern cities. There are few or no Chinese wives in San Francisco. Chinese immigration takes the form of an immense bow, beginning at China, stretching to the Pacific coast of America, and retiring again to its starting point; for every Chinaman expects to return to his native land, either alive or dead. He does not take root in American soil. He comes here to make a little money, leaving his family behind him, and, satisfied with a very modest competence, returns as he came. If he dies here, his bones are carried back, that they may find a resting-place with those of his ancestors. Therefore the women imported are for the basest purposes. But to return to this Chinese Quarter. Here is the old St. Giles of London, the old Five Points of New York magnified and intensified. Here congregate the roughest and rudest elements, and here stand, shamelessly revealed, crime and bestiality too vile to name. In one cellar is a gambling-hell, for John Chinaman's besetting weakness is his love of gambling. The mode of gambling is very simple, involving no skill, and the stakes are small; but many a Celestial loses there, at night, his earnings of the day. Near by is an opium cellar, fitted up with benches or shelves, on each of which will be found a couple of Chinamen lying, with a wooden box for a pillow. While one is preparing his opium and smoking, the other is enjoying its full effects, in a half stupor. The Chinese tenement houses are crowded and filthy beyond description, and the breeding places of disease and crime. They are scattered thickly throughout the quarter. Their theatres, of which there are two, already referred to, have only male performers, who personate both sexes, and give what seems to be passable acting, accompanied by the clash and clang of cymbals, the beating of gongs, the sounding of trumpets, and other disagreeable noises regarded by the Chinese as music. The entire audience are smoking, either tobacco or opium. The Joss houses, or temples of the Chinese, are more in the nature of club houses and employment bureaus, than of religious houses. The first floor contains the business room, smoking or lounging room, dining room, kitchen, and other offices, which are used by the Emigration Company to which the building belongs. The second floor contains a moderate-sized hall, devoted to religious rites. Its walls are decorated with moral maxims from Confucius and other writers, in which the devotees are exhorted to fidelity, integrity, and the other virtues. The Joss or Josh is an image of a Chinaman, before whom the Chinese residents of San Francisco are expected to come once a year and burn slips of paper. Praying is also done, but as this is by means of putting printed prayers into a machine run by clockwork, there is no great exhaustion among the worshipers. The Chinese have no Sunday, and are ready to work every day of the week, if they can get paid for it. Their only holiday is at New Year, which occurs with them usually in February, but is a movable feast, when they require an entire week to settle their affairs, square up their religious and secular accounts, and make a new start in life. The Chinese have one saving virtue. They pay their debts on every New Year's day. If they have not enough to settle all claims against them they hand over their assets to their creditors, old scores are wiped out, and they commence anew. The six Chinese Emigration Companies, each representing a Chinese province, manage the affairs of the immigrants with a precision, minuteness and care which is unparalleled by any organization of western civilization. Before the passage of the anti-Chinese law, when a ship came into port laden with Chinamen, the agents of the different companies boarded it, and each took the names of those belonging to his province. They provided lodgings and food for the new comers, and as quickly as possible secured them employment; lent them money to go to any distant point; cared for them if they were sick and friendless, and, finally, sent home the bones of those who died on American shores. These companies settle all disputes between the Chinese, and when a Chinamen wishes to return home, they examine his accounts, and oblige him to pay his just debts before leaving. The means for doing all this are obtained in the shape of voluntary contributions from the immigrants. These companies do not act as employment bureaus, for these are separate and thoroughly organized institutions. These latter farm out the work of any number of hands, at the price agreed upon, furnishing a foreman, with whom all negotiations are transacted, who, perhaps, is the only one speaking English, and who is responsible for all the work. The English spoken by the Chinese is known as "pigeon English," "pigeon" being the nearest approach which a Chinamen can make to saying "business." Most English words are more or less distorted. L is always used by them for r, mi for I, and the words abound in terminal ee's. The Chinese problem is one which is agitating the country and giving a coloring to its politics. The Pacific States seem, by a large majority of their population, to regard the presence of the Mongolian among them as an unmitigated evil, to be no longer tolerated. Eastern capitalists have hailed their coming as inaugurating the era of cheap labor and increased fortunes for themselves. Hence the discussion and the disturbances. A lady who had made her home in San Francisco for several years past, says, in a letter to the writer of this article, "A person not living in California can form no conception of the curse which the Chinese are to this section of the world." Yet without them some of the great enterprises of the Pacific coast, notably the Central Pacific Railroad, would have remained long unfinished; and they came also to furnish manual labor at a time when it was scarce and difficult to obtain at any price. The Chinaman is a strange compound of virtue and vice, cleanliness and filth, frugality and recklessness, simplicity and cunning. He is scrupulously clean as to his person, indulging in frequent baths; yet he will live contentedly with the most wretched surroundings, and inhale an air vitiated by an aggregation of breaths and stenches of all kinds. He is a faithful worker and a wonderful imitator. He cannot do the full work of a white man, but he labors steadily and unceasingly. He takes no time for drunken sprees, but he is an inveterate opium smoker, and sometimes deliberately sacrifices his life in the enjoyment of the drug. He is frugal to the last degree, but will waste his daily earnings in the gambling hell and policy shop. Scrupulously honest, he is yet the victim of the vilest vices which are engrafting themselves upon our western coast. Living upon one-third of what will keep a white man, and working for one-half the wages the latter demands, he is destroying the labor market of that quarter of our country, reducing its working classes to his own level, in which in the future the latter, too, will be forced to be contented on a diet of "rice and rats," and to forego all educational advantages for their children, becoming, like the Chinese themselves, mere working machines; or else enter into a conflict of labor against labor, race against race. The latter alternative seems inevitable, and it has already begun. China, with her crowded population, could easily spare a hundred million people and be the better for it. Those one hundred million Chinamen, if welcomed to our shores, would speedily swamp our western civilization. They might not become the controlling power--the Anglo-Saxon is always sure to remain that--but as hewers of wood and drawers of water, as builders of our railroads, hands upon our farms, workers in our factories, and cooks and chambermaids in our houses, a like number of American men and women would be displaced, and wages quickly reduced to an Asiatic level; and such a time of distress as this country never saw would dawn upon us. There seems to be no assimilation between the Caucasian and the Mongolian on the Pacific slope. In the East an Irish girl recently married a Chinaman; but in San Francisco, though every other race under the sun has united in marriage, the Chinaman is avoided as a pariah. White and yellow races may meet and fraternize in business, in pleasure, and even in crime; but in marriage never. Chinamen rank among the most respected merchants of San Francisco, and these receive exceptional respect as individuals; but between the two races as races a great gulf is fixed. The Chinese immigrant takes no interest in American affairs. His world is on the other side of the Pacific. And the American people return the compliment by taking no interest in him. It is undeniable that, by a certain class of San Francisco citizens, popularly known as Hoodlums, the treatment of the Chinese population has been shameful in the extreme. A Chinaman has no rights which a white man is bound to respect. Insult, contumely, abuse, cruelty and injustice he has been forced to bear at the hands of the rougher classes, without hope of redress. He has been kicked, and cheated, and plundered, and not a voice has been raised in his behalf; but if he has been guilty of the slightest peccadillo, how quickly has he been made to feel the heavy hand of justice! It seems a pity that before the cry was raised with such overwhelming force, "The Chinese must go!" some little effort had not been made to adapt them to Western civilization. They are quick to take ideas concerning their labor; why not in other things? We have received and adopted the ignorant, vicious hordes from foreign lands to the east of us, and are fast metamorphosing them into intelligent, useful citizens. We are even trying our hand upon the negro, as a late atonement for all the wrong we have done him. But the Indian and the Chinaman seem to be without the pale of our mercy and our Christianity. It might not have been possible, but still the experiment was worth the trying, of attempting to lift them up industrially, educationally and morally, to a level with our own better classes, instead of permitting them to drag us down. Returning to their own country, and carrying back with them our Western civilization, as a little leaven, they might have leavened the whole lump. It is too late for that now, and the mandate has gone forth: "The Chinese must go!" Considering all things as they are, rather than as they might have been, it is undoubtedly better so, and the only salvation of our Pacific States. San Francisco had, in 1880, a population of 232,956. The commerce is very large, and must every year increase as the West is built up. The chief articles of export are the precious metals, breadstuffs, wines and wool. She has important manufactures, embracing watches, carriages, boots and shoes, furniture, iron and brass works, silver ware, silk and woolen. California seems peculiarly adapted to the silk industry, and her silk manufactures will probably assume marked importance in the future. The wonderful climate and unequaled productiveness are constantly attracting immigration, and the Pacific Central, which spans the continent, has vastly improved on the old methods of travel by caravan across the plains and over the mountains. The population of San Francisco is cosmopolitan to the last degree, and embraces natives of every clime and nearly every nation on the globe. Yet in spite of this strange agglomeration she is intensely Yankee in her go-ahead-ativeness, with Anglo-Saxon alertness intensified. In fact, as San Francisco is on the utmost limits of the West, beyond which there is nothing but a vast expanse of water until we begin again at the East, so she represents the superlative of Anglo-Saxon enterprise and American civilization, and looks to a future which shall far outstrip her past. CHAPTER XXXIV. SAVANNAH. First Visit to Savannah.--Camp Davidson.--The City During the War.--An Escaped Prisoner.--Recapture and Final Escape.--A "City of Refuge."--Savannah by Night.--Position of the City.-- Streets and Public Squares.--Forsyth Park.--Monuments.-- Commerce.--View from the Wharves.--Railroads.--Founding of the City.--Revolutionary History.--Death of Pulaski.--Secession.-- Approach of Sherman.--Investment of the City by Union Troops.-- Recuperation After the War.--Climate.--Colored Population.-- Bonaventure, Thunderbolt, and Other Suburban Resorts. My first visit to Savannah was made on the twenty-ninth of July, 1864, when I was brought there as a prisoner of war. I found the city with its business enterprises in a state of stagnation, and the streets thronged with soldiers in Confederate uniforms. About four thousand troops were doing garrison duty in the city, which was thronged with refugees, and the entire population was suffering from a paralysis of all industrial enterprises, and from the interruption of its commerce by the Federal blockade at the mouth of the river. Camp Davidson, where we were confined, was in the eastern part of the city, near the Marine Hospital, with Pulaski's Monument in full view, to the westward. The camp was surrounded by a stockade and deadline, and the principal amusement and occupation of the prisoners was the digging of a tunnel which was to conduct them to liberty beyond the second line of sentinels, without the stockade. But our little camp, like Chicago, had a cow for an evil genius. This luckless creature broke through the tunnel, as it was nearing completion, and suddenly ended it and our hopes together. The nearest Union forces were at Pulaski, at the mouth of the Savannah River, and Savannah was one of the most important military posts of the Confederate army. Our treatment at Camp Davidson was exceptionally kind and considerate, and the ladies of the city, in giving suitable interment to the remains of a Union officer who had died in the camp, proved themselves to be possessed of generous hearts. Therefore it was with regret that we received the order to leave Savannah for Charleston. I next visited Savannah a few months later, when the war was drawing to a close, after General Sherman and his army had made their successful entrance into the town. On the sixteenth of December, myself and a companion found ourselves twenty miles from Savannah, after having been many weeks fugitives from "Camp Sorghum," the prison-pen at Columbia, South Carolina. We were on the Savannah River Road, over which Kilpatrick's Cavalry and the Fourteenth Army Corps had passed only a week before. Emboldened by our successes and hairbreadth escapes of three weeks, when we at last felt that deliverance was close at hand, we pursued our way, only to fall suddenly into the hands of the enemy. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. But who shall describe the terrible sinking of the heart--the worse than sickness--when hope is thus suddenly crushed and turned to certain despair? Our second captivity was not, however, of long duration. Death was preferable to bondage under such masters. Taking our lives in our hands, a second escape was effected, and on December twenty-third, but two days after Sherman's occupancy of the city, Savannah proved itself, indeed, a city of refuge. Union troops welcomed us with open arms, and we were soon despatched northward. The traveler who visits Savannah to-day will view it under very different auspices. The white wings of peace have brooded over it for more than half a generation, loyalty has taken the place of treason in the hearts of her people, and prosperity is visible on her streets and wharves. Let him, if he can, approach the city from the sea, and by night. Fort Pulaski stands like a sentinel guarding the entrance to the harbor, the lighthouse upon the point keeping a bright eye out to seaward. As he glides up the river, which winds in countless lagoons around low sea islands covered with salt marshes, at last he will see in the distance the lights of the city set on a hill, and of the shipping at her feet. A distant city is always beautiful at night, though it may be hideous by daylight. Night veils all its ugliness in charitable shadows; it reveals hitherto unseen beauties of outline, crowns it with a tiara of sparkling gems, and enwraps the whole scene in an air of romance and mystery which is charming to the person of poetic nature. But whether seen by night or day, Savannah is indeed a beautiful city, probably the most beautiful in all the Southern States. The Savannah River winds around Hutchinson Island, and the city is built in the form of an elongated crescent, about three miles in length, on its southern shore. It is on a bluff about forty feet above the stream, this bluff being about a mile wide at its eastern end, and broadening as it extends westward. Surrounding it are the low lands occupied by market gardens, for Savannah is a great place for market gardeners, and helps to supply the northern market in early spring. The streets of Savannah are laid out east and west, nearly parallel to the river, with others crossing them at right angles, north and south. They are wide, and everywhere shaded with trees, many of the latter being live oaks, most magnificent specimens of which are found in the city. Orange trees also abound, with their fragrant blossoms and golden fruit, stately palmettoes, magnolias and oleander, rich in bloom, bays and cape myrtles. The streets running north and south are of very nearly uniform width, every alternate street passing on either side of a public square, which is bounded on the north and south by narrow streets running east and west, and intersected in the centre by a wide street taking the same direction. These public squares, twenty-four in number, and containing from one and a half to three acres, are a marked feature of the city. They are placed at regular intervals, as already described, are handsomely inclosed, laid out with walks, shaded with evergreen and ornamental trees, and in the spring and summer months are green with grass. In a number of these are monuments, while others contain fountains or statuary. These squares or plazas are surrounded with fine residences, each having its own little yard, beautiful with flowers, vines, shrubbery and trees. In these premises roses thrive and bloom with a luxuriance unknown in the North, and the stately Camelia Japonica, the empress among flowers, grows here to a height of twelve or fifteen feet, and blossoms in midwinter. Savannah, the most beautiful city of the South, if not in the United States, is more like the wealthy suburb of some large city, than like a city itself. It is embowered in trees, which are green the whole year around; and shares with Cleveland, its northern rival in beauty, the _soubriquet_ of the "Forest City." Forsyth Park, originally laid out in the southern suburb of the city, is now the centre of a populous quarter, abounding in handsome edifices. Many of the original trees, the beautiful southern pines, are left standing in this park, and other trees and shrubbery added. Sphynxes guard the Bull street entrance, and in the centre of the old park, which was ten acres in extent, is a handsome fountain, modeled after that in the Place de la Concorde, in Paris. This fountain is surrounded by a profusion of flowers, while shelled walks furnish pathways through the park. It has recently been increased in dimensions to thirty acres; in the centre of the new or western portion stands a stately monument in honor of the Confederate dead. Pulaski Monument stands in Monterey Square, the first plaza to the northward of Forsyth Park. The steps of the monument are of granite, and the shaft of fine white marble, fifty-five feet high, surmounted by a statue of Liberty holding the national banner. This monument covers the spot where, in 1779, Count Pulaski fell, during an attack upon the city, while it was occupied by the British. In Johnson Square, the first square south of the river intersected by Bull street, is a fine Druidical pile, erected to the memory of General Greene and Count Pulaski. The corner-stone of this obelisk was laid in 1825, by Lafayette, during his visit to America. Savannah was founded in 1733, by General James Oglethorpe, whose plan has been followed in its subsequent erection. Upon each of the twenty-four squares were originally left four large lots, known as "trust lots," two on the east and two on the west. We are told by Mr. Francis Moore, who wrote in 1736, that "the use of this is, in case a war should happen, the villages without may have places in town to bring their cattle and families into for refuge; and for that purpose there is a square left in every ward, big enough for the outwards to encamp in." These lots are now occupied by handsome churches, conspicuous public buildings, and palatial private residences, thus securing to all the squares a uniform elegance which they might otherwise have lacked. Bay street is the great commercial street of the city. It is an esplanade, two hundred feet wide, upon the brow of the cliff overlooking the river. Its southern side is lined with handsome stores and offices. At the corner of Bay and Bull streets is the Custom House, with the Post Office in the basement. Its northern side is occupied by the upper stories of warehouses, which are built at the foot of the steep cliff fronting the river. These upper stories are connected with the bluff by means of wooden platforms, which form a sort of sidewalk, spanning a narrow and steep roadway, which leads at intervals, by a series of turns, down to the wharves below. Long flights of steps accommodate pedestrians in the same descent. The warehouses just spoken of are four or five stories high on their river fronts, and but one or two on the Bay. One should walk along the quay below the city to gain a true idea of the extent of its commerce. Here, in close proximity to the wharves, are located the cotton presses and rice mills. Here everything is dirty and dismal, evidently speaking of better days. The beauty of the city is all above. The buildings are some of them substantially built of brick, but begin to show the ravages of time. There is an old archway, which once had pretensions of its own, but the wall has fallen away, and it is now an entrance to nowhere. Yet in spite of this general dilapidation, there is all the bustle and activity of a full commercial life. The wharves are piled with cotton bales, which have found a temporary landing here, awaiting shipment to the North, or perhaps across the sea. For Savannah is the second cotton port in the United States. But cotton is not its only export. It is the great shipping depot for Southern produce bound for Northern markets. Some sheds are filled with barrels of rosin, while great quantities of rosin litter the ground. From others turpentine in great quantities is shipped to various ports. The lumber trade of the city is immense, the pine forests of Georgia furnishing an apparently inexhaustible supply. The city is also in the centre of the rice-growing region, and sends its rice to feed the North. Steamships from all the Atlantic ports lie along its wharves, while those of foreign nations are by no means scarce. Vessels of too large a draft to lie alongside the wharves discharge and load their freight three miles below the city. The view from the river front is over the river itself, filled with craft of all sorts, from the tiny ferry boat up to the immense ocean steamer, across to Hutchinson's Island and the Carolina shore. The island, which is two miles long by one wide, has upon it numerous lumber yards and a large dry dock. Rice was formerly cultivated upon it, but is now forbidden by law, because of its unhealthfulness. The river is about seven hundred and twenty feet wide in front of the city, with a depth of water at the wharves varying from thirteen to twenty-one feet. The portion of South Carolina visible is low and flat, dotted here and there with palmetto trees. There is little of the picturesque about this river view except the busy life, which keeps in constant motion. Savannah has extensive railroad connection with all parts of the United States. She has direct communication by rail with Vicksburg on the Mississippi. She also offers an outlet, by means of railroads, for the products of Georgia, Florida, and portions of Alabama and Tennessee. She has unbroken railroad connection with Memphis, Mobile, Cincinnati, Louisville, and the principal commercial cities of the West and North. Her water communication is established with all the great Northern and Southern seaboard cities. Her harbor is one of the best and safest on the South Atlantic coast, and she is the natural eastern terminus of the Southern Pacific Railroad, being almost on the same parallel of latitude with San Diego, its western terminus. The corporate limits of Savannah extend backward from the river about one and one-half miles, and embrace a total area of three and one-half square miles, but additions are fast being made to the southward, which will, in time, greatly extend its area, and add to the population, which, in 1880, was 30,681. Savannah's history goes back to the early days of the colonies. Its site marks the first settlement in Georgia. General Oglethorpe, with a hundred and fourteen men, women and children, having landed at Charleston, in January, 1733, sailed from that port with a plentiful supply of provisions and a small body of troops for their protection, and landed on Yamacraw Bluff, on the Savannah River, eighteen miles from its mouth. On the bluff General Oglethorpe laid out a town and called it Savannah, and by the ninth of February the colony commenced the erection of buildings. The colony survived various haps and mishaps until 1776, when, in the War of the Revolution, the British attacked the city, but were repulsed. On December twenty-ninth, 1778, they made a second attack, surprised the American forces, who attempted to fly, but were mostly killed or captured. On the morning of October fourth, 1779, the American and French troops made a direct assault upon Savannah, attempting to take it from the British, but were obliged to retire with heavy loss. Count Pulaski, a Polish nobleman, who had been expatriated for participating in the carrying off of King Stanislaus from his capital, was wounded in this battle, and soon afterwards died. Pulaski Monument, as already stated, was erected on the spot where he fell. Savannah received its city charter in 1788. In 1850 it had a little more than fifteen thousand inhabitants, and in 1860, 22,292. When Secession cast its shadow upon the sunny South, it fell like a pall upon Savannah, no less than upon the other Southern cities. All her business was suspended, and grass grew in her streets. On the northeast corner of Bull and Broughton streets stands the building known as Masonic Hall, where, on January twenty-first, 1861, the Ordinance of Secession was passed. On the sixteenth of March the State Convention assembled in Savannah, adopted the Constitution of the Confederate States of America, Georgia being the second State to adopt this Constitution without submitting it to the people. The mouth of the river was blockaded by United States gunboats, and all commerce prevented. On April fifteenth, 1862, Fort Pulaski was captured by the Federal troops, and great excitement prevailed in the city. Women and children left their homes, and property and furniture were sent into the interior. During the following years a number of unsuccessful attempts were made by the Union naval forces to capture the city. In December, 1864, Sherman was making his famous march to the sea, and was steadily drawing nearer the city, while southern chivalry fled before him, and the now emancipated slaves gathered and rolled in his rear like a sable cloud. On the twentieth, heavy siege guns were put in position by his forces between Kingsbridge and the city; and General Hardee, suddenly awakened to a sense of the danger which menaced them, set his troops hurriedly to work to destroy the navy yard and government property; while the ironclads, the "Savannah" and "Georgia," were making a furious fire on the Federal left, the garrison, under cover of darkness and confusion, were being transported on the first stage of their journey to Charleston. Before leaving, they blew up the iron clads and the fortifications below the city. On the twenty-first, General Sherman received a formal surrender from the municipal authorities. On the following day, the twenty-second, he sent a dispatch to the President, presenting him, "as a Christmas gift, the city of Savannah." On December twenty-eighth, 1864, Masonic Hall, already historical, witnessed a gathering of loyal citizens celebrating the triumph of the Union army. Sherman, when he entered the city, encamped his forces on the still vacant "trust lots." This triumphant conclusion of Sherman's march from Atlanta broke the backbone of the Confederacy, and was the prelude to the downfall of Richmond and the surrender of Lee's army. Prosperity eventually followed in the wake of peace. The blockade lifted, the deserted wharves were soon filled with the shipping of all nations. Her silent and empty streets grew noisy and populous with the rush of business, and Savannah is now one of the most prosperous of our Southern cities. Her architecture is not striking for either its beauty or its grandeur; nevertheless she has many fine public and private buildings. The City Exchange is one of the former, and it also possesses a historical interest, General Sherman having reviewed his troops in front of it in his investment of the city. From its tower the best view of the city and neighborhood may be obtained. The Court House, the United States and Police Barracks, Artillery Armory, Jail, Chatham Academy and St. Andrews' Hall, are all conspicuous buildings. The Georgia Historical Society has a large and beautiful hall, with a fine library and interesting relics. St. John's and Christ's Episcopal churches, the Independent Presbyterian Church, and the Roman Catholic Cathedral, are all striking edifices. Trinity Church, in Johnson Square, is near the spot where John Wesley delivered his famous sermons. Wesley visited Savannah in its early days, having been invited thither by Oglethorpe. At Bethesda, about ten miles from the city, where the Union Farm School is now located, was the site of the Orphan House established in 1740 by Whitefield, Wesley's contemporary and companion. The benevolent, literary and educational institutions of Savannah are numerous and well sustained, some of them being among the oldest in the country. The Union Society, for the support of orphan boys, and the Female Society, for orphan girls, were founded in 1750. Savannah is situated just above the 32d parallel of latitude, and possesses a mean temperature of 66° Fahr. Being within the influence of the Gulf Stream it enjoys all the mildness of the tropics in winter, while the summers are less oppressive than at New York or Washington. It is a favorite resort for northern invalids, being comparatively free from malarious fevers and pulmonary diseases. Colored people abound in Savannah, constituting about three-eighths of the entire population. They do most of the menial work of the city, being laborers, waiters in the hotels and public houses, and stevedores upon the wharves. It is astonishing to see the number of colored men it takes to load and set afloat a steamship; and one of the last sights which meets the eye of the traveler and lingers in his memory, as he leaves the city by means of the river, is the long row of upturned black faces, most of them beaming with good humor and jollity, on the wharf, as the vessel casts off her lines and turns her head down stream. Savannah possesses certain famous suburban attractions, without seeing which the traveler can scarcely say he has seen the city. In a bend of the Warsaw River, a short distance from its junction with the Savannah, and about four miles from the city, is the famous Bonaventure Cemetery. A hundred years ago this was the country seat of a wealthy English gentleman, who, upon the marriage of his daughter, made her a wedding present of the estate. The grounds were laid out in wide avenues, and shaded by live oaks, and the initials of the young bride and her husband were outlined with trees. In course of time the property was converted into a cemetery, and for many years has been devoted to that purpose. It is filled with monuments to the dead, some of them bearing historic names. Meantime the live oaks have grown to enormous dimensions, their gigantic branches meeting and interlacing overhead, forming immense arches, like those of the gothic aisles of some great cathedral, under and through which are visible bright vistas of the river and the sea islands lying beyond. The branches are fringed with pendants of the gray Spanish moss, yards in length, which sway softly in the breeze, and by their sombre color add to the solemnity of the scene. The steamers on the Sea Island route to Fernandina, Florida, pass Bonaventure, and afford glimpses of white monuments through the avenues of trees. Bonaventure is a favorite drive from the city, and is also reached by the horse cars. Thunderbolt, so named, tradition tells us, because a thunderbolt once fell there, is a short distance from Bonaventure, down the Warsaw River, and is a popular drive and summer resort. A spring of water flows from the spot where the lightning is supposed to have entered the ground. Jasper's Spring is two and one-half miles west of the city, and is the scene of the exploit of Sergeant Jasper, who at the time of the Revolution succeeded, with only one companion, in releasing a party of American prisoners from a British guard of eight men. Another fashionable drive is to White Bluff, ten miles distant from the city. The latter, with Beaulieu, Montgomery and the Isle of Hope, furnish salt water bathing and delightful sea breezes for the summer visitors. There is but one line of horse cars in the city, running on South Broad street, and then out the Thunderbolt road to Thunderbolt, Bonaventure, and the other suburban resorts. This company, we are told, has been so reckless in regard to the limitations of its charter, that the municipal government refuses to charter a second road. If our Northern cities were as scrupulous, we wonder where their many horse railroads would be! Since the war Northern men and Northern capital have helped to build up the various interests of Savannah. Planing mills, foundries, flouring and grist mills, have been established, furnishing employment to a considerable number of workingmen. Old channels of commerce have been extended, and new ones opened; and the natural advantage of her position, added to the public spirit which her citizens manifest in the accomplishment of great enterprises of internal improvement, give a guarantee of increased prosperity in the future. CHAPTER XXXV. SPRINGFIELD. Valley of the Connecticut.--Location of Springfield.--The United States Armory.--Springfield Library.--Origin of the Present Library System.--The Wayland Celebration.--Settlement of Springfield.--Indian Hostilities.--Days of Witchcraft.--Trial of Hugh Parsons.--Hope Daggett.--Springfield "Republican." A journey up the Valley of the Connecticut at this season of the year is a positive luxury to the tourist or professional traveler. It is a broad, beautiful road, winding through hill and dale, with grand old forests and mountains in the background, their foliage tipped with variegated colors by the fingers of Autumn, as an artist would put a finishing touch to his landscape. A ride of twenty-five miles northward from Hartford brought us to Springfield, the most enterprising and important town in Western Massachusetts. The United States Armory, located here, gives to the city a national consequence. No city in the Union did more to crush out the Rebellion than Springfield, through her Armory. Two or three thousand men were kept constantly employed here during the war, turning out the various arms used in the Federal service. The force now employed is considerably less than in war times. All hands are engaged just now upon the Springfield rifled musket, which has recently been adopted by the Government. The military precision with which every detail is attended to is the admiration of all who are shown through the Armory. A visit to the City Library, on State street, cannot fail to interest every person who feels a pride in the public institutions of New England. A fine, large, brick and stone building, with plain exterior and artistically finished interior, is the Springfield Public Library. Over forty thousand volumes cover its shelves, and are so systematically arranged that the librarian or his assistants can produce at once any work named in the catalogue. The oblong reading room is furnished with black walnut tables; and winding staircases, painted in blue and gold, lead from the columned alcoves to the galleries above. The library owns some very old and valuable books of engravings. A room on the first floor is devoted to stuffed birds, geological specimens, preserved snakes, and a wonderful assortment of curious relics obtained from all parts of the world. Icelandic snow shoes and Hindoo gods occupy places on the same shelf, in peaceful proximity, and catamounts, paralyzed in the act of springing, glare at you harmlessly behind their glass cases. Patriotic mementoes are not wanting, as the bullet-riddled battle-flags of Massachusetts regiments will testify. The free public library system is distinctively a New England institution, and wields a mighty influence for good. It was originated in 1847, by Rev. Francis Wayland, President of Brown University, Providence, Rhode Island. On Commencement day of that year Mr. Wayland expressed a wish to help the inhabitants of the town of Wayland, Massachusetts, to a public library, and tendered a donation of five hundred dollars to the town for that purpose, upon the condition that another five hundred should be added by the town. The required fund was quickly raised, by subscription, and President Wayland immediately placed his donation in the hands of one of their prominent citizens, Judge Mellen. This was the beginning of the movement which resulted in the "Library Act," of May, 1851, in the State of Massachusetts. The people of Wayland bought their library and provided a room in the "Town House" for its safe keeping. A librarian was chosen, whose salary was paid by the town, and the institution made its first delivery of books August seventh, 1850. Rev. John B. Wright was a member of the Massachusetts Legislature, from Wayland, during the session of 1851, and through his agency the Act "to authorize cities and towns to establish and maintain public libraries" was passed. A "Library Celebration" took place in Wayland, August twenty-sixth, 1851, and was a most interesting affair. Thus it came to pass that through the practical working of this man's idea public libraries were established, not only all over the State of Massachusetts, but throughout New England. Springfield was founded in 1636 by William Pyncheon, who with seven other men settled here, with their families, on May fourteenth of that year. They were bound together by mutual contract, with the design of having their colony consist of forty families. There was an especial provision that the number should never exceed fifty. The early prosperity of Springfield was considerably retarded by Indian hostilities. In October, 1675, the brown warriors of King Phillip made a descent upon the place, burning twenty-nine houses and killing three citizens--one of them a woman. The timely arrival of Major Pyncheon, Major Treat and Captain Appleton, with their troops, prevented further destruction and repulsed the attack of the Indians. Springfield was also the scene of operations during the troubles of 1786-87. At that time, General Shepperd was posted here, for the defence of the Armory. Thus, through much tribulation, has the thriving town attained its present prosperity. In its infant days, Springfield cherished a strong belief in witchcraft, as the following incident will testify: In the same year that Hartford set such a bad example to her northern neighbor on the Connecticut, by hanging Mrs. Greensmith, Springfield, not to be outdone, preferred a charge of witchcraft against one Hugh Parsons--a very handsome and pleasing young man, it seems, with whom all the women fell in love. Of course, this was not to be tolerated by the male population of the place, who hated him, as a natural consequence; and, accordingly, the handsomest man in Springfield was indicted and tried, on the grave accusation of being in league with the powers of evil. It is not surprising that the jury found him guilty. But, through some influence not explained, the judge, Mr. Pyncheon, stayed proceedings in his behalf until the matter could be laid before the General Court, in Boston. There the decision of the Springfield jury was reversed, and Mr. Parsons set at liberty. Whether after this his dangerous attractions were duly husbanded, or whether he went on, as of old, winning such wholesale admiration, we are not informed. One of the sensations of the hour during my sojourn in Springfield, was an encounter between the State Street Baptist Church and Hope Daggett, one of its members. The disaffected sister had at sundry times and in divers manners made herself so obnoxious to the congregation, by her strong-minded peculiarities, that an officer was called upon the scene and requested to eject by force, if necessary, the eccentric and uncompromising Hope. Officer Maxwell, suiting the action to the word, seized the unruly sister, and without stopping to consider the sudden fame which this act would launch upon him, thrust her into the street, amid the cheers and taunts of friends and enemies. Now it was the peculiar misfortune of Miss Daggett to have a wooden leg, and on the day following this tragic affair the press of Springfield was devoted to various accounts of the engagement, in which Maxwell and the wooden leg figured alternately. I cannot leave Springfield without some mention of its leading paper, the Springfield _Republican_, which for many years has been one of the solid papers of the Bay State, and a representative organ in politics and literature. Its editor, Samuel Bowles, is an energetic business manager and a stirring politician, who has fought his way up from obscurity to a position in the front rank of American journalism. CHAPTER XXXVI. ST. LOUIS. Approach to St. Louis.--Bridge Over the Mississippi.--View of the City.--Material Resources of Missouri.--Early History of St. Louis.--Increase of Population.--Manufacturing and Commercial Interests.--Locality.--Description of St. Louis in 1842.-- Resemblance to Philadelphia.--Public Buildings.--Streets.-- Parks.--Fair Week.--Educational and Charitable Institutions.-- Hotels.--Mississippi River.--St. Louis During the Rebellion.-- Peculiar Characteristics.--The Future of the City. The visitor to St. Louis, if from the east, will probably make his approach over the great bridge which spans the Mississippi. This bridge, designed by Captain Eads, and begun in 1867, was completed in 1874, and is one of the greatest triumphs of American engineering. It consists of three spans, resting on four piers. The central span is 520 feet in width, and the side ones 500 feet each. They have a rise of sixty feet, sufficient to permit the passage of steamers under them, even at high water. The piers are sunk through the sand to the bed-rock, a distance of from ninety to one hundred and twenty feet, the work having been accomplished by means of iron wrought caissons and atmospheric pressure. Each span consists of four ribbed arches, made of cast steel. The bridge is two stories high, the lower story containing a double car track, and the upper one two horse-car tracks, two carriageways and two foot-ways. Reaching the St. Louis shore, the car and road ways pass over a viaduct of five arches, of twenty-seven feet span each, to Washington avenue, where the railway tracks run into a tunnel 4,800 feet long, terminating near Eleventh street. Bridge and tunnel together cost eleven millions of dollars. [Illustration: THE LEVEE AND GREAT BRIDGE AT ST. LOUIS.] This wonderful structure, which has few if any equals upon the continent, will impress the traveler with the commercial magnitude and enterprise of the great western city to which it forms the eastern portal. Looking from the car window he will see, first, the Mississippi, which, if at the period of low water, disappoints him with its apparent insignificance; but which, if it be at the time of its annual flood, has crept, on the St. Louis side, nearly to the top of the steep levee, and has filled up the broad valley miles away on the hither side, a rushing, turbulent river, turbid with the yellow waters of the Missouri, which, emptying into it twenty miles above, have scarcely, at this point, perfectly mingled with the clearer Mississippi. He will see next the river front of St. Louis--a continuous line of steamboats, towboats and barges, without a sail or mast among them; the levee rising in a steep acclivity twenty feet above the river's edge; and multitudinous mules, with their colored drivers, toiling laboriously, and by the aid of much whipping and swearing, up or down the steep bank, carrying the merchandise which has just been landed, or is destined to be loaded in some vessel's hold. Beyond the river rises the city, terrace above terrace, its outlines bristling with spires, and prominent above all, the dome of the Court House. St. Louis is situated in the very heart of the great Mississippi Valley, and a large share of its rich agricultural products and mineral stores are constantly poured into her lap. Pilot Knob and Iron Mountain, both containing inexhaustible supplies of the useful ore, are not far distant. The lead districts of Missouri include more than 6,000 square miles. In fifteen counties there is copper. In short, within one hundred miles of St. Louis, gold, iron, lead, zinc, copper, tin, silver, platina, nickel, emery, cobalt, coal, limestone, granite, pipe-clay, fire-clay, marble, metallic paints and salt are found, in quantities which will repay working. In the State there are twenty millions acres of good farming lands; five millions of acres are among the best in the world for grapes; and eight millions are particularly suited to the raising of hemp. There is, besides, a sufficiency of timber land. With all these resources from which to draw, it would be surprising if St. Louis did not become a leading city in the West. Situated, as she is, on the Mississippi River, about midway between its source and its mouth, the junction of the Missouri twenty miles above, and that of the Ohio about one hundred and seventy-five miles below, and being the river terminus of a complicated system of western railways, the towns and cities, and even the small hamlets of the north, south and west, and to a limited extent of the east also, all pay her tribute. As Chicago is the gateway to the East, by means of the great chain of lakes and rivers at whose head she sits, so St. Louis holds open the door to the South and the East as well, through the Mississippi and the Ohio rivers. In many respects the business rival of Chicago to-day, it has a history reaching half a century further back. While Chicago was still a howling wilderness, its only inhabitants the warlike Pottawatomies, who sometimes encamped upon the shores of its lake and river, St. Louis had a local habitation and a name. On February fifteenth, 1764, Pierre Laclede Siguest, an enterprising Frenchman, established at this point a depot for the furs of the vast region watered by the Mississippi and Missouri, and gave it the name of St. Louis. This was done by permission of the Governor General of Louisiana, which was then a French province. In the course of the year cabins were built, a little corn planted and the Indians placated. The Frenchmen seemed to have gotten along with the Indians tolerably well in those days. They had no hesitation in marrying squaws, even though they already possessed one lawful wife; they were good tempered and merry, and attempted no conversion of the Indians with a Bible in one hand and a sword in the other. So the two races got along nicely together. The peace of 1763 gave the country east of the Mississippi to the English, and the Frenchmen who had settled upon the Illinois made haste to remove to St. Louis, to avoid living under the rule of their "natural enemy." This was scarcely accomplished when the more terrible news reached them that Louis XV had ceded his possessions west of the Mississippi to Spain. For the next thirty years the town was a Spanish outpost of Louisiana, in which province no one not a Catholic could own land. To go to New Orleans and return was a voyage of ten months; but in that early day, and under such surprising difficulties, St. Louis began its commercial career. It exported furs, lead and salt, and imported the few necessaries required by the settlers, and beads, tomahawks, and other articles demanded by the Indians in exchange for furs. In 1799 the inhabitants numbered 925, a falling off of 272 from the previous year. In 1804, St. Louis passed to the United States, together with the whole country west of the Mississippi. In 1811 the population had increased to 1400, and there were two schools in the town, one French and one English. In 1812 the portion of the territory lying north of the thirty-fifth degree of latitude was organized as Missouri Territory. In 1813 the first brick house was erected in St. Louis. In 1820 its population was 4,928. In 1822 it was incorporated as a city. After the cession of Louisiana to the United States, the law forbidding Protestant worship, and requiring owners of land to profess the Catholic faith, was repealed, and men American born but of English descent began to pour into the town. In 1808 a newspaper was established, and in 1811 many of the old French names of the streets were changed to English ones. In 1812 the lead mines began to be worked to better advantage, on a larger scale, and agriculture assumed increasing importance. In 1815 the first steamboat made its appearance. In 1820 St. Louis cast its vote for slavery, and settled the question for Missouri. The population then was 4,928, which in 1830 had increased to 5,852; 924 additional inhabitants in ten years! From 1830 to 1860 its population trebled every ten years, the census returns of the latter year giving it 160,773. In 1870 it had nearly doubled again, the number being 310,864 inhabitants. According to the United States Census report of 1880, the population was 350,522, which made St. Louis the sixth city in the Union. Since that time it has been rapidly on the increase. St. Louis is among the first of our cities in the manufacture of flour, and is a rival of Cincinnati in the pork-packing business. It has extensive lumber mills, linseed-oil factories, provision-packing houses, manufactures large quantities of hemp, whisky and tobacco, has vast iron factories and machine shops, breweries, lead and paint works. In brief, it takes a rank second only to New York and Philadelphia in its manufactures, to which its prosperity is largely due. In 1874 the products of that year were valued at nearly $240,000,000, while it furnished employment to about 50,000 workmen. Great as are Chicago's manufacturing interests, St. Louis excels her in this respect, while she rivals the former city in her commercial interests. The natural commercial entreport of the Mississippi Valley, the commerce of St. Louis is immense. It receives and exports to the north, east and south, breadstuffs, live stock, provisions, cotton, lead, hay, salt, wool, hides and pelts, lumber and tobacco. St. Louis is perched high above the river, so that she is beyond the reach of all save the highest floods of that most capricious stream. She is built on three terraces, the first twenty, the second one hundred and fifty, and the third two hundred feet above low-water mark. The second terrace begins at Twenty-fifth street, and the third at Côte Brillante, four miles west of the river. The surface here spreads out into a broad, beautiful plain. The highest hill in the neighborhood of the city was the lofty mound on the bank of the river, a relic of prehistoric times, and from which St. Louis derived its name of the "Mound City." Greatly to the regret of antiquarians a supposed necessity existed for the removal of this mound, and now no trace of it is left. In 1842 Charles Dickens published his _American Notes_, in which is found the following description of St. Louis: "In the old French portion of the town the thoroughfares are narrow and crooked, and some of the houses are very quaint and picturesque, being built of wood, with tumble-down galleries before the windows, approachable by stairs, or rather ladders, from the street. There are queer little barber shops and drinking houses, too, in this quarter; and abundance of crazy old tenements, with blinking casements, such as may be seen in Flanders. Some of these ancient habitations, with high garret gable windows perking into the roofs, have a kind of French spring about them; and, being lopsided with age, appear to hold their heads askew, besides, as if they were grimacing in astonishment at the American improvements." There is nothing of this now seen in St. Louis, except in the narrower streets along the river, which remain a lasting relic of the ancient city. Yankee enterprise has obliterated, in the appearance of the city at least, all trace of its French and Spanish origin. The work of renovation must have commenced soon after Dickens' visit, for Lady Emeline Wortley, visiting St. Louis in 1849, describes it as follows:-- "Merrily were huge houses going up in all directions. From our hotel windows we had a long view of gigantic and gigantically-growing-up dwellings, that seemed every morning to be about a story higher than we left them on the preceding night; as if they had slept, during the night, on guano, like the small boy in the American tale, who reposed on a field covered by it, and whose father, on seeking him the following day, found a gawky gentleman of eight feet high, bearing a strong resemblance to a Patagonian walking stick." [Illustration: SHAW'S GARDEN AT ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI.] If Chicago is a western reproduction of New York, with its characteristic alertness preternaturally developed, St. Louis takes Philadelphia for her prototype. The merchants and statesmen plodding wearily across the continent during the latter part of the last century and early in this, found Philadelphia the chief city of the country, and went home with their minds filled with the distinguishing features of that city. These they reproduced, as far as was practicable, in their own young and growing town. They laid it out with regularity, the streets near the river, which describes a slight curve, running parallel to it. Further back, they describe straight lines, while the streets running from east to west are, for the most part, at right angles with those they cross. Imitating Philadelphia, the streets are named numerically from the river. Those crossing them have arbitrary names given them, while many Philadelphia nomenclatures, such as Market, Chestnut, Pine, Spruce, Poplar, Walnut and Vine, are repeated. The houses are also numbered in Philadelphia fashion, the streets parallel with the river being numbered north and south from Market street, and those running east and west taking their numbers from the river. In numbering, each street passes on to a new hundred; thus No. 318 is the ninth house above Third street on one side of the way. Not only in these superficial matters is Philadelphia imitated, but the resemblance is preserved in more substantial particulars. Many of the buildings are large, old-fashioned, square mansions, built of brick with white marble trimmings. There is less attempt at architectural display than in Chicago, apparently the main thought of the builders being to obtain substantiality. Yet there are many handsome buildings, both public and private. One of the finest structures of its kind in the United States is the Court House, occupying the square bounded by Fourth, Fifth, Chestnut and Market streets. It is in the form of a Greek cross, of Grecian architecture, built of Genevieve limestone, and is surmounted by a lofty iron dome, from the cupola of which it is possible to obtain an extensive view of the city and its surroundings. The building cost $1,200,000. The fronts are adorned with beautiful porticoes. The Four Courts, in Clark avenue, between Eleventh and Twelfth streets, is a handsome and spacious building, constructed of limestone, at a cost of $1,000,000. A semi-circular iron jail is in its rear, so constructed that all its cells are under the observation of a single watchman. A Custom House and Post Office has recently been erected, at the corner of Olive and Eighth streets. It is of Maine granite, with rose-colored granite trimmings, three stories in height, with a French roof and Louvre dome, and occupies an entire square. The cost of the structure was $5,000,000. The Chamber of Commerce is the great commercial mart of the city, the heart of enormous business interests, whose arteries sometimes pulsate with feverish heat, and whose transactions affect business affairs to the furthest extent of the country. The edifice is the handsomest of its kind in America. It is five stories high, wholly built of gray limestone, and cost $800,000. The main hall of the Exchange is two hundred feet long, one hundred wide, and seventy high. In the gallery surrounding it strangers can at any time witness the proceedings on the floor, and watch how fortunes are made and unmade. The most imposing and ornate building of the city, architecturally speaking, is the Columbia Life Insurance building, which is of rose-colored granite, in the Renaissance style, four stories high, with a massive stone cornice representing mythological figures. The roof is reached by an elevator, and affords a fine view. The city abounds in handsome churches. Most prominent among them all is Christ Church (Episcopal) at the corner of Thirteenth and Locust streets. It is in the cathedral gothic style, with stained-glass windows and lofty nave. The Catholic Cathedral, on Walnut street, between Second and Third streets, is an imposing structure with a front of polished freestone faced by a Doric portico. The Church of the Messiah (Unitarian), at the corner of Olive and Ninth streets, is a handsome gothic structure. The Jewish Temple, at the corner of Seventeenth and Pine streets, is one of the finest religious edifices in the city. There are many others which will challenge the visitor's attention and admiration as he passes through the streets of the city. The wholesale business of St. Louis is confined to Front, Second, Third and Main streets. Front street is one hundred feet wide, and extends along the levee, being lined with massive stores and warehouses. Fourth street contains the leading retail stores, and on every pleasant day it is filled with handsome equipages, while on its sidewalks are found the fashion and beauty of the city. Washington avenue is one of the widest and most elegant avenues in St. Louis, and west of Twenty-seventh street contains many beautiful residences. Pine, Olive and Locust streets, Chouteau avenue and Lucas Place, are also famed for their fine residences. Lindell or Grant avenue, running north and south, on the western boundary of the city, and slightly bending toward the river, is its longest street, being twelve miles in length. The corporate limits of St. Louis extend eleven miles along the river, and about three miles inland. The densely built portion of the city is about six miles in length by two in width. Its public parks are one of its striking features. They embrace an aggregate of about 2,000 acres. The most beautiful is Lafayette Park, lying between Park and Lafayette, Mississippi and Missouri avenues. In it are a bronze statue of Thomas H. Benton, by Harriet Hosmer, and a bronze statue of Washington. It is for pedestrians only, is elaborately laid out and ornamented, and is surrounded by magnificent residences. Missouri Park is a pretty little park at the foot of Lucas Place, containing a handsome fountain. St. Louis Place, Hyde Park and Washington Square are all attractive places of resort. Northern Park, on the bluffs to the north of the city, is noted for its fine trees, and contains 180 acres. Forest Park is the great park of the city. It lies four miles west of the Court House, and contains 1350 acres. The Des Pares runs through it, and the native forest trees are still standing. With great natural advantages, it requires only time and art to number it among the handsomest parks in the country. Tower Grove Park, in the southwest part of the city, contains 227 acres, offers delightful drives among green lawns and charmingly arranged shrubbery. Adjoining this park is Shaw's Garden, which contains 109 acres. It possesses a peculiar interest, from the manner in which it is arranged. It is divided into three sections, the first being the Herbaceous and Flower Garden, embracing ten acres, and including every flower which can be grown in the latitude of St. Louis, besides several greenhouses containing thousands of exotic and tropical plants. The second section, called the Fruticetum, comprises six acres devoted to fruit of all kinds. The Arboretum, or third section, includes twenty-five acres, and contains all kinds of ornamental and fruit trees. The Labyrinth is an intricate, hedge-bordered pathway, leading to a summer-house in the centre. There are also a museum and botanical library. This garden is entirely the result of private taste and enterprise, having been planned and executed by Henry Shaw, who has thrown it open to the public, and intends it as a gift to the city. Bellefontaine Cemetery is the most beautiful in the West. It is situated in the northern part of the city, about four and one-half miles from the Court House, and embraces 350 acres. It contains a number of fine monuments, while the trees and shrubbery are most tastefully arranged. Calvary Cemetery, north and not far distant, is nearly as large and quite as beautiful. Here, in these quiet cities of the dead, far from the bustle of the great town, the men and women of this western metropolis, whose lives were passed in turmoil and activity, find at last that rest which must come to all. The people of St. Louis are supplied with water from the river, the waterworks being situated at Bissell's Point, three and one-half miles north of the court house. Two pumping engines, each with a daily capacity of 17,000,000 gallons, furnish an ample supply for all the needs of the great city. Fair week, which is usually the first week in October, is the great holiday and gala season of St. Louis. The writer of this article was once so fortunate as to visit the city early in this week. Every train of cars on the many lines which centre at St. Louis, and every steamboat which came from up or down the river, brought its living freight of men and women, who were out for a week's holiday, and, it may have been, paying their annual visit to the greatest city west of the Mississippi. The country roads leading to town were black with vehicles of all descriptions, and laden with men and merchandise. The laborers and mules upon the levee were busier than ever, receiving and transporting the articles to be exhibited and sold. Every hotel was crowded, and the surplus overflowed into boarding and lodging houses, so that their keepers undoubtedly reaped a golden harvest for that one week, at least. The streets were thronged with an immense and motley multitude: business men, on the alert to extend their trade and add to their gains; working women, who found an opportunity for a brief holiday; ladies of fashion who viewed the scene resting at their ease in their carriages; farmers from the rural districts, looking uncomfortable yet complaisant in their Sunday suits, and trying to take in all there was to see and understand; their wives, old-fashioned and countrified in their dress, and with a tired look upon their faces, which this week given up to idleness and sight-seeing could not quite dispel; sporting men, easily recognizable by their flashy dress and "horsey" talk; gamblers and blacklegs by the score, whose appearance and manners were too excessively gentlemanly to pass as quite genuine, and whose gains during the week were probably larger and more certain than those of any other class; western men, with their patois, borrowed apparently from the slang of every nation on the globe; Southerners, with their long hair, slouched hats and broad accent; river hands, whose most noticeable accomplishments seemed to be disposing of tobacco and inventing new oaths; negroes, whose facile natures entered heartily into the occasion, and on whose sleek, shining countenances the spirit of contentment was plainly visible; eastern men, with the Yankee intonation; Germans, in great numbers, patronizingly endorsing their adopted country, and selling lager beer with stolid content; Irishmen, whose preference was whisky, and who were ever ready for fun or a fight; beggars, plying their vocation with an extra whine, adopted to conceal an unwonted tendency to cheerfulness; magnates, who looked pompous and conscious of their own importance, but who were jostled and pushed with the democratic disregard for rank and station which characterizes an American crowd. Probably in no city in the Union would one find quite so cosmopolitan a multitude, representing all sections and all nationalities so impartially. In the business and populous centre of our country, here came all classes and peoples who had been born under, or had sought the protection of, our flag, to worship one week at the shrines of Ceres and Pomona. The fair grounds of the St. Louis Agricultural and Mechanical Association are three miles northwest of the Court House, and embrace eighty-five acres handsomely laid out and containing extensive buildings. The Amphitheatre will seat 40,000 persons. The street cars leading to these grounds were at all times filled with people, and in addition there was a constant procession of carriages, wagons and carts, going and returning. Within the enclosure the dense throng surged and swayed like a human whirlpool. The displays in the agricultural and mechanical departments were something astonishing; for where in the world is there such grain grown and in such quantities, as in the Mississippi and Missouri valleys? Where are there such fat oxen, such sleek, self-satisfied cows, with such capacity for rich milk? Horses, hogs and sheep were all of the best, and indicated that the West is very far advanced in scientific stock raising. The farm implements displayed all sorts of contrivances for lightening and hastening the farmer's toil. It needed but a glance to show that farming in this region was no single-man, one-horse affair. In art the East as yet excels the West; for in the scramble after material gain the artistic nature has not been greatly cultivated, and its expressions are, for the most part, crude. But they give promise of future excellence. St. Louis has no picture gallery worthy the name, but excells in scientific and educational institutions. The Mercantile Library, at the corner of Fifth and Locust streets, contains 50,000 volumes, and its hall is decorated by paintings, coins and statuary, among which latter may be mentioned Miss Hosmer's life-size statue of Beatrice Cenci and Oenone; a bronze copy of the Venus de Medici, a sculptured slab from the ruins of Nineveh, and marble busts of Thomas H. Benton and Robert Burns. The library with its reading room is free to strangers. Besides the library there is a public school library of 38,000 volumes; an Academy of Science, founded in 1856, with a large museum and a library of 3,000 volumes; and a Historical Society, founded in 1865, with a valuable historical collection. Washington University, organized in 1853, embraces the whole range of university studies except theology. With it is connected the Mary Institute, for the education of women, the Polytechnic School, and the Law School. The public school system of St. Louis is one of the best in the country, and its school-houses are commendably fine. The Roman Catholic College of the Christian Brothers has about four hundred students, and a library of 10,000 volumes. Concordia College (German Lutheran), established in 1839, has a library of 4,500 volumes. Besides the numerous public schools, the Roman Catholics, who embrace a majority of the inhabitants, have about one hundred parochial, private and conventual schools. They have also a number of convents, charitable homes, asylums and hospitals. The hotels, chief amongst which are the new Southern Hotel, Lindell House, Planters' Hotel, Laclede Hotel and Barnum's Hotel, will compare favorably, in point of attendance, comfort and elegance, with any in the country. Horse cars traverse the city in every direction, rendering all points easily accessible, and carriages are in waiting at the depots and steamboat landings. Ferries ply continually to East St. Louis, on the Illinois shore, from the foot of Carr street, north of the bridge, and from the foot of Spruce street, south of it, the two points of departure being about a mile apart. So long as the Mississippi River washes the levee in front of the city, the citizens of St. Louis are in little danger of long remaining dull, for want of excitement. That river, one of the uneasiest of water courses, constantly furnishes fresh themes of interest, and even of anxiety. It has a singular penchant for a frequent change of channels, and occasionally threatens to desert to Illinois and leave St. Louis an inland town, with its high levee a sort of rampart to receive the mocking assaults of Chicago. Then, every spring, there is the annual freshet, which, once in ten or fifteen years, creeps up over the top of the levee, and finds its way into cellars and first floors of stores and warehouses. Occasionally there is a severe winter, when ice is formed upon the river as far south even as St. Louis; and when it breaks up in the spring, mischief is sure to ensue. A hundred steamboats are in winter quarters along the levee, their noses in the sand, and their hulls extending riverward, fixed in the ice. At last the great mass of congealed water, extending up the river hundreds of miles, begins to move down stream. The motion is at first scarcely perceptible; but, suddenly, the ice cracks and breaks, and fragments begin to glide swiftly with the current of the river. The various masses create conflicting currents, and, presently, the surface of the stream is like a whirlpool. Some boats are crushed like egg shells between the floes; cables snap, and others are drawn out into the midst of the whirling waters and are fortunate indeed if they are not overwhelmed or forced upon the ice. Meantime, consternation reigns upon the levee. The multitudes are powerless to prevent, yet make frantic and futile efforts while they watch, the disaster. At the breaking up of the ice in 1866, seventeen steamboats were crushed and sunk in a few minutes. Then there are other river disasters; steamboats burned; others struck on snags and sunk; and now and then a boiler explosion makes up the tale of horrors and prevents the Mississippi from ever becoming monotonous or uninteresting. St. Louis was most unfavorably affected by the war, and made to expiate her political sin of 1820. On the border land between the North and the South, the conflict was carried on in her very midst. Sectional strife was most bitter and keen. There was no neutrality, and there could be none. All were either for or against; families were divided in deadly strife; and while the city suffered to a terrible degree from this condition of affairs, in back counties whole sections were depopulated. The population being largely southern, either by birth or descent, its sympathies were with the South. The class truly loyal was the Germans, who numbered about 60,000 of the population, and who were characterized by the Secessionists as the "D---- Dutch." The blockade of the river reduced the whole business of the city to about a third of its former amount. Yet, when the war was ended, St. Louis was quick to recover her prostrated energies. In 1866, and but two years after the war, the city did more business than in any preceding year; and, relieved from the incubus of slavery, which had retarded its progress, it aroused itself to new life. With the Quaker-like simplicity of its outward appearance, its absence of business rush, and its general tranquillity, St. Louis' resemblance to the Quaker City ceases. It is a town of composite character, but from its earliest existence has been under Roman Catholic domination. Even now the Roman Catholic element predominates in its population. And its French and Spanish founders, though their quaint buildings are torn down and replaced by more modern ones, and their very streets re-named, have left their impress upon the city. Its many places of amusement, compared to its population, its general gayety, its stores closed by sunset in winter, and before sunset in summer, its billiard rooms open on Sunday, and its ball-playing on the same day, all give indication of its being the home of a people whose ancestors had no New England prejudices against worldly amusements, and in favor of sobriety, decorum, industry, and the observance of the Sabbath. St. Louis presents a pleasing contrast to many other western cities. Its prosperity is substantial--not a sham. The capital which has paid for these costly places of business and elegant residences, and is invested in these gigantic enterprises, has been created out of the immense material wealth of the State--not borrowed on a factitious credit. Its merchants do not make princely fortunes in a day, but what they acquire they keep. With so satisfactory a past, the errors of its youth atoned for, the future of St. Louis cannot fail to be a brilliant one. CHAPTER XXXVII. SYRACUSE. Glimpses on the Rail.--Schenectady.--Valley of the Mohawk.-- "Lover's Leap."--Rome and its Doctor.--Oneida Stone---The Lo Race.--Oneida Community.--The City of Salt.--The Six Nations.-- The Onondagas.--Traditions of Red Americans.--Hiawatha.-- Sacrifice of White Dogs.--Ceremonies.--The Lost Tribes of Israel.--Witches and Wizards.--A Jules Verne Story.--The Salt Wells of Salina.--Lake Onondaga.--Indian Knowledge of Salt Wells.--"Over the Hills and Far Away."--A Castle.--Steam Canal Boats.--Adieux.--Westward Ho! The distance from Albany to Syracuse by rail, on the line of the New York Central, is about one hundred and forty-two miles, or reckoned by language on the dial, between six and seven hours. Schenectady, the first stopping point on the route outward, was once hovered under the motherly wings of Albany--her lawful progeny. The embryo city, however, had aspirations of her own, and set up in the world for herself. She now rejoices in a population of about twenty-five thousand, and has separated herself from the maternal skirt by seventeen miles of intervening country. Union College, the _alma mater_ of many of the sons of New York and her sister States, is located at this point. The route from Albany to the junction of the Watertown and Ogdensburg Road, at Rome, takes us through the Valley of the Mohawk--one of the loveliest valleys in the State. At Little Falls the scenery is wild and rugged, and looking out from the car window to the opposite hillside, where the waters break into foam over the rocks, set in a dark framework of pines, the imaginative traveler conjectures at once that this must be the scene of the "Lover's Leap"--a bit of romance rife in this region. But the Mohawk rushes on, unmindful of those legendary lovers; the heartless conductor, who cares nothing about dreams, shouts "all aboard!" from the platform, and the screech of the engine whistle echoes down the valley, as the train is once more in motion. At Utica we make a longer stop. This point is the largest place between Albany and Syracuse, and is as handsome a city as sits on the banks of the Mohawk. The Black River Railroad joins the main line of the New York Central here, and it is also the location of the State Lunatic Asylum. Rome comes next in order, in importance and population, and is the last place of any note on the road to Syracuse. It is a stirring little city of about ten or eleven thousand inhabitants, and at least some of its citizens have mastered the art of advertising, if one may judge from the pamphlets which flood the arriving and departing trains. We are repeatedly made aware of the fact that one of the dwellers in Rome is a doctor, and that he doats on curing--not corns, but cancers. The Midland Road from Oswego, and the Watertown Road--those connecting arterial threads from Lake Ontario and Northern New York--unite with the main artery, the Central, here, and the flow of human freight down these channels is continuous and unceasing. The second station from Rome, on the road to Syracuse, is Oneida--so named from the tribe of red men who, less than a century ago, occupied this particular region. A tradition once existed among the Oneidas that they were a branch of the Onondagas, to whom they were allied by relationship and language. Long ago they lived on the southern shore of Oneida Lake, near the mouth of the creek, but afterwards their habitation was made higher up the valley. The famous "Oneota" or _Oneida Stone_ became their talisman and the centre of their attractions. Many of their tribe were distinguished as orators and statesmen. The Oneida "Community" live about two miles back from the station, and, notwithstanding their peculiar religious belief and social practices, they have achieved a reputation for quiet thrift, industry and harmony, which their more Puritanic neighbors would do well to emulate. But, at last, our train enters the outskirts of Syracuse, and penetrating the heart of the city, rumbles inside the gates of the New York Central Station at this place. Outside, all is hurry and bustle, and confusion, as we descend the steps and elbow our way through the crowd, to run the gauntlet of hack drivers and baggage expressmen, with their plated caps and deafening calls. Syracuse is sometimes known as the Central City, on account of its location near the geographical centre of New York. It was first settled in 1787, and did not pass the limits of a small village until the completion of the Erie canal, in 1825. Two canals and three or four lines of railway now centre here, and contribute to the growth of this enterprising city. The region surrounding Syracuse is rife with the romantic history of that once powerful Indian Confederacy known as the Six Nations, now fast fading from the memory of men. The site of their ancient Council House was on Onondaga Creek, a few miles distant from the city, and is still held sacred to their traditions by the remnant of the lost tribes now occupying the Indian reservation. The Onondagas became the leading nation of the Confederacy. No business of importance, touching the Six Nations, was transacted, except at Onondaga. They held the key of the great Council House; they kept the sacred council fire ever burning. From what portion of the country they emigrated before occupying this region is unknown, but there is a very early tradition among them that, many hundred moons ago, their forefathers came from the North, having inhabited a territory along the northern banks of the St. Lawrence. After a lapse of time there was an exodus of the powerful tribe to the hills and hollows of Onondaga. The River God of this nation was named Hiawatha--which meant "very wise." He always embarked in a white canoe, which was carefully guarded in a lodge especially set apart for that purpose. Their favorite equipments were white. White plumes, from the heron, were worn in their head-bands when they went on the war path; white dogs were sacrificed. The yearly sacrifice of the dogs, among the Onondagas, was a ceremony of great importance with the tribe, and occurred at one of the five stated festivals of the Six Nations. On the great sacrificial day it was the habit of the people to assemble at the Council House in large numbers. Early in the morning, immense fires were built, guns were discharged, and loud hallooing increased the noise. Half a cord of wood, arranged in alternate layers, was placed near the Council House, by a select committee of managers, for the sacrificial offering. The two officiating priests for the occasion, as well as the high priest, were dressed in long, loose robes of white. At about nine o'clock in the morning the two priests appear. The white dogs following them are painted with red figures, and adorned with belts of wampum, feathers and ribbons. The dogs are then lassooed and suffocated, amid yells and the firing of guns. After some intervening ceremonies, the details of which are too long for recital here, a procession is formed, led by the priests in white, followed by the managers, bearing the dogs on their shoulders. A chant is sung as the procession marches around the burning pile three successive times; the dogs are then laid at the feet of the officiating priest, a prayer is offered to the Great Spirit and the high priest, lifting the dogs, casts them into the fire. After this, baskets of herbs and tobacco are thrown, at intervals, into the fire, as propitiating sacrifices. Their idea of these sacrifices was, that the sins of the people were, in some mysterious manner, transferred yearly to the two priests in white, who, in turn, conveyed them to the dogs. Thus the burnt offering expiated the sins of the people for a year. These ideas and customs are so singularly similar to the ancient Jewish religious rites as to suggest a possible origin from the same source. The mystical council fire of the Six Nations, which was kept always burning by the Onondagas, who had charge of it, and which, if extinguished, was supposed to prophesy the destruction of the nation, may have a deeper meaning than that attached to it by the chiefs themselves. It may possibly point to a common parentage with the ever-burning flame in the Vestal Temple at Rome, whose eclipse endangered the safety of the city. Another point of resemblance may be noted. Time, which is reckoned among the Red men by moons, also suggests the Jewish year, which began with the new moon, and was reckoned by lunar months. The Six Nations had a firm belief in witches and wizards, and executed them, on the discovery of their supposed witchcraft, with a zeal and spirit worthy of our early Christian fathers. One old Indian used to relate a story something on the Jules Verne order. He said that, as he stepped out of his cabin one evening, he sank down deep into an immense and brilliantly-lighted cavern, full of flaming torches. Hundreds of witches and wizards were there congregated, who immediately ejected him. Early next morning he laid the matter before the assembled chiefs at the Council House, who asked him whether he could recognize any whom he saw? The sagacious Red man thought he could, and singled out many through the village, male and female, who were doomed to an untimely execution, on the evidence of this person's word. The Senacas, another numerous and powerful nation of the Confederacy, were always noted for the talent and eloquence of their orators and statesmen. Corn Planter, Red Jacket, and other celebrities, came of this tribe. Syracuse is celebrated for its salt, the country over; and the most singular thing about it is that the salt wells surround a body of fresh water. This sheet of water bears the name of Onondaga Lake, and is six miles long by one mile wide. It is about a mile and a half from the heart of the city. A stratum of marl, from three to twelve feet thick, underlaid by marly clay, separates the salt springs from the fresh waters of the lake. The wells vary in depth, from two hundred to three hundred feet, and the brine is forced from them, by pumps, into large reservoirs, which supply the evaporating works. The salt is separated from the water partly by solar evaporation and partly by boiling. The reservoirs for the solar salt evaporation cover about seven hundred acres of land. The brine is boiled in large iron kettles, holding about a hundred gallons, which are placed in blocks of brick work, in one or two long rows, the whole length of the block. It takes about thirty-three and a fourth gallons of brine to make a bushel of salt, which will average from fifty to fifty-six pounds in weight. These salt wells were known to the Indians at a very early period--Onondaga salt being in common use among the Delawares in 1770, by whom it was brought to Quebec for sale. Le Moyne, a Jesuit missionary, who had lived among the Hurons, and who first came to Onondaga in 1653, with a party of Huron and Onondaga chiefs, is supposed to be the first white man who personally knew about the springs, though Father Lallemant had previously written of them. In a letter which Colonel Comfort Tyler wrote to Dr. Jeremiah Van Rensselaer, in 1822, the first manufacture of salt at this place by the whites, in 1788, is described. He says: "In the month of May, 1788, the family, wanting salt, obtained about a pound from the Indians, which they had made from the waters of the springs upon the shore of the lake. The Indians offered to discover the water to us. Accordingly, I went with an Indian guide to the lake, taking along an iron kettle of fifteen gallons capacity. This he placed in his canoe and steered out of the mouth of Onondaga Creek, easterly, into a pass since called Mud Creek. After passing over the marsh, then covered with about three feet of water, and steering toward the bluff of hard land (now that part of Syracuse known as Salina), he fastened his canoe, pointed to a hole, apparently artificial, and said: "There is the salt!" Salina, or the first ward, as it is frequently spoken of, lies partly upon the shores of this lovely lake of Onondaga, and enjoys the advantages of a close proximity to the saline atmosphere of the wells. The drives in the vicinity of the lake and about the neighboring localities afford an ever-shifting panorama of beautiful views, with glimpses of the blue Onondaga at all points. On a breezy day, in the early part of May, 1875, when the air was soft with hints of coming summer, and the violets along the river banks were just putting on their hoods of blue, I took one of those long and delightful drives which so exhilarates the blood and gives a kind of champagne sparkle to the mind. If there are any known remedial agents which can possibly be an improvement on pure air and sunshine, will you tell us what they are, Dr. Dio Lewis? My companion was keen-witted and full of jollity; we had a spirited animal, and miles upon miles of space quickly vanished behind us, as we sped onward over the smooth roadway. The hills seemed to open wide their portals and close again as we passed; the valleys allured us with their romantic, winding roads, and Lake Onondaga, viewed from all points of the compass, tossed itself into a multitude of little waves which sparkled in the sunshine like a thousand diamonds. The sky, changeful as April, alternated between floating fields of atmospheric blue and pillars of gray cloud. As we rounded the last curve of the lake, the tall chimneys and long, low buildings of the salt works at Salina came into view, forming a more conspicuous than elegant feature of the landscape. The principal street for retail business in Syracuse is named Salina, and it always wears an air of brisk trade and enterprise. The large dry goods houses of McCarthy and of Milton Price are located on this street. Some of the public edifices are built of Onondaga limestone, quarried a few miles out of the city. It makes very handsome building material, as the Court House and other structures will testify. The ranking hotels of Syracuse are the Vanderbilt and Globe, though the Remington, Syracuse and Empire Hotels are well-kept and well-conducted houses. The Erie Canal runs through the heart of the city, and the bridges over it are arranged with draws. The first steam canal boat I ever saw lay moored at this place, at the corner of Water and Clinton streets. It was gay with new paint and floating pennons, and created quite a sensation on its first trip out. It belonged to Greenway, the great ale man, and was named after his daughter. The High School, on West Genesee street, has a delightful location on the banks of Onondaga Creek, and combines with its other advantages that of a public library. It has a free reading room, thrown open to the city at large, and a choice collection of many thousand volumes adorn its shelves. Sitting at the open window and listening to the noisy waters of the creek as it flows past, intermingled with an occasional bird carol overhead, I could almost imagine myself out in the heart of the country, away from the struggling masses of the crowded marts, in their mad race after wealth--with nothing more inharmonious around me than the bird orchestra of some imaginary June sky, the low sweep of waters and the sound of the summer wind among the pines. Syracuse rates herself sixty thousand strong, and I am unable to say whether the hard figures will bear her out in this assertion. Perhaps, however, a small margin of egotism ought to be subtracted from our estimate of ourselves, especially when "ourselves" means a city. James street is decidedly the handsomest thoroughfare in Syracuse. It is wide, well paved, and two miles or more in length. On it are congregated, with a few exceptions, the finest residences of the city. These are surrounded, for the most part, by spacious grounds, and some of them by groves of primeval forest growths. The street is an inclined plane on one side, with a gentle declivity on the other. From its top, quite an extensive prospect opens to the view, taking in most of the city of salt, and its enclosing amphitheatre of hills. Looking down the street, and over across the valley, the gray turrets of Yates' Castle can be seen, nearly hidden by its surrounding trees. "A castle?" I hear my imaginary reader question. "Yes," I answer, a castle,--the real, genuine, article--towers, turrets, gate-keeper's lodge and all; nothing lacking but moat and drawbridge, to transport one to the times of tournament and troubadours--of knight-errantry and fair ladies riding to the chase with hawk and hound. A Latin motto, on the coat of arms adorning the arched gateway, points to an ancestry of noble blood. But, alas for greatness! not even the lodge-keeper's family knew the meaning of the Latin inscription. We learned, however, that the armorial emblems were of English origin, and belonged, possibly, to the times of the royal Georges. The grounds about the castle are quite in keeping with the building itself. Winding roads, rustic bridges, statuary, summer-houses and fountains, fitly environ this antique pile. Just opposite this place, on the hill-top, stands the Syracuse University--its white walls outlined in bold relief against the sky. It is a Methodist institution, and its chief office is to prepare young men for the ministry, and teach the youthful idea how to shoot, in accordance with modern theology. The location is breezy enough, and high enough, to satisfy almost any one's aspirations, and, if height has anything to do with ideas, the thoughts of these young students ought to be well-nigh heavenly. But, at last, we are compelled to say good-bye to Syracuse, and all its pleasant associations, to say nothing of its salt. Westward the star of Empire takes its way, and we have engaged a seat on the same train. It is with real regret that we part company with these cities of our beloved New York--Syracuse not the least among them. But the arrival of the midnight "Lightning Express" for Rochester cuts short our musings, and we are soon whirling away in the darkness, leaving the country of the Onondagas far behind us, slumbering in the arms of night. CHAPTER XXXVIII. TORONTO. Situation of Toronto.--The Bay.--History.--Rebellion of 1837.-- Fenian Invasion of 1866.--Population.--General Appearance.-- Sleighing.--Streets.--Railways.--Commerce.--Manufactures.-- Schools and Colleges.--Queen's Park.--Churches.--Benevolent Institutions.--Halls and Other Public Buildings.--Hotels.-- Newspapers.--General Characteristics and Progress. Toronto, the capital of the Province of Ontario, is situated on the northern shore of Lake Ontario, on a beautiful and nearly circular bay, about five miles in length, formed by a long, narrow, curved tongue of land, extending out into the lake in a southwest direction. This harbor is capable of receiving the largest vessels upon the lake, and is defended at its entrance by a fort upon the extreme end of the peninsula, which is called Gibraltar Point. This fort was thoroughly repaired in 1864, and mounted with the most efficient modern ordnance. Toronto was founded in 1794, by Governor Simcoe, who gave it the name of York. In 1813, it was twice captured by the Americans, who burned the public buildings and destroyed the fortifications. It was incorporated as a city in 1834, when its name was changed to Toronto, an Indian word, signifying "The place of meeting." It was the headquarters of the Rebellion in 1837, when Sir Francis Head, then Governor of Upper Canada, dissolved the House, for having stopped the supplies, as a retaliatory measure upon his refusal to grant an elective legislative council. Sir Francis had sent away from Upper Canada the whole of the Queen's army, but putting himself at the head of the militia, he succeeded in suppressing the insurrection. The city also suffered severely from the fire of 1849. It has no manufactures of any importance, but, like most of Western Canada, is chiefly dependent upon agriculture. The growth of Toronto has been more rapid than that of any other city in Canada. Though of such recent origin compared with many Canadian towns, it is now second only to Montreal in size and population, the former having increased from twelve hundred in 1837 to upwards of eighty thousand at the present time. The site of the city is low, the surrounding country being level, but free from swamp and perfectly dry. The ground rises gently from the shores of the lake. The scenery in the vicinity is tame and comparatively monotonous, though not unpleasing. The city lies along the shores of the lake for something over two miles, and extends inward about a mile and a half. As one approaches Toronto its outlines appear picturesque, being varied and broken by an unusual number of handsome spires. The traveler will be pleasantly surprised, as he enters the city, at the extent and excellence of its public edifices, the number of its churches, and its general handsome and well-to-do aspect. Many of the houses and business structures are built of light-colored brick, having a soft and cheerful appearance. The streets are laid out regularly, crossing each other at right angles, and, as a general thing, are well paved. In the winter time they are filled with sleighs, and the air is alive with the music of sleigh-bells. These sleighs are, some of them, most elegant in form and finish, and provided with most costly furs. Every boy has his hand-sled or "toboggan." At the same season of the year skating upon the bay is a favorite amusement. King and Yonge streets are the leading thoroughfares and fashionable promenades, being lined with handsome retail stores which would do credit to any city in America. Other important business streets are Front, Queen, York, Wellington and Bay. Five railways centre at Toronto, connecting it with every section of Canada, the West and the South. The principal of these are the Grand Trunk and Great Western railways, which connect the city by through lines with the East and West. While navigation is open magnificent steamers connect it with all points on the lake, and carry on an extensive commerce. It imports large quantities of lumber, both manufactured and unmanufactured; wheat and other grain, soap, salt and glue; while foundries, distilleries, breweries, tanneries, rope-walks, paper and flour mills, furnish products which reach markets throughout the Provinces and States. Toronto is the centre of the Canadian school system, and its educational institutions are numerous and of the highest order. It has Normal and Model schools, in the first of which teachers exclusively are trained. These schools, with the Educational Museum, built in the plain Italian style, are picturesquely grouped in park-like grounds, on Church street. The Museum contains a collection of curiosities, and a number of good paintings and casts. The University of Toronto exhibits the finest buildings in the city, and the finest of their kind in America. They stand in a large park, approached by College avenue, half a mile in length, and shaded by double rows of trees. The buildings, which are of Norman architecture, of gray rubble stone, trimmed with Ohio and Caen stone, form the sides of a large quadrangle. It was founded in 1843; possesses a library of twenty thousand volumes, and a fine museum of natural history, and has attached to it an observatory. Knox College, Presbyterian, is situated a short distance north of the University, and is a large building, in the Collegiate-Gothic style. Trinity College, in Queen street west, overlooks the bay, and is an extensive and picturesque structure, turreted and gabled, and surrounded by extensive grounds. Upper Canada College is found in King street near John. [Illustration: UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO, CANADA.] Adjoining the University grounds is Queen's Park, embracing the most elevated quarter of the city, and including fifty acres, handsomely laid out. In this park a brownstone shaft, surmounted by a colossal statue of Britannia, perpetuates the memory of the Canadians who fell in repelling the Fenian invasion in 1866. This park is from one hundred to two hundred feet above the level of the lake, and is surrounded by handsome public buildings and private residences. The Episcopal Cathedral of St. James, at the corner of King and Church streets, is a spacious edifice, in the early English style, with lofty tower and spire, and elaborate open roof. It was built in 1852, and is surrounded by well shaded grounds. The Roman Catholic Cathedral of St. Michael, fronting on Bond street, is a large, decorated Gothic structure, with stained windows, and a spire two hundred and fifty feet high. The Wesleyan Methodist Church, in McGill street, is the finest church of that denomination in America. Its massive tower is surmounted by graceful pinnacles, and its interior is tastefully and richly decorated. Knox's Church has a beautiful spire. One of the finest church edifices in the Dominion is the Jarvis street Baptist Church, in the decorated Gothic style. St. Andrews Presbyterian is a massive stone structure, which dates back to the Norman style of architecture. Toronto contains many benevolent institutions, hospitals and asylums. Prominent among them is the Provincial Lunatic Asylum, a large and handsome building, situated west of the city, and surrounded by two hundred acres of handsomely ornamented grounds. The General Hospital is a fine structure, east of the city, in Don street, near Sumach. The Normal School Building, with its beautifully laid out grounds, is one of the most attractive spots in the city, and the building is said to be the largest of the kind in America. There is very little fine scenery in the environs. One of the most strikingly beautiful buildings of Toronto is Osgood Hall, in Queen street, an imposing structure, of elegant Ionic architecture, the seat of the Superior Law Courts of Upper Canada, and containing an extensive law library. St. Lawrence Hall, in King street, is a stately structure, in the Italian style, surmounted by a dome, containing a public hall and reading-room. Masonic Hall, an attractive stone building, is in Toronto street. The city contains two Opera Houses: the Grand, capable of seating two thousand persons, and the Royal, with accommodations for about fifteen hundred persons. The Post Office, a handsome stone building, stands near the head of Toronto street. The Custom House is of cut stone, of imposing proportions, extending from Front street to the Esplanade. The City Hall stands in Front street near the Lake Shore, in the midst of an open square, and is an unpretentious structure, in the Italian style. Near by is the extensive Lawrence Market. The Court House is in Church street. Of the hotels, the Rossin House, corner of King and York streets; Queen's Hotel, in Front street; the American House, in Yonge street; and the Revere House, in King street, are the most noteworthy. Toronto takes a front rank in literature, a large number of newspapers and periodicals, daily, weekly, and monthly, being issued from its presses. It is unlike, in many respects, its sister cities of Lower Canada. It has more of a nineteenth century air, and more of American and less of European characteristics, than Montreal and Quebec. The French Canadians form a smaller proportion of its inhabitants. The people in the streets are well dressed and comfortable looking, stout and sturdy, though not so tall, on an average, as the people of New York. An educated population is growing up, and Toronto already ranks well, in general intelligence and public enterprise, with other cities of like magnitude in the States while it outranks all others on Canadian soil. CHAPTER XXXIX. WASHINGTON. Situation of the National Capital.--Site Selected by Washington.--Statues of General Andrew Jackson, Scott, McPherson, Rawlins.--Lincoln Emancipation Group.--Navy Yard Bridge.--Capitol Building.--The White House.--Department of State, War and Navy.--The Treasury Department.--Patent Office.-- Post Office Department.--Agricultural Building.--Army Medical Museum.--Government Printing Office.--United States Barracks.-- Smithsonian Institute.--National Museum.--The Washington Monument.--Corcoran Art Gallery.--National Medical College.-- Deaf and Dumb Asylum.--Increase of Population.--Washington's Future Greatness. Washington, the Capital of the United States of America, is situated in the District of Columbia, on the left bank of the Potomac, between the Anacostia or eastern branch of that river, and about one hundred and eighty-five miles from the mouth of Chesapeake Bay. At an early period, indeed, before the clamor of war had fairly ceased, or the proud standard of England had been driven from its shores, the necessity of a territory which should be under the exclusive jurisdiction of Congress had engaged the attention of the founders of the new Republic. The possession of such a territory formed an important feature in the debates upon the framing of the Constitution, and it was only forty-eight days after the last act of ratification that the Capital City was, by solemn enactment of Congress, located on the eastern shore of the beautiful Potomac. The site of the Capital was selected by General Washington, the beloved first President of the Republic, and covers an undulating tract on the east bank of the river. From the rugged elevations on the borders of Rock Creek, a crescent-shaped ridge crosses the northern portion of the city, which is abruptly sundered, as it were, to admit the passage of a small stream called the Tiber. From this point the ridge ascends, gradually expanding into the extensive plateau of Capitol Hill, overlooking the Anacostia on the east. Within this encircling ridge the surface declines, in gentle slopes and terraces, down to the banks of the Potomac. From the lower falls of the river at Georgetown, beyond the outlying spurs of the Blue Ridge, a chain of low wooded hills extend across the north, which, continuing along the opposite shores of the Anacostia and Potomac, emerge again in the hills on the Virginia side of that river, presenting the appearance of a vast amphitheatre, in the centre of which stands the Capitol. The mean altitude of the city is about forty feet above the ordinary low tide of the Potomac; the soil on which it is built is generally a yellowish-clay intermixed with gravel. In making excavations for wells and cisterns, near New Jersey avenue, trees were found, in a good state of preservation, at a depth of from six to forty-eight feet below the surface. The Tiber, a little stream, with its tributaries, passes through the city. Tradition affirms that this stream received its name more than a century before Washington city was founded, in the belief and with the prediction that there would arise on its banks, in the future, a Capital destined to rival in magnificent grandeur that which crowned the banks of its great historic namesake. The streams forming this river have their source among the hills to the east, and enter the city in several directions, the principal branch winding off to the southwest, around the base of Capitol Hill, across Pennsylvania avenue, to the Botanical Gardens. Originally its course continued along the Mall and emptied into the Potomac immediately west of the Washington Monument, but subsequently it was diverted into the canal, the filling up of which caused still other changes. The Tiber and its tributaries were utilized by diverting them into the sewerage system of the central and southern portions of the city; consequently, although the stream traverses one of the most populous sections, its course is not visible, the current flowing beneath heavy brick arches upon which buildings have been erected, and avenues, streets and parks laid out. In primitive days the banks of the Tiber were covered with heavy forests, while shad, herring and other fish, in their season, were taken from its waters, under the very shadow of the hill upon which the Capitol now stands. There is no city in the Union which presents to the thoughtful and truly patriotic American so many objects of interest as does the city of Washington. First of all, this feeling is intensified by the fact of its having been located and founded by the great, immortal _Pater Patriæ_ whose illustrious name it has the honor of bearing. A plan of the city was prepared in 1791, by Peter L'Enfant, a French engineer of fine education and decided genius, who had served in the Continental army with such distinction as to attract the attention of General Washington. He was assisted in the work by the advice and suggestions of Thomas Jefferson, who, while diplomatic representative of the United States, had studied the plans of the principal cities visited in Europe, with a view to the future wants of his country, and was prepared, by the aid of his personal knowledge of their details, to contribute valuable information and suggestions. It is evident that the predominating object in designing a plan for the city, was first to secure the most eligible situations for the different public buildings, and to arrange the squares and areas so that the most extended views might be obtained from every direction. The amplest arrangements were also made by the founders of Washington for its rapid growth and expansion, while they evidently designed and anticipated its being magnificently built up and embellished. The indifference of the Government and people has permitted these suggestions to remain too long unheeded; yet it is consoling to those possessing an intelligent patriotism and proud love of country, to know that the neglected condition of the Capital of the United States for nearly three-fourths of a century was not the result of any defect in the design originated by its noble founders. Any one who has visited the royal residence of the kings of France, will immediately recognize the resemblance between the plans of Le Notre for Versailles, and L'Enfant for Washington City. The grand avenues, de Sceaux and St. Cloud, diverging from the _Cour Royal_, are reproduced in Pennsylvania and Maryland avenues, radiating from the east front of the Capitol. Its broad thoroughfares are among the principal attractions of Washington, and are the finest possessed by any city in the world. The avenues, twenty-one in number, radiate from principal centres and connect different parts of the city; the original number was thirteen, named for the States constituting the Union at the time the Capital was laid out. The first in importance is Pennsylvania avenue; its width varies from one hundred and sixty to one hundred and eighty feet; its length is four and one-half miles, traversing the finest business portion of the city, as well as being the most popular and fashionable thoroughfare for driving. The War and Treasury departments, Washington Circle, and the President's House, are each located on this superb street, which, winding up and around Capitol Hill, finds its terminus on the banks of the Anacostia. The spaces at the intersection of the more important avenues form what are called _Circles_. Washington Circle, at the intersection of Pennsylvania and New Hampshire avenues, contains the equestrian statue of General Washington, which was ordered by Congress, and cannon donated for the purpose, in 1853. The great hero is represented at the crisis of the battle of Princeton; the horse seems shrinking from the storm of shot and shell and the fiery conflict confronting him; his rider exhibits that calm equanimity of bearing so eminently his characteristic. This statue was executed by Clark Mills, at a cost of fifty thousand dollars. At the western base of Capitol Hill stands the naval monument, termed in the resolutions of Congress, the "_Monument of Peace_." It was designed by Admiral Porter, and erected by subscriptions started by him among the officers, midshipmen and men of his fleet, immediately after the fall of Fort Fisher. The height of this monument is forty-four feet; it is built of Carrara marble and cost $44,000. The surmounting figures represent History recording the woes narrated by America, who holds a tablet in her hand on which is inscribed: _They died that their country might live._ This monument is exceedingly well executed, and was considered, in Rome, one of the finest ever sent to America. Lafayette Square, comprising seven acres lying north of the President's House, is beautifully laid out with rustic seats, graveled walks, and adorned with a rare variety of trees and shrubbery. In the centre of this square stands an equestrian statue of General Andrew Jackson, by Clark Mills, originally contracted for by the friends and admirers of the General composing the Jackson Monument Association, who subscribed twelve thousand dollars towards its erection. Congress afterward granted them the brass guns and mortars captured by General Jackson at Pensacola. In 1850 an additional donation of guns was made; in 1852 another appropriation sufficient to complete the work was granted, and Congress assumed possession of the monument. The figure of the horse is weighted and poised without the aid of rods, as in the celebrated statues of Peter the Great, at St. Petersburg, and Charles I., at London. This was the first application of the principle, and resulted in the production of one of the most graceful and astonishingly beautiful works of its kind in existence. The statue is of colossal size, weighing fifteen tons, and was erected at a cost of $50,000. _Scott Square_, lying north of the White House, contains a bronze statue of General Winfield Scott, made of cannon captured by the General during his Mexican campaign, and donated by Congress in 1867. The work was executed by Brown, of New York; with the pedestal, it is twenty-nine feet high, and cost $20,000. The General is represented in full uniform, mounted on his war-horse, surveying the field of battle. The _Circle of Victory_, at the intersection of Massachusetts and Vermont avenues, contains a bronze equestrian statue of General George H. Thomas, of the Army of the Cumberland. The statue confronts the South, in the direction of the General's native hills of Virginia. On the site of this monument a salute of eight hundred guns was fired in commemoration of the capture of Petersburg and Richmond on the third of April, 1865; and, a few days later, five hundred guns were fired from the same spot in honor of General Lee's surrender and the fall of the Southern Confederacy. On East Capitol street, at a distance of about one mile from the Capitol, is a square comprising six and a half acres, beautifully laid out and adorned with trees, shrubbery and walks. In this enclosure a bronze group called _Emancipation_ has been erected; Abraham Lincoln is represented holding in his right hand the proclamation which gave freedom to the negroes of the South. A slave kneels at his feet, with manacles broken, and in the act of rising as they fall from his hands. This monument is said to have been built exclusively of funds contributed by the negroes liberated by Lincoln's proclamation of January first, 1863. The first contribution of five hundred dollars was made, it is stated, by Charlotte Scott, formerly a slave in Virginia, out of her first earnings as a freed-woman, and consecrated by her, on hearing of President Lincoln's death, to aid in building a monument to his memory. The interesting memorial was unveiled with appropriate ceremonies, on the anniversary of his assassination, April fourteenth, 1876, the President and his Cabinet, foreign ministers, and a vast concourse of white and colored citizens being present. Including the pedestal of Virginia granite, the structure is twenty-two feet in height, and cost $20,000. It was in this square, now called _Lincoln Square_, that, according to the founder's original plan of embellishment, a grand _Historic Column_ was to have been erected, to serve as an itinerary column, from which all geographical distances within the boundaries of the United States should be calculated. _McPherson Square_, on Vermont avenue, contains a bronze equestrian statue of General James Birdseye McPherson, who was killed near Atlanta, at the head of the Army of the Tennessee, in 1864. He is represented in full uniform, with field-glasses in hand, surveying the battle-ground. A vault was constructed beneath the statue, for the purpose of receiving his body, but the devoted opposition of the people prevented its removal from his native place. Farragut and Rawlins squares contain respectively colossal, but not equestrian statues of Admiral Farragut and General Rawlins. Mount Vernon Place, at the intersection of New York and Massachusetts avenues, is handsomely laid out and planted with trees; in the centre, occupying an elevated circular space, is a superb fountain of bronze. There are numerous smaller spaces at the intersection of various streets and avenues, called triangular reservations, all of which are highly adorned with trees, shrubs and beautiful small fountains. The Government Propagating Gardens cover an area of eighty acres on the banks of the Potomac, south of Washington's Monument. The Botanical Garden, an instructive place of public resort, lies at the foot of Capitol Hill, between Pennsylvania and Maryland avenues. North of the Conservatory is found the Bartholdi Fountain, which is supplied with water from the aqueduct, its highest stream reaching an altitude of sixty-five feet. This fountain is the work of Frederic Augustus Bartholdi, a French sculptor and pupil of Scheffer. It will be remembered by all who visited the National Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia, where it was exhibited, and afterward purchased by Congress for the inadequate sum of six thousand dollars. The lower basin is twenty-six feet in diameter, and from its centre rises a pedestal bearing aquatic monsters and fishes spouting water; three female caryatides, eleven feet high, support a basin thirteen feet in diameter; a smaller basin above this is upheld by three infant Tritons, the whole being surmounted by a mural crown. Twelve lamps, arranged around the lower basin, and lighted by electricity, give the most beautiful effects of light and water. On the plaza in front of the Treasury Department, is another fine fountain, in the form of an immense granite urn, the _tassa_ of which measures sixteen feet in diameter. Immediately in front of Washington city the Potomac expands into a broad, lake-like body of water, a mile and a quarter wide and at least eighteen feet deep. The Anacostia River, at its mouth, is almost the same width and fully as deep. Improving the navigation of the Potomac and the construction of a canal to the head waters of the Ohio River, were enterprises that began with the founding of the National Capital. In 1872, Congress appointed a board of officers with a view to the improvement of the channel of the river and water fronts of Washington and Georgetown, for commercial purposes, as well as the reclamation of the malaria-infected marshes opposite the city. These improvements will necessitate the rebuilding of Long Bridge for railroad and ordinary traveling purposes, and reclaim more than a thousand acres of valuable land. It is proposed to remove the National Observatory and use the earth for filling up the marshes. The _Navy Yard Bridge_ crosses the Anacostia River, at the foot of Eleventh street, having supplanted the wooden structure built in 1819, over which Booth made his escape after the assassination of Lincoln. The various buildings occupied by the Executive and Legislative branches of the Government are worthy of especial notice. The _Capitol_ is considered one of the largest and finest edifices of the kind in the world, and in point of durability of structure and costliness of material, it certainly has no superior. It stands on the west side of Capitol Hill, very near the centre of the city, and one mile distant from the Potomac River. The main or central building is three hundred and fifty two feet in length, with two wings or extensions, each having a front of one hundred and forty-three feet on the east and west, and a depth of two hundred and thirty-nine feet along the north and south _façades_, exclusive of the porticoes. The entire length of this great edifice is seven hundred and fifty feet; its greatest depth three hundred and twenty-four feet; the ground plan covering three and a half acres. The central and original Capitol building is of freestone, taken from the Government quarries at Aquia Creek, forty miles below the city, which were purchased for that purpose, by the Commissioners, in 1791. This building is now painted white, to correspond with the extensions, columns and porticoes of white marble. From the centre rises the great dome, designed by Walter, to replace the original one removed in 1856, after the additions to the building had rendered it out of proportion. The apex is surmounted by a lantern fifty feet high, surrounded by a peristyle, and crowned by the bronze statue of Freedom executed by Crawford in 1865. The height from the base line to the crest of this statue is three hundred and eight feet, making the dome of the Capitol rank fifth in height with the greatest structures of the kind in Europe. The great dome is visible from every elevated point in the District for miles around, and from its windows, as far as the eye can reach, is extended a panorama of wooded hills, beautiful valleys, with the majestic cloud-capped spurs of the Blue Ridge raising their lofty heads in the distance. The eastern façade of the building looks out upon the extended plain of Capitol Hill, with its background of green hills reaching far beyond the Anacostia. On the north a broad valley extends, until it unites with the encircling hills of the city; on the south the majestic Potomac and Anacostia rivers are seen to meet and mingle their placid waters; while from the west are beheld the lawns and groves of the Botanic Garden, the Mall, and handsome grounds of the President's house, with Georgetown Heights and the glittering domes of the Observatory in the distance. The main entrance, from the grand portico into the rotunda is filled by the celebrated bronze door modeled by Rogers, in Rome, 1858, and cast in bronze at Munich, by Miller, in 1860. On the panels of this door are portrayed, in _alto relievo_, the principal events in the life of Christopher Columbus, and the discovery of America. The key of the arch is adorned with a fine head of the great navigator; in the four corners of the casing are statuettes, representing Asia, Africa, Europe and America, with a border in relief of ancient armor, banners and heraldic designs emblematic of navigation and conquest. Bordering each leaf on the door are statuettes, sixteen in number, of his patrons and contemporaries; the nine panels bear _alto relievo_ illustrations of the principal events in his life; while between the panels are a series of heads, representing the historians of the great discoverer and his followers. Altogether, this justly celebrated bronze door, besides being wonderful as a work of art, constitutes in itself a small volume of the most interesting and important events belonging to the history of our country. [Illustration: EAST FRONT OF CAPITOL AT WASHINGTON.] The rotunda into which the door leads is embellished with eight large historical paintings, by different artists. Four of these were executed by Trumbell, who served as aid-de-camp to Washington in 1775, and reproduced in his figures the likenesses of the actors in the scenes portrayed. In arranging the characters for the "Declaration of Independence," in which the Congress of 1776 is represented in the act of signing that great instrument of American liberty, the artist conferred with Jefferson, the Author of the Declaration, and John Adams, both of whom were present and signers. The individual costumes, the furniture, and the hall itself, are represented with scrupulous fidelity, all of which tends to increase the interest inspired by this painting. The _National Library_ was founded by act of Congress in 1800, and the following year, after the report of John Randolph, of Roanoke, had been submitted, setting forth the necessity for further legislation on the subject, a second act was passed, which placed it on a permanent basis. The number of volumes first contained in the library was three thousand, but appropriations were annually made by Congress to increase the number. In 1814 the Capitol was burned by the British, and the library destroyed; a few months later, Thomas Jefferson offered the Government his private collection of 6,700 volumes, among which were many rare and valuable works obtained in Europe, and these were purchased for the sum of $23,950. In 1866 the Smithsonian Library, containing forty thousand volumes, was added, and a year later, the _Peter Force_ collection was purchased by Congress, for $100,000; constant additions have increased the number, until the library now contains nearly four hundred thousand bound volumes, and one hundred thousand pamphlets. It is enriched also by journals, manuscripts, and maps relating to the history and topography of the country; in respect to the latter, being only approached by the library in the British Museum. The Library halls occupy the principal floor of the entire west projection of the Capitol. In the _Vice President's Room_ hangs the original painting of Washington, taken from life by Rembrandt Peale, and purchased by the Government in 1832, for the sum of two thousand dollars. The _Senate Reception Room_ is a beautiful and brilliant apartment, about sixty feet in length, with its vaulted and arched ceiling, divided into four sections, adorned with allegorical frescoes of _Prudence_, _Justice_, _Temperance_ and _Strength_, executed by Brumidi, in 1856. The ceiling is heavily gilded throughout; the walls finished in stucco and gilt, with a base of Scagliola, imitating the marbles of Potomac and Tennessee. A finely executed fresco, in oil, by Brumidi, adorns the south wall, representing Washington in consultation with Jefferson and Hamilton, his Secretaries of State and Treasury. The _President's Boom_ is an equally magnificent apartment, with groined arches embellished with numerous allegorical figures in fresco, the decoration, by Brumidi, being, in general design, the same as in the private audience chamber of the Vatican at Rome. The work throughout is very fine, being richly decorated with arabesques on a groundwork of gilt; the luxurious furniture of the apartment is entirely in keeping with this high order of artistic finish. The old _Hall of the House of Representatives_ is a magnificent apartment, designed and planned after the theatre at Athens, with fourteen Corinthian columns of variegated marble, forming a circular colonnade on the north. The bases of these columns are of freestone, the capitals of Carrara marble, designed and executed in Italy, after those in the temple of Jupiter Stator, at Rome; the paneled dome overhead is similar to that of the Pantheon. This venerable apartment was occupied by the House of Representatives for thirty-two years; its atmosphere must, in consequence, ever continue redolent with historic associations. On its walls, in the old days, hung the full-length portraits of Washington and Lafayette, presented by the latter on his last visit to this country; and the exact spot is pointed out where stood the desk of the venerable Ex-President, John Quincy Adams, when that aged patriot and senator was stricken by death. When, on the completion of the new, the old Hall was abandoned, in 1857, it was set apart, by Congress, as a _National Statuary Gallery_, and the President authorized to invite the different States to contribute statues, in bronze or marble, of such among their distinguished citizens as they might especially desire to honor, the number being limited to two from each State. These contributions have been coming in slowly from year to year, besides which, many valuable statues and paintings have been purchased and added, by the Government. The new _Hall of Representatives_ is said to be the finest in the world; its length being one hundred and thirty-nine feet, width ninety-three, and height thirty-six feet, while the galleries will seat twenty-five hundred persons. The ceiling is of cast-iron, with panels gilded and filled with stained-glass centres, on which are represented the coat-of-arms of each of the different States. The walls are adorned with valuable historical paintings and frescoes. The _Supreme Court Room_, formerly the old United States Senate Chamber, is a semicircular apartment, seventy-five feet in diameter; its height and greatest width being forty-five feet. The ceiling is formed by a flattened dome, ornamented with square caissons in stucco, with apertures for the admission of light. Supporting a gallery back of the Judges' seats extends a row of Ionic columns of Potomac marble, with capitals of white Italian marble, modeled after those in the Temple of Minerva. Along the western wall are marble brackets, each supporting the bust of a deceased Chief Justice. When occupied by the Senate, the Hall contained desks for sixty-four Senators. It was in this chamber that the Nation's purest and most profound statesmen assembled, and the great "Immortal Trio," Clay, Webster and Calhoun, made those wonderful forensic efforts which gave their names forever to fame and the admiration of posterity. The _New Senate Chamber_, first occupied in 1859, is a magnificent apartment, belonging to the new extension of the Capitol, one hundred and thirteen feet in length by eighty feet in width, and thirty-six feet high. The Senators' desks are constructed of mahogany, and arranged in concentric semicircles around the apartment. The galleries rise and recede in tiers to the corridors of the second floor, and are capable of seating twelve thousand people. Immense iron girders and transverse pieces compose the ceiling, forming deep panels, each glazed with a symbolic centre piece; the walls are richly painted, the doors elaborately finished with bronze ornaments. From the lobby we pass into the _Senate Retiring Room_, handsomely furnished, and said to be the finest apartment of the kind in the world. The ceiling is composed of massive blocks of polished white marble, which form deep panels, resting upon four Corinthian columns, also of white Italian marble. Highly polished Tennessee marble lines the entire walls, in the panels of which are placed immense plate glass mirrors, enhancing the brilliancy and already striking effect of the whole. The limits of this chapter will not admit of further description of the numerous apartments gorgeously furnished; the palatial corridors beautifully designed; magnificent vestibules with fluted columns of marble; richly gilt paneled ceilings and tinted walls; grand stairways of marble and bronze, with the statues, busts, paintings and bronzes, which enrich the Capitol, many of them being masterpieces of art, and none devoid of merit. A detailed account of all would fill a small volume; we are compelled, therefore, to reluctantly leave the subject, and proceed to the description of the Public Buildings. The _President's House_ is situated in the western part of the city, distant one and a half miles from the Capitol. A premium of five hundred dollars was awarded James Hoban, architect, of South Carolina, for the plan, and the corner stone laid, with Masonic honors, October thirteenth, 1792. John Adams was the first presidential occupant; he took possession during the month of November, 1800, after the Government offices had been removed to Washington. This building was burned by the British in 1814; the following year Congress authorized its restoration, committing the work to the original architect, Hoban, by whom it was completed in 1826, in all its details. It is built of freestone, one hundred and seventy feet in length, eighty-six in width, with grand porticoes on the north and south fronts, supported by Ionic columns. The main entrance is on the north, by a spacious vestibule handsomely frescoed. The _Blue Room_, in which the President receives, on both public and private occasions, is an oval-shaped apartment, finished in blue and gilt, with draperies and furniture of blue damask. Communicating with this is a second parlor called the _Green Room_, from the prevailing color of the furniture and hangings. In this apartment are found the portraits of Presidents Madison, Monroe, Harrison and Taylor. _The East Room_, which closes the suite, is a truly royal apartment, magnificently decorated in a style purely Grecian, the ceiling frescoed in oil, mantles of exquisite wood carving, immense mirrors in magnificent frames, with the richest furniture, and window drapery of the costliest lace and damask. A full length portrait of Washington adorns this apartment, purchased by Congress in 1803. When the Capitol was burned, in 1814, this painting was rescued from destruction by Mrs. Madison, who had it removed from the frame and carried to a place of safety. A portrait of Martha, the wife of Washington, also hangs in this room, painted by Andrews in 1878. The numerous other apartments in the President's House exhibit the same lavish style of adorning, the furniture being constantly changed and renewed; but the vandal spirit of _change_ has not, as yet, dared to lay its sacrilegious hand upon or to alter the construction of the house, which remains the same as when, almost a century ago, it was first occupied by the elder President Adams. It is not difficult, therefore, to evoke the spirit of the past while standing among these ancient apartments, halls and corridors, and behold in fancy the long line of true statesmen, incorruptible patriots and noble men, who have successively lived and moved among them, in the early days of the Republic. And it is to be devoutly hoped that the vanity and caprice of the rulers who, in these later years, are being cast into high places, will not prevail in the effort to have this venerable home of the Presidents, hallowed by the memories of the nation's past, cast aside, and another building, modern and meaningless, substituted in its stead. Immediately west of the President's House stands the _Department of State, War and Navy_, a vast and imposing structure in the Doric style, combining the massive proportions of the ancient with the elegance of modern architecture. The Diplomatic Reception Room is a magnificent apartment, decorated and furnished in the most sumptuous manner, with ebonized woods and gold brocade, after the Germanized Egyptian style. The portraits of Daniel Webster and Lord Ashburton, by Healy (purchased by Congress from the widow of Fletcher Webster, 1879), adorn the walls, and over the mantels are busts, in bronze, of Washington and Lafayette. In the Diplomatic Ante-room is seen a full-length portrait of the Bey of Tunis, sent by special envoy in 1865, with a letter of condolence to the Government, on the death of Lincoln. Above this apartment is the library, containing a valuable collection of works on diplomacy, and many objects of interest, including the original draft of the Declaration of Independence, with the desk on which it was written, presented to the Government by the heirs of James Coolidge, of Massachusetts, to whom it was presented by Thomas Jefferson. The original document, _signed_, is also here, together with the sword of Washington, purchased by Congress in 1880, and his commission as Commander-in-Chief; the staff of Franklin; original drafts of the laws of the United States, the Federal Constitution, and other valuable and interesting historic documents, from the foundation of the Government. The entire building contains one hundred and fifty apartments, and cost five million dollars. The _Treasury Department_ is situated east of the President's House; it presents a most classic appearance, with its three stories in the pure Ionic style of architecture, upon a basement of rustic work, surmounted by an attic and balustrade. It has four fronts and principal entrances; the western front, consisting of a colonnade, after the style of the temple of Minerva, at Athens, is three hundred and thirty-six feet long, with thirty Ionic columns, and recessed porticoes on either end. This building contains the vaults in which the current funds and National Bank bonds of the Government are kept. The Secretary's office is a beautiful apartment, on the second floor. The walls being formed of various kinds of highly polished marble. This building contains two hundred apartments, exclusive of the basement and attic, and cost six million dollars. [Illustration: STATE, WAR AND NAVY DEPARTMENTS, WASHINGTON, D. C.] The _Bureau of Engraving and Printing_, a branch of the Treasury Department, occupies a separate building, recently erected, at a cost of three hundred thousand dollars. It is a handsome structure, of pressed brick, in the Romanesque style, is entirely fireproof, and situated between the Agricultural Department and the Washington Monument. The _Patent Office_, an immense building covering two squares, or two and three-fourths acres of ground (which in the original plan of the city had been set apart for the erection of a National Mausoleum, or church), is in the Doric style of architecture, after the Parthenon at Athens, and impresses all who behold it with the grandeur of its proportions. The Museum of Models, a collection of inventions, both native and foreign, patented by the Government, occupies the four immense halls on the second floor, and contains upwards of one hundred and fifty-five thousand models, which have accumulated since the fire of 1836. In December, of that year, the old building was destroyed, containing four thousand models, the accumulation of half a century. But for this calamity, the progress of mechanical arts in the United States could be traced back to the foundation of the Government. The south Hall of the Museum is a magnificent apartment, two hundred and forty-two feet long, sixty-three feet wide, and thirty feet high, decorated in the Pompeiian style, the entire structure of the room being in solid masonry. Among the historical relics contained here, are the uniform of Washington, worn at the time he resigned his commission, and his sword, secretary, compass, and sleeping tent, with camp utensils for cooking, etc. The number and variety of models contained in these four large halls are almost bewildering, and afford material for hours of study. The cost of this immense structure was two million, seven hundred thousand, but the entire sum has been principally liquidated by the surplus funds received, which annually amount to at least two hundred thousand dollars. The _General Post Office_ building is immediately opposite the Patent Office; it is a most imposing edifice, constructed of white marble, from the quarries of New York, and was built--the portion fronting on E street--in 1839. The northern half of the square was afterward purchased by the Government, and the extension begun in 1855; the building, as now completed, being three hundred feet in length, by two hundred and four in depth, with a large courtyard in the centre, entered on the west front by a carriage way, where the mails are received and sent out. Above the basement, on every side of this noble structure, arise monolithic columns and pilasters, surmounted by handsomely wrought capitals, upon which rests a paneled cornice. The main entrance is adorned with Doric columns, and the ceiling, walls and floor finished with white marble. In the office of the Postmaster-General is a fine collection of photographs and crayons of those who have filled this position since the appointment of Samuel Osgood, by Washington, in 1789. The cost of this building was one million seven hundred thousand dollars. The _Agricultural Building_ is a large and handsome structure, built of pressed brick, in the _renaissance_ style of architecture, with trimmings of brown stone. Immediately in front of the house is a flower garden, beautifully laid out, and planted with an almost countless variety of flowers; the remaining grounds adjacent to the building have been laid out as an _arboreture_, with walks and drives winding through forests of trees and shrubs, all of which have been planted according to the strictest botanical rules. The experimental grounds, occupying ten acres in the rear of the house, contain artificial lakes, rivers and swamps, for the cultivation of water and marsh plants. The building is handsomely finished and the various apartments and offices elegantly furnished, including a handsome library, thoroughly equipped laboratory, and an _Agricultural Museum_, which occupies the main building, and is replete with objects of interest and beauty too numerous to admit of description. The _Plant Houses_ are immense conservatories, in which the fruits and flowers of every clime and country may be found _growing_. The main structure is three hundred and twenty feet long, by thirty wide, with a projecting wing giving one hundred and fifty feet additional. On the north bank of the Potomac is the _Naval Observatory_, one of the principal astronomical establishments in the world. The Observatory was founded in 1842, the location being selected by President Tyler. The site had been called "University Square," from the fact that it had been the cherished intention of Washington, from the foundation of the city, to urge the erection upon this spot of a _National University_. The central building of the Observatory was completed in 1844--a two-story building, with wings, and surmounted by a dome. The great telescope, purchased in 1873, cost forty-seven thousand dollars, and is the most powerful instrument in the world, the refracting glass being twenty-six inches; the focal length thirty-two and a half feet. The library contains six thousand volumes, a number of them very rare, dating back to 1482. The _Army Medical Museum_ was formerly Ford's Theatre, in which President Lincoln was assassinated on the fourteenth of April, 1865. The building was purchased a year later, by Congress, remodeled and converted to its present use. No trace has been left to indicate the exact location of the murder. The Chemical Laboratory, on the first floor, was the restaurant in which Booth took his last drink; among the relics and curiosities is a portion of the vertebrae taken from the neck of the assassin. The first floor is occupied by the record and pension division of the Surgeon General's office, and upon the registers are inscribed the names of three hundred thousand of the _dead_. The Museum is on the third floor, and contains about sixteen thousand medical, surgical, and anatomical specimens. The _Government Printing Office_ is a large four-story building, in which the printing of the two Houses of Congress and other Departments is done. In 1794 an appropriation of ten thousand dollars was made, and sufficed, for "firewood, stationery and printing; the amount required at the present time to meet the expenses of this department is two million five hundred thousand dollars per annum, showing the rapid advance of the country, in extent, population, and the prodigality of its representatives as well. The _United States Barracks_, formerly the _Arsenal_, is situated at the extreme southern point of the city. A Government Penitentiary was erected on the grounds in 1826; in one of the lower cells was buried the body of Booth, and afterward those of the other conspirators. The Penitentiary was taken down in 1869, at which time the family of Booth was permitted to remove his body to Baltimore, where it was interred in the family burial lot at Druid Hill, the grave remaining unmarked. In front of the old buildings, the grounds, since the war, have been beautifully laid out, and contain a number of cannon captured by the Government forces in different conflicts. There is a brass gun with a ball shot into its muzzle at the battle of Gettysburg, and two captured Blakely guns, one of which bears the inscription: "Presented to the Sovereign State of South Carolina, by one of her citizens residing abroad, in commemoration of the twentieth of December, 1860." There are also British, French, and Mexican cannon, captured from those nations, some of them dated as far back as 1756. On the Anacostia, three-fourths of a mile from the Capitol, is the _Navy Yard_, formally established by act of Congress in 1804, and in those early days standing unrivaled, as it sent out such famous vessels as the Wasp, Argus, and Viper; and frigates, carrying 44 guns each, were built in its shops. But the gradual filling up of the channel in which ships of the line formerly anchored, and the increased facilities of other later established stations, have deprived the old yard of its importance as a naval constructing port, although it is still one of the most important for the manufacture of supplies. The _Marine Barracks_, organized in 1798, are but a short distance from the Navy Yard gate; the building is seven hundred feet in length, with accommodations for two hundred men. The Barracks were burned by the British in 1814, but were at once rebuilt. The _Smithsonian Institute_, by name, is generally familiar, while comparatively few are acquainted with its origin, the design of its founder, his antecedents or history, all of which are peculiarly interesting, and deserving of a more extended notice than our sketch will permit. James Smithson was an Englishman, the son of the first Duke of Northumberland, and a grand nephew, on his mother's side, of Charles, the proud Duke of Somerset. Whether or not any secret romance was connected with his life, we are not informed; all that is known is, that he devoted himself to literature and science, was never married, and died at Genoa, Italy, in 1828, bequeathing his fortune to his nephew, Henry James Hungerford, during life; at his death to become the property of the United States; in the language of the will, "To found, at Washington, under the name of the Smithsonian Institute, an establishment for the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men." The Government accepted the bequest, which was at its disposal as early as 1836, and the original fund, of upwards of five hundred and fifteen thousand dollars, was deposited in the Treasury. A little more than ten years later the Smithsonian Institute was organized, a board of Regents appointed, and the corner-stone laid, with masonic ceremonies, May the first, 1847. The building was completed in 1856, the accrued interest being mere than sufficient to cover all the expenses of its erection, and leaving a permanent fund of six hundred and fifty thousand dollars in the Treasury for its future maintenance. In less than a year after the close of the war the main building was partially destroyed by fire, together with the papers and reports of the Institute, and the personal effects of its founder. It was immediately restored, however; but the Library, comprising a large collection of valuable scientific works, was removed to the Capitol. It would seem that this immense building, so generously endowed, could, and should, be made to advance "the increase and diffusion of knowledge among men," in a more direct and individual manner, by being devoted to educational purposes. But further than its use in conducting exchanges between the Government and scientific bodies at home and abroad, and the care of the National Museum, the Smithsonian Institute has contributed nothing toward "the advancement of knowledge among men," and those, generally, of the country whom it was especially intended to benefit. The _National Museum_, completed in 1879, is situated a very short distance east of the Institute, and covers nearly two and a half acres of ground. It is a handsome structure, of the modernized Romanesque style of architecture; having four entrances and eight lofty towers; the principal entrance being approached by granite steps, thirty-seven feet wide, to a richly tiled platform. Above the inscription plate on the globe of the nave, is an allegorical group representing Columbia as the patroness of Science and Industry. The whole is surmounted by a dome; the windows filled with double glass imported from Belgium; in fine, the entire building is externally and internally complete, being finished and furnished in the most costly and elegant manner. The large collections of the Museum in the Smithsonian Institute, are to be divided; objects of purely natural history being alone kept in the Institute, the second floor of which will be devoted to archæology, including the antiquities of the "Stone Age." South of the President's House, and but a short distance from the stone which marks the centre of the District stands the National Monument to the Father of his Country, designed by Mills. It was completed on Saturday, December sixth, 1884, by the setting of its marble cap-stone. The idea of this National Monument took definite shape in 1833, when the _Washington National Monument Association_ was organized, composed of some of the most distinguished men of the country. The design was to build it by means of popular subscriptions, of individual sums, not to exceed one dollar each. In 1847 the collections amounted to $87,000, and with this sum it was determined to begin the work. On the Fourth of July, 1848 the corner stone of the monument was laid; in 1854, the funds of the _National Monument Association_ were exhausted. The structure had then reached a height of one hundred and seventy feet, and during the succeeding twenty-four years only four feet were added to its altitude. August twenty-second, 1876, Congress passed an Act, creating a commission for its completion, and made the necessary appropriation, which was to be continued annually. Before resuming work on the monument, it was deemed best to strengthen the foundation by placing under the shaft an additional mass of concrete, one hundred and twenty-three feet, three inches beyond the old foundation. The weight of the mass then worked under was 32,176 tons. The total pressure on the foundation as it now stands is 80,378 tons. The monument is a marble obelisk, the marble having been brought from the quarries of the Beaver Dam Marble Company, Baltimore County, Maryland. The shaft, from the floor, is 555 feet, 4 inches high, being thirty feet, five inches higher than the spires of the great cathedral of Cologne. The present foundation is thirty-six feet, eight inches deep, making an aggregate height, from the bed of the foundation, of 592 feet, the loftiest work of ancient or modern times. The walls of the obelisk, at its base, are over fifteen feet thick, and at the 500 feet mark, where the pyramidal top begins, eighteen inches thick. The total cost of the monument has been $1,130,000. Within the obelisk is an elevator and a stairway. On the latter there are nine hundred steps, and about twenty minutes are required to make the descent. The _Corcoran Art Gallery_ is one of the most interesting and valued institutions belonging to the National Capitol, and the last that our limits will permit being described at length. The building stands on the corner of Pennsylvania avenue and Seventeenth street, and is constructed of brick, in the Renaissance style of architecture, finished with freestone ornaments and a variety of beautiful carving. On the avenue front are four statues, in Carrara marble, executed by Ezekiel, in Rome, of _Phidias_, _Raphael_, _Michael Angelo_, and _Albert Durer_, representing respectively, sculpture, painting, architecture and engraving. In the vestibules and corridors are casts of ancient _bas reliefs_, with numerous antique busts and statues in marble. The _Hall of Bronzes_ contains a very large and interesting collection of bronzes, armor, ceramic ware, etc. The Hall of _Antique Sculpture_, almost one hundred feet in length, contains casts of the most celebrated specimens of ancient sculpture. The _Main Picture Gallery_ is also nearly one hundred feet long and fifty feet wide, with a collection of paintings ranking among the first of this country, and more than one hundred and fifteen in number. The _Octagon Chamber_ contains the original Greek Slave, by Powers. In the _East Gallery_ is displayed a valuable collection of portraits of distinguished Americans, painted by the best native artists; in the _West Gallery_, is a large number of paintings, historical, landscape and other subjects. The _Corcoran Art Gallery_ was presented to the city and country by W. W. Corcoran, Esq., in 1869. This magnificent gift, including the donor's private collection of paintings and statuary, cost three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, to which he added an endowment fund of nine hundred thousand dollars more. Mr. Corcoran has also erected and elegantly furnished, a large and beautiful building, called the _Louise Home_, at a cost of two hundred thousand dollars, with an endowment fund of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. _The Home_, the only institution of its kind in the entire country, is an asylum for ladies of education and refinement who have been reduced in fortune. The house is furnished in a style of subdued elegance, with every luxury and convenience to be found in the best appointed private residence; while the ladies are waited upon and treated with the same attention and respect as if they were each paying an extravagant rate of board. There are ample accommodations for fifty-five ladies, who must have reached the age of fifty-years, as a general rule, and who make their application for admission in writing. There is _no charge_ for admission, nor expense of any kind, nor _limit_ to the time of remaining at the _Louise Home_. This beautiful institution, in which charity is bestowed in so refined and delicate, yet magnificent a manner, has been erected and endowed by the Founder _in memoriam_ of a beloved wife and only daughter and child. It is but due to this great philanthropist, to mention here, that in addition to his gifts named above, the _National Medical College, of Columbian University_, was his gift, in 1864, and cost forty thousand dollars. The original grounds of _Oak Hill Cemetery_, comprising ten acres, were also donated by him, together with an endowment fund of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars; the grounds were incorporated by Congress in 1840. It were fortunate for mankind if the number of such benefactors were greater, and the wisdom displayed by Mr. Corcoran oftener imitated by the rich, who, if they _give_, permit their good deeds only "_to live after them_," instead of planning, and directing with their own hands, the schemes of benevolence they desire to inaugurate for the benefit of their unfortunate fellow beings. There are many places of historical interest that might be described, as well as numerous Halls, Colleges, Hospitals, etc., but the limits of this paper will not permit. We shall only refer to the _Government Hospital for the Insane_, situated at the junction of the Potomac and Anacostia rivers, and one of the finest and largest institutions of the kind in the world. It is seven hundred and fifty feet in length by two hundred deep, containing five hundred single rooms, and accommodations for more than nine hundred patients. The _Deaf and Dumb Asylum and College_ are also conspicuous among the Public Institutions, built in the pointed Gothic style, and costing the Government $350,000. During the late war Washington was converted into a vast fortress, and made the base of operations for the entire forces of the Union. The hills surrounding it were covered with the camps of soldiers, while its vast streets and avenues hourly echoed the tread of moving troops, and the heavy crushing roll of artillery. At the close of the contest the city was found to have risen high upon the wave of revolution; a new element had been infused into its population, and the march of improvement had begun. In ten years the number of inhabitants had increased fifty thousand. With the continuance of peace, and the spirit of improvement and progress remaining unchecked, it may reasonably be predicted and confidently anticipated, that the close of the Nineteenth Century will find the Capital City of this great Republic approaching in splendor and importance the realization of the proudest hope and dream of magnificence ever cherished in the hearts of its worthy founders, and in _itself_ a monument worthy of the immortal name of WASHINGTON. _TESTIMONIALS._ COMMENDATIONS OF Peculiarities of American Cities. _Buffalo Sunday Times._ "Peculiarities of American Cities" is the title of the latest work of Captain Willard Glazier, whose numerous books show great versatility and vivacity. The work before us contains sketches of thirty-nine of the principal cities of the United States and Canada. It is replete with interest. The pages are not filled with a mass of dry statistics or mere description, but record the personal observations of the author, detailed in an easy, familiar style. _Hamilton (Canada) Tribune._ The "Peculiarities of American Cities" contains a chatty description of the leading American and Canadian cities. A bright, descriptive style gives piquancy to the work, which is a gazetteer without seeming to be so. The Canadian cities described are Montreal, Toronto, and Quebec, and the accounts given of them are accurate. This being so of our own land, the probability is strong that the accounts given of the American cities are so too. _Rock Island Union._ Captain Willard Glazier, whose war stories have proved so attractive, has turned his attention to another field, and proved that he can write entertainingly while imparting information to his readers of permanent reference value. His new book is entitled "Peculiarities of American Cities," and embodies the results of his personal observations and studies in the leading towns of the country. There are thirty-nine chapters, and each one is devoted to a different city, and may be said to be complete in itself. The classification is alphabetical, beginning with Albany and ending with Washington. The descriptive work has been well and faithfully done, and the prominent features of each city have received especial attention. This is the special point of the work--to show the distinct peculiarities and characteristics of our cities--and the charm lies in the fact that every city is treated in accordance with its local color, instead of in a stereotyped manner, as is usually the case. The book is a valuable one, and should be perused and studied by old and young. _Detroit Journal._ Under the title of "Peculiarities of American Cities," Captain Willard Glazier, the author of half a dozen successful volumes, has lately produced a very attractive book of nearly six hundred pages. It is written in a graceful style, as one would describe a trip through the country from East to West, including visits to the chief cities, and touching upon their most notable characteristics. The author gives his readers the salient and significant points, as they strike an observing man and a skilled writer, and in this he has been very successful. _Madison State Journal._ Captain Glazier is a noted American traveler. His canoe trip down the Mississippi and his extended horseback tour through the States made him quite famous at the time. The volume before us presents the peculiar features, favorite resorts, and distinguishing characteristics of the leading cities of America, including Canada. The author launches into his subject with directness, treating them with perspicuity and in an easy, flowing, graphic style, presenting a series of most admirable pen pictures. The book is practically invaluable in households where there are children and youth. _Chicago Tribune._ In this work Captain Glazier has entered upon a new field in literature, and his researches are at once unique and interesting. The first chapter opens with a visit to Albany, the quaint old Dutch city of the Hudson, and here at the outset the author discovers "peculiarities" without limit. Boston is next taken up, and then follow in succession thirty-seven of the leading cities of the United States and Canada. The book is a compendium of historical facts concerning the cities referred to which are not given in any other work with which we are acquainted, making this volume a valuable addition to any library. _Saginaw Courier._ "Peculiarities of American Cities" is a handsome and attractive volume, descriptive of the characteristics of many of the cities of North America, by one who seems to be thoroughly familiar with the subject, and who has developed an aptness in grasping the peculiarities of modern city life, as well as the power to graphically portray them. To those who may never be able to visit the places described, as well as to those who have seen them, the pen pictures will be both interesting and entertaining. The author gives his readers the salient and significant points as they strike an observant critic and a fascinating writer. _Racine Daily Times._ "Peculiarities of American Cities" is a work that will give to the person who has only money to stay at home an intelligent idea of how the great cities of the country look, and what their people do to gain a livelihood, and what objects of interest there are to be seen. Through the medium of this work one can wander through the streets of far-off places; he can watch the rush of the multitude and hear the roar of the industries that help to make our country the great land that it is. He can gaze upon the palaces of the rich or hurry through scenes where poverty is most pitiful and vice most hideous. It is a work that ought to be in every house. _Alton Democrat._ One of the most entertaining books is "Peculiarities of American Cities" by Captain Willard Glazier, whose pen has enraptured thousands by descriptions of battle scenes and heroic adventures. The book is almost a necessity, as it familiarizes one with scenes in travel and history. The author has the faculty of making his readers see what he has seen and feel the impressions which he has felt in the view. The style is easy and flowing, not complicated and wearisome, The great cities are described in a way which makes the reader familiar with them--their history, society, manners, customs, and everything relating to their past, present, and future. The book will be a companion of many a leisure hour. _Buffalo Courier._ The books written by Captain Willard Glazier have had a very wide, almost a phenomenal circulation; in myriads of volumes they have been distributed throughout the country. From the time when a very young man, and just after the war, in which he served, Captain Glazier published his first book, they have, until the one just out, been all founded on and descriptive of events and scenes of the Revolution and the Rebellion. Now, however, he has turned from the beaten path and taken an altogether different topic, as is clearly explained in the title of his new work, "Peculiarities of American Cities." There are thirty-nine chapters, in which as many different cities have their noteworthy characteristics set forth in a pleasing and very interesting style, with handsome illustrations. _Hamilton (Canada) Spectator._ "Peculiarities of American Cities" is a work by Captain Willard Glazier, who has earned some fame as a writer of books describing the incidents of the War of the Rebellion. The present work is a compilation of facts concerning thirty-nine of the principal cities of the continent, including Toronto, Quebec, and Montreal, and the information the work contains is brought down to recent date. The history, growth in commerce, progress in art and science, and architectural and physical characteristics of each city are treated of in a very interesting way. Few people who have traveled at all but have visited one or more of these cities, and will read the work with pleasure. Others will find it intensely interesting because it gives them in detail much they have often wanted to know of the cities of America. _New York Herald._ The author talks of cities as he has seen them; describing their appearance, their public resorts, and the peculiarities which characterize them and their people. He leads the reader through the streets, into the public parks, museums, libraries, art galleries, churches, theatres, etc.; tells him of great business schemes, marts, and manufactories; sails to suburban pleasure resorts; describes the many avocations and ways of picking up a living which are peculiar to large cities and the phases of character in men and women which are to be found where men most do congregate. The book will prove to be an interesting and instructive one to those who have not seen the cities it describes, and interesting to those who have traveled as a review and comparison of views from an experienced traveler and chronicler. _Detroit Christian Herald._ "Peculiarities of American Cities" contains brief studies of the history, general features, and leading enterprises of thirty-nine cities of the United States and Canada. The author states in the preface that he has been a resident of one hundred cities, and feels qualified to write largely from personal observation and comparison. It is not a dry compendium of facts, but is enlivened by picturesque legends, striking incidents, and racy anecdotes. Though the author has attempted no exhaustive description of these prominent centres of interest, he has shown taste and judgment in selecting the things one would most like to know, and skill in weaving the facts into an entertaining form. _Davenport Democrat._ This is the fifth of a readable series of popular books by the soldier-author, Captain Willard Glazier. Many readers have become familiar with "Soldiers of the Saddle," "Capture, Prison-pen, and Escape," "Battles for the Union," and "Heroes of Three Wars," and they will welcome the volume under notice as one of the most attractive of the list. Captain Glazier does not compile--he writes what he has seen. He has a trained eye, a facile pen, and a power of graphic description. "American Cities" is a work devoted to a pen-portraiture of thirty-nine cities, and those who have not or cannot visit these cities have in this book an easy and most fascinating way of acquainting themselves with their distinguishing characteristics. All readers ought to know something of our American cities, each of which has features peculiar to itself. _Syracuse Herald._ "Peculiarities of American Cities" is the title of a new book by Captain Willard Glazier, author of "Soldiers of the Saddle," "Battles for the Union," and several other popular works. In its pages the favorite resorts, peculiar features, and distinguishing characteristics of the leading cities of America are described. Dry statistics are avoided, the facts which the general reader most desires being given in the style of graphic description for which the author is noted. The book not only contains a great deal of information in regard to America's principal cities as they exist to-day, but many important events in local history are cleverly worked in. The _Herald_ feels safe in commending this book as both instructive and entertaining. It will be read with interest by those who have "been there," and seen for themselves, as well as by those who can at most see only in imagination the places treated. _Indianapolis Educational Weekly._ This book occupies a niche in the literature of the country peculiar to itself. It describes thirty-nine cities of America, including all the largest cities and some others which, though not quite so large, are rapidly growing, and seem destined to occupy positions of importance. Still other sketches possess peculiar interest for their historical associations. Of the latter class are the stories of Savannah, Charleston, and Richmond. It is said that Americans too often rush off to Europe without knowing that America possesses a Niagara Palls, Yosemite Valley, and Yellowstone National Park. The same may be said of our reading. Many books descriptive of European cities and places of interest are widely circulated and read. And if they are reliable they should be read. But America might, with profit, be studied more. This book offers a splendid opportunity to learn something of our American cities. _Altoona Times._ The reader will find a great abundance of useful information contained in a small compass and very pleasantly imparted in Captain Glazier's "Peculiarities of American Cities." Those who have little time to gather their information from more extended sources will find this a valuable work that will supply a vacant place in their library. It is certainly a book very much in advance of the volumes of like import that from time to time our people have been solicited to buy. _Boston Transcript._ Captain Glazier's style is particularly attractive, and the discursive, anecdotal way in which the author carries his readers over the continent, from one city to another, is charmingly interesting. He lands his reader, by the easiest method, in a city; and when he has got him there, strives to interest and make him happy by causing him to glean amusement and instruction from all he sees. Every page of the book is teeming with interest and information. Persons are made conversant with the chief characteristics and history of cities they may never hope to visit. The book has apparently been written principally for the purpose of presenting the truth about the various chief centres of trade in the country, and the writer has adopted a pleasant conversational style, more likely to leave the impression desired than all the histories and arid guide-books ever published. It is a delightful book, full of happy things. _Pittsburgh Sunday Globe._ "Peculiarities of American Cities," by Willard Glazier, will be found disappointing to those who look for an ordinary re-hash of musty data about leading cities, as, aside from the numerous illustrations, which are far above the average book illustrations in accuracy, the work will be found to contain pleasantly written chapters on the industrial and social features of New York, Pittsburgh, Washington, Montreal, Portland, Savannah, Boston, Albany, Quebec, Omaha, Chicago, Buffalo, St. Louis, Hartford, Cleveland, Richmond, Providence, Baltimore, New Orleans, San Francisco, Cincinnati, Philadelphia, etc. The chapter on Pittsburgh embraces a summing up of its features as an iron, glass, and oil centre, while the descriptions of our people and the labor organizations, banking, and business interests are well-timed and as comprehensive as the limits of the work will permit. It will make a valuable addition to any library. _Fort Wayne Gazette._ The author gives his views concerning the history, character, or "peculiarities" of some forty prominent American cities. The subject is an interesting one, familiarizing the reader with what belongs particularly to his own country. Persons may visit a place frequently, yet know nothing in regard to its history or the events connected with it which make the same memorable. Such matters have been carefully collected by the author and properly arranged into a systematic narrative. The chapters are exceedingly entertaining aside from the information they convey. The author has the ability to present what he wishes to communicate in an admirable way, and is tedious in nothing he has written. We know of no work on this subject from which so much that is valuable can be obtained in so concise a form. It is a book that will never weary or lose in interest, and can be placed in the library among the valuable works. _Milwaukee Sentinel._ "Peculiarities of American Cities" is a book rather unique in character, and may be said to occupy a place somewhere between the regular guide-book and the volume of travels. As people who stay at home are not generally given to reading guide-books, and as volumes of travel embracing the same route as that gone over by our author are not common, "Peculiarities of American Cities" fills a niche that has hitherto been vacant, and meets a want not before satisfied. The writer takes up the most important cities of the United States and Canada in alphabetical order, beginning with Albany and ending with Washington, and gives a more or less extended description of each, commencing usually with a slight historical outline, particularly where it would be of general interest, as in the case of Boston, but devoting the greater part of his space to the treatment of their present condition. The natural advantages of each place are considered, its commerce and manufactures discussed, its public parks and buildings described, and illustrations of a number of the latter given. _New York World._ To become well acquainted with the principal cities of the Union is not a matter of secondary importance, but should be one of the first duties of an American citizen. It is at once a source of pleasure and profit to know the points of interest in the various places; to be able to give an account of the commercial transactions, the people and customs; and, in fact, to know about other communities what you find it necessary to learn of your own. To the great majority of Americans the opportunity is not given of personally becoming acquainted with the various cities of import, and the only way we have of knowing the peculiarities of our sister cities is by the few scraps we read now and then in the newspapers. The want of some method by which to instruct the people in this matter has long been manifest, but what to do has often been asked and remained unanswered. Educators recommend the compilation of statistics of the various places, and many plans were suggested by which a knowledge of the subject could be diffused among the masses. It has finally been solved by Captain Willard Glazier, of whom the country has heard in civil and military life on many former occasions. Captain Glazier has traveled over the entire continent since the late war, and has become well acquainted with the principal cities, and the thought struck him to write a book on the points of interest he has visited in the various places. For a number of years he has been at the work, and finally gives to the public his latest literary effort, which he has appropriately entitled "Peculiarities of American Cities." The book is just what is needed in every public and private library in the country, and will awaken a deep interest in the citizens of each city on which the work treats. The public cannot fail to be interested in the work, for it treats on a live subject, and, furthermore, the author's style is far too pleasing to permit of any lack of interest. Captain Glazier is the author of a number of books, all of which have become popular, and we predict for this, his latest effort, the success which it merits. * * * * * POPULAR WORKS OF Captain Willard Glazier, THE SOLDIER-AUTHOR. I. Soldiers of the Saddle. II. Capture, Prison-Pen and Escape. III. Battles for the Union. IV. Heroes of Three Wars. V. Peculiarities of American Cities. VI. Down the Great River. * * * * * Captain Glazier's works are growing more and more popular every day. Their delineations of _social_, military _and frontier_ life, constantly varying scenes, and deeply interesting stories, combine to place their writer in the front rank of American authors. * * * * * SOLD ONLY BY SUBSCRIPTION. PERSONS DESIRING AGENCIES FOR ANY OF CAPTAIN GLAZIER'S BOOKS SHOULD ADDRESS THE PUBLISHERS. * * * * * TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: 1. Images have been moved from the middle of a paragraph to the closest paragraph break. 2. Obvious punctuation errors have been corrected. 3. The words "Phoenix" and "Oenone" uses an oe ligature in the original. 4. The following typographical errors have been corrected: "Bath-on-the Hudson" corrected to "Bath-on-the-Hudson" (page 28) "facades" corrected to "façades" (page 30) "scarely" corrected to "scarcely" (page 168) "Real" corrected to "Rèal" (page 236) "Situate" corrected to "Situated" (page 248) "condemed" corrected to "condemned" (page 261) "transferrred" corrected to "transferred" (page 261) "pedestrains" corrected to "pedestrians" (page 312) "possesesion" corrected to "possession" (page 358) "establisment" corrected to "establishment" (page 438) "granduer" corrected to "grandeur" (page 459) "ignominously" corrected to "ignominiously" (page 464) "excelence" corrected to "excellence" (page 523) 4. Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained.